The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) (3 page)

He had a cup of coffee held between his hands and he took a sip. He didn’t want to speak for too long—he was conscious of others who wanted to share, and he didn’t like the idea that his problems were any more serious than theirs—but he wasn’t quite ready to stop.

“So I came back. I found a flat. Just somewhere cheap to rent. I don’t have much money, hardly any at all, really, but I found a tiny place that will do very well for me. I found a job. It’s nothing special, either, but I like it. Night shifts. Keeps me away from temptation. And I found the meetings I need to help me keep everything together. I feel okay about it all. I feel like I can handle it. I feel like I’m getting myself back together again.”

There was a murmuring of support. Milton sipped the coffee again. He decided to tell them everything.

“I don’t normally speak,” he said. “The reason I am now is because this is an anniversary for me. It’s three years since I took a drink. One thousand and ninety-five days. And I’m grateful. Coming to these rooms saved my life. If anyone here is new and wondering whether or not this can work, I’m here to say that it can. It’s like we always say: it works if you work it—”

“—and work it ’cause you’re worth it,” the others finished.

Milton smiled. “That’s all I wanted to say, really. Thanks for listening.”

The usual chorus followed, others thanking him for his share, but Milton had said what he had needed to say, and now he felt himself drawing back into himself again.

There was a moment of silence, a pause while the others decided whether they would speak, too. Milton had been to this meeting several times, and he had already started to associate the regulars with typical AA types. There were those, much like him, who preferred to sit and listen. There were others, newer to the program, who, once they started to unburden themselves, couldn’t stop. There were still others who shared every week because they liked to hear themselves speaking. Some of those were a little smug, dispensing advice that had not been requested and opining upon the shares of others. Milton tuned out whenever they spoke.

“My name is Edward and I’m an alcoholic.”

The man was on the end of the same row as Milton and had been sitting quietly. Milton had seen him before and had noticed that he was friendly with the other regulars. The others welcomed his share; Milton stared down into his mug at the swirl of cheap brown coffee.

Edward looked down the row at Milton. “First of all, well done, John. Three years. That’s amazing.”

Milton looked back at him and gave a nod of acknowledgement.

“I feel like I might be getting to a similar place. The last month has been difficult. I’ve been white-knuckling it, if I’m honest. There have been days when I didn’t think I could keep going, but coming to the rooms has given me the strength to stay away from booze, and I’ll always be grateful for that. And things might be getting better. I’ve never shared the reasons why I feel the way I do, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that properly, but I can say that I feel like I’m making real progress now.”

He paused and, when Milton looked over at him, his expression made it evident that he was considering how much he could say, just as Milton had done. He looked as if he was going to go on, but, as he started to open his mouth, he lost his nerve, shook his head and managed a rueful smile.

“I know we should be totally honest, no secrets, but I’m not ready to do that yet. There are things I might be able to say, one day, but for now I just wanted to say that I am grateful for the friendship I’ve found here. Like John says: it works if you work it. Thanks for listening.”

Others thanked him for his share. He smiled shyly and, like Milton, returned to quiet contemplation for the rest of the meeting.

SOME OF THE REGULARS went out and got coffee together after the meeting had come to an end. It was eight o’clock, and Milton didn’t have to be at the shelter for work until ten. He had fallen into the habit of taking a long stroll to clear his head. The quickest route to Russell Square was to follow Holborn and then turn north. It was two miles and Milton would have been able to cover the ground in just over half an hour if he moved quickly. He preferred to take the scenic route, heading south until he went by Cannon Street station and then following the river as it meandered to the west. He found it very beautiful at this time of day, with the lights glittering darkly on that wide span of water, barges and commuter craft sliding across the slow-moving tide. He would turn to the north as he reached Temple and follow Kingsway until he reached the Square. If he ambled and stopped occasionally to gaze out over the water, he could eke out two hours of peace and solitude, a useful supplementary buttress to the peace he had earned at the meeting. The walk always reminded him that there was more to London than the sordid, grubby business that was transacted from the anonymous building close to the MI5 building in Millbank from where his career had been directed. It reminded him, as he watched the city going about its business, never sleeping, that the world was larger than that, and that, perhaps, if he guarded his sobriety, he might be able to find his place in it.

