Last Call

Last Call

“Right, last call” echos through the crowded bar from a young man standing by the beer taps. There’s a bustle of bodies round the bar like calves at their troughs for their last drink before the night runs dry. A man stands, leaning his thin frame on the bar and orders a whisky. He’s not an old man at all, not nearly as old as the deep lines and shaggy whiskers on his handsome face portray him. “That’s £4” the man behind the bar says as he watches the man throwing change from his pocket onto the counter, though most are coppers. He meets the man’s eye and looks at him, a look somewhere between judgment and pity but he takes the money from the bar and turns to busy himself, turning a blind eye to the pennies he was short.

After throwing back the glass of amber drink, the sting still lining his throat the man stumbled out of the bar into the cold mist and desperate smoke of the city’s night. It was a normal night for him, a Friday, no a Tuesday, well one of them he thought, he smirked. He pressed himself against the wall, slid down to sit on the cold concrete pavement beneath him. He’d move on soon, down the road to find his sleeping bag, he just needed five minutes to rest his eyes.

“Last call”, “last call” he hears while breathing thick city fumes, where is he? He cannot tell himself. “Last call for breakfasts” - the man jolts awake. He is there, still there, sitting on the concrete ground beneath him, by the wall he leaned on, next to the pub he drank in. He stumbled to his feet and walked a few yards before looking at the tower clock. 9:30, he’s a little disgruntled, though grateful, he’s almost made it to 10 o’clock. In half an hour the city will quieten down and most importantly he won’t see straight enough to be upset with the man in the mirror. Until then, he’ll wander. His worn shoes lead him in the direction of the train station, he fumbles through his pockets to find a note of any kind, he’s sure is there, but his habits say otherwise. He walks towards the Blue and White sign by the tracks, ‘Greggs’. He took a step forward before a sharp pain tore into his abdomen, he took another step and felt the pounding in his head, he shut his eyes, sweat running down his temples. He fell with a crash to the ground, his feet no longer able to keep him up. “Last call for the train to Manchester” he heard before the whole world became silent.

The man woke up inundated, with needles, plasters, wires, tubes, sounds - so many sounds. The beeping monitor sounded like screaming in his ear and the doctor’s voice felt like screaming in the other.  His eyes felt so weak he felt helpless to do anything but shut them. He heard what they said but he didn’t need to, nothing they said would be news to him or his broken body. “Look sir, I know you don’t want to hear it, but this really is your last call to change” a doctor who sounded overworked and under slept said before walking out of the ward and closing the door. He kept his eyes shut, so tightly shut he thought he’d never open them again and if he had it his way, maybe he wouldn’t. Not for a long time anyway, not when he couldn’t breathe in the suffocating darkness…

The man lay on his back, his head on a stack of floral printed pillows. The same man, the same handsome face, although very different. Being years older his face seemed only to have aged backwards. The door opened a crack to reveal a small girl, her bright blonde hair pulled back into pigtails. “Mummy says it’s the last call to get going” she said holding her teddy bear by one ear, it’s feet brushing the carpet. The man smiled and looked down at the baby asleep on his chest. Her eyes shut, so tightly it looked like she’d never open them. But she would. The little blonde girl ushered a red haired woman with a kind face and blue eyes through the door. The woman laughed softly and lay down next to him. Looking at him, a knowing, loving face with a piercing gaze. “I knew it wouldn’t be your last call” he grinned at her.