[They need some piece of concrete evidence to actually charge him, what would that be]
Many of the early chapters are how I want them and feel very close to completion. Where I am lacking is in the interrogations and courtroom chapters. I keep improving the early chapters and largely ignore the ones that need the most work, probably because they feel harder. They feel hard because they require greater degrees of ‘correctness’. Also it feels natural to re-read from the start over and over but I never get to the latter scenes. Strategy – read the story from the last chapter and work that way. I’m sure some of the middle chapters of his work interactions are unnecessary and/or shite so need to give them suitable attention to. Then there’s details – names have changed often and may not be consistent throughout. I’m also far from convinced by the name – I like Anna and Daisy. Not too sure about Michael and Vanessa and definitely not sure about the surname Errington.
Premise
The premise obviously won’t form part of the final story but during this first draft I want to keep it in place to help keep me on track.
A middle-aged man learns that he has terminal cancer and has twelve months to live. He gets angry at God. He gets angry at life. He looks at old family photos and weeps. He looks at happy, carefree families and becomes enraged.
Up until now he has lived a life of middle-class torpor. He is detached from his emotions. He feigns content, yet resents his boss, the company he works for, and anyone that has done better in life than him.
He is passive and somewhat cowardly. Any passions he might have had have long since fallen by the wayside.
His cancer diagnosis awakens him. It enlivens him. He becomes straight talking. He sets about righting the wrongs in his life.
In particular, he has one task he needs to undertake before he becomes incapacitated.
The title describes both that fact that he has terminal cancer and also the fact that prior to his diagnosis he wasn’t exactly living life to the fullest. It also describes Vincent’s current state.
Main Characters:
Michael (Mike) Errington
Vanessa (Van) Errington
Daisy Errington; Vincent’s girlfriend, anorexia
Annabel (Anna) Errington; Returned from university, reclusive, anorexia too (Mike wondered if it was genetic).
Vincent Burber
[Need to be sure I’m not getting Anna and Daisy confused at points]
Things to look out for
The chronology seems to have just come out the way it has but I have no idea if it makes sense or flows properly. I need a little time away from it to make sense of it.
Similarly I switch from 1st person to 3rd person and I need to make sure that makes sense. I want 1st person when he has a degree of control and 3rd person otherwise.
Clarify timeline; all the shit with Vinnie happens before the diagnosis.Including filing restraining order etc. Mike sitting in living room with the gun was after diagnosis
I need to introduce a part where they get restraining order.
Chapter 1
[Good paragraph]
Michael Errington sat in the Doctor’s surgery, his pallor as wan as the surgery walls. It was the pallor of the lost, the defeated, the deceased. The pallor of the almost deceased. The Doctor’s words had rippled the air and were gone. Utterly meaningful and meaningless. Like life. When his children were young Michael wished he could capture forever the peals of laughter of Daisy and Anna as they cavorted in the summer sunshine, so full of life as to appear insane, cartwheeling, dancing, rolling like logs down the hill. And that sound, that perfect sound of childhood laughter that he knew would one day become teenaged, then adult. Would become tempered, droll, ironic, seldom, maybe sarcastic, maybe hateful. He wanted to capture it the way the BFG captured dreams.
[Good paragraph]
The doctor’s words were spoken, then gone. They lingered faintly, catching in the fabric of these chairs, and of the examination bed that was situated against the far wall. Mike had been on that bed a fair few times now and it never got any easier. In fact he felt it got more difficult each time as he became more and more familiar with this doctor. Mike had always realised he preferred strangers to friends. The more he got to know people the more he felt himself clam up. He would have preferred to see a never ending supply of locums than to be in the presence of Dr Ince again. The examination bed was a little too high for him. He had to clamber a little. He felt more awkward than a virgin when getting up onto that bed. He remembered the cold blue paper beneath him. In here Mike and Doctor Ince had shared intimacies that he had never even shared with his wife. He’d had his heart listened to, and his rectum digitally probed. The doctor’s words could no longer be heard by the naked ear. They were gone but undeniable like a war or a child given up for adoption. They could only be heard by Mike’s memory which was notoriously flawed. He couldn’t be sure he had heard what he thought he had heard. In the same way he later wouldn’t be sure of the details of the crime scene despite having been slap bang in the middle of it. Witness testimony is notoriously unreliable. The mind plays tricks on you. Damn, most of the time it straight up lies to you. The perpetrator of a crime lies knowingly. Witnesses lie without knowing they are lying. Decades of filters and mappings and imperfect pattern matching have them swear on the holy book that black is white. Are you sure about that. Yes sir, I do swear on the Holy Bible. I do swear on my wicked stepmother’s life. Mike felt as though he was both witness and perpetrator. He would view the scene from various angles and perspectives. Sometimes he saw it from his own point of view, his racing heart at odds with his apparently cold eyes, his pupils dilated, his peripheral vision narrow, allowing a million different data points to funnel in. Sometimes from above and askance like grainy CCTV. Sometimes he saw it panning in 360 degrees as though captured by an avant garde film director, every part of it hitting the back of his brain simultaneously. Other times he saw it from the point of view of his victim. In his dreams he mostly saw it this way. He felt the fight and flight responses surge up in him, causing him to contort weirdly. He didn’t move or perform like any normal human being in that moment. The way that people don’t scream like normal human beings in those most hellish of moments. His throat sucked dry in an instant, constricting. He saw the gun lifted, he stumbled, felt himself falling backwards into the abyss of forever. He saw a finger squeezing on the trigger. He saw the bullet heading unerringly for his head. He lost control of his bowels and his bladder. He woke in sweated sheets. There was no absolute truth. There was only perception. The visceral fear of his victim remained at the crime scene. Mike’s own fear remained. Surely forensics could derive a dna sample from that, from the fear stench. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what evidence he may have left behind. It all happens so fast and then your mind starts playing tricks on you. It takes what was and then fucks with it and he was left in this maelstrom of uncertainty. He scanned the crime scene like a policeman’s bodycam. He saw a bloody footprint. Shit. He couldn’t erase it from his mind.
[Good, not perfect paragraph]
It was true of Mike’s parents too. The pictures that formed in his mind when he thought of his parents wasn’t quite them. They were malformed. They were awkward and askew, although in truth that would not be an inaccurate description of his father. He knew the images were wrong in some uncanny way, but he was unable to paint them right. He remembered Tim Jolly was the best artist in his secondary school but even his hands didn’t quite look right. No one said anything though. The image of his parents were like pictures that he rubbed out and tried to draw again and again, but each time the picture got worse, more foreign, more alien, somehow more laughable. Like his childhood efforts at art, that his mum would lovingly interpret. What a love that was. What kindness to look inside his scribbles and babbled speech and assign meaning. The right meaning. To care enough to understand him. Or maybe his scribbles became what his mother saw, his babbles what she heard. His empathy for her as she empathised with him.
The photos are real though. His ramrod straight righteous father unable to cope with his riotous only child. It was a bygone age, but his father appeared to be from a bygone age even then. He was born after the war but in many ways there is no ‘after the war’. War lingers. It shapes cities and people and café conversations. Life changes after war. It changes as a result of the war. Boom is war. Boom followed the war, though not immediately. His parents, Mike’s grandparents lived through war, austerity, boom. The entire gamut that wasn’t measured in interest rates and GDP the way that abstracted modern life is measured. It was measured in hunger and death rates. When his father developed dementia and then later died Mike felt liberated. He was no longer beholden to his father’s rules and strictures. The iron rod of discipline was no longer pressing down on him. The sense of liberation he experience felt reasonable when his father died but felt unreasonable when he was living with Alzheimer’s. Sometimes his dad look stressed when he could not remember things and other times he looked at peace as though he was born again, rid of sin. The dementia years felt like they went on forever. Mike felt simultaneously free and trapped. When he spoke to his mother he would kind of laugh at this father’s nonsense. He wasn’t kind the way his mother was when he spoke nonsense as a child. He was tired. He was done with it. He’d sometimes say harsh and mocking things to his dad seemingly as some sort of revenge. He hated trying to pull trapped memories from his father’s mind. Does it even matter. What’s the use. Just let them die in there with you. Not long after his death his mother confided that Philip had numerous affairs throughout their marriage. On more than one occasion he had beaten her too. She had tolerated the affairs and abuse for years for the sake of the family. As an only child Mike knew that meant for his sake. That was until one day when she could tolerate them no more. When she looked at him with disgust and contempt. ‘One day I just broke,’ she said. ‘But I was later to learn that I didn’t break at all. That was the day I started mending.’ He truly was the last person you would imagine to have affairs. Mike felt cheated. The entire premise of his family and his life was a sham. He felt he had been constrained by his father’s rules but which his father never abided by, presumably never even believed in.
[Good series of paragraphs]
He wanted the doctor to repeat the words, but he didn’t want to hear them again. He knew what had been said. It was he that was distorted not the words. He writhed at the thought of his two daughters suffering the way that he had when his mother died. He silently screamed ‘Fuck,’ so loud he looked towards the doctor ready to apologise. The doctor noticed the look. ‘I’m so sorry he said. It’s the worst news to have to give.’
‘But I feel fine,’ said Mike. ‘Apart from the odd dizzy spell, I feel fine. It doesn’t make sense that I can go from this to… to… to… dead in what… How long are we talking about here?’
‘It’s not possible to put an exact timeline on these things. The cancer develops differently in each person.’
‘Come on give me a number. I’m not good with uncertainty. I work better with strict deadlines. They focus my mind. If you don’t give me a number, I’ll simply waste the time until it appears inevitable, until I’m no longer capable.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you a number. There is no number.’
‘6 months, 12 months. Fuck it, a week? I can take it. I just need to know.’
The doctor didn’t speak. His face was sympathetic, his eyes even a little dewy.
Mike did feel fine. Well not completely fine, but almost fine. The aches he felt from time to time, he had simply put down to ageing. He couldn’t expect to feel like a twenty-year-old now that he was in his fifties. He experienced brain fog most of the time. He could happily contemplate things in broad strokes but whenever he tried to peer into the details the image would become foggy. He likened it to trying to zoom in on a google map when the wifi was a bit spotty. He experienced a little pain in his knuckles. His back often ached, but that was to be expected as he spent long hours sitting down hunched over his desk as he worked. Maybe one of those standing desks would help with that, he thought. It was just the normal stuff for a man in his fifties who had lived the modern sedentary life for decades, and whose verve was fading. He’d always assumed there would be more for him somewhere around the next corner. More success, more money, more respect, but truly that never came. With his energy dimming it would surely now never come. There was no big regret. This was the lot of mankind. Now he dimmed his dreams to meet his diminishing vigour. For a few years now he had accepted he was on the downslope of life, but he figured that would be a gradual, elegant twenty to thirty year decline, not this vertical drop off a precipice the doctor was describing. Honestly, he felt fine. Better than fine for a man his age. He went to the gym four times a week, alternating weights and cardio. He couldn’t think of a single friend or colleague in his age range that was in better condition. Except Ray. But Ray was a freak of nature. Ray was Peter Pan on steroids.
He shaved twice a week. Naked after a shower he peered into the fogless shaving mirror. His reflection looked washed out. Wrinkles had only recently started to form around his eyes. Two or three years ago people would remark on how wrinkle free he was for his age. It was true that no one had said that for a while now. The skin around his chin was loosening. Unseen hands were slowly prising the flesh away from the bone. His hair was thinning. He brushed some product through it each morning in an attempt to add volume. His eyes were beginning to look tired, the blue more of a grey now. I’m twenty-five years past my peak he conceded, what do you expect.
[Good paragraph]
There were some characters in his hometown who had haunted the place for years looking far worse than he felt right now. How was he dying but they were not. They looked other-worldly, so much so he began to wonder if they were immune to death. Mike thought of them as ghouls walking amongst us. Now he was one of them. Not one of us. They were sort of famous, like a local celebrity booked for the townhall Panto. With all the pathos of a struggling local celebrity. You could mention them to anyone in the town, and they would know exactly who you meant, unlike Mike who largely went unnoticed. They were panto characters in dirty clothes. The little old shuffling lady in a knee length skirt and ankle socks with a talent for spotting discarded rollups. Her yellowing face folding in on itself, her legs like whittled down skittles. She would shuffle a bit and then stop dead as though awaiting instruction. Queues of cars would patiently wait when she switched off in the middle of the road. No one got out, no one shouted, no one beeped, no one helped. They all just waited as though they knew the score. Then she would miraculously start walking again and as she reached the kerb the traffic would start flowing again and the people in the cars would blink and remark on the little old lady. The guy that sat on park benches coughing up his lungs so hard you half expected to see them exit his body. People reacted to him the way they reacted to each other during covid. Literally startled by his coughing, like he jumped out and shouted ‘boo’. Giving him far more than two metres space. Mike was even a little envious of the grandiose personal space he managed to create. The drunken woman who carouselled around the town like a broken extra from a musical, and often ended up on the floor with her legs akimbo. Some passersby helped her up and became part of the musical, others avoided her thankful that there were enough people helping now. Mike might just quietly drift away, from home to hospital to hospice to crematorium. Fuck, the word hospice gut punched him like few others. But he liked the idea of being one of the ghouls. He liked the idea of adopting a strange character trait, and a physical quirk. The other ghouls seemed to work independently of one another, but Mike liked the idea of them all getting together to appear on people’s doorsteps at Halloween.
[Good paragraph]
The doctor had a beautiful voice. Gentle, warm, rounded, like a fine single malt. A hushed baritone. Classic English enunciation with a West African lilt to make it sing. A good voice for delivering bad news. Mike and the doctor sat at right-angles to [?] each other, the corner of the desk jutting between them. Mike had subconsciously taken in the details of the room as he stepped inside, as he took up the invitation to be seated. The almost-white painted walls. Had they used a pallid off-white paint to begin with or had the walls become that colour over time, he wondered. The examination bed he dreaded being asked to get on against one wall. The aluminium venetian blinds that reminded him of school, pulled down over the one window in the room, gently banging at the behest of the breeze through the open window.
The Doctor himself, his dark brown skin only now beginning to age, his demeanour comfortingly calm, not uncaring calm. On the desk a picture of his two young boys. Taken some years ago Mike guessed. They were around six and seven in the photo he guessed. Their image captured at that age, their laughter lost, uncaptured. Lying next to each other on the floor with their faces in their hands, cheeky gap-toothed grins. Faces to the fore, bent legs just visible in the background. Something about the décor in the photo aged the picture with harrowing reminiscence. So much time gone forever. The boys’ skin was noticeably lighter than their father’s. Mixed race kids thought Mike, but there was no sign of their mother in the picture. No picture of a devoted wife or a loving mother on the desk. Mike hoped they were still together if only for the sake of the kids. He understood it wasn’t conventional wisdom these days, to stay together for the sake of the kids, but it was his wisdom anyway. Conventional wisdom had a lot to answer for. He saw a lot of broken kids from broken families. But then what did he know. Wasn’t he broken. Weren’t Anna and Daisy more than a little broken. Adults think adult wisdom should be imposed on kids, forgetting how much more real life is as a kid. Forgetting that puppy love is the only real love you will ever experience. Young Mike would have loved for his parents to have separated. Sitting in the presence of his father was a bizarre form of torture that should be considered by the Intelligence Services. Young Mike usually waited for his father to go out before coming out of his bedroom and watching tv downstairs. He didn’t speak much with his mum either, but her presence was comforting. She lightened with her husband out of the house, they both did, like they were enjoying the quietest, most internal party. Each of them separately and both of them together [?]. He wanted his dad to stay away forever. His mind played with the idea of his dad being killed in a car accident. He saw himself at the hospital and at the funeral and wondered if others could tell that his sadness was feigned. He quietly watched tv, unfocussed, in an adolescent reverie that was broken with a jolt when he heard his dad’s key in the door.
[You are here]
Doctor: The best thing you can do is spend time as much time with your loved ones as possible and get your affairs in order.
Get my affairs in order?
Yes you know, finances, last will and testament, that kind of thing. It sounds a bit cold I know but in my experience it’s one of the best things you can do for your family.
I’ve let things go if truth be told. I’ve sort of drifted for a few years, blimey it might be a decade now. Might be more. My life’s in disarray, like a hoarders attic, and you’re only giving me what 12 months [he didn’t give a number of months] to sort it out. It’s taken over fifty years to get it into this state. I can’t just sort it out in a year. Take my finances for instance. I’ve got more debts than I care to think about. More debtors than I can remember. I’ve had menacing looking men knocking at my door. And now I’ve got this guy knocking, the hooded guy, the scythe carrying guy. The most menacing of all. He makes those others look like pesky kids. You are so right. I need to sort this out. I can’t have them coming round the house when I’m infirm or worse still, when I’m gone. I’ll go to the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. I’ve heard they can help with this type of thing. Yeah it’s about time I got this sorted. I feel just a little better about it already. You know what, I reckon if you added up all my assets and minused my liabilities, I’d be just about in the black. If you took the equity in my house and subtracted all my debts, there would be a little bit left over. Enough for a nice family holiday maybe. Certainly, enough for a meal out. Thankfully I’ve got life insurance which will help Vanessa and the girls out. It should set them up ok. Although thinking about it, there’s probably not long ‘til it expires. Shit, let me think. We bought the house in 2002. That bloody mortgage would have been due to end in two years if we hadn’t added to it and stretched it out a few times. I always dreamed of being mortgage free. I guess now that’s something I’ll never be. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the life insurance was due to cover the original length of the mortgage, the twenty five years. You know the thinking then was that if I died before the mortgage was paid off then the life insurance could be used to pay it off and Van and the girls wouldn’t have that stress. I guess I never thought to lengthen the term of the life insurance whenever we remortgaged. So, if I’m right the life insurance will expire in about two years. Of course, I won’t be able to take out additional life insurance or amend the terms of my current insurance now that I’ve got this diagnosis. This terminal diagnosis. Which means I’ve got to go in the next two years, which from what you are saying I should be good to make that. He looked at the doctor for reassurance. There’s no chance I’ll make two years right. What if I go on for two years and a day. We’d have to try to hurry things along. The same way they try to hurry along a birth when the pregnancy has gone past term. We had to do that for Anna you know. Vanessa tried everything. She was doing Salsa in the living room and eating hot curries. Nothing seemed to work. ‘Would you just get a wriggle on little one,’ Van would say. They were different times then. In the end the midwife had to induce labour by breaking her waters using some draconian implement.
I have two daughters you know. One semi-estranged from us. The other semi-estranged from life. Despite our best efforts. Annabel and Daisy. Pretentious names really. Names far more middle class than we could ever hope to be. Anna’s at home, rarely leaves her room. She went off to Uni but was back within six months on account of her mental health issues. She’s been in and out of therapy for years now, for all the good it’s done her. Who knows, maybe she wouldn’t still be here without the therapy, or maybe that’s what’s kept her trapped in her room. She’s never once told me what they talk about in therapy, and I’ve never asked. It’s as though I view it as sorcery and if she tells me the ‘magic’ will be lost. Some people worry if their kids will ever leave home. I worry she’ll never leave her room. I occasional see a slice of the room if she ever opens her door and I look in whilst trying to look like I’m not looking. I don’t think it’s changed since she was fourteen. The same woodland green walls. The same posters of bands I’ve never heard of. On the wall behind the door she used to have a shelf with her dance trophies and medals. I wonder if they’re still there. I worry that room will be her forever home.
Maybe my death will act as a sort of catalyst for change. The girls’ grandparents had all died by the time they were toddlers so they haven’t really witnessed death and grief. Mine will be the first they live through, the first they’ll remember. It will hit home then that one day we will die. It could send her spiralling. My hope is that she gains strength from it, is inspired by it.
We have her on unofficial, unspoken suicide watch. We find reasons to go to her room regularly throughout the day. Coffee, tea, snacks. All done with artful casualness. Either my wife or I is always at home. We never leave the house together. I’m not sure what that will mean for Van when I’ve gone. She’ll be house bound too probably. She doesn’t get out much anyway. She might be thankful that she’d now have an excuse to not leave the house. She keeps going on about getting our groceries delivered, but I always resist because the weekly shop is one of the few things that gets her out of the house. Besides we tried it once a few years ago and the stuff they gave us wasn’t the best. The bread had a couple of days date left on it and Anna’s veggie sausage rolls were not in stock so they replaced them with normal ones. Meat ones. So I’d rather make the effort and get the stuff we actually want. It’s normally me that does the shop but occasionally Van does it [just said that it gets her out the house]. I tell her to use the old style check out with the staff scanning the stuff through or else they’ll do away with them. It’s not much but it’s a little bit of human interaction. But I know she uses the self-checkout. I always think self-checkout sounds like a term to describe modern society. Everyone seems to be checking out. Like self-medication, we now have self-checkout. You know like Annabel and Van hiding from the world. Like the conspiracy theorists. The doom scrollers, the preppers. Incels. Influencers and their influenced. People like me with zero energy who have flat-lined for years. Doctor’s that hand out meds like smarties. The suicidal, the depressed, the quasi-depressed. The Godless and the God-fearing. All in their own way checked out. Even the happy and the successful appear at odds with the world. Too happy, too successful, like a filtered Instagram pic. It’s as though we summoned the Devil and we know the Devil is about to appear. [this line is a bit odd so might cut.] I bet you she gets the delivery coming the moment I’ve gone. I bet you.
I’ve worked at home since Covid. A project manager by title. But I tend to get the piddly projects that barely need any management. I arrange meetings and make sure things are progressing in accordance with the Gantt chart but mostly I feel like I’m getting in the way and slowing down progress. I can sense everyone’s impatience during yet another meeting. Half the time I’m simply amending the Gantt chart to reflect the reality of the progress, so it all seems somewhat pointless really. I’m pretty sure my colleagues question my presence and my usefulness. Heck I question it myself. I question their value too. There’s a sort of Mexican standoff where everyone is questioning each others worth. What positive change are they actually enacting. Half the changes we introduce are only as a result of legislative change. You know like the introduction of GDPR. Oh how they all got excited by that. GDPR this and GDPR that. It was dropped into every other sentence. I can’t escape the feeling that we are just being kept busy for the sake of it, to keep us off the streets.
I’ve lived under the almost constant threat of redundancy for probably two decades now. Somehow I always seem to evade the chop but I think it’s psychologically more harmful to be kept on with the axe permanently looming overhead than to actually get the boot. For twenty something years I’ve had daily conversations where I mention the impending sack, or being safe ‘for now’, or India. They’re outsourcing more and more of our work to India you see. They get you to train up the guys in India before shoving you out of the door. I can’t really be bothered to work harder or become more productive… for what. To make more widgets. To keep the machine running. To make more money for our faceless owners. More projects, more spreadsheets, more meetings, more stress. More meaningless soul-destroying output. More pixels on a screen, more bytes in a file. More curvature of my spine, more sedentary disease. Sometimes I view myself from outside of myself and consider how bizarre it is how little I move. I watch myself like a time lapse video and mostly there’s just my hands running over the keyboard like spiders [does this make sense as spiders have eight legs and my hands have five fingers, but I still kind of like the imagery.] and ruminating looks into space. I’m confined to my chair and my desk. More restricted than a prisoner. More work means more restriction not less. Less freedom, not more. The faceless money men control us with the constant threat of having our jobs outsourced to India. For decades that threat has kept my pay rises far below the rate of inflation. My salary inexorably fading like my vigour. I used to have a bit spare at the end of the month and now I don’t. Often there’s a bit of month spare at the end of my salary. The last week normally goes on my credit card now. Van bites at me. She called me profligate the other day because I went out and got a meal deal when we already had food in the house. She called me reckless. I feel kind of torn right now. On the one hand I think I might as well go out swinging. You know max the fuck out of the cards. On the other hand I think I really should get around to paying them down.
I don’t miss the commute I can tell you that much. Nor the office. After fifteen years I’ve heard every conversation from every colleague a hundred times. It’s one of the many things I find weird about life. Just how accepting we are of the endless repetition. How are we not driven crazy by it? The same commute, the same office, the same conversations, the same mundane tasks hour after hour, month after month, year after year. The same small talk, the same catchphrases, the same album played on repeat. You know how you can compress a file on your computer. If we ran a compression routine on our lives to effectively remove all the whitespace and repetition, it would be interesting to see what was left. I think for most of us we could get our adult years compressed down to a year or less. Who knows, maybe even a fortnight.
Working from home seems made for me. I’m an introvert see. You probably worked that out for yourself. I’m fine with other people I just don’t like being forced to be with other people. From four years old until my late forties I spent the majority of my life in environments where I didn’t feel comfortable. I was on edge all that time, noticing it, but not noticing it. It’s who I was. And being forced into those environments was how life was. Until it wasn’t. Until we were told that we absolutely must not sit on a train or enter an office. Covid really was an introvert’s dream. It made me think that maybe the meek would indeed inherit the Earth. Even on the occasions when we could leave the house we had to hide behind a mask. My company never renewed the lease on the office, so even after Covid we continued to work from home. It’s better that way. Means I can keep a closer eye on Annabel. Takes a bit of the pressure off Van. I concede that at times it can be a bit weird, a bit oppressive even. I try to take a walk each day but sometimes I forget and I sort of ‘come to’ realising I haven’t left the house in maybe three days. There are fewer and fewer markers of time now. The commute was a marker of time. Entering the office was a marker of time. The seasons are blending. Our house feels dark and overly hot. My wife likes to keep the curtains closed and the thermostat high. I take Annabel her drinks and her snacks. Now they act as my markers of time.
Mike looked at the doctor as though emerging from a daze. Sorry I’m spilling. I don’t know what has come over me, I never spill. I have a colleague like that, who can’t keep a single thing in. It’s like his mind exists outside of him. Even when he reads stuff supposedly in his head, you can hear the words quietly bumbling off his lips and I wonder why he can’t read it in his head. Maybe it’s his way of making it clear that he's actually doing something. Whenever we get a new member of staff, he’s always told them his whole life story within a day or two of them joining. And I’m struck that I’ve worked with some of the people around me for years and they know less about me than the new boy knows about him. I’ve probably got family members that know less about me than the new boy knows about him. He tells them about his parents, his cats and his diabetes. He talks about his proclivity for prog-rock. He talks endlessly about his rock climbing. He bombards them with every prejudice he has and there are many. He doesn’t care if the new boy belongs to one of the demographics he lambasts, he’s going to let him know his views. Boat-people and Indians and Septics – that’s what he calls Americans, and millennials. He fascinates me. What is this need he has to tell everything to everyone he meets. And now here I am letting out my deepest darkest secrets to you, the dullest details of my life. The momentous and monotonous minutiae. I’m so sorry I never meant to burden you with my problems. I’ve taken up an inordinate amount of your time. You’re going to be way behind with your patients now.
[From here to the end of the chapter needs work. The flow is a bit off and there’s some repetition].
It's fine. Sometimes it’s good to let it out. That’s why we try to make these various groups and resources available to you. You can vent to your heart’s content in these places. I’ll email over their details to you. I know plenty of people who have found their services to be invaluable. There are few more isolating, more lonely experiences than illness especially terminal illness, fewer still than death. These groups can help you feel less alone. I don’t know your spiritual beliefs Mr Errington, whether or not you feel that death is the end. But notice of death need not be the end. For some it can even signal a remarkable new beginning.
[Need to bridge this]
People given a terminal diagnosis often speak of a kind of grief. They speak of grieving their own death. Some grieve the life they lived. Other’s still the lives they will miss out on [good but a little heartless?] Everyone deals with these things differently. Some fight it, some resign themselves to it. Some go wild, whilst others become pragmatic. There is no right answer
There is no answer.
