Nash gripped the edge of the sink and looked away from his reflection, the face of a dead man who somehow survived against the odds. Unable to stand looking at it any longer, he went back into his bedroom and dressed.
#
Across town, just as Nash was battling his demons and preparing to face another day, Tyler Matthews was waking up, face buried in the carpet of a cheap motel. His mouth had the unmistakable aftertaste of another night of debauchery, and he could feel his head pulsing with the familiar rhythm of a hangover. He pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around the room. At least he had made it to the bedroom this time, if not the bed itself. He was still in last night’s clothes, and only then realised the awful smell was him. He saw the empty Jack Daniels bottle by the bed and then the overstuffed ashtray and realised Amy had been right. No matter how far he went, his problems would just follow him. It had been two years since he walked out on his life. He had travelled across America, exploring the small towns and drifting wherever his instinct told him to go, invariably a place where he could get a drink. That, at least, hadn’t changed. Although he tried to convince himself that he was on a journey of exploration and self-discovery, in reality, it was just a huge tour of the bars and dives of the world, each smoky, sweaty watering hole leading him to the next. New Orleans had been particularly eventful; the drinks were cool and the weather and women were hot. He thought that when it eventually came to settling down and getting some kind of life in order, that was the place he would like to go. Once he had finished his lazy jaunt across America, he had moved over to Europe, which he didn’t like as much. After the joys of the Deep South, the hospitality and friendliness to strangers in Europe was lacking. Most treated him with a cold sense of indifference, especially when the drink took over and he became the foul-mouthed violent demon he kept locked away most of the time. Some parts of Europe were better. Spain and Italy were nice. Switzerland was beautiful and relaxed, Russia large and intimidating. Despite Amy’s misgivings, he had taken to life on the road well and was thrilled to be out of the rat race. There was a simple sense of joy of knowing everything he owned was in his backpack and he didn’t know where he would be resting his head until he arrived there. He had lost weight and grown a beard. Back in his old life, he used to dye his hair black to hide the onset of age. Now he had a shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper style. During his journey, he had met some wonderful people with amazing stories to tell. He had experienced tragedy and joy, seen violence and compassion. There were no regrets apart from wishing he had done it sooner. His body felt old, that much was true, no doubt in part to his constant alcohol abuse which had escalated now that he didn’t have to fit it around a nine-to-five day job. When there was nothing else to do, it was never too early for a drink. He glanced at his watch, squinting to see the display. It was a little after ten in the morning which meant the bars would be open. Pushing himself up off the floor, he staggered to the window and looked out at another crisp Australian morning. Of everywhere he had been, he was starting to think Australia was a close contender with New Orleans for where he might like to settle when the time came. He liked the heat, and the people were as friendly as those in the Mid-South. People, though, were not what he needed right now. His body craved alcohol and he had learned that denying it was pointless. He considered showering but settled instead for throwing on a different T-shirt from the pile in the corner, spraying a little deodorant, and heading out to find somewhere to feed his craving.