‘I . . .’ I say.
‘I know,’ he says.
‘I . . . I knew . . . I should have . . .’
‘He told me,’ Mark says. ‘He actually told me he was going to do it,’ his voice quivers and cracks.
‘Me too, Mark,’ I say. ‘He told me too.’
‘I . . . I don’t know what to do. You know?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I . . . I need some time. To take it in. Can I call you later?’
‘Sure,’ he says.
I listen to the line click dead and then lay the handset on the sofa as if any sudden movement might make it go off again, perhaps with more bad news. The room feels icy cold, so I stand and turn up the thermostat. My eyes are watery and I have a lump in my throat that is so big I can barely swallow.
Beyond the window, a child whizzes past on an electric-blue bicycle, laughing crazily. His father runs after him, and I want to shout at them to shut up, to stop laughing. And then I think of Darren’s parents and think that Darren was a child once too – a carefree child on a bicycle. And now he is gone. And it’s a waste. Because he should have stayed. He should have stayed and ridden a bicycle and laughed. It’s as easy as that.
But Darren wasn’t laughing, was he?
As the child cycles back the other way, still shrieking with joy, that thought strikes me as profound. For we all become so sophisticated, so cynical, that we forget how to ‘en-joy’ ourselves. But joy is easy. Joy doesn’t need money or drugs . . . Joy just needs a wobbly push-bike. Somewhere along the way to becoming adults, we forget that simple fact.
And then as the father runs shouting back past the window, I think, Well, those of us who don’t have children forget it.
I sit in shock, and stare at the world outside. A world that no longer contains Darren.
I remember him – it seems the least I can do.
I remember him at work, feet on the desk. I remember him sitting in my kitchen, perched on the counter-top . . . at the photography exhibition, at the salsa club . . .
And then, of course, I remember Waiine and Dad and wonder if they’re all together somewhere (if Dad was right) or if, as my mother believes, that’s it – they’re just gone.
All these people who were, who had lives and possessions, and jobs and people around them who loved them, and then suddenly they are gone . . . For a while, their lives remain like an afterglow, that’s the really strange thing. Darren’s flat still contains Darren’s clothes. Darren’s iPod still contains Darren’s favourite tracks. Darren’s job, and Darren’s desk, and Darren’s friend CC . . .
A single tear slides down my cheek, because, yes, we all still exist, and all that arsehole had to do was stay, and continue to exist, here, with us. And it’s all too fucking stupid for words. At seven, I phone Mark back.
‘How are you holding up?’ he asks.
‘I feel terrible,’ I say. ‘I feel like it’s my fault.’
‘He told everyone,’ Mark says. ‘Jude says he knew too. He told us all but we didn’t believe him.’
‘Only I think I did,’ I say. ‘Deep down, I think I did believe him. That’s what’s so stupid. God, I can’t really take in that he . . . isn’t . . . any more.’
‘No,’ Mark says. ‘Tomorrow will be the worst. At work.’
‘I know it’s . . . How did he do it? I think I sort of need to know so that I can believe that he’s . . .’
‘Drugs,’ Mark says. ‘Ketamine. Masses of it.’
‘The horse tranquilliser thing?’
‘Yeah. He took enough to kill a horse apparently. Ian reckons he won’t have suffered. He will have just slipped away.’
‘But it was definitely . . . I mean, are we sure it wasn’t an accident?’
‘He left a note, apparently, for his mum. So no. Not an accident.’
‘God, his mother. Imagine,’ I say.
‘Oh, CC,’ Mark says, his voice cracking. ‘I miss him so much already. I have this hole in my stomach . . .’
‘I know, babe, me too.’
‘If he’d have just come to the party. He could have seen how much . . .’ Mark’s voice trails off in a gasp.
‘How much we loved him,’ I say, my own voice gravelly.
‘Yeah,’ Mark says. ‘I did too. That stupid boy.’
