Page 111 of A Night with Damien Spur

Damien was edgy. Aidan had moved to the seat next to him. He smelt of stale cannabis and sweat.

‘Hello, mate,’ the dealer said. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Don’t call me mate,’ Damien said. ‘Are you here because you’re going straight or is it rich pickings at meetings?’

‘No need to be rude. You were happy to score the coke from me any time night or day, and I gave you credit.’

‘You don’t have to remind me.’ Damien scanned the room. ‘That’s why I’m moving.’ He stood up and snaked his way to an empty chair in the front row.

That’s it, the Voice said. Just keep focus.

The first share was Silver Sneakers. Husband dead two years ago. Heart attack. Now she was lonely, middle-aged and disappointed, playing the online dating game. She had met divorced men, widowed men, mostly older men, who wanted a companion. Men who’d lost their mojo long ago.

And that’s when the habit set in. Prozac in the morning, a midday gin and tonic, followed by teatime vodka and apple schnapps, her husband’s favourite. And in the evening when the grieving was really bad, a bottle of red and then to bed with a temazepam.

Sweet dreams, but, come the morning, numbness, burning, pain. And she started all over again. A hit of 60 mgs of Prozac to make herself feel better followed by a chaser. Until one day, she fell and broke her hip and that was it, her wake-up call.

Sam, a dapper little man with thinning hair, began his share.

‘Hello, I’m Sammy and I’m an alcoholic. I have three women in my life: my mother, my wife and my mistress, in that order. The three naggers. I own a delicatessen in Golders Green called Fresser, which means glutton in Yiddish. I’m a glutton, a glutton for punishment.’

The circle laughed.

Good start, said the Voice.

‘Anyway, my problem began two years ago around the time of Passover. I never liked wine, especially the kosher stuff, but things were heating up with the mistress. “Harry, I’m fed up,”she says. “We can never be together on High Holy days. It’s about time you left your bloody wife.”

‘The mistress nags me every day about this and then she sends texts and WhatsApps telling me that she’s had enough. So one evening when the wife was out, the mistress calls me and says she’s going to spill the beans and tell her that we’ve been having an affair for the last ten years. Now me, a man who didn’t drink, is so upset that I go to the cupboard and take out the kosher wine. I have a glass and already I feel better, until my mother rings and says the chopped liver I brought her has made her ill and where are her sleeping pills and why didn’t I come to see her today? She goes on and on. And it gets to me. And so I have another glass and then another. By the time the wife comes home, she finds me passed out on the floor with the empty bottle next to me. She wakes me up and gives me hell. And that’s when I really began to hit the booze. The only way I could keep my sanity was to drink the nagging away. So then I started on the whisky and that was it. Eventually I hit rock bottom. I couldn’t even get it up anymore. So the mistress found a new boyfriend and went to live with him in Ruislip.

‘My son who lived in the States came to see me. “Dad,” he said, “the only way to save yourself is to go to AA.”

‘So, I’m here. I’ve been coming for three years and I’m happy to say I haven’t fallen off the wagon.’

Very good, said the Voice.No self-pity and he wasn’t performing… Oh dear, here comes Aidan.

Damien glanced at the skeletal creature shuffling towards him and had a surge of guilt.

Aidan had, after all, been at his beck and call. Given him what he’d wanted.

Look, Damien, he’s a bloody dealer. No sympathy for the Devil,the Voice said.

All right, no need to bang on. I’ll try and steer clear.

But at the back of his mind, behind the Voice, there was a whisper.

How can you give it up, Damien? You love the drug too much.

And just as he was fighting with his thoughts Aidan grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round.

‘Hi, dude. Am I interrupting your mind talk? Come on, be a friend. Take my hand for the serenity prayer.’ He reached out his palm and wiggled his spindly fingers.

‘Not sure that’s a good idea,’ Damien said.

‘Why? I’m not dealing any more.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘I’m trying to recover, just like you are.’ His mouth stretched into a gummy grin.

Damien could smell the putrid stench of his breath and backed away.

He’s lying, said the Voice.He’s trying the friendly-bro approach. Wants you back on the books.

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