What the hell was he doing here? He should be out mixing with royalty, being a guest host to announce the winners at music, book and film awards.
Maybe it was all his own doing? Maybe this was what he wanted?
The young man probably understood why as well, especially with the attitude of this country. You're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't.
He didn't know for sure how it was in other countries, especially western countries, but in the UK, you couldn't win in certain situations. If you was a millionaire and walked into a public house and ordered yourself a drink, the rich individual in question would be frowned upon for being so tight with his money. If the opposite happened, and he flashed the cash and bought the whole establishment a drink, he would be ridiculed for showing off. Maybe Billy Jones had the right idea, he thought. Just get your head down and try and get on with life the best you can.
If a hero decided to make money out of his fame, the papers would end up turning on him and end up digging for sordid and negative stories to tarnish his reputation. He would go from a media darling to an outcast. Maybe he already envisaged this? It was typical of the press to build someone up, and once they got bored of them, they would knock them back down again. At one stage he'd be worshipped by thousands, possibly millions, but years down the line after releasing books on the experience and after countless interviews, the nation would be sick of seeing his face, then turn around and snarl: "Who does he think he is?"
It took the nineteen-year-old a few days to realise that Billy Jones was staying in the same block, and once he was completely sure it was him, he decided not to tell anyone about his stay. He was pretty sure the man was almost a forgotten figure, as the neighbours didn't seem to know who he was, but then again, his neighbours didn't look the type that would sit down and watch the news. They seemed more the type to be drinking during the day, watching cheesy chat shows, reading glossy magazines about Z list celebrities whose 'career' it was to sleep with as many footballers as possible, and make money selling their kiss and tell stories to the unemployed who were happy to read their sordid stories.
He had read that the man had avoided interviews like the plague when the incident occurred, and the press eventually gave up on him. Although it was reported that he would get pestered every now and again, it was only a month ago there was a picture in one of the tabloids of Billy not looking his best. The picture was on page seven and only took up a quarter of the page and the small headline said: Forgotten Hero Is A Mess.
Once he found out who he was, he would spend minutes of his time after work, looking through the spy-hole to see if he would come out of his door. It wasn't anything unhealthy; he was just desperate to talk to the man. Not to patronise him, pat him on the back and label him a hero, but there was something else he needed from him, he needed information. He wanted to know what happened on that fateful day. The press wrote story after story, but the death of the three young children that perished that day was kept to a minimum detail for a number of reasons.
One of the reasons was that the press probably didn't know the intimate details anyway, and if they did, they were probably gagged from revealing them to protect the feelings of the families. He didn't want to just knock on his door and ask him there and then, as he was certain the door would be quite rightly slammed in his face, and he would never get the opportunity to talk to him again.
He needed to try and spark up a conversation and get to know him better, but it would prove to be a hard task as he hardly saw the man leave his apartment—unless the man left when he was out at work in the supermarket. To a certain extent, he would be using the man to extract information only he and a handful of others had, but something needed clarifying. His parents weren't bothered, but he needed to know.
*****
He ran down a brightly lit brilliant white corridor, a place that seemed to have no ending. The door he was trying to reach at the end of the corridor, seemed miles away and the harder he ran, the less it made any difference. There were no windows or doors at the side of the corridor, just the one door that Billy couldn't reach. The door grudgingly, refused to get nearer no matter how hard he ran, and Billy screamed out an expletive in frustration. He was getting out of breath and could feel the sharp pain in his right side as if he had been stabbed, but he decided to try and sprint through it. He couldn't stop now! People needed his help.
Within seconds, the door suddenly got nearer at such speed that Billy was taken aback and ended up crashing through the door. His momentum decreased as he fell to the floor and saw an empty room with three young bodies lying at the end of the room. He helped himself up from the floor and stood on his weary feet. The room was completely empty, and had been decorated white, like the corridor he had ran down. The marble floor was immaculately clean and no furniture or paintings were in the room; it was completely bare.
The bodies looked like they had been perfectly placed onto the floor, and spaced out as if they had been carried, and all three corpses were laid on their back with their faces facing the ceiling and their arms by their side.
Billy walked on the clean marble floor tentatively towards the three lifeless bodies. There was no sound in the room; he seemed to be the only living soul there. He gulped hard and closed his eyes as he got nearer to the first body to the left of the room.
He opened his eyes and saw the face of young Steven Anslow. His eyes were closed and his Wolverine T-shirt couldn't hide the evidence of the one stab wound the poor soul had received to the middle of his chest. Billy's tears unashamedly ran out of his eyes as he walked to the right to see the next body.
He stared at the lifeless Craig Miller. Poor Craig was Joseph's best friend and had had his throat slashed. The wound was still there for Billy to see, but it was now an old wound as there was no blood surrounding the children plus their faces were also pure white, like the tusks of an elephant. Craig's T-shirt was unrecognisable from the dried in crimson that was soaked up when he had received his trauma. Billy walked over to the final body.
