FELIX SHILL DESERVES TO DIE
by Gareth Busson
3.45pm, Monday, March 21st, 1983
Felix Shill was in trouble. What he’d done was worse than running in the corridors or being late for class. This time he’d seriously overstepped the mark. And not even one of his more genuine apologies could put it right.
He’d never punched anyone properly before, had never connected so purely and with so much weight; so to actually knock Brewin out came as a complete surprise. Mr Gower probably thought so too, returning to find a classroom full of children clawing like rats to get a better view of the boy who lay crumpled on the floor. But if it had been a shock, he certainly hadn’t shown it. Instead, he grabbed the panting Felix and almost lifted him off his feet in his eagerness to remove him from the scene. A short distance away a large sports hall sat temporarily vacant, and he flung Felix into it without saying a word.
Now the school bell rang to signal the end of the day. Children exploded from their classes, pouring noisily past Felix’s makeshift cell, his own friends mixed in the current.
‘You’re dead this time, Shill,’ someone called out.
Others laughed and jeered, relishing the anonymity that the frosted glass of the door afforded them. A few of them shouted their predictions of Felix’s expected punishment. A detention, said one. A suspension, bawled another. Someone even mentioned expulsion.
How could these so-called friends be so two-faced?
Almost choking on the injustice, Felix leaned against the wall and remained out of sight until the clamouring dispersed. At first he was glad of the silence, but soon it brought pain of a different kind. Alone, Felix couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. As he went over the events in his mind, they became less and less clear. His violent reaction to the jibe about his absent father less justified. Only the soft smack of Brewin’s skull as it bounced up from the concrete floor remained the same.
Ah, that was nothing, he’d be fine. He’d suffered worse falls on the football field.
Yes, but that was on grass, not concrete.
Felix gave a start when he heard a siren in the distance.
What if he’d actually killed Brewin?
It was a possibility that made him despair and looking out of the tall window he felt his hopes fading along with the daylight. By now, the last of the stragglers had fled the school grounds and the streetlights were burning red.
He should be at home. His mother would be starting to wonder where he’d got to. He pictured her lovingly preparing the table for his tea and thought about the pain he might inflict on her. His throat contracted. His vision blurred. Felix tilted his head to make the tears fall back behind his eyes, but it was no use.
An echo of a distant door being slammed reverberated along the empty corridors, quickly followed by the click-clack of a man’s heavy shoes. They grew louder, along with the siren outside, and Felix knew they were finally coming to deal with him.
He wiped his eyes and frantically shuffled on the spot like a cornered animal. The sound of blood pumping in his ears was deafening.
Just then, a wind took hold of his ankles.
1
I never used to think of myself as lucky but, like so many other aspects of my life, that changed the second I understood I was dead. And, now I’m finally free of all that self-hype bullshit, I admit that Felix Shill is nothing special. Nothing unique. With my Flymo, paunch and people carrier, I’m just another one of those jaded guys you ignore every weekend in your local supermarket. Another dreamer made average through routine and responsibility.
In my youth I was quite athletic, but all the years spent wandering around life’s wilderness in search of a direction have taken their toll, making my body swell and sag in all the wrong places. So although I’m no darts player, I know I’ll never wear a size thirty-two inch waist again – not without chemotherapy being involved somewhere.
If my dark hair were two inches shorter it might be a decade out of style, and though you’ll usually see me in black, it’s not to look chic. It’s simply because black requires no thought. I gave up on fashion about two weeks after I gave up on the idea of true love.
But I am a lucky man. Oh yes, I’m lucky because I’m dead.
It’s often said that a brush with death, no matter how slight, will make most people look at life with a truer perspective. But I needed to have my body ripped apart, incinerated and then scattered over a wide area of central London, before I saw my existence for what it really was – nothing but pure chance.
Now, in the same way that most people do today, I was always overstretching myself. Afraid that I would miss out on the one opportunity that might make sense of it all, I would commit to anything and everything, all the while expecting the world to flex to my schedule. Looking back, I suppose it was only a matter of time before the world snapped back. When it finally did three days ago, I never saw it coming.
It was early evening and as I drove south on the M1 from Milton Keynes, I knew that this time I really was in trouble. I had fifty-five miles of greasy asphalt to cover in exactly ninety-four and a half minutes before my flight departed from Heathrow.
The leather seat of my Golf was moist with a cocktail of rain, panic and sweat. It let out a low squeak as I shifted to see past the white Combi van that I was driving too closely behind. Ahead of it was the usual wagon trail of commuters, each driver sighing as their autopilot guided them home through the murky November night. I was going nowhere in a hurry.
Powerless and with a sense of inevitability setting in, it was a welcome respite when I heard the speaker of my car phone. I pressed the green button.
‘Felix Shill?’ I said, trying to sound upbeat.
‘Felix. Ralph.’
‘Hi, mate.’ I dropped the pretence of enthusiasm. ‘How’s it going?’
‘A lot better than you. You sound bloody awful.’
