(a short story)
Dubham Thomas was a friendly but lonely middle-aged man who spent his days in various pubs talking and laughing with other lonely men, and his evenings drinking alone in his flat. He'd been partial to a good drink his entire adult life but since receiving both redundancy and a broken heart a blurry number of years earlier, his love for pub culture now seemed little more than alcoholism. On this particular occasion he'd been drinking practically non-stop for almost three weeks before he'd found it impossible to go on.
Having woken up fully clothed on his bedroom floor, Dubham Thomas stripped and got under his covers. He tossed and turned, shuddering, vaguely awake in his sodden, twisted bed sheets as his memory flashed, betraying him with shocks of stupid, inappropriate things that might not even have happened: loud, idiotic, objective statements rung out between his ears as images of spilled drinks, refusal of service, tears and a complete loss of balance stabbed at his weakened mind while he struggled to ignore the dragging moments in his dark, dank room. Through long hours worry chipped away at his conscience until he felt his hands go numb. He began to plead with himself as pins & needles crept up his wrists. A building anxiety took charge of him, with every sensation clouded but jagged, and every thought surrounded by whispers. Sheer frozen terror set in, identical to that of a rabbit in the headlights, only seemingly permanent and consuming him entirely.
"Deep breaths, deep breaths!" He reminded himself, panting loudly for what seemed like forever, until, eventually, he began to feel his panic dissipate.
On finally finding his first semi-sober sleep in weeks, Dubham Thomas fell into an altogether different kind of horror as he awoke to discover he'd been abandoned on a sinking ship who's crew had fled as he slept. He waded through his half-submerged quarters towards an awkward looking porthole and peered out to see a storm of fantastic magnitude. He looked on as a single wave rose high above the tall ship, arching over it with a colossal din.
"No, God! Please, no!" He cried as he shot upright in his bed, soaking wet and shivering. He looked around the blackness of his room, desperately trying to recognise something, but stopped with a fright, seeing the silhouette of a man standing over him. He swung out screaming, hitting something hard, but was assaulted as he fell to the floor and fought his way, kicking and clattering, to the light switch. The light blazed on - he'd punched his clotheshorse then become tangled in it.
Nursing a sore knee, Dubham Thomas took a moment to gather himself. He was glad the injury had a known history for once as all too often he'd wake up covered in bruises with no inkling of where they'd come from. He picked up his clotheshorse, struggled to flip his sweat-laden mattress, and gulped an almost full pint of water which he always kept at his bedside, swirling it about his mouth as he did. Shivering, he climbed back into his bed and began throwing things at the light switch. First his shoes, then two all-but-forgotten books, then, disheartened, he got up, turned the light off, and carefully returned to bed.
He began thinking back to happier days before Cathy had left him, but that always led to why she'd left him. He'd long come to realise that his being a hardened drinker had been attractive to her at first as he was always so much fun, but it wasn't long before it had become laborious, and with no shortage of other potential suitors - the charm of whom only enhanced his insecurities - her leaving was inevitable. Still, he hadn't seen it coming and the obligatory drowning of sorrows was all he felt he could do in response, so he flung it at her like a brick, as if his evermore obvious drink problem had somehow been her fault all along.
Dubham Thomas lay with an incalculable weight of guilt, but only a small portion of it had it's roots in reality. The rest just grew - watered by years of drinking, fertilised by self doubt. His eyes began to swell, encouraging the mammoth lack of respect he had for himself. He tried to shake it off and clear his head but couldn't, until distracted, he began to think there must be something wrong with his hearing - it was as though he'd just been at a very loud concert - a dense hum hung over what he suspected was a conversation next door in his living room. He wondered whether he was being robbed or had just brought people back from the pub, and the more he listened, the more pressing the matter became. He decided to ignore it, but soon realised he was in desperate need of the toilet and would have to get up anyway.
Feigning confidence and armed with his empty glass and the pretence of filling it, he brazened through his hall and into his living room, hoping to see familiar faces. But there was nobody there. Relieved, he quickly nipped to the toilet, used the facilities, eyed himself over in the mirror, splashed water on his face, refilled his glass, grabbed some toilet paper and returned to bed where, thinking of times he'd shared with Cathy, he attempted masturbation, but achieved nothing other than a clammy hand and another layer of slimy sweat. He lay listening to his puffed-out heartbeat attempting to catch it's breath, wondering where it found the energy, but when it had settled, the non-existent conversation next door returned. He picked out the odd muddled word here and there until he was close to nodding off, then with a start he heard a single word, so distinct it was as if came from within the room.
