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inebriation – just enough to keep the effect of the alcohol from dis-uh dis-pating – and then maintain it for as long as possible. Fine balance. I’ve been in this state now for …’ He lifted his arm and gazed at his watch. He gave up with that and dropped his arm. ‘Well, for a while.’
    As Browne was letting his mouth loose, Brenda was nodding like she agreed with him. But I’d seen what booze did to her. She thought the drink would numb her, sock her into unconsciousness. Instead it turned her thoughts into acid, twisted her memories until they split and bled again.
    She glanced at me, half smiled. Browne raised his glass to the light – what light there was in that place – and stared at the dribble of copper-coloured stuff in the bottom.
    â€˜Of course,’ Browne was saying to his glass. ‘The trick is to know by how much and over what period the alcoholic effects of … uh … alcohol will dissipate. One has to remember also that alcohol is a disinhibitor, an unleasher of the darkness in people, the anger, the spite. It is the freer of deranged thoughts kept in check in sober moments. And one has to remember too that one is inclined to go too far and become pissed out of one’s brain.’
    Brenda laughed. Browne looked at her, smiled, put a hand on top of hers.
    â€˜Take no notice of me, Barbara,’ he said.
    Brenda nudged me and made eyes. I said, ‘Huh?’
    â€˜Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. Then she looked at Browne and said, ‘Can we get you another?’
    She nudged me again and I had to go the bar and fetch him some more of his fucking medium. While I was up there, I saw the two of them leaning close to each other, gabbing about something or other. Every now and then Browne would touch her hand and she’d laugh. Browne seemed good for her. I stayed at the bar a bit longer.
    When I got back, Browne said, ‘Hold onto this one, Joe.’
    I said, ‘Yeah.’
    â€˜You old softie,’ he said, smiling.
    I didn’t mind him taking the piss out of me if it made Brenda laugh. But when I looked at her the spark had gone from her eyes, the smile had gone from her mouth and something inside me tightened up, got colder.
    Browne noticed it and made a show of taking the glass from me and holding it up to the light.
    â€˜I’m the van Gogh of drink,’ he said.
    He glanced at Brenda, his eyes roguish. But she wasn’t buying it any more, and he could see that and he became serious and put the glass down and said, ‘Oh well.’
    She was lost in her thoughts, tracing a line on the table with her finger, the long fingernail wiping the spilled alcohol into spikes and swirls. Me and Browne watched her do it, watched her watching the light hit the shining liquid. I realized I was still standing. I sat. Brenda didn’t look at me. I had a pull of my pint and put the glass down and wiped my sleeve over my mouth. Browne sniffed. Still she didn’t look up.
    Finally, her hand stopped and she just gazed down, her eyes empty. Everything became still, everything stopped, as if her hand had been the only thing keeping it all moving. I waited. Browne waited. We looked at her finger and waited for it to move again.
    I think we both felt it, Browne and me. The world had stopped moving – our world, anyway, whatever that was; some part of some part of some pain that we called our own.
    I listened to the hum of chatter around me, the clack of the pool balls, the quiet music. Why the fuck was I here? Why had I let her bring me to this place? I knew what it would be like. I could’ve taken her to the West End to see a film. I could’ve taken her to some posh restaurant. I could’ve taken her to the country for a weekend, by the sea, maybe. Instead I’d let her bring me here, to my lousy past.
    Brenda pulled her finger in and made a fist of her hand and looked at Browne and said,