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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Kissing the Dragon - 3. Denny

A barfly who haunts the public bar of the Duck, Denny Harrison was also once a friend. Tonight he is drunk and causing trouble for the landlady. After a brief chat, Colin does the right thing and guides him home.

Even as an infrequent patron of the Duck, if there is no matter how tenuous a link between you and a potential trouble-maker, you will be summoned to assist. Such is the English way.

"Colin, my dear," says Denny Harrison, delight lifting his voice as he holds out a shaky hand towards me, theatrically as is his wont. He is being held up by the two of the public bar’s ancient but nameless clientele. Both of them appear amused, unlike Megan the landlady who stands guard over the beer and spirits, her arms folded beneath her ample bosom. Swaying between the two men, it is obvious that Denny is making a point of ignoring her.

“How the devil have you been?"

“It’s okay, Megan,” I murmur over his shoulder, and with some reluctance. “I’ll take care of him.”

She nods curtly then and disappears through the archway linking both bars. I transition from the sheltered professional world of teaching, to my personal one as another gay man in a small suburban town. Although I see very little of Denny these days—and then only ever in this pub setting—he was once part of a close-knit group of friends who spent many social hours in each other’s company.

“My sincere apologies, gentlemen,” says Denny, shaking his head at the two old boys and grabbing the counter for support. I assume he has offered to buy them drinks. Instead of being annoyed, they shake their heads at each other in amusement before hobbling off into the darkened depths of the bar room.

In his early sixties, Denny has always had an antique gayness about him. Zombie thin but always well turned out, he wears a sharp three-piece tweed suit of chocolate peppered with tiny orange specks. Together with pristine mud brown Churches shoes he epitomises the word dapper. Tucked into the collar of his light blue cotton shirt, a navy ascot necktie of glossed silk is bunched up at his throat. Matching cuff links hold the crisp ironed cuffs in place. Elegant wisps of silver, swept back each side of his groomed head of wavy copper hair, accentuate his pallid face and sculpted cheek bones. Give him a silver-tipped cane and he could pass for a modern-day Quentin Crisp. From a compatibility perspective, Denny with his hardcore sexual tastes will never appeal, but his perfect dress sense is more calming than a ten milligramme Valium. A conspicuous regular in the shabby public bar of the Duck, he runs Harrison & Son tailor shop on the high street two doors down from Bob's Bikes, although in all the times I have passed by, I have never witnessed another living soul inside.

“Good evening Denny. Causing trouble again?" I say, keeping my tone as non-committal as possible. Last time I bumped into him in this very pub was also at one of my rare teacher gathering nights, four days before Christmas. Denny had been in high spirits with a crowd of others and when I returned from my visit to the toilet, had encouraged me to go home to bed with him. At first I made the mistake of laughing, sensing his seriousness all too late. He retaliated by trailing me out to the front of the pub while bad-mouthing my relationship with Vaughan. Out of character, I lost my temper. There ensued a brief but loud and very public exchange of words.

“Bolshy bovine refuses to serve me any more beverages,” he murmurs, and appears to remember our previous run-in as he knocks a coaster onto the floor while leaning forward to squint at me. “Look, dear boy, I must apologise for our last encounter. My behaviour was appalling. Let me buy you a drink by way of atonement."

"There's no need," I reply, wary that he has consumed enough for us both.

"Come on, I insist," he says, and makes me wonder if all he wants is some company. Fool as I am, I feel a little sorry for him. Once upon a time, Vaughan and I had been friends with him and his partner Alfie. Since Alfie’s death, he drank heavily and alone despite the array of decrepit regulars scattered around the barroom. "I don't want you thinking I'm an insensitive prick."

I do anyway, but nod to accept his offer.

"Just the one.”

"Megan, darling," calls Denny, clutching hold of the bar counter to anchor himself and calling back the frowning landlady, who is midway through polishing the life out of a pint glass. "Be a love and get my dear friend a Chablis. And a large Pernod and soda for me.”

“I think he’s had quite enough for one night, don’t you?” she says, turning all of her attention to me. Putting down the glass and the bar towel, her matronly arms fold again. “He’s been here since lunchtime. Shall I call him a cab?"

