Pack Up the Moon by Anna McPartlin Read Free Book Online

the money to pay for it. He didn’t interact; he wasn’t there to be social or to get laid, which probably surprised a few of the regulars. When he fell off the stool, the barman stopped serving him. He didn’t argue or throw
     
    shapes — he just took his money, pushed it into his pocket and meandered out of the establishment, his exit as silent as his entrance. He’d bought a few bottles in the off-licence next door, his Visa taking the hit, when he discovered that his remaining change couldn’t stretch to a kebab. He needed help leaving; the mixture of twelve whiskeys and fresh air had hit him hard and his legs were becoming unstable. He didn’t recall how he got home. He didn’t remember the mode of transport nor how he managed to fit the key into
    the lock. He found himself sitting on his favourite chair, a tatty, ragged thing that, once you sat in it, swallowed you whole. Clo used to call it “The Lotus”.
    He didn’t leave it that night. Instead he sat in the dark drinking from the bottle, not caring about any possible damage he could be inflicting on his tired body.
    What’s the point?
    He took a long-overdue week off work and there he
    remained in his tatty chair, in his small apartment sitting-room surrounded by the books that lined his walls. He wouldn’t be reading for a while — his eyes hurt too much. The CD machine in the corner remained silent. Sound hurt his ears. The TV lay permanently idle. Food was a foreign concept; he’d forgotten how to swallow solids without choking. He couldn’t sleep. He just drank until there was nothing.
    He ignored the telephone and the door. He was in no fit state and after a while he didn’t hear them. He’d fall asleep but his troubled mind woke him quickly. His head would loll, and then fall slightly; he’d pick it up, eyes closed. This would occur a number of times before he would finally succumb to a deep sleep.
     
    John would be there and for a moment everything
    would be fine. He would be sitting in The Lotus beside John’s hospital bed. John would turn to him and say: “Jesus, man, you look like shit!”
    Sean would nod his head, smiling. “You gave us a scare,” he’d say and John would sit up grinning. “I do love the spotlight.”
    “It’s not funny. We thought you were dead.”
    Sean would move to the window, mesmerised by the glowing sun that seemed to dance in the air like a bright
    orange balloon. He could hear John laughing behind him.
    “Nobody dies — we go somewhere else, that’s all.”
    Sean would try to turn away from the window, but his eyes would remain focused on the sun.
    “Yeah. Well, I’m glad you stayed,” he’d say, battling to turn his face to John.
    “I didn’t.”
    Somehow released, he’d turn but it would be too late: he’d be facing an empty bed and then he’d wake, startled by his own cries. The dream was always pretty much the same. The odd detail would change; instead of a dancing sun it would be a yellow moon or a white cloud. Once it was a chocolate M&M.
    He’d been drinking for five days when the key turned
    in his door. Jackie, a girl he had been shagging, entered, still knocking.
    “Hello? Anybody here?”
    Unable to respond he remained seated, drunk, exhausted, haunted and suffering from a touch of alcohol poisoning. She stood over him, surveying the damage he had done over the previous five days: the empty bottles
     
    that lined the floor, the cigarette butts towering over the ashtray, the smell of booze which almost took her breath away. His eyes were red raw. He was filthy, not having changed his clothes in days. His fingers were yellow and shaking. He was sweating profusely.
    “Oh my God! What have you done to yourself?”
    He sat staring into the middle distance, drawing deeply from a cigarette, and she wasn’t sure if he was merely ignoring her or if he was even aware that she had entered. She walked to the bathroom in search of a face cloth. She slipped on vomit and then