TWENTY
I’ll not be telling you again, woman, get yourself up them stairs.
Norman Blackett, Mary Garforth’s brother, staggered out of the 'Greyhound' and leaned against the wall for support, trying to clear the mists of alcohol that clogged his brain. The thirteen pints of Newcastle Breweries Mild and Bitter ale lay heavy on his stomach, distending his bladder like a barrage balloon.
‘Need a piss,’ he mumbled to himself and lurched across the road and into a dark narrow alley, the fading summer evening light barely penetrating into the narrow brick gennel.
He fumbled open his fly and urinated in a steady stream that seemed to last forever, a sharp fetid smell telling him that the alley was already well patronised by cats and dogs for the same purpose. He could feel a tingling running do
