He doesn't usually go to the pub these days. And he certainly doesn't stop in a pub by himself.

You don't, if you're an alcoholic.

Because there's no such thing as an ex-alcoholic.

You're just an alcoholic who doesn't happen to have had a drink since the last one.

And in Douglas's case, the last drink might have been eight years ago, but that still doesn't stop the dreadful craving when you wake up in the morning and your first thought is 'I need a Scotch.'

Eight years, sober, though. Not bad.

But you can never, ever, let yourself slip.

You can never, ever, allow yourself to think 'Just one. Just one won't do me any harm.'

Because if you do, you're going to be back to the dreadful night when you had to hold onto the garden walls to stand upright on the way home, that dreadful night when the teenagers on the other side of the road started mocking you because you were so drunk that you kept falling over, and although they didn't realise it, you knew.

You knew that you were like that every single sodding night of the week.

And that's why Douglas Richardson doesn't usually go to the pub.

-o0o-

He doesn't usually go to the pub.

He can't afford to. Simple as that. And he used to have no-one to go to the pub with, and to go out to the pub by yourself is – well, a bit unhealthy, really.

People might think you've got some sort of drink problem.

But suddenly he's found a way of survival.

A way that entails going to the pub – not always the same one – at least once a week.

He's started going to the pub quite often, really, when he thinks about it.

-o0o-

She'd thought that he was quite nice, really.

And it would be something to boast about to the girls at work – dating a pilot.

But he's really such a bore.

Pity she suggested they went for a drink. Should have suggested a meal, when he asked her where she'd like to go. At least she'd have had something out of the evening.

Thank God the loo door's by the back of the pub. And there's some sort of pool match on, and the pub's crowded, so she can sneak out through the beer garden and go home and never, ever have to see that dreadful bore again.

Serves her right really, she supposes, for dating older men.

-o0o-

Douglas glances at his watch.

She's not coming back. She's walked out on him.

Perhaps she thought it was the easiest thing to do: just to walk out on him, rather than to telling him that she wasn't interested.

Douglas thinks that it might have been kinder if she'd suggested that they go, and then tell him when they were outside.

Because now he's sitting here looking like a complete and utter tit – the man whose date has dumped him. And if he goes home now, it's going to be really obvious.

Dear God, what on earth do you do in a pub on your own other than drink yourself into oblivion?

He really can't remember.

There's something going on in the back bar. Noise, and laughter. Could always go in there, try to look like one of the crowd and hope you fit in.

Try not to lose face, Richardson.

-o0o-

There's a pool match going on in the other bar. Whoever's at the table must be good – can't see him at the moment (can't see much of the table, either) but, by the cries of 'Go on, mate, eight ball him again!' from the crowd, the player must be good.

Years since Douglas played pool. He cranes his neck to see.

Still can't see much of the player, but he is very, very good. The cue ball's coming back to exactly where he wants it. Seven reds down – seven yellows left on the table. Only the black to pot, and he's in a lovely position.

The player straightens his back and walks round the table to play the black. Funny, he looks like – good God , it is.

It's Martin.

-o0o-

Douglas ducks down.

It's not that he doesn't want Martin to see him – it's just that he doesn't want Martin to see him right at this moment.

Douglas knows Martin well enough to realise that if the younger man saw him right now, right as he goes to take his final shot, he'd fluff it.

And Douglas is enough of a sportsman to know that would be unfair to Martin.

Because Martin is a very, very good player.

But Martin is also very, very easily embarrassed.

-o0o-

The black runs into the pocket as smoothly as if Martin had just pushed it there with the palm of his hand.

The crowd cheers and shouts 'Match to the Red Lion!' and Douglas suddenly realises that this must be the local pool league. And Martin – Martin – has just won the match for his team.

Martin's looking flushed, but not the embarrassed, don't know what to do sort of flushed that Douglas is used to seeing. He's looking happy-and-confident flushed.

Someone puts a drink in Martin's hand. Douglas suddenly wonders whether he should have been the one who bought it, to congratulate Martin – after all, he doesn't usually find anything to congratulate Martin about.