‘It is . . .’ I say. ‘Stupid.’
‘A waste . . . that’s such a cliché, but it is,’ he says. ‘It’s a waste. I just don’t understand.’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘Look, I have to go,’ Mark says. ‘Ian has made soup and is insisting I eat something.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Call me if you need to,’ Mark says.
‘Sure.’
I put the phone back in the charger and sit and wrap my arms around myself and think that it’s certainly stupid and definitely a waste. But it’s also entirely understandable.
Because being single can be desperately hard. Being alone can sometimes be unbearable.
And my nose runs, and my lip trembles, and I feel desolate and desperate, but not now for Darren – for myself.
Because right now, at this moment in my life, the one thing, the only thing that could possibly help, the only thing which might possibly ease my pain would be if someone – any one human being on this entire stupid bloody planet – cared enough about me to bring me a bowl of soup.
But that person doesn’t exist.
And that’s why I understand far better than I care to admit, that Darren didn’t want to exist any longer either.
Surprise Visit
‘So this is a bit unexpected.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s fine. You’re lucky I had a cancellation though. I can’t usually fit people in at such short notice.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. Really. As I said, I didn’t think I wanted to come back. And then something happened, and . . . well, I’ve been feeling a bit stuck.’
‘Stuck.’
‘Yeah. I couldn’t face going to work this morning, because, well, Darren won’t be there.’
‘Who won’t be there?’
‘Darren. The guy who died. On Saturday night.’
‘This is someone you worked with.’
‘Yes, a friend. From work. I used to see him outside work sometimes too.’
‘I see.’
‘He killed himself. On Saturday. He took an overdose.’
‘That’s very sad.’
‘Yeah. Well, that’s the thing really. I mean, I understand.’
‘You understand.’
‘Yes, I understand why he did it. I almost think he’s . . . he was . . . right. I mean, I’d rather he were still here, of course. But that’s more for me than for him. Being dead doesn’t matter to him, does it?’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Well he’s dead. It’s awful for his mum, and for us. But for him, well . . . he’s not feeling anything, is he? Does that make any sense, what I’m saying?’
‘I suppose it does in a way, yes.’
‘I feel guilty too. I mean, I know everyone says that whenever anyone dies. But he warned me, so . . .’
‘He told you he was going to commit suicide?’
‘Yes. He even said he was going to do it on his birthday. He couldn’t stand being single any more. Which I understand. But I didn’t take it seriously.’
‘Was there ever any romantic . . .’
‘Darren’s gay. He was gay. So no.’
‘OK. And why do you feel guilty? Do you think you could have stopped him?’
‘Well, maybe . . . I think I could have done more. I mean, to start with I might have cared a bit more when he didn’t turn up at the party. But someone had put something in the punch, so I was off my head.’
‘The punch was drugged?’
‘Yeah. Liquid ecstasy or something.’
‘MDMA?’
‘Yes, that’s it. I’m not a junky or anything. I don’t do drugs. But someone
slipped it in the punch. So I sort of noticed he wasn’t there, but in a way didn’t notice either.’
‘I see.’
‘Plus there was this trip to Cornwall. Well, Devon. And Darren wanted to come. And I sort of think that maybe if I had let him, well, he would have had something to look forward to next week. I’m not making much sense really, am I?’
‘You think that if you had invited your friend to Cornwall with you he might not have killed himself?’
‘Yeah, but that’s stupid, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure. What do you think? Does that sound likely?’
‘No. Not really. I think it’s overestimating my importance a bit. I mean, he liked me, but . . .’
‘Right.’
‘And I didn’t cry again.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When Mark told me. I didn’t cry. I mean I got choked up, but . . .’
‘I see.’
‘When he told me . . . Mark . . . that Darren was, you know . . . dead. Well, it was weird because it was like I already knew. I wasn’t surprised at all.’
‘Because he had warned you, yes.’
‘Maybe. But it was more of a feeling of, that’s what happens . . .’
