Life Without Me

by Anna Legat

  ‘It was a terrible sight,’ Rob was telling Olivia, who was squashing a Brussels sprout into thick gravy. ‘Like she was having a bath in her own blood. The water was cold – she must’ve done it in the morning, just as she sent me the text.’

  ‘You checked the water? Did you put your hand in it?’ Olivia grimaced. She had a green sprout leaf on a front tooth.

  ‘I tried to pull her out. Don’t know what I was thinking … First instinct, I suppose … But she was well gone: cold, stiff as a …’ Rob’s dinner stood untouched. At least he had the decency not to be able to swallow. ‘I called an ambulance, though I knew she was gone.’

  Paula glanced at me and said: ‘They didn’t bother checking my pulse or perform any … what you call it? CRP? They just said “rigor mortis”. Can you believe that? I could wake up in one of those dreadful fridges in a mortuary and die of fright because nobody bothered to check my pulse!’

  ‘You can’t die again, Paula – you’re already dead,’ I reminded her, and shuddered. She was still stark-naked and dripping wet. ‘Can you not put something on, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I can’t do anything about my looks post-mortem any more than you can,’ she retorted. ‘Do you realise you’ve been floating about with bloody snot hanging out of your nose all this time? Except I’m too polite to point it out to you.’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘They took her away in a body bag. It was awful,’ Rob went on as Olivia put a piece of beef in her mouth and started chewing it thoughtfully. ‘Then I had to wait for the police. It was a suicide – unnatural death, you see, they had to interview me, the usual …’ Rob winced. ‘Except, nothing is usual any more, is it? Georgie in a coma, Paula slashing her wrists, and my daughter involved with some fireman who could be mixed up in Georgie’s accident … Sometimes I’m sure – damn sure – this is one of those dreams that doesn’t make any sense, but feels too real for comfort, and that I’ll wake up any minute to see Georgie walk through that door after her evening run, and on Monday I’ll go to work as I do every Monday, and see you, and feel better for it –’

  Olivia put her hand on his to stop it from juddering. She said, ‘I’m here already.’

  Paula raised an eyebrow. ‘And so life goes on, and you’re not even dead yet.’

  ‘But the man who got that juvenile dickhead to run me over, is,’ I told her. ‘Tony’s just shot him in the head.’ It was at this point, as I got it off my chest, that I fell apart. I cried, and cried like a baby, and my egotistical sister had no idea how to stop me.

  Olivia and Rob were onto the pudding (gelatinous trifle with fresh raspberries) when I finished telling Paula what I had just witnessed at Ehler’s house.

  ‘He did it for you!’ she exclaimed, a spark of jealousy in her panda’s eyes. ‘Poor Tony! You don’t realise how much he loves you, you silly cow! He punished that man for hurting you … He is your knight in shining armour, your lord protector, your lover, your man! How romantic!’

  ‘You are an idiot, Paula,’ I commented coldly. Yes, perhaps Tony did do it for me, a misguided attempt at putting things right, atoning for his betrayal, but even if that, and not his own skin, was his motivation, I wouldn’t be seen, dead or alive, condoning it. It was wrong and I, of all people, should know that. I’d get people locked up for life for things like that. The bestiality of it all, the raw callousness … And yet, deep down, I was turned on. He would never let me go! He had me in the palm of his hand and no matter how hard I kicked and how loud I screamed in denial, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Not to mention my guilt. It was my fault! I told him too much. I blabbered and boasted that I would have his client’s balls on the golden platter. I toyed with his ego, challenged him and released the beast from within him. I played with fire and I got burned. Tony only struck a match. Now the wildfire was spreading and we were both trapped in it.

  Not surprisingly, the children weren’t sharing in the family meal. Mark was still in hospital, by my side, or rather following Chi on her rounds, like a pubescent puppy. Emma was in her room upstairs, ‘down with an upset tummy’, or rather dwelling on her lost innocence and hatred of men. She was lying on her bed, staring at the bare walls dotted with greasy smudges of Blu-Tac that used to hold her gothic posters in place. Though she wasn’t crying, her eyes were red and swollen and her cheeks were patchy with colour. If I could come back to life just for a bit, it would be to hold my child, kiss her patchy cheeks and tell her that this wasn’t that bad at all, that there would be dozens of boyfriends, some of whom would betray her, some of whom she would betray, but it wasn’t the end of the world – it was just how life went. Being hurt was part of being alive, and it would pass.

