Mulled Cider

Barry - also known as John, Matthew, Dean, Benjamin, Joseph, Abraham, Jesus and Samson - relied on the high turnaround of security and reception staff to enjoy the comforts of the A&E waiting room on an almost nightly basis. Back home in Zimbabwe he was an engineer, though things hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped on moving to the UK. He was well liked by most of the hospital staff - his medical complaints rarely warranted more than a minutes conversation and would often crack self-deprecating jokes and subtle Chaplain-esque performances to overstate his level of intoxication - he drank only to help him sleep a few hours at night and stave off the shakes during the day. Even in the depths of a K-Cider fugue Barry was prone to reciting poetry from memory in gentle baritone.

Barry turned to an Eastern European man he had not met before. He offered him a sip of his pocket-warmed cider, conspiratorially lifting his finger to his lip and darting his eyes round to make sure no-one saw. The possibly Polish man laughed and took a swig before he passed it back to Barry who deftly tucked it back into the outermost of three oversized jackets.

“Where are you from, brother?”

“Gdansk”

“You’re welcome, have another sip.”

“No, I am from Gdansk.”

“Oh, where is such a place?”

“Poland.”

“Wonderful.” Barry nodded sagely. Nothing more was said between the two beyond a periodic hum as the cider was passed between themselves. Sometimes it was enough to just sit with company on a hard plastic chair in the only place in Portsmouth open at four in the morning on Christmas Day.