"You can call me anything you like, dear woman. Just get us the bloody drinks.”

What amazes me is that despite being drunk, Denny’s speech is not slurred, each word precise and beautifully articulated. Megan, however, comes complete with a military background and takes back-chat from nobody. Behind her horn rimmed glasses her eyes have become venomous slits.

"It's okay Meg. I'll make sure he gets home," I say, holding up a placating palm to her. Denny is renowned for being first in the door at lunchtime on Friday and last out at closing time. ”He’s on my way home. One final drink and we'll be off."

After a brief moment of evaluation, Megan shakes her head but acquiesces, and heads to the other bar. I assume she is getting our drinks.

“Fat sanctimonious old cow,” says Denny, in a flash of drunken anger. His scorn follows her retreating figure and I am grateful his voice is out of earshot. “If not for patrons like me, this place would be a Paki mini-mart or something equally loathsome.”

Bigoted comments such as these remind me why I came to dislike Denny. Vaughan had been more tolerant. I ought to tell Denny she is only doing her job but know better than to try to reason with a drunk. Instead I wait unspeaking for him to calm, which he does once his watery gaze returns to me.

"You are an angel, Colin. And looking dashing without the bum fluff, if you don’t mind me saying,” he says, his glassy eyes bobbing between my hair and my face. He thinks hard for a moment, the braincells sparking, before adding. “Has Vaughan been in touch? I expect you're missing him. Where is he again? Senegal?"

For obvious reasons I would rather not discuss Vaughan. On Christmas Day, he called from an airport in Jakarta and I could sense in his tone that something had changed. Even though he said nothing and I did not push, I wondered if he had met someone. He discussed his work, asked about mine, and ended up saying how much he missed Christmas at home, missed the weather in England, missed the house, missed our friends. Never once did he say that he missed me. Of course, we will stay friends, we were together for seven years after all, so a lot of water had surged under that bridge. Like many of our friends, however, the relationship became too sedentary, too stale and boring. And I fully acknowledge my part of the blame.

“Singapore, I believe. Vaughan tends to get around quite a bit.”

“I bet he does,” says Denny, and then remembers himself. “I mean. He always did work like a Trojan.”

“Do you keep in touch with any of the old crowd?” I ask, purposely changing tack.

Once upon a time, the social circle in which Vaughan and I moved collided on occasion with Denny and his partner Alfie’s set of friends. But as couples split up or, as in Alfie’s case, passed away, we saw less and less of each other. Rumour had it they lived under the same roof but led very separate lives. Alfie had been the socialite of the two, a wisp of a man with a razor sharp wit, but also warm hearted and down to earth. Denny had been the quiet and aloof one of the pair, sitting on the periphery and observing. Alfie had battled cystic fibrosis throughout his life but in the final year had refused the intrusive regiment of treatments and drugs. We had been neighbours, so Vaughan often drove Denny to and from the hospice in Alfie’s final months. Prior to our run-in before Christmas, the last time I had seen Denny was at Alfie’s funeral. Apart from haunting the public bar of the Duck most nights, Denny had gone to ground.

“Seldom,” he says, with a noncommittal shrug. “I suppose you heard about Tony?”

“Who?”

“Tony. Tony,” he says, as if repeating the name loudly will jog my memory. “The young lad you met at our dinner party? Bottle blond. Five eight. Cute. About four years ago.”

“The rent boy?” I catch on at last, surprising myself at the memory. Back in the day, Denny and Alfie used to hold dinner parties for close friends and, for some reason, we were invited. I remember sitting next to the young boy and his friend, both around eighteen years out of the womb, but as funny and streetwise as they come. Tony had been the essence of gay male beauty, perfectly put together without the need for the constant maintenance of a gym, and a handsomeness to turn heads and stop conversations. Only on chatting to him did a person discover the depths and breadths of his insecurities: a newly discovered wrinkle here, perceived hair loss there, the threat of younger and more beautiful trade threatening his livelihood.

“Friend,” says Denny, his expression a reprimand. “Don’t call him ‘the rent boy’. I don’t refer to you as ‘the teacher’, dear, and I hope to goodness you don’t refer to me as ‘the tailor’.”

