London Bridge Excerpt 10

I took the morning train to Liverpool and the ferry across to Belfast. The ship was rolling uncomfortably on a rough Irish Sea and I had the misfortune to sit beside an elderly Brit who wouldn’t shut up. He went on and on about his six wives and his kids, then his grandkids, where they went to school and their dogs.

I could barely manage intermittent nods. I was getting seasick and sliding lower in my seat. I sank through the depths, changing from blue to green to black and on to blinding light. I crossed the river without paying my fare. I was met in purgatory and escorted straight to living hell.

I finally took a hard look at the side of his face, judging how long it would take me to choke him unconscious. His head was small and round with sunken cheeks. His lips were uncontrollably moving, like he was working up a good spit. The top of his bald pate reflected a strange, decaying glow that folded back around his ears.

Please don’t let this be the last man to see me alive.

“The whiskey is the reason I go across, of course,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

“What?” I moaned.

“The ferries are duty free, you see. I can drink my fill over the weekend until I can’t stand upright even wearing clown shoes and braces. Then I can bring as much as I can carry back to Sheffield.”

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