Late October. The rain slashes across his windscreen like silver daggers as he squeezes the battered Astra into the last slot behind the pub. He waits, contemplating the heavyset man from conspiratorial shadows. He Lets him go in first, get settled.

It's not been hard following Jim Carver here, though avoiding killing him when he staggered in front of the car had been less easy.

The pub's as inviting as the weather. But at least the yellowing strip lights don't give out enough illumination to see what's making his shoes stick to the floor, which is a blessing. It's probably not been decorated since the Richardson's drank here in the sixties. But that's OK; it's off his patch. No one's going to shout a welcome to him in here.

"Half a bitter, love."

He watches the transaction from across the bar. It's a characteristically discreet surveillance, glancing in the mirror while pretending to be fascinated by a couple of old codgers playing dominoes. Not that Jim would notice. He's been smashed since before seven. He wouldn't even remember his own face the mirror, let alone one of his colleagues.

The buyer, a greasy South London oik with a Mosley moustache, haggles, and wins. Not difficult if all the seller wants is the price of another night of oblivion. And that's been Jim's aim since the tenure system fucked up his career.

The watcher sighs.

He didn't realise it'd gone this far. Jim's proud of this stuff; it's autographed and everything.

//You can't go on like this, Jim. //

The policeman watches his friend stagger out, struggling to push the door the wrong way on it's hinges and gets down to business.

It takes him half an hour, and the best part of forty quid, to buy Jim's CD collection back. And by then he hasn't got a clue which pub Jim's moved on to. He's careful with the CD's putting them in a bag in the boot of his car as gently as if they're eggs. He's always careful.

There's a photo tucked into one, Jim and Frank Burnside. The older man's arm slung possessively over Jim's shoulders.

His fingers trace the edges of Jim's grinning face, just for a moment blotting out both Burnside and the large whisky. Hears the damning words.

"Come on James, have another one. It's your victory."

//Bloody Frank Burnside! It's all his fault. Get the kid drunk, take him home, and break his heart. Should have seen the danger. You should have looked after him Burnside; you shouldn't have rejected his application - that was the final straw. //

Three shebeen's later and it's midnight. One more cruise round the block and he finally spots Jim, coming out of some gay dive under the railway arches with his arm round a boy, a boy who has mates round the corner.

Mates who start pawing at the drunk's pockets. He has to take a chance and intervene.

"Clear off!" He flashes the warrant card.

"'E ain't got nuffin' on him anyway."

He allows himself one moment of conceit knowing Jim can't hear him, won't remember.

"Think of me as your guardian angel."

Then he takes his friend home.

The flat's bare, well apart from the bottles. Jim's got almost nothing left to sell,

//Not unless he goes into the glass recycling business. //

Jim will reach a crisis point soon. He can't do anything; God knows he's tried. Jim has to admit to himself he's got a problem. If he won't even the best intentions of his friends won't make a difference.

The slim dark haired man lets a wry grin slip.

//Tony's always saying I've got a weird sense of humour. //

It's an effort to manoeuvre the bigger man into the recovery position. But he's gentle, takes his time, smoothes the sweat damped hair off Jim's brow.

//At least you won't choke in your sleep mate. //

The merest suggestion. A sketched soft kiss on his head.

//Selfish, but he'll never know. //

Reg shuts the door, letting the locks click. Jim's safe here at least, from everyone but himself.