Right then Megan appears and puts down our drinks on the bar counter. Denny purposely ignores her. She waits to catch my eye and then mouthes the words ‘last one’. I nod my agreement and with that she turns and disappears back to the saloon bar. She and I both know that the next time Denny visits, this little incident will have been forgotten.

“Point taken. So what about him? Tony?”

“Overdose,” says Denny, taking a swig of his drink before continuing. “Heroin. Tragic. Had barely started shaving, the poor boy. I met up with him a couple of days before. We catch up for a drink once a month. Caught. He wasn’t his usual happy, bubbly self. Seemed a little preoccupied. Never in a million years would I have suspected…”

“Of course not,” I say, filling the silence. “How could you?”

“Used to be staunchly anti-drugs, use and abuse,” says Denny, taking another slug of his drink. “Alfie would have said that kind of thing went with the territory.”

I am thinking the same thing except Denny is right. For some reason I remember Tony had a vehement disgust of drugs and those who succumbed. Something else niggles at my memory, a personal reason Tony had for his stance, but right then I cannot remember. Tragic for the poor kid to end his days so young, and especially in such a dreadful way.

“The poor dear had been trying to get me to embrace modern technology. Open me up to the dubious delights of the digital world. Me, who only under pressure availed himself of his first mobile telephone last October. Complete lost cause. Some of us are born technophobes. Do you dabble?”

“Of course. I use one of those free online video conferencing systems to keep in touch with Vaughan and my sister. And a lot of old friends are on one social networking site or another. Even the school houses its own intranet site. Older students are issued laptops or tablet computers so I need to stay on top of technology, especially the range of word processing softwares. Most of their assignments for marking are sent as attachments.”

Even though he has a humoured smile on his face, I can tell my basic technological lexicon is lost on him.

“Do you hear from Vince and Aaron?” I say, bringing the conversation back to his level, remembering the clean cut couple I spoke to at his party and met again at Alfie’s funeral.

“The Methodists?” says Denny, an eyebrow rising above one watery eye. I almost chastise him back for labelling them ‘the Methodists’, but in his advanced state of insobriety the remark will probably fall on deaf ears.

“Alfie’s friends, not mine,” he continues on. “Admittedly they did pop round a couple of times in the weeks after the funeral. Perhaps I’m being unkind but it always felt as though they were trying to recruit. Bump up congregation numbers, so to speak. And let’s face it, dear, you know as well I do that I am beyond redemption. Apart from anything else, we share absolutely nothing in common. They believe in prayer, abstinence and cheap clothing. None of which have ever worked for me.”

I laugh aloud. At the dinner party, four years ago, orange juice drinking Vince had been friendly and polite, but had blanched at the various sordid stories Tony and his friend spouted over the dinner table.

“Used to be close to Paul and Christian. They buggered off to Australia eighteen months ago,” he continues. “I’m still in touch with your old partner in crime, Derek, now and again. His other half, Hugh, landed on his feet. Apart from working for daddy, he’s now up-and-coming in the political arena. Conservative naturally, sensible boy. Full financial and business backing from daddy of course. Don’t know if you remember but the two of them have a cottage down in Dorset. In Hugh’s constituency.”

Some news is always good to hear. Derek was once my best friend. Of all our friends, he and Hugh stayed close. Over time, though, we lost touch and I have to wonder why. Lots of friendships fell by the wayside two years ago when, almost in tandem, Vaughan’s job took off and Uncle Dom’s condition worsened. No excuse really, there are some friendships you should never let go. Hugh’s father is none other than Sir Jeremy Winterbourne, an elite businessmen in England. A celebrity in his own right, he is one of those rare untouchables who managed to succeed even through difficult economic times.

“I haven’t contacted them in ages. Lucky old Hugh.”

“Don’t you mean lucky old Derek? And a head’s up, they might deign to contact you soon. Hugh’s been talking about getting the old gang—or what’s left of us—back together again for Derek’s birthday. Derek would want you there.”

Long before Vaughan entered my life, Derek and I had been inseparable friends. We were in each others pockets when studying together at York university. Even in the early days of knowing Vaughan, when Derek first met Hugh, we often attended the same parties or arranged nights out. Hugh, however, mixed in very different social circles to the rest of us and after a time we went our different ways. Paul and Christian. Derek and Hugh. More good friends I have allowed myself to lose touch with over time.

