He said he could take his drink. He told me hadn’t drunk that much. He looked fine, he sounded fine but I still should have known he wasn’t. I knew him for long enough, I should’ve been able to tell when he’d had too much. Now he’s gone and I could have prevented it. It was the worst possible end to a day.

“I’ll have another pint”

“How many have you had?”

“Not many”

“And just how many is that?”

“Six or seven”

“Don’t you think you should take a break?”

“I’ll be OK, I can hold my drink”

The conversation was repeated many times throughout the night. The drink flowed constantly, being downed as fast it was poured. The bar-staff didn’t care how wreaked their customers got; as long as they kept spending they could stay. They even served people who have trouble saying their order. The night was still good though. The music was shite, but we were too drunk to care. Wasn’t enough alcohol in the place to make us dance though. It was all great, until just before closing time. He went out a few minutes early to beat the cloakroom queue, nothing strange there. I expected him to be waiting outside, I wasn’t too worried when he wasn’t there, he often started off on his own. Normally I’d find him staggering along the street, making little progress, and I’d help him the rest of the way. I was only a little worried when I was him lying by a wall. I didn’t even notice that he flat on his back. I walked over to him, laughing softly.

“I thought you could take your drink. What happened to Mister ‘I can hold my drink’? Wake up you mad alky.”

I crouched down to try and shake him awake. I froze when I saw the mess of blooded flesh on his forehead.

I shook him gently, he didn’t move. I tried to find his pulse; his skin was cold, there was nothing. I raised his head, looking for some sign of life.

I don’t know how long I was there with him. Someone else must have come along and found us, someone must have called that ambulance and it wasn’t me. The next thing I clearly remember was being in a hospital, people were trying to ask me questions about what happened, I don’t know if I answered any. I was sent off home some time later, the doctor’s words echoing in my head, “I’m sorry, but he was gone before he got here.”

It was a few days later, when I’d heard all the facts, that I was able to piece together what happened. He had got his coat and started off home, just as expected. At some point in the journey, he stumbled and fell, cracking his head off the ground. He rolled over onto his back before passing out. While he was lying there, he threw up. He died by choking on his own vomit. If I had walked a bit quicker, I might have got there in time to help him. I should have known he’d had too much; I should have stopped him drinking any more.

You’d think that something like that would put me off drink for life, but no. I drink more than ever before. Alcohol is the only thing that can get the image of him lying there out of my head. Maybe the drink will kill me; I don’t really care any more.