The One a Month Man by Michael Litchfield Page A

havoc-wreaking than poltergeists.
    My problems were somewhat different in that the past trespassed on the present. Marital separation had not yet morphed into divorce and addictions were as permanent as a birthmark; they could be camouflaged and managed, but they were always lurking on the periphery, just waiting for the opportunity to bounce back. I’ll never forget my first attendance at an AA meeting. ‘My name is Mike. I’m married. I have teenage kids. I’m a civil servant. (I couldn’t possibly admit to being a cop.) I have an ongoing alcohol problem.’
What the hell am I doing here among all these derelicts
? I was thinking, a typical attitude, I was to discover, of newcomers to rehab groups. You don’t believe that you belong there. You somehow think that you’re very different from the others; that you’re a cut above them. Not untilthat arrogance is stripped away have you any chance of sanitizing your life and finding a way out of the sewer.
    Nowadays, I chance the occasional beer, but I don’t really trust myself. A pub door opens, boisterous conviviality wafts my way and I’m so damned tempted to go on a bender, pulled inside by an invisible hand. Pub sounds can be as seductive and soliciting as those of an accomplished whore. Getting drunk would be tantamount to breaking marriage vows, which I’ve done randomly and without remorse, so why be so steadfast now over this commitment? I’ll tell you why: to hit the bottle again would be to beat myself up irreparably. I’d be pulling the chain on my career and health. My liver has been punished unfairly, but so far it has stood by me, like a faithful friend. One can abuse that kind of loyalty only so long before it lets you go, casting you adrift, leaving you vulnerable to all manner of predators . When you lose the support of your liver, the gravity of the grave quickly kicks in.
    Betting shops had been as enticing to me as pubs; in fact, the two overlapped seamlessly. After a drink, I was emboldened to gamble. If I gambled and won, I was emboldened to drink to celebrate. And if I gambled and lost, I sought solace in alcohol, which merely loosened the leash on any last vestiges of caution. The lure is a soft sell. The steps to hell and ruin are paved with cushions and bordered by roses, the thorns of which have been craftily hidden.
     
    Sarah looked good. Seeing her made me feel better, like a pick-me -up tonic. She was dressed for the street: tight jeans, russet, ankle leather-boots, a loose, white silk blouse knotted at the waist, and her lucky horseshoe amulet around her slender, stem-like neck. You’d never believe from looking at her that she could flatten a heavyweight thug without working up sweat or raising her pulse rate by even one extra beat a minute. Her femininity was genuine, but her delicate appearance was a dangerous trickof nature, designed to trap those who stupidly took her for easy prey. Her sable hair was unrestrained; she chose to allow it to be blown by the wind, like the mane of a galloping horse or a flag fluttering in the breeze. On calm days and when she was indoors, her hair would cover large parts of her dainty features like a hanging, beaded curtain. Most people thought she had a hard, snappy and hostile face; a bird of prey. This was only partially true. She’d survived a very nasty war on the home front. The wounds and scars were inside her head, etched on her psyche. What you saw on the outside was armour, her bulletproof vest. There were very few people with whom she let down her guard and I considered myself privileged to be the front-runner . Her opalescent eyes could have the look of death about them and then, in an instant, light up a room with sunny mischief. She wasn’t a moody person, just introspective; too human, sensitive and incorruptible for the likes of Pomfrey. Too mentally and morally strong, as well. Pomfrey preferred his underlings, especially women, to be pliable and readily manipulated . In that