  Her telephone rang. She checked the screen and saw Brandon’s name. Her face flushed red. She hesitated and wondered what to do until the call went to the voicemail. ‘Bastard,’ she reminded herself, but despite that reminder, called her mailbox to listen to his voice. Except that he had left no message. She looked even more hurt. Suddenly her mobile rang again. She answered immediately.

  ‘Emma, I just came back from the police station. They kept me almost all day, asking millions of questions –’

  ‘Yes, it was me. I told them about you and Jason. Is that it? Is that what you wanted to know? Who snitched on you?’

  ‘I’m not trying to blame you, I understand.’

  ‘I don’t need your understanding. Or your forgiveness,’ she sniffled.

  ‘I would’ve done the same.’

  ‘Good. I must go.’

  ‘Please don’t go!’ Panic stole into his voice.

  I could see from her face that she wouldn’t be able to put the phone down on him. ‘What do you want, Brandon? We’re over.’

  ‘I want to explain. I knew nothing about your mother! I had nothing to do with what happened to her!’

  ‘You knew Jason ran her over in a stolen car. I heard you two arguing that day when I stopped by at yours. Don’t lie to me. Don’t fall even lower than you already are.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I knew he did something stupid, but I didn’t know he was going to do it, if you know what I mean? I didn’t put him up to it. Do you understand?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to listen to you any more.’

  ‘After the fact, after he’d done it, he told me he knocked over some woman in the street, that his boss told him to do it to scare her off, or something … He regretted it. He was shit-scared, but he couldn’t take it back, could he? What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Telling the police would be an option,’ she said coldly.

  ‘I told the cops. I told them all I knew!’

  ‘Only after I shopped you!’

  There was a long pause. His breathing was frantic on the other side of the phone. He was thinking hard, thinking fast – he had no defences left. Yet he didn’t want to lose her. ‘Emma, I didn’t know how bad it was … Jason was a friend … he trusted me … He looked up to me … I couldn’t … There are limits … And I didn’t know it was your mother! If I knew, believe me –’

  ‘Whoever it was, it just isn’t right! It wasn’t right for you to cover up for him. Whoever she was, she was somebody’s mum, or daughter, or just someone!’ Emma might only have been approaching sixteen but she had the moral compass of an adult. I was proud of her.

  ‘Yes … you’re right. I don’t want to argue. I’ve no right to argue with you over this.’ He sighed. ‘I love you. Can you try to forgive me? I’ll do anything.’

  ‘I can’t …’

  There was a thunderous, impatient knock on Brandon’s door. I heard him shout, ‘Go away! Not now! Fuck off!’ Then he spoke into the telephone, ‘Emma, you can … Please …’

  Before Emma answered, a sudden commotion and the shattering sound of a door being broken in had stopped her in her tracks. She listened. There were voices – Brandon’s: shouting, telling someone to fuck off and somebody else’s voice pleading for help. Both voices were indistinct, coming from a distance. It seemed Brand
on had dropped his mobile without hanging up.

  Emma sat up on her bed and pressed the telephone hard against her ear. I was curious about what was going on at Brandon’s, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave her. Though she wasn’t there with him, though she wasn’t in direct danger, I felt absolutely compelled to stay with her and look after her. Brandon, on the other hand, was a big boy – he could look after himself.

  Within seconds we both knew that the intruder was Jason. He was still in shock, blathering uncontrollably, whispering, shouting and sobbing – all in equal measure: ‘Brandon, mate, you got to help me! Boss shot himself. In front of me. Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

  ‘You’re fucking bleeding, Jason. I’ll call an ambulance.’

  ‘No, no fucking ambulance. It’s his blood. It’s gone all over me. Look, fuck me!’ Obviously Jason had only just realised he was covered in Ehler’s blood. He was probably looking at himself in the mirror, losing his mind all over again, trying to make sense of events and bring some order to his head.

  ‘I thought he was gonna shoot me … No, first, first he was givin’ me cash to get out of town, then he points a gun at me, then he puts a bullet in his own head. Like – fuck me! Like he don’t know what he’s doing. Right in the middle, here!’