"Wanker!"
"Who's there... a know someone's there, a can hear you!" He said as he lifted his head. Totally still, he stared out from over the top of his covers, the dark not so dark now with his sight adjusted. Then in the corner of his eye he something move, the shadow of someone ducking behind the end of his bed.
"Here, a just bloody saw you! What you doin' in ma room, man, crash on the couch, am tryin' t' sleep!" He said, frightened but hopeful it was only someone from the pub, maybe someone who'd just woken up not knowing where they were, who'd perhaps been muttering in their sleep. Gingerly, he got up and crept around the wall and flicked the light back on but could see no one.
"What you doin' under ma bed, man, what's goin' on, a know you're there!" He checked all around and under the bed, then with the light still on he hid under his covers and pulled them up to his nose.
"Must be goin' mad. About time, right enough."
"Madness would be a fine thing. A welcome distraction, if nothing else." A disembodied voice came from exactly where Dubham Thomas had seen the shadow move.
"Man, you're scarin' the shit out me, where are you?"
"Please forgive me, it was not my intention to cause you distress." The shadow reappeared. Then, slowly, it seemed to come out of itself, became freestanding, three dimensional, until a man stood there at the foot of Dubham Thomas' bed. "And I am afraid I am none the wiser as to how our current predicament came to be. Nobody has ever seen me before. Here I have been all these long, long years and nobody has ever, until now, noticed. Although I do think this somewhat splendid! You can see me! You can actually see me!"
"I've finally lost it." Dubham Thomas said matter-of-factly.
"No, that was the conclusion I myself initially met but after many years of boredom, watching people come and go, getting on with their lives, growing old and moving on, I realised I was not mad at all. Bored, yes. Invisible, yes. Unable to touch anything properly or be heard by anyone, yes. But not mad. Although you might think this would be enough to drive a man to madness, but I came to thinking that it simply is not possible for a ghost to go mad. However, this is fantastic news! Finally, after all this time I have someone with whom I may talk!"
"What?"
"Oh, I do apologise. This must be, well, somewhat perturbing for you. Mind if I have a seat?" The man sat down on the end of the bed and as he did Dubham Thomas had to strain his eyes to stay focused on him as the man seemed to strobe and leave a trace of himself behind as he moved. "You see, some many years ago I met my end in this very room, and I am of the opinion that the manner in which I did, and subsequently how I reacted, has seen me trapped hereafter, unable to move on as I can only assume others do."
"You're a ghost?"
"I believe so, yes."
"So what are you doin' in ma room?"
"Haunting it, of course."
"Of course."
"Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Jeremy, Herbert Jeremy. But my friends used to call me Herbie."
"Ma name's Dubham Thomas. Ma friends used to call me Dubham Thomas."
"It is my sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Dubham Thomas. Your friends used to call you? Past tense?"
"Don't really have any friends. No really, anyway."
"I see. Perhaps this is an area in which I may be of assistance. Perhaps we may be able to assist one another. I welcome it, in fact. Not having been in the position to converse in so long, I would be delighted to call myself your friend. That is, of course, if you will have me as your friend?"
"You're a ghost."
"I was, as it happens, a happily married man, living, no less, in this very residence. That is, of course, until I was stabbed in the back by a man whom I used to consider my closest friend, who then preceded to carry out relations of a carnal nature with my beloved wife, who seemed all too comfortable with the circumstances, against that very wall as I lay, face down, helplessly dying right here on the floor, watching. The pain I endured was... I believe my determination to exact revenge was what saw me stationed here, although I can not be sure of this as I have since never left this building, so there is a chance, however small, that this, my perpetual intermediate state, is what happens to every living creature on earth after the final curtain on the stage of life is drawn, doubtful as it may be."
"You talk funny."
"Quite. I was, however, unfortunately unable to obtain said revenge as providence had offered me no such opportunity. My wife, along with her associate conspirator, fled this place in possession of the deeds to various properties I had owned, along with other papers concerning business ventures I was at the time involved with, never to return. I remained here indefinitely."
