Very Nearly Dead

by A K Reynolds

  My wine seemed to evaporate at high speed in spite of my best attempts to make it last. On the plus side, my wine consumption and the fact I was no longer speaking to Seth meant my nerves were settling a bit. Just so long as I kept my mind off bad things, I was able to remain relatively calm. The problem was, I had so many bad things to think about that no sooner had I suppressed one of them then another would come bubbling to the surface.

  A man waved at me and made his way to my corner. It was Charlie Duggan, carrying a tumbler of whiskey with ice. He was a big man like Seth, and, like Seth, he’d gone to the lengths of wearing a suit for the school reunion. It was charcoal grey, and he’d teamed it up with a light grey shirt and sober tie. He’d combed his mop of dark hair into a neat parting, which somehow made it more obvious he was greying at the temples. His round face was lined with troubles.

  He extended his hand to shake mine, changed his mind, and opened his arms instead. We hugged, and I felt him pulling me close as if I was a long-lost friend. In a sense I was. If things had panned out differently, I could’ve seen me and Charlie spending time together, maybe even becoming an item. Apart from me, Charlie was the most gentle of the group that’d been involved in the incident all those years ago. I suspected the rest of them didn’t know what ‘gentle’ was – but they were capable of making a good pretence of it when the need arose.

  We let each other go, and he examined my face – while I examined his. What were we both looking for? Reassurance, I think, that our mutual secret was safe, but possibly something more.

  ‘How are you keeping, Jaz?’ he asked. He was smiling, but it was just a mouth-smile. The corners of his mouth moved up into a U-shape, but his eyes refused to join in the celebration.

  ‘Oh, same as usual, pretty good.’ I did my best to inject some sincerity into those words.

  ‘I’m not,’ he replied, ‘and I don’t believe you are.’

  I threw back the last of my wine, about a third of a 250 ml glass, in one gulp. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, your eyes are darting about, and you have a nervous tic.’

  A tic? What was he on about? Then I realised the corner of one of my eyes was twitching. I rubbed it, which didn’t do any good. It continued to twitch.

  ‘Oh that,’ I said, putting on the bravest face I could about it, ‘that’s nothing.’

  He attempted another smile which was just as unsuccessful as his first attempt. ‘We ought to face the truth. You and I haven’t had a proper conversation since, well, you know when. We really ought to, because then we could move on.’

  My stomach began to slowly turn. ‘A proper conversation? About what?’

  I thought he’d drop it but he wouldn’t.

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘Seth wouldn’t like it.’

  That was true, but it wasn’t the only reason I said it. The truth was, I didn’t want to discuss the part of our shared past Charlie wanted to talk about. I’d buried it as deep as I could, and wanted it to stay buried. If I were to dig it up and carry out a post-mortem on it, it’d make me ill.

  ‘Seth wouldn’t have to know.’

  I needed an excuse to extricate myself from the situation. I held up my wine glass. ‘Please excuse me, Charlie, I need a top-up,’ I said, glancing towards the bar.

  Charlie knocked back the remains of his whiskey. ‘So do I,’ he replied. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Great. He was going to stick with me in the hope he’d be able to buttonhole me on the one subject we had to avoid, in this room at any rate, to ensure our future survival.

  I set off, vaguely aware of him following close behind me. When I got to the bar I turned my head and saw him standing beside me.

  ‘What do you want? I’ll get it,’ he said.

  I pretended I hadn’t heard and hoped he’d give up on me and go talk to someone else about the past.

  ‘What do you want – I’ll get it,’ he repeated, a little louder this time.

  There was nothing for it but to give in gracefully – I couldn’t spend the entire evening running away from Charlie. I could only hope he wouldn’t bend my ear too forcibly on the subject of our shared past. If he did, I’d need more than another glass of red to get through it. An extra-large pack of Valium might not be enough.

  ‘A red wine, please, Charlie,’ I said. ‘Make it a big one.’