  I was beginning to put two and two together: Jason had covered his eyes before Ehler pulled the trigger. He had seen nothing. He’d only heard the shot and then saw Ehler’s body sprawled before him with a bullet through his head. The first thought that occurred to the poor little weasel was: Boss shot himself! I can’t imagine how he had justified this sudden change of heart to himself – perhaps Boss had experienced a pang of conscience and turned against himself to atone for all his sins and trespasses?

  ‘Jason, I’m calling the cops. You can tell them everything.’ I wondered if Brandon was saying that for Emma’s benefit, but it was the first sensible thing he had said all evening.

  ‘No fucking way!’ Jason disagreed. ‘They’ll pin it on me. They’ll do me in for that woman anyhow. I ain’t goin’ down.’

  ‘That woman is Emma’s mother!’

  Silence. Were they whispering to each other? Was there a sudden explosion of sign language in that room – the boys rehearsing a joint version of events? Then Jason screeched, ‘I didn’t know, did I! I didn’t, I swear!’

  ‘I’m calling the cops.’

  ‘You! You’ll fucking go down with me, try me!’ Menace stole into Jason’s voice. He was desperate.

  ‘What have I done, Jason?’

  ‘You told me, you bastard! You said, “follow your dreams! Go and get it, Jason! Grab life by the feet!” I learned your shit by heart. I lived by it!’

  ‘I didn’t fucking tell you to kill anyone!’

  ‘One and the same thing!’

  ‘No! No, Jason! No, it isn’t. You’re such an arse! I’m calling the cops.’

  ‘Look here! Look, I got money …’ The despair distorted Jason’s voice turning it into a teenage boy’s high-octave shrill. ‘Ehler’s safe was full of it. Millions! Look here! Yeah, half is yours. Yeah? Just help me, you fuck!’

  ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with it. I’m calling the cops,’ Brandon’s voice was now very close to the phone. He must have picked it up to dial 999.

  Jason howled. It wasn’t any coherent statement, just a strangled war cry. A scuffle followed. Someone croaked. Something fell to the floor with a clank. A thud. A ‘Sorry, sorry mate!’ was whispered with dread, followed by a muffled cry. The slamming of a door. Receding steps.

  Emma screamed into her telephone: ‘Brandon? Brandon! Speak to me!’

  Nothing.

  Then a faint wheeze.

  ‘Em, I’ve been stabbed. I’m bleeding …’

  Rob, Olivia, Paula, and I crowded over Emma. She was calm and collected, almost as if this whole affair had nothing to do with her. ‘I want to report a stabbing – 18 Gaolers Road – that’s g-a-o-l-e-r-s. Correct,’ she nodded, unnecessarily, to the emergency services operator who was on the other end of the line. ‘No, it isn’t me. The … victim is bleeding – you must send an ambulance immediately. And a police car. Inform Inspector Thackeray. The attacker, Jason Mahon, is already wanted by the police. May still be there. I think he’s armed. No, I’m not there. Brandon – the victim – called me on the phone. My name? Emma Ibsen. Can we leave details until later? Get the paramedics there, now.’ I was mightily impressed with her composure.

  Rob, Olivia, and Paula were mystified. Paula looked at me strangely, ‘Is this a prank call?’

  ‘No,’ I replied curtly. I had no time for lengthy clarifications. In any event I wasn’t sure what had really happened.

  Only when Emma put the phone down could we all see she was shaking like a leaf. Her nerves were shot. ‘Dad?’ She gazed at Rob with horror in her eyes. ‘If Brandon dies, it’ll be my fault. I drove him to it. I drove him to take Jason on. And now he’s bleeding to death.’

  ‘Well, surely it can’t be that serious!’ Rob found it hard to believe that someone as young as Emma could be mixed up with something as grim as ‘bleeding to death’. ‘Boys will be boys … a little scuffle … Is that what it was?’

  Olivia put a maternal arm around Emma’s shoulders. ‘You’ve done the right thing. One can’t be too careful. Now, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Is she for real?’ Paula stared. ‘The girl needs a shot of brandy, not a sodding cup of tea!’