Her name was Katie Wherton. Her body seemed untouched. Her flowery T-shirt looked unharmed as well as her clothes. Billy knew the story behind young Katie Wherton. She had received four stab wounds to her back; she had died immediately. She was the first to die. Her eyes were like pale sapphires, and seemed as wide as two billiard balls.
All three children were only four-years-old.
*****
He woke up from his nightmare soaked to the bone. He blamed his sweating on the mild temperature outside and the fact that he had also fallen asleep with his clothes on. But his sweat stained appearance had occurred because of something more sinister.
The vivid dream had Billy awake by 3am. He felt wide-awake, and beforehand needed a glass or three of Merlot to help him relax. Now he was awake, he was seriously contemplating whether to get up and finish off the bottle, and maybe even start the other. His visions had no way of escaping, as if his cranium was like a prison, as the image of his nightmare began softly creeping up on him once more.
Whenever he dropped Joseph back at his mum's, he always felt down, the same way a recreational drug taker would feel after their class A drug had worn off. Going back to that lonely apartment didn't seem very appealing to Billy Jones, so after he dropped Joseph off, he decided to walk home. He spent the remainder of the evening watching television, consisting of so-called celebrities—who would go to the opening of an envelope—ballroom dancing for a competition.
Still feeling down, Billy had taken his anti-depressants followed by a few glasses of the red stuff. He then fell onto his bed fully clothed and passed out.
Chapter Six
Being a slave to anti-depressants was something that would irritate him every now and again. On the odd occasion the taking of the drug would give him a false sense that he was getting better. Sometimes he thought that he felt reasonably fine, and would try a week without them without consulting his doctor. Why he did this, he was none
the wiser, as all it did was drag him into a pit of depression. The horrible realisation of not taking them for a week was proof how bad his mental state really was, and how badly he still needed the medication.
Today was one of those days where he wanted to get so drunk, he didn't want his medication to get in the way and cause further harm, so just for today, he never took them. According to his doctor, the effects of mixing the two would be a feeling of giddiness and drowsiness, which was something he would feel when getting drunk anyway, so how was he to know the difference?
On a normal weekend he would do both, but on this particular Sunday afternoon, he left the anti-depressants alone as he had planned to abuse his body more than normal with the alcohol.
He walked into a pub he had never been in before. It was on the outskirts of the town centre; he never entered the town centre himself, as he was sick of being pestered by people.
He left the warm sunshine to enter a place that stunk of stale booze, where the conversation was audible, where the music was intoxicating, and where the eyes glared at him as he strolled through. It wasn't one of those places that served food, so there were no families there. It was just the hardcore customers—thirteen in all—that were downing their afternoon drinks, before the place filled up with more raucous and vivacious youngsters.
He asked the bartender for a beer and was given one. The cold beer only touched the bar for a second, when Billy picked it up and took a generous few gulps. He placed the glass down, noticing that he had already drunk half of the drink, and pulled his lips in to release a muffle belch that no one could hear.
He took a look at his black leather strapped Rotary watch; it was a gift from his son—although really bought by Lisa, and his reliable watch stated that it was nearly three in the afternoon. It was more than three years ago when he received the watch for his birthday and he could feel a huge lump growing in his throat thinking about the day he was given the gift. Although Lisa had bought the item, she claimed that it was chosen by a smaller source. He smiled as he remembered seeing the little man walking towards him with the neatly wrapped box. Joseph was only four at the time.
Billy Jones had only been in the establishment for an hour, and had already consumed five beers and a double vodka and orange. The barmen tried his best to engage in conversation with the intriguing man, but Billy was in no mood for small talk. This time he ordered a double whiskey and coke, and although the barman nodded his head, he flashed a look of concern at the man because of the amount he had drunk in such a short space of time.
Billy hadn't been to the toilet yet and was bursting, but he just couldn't feel the energy in his legs to get himself up and relieve himself. He promised his bladder that after the whiskey, he would do the decent thing and drain it dry.
The pub was suddenly filled with six young men that were jovial sounding and looked like they had already participated in a few alcoholic drinks themselves. They ordered from the bar and went straight over to the pool table.
Billy pulled out his wallet to pay for the whiskey. The leather thing was filled with crisp notes for all to see, and he handed the barman a twenty. He had drunk the whiskey by the time the barman had given him his change. Billy could feel that he was starting to loose his focus, and although he knew he was drunk, he was determined to keep drinking.
"Another whiskey," he ordered.
"This is your last one," the barman said coyly and apologetically.
Billy stared in drunken disbelief, and then snapped out of his soused self-hypnosis and nodded his head in agreement. "This will be my final drink before I go home."
The barman smiled, thankful that a scene had never materialised with one of the most respected and popular figures of the town. He placed the whiskey in front of Billy and said, "This one is on the house, as it's your final drink."
Billy's face was thankful, and felt a little guilty because he was spending his state money on drink, whereas basic things such as food and electricity would have to take a back seat for today.