Some embark on travel. Others find comfort at home. I know of some that have found it helpful to go through their attic, their cupboards, their wardrobe, their garage with their loved ones while they have the chance.
Mike smiled. That makes me think of those people that finally do up their houses in order to sell them. I like the idea of a Spring clean though. Sort of reminiscing before I’ve gone. I do that thing where I have the greatest intention to clear out the understairs cupboard, I pull everything out onto the living room floor and then I freeze at the scale of the task. I think about trying to shove it all back in. But it’s like trying to refill a make-shift grave. There’s always more to go back in than came out. Sometimes I come across old photos and I sit amongst the wreckage becoming distracted as I look through the photos.
We can put you in touch with some charities that provide excellent support for people in your circumstances. And their families. I personally know many people who have benefitted from their services. [Repetition?]
Probably not a time to be proud or private is it? Or is it? I might just as well spill out all my deepest fears now. Take all the charity I can. [Odd?]
They provide a lot of emotional support. A lot of practical help too. You can make life that little bit easier for your family. You wouldn’t believe how much extra pain they have to go through sorting out unkempt finances and the like. Spend time with your loved ones. Hug them tight. Tell them you love them.
That’s beautiful, that’s wholesome [Odd]. But I don’t want to tell my family just yet. The moment I tell them is the moment their hearts break. Forever. There’s no going back after that. There’s no normality. No innocence. No unchecked laughter. Ever. If you were sitting here telling me I had cancer and that it wasn’t terminal, I would tell them. If I thought I had a chance, I would tell them. We’d fight this together, we’d cry together, we’d hope together. But I can’t tell them I have a death sentence. Not yet anyway.
Let me ask you, do you think I can become a better person because of this? You mentioned before that for some people a terminal diagnosis can mark a new beginning. I was genuinely thankful to witness my own father’s decline. It sounds weird even as I’m saying it. Maybe even a little sick. He became a better version of himself. Softer, more vulnerable, more appreciative of others. It felt good to help him where previously he would never have heard of it. We would just sit together as he spoke about his ever growing list of ailments. Sometimes we sat in awkward silence that was beautiful simply because we were both prepared to endure it. I had never kissed him before. Even as a child I don’t remember kissing him. But then I would kiss him on his check, scratchy and soft, whenever I left him and that lives with me now. The smell of his cheek so subtle I can’t quite reach it now. He cried a lot. He apologised for past failings. He asked forgiveness and I did forgive him, but I told him there was nothing to forgive. This weight of being human. Every aspect of us imperfect. Each generation more imperfect than the last. And here I am not wanting to give my children what he gave to me in his dying days. Not wanting to be washed or tended to.
It's strange to imagine family gatherings and I’m the one not there. I’m the first to go. Imagining a world without me. You know when you dig a hole in the sand and then the sea washes over the hole and the hole is gone, it is no more. Life goes on as they say.
Doctor thank you for listening to me, thank you for your advice. I will do all the things you recommended, but not just yet. I need a little plan for now, right this moment. Something to get me through today.
I want to go on a bender. A week long bender. What do you think?
It’s not what I’d recommend, but I can’t tell you what to do. I understand where you’re coming from but from a medical standpoint, even an emotional standpoint it’s not something I can recommend. I’ll get you those details of groups that can help you through this time. And details of counselling services.
I’ll wake up in a week, in a reality of fractured dreams, and hangover and blurred memories of now. For a short moment I won’t know what was real and what was dream. I’ll be uncertain and confused. I’ll have to work it out [shit line].
[I think I can consider Chapter 1 at first draft status]
Chapter 2
I stumbled out of the GP’s surgery, uncertain and confused. Thoughts tried to form in my mind but combusted on raw emotion at the very moment of their genesis. Nothing had true meaning. Not cars nor roads. Certainly not science of any kind. I felt as though I existed on the other side of science now. I staggered into the road, causing a car to screech to a halt. I moved like Mike from my dreams trying to escape… What was I trying to escape? The driver wound down his window and shouted obscenities at me. I laughed and continued to lurch across the road. Now the driver looked more confused and disturbed than angry. His face expressed a concern for me that I myself didn’t have because I existed on the dark side of science now.
The beer and the whisky were soothing. I was in a traditional pub. I don’t think I could have coped with a modern pub, or one of those traditional pubs made modern at the cost of an additional two pounds a pint. This one wasn’t trying to be anything it wasn’t. I imagine it hadn’t changed much in the last thirty plus years. I ordered a pint of lager and a Jamesons. The bartender was youngish, full of Irish charm. He asked how I was doing. It almost seemed like he was chatting me up the way he stood, the way he regarded me, the tone of his voice, but I understood it was just his charm. Maybe he expected me to reply, ‘grand’, but I put two fingers to my temple, and it was as though his suit of charm fell off him, only to reclad him as he regained his composure. He said something like ‘be away with ya.’ I found myself a table in a little nook. For the first time in over twenty years I fancied a ciggie. Then I remembered I’d have to go outside to smoke and the urge dissipated.
A beer and a whiskey in and I started to feel better. In a weird way I felt a sort of excitement. A burning excitement that I was experiencing something new, something magical, something uplifting. God was making good on his promise. When I’d first heard the phrase Momento Mori as a young man it had inspired me, then it waned. One day ‘Momento Mori’ itself died. But right now I felt more inspired than ever. One day I will die. They say life is too short but maybe life is too long. It’s so hard to stay motivated decade after decade. Most of us succumb to an endless plateau or an endless slow decline. Even the path to adulthood is too long and appears to be growing ever longer. I think society has made it that way. We have too much life and not enough stuff to fill it, so we eke things out over decades. Parkinson’s law at play I believe. Being seven, eight and nine had a magic and a wonder during those endless summers, but after that the thrill began to fade. It feels as though those are the years that should precede adulthood. Those were the years that I went out into the world on my bike, formed friendships, built dens, stole sweets from the local shop, found a porno mag in the woods, showed my bits to a girl, Suzy Tiler, who in return showed me hers. Those were the years when the fire burned brightest. Why don’t we become adult then. Why wait for the solemnity of adolescence and puberty. When we have to drag ourselves forward. Is that really a necessary period before becoming adult. We are weary by the time we arrive, and we remain weary. What did I want from adulthood. By the time I got there, mostly I wanted to not be oppressed [or to be left alone, or peace and quiet]. I wanted a drink.
After another lager and Jameson’s little combo my mind was swirling perfectly like the carpet at my feet. The only thing that could make it any better was one more lager and one more Jameson’s. That really would be perfect. Given the gravity of the news that I had just received I was surprised to feel so good after just a few drinks. The healing power of alcohol. I mean how could anything dampen the pain of the diagnosis I had just received. The alcohol took me to a swirly place where edges were less defined, where science began to question itself. Carpe fucking diem I said to myself. As the evening progressed, I began to wonder how it would feel to turn up drunk at the Pearly Gates, giggling as I tried to get past St Peter. I run two tracks in my mind when I’m drunk. The one that is fully immersed in drunkenness, that can’t escape it however hard I try, the one that babbles and spits and stumbles and says things I really shouldn’t say, and the other looking disdainfully in from the outside, quietly and sternly admonishing me the way my father would.
The pub was getting busier. Sometimes I noticed the humorously cacophonic babble of conversation, other times it ceased to exist.
I opened up the notes app on my phone. I thought this seemed like an appropriate time to knock up a bucket list. But my mind was sort of paralysed by this stage and I couldn’t think of anything to write. Most of the ideas that did come to me felt retributional and I’d never considered that to be the point of a bucket list. I saw myself wandering the streets delivering vigilante justice to all those who had wronged me. I thought of Mr. Sanderson my History teacher and how he had said I was feckless and would never amount to anything. He said I was worse than the dummies in the class because at least they had an excuse. I could pay him a visit but maybe he’d already be gone by now anyway, or maybe he was in a nursing home. I couldn’t exactly confront him in a nursing home. And to be honest he wasn’t entirely wrong. I’m not going to say I amounted to nothing, but I didn’t amount to much. I certainly could have amounted to more if I’d applied myself. But deep within me I always carried the sense of ‘more what’. More nihilism? Then there was Fin, what a prick he was. I’d happily go and hunt him down. He was a so-called friend, but I knew he only kept me around because he felt superior to me. He’d belittle me and laugh it off as banter. He’d flirt with Van, challenging me to challenge him, knowing that I never would because he’d make me come off looking small and petty. Then there was my first boss, Bailey something or other. The guy splashed himself in eau de smug each morning. He would ignore me for months at a time then beg me to do overtime when we were pushing to get a new client onboard. He thought he was charismatic then blamed the staff when they weren’t whipped up into a frenzy by his new ideas. He seemed to me to be genetically arrogant, with his oversized head and cartoonishly wide mouth. But this is not the idea behind a bucket list right. It’s not about settling petty old scores. A bucket list is supposed to be uplifting and inspiring. Instagram worthy even. It’s something so that after I’ve gone they can say I led a good life, an interesting life. It’s about balloon rides and parachute jumps. What a guy! But my version of a bucket list had taken seed in my mind. I wanted to show up at doorsteps, allow them a moment of recognition and then to put a slug in them. Shoot them in such a way they would die slowly, contemplating their behaviours, the way they treated me. As I shoot Fin I say bang, bang in an ironic tone so that he knows it’s just banter.
You might think I would let these people go as I contemplated my imminent death but I couldn’t. You might think I would practice forgiveness but alas I couldn’t. The only thing that prevented Mr. Sanderson, Fin and Bailey going on the bucket list was my need to prioritise. These figures all existed in my past but there was one figure that existed in the present and in the future. One guy I knew I had to take care of. In my drunken state I couldn’t remember his surname. Maybe I had never known it. It didn’t matter. I knew who he was and I knew where he lived. I tapped into my phone. The note simply read:
Bucket List
1. Kill Vincent
[I like Chapter 2; clean concise, definitely at 1st draft stage]
Chapter 3
Mike woke in increments and decrements. Waking, nodding off, half-waking, nodding off. It wasn’t entirely clear where waking began and sleep ended. He woke on the sofa in a miasmatic storm he couldn’t comprehend. He coughed and spluttered. He sunk back down into the sofa wishing his headache away more than he wished his cancer away. His knees were tucked a little because the sofa was not long enough to accommodate his supine body. The sofa was an old beat up thing and as he nodded he had the sense that he was falling. He woke with a start to catch himself from falling. Did the falling mean anything? Mike wanted nothing more than to fall asleep again, to wake only when this hangover had passed.[definitely too many ‘fallings’]
When Vanessa came down she gave him a look that was both quizzical and dismissive. If only you knew, he thought. He felt a strange win over her, because he knew and she didn’t. Because she had given him that look and she hadn’t the care to ask why he was in this state. If he told her now she would be sorry, but he wouldn’t tell her just yet. He played her guilty apology in his mind and felt a sense of satisfaction. She made him a coffee and plonked it down a little too hard on the occasional table next to him such that it spilt a bit.
Mike felt like he had entered a new dimension somewhere between life and death. Now he saw hospitals and hospices everywhere. What is it called when you hear a new word or decide to buy a particular make of car and then you see or hear it everywhere. That’s what he was experiencing now. He looked it up on his phone. It was called Baader-Meinhof phenomenon apparently. He wondered if he’d see ‘Baader-Meinhof’ at every turn now. Every TV show he watched had a hospital scene. Every call-in to the radio was about someone’s lost love or their cancer diagnosis. Afterwards the DJ would play the departed’s favourite song or maybe it was the couple’s favourite song. The calls often ended with a little uplift, about how the caller had reconnected with God or about the beautiful memories they held, or heralding the great work of the hospice staff and the charity run they were now doing to support the hospice. Was the purpose of Radio 2 to prepare people for death, Mike wondered.
There are certain words that have such a strong emotional impact that it is almost physical. For Mike hospice had always been one of those words, and now it hit harder than ever. Ambulance sirens were louder and brighter. Certain songs that had long since dimmed in their impact became vibrant and wretched again. Moments of nostalgia that once made him wince just a little, now made him cry out in pain. Across the road in the little unkempt park, kids played and he heard the laughter of children who were not his own. His own daughters’ laughter had long since dissipated into the far away ether the way his ashes one day would. One day soon. The sound he heard now mimicked that of his daughter’s to perfection. To his ears it was pure, but not to the child’s mother. Mike’s hungover reverie was broken as the mother exclaimed, ‘Kyle, for fuck’s sake Kyle, I won’t tell you again.’
Right now Mike saw his work through the hue of his hangover and his cancer diagnosis. He slurped at his coffee. The only thing that could entice him to get up for work was the promise of his bed tonight. His bed felt like the promise of Heaven. Mike recalled a guy in his office some years ago who had terminal cancer. Pete he thought his name was. Pete had looked poorly for a while. Even after his diagnosis he continued to turn up at the office day after day until one day he didn’t. Three days later an email went around explaining that Pete had sadly passed away. Some people thought it was strange that Pete kept turning up for work. Mike sensed they even considered it distasteful bringing death to the office the way some people brought a cold. But Mike thought he understood. Wouldn’t he too savour these moments of normality and function as he did them for the last time. When he became infirm, wouldn’t he long for this normalcy. The popular trope is that on their deathbed no-one wishes that they had worked more. But Mike thought he would give the world for one more day of work then. How long ago had that been since Pete had passed? Five years, ten years? Years pass differently when someone has died. They pass without friction if you weren’t close but simply knew of them, like Mike had known of Peter.
Working from home didn’t help. Mike figured that Pete took some pleasure from the office itself and from the commute. He figured he liked letting people see he was still there and it was a means of letting them know when he had passed. It gave Pete a meaning that Mike could not achieve. Mike thought about setting up an out of office notification for when he died. I am now permanently out of the office. Please send your queries to whoever the fuck you want because I categorically no longer care. Mike’s diagnosis had not lent more meaning to his work. Work might have been a welcome relief from his mental travails but it felt more of an ugly construct than ever. He wondered if we got to play the whole game again from the moment of the Big Bang would we reach the same agonising conclusion. He wondered too if the man that invented the computer was really the result of the same evolutionary process that created every other animal out there. He thought of monkey’s writing Shakespeare. He thought of plagiarism. He wondered if once they were done with Shakespeare they could also manage the complete works of Barbara Cartland. He found simple tasks to do just so he could claim a win or two today. Meaningless tasks became more meaningless and bizarrely he thought, almost gained meaning as their meaninglessness approached the absolute. Working remotely didn’t shield him from office small talk. Teams messages began with ‘hope you had a good weekend’. Emails began with ‘I hope this email finds you well’. His own messages simply began Hi or Hello. His emails were signed off ‘Regards’. He had never even graduated to ‘Kind Regards.’ He thought if he did, it would soon become the norm to sign off with ‘Utmost Regards.’ Mike prided himself on this, that he hadn’t succumbed to these unnatural norms. Even now after all these years of corporate life he still baulked just a little when confronted with ‘Good morning, hope you had a good weekend…’. He was ok if someone simply asked ‘how was your weekend.’ He thought he understood the protocol there. A succinct ‘oh you know, the usual,’ seemed to do the trick. But when it was embedded in work stuff it caused him consternation. For instance this morning Eve from the customer accounts team had Teamsed him ‘Good morning, hope you had a good weekend. Do you think you will be able to get that updated spreadsheet to me by midday. You know the one. The one with the revised numbers after last week’s fiasco.’ Then there was a crazy face emoji. The ‘good weekend’ bit had been buried with the work stuff. Was he supposed to incorporate a response to that bit in his reply. He wasn’t sure. To be on the safe side he didn’t. He simply replied, ‘Hi Eve, sure should be good for midday, worst case scenario COB.’ Then he wondered if Eve would think he was rude and truculent. It would probably cement her view that the IT guys were insular and had no social skills. Mike thought that his messages demonstrated greater social skills since they didn’t cause disquiet in others. He wasn’t the worst for small talk though. Mike once attended an IT conference in Holland where he met a Belgium man who said he didn’t like saying hello to his colleagues in the morning as it was ‘unnecessary small talk.’ In meetings he was contributing less and less. He kept his camera off as much as possible. He never volunteered any information, only speaking if called out by name. Even then he would usually have to ask the speaker to repeat the question as he pulled himself back from his reverie. He was more non-committal than ever. Usually simply saying that he would have to take it away and confirm. Or he might say that it was his understanding that it was indeed the case. The implication being that if they lent any weight to his understanding then that was on them. Mike had seen how time and time again any failures in the company were laid at the door of those who had recently left. He didn’t want this for himself. Would they really blame a dead man. He knew that they would. They would word it carefully. They would claim that they did not want to speak ill of the dead but Mike was the one that fucked this recent project. In his head he mocked the earnest speakers. He never really knew if they were earnest or simply very good actors. He didn’t think prime Robert De Niro could do earnest like they did, so he had to think they were being genuine. He could understand it if they were involved in a startup or something like that. Some business where you weren’t just a number. If they had a little stake in the business, a few shares then yes that would make perfect sense. But this. This was Private Equity hell.
[The start of the previous paragraph is way to wieldy]
Chapter 4
Mike now lived in a realm where any comprehension of time that he thought he may have acquired in his 56 years, had unravelled into insanity. Time meant nothing now and it meant everything. He longed for those happier times that in the moment were fleeting but now seemed like they had lasted forever. Fornever was the word that best described how he was feeling. He longed for the endless summers of his youth. For the Christmases that felt like they would never come. For the longest pregnancies whose conclusion he could not quite comprehend. Even the second time around. Time marked by size, by the gradual expansion of Van’s belly. He would put an ear to his wife’s bump and hear all the things he heard when his mum put a shell to his ear as a child. He loved to look forward then, and now he loved to look back. You’ll wish your life away his mother would say when he told her he couldn’t wait for Christmas. Now he mostly tried to cling to life but sometimes he wished it away too. Sometimes he felt that the fear and anticipation of death might be worse than the reality. Mike had always had a fear of flying and for him there was nothing worse than being up in the air. But there came a time when they were waiting to take off where the waiting became worse than the flying. When he just wanted to get on with it. As the plane hurtled down the runway, he finally felt a sense of acceptance and peace. Not the Universe’s acceptance of him, but his acceptance of the Universe, of God, of Nature, of Fate. His acceptance of his own infinite smallness.
He thought it strange that as a species we had not yet come to terms with death. Or course he understood that it properly wasn’t advantageous to be blasé about death from an evolutionary standpoint, but weren’t we past evolution now, weren’t we at odds with it. Kind of strange, but also a testament to the fortitude of mankind that it refused to give in to the inevitable. Uncertainty is scary. The thought of an endless nothingness is scary. Not even an abyss because to his mind an abyss had a force something like gravity. Not blackness because without light there is no dark. Silence. Yes he thought he heard silence. But maybe, just maybe he heard the sound that he heard as a child when his mother held a shell to his ear.
Mike didn’t know how he was going to tell Van about his terminal diagnosis. At the moment there were no obvious signs of his illness, but within a few months she would be able to tell something was seriously wrong. He wouldn’t be able to hide it forever. Mike had this little technique he would use when confronted with difficult tasks. He would count to ten and then get the hell on with it. It was as though he wasn’t alone when he did that. It was as though he was joining forces with fate. An agreement with fate had been made. Of course he could renege on the agreement but then every agreement hereonin would come under question. As a teenager he would count to ten before jumping off the five metre board into the pool at his local swimming baths. He had the sense that he wasn’t allowed to turn back once the deal to go on ten had been agreed. As he got to five and then six he might lengthen the space between numbers but by the time he got to ten he was almost blinded by the inevitable and threw himself off the board, everything appearing and feeling unreal, whooshing, fear, abandonment, hope, exhilaration. In ten days he would tell her.
He couldn’t slow the days the way he could slow his count. He tried to distract himself with work but for various reasons work was particularly slow at the moment. [too many ‘slows’ and wouldn’t slow work slow time?] His company had lost a couple of major clients so there was less work to do. There would no doubt be another round of redundancies soon and Mike thought it would be just his luck to finally be on the list but to die before the official announcement was made. It was early Summer, people and projects were winding down. Everyone was on the go slow. Even though Mike wasn’t on holiday, some of the people he needed to collaborate with were. It wasn’t just him. Work in general seemed to be slowing down. Everyone it seemed was doing the quiet quitting thing. Colleagues asked him what his plans were for the Summer. He said he didn’t have any but who knows they might book something last minute. The last minute ones are often the best ones, they said. Might be able to get yourself a deal too.
Today was day three of the countdown and work was interminably slow. He sat at his computer in the spare room from 09:00 to 12:00, then made himself a cup of tea and one for Anna. He felt like crying, as he typed on the keyboard or otherwise appeared tethered to the computer by his mouse.[makes no sense] He remembered how his mother would admonish him as a child when he didn’t like the dinner he had been given. He once thought that his mum should open up a restaurant where the onus was on the customer to enjoy the meal and if they said they didn’t like it the chef or the owner would come to their table and have a go at them. Stop pushing your food around the plate, his mum would say. That’s what he was doing with his work now, pushing it around. He felt the circumstances were judging him. Judging his entire life by making his work slower and more banal than ever. He saw his image reflected in the monitor screen. He had maybe a dozen tabs open on the taskbar but was hardly using any of them. He sat there obediently as though the world was monitoring him, making sure he worked his allotted hours. He meekly hated authority. He was submissive to it the way his dad had made him. His snarkiness towards authority was ineffective in overthrowing it. Around 2pm Van came in with a cup of tea. She mouthed ‘meeting?’ and he shook his head. She whispered as though he was in a meeting. ‘Pass me your old one.’
Day five was much the same as every other day. It was interrupted by a call from Pete from support who wanted to check what work equipment he had, making sure it matched up with their records. This was the sort of work Pete did when nothing much was going on. Dotting i’s and crossing t’s that had already been dotted and crossed. Mike had a work laptop and also a large monitor and associated leads. The mouse was his own he seemed to remember. ‘Yeah I think that’s it. Just the crappy laptop and the even crappier monitor. 4K it isn’t.’ He asked why Pete was enquiring. ‘Should I be worried about anything,’ he asked.
‘Oh no just making sure the records are up to date.’
‘Ah ok, because it can’t be long before my job gets taken over by the staff out in Indian. Half the price.’
‘And then some. And half as cynical.’
‘And then some.’
‘Won’t be long before my job’s taken over as well. If it’s not the Indians it will be AI.’
‘Aye, management couldn’t give the proverbial fuck about any of us. We’re just numbers on a spreadsheet to them. Bloody bean counters.’
‘Aye and to top it off no bonuses this year.’
‘What?’
‘Did you not join the Townhall the other day. Last Friday I think. Apparently we fell short of budget so no bonuses.’
‘Fell short of budget? Well whose fault is that? They keep sacking the people who are keeping the business running. Most of the management wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow. I mean they’ve wasted what must be millions on that new amalgamated software system that is still yet to see the light of day. We’ve gone from Jira to Devops to Jira again. And the cloud based stuff isn’t the Utopia we were told it would be. Nor is it nearly as cheap as they thought it would be. I sometimes wonder what it takes to reach the level of management in this organization. Because common sense and business nous don’t seem to be desirable attributes at that level. I wonder how the advertisements for jobs at the level read. “Do you like sacking people and throwing money at ill thought out projects. If so you could be exactly what we are looking for.”’
‘I know, muppets the lot of them. I sometimes feel we would be better off out of it. Redundancy could be the best thing for you. You could get that campervan you’ve always been talking about and tour around the country.’
‘I need a few more years before I can even think about that. If I can hang on for what maybe another three years and then get made redundant that would be perfect.’ Mike had got lost in the conversation. He enjoyed these little whinge-fests with Pete every now and again. He always came away feeling a little better, feeling that they had put the world to rights. Now he snapped back to reality. Three years. The three years he dreamed of were not going to happen. The conversation lost its flow and became a bit awkward. Pete said, ‘I’d better get on. Thanks for confirming the kit you have. That laptop you have will be end of life soon so we’ll have to get a new one sent out to you.’
‘Good to catch up’, said Mike. ‘See you anon. There must be a summer party planned for this year.’
‘Cancelled. They don’t have the budget for it apparently. It came up in the Townhall.’
On day six Mike and Van were sat on the sofa watching some evening TV. She liked Eastenders. He rarely watched it these days but always remarked how the characters were the same ones from twenty years ago. ‘So much happens and nothing happens,’ he said. ‘Good to see Kathy’s still going strong.’ Some of the characters he used to like had long since passed. The characters and the actors that played them so there was no chance of them coming back. Unless they did that thing where a different actor plays a character like they did with Ben. [even if character dead?] He remembered Pete, and Pauline and Lou and Dot and Dr Legg. Some of them he wasn’t sure if the actor had actually died but he thought they probably had. Now as they watched a character he recognised but couldn’t remember the name of was dying in a hospital bed. His wife held his hand and was crying. Van popped out to the kitchen to make a tea. When she came back the character had already passed away, and Van seemed upset she wasn’t there with them when they died. ‘I only popped out to make a tea,’ she said.
‘He tried to hold on love,’ said Mike.
‘What happened,’ she asked.
‘Just gently passed away.’ Van shed a tear. ‘Are you crying he gently mocked?’
‘He’s been there forever. Walford won’t be the same without him.’ Mike remembered ‘Walford’ now Vanessa had mentioned it. He remembered the Caf and the wine bar, what was it called? The one that was run by James Willmott-Brown. And he remembered the tube station ‘Walford East’. And he remembered Sharon and Michelle going up town. The Dagmar, that was it. ‘Don’t worry,’ Mike said. ‘It was probably just a dream. He’ll likely be back in a few years.’
By day eight Mike was starting to get cold feet, but he knew he would have to go through with it. He typically took a passive approach to life, allowing circumstances to dictate his actions. He only really took action when he absolutely had to. Most things in life he allowed to unfurl of their own accord, to happen without explicit intervention, but even he knew that he wouldn’t be able to do that in this case. He couldn’t just wait until his illness was obvious and Van essentially worked it out for herself. When he got a new job he would settle in and stay put until they made him redundant. The car parked out there in the driveway was the same one he’d been driving for fifteen years. He only bought that when his previous car, a green Renault Megane had finally given up the ghost. He wanted to get another Renault, but Van insisted they got something else. ‘It might be the last car we ever get,’ she said. ‘It would be nice to try something different.’ They ended up with a Volvo S40 and he had to admit he was pretty pleased with it. This house where they had brought up their family was the only house they had ever owned. Van’s dreams of upsizing every four or five years had never materialised. Mike would say that was an 80s and 90s thing. ‘Do I really want to pay an extra 100 grand for an additional bedroom we don’t need.’ He got married when Van’s bump was beginning to show. Years later when Daisy found out about this she said, ‘my God, Grandma and Gramps must have been mortified.’ Those early years of parenthood were chaotic but special. Mike felt he came into his own as a father. Some men were defined by their work, but Mike could never care enough about his career to be identified by it. He wasn’t one of those men that was going to lose his purpose when he retired. Work was simply work. When Daisy went off to Uni Mike felt ill for six months. He never linked the two at the time but it’s true his vertigo disappeared, and his energy returned when Daisy quit Uni and returned home. He wondered what had happened at Uni but she never told him. When she was at school she would come home and tell him every detail of her day and now she told him nothing. He thought he may not have sufficiently prepared the girls for the real world. He’d been selfish really. He liked having the girls close by. He remembered putting the girls to bed in the run up to Christmas. Two more sleeps they would say. Two more sleeps he’d reply. Two more sleeps before he would tell his wife. The clock was ticking. It won’t be long before it really is just two more sleeps before the end. And then one more sleep.
