Drift Stumble Fall

by M. Jonathan Lee

  I am pleased that the temperature of the dining room is the same as the lounge. Warm and comforting. I click the glass door closed behind me and place my laptop and speakers down on the table. The blinds are still open and I can see that the snow is just beneath the wheel arch of the car. It’s unlikely that I’ll be going anywhere tomorrow.

  I pull open the laptop and log on. Then I search through my phone and select some music. I grab a pen and Post-it pad from the sideboard and sit down. The Windows home screen arrives and I click on to the Barclays website and pull up details of our bank accounts. We have three accounts. I scan through the balances and copy them down.

  It appears that we have somewhere in the region of twenty- six thousand pounds in our savings. I am suddenly panicked by the fact that I am even considering clearing out our savings for my own benefit. I immediately decide that anything that I plan to do must be fair on Lisa and the kids. In my heart of hearts, I know that they will never be short of money – Dina and Kenneth have more than enough to support them. And Lisa was earning more money than I was before Oscar came along. However, I make a pledge that I will not leave them in an unfair position.

  So, I divide the total by four, scribble it on a Post-it note and double-underline the amount: £7,404.40. This is what I have to play with. To create a new me.

  I lean back in my chair and stare out of the window, pondering whether I announce my disappearance or just go. Vanish, never to be seen again.

  Lord Lucan. Amelia Earhart. Glenn Miller.

  Me.

  Vanishing is by far the easiest option from an emotional point of view; however, from a practical point of view it makes things extremely difficult.

  If I am to become one of the one hundred and ten thousand adults who disappear in my country each year, I want to be in the one per cent who never ever resurface. That means planning my disappearance is vital. But I have a problem: how to extract seven thousand pounds from my bank account without it becoming obvious that my disappearance was planned and therefore somewhere out there I am fit and well.

  For a moment, I consider transferring small, irregular amounts into a separate bank account that Lisa doesn’t know about. Perhaps two to three hundred pounds a day. I quickly discount this as it is far too obvious. I’m sure that this wouldn’t be too difficult a conundrum for any investigator worth his salt. I conclude that I can’t remove more than maybe one thousand pounds in total as a maximum without raising suspicion. I set up two bank transfers of differing amounts to take place over the next week. I’ll transfer these from the deposit account to the current account and withdraw the cash. Then I make a note on my pad: ‘Tell Lisa car has problems.’

  I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. I log on to my laptop and begin searching for flights to America. I am pleasantly surprised to find that flights to even the most obscure of airports (Scottsbluff, Broken Bow, Kimball, anyone?) cost less than the one thousand pounds I expect I’ll have. Especially when the flights are one-way.

  This brings me to my next major hurdle. How do I manage to fly to the United States of America without being detected? I can’t just book a flight online, turn up at the airport and hop on. The investigator will be at my Nebraskan motel door before I get there. My movements would be far too easy to trace. I briefly consider buying a fake passport, but I haven’t got the first idea where a middle-class accountant working for the subsidiary of a medium-sized import company would obtain one. Perhaps if I mixed with the criminal underworld I could source one. Sadly, I’m not an international drug dealer, or an armed robber.

  I suspect that my window cleaner has ‘other pursuits’ aside from his day job, as I’ve seen him driving around in a flash Audi. I’ve also seen him selling small plastic packets in the beer garden of my local pub. He is the closest I could get to the murky criminal fraternity. I suppose I could start by asking him, but as soon as I begin making enquiries I will leave a trail of clues behind me longer than the distance of my flight.

  No, I must be cleverer than that. I mustn’t disclose my plan to anyone. It’s the only way that I can truly disappear.

  I stand and walk over to the window. Across the road, the curtains in the bungalow are closed. A dull light comes from the front bedroom. I check my watch. Six forty-five. The light comes on about the same time each day and only for a short time. I stare through the giant snowflakes and imagine the quiet peacefulness in my version of utopia across the road.

  I consider that the only way to get abroad without detection will be a number of journeys zigzagging across Europe and northern Africa to places where nobody cares about me. My mind jumps quickly around possibilities. The company I work for currently has a joint venture somewhere near Lyon. I cannot remember whether I have mentioned it to Lisa or not. I am, of course, nowhere near significant enough to be needed in France, but I could pretend that the company is sending me. Once I’m there, I could go to Luxembourg, or, better still, Switzerland, or even Andorra. I can get to any of these places by simply hiring a car and driving across the border. I’d be undetected, and therefore nobody would even know I’d entered the country. Neither would they know I’d left it on a plane bound for another European country, or for Africa.

  It would be a difficult journey, and of course would add extra costs, but I am convinced that it would work. I write ‘Mention Lyon to Lisa’ on a Post-it and stick it to the table. I then scribble on four more Post-its, naming possible African countries to fly to and from. I intend to check these in the atlas later this evening.

  Without warning, the door opens and Lisa walks in. I lean forward on the table and use my elbows to surreptitiously cover the Post-it notes sandwiched between me and the laptop. My position is quite obviously unnatural and draws attention to me.

  “Still working?” Lisa says as she walks up behind me. She puts her arms around my shoulders and kisses the back of my head. My upper body tightens up.

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I know it’s confidential. I won’t steal your secrets.”

