by Matt Shaw
Not that it matters now.
I closed the door behind me and threw the suitcase onto the bed. The unnecessary suitcase. The illusion of someone who isn’t going to come into someone else’s country and disappear into the crowds or kill themselves.
Wonder which the officials would be more upset about.... if I were to go and stay, as an illegal... or when they have to scrape my broken and battered body from the cliff-edge, overlooking Sydney Harbour.
I picked the spot out, years ago, on a holiday with Mary to Australia. Not that I told Mary, “Hey, one day, I’m going to end my life here...”
We had been on a bus tour, going around the surrounding streets. For the life of me, I can’t even remember what the bus tour was for. Some badly run thing, no doubt. I just remember the bus pulling to the side of a cliff and the guide standing up to tell us about it - a suicide location of some notoriety. She went on to tell us that, approximately, fifty suicides happened there annually.
The Gap, as the tour guide called it, was beautiful. High up, obviously, with breath-taking views - my favourite view being of Sydney Harbour on the right hand side. As soon as the guide mentioned the suicide rate..... I could see the appeal for people with my disposition.
When the guide invited us to step off the bus, for a closer look, I was one of the first to leave my seat.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” I remember an old lady, also part of the tour group, asking me.
I could definitely see the appeal.
Watching the waves crashing against the rocks, far down below... beautiful. And, even with the crashing of the water.... hauntingly peaceful.
1857, I think the guide said.... A sailing ship carrying around seventy passengers and sixty-odd crew members crashed into the rocks at the foot of The Gap. James. I remember the name of the Captain for we shared the same first name. Always easy to remember when that happens! Green, I’m sure. James Green. Our guide told the story how he was trying to come into the harbour on a stormy evening, when the winds were high... the Captain misjudged the entrance and his ship crashed into the cliff. There was one survivor - another James. He had hung onto the rocks for hours, well over thirty if memory serves me correctly. The corpses of his friends and colleagues were being pounded on the rocks around him, by large breakers.
Rumour has it – there was another shipwreck in the same spot and, again, there was only one survivor. The name escapes me so it couldn’t have been a James but.... the James who survived the first wreck.... he was the one who pulled the latest survivor from the waters.
What was the name of that fucking boat? Jesus.... I remember random stuff but forget other things so easily... what... what was it.... Dunbar! Yes, that was it. The Dunbar.
Morbid curiosity made me look it up when I got home from that holiday. They say the funeral procession of the Dunbar victims was one of the longest Sydney had ever seen.
I doubt people will turn out in such number for me.
Will anyone mourn me?
Anyway, it shows how different things affect different people, though. When Mary walked in on me, reading about the wreckage - she couldn’t remember anything that the guide had previously told us. She told me she had simply switched off when it started getting gruesome. Switched off and just enjoyed the beauty of the area.
I wish I could do that sometimes. Turn off from anything negative and only allow myself to see the positive. Life would be so much easier. Hell, I might not have even ended up where I am today. More to the point, my relationship may never have crumbled around me, had I had a different outlook on things.
That’s by the by.... I’m just looking forward to seeing The Gap again. A visit there as part of a tour first, make sure that’s the spot I want to end things on. I’m ninety percent sure it is. The other ten percent likes the Three Sisters in the Blue Mountains. Very pretty. Nice views to admire, on the way down. With a decision, such as this.... for the big full stop of life.... I want to be sure I’ve chosen a good spot.
It’s not like I’m going to get to do this again and again. Pretty sure once will be enough.
Pretty sure.
Knowing my luck, thinking about it, maybe I’ll be like the other James and, somehow, end up surviving.... stuck, clinging to the rock like an idiot until someone can come and rescue me.
That’d be embarrassing.
Best make sure I go head first.
I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Jesus. I look as tired as I feel.
No surprise.
Haven’t slept for as long as I can remember now.
Not properly, anyway.
Haven’t worried about it, though. I figured - plenty of time to sleep soon enough. Until then, keep pushing to get everything done. Get everything accomplished so I can finally live my final month.
It’s weird, thinking like that, but I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it. And, even with my bad moods... I’m looking forward to the last few weeks of my miserable life too. Experience everything I can in the one place, in the world, where I’ve felt one hundred percent at ease. It’s going to be great. Just a shame those feelings won’t last forever.... I could have just worked on moving out there but, like I said, no matter where I go... eventually the moods catch up.