Where would he tell Van. In the home or out. Maybe they should go for a walk because Mike didn’t want the girls to overhear. He didn’t want them to know until he and Van had a chance to work out how to deliver the news to them. He began to curate the scene. He imagined the exact place where he would tell her. As they walked over the little bridge in the park and looked out at the stream passing underneath and recalled how they used to play poo sticks with the girls. Would he get Van to play poo sticks for old times’ sake. He was curating it somewhat like the marriage proposal he had never actually made. His proposal had been inferred. Maybe it had been mumbled. He cringed as he tried to recalled it. He hadn’t really said, well I guess we’ll have to get married now, had he. He’d always sensed that Van had never forgiven him for this. They could renew their nuptials a hundred times and each time he could deliver the most elaborate proposal, but he knew it would never be enough. He paid for it with snide comments and a general day to day sense that he was tolerated, that Van had settled when she married him. Quietly she let him know that he never earned enough or did enough. Quietly he accepted that he could never earn enough or do enough. In company she would often say that they didn’t have enough money for this or for that. We don’t have enough money to get the kitchen done. We don’t have enough money to go away this year. She denied it but they both knew it was a dig at him. Mike doesn’t earn enough money for us to go away this year was what she was really saying. He would try to defend himself but ended up feeling worse. ‘Well we did have a lovely holiday last year’. Or, ‘we decided to prioritise a new car this year’.
‘2nd hand car,’ said Vanessa.
‘Well new to us I mean.’ When they departed the company he would ask her why she had to say those things and she would simply reply ‘well it’s true. It’s no judgement on you. Why are you being so defensive.’ He sensed he had only one way to be forgiven now and that was a deathbed declaration of love. He pictured them both on the bridge, him on one knee, holding her hand, begging for a forgiveness he didn’t truly understand.
Even his daughters would have a go at him about the lack of proposal. From time to time Van would bring it up in conversation, almost boasting about it, belittling him. It was one of the few things that brought the women of the house together. As a coven, thought Mike. He would try to defend himself. ‘I’m not really a grand gesture type of guy.’ They all huffed with incredulity. ‘You don’t say.’
‘You’re not any kind of gesture guy.’
‘How about being a minimal gesture guy.’ He tried to say that grand gesture guys are all about the show. They’re normally weak and feckless. ‘You see these orchestrated proposals all over Instagram, it’s warped people’s views of what’s real. And you see the magnificent wedding, and then two years down the line they’re divorced and having an unseeming slanging match all over Facebook.’ He tried to emphasis his solidity, but they shouted him down. You should be solid. You should provide. Medal for Mike being a solid husband and father. What next. Are you going to tells us how great you are for being faithful.
Day 10 came. He wanted to suggest the walk but he knew she would instantly be suspicious and on edge. They never went for walks together. They rarely even left the house together even to go to Sainsbury’s. He was sat on the sofa. She had brought him a coffee and placed it on the occasional table. It hadn’t spilled. He reached for her hand. He gently pulled her to the sofa beside him. ‘Sit down love. I’ve got something I have to tell you.’
‘What is it. You’re not having an affair are you? You’re not leaving me?’
‘No.’
‘Thank God for that.’ She chuckled in relief. ‘Although sometimes I think the peace wouldn’t be such a bad thing.’ She was warming to her theme. ‘Oooh and the bed all to myself.’
‘You know I had some tests done for those weird issues I’ve been experiencing, the dizzy spells, the fatigue and stuff.’
‘Yeeesss. Well, everyone experiences that at our age. They’ll probably just tell you to eat more healthily and go for walks and get better sleep. That’s all they say about anything these days. Reminds me of my mum telling me to get some fresh air when I was feeling ill as a kid. Either that or they’ll medicate you up to the eyeballs. There’s no inbetween these days.’ [<- not sure about this]
‘They did some pretty extensive tests. The results have come back and unfortunately they’re not good.’
‘What do you mean not good.’
He looked away, his eyes squinted.
‘I know you.’ Van’s dear old mum used to say that Mike had a limited emotional range. ‘Not good means fucking terrible doesn’t it.’
‘The prognosis is not good. I’ve got stage 4 liver cancer. It’s spreading. So yeah not good at all really.’
‘You can have chemo and radiotherapy and stem cell stuff. I’ve heard about that on the radio. I heard about AI being used to develop cures in super quick time.’
‘Sure, there’s stuff we can try but it’s only likely to delay the inevitable. I fear I’m probably a little early for any major breakthroughs in medicine. They’re always on the cusp of something. There’s always going to be some people on this side of the line and some on the other. But either way none of us can go on for ever. Not even with AI.’
‘But 56? You’re 56. What did they say exactly?’
‘It was all a bit of a blur really. Look I’m on limited time. They didn’t say how limited but..’
‘How long? Are you going to be around to walk Daisy and Anna up the aisle?’
He gave her a sad smile. That seemed like a dated dream these days, like something from yesteryear.
‘Don’t tell me it’s less than a year. Please don’t tell me it’s less than a year. You hear about these aggressive cancers all the time these days. We’re being zapped from all sides. I can’t bear the thought that you’ve already had your last Spring. Your last Father’s Day. We hardly did anything for you on Father’s Day.’
It could be a year. It could be eighteen months if I’m lucky. She lay her head on his lap. Mike looked down on her body, heaving in silent sobs. He stroked her hair and said ‘we’ve had good days haven’t we.’
Chapter 5
The house didn’t change much after I told the family about my diagnosis. The girls were oddly quiet and subdued about it as though they already knew and had carried the knowledge with them for some time. When I say oddly quiet and subdued, I mean they weren’t any quieter or more subdued than usual. That’s what was odd about it. I played the scene through your mind a hundred times. The scene where we tell the girls and it’s soft, it’s muted. There’s sobbing but not wailing but I think that is just me allowing my personal preferences to prevail. The reality was similar but somehow seemed to lack the emotion I imagined. I think it was my delivery. Too scripted, too robotic. Whenever I hear my voice on a recording, I’m always horrified at how inhuman I sound. It makes me never want to speak again. Sometimes I think I could get a job mimicking those AI voiceovers, but as they become more human like I feel like I may have missed the boat. How must it feel to exist in my emotionless orbit? Van went to each of the girls’ rooms and asked them to come down. Anna never came down these days, but she must have heard something in her mother’s tone because she didn’t protest at all. She was in oversized joggers and hoodie that enveloped her. We took their hands and I told them and our heads bowed inwards, hands and heads touching each other. We were so close we couldn’t see each other, but we could feel each other. I wasn’t sure who’s tears I felt and who’s heaving sobs I felt. I told them I had cancer. I told them it was terminal. Our faces were unreal and contorted, stretched like playdough by an artless child. I wondered if they had fully grasped the situation. Death is a difficult one to get your head around, especially as I wasn’t yet showing any major symptoms. As humans we like to measure and we like to compare. How tall, how much, how heavy. Now the question everyone asked of me was how long. Daisy had asked. It felt like a taboo that had to be asked. ‘They can’t say for sure. It could be two years, it could be six months.’ Anything less than a year felt cruel. Van herself had said it, the idea that I might not see another spring and another summer felt like a punishment. I thought I had lived a good life, but maybe those occasional thoughts, those occasional dreams had betrayed me. ‘Most likely I’ve got a year, maybe a bit more,’ I said. Was a year too much to ask for? I wanted a Spring, a Summer, an Autumn, a Winter to savour.
For a long time the house had exuded an air of impending death. Ever since the girls hit those awkward teenage years. Strangely that heaviness felt like it was lifting. It almost felt like this is what we had needed all along. Anna came out of her room more. She’d make us a cup of tea and snuggle next to me on the sofa. I could feel the bones of her, her hips and her shoulders. Both girls had suffered with eating disorders during their teens. When it’s both you have to take a look at yourself and wonder what you did wrong. I know some families where one kid struggles and the other thrives and then you can maybe put it on the kid or just on the randomness of chance. But when it’s both who struggle you have to think about what you could have done better, and you have to ponder what sort of example we set them. Both of us exude social ineptitude. It’s how we found each other, how we came together. Both of us happy to hide away from the world. We are too similar, Van and I. We don’t offer differing views or skillsets. We have this recessive personality disorder that really only offered one outcome to our girls.
Anna would sit next to me the way she did as a child, melded into me the way she liked to do. Slowly, slowly as I got more and more ill, I noticed but didn’t notice that she felt softer and less bony, and that the angles and bone I felt were my own.
Van’s mood lightened. She was doing the Benjamin Button thing but not so much in terms of the way she looked but in how she carried herself. It was simultaneously wonderful to see and terrible to see. Terrible because at the time I hadn’t noticed her gradual decline, her loss of self, that strange burden that she took on herself and that I let her take on. But I can see it now as she travels back through the ages, reverting almost to her carefree, teenage self. I had forgotten just how vivacious she was. She was introverted and vivacious and that was what had captured my heart. I had forgotten how envied I was when we started dating. I heard the whispers. What on earth could she see in him. I saw the looks as we waited hand in hand in the cinema foyer. We first met when we were in the same tutor group at sixth form college. For some reason I hadn’t realised her beauty straight away. She was infinitely more beautiful because I discovered her beauty over time. Now Van was laughing at something on the tv. She turned to look at me to share the humour, but I hadn’t been watching. She stopped laughing abruptly and said sorry. I said, ‘sorry for laughing?’ and somehow that made her laugh even more.
Daisy told me she would spend more time at home. With me. With the family. ‘You don’t have to,’ I said.
‘I want to. Besides Vinnie’s being a right prick these days. I told him, by the way. I hope you don’t mind. I kind of had to. It would be a bit weird if one day you’re no longer here and we have the funeral and all that and I’d never mentioned anything to him. Wouldn’t it? He told me to send my condolences. I don’t know about you but that sounds a bit odd to me. I don’t know if you can use the word like that. Isn’t that supposed to be for after someone’s died?’ For a while she did spend more time at home. She’d get a board game out of the cupboard and ask who’s for Ludo, or anyone fancy a game of Snakes and Ladders. That lasted for maybe a month or so and I have to say it felt good to have my family around me not really doing much of anything. Just mooching about Anna called it. Everything felt safe. I was dying safely. My girls were close by. But then Daisy started spending more time than ever at Vincent’s. She seemed a bit manic whenever she popped by the house, never giving me enough time to tell her she should stay away from him. One day I overheard Van on the phone telling her come and visit her dad. ‘Like properly visit him. Not just breezing in and out. Stay a night or two. He won’t be around forever.’
Chapter 6
It’s probably a testament to my lack of ambition that as I sit face to face with death, I have no real regrets. We all have an ego right. An ego that puts us front and centre of the world. The matrix is not one shared entity but a program that runs in each of us, and at the same time it’s the overarching system we find ourselves in. Kind of like the cancerous cells running riot inside my body. They exist entirely in and of themselves but without the greater context they don’t exist at all. In the same way that my mind is at once a filter on the world and is the world. When I die, that’s it. That’s what I believe. That’s what I still believe even now. Even now as I walk the Green Mile, reflecting on my sins, wondering which breathe will be my last. Sometimes I find myself inadvertently counting my breathes. Wondering which meal will be my final meal. I don’t want to end on a salad, so I have already started having fewer of them. I don’t want to be munching on lettuce into eternity. Something like a toasted cheese sandwich would be alright. In truth infirmity will likely precede death and they’ll be pushing some pureed shit into my mouth. I envy the death row inmates. They will know the hour of their passing. Likely they will be strong still. Likely their mental faculties will be intact. They get to make choices, their final meal, their last words. But the rest of us can’t time it right. It’s like trying to time the markets. We might know the hour, but we cannot know the moment to expel our words of profundity. I’ll be surrounded by loved ones. Maybe I’ll say, ‘who farted?’ and then be gone. Or ‘could someone empty my catheter.’ I won’t go peacefully. I’ll be scratching and clawing to get back to life to end on the dignified words I so wanted to end on. I spent a lifetime choosing my words carefully and then this. When I ascend or descend through the clouds of my dreams and the end is in sight, vivid and beckoning, I will order a Chinese every day along with a Coke, just to ensure I go out on my favourite meal. And probably by the time I reach the end I will be sick of Chinese, my insides lightly frying on MSG.
Right now my regrets are few, but I suspect I have more to come.
I’ve never heard anyone talk about final meals in respect of anyone other than death row inmates. I’ve never heard it said that James went peacefully in his sleep having eaten pea and lentil soup the evening before. It just seems like an unnecessary detail. Except in the cases where the food is the cause of death, like the story about the Australian woman that killed her ex-husband’s relatives by feeding them beef bourguignons with poisonous mushrooms she had foraged.
I have a skinny-fat body and a small-big ego. I’m consumed by negativity. I’m hateful and scornful and cynical. I try to dress it up as something more palatable like knowing or worldliness, but I’ve come to learn that the world can see, my bathroom mirror can see, and my inner child, my soul can see. I’m like a kid holding his hands over his eyes, believing no-one else can see him. I still struggling to fathom just how miniscule my legacy will be. I didn’t mentor any kids, run a Scout group, help the disaffected. There’ll be no-one who said I made a difference to their life. I didn’t build anything, not a house nor a business, not even a garden shed. At work there’s a spreadsheet I created that has a fairly complicated macro. It’s known as Mike’s spreadsheet. A few others in the office sometimes use it, especially when I’m away. I’m currently showing some people in the Delhi office how to use it because it seems at last my role is being handed over to India. They said it was cool when they saw how it built out the monthly report for you just by running the macro. Somehow, I doubt the staff in the Delhi office will continue to call it Mike’s spreadsheet. They’ll probably call it something like Monthly Finance Report 1.01.
I guess this is my legacy. If I pull back the curtains there’s sure to be a local news team standing on the steps. One reporter, one cameraman. Asking me for an interview. Asking me questions even though I didn’t agree to an interview. Even though they didn’t remind me of my right to remain silent. Mr Errington do you have any idea what happened to Vincent Burber? We understand your daughter was in a relationship with Mr Burber. Much to Van’s chagrin the villagers are gossiping about us. But I’ll be honest, I’m warming to the notoriety. I’m starting to think Oscar Wilde was right.
I brought two daughters into this world and they are surely my greatest legacy. But they largely hide away from the world so they are hardly having a lasting impact. It all starts to feel like we have been replicating our genes simply for the sake of it. To say that we did it, to show that we did it, to pass the time. But more than that, or less if that makes sense. Simply, because. Doubling down on the meaninglessness of it all by prolonging it. My girls seem to have seen through the charade. Their lives are so empty they can see through the gossamer thin fabric. They live at home. They are not fighting or striving or voyaging. They have lives of endless empty fulfilment from which to philosophise. I wouldn’t be surprised if both of them remain childless. They seem to have concluded that there is no point. I brought two people into the world and took one out of it. The two I brought in go unnoticed. The one I took out is my legacy.
I guess I do have a couple of small regrets in life, but nothing that keeps me awake at night. The first is that I never managed to afford a house with a decent garden for the girls to play in. I feel I failed them to some degree. Our garden is about 30 foot long give or take. Just as the girls were getting up any sort of speed they’d have to brake, or turn or career into the fence. We did have a trampoline once, but it filled the garden. It lasted a year or two before I dismantled it and the girls moaned, but I told them they hadn’t used it in ages. For a while the garden felt big after I’d removed that thing. My second regret is that I never earned enough money to be able to support my mum in her later years. It would have been nice to have been able to treat her a bit. A coffee here, a weekend in Devon there. But she was more or less infirm by the time I had enough spare cash to help.
There is one thought that does keep me awake at night. A regret of sorts. It goes back to the time when Vincent joined us at our Christmas get together at Aunt Sally’s. That time when I was too cowardly to confront Vincent when he demeaned my daughter in front of her family. There’s an all-knowing image of God that resides inside us. It knows the truth about me even when I refuse to acknowledge the truth myself. Especially when I refuse to acknowledge it. I can kid myself but I can’t kid Him. I tell myself that even if I hadn’t been diagnosed with a terminal illness I might still have sorted the guy out. I might have. We say God knows as a way of saying nobody knows, but the God that resides inside me knows. I would have put it off indefinitely. I would have hesitated until it was too late, and then finally I would have acted. I would have let him hospitalise her. I would have let him institutionalise her. I would have let him put her in the morgue.
My legacy is conflicting to me. Nothing I created ever made a blind bit of difference to this world, but something I destroyed did. To help make sense of this I sometimes think of the killing of Vincent as a kind of creation. I think of it as performance art. It was brutal and confused, hellish, momentary. Ultimately it was an act of love.
[I like the content of this chapter up to here but not sure of the ordering/chronology]
Chapter 7
Vincent seemed to come on the scene gradually. Van and I were vaguely aware of him for quite some time before we were told that he and Daisy were officially a couple. ‘So you’re an item now? You and this boy that we’re yet to meet.’
‘Since it’s not the 1960s mum, I wouldn’t use the term item. Literally objectifying love. But we are dating yes.’
‘I suspected as much. Don’t tell me it’s this Vincent chap.’
We had already put the clues together and arrived at the conclusion that Daisy must have met a boy. Van had worked it out first while I resisted the idea. She was still my little girl even though by now she was twenty-two. Thank God she seemed to have overcome her anorexia, but it never really went away. She still looked unwell and gaunt, not truly child-like but not fully adult either. Maybe Daisy was over it, but Van and I were not. You never truly get over it, like you never get over a suicide attempt. We live on high alert. We sleep on a plane that is only just below waking. We sleep with our cochlea unfurled like a lizard’s tongue searching the house for clues about her mental state. We look at her differently still. At least I know I do. I look at her like an eternal patient. I look out for signs of the recurrence of her eating disorder. Every time I look at her, I’m quietly sizing her up, checking her skin and her skinniness for signs she may have relapsed. Every time. Most of the time I don’t realise I’m doing it. I wonder if she can see me doing it. Internally I react when I see food left on her plate, like I’ve received a kick from a baby I’m carrying. She is gaunt still, but she has a pretty bone-structure. The pallor of her skin encourages concern over her health. Strangers and acquaintances alike ask her if she’s ok, if she’s feeling alright. People want to take care of her. There’s a sweetness and a lovely light she gives off that let’s everyone know she’s ok.
Van and I were quietly pleased when Daisy started going to the local pub with her friend Carla. Daisy said they had been half-friends at school, her and Carla, and Van said she half remembered her. There were all the other school kids from Daisy and Anna’s childhood that we half knew from sight and from rumours and from class photos. They coloured the periphery of our lives. Kids that were trouble and kids that were bright. Kids that bullied and kids that were bullied. Kids from wealthy backgrounds and kids from troubled homes. Friendships usually form from proximity, but Daisy and Carla’s friendship developed because they were both absent from school so much. Daisy was often absent due to her anorexia and Carla was absent because she had to care for her mum who had MS. They both developed a strange aura at school due to the fact they were rarely in attendance. Their names called out on the register were normally met with silence or one of the boys might make a stupid joke about them being trafficked or in a nunnery or in Area 51. Even when Daisy was well enough, she hated attending school because she felt alienated from her peers. It was always a relief if Carla was there too.
Daisy and Carla were twenty-two by this time and it felt strangely innocent for them to be going to the local. They were more tentative and innocent even than the sixteen and seventeen-year-olds that went. Occasionally I would pop in for one, really just to make sure they were ok. They never made me feel unwelcome or tried to usher me home. Sometimes they’d get me to stay for another and on the odd occasion even a third. The pub was about a hundred metres from the house, and it was just your normal pub with a dartboard and the football on the big screens and a weekly meat draw. Daisy mentioned Vincent a few times and said he was just a friend. ‘Not even,’ she said. He was just a lad from the pub. ‘He’s a dickhead but a bit of a laugh.’ Van thought there was more to it, but Daisy said he wasn’t anything special, even if he thinks he is. ‘Funny how you mention his name so much if he isn’t anything special.’
Van asked if I knew who this Vinnie was. I said I might do but I wasn’t sure. ‘Why? She doesn’t even like him. She said he’s a dickhead.’ Van gave me a look so disdainful she had to look away and carry on cleaning the stove. With her head in the oven she said, ‘it must be blissful being you,’ and I didn’t really know what she meant by that.
Daisy had always been quiet and introverted. She gave the impression she was keeping a secret about nothing at all. Now it was becoming clear that she actually had a secret. There were hushed phone conversations, and a sudden interest in make-up which Daisy herself dismissed as probably just a phase. ‘I think I’m going through my girly phase, dad.’ She was twenty-two and I was only now having to confront the fact that she had reached womanhood. Her periods were like a strange open secret. Occasionally I saw a discarded box of pads in the bin out of my peripheral view. Sometimes I saw traces of unflushed blood in the toilet bowl. These sights jarred me still. I wondered why she wasn’t more diligent in cleaning up the evidence. Some things are best kept hidden I believe. One time I was heading to Sainsbury’s, and I asked her if she wanted anything. She was about to ask for something and then said, ‘Oh it’s ok,’ and I said, ‘what is it, you clearly want something.’
She said ‘it’s ok I’ll get it myself later. No drama.’
‘What is it. I’ll get it for you. Save you a walk.’
‘Just girly things.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘Probably best you get them. Wouldn’t want to get the wrong type.’ Her curves were no longer being hidden beneath baggy jumpers. Her soft femininity, her beauty was a revelation to me. I’d always assumed my girls would stay safe inside the home forever. Close by my side. Stay hidden from the world. Forever virgins. When it comes to my daughters even the word virgin affects me. I saw them as eternal spinsters. I thought they might live their adult lives together and die together in this house. I thought they’d be swallowed up by the fast pace of modern life, by crypto and AI and all the other unimagined hells to come. And whilst it didn’t seem an ideal life, I was thankful they wouldn’t have to contend with the issues that I used to overhear the young girls in the office discussing. When Daisy first told us she was dating Vincent I told Van she might need to have a talk with Daisy. ‘About, you know.’
‘A bit late for that,’ said Van. I could tell that she felt a bit sorry for me. But at the same time, she appeared exasperated. The prison I was trapping my girls in was one of my own imaginings. Van later told me I looked like I’d taken a shot to the heart when she told me it was too late for that. She said I looked crestfallen.
Chapter 8
It was a big deal the day Vincent first came round to visit us, but everyone was at pains to appear nonchalant. Van had overdone the spread though. She had the lace tablecloth out. ‘The Pope coming,’ asked Mike and Van told him not to be so stupid.
He arrived with a huge bunch of flowers for Van which immediately put Mike on edge. Van’s appreciation was over the top, and Mike knew that there was no coming back from this. If there was a battle to come, he might well have already lost it. He knew too that at some point during the evening Van would make the point that he never buys her flowers. He was already on the back foot in his own home.
Mike said, ‘let me get you a drink,’ and he led Vinnie into their small kitchen. Vinnie seemed to fill the room. He was a hulking big guy that made Mike think of Lennie from ‘Of Mice and Men’. He couldn’t remember the story or even really the character but an impression, a shadow of Lennie remained. Mike grabbed two cans of beer from the fridge and handed one to Vinnie. ‘Daisy says you’re a beer man.’
‘Can’t beat a nice cold beer,’ said Vinnie. For a while the two men stood in silence, sipping on their beers. Mike had wanted to take the guy aside and tell him he needed to take good care of his daughter. But now that the moment had arrived, he couldn’t get the words out. ‘Cheers,’ he said and they knocked cans. Mike feared that Vinnie wouldn’t take him seriously. If Vinnie, laughed at him or replied, ‘or what?’ Mike wouldn’t have a comeback. He was a slight, middle-aged man whose physical body was gradually being replaced by ethereal aches and pains. As they knocked cans he said in his head, make sure you take good care of my daughter. Then he said, ‘shall we see what the girls are up to,’ as though there might be dancing or karaoke going on in the dining room.
After the dessert of lemon tart, Vinnie said ‘we should really be making tracks.’ He turned down the offer of coffee saying that it would keep him up all night. The evening had gone well, but there was also a sense of relief when Daisy and Vinnie left. As they walked towards the car Daisy looked back to the house and waved at her dad through the window. She said to Vinnie, ‘well that went well.’ In the kitchen Van was loading the dishwasher. Mike said, ‘well that went as well as could be expected.’
Van replied, ‘whatever do you mean by that.’
‘Well, you know.’ Mike grabbed another beer from the fridge. ‘It’s one of those occasions that alcohol was made for.’
‘He was the perfect gent. Even you have to admit that. Look he even brought the plates out.’
‘Of course he was. What do you expect the guy to do. Put his feet up on the table and start effing and blinding in front of us. He fancies himself a bit much for my liking. Daisy will have plenty of competition for his attention… from himself.’
‘Oh Mike. Why are you always like this. Honestly, why does your starting point have to be dislike and distrust. You could at least start from a stance of neutrality.’
‘So, you liked him.’
‘Yes, I did actually. I thought he was very charming. He had a bit of that old-fashioned chivalry about him which is all too rare these days.’
Mike never trusted the overly charming. What are they trying to hide? He came with flowers for Mrs Errington. That’s what he called her as he confidently handed her the flowers. ‘For you Mrs. Errington’, ‘Oh they’re beautiful. Call me Van.’ Mike saw her distrust wilt just as the flowers would within a day or two. He felt like he’d lost an ally in my wife in that moment
‘A bit over the top if you ask me. The flowers. The pulling out of the chair for Daisy. I thought he was going to run round the table and pull your chair out at one point.’
‘Stop it. You just don’t like it because he made you look so unromantic. I mean when was the last time you bought me flowers? Was it even this Millenium?’
‘All show if you ask me. I mean look at the size of that bunch. Pure distraction. If you’re looking at the flowers, you’re not seeing the other stuff.’
‘Oh, at least give him a chance. For Daisy’s sake if nothing else.’
Van said that Mike would find fault with whoever Daisy brought home. She said if she brought home the Pope he’d take issue with it. Mike gave her a sort of quizzical look that said what on earth are you talking about. ‘You’re damn right I’d have an issue with it,’ he said.
Chapter 9
Like so many things in his life Mike couldn’t pinpoint when the problems with Vinnie started. Mike was non-confrontational. In any relationship he would let one or two transgressions slide and then the boundary between right and wrong was blurred. The boundary between who was right and who was wrong became blurred. Power dynamics were quickly established and could seemingly never be transcended. The situation between Daisy and Vinnie was like a domestic abuse jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing and they couldn’t make out the picture until they were at the police station with Daisy as she filed a complaint against Vinnie. Even then she forgot so many of the details in the same way that Mike had forgotten the symptoms he was suffering when he presented himself at the Doctor’s. Nothing seemed bad enough to be worthy of mention. Even as they sat in the Police station the abuse didn’t seem real. It was like the anorexia thing all over again when he kept saying that everyone in his family had a small appetite. ‘Apart from Uncle Nigel there’s not one of us with a with a scrap of meat on us. That’s just how us Erringtons are.’
There was a bruise on Daisy’s arm once that Mike had noticed and remarked on. He watched her intently as she explained it away with such insouciance that she put him at ease. She said she fell into a fruit machine having had one too many down the local. ‘The combination of drinking and gambling is a treacherous path,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing.’ She even comedically reenacted it with the fridge freezer playing the role of the fruit machine. She noticed Mike’s vigilance. She laughed a little. ‘It’s nothing dad, honestly. I’ll cut back on my drinking I promise. And my gambling.’ She saw something in her dad’s expression. ‘You don’t think Vinnie had anything to do with it, do you. He wouldn’t dare.’ She put her hands up like a boxer and threw a couple of shadow punches. ‘Bam, bam.’