Even in his fragile state, he knew that the barman was trying to appease him. The locals would sit in there all afternoon and communicate with other people. They would drink a lot of beers, but over a long period of time. Most of the locals looked reasonably sober to the barman, but because Billy had drank so much in such a short space of time, his body was reacting badly to the bingeing.
Before taking a sip of his last drink of the day, Billy kept his promise and got off the bar stool and headed for the toilet. He walked by the pool table to get to his destination; his walking was erratic and he swayed occasionally which humoured the young men, who pointed and laughed at the drunken man.
Billy was alone in the toilet and felt immense relief as he urinated. It took two minutes to finish and he staggered over, and washed his hands clumsily—at this point another customer had walked in. The cold tap was twisted too hard, which immediately splashed the front of his jeans. He cursed and then placed his hands under the cold powerful jet and also soaked the bottom of his shirt.
The older man at the urinal turned his head and looked behind him, as he was in full flow, and gave Billy a sympathetic look by thinning his lips and producing a tiny smile, then he turned back to focus on himself as he was finishing up.
Billy walked out of the toilets and staggered once more by the pool table and nudged a young guy about to make his shot. The young man stood upright and screamed out an expletive that filled the room with tension. Billy drunkenly explained that his pool cue was sticking out and he couldn't get by.
As he walked away from the young men, ignoring the volley of verbal abuse that was being thrown his way, Billy made a one-finger gesture their way and returned to the bar and this time decided to stand, which suggested that he wasn't planning on staying any longer. He downed the drink, felt the warm glow fill his body and waved to the barman, it was time for him to leave. He looked at the time and knew he wouldn't be able to remain awake once he got back to his apartment. He had done this before when drinking in the afternoon. He would pass out on the couch, and wake up at a ridiculous time like three or four in the morning.
As he walked out of the establishment, the soft air greeted his soused body, and he decided to walk down the long alley to get to his apartment quicker, rather than taking the main road. It would only be a ten-minute walk, and Billy felt his head needed the fresh air. He promised himself a fresh start tomorrow. Back on the anti-depressants, plenty of water, slices of lemons, and a few capsules of milk thistle to give his liver some help.
He bounced off one of the fences as he trudged through the alley and looked around to see if it was clear as his bladder was crying out once again, even though it was only minutes ago since he had been to the toilet.
As soon as he finished peeing against a fence, he could hear a barrage of footsteps coming towards him. Billy felt embarrassed and quickly zipped himself up, knowing that people had seen him. Would they say anything as they walked past? If he had been sober, the scene would have been even more excruciatingly embarrassing, but he decided to quickly move off before they caught up with him.
"Where are you going?" a voice bellowed out.
A drunken Billy scrunched his face and wondered if he knew the person that called out.
He turned around to see the six men from the pub that were playing pool earlier, heading towards him. Billy puffed out his chest, but knew that even one on one he would struggle to put one of them down in his dreadful state.
The two at the front began quickening their pace and were now running at Billy. The other four behind followed suit. Adrenaline kicked in and had half sobered him as Mr. Jones began to run away from the mob. It was a fruitless effort to get away, as the much fitter and the much younger individuals caught up with him.
He was dragged to the floor, and he gave off a pathetic cry of fear, as he fell. If a football had feelings, he knew exactly how it would feel, as a barrage of kicks hit his midriff. Some kicks hit his arms tha
t were protecting his head, but he decided to curl up like a hedgehog to minimise the damage. He knew he had to protect his vital organs, but they would be of no use to him if he received brain damage, so the arms remained protecting his skull, until the violence came to a stop. Once it did, he passed out briefly.
*****
His eyes opened and couldn't understand where he was, or why he was lying on the ground. As he tried to move, he felt a surge of pain on his body, which triggered his memory that he had been beaten.
He tried to muster the energy to stand on his own two legs, but his giddiness was preventing him from doing so. Once he eventually stood up, he bent over as the pain in his torso began to intensify. He lifted his shirt up to see his body covered in a concoction of violet, indigo and blue bruises. He dropped his shirt back down and felt the wind brush past him. He looked to his left wrist and noticed his watch was missing. He then frantically searched the pockets and realised that his wallet had also been stolen. He cursed himself for two things: for being ridiculously drunk in the open, and for carrying out that amount of money when it wasn't necessary.
He gently touched his torso and winced once his brain recognised the pain. He half laughed at his misfortune and shook his head. "You're an idiot, Billy."
*****
The walk back to the apartment was a ponderous and painful affair, and once he got into his place, he checked in the mirror to make sure his face hadn't received any bruises or lacerations, which thankfully, it didn't.
He decided not to bother phoning the police; he was stupidly drunk, was carrying an obscene amount of money with him and had made a rude gesture to a bunch of young guys. Some would say that he probably deserved everything he got. He went into his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed.
Billy (a novelette) Page 3