The Life of Death
Page 9
At the sight of him, I feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. I can offer no solace, cannot take him in my arms to soothe his hurt, to calm his fears. All I can do is creep on to the sofa next to him. Sit, a silent companion, while he stares vacantly at a TV screen, barely seeing the chiffons and sequins of swirling, twirling dancers. He used to refuse to watch this programme. Told Kate it was a load of old rubbish. But she loved it, and he loved her and now he will watch. Every Saturday. He will watch for her. Tell her what’s happened when the judges score and the crowd roar. When the credits roll and two minor celebrities stand, alone together in pools of light to await their fate, to find out who will live to dance another day.
On the arm of the chair, Tom’s phone flashes, unanswered, in a silent ring. He stares blankly at the TV, the satin swish and salsa shimmy unseen. Eyes are dry and red from lack of sleep. He yawns. Stretches. Head begins to nod on his shoulders. Sleep is desperately needed. As his head droops, he wakes with a start. Gets up and goes to the bathroom to clean his teeth. Her toothbrush still sits in the mug by the sink. Her shampoo still stands by the taps in the bath, a sticky rim of dust forming on its lip.
He gets into bed. Lies there, open-eyed. Resolutely, determinedly sticking to his side. Won’t encroach on her space. Can’t encroach. The duvet to his left is untouched, unruffled. Waiting. Ready. In case – just in case – she comes back. Within that confined side, with its invisible walls, he tosses and turns, turns and tosses. Flat on his back, pillow balled beneath his head. Leg thrust out from beneath the 12-tog before cold toes are bundled back in. The outline of his body highlighted by the single lamp that shines through from the hallway. He can’t stand darkness now. The suffocating, all-enveloping, blinding darkness. That lamp will shine through the night.
On the bedside table luminous green figures have an ethereal glow: 02:47, 04:12, 05:39. So, so tired but sleep won’t come. Not for any length of time. Not for the past couple of months. During the day he can barely keep his eyes open, but at night the fear of seeing her in his dreams and losing her over and over and over keeps eyes wide and mind whirring. The numbers click through the minutes, flick through the hours, and all he can do is watch and wait until they tick around to 7 a.m. and his day starts again.
And as he tosses and turns, turns and tosses, I settle into the battered old armchair in the corner of the bedroom to watch over him. I can’t go near him, can’t touch him. Not with the deaths of Hywel and Rose hanging fresh in my mind’s eye. Even sitting in the same room as Tom seems wrong, voyeuristic almost, intruding on life when so recently I brought death. I can’t go near him, but try as I might, I can’t tear myself away. I have to stay close in the hope that somewhere, somehow, he can feel my presence. Feel that he’s not alone, not abandoned, not left to face the world on his own. My eyes follow the outline of his face. Straight nose, downturned mouth. Stubble darkening cheeks hollowed by a month of eating nothing but the bare minimum needed for the basic act of survival. Eyes staring, unblinking, at the ceiling. And I feel an overwhelming urge to love him, to cherish him. To protect him from the world out there that has so cruelly let him down. And that is why. Why there’s no sniff, no whiff. No hum, no breath. I’ve not been brought here for death. Here, on the inside of that empty flat on that tree-lined street. I’ve not been brought here for death. What I’m doing is right. Hywel, Rose, whoever is thrown in my path at random next. Their sacrifices, their deaths are bringing me ever closer to this, to where I’ve been brought and where I belong. For I have been led here, to this echoingly silent flat on this tree-lined street, by the heart.
13
THE PULSING ROAR OF THE CROWD HITS US LIKE A passing freight train. A mushroom cloud of sound billowing up and over the high walls of the stands. He leads me through the old-fashioned turnstile beneath stacked seats, His usual suit today offset by a red and white scarf jauntily looped around His neck. The pitch opens out before us as we emerge into the baying crowd – an emerald island in a cheering, swaying sea of cherry red.
‘Hot-dog?’ He asks over His shoulder.
‘No. Thanks. I’m fine.’
Hot-dog?
He shrugs. ‘Your funeral.’
‘I think I’ll survive.’
We’re here to talk about people dying. However he wants to dress it up. Hot-dog indeed.
He looks down at me with an arched eyebrow. ‘Suit yourself. It gets cold out here – you’ll be glad of it later.’
I ignore Him, follow Him to the concession in moody silence. Wait as He squeezes behind the melamine counter to help Himself to the processed meat rotating on a rolling grill, squirts a meticulously precise thin stripe of ketchup down the length of the orange sausage. The spotty kid behind the counter is oblivious to the presence behind his station. He stares, slack-jawed and gum-chewing, and waits for the half-time whistle to release the floods of fans for pies and pints.
Hot-dog in hand, He leads me high into the stands to two unoccupied seats. Chants swirl and surge below us, ebbing and flowing from end to end to crash against the opposing fans in their isolated corner of royal blue.
‘So then. Rose.’
