Short Story: A Better Man Than I

Short Story: A Better Man Than I

Steve could see the drunk ahead in the road, slumped and semi-comatose, and was tempted to cross the road to avoid him. He hated them, these beggars in the street, particularly the drunken ones, demanding money in slurred tones. Each time he passed one, he found himself wrestling with his conscience because whatever you decided to do, you were wrong. If you did give them money you felt guilty because you knew you were being weak and they would just spend the money on more drink, driving themselves ever deeper into despair and degradation and yet, if you gave them nothing, you felt no better. You could have been denying a desperate person a last chance, a helping hand when they most needed it.

But his unease at passing them had deeper roots in the back of his mind. For he too had his problems with the drink and while he had never sunk so low as to be lying in the street begging, he knew he had on occasion had one foot on the top of the slippery slope that leads down to who knows where. He could have ended up just like this man. Still could, if truth be told. For the last few years he had tried hard to keep things under control but he had learned to his cost that his brain was filled with those tiny little receptors that loved the drink more than he loved his quietly unexciting life.

He was almost beside the drunk now. He felt in his pocket to see if he had a few coins - not too many mind - that he could toss in the hat to alleviate his guilt. He found some at the bottom of his coat pocket and at the same time noticed that the drunk’s hat was empty so he felt a certain relief at providing a start to the collection.

The drunk was singing to himself quietly. Steve knew the song. It was, ‘The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’. He lent down, tossed his coins into the hat, and turned away.

The drunk looked up briefly. ‘Sshteve?’

He hesitated. The drunk had spoken his name.

‘Sshteve?’

‘Yes. Do I know you?’ he asked.

‘You’re Sshteve. Sshteve Sschimonds. From school’

Steve had stopped now and leant forward to look closer. The drunk was staring up, but his face meant nothing to Steve.

‘Do’ncha remember me?’

Steve did not. But then as the drunk turned his head, his face was lit briefly by the streetlight and his eyes glinted in the dark and Steve felt a shock of recognition. He knew the opaque blueness of those eyes. Dirty as it was now, the distinct blond hair was familiar, as was that unmistakeable perfectly symmetrical face. He was looking at Sean Gray and Sean Gray was looking at him.

‘Give a fella a hand up then.’

Steve leaned forward and helped the drunk sit up and, as he did so, twenty years of his life fell away and he was back at the old school, with Sean. Sean who had permeated his school life and who had, in his own way, contributed to a life that had never seemed to live up to expectation. A life that had never been quite good enough.

They had been friends. Sort of friends anyway. But from the moment Sean had walked in the classroom door for the first time, Steve had suffered from his presence. Sean was taller and better looking than him. Sean’s body was toned and muscled and usually bronzed, while Steve’s was white, flabby with a slightly hunched back. They both came from the same street and teamed up together for those first unnerving weeks of secondary school.

Sean easily excelled at most school subjects. Steve, although clever in his own way could never achieve the high marks and continuous praise that Sean enjoyed from his teachers. Sean was a better footballer and stronger Rugby player and swam faster. Steve had been something of an athletics star at his primary school regularly representing his school and winning races. He had got as far as running the hundred meters in the county championship. But here he was beaten for the first time and the person who beat him was of course Sean Gray.

At the time Sean was at another school so they had never met before. After the race, Sean had come up to him and congratulated him for running so well. ‘You made me work for that,’ he said. It was typical of Sean. Not only did he know how to win but he also knew how to be magnanimous in victory. Perhaps if he’d have been arrogant and objectionable it would have been easier to bear. At least you could have thought the less of him as a person. But then, thinking about it, it probably wouldn’t have made the slightest difference.

‘Haven’t got a fag on you have you, old boy,’ said Sean having finally balanced himself up in a sitting position on the pavement.’

‘Sorry, don’t smoke.’

‘No you wouldn’t would you Steve. Always the athlete at school. Always looking after your body. Not like me, eh Steve. Look at me. Who’d’ve thought I thought I would have ended up like this?’

‘Not me,’ thought Steve. They’d been in the same class for nearly his whole time at school. They used to compare reports at the end of each term. ‘Well done,’ Sean used to say, ‘That’s a really good report’ Steve used to search through the marks on Sean’s report desperately looking for a mark lower than his. Of course he never found one. ‘Yours is pretty good too,’ Steve would say, not quite managing to hide the disappointment in his voice.

