Going Home (standard:drama, 2494 words)
Author: Tamarin	Added: Oct 02 2006	Views/Reads: 3483/2330	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young addicts search for home and redemption.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


He tried to concentrate ticking off the stations, Angel, Old Street,
change at Morgate, and there he was, just one more stop. 

People were looking at him, he felt there eyes on him, paranoia, his
mind told him, or I look a wreck he corrected himself. 

He went looking in his pockets for money, but found none, but his wallet
was at least still in his pocket, he looked around for a cash machine, 
£250 was all that was left in there, not much to go home and start a 
new life with.  He withdrew the lot and stuffed the notes hurriedly 
into his pocket. Walking towards the ticket office he glanced at the 
papers wracked on the newsstand, he stopped and peered at the front 
page of ‘The Sun', but it was not the banner headline of some c list 
celebrity caught giving a blow job in a moving vehicle, it was the day 
he was looking for. Saturday he told himself, he gulped his mouth dry, 
his tongue felt to big for his mouth.  Five days since Dave had said 
those words, five days lost to the world. Saturday, would they be at 
home? Or would they be away?  Did it matter? As soon as he was on the 
train, he quietly berated himself for not buying a paper.               
                                       He looked around the train, at 
his fellow passengers, there were not many of them.  A young man, 
suited and booted, was sat reading ‘The Mail', and he wanted to ask if 
he could have a quick look at the paper, and maybe ask the time, but he 
was not sure if the words would come out, and he was terrified to try.  
Was this it?  Was he insane? Was it too late? ‘Get a grip, you're just 
strung out', he told himself. He took a few very deep breaths, “got the 
time mate?” the voice sounded like his.  The young man hardly glanced 
up,” eleven” he said, and went back to his reading. 

So he would be at Victoria Street by twelve, plenty of time he told
himself, plenty of time to find out he was on a fools errand,  the 
little voice said but for the first time it sounded more petulant than 
mocking . 

He was asleep before the train left the station, a deep sleep, almost
desperate as his body tried its best to heal itself, it was so tired, 
but it would recover if given the chance.  His mind, well that just 
shut down completely, just glad of the respite. The train was a slow 
one stopping at every station, but he did not stir once, he only 
started to stir as the train slowed to a stop at the end of the line, 
Victoria Street, he was back where he had started 

He headed straight for the toilets.  He hardly recognised the face that
stared back at him from the cracked mirror, his hair was matted, and 
needed a wash, his eyes were red and swollen, and his pupils, well they 
were there, but only just, and his nose was swollen and tender, 
evidence of the endless lines of white powder. 

He splashed cold water onto his face, and then put his head in the basin
and drenched his hair, it felt good, and he felt more alive.  He went 
back to the mirror, it was an improvement but only just, fresh orange 
and lots of it, was what he needed.                                     
                                                                        
                        He bought two large cartons of it from the 
station shop, and a brush, and walked outside and sat on a dirty bench 
just outside the station and drank the juice in big, greedy gulps, and 
lit a cigarette causing him to have a violent coughing fit, but he 
ignored it and carried on smoking. 

He sat there not really thinking, just drinking the juice, smoking
cigarette after cigarette, looking at the scene before him. How long 
had it been?  It seemed like forever, but it was only five years and a 
lifetime ago, since he had walked into the building behind him swearing 
with youthful determination that he was never coming back.  What had 
happened to that boy he wondered. 

He smiled as soon as he saw them, they were busy in conversation.  The
boy was only about six, wrapped up against the cold holding onto his 
father, no he decided probably his grandfathers' hand .                 
                                                                        
                                                 The boy was excited, 
talking non stop, the old man smiled in that way that people smile at 
young excited boys, a mixture of love and pride and memory. He got to 
his feet and fell in behind the pair, walking slowly as to not catch 
them.                                                                  
Continuing past the library, and the police station, where he used to 
go to feed the horses when he was the same age as the boy in front of 
him. How many times had he walked this road with his grandfather?  
Chattering away excitedly like that boy.  How long since he had thought 
of his grandfather? Christ he had not even known he was ill, and he had 
been in the ground six months before the news had filtered down to him. 