Rose. And John. Let’s not forget John. He may still have his life, but what a life to lead. Overshadowed at every turn by the whispers and stares, by the screeching of brakes scored as clear as tyre marks on tarmac through his mind. Dream after dream, night after night, in which he tries in vain to straighten the steering wheel, tries to stop the sickening lurch to the left.
They arrested him on a charge of manslaughter. They breathalysed him on the roadside, slumped against his bus, bathed in the flashing blue lights. Led him to a waiting police car when the digital numbers clicked up and up and the flashing red light blurred in front of his face, spurred by sylph-like wisps of alcohol dancing in an exhaled breath. Cautioned him and chucked him into a cell to stare dazedly into the corner from the thin, plastic-coated mattress on a concrete ledge for a bed. Bailed him and sent him home to await trial and sink deeper and deeper into another bottle of Scotch.
His one call was to Sheila. Sheila, who didn’t even try to disguise the disgust in her voice. Who could barely bring herself to speak to him when she came to collect him from the station in Barry’s car. Barry. That bloody bastard who’s been sleeping with his wife. The love of his life. That was the final straw. Being picked up in that bastard’s car, by his own wife. The final straw that broke the camel’s back and left him sobbing and exhausted in the front seat, unwashed hair leaving a greasy smear on the passenger window.
I hadn’t even thought how this would affect my unwitting assistants. After Hywel, I cast not a thought for young Darren Matthews. The knowledge that he’d soon be residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure regardless and the inevitability of a heroinic demise had presented me with the most perfect of accomplices. I shed not a tear for hurrying nature on her way. Didn’t even join the flock of net curtain twitchers watching from every side when the police knocked on his mother’s door and led him away head hanging, hands shackled.
But John. With John I took a broken man and I crushed and I crumbled him into a gritty dust of his former self. There is nothing left from which to rebuild himself. Nothing left that he can salvage. He has died his very own death and yet life refuses to give him up.
And so, to Rose. Somehow she was easier than Hywel. I don’t know why. Maybe because I didn’t physically kill her with my bare hands. Didn’t feel the crack and the crunch of cartilage under my fingers. Didn’t have to look into pleading eyes and fight against the superhuman strength these people summon from their very depths to just bloody well survive. I was removed and so unmoved. When I got to her, in those following seconds, it was nothing I hadn’t seen before. Just another death like all of the thousands, the millions, that have gone before. The look of horror. The look of fear. Each smudged at their hard edges by the softening dawn light of realisation. By a slow and gradual acceptance of inevitability and helplessness.
‘Well, Little D?
Rose? Done and, shall we say, “dust to dusted”? Ha! “Dust to dusted”!’ He chuckles to himself.
‘Done.’ I refuse to get dragged into His comic asides. He really is vile.
‘I must say, I think it was a little remiss of you. To run her over just like that.’
‘Remiss? Why? She’s dead, isn’t she? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?’
‘Yes, yes. Strictly speaking, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. But, you know …’ He pauses, jiggles a perfectly shod foot crossed over a perfectly clad knee. ‘Bit of a cop-out, don’t you think?’
‘No! No I don’t think.’ I look up at Him in disbelief. ‘I killed her, didn’t I? I did what you wanted. There were no rules. You didn’t tell me how you wanted them to die. Christ …’
‘Don’t bring him into it. For God’s sake …’
We stand with the crowd as a goal is scored and a wave of euphoria sweeps whooping fans to their feet. He waits for the swell to recede before speaking again.
‘I seem to remember, Little D, saying that you could have your soul back if I was happy with the way you went about these tasks. And, let’s just say I thought you would take on a more, shall we say, hands-on approach. Can’t make this too easy for you, can I?’
I hate Him.
‘So, what? The goalposts change and I just have to keep playing the game?’
‘My game, Little D, my rules. And if you want to play it, you’re just going to have to follow them, aren’t you?’
His voice is level, entirely reasoned, unfairly reasonable. As if arguing with Him wasn’t hard enough. But He’s right. If one’s foolish enough to make a deal with the Devil, one can only expect to have to dance to His tune.
‘So …’ A bite of hot-dog, carefully chewed. Washed down with a swig of a saccharine-sweet bright-orange fizzy drink. ‘Let’s pull our socks up for number three shall we? Make a real effort.’
‘Fine. Who is it? One of them?’ I reply petulantly, gesturing at the sleek, thoroughbred boys of modern-day football racing from one end of the pitch to the other.
‘No, no. Don’t be silly.’ He pauses, cocks His head in contemplation. ‘Although … Hmm … Yes. Now you mention it …’ Shakes His head. ‘No, no, Little D. Let’s stick to the plan, shall we?’
I don’t answer. As He pointed out only moments before, this is His game. These are His rules. And there’s no way I’m getting sucked into picking my next victim.
He reaches into His breast pocket. Pulls out two season tickets for a couple of seats twenty or so rows in front of us. ‘Best seats in the house, Little D. Right on the halfway line. Halfway up the stands. Lovely view of the pitch. Lovely …’ He drifts off, lost in thought. ‘Sorry, I digress. Couple of weeks’ time, it’s the derby. Let’s give him a last day to remember, eh?’