Sometimes Daisy would go off the radar for a while. She would half-jokingly apologise for being a bad daughter. ‘A text would be nice,’ said Van. ‘Just to let us know you’re still alive.’
‘At least you know where Anna is at all times,’ said Daisy. ‘The golden child. Sometimes I think you wish I was a shut-in too.’
‘Your sister’s not a shut-in. She’s just happy in her own company.’
‘If you say so. You seem to be making the case that she’s better adjusted than the rest of us because she doesn’t leave the house for months on end. Judging by the state of the world you may well be right.’
Mike stopped popping in at the pub. He wasn’t entirely sure why. ‘Go on, get yourself out from under my feet,’ said Van. ‘Go and buy the girls a drink.’
‘Carla wasn’t there the last time,’ said Mike.
‘Oh,’ said Van.
‘It was just me and Daisy and Vinnie, and I felt like a third wheel. I get the feeling that Carla feels a bit pushed out now that Vinnie’s on the scene.’ Carla had never hidden her dislike of Vinnie. A few months ago, before Daisy and Vinnie had got together, she had remarked that she pitied that girl that ended up with him.
On another occasion it had been the four of them, Mike, Vinnie, Daisy and Carla. Carla had joked that it felt like a double date and Mike had to admit that he felt a bit flattered by this. After a couple of drinks, when Vinnie had gone to the toilet, Daisy asked Carla what she had against Vinnie. ‘Just not a fan,’ said Carla. ‘I guess if you go for the unreconstructed Neanderthal type.’ That was the last time Mike had seen Carla in the pub. Mike went along a couple more times after that. The last time Vinnie said to him, ‘your girlfriend’s not coming back so.’ Vinnie often ended a sentence on a ‘so’. Either he hadn’t fully worked out where his thread of conversation was going, or he was leaving it open for you to interpret yourself. In this case Mike thought he meant, so you may as well not turn up any more either. Or so what the fuck are you still doing here. Mike felt some bitterness towards Carla. He had the subtle sense that she had abandoned Daisy, but at the same time he recognised that she must have felt pushed out by Vinnie. Without really realising it, Mike had quietly abandoned her too.
It was clear to Mike that not many of the regulars liked Vinnie. Many of them were visibly intimidated by him. He had this weird combination of ‘proper bloke’ energy combined with lost little boy which Mike found disturbing. It was as though he would which hand to play, which character, depending on the situation at hand. Everyone in the pub played along at being pally with him, but no one seemed to like him. He flirted with the barmaids. They reciprocated the flirting in a manner that suggested it was in their job description to do so. Mike heard the rumours about him which were so quiet as to be almost silent. He heard them in body language as they were mimed by the barmaids and the guys clustered around the fruit machine. He saw rolled eyes as Vinnie departed a group he was joshing with. He sensed a change in atmosphere as he entered the pub and again whenever he left, as happens when the tide comes in and again whenever it goes out. He felt the same within himself. Except when Vinnie left with his daughter in tow, he only felt greater dread. He saw that massive hand gripping too tightly on Daisy’s upper arm where he had previously seen the bruising. It could maybe pass for normal, but Daisy was his daughter and knew her frailty and he knew Vinnie was gripping too hard. Sometimes she had to do a sort of double step to keep up with him. Once Mike overheard someone in the pub say that they wouldn’t let their daughter anywhere near Vinnie, and Mike wanted to go up to the man and ask why not. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t need to ask.
Chapter 10
Vanessa’s sister Sally always hosted Christmas. Around September, October time Van and I would be holding our collective breath praying that we weren’t asked to host this year. Since we rarely do the honours, we know we would feel obliged if asked. We’ve hosted Christmas twice before and hosting again is not going on my bucket list. We are not natural hosts. When we got a new mat for the hallway that said ‘Welcome’, Van remarked, ‘they missed off the ‘un’’. Finally, we get the call from Sally that ‘it’s all round to ours again this Christmas’. Come the day we have to drag the girls from their pits with the promise that they will have a great time once they get there. Sally was upbeat, welcoming us into her home with hugs and mulled wine. David, her husband was comedically dour. He would always wear the most outrageous Christmas jumper and claim that Sally had made him wear it. On one occasion he wore deer antlers with flashing lights for the entire evening. This year he kept saying ‘press it’ in that curmudgeonly way of his. I’d press Santa’s belly which in turn had me pressing into Dave’s generous belly and jingle bells would play. I liked Sally. It was hard to fathom how she and Van were linked either genetically or by upbringing but sometimes these things really do just come down to chance. At primary school I remember there was a kid in my class that farted during the school nativity play. Everyone remembers. This was met with uproarious laughter from the parents watching and teachers and in particular from the three wise men. I had never before seen Mrs Mendall the headmistress smile let alone laugh, but here she was in tears, beside herself. The name of the kid who farted, Dave Hardy who went on to become one of the preeminent exponents of toilet humour this country has ever seen. Beloved in pantos and at Butlin’s summer seasons. The following year another kid also inadvertently farted during the Nativity. This time it was little Mickey Fallon. Once again, the audience was in hysterics. The parents thought it was some clever in-joke referencing the fart of the previous year. In their eyes that made it even funnier. Mrs Mendall chuckled a bit too until it was evident that the stench had reached her and she made an unholy face and began coughing and spluttering which only added to the general hilarity. In assembly the following day she said, ‘There will be no reoccurrence of wind in any future nativity play or any other performance for that matter. Do we really want to be known as the school that has made flatulence a Christmas tradition.’ All the kids fell about laughing. There was something hilarious about our pompous headmistress talking about farting, even down to her inability to say the word fart. Mickey was the only one who wasn’t laughing. He quietly went redder and redder. I don’t think Mickey ever really got over it. In class he became more and more withdrawn. He didn’t appear in any more performances after that. The rather impressive occasional trumpet recitals he used to give quietly stopped happening. I’m not entirely sure what happened to him. I tried to look him up on Facebook once but could find no trace of him. Fate is a funny thing. How we become who we become is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s not about nature or nurture, sometimes it really does just come down to the direction of the wind.
This year Sally was her usual bubbly self. I often wondered how she and Dave managed to tolerate each other day in day out, year after year. She was great in small doses but I think she’d drive me loopy after anything more than a day or two. But for this one day a year she really was a breath of fresh air. Even the girls livened up in her company. They shared cool hugs, a little bit side on, and reluctantly wore party hats and read out cracker jokes with a groan. Anna read one out when no one was really listening. Sally told everyone to shut up as Anna had one. Anna read it out clearly enunciated as though she was reading Shakespeare. We all groaned on cue.
Vincent had come along this year. That’s when we knew things were getting serious between them. He and Daisy had made their own way there. They arrived a little late, but no-one seemed to mind. The extra car hung off the end of Sally’s short driveway spilling out into the cul-de-sac. He was a bit of a focus at first, Sally doing a bit of light-hearted interrogation, but he soon blended into the alcohol infused blur that was our typical Christmas day. There was little to distinguish one Christmas from another. Dave’s choice of jumper was one way. Or should I say Sally’s choice of jumper for Dave. The mandatory disaster dish was another. Last’s years disaster dish had been the Eton mess. Anna and Daisy love Eton mess and sometimes that’s all the lure we need to encourage them out of the house. Unfortunately, last year we didn’t have Sally’s Eton mess we had Dave’s and it was an utter travesty. I’m not sure if it had split or what but it was loose and runny with the consistency and maybe even the smell of baby sick. ‘Let me put everyone’s mind to rest. Dave hasn’t been within a hundred miles of the Eton mess this year,’ said Sally. The whole table roared its approval. Thankfully this year’s effort was once again up to scratch and a great hit, although I had to agree with Anna when on the drive back home she commented that if seemed oddly tainted by last year’s. Dave told Vincent to help himself to beers from the fridge, but for the first few Vinnie just sat there waiting to be served. He was seated next to Sally. ‘He’s being polite,’ she said. She picked up his can from time to time and swished it about a bit and when it was low she called out to Dave to get Vinnie another one from the fridge. After his third can Vinnie started getting up and going to the fridge to get another for himself. Sally leaned over to Daisy and said, ’he’s starting to make himself at home.’
After the desserts had been eaten, the cheese and crackers came out. Vinnie held up his can and said, ‘Dave do you mind, I’m a bit trapped in here.’ Dave got up and got Vinnie another can. Daisy said, ‘I guess I’m designated driver then.’
Vinnie said, ‘I guess so. Smart girl you’ve got here Michael.’
‘How many are you planning on having?’ asked Daisy.
‘Let me refer to my spreadsheet. There is no plan. It’s Christmas day, why do you have to spoil it. What are you the fun police.’
Daisy mentioned something about Vinnie being anxious around strangers. She sounded patronising as she said it and as she touched Vinnie’s arm. Sally said he needn’t be anxious because he wasn’t a stranger now. Mike sensed a shift in Vinnie’s mood. He went menacingly quiet. Everyone must have sensed it because the whole table adopted a silence. Sally said, ‘Heavenly Father thank you for the food we are about to eat.’
Anna said, ‘Heavenly Father thank you for saving us from Dave’s legendary Eton Mess.’
Dave said, ‘Anna, you used to be my favourite. Not anymore.’
Sally said, ‘Dave are you going to stand for that? Are you two going to stand for that?’
‘Now, now,’ said Dave. ‘There’s no need for any of that.’
Mike lifted out of his chair a bit and then sat down again. Vincent had his hand on Daisy’s arm steering her towards the door.
Chapter 11
I was chatting with Anna once and she told me that on occasions she and Daisy would have the ‘things you’ve seen or experienced that mum and dad don’t know about chat.’ It was siblings confessing secrets too each other. I was intrigued but I didn’t ask what secrets they had confessed. It felt like peeking in a diary. I was happy they had each other to talk to. And then Anna said, ‘she told me Vinnie hit her. More than once, so she said. One time he hit her twice blackening her eye and cutting her lip. You remember the time when we didn’t see her for a few weeks and she kept making up excuses not visit.’ I wasn’t just being an overprotective parent. My instincts were right. Of course they were right.
I had never felt I could ask Daisy if he had hit her. I let her talk. I wanted her to feel that if there was anything she needed to tell me then I would listen. I wouldn’t rush to judgement or rash action. Van would tell me to ask her. Or she’d say stuff whilst doing the ironing or unloading the washing machine. She’d say, ‘if he ever acts inappropriately, let your father know.’ I was surprised that she had opened up to Anna. I didn’t think they had that close of a relationship. Not even their shared experience of anorexia had brought them together. Van said it felt like sibling rivalry, and I know what she meant.
Anna held her phone in front of my face and I read a text that Daisy had sent her. I dabbed at the screen to stop it from going off. When she was sure I had read it, Anna took the phone back and searched for another text which she then held before me. She wanted me to see the first-hand evidence, not the hearsay. I’m damned if I do, I’m damned if I don’t. He told me if I leave him, he’ll hunt me down kill me. Staying feels worse. Staying is dying slowly. Staying is what it says. It’s a stay.
The twelve months up until my diagnosis was a fraught year where Daisy would go off the radar for weeks at a time and then invariably turn up at home with a bag and cloud hanging over her. She might send the occasional text to ameliorate our fears. I would mentally parse the text to satisfy myself it had really come from her. More than once we were convinced she was dead and still we did nothing about it. I’d rather have my kids die than denounce my English reserve. I sent her a whatsapp message once telling her if I didn’t get a response within thirty minutes then I’d be contacting the police. The thirty minutes passed. I told Van, ‘ten more minutes then I’ll call them.’ Finally Daisy walked in the door and made her way up to her room. She’d say Vinnie was being a dick, or that he’d spent all their money drinking and gambling. All her money. She never said he hit her or abused her emotionally. She’d say she was done with him. She’d say it the same way her teenage self had told me she’d start eating properly now. She was utterly convincing until a week or two later she headed out with her bag to stay with him again.
Just before my diagnosis Daisy had been at home for a bit, about ten days if I remember rightly. This time he clearly had beaten her. I’d take her a cup of tea in her room. She had this Ikea chair that was almost the shape of an egg and she balled herself up on the chair, her legs tucked to her chest, pretty much the foetal position on her egg shaped Ikea chair. She healed up a bit, her bruises were fading and Vinnie was calling constantly. I saw the bruises change from blue to green to yellow. I didn’t want them to fade completely, because I saw her resolve changing in sync with the bruising. He begged, he cried, he sent flowers. I truly couldn’t ever work out what was going on in his head. I don’t think anyone can unless they are one of them. Psychologists can explain it, but the explanation falls short. They’ll say it’s a need for control, but please explain to me how someone can have so much need for control that they lose all control. They need control to such an extent that they bring about chaos. He cried every day. I genuinely can’t remember the last time I cried. Van said they were crocodile tears. ‘He just wants to lure you back into his clutches,’ she said. Daisy said they were real tears. ‘You don’t know what he’s been through. You know his mum abandoned him when he was little. I’d have to be a really shitty person to do the same thing.’ I didn’t know if it was true about his mum or not and to be honest, I really didn’t care. I felt like saying, well if he was my kid I’d have abandoned him too, but I figured that might push her towards him. I had so much fear and adrenaline running through my body that I couldn’t sleep at night. Each night I’d nod off for a bit, exhausted as I was by the accumulation of sleeplessness, but by 2am I was alert and in a pain that I couldn’t definitively ascertain was physical or emotional. In my twenties I suffered from sciatica and when it was at its worst there was no position that would provide relief. Standing, sitting, lying down, downward facing dog were all painful. To be honest I never tried downward facing dog but I feared if my back spasmed, I’d be stuck that way. Looking back, I think that maybe only hanging would have provided any sort of relief. The pain was both ethereal and very real like a thought. Lying in bed at 2am now, my physiological and psychological state were as restless as my body had been back then, equally contemptuous of all efforts of amelioration [I think I’ve used this word twice close together]. Van had taken her sleeping pills. She felt guilty taking them because she knew the girls were vulnerable at night. She reasoned that she was no use to man nor beast if she couldn’t get any sleep. We had a deal that only one of us could be on the pills on any given night and more often than not now that was Van. She was dead to the world. I got up. I banged the chair that had my clothes on, but she didn’t stir. I stepped out into the hallway and turned on the hallway light, letting in just enough of a glow into the bedroom so I could see what I was doing. I knocked the dangly light fitting as I pulled my arm up through my sweater, but she didn’t stir a jot. I walked around to her side of the bed and watched her chest to confirm she was alive. I couldn’t see the rise and fall at first. I never can. That seems strange to me. What changes to enable me to see it after thirty seconds or so. It reminds me of the philosophical question; if a tree falls in the woods and there’s no-one there to hear it, does it make a sound. It’s like if no-one is looking does her chest rise and fall, and then I look and there’s a lag and then there it is gently rising, gently falling. It takes a while to see it and then I look a bit longer until I can really see it and make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me. I didn’t like leaving the girls at home with Van dead to the world like that, but I’d just pop out for a bit, burn off some of the adrenaline and cortisol. As I walked it struck me that I was experiencing these feelings for a reason. A real reason. This wasn’t the low-level anxiety I suffered at work or in social settings that had no means self expression. This wasn’t some disassociation between my palaeolithic self and my 21st century self where my physiology couldn’t make the distinction between being chased by a lion and a looming project deadline. This was the real stuff loaded up in such huge quantities as to force me to act. To force me out of my bed at 2am in the morning. To force me to pay Vincent a visit. I walked for an hour and half, that took me in a loop back to our house. An hour and half seemed like the sweet spot to drain me. An hour and half took me past the pub, around the edge of the park and then the edge of the woods that spooked me just a little bit, put me even more on edge, along a few back roads, onto Wigmore estate, through Denton Road and then up to the Distributor Road that would loop me back home. I always liked to do a loop on my walks. I never liked walking to a point and then following my tracks back home. It was drizzling. My hood was up. My shoulders were hunched or my head sunk down, I couldn’t be sure which. For all the world I must have looked like a voyeur, a kerb crawler, a pervert. If I took myself out of myself, kind of looking in from the outside I could romanticise these walks. The rain, the cold. I was like some cool, lone guy. Maybe I looked like a vigilante searching for voyeurs, kerb crawlers and perverts. But mostly I experienced the immediacy of my insides, a fear that felt absolute. If I had a gun pointed at my head surely this is how I would feel. 64 Denton Road was where Vincent lived. I stopped outside his house. A feint light was on in the upstairs front bedroom. Maybe a lamp, maybe even just the light of his phone as he begged Daisy to take him back, and threatened her with his suicide. This was the house where he beat my daughter. Where there were bruises and blood splatter and a thickness to the air. He was a lot bigger than me, and younger, but I knew this feeling inside me would take me a long way. I pictured myself beating the living shit out of him inside that house laying his blood over hers. I didn’t realise it at the time, but this was me casing the joint. Recceing the place before wreaking the place. This street wasn’t the best. It made me feel jumpy like the woods had. I sunk into my hood a little more, made Vincent a promise so quiet I barely heard it and continued walking on the loop back home.
There was a strange precious lull after my diagnosis and after I had told Van and the girls. It was like a relief. It was as though we had all sensed for years that I was dieing and now that it was confirmed we could finally get on with living. We spend our entire lives in fear of death, running from death and really it turns out to be nothing at all. Most of the things we worry about are far worse in our minds than they turn out to be in reality. Who knew the same would be true of death. I slowly started to get my affairs in order the way the doctor had said I should. For the first time in my life I started enjoying doing admin. I spent days shredding all the unnecessary paperwork. I took pride in tidily keeping only that which would be required by Van. I logged into all my online accounts changing passwords where needed. Writing down the passwords. Sitting down with Van as she logged in to make sure she could do it herself. Running through the details with her about how to make a claim. Here’s my will. These are my solicitors’ details. Given the circumstances you might think this would be painful. In some ways it was, but it was also therapeutic. That sense you get when you tidy a desk or clear out a cupboard but magnified tenfold knowing that my desk would never get cluttered again.
Van and I sat next to each other like two work colleagues quietly trying to work out if they fancied one another. Each of us quietly pushing the conversation into uncharted waters. Now she dared to ask me if I’d had any thoughts about my funeral at all. Not too much fuss I said. It seems silly to be unfussy in life yet fussy in death. Van agreed. I told her I’d always wondered what song I’d like to have play at my funeral. I’d flip flop between various songs but now that the shit had got real I knew the song I wanted. It reminded me of when Van and I started dating and she’d ask me what dress I preferred because she really couldn’t choose, and then as we came to leave I’d realise she was wearing the one she truly wanted not the one I’d picked out. ‘It’s called Dreaming,’ I told her. We took a pause from the admin. I went onto youTube and played it for her. Melodic and haunting we sat in silence and cried.
‘Do you think many will come. To my funeral I mean.’
‘Of course they will.’ Van paused and then burst out laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her laugh so hard. Her laugh was infectious and soon I was laughing too. I wondered if she’d remember this moment during my funeral and looking around at the sparsely populated church burst into laughter once again. ‘Folk will always turn up when there’s a free feed on offer.’
‘And free booze. I never did like a leaving party. When work colleagues gather around and the party organiser asks if anyone wants to share an anecdote about George or Mary. Or Mike. I always thought that was one of the reasons I never voluntarily left a job. The few that turned up would be looking at their feet unable to conjure up a single anecdote. Or in this day and age they’d look askance of the camera during the Zoom party.’
‘Come on, you’re not that boring.’
‘Do you think you’ll read my obituary at the funeral. I bet you’ve thought about it. I bet you’ve struggled for what to say. It’s like writing my Valentine’s card.’
‘It’s not a Best man’s speech you know.’
‘Someone’s going to have to get up and say something. I can’t see it being you and Anna and Daisy would rather than anything than get up and make a speech in front of a gathering.’
‘A large gathering,’ Van was laughing again.
‘Isn’t it strange how I’m ok with my lack of friends in life but not in death.’ I’ll be embarrassed within my coffin. I’ll be desperate for the curtain to come round and shield me from view. I’ll think ‘phew’ as the track begins to pull me away.
It’s like our ethereal worldly regrets become crystalised in those final moments.’
I’ve always wondered how they know people’s deathbed regrets. Do you think some clip boarded attendant comes along and asks, just before the vicar appears to read you your last rites. By the way before you pop your clogs, I’m just doing a little survey. Do you mind me asking if have any lasting regrets.’
‘I’ll make sure it’s well attended,’ said Van. ‘Don’t you worry about that. You’ll get the good send off you deserve.’
Mike remembered being in the pub with Anna and Carla when Anna asked her friend if her dad had any friends. Carla seemed to think her dad had a few. His golfing buddies and the old Uni friends he met up with twice a year.
‘My dad doesn’t have any,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t you think that’s sad.’
‘What about Mark and Pat,’ Mike protested.
‘They’re the husbands of mum’s friends, that doesn’t count.’
‘And Graham.’
‘He’s a colleague. When was the last time you went out with him socially. Exactly.’
‘He’s happy in his own company,’ said Carla. She was being supportive.
‘I am here you know,’ I joked. Carla reached over and briefly put her hand on mine and smiled. Carla was one of the few people that seemed to like my sense of humour. I’m so dry sometimes that I’m not even sure I’m trying to be funny. But Carla would always recognise it. I can’t honestly say I like it myself anymore. In fact I don’t think I ever have. I find it odd when people say they like sarcasm and dry humour. It leaves me feeling bereft.
Van started to list a bunch of people who would come to the funeral in an attempt to comfort me that it would be well attended.
‘They’re all your family, and your friends.’ Anna was often brutally honest. I knew she would look around the church. Not for a minute would she be taken in.
‘It’s not too late,’ said Van. ‘You could still make some friends.’
‘Oh I think it is. I do have some integrity you know. I can’t just go and make a bunch of friends in an effort to abate the shame of my funeral.’
‘Hmmm I think I see why you have no friends. In fact I think that’s exactly what you should do. You’re not the only man in your predicament you know. You could form some sort of social media group. Funeral Friends or something like that.’
‘A platform for the friendless and dying.’
‘Great tag line, I like it!’
‘It feels like a Ponzi scheme. If we don’t get a continual flow of new members the last to die won’t have any quote unquote Funeral Friends to attend their funeral.’
I had my main pension which Van would effectively inherit. Then there were a couple of other pensions which didn’t amount to much but as Van said they were better than a kick in the teeth. Van would never have found these herself. If I had died suddenly of a heart attack without this opportunity to go through my stuff then they would have been lost to the system, the way my body will eventually be lost to the system. The way my daughters’ childhood giggles were now lost to the system.
I searched the hard drives of old laptops and desktops that I’d retrieved from drawers and from the attic. I found old spreadsheets with schedules and plans that now meant nothing. Schedules and plans that led nowhere. Exercise schedules that I followed for a month of two, marking the days I turned up in green and the days I didn’t manage to turn up in red. This particularly spreadsheet had a new tab for each year as I endeavoured to get fit once again. All of it led nowhere. The spreadsheets were more real than my fitness since I hadn’t been in any sort of shape since I was sixteen.
I read through dozens of unfinished short stories. I once fancied myself as a bit of a writer. In truth I still believed I might become a writer right up until my diagnosis. Only then did the dream die. I had waited too long. I procrastinated too diligently. I didn’t have the energy to write any longer. There was too much chaos in my head to write. I wish I’d pushed harder with the writing but I was prone to insane levels of procrastination. It’s like I had a shadow self who didn’t want me to do the work and didn’t want me to succeed. Some of the stories were good. Ok, to be more accurate, some of the lines in some of the stories were good. Some of the lines were brilliant, genius even. As I read them now I wanted the world to read them too. I didn’t want them to be lost to the world forever.
I thought about the languages I’d tried to learn but never made any meaningful progress with. The IT skills I’d half-picked up and then forgotten. I thought about the years I spent learning the piano as a child. I could play Fur Elise badly. I thought about the karate orange belt I’d achieved in my early twenties. The katas I’d robotically performed in the dojo and practiced at home in my bedsit. It pained me to think that I had never become truly skilled at anything. I think most lives look like this, don’t they. We’re all just exerting untold effort to achieve very little. Maybe ancient civilisations were better. Where the workers were brought together to build monuments and cities of wonder.
We looked at old photos of Daisy and Anna. We didn’t have that many because we had been busy living our lives not documenting them. Now we wished we had more. It’s a human desire it seems to want to preserve the life we have. I felt that now. I was a little envious of those people who seemed to live in the moment and have the presence of mind to take photos or videos of their kids. Some people say that those people aren’t truly living in the moment, but I think that they are. When I see those people, they look more engaged and present than I ever was. They seem calm and good-humoured. I was always lost in the moment or lost to the moment. I envy those that seem to pre-see life’s big moments. They have the camera ready to capture a first word or a first step. We just have a few ad-hoc pictures the way my parents did. Admittedly we were barely hanging on when Daisy was little. When Anna came along two years later things became even tougher. Sleep deprived, over-worked, cash-starved, washing every-fucking-where. Illness continually circulated around the family. Oh let me just get my camera out to capture these magical moments. [??] The lack of family photos makes me feel as though we are a little broken as a family. Like there’s a fissure that runs through us and makes us less human. Like what level of arrogance made me think it was a good idea to procreate. Maybe even that I didn’t want to take the photos, to capture our broken family. All of the pictures of Daisy and Anna have a dated look about them like they were out of the 70s. Like we had inadvertently switched on a 70s filter. Both girls looked awkward as teens as Anna grew taller than Daisy. Daisy looked like a pretty ballsy kid in her younger photos, although I struggle to remember that kid. It’s like it was written down somewhere that she was a ballsy kid, maybe in a journal or something, and we know it was written down, but we could never find that journal again. Maybe the teachers at parent’s evening had said she was ballsy. They didn’t use that word obviously. Maybe they said she was outspoken or that she had a lot of energy. And maybe we laughed a little bit and rolled our eyes and we were left to interpret whether that was a good thing or not.
Chapter 12
Everyone was at home. Daisy said she was back for good this time. She was never going back to him. I prayed this was true. There was this soft focus on me. They weren’t exactly fussing over me, but they were quietly attentive. I took some leave from work. I went on country walks. Sometimes I’d nip into the pub in town and enjoy a pint and reminisce. Today the first pint didn’t touch the sides. And much as I admire Shakespeare, today his sweet sorrow didn’t touch the sides as I looked back on my life and contemplated my future, and the future beyond that. The one I would miss out on.
Each night Van would take a sleeping pill. Each night she half-asked if it was ok as she reached for the pills, in the way that when we were younger I would ask if it was ok if she drove back from a night out by drinking a fourth and then a fifth pint. She was never a big drinker anyway, so she didn’t mind driving. Now I semi-encouraged her to take a pill and I could see she was touched by this gesture. I felt more at ease knowing she was at ease. The house was quiet and orderly at night. My three girls each in their own room, each of them seemingly in a better place than they had been for a long time. I was on watch. Sat in my chair with a blanket over my legs and a semi-automatic next to me on the occasional table. Don’t ask me how I acquired the firearm because I’m not telling. I’ll plead the fifth. I’ll exercise my right to silence. Suffice to say that when you require a gun, they’re remarkably easy to get hold of. I like that life is like that. If you never get involved with guns and drugs those worlds are pretty much invisible to you, but if you choose to get involved then you have to take responsibility for everything those worlds bring your way. In my experience the manta of manifestation is more real here than anywhere else. Anyone can have access to the Underworld, you just have to ask. My gun was on top of one of those table sets that have three tables nested beneath each other. I can’t remember where Van had bought them from, but she’d been as pleased as punch with them. I thought they were a bit twee, but for once I didn’t mock her over her purchase. There was one table for Daddy Bear, one for Mummy Bear, and one for Baby Bear. On Daddy Bear’s sat my pistol. Daddy Bear had a cafetiere on the go in an effort to keep him awake, sat there on the off chance that Goldilocks might come knocking.
