Very Nearly Dead

by A K Reynolds

‘None of them ever do,’ he replied, handing over a long, narrow parcel.

  I went to the kitchen with it, trying to remember what I’d ordered online. I only ever order books as a rule. This was no book – it was about two foot long, three inches by three inches in cross-section, and weighed eight or nine pounds.

  I couldn’t remember ordering anything online recently. Not a book, nothing. I checked the label on the package to make sure it was for me. It was – the name on the label was Jasmine Black, and it was my address, too.

  Could it be I’d ordered something during a recent blackout and hadn’t noticed? Was it possible I’d got up to some drunken semi-comatose activity which included going berserk with my credit card online? I hoped not, because I could ill-afford such ventures.

  Another possibility: someone had bought it for me. I quickly dismissed that one. I had no friends who’d buy me presents. Not one. Well, maybe one or two, but only on my birthday and at Christmas. No-one would just spontaneously buy me something.

  So the answer had to be that I’d ordered it myself.

  I put the package on the table and got the scissors from the kitchen drawer. The thing was so well wrapped I’d rip off my fingernails if I attempted to open it without the aid of a tool of some kind.

  I cut through the tape at one end and prised open a cardboard flap. There was a small amount of polystyrene padding which I removed. Then I was able to tip up the parcel and allow the contents to just slide out onto the table.

  What appeared was a tubular object, smooth and black with a dull sheen, tapering towards one end which had grips on it. A piece of paper came out with it, which bore the words: ‘Self-Defence Baseball Bat’.

  I put my hand to my mouth and stepped back, feeling so faint I almost collapsed to the floor. With my heart pumping I retreated until I’d backed up against the worktop and could retreat no more.

  Had I really sent myself this object then forgotten I’d done it? It was just about possible. I’d once been out with a group of friends on a session and remembered nothing that had happened after 9pm, but my friends assured me I hadn’t gone home until 2am the following morning. What’s more, when I’d gotten out of bed the next day, I’d found an open packet of battered cod on the worktop, with one piece of cod in it. The other had been put under the grill in an unsuccessful attempt to cook it. There was a trail of discarded clothes – my own – leading from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs.

  So I’d got home, tried to cook myself a meal, then undressed and taken myself to bed – and I had no recollection of any of it.

  So, yes, it was possible I’d ordered the item myself and forgotten what I’d done. Or was it? Cooking yourself a meal is one thing; ordering a product online is quite another. I grabbed my iPad, clicked on my E-mail app, and inserted the search term ‘Baseball’. An E-mail appeared from Amazon. My hands began to shake. I opened the E-mail. It began with the words ‘Thank you for shopping with us’. Casting my eyes down the body copy, I saw an image of a baseball bat. What was this? Some kind of guilt trip being imposed on me by my subconscious mind?

  Maybe.

  But there was another possibility I didn’t want to think about.

  Someone had hacked into my Amazon account and was fucking with me.

  It would’ve been nice to have been able to talk about it with a trusted friend, but what could I tell anyone who wasn’t in on the secret?

  ‘Hey, someone sent me a baseball bat today, and it might have been me. How weird is that?’

  That wouldn’t make me feel any better at all. The only way I’d feel better is if I discussed it with Kylie or someone else from the group – but to do so would be to invite the Grim Reaper to come knocking at my door, and however bad I felt, I wasn’t minded to do that.

  So I put the baseball bat in a cupboard and put the cardboard wrapping in my recycling bin, and the polystyrene in the general waste bin. As bad a lush as I was, I was still capable of respecting the planet – at least some of the time.

  I looked at the clock. It was 10.20am. I felt as if four hours had gone by since putting the kettle on, but only twenty minutes had passed. That’s what happens when you can’t relax and you feel as if your life is about to implode any moment.