He was getting ready to set off when the man who had spoken after him detached himself from the group and came over to him.

“You coming?”

“Sorry?”

“Coffee?”

“No,” Milton said. “I can’t. I have to get to work.”

“You don’t have half an hour to spare? Come on.”

Milton looked at his watch. It was a superfluous gesture; he knew what the time was. He was about to decline the invitation when something told him to stop being so foolish. He could take that walk whenever he liked. He remembered one of the most frequently repeated pieces of advice that was relayed during the meetings: you have to get involved. Sitting at the back was the taking of half measures, and, as the idiom went, “Half measures availed us nothing.” He had already spoken tonight, and that was unusual. He felt better for it. Perhaps he would feel even better still if he took up the offer. He made a decision. Being sociable couldn’t hurt, and maybe it would help.

“Where is it?”

“Just near Bank.”

That wasn’t out of his way. He had no excuse.

“Sure,” Milton said. “I suppose I can.”

THERE WAS a commonly repeated saying in the rooms. It was that a newly sober drunk had both good and bad news. The good news was that they never had to drink again. The bad news was that the other men and women at the meetings were their new friends. Milton thought about that as he looked around the room. They were in a branch of Leon on Watling Street, near to Bank station. There were six of them and, as they filed inside, the manager acknowledged one of the women and indicated a table that had been reserved for them. Milton could see that this was a routine that had been in place for some time. They sat down and the manager took their orders. Some of them ordered cakes with their coffees. Milton declined, ordering a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. Caffeine and nicotine were his only vices now. He wondered afresh whether this was a good idea for someone like him. The meetings provided him with a space where he could meditate and listen to the testimonies of people with the same compulsions as he had, if not the same motivations. He took what he needed, occasionally shared something in exchange, and then returned to the comfortable cloak of his solitude. He had overheard the couple ahead of him as they had walked from the church. There was a tendency for some of his fellows to be overly enthusiastic about their recoveries, to proselytise about the program and offer critical comments about the slightest deviation from what the Big Book suggested was the best way to behave. One of the pair, a middle-aged woman, was hectoring her younger companion about the things that she was doing wrong. The second woman tried to retort, but Milton had noticed from her previous sharing that she was meek, and she quickly allowed herself to be spoken over.

The man who had invited Milton had stopped at the bathroom as soon as they had arrived. Maybe it had been a mistake to come after all. Milton decided he would stay for ten minutes. He would get the Central Line and walk from Oxford Circus.

The meek woman took the seat to Milton’s right. He introduced himself and offered her his hand; she took it, her grip loose and her skin cool, and said that her name was Emma. She looked uncomfortable at the prospect of a conversation with him, and after a few awkward words, they were both rescued by the arrival of the coffees. She turned and started to talk to the other women at her end of the table. They obviously knew each other and made no effort to include Milton in their conversation. Milton made no effort to include himself, either, so he looked at his watch, preparing to make his excuses.

He stood. No one noticed.

The man emerged from the door and took the seat to Milton’s left.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Nothing. I—”

“You going already?”

“I was just going to—”

“We just got here,” he interrupted him with a smile. “Sit down. Have your coffee. You want a slice of cake?”

“No,” he said. “I’m fine.”

He reluctantly settled back in his chair. Ten minutes. Twenty at the outside.

“You’re John.”

“Yes,” Milton said. “I’m sorry—I can’t remember your name.”