Some things we learn by tapping into our own darkest inner workings and other things we have to learn from experience. Try as I might I couldn’t empathise with Vincent. I have some pretty dark hidden shit going on within me but I couldn’t conjure up the feelings that he apparently lives with 24/7. When I watch true crime I sometimes empathise with the killers. In certain circumstances I think I too might be capable of killing someone, but something would stop me when it came to drawing the blade of a saw across the skin and into the flesh to begin a dismemberment. And something would stop me from planting the shovel into the ground to start digging a shallow grave. I’d surely ‘come to,’ in those moments. Some invisible moral force would put a halt to proceedings. I’d seen more than enough of these documentaries to know that Vincent wasn’t like us, he was like them. That moral force did not exist in him. He would happily carry his vindictiveness, not just for decades but forever. It’s why we never consider his threats of suicide as empty threats. If it meant winning, I’m sure he would gladly do it. He would do it with wretched glee knowing that Daisy would carry the guilt for the rest of her life.
I didn’t like the feeling of sitting here, waiting. I had a contorting knot in my stomach that squeezed something debilitating through my system into my extremities. The gun gave me some comfort but I knew that Vincent had first move advantage. He had the element of surprise. In that moment I decided I didn’t want to play fair any longer. I didn’t want to pay my taxes any more. I didn’t want to pay my licence fee. I didn’t want to wait in line. And most of all I didn’t want to wait for Vincent. I would take his advantage and make it mine. Never in a million years would he expect what he had coming for him.
I’m not sat in my armchair under my blanket anymore. I didn’t like the feeling of waiting. The uncertainty. I felt like a victim. So, I got in my car and now here I am sat outside his house. The stalker is being stalked. I ordered a pizza to be delivered to his house. He looked pissed off when it arrived. A little gratitude from the weasel wouldn’t go amiss. The delivery guy insisted he take it because it had been paid for. It’s your pizza buddy, what am I supposed to do with it. He glanced up and down the street trying to spot his benefactor. It’s me motherfucker. I’m here, watching, motherfucker. The doctor told me I had to get my house in order. This is me putting my house in order.
Chapter 13 [The Killing]
Today is the 11th. The 21st would be D-Day. I kept procrastinating but I knew I had to get it done. Once the decline set in it would be too late. The beginning of the end is still the end. There’s that thing that people do when they develop a symptom such as a lump or tight chest or dizziness. They google it. They discover all the terrible diseases that could be causing the symptoms. It’s what I thought they meant when I first heard the term doom scrolling. But I have my diagnosis secured. I have taken to reading accounts detailing what happens to people with prostate cancer in their final months and days. It isn’t pretty. [find out what does happen]. Each time I take a shit I briefly register that soon I won’t be able to clean my own backside. Soon I’ll be shitting into a nappy.
Trying to time my decline is like trying to time the markets. That’s why I have to take care of business now. If I leave it too late, I would have to get Van to wheel me round to Vincent’s. I could make up some ruse such as wanting to make amends with him before I died. The two of us at his door would certainly disarm him. Then I would pull a Glock from under my blanket and put an end to Vincent Burber once and for all. Be done with his squinnying and his threats. Van would be my getaway driver pushing me through the back streets and back alleys. And then I’d tell her to slow down, act natural, and we would blend in with the world just as we always had.
I was working with two competing forces; the need to be careful and the need for alacrity. My career as a project manager made me want to create gantt charts and timelines and consider contingency plans. That combustible feeling inside me though, that feeling just made me want to get on with it and deal with the consequences as they came. Fix forward my old boss used to call it. Deep down I knew that feeling was going to be my downfall. It was going to make me take shortcuts. It was going to make me sloppy. Like the terrible cutting in I’m looking at now from when I just wanted to get the paint job in the living room over and done with. I have always admired methodical people. The people who do a paint job well, preparing the walls, removing or covering items they don’t want to get splashed, soaking the paintbrushes at the end of a good day’s painting, in preparation for the following day’s work. They look so at peace. Or the people that when taking apart an appliance arrange all the component parts in order so that they can easily put it back together again. I always start out with the intention of working like these people but somehow my sympathetic nervous system doesn’t allow for it how ever hard I try. My brain gets mixed up. The component parts get mixed up. I knock over a tin of paint and realise I hadn’t covered the tv properly. I have the sense that I’m reaching. That’s how I end up with the cutting in that I’m looking at now that looks like the waves on Newquay beach [and further agitates my nervous system].
So I knew that trying too hard to plan this thing right to the nth degree was only going to be counter-productive. I’m giving a fuck you to the fail-to-plan-plan-to-fail brigade. I was feeling ok within myself. I was sure that I would still have the strength and wherewithal to get the job done in say three months time, but then I thought why prolong the suffering. Why prolong the pathetic pleading, the threats of suicide, the abuse. Why postpone peace. It’s happened over and over again. Does Daisy need for her heart to skip a beat (in a bad way) when she sees another text come through even one more time. Does she need even one more bruise or one more cut. She’s had so many that they have merged both in space and time. It’s like a conurbation of bruises. Hasn’t she suffered enough. I’m a creature of habit. I revert to type. I fell back on the timeline that has served me so well in the past. I fell back on my count to ten.
Once the decision has been made I always go on ten. I’m not sure who I’m telling this to. I feel like I’m telling Vincent as some sort of threat. I can’t not do it now. It is fated now. I will jump. There will be a splash. The inner need to make good on my promise overrides any sense and any morality. What fantastic walls and rules we build in our minds.
I didn’t want to be slap dash about this whole thing but I know I can’t do any research on the computer. I’m not going to google ‘how to get away with murder.’ I’m not going to construct one of my famous gantt charts. I’m running through a litany of terrible murders in my mind and it seems the perpetrator is usually caught within about two weeks. Then it will be remand. Then it will be death in custody. My murderous brothers of yesteryear had it easy. No DNA to contend with. No CCTV. How on earth anyone got caught back then I’ll never know. Ring fucking doorbells are an absolute menace. If I go out the front door I’ll get caught on camera more times than a celebrity getting papped. I’ve become expert at spotting those cameras now. As far as I can see there are no cameras out the back. Our backgarden has a gate that opens up onto an alleyway where we put our bins out come bin day. The alleyway then leads out to a garage area, then there’s a fairly secluded pathway that leads up to the woods. I reckon if I come out of the woods on Pillinger Road, that’s probably the first point I’ll get picked up by the cameras and that’s far enough away from home that they won’t be able to tie it back to me. I’ll wear blue jeans, navy hoodie and a scarf to cover my face. I’m five foot nine so even if they pick me up on camera I could literally be any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Sometimes it pays to be an everyman.
My hope and expectation is that the police will go down the gang route first. They’ll think it was drug related or debt related. Vincent has pissed of more than enough people to have the police going round the houses a couple of times and then going back on themselves again to make sure they haven’t missed anyone. In that time my clothes will have been washed twenty times and any blood spatter or gunshot residue should be long gone.
Of course they’ll soon turn to Daisy as they’re always suspicious of those closest to the victim. They investigate the loved ones first. They’ll soon realise they are barking up the wrong tree with Daisy. Her innocence shines through.
There are a couple of things I’m counting on to work in my favour. One is the local residents dislike of Vincent. The other is that they dislike the police even more. They’ll hear the gunshots. They’ll rationalise it. Did you hear that. Probably just kids letting off fireworks. Sounded like a car backfiring to me. What is this, the 70s. Then hopefully they’ll go back to sleep. When the police come knocking they’ll stay schtum because it’s the police and they don’t talk to the po po, and because they won’t want to get on the wrong side of whatever gang member did this. It was a hit for sure and hits are ok. Hits aren’t targeted at the likes of you and I. Hits go quiet after a while. Unless they get into that tit for tat thing. Then it never ends.
D-Day -2
I took Anna a cup of tea first and then Daisy. ‘Tea’s up,’ I said as I knocked on Daisy’s door. ‘Oh,’ as I nudged open the door and saw Daisy packing her bag.
‘I don’t want to talk about it dad. Fucking hell sometimes it seems like all we do is talk.’
‘Your mum says we don’t talk enough.’
‘You’re like the Devil on my shoulder telling me what to do all the time.’ Daisy sort of chuckled to herself a bit. ‘I know dad, you’re the Angel telling me the right thing to do and I’m the Devil.’ I laughed too. The thought of me being an Angel, either in this world or the next seemed rather preposterous. I occurred to me then that Angels only exist in the minds of non-Angels. I was due to execute on my plan in the early hours, the day after tomorrow. I couldn’t let Daisy go back to him before that. I sensed the catastrophe that would befall her if that happened. It would be just like me to turn up ready to sort this guy out only to be twenty four hours too late. Beside I couldn’t very well carry out the shooting with my own daughter in the house could I. I couldn’t bring the execution forward because, well because it has to unfold in the way that it has to unfold. You rush a project and it invariably becomes a shit-show. I know that from bitter experience. Having to explain yourself to the bosses why things went pear shaped. Finding little angles and tones and phrasing to minimise my fault. Why should the active voice be used when the passive voice can be used. It’s remarkable how skilled the brain is at phrasing things slantwise when it needs to. I’m hoping it won’t come to it but I may well need those skills if the police pull me in for interrogation. ‘I need you to take me to the hospital tomorrow,’ I lied. ‘I’m having a few issues and they said they could see me at 3.’
‘Oh what sort of issues.’
‘I’ve been peeing blood.’
‘Oh. That doesn’t sound good.’
‘No.’
‘Well I can pop back tomorrow and take you.’
‘But you won’t will you. We always lose you for a bit when you go back there. Can’t you just tell him you’ll go the next day?’
‘We’ve made plans Dad.’
‘Lucky you.’ Really what sort of plans could they have. Was he planning to plead forgiveness again. Pleading forgiveness followed by a few drinks and maybe a line or two to celebrate getting back together followed by accusations and then beatings. That’s how it always turned out. Maybe not in that short order but in that order nonetheless.
‘Dad don’t be like that. I’ll be back to take you.’
I felt like Vincent begging for her to stay. ‘It’s not just that. I’m worried that something is happening to me. I can’t rely on your mum or Anna if I need to go in in an emergency. I’m having dizzy spells. They warned me I shouldn’t be alone in case something happens.’
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Vinnie’s not going to like it.’
‘Why don’t you tell him to lump it for once. You two will have a lifetime together after I’m gone.’
‘Fuck. Ok.’
‘And if he’s got a problem without that tell him to speak to me. I’ll be more than happy to meet up with him to sort it out.’
D-Day
My annoying phone alarm went off at 02:15 am, drilling into my soul. I was confused, nearly falling asleep again when I remembered what day it was. The house was deathly quiet. Van had taken her pills last night and would be in that ‘other place’ she talks about. She has never elaborated on that place but in my mind she spend her nights in Narnia. Part of me wanted to go upstairs and check the girls were asleep but I figured it might be one of those cases where my checking on them woke them up. I had an OCD phase in my late teens and early twenties. Then I used to twiddle the knobs on the cooker to make sure they were sitting nicely in the off position and then go to bed worrying that my twiddling had turned the cooker on. Sometimes you are better off leaving well alone. After decades of nocturnal heightened awareness, I knew the girls’ routines pretty well, as much as they could be said to have routines. They liked to stay up until sleep overtook them at around 01:00 am. Young people resist sleep the way that old people resist death. Both girls were very similar in that way. I’d accidentally snoozed my alarm rather than dismissing it and it went off again. It jarred me out of my overthinking loop. I made sure to dismiss it this time as I certainly didn’t want it continually going off when I was out on the job. The phone was to stay here for obvious reasons and I didn’t want for the persistent alarm to wake one of the girls and bring them downstairs. Momentarily I wondered if they’d lie for me when I tell the officers that I spent all night sleeping on the sofa as normal. I had a job to do and I needed to get on with it. I couldn’t risk waiting until dawn began to threaten. This dithering was simply fear. This was my freeze response kicking in the way it liked to do. I wonder if the pack has a collective consciousness and an ego. I wonder if I recognise myself as the weakest in the pack and perhaps me freezing is me giving myself up as prey so that the stronger pack can go forward. I got dressed and left the house by the back door hardly making a sound. I dabbed my pockets to make sure I hadn’t brought my phone by habit. The phone was on the nested occasional tables. Part of me wanted to go back and confirm this as though the phone might have somehow snuck itself somewhere about my person that I hadn’t checked. I was almost surprised to feel the pistol in the inside pocket of my jacket as I patted myself down. Surprised, but reassured. I looked back at the house. It was eerily and peacefully quiet. The night was dark. Just as promised, the moon that still had the power to mesmerise me, was nothing more than a sliver.
The night was as dark as the gestational tract. I walked the alleyways, the woods and the darkened streets. I checked my analogue watch. None of these fancy modern things of course that would betray my location and my heart rate under the slightest interrogation. The time was 03:10 am when I arrived in front of Vincent’s house. I figured it would take a bit of knocking to get Vincent to come to the door. When he realised the caller wasn’t going away he would slowly make his way downstairs and open the door. I knew I’d forget to check my watch in all of the mayhem to come. My best guess was that time of death would be 03:15 am. [there’s a bit where I talk about the girls births. Add something saying he forgot to check his watch to record the time of birth (if not already there)]
Thankfully Vincent’s house had a working doorbell. Repeatedly knocking on the door might have aroused the neighbours but the bell was virtually silent to anyone outside the house. I had to strain to hear it myself. But there it was. I wasn’t sure if I had heard it or imagined it on the first ring, but on the second ring I heard it clearly. The third ring I heard it clearly. The fourth ring I heard, ‘for fuck’s sake. This had better be fucking good.’ I positioned myself. I smiled. I thought it was very fucking good but I’m not sure Vinnie would agree. I remembered all the strange people that used to come to our door as kids but who no longer come. The football pools man, the milkman, the Avon lady. People I heard rather than saw. I wondered if they had come to little Vinnie’s house when he was a kid. I adopted a casual stance in case he had a peep hole I couldn’t see. Only now I considered the possibility that he might keep the door on the chain and my mind rapidly processed various ways to handle that scenario and settled on none. Shoot him through the small gap. Kick the door off the chain. I could make up a story about Daisy that would encourage him to let me in for a chat. But Vincent wasn’t the type of guy to use the chain. He opened the door more than wide enough. I pulled out my gun more or less as I’d practised.
Chapter 9
You remember when your mum used to say not to make that face as it will stay that way if the wind changes. What is the etymology of that? How did that catch on as an idea. It would have been like a meme of its day. Vinnie had such a look of comical fear on his face the day Mike popped round to see him. Who the fuck are you? What do you want? Vinnie it’s me. Eternal retribution. He saw the gun. His face contorted in such a comical and fearful manner that Mike couldn’t help but laugh. Vinnie said they could talk about it. ‘Talk about what,’ said Mike with faux innocence. Vinnie pissed himself. There was a split second when Mike sensed Vinnie had given up. When he sensed Vinnie had had enough of his own pleading and lying. Enough of his own bullshit. When Vinnie finally saw the pointlessness of it all and was done. Mike shot him in the forehead. Dead centre like a trained marksman would do not a project manager. Seriously not even a millimetre off either way. Perfect. Aesthetic. The wind changed. Vinnie’s face stayed that way forever. Blood spatter and bone fragments adorned the woodchip walls. Vinnie stumbled back in a way that seemed to defy physics. Mike had never seen someone fall that way before. Limbs and torso at odds with each other. It reminded him of car accidents he had come across after the fact and he couldn’t make sense of it based on the positions of the vehicles. As though physics gives up in those most moments when it matters most. The way that Vinnie was giving up. Mike was supposed to depart the scene at this point, but he didn’t. He fell on top of Vincent. He swung an elbow which nestled into Vinnie’s eye socket like a pestle and mortar, like a ball and socket joint. He felt the socket crack under the force like an egg. He threw another elbow. It felt right. It felt perfect. He was in a flow state raining down elbows. Inimitable flow state. He felt at one with the Universe. The Universe was condoning his actions. In court, in front of a Judge he could almost claim he heard voices telling him to commit the attack, such was the vividness of his congruence with the Universe. He could almost say it wasn’t him. There wasn’t a voice exactly, but there was a nod, a silent hurrah, something that almost felt like parental pride. He could feel it. He continued to rain down elbows.
He heard whelps and little weird exhalations, and bones giving way. He heard begs for mercy. He heard I’ve got kids. Poor kids he thought, they’ll be better off without this fucking excuse for a father.
The adrenaline drained out of him. The Universe said that’s enough now. Maybe it even said, fuck did you really have to go that far. Like a co-conspirator distancing himself from the crime. That’s what he felt now. Already his elbow was swelling and aching.
Mike put the gun in Vinnie’s hand. Like the beating he’d just handed out, this hadn’t been part of the plan. But he didn’t want to have it in his possession, and he didn’t want it stashed at home. That would feel real and sordid bringing into the home where Van and the girls would have no idea. That would be like bringing another woman into the marital bed. He didn’t want to get caught on camera discarding it in a wheelie bin or a canal. He didn’t want it getting into the wrong hands. Despite what he saw on the news, Mike had never seen a gun in the real world before he took delivery of this one. For an innocent to stumble across it would be shocking. He knew the police wouldn’t buy the idea that Vinnie had shot himself, not even for a second. But the staging might throw some confusion into the piece. He figured he wouldn’t fit the profile of someone who would stage the scene. Too scared, too prosaic. The more obfuscation the better. After all he didn’t need to get away with this forever, just for his forever. As Mike departed, he turned back for one more look at the scene. This wasn’t the time for his OCD to return. He forced himself out the door, gently pulling it closed. He liked the symbolism of the staged suicide. Vinnie had brought this on himself. In many ways he had indeed killed himself.
Chapter 10
From now on, in this final act, my life would be an act. I hadn’t thought about that. Truth and lies ran on parallel tracks in my mind, my mental stylus switching between the two as required. Even waking up on the sofa now was an act of sorts. I felt like those youTubers who set up a camera before getting back into bed to film themselves waking up. It’s hard to pretend that everything is as normal when you know that it’s anything but. Van brought me a cup of coffee. It took all my restraint not to do a fake yawn and fake stretch as I woke. She took up her usual seat and put on the tv and watched her usual morning program that flip flopped between serious news and vacuous entertainment with a bit of weather forecasting thrown in for good measure as well as the opportunity to win some cash and a week away in a caravan. The juxtapositions used to feel jolting and bizarre until they didn’t. Now it felt seamless as the presenters first interviewed a politician and then interviewed the latest contestant to be kicked out of the jungle. It was part of my shtik to ask if anyone actually entered the competitions, but I had to admit that right now I’d love to be away in that caravan on a Devonshire hillside looking out over the sea. I wanted to run away more than I had at any time since my dad beat me as a kid. I was determined to stay away forever then even if it meant a life of begging and scavenging. Even it meant a life of living out in the wild living off bugs and rats and rainwater. Even if I was to succumb to the ravages of nature. That would teach him I thought. That would be a lesson to him. I lasted until dusk back then and then I got scared and made my way back home. Out there dusk came shortly before a harrowing blackness. I half expected my dad to beat me again for being out all day but he wasn’t home when I arrived back. Then I worried he might be out looking for me, but my mum reassured me he had gone to the pub. That was a good outcome. It felt like a holiday when he was out of the house, we just never knew when the holiday would be over. Honestly right now I just wanted to run away leaving a note confessing to what I’d done. This fake life and the morning tv and seeing Van comforted by her coffee and the familiar presenters made me feel nauseous.
Daisy looked fine when she came down. One might almost say chipper. I was on my second coffee but I felt like I’d had ten. My mind felt exposed as Vinnie’s brain matter was. Soon flies and maggots would started venturing into that hole in his head. I suddenly realised that she was due to go back to Vinnie’s today and it dawned on me that in all likelihood she would be the one to discover the body. I also realised with the utmost clarity that she wouldn’t thank me for what I’d done. Instead she would blame me. She’d say that Vinnie’s behaviour was in large part due to my not accepting him into the family. Vinnie being rejected once again. She’d romanticise his abject violence. She’d see their relationship as passionate. She’d say he had demons he couldn’t tame. She’d call him a lost soul. I wanted to cry and scream and beg her not to go back to him today.
The clothes I wore last night were now sitting near the top of the laundry basket. I’d put them just under Van’s sweat top that was at the top. There was blood on the navy hoodie and my black jeans. I’d inspected the clothes almost as meticulously as forensics would and I’d satisfied myself that you would only see it if you were looking for it. I waited for Van to put a wash on and felt the first glimmer of relief when she did. I hadn’t done a wash in twenty years so it would surely arouse suspicion if I started now. For some reason I viewed the washing machine as though it required a degree to use it. On numerous occasions Van had told me the buttons to press and where to pour the various liquids and in what quantities and reassured me that it wasn’t rocket science but I couldn’t get over that mental block. It was learned helplessness said Anna. She told Van she was an enabler. It was bone idleness said Daisy. I listened for the various stages of the wash cycle praying the machine wouldn’t break down. I heard the water filling up. I heard a swooshing that mirrored my guts. I pictured blood and gunshot residue and fibres and DNA all swirling around and diluting and draining out and away to a sewerage treatment facility far away. Van operated a last in first out process when it came to the washing basket so the stuff at the top got washed first even though the stuff at the bottom had been waiting longest. She was in her own little world as she did the washing, quietly humming to herself in a way that suggested contentment.
The washing machine made a hell of a racket on the spin cycle. Van had been telling me to take a look at it for months, and now I realised I could probably see it out. Van was contentedly humming away as she pulled the clothes from the drum into the plastic basket and then she screamed, ‘Oh my God!’ I was beside her in a flash. For a split second I had wanted to run away. I’d done a sort of Jason Robinson quick step, shimmy thing as I made one step towards the front door and then thinking better of it ran into the kitchen. It should be noted that Van screams ‘Oh my God!’ a lot. It keeps me on high alert, keeps the cortisol levels nice and topped up. Now she held up a tiny t-shirt that belonged to one of the girls. ‘I put Daisy’s white top in with the coloureds,’ she said. ‘Look at it. She loves that top and now it’s gone all pink.’
I overheard Daisy tell Anna that she thought Vinnie was sulking because she hadn’t gone back yesterday for their special make up Lasagne dinner. He wasn’t answering her texts. ‘I hate it when he’s like this,’ she said. Anna suggested giving him some space. A bit like me Anna sees that as the fix for most issues. Daisy was looking unwell now, she complained of a migraine. I thought about my quietly volatile dad coming back from the pub and wondered how she could bring herself to go back to Vinnie. She said, ‘for once I think you might be right sis. I’ll give it a day or two.’ For the first time in a long time I thought, thank you God. You’re on my side, I thought. For some reason God helps me most when my desperation is absolute. I had a little time to play with. Maybe, just maybe I was going to get away with this.
Daisy and Van reacted in slow motion. The moment the local news went to the reporter on the ground in Denton Road I sensed they already realised this was about Vince. I knew it was about Vince, of course. Their eyes went wide. They clasped their hands over their mouths, trying to contain vomit and expletives, bile and intestines, but I heard a slow motion ‘shiiiit’ from Daisy. ‘Oh my God’. ‘Oh my fucking God.’
‘What’s he gone and done?’ said Vanessa. Her eyes were fixed on the telly, her left arm reached out and grabbed Daisy’s arm, making sure she was there. The reporter, male, around forty, a little excitable, pointed to the house marked off with police tape. And behind me you can see… A man was found dead at 08:30 this morning. Police suspect foul play. No shit Shirlock. Police have no confirmed leads as yet. Good, I thought. I remained stoic, but I was fucking jittery inside. ‘Jesus, God Almighty,’ I said calmly. Police are making door to door enquires to see if neighbours saw or heard anything. Stay schtum neighbours, I thought. Another reporter was asking questions of residents who had made their way out on to the street. It's gone right downhill round here, they said. It was just a matter of time before something like this happened. Did you hear anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. To be honest there’s always some sort of commotion going on over there. Daisy was on her knees now. I got the sense the residents of Denton Road were more excited than distressed. Lights camera action. Finally, the world was interested in their shitty little road. They couldn’t wait to get on camera. Teenagers on bikes hovered in the background. They couldn’t wait to say their bit. Their lives had become interesting. I saw barely concealed glee in their faces and in their energy. It wasn’t dissimilar to dupers delight. I checked myself. The girls were still glued to the TV. It was subtle yet unmistakeable. Am I a psycho? Am I evil? I couldn’t contain the strange little smile that played in my mind and around my mouth.
[not sure the following makes sense as Mike would have expected Daisy to notice something. He was either showering Daisy with texts and calls or cutting her off. I had hoped she would think he was in one of his sulking phases.]
They found him more quickly than I had imagined. Vincent wasn’t the sort of person that anyone requested welfare checks for. He wasn’t vulnerable. He didn’t have a job to go missing from and rarely picked up his kids. He didn’t have a routine that he responsibly adhered to and therefore there was essentially nothing for him to go missing from. There might have been some dealers he had planned to meet up with or a little job he was supposed to undertake, things that happened on the periphery of the lives of good upstanding people. The dealers weren’t likely to call the police and claim that it’s unlike him to miss a drop. Sure Vinnie hadn’t been in the Royal Oak for a couple of days but that wasn’t unusual. He was probably in the Crown or sitting at home getting high. Maybe his dear old mum had popped by, or the postman had noticed the vague shape of a body through the frosted glass. Maybe a neighbour had had second thoughts and decided to report the sound of gunfire from the night before.
I’d covered my tracks as best as I could. I’m no assassin, or criminal mastermind. I knew however much I planned it I’d probably slip up somewhere so I decided not to over think it. Besides I’ve maybe got three months left on this planet, six months tops. I reckon it will take them longer than that to get enough evidence on me. That said I didn’t want to be one of those comically bad criminals that get mocked on youTube. I didn’t want my namesake from ThatChapter taking the piss out of me. I left my phone at home so they couldn’t track me. I’d wanted it to look like a hit but that went out of the window when I fell on top of him and started raining down elbows. I always imagined a hit style killing would be the easiest to get away with. No cleanup. It’s often the cleanup that’s the undoing of a perpetrator. When they’re spotted on CCTV in Target or Walmart (I watch too many US true crime shows) buying the bleach, the shovel, the tarp, sometimes a saw. I sometimes wonder why Target don’t package all these things nicely together and sell them as a ‘murder cleanup kit’. I haven’t googled anything I shouldn’t. I won’t call up the Police and ask them how the investigation is going. I haven’t told a soul. I won’t tell a soul. There’s no handwritten map of Vinces’ Road. There’s no confession in my journal. My smirk might give me away, but they can’t convict me on a smirk can they? The police might ask me if I know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Vince. With a straight face I’ll say – I’ve never known anyone have a bad word to say about him. He was the kind of guy that would give you the shirt off his back. So no, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt him. It really makes no sense to me. No sense at all.