“Look Denny. I need to use the ‘loo, and then I really must head off.”

“No worries, dear boy,” he replies, knocking back the last of his drink. “Go splash the porcelain. I’ll get the bill.”

One of the downsides to the antiquated Duck is the outhouse that contains the men’s toilet, a lean-to at the back of the building. February has been bitter this year and as soon as the chill air hits me, I wonder if I will be able to pee at all. Surely this is another reason in favour of a move to Buenos Aires, to escape England’s miserable winters. Having persevered and succeeded, I wash my hands in icy water, wondering absently how often the pipes freeze over, before making my way back to the coat rack.

Denny sways gently by the pub entrance, done up snuggly in his olive Barbour and brown woollen Fedora, my tan cashmere overcoat thrown across his left arm, my briefcase dangling from his right hand. I retrieve them from him, removing my scarf from where I stuffed it into the sleeve and shrugging into the overcoat, before I usher him out into the chill night air.

Lightly falling snow has peppered the tarmac outside the pub and prettifies the scene across the ponds; a living snow globe. Muted cheering emanates from the curtained window of the saloon bar. As we both stand for a moment, letting ourselves acclimatise to the brutal drop in temperature, a voice calls my name. Chris Hansen has appeared in the doorway and instinctively hugs his chest against the cold. His curious gaze takes in Denny as he raises a hand to him in greeting and addresses me.

“You slipping out under the radar, Cole? It’s not even eight.”

“Thought I’d do the sensible thing,” I say, and for some reason his presence and his sizing up of Denny helps to warm me.

We remain there as another roar of laughter issues from the saloon bar. Next to me, Denny makes a wise choice and awkwardly pulls on his leather gloves. Chris takes a step away from the door and joins us, following my gaze towards the saloon window.

“How’s it going in there?” I ask.

“Last I knew the guy who’d just got engaged was singing one of your rugby songs about a ship called Venus. Heck, I never heard anything like it, but the women here don’t seem to mind. Some of them even knew the words.”

I exhale a steamy chuckle into the air and enjoy how Chris watches my mouth, smiling himself. We stand awkwardly opposite each other until Denny coughs into his glove beside me.

“My apologies. This is Denny. An old friend. Denny this is Christopher, an acquaintance of our PE teacher.”

“Be careful with the adjectives, dear. I’m not a bus pass holder just yet,” says Denny, before taking in Chris. “Hello Christopher.”

With an affected flourish, he holds a gloved hand in the air in like a royal greeting. Not waiting for Chris to reciprocate, he spins around and glides unsteadily off, the hand still held aloft. Another of Denny’s eccentricities that I have always interpreted as bad manners.

“He’s a little the worse for wear. Just making sure he gets home safely,” I say, shrugging to Chris. His quizzical expression follows the departing Denny. “See you after school Wednesday night.”

I wrap the scarf around my neck and ready to follow Denny.

“About tennis,” he says, holding up his mobile phone. “Can I get your cell number, so we can confirm?”

“Of course,” I reply, taking the warm device from him and tapping my number into his phone, my stomach fluttering at the way he observes me. After finishing, I hand the phone back.

“Let me call you now so you can save my number.”

He does and I feel my phone vibrating from the inside jacket pocket. After pulling it out, I save Chris’ number and smile. “All done. I’d better go and take care of the walking wounded.”

“Pity,” he says, his eyes back to mine, disappointment in his face.

“Are you okay?”

“Drinking on empty is not my thing. Decided I need to feed the engine. Jeremy and Emily mentioned a Greek place on the high street. So I came to hunt you down, see if you wanted to tag along. But seems like you got your hands full.”

My heart sinks. Can I, with a clear conscience, abandon Denny? This could be a chance to get to know Chris Hansen more intimately. When I let my gaze follow Denny, I witness him slipping in the snow and almost toppling over.

“Chris, I’d love to—“

“Kit. Call me Kit.”

“Kit, then. Thanks,” I say, turning and nodding my gratitude, the olive branch of familiarity not lost on me. “Look if I let him go home alone in that state, he’s likely to end up face down in the pond.”