“Edward,” he said. “Eddie to my friends.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Milton sipped his coffee and took the moment to indulge the curiosity that had been burned into him during the years that he had worked for Group Fifteen. Eddie was in his late thirties or early forties, a little overweight, and not blessed with the best genetic material. He spoke with a nervous cadence to his sentences and perhaps the residue of a stammer that he had, for the most part, managed to conquer. His fingernails were chewed down to the quick, and he took a napkin from the dispenser and started to fret at the edges. He was a nervous man. That wasn’t unusual. Many of the men and women Milton had met in the rooms were nervous. Many of them, especially the ones who were new to sobriety, were still running from their memories. Eddie was effeminate, occasionally speaking with a slight lisp, and Milton wondered whether he was gay.

“Three years,” Eddie said. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Practically makes you a veteran.”

Milton allowed a small smile. “It doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”

“What’s your secret?”

“I don’t really have one. Just determined I’m not going to drink again. How long have you got?”

“Clean and sober for nearly six months. Well, I say six months. There was a relapse. A small one. I’m back again now.”

“One day at a time,” Milton said.

“You’ve been going to the meeting for a while.” It wasn’t a question.

“This one? I don’t know—a month, maybe? Six weeks?”

“And this is the first time you’ve come out afterwards?”

Milton nodded. “It is.”

“It’s weird to start with. Most people would head to a pub for a drink. We come out for coffee. Not very glamorous.”

“But better than the alternative.”

“Amen to that.”

Milton put his cup to his lips and sipped the coffee.

“You said you were in Australia?” Eddie said. “Never been there. I’d love to go.”

“Amazing place.”

“Shearing sheep? How’d you get into that?”

“I’ve got a friend who runs a sheep station near Broken Hill.”

“Hard work?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

He finished the coffee and put the cup on the table. Eddie seemed like a nice man, but Milton was not good at small talk and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he said something that would betray his impatience.

If Eddie had noticed, he didn’t say. “What’s your story? What do you do now?”

“I work in a café.”

“Where?”

“Russell Square. It’s not really a café. It’s a cabmen’s shelter. It’s—”

He was ready to explain his unusual place of work, but Eddie cut him off. “I know it,” he said with a grin. “I’ve been in it before.”

“I doubt it,” Milton said. “Only cabbies can use it.”

“I am a cabbie,” he said.

“Black cab?”

“What else is there? I haven’t been there for a while. Does Cathy still run it?”

Milton smiled. “Yes. She does days; I’m on nights.”

“Well, look at that. What a coincidence.”

Milton allowed himself to relax. He had never met anyone outside of the shelter who knew what it and the other buildings around London like it were. He felt a moment of connection and empathy that was not unpleasant. They spoke a little longer. He found that he started to enjoy Eddie’s company. He was easy-going, with a wry and self-deprecating sense of humour that occasionally broadened out with good-natured quips at the expense of the others who had been present in the room that evening. Some of his observations were very amusing, and, as Milton’s laughter provided him with more confidence, he became more opinionated, more like the stereotypical London cabbie. His diction became more natural, too, and he became more tactile.

“What did you do before you went to Australia?” Eddie asked.

“I’ve been travelling,” Milton said.

“Before that?”

“I worked for the government.”

“What as? A civil servant?”

“Something like that.” Milton had no interest in continuing this line of questioning and quickly changed the focus back on to Eddie. “How do you like being a cabbie?”

“There are worse things to do. But there’s a lot of free time when you’re driving. Easy to take an hour off. Finish early if you want to. Can be quite boring. One of the reasons I used to drink. I have to be careful.” He paused. “Why did you drink? You didn’t say.”

“Same as all of us. Trying to forget.”

“Bad memories?”

Milton nodded. He didn’t say anything else, but Eddie raised his empty mug and touched it to Milton’s. “I’ll drink to that. Cheers.”

Milton was surprised to find that he was still smiling. “Cheers.”

Eddie was silent for a moment. “Memories,” he said at last, with an introspection that hadn’t been there before. “That’s why I drink. The things I remember. I mean, things I wish I
didn’t
remember.”