Not that Martin needs Douglas to congratulate him. Both teams – and everyone else in the bar – is crowded round him, praising him, laughing and joking with him. And Martin's laughing back and looking completely and utterly at ease.

And then Martin looks across the bar and sees Douglas.

And his face changes.

-o0o-

Oh Christ, what the hell is Douglas doing here?

And what the hell is he going to say?

Because from now on, the taunting is only going to get worse.

Martin makes his way over to Douglas and hisses 'Nothing better to do, Douglas? Nothing better to spy on me in my spare time?'

Douglas looks at him. The younger man's wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the motto 'Fitton Pool League Champions 2011!' Tonight clearly wasn't just a fluke.

Not that anyone plays like that as a fluke.

'Martin, I do realise that you're not going to believe me for a single moment, but I swear to you that I had no idea you would be here. I just came here for a drink, and – well, here you were. Playing pool. And you're good, Martin – superb, in fact. I had no idea.'

Martin's not mollified in the least by the explanation.

'You just happened to be here? Do tell me, Douglas – what's an alcoholic doing in a pub? Am I supposed to believe that you spend your spare time visiting pubs in Fitton just to drink apple juice by yourself?'

Douglas sighs.

'This isn't easy for me to admit, Martin, but I had a date with a young lady, and – to use the modern vernacular – she dumped me. So I came in here to save face. What I don't understand is -'

'Yes?'

'What I don't understand is why you're so damn defensive about it!'

-o0o-

Before Martin can answer – if indeed he's going to answer – the landlady shouts 'Food's up!' and suddenly someone has pushed a plate of chicken and chips into Martin's hand.

He looks at Douglas.

'Excuse me, First Officer Richardson – I'm going to eat my supper. Because – and you're really going to enjoy knowing this – this is how I survive. This is how I know I'm going to have something decent to eat once a week – or however often I can manage to get to a league game – because if you play in a pub league then the pub provides your supper. And it's a damn sight better than living on pasta and bread and the occasional jacket potato. Not that of course you'd appreciate that. Because you've never been poor, have you?'

Sometimes it takes a lot for the message to get home to you. And when it does, you feel ashamed of yourself.

'Come and sit down, Martin. You can't eat that standing up. And while you're tucking in – and I must admit, it does look appetising – I'll go and buy you a pint.'

By the time Douglas gets back from the bar, all that's left on Martin's plate is a few chicken bones.

Douglas says (carefully) 'So how did you get to be so good? At pool, I mean?'

'I learned when I was at university. I – I found it easy. It's only maths – angles – and basic physics – where to hit the cue ball to get it to return to the right place - and hand/eye co-ordination.'

And I thought it was really just hitting a ball onto another ball with a stick.

'So – I suppose you think I'm laughable?'

'Why should I think that, Martin?'

'Because this is how I survive! And when I can't play in the league – because Carolyn's booked us on a flight on a match night – or whenever I get the chance – I – I – I play for money. I bet another player a fiver that I can beat him. And I win. Go on – laugh at me!'

Douglas can't help it – he is laughing.

'I'm not laughing at you, Martin – honestly I'm not. It's just that, to be quite candid, I'd never really pictured you as a pool hustler.'

'It gets worse.'

'Do you really want to tell me?'

'I might as well: you'll only find out. When – when we're on stopovers abroad, I go out in the evenings to find a really horrible bar – one of those 'Beer Like You Get At Home' places. Full of English tourists. They always have a pool table. And – and I play for money there as well.'

'And your problem is?'

'It's not a very nice way to survive!'

'Martin, I've seen you play tonight. Not for very long, admittedly, but what little I did see proved to me how good you are. And if that's how you manage to survive – well, all I can say is well done. Oh, and just one thing – '

'What?'

'This is more than a little embarrassing for me to ask but – would you teach me how to improve my game?'

Many thanks to Launa Alvara, who beta'd this one line by line, and managed to have an online conversation with me at the same time.