Chapter 11 (first police visit)
The police pulled up outside the house. From his comfy chair Mike watched as the car parked in the space that Billy Deacon next door had permanently baggsied. Alma Close formed a horseshoe around a central green. Every house looked in on every other house, meaning that right now the occupants of every other house would have seen the police car too. Mike was hyper vigilante these days, ever since Vince came on the scene. He noticed all the comings and goings. He watched as two IC1 male police officers got out of the car. Mike smiled to himself referring to them as IC1 males. The officers chatted briefly over the top of the car, getting their story straight, before making their way up the path. Mike became uncomfortable in his comfy chair. He called up the stairs to Van. ‘Van it’s the police, the police are here,’ as he approached the door. He felt like he was warning her in some way. Maybe giving her some time to delete stuff off her phone, or to flush the drugs. Or maybe it was just to make sure she was appropriately dressed, or just to give her a moment to steel herself. She hated guests at the best of times. She hated uninvited guests more. They had never had uninvited police turn up at their door before, but he imagined she would hate these unbidden visitors most of all. Anything that brought outside eyes on to her little domain was unwelcome. With anyone but the four of them in the house and Mike could see she was on edge. She would reluctantly offer her guests a drink out of a sense of social obligation but there was something in her tone of voice and in her demeanour that meant the invitation was rarely accepted. ‘You do know you don’t have to obey social norms,’ said Mike, but Van was too timid to eschew them. She feared any guests would settle in for the long stay, but they rarely did. You could see it in the guests’ faces too, that they realised they might have made a mistake dropping in here. Most couldn’t get away quick enough and now Miked hoped that Van’s hosting skills would have the same effect on the police.
The police officers looked big in their little living room. They looked cumbersome on the tired sofa, not being au-fait with all the bumps and hollows, falling inwards towards each other a bit. Eventually they perched on the edge of the sofa. They asked who was in the house. ‘Just myself and my wife and our eldest Daisy.’ Anna was out of the house somewhere. She thrived on peace and the emotional turmoil that had existed in the house for the past twenty four hours had driven her out. She’d given her hugs and her condolent platitudes to Daisy. She described it as feeling like a bystander when the paramedics are working on an accident victim. ‘It feels wrong to stand around watching and it feels wrong to walk away.’
‘Get yourself away for a few days,’ said Van. ‘Until the dust settles.’
‘You’re making me sound like I did it. Lay low for a bit.’
Van laughed. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ll head down to Bath. Get myself one of those quaint little B&Bs. Check out some of the sites I missed out on before.’ Mike kissed her on the forehead. He thought she must be getting stronger again if she was willing to go back to her old Uni town. ‘I wish I could join you,’ he said.
Anna knew that Daisy knew she couldn’t stand Vinnie. She didn’t want to be a hypocrite. She didn’t want to have to say nice things about Vinnie, and then have to live with the taint of regret afterwards. She thought she had got the balance about right, expressing her sorrow for Daisy without eulogising Vinnie. She would let others say what an honest to goodness salt of the earth bloke he was. She’d let others say that he lit up a room. Vinnie lit up a room when he left it, thought Anna. And thankfully now he had left for good.
The police officers asked for Van and Daisy to come downstairs, and Mike called them as though he was calling them down to dinner. Daisy looked like an overly made-up meth addict as depicted by the local amateur dramatic society. She was pale. Her eyes were dark and hollow, looking out from the soul. Without makeup she had achieved the goth look. Mike hated himself for thinking it, but he was momentarily glad that the police would see that her grief was clearly genuine. Mike played the stoic dad keeping things together for the family because that was the only role he knew how to play. For his sins he was forever typecast in this role. The police talked about routine enquiries. They said they understood that Daisy was in a relationship with Vincent. They insisted on calling him Vincent. Daisy called him Vinnie or Vin. They asked about the nature of their relationship and the length of it. They asked if she knew of anyone that might have wanted Vincent dead. They nonchalantly asked if they had been experiencing any difficulties in their relationship. Van huffed. ‘Difficulties? That boy would struggle to get along with his own shadow. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, especially not in front of my daughter, but he could be a bit of a shit if I’m to be honest with you. More than a bit.’
Daisy said, ‘thanks mum, that’s really helping. Maybe you could get a job in grief counselling.’
Mike admonished her, ‘Van!’
Mike had always known that the police would come knocking on his door at some point. Of course they would. But he hadn’t expected them to be here so soon. They were earning his respect. His mind scattered, thinking about his clothes, the gun, dna, his alibi. Through the large front window they had seen him sitting in his comfy chair as they walked up the path so they hadn’t even bothered to knock. From his chair he had quietly acknowledged them. The obvious link between the Erringtons and Vincent was Daisy. Of course they would need to take a statement from her. Strangely Michael hadn’t expected that Daisy would be the focus of their questioning. He was experiencing a rare case of Main Character Syndrome presumably driven by guilt or by the pure viscous vividity of his crime. He thought his own gauche criminality would have them immediately looking at him, but instead he found himself in an auxiliary role offering coffees. Both policemen politely declined. They said Daisy would have to come into the police station to make a formal statement. She nodded from within her hoodie. Mike disliked the practised nonchalance of the police, designed to disarm. The ‘routine enquires’, the ‘we’re talking to anyone who knew him’, the ‘you’re not under arrest’, the ‘you’re free to leave at any time’. How would it look to ask for a lawyer or to go no comment against that backdrop. Mike knew the advice on true crime forums and in the comments was always, never speak to the police without a lawyer, but it sure would look suspicious if you didn’t respond when they were just making routine enquiries. That’s a sure-fire way to rocket yourself to the top of the suspect list. The police say good morning and you reply no comment. ‘I’m sure you want the culprit brought to account as much as we do,’ said officer Daley. Mike saw Daisy bristle. ‘I loved him,’ she said. Mike felt bad that he had put his daughter in this situation but it was as clear as hell that she was innocent and she had a near watertight alibi.
Later that day Mike dropped Daisy off at the police station. He figured she wouldn’t be too long so he hung around for what turned out to be just over an hour before she came back out. Whilst waiting he got out of his car and stretched his legs for a bit. He found a garage that did a takeaway coffee and a cinnamon bun that he wasn’t sure if they were called twirls or whirls or swirls, then returned to his car. He was parked in a little residential side road opposite the station. He could see the front door of the station from here. He felt on edge thinking that the residents wouldn’t be happy he was parked there. It looked like the sort of place that had parking issues. Clued up commuters who worked in the nearby offices used it throughout the day. Some of them returned to their cars at lunchtime to eat their meal deals, cocooning themselves away from the office for a short while. Residents got pissed off. He continued to watch the front door of the police station waiting for Daisy to appear. He sipped his coffee. It looked like he was on undercover surveillance of the station and that made him smile. When Daisy came out she looked around for a bit before seeing him and giving him a half wave that made her seem gauche and teenaged. It made him love her more. She got into the passenger seat of the car. He didn’t say anything for a minute or two. He gave her a tight lipped smile as she got in the car which said ‘I’m here for you kid.’ His hand reached to turn on the radio and then backed away. It might be the news and a report on Vinnie’s murder which would just be the weirdest thing. He briefly thought about the upcoming Christmas. Christmas songs were already being played on the radio. Avoiding hearing about Vinnie’s killing on the news felt like a rather bleak version of Whamageddon. He didn’t want to trivialise Vinnie’s death by giving this alternative game a name. ‘What did they have to say? Are they getting anywhere?’
‘Doesn’t seem like it. They asked me all sorts about our relationship. Asked about my whereabouts on the Sunday night. They were nice enough and everything. They were doing that we don’t really consider you a suspect but we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t ask thing. I was made to feel grateful they were interrogating me because that meant they were doing their job properly. Oh and they took my phone. Not gonna lie it feels like they took a kidney already. They’re going to see all our embarrassing messages, the arguments, the breakups, the makeups, the petty stuff, the cringe stuff. Then there’s the voice notes. I’m just thankful I was never a pic kind of girl.’
‘Well you’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘Yeah it’s just routine as they said,’ she said innocently. ‘Oh and I told them about the restraining order from last year. I felt like I had to. The acted like they didn’t know about it, but I could see that they did. So I had to go over that whole debacle again.’
‘Yeah they’ll have that down as a potential motive but that’s all they’ve got against you. That’s all they can have against you, right. You’re going to have to be careful though. If they have it in their heads that you had enough of a motive and they don’t come up with any other viable suspects, they’ll twist the facts to fit that narrative. They’ll get tunnel vision. They used to call it bent cops, but these days they call it anchoring.’
‘Don’t worry dad, I could tell they believed me.’
‘They do that to get you to drop your guard.’
‘Well even if they have a bias they’re not exactly going to fabricate evidence or plant something on me so I’ll be ok.’ She pulled her hand out of her hoodie pocket. ‘Oh what are those shell casings doing there.’ Mike laughed as he was driving. It was funnier because Daisy wasn’t exactly your standup comic. ‘I shouldn’t joke’, she said.
‘No, you shouldn’t.’
‘I guess they’ll have to get you and mum and Anna to confirm my alibi. You were sleeping downstairs. I know you’ll vouch for me won’t you dad.’
I started to worry that the cops would interrogate Daisy’s phone and see that she had delayed her return to Vinnie’s in order to take me to the hospital. At first I think they’ll take that at face value. They would surely have asked Daisy to account for at least her last twenty four hours so they will know she took me to the hospital. She will have told them about my cancer and that’s fine. It’s perfectly normal for a daughter to take her dad to the hospital in such circumstances. It doesn’t feel contrived to me. But did she tell them that in order to take me to the hospital she was unable to go back to Vinnie’s. The text messages will tell them that. I can’t quite work out if that’s something they might pick up on or it only feels pertinent to me because I know. Maybe they’ll check the hospital carpark cctv and be satisfied when they see our car go through the barrier and park up and both of us get out clear as day and Daisy gives me a hug before I head into the hospital and she sits back in the car. They’ll see me look back over my shoulder and smile at her. It was a smile of empathy that only exists between a father and a daughter, and it was also a check to make sure she was getting back into the car and not taking a walk around the hospital. I didn’t want her coming in to get a snack and see me waiting for Godot. I have to believe that at some point they’ll check with the hospital and find that I didn’t have an appointment. A big penny is going to drop at that point. Then they’ll check the cctv inside the hospital and see me hanging around in the reception area without ever seeing a clinician of any kind. I grabbed a Twix from the vending machine. I loitered. I wandered up and down corridors. I sat in a toilet cubicle as it was the only place I could find to achieve a little space for myself. A good place to contemplate all kinds of shit. I had vague memories of doing the same at college sometimes as an alternative to the chaos of the common room or walking around like Billy No Mates. I didn’t mind being Billy No Mates. I just didn’t like the glare of people looking at me with pity or questioning. I could feel their eyes on me. To make it seem more realistic I waited longer than expected before emerging from the toilet cubicle, washing my hands and going out past the reception desk, and out of the main hospital doors towards the carpark. I got in the passenger side of the car. Daisy gave me a tight-lipped smile. I tapped my pocket and said, ‘they gave me something for the bleeding.’ I lied easily. Maybe Daisy had given Vinnie another reason she couldn’t go back that night. He wouldn’t have taken kindly to taking second place to her dad. Maybe she had said she felt unwell or needed more time alone. My intuition tells me they won’t be focussed on me just yet. It’s an uncanny feeling to think you might be being investigated. That trained officers might be piecing my life together just as it’s falling apart. I picture the police briefings and wonder if my name has come up. Was it mentioned in passing or with intention. The not knowing is excruciating. Is my picture on the murder board.
OK so that’s one piece of circumstantial evidence they’ll have against me. If I try to explain it away they’ll corner me in lies and build a case against me from that. If I go no comment then it’s just once piece of flimsy evidence floating in the wind. There’s no way CPS will have me charged on that alone. Yeah it seems like some odd behaviour but they can’t bang me up for that. I could have simply got confused what with all the checkups I’m having and the meds I’m on that won’t allow a single thought to stick. It feels like I’m truly living in the moment, and the feeling is nauseaus [??]. These days you’ll be hard pushed to find one person that doesn’t display some sort of odd behaviour on a daily basis. The funny farm has become the norm. It’s why we don’t have freak shows these days. Maybe there’s a small enclave of sane people somewhere but I’m yet to see it. Maybe area 51 is where they house the aliens and the sane folk.
Chapter X
There was a strange void after Vinnie’s death. Sure there was activity. But all the activity had an air of pretence. Mike could clearly see the machinations of the production as though he was a stagehand rather than a member of the audience. There were news reporters hanging around. He would see them joking around or munching on a sandwich before putting on their serious face when the cameras started rolling. Look carefully and you will see that they experience dupers delight too. He felt like he had been given privileged access to the game. The police appeared human. Perhaps for the first time in his life he didn’t feel in awe of authority. Their stress and nervousness were evident. He had very little to lose and they were contending with public expectation and the scrutiny of their superiors. They had rent to pay and kids that woke in the middle of the night. Kids suffering from a fever and experiencing nightmares more real than the lives they had ahead of them. They had career progression to think about. They had unfinished DIY jobs. They had all the things that Mike was now absolved of. They’d reached an age where they would have realised that they will only ever be pretending at life. Their kids and superiors alike, asking them questions for which they didn’t have the answers, and yet they answered them anyway. It’s hard to keep Memento Mori at the forefront of your mind when you have so much life still to go but now he truly felt it. [??]
Gossip raged around the town and in the pubs. Vinnie was a shadow. He was a silhouette. He was gone. Like a surgically removed cancerous growth. No one appeared to care about Vinnie, really. They pretended to care. The reporters wanted the story. The police wanted a promotion. The local residents wanted reassurance that whoever had done this was not going to come for them. They quietly relished the relief from the monotony of their daily lives. Mike sensed that even Daisy was enjoying the attention she was receiving. He suspected she would quietly, quasi and psuedo reluctantly, dine out on it for the rest of her life. At times her and Vinnie referred to each other as hubby and wifey. They carelessly said they were married until pressed on details about how long they had been married for and what type of wedding they had. Well we’re as good as married, they’d say. Mike thought Daisy would call herself a widow and bask in everything that came with widowhood. They were all experiencing a sort of dupers delight caused by the tension between the seriousness they were portraying and the strange thrill they felt inside. In Vinnie’s place was quiet and peace and relief. Like a wild rockstar turning to Buddhism in his later years. In the Royal Oak his name was whispered, not in exalted tones but yes hushed tones as though he might still be able to hear. Like maybe he had got stuck in one of the cubicles and he was about to come out and put his big old hand on your shoulder and accuse you of chatting shit about him. Van would whisper like that sometimes when she gossiped about people that had never been in earshot of our house. Sometimes she simply mouthed the gossip in an exaggerated manner and Mike had to lean in and ask her to repeat herself. He wondered if a lipreader would hear this as shouting. There were no candlelight vigils. There were no campaigns. No one ever arranged a charity 10K run or footy match in Vinnie’s name. There was no sorrow. Mike felt a bit bad for Vinnie. He felt bad for his mum. He worried about how hollowly the Vicar’s words would echo around the sparsely populated church during the funeral service. He wondered if he’d see Vinnie again when his time came. He didn’t expect to. What are the chances that Heaven and Hell exist, wondered Mike. There must have been a point in our distant ancestory when we first conceptualised Heaven and Hell, he thought. And what of the eons before that. When our distant ancestors could kill, not with impunity, but at least without the threat of eternal torture. Were we only bound by Heaven and Hell when we had evolved to the point that we could contemplate them. Did those that existed prior to that get a pass that would not be afforded to himself. Or maybe Heaven and Hell always existed, not as a tempering thought but as a blinding nothingness. I [wrong person 1st/3rd] don’t expect to see anything more than the inside of my eyelids as the insects slowly eat them away. I wondered too about those that do believe in the afterlife and seeing deceased loved ones once again. And what if the ones you love don’t want to spend eternity with you. Do they say memento mori in Heaven. Maybe they just say one day you died. I wondered about seeing my mum again and my dad again and all those old feelings came flooding back and I experience an odour I can’t quite place. I felt an irrepressible heartburn work its way up my oesophagus. I was a child again. I was behoven [??] to his moral stricture again. [check the 1st person vs 3rd person]
Chapter 12 (police visit two)
‘Michael, I know it’s difficult but we need to ask… can you confirm your whereabouts on Sunday the 15th between midnight and 5 am.’
Van said, ‘you’re accusing him.’
The same two police officers were back again, what was it Daley and Dunning, perched on the end of the sofa trying to appear relaxed, trying to make everything seem routine. They acted as though they were just doing the rounds again, like they had popped in for a chat with all their other neighbours and would shortly continue on up the street casually asking everyone their whereabouts on the early hours of Sunday. The made it seem like small talk, like the what-did-you-get-up-to-on-the-weekend chat that Mike regularly endured with his colleagues. His usual response of ‘oh nothing much,’ had served him well down the decades. It was the acceptable, euphemistic office phrasing of ‘what the fuck’s it got to do with you.’ He figured the same vague approach would serve him well here. He’d flower it up just a little bit so as not to come off as incalcitrant. If the cops were going to play it cool, he too would play it cool.
‘Just routine enquiries. The sooner we can rule you both out, the sooner we can narrow in on the perpetrator,’ said office Daley with a reassuring smile. ‘Something I’m sure you agree we all want.’
‘I was here. On this very sofa.’ Mike did a strange little bounce on the chair. ‘Apart from my daily constitutional it’s where I spend most of my time these days. It pulls out to make a bed see. Surprisingly comfortable.’ Mike half got up as though he was going to show the officers how the sofa turned into a bed but then thought better of it. ‘I sleep down here these days because the stairs are becoming a bit of a problem.’ Mike gave himself a little internal nod of approval. He liked how he made himself sound incapable without labouring the point. It flowed remarkably well. There was an aesthetic congruence between his words and his slightly gasping delivery of those words. He felt he had got the tone just right. ‘Van, Vanessa sets the bed up for me before she goes off to bed. Does it in about 2 seconds flat these days. She could get a job on one of those sleeper trains. I normally stay up and watch a film until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. Don’t think I’ve seen a film all the way through to the end for quite a while.’ Mike suddenly realised he was over talking and abruptly stopped.
‘Very good,’ said Daley as though he was reasonably satisfied with the alibi. Mike felt suitable relieved.
‘And yourself madam. Where were you?’
‘I was upstairs asleep. I’m in bed by 9 every night without fail. You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this.’ Mike admired his wife in this moment. She wasn’t about to take any shit from the police.
‘9 you say?’ He appeared to jot this down in his notebook. That’s when Van realised he was wearing a bodycam. She sat up straight in her chair.
‘I know it must sound crazy to you youngsters. When I was your age, a little bit younger maybe, I used to say I can sleep when I’m dead like I thought I was a rockstar or something.’
‘And you didn’t hear Michael leave the house at all.’
‘No. Why would he leave the house. I would have heard him if he had. I’m a light sleeper see.’
Mike wished she hadn’t added that last bit about being a light sleeper. Strictly speaking it was true. If she didn’t take the Valium she was a very light sleeper. When she took the Valium she was dead to the world. He’d relied on this fact when sneaking out of the house in the early hours of Sunday morning. If the police searched the house and found the bottles of pills they’d wonder why she had lied. It was a half-lie, they could talk their way around that one, but he didn’t want to have too many of these to remember.
‘Can either of you think of anyone that had any grievance with Vincent. Someone that might have wanted to do him harm?’
‘Not anyone in particular. We really didn’t know him very well at all. It’s not like he popped over for Sunday dinner every week. In truth we probably met him less than a dozen times all told. You’ll know yourselves he wasn’t exactly Snow White. He had an uncanny ability to upset people, seemingly without even trying. I feel bad for him, I really do. Most of all I feel bad for his mum. No parent should have to go through what she’s going through. I worry for her that his funeral service will be largely empty. That the eulogies will be tellingly circumspect. I one shoulder I’ve got decency, the desire not to speak ill of the dead. On the other I’ve got honesty. One shoulder, my mum telling me if I haven’t got a good word to say about someone I shouldn’t say anything at all. The other, the omnipresent judicial imploring me to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. The whole truth. You dealt with him enough. This isn’t a case of the good dying young.’ Mike wished he hadn’t said the last bit. It made him look heartless. He wondered if Daisy might have heard him from upstairs in her bedroom. He’d wanted to appear unashamed in front of the officers and it had caused him to overspeak both in quantity and volume.
The police closed their notepads as they stood up. Van recognised the juxtaposition of notepads and bodycams. Dixon of Dock Green meets Minority Report she thought. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr and Mrs Errington.’ One of them handed Mike a card. ‘If you hear of anything, anything at all, please give me a call on that number.’ Mike nodded. Now the officer who hadn’t yet said anything spoke. ‘Mr Errington, before we head off, do you mind if we take a look at your hands?’
‘Not at all.’ Mike held out his hands as though he was expecting a manicure. They were the undamaged hands of a man that worked in IT. He felt his elbow throb. He prayed they wouldn’t ask him to take off his shirt. What would he say if they did? ‘Thank you Mr Errington, that will be all for now. Again, if you do hear anything…’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breathe. It’s not like we mix in those circles. We’re not the sort to hear things. Even round here where supposedly everyone knows each other’s business. We always say it, we’re always the last to know aren’t we love. But of course, if we do hear anything we’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 13 (Mike interview 1)
[This chapter needs big clean up, it’s a bit of a dump of stuff so there is repetition and contradictions all over the place but the meat of it is good. Also he’s probably gone too far in his ranting, seems too close to confession.]
Five days after the murder of Vincent Burber the police finally pulled Michael Errington in for a formal interview. PC Dunning phoned him and asked him to come in. He said they could fit him in today, as though they were doing him a favour. Dunning made it sound like he was asking him in to get a suit fitted. Mike suggested tomorrow as he had some important work on right now, and PC Dunning agreed. Mike could tell he only agreed because he was trying to maintain a non-accusatory demeanour. Mike hated doing anything spur of the moment at the best of times, especially if it was someone else’s spur. On-the-day invites were one of his pet hates even if it was just for a coffee or a beer. They jacked up his nervous system. He was thankful for Van who was even less spontaneous than he was. Van lived by the clock, every TV show she watched, every cup of tea she had, every household chore was baked into the schedule. Sometimes Mike had the vague sense that he was tracking her because he knew her whereabouts at any given moment. There are creatures of habit and then there’s Van. Mike made up the excuse about work being busy and that had bought him a day. He would watch some true crime police interrogations on youTube tonight. Sort of like last minute homework. Which ones had got off scot-free, and which were fucked. Honing his manner and persona. Honestly he’d spent a lifetime honing it, like the ultimate method actor. He would have a beer, max two. Just to relax a bit. He’d welcome sleep, but he’d also welcome the slowing of time that came with wakefulness doing it’s damnedest to hold off the inevitable.
‘Officers present are PC Dunning and DI Sullivan’
Dunning was one of the officers that had been round the house. The one who had taken a backseat to officer Daley. The one who had checked Mike’s hands for injuries. In the house Mike had assumed he was Daley’s subordinate but now he wondered if he had allowed Daley to take the lead. He had waxy, hairless skin that made him impossible to age. It gave him an other-worldly quality. At times he looked twenty at other times he looked forty-five depending on lighting and angles and which physical feature was most compelling at that time. Depending on whether he stepped forward or sat back. Dunning had a climber’s wiry physique. The sort of physique that looks more impressive with the shirt off. It took time for Mike to recognise the impressiveness of it. You’d do well not to mistake it for skinny, thought Mike. Mike had never met DI Sullivan before. Sullivan was skinny. He was fair and washed out. He was the colour of a once white T-shirt. Mike guessed he was mid-forties and lived on the shittiest diet imaginable. He had a can of Dr Pepper in front of him. He looked like he’d been silently crying out for help for decades. He was on a bunch of meds for sure. He downed meds the way that Dunning downed protein shakes. Dunning had twice been round Mike’s house and Mike felt that conferred some sort of advantage on Dunning. He knew Mike’s setup in a way that Mike didn’t know his. If Mike was to guess he would say that Dunning didn’t really have a setup. Nothing too permanent. A rented flat and occasionally Tinder hookups to break up the monotony of his otherwise programmed life. He was a self-improvement guy for sure. He had no doubt cast an eye over Mike’s bookshelves subconsciously or consciously noting authors and book titles. Mike had never been round to Dunning’s, but he’d be willing to bet his bookshelves were filled with self-improvement books. Mike would be willing to plead guilty right here and now if ‘Atomic Habits’ wasn’t on Dunning’s shelf. They didn’t make dramas with central characters that looked like Dunning, they made them around characters like Sullivan. Divorced, stressed, and with a barely manageable drink habit. Mike wondered how these two got along. Were they regular partners or were they just working together on this one case. Mike’s mind drifted off, writing the beginnings of a screenplay in which these two were partners that didn’t get along. There was very little rapport between them in the interview room. All their focus was on him.
Dunning led the interview, but Mike got the impression it was because Sullivan let him. The hierarchy must have been Sullivan at the top then Dunning then Daley. Dunning emphasised that Mike was not under arrest and was free to leave whenever he liked. It felt like a trap. It felt like when his mum would tell him he wouldn’t be in trouble so long as he was honest and admitted he had done it. Like when he had cracked his elderly neighbours window with a football. They had a lovely circular stained glass window that faced onto Michael’s driveway where he liked to kick a ball about. Now the window had a crack in it that Michael somehow hoped no-one would notice. Mum was good cop, gently trying to cajole a confession from him. Dad seemed to take pleasure in beating one out of him. If Mike got up to leave now would they bundle him to the floor the minute he exited the room. He recalled the lyrics to Hotel California. The word ‘never’ nagged at him. Never is a long time. He wondered if they’d arrest him today and remand him and he’d never taste freedom again and never experience the comfort of home again. At this stage he was simply helping with enquiries, Dunning reiterated. At this stage. ‘So going back to the night of the 15th November. Can you provide us with a detailed account of your movements that evening.’ Mike had already recounted his evening and night to the police at least twice before. He knew they were looking out for inconsistencies. If last time he said he had cheesecake after dinner and this time he said carrot cake they’d be all over him. His story was solid though. It was a bullshit sandwich. A generous layer of bullshit between two slices of truth. All he had to do was remember to tell them he was sleeping during that two hour period he was out of the house on a mission to hunt down Vincent Burber.
Sullivan was acting distracted, looking through some papers. He was giving the impression that Mike could say just about anything and it wouldn’t really stick. Like Mike could confess to the whole kit and kaboodle and he wouldn’t notice because he was so distracted with the paperwork. Mike’s alibi was not perfect. There was no one who could one hundred percent vouch for his whereabouts the whole time. But it was simple. It was repeatable. It didn’t require him to remember too much made up stuff. It just required him to omit a few details that DI Sullivan would likely deem to be salient. Most nights Mike nodded off in the middle of a movie and this wasn’t much different to that. He remembered watching the start and then he remembered trying to make sense of the ending. During his recollection he simply missed out the best part of the movie. ‘Unfortunately we have a bit of an issue with your alibi. There are no witnesses that can categorically say that you were at home for the entire night.’
‘OK,’ said Mike. He was becoming truculent. He knew he would have to start going no comment soon. The onus was on the police to prove he wasn’t at home, not on him to prove he was.
‘OK?’