  I look down at the table and see that ‘tzerland’ and ‘Lisa’ are exposed on separate Post-it notes, my forearm not quite thick enough to cover them. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Lisa either, who is keen to know why she is being referenced in what are supposed to be company papers.

  “Why does it say my name?” she asks.

  This gives me the opportunity to adjust my position, and I make a big show of quickly covering up the exposed words. I stretch out my hands fully to ensure that all my scribbled words are no longer visible.

  “That’s to do with your birthday,” I blurt out. I feel her arms around my neck loosen and she takes a step to my right. She sniffs. A rat, she can smell it.

  “It’s December, Richard.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My birthday is in August.”

  I turn to look at her. “I know,” I say.

  “So?” she says, cocking her head. She makes the word last for much longer than usual. “So, er, it’s a present.” “For my birthday?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no, not your birthday. For Christmas, I mean.”

  Her head straightens. It may just have worked.

  “Christmas?” she says quizzically.

  “Yeah. Your present.”

  “Well, you’d better order it soon,” she says. “Only eight shopping days to go.”

  “It’s under control,” I smile. She leans in and kisses my cheek.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  She walks over to the window and uses the plastic rod to close each of the blinds. She pauses at the far end of the dining room table and absent-mindedly sweeps her hand across the surface. She waits until I look up at her.

  “Mmm?” I say.

  “The kids are in bed, waiting for you,” she says. “Okay, I’ll go up now.”

  “I was wondering whether after that you wanted to watch a film with me and Mum and Dad?”

  My first thought is that I don’t. But
I am tired and it’s probably a good idea to keep up the pretence and not raise any suspicions.

  “Yep, okay,” I say.

  Lisa looks relieved. “Great. I’ll leave you to pack up your stuff.”

  I wait until I am sure that she has left not only the dining room but the hall as well, and then finally relax my shoulders. I peel off each of the Post-it notes from the table and carefully stick them to one another. I put them at the back of my wallet. Then I go online and order a small hard-backed notebook. I need somewhere to pull together all my plans. Somewhere to record all my thoughts and ideas and itineraries and essentials. I imagine myself tossing it over the side of a large container ship somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The sun is beating down and I am dressed in a shirt, long shorts and sandals. A baseball cap covers my newly bleached hair. I watch as the journal rides the crest of gentle waves. Disappearing and reappearing every few seconds. Up and over. Up and over. I can still just make it out as it finally begins to absorb water. Eventually, I lose sight of it as it sinks beneath the surface. It is a sad moment – I would have liked to have kept it – but its very existence would have been too much of a risk. My cover and new life blown. It’s safer for it to rest somewhere deep in the depths of the ocean.

  Apparently, it’ll be delivered tomorrow. I’m not so sure Amazon has seen the weather out there.

  I close the laptop and stand. Then I exhale, blowing air from my lungs in one long, consistent breath. I had no idea that something as simple as not being here was going to be so difficult to plan. I’ve already concluded that to disappear I will walk away pretty much penniless. Ready to start again, from the very beginning; almost like being born all over again, except this time as an adult. Building a new life right from the bottom. I have also concluded that it will take numerous journeys to successfully become invisible.

  That is, if I leave unannounced.

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-FOUR

  If ever I was unsure.

  Oscar is already asleep by the time I get to his room. His foot points out from beneath his covers toward the window. I wrap him up again and kiss his forehead. That was easy.

  Hannah is sitting up in her bed, waiting for me. She smiles as I enter the room.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” I whisper.

  She pats the bed next to her. I walk over and sit alongside. She shuffles down in the bed, as if content that now I am here she can finally relax.

  “So,” I say, “has it been a good day?” “Best ever. And how about you?” she says. “Best ever,” I say.

  “Lie down then, Daddy,” she says.

  I feel like I want to, but I know that it’ll just make leaving more difficult. I have to change the pattern now, so that my family misses me less.

  “There’s not time today, sweetheart.”

  She looks confused. “But we always have a chat, Daddy.” “I know,” I say, “but it’s late and it’s school tomorrow.” Her face suggests this makes sense.

  “Is it still snowing?” she says.

  I lean over the bed and pull the curtain across. Of course it is. I nod.

  “Heavy?” she says. “Yep, just the same.”

  Her brow creases. “So there won’t be any school, will there, Daddy?”

  I’ve been tricked. Very subtly. I want to hug her; it was a very clever move. One that I didn’t see coming. Checkmate.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure. Anyway,” I say, rising to my feet, “it’s late.”

  I pull her close and kiss her neck. “I love you,” I say. I release her and stand.

  Her eyes are already closed and she has a slight smile on her face. “’Night,” she whispers.

  Cliff is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes snap open as I reach him. He sniffs around my socks and I stroke the back of his head. As I try to pass him, he weaves himself in and out of my ankles as if to slow my passage. I get the feeling he is trying to warn me not to go into the lounge. He obviously has the benefit of being party to the conversation that has gone on in my absence. I ruffle his hair with my hand and accidentally turn his ears inside out. He makes a small grunting sound and then shakes his head vigorously. His ears momentarily take on the sound of miniature helicopter blades before returning to their normal position. He curls up to sleep by the radiator in the hall. As he closes his eyes, he lets off a large sigh. I take it as a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you.

  As I enter the lounge, there is a collective sigh of relief from Lisa and her