‘That’s what happens?’
‘With men.’
‘With men?’
‘They die.’
‘I see. So you weren’t surprised.’
‘Well no. And then yes, in a way. Because Darren was always so happy-go-lucky. Well, he wasn’t really. Clearly. And especially not lately. But that’s how he came across. But it’s all just an act, really, isn’t it? We’re all pretending that we’re fine, and deep down we aren’t, are we? Deep down we’re all so lonely we could die. And so in a way, I wasn’t surprised either.’
‘Because you empathise with him.’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
‘And you – have you ever contemplated suicide?’
‘No, never. Well, not as such. I mean, sometimes I think that it would be easier.’
‘Easier?’
‘Than putting on a brave face. Than pretending to be fine all the time. Because really life is just a big string of let-downs, isn’t it?’
‘You feel your life is a string of disappointments?’
‘Well, a bit. Yes. I . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Look, I was watching a kid on a push-bike . . . he was learning to ride it, tearing up and down laughing. And I thought that Darren was that kid once. And so was Waiine. And so was I. And I remember how easy it all seemed. You learned to ride a bike and you fell in love, and lived happily ever after. That’s how all the bedtime stories went, anyway.’
‘Innocence.’
‘Exactly. Whereas in real life you fall in love with a boy who never even notices you exist, and then you settle for someone who seems nice enough, but who would rather write down train numbers than a message on a birthday card or even better just get drunk and watch TV, and then he starts slapping you when he’s drunk, and then even he dumps you. And so you wait around, and one day you have a big love affair, only it turns out that this one is shagging someone else, and then he makes you have an abortion and then dumps you to live with the other woman . . . and . . . so it goes on. That’s what real life’s like. Men are disappointing, or unfaithful. Or they die. And no one tells you that when you’re a kid. Otherwise it wouldn’t come as such a shock.’
‘They die . . .’
‘Well yeah. Some do.’
‘Some? Your father, your brother . . .’
‘And now Waiine.’
‘Darren?’
‘Yes, Darren.’
‘You said Waiine.’
‘No, I said Darren.’
‘You said Waiine.’
‘Did I? Sorry. That’s weird. Isn’t it? Is it? I’m sure you’re reading all sorts of things into that.’
‘It’s interesting, but . . . who knows. Was Darren like your brother? Or perhaps like a brother to you?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘I see. So men die . . .’
‘Some don’t. Some dump you.’
‘I see.’
‘You don’t sound convinced, but I’m not making anything up here.’
‘I didn’t think for a second you were.’
‘Dad died, Waiine died. Darren died . . .’
‘Yes, yes . . . I can see how you might link those together.’
‘And I can’t go back to work. I can’t face seeing that empty chair.’
‘That’s understandable. You probably need some time off to come to terms with it.’
‘Yes. Maybe I should take some time off . . .’
‘It’s a shock. It’s perfectly normal.’
‘Yes. A shock. But somehow not entirely unexpected . . . as I say. Not like when Dad died.’
‘Because?’
‘Well, that was really sudden. I mean, Waiine, well, you knew . . . we knew . . . not exactly when it would happen, but we knew. And Darren, well, as I say, in a weird way, I knew.’
‘So how did you feel when your father died?’
‘Shocked. Devastated.’
‘And you cried?’
‘Yes. For weeks.’
‘Do you remember how that felt?’
‘Awful.’
‘Can you describe how it felt?’
‘Well . . . awful.’
‘Can you describe further?’
‘Sickening. Numbing, I suppose. From the trauma mainly.’
‘The trauma?’
‘Of seeing him die. Of actually being there. I think that kind of overshadowed the loss – the grief. It was mainly shock to start with. From the event itself.’
‘Can you describe the event to me?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘I think it would be useful.’
‘As I say, I’d rather not.’
‘I’m sure. I can only say what I think would be useful to you. In the end, like coming here, it’s all up to you.’