‘I am. I've got the kind of cold that would kill anyone under the age of six. According to the doctor it’s a new strain of flu virus that only attacks men with balls. So don’t worry, you’ve nothing to worry about.’
Ralph let out a polite laugh, just like he always did. His ability to not take offence at my jibes was one of reasons we had remained in touch. We had known each other since school. We weren’t so much friends, more a habit that neither of us could be bothered to shake. Nevertheless, he was the only habit I had.
‘So what’s new?’ he asked.
‘Life’s going to shit right now,’ I said, straining to see past the Combi van again. ‘I swear to God that Satan has me at the top of his “To Do” list.’
‘Oh? What’s wrong this time?’
When I told him about my impending deadline and current location he inhaled sharply.
‘What happens if you miss your flight?’
‘Well I can kiss my job goodbye for a start.’
There was no reply, but I could hear Ralph whispering to someone on the other end.
‘Ralph?’
‘Hmm?’ he replied, casually making out that nothing was amiss.
‘I was just telling you how my world was about to crumble around my ears, but you’re obviously a bit preoccupied. Caught you in the middle of a blowjob, have I?’
‘What? No. Shut up.’
‘Seriously, I mean I can wait if you like. I know you have trouble talking with your mouth full.’
This time Ralph could only manage a sigh.
‘Listen,’ he said earnestly, ‘we need to talk.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, it’s about this weekend.’
He was referring to the christening. Ralph had asked my wife, Katharine, and me to be godparents to their only child a
few months ago. Normally this kind of thing would wash straight over me. I’d turn up more out of duty than any kind of sentimentality, but I was looking forward to this event because it would give me a chance to finally speak to her. See, Katharine had walked out on me several weeks before, when I was out at work, taking our daughter with her. Since then I had found it impossible to make contact with them. She wasn’t returning my calls. She had even taken Amelie out of school. Katharine’s parents, whose house they were encamped within, weren’t helping. In fact, they actually seemed to be relishing the opportunity to once again exercise their paternal rights by refusing me any kind of access. As a result, I saw the christening as my best chance of talking some sense to her. Before anything drastic occurred.
Ralph knew this. He was sympathetic to my plight. That was why I could hear him squirming.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you see that’s the thing; there’s been a slight change of plan.’
‘Change of plan?’
‘Yeah, erm, you see, we’ve been talking and, it turns out that we… ah… don’t actually need you to be a godparent after all.’
That was unexpected. Painful even.
‘But I was looking forward to being there. ’
‘I know.’
‘I was looking forward to seeing everyone.’
‘I know that. It’s just-’
‘Ralph, I need to be there.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, it’s just that, well... we want to avoid any kind of scene. These things have a tendency to get out of control and we don’t want to ruin the day.’
I shook my head. There was a bitter taste welling in my mouth.
‘Does Claire agree with this?’ I quickly answered myself. ‘What am I saying, of course your wife agrees with it. She’s behind it. Has she been speaking to Katharine?
Ralph stammered. ‘What? I don’t know. Probably – I mean, possibly.’
‘Can I speak to Claire?’
There was the whispering again.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Felix. You know what she’s like once she’s made up her mind.’
I turned my eyes to the phone. ‘Ralph, I’m begging you here, is there nothing you can do?’
Fortunately for Ralph, he never got the chance to answer the question. There was a sudden brightness in the corner of my eye and looking up I saw that the driver of the Combi van was braking. Hard.
It took me half a second to refocus my attention, by which time the van was just a few metres away from my front bumper. My mind shifted from shock into terror and I threw my entire weight onto the brake pedal. Arms extended, teeth clenched, I braced for impact. I began to visualise what lay ahead: the crunch of fractured plastic and splintered glass, the winding snatch of the seatbelt, then head first into the airbag or maybe even the windscreen. Funny, but so resigned was I to crashing, and so grateful for a plausible excuse to miss my flight, that I actually started to enjoy the surrealism of the rush. But it was not to be. With the collision seemingly millimetres away, the brake lights suddenly dimmed and the van pulled slowly away.
‘What’s happened?’ I heard Ralph ask, but I was in no shape to reply. Adrenaline was pumping through my system, making my already thick head shudder. It took several deeps breaths before I could talk. When I did, like the rest of me, my voice was shaking.
‘Nearly… just… really crashed.’
Normally this kind of misfortune would raise at least a titter from Ralph, but there was nothing coming today. Instead he seemed to sense an opening.
‘Oh shit. Listen, I must go, I have another call waiting.’ Ralph was lying. I could always tell. ‘Give me a ring when you get back, would you?’
‘No, but–’
But nothing. The line was already dead. I was alone once more.
This was serious. I’d known Ralph for nearly thirty years. Knew him better than anyone else alive. If I couldn’t rely on him...
I hit call-back.
Engaged.
The traffic slowed again. Then came to a standstill, leaving me parked alongside a giant road marker. It filled the vista like a spiteful advertisement.
Heathrow 51m
Fifty one agonizing miles.
What would I pay to have them erased from my journey? What price would I pay if they soon weren’t?