  He got my drink and a large whiskey for himself then he leaned close to me, and spoke sotto voce, so that only I could hear him, ‘We do need to talk,’ he said.

  Seth was at the other end of the bar with a group of admirers. He must’ve had some sort of sixth sense, because he glanced in our direction while Charlie was whispering in my ear, and his dead eyes briefly focussed on us, while his grin wavered just a little. Did he suspect something was amiss?

  ‘Not now, Charlie,’ I said, hoping my voice wasn’t giving away too much of the alarm I felt at the prospect of Seth knowing what was on the cards. Then I looked around wondering whether anyone else had noticed anything odd about the way Charlie was talking to me. Probably not. Only a small group of people knew we were privy to confidential information which ought never to be discussed. Everyone else here had come to catch up with former school friends, or show off how successful they’d been since leaving St Benedict’s.

  ‘It’s been eighteen years,’ he said, taking a sip of his whiskey. More than a sip.

  ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘Be a human being, for God’s sake. Act like you care.’

  I’d misjudged Charlie. I’d assumed I was the one with the biggest conscience out of the lot of us. I was wrong. Charlie was the one who felt the guilt the most.

  There was no telling how deep the shit would be that Charlie would land us in if he aired his feelings in this room of all rooms. My stomach turned more quickly. I took a hefty slurp of wine to calm it down. The last thing I could afford to do was act like I cared. If I did, I might have to talk about it. And if I talked, even just to Charlie, I might get myself killed. If I talked to anyone else, I might get myself locked up for a crime which had taken place a long time ago.

  ‘I do care, Charlie, but I can’t talk about it. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, I know it. But I can’t carry on like this. The guilt is killing me. I’ve got to bare my soul to someone, and the only person I can think of is you.’

  It made perfect sense. It also made me realise Charlie had become a liability – a bigger liability even than me. I could only hope – for his sake as well as mine – that he kept a lid on things. I drank more wine. It seemed to be my only answer to every problem. Then I surreptitiously looked at Seth. He was staring at me and Charlie with his cold dead eyes. I knew that look. I’d seen it before. It’d scared me way back when, and it scared me now.

  ‘Don’t spill your guts, Charlie,’ I whispered. ‘Not to me, not to anyone. If you do and word gets back to Seth–’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell Seth.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. But you don’t want to get into any bad habits. They could kill you.’

  ‘What sort of bad habits?’

  It was Seth. He’d stolen up and caught me unawares. And what I’d thought of as a whisper must’ve been louder than that for him to have heard me. What else had he heard?

  ‘Drinking too much,’ I said. ‘You can have too much of a good thing.’

  Seth looked at my glass and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure you’re qualified to give that advice,’ he said. ‘And I’m not sure I believe you. You two better behave yourselves – or I might have to have a quiet word.’

  I’ve never seen the blood drain from anybody’s face as quickly as it did from Charlie’s. His hand trembled so much the ice clinked in his glass. Seth looked at me with a shark-like grin on his face. ‘You ought to get your nervous tic seen to,’ he said.

  I self-consciously rubbed my eye again, while he walked away, laughing.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ I sai
d. ‘Fuck. Better not even talk about talking about it from now on.’

  He downed his whiskey in one and ordered another. ‘I’m cracking up,’ he said, not quietly. Heads turned. Fortunately, Seth was out of earshot and had his back to us.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Charlie, do us both a favour and shut your mouth.’

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out an e-cig, and took a long draw from it. He sighed in a satisfied way as a white mist left his mouth and swirled around his face.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to give up smoking, but this is almost as good. It hits the spot.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to use those in here,’ I told him, pointing to a sign behind the bar. ‘We better find a seat somewhere quiet where you won’t be noticed.’

  I led the way through the people crowding round the bar area to the tables and chairs at the back of the room. Soon I found an empty table and we both grabbed a seat at it. Charlie hung his jacket over the back of his seat. There were dark sweat patches under his armpits and a sheen of sweat covered his face.

