The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) Read Free Page B

there that it was the church with the “bells of Shoreditch” that was mentioned in the nursery rhyme “Oranges and Lemons”. It was built in grand Palladian style, with a steeple that soared high above the street and a four-columned, pedimented Tuscan portico, but the interior was shabby and in need of repair, something that seemed endemic to the venues that the fellowship used throughout the city. There were twenty other men and women in the large room, and they welcomed him with the usual, “Hello, John.”
    Milton took a moment. He rarely spoke at meetings, much preferring to sit quietly at the back and just soak it all up. They were the most peaceful, meditative gatherings that he had ever found, and he got more than enough by just being here, listening to the stories of the other alcoholics who turned up every Tuesday, week after week. But he did want to speak today. One of the most important things about the meetings was that you should share your experience, and Milton was determined to overcome his natural reticence and speak.
    “I feel like it’s been a good week,” he said. “I didn’t say anything last time, but I’ve been struggling more than usual the last month or so. I don’t know why. Just one of those times, I know we all have them, when it all seems to get on top of us. Drink, you know. So I did what I always do and read the Big Book and came to my usual meetings. I listened, and then I went home and made myself busy. And I think I’m coming out the other side.”
    The woman next to Milton, a lawyer he knew as Marcy, turned her head and smiled. He had plenty in common with her and the others who were present, and those shared experiences made it easier to be frank. There were things he would never be able to speak freely about, of course. He would never be able to tell them why he felt so guilty, the burden of the more than hundred and fifty lives he had taken and the retinue of ghosts who stalked his dreams when he was at his weakest, tempting him with the sure knowledge that the easiest way to drown out their cries was to be found in the bottom of a glass. It meant that he sometimes felt like a fraud in the face of the searing honesty of the others who shared, but that was something that he had come to terms with in the years since he had started coming to the rooms. It was obvious that he was holding back. Everyone could see it. People urged him to be completely honest every now and again, but, by and large, there was understanding. No one pressed. No one judged.
    “I was in Australia until a month ago, working, working so hard that I was able to forget the voices telling me to take a drink,” he went on. “It was good for a while, but then it stopped working. I was working on a sheep station. You can probably imagine what that was like. There’s a lot of drink around, blokes going out and drinking every night, and I started to feel tempted. You know how it is: just one drink, that’s all. I can handle it. What’s the harm? I know enough about myself now to know that’s the disease talking, so I left. There was a girl, too…” He paused, unwilling to go too much further down that line; he still thought of Matilda, and what he might have had with her if he had trusted himself enough to try. “I haven’t been back to London for any extended period of time for months. It’s where my problems started. I’ve been running from them. I thought about it, but I decided I was strong enough now. With the Book, with meetings, with other drunks to help me… I thought I could do it.”
    He had a cup of coffee held between his hands and he took a sip. He didn’t want to speak for too long—he was conscious of others who wanted to share, and he didn’t like the idea that his problems were any more serious than theirs—but he wasn’t quite ready to stop.
    “So I came back. I found a flat. Just somewhere cheap to rent. I don’t have much money, hardly any at all, really, but I found a tiny