Does Anyone Know His Name?

jumper

Ronny Wells was alone in the world. God had long forgotten his name, even though he had written it in the back of all his clothes. He remembered once going to Sunday school. One of the teachers said that if you wrote your name in your clothes, god would always remember you. What a fucking liar.

The bar was empty, well, apart from the two low life’s sitting in the corner, buying only lemonade and coke. A bottle of vodka and scotch hidden in two Tesco bags. Terry, the barman knew what they were up to but turned a blind eye for a while. It was freezing outside and he knew they had nowhere to go. Eventually they became blatant and he told them to piss off. They didn’t argue, they’d had warmth and shelter for two precious hours.

“Another large scotch please Tel.”

“Coming up Ronny.”

At least the barmen knew his name, unlike the almighty who had decided to have an away day for about twenty fucking years.

“Four sixty.”

He handed the barmen a crumpled five pound note. It was his last.

Tonight was the night. No more pissing about. No more pretend. There was just nothing to look forward to. So tonight he would top himself.

Why wait any longer? He was thirty six. No family on this god forsaken earth. His parents died when he was nine. Then a children’s home, then foster parents who didn’t give a shit and were only interested in how much money they got from the social. Then two years in a special unit for “wayward boys”. Fucking joke that was.

Prison was a great escape. Three years in the scrubs was the best years of his life. He could hear other guys crying at night, what the fuck?  It was the best time he’d ever had. Three good meals a day, clean clothes, a bed, what more could he ask for.

He was lost when they let him out. Fucking lost. Big wide world, yet nobody to say hello to. That was fourteen years ago. He’d done a bit of work here and there. Some legit, some not. Didn’t matter he survived.

But sitting there at the bar, he suddenly realised it was all a waste of time. So fuck it. Tonight was the night.

He sipped his scotch slowly. It was eight o’clock and the television in the bar was playing the theme tune to Eastenders. He smiled to himself. That would be the last music he ever heard. How fucking appropriate.

To get back to his squat he had to walk along the Thames and cross the old iron bridge.

He’d throw himself off. The tide and the cold would kill him in minutes. No problem. Job done. He would go to see his maker. Whoever the fuck that was.

“Night Tel.”

The barmen nodded.

“Night Ronny, you take care now.”

He walked out of the pub and along the old derelict pathway that led to the iron bridge. It was minus six and he shivered with the cold. What the fuck did it matter anyway. He’d be dead in a few minutes.

When he reached the bridge, he stopped and took a long look at the Thames. It was choppy and wild. It looked like it would swallow anyone up that challenged it. Fabulous. Why not. Life has fucked him and now he’d fuck life.

He climbed onto the steel railings and took a big gulp of freezing cold air.

“Ronny Wells?”

A voice came out of nowhere. He couldn’t see anyone in the darkness.

“Yeh. Who are you. How do you know my name?”

He heard the voice again. Warm and comforting.

“It’s written in the back of your clothes.”

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