Written for Sharlmalfoy' challenge at .net/topic/44309/11432159/1/

1- Take the first book you see. It doesn't have to be your favourite book. No cheating!

2- Open it in page 29 and read the 5th line.

I picked up Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.

And he was so very free of the wine that he even called for the other bottle, and handed that about with the same liberality, when the first was gone.

The GUINNESS word is a trademark of Guinness & Co. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling.


This evening was different to the others, at the end. It started the same as them, though. As soon as darkness fell he would leave his flat to find somewhere that would take him in. It was getting harder as his options narrowed, and he found himself having to head further afield as the weeks passed. And, as the quantity of his money fell, so did the quality of the establishments he visited.

There were few out tonight. The icy wind blew straight up the river from the east, pushing the smell of decay from the mud flats exposed at low water into the streets surrounding the docks. This area had been – not exactly prosperous, but busy, once. The ships had arrived from all over the world, carrying spices from the Orient, tea from India and coffee from Brazil.

Time had moved on, and so had the ships. Now they were larger and berthed further down the river, where the container port unloaded electrical good from Japan and cheap plastics from China. The jobs had gone with the ships, and the wharfs and gantries lay derelict.

There were still pubs, though. Low and bleak they offered warmth and light…and drink. Enough would dull the senses and allow him to get through another night. More than enough and maybe he could even get through the day, until it was time to start out into the gloaming and begin the cycle all over again.

This one looked good enough for him. It was old and untouched. He would not find glass and chrome, cocktails and piped music in here. He pushed open the door, to be met by the familiar and welcoming smells that marked out a real pub; stale beer and tobacco smoke.

The tables were bare wood, as were the chairs and floor. This would do; a "spit and sawdust" pub on the unfashionable side of London's docks. Across the river the wharfs had been redeveloped and smart City financiers lived in converted warehouses, parking their Porches in secured underground accommodation. The docker's houses had become "artisan's cottages" for those who could not afford the grander accommodation, but even these cost more than the people who had once lived in them earned in their entire working lives.

The workers, whose families had lived here for generations, had followed the ships they depended on and now lived in high-rise flats in the new towns further down the estuary. Only the old remained, and Seamus nodded to them as he entered. They still wore the same clothes they had worn when they were young and hale; heavy woollen jackets, flat caps and a white scarf knotted about their throat. They nodded back at him, but didn't speak; this was a pub, not a debating chamber.

He walked to the bar. First he needed to quench his thirst. He was always thirsty to begin with.

'Guinness, please.'

The barman nodded. With that accent it was obvious what he'd order; the Irish drank stout, everybody knew it.

He watched as the dark body of the beer separated from the creamy white head, following the bubbles as they ebbed and flowed in the glass like the river outside the door. He would wait. He would not touch his drink until the movement had ceased. This was the product of his homeland, it's most famous son, and deserved to be treated with respect.

He savoured the taste in his mouth; dark and sweet but with an edge of bitterness. The drink matched his mood and his life these past months. Always sweetness with an edge of bitterness. How he hated himself for what he had become, yet what else could he be? To revel in such misery and draw comfort from such suffering, to keep forcing himself to face the hopelessness of his situation every day…that was why he drank his way to oblivion every night. The only alternative was reality, and he could not face that.

As the glasses emptied and filled to a faster rhythm than the river, so tongues loosened and conversation of a sort filtered through the close atmosphere of the bar. Football, of course. Here it would always be football. He had never watched the game, but had schooled himself in its subtleties enough to join in. Here, especially, he knew the pain would come eventually, a short stab of remembrance and regret. West Ham was located only a few miles away, and some of these people would be supporters wanting to talk about their team.

He remembered the poster put up on the wall that first night. The men in their claret and blue shirts fixed forever on the paper, never moving, and Dean explaining to Ron…

Dean. They had little in common, really, except they were both a long way from home. Their friendship had lasted through everything though, including jealousy and separation, but now he was gone. He had left his home to find out about the father he had never known and there had been no contact since.

He had little contact with any of them, any more, except … No! He would not think about her tonight, or any night. That was why he came out, to stop thinking about her for a few brief hours. He turned back again to the conversation on tactics and formation, and how the team would fare this Saturday.

He needed to keep them talking, remain on mundane matters, and the easiest way to do that was to buy the drinks. They would stay and be his friends whilst he had money. After a few pints he changed his drink, as usual. Beer was too great in volume to have the desired effect, and spirits were too expensive. Wine was a good compromised, so he switched to that. His drinking partners were not averse to joining him; they had tasted wine on their holidays to Spain, and considered it exotic enough to partake of a glass or two.

And he was so very free of the wine that he even called for the other bottle, and handed that about with the same liberality, when the first was gone. As the drink was thrown back, the level of conversation rose, and soon the jokes were being bandied about. He had heard them all a hundred times or more but still laughed and his new friends joined in.

'Are you enjoying the craic, Paddy?' asked one of them in a friendly way.

Seamus knew the role he had to play now. Around here the Irish were of two sorts. The first had just got off the potato boat and was good for a laugh and a drink. The second came at night and left a van full of explosives.

'To be sure, to be sure' Seamus laughed back, racking up the accent a notch.

This was the only time of day he could bear now; that few small hours when the pain could be pushed back and he could forget about everything. He could pretend he was young again, and the world had not changed.

Then the second bottle drained and he stared at his empty glass. His money was gone, but it was not enough. He needed more, so he turned to his drinking partners.

'We need more booze, boys. Who's for getting the next bottle in?'

Eyes shifted towards the clock. Wine was good but more expensive than beer. He'd included too many in his round, and nobody fancied providing for everyone else. The excuses started to flow; it was getting late, work in the morning, the Missus is expecting me back. It always happened; he knew it and he planned for it.

'Will ye not buy me a drink now, lads? I'd heard you Brits were a bunch of pikers, but I'd not believed it.'

It had the desired effect. The men stood and closed ranks.

'If you don't like it over here, Paddy, clear off back to your bog.'

'Where I come from, that's fighting talk. Will you take your punishment like a man?'

Of course they would, but it never amounted to much. Seamus would throw a few punches, and maybe a chair, and then bolt for the door. The adrenaline rush and whiff of danger took him back to when it mattered, to when he mattered.

Tonight it went wrong though. He'd got himself out of position and the crowd were between him and the door. He couldn't get past them, and was well outnumbered.

It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. He pulled out his wand….