  I got dressed and went to the gym, where, as usual, I made a few half-hearted and futile attempts to rid myself of the blip my tummy had acquired. While I didn’t achieve any fat loss to speak of, the physical exertion had the benefit of briefly keeping my mind off things. But immediately I stopped exercising and went to the shower, sweaty and aching, my mind stubbornly returned to everything which was bad about my life. It was as if I was determined to torture myself.

  How I wished I could arrange blackouts to order which would rid me of all my worst, most painful memories, so I could start out with a clean slate.

  I envied other people who didn’t have the sort of personal history I had.

  They were blessed with slates so clean you could store a surgeon’s scalpel on them. They had untroubled consciences and led blameless lives. They didn’t fear every knock at the door, every school reunion, every relationship they’d ever had way back when.

  After leaving the gym I headed for the shops and browsed shelves full of stuff I didn’t need or want just to kill time. Then I dropped into Waterstones, sat in one of their armchairs, and buried myself in a book, forcing myself to concentrate on the text. It transported me to another world, and before I knew it an hour had passed. The story made me feel marginally better, at least while I was involved in it, because the heroine was in even more of a pickle than I was.

  I bought the book – a lengthy psychological thriller – and headed home to finish it. On my way I took a short cut through the park where I saw two men sitting on a wooden bench next to the path. A woman walked over a rolling grass lawn to join them. They all looked to be about thirty, but had the lined and seamed faces of seventy-year-old lifelong smokers.

  The woman spoke to the two men, but she wasn’t looking at them. She was looking in the direction of one of the park entrances, near which a young man was loitering, trying his best to look intimidating.

  ‘He isn’t geared up yet. He’s waiting for some. It’ll be about half an hour,’ the woman said.

  I hurried past them and took a different exit to the one I’d planned on taking to avoid the youth. This was all too much for me – it brought back too many memories. I emerged from the park and walked the remaining distance through the streets to my house. The route took me past the local eight-till-late. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to buy myself a bottle of red. When I scanned the wine shelf, I realised that what I wanted – needed – was two bottles of red. I emerged from the shop with three bottles.

  Back home I curled up on my sofa with the book in my hand, an occasional table next to me, and a full glass of red on the table with an open bottle next to it.

  Just so long as I immersed myself in my book and drank red wine I was able to keep the hostile world at bay.

  But all too soon I finished it – and the bottle of red – and it was only 4pm. Bad thoughts started crowding in again. What next could I do to kill time?

  I started dwelling on the damned school reunion.

  You can’t go, Jaz, you’ll never get through it. But you can’t afford to blob, either. What can you do? Who can you get to come with you, and help you make it through the evening in a sober enough state to keep your lip buttoned?

  Robert? We were divorced, but on good terms, kind of. He pitied me – which I found hurtful and offensive. But out of pity he might just be willing to help me. But what if he had a girlfriend? How would she feel about him gallivanting to a school reunion with his former wife? Surely that would be the stuff of her nightmares.

  Sustained by Dutch courage, I picked up my mobile and called him.

  ‘Jaz?’ he said when he picked up. He sounded puzzled. His eyebrows would be knitting together forming lines on his forehead – a facial expression to which he often resorted, when
taken unawares by something.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, injecting a degree of cheeriness in my voice which bore no relation whatsoever to the way I felt, ‘it’s me. How are you keeping, Robert?’

  ‘Um, I’m keeping well, thank you. But – er – I’m right in the middle of something.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, wondering how I should broach the difficult subject of needing his help. Then I decided to just pile into it. No point in beating ineffectually about the bush. ‘Look, I’ve got something to ask you.’

  He didn’t reply, but I heard him say – in a muffled voice, as if he was covering his mobile with his hand – ‘It’s my ex.’ Then there was a pause followed by his quiet voice again: ‘I don’t know what she bloody well wants.’ Finally, in his normal voice he said: ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know the school reunion I go to every year?’

  ‘Yes. What about it?’ Even though he only replied with these four words, they were enough to convey the suspicion he must’ve been feeling. Then he added: ‘Have you been drinking?’