‘And no-one can categorically say that I wasn’t.’ He thought of the tree falling in the woods with no-one around. He wondered if he could confer innocence on himself because no-one was around. Not the presumption of innocence or innocence in the eyes of the law due to lack of evidence but actual karmaless innocence. Innocence in the eyes of God. Well, there had been someone around to hear it, to witness it up close and personal, but that someone was now dead. And wasn’t he himself a witness to his own wrongdoing. ‘I’m not sure what else you want from me. I’m not sure what else I can give you. It can’t be my fault that no-one watches over me at all hours of the night.’ Mike was so sure that both of these men were single, that Dunning was a bachelor and Sullivan was divorced. The only question in Mike’s mind was how many times divorced. ‘I mean who could vouch for you in the early hours officer. Or you detective. Exactly. I’m afraid you’re going to have to bring more to the table than a flimsy motive and an alibi that granted is uncorroborated but has in no way been disproved. In truth my alibi is no weaker or stronger than anybody else’s. You will know yourself officer that we live in a time when there are more loners than ever, more incels than ever. Not saying you’re an incel but you know what I mean. You are of this generation. So, in the dead of night who really can be vouched for.’
‘I sense you are not being particularly forthcoming Mr Errington. As though you have something to hide. Either you were involved or you know who was.’
‘You’re asking me for information that I do not hold because I wasn’t involved in the crime and then using my inability to provide said information as evidence of my involvement. If I’m not giving you much it’s because I don’t have much to give. I’m sorry. I wish I did.’
‘OK Mr Errington. But put yourself in my position. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t dot the I’s and cross the T’s, and this alibi of yours, I don’t know, it doesn’t sit right with me. Call it an old school hunch if you like. We have a whole team of officers trawling cctv. The crime scene has been processed and evidence sent to the lab. It’s just a matter of time Mr Errington.’
‘Good. Just a matter of time until you clear my name. And just a matter of time until you catch the scumbag that did this. I didn’t care much for Vincent but I want whoever did this caught as much as you do. If only to see my name cleared. I’m on borrowed time office. You know that. I could do without the accusations and the gossip. It feels that in a very real way, the way you are perceived when you die is the way you will remain.’
‘That’s reassuring to hear we are on the same side here. Mr Errington, when we catch them what do you think the appropriate punishment should be. What would you consider to be justice in a case like this.’
‘Throw the book at them.’
‘What does that mean.’
‘Once upon a time I believed in the rule of law and the judicial system of this land. Once upon a time. Think what you will of Vincent Burber, he didn’t deserve to be murdered. He was someone’s father and someone’s son. I have no doubt that whatever punishment is handed out by the courts will be inadequate. We’re not the yanks with their death penalty and their whole life terms. This country is so weak on crime that it’s literally beyond my comprehension that we would ever have corporal punishment. Could you imagine a hanging in this country or death by firing squad. Could you even imagine death being administered by lethal injection. I suppose there was the covid jab but most of those that received that weren’t strapped to a gurney at least not literally. They welcomed it like cool-aid. Of course if they’re done for murder they will get quote unquote life. You take a life, you get life. I’d be willing to wager the minimum term in this case will be south of twenty years. That’s just how our justice system works. We’re superior to the yanks you see. And the Arabs. I believe in an eye for an eye. It’s a strange world we inhabit now where an eyelash for an eye will do.
[this bit is rushed] ‘An eye for an eye indeed Mr Errington. Is that the kind of retribution you were seeking. You hurt my daughter, I’ll hurt you. It’s fair to say you have a strong motive Mr Errington. Your daughter has made allegations about Mr Burber on more than one occasion. Serious allegations. You wouldn’t be human to not want retribution. You’re a father, a good father. I have a daughter myself. I get it. I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t do the same if I was in your shoes. There but for the grace of God and all that. I probably shouldn’t say this as an officer of the law but fuck it we’re all men here - I respect you for it. You put your family first as any good father should.’
‘Serious allegations that were quietly ignored by your lot I might add. Look if I was the only one that had a motive you might have a point. But you’ll know yourselves that the list of people that had a motive for killing Vincent is a really quite long. You’ve got ex partners and drug dealers and old acquaintances that he crossed. I’m hearing that he had the ear of you guys if you know what I mean. You know what they say about snitches getting stitches. I’ll admit it’s a subjective call, but I would say there are quite a few with a stronger motive then me.’
‘You don’t exactly seem upset that he’s dead.’
‘I am simply less of a hypocrite than you. What were you expecting from me, wailing and crocodile tears. Look I’m not a cold-hearted guy. If his mum asked me to stand up in the church and say a few words, I’d find a few nice words to say. I’d find it within myself to omit certain aspects of his life and character. You know my situation, that I’m not long for this world. So what’s the point of lying. You could count the number of people that are upset by Vinnie’s death on one hand. That’s just the way it is. I won’t say I’m elated, but there’s definitely relief there, for sure. We’ll all sleep better knowing he won’t be around to put a brick through our window or beat up my daughter on any given whim or threaten to kill our family. Whoever did this did you guys a favour. He would have killed my daughter at some point, be in no doubt about that. Now you won’t have to face public condemnation when asked why you didn’t put this guy away sooner. Because you did have the opportunities to put him away, but you chose to ignore my daughter’s pleas for help. You, I’m going to say it, you’re useless fuckers. Chocolate teapot comes to mind. So bang me up for calling a spade a spade. You chose to put the onus on my daughter because you didn’t want to put in the legwork yourselves. You told her to record ever incident, which she did. You told her to apply for a restraining order which she did. She’s got threatening texts. She’s got recordings of him verbally abusing her. She provided you guys with dates and times, and video evidence of his stalking. She gave you the names of witnesses. In return, what did the chocolate teapot brigade do? You popped round to see him and told him to stop being a naughty boy or else. That’s what you did.
When the police won’t do the work they’re paid to do, then someone will step in to do it on their behalf. They’ll fill the vacuum that you created. Like with those groups that capture nonces that you lot allow to roam free. You should be grateful. If you ever do find the person that did it, you should buy them a pint.’
‘What are you drinking Mr Errington.’ Mike smiled.
‘If the public have to get the evidence and provide the witnesses, it only stands to reason they’re going to take this thing to its natural conclusion and provide the punishment and the justice. You should be happy. One less clogging up the court system. One less clogging up our overflowing prisons.’
‘Except there’s not is there Mr. Errington. Far be it for me to condemn you of any wrongdoing, but as I see it there’s one more. One more murderer who let’s be very clear about this, will be caught and will be put before a court and will serve time in an overflowing prison. It appears to me you live in a lovely little world where no one cheats and no one ducks and no one dives. Vincent was a petty criminal, nothing less and nothing more. More than once he had paid for his actions just as his murderer will pay for theirs. He wasn’t this monster that you are attempting to portray him as.
‘And you live in a land where unless it can be proved it didn’t happen. Which I accept. Except you made very little effort to prove my daughter’s allegations against him. And so in your mind he’s as you say a petty criminal. He’s just a minor social nuisance to be tolerated. The fact that you can sit in front of me and describe him as a petty criminal tells me all I need to know about all I need to know. You turned a blind eye chaps. Not just to the way he abused my daughter, but to all the other shit he got up to. I get it. He was on the payroll. He provided a service. You could say he was one of you.’
Dunning turned to Sullivan, ‘I don’t know about you but this is sounding very much like a confession.’
‘This is a frustrated old man, venting. Nothing more, nothing less. Someone, call them a Guardian Angel if you like, has done us all a favour. I don’t see any losers with how things panned out. Even his dear old mum can rest easy now[??]. Even Vinnie himself is better off now. He’s free of the depression and the turmoil. Might even have saved him from an eternity in hell. Maybe this person has taken his place in hell. Without the intervention of this Guardian Angel, we all know how this thing would have played out.
‘The system’s broken. He would have killed Daisy. You would have let him kill Daisy. I don’t want to see some pointless enquiry years after her murder. I don’t want to hear that your force has referred itself to the IOPC. What the fucking hell is the point of that. It’s the ultimate in empty platitudes. It’s like me referring myself to my mates up the pub when my wife catches me cheating. The IOPC will make recommendations that in turn the force will vow to take heed of… until the next time.
I’ll tell you how it would have played out. He would have killed my daughter and then the gutless wonder would have offed himself. The way I see it is, how things have turned out one life has been saved.’
He had kids Mr Errington. How are you going to rationalise this to them. There were people that loved him.
Really? You’ll have a hard time naming them.[?? bit odd after them saying he had kids]
Their Grandma’s had to sit them down and tell them that daddy’s gone to Heaven. That he’s an angel. That he’s a star twinkling down from the night sky. And you’re ok with that Mr Errington. That sits easy with you. This was all so unnecessary. There was another way Mr Errington. There was the path of due process. Say what you will about Vincent Burber, it can’t feel good for someone like you knowing you are a murderer. It’s one of those things you can’t undo. It doesn’t get lesser over time. It gets more. Every day, every breathe lived as a murderer, every hellish sleepless night, it just gets worse. Every little dolly step you make towards your Maker, towards Judgement. It didn’t have to be this way. We were investigating the allegations your daughter made. We were gathering more evidence, building a case.
I don’t care if he was Hitler and Bin Laden rolled into one, there’s a process here and we can’t have people taking the law into their own hands.
I agree. But we all know the process is flawed. Your asking people to adhere to a process that everyone knows doesn’t work. In the absence of an effective process we’re persuaded to comply with a defective one. And I get it. To some degree it works. We’ve engineered order but at what cost. I’ll tell you what cost. Every day women are killed at their hands of their partners. Every single fucking day. Not one day off. No Christmas Day truce. That’s the order that you believe in and uphold. Paedophiles living next door to schools. That’s the order you believe in.
Listen many will understand your frustrations but you can’t go taking the law into your own hands. You have to adhere to the law.
Did he adhere to the law? Vincent. Were there repercussion for his non adherence to the law? So what you’re actually saying is the honest, decent people have to comply with the law but the scumbags can do whatever the hell they want. The way I see it, there’s the law that your paid to uphold, and then there’s natural law. Whoever did this to Vincent followed the path of natural law. You know natural law, right. Karma, eye for an eye, live by the sword die by the sword. If you did your job properly, the vigilantes wouldn’t have to step into the void. I’m sorry for Vincent, and for his mum, and for Daisy. Despite everything she’s in bits about all this. But he chose his own path. He chose his violent ending. Most people don’t get the choice. I’m suffering from cancer. I’m sure you know that. And within a year it will have me dead and buried. The cancer’s spreading. It’s no longer possible to say where I end and the cancer begins. When I’m cremated we’ll be cremated together. Me and the cancer. Our ashes will sit in an urn together. My wife and children, when they’re ready, will take me, the cancer, the ashes to the spot I’ve told them about, the one place from my childhood that brought me not joy but peace, and scatter us together. I didn’t choose that ending, but that’s what is coming for me nonetheless.
Let’s say it was me. Earlier you asked me what should become of the perpetrator. I could ask the same question of you, but I won’t. What do you think should become of the perpetrator. But I won’t because you would lie. Because you are part of the system. Because the cameras are watching our every move and our every breathe. You’ll say what you believe is the right thing to say, not what you truly believe. Do you know what I think you would say away from prying eyes. Over a pint with DI Sullivan here I think you’d say the guy deserves a medal.
I think it should be written into law that these people are different. They’re a sub-species. These evil stalkers and nonces and murderers don’t deserve the same protections as the rest of us. These rapists. Any act of violence against these monsters should be treated as self-defence. Self defence shouldn’t have to be in the moment reactive. I shouldn’t have to sleep with a baseball bat close to hand in case he carries out his threats. I shouldn’t have to wait for him to attack us first. I should be able to put a Molotov cocktail through is window with impunity. Where the law has failed me, God has not.
So if it wasn’t you Mr Errington who do you think it might have been? Mrs Errington? Daisy?
Another case of wanting me to do you job.
‘Do you know anyone that might have had a grudge against him? Anyone that might have wanted him dead?’
I laughed. ‘No,’ I said. ‘He was the sweetest guy. Didn’t have an enemy in the world.’
‘This is serious.’
‘You might deem it serious. I however do not.’
‘This is a man’s life we are talking about.’
‘Listen, you have his criminal record. You know his victims, and they are just the tip of the iceberg. I’m sure you are aware there is a Facebook group warning about this bloke. They all seem pretty happy on there. I’m yet to see anyone mourning his loss, bar maybe one or two. His loss has been a net gain to the world. So forgive me if I don’t shed any tears. Forgive me if inside I’m doing a little fucking Irish Jig.
When you walk out of this door, when you’re away from the cameras, when you drop the professionalism, having a pint in the pub, are you really going to give a fuck about this bloke. You’ll have a joke about it. You’ll clash your beers and say cheers. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’ Don’t worry I won’t judge you for it. It’s called being human. Are you really going to put in the effort to catch his killer. If it was me, I would be half-hearted about it at best. Kind of like the way you were when my daughter reported him harassing her on numerous occasions. You know when you told her to keep a log of the harassment. When you told her to get a restraining order. When you told her to report him when he violated said restraining order. Now you can deem his death as serious if you want but from where I’m sitting his blood is has much on your hands as anyone else’s. Let’s be real, his death isn’t going to play on your mind when you go home tonight. Not if you have any decency about you. I bet you’ve seen all sorts that keeps you awake at night, but not this. When he got killed a wrong was righted.
The public aren’t calling for his killer or killers to be found. I get it, you’ve got to go through the motions of propriety. But whoever did this, did you guys a favour. You don’t have to worry about my daughter being harassed and stalked anymore. And you don’t have to worry about the next woman and the next. If I was you I’d let the crime scene get trampled over, I’d let the nearby cctv get overwritten. I’d let witness statements and evidence go missing. I’d let the case drift and become a cold case. Not a single person on God’s green earth would care.
‘Let’s get straight to the point. Did you have anything to do with his death?’
‘Me? You suspect me. I swear I had nothing to do with it. I swear on his life.’
‘Anyway I’ve said my piece, I’m going no comment from here on in.’
I’ll hire a lawyer and he’ll say – you said all that and then went no comment. But I had to get this stuff of my chest. Ultimately it doesn’t matter. I don’t fear my day in court.
Dunning asked for my phone. I refused to hand it over without a warrant. They asked to take a DNA sample. I let him explain the buccal swabbing process and then I politely declined. ‘None of this is doing you any favours,’ said Sullivan. ‘You’re looking more guilty by the minute.’ I was reminded of that old saying, replacing the word foolish with guilty. ‘Better to remain silent and be thought foolish than to speak out and remove all doubt.’ Maybe it was too late now. I’d vented. I’d exposed my foolishness and my guilt. But I was glad. I was glad my ranting was captured on camera. I wanted it to be played in court.
Chapter 14 (Another police visit, arrest, no-comment interview)
I respect your efforts to cover your tracks, I really do. But this isn’t a movie. This is 2026 buddy and it’s damn near impossible to get away undetected.
It’s better than a fucking movie. For us anyway. We’ve got more camera footage than we can even make sense of. Ring doorbells, dashcams, cctv. I fucking love this shit. Don’t you [parters name]. It’s a cold thrill going through all the footage frame by frame, never quite knowing when the assailant is going to come into frame. When you are going to come into frame. Seeing all sorts of camera angles corroborating each other. Fleeting moments where we go I think that’s him. Motion cameras kicking into life as you pass by.
We’ve literally got you on so many cameras you wouldn’t believe. Juries lap this stuff up precisely because it’s like a movie. It’s better than any movie they’ve ever seen and now they get to play a part in it too. For once they’re not NPCs. They get to have a say. They get to vent their frustrations with their shitty little lives on you.
You are looking mighty parched there and you haven’t taken a sip of your water. What’s the matter. You think we’re going to take the cup to get your dna. Go ahead have some water. Give your lips a little break from sucking on your teeth.
You know in the legal world there is the presumption of innocence. You know this right. But those jury members are as fucked up as you and I. I want you to think about that for a moment. I want you to think about those twelve jury members and all the fucked up things going on in their fucked up lives. You’ve put your future in their hands. Tut, tut, tut. That was a stupid thing to do. If you were to really see the lives these people live, you will know you shouldn’t have done that. Just by the balance of probability… with any random bunch of twelve people you’re going to have one alky, one coke head, one domestic abuser, one abused, one social recluse. A conspiracy theorist, an extreme right winger, an extreme lefty. Another that was just fucking done with life until you Mike stepped up and gave him something to live for.
You never know. The make up of the jury might work in your favour. All I can tell you Mike is you just made their humdrum, meaningless lives a whole lot more meaningful.
We know there’s a presumption of innocence. But we also know, in the mind of a jury, there’s the presumption of no smoke without fire. Why’s this guy sitting here in front of us and no-one else. It’s not like there’s three suspects lined up and they get to choose the most likely. There’s one. There’s you Mike. A guy got murdered. A father got murdered and someone’s going to have to pay.
[This chapter is marked by his silence and his thoughts]
The interview room was chilly. They wanted to make me uncomfortable but they only succeeded in making me alert. I felt physically and emotionally exposed, to the extent that I had to look down and check I wasn’t hanging out. Even then I felt like I was hanging out. They left me for ages and I felt like the little boy waiting for his dad to come back from the pub.
I figured no comment would buy me the most time. I did my soap box thing in the last interview and look where that got me. If I make some sort of statement that they find out to be untrue they’ll be all over me like a rash. Besides I don’t like telling lies. Lying opens up the tiniest fissures in my soul. They said it themselves. Anything you say can be used in evidence against you. If I talk I could literally be providing them with evidence as we speak. If I stay schtum, they’re going to have to work for their evidence. They’re going to have to trawl through cctv, speak with witnesses, and do all that csi shit. All the stuff they couldn’t be bothered to do when it came to protecting Daisy. They’ll do it for dear old Vinnie though. Well all that stuff takes time, and if they want to bang me up for this, that’s one thing they’re quickly running out of.
They’d left me with a small bottle of water. I thought they’d use it to get a dna sample if I refused to give a swab. I didn’t want to drink it but the hours of waiting had left me parched. They could have put any shit in this bottle. I tried to remember if the seal had cracked open when I opened the bottle but I couldn’t recall. I hadn’t taken note of it because I’d opened a thousand bottles before. The water seemed tainted, a little oily, a little vinegary. Despite my reservations I couldn’t resist the water because I was so parched. I glugged half the bottle. I wondered if it contained truth serum because I suddenly felt incapable of lying. In my mind I rehearsed my responses. ‘No comment, no comment, no comment.’
I didn’t know if some officers were already watching me from another room. Had the show already started. Were we already on air. I felt like I was in a hall of mirrors. I gained a newfound respect for the suspects I saw being interrogated in the True Crime I watched. Tone, words, body language, truth, lies. God. Was God watching me. I wondered why reality is often at such odds with the promise. What if Heaven is indeed Hell. I felt hellishly parched. I wanted to bathe in this oily water. Before killing Vincent I had made my peace with being a killer. I had no option. I played it over and over in my mind and I was ok with it. I had rationlised it. But now I realise I had forgotten to consult my soul. Here I sat as guilty and as raw as the most heinous of them.
When I said I was going no comment they kept asking me questions. I didn’t just answer no comment as they asked the questions because that felt impolite. I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind but I would rather go no comment from now on in.’ They continued to ask their questions in a perfunctory way. There seemed to be no great effort to persuade me to talk. I’ve noticed that from true crime. The British police just ask the questions in a perfunctory, scripted way. The American police try various persuasion tactics. They try to find common ground with their suspects, they say they don’t think they’re a bad person, or they try to give them a way out that leads down a dead end. ‘Where were you between midnight and 5am on the night of the 15th?’
Between midnight and 5? On the 15th? ‘No comment.’
No commenting isn’t as easy as you might imagine. As humans we like to express ourselves. Society has conditioned us to respond politely to enquiries however uninterested in them we are. It’s why we come up with excuses not to buy the shit that cold callers are trying to sell rather than telling them to fuck the hell off. And the salespeople, much like the cops are trained to overcome our excuses and our lies. At times I wanted to say ‘No fucking comment,’ or ‘No comment Jose’ but I resisted the embellishments. No comment is wonderfully non-committal. More so than silence could ever be.
‘Did you kill Vincent Burber?’
Oh yeah, I fucking did it. ‘No comment.’
‘Do you know who killed Vincent Burber.’
‘No,’ pause, ‘comment.’
I’ve been a yes man my whole life. A people pleaser. A bum licker to some extent. Not a bum licker to climb the greasy pole, just a bum licker to get by. Two weeks ago I murdered a man. I’ve just sat in a police interview going no comment. I was apologetic about it at first until I realised just how good it felt. When they asked for my phone I told them they can have it when they have a warrant for it. Why the fuck would I just give up my phone. I felt it profoundly, just how wrong I’ve been playing this game all along.
[The following is ok here if he gets bail, else it has to go in the chapter of the previous interview and release]
I assumed my car and house were tapped and spoke accordingly. I assumed anyone I spoke to was wearing a wire, especially if we were in a restaurant or someone had asked to meet me in a hotel room for no good reason, and most especially if we were in a stationary car. I would always say it’s sooo terrible what happened to Vinnie. They couldn’t convict me off the back of my sarcastic tone could they?
Chapter 14
‘Dad promise me you didn’t have anything to do with this.’
I gave a short laugh, expressing incredulity. ‘Me? Do you really see me as capable of doing something like this? You think I’m Charles Bronson and Liam Neeson rolled into one?
‘On my life?’
‘On my life.’
‘No not on your life, on my life. Your life is…’ She trailed off, embarrassed. We both know where she was going with that.
‘You know I don’t do on your life. I’ve never done it. If I’m being truthful or otherwise I don’t do on your life. That way you can’t get me on it when I won’t do it. Do you really think me capable of that? Picture me doing it without laughing. I’m 5’ 9” and scrawny. I’m frail. The kick-back would put me through the wall. I’m a bloody tax man [is he a tax man?] not a hit man.
Look darling all the information I’m hearing says it has the hallmarks of a gangland hit. That’s not me is it. Vince was involved in some shady shit. The drugs. The violence. You know that. He’s pissed someone off in that world. He’s failed to pay a drug debt. He’s stepped on the wrong toes.’ I put it back on her a bit. ‘You must have known some of the dubious characters he was involved with.’
She went quiet.
‘Oh so you don’t want to give up the names of those shady fuckers, but you’ll call out your dad. You must have seen some types coming in and out of that place.’
‘I didn’t know any of his acquaintances. I never met anyone. He kept me out of all that stuff.’
‘Well, if you think of anyone let the police know asap. You can call CrimeStoppers and get a £10,000 reward. Maybe you heard something. Maybe he mentioned someone, and you didn’t think anything of it at the time. Someone that might be capable of this sort of thing. Anyway the police know what they’re doing.’ I stifled a laugh, she gave me the briefest quizzical look. ‘They’ll get the guy in no time. Or guys.’
[Make sure we are at trial for this paragraph]. [if Mike’s on bail they walk in with him each day battling reporters] He felt terrible that they backed him. Unconditionally. He knew what the public would think of them, that they were stupid and naïve. Fi had never been as supportive of him as now. ‘Never in a million years would my father even think of doing such a thing. Seriously? He doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Ask anyone. And the police and the media are trying to convince everyone that he’s some kind of assassin. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so serious.’ Their supportive smiles were over the top, jutting, defiant. Not smiles at all. Occasionally he wondered if they knew the truth but chose to support him anyway. What choice did they have really. During the trial they sat in the public gallery. Occasionally Mike looked across at them surrounded by reporters and Vinnie’s family and gleeful rubberneckers feeding off the misery of others. They were in their own little dock.
Ian Clements you are charged that on the 30 April 2022 you murdered blah blah blah.
It wasn’t assault I was in the dock for but murder. Did I forget to say.
When you’re terminally ill there are certain things you have to get sorted out before you become incapable. Trust me I’d rather put these things off to another day but I can’t be sure I’ll be physically able in a month or two months, so manana isn’t an option. Wills and documents and savings plans and investments have to be sorted out. I’ve always been the worst at doing admin, but now I don’t have much choice. My life insurance is sat on the top of a pile of documents just waiting for the day. When there is no manana. £250K if you must know. That will make Vanessa quite the catch.
But top of my to do list is to off that son of a bitch while I still can. I can’t leave that to chance, because he’ll kill Anna if given half a chance. His sort never let things go. They are wired differently. Sometimes I think it might not be his fault. But it sure as hell isn’t my fault and surer than hell isn’t Anna’s. They’re like vermin. No one really cares when they’re gone. Most are happy or at the very least relieved. If I don’t get to him before the Grim Reaper gets to me I really do fear the outcome. I can picture him turning up to my funeral and casting menacing glances at Anna and Van. He’ll give them a hug and convey his sorrow in platitudes, but the hug and the platitudes will also convey warning and dominance in subtle ways, or maybe just because it’s him, because they know him. [Eh?]
Church always felt oppressive to me. There’s a smell in there like Autumn, the smell of the pews and hymn books.
[Maybe this whole thing should be in the first person]
I’m a coward. I’m a fucking coward. Of the highest order. Do you want to know what my biggest regret is? It’s not that I worked too hard or worked too little. That’s all by the by now like it never happened. It’s not that I never pursued my dreams. They’re all but gone now too. And not gone in a bad way. Gone like water flowing downstream. Gone in a good way. It’s not that I never resolved my differences with my dad before he died. It’s not that I was somehow never able to tell my mum I loved her even as she took her last breathes. I wanted to, but the words wouldn’t come out and I tried and I tried and she took her last breathe and I said I love you mum. That’s not my biggest regret. My biggest regret was when that thug came round to our house, he was invited to eat at our house and he belittled Daisy in front of us and I said nothing.
It’s terrifying to wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t died. I know strictly speaking I haven’t died yet but you know what I mean. I’m heading towards the final throes. My throat has developed a rattle. I can’t quite explain it but it felt like I was already dead from the moment I got my diagnosis. Maybe it goes back further. Maybe it goes back to that moment as a child when I first learned of death.
I may not quite be on my deathbed yet, but I’m heading up the stairs. No one ever wished they’d spent more time in the office when they’re on their deathbed they say. But is the deathbed really the best vantage point from which to plan your life.
To his lawyer: I’m going to be dead in less than 12 months, can we just delay the court case until then. Actually fuck it I want this court case. I want this fucking fight. I want the world to see what a shit on my shoe lowlife this fuck was. Apparently I never did properly scrape him off after I stamped on his pumpkin head, according to the forensics.
They knew this would end with their daughter’s death but they did nothing about it. Maybe it’s unfair to say they did nothing. They did stuff. Pointless stuff. Stuff that they knew was pointless yet still they did it. They filed police reports, they got a restraining order, they tried to persuade their daughter to leave him. They did stuff by the book. They didn’t kick up a lot of fuss. At times they even accepted the loss that was to come. ‘We’ve done all we can. She’s an adult with her own free will.’ Free will my fucking arse. Manipulated, down-trodden, shed of soul. She was merely an appendage of his will. They just fucking ticked the boxes they were told to tick all the while knowing they would have no effect.