And then Sean would say something self-deprecating like ‘Oh you know me, Steve, I’m always a right crawler. They all think the sun shines out of my bum, these bloody teachers, God alone knows why.’

‘D’yer think you can do me a lissel favour’. Sean was staring into Steve’s face desperately trying to focus.

‘Of course,’ said Sean.

‘Do you think you could take me home’

‘Well there’s not really that much room at my place,’ Steve could imagine what his wife would say if he turned up with a drunken mate on his elbow. She’d said if he ever turned up drunk again she would throw him out for good. It wouldn’t matter that he himself had not touched a drink for years. She’s just see two drunk men and that would be it..

‘No, no. You don’t undershtand’ I mean will you take me back to my home. You shee I’m having a bit of trouble. Got a bit of shrapnel in me leg. You know, from the war. Don’t seem to be able to walk any more.’

‘What war was that then?’

‘The battle of Trafalgar. You know the Trafalgar. The one with the pool table. By the chip shop. Nice chips. Lost the crucial battle between myshelf and the barstool. Casualties were appalling I can tell you. Barmaid’s tits covered in whisky. Threw me out. Their best customer and they threw me out. So. If you could see yourself clear to get me home.. I would be mush obliged’

Steve helped him to his feet, almost falling over in the process. Sean lent on him desperately trying to gain his balance before he attempt to lurch forward.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Hamilton Park. J’know it?’

Steve knew it well. It was not too far away, near the centre of town. There were row a row of park benches where the tramps and the druggies sat or slept or argued surrounded by their empty cider bottles and their discarded Carlsberg Special cans.

‘You live there?’

‘Yesh. Nice plash, innit?’

‘Yes. It is a nice place’.

Throughout his seven years at school he could not remember a single time when he had bettered Sean. Even a kick around in the playground and a game of conkers always ended in victory for Sean. Steve had got used to it. He didn’t do too badly himself but he wished that once, just once, he could have beaten his friend. One victory and he would have been happy.

And there was one occasion when he’d thought he’d done it. They were in their fourth year and they were in the 100 yard sprint on Sports Day. The points were fairly even and a win for Steve could have given the cup to his house. Steve’s start was perfect. He was out ahead of the others in three strides. He didn’t have to look to know that Sean would be pounding at his heels so he put every bit of energy he’d ever had into that sprint. He didn’t care if he killed himself in the process if, just this once, he could win. And he did. At least he crossed the line first. He couldn’t believe it. He had beaten Sean and possibly achieved a school record.

Except that he hadn’t. There had to a catch and of course there was. It had been a false start. The games master had attempted to blow his whistle to call them back but he had stumbled and dropped it in the dirt. The race had gone on to the finish but the result wouldn’t stand. Now it would have to be run again. It was. Sean won.

‘Sh’mighty good of you to bring me home, Steve, But you always was a good bloke. Don’t know how we losh touch. We ushed to be mates, di’n’ we. How come we losh touch’

Steve knew exactly how they had lost touch. It was in the Sixth Form. Steve had been going out with a girl called Amanda. For the first time in his life he’d been in love. Desperately. As you always are the first time. But Sean did not get pushed to one side. Instead they became a trio. People called them the three Musketeers, always out together. Of course if he’d given it a moment’s thought he’d have seen the danger; two’s company and all that. But he didn’t and then one inevitable day, a tearful Amanda had told him that everything had changed. It had been all been a terrible accident. She hadn’t meant to fall in love with Sean – it just sort of happened. He never spoke to Sean again. Not until now.

‘Steady’

Sean was staggering, trying to get his balance as they moved off clumsily towards Hamilton Park.

‘Jesh a minute. Forgot me hat.’

Sean leant precariously to pick up his hat, casually flipped it on his head and as he did so a small shower of coins cascaded over his head. Sean laughed.

‘Wouldju believe it, somebody’s acherly given me some money’

It wasn’t that Steve’s life had been terrible. He had achieved a middle management job, bit of a dead end, but not too stressful and the mortgage was paid on his small but smart house. He had two children, both, if truth be told, rather plain and overweight – she did tend to feed them too much. His wife was not what you’d call a looker and she’d recently got a bit heavier than he would have liked but they had stayed together and still enjoyed each other’s company. He had been this close to being president at the golf club this year. He had plenty to be grateful for.