“Nah, it’s good. If I ever got that wasted I hope you’d offer to help get me safe home to bed.”

“You’d want me to tuck you up in bed? Hmm, I’ll have to remember that,” I say, my eyebrows raising, the words out before I can stop them. Fortunately for me he rolls his eyes and laughs into the night air.

“Next week, then?” he says, holding up a hand in farewell and then bringing it down to point a forefinger at me. “And don’t forget. I get to whip your ass Wednesday.”

“Wednesday, my arse is all yours,” I say, walking backwards, before reluctantly turning and trotting to catch up with Denny.

I grab his elbow in time to stop him falling onto the snowy verge. Snowfall has camouflaged the true and hard contours on the road making even light footfall treacherous. Once I have him righted, I venture a glance back but Kit has already gone inside to seek warmth. My earlier neutral mood had soured and I let Denny’s arm go, crunching alongside in moody silence. At a funereal pace, buffeted intermittently by the chill wind, we circumnavigate the snow speckled ponds which will undoubtedly be frozen by morning, to get to the small dimly lit alleyway, the shortcut that leads eventually to Collingwood Road. Station Lane, where Denny lives, leads off from there. Halfway around the pond, Denny grips my upper arm with his gloved left hand which I allow mainly to give him support. The crisp night air does not seem to sober him as it does me. From time to time he veers off again, tottering towards the small embankment fencing the ponds, or off the pavement into the lane, but each time I manage to save him without us both tumbling to the ground. Moonlight emerging fleetingly from behind clouds shimmers on the dark surface of the ponds as we reach the far end. Distantly a police car siren sounds, fading progressively until silence reigns again.

“You know, you are far too virtuous for your own good, Colin McCann,” he says, his figure transforming into a spectre as we enter the alleyway’s gloom. There it is again, that cultured voice issuing from the shadow tottering beside me, the eloquent tones of a BBC news commentator, not those of a Friday night drunk. “I appreciate that you don't want to hear this, but I am going to say it anyway. Vaughan Forster is every kind of a fool for dumping you."

"He didn't dump—“ I say irritably, too quickly and defensively. “We’re taking a break while he finishes his two year secondment.”

“You say potato,” says Denny, with a shrug trying to be delicate in his own way. Of course Vaughan keeps in touch with some of the old crowd so Denny will probably know the ugly truth. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, he changes the topic. “And is the slutty Chinoise still cohabiting in that museum of yours?”

“Billy,” I reply, smiling to myself, happy with the change of topic. I had forgotten he knew my young Asian lodger. “He’s still around but spends a lot of time out. Rarely see him on the weekends.”

“Sounds like the perfect lodger. Does he still hanker after the old grizzlies?”

“He does indeed,” I remember the various websites saved in history that Billy visited when he asked to use my desktop computer. Up until that point, I had no idea what a polar bear was in a gay context, until a site full of naked, white-haired granddads filled the screen. “Still. Something for us to look forward to in the nursing home.”

“I’ll go with euthanasia should that eventuality ever befall. Surprised he’s not—hup—wheeling them back to your—hup— place,” says Denny, before coming to a sharp halt, a sudden frown creasing his face.

“Are you alright?” I ask, stopping with him.

“Bother,” he says, placing the flattened fingertips of his gloved hand to his chest as though about to burst into opera, as a convulsion shudders through him. “Sorry. Touch of hiccups.”

With that he leans sharply forward, opens his mouth wide, and emits a violent cascade of vomit. The largely liquid contents of his stomach splatter between his feet but some reaches the hem of my overcoat. An arm held across his back and gripping his upper arm, I begin to step away but fear he may lose his already precarious balance. While he bends forward again, hands on his knees, awaiting the second spasm, I reach into my briefcase for my perfectly pressed scarlet handkerchief and a bottle of Evian water. After rubbing the palm of my hand on the middle of his back and witnessing his second and third spasm, I finally snap off the lid of the water and thrust the bottle beneath his nose.

“Here. Drink,” I order.

Snatching at the handkerchief and the bottle, he pours water onto the cloth before wiping his mouth and gloved hands. Distinctive traces of aniseed blend with the alley’s ethereal cloying musk of loam, moss, and dead foliage. After straightening up, he takes a long draft of the water, before gasping fresh air.