The restraining order got ripped up when she decided to move back in with him. They’d moved her back home with them for a couple of days and that felt good. It felt safe. Even though they knew he could put a bullet through their window at anytime it felt safe to have her close. She was a fucking mess. They fed her up. They told her she was doing the right thing and how evil he was. What a narcissist he was. How these things always end. And after two days she got up and walked back to him. She told them she knew what they were trying to do, and that they would never turn her against him. And they let her go. They gave up on her. We can’t keep going through this, they said. If you go back to him, that’s it. You’re not welcome here anymore. We can’t go through this again. They let her go. They were angry at her. They resented her. It was a confused time. Nothing from that time can truly be remembered as factually correct. Because dreams, nightmares, real-life, ethereal shit, spirituality, alcohol, dread and hope all occupied the same space. But he remembered that his wife had called out to their daughter as she left, ‘you are dead to us’. It was a desperate last plea. In the maelstrom of emotions he could never truly remember that she had said that. But he could never forget it either. He couldn’t quite get a handle on it, like a dissipating dream, but it was there nonetheless. He heard it in his dreams. He heard it in his wife’s silence, and he saw it in her eyes. They mourned her loss, so certain they were of her impending death.
Self defence court argument (towards the end, an entire chapter given to his uninterrupted ‘defence’)
He takes the stand and makes his justification clear in the knowledge that he is soon to die and essentially immune to the consequences. I hope God will judge me with understanding and leniency.
Let me give you two scenarios: In scenario one my daughter Lottie Smith, caring, kind, loving, with no criminal record, is dead, and her abuser Karl Allen, sadistic, cruel, a criminal record as long as your arm, is alive and well and free to torment other women and children.
In scenario two, Lottie is alive and Karl is dead. Lottie is emotionally and psychologically battered and bruised but she’s getting therapy, she has some hope. Karl Allen has faced his judgement on this side and will now face his judgement on the other side.
Please be absolutely clear, there are no other scenarios. There’s no scenario where Karl sees the error of his ways and becomes a kind and loving partner. There’s no scenario where Karl stops beating Lottie, stops imprisoning Lottie, stops psychologically tormenting Lottie. These scenarios do not exist. Not in this Universe or any other. There is scenario one where Lottie is dead and Karl is alive to torment others, and there is scenario two where Lottie is alive and recovering and Karl is dead.
Karl killed himself. If you jump in front of a train it’s not the train driver that killed you, you killed yourself. If you threaten a cop with a firearm and get shot down, you killed yourself.
I carry a strange kind of guilt around with me. And that is the knowledge that if I hadn’t been diagnosed with terminal cancer I would have let Karl live and my daughter die. That is a weakness, a cowardice I have to live with. My death sentence became Lottie’s life sentence. My death sentence became Karl’s death sentence. Every day I thank the Lord for my cancer. It’s part of me. Sometimes I think it’s the best of me.
Let’s get back to scenario one. After Lottie’s death at the hands of Karl the authorities would have issued their apologies and conducted their enquiries that would eventually have led nowhere. But I can’t hug an apology. I can’t hug an enquiry. These people don’t actually care about you and I. They care about image and they care about not being held responsible. They try to get in there first with their impending enquiry before anyone else can hold them accountable. And two years later your left wondering if the enquiry ever happened, and if it did, what good came out of it. I couldn’t wait.
Have you ever had that circumstance with your child where you can see them about to have an accident and it’s happening in slow motion but you can’t do anything to stop it. That’s how we felt in this situation. And you are calling out for help but the call comes out silently. You’re screaming but nobody hears. It’s fate, fate in the small, but undeniable none the less. Nothing can prevent the foreseen outcome. And that’s how it was with this guy abusing my daughter. The final outcome was inevitable.
I want to ask you a question, something for you, for me, for all of us to ponder. In cases of domestic abuse such as Lottie endured, why do we have such an ineffective process of resolution. How have we accepted such an ineffective process of resolution. We file a police report knowing that it will have no impact. The police know, we know and the perpetrators sure as hell know. We log instances of abuse as per police instruction. We got a restraining order. In some cases they may even get charged and convicted only to receive a rehabilitation order, or a suspended sentence, maybe a few get put inside away to allow their rage and hatred to fester. All of it amounts to nothing. The end result is continued abuse of the victim and ultimately their death.
I’m glad I was charged with this thug’s murder. I’m glad of this court case because it shines a light on the abusers. It shines a light on Karl fucking Allen. If I get sent down for this so be it. My life is essentially done. In three months I’ll be under hospice care. Within six months I’ll be gone. There’s very little that can be done for me now, so it’s an opportunity for me to fight for others who will remain long after I have gone.
I am under oath. I have no intention of lying during these proceedings. I did what I did, and I am at peace with that. I’m not a street guy. But I delivered street justice. Before all this I was happy tending my garden, happy doing the crossword.
I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it but it felt right. It felt like order. It felt like disciplining a child. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind and that’s what it felt like I was doing. Judge, parliament confers on you the right to deliver justice in this court. Often it’s harsh justice. But at the same time I imagine it feels good to put the bad guys away for a long time.
I remember the first time I saw him. They seemed like an odd pair Isla and him. I don’t know how old he was but he looked like he’d long since been past it. He looked like he would have once been good looking but had peaked young and declined rapidly. He had the cockiness of the first to go through puberty, the first to fuck a girl, the first to get a motorbike. You wouldn’t see him at school much, mostly hanging around outside the gates on his bike chatting up girls. Effortless stubble by fifteen. Some menace about him. Stories of fights that his classmates remembered to this day. Still brought up the stories from time to time in pubs. Of regurgitated the stories on Facebook. His hair was blondish-brown. The sort that some people described as blonde and others described as light brown. Others might call it fair. The sort that people argued over whether it was blonde or brown. Maybe it changed with the seasons and the sun. It was long even now. You could tell he thought it was impressive. His crowning glory. Old classmates trying to remember him would say you know the one with the motorbike, blond-haired guy. And his friend wouldn’t immediately remember, only later saying, ‘oh you mean Vince. Vincent Cable, yeah I’ve course I remember him. He wasn’t blonde though, he had brown hair.’ He was hardened, some might even say haggard.
‘So what do you do for a living Vincent.’
‘Vince, everyone calls me Vince. Oh you know, a bit of this, a bit of that.’ Mary didn’t know. Mary had lace curtains, and plates on the wall, so she didn’t know. Mike thought he was either into drug-dealing, robberies and mugging old ladies, or he had a mundane job that he wanted to make sound mysterious. ‘Mostly I facilitate. I recognise where clients have an unfulfilled need, and I meet that need. Or I bring people together. I know people, a lot of people. So, if I can’t get you what you need, you can be sure I know someone who can. Often that’s the best way, broker deals and connections. Take a little cut here and there. That way you don’t get bogged down in anything. Keeps me nimble.’
‘Vince is a people person,’ said Isla. Mikes eyes went wide with incredulity.
‘Best skill to have’, he said. ‘The most successful people I know are people people.’
‘That’s Vince,’ said Isla.
Mike looked at Fi. He thought she was being taken in by him. She looked enamoured by his rough charm.
After they left Mike asked Fi what she thought of him. He already knew what she was going to say. ‘He seems nice,’ she said. She noticed Mike’s expression. ‘You’re just being over-protective. Of your little Princess. No-one would be ever be good enough for her in your eyes.’
(the following needs to be changed to 3rd person)
‘How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t kill Vince. And besides the doctors told me the tumour would have been growing for a while now, maybe years, well before Vince died, so it can’t be karma can it.’
‘It’s karma I’m telling you.’
‘Mum, stop it!’
‘It doesn’t have to happen in chronological order now does it. The Lord would have known before it even happened. Karma served up early. Or maybe they would have found it earlier and treated it if it hadn’t been masked by your hateful soul.’
‘Mum!’
‘Whatever do we do now?’
‘The doctor suggested some counselling groups we can attend.’
‘I mean this very moment. This now.’ Fi got up and walked to the kitchen. She returned holding three whiskies. She handed them a glass each and said, ‘does this make me a bad wife.’
The day they arrested me was surreal. Three officers, I’d dealt with them all before at various stages of the investigation, sat around in my living room asking me questions that didn’t really go anywhere. Then Officer Spelthorne asked me to stand up and turn around and he put the cuffs on me. ‘Michael Meekums’, that’s what my mum used to call me when I got into trouble. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of…’ They asked me if I understood the charge. I did. It felt like the most momentous moment of my life. I remembered Bennie Hayes in secondary school getting marched out of the class to see the Headmaster. He gave a fist in the air salute to the rest of us in the class. I couldn’t do that with the cuffs on. Van begged them not to take me. She was crying on the front path for all to see. I’ve never seen her so lost in the moment. I’ve seen her lost in an episode of Eastenders but never in her own life. She looked empowered by the situation. The back door of the police car was open. I felt a hand on my head. It seemed to have some deeper meaning. I figured it might be a Freemason thing. Suddenly the neighbours jostled their way into Van’s peripheral vision. ‘Why don’t you all fuck off,’ she said. She rarely swore and she never shouted at anyone. I was proud of her. The car pulled away. The tinted windows added a sepia touch to my home, to the street and the neighbours and to Van. I didn’t know it then, but the would be the last time I would ever see the place [NOTE this last line only makes sense if he’s remanded; somewhere else we say he’s on a tag.]
At the police station they booked me in and put me in a holding cell. I was compliant and personable. It felt odd being physically handled, manoeuvred and ushered. Knowing that there was no way out, that they would literally beat the shit out of me if it came to it. I reckon Manning would love that. I’d bet he’d continue with a few unnecessary digs and fold me up into some uncompromising position. He looked the sort. The sort that lamented the passing of old fashioned police tactics. In the holding cell I began to weigh up the possibilities. I figured the worst possible outcome was also the most likely - that I saw out the final months of my life on remand. I wanted people to know our story. Being on remand felt like being spirited away. A Purgatory. I decided the less information I gave them the less likely they were going to be able to enough evidence to hold me. A no comment interview seemed like the best strategy. At the same time I knew I would feel compelled to act like an innocent person and innocent people typically want to co-operate in order to demonstrate their innocence.
He began to raise his voice. ‘A man has died, been brutally murdered and all you can say is no comment.’
‘May I confirm something? Do I or do I not have the right to remain silent?’
You were read your rights. Did you not understand them.’
I thought I did, until you started getting all heated up with me exercising my rights. That can’t be right can it.
The female officer said, ‘you do have that right. But in my experience innocent parties want to help the police. And quite frankly they want to exonerate themselves with as little fuss as possible. Just to be sure let me re-read you your rights.’
‘I don’t need to have them read to me again. I just need to have them respected. I don’t see how Officer Manning here can get angry at me for exercising my legal right to silence.’
‘I’m not angry at you. I’m angry that a mother has lost a son and a child has lost their father. It’s important that we get justice for Vincent’s family, and you going no comment is not progressing us towards justice is it. Now do you want to tell us what you were doing on the evening of Nov 15th?’
‘No comment.’
‘We would be more than happy to bring your wife in for questioning as a potential witness if you’re not prepared to co-operate.’
‘No comment.’
‘I’d hazard a guess that your wife wouldn’t be so flippant with the no comments. That she’d probably feel some pressure and responsibility to help with this case.’
‘What exactly do you want me to say?’
‘I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to tell us where you were on the evening of the Nov 15th.’
‘No comment.’
Bail Hearing
[Need to work out if he’s in prison cell or an actual prison – let’s say actual prison]
I was ferried to the Crown Court in a security van. Within the van I was locked inside a cubicle with moulded plastic seats that caused me to slide about as the van took the corners. I was seat belted in but still I slid around. There were just two of us in the van, along with the two security guards. The other guy had the air of a seasoned criminal. He joked with the security guards and he challenged them. He said to the younger one, ‘Big arms don’t mean you can fight.’ The security guard laughed it off. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t either.’ The other prisoner kept saying he knew his rights. It seemed like he was going crazy and this was his final challenge on repeat. I got the feeling it was a bit of an act for my benefit. It seemed like an act he couldn’t break out of.
I felt sadder in this van than in prison. Time sort of stands still in prison which is a torture for many but feels like a blessing to me. In the van time sped up as we passed the places where I played as a child. Those memories were clinging on like a departing dream. The harder I tried to remember, the more they faded. Now these places were sepia stained as I looked back with nostalgia through the tinted windows of the security van. For a while I imagined this wasn’t a prison van at all, but instead a van taking me away from this world and into the next. We passed by the swimming baths where I learned to swim and where Daisy and Anna later learned to swim. The dark fifty meter pool felt as vast and as intimidating as the ocean when I was a child. The air in there was heavy. We passed by the gardens in the centre of town. They looked beautiful but I couldn’t discern the colours of the flowers through these windows. They were all shades of grey-brown. My brain tried to add the colour but I have no idea if it got them right.
I sort of liked the journey sad though it was. It reminded me of the annual journey we took to Aunt Ava’s when I was a child. It was a journey I never wanted to end. My parents understood my question to mean that I couldn’t wait to get there or couldn’t wait for the journey to end. But every time I asked the question it was because I hated being at Aunt Ava’s and sought reassurance it was still some way away. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ was like checking the clock in the middle of the night and praying there were still several hours to sleep.
I don’t know what became of the other guy. I figured he stood in front of the judge and repeatedly told him he knew his rights. I never heard him state what those rights were, just that he knew them. I took that to mean that much like me he didn’t know them at all.
Today was my bail hearing. I was always grateful to get out of the prison but the rigmarole that went with it made it a toss up whether I wanted to go or not. Pat downs and strip searches and paperwork. Today was a big deal. I would basically get to find out if I would ever see the true light of day again.
My solicitor said it was fifty-fifty whether I would get bail or not. Murder charges rarely get bail. But he said in my case there were a lot of things in my favour like my terminal illness. I couldn’t tell if his delivery was just extremely dry or if he could only see life from his perspective as a solicitor. I was a first time offender too. A first time offender at 58. I no longer saw my birth as the reference point. Death was my reference point now. I was a first time offender at Death-1 or Death-2. I wasn’t considered a threat to the public. It’s as though they understood I had good reason to kill Vincent. I wasn’t going round killing people willy-nilly. It seemed my motive was kind of working in my favour too. And I wasn’t considered a flight risk my solicitor said. The prosecution didn’t even dispute this point which I found mildly offensive. They looked at me and saw a guy who didn’t have the wherewithal and gumption to abscond. I didn’t have a network to call on. Couldn’t alter my appearance or procure a fake passport. I didn’t have the finances to flee. I couldn’t charter a plane from some remote airfield. I didn’t have the bushcraft skills to hole up in the wilderness. The saw me the way I am. Old, suburban, friendless, risk-averse, almost penniless. I have a wife and two daughters. I have a mortgage to pay. I follow the rules, always have done. If you say I have to stay in my house, I’ll stay in my house on pain of death.
The court room was mostly empty. There was me, the judge, my lawyer and the prosecuting lawyer. It made me wonder if during the short time I had been in prison if there hadn’t been another outbreak of a pandemic. There were lots of quiet discussions between the other three at the judges bench. It made me feel as though they were all conspiring against me. My lawyer seemed like the sort. The lawyers both returned to their tables, mine taking a seat next to me [would it be?]. The prosecution lawyer said ‘it is incumbent open me to remind M’lord of both the level of premeditation and brutality of this case.[do they say M’lord] M’lord this case involved weeks of planning by the defendant.’ The lawyer opened up his body towards me as a way to indicate who the defendant was as if there was any doubt. There was the establishment and then there was me. I didn’t enjoy the attention.
Because of the gravity of the crime, bail could only be granted by a judge in the Crown Court. My solicitor was cock-a-hoop when bail was granted. I expected him to be stoic. I wondered if it was the first success he’d experienced in his career. ‘You get to go home’, he said. ‘A good honest man gets to spend time with his family.’
I had to wear a tag. A company came out to our house to set up the base monitor and fit the tag on my ankle. A kid in our street saw my tag. He pointed at it and said ‘Yo!’ hard and slow, deeply respectfully. He raised his hand to high-five me. I high-fived him back because I was too polite not to, but immediately felt like I was glorifying crime. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t just get this for breaking someone’s window or nicking a bike. This was serious shit. I got it for killing someone. But I could feel my kudos rising even as I thought it. My rep on the streets was rising. ‘Bro fuck them po po’. I liked the tag. It lent permission to my latent agoraphobia. I was curfewed to my home from 7pm to 7am. If anything I wanted the restrictions to be stricter.
I felt futuristic with the tag on. Part man part machine. From one of those futuristic, dystopian films where everyone is tracked.
The few times Mike left the house was to go to Sainsbury’s
Whenever Mike came in and out of Sainsbury’s he tensed a little, an infinitesimal physiological bracing for fear the tag would set off the alarms but as yet he had not.
Trial
After the first day of the trial I returned home with Van and the girls. I told Van that I really didn’t think the prosecuting barrister liked me and she just burst out laughing. Anna drolly said that she got that impression too. Nothing much happened on that first day. It happened much slower than Mike had expected [? Wording ?]. Mike began to wonder if would even reach the conclusion of the trial. He was a murderer he knew that. But maybe Van and the girls would feel better if that was never formally pronounced. They could rightly claim that I was innocent until proven guilty and live a little easier in that knowledge.
In the morning Van asked me how I slept and I told her I had slept well. It was true. Sometimes the medication kept me awake but last night it took me to a place I wasn’t sure I would emerge from. No dreams, just darkness. My dreams are benign or nightmarish. I can’t remember ever having a dream at the opposite end of the spectrum to a nightmare. I’ve never had a dream that left me feeling elated.
Mr Meekums, it seems to me you are trying to position yourself as some sort of martyr.
Nothing could be further from the truth. I hate the spotlight being on me.
And yet you have sought the spotlight. You seem remarkably comfortable within its glare.
Isn’t the truth Mr Meekums that you are just a grubby little murderer dressed up in the suit of modest suburbia. Isn’t it also the truth that you considered Vincent Matthews to be beneath your family. You considered him to be unworthy of your daughter. Vincent Matthews was loud and uncouth, quick to profanity. You didn’t like the fact that your daughter found comfort in his arms, in the caress of his big nicotine stained hands. You didn’t like the fact that he appeared not to work but always had plenty of money. I can understand that feeling Mr Meekums. It can be galling to one who has toed the line for an entire lifetime, who pays his dues to HMRC to the exact penny. It’s true he lived a life that artfully straddled the line between legality and illegality but he didn’t leap across it the way that you have crossed it did he Mr Meekums. And he most certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered.
We have heard witness testimony that Vincent Matthews was an intimidating man, a big man, heavy set, standing 6 foot 3 inches tall. Did Mr Matthews intimidate you Mr Meekums. Did you feel threatened by him.
I guess I did. I certainly did on behalf of my daughter. I was scared of what he might do.
On behalf of your daughter? Scared of what he might do? And because the legal system would not detain him for the things he quote unquote might do, the things you dreamt up in your fearful mind, you took it upon yourself to administer your own idea of justice.
It wasn’t about justice. Not in the way that you are suggesting. All I care about is the safety of my daughter. It was about preventing an injustice.
All I care about is the safety of my daughter. Has it not occurred to you Mr Meekums that maybe all Mary Matthews cared about was the safety of her son.
He turned to the jury. This man murdered Vincent Matthews, of that there is no doubt. He does not deny that. Maybe you too discern the barely concealed sense of glee he emits when he admits to the murder. There are no tears of the clown, there is only the smile of the murderer.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, the plea of defense of another rings hollow. There was no imminent danger to his daughter. She was locked safely away in her family home. At the time of the murder she was in bed in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by teddy bears and fading posters of fading popstars. In short Ladies and Gentelmen, she was safe. The only person in imminent danger was Vincent Matthews. Mr Meekums you created the imminent threat in your own mind, based on your own twisted fantasies.
Mr Meekums here did not use reasonable force. There is no reasonable force against a man who is sleepy and unarmed and wearing only his pyjamas. A man who is alone in his own home, no threat no danger to anyone. The 9mm pistol that Mr Meekums first raised then shot at a befuddled and bewildered Mr Matthews was certainly not reasonable force.
I have good days and bad days. Days when I feel I’m not long for this world and days when I can forget I’m ill at all. Today is a bad day. I feel like giving up. My daughter just said to me, ‘you’ve got this dad,’ in a way that brought a tear to my eye. She told me I was a fighter and that I was going to beat this thing. I gave her a smile that even from my viewpoint looked unconvincing. It was fatigued and sceptical. As hollow as the after-life I envisage. Everyone’s a fighter until they’re not. At my funeral I want the speeches to say I was a fighter even though at this moment I’m not. I’m losing my fight, but don’t let them say I gave up. Don’t let them say I quit on my family.
The bad days are all consuming. I can’t contemplate a better tomorrow. I’m not even sure I want a better tomorrow if it’s just going to prolong this whole thing, if it just means more bad days to come. Bad days are bad days. Good days are bad days in waiting.
I first truly realised the physical reality of humans when I shot Vincent. He wasn’t an ethereal man, but the ethereality of humans in general was as of nothing in that moment. That if they’re struck with enough force the blood never clots, the wound never heals. They go to another place. I understood the stories of my fireman brother-in-law of seeing decapitated bodies at accident sites. It wasn’t a joke anymore. I should probably put joke in quotes. It wasn’t just a story that got the intended reaction of horror. Of course we all know it, but to witness it is something else. I shot him for a reason, right. But to know it so viscerally is something else. He was more frail than a newborn when that first shot opened up his chest [need to make this match the actual shooting description; head or chest?]. His mouth opened wide. He was comically speechless. There was no pressure in this world that could stop the bleeding. No amount of CPR could ever get him going again. Any paramedic working on him would know they did so in vain. They would do it so that they could say they did it. They did everything they could. Vincent was the mannequin from those first days of training. Some say that the soul has left the body but as I looked down on Vincent I knew there was no soul and there never had been. He was just skin and bone and flesh. The soul was a human construct, made up at some point during our evolution just as The Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas had been.
Final Chapter
Mike had been called in to the doctor’s surgery to discuss his latest test results. He wore the tag with a little more ease now. He noticed it less and less. It wasn’t much different to the fitness watches that tracked your whereabouts that so many others chose to wear. Each morning Mike weighed himself on the bathroom scales. He had never been one to weigh himself before. To him it seemed like an odd act of verification. Justification almost. Confirming that you weren’t just a character from last night’s dream. But now he did it religiously each morning. As the cancer grew it robbed him of mass. It robbed him of hopes and dreams and appetite. Proper meals made him feel bloated and nauseous. He had heard that cancer feeds on sugar and now all he wanted to eat was sugary treats. Cancer was winning the war of hearts and minds, he thought. Today he had weighed himself, automatically subtracting the 0.15 Kg of the tag. 66.5 Kg and falling.
The doors to the surgery opened automatically as Mike approached them. He kidded himself that it was the tag that had caused them to open. This was where he had received the news of his impending death. Where his mind had turned rapidly inward, imploding. Where all the opportunities for his future shut down just as quickly as he could think about them. Opportunities which in truth he had barely given any consideration until that moment. Walking his daughters up the aisle, doting over grandkids, growing old together with Van. The window was open again. Maybe the doctor kept it that way to let the viruses and diseases out. The metallic blinds banged gently against the window. Mike felt a lurch in his stomach. In his mind and in his central nervous system he was in school again. What a terrible place that was for a boy like him. How’s the tumour? Has it grown much?
Remarkable news said the doctor. It hasn’t grown at all. In fact there has been significant shrinkage.
Significant shrinkage?
It’s almost down to half the size. Whatever you are doing seems to be working, working spectacularly in fact. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Are you sure? Whatever I’m doing? I’m not doing anything. I’ve not started any experimental treatments or holistic therapies. All I’ve done is sort out a few things in my life, you know the way you said I should. Got my life into some sort of order. On my desk I’ve got this little pile of documents for every bank account, and insurance policy and debt and pension. I’ve got them piled up in a in tray. Or I guess out tray would be more accurate. Apart from that I’ve pretty much given in to it, accepted my fate if you like. I sit around watching daytime TV. I think it helps me to believe that there’s nothing too much to miss in this world. If I watch the soaps I’ll always want to know how things turn out. I think oh I’ll probably be dead before I get to see who killed Den. If I watch the football I know I won’t get to find out who wins the Premier League this year. That is just going to nag at me so I’d rather not get into those things. But Loose Women, or The Chase or Pointless, they don’t matter, They come to a conclusion each episode and ultimately they don’t really have any meaning. It feels like they’re made for people in my situation.
Have you changed your diet?
Yes. I eat spectacularly worse. I can’t stomach proper meals and thankfully I’ve finally rid myself of my mother’s voice telling me to eat my greens. I eat Kipling’s cakes and sweets. I can get through a family pouch of Maltesers in one sitting. I get sick of them after a while but much to my daughter Anna’s consternation I always finish the pack anyway. It’s not suicide or heroin abuse. It’s a little act of self destruction that somehow makes me smile. Like I’m getting one over on God. If I don’t finish the pack they’ll just sit there talking to me. And I drink a little more. Quite a lot more actually, because I think why the hell not.
Well something miraculous has happened because if this shrinkage continues there’s no reason to believe you won’t have many more years.
Mike screamed out an unintelligible sound. He sat bolt upright on his sofa bed. Sweat drenched his body. Van came running down in her nightdress. She soothed his sweating brow. ‘It’s ok, darling,’ said Van. ‘It’s ok, you’re awake now. You must have had another of your terrible nightmares. You’ve got a big day ahead. It must be playing on your mind.’
Today was ‘closing speeches’. Throughout the trial I had come to realise that my barrister had the persuasive abilities of curdled milk and just my luck the prosecuting barrister had the persuasive skills of crack cocaine. He had the demonic energy of Jack Nicholson. If I was a member of the jury I would soon be hanging from the nearest lamppost.
I was well within my rights to kill Vincent. But that sense of certainty was challenged when I saw Vincent’s mum for the first time. She was so small I couldn’t believe she was Vincent’s mum. Her face was misshapen with grief in a way that no actor could or would replicate. I had assumed he must have come from a family of wrong uns but she looked like the sweetest lady. I could handle a guilty verdict. I could handle prison. I wasn’t sure I could handle listening to this poor woman deliver her victim impact statement.
I mentioned before how I stopped following anything where I couldn’t expect to see the conclusion. I hate the idea of not seeing how things turn out. But that’s the nature of life. We all have to go with unfinished business and loose ends that remain untied. I guess it all turns out the same way anyway. It all turns out this way. My daughters will go on to get married and have kids and get divorced. Maybe. That’s how I see it. My grandchildren will have kids that will barely be aware that I ever existed. They’ll ask who is that in the faded picture and their parents will tell them it was Grandad Michael who they never got to meet. They’ll live the lives of quiet desperation that men are supposed to live. In some ways I think Van will be happier without me there. She loves her own space so much. She won’t have to be fearful of the sound of the key in the door. I see her tense up when I come in the house as though I am a portent of bad things. As though opening the front door allows bad things into the house. I can almost feel happy for her imagining here finally breathing a long sigh of relief.
This was scheduled to be the last week of the trial. I sense it might be the last week of my life that could indeed be described as a trial. My skin is turning grey. I think it makes me look guilty. I can see distaste in the eyes of the jurors whenever they dare to look across at me. I can sense the onset of death. I’m in a cell in the bowels of the courthouse. Just me and my solicitor sitting in awkward silence. In recent months I’ve spent more time with him than with my own family. I don’t want my last moments to be with him. People are shuffling about in the corridor, busy with life. Busy with busyness. I want to lay my head down on a billowing pillow. I want my mum to read me a fairytale or a story set in Neverland and send me off to sleep.
THE END
======================================================================
Micro smiles – more of a guffaw – devil’s delight [it’s not called that]. I could feel it. I was smiling a weird little Mona Lisa smile.
Mike pondered and pondered the concept of truth. Would the truth really set him free. What made him want to confess.