Whose Blood is that Sir?

          I’ve been so stupid.

            Last night I was a mess. Before leaving the internet café I logged onto an online poker site to try to take my mind off everything. Before I knew it I’d lost several hundred pounds and finished the first bottle of ginger wine. I staggered out into the night.

            I walked. And walked.

            I think I almost made it as far as High Wycombe, all the way from Oxford. I remember flashes of walking along the side of the motorway. So cold, so lonely. Everything was a blur. I remember nearly slipping onto the road. I remember nearly letting it happen.

            The next thing I knew I had a light shining in my eyes. I came to, dazed. I had a broken bottle in one hand. I was still wearing my suit from court the day before but it was all muddy.  I was stubbled, drunk and stinking. My shoes were completely fucked. It must’ve been about 4am.

            The light was coming from a police woman’s torch. At the combination of sights I leapt to my feet in confused alarm.

            “It’s okay,” said the officer, “I’m a police officer.”

            “Okay,” I said, “okay.” I was breathing hard.

            “Please put the bottle down sir.”

            I stared vacantly at the bottle in my hand for several moments, trying to understand my circumstances.

            “Am I in trouble?”

            “That depends, sir. What have you done?”

            Consciousness was beginning to assert itself in my head. I thought of telling the officer that her question was in breach of Code C.10.1 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act Codes of Practice for officers. I decided this would not assist.

            “I… I don’t think I’ve done anything. I was drunk… in Oxford. Where am I?”

            “Whose blood is that sir?”

            I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood. I gasped. “Shit!” I said.

            “Sir, please answer the question. Whose blood is it?”

            I gazed slowly at myself and then, for the first time, began to feel pain. The pain came from my palm, currently clenched into a fist. I unclenched it and saw a gouge straight across the middle. My skin was stained and sticky with old and new blood. I looked up and saw that the officer was watching me. I looked at my other hand and saw the bottle again. This time I noticed it was broken at the neck and stained with blood.

            “I see,” said the officer.

            She took me back to the station and bandaged my hand for me. I was interviewed about my activities the night before ‘just for the record’. I had to give my name. I was tempted to lie but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was so ashamed of my state. The officer typed my name into a computer and checked the Police National Computer for my record. I held my breath. Of course, I don’t have a criminal record, but the whole situation made me nervous. I was released back to the train station in High Wycombe, relieved but rotten to the depths of my soul. If I have one.

 

*

 

            “Where the hell have you been sir?”

            My clerks were calling, precisely two minutes after I’d plugged my phone in for re-charging, safely back at home. I hadn’t even cleaned up.

            “Ughh,” I said, not having to try hard at all to sound sick. “I’m sorry, I’m so ill.”

            “Good night was it sir?”

            “God damn it, no!” I put the phone down and dashed to bathroom to throw up.

           

It’s a fucking Wednesday. What’s happening to me?

           

*

 

            I slept for twenty minutes before Ed came into my room loudly and woke me up again. I groaned sorely.

            “Good to have you back, Evans. Been out Chick-Slaying have you?”

            I groaned again. “Shouldn’t you be teaching?”

            “Free period mate.”

            He looked at me with mocking amusement. I couldn’t decide whether to tell him about my night or not. I rubbed my index finger into my palm lightly and winced. Ed shook his head and left me to go back to sleep.