‘Is that IKEA? That red chair? Because I really like it.’
‘No. It’s Roche Bobois.’
‘Oh. No wonder. I wish I liked cheap stuff. It would make life so much . . . well, so much cheaper.’
‘So?’
‘So . . .’
‘So. Your father.’
‘I can try, I suppose.’
‘Good.’
‘We were shopping. For Waiine’s Christmas present.’
‘So Waiine wasn’t with you?’
‘No. It was just the three of us. Mum, Dad, and me. We were in the shopping centre in Camberley. We had lunch somewhere . . . probably BHS, Mum liked the BHS canteen in those days. And Dad said he had indigestion, which is a classic sign of course – yes it was definitely BHS – but no one thought anything of it. Of his indigestion, that is. You know what? I really don’t want to . . .’
‘Please carry on, you were doing really well.’
‘Right. OK. So, then we were on this escalator, and Mum and Dad were in front. And I was looking at this punk guy going down the other way . . . he was kind of cute . . . and then halfway up he just sort of slumped sideways. Dad, that is . . . he crumpled. And Mum and I held him upright to the top, and then we couldn’t hold his weight and he just slid to the floor. And that’s it really.’
‘But you tried to resuscitate him?’
‘Yeah. We thought he had fainted so Mum slapped him. But then somehow I realised . . . I don’t know why . . . but I took his pulse, and couldn’t find it . . . And that was it – he was dead.’
‘That must have been very traumatic. For a . . . how old were you?’
‘Seventeen. I was seventeen. I . . . I was doing my A levels.’
‘So what happened then?’
‘Some guy came out of John Lewis . . . and he ran off back into the store to call an ambulance. And I did CPR.’
‘CPR.’
‘You know, two breaths, thirty pumps. We learnt it in Guides. Only I couldn’t remember
the numbers, how many of each, so I’m not sure if I did it right.’
‘Well, it was a very stressful situation.’
‘Yes. And Mum started trying to pull me off . . . and slapping me around the head. She thought I might hurt him, I think . . . She didn’t realise he was . . . Well, it all got very . . . And then the ambulance arrived, and I had to stop. And even then I thought they would just magically bring him back to life . . . I thought I was keeping him going till they could bring him back to life with electric shocks or something . . . but . . . then . . . I just stood there and watched, and they didn’t. I suppose they thought it had been too long or something. It was quite a long time . . . They faked it . . . trying to resuscitate him. I saw them faking it . . . Mum doesn’t know that.’
‘That must have been very hard.’
‘It was the feel of his mouth. That was the worst thing. That’s what I remembered . . . over and over. The feel of my mouth on his, like a kiss . . . but, obviously not a kiss . . . Because he was dead of course. And every time I remembered it, it made me cry, so I tried to blank them out, those final . . . But they kept coming back. And every time it made me fall apart all over again.’
‘You’re crying now.’
‘Well, my eyes are watering a bit.’
‘No, you’re crying.’
‘Am I? A bit maybe. Do you have a tis— thanks. No, I don’t really cry properly anymore. This is as spectacular as it gets.’
‘But you are crying now. Your chin is wet.’
‘Is it? A bit, I suppose.’
‘Quite a lot.’
‘Yes.’
‘You say it was like a kiss. Didn’t you mention kissing last time? I’m trying to find it here in my notes, but . . .’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘No? Oh. OK . . . No . . . yes, here it is . . . beards.’
‘Oh right. Yeah, I said that I don’t like beards.’
‘Did your father have a beard?’
‘Oh.’
‘Did he?’
‘Sorry, is this some Freudian thing? Because there was nothing . . .’
‘Not at all. But did he? Have a beard? Just for the record.’
‘Yes. But that’s not . . . is it?’
‘Not what?’
‘The beard thing? Is that why?’
‘Your biggest life trauma involved you giving mouth-to-mouth to your dead father. Who had . . .’
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 30
