Short Story: John

Short Story: John

John was always a bit of a romancer; the last out of the working men’s club at closing time, wandering aimlessly along the cobbled streets looking for his latest lady of the night. He was a happy go lucky man, when he wasn’t standing in the dole queue waiting for his next lot of loot to ruin his liver, and he often believed that one day, he wouldn’t have to stand in the line with the other ex-miners of the town. Yet in the bottom of the pint glass he found solace. He thought he could drink his sorrows away, that it would be alright in the morning. That was, until he met Gladys.

As per usual, he stumbled along the back streets of Darlington Town centre, past the run down shops and the Abbey National bank, to a side road that was known to the locals as Ladies Lane. He kicked the small stones with his old walking boots as he went along pondering what lucky lady he was going to accost tonight. He casually drew out the few notes he had left from his back pocket, so he was prepared when he got there, he never liked to keep a lady waiting.

The lane was cold and dreary, typical of a December evening, but the ladies were not dressed for the harshness of the bitter Northern wind.

One approached John as he reached the top of the lane, and asked, “What you looking for tonight John? Or should I ask, how much do you have to spend this time?” and she laughed bitterly at the drunken state that was John.

But John didn’t care. He staggered up the lane until he spotted her. He stopped dead in his tracks. Gladys. She wore a red leather dress, something that his wife used to own a few years back before she left… .the image replayed itself over and over in his mind.

“You’ll do,” he muttered at the lady, eyeing the holes in her fishnet tights that had obviously seen better days.

Gladys replied, “It’ll cost ya. Ah don’t come cheap ya know.”

He moved towards her and handed her the notes he had gotten out minutes earlier, ”This is all I’ve got, it’ll be enough, aye?” he said.

She nodded, and hooked her arm through his as she helped him walk steadily on the slippery wet cobbles.

The pair headed for Gladys’ hang out, the place where she dreaded coming each night because of the shame it brought her. She felt embarrassed and saddened to be having to earn money this way, however Billy was in need of a new pair of school shoes this week. He had been walking round with holes in them for days now. She gingerly led John up the stairs to her room. It was covered with reminders of herself, as if it was screaming back at her that what she was doing was wrong, Bon Jovi, Billy, her Mum, all sat on the drawers in their wooden frames, almost imprinted as if they would never go away.

Gladys turned and faced John, who was sitting on the bed, “What can I do for you this evening? Is it just sex?” she asked.

John, despite his drunkenness, replied, “No, this is different. I want you to be her for me. It’s that dress. You are her,” he said.

He pulled a small photograph out of his side jean pocket and showed it to Gladys.

Gladys realised she was going to get in deep. He looked like the usual drunks who loomed over her each night, with a stench of alcohol and old cigarettes, yet the photograph showed a depth to him that caught her off guard. Her heart felt the pain and sadness written across John’s face as the explanation of his request came to light. She was momentarily lost, and the world around seemed to close in on her as his voice was ringing through her ears. Billy flashed in front of her, and she realised this was the moment to do a different kind of service, for the man in front of her was filled with sorrow. Her eyes slowly began to water, and she nodded in agreement.

Some may say she changed his life forever. By day she was the perfect mother she had always dreamt of being, and by night, she took John’s money and re-enacted his moments with his wife in the hope of keeping her memory alive. His liver was given a life, and so was his wife, through the moments he shared with Gladys. She shined a light into his heart and not the glass, every day.