BEATS OF LOVE
136. On a Sunday by Nick Heyward
FINDING ONE'S way home after the party was always difficult and, more than once, I needed neighbours to carry my body through the door.
One particular dark episode, sunny Sunday strolling home, away from my good mate Bob's party where I'd just made the best of playing his records and was singing Candi Staton to myself, I bumped into my workmate Tim. A guy who'd just gambled his house away. Convinced the national wank a lottery would save him, only it didn't.
Inviting him back to my mother's house to share a whisky was a bad idea. To then invite the more excessive remnants of the party, Bob's pal Nick amongst them, an even badder one. Finally, I returned home on the Monday with a copy of this, the single I'd bought off Tim more out of pity as I already had one and a David Holmes single bought from Vinyl Exchange. Just an ordinary Monday on the surface.
All I fully recall after my ill-fated stroll, though, is one guy leaving and returning. It leads to me collapsing on the Tuesday, needing a stomach pump. On my hospital departure, I recognised some faces congregating outside and learned that Nick had died.
My time with Nick was very sketchy, to say the least. On every other occasion, it would've been a laughing matter. We parted ways upon my angry mother's return home on the Monday afternoon like naughty schoolboys, yet before Tuesday teatime he had died. Everyone, except those closest to him, was happy to buy into this myth of me leading him astray. I'm naturally prone to guilt, but eventually forgave myself, as being blamed is my burden to carry.
I guess it's only natural to preserve the best possible version of folk when consigning them to memory. Tim, too, has sadly died, but not before finding family joy. I just hope he and Nick have found their way home.
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