“I do apologise,” he says, his head tilting sideways at me. “Used to be much better at keeping the old medicine down. Tragic waste of Pernod.”

I remain quiet, glancing around and noticing the outline of a figure stop briefly to survey us from the Casham Ponds end of the alleyway, before moving on. Don’t blame them. Having finished, Denny holds the handkerchief and the remains of the bottled water out to me.

“Keep them,” I reply, handing him the bottle cap. “Just in case.”

“Red paisley snot rag, dear?” he says, putting the cap on the bottle and shaking out the hanky with a gentle guffaw. “You do realise we’ve entered a new millennium?”

After that episode, he is more clear-headed and sure-footed. Happy to leave the scene, the smell of aniseed stays with me, plastered to my overcoat. We emerge from the alleyway and step out onto the brightly lamplit Collingwood Road. Freshly laid tarmac and exhaust fumes replace the smell of vomit and earthen odours of the dark passage.

“How’s the shop doing?” I ask, after a while, mainly to keep him talking.

“Oh, you know. Comme si, comme sa. Limping along. To be honest, I’m thinking about selling up. Had a few offers for the shop. And the cottage would be snapped up even in this market. Might move down to the coast. Brighton maybe.”

“You have friends there?”

He snorts out a steamy breath of derision into the chill night air.

“About as many as I have here. Okay this is me,” he says, coming to a stop. We stand in a circle of sallow light beneath the lamppost at the mouth of Station Lane. Denny’s pretty cottage lies in shadow on the far corner, the other side of the lane.

“I won’t embarrass you by asking you back for a nightcap,” he says, looking over my shoulder at his house, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. “Learnt my lesson there. Apart from the fact that you’d decline anyway, I’m ready for an early night. Can’t remember the last time I’ve been home this early on a Friday night.”

“It’ll do you good. Sleep well, Denny.”

I lean in and peck him on the cheek which he accepts without moving or reciprocating. As I turn to leave, I notice he remains standing there.

“Are you okay?”

“I miss him dearly, you know,” he says, after a few moments of silence, a hollowness in his voice.

“Tony?”

“Well yes, Tony, too. But I meant Alfie. He made the connections. My forte’s always been designing and styling the inanimate; clothes, furniture, rooms, garden. That alone does not inhabit a home or a life. Alfie filled the spaces with his sunshine and laughter. Everything’s so—diluted without him around.”

Lost in his words, I had not noticed the renewed fall of snow around us like tree blossom. For a moment I can think of nothing to say. From the hearsay of friends, I understood Denny and Alfie had agreed to an open relationship for many of their years together. I had assumed that meant any kind of love between them, if any had ever existed, had morphed into mutual tolerance. Clearly that had been inaccurate.

The notion of the dilution of everyday life makes perfect sense. Life without Vaughan has become monochromatic, or maybe I have allowed it become that way. Are Denny and I destined to share the same lonely fate? But then I remember Buenos Aires and the smiling face of Kit Hansen. Perhaps my life is not over just yet. Same for Denny. Perhaps what he needs is a break from his routine, the chance to find a new life.

“Let’s catch up next week, Denny,” I hear myself offer. “I’ve got your number. Maybe a quick drink and bite to eat?”

“Anything but pity, dear,” says Denny, flakes already peppering his Fedora. “I can bear anything but pity.”

I watch him turn away, a gloved hand held aloft in his trademark farewell salute, as he shuffles off into the heavy snowfall towards his house. His silhouette stops at the front gate post to steady himself while he fumbles for keys. One last time, his shadowy form turns back before he shoves open the gate. Thrusting my cold, numb hands into my jacket pockets, I swivel around and begin the walk home giving one last glance back and seeing a warm light illuminating the inside of his cosy house. For a fleeting moment I shiver, wondering whether to surrender, head back and have a quick nightcap in the warmth of his house. What harm could it do? Surely better than going back to my big empty house? Instead I swing away from the lane and brace myself for the thirty minutes walk home.