  ‘I’ve been keeping things to myself all this time,’ Charlie mumbled drunkenly, loosening his tie. ‘But you know something? The game’s up.’

  Because he was mumbling and no-one was nearby, I was pretty confident he hadn’t been overheard. All the same I felt the nervous tic in my eyelid getting worse.

  ‘What?’

  He loosened his tie some more and drank some more whiskey. He must’ve ordered a triple because his glass still looked rather full.

  ‘The game’s up,’ he repeated.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Charlie.’

  He unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and rolled them up to the elbow as if to show he meant business. He picked up his glass and finished his whiskey in one determined gulp. ‘You want to know how I know the game’s up?’ he asked.

  The tic got so bad it began to affect my vision. It made Charlie’s face quiver when I looked at him through the eye with the tic in it. I pointed to it.

  ‘Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? Stop it, Charlie!’

  He put both hands on the table and looked down. For a moment I thought he was embarrassed then I thought he might be doing that because he was drunk and drugged-up.

  He raised his head slowly, as if it was taking a supreme effort. ‘You need to know something,’ he said.

  I leaned closer to him and whispered urgently, ‘Not if it’s about the past I don’t.’

  He spoke out loud, little caring who heard. ‘It’sh only a matter of time before we’ll all be behind barsh.’

  Drunk though I was, his words pierced my brain like arrows. What could this mean? Was Charlie on the verge of cracking up and handing himself in? Or had someone else told him they were ratting us all out to the police?

  He picked up his empty glass, held it up to his face and looked at it as if searching for answers. Then he put the glass back on the table.

  ‘Need anosher drink,’ he said, getting to his feet. He staggered backwards but managed to stop himself from falling over. ‘Closhe,’ he said.

  Then he took a couple more steps, in the right direction this time, and collapsed face down on the floor. He made no attempt to get up. He didn’t even move. He just lay there face down, like a statue fallen off its pedestal. Inebriated though I was, I knew something was very wrong. I went to his side, dropped to my knees, got my hands beneath him and rolled him onto his back. Then I put my face close to his and said, ‘Charlie, Charlie, are you okay?’ he didn’t respond. I raised my head. People were giving us concerned glances. ‘Help me someone! This is serious!’ I shouted.

  A small crowd soon gathered round us. I heard a calm voice speaking with authority. ‘Let me through, I’m a doctor.’

  I recognised him as Raymond Wells, someone who, in my teens, I’d considered to be nice enough but a sad loser type. It turned out he was one of those rare St Benedict’s success stories – like me, if you could call being a lush successful.

  He got to work on Charlie, feeling the pulse in his neck then giving him CPR. Someone else standing over him desperately pressed the keys on his mobile and made an urgent call. I heard him shouting the word ‘Ambulance!’ to make himself heard above the music still booming from the speakers.

  ‘Is there a defibrillator on the premises?’ Wells shouted.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ someone said – it was Seth. He went to quiz the bar manager and returned a few seconds later.

  ‘Sorry, no,’ he said.

  Wells continued the CPR for a few more minutes then stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s no use. He’s dead. Charlie is dead.’

  Charlie, dead? I couldn’t believe it. I still saw Raymond Wells as the sad loser I’d known at school and thought he must’ve got it wrong. I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him.

  ‘Charlie can’t be dead. You’ve got to give him more treatment,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘There’s nothing more I can do. There’s nothing anyone can do, other than God.’

  I’d been feeling a bit sick and now I felt sicker than ever. My eyes began to well up so much I had to wipe the tears from them with the back of my hand.

  ‘How?’ I asked. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘That’ll be a job for the coroner to work out,’ said Wells. ‘You’ll have to let me go. I need a drink.’

