The last of the gang

Bas waited as the others gathered themselves off to the waiting cars and headed off. When he was quite sure they had all gone, he walked the few steps to the path and read the inscription on the pristine new bench:

In loving memory. Joe Lijkenhuis. 1923 – 2011. Much loved father and grandfather.

“Nice”, he thought and sat down.

After a short while he opened the bag he’d been carrying, retrieved two bottles and began speaking, addressing his words to the weather-worn tombstone that now bore the engraving of his friend’s details neatly etched next to those of his beloved wife.

“Chose a great day for it. Couldn’t have been better if you’d had a word with the big fella yourself. Did you, Joe? Is that how it works? Maybe you show me the ropes, eh?”

Bas unscrewed the caps from a bottle of pills and a bottle of whisky. “You don’t mind do you Joe”, he said. “Gotta wash ‘em down or the damn things’ll stick in me throat and we wouldn’t want me choking to death now, eh”, and with that he threw a couple of the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a generous glug.

“You know, it’s a strange feeling with everyone gone, Joe. I don’t quite know what to make of it”. He took a long draw from the bottle and continued, “doesn’t seem fair; you up there with the others, me here with nothing but a load of stones for company”.

Presently he began to slur his speech: “Thesh days”, he stumbled, “they all wans to live to bees old ash poss’ble but you don’t get no prize, no congratu-la-thingummies. Wanna know why?”, he continued, “‘cos thersh no fucker to give it to you”, and he chuckled as he ate another couple of tablets, rinsing them down with a clumsy swig on the whisky.

“Nysh bit a stone Joe”, said Bas. “Nysh bit a stone – reminds me of the paving slabs in me garden”. He swigged heartily from the bottle and a smile came to his face as he reflected on life. A tired drunkenness was creeping over him, making him appreciate the dusk as the night clawed its way into the day.

He lay down on the bench, pressing himself into its cold strips of metal and wood, and drained the last dregs from the bottle. He felt himself drifting off and said aloud “at leasht you had family. Who’sh gonna come for me, eh?”. Then he allowed his eyelids to close and fancied he could still see the fading light as he drifted off.

“Mr Zelfmoord. Mr Zelfmoord.”

“Welcome back, Mr Zelfmoord”, said Dr Weil. “My goodness, would you believe the luck of some people? You know, if Mrs Smithson hadn’t been visiting her father you wouldn’t be here now”.

Bas blinked. “I know”, he thought. The doctor was right, and as a solitary a tear rolled down his cheek he couldn’t believe his luck.