A barfly who haunts the public bar of the Duck, Denny Harrison was also once a friend. Tonight he is drunk and causing trouble for the landlady. After a brief chat, Colin does the right thing and guides him home.
Copyright © 2015 lomax61; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Denny is a bit of a tragic character. Sort of left over. He's not Colin's responsibility, but I can understand him wanting to be more of a friend. I suspect Denny is right though. Pity isn't a good base for friendship.

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I think Colin's taking charge of Denny was more than just at Megan's behest. He seems to be a genuinely caring person caring person so abandoning Denny to fend for himself would have been unthinkable.
I wonder if that dinner party years ago has some connections to the murders. First Tony who is soon to be followed by Denny. Even Alfie because although it's mentioned he had CF, that was not stated specially as the cause of his death. Then again, Tony's death was staged to look like an overdose...so who knows.
Another burning question is who was the mysterious stranger observing Denny and Colin? The killer, perhaps? Me thinks, yes.
The suspense and intrigue is building nicely. I am definitely hooked!

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On 08/22/2015 04:31 AM, Puppilull said:

Denny is a bit of a tragic character. Sort of left over. He's not Colin's responsibility, but I can understand him wanting to be more of a friend. I suspect Denny is right though. Pity isn't a good base for friendship.

Hi Puppilull - I agree with everthing you say here. In his later years, Denny has become a loner. Yes, he is a little tragic and I feel the expression 'left-over' is about right.Colin is a nice guy but I also agree with you and Denny - pity is not a basis for a friendship. Denny is also in over his head without knowing it. More of that to come. Brian

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On 08/23/2015 04:38 AM, Reader1810 said:

I think Colin's taking charge of Denny was more than just at Megan's behest. He seems to be a genuinely caring person caring person so abandoning Denny to fend for himself would have been unthinkable.

I wonder if that dinner party years ago has some connections to the murders. First Tony who is soon to be followed by Denny. Even Alfie because although it's mentioned he had CF, that was not stated specially as the cause of his death. Then again, Tony's death was staged to look like an overdose...so who knows.

Another burning question is who was the mysterious stranger observing Denny and Colin? The killer, perhaps? Me thinks, yes.

The suspense and intrigue is building nicely. I am definitely hooked!

Aha, Reader1810. Heavens, do you read a lot into the text!! Agreed that Colin is a caring person, while most of us might have turned a blind eye or slipped out of the door. You're also making an assumption here that the boy in the prologue IS Tony. I'll leave you to mull that over. One thing you should know here for sure is that Alfie died of CF, nothing suspicious or sinister there. Apart from that, all I'll say is, keep looking for clues. You're on the right track. Brian

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Portraying the loss of a life partner as making life monochromatic is a powerful way of conveying the idea. What a profound tale Denny has and it shows our hero a glimpse of his own life. then he sees two very different lights and i think they will guide him. Great job!

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On 09/09/2015 04:11 AM, Cole Matthews said:

Portraying the loss of a life partner as making life monochromatic is a powerful way of conveying the idea. What a profound tale Denny has and it shows our hero a glimpse of his own life. then he sees two very different lights and i think they will guide him. Great job!

Thanks Cole. This chapter is quite slow but absolutely integral to the whole story. Denny is one of those characters who we're not sure whether to love or loathe. My saving grace for him is that he still has his dignity when he feels that Colin is pitying him. Brian

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Denny the Dignified Drunk. He hovers on the brink of pathetic but ends up in the tragic category. I hope he knew how important Alfie was to him while the man was still alive.

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Denny is someone I would go out of my way to avoid. When I was homeless, I met many alcoholics who were much less dignified than Denny. But chemical abusers of all kinds are repellant to me to some degree…

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Denny is a complex person who let Alfie provide the social connections in their lives together.  Without Alfie, Denny has lost connections thru death and distance with other friends who might have provided some support as he grew older.  He is intelligent and doesn't want pity, probably because he knows if he really wanted to change his monochrome life he could.  He however, has settled into a life build around routines rather than people.  It can be difficult to be around someone like this, because it reminds some people of what could happen as they age.  To those people, Denny can be a frightening glimpse into the future.  Colin is a very kind person to help Denny home.  Kit is disappointed Colin couldn't join him, but at least numbers were exchanged. You are continuing to build the setting and characters while adding some tensions and slight discord to the mood.  Very subtle and nicely done.

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