  Luckily Emma couldn’t hear either of them. She gazed at Rob pleadingly. ‘I need to be at the hospital when they bring him there. I’ll never forgive myself if he dies. Please, Dad, can we go? Can we go now?’

  Of course, it wasn’t Emma’s fault – silly child! Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my subconscious mind I knew the fault was mine. I had attracted death and destruction to my family. It was as if my accident created a domino effect where one piece after another – one life after another – got knocked down in a chain reaction of self-perpetuating revenge. I seemed to have been holding on to life like a drunk falling down from his seat at the head of a dining table and pulling with him the table cloth and all that was on it. It had to stop! They all had to break away from me: Tony, Jason, Brandon, Emma, Rob, Mark … I had to break away from them before I took them all with me.

  The call came to Rob’s mobile as they sat waiting outside the operating theatre. Brandon had been taken for surgery. He had been stabbed in the abdomen, but that was all the doctors could say. No one knew if any vital organs had been damaged. In the silence of an empty hospital corridor where only a few departing souls rattled about, the ringing of Rob’s mobile phone sounded like a church bell summoning mourners to a funeral service.

  ‘Dad,’ Mark sounded hollow. ‘It’s Mum. She’s dying.’

  Wow! That came as a surprise. I admit I had been contemplating the possibility of that happening – everybody had – but death takes us by surprise even when we expect it. It is the feeling of being robbed in broad daylight. Our righteous indignation prevents us from accepting it, despite knowing that it’s coming and there is no stopping it. It’s the violation of us, the violation of our existence, the kind of crime where we, the victims, receive the sentence. Death sentence. It takes us to the one place where we can’t plead innocence, because our innocence doesn’t matter.

  And yet, despite my indignation, I considered myself very lucky indeed. I wasn’t dying alone. What was the chance of everyone I loved being there, by my deathbed, right on cue! They ran across the hospital wards, corridors and stairs, and within minutes they were with me. Chi was applying compressions to my chest, her small body pulsating like a pneumatic pump. The little screen on my life support machine was showing a pair of bright, flat lines. Someone kick that computer! I screamed, it’s broken! No one listened. They joined Mark in the helpless admiration of Chi’s efforts.

  Within seconds Dr Jarzecki arrived on the scene with two other nurses pulling in an arsenal of death-defeating weaponry. The
good doctor glanced at the lined screen and shook his head, but nevertheless he decided to give me a go. A pair of what I’d describe as jump-leads was thrust at my chest – my body jerked and convulsed. Then it fell back, limp and unresponsive. Another go – another chance. And I missed it again.

  Dr Jarzecki screamed at the nurses. ‘Adrenalin, sister! Now! She is SLEEPing away!’

  Rob stared at him, confused. ‘She’s sleeping?’ he asked, cautiously hopeful.

  ‘No, slipping away,’ Mark translated the good doctor’s vernacular into standard English. ‘She’s slipping away.’

  No one had anything to add. Silence becomes death, I thought. Their silence was almost soothing; it was restorative, like catching breath between high notes.

  Until Mother spoke.

  ‘Bound to catch you two jumping the queue! Ever heard of waiting for your parents to die first? It’s only common courtesy, but nooo, not the two of you! You’ve always been so competitive! Always me, me, me … Always me first!’

  There she was, our good old supercilious mother, less the stale biscuit and cold tea, less the twisted stockings, less the grey hair and convoluted spine bent by osteoporosis. She was back to her forties – her power years, wearing the bell-bottom trousers and the psychedelically patterned blouse I remembered her wearing when Paula and I had been little girls.

  ‘I am not burying the two of you, forget it! Anyway, as things are I wouldn’t have anything to wear for two funerals. I couldn’t wear the same outfit – what would people say? We’ll just have to die together, on three, holding hands. One, two, three –’

  We used to do things together, on three. When we were afraid of something – like going to a dentist for a check-up or running into the sea when the waves were high – Mother would make us hold hands – all three of us – and she would say: one, two, three – and we would say ‘JUMP!’ It used to make things easy.

  ‘Mummy? Is that you?’ Both Paula and I spoke simultaneously – on three, as it were. Funny how after all those years of distance and formality, we instantly reverted to calling her Mummy, just as we had when we were little.