He felt ashamed of himself, his failure, his weakness, what did his
grandfather always say to him. He tried to picture him, to summon his 
voice. To bring to life this quiet, strong man who had always seemed so 
big to him in every way. A good man, he knew that now, an honest man, 
who went to work every day.  Hard work, and who spent his Saturdays 
with his grandson. The tears were becoming like a flood, and he stopped 
walking, all he could think to say was sorry, but there was no one to 
say sorry to .                                                          
 His life was never meant to be like this, he had left to become a 
writer, to become something, and he had become something.  A rather 
sad, drug taking failure, he felt like falling to the ground and never 
getting up.  The voice entered his head strong and deep as he 
remembered it, ‘don't worry about it son, there is always next week, 
always next week' he said soundlessly, his lips mouthing the words . He 
willed his legs to start again, he could see the lights, and the church 
steeple, not far to go, but what if it did not feel the same, what if 
he did not belong, what if. ‘Always next week son, always another 
chance', the words kept him moving forward. Towards his destination, 
walking faster as he crossed the road by the traffic lights, he caught 
the aroma of frying fish from the chippy, and he turned to see the old 
man with his excited charge who was already stuffing chips into his 
mouth. 

He dodged traffic, and ran across the road, past the bakery,' The Golden
Lion' was already heaving, even though the church clock pronounced it 
was still only 1.30, and there it was, looking the same, well nearly 
the same as it had when he was a child. His stomach turned over and he 
was surprised to find he was excited, a small butterfly was rolling in 
his stomach. He walked across the car park, it all seemed so familiar 
as if he had only been here yesterday . The ticket office had few 
people queuing, well it was still early, but it still took an age to 
get to the front.  Some things never changed,” red, row d, seat 76”, he 
told the bored looking teen serving .                                   
                                                                        
He expected to hear it was already sold, or was a season ticket holders 
seat, but no, the ticket was his, although he grunted with disgust at 
the price £16.50.  What would his grandfather of said? 

A steward tried to direct him to the right turnstile” I know the way” he
said.  Walking the steps he had walked a thousand times before. With 
each step he felt like he was turning back time, was this what if felt 
like to come home. 

Five more steps and he would see it, he walked them slowly, with his
eyes closed, counting as he had always done as a child, and then he 
opened his eyes, and there she was, his beloved Roots Hall.             
                                                     It took his breath 
away, he walked between the rows, seats, and down to the place where he 
had spent hundreds of mostly disappointed hours, but also the best 
hours of his life or so it seemed now. .                He sat down in 
his seat, the seats around him still empty, and he looked at the seat 
beside him, empty.  He ached, he felt so alone, how he had loved that 
old man, how much he missed him, and how disappointed he would have 
been with him, but he knew that was not true, his grandfather would 
never have been disappointed in him. He recognised people as they sat 
down, but did not meet anyone's eyes.He sat in his seat, with his eyes 
downcast It was a good crowd, and as the team took the pitch and a row 
erupted from the crowd he lost himself for the first time in years.  He 
screamed and shouted, encouraged, fretted, then a goal, not a good 
goal, a scrambled effort that tricked and finally made it over the 
line.  He went berserk, he was six years old and he was happy. Nothing 
had changed, all the things that were wrong would still be wrong 
tomorrow but for now he was happy. Southend held on for an undeserved 
win and it was amazing, he sat in his seat as people made there way to 
the exit just gazing at the pitch.                                      
                         He would stay in this town he hated, get a 
job, any job, get a room, and stay off the powder. .                    
                                                                        
                                               He was lost in these 
thoughts as a he felt a hand touch his shoulder, he looked up.  “I 
thought it was you lad.  You back? Or just visiting?” said a voice from 
the past.     “I'm back” he replied.  “Coming Tuesday?”” yes”, “going 
to talk to us all then are you?” “Yes”. 


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