Richey

Richey was never in the club. He never really took that walk on Pont Hafren. He’s alive and well and taking drinks with his only mate, in a little flat above a shop with a green door, just down from the Caernarvon Gateway. He’s doing much better now in his long sleeves and buttoned collar. He never cries, doesn’t have to any more, and he never talks about the things that used to make him. Richey will be forty four this year, and he likes that just fine. He’s taken a job on the High Street, working in a restaurant out in the back. He helps out and cleans up and is generally liked despite being the quiet sort. He’s a hard worker but never one to roll up his sleeves, buttoned down that one, he is. At the end of the night, he upends the chairs and mops the floors. He takes the last dishes back to the kitchen for a wash and smiles to himself when no one says nothing about it when he puts away the knives.