"You talk a lot."
"I have been without an ear to bend in some time and have never been in the position to articulate the details of the events leading thereto my demise, other than to myself."
"Did you no call me a wanker?"
"Regrettably, I have found myself existing, passing the time if you will, only through the lives of others, committed to an endless commentary of their actions, no matter how inane those actions may be. Both that and watching television, not that there is a great deal of difference between the two. Please forgive me for saying so, but you look a little peeky. Or if I may be so bold as to elaborate, having had a window on your life these last years, the manner in which you choose to live your life does not seem to be one of self preservation."
"A feel like burgled shite through a blender. What's it like bein' a ghost?"
"Dull, to say the least. The pleasures of touch, taste, smell, to skim but the surface, are out with the reach of a lost soul such as myself, and until now, the stimulating art of conversation, underrated as it is among the living, is something I have very much longed for."
"You've no had to wipe your arse in years, though. That must be pretty cool."
Dubham Thomas and his new friend Herbert Jeremy talked for hours until Dubham Thomas fell asleep. He came to that evening but there was no ghost. Dubham Thomas just assumed it had all been a dream. Business as usual, he popped to the off sales and stalked up, returned home and drank through the remainder of his hangover as he cooked spaghetti bolognese, pondering how life-like his dream had been. He ate and made his way to the pub for a few before last orders, came home and continued to drink, talking aloud as if the ghost had been real, right through to opening hours the next morning, when he made his way back to the pub. This went on for days until again he found himself in the grip of a crippling hangover, unable to carry on.
"God help me." Dubham Thomas pleaded.
"Really, Dubham. I think it highly unlikely that our omnibenevolent deity might consider coming out from under his incorporeal rock at this point, if he does indeed exist."
"Herbie, you're back! Where've you been, man?"
"Well I never, you can see me again! I was here the whole while, my good man. Answering your every question. It soon became apparent, however, that you could no longer see nor hear me."
"A'd have a drink to celebrate but honestly, a couldn't face it the now."
"Yes, that might not be such a good idea. I defer to consideration that your current disposition could be held accountable for our being able to engage in the finer points of colloquy in first place."
"What?"
"Twice only have we been able to talk and on both occasions you have been altogether incapacitated by the aftermath of all too much alcohol. It may be such that your present mindset is integral to our situation."
"What?"
"You need to be incredibly hung over in order to see and hear me."
Dubham Thomas could find no problem with this, seeing as how he was always either drunk, getting drunk, or hung over, and Herbert Jeremy more than took the edge off the latter. They talked and talked, and the more they did, the easier it became for Dubham Thomas to understand his new friends fancy brogue. Herbert Jeremy was an interesting ghost, and full of stories which Dubham Thomas could see no reason to doubt, given that Herbert Jeremy still had the dagger he was killed with sticking out his back. Their friendship blossomed and as it did, so did Dubham Thomas' outlook on life. Everyone who knew him noticed, even the women that worked in the off sales, as well as the locals in all his favorite pubs, all of whom commented on the change in him. He was obviously happier, despite drinking even harder than before. He became able to tell exactly when he'd see Herbie, how many days it would take and how long for, and, with his approval and tutoring, he began writing all Herbie's stories down as works of fiction, soon planning a compiled collection entitled 'The Gallant Misadventures of Herbert Jeremy'. The works saw Herbie as one of the main character in every story, even though in life lots had belonged to other people that Herbie just happened to know.
Almost two years had past and Dubham Thomas was set to become a published author, having written both a novel and two books of short stories, and with the launch of the first of their projects in sight, he drank in preparation of his celebration with Herbie the following day.
Dubham Thomas passed out wearing his best suit, but on opening his eyes he felt something was wrong - he didn't feel terrible. In fact, he didn't feel anything at all other than a thick crust over his mouth and down either side of his face. He sat up, finding no difficulty or discomfort in doing so, and looked at his friend.
"I am so very, very sorry, Dubham." Said Herby.
"Sorry?"
"It seems you have finally succeeded in drinking yourself to death... and you appear to be covered in vomit."
The End.
Copyright Roddy Smith 2015.
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