(Unfinished) It All.

Prologue

Same jacket, same hip flask in a secret pocket, same gruff look like they've slept in their clothes on the back of a cattle truck. It's like I've gone back in time.

Like father, like son, and not forgetting the holy spirit, bottom shelf of the liquor store whiskey, cheap and not at all fucking cheerful.

But it's fine, we're sitting on the train watching middle England speed away. It reminds me of this bit from that movie where all the protagonists die, can't think of the name, but the comparison didn't make me feel better.

'Is this our stop?'

Fucking crickets and tumbleweed.

'...for fucks sake Withnail, I don't know the way to your shitty flat, pay attention.'

I think confusion more than any sense of responsibility made him sit up.

'Who the fuck's Withnail?'

'Nobody, forget it, is this our stop?'

'Did you call my flat 'shitty'?'

'I swear I will punch you until you stop moving if you don't fucking get it together, now, are we getting off the train or not!?'

'No, we got another hour yet.'

I sat back and I couldn't tell if I was relieved that I could drop the panicked checking of the station map or daunted by the idea of another hour with him. I opted for relieved.

'We do have to change at the next station though.'

I bolt upright and snatch the map from the table.

'Wait, what? SGB?'

'Yeah.'

I fucking hate him.

*

As I stood on the platform I became acutely aware of the way a weird primal nature stirs as we get on trains, everyone exchanging glances eyeing up the sizes of competitors for that gold medal of an uncomfortable, stained seat. Titface seemed to enjoy the pathfinding element though, like he was columbus navigating waves, a roadie in a moshpit trying to get to the speakers.

Despite me stonewalling against the stupidity of it all, his breathless, unapologetic and exuberant attitude was intoxicating, even to this cynical bastard.

I decided against trying reign him in like a yappy mutt and let him carve us a path despite his insistence that I hold his hand while he does. Probably my first mistake, the next hour becoming cringe comedy as he pulled me through gaps that had closed behind him, me apologising with every winded breath to those I knocked out on the way or nursing the bruises that had collated on me around the average elbow height.

We got to the station entrance and he beamed at me like i'd asked his hand in marriage.

'Here we are.'

'Where's here?'

'We're off out into Birmingham.'

'That's where your flat is? Birmingham?'

I felt a pang of jealousy, here was I, still stuck in the fields and forests of Worcestershire. To some, nature and peace, it's heaven, to me, it's condensed cabin fever. I want the city opportunities, the lifestyle; shitforbrains had it, I didn't.

'Just outside of the big B, but I thought I'd show you one or two tourist-y bits, so we're here, a few stops short; we can walk the rest.'

We were already late, but this was a rather thoughtful gesture I suppose. I swallow the urge to strangle him with the loose tie dangling around his neck, there was no other purpose to it, it's too low to be smart, too high to look like any sort of fashion statement.

'Ok... So where first?...'

I pause, and prepare a serious expression that I hope will make him take notice. I try to make my eyes as soulful and piercing as possible, grit my teeth to pronounce my jaw, furrow my brow, just slightly, and cough to try and give my voice a gravelly undertone.

'...and what about the funeral?'

He looked at me and smiled the same shiteating grin.

'We'll make it in time.'

*

It's an entirely different world in b'ham compared to the rural woods from which I came. Monolithic steel evergreens scrape the atmosphere. I nearly fall over leaning back to see their peaks.

'Where are you taking me?'

'There's a pub near here, sells Stella Black.'

'What is that?'

'It's a beer.'

'Yeah, that bit I can guess, but I've never heard of it.'

'Rare beer, expensive, pubs have to apply to the brewery directly, and they're selective about the people they supply it to.'

'Sounds stupid.'

'Taste it, then try to argue.'

He'd intrigued me, I'll give him that. But it bugs me he doesn't seem to care much about his Dad's funeral. He was my best mate, now he's gone, and the younger model seems to be identical in every way except maybe even more dopey and useless.

'Sam.'

'We're nearly there.'

'No, Sam stop.'

'What's up?'

''What's up?', maybe the fact that your dad, my friend is being honoured and buried in an hour, in a place that's at least an hour walk away, and you seem more interested in something to drink.'

'I'm feeling too sober. Doesn't feel good.'

'You're worse than your dad, he at least knew when to stop.'

Samuel keeps ignoring or sidestepping questions about Dad's Funeral, -- gets angry and confronts him, and gets told that his Dad isn't dead. -- tries to leave angrily, but is told Patrick (Samuel's Dad) is actually missing, not dead, and Samuel needs --s help to find him. -- declines, but is persuaded by Samuel reminding -- of Patrick, bringing back happy, youthful memories for --.