Free 59 Minutes by Gordon Brown Page B

place and lost.
    I have a hangover - my first New Year hangover in
nearly a decade and a half. A couple of the lads at the hostel managed to blag
a few bottles of Buckfast and a half bottle of Glen’s, and we celebrated the
birth of 2008.
    I’m stunned at how little I have in the world. That
bastard Dupree took everything. He owns my homes; he raided my bank accounts
and even emptied my offshore account. When I stepped out of the prison gates I
had the clothes I stood in and one hundred and eight quid in my pocket (the
money I had on me when I was arrested).
    I was given a bed in a hostel near Hammersmith for two
weeks. Two weeks that I spent trying to get back on the ladder that I had
fallen from - but it would seem that Dupree has ensured that the first rung is
so out of sight that I may as well try and climb Mount Everest in a pair of
slippers.
    I door-stepped those of the gang who were still around
and got blanked. I tried those who had retired but was told my name was bad
news. I received eight kickings in as many days and the writing was on the
wall. London was not for me. I was so skint I had to hold up a
local corner store to get enough cash for a ticket back home.
    Glasgow was
little better. Everyone is drawing me a blank but the kicking ratio has fallen
– only three so far.
    I’m sitting on the edge of a single bed in a room that
sleeps four. My room mates are all out looking for booze. It’s what they do
every night. I’m not there yet but a few more weeks and I might take to the
slippery slope with gusto.
    Rachel’s letter is stuffed into my holdall. I’ve read
it so often I can tell you the spacing between letters in millimetres and could,
if asked, forge it to the point where a handwriting expert would struggle to
tell original from copy.
    I’m planning a trip to the pub tomorrow. I’ve no idea
if it is still there or if Stevie is to be found. Not that I have a blind clue
as to who Stevie is.
    My head hurts and I’m off to the front desk for some
painkillers.

Wednesday January 2 nd 2008
     
    The trip to the pub was a washout. The Lame Duck is no
more. A concrete shell with a faded wooden sign that some local wit has changed
to The Lame Fuck. There was no sign of life and no indication of who owns it
and how you could contact them. I tried a few of the nearby pubs but it was
early and the bar staff were clueless – mostly telling me to come back later
when the owner or manager was around.
    I took myself up to the West End for a memory trip but I
wasn’t in the mood. Everything reminds me of what I used to have. If it wasn’t
the New Year break I would have ended up sitting in Victoria Park mixing with
the retired, unemployed and scum – sad to say that today I was probably the
only one that could lay claim to all three categories. The whole world was out
taking the air -  trying to shake off the excesses of the New Year and it
made me feel crap.
    I ate a Kit Kat but I wasn’t in need of the break – my
life is one big break. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try the council and find out who
used to hold the license at The Lame Duck.

Friday January 4 th 2008
     
    I spent yesterday in the hostel. It might have been a
Thursday, a work day, and the other side of the traditional two day New Year
break in Scotland but that didn’t mean that the people I needed to see in the
council were back to work. Monday I was told on the phone. It cost me twenty
pence to find that out. I don’t have twenty pence to spare – how bad are things
when you can’t afford to make a 20p phone call.
    One of my roommates - Charles - or ‘the Stink’ as he
is affectionately known - and I use the term ‘affectionately’ in the loosest
possible sense - told me to try the web.
    I blanked this idea. I’m ashamed to say I must be the
least web literate person in the UK . For most of my time in prison there was no internet
access – the web revolution passed us all by. When they did install it, we were
restricted in where we could