Free The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow by Ken Scott Page B

final trip to the toilet he needed a chair for support and two walls to make it there safely. As he staggered back to the table Markham offered him a lift home. He was only too happy to accept it. Ash knew when he’d had enough. The alcohol had served its purpose. Markham poured him into the back of the unmarked car and drove him the short distance to his rented flat in Fenham.
    At eight the next morning, Ashley awoke with a start. He looked at his watch. He’d crawled into bed just after five the previous afternoon. Fifteen hours’ uninterrupted sleep. Jesus , who was hammering the door down at this time of the morning?
    Holy John stood grinning on the step, two Styrofoam cartons in his hand.
    “I thought a good English breakfast might cure those hangover blues. The deli on Acorn Road does the best in town, opens real early. Not as good as a Holy Island special, mind, but definitely the best in town.”
    “What the hell are you up to this early on a Sunday morning, John?”
    “I’ve been to the early morning service, Ash, never miss a Sunday.”
    Ashley rubbed at his heavy eyelids, screwed them up tightly as a ray of early morning sunshine shot over John Markham’s shoulder blade.
    “Church?”
    John smiled.
    “Church and a good breakfast, praise the Lord.”
    “Praise the Lord, John… Yeah… praise the Lord.”
    Ashley wanted to dive into an atheist argument and ask Holy John how come the scriptures tell us the world was created a few thousand years ago and yet the Natural History Museum in London houses some dinosaur bones three million years old. He wanted to, he really did, but the moment passed.
    John wafted the cartons in front of Ashley’s face. The smell of the bacon and sausage and fried eggs and black pudding tugged at his taste buds and if it had been Charles Manson with a machete between his teeth, he still would have allowed him in.
    Ash shuffled along the narrow woodblock hallway in his boxers. He pointed to the right.
    “Kitchen’s over there, grab a couple of plates and put the kettle on. I need to take a piss.”
    Ashley sat opposite John Markham as they attacked the heart attack special. Ashley was comfortable in his company. He’d warmed to the man who, only a few months ago, had been a complete stranger. Markham had come to his rescue not once but twice now in such a short period of time.
    “Getting pissed out of your brain won’t help things, y’know, Ash,” John Markham mumbled with a half-eaten sausage in his mouth.
    Ashley looked up, swirled the warm tea around the cup, smiled at his colleague.
    “You’re wrong, John. Getting hammered always helps.”
    “Don’t be stupid, Ash, you —”
    Ashley nodded his head. “It does, John, it helps. I had a great time yesterday afternoon feeling sorry for myself. It gave me time to think.”
    “About what?”
    “About what sort of shit job we are both doing, about what’s happening to the world, about having to think long and hard before we say something in case someone else interprets it in a totally different way. What right has anyone got to call me a racist?”
    “Look, Ash, it ain’t that bad —”
    “John, I’m suspended, for fuck’s sake, how bad can it get? I’m hanging onto my career by the skin of my teeth.”
    John Markham stood up, walked around the table, and placed a comforting hand on his pal’s shoulder.
    “Remember yesterday, Ash? Remember I was telling you about Roddam?”
    Ashley scratched his head, couldn’t remember anything about a conversation involving Roddam. John continued.
    “Rod dam’s a good guy, he likes you. He’s spoken with the suit who reported you.” John Markham turned to face Ashley, threw a smile that said you owe me one.
    “Roddam has pulled rank. As soon as you issue an apology you’re back on the job!”
    “A what?”
    “An apology. A little black mark on your record admitting you were out of order, you made a bad choice of words, an error of judgement the politicians call it.