  I couldn’t blame him for wanting refreshment. I needed a drink too. But it would’ve felt disrespectful to leap right up and neck a glass of red, while Charlie was lying on the floor on his own, even if he was dead, so I knelt next to him, wondering whether he’d died of a heart attack or a stroke. I imagined that with all the stress he’d been going through, either was likely. Then I wondered if he might have overdosed on something. Charlie didn’t take recreational drugs as far as I knew, but things might have changed. Or his doctor could’ve prescribed anti-depressants, and if Charlie had been having a particularly bad day, he might’ve taken more than he was meant to.

  The music suddenly stopped. The DJ had realised something was amiss. Seth went over to him and they exchanged words then the DJ gave Seth a mic.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Seth. ‘There’s been an unfortunate incident. I regret to tell you that one of our colleagues has passed away. Charles Duggan, known to everyone here simply as “Charlie”. He was respected and liked by everyone who knew him. Out of respect for Charlie, we’re not playing any more music tonight. Please don’t go home, as the police have been called, and they may want to interview you.’

  He gave the mic back to the DJ, walked over to me, took me by the hand, and led or dragged me to the bar, I’m not sure which.

  ‘Let’s get you another drink,’ he said, his features immobile as those of a Botox user.

  It was another of those offers I couldn’t refuse. ‘Red wine, please.’ My sick stomach would just have to cope.

  There must have been some sort of telepathy going on, because our gang from our schooldays all congregated in the same spot.

  ‘You need something stronger. I’ll get you a brandy.’ He leaned across the bar. ‘Two double brandies, please.’ He noticed Kylie and the rest had joined us. ‘Make that six double brandies.’

  He handed them round and raised his glass. ‘To Charlie,’ he said.

  We all raised our own glasses and chorused, ‘To Charlie!’

  I began to well up again. Seth noticed and gave me a couple of tissues. After I’d mopped my eyes and gotten over my fit of sobbing, we told each other what an all-round great person Charlie was, although all of us knew there’d been something lurking in his background which raised a lot of damning questions. It raised those same damning questions about the rest of us, but of course we never mentioned that.

  Kylie drank her brandy looking as if she couldn’t care less about Charlie’s death but was making an effort to pretend she did. As I glanced around, I realised she was pretty representative. Charlie and me must’ve been the only no
rmal people in that group of ours. The rest of them were dead inside.

  Before long, Seth was back to his shark-like self, laughing and joking as if nothing had happened.

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a couple of paramedics walking through the hall towards Charlie’s corpse, and, following in their wake, a couple of policemen.

  2

  Way Back When

  St Benedict’s was a huge brick building housing upwards of a thousand pupils. It had a central block four storeys high, attached to which were smaller blocks containing the school hall, gym, and changing rooms. To the rear there were muddy games pitches, and to the front a series of bleak playgrounds. It was surrounded by a high wall, creating an overall impression similar to that of the jail at Wormwood Scrubs. The look of the place filled me with dread, as did its reputation.

  It was the last place I wanted to go. I’d been perfectly happy at the Dickens Academy, but my parents had moved and I had no option other than to transfer to St Benedict’s.

  It didn’t help that I was wearing hand-me-downs. The way I was dressed was the stuff of nightmares for a girl of my age. My grey skirt was faded, my blouse was at least two sizes too big, and my grubby school tie was frayed at the ends. Everybody else had school uniforms which fitted them perfectly and were new, or newish. The other pupils looked me up and down, taking in the way I was dressed and passing judgement on me. So, on my first day, I kept a low profile. It helped that the teacher didn’t make too much of a fuss when she introduced me to the class.

  I sat at the back and talked to no-one, but kept my eyes open and tried to work out who I should associate with. I wanted to get in with someone who’d be my ticket to social acceptance, and I reckoned if I couldn’t do that, the next best thing was to not be noticed.

  I slunk from class-to-class, friendless and alone, wondering if I dared speak to someone and hoping someone would speak to me. It was a forlorn hope. My skirt was too long. It made me look like a freak, as did the rest of my outfit. So the chances of anyone talking to me – anyone who was cool, that is – were slim.