Nothing moved outside except the clouds of exhaust fumes as they rose into the night sky. My stomach tightened. Another minute evaporated before my eyes. I twisted the leather of my steering wheel. I felt like a prisoner, confined within this giant, snaking steel prison.
Had to keep my mind active. Turn the focus away from the situation.
I leaned over to call Ralph again. However, before I could touch the phone, the car gave out a low ring. The small screen flashed back to life.
AIM MOBILE
Anthony I. Miller. My boss. The last person on earth I wanted to speak to. He had acquired me a year or so earlier, after yet another one of our organisational restructuring exercises, and although he worshipped our institution like a sergeant major, he had always resented the imposition. He liked his subordinates to know their place, to be organised, lean and mean, and so the two of us had never hit it off.
Even though I knew it was AIM calling, I find that in these situations it’s always better to sound efficient. I took a breath and pressed the green button.
‘Felix Shill.’
‘Ah, Mr Shill.’ His tone was more stern than usual.
‘Hello, Tony,’ I said, doing a damned good impersonation of someone who was pleased to hear from him. ‘How are you?’
I called him Tony but he preferred the abbreviation because it gave him the opportunity to use all manner of motivational phrases such as “AIM higher”, “Focus your AIM” and - what appeared to be my own unique slogan - “Ready, AIM, Fire”.
‘Where are you, Shill?’ he asked, deliberately ignoring my social niceties.
I looked around me again.
‘Erm, I’ve just parked.’
Strictly speaking, that wasn’t a lie.
‘Still flying from Heathrow, then?’
‘Er, yeah, we discussed this last time if you remember, Tony. I had that meeting with the design team in Milton Keynes this afternoon, and so Heathrow was the only option.’
‘I remember that, Shill. I also remember that the rest of my team actually did what they were paid to do and managed their diary, so that they could travel - as a team - from Birmingham.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Tony, and I would’ve been there if I could, but there was no way that I could’ve delayed today’s–’
‘You have prepared your “Quarter Three” presentation for tomorrow, I hope?’
‘Yes,’ I answered with some satisfaction, ‘I managed to get my hands on the sales figures late last night, although I don’t understand why mine were delayed longer than anyone else’s.’
‘Yes, well, I needed time to study them. And since we’re on the subject, I notice that the year-to-date sales through your channel indicate that you are also behind on your annual target as well.’
‘Only by a fraction of a percent, Tony, and I’ve got a few ideas up my sleeve to make up that shortfall. I’m sure we will still come good.’
‘Hmm, highly unlikely.’ He exhaled loudly into the phone. ‘Oh yes, and another thing, I received your mobile telephone bill today.’
‘Really?’ I replied casually, though I knew what was coming. We had the same conversation every month.
‘Two hundred and eighty-six pounds, Shill.’
He paused, so that I might have time to actually visualise the figure, before repeating it again.
‘Two hundred and eighty-six pounds.’
More out of boredom than submission, I let out a whimper. ‘Tony, as you know I’m on the road most of the day and I have to call France all the time.’
‘That is irrelevant to this discussion.’
‘Irrelevant? How else do you expect me to communicate
with them? Telepathy?’
‘Now you listen to me, Shill, I am sick and tired, absolutely… fucking … sick and tired of your insolence. Things are going to change, I tell you.’
Just then his tone lightened, as though a pleasant thought had entered his mind.
‘You have heard the news, I take it?’ he said. His sudden show of positivity threw me completely.
‘Well, I did hear something on the radio earlier about a terrorism warning.’
‘No, Shill, you blithering idiot, I’m not talking about any terrorism warning, I was referring to the news about Jean-Pierre.’
Jean-Pierre was the internal sponsor of my project and the one person that I could really rely on within the business for political support.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘What’s that?’
‘He is leaving the organisation. Effective immediately.’
‘Really?’ I tried to sound unmoved. ‘That shouldn’t affect us though, should it?’
I could hear AIM smiling.
‘Don’t you believe it. Things will change, I promise you that, Mr. Shill. Things will change. But we can discuss that later.’ His manner stiffened once more.
‘What time will you arrive in Paris?’
I looked at the traffic ahead. It was moving again, but this stop had cost me ten precious minutes.
‘Hopefully around nine thirty, it all depends on the status of my flight-’
‘Right, then we can sit down at nine forty-five. I look forward to it.’ And with that, he was gone.
My driving after that point bordered on the suicidal. Wherever there was a gap in the traffic, I was fighting to fill it and at one point I even used the hard shoulder to overtake. By the time the five-mile marker for Heathrow flashed past, I couldn’t tell if my body was trembling from fear or from anger at the injustice of my predicament. There I was, almost killing myself to attend a meeting where I would, in all likelihood, be fired. Like the dutiful samurai who runs enthusiastically into the fray of a losing battle, all that lay ahead of me now was the sword.
The road ahead blurred at the edges as the tears filled my eyes. My life was coming apart at the seams. If only Mum was still alive. She’d know how to make things better. Bebe always knew how to put my problems right.
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 1
