Under the Bridge

Retrospective Monday is here again, (I may have to change this to a fortnightly event or I will run out of stories).

This is one that my friend The Artist told me:

You may remember me talking about my local pub 'the Nook', a haven for alcoholics and underage drinkers (perhaps future alcoholics) alike? Well, along with some of my other friends, The Artist used to work in the Nook on quite a regular basis (when he remembered to turn up to work). He would spend the evening earning his wages, then as far as I could tell - blow them all on after work lock-in drinking.

One particular evening (probably sometime around 2005), The Artist was feeling pretty down, having faced some serious girlfriend problems since moving back from his university town. He was drinking heavily with a whole group of employees and a couple of regulars, descending into more and more of a drunken state. 'Going Darkside' is a very apt phrase one of my friends would use, referring to that kind of drinking that turns your mood more and more dark and destructive .

Now Holmfirth, the town in which I grew up is built on top of a couple of rivers, one of which is the river Ribble. The river Ribble runs through town, past the Nook and directly under all of the banks and shops and the high-street. It probably passes underground for a grand total of around 70 metres and reaches a depth at that point of around 1 ft.

The Artist, in his self destructive state announced to his workmates that he was going to walk under the town, and made off to clamber down the 8 ft wall into the river. He spent a lot of time scaring us (his mates) with his drunken antics, to the point where we had become kind of immune. His work mates (who perhaps didn't know him so well) attempted to stop him, but were also a little the worse for wear and didn't put any real effort into it. 

After he disappeared into the black hole, it took them a few moments, to realise that they should go round the other side and make sure he got out alright. When they finally did, they couldn't spot him. Time passed, and they got more and more worried. They thought that in his depressed and drunken state he might have fallen into the water, hit his head and drowned.

After a while, he still didn't appear and anxiety increased. Eventually (not willing to clamber into the hole themselves), The Artists work-mates saw fit to call the police. The sensible thing to do ... but unfortunately this triggered all kinds of crazy chaos. 

The police had officers down in the river searching for him amongst the rocks and in the pools but with no success. Worst of all had had mobilised search helicopters (the kind I used to see chasing down criminals in Leeds - how I miss the place) which scoured the river with roving searchlights for some distance up and down. There was no sign of The Artist. He was no-where to be seen.

The next day The Artist turned up for work with no knowledge of all of the drama of the preceding night at some point in the afternoon (on time for once). He was a little hungover, but had enjoyed a descent lie in after walking through the tunnel and deciding to walk up the hill straight home for some sleep (following his exertions).

"Christ are you OK?" was what he got as soon as he got through the doors.

"We searched for you EVERYWHERE, we had the police helicopters out and everything. We had no idea what happened to you!" Said the Landlady.

"Why didn't you try calling my mobile?" Said the Artist. "It was switched on all night!"

"..."