They won’t have time to catch up this time. Not in four weeks. The good times, coming thick and fast.... they’ll keep them at bay for four weeks at least. I think. Pretty sure.
I guess, if the bad moods do take over.... if the good times and the calm of Australia don’t hold them back.... I can always punch my ticket early.
A smile spreads across my face.
This is a win-win situation.
I pulled an envelope from my jacket pocket and opened it up.
Plane ticket.
First class, as promised to myself.
Roll on flight time.
I dropped the envelope onto the table, next to the telephone. Thoughts of running away suddenly cease. I should call them.... let them know I’m going. Let them know I won’t be back? Maybe it’ll be better if I just tell them I’m going away for a holiday to get my head straight. Might be better. Otherwise they may come and look for me.... even if they don’t - they’ll just be sat at home worrying.
What if they do find me? Find me and bring me back? No. Impossible.
They can’t.
But what if....?
I have nothing here now. Nothing.
Stop worrying about it. They won’t be able to find me, even if they do come out. The sheer size of Australia, there’s no way they’ll find me. No way. And even if they do - they won’t be able to bring me back. I won’t let them. It’s too late now. Everything is set in place.... but....
No!
No ‘but’.... it’s fine.
Everything is fine.
Everything is spot on. It’s just my moods trying to put doubt in my mind. For once, ignore them. For once put them out of your mind... in this instance - the doubting is unjustified. Everything is fine and dandy.
Either way, I’ll play it safe - I won’t tell them my plans. I’ll just tell them I’m going on holiday. Won’t even say where. Just tell them I’m going abroad to think things through and sort my life. Technically, not a lie. I will be thinking things through and, for the final time, I’ll be sorting my life.
They’ll find out what happened eventually. Still not sure if they’ll even care.
Start with the easy phone call... mum.
I leant over to the phone and picked it up off the receiver, before stretching the cable right out and sitting on the edge of the soft bed.
Forgot how comfortable these beds were.
Nice.
I pressed the phone against my ear and hit the relevant number, on the keypad, to get an outside line. Okay, the easy phone call first. I punched in mum’s home number. Even easier call if she’s out and I get the machine. I don’t have that sort of.....
“Hello?”
Didn’t even ring. What was she doing - si
tting on it?!
“Hi, mum....”
“I wondered if I’d hear from you again,” she said. She tried to keep a jokey tone in her voice.... tried and failed. It was a dig.
“How are you going, mum?”
“The outside drain’s gone again....”
She wonders why I don’t phone much. Every time I do call, there’s some sort of problem. Without fail. Normally a stupid, little problem.... you know, something which can be fixed quite easily. But, to her, when you call.... it’s the end of the world. No doubt trying to make it sound worse, than it actually is, just to get you to go around and see her. The only problem is, the constant moaning and bitching on the telephone - it makes you want to stay away for longer.
“I’ll look at it next time I’m over....”
The easy way out.
I won’t be round her house again.
“Well, the smell...”
“There’s nothing I can do over the phone, mum....”
“Fine....”
She’s annoyed. I wait a second - no sudden intake of breath, from her, ready to start her next whinge.
“Mum, I’m going away for a while... just off on holiday for a bit to clear my head and....”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Not far,” I lied. “I’ll call you when I get out there,” I lied again.
“Wouldn’t it be better for you to stay here and think about what you want to do now you’ve given up your job?”
Another dig.
“Not sure what I want to do at the moment.... I need this break. It’ll let me get a clearer perspective on things. Sort things out...”
“If you’re sure...”
“I need this, mum.... Look, I’ve got to go but I’ll call you when I get there - let you know I arrived, okay?”
“Fine...”
She doesn’t like not knowing what I’m doing. She feels as though she needs to be part of everything. I can hear it in the tone of her voice, she isn’t happy.
“I love you, mum...”
It’s rare that I say that... But, as this is going to be the last time I speak to her - I might as well make it count.
“Okay,” she said.
Nice. I waited a bit longer, just in case she returned the love.
Nope.
Nothing.
“Well, chat to you soon...”
“Bye then,” she said.
The line clicked dead and a tinge of sadness washed through me. For the last call home, I thought... I don’t know..... maybe it would have been sweeter. You watch that sort of phone call home, in the movies, and they’re always powerful, heartfelt scenes but that really was something of nothing. If anything, a waste of money - especially as the hotel will probably charge me a ridiculous fee for the privilege of making the call in the first place.
Well, that was the easy call anyway.
Mary.