But he never ever would have believed that at 47 he would have left Sean Gray so far behind. In fact compared to this lumbering drunk at his side, his life had been an outstanding success.

Suddenly he found his attitude to Sean changing. Even though he hadn’t given Sean a thought for years, the deep envy that had somehow dogged him for years seemed to lift. He’d been there, Sean, all Steve’s life, silently looking over his shoulder offering those kind consoling words that concealed the real truth - I am better than you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Now suddenly he felt a new affection for his old friend Sean. The envy that had haunted their relationship fell away and, as they staggered along through the yellow lights of the streetlamps, Steve felt the warm glow of benevolence as he helped his friend, now fallen in life, home to his cold bench by Hamilton Park

‘Thish is very good of you.’ said Sean, a little steadier on his feet now. ‘You always were a good mate. Amanda. That’s what it was wasn’t it. Amanda. Lost her years ago. Should have known. Matesh are more important than girlfriends aren’t they. Women come and go, don’t they. But not your matesh. Your matesh are always there. I’m sorry about Amanda, Steve. I really am sorry about that.’

‘Long time ago.’ said Steve, ’All in the past now.’

They were close to the benches. Only one was occupied. A single tramp snored under a heap of old newspapers. Could he really abandon his friend here?

‘This is where you live?’

‘Yeah. S’good innit?’

‘Yeah. It’s great.’

They approached one of the benches and he loosened his grip on Sean. But Sean didn’t move towards a bench. He carried on towards the wall at the back of the park. There was an old gate hidden away at the back. It was broken and covered in obscene graffiti. Sean held his hand towards it and pulled the gate open. Steve wasn’t sure he wanted to see the place that this poor drunken man called home.

They staggered through the gate and found themselves not in a litter strewn alley as he had expected but on the edge of a large formal garden. Beyond this was Hamilton House, a huge Georgian villa lit with floodlights. Steve looked around for a shed or an outbuilding that must have been Sean’s sanctuary.

Suddenly there was a cacophony of loud barking and, seconds later, two black Doberman’s flung themselves round the side of the house, charging towards the two of them, momentarily frozen in fear. Steve looked from side to side for somewhere to hide. All he could think of was the gate behind them but he could never get Sean back there in time. He had no choice, he let his friend sink to the ground and ran towards the gate.

‘Steve. Steve. Don’t leave me here.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ Steve called back running as fast as he could to safety.

Steve was almost at the gate when the dogs reached Sean. They leapt in the air and threw themselves at him. Steve could not bring himself to turn until he reached the safety of the gate. With one hand on the latch, he glanced back. Sean was on the ground and the dogs were all over him.

But Sean was laughing.

At first Steve thought he must have got it wrong, that he was really hearing cries of agony. But no, it definitely was laughter. And the dogs weren’t attacking him. They were licking him.

A woman emerged from the house and ran over to Sean. When she reached the dogs she pulled them off. But Sean was still rolling on the ground laughing. Even in the half-light Steve could see how beautiful the woman was. She had long black hair and pale green eyes. She was young, no more than twenty. From her look, he guessed she was a model or maybe a dancer.

Steve walked back towards where Sean was lying.

‘Hildy. Thish is my friend Steve. Steve thish is my wife Hildy. You haven’t met’

‘You brought him home?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was nice of you. He gets like this every now and again. Goes on a binge. Can’t think why he does it. He always gets home. Eventually. Don’t you dear?. At least he’s funny when he’s like this. Not like some people. He’s perfectly normal, honestly. Most of the time anyway.’

‘You live here?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know. I know. It’s bit ostentatious isn’t it. We wanted something smaller. But we just saw it and had to have it. You know how it is. Oh get up will you, you silly man.’

Steve looked up into the sky to the bright white full moon that hung above them. He lowered his gaze down towards the river, glinting in the moonlight. He saw the white tinged willows at the water’s edge. His gaze followed the lit paths through the walled gardens that led up from the river to the imposing grandeur of Hamilton House and finally he looked back at his old friend, rolling and giggling with his two sleek black dogs, while his thin beautiful wife looked on and he thought to himself.

‘God. He’s even a better drunk than I am’