  I briefly considered lying but decided it wouldn’t wash. He must’ve asked about it because I’d slurred a few words or something.

  ‘I’ve only had two glasses of red wine.’

  ‘You sound like you’ve had more than two. You need to get your drinking habit under control, Jaz.’

  I shuffled uneasily on the sofa.

  ‘I am doing. Look, I need your help.’

  ‘What kind of help?’

  ‘I need someone to go to the reunion with.’

  ‘Jaz, with the best will in the world, that’s impossible. I’m in another relationship, and even if I wasn’t, we both need to move on.’

  Deep down I still had feelings for him and regretted the fact we’d split up. It’d all been my fault. My moodiness and snappiness brought on by drink and guilt had proved too much for him, although he did find me funny and entertaining when I wasn’t being a stroppy cow.

  ‘All right, Robert,’ I said with a sob. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t help you, Jaz. Bye.’

  So that was that then. I had no escort to go to the reunion with, no-one to support me in my time of need. I poured another glass of wine, wondering if there was any other man I could dredge up from my past to help me. No-one sprang to mind through the alcohol-fuelled fog I was rapidly descending into. What about one of my women friends? I couldn’t help but think that’d be even more weird and desperate than my call to Robert had been. I could imagine the conversation, ‘Wendy, would you come to my school reunion with me, please? I’ve no-one to go with.’

  ‘But I never went to your school.’ Nervous shuffling at the surreal nature of the request. ‘I wouldn’t know anyone there apart from you. What would I even talk about with them?’

  So that was out. It had to be a man I went with – because taking your partner along was acceptable. Taking anyone else would be, well, just weird, because everyone knew I wasn’t lesbian or bi.

  Then I had an idea. Why not get a new boyfriend who’d accompany me to the reunion? Yes, meet someone new. Why not? I needed a boyfriend. I hadn’t had one in a quite a while, and I was missing all it entailed. The excitement of getting to know a special person, the settling-in period when you find out what he’s really like, and finally the comfortable period when you just enjoy having him around, even when all you’re doing is watching television together. I needed that, because I wanted company in the evenings, wanted to talk about the mundane details of my life with someone other than friends and work colleagues. Regrettably, I could never discuss the important stuff with anyone.

  Anyway, if I got myself a new boyfriend, I could kill two birds with one stone. I’d have someone to accompany me to the reunion, and afterwards he’d be available to talk to now and again when I needed company. When I thought about it, I was missing an awful lot of shared experiences – for instance going on a walk with a partner, or going to a pub, or watching TV while enjoying a bottle of wine.

  Wine – that reminded me I needed more, so I went to the kitchen, opened another bottle, and took it to the front room. Then I opened my iPad and checked out the internet dating sites I’d browsed about a million times before. I’d sworn off them more than once. Friends had told me I ought to persevere – they always had examples of people who’d met via these sites and were now happily married. When I protested that I never met anyone suitable, they always came back with, ‘You have to keep at it. So-and-so had twenty-five dates before she met the right man.’

  So-and-so had a lot more patience than me, obviously. After only five disastrous dates I’d given up on meeting anyone via the internet and decided to rely on real life. Unfortunately, real life had proved equally unreliable as a means of hooking up with someone who’d make a good long-term partner.

  Anyway, it was time to give the internet another chance, because it was the only opportunity I was likely to get of landing someone in time for the reunion.

  I poured myself another glass – a generous one – and selected a site to post my details on: Elite Dates. (‘Meet your ideal mate – the one who’ll share intimate moments with you, as well as your interests, ambitions, and values.’)

  Then I set about creating a profile. The photo I chose was one in which I had my hair up to show off a pair of huge dangly earrings. My cunningly-applied make-up gave me cheekbones I didn’t actually have. My made-up face looked quite attractive, I decided, as I took another sip of my wine. The photo had been taken at a party when I’d been wearing a red vest-top, faded torn jeans and heels. The jeans were close fitting so my blip was visible – but it didn’t look as bad as I always imagined it to be. This prompted me to get off the sofa and examine myself in the full-length mirror I have at the bottom of the stairs. The blip, I decided, wasn’t so prominent after all. I must have body dysmorphia sometimes.