I’m not looking forward to this call. Will she even answer the phone to me? Will she hang up when she realises it’s me? I suppose, as much as it would hurt... it’d be easier that way.
The way she’s turned so cold towards me - I must have been really hard to live with!
I dialed her number and pressed the receiver against my ear once more.
Ringing...
5.
Tired.
I didn’t sleep much last night, not that I didn’t try my best. I’m in for a long day today - a lot of traveling to be done. Really should have tried harder to sleep. I’ll be like the walking dead by the end of it.
Especially given the fact I rarely sleep on planes. I’m the one who’s normally sat next to a larger person - squashed into my own chair... or I seem to get stuck near to the children... worse still are the people who snore loudly. So loudly, in fact, their snores echo around your section of the room. You never have a chance of sleeping near them. You just get to sit there and stare at them in envy at their sleeping abilities.
Sometimes I ‘accidentally’ make a loud noise near them just to give them a jump. Wakey-wakey. If I can’t sleep.... I don’t see why they should be allowed either.
Fair is fair.
Last night I just laid awake, in the soft bed, thinking about Mary. She didn’t answer the telephone. Must have been out. Wonder where. I tried, a few times, during the course of the evening but nothing. Picked up by her answer-phone machine each time...
I didn’t want to leave my message with a machine. I would have, for mum but... not for Mary. Even if she had picked up, I wouldn’t have known what to say to her.
Maybe something along the lines of, “You won’t need to file for a divorce...”
I wonder, would she rather be divorced or widowed?
The telephone call would have just been the final chance for fate to throw me a line and change the course of my life. She’d have been given one final opportunity to take me back and forgive me for what an idiot I’ve been. The very fact she didn’t answer...
Well, just another ‘fuck you’ from fate.
Mind you, if would have been worse if she had wanted me back. More so considering I sold my flat and most of my worldly possessions. I wonder what we would have done.
Ah well, doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not happening. No point even thinking about it.
Would she have changed her number?
Maybe.
No, she’s had it for ages. You don’t go out of your way to keep a number for so long just to change it because you split up with someone. It’s not as though I’ve been calling her everyday since our break up. I’ve given her the space she obviously wanted.
Needed.
Unless, she thought I’d be the sort of person who’d call her constantly and thought it would be the best thing to do? No, she couldn’t have thought of me as that sort of person. She’d have known that wasn’t in my character. But, even so, on the off-chance I was... maybe she changed the number.
Does she hate me that much?
Such a loving woman... what have I turned her into with my depressions? Could I have turned this compassionate, peaceful, fun-loving woman into someone now capable of hate and hostility?
I hope not.
I couldn’t live with that.... knowing I’ve given her such a poisonous trait.
The way she reacted in the cafe, though, that was new.
Unpleasant too.
A taste of my own medicine.
My mobile phone, on the table next to the flat-screen television, played the first few chords of the alarm I set, causing my heart to skip a beat. I should have expected that to go off and deactivated it before it hand the chance to make me jump.
It’s the same every time I wake up before my alarm.... a few minutes later, the alarm goes off scaring the crap out of me.
I sprung from the comfiness of the bed and turned the alarm off - a particularly annoying sound of a duck quacking repeatedly. Why, from all of the choices I had when selecting a noise to wake up with, I thought a quacking duck was the most suitable I’ll never know.
In Australia, I wonder if I’ll even bother to set an alarm call or whether I’ll simply allow myself the chance to sleep in. Stay in bed for as long as I can, drifting in and out of a peaceful slumber.
Well, first of all - I rarely get a peaceful slumber... when I do sleep, I tend to wake up a few times during the night anyway. I have no idea why. It’s not as though I even get nightmares which frighten me awake. I just... wake up.
And, secondly, if these are the last few weeks... it kind of seems like a waste.
I doubt I’ll need it but I’ll set it just in case.
The whole point of going back to Australia was for one final, amazing trip. If I was going to spend all day in bed, I could do that here.... and, surely if that was the case, it would have just been easier to punch my ticket earlier than originally planned.
No, I’ll set my alarm.
For these last few weeks - my eyes are going to be wide open and I don’t want to miss a thing.
* * * * *
I’m not sure what her perfume is but it’s nice.
In the ticket line, at the train-station, I even find myself standing closer behind her than is necessarily needed just to be able to smell her perfume more...
But then, it might be her hair... long, blonde hair down to her waist - tied back in a neat little pony-tail. I step a little closer....