‘Sure. Who is he?’ What’s the point in a day to remember when all you leave behind is a day the people in his life will never forget?
‘He’s a family man. An average Joe you might say. Loving wife and two point four kids at home. Loves the football, loves it. Been supporting this lot since he was a kid – used to come quite a bit with his dad. But he can’t come so much any more. You know what these family types are like, Little D – ballet lessons and tap-dancing and horse-riding and all that other gumph parents shovel into their little darlings. Means he doesn’t get to do what he wants to do. Why on earth people want families is beyond me … Even you, Little D. Even you want that, don’t you? Oh, look at that! Lovely! Lovely work …’ He tails off, distracted by the fairy-tale footwork of a young Brazilian lad on the field below.
‘Why him though?’ There’s been a reason for the other two. Tenuous at best, but at least the merest hint of reason. ‘Why’ve you picked him? What’s he done to deserve this?’
He turns to look at me quizzically. ‘What’s he done to deserve this? Nothing, Little D, nothing at all. Why should you think anyone “deserves” to die?’
They don’t. No one deserves this. But somehow, that doesn’t seem to be stopping me.
‘We’re going to use Rob as an example, that’s all. It’s not all going to be sweetness and light when you finish this little game of yours, you know. Life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. And it can be taken away at a moment’s notice. I think that’s what Rob’s death will show us, Little D. When you’re alive, when all this has finished, the only certainty in your life will be death. However it may come to you, it will come. But, well. You know that better than anyone, don’t you?’
His hand delves back into His breast pocket. Pulls out a tablet – one of those black, shiny rectangles so recently unheard of and yet so quickly omnipresent. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I didn’t even have a book when I was young, let alone this … thing.
‘Might be good for a bit of background research.’ He says, handing it over.
‘Thanks. I’ll take a look.’ I turn it over and around in my hands, looking for some sort of clue as to how to use the bloody thing.
‘Right then, you’d better get on with it. Enjoy the game won’t you, Little D? It’ll be a cracker. A real fight to the death.’ And with that, he’s up and off. Brushing hot-dog crumbs from His lap into the hair of the man on the row in front. Squeezing His way to the end of the row to jog down concrete steps and get lost amid the seething mass of a half-time crowd.
Robert Porter.
Number 3.
14
From:
Joe Hatcher
To:
Rob Porter
Subject:
C’mon you Reds!
Mate. Two tickets on the halfway line next Saturday. You in????????
From:
Rob Porter
To:
Joe Hatcher
Subject:
Re: C’mon you Reds!
Sorry, bud – can’t. Going to see Beth’s mum and dad – they haven’t seen the kids in ages. What about Luke?
From:
Joe Hatcher
To:
Rob Porter
Subject:
Re: Re: C’mon you Reds!
ROB! FFS man! Halfway line! The derby! Last game of the season! Are you under the thumb or what?!
From:
Rob Porter
To:
Joe Hatcher
Subject:
Re: Re: Re: C’mon you Reds!
It’s called being a good husband, my simple, single friend. Thumbs ain’t got nothing to do with it …
From:
Joe Hatcher
To:
Rob Porter
Subject:
Re: Re: Re: Re: C’mon you Reds!
Sorry, yeah … My mistake. Hen-pecked. That’s what I meant …
From:
Rob Porter
To:
Joe Hatcher
Subject:
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: C’mon you Reds!
Jeeeeeeez man! FINE. I’ll ask her all right?!
From:
Rob Porter
To:
Beth Porter
Subject:
Saturday
Hey baby,
Joe is NOT giving up. Driving me mental …
Any chance I can go to the match this weekend? He’s got these amazing tickets somehow …
Loves you Xxx
From:
Beth Porter
To:
Rob Porter
Subject:
Re: Saturday
Robbbbb – are you kidding me??? He’s a grown man, for God’s sake – is there no one else he can take?? What about Mark? You’re supposed to be coming to see Mum and Dad … They haven’t seen the kids for months.
Loves you too – most of the time ;-) Xx
From:
Rob Porter
To:
Beth Porter
Subject:
Re: Re: Saturday
I know, I know. Don’t worry … I’ll tell him I can’t. (It IS the Derby though … . ;-) )
/>
xxx
From:
Beth Porter
To:
Rob Porter
Subject:
Re: Re: Re: Saturday
Arrrrgh!! OK, OK. It’s fine – you go. It’s Billy and Emily they want to see anyway … And Joe already thinks I’m enough of a dragon. I’ll stay at theirs on Saturday night and drive back in the morning.
You owe me BIG time, mister.
Xssss
From:
Rob Porter
To:
Beth Porter
Subject:
Re: Re: Re: Re: Saturday
Have I ever told you how much I love you??? I’ll make it up to you every night between now and then, sugarlips! Promise! Xxxx