Fire Escape Wake

Jock bought it last night. Slumped out cold on the fire-escape. Down by the canal. Bottle of sherry half full. Merryvale – tastes like fucking mouthwash if you’ve got any taste buds left, know what I mean, but it kicks in quick enough. Not worth rolling anyone for, but worth nicking from a corpse, you know what I mean? Bit of a mystery that. You’d have thought that somebody would have passed by, you know? Bit of a mystery that. Bit of a fucking mystery.
We tied Tesco’s carrier bags round the handrail because we didn’t have any flowers, and we didn’t want to nick any, out of respect. Twisted ‘em into bows. Dossers’ wreaths, you know what I mean?
Don’t know anything about the funeral or anything. To be honest I went on a bender and walked out of town for a day or two or a week or so - did I say that already? – don’t have the best of recall about it. Suppose there’d have been an autopsy. Rip the poor bastard’s skin to bits before they put him in the ground. Or burn him. Like he’s the ground and his skin’s the turf and they’re digging some poor bastard up who’s inside him, know what I mean? No? Can’t say I do either, know what I mean?
To be honest I went on a bender and walked out of town for a day or two or a week or so - did I say that already? – couldn’t cope. Intimations of mortality, some poncy sod called it. Not Jock, though, know what I mean – he just used a system of grunts and expressions and violent gestures - did I say that already? – that sort of thing gives you a kick in the arse; reminds you it could be you next, know what I mean? I just had to get away and clear my head.
Someone said he’s got a daughter somewhere – don’t know nothing about that.
No foul play, they said, no marks on his body; just stiff as an old boot in the morning.
Must have been visible from there, you know what I mean? Can’t say they didn’t see him, but they don’t give a shit, these people. We’re the scummiest of the lowest, know what I mean?
Give him his dues, though, respect for the dead and all that but he could be a violent piece of shit when his mind took him away that that way. Seemed to erupt, know what I mean, even when he was sober, like someone else was staring out his eyes. Couldn’t take real life, you know what I mean, just couldn’t take it. I mean, lots of us, we get by; it’s a shit existence, but we manage, know what I mean, but Jock wasn’t in it, you know, the real world, at all. Just used to grunt most of the time - did I say that already? – big fucker as well; you wouldn’t argue with him. Easier to run.
Stay there. Stay there. Smack-heads. Let them go by. Stay there. Stay there. That’s better. Not in the mood to mess with them today. Thanks, mate. Just as well you’re built like a church door, ain’t it?
Someone said he left a wife somewhere – don’t know nothing about that.
He never used to doss there – just used to rest awhile, all them smells and warmth coming out of the kitchen. Sometimes he’d lurch in smelling spiced all over, smelling like a crispy duck who’s been hanging up too long. Mind you, sometimes they used to move him on – evil little chinky bastards; wouldn’t trust ‘em any further than I trust their food. You wouldn’t have thought we’d fought a war against them, would you? That is right, isn’t it? Don’t have the best of recall about it. It’s all the same to me, sometimes, the way I get. You know what I mean?
Least they haven’t removed our plastic bows yet. They look – dunno – pathetic but sincere, know what I mean? Like AIDS bows or something. Just hanging there. Somebody took a photo of it. They’re gonna take a sight longer to rot than real flowers, that’s for real. Some sort of respect for the poor sod, I suppose. What a way to go. Still, that’s the way we’re all going to go unless someone does something about it. And the only one who can do that is me, you know what I mean? And I can’t see me doing that. Might be plastic bows around the railings for me next. Somebody took a photo of it. Nice enough bloke. Got some nice kit. Looked a bit worried about it, know what I mean? I asked him if I could have a print and he said yeah, he’d get an extra one made and keep it till he saw me. We’ll see, we’ll see. Didn’t know what they were there for, when they took the picture. I had to explain. He looked a bit guilty. Thanked me and wandered off – gave me a quid without asking.
Well, anyway, what’s to talk about? He’s gone. Another one gone. So what, most people say. And you know, I look at them twists of plastic, wrapped around that rusting piece of metal, and it looks like a row of nooses, all waiting to hang me once and hang me again and hang me till I’m dead ten times over, and that’s what’s left for me. There’s no way out. Know what I mean? Know what I mean?