Chapter 1: Do Us Part

It had been raining all afternoon and the wind was chilly for early May,

driving tourists and shoppers home and leaving the streets almost empty by six. A cool breeze accompanied the rain along Charing Cross Road, flapping the bright yellow banners which advertised the Millennium Experience in the controversial Dome. The clouds were low enough for light from the windows of the Seven Bells in Bateman Street to be seen as a faint golden glow, and the impression of welcoming warmth had drawn several disparate groups of patrons through its door.

At the bar were the regulars - a couple of big blokes wearing gold chains and shirts open wide at the collar, who were looking at the day's racing results in the paper and discussing tips with Pete the barman, and an elderly gent in a trilby hat with a small terrier dog under his stool. In the leather-look seats by the fire a group of five women were sipping spritzers and sharing two bags of crisps between them. A crowd of city types had taken over the central area, jackets slung over the backs of their chairs as they sank pints and shorts and exchanged work gossip, and the pool-table had been colonised by a gang of lads who were going to a mate's party and had stopped off for a quick one on the way.

If anyone had asked them to describe the man sitting on his own at the corner table, few of them could have done so. Pete could have testified that he'd drunk a great deal. The lad who cleared the empties off his table might have noticed the mound of dog-ends in the ashtray, and the girl who'd tripped over the leg of his chair on her way to the Ladies would possibly have remembered the bright blue of his eyes as he'd glanced up in response to her apology. Otherwise, he was unremarkable and unremarked. He'd been sitting in the same chair for several hours, staring at an envelope on the table.

"I wanted to bring you this myself." June Morgan stood by the table in the Seven Bells and looked steadily at her husband. "I didn't want you to get it in the post."

He looked at the envelope in her hand, and then raised his eyes to hers. "We don't have to do this, June. Look, sit down, willya?"

June sat down on the edge of the chair. "Yes, we do have to do this. Don't make it any harder than it has to be, eh?"

"Listen!" He leaned forward a little, clasping her fingers. "I've been thinking. I'll pack it in. For good. I can get a job in IT – systems manager, something like that. I know a bloke in … what?"

June was smiling, shaking her head. "How long have you been out? Three months. How many jobs have you done? Four."

"Look, they were favours. I owed a few people…"

"Yeah, I know. And what happens when it's three weeks into your new job, and one of those people you owe things to rings you up wanting a favour, eh? No, love," as he opened his mouth again, "it won't work."

"June…"

"Please, love. Don't."

The pain in her voice made him wince and he bowed his head.

June drew a long breath. "I should never have let you try to change, should I? You can't, any more than I can. We are who we are, and we've had great times. But I can't do it any more. Not like this. It used to be fun, but it's not the same any more – not since…" she broke off, searching for the words. "It's the nights I can't stand. Lying in bed wondering if you're coming home, or if someone's kicked your head in - or if you're in a police cell somewhere. Thinking about what might have been, if… I can't do it any more. I love you, I truly do, but I need my life back. And so do you. We need a fresh start, for both our sakes."

"Yeah." The fight went out of him and he gently released her hand. He didn't look up.

She placed the letter on the table and stood up. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart," she said, kissed him on the top of his bowed head, and was gone.

Five hours, ten pints and God alone knew how many smokes later Ashley Morgan was still sitting in the Seven Bells, an empty glass at his elbow, staring at the envelope which held the end of his marriage. With slow, precise movements he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and discovered the box to be empty. This presented him with a quandary – he needed a fresh packet, and that would mean standing up. Achieving the vertical position by means of a firm grip on the table, he was able to move from there to the bar via several different items of furniture. Once this goal had been attained, he paused, grateful for its support and unclear what his next move should be.

Pete, from his vantage point behind the bar, had been eyeing Ash's progress across the room with a mixture of sympathy and trepidation and now came across to him. "On your way home, Ash?"

Concentrating hard, Ash thought about the question. He hadn't been intending to leave the pub when he originally stood up, but having got this far it did seem a logical conclusion. "I need to pay up," he said.

"I've shoved it on the tab, mate. Pay me later in the week. I know you're good for it."

Ash thought about this, too, and then nodded carefully. He patted his pockets, frowned, and then looked around in a questioning manner.

"What's up?" asked Pete. "Lost something?"

"Left it back there…" Ash gestured vaguely at his table and then grabbed at the bar for support as he overbalanced and teetered slightly.

"I'll get it," said Pete hurriedly, not relishing the thought of watching Ash negotiate his way back across the room. He nipped out from behind the bar, retrieved the envelope and pushed it into Ash's shirt pocket, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he did so. "All right, mate?"

"I'll do. Gonna get a taxi…"

"Percy'll run you home, mate. He's got his cab round the corner. Oi – Perce – you'll give Ash a lift, yeah?"

The slimmer of the two racing enthusiasts heaved himself down from his bar-stool. "No bother," he said equably. "Come on, mucker, let's get you home." He slung a companionable arm around Ash's shoulders and began to steer him doorwards. "Don't worry," he added in passing to Pete as they began their unsteady progress, "I got me instructions."

Pete watched them go, then fumbled in his trouser pocket and produced the cash June had given to him on her way out. "That's for him," she'd said, jerking her head at the solitary figure in the corner, "and can you get Perce or Jacko to see him back to the flat? And put him to bed? Only we just got divorced. Thanks, love."

It hadn't seemed right to put the fifty in the till with Ash sitting there, but he did so now, with a sigh and a shake of the head.