  Next, I had to compose some flattering but plausible descriptive text to accompany the profile. I told prospective dates I was a young solicitor (‘young’ – it wasn’t too much of a stretch, given I was thirty-four) interested in reading, long walks, socialising, live music, festivals, and food. I was vivacious and outgoing – an extrovert with a love of culture, both pop and the deeper stuff.

  When I read it back to myself, I said, ‘What’s not to like, Jaz?’

  Then I hit the post button and awaited developments. They were not long in coming. Soon enough I had a bizarre procession of freaks lined up in my inbox, every one of them desperate to get his perverted hands on me. Among them was a man who was potentially not a freak and might even be eminently suitable – a medic at the local hospital. He was thirty-five, five-eleven, fashionably bearded and behind the facial hair I could see he had a pleasingly sculpted face. He liked most of the things I did, plus he was a triathlete. God alone knew how he managed to fit that in.

  Things had to move fast with this medic if he was to accompany me to the reunion.

  I took a sip of wine and messaged him:

  I’m at a loose end tonight how about you?

  He replied immediately.

  I am too as it happens. Do you fancy meeting up?

  I glugged down more wine.

  Sounds like a good idea. Where and when?

  How about Westow House at eight? Have a drink there and go for a meal afterwards?

  Sounds good to me.

  OK see you then.

  It was 6pm. I had time to finish the bottle, plan my outfit, and take a leisurely bath to get in the right frame of mind before going out. I poured another glass, and another – the final one. Then I gathered my strength and hauled myself upstairs, staggering halfway up them and nearly falling back down.

  Watch yourself, Jaz, take it easy.

  I got to the bathroom, turned on the bath taps and went to my bedroom to choose my outfit.

  The medic had seen a picture of me in jeans, so that’s what I decided to wear for our date, with heels like in the photo, and a tasteful GAP T-shirt. I laid them out on my bed and returned to
the bathroom, lit a few scented candles and had a good long soak.

  The wine and the prospect of meeting someone new was almost enough to take my mind off my woes – almost.

  After my bath I put on my dressing gown, put up my hair as best I could, and applied my make-up. It wasn’t quite as good as usual due to the effects of the drink, but I made a passable job of it.

  Finally, I got dressed and checked myself out in the mirror. The effect was sexy but not provocative and tarty. By now it was 7.45pm, so I ordered an Uber which arrived within minutes, and by 8pm I was entering the doors of the Westhow.

  Dr Nicely Handsome – his name was Simon – spotted me immediately, and came to my side.

  ‘Hello, Jasmine,’ he said, and for a moment looked as though he didn’t know whether to shake my hand or kiss my cheek. I leaned forward and proffered the side of my face. He took the hint and our cheeks brushed, then we headed for the bar. Somehow I got there in a straight line. He turned to me. ‘Have you been out somewhere already?’

  Either he’d smelled the drink on my breath, or I was a little uncoordinated. I decided to brass it out. ‘No, what makes you think that?’

  ‘It’s just – never mind – what would you like to drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of red wine, please.’

  ‘Small, medium or large?’

  ‘Might as well make it a large. Merlot, please.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Oh-kay.’ He waved a twenty-pound note in the air until one of the barmen noticed us and came over. ‘A pint of Yankee Steam Ale, please, and a large glass of merlot.’

  The barman set the drinks in front of us and Simon paid. ‘Shall we grab a seat somewhere?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and we found an empty table.

  ‘Well done, Jaz, you’re holding it together really well,’ I told myself.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Simon.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I could’ve sworn you did.’

  I made a mental note to try harder not to talk to myself out loud when in company. ‘Nope,’ I insisted, shaking my head. ‘I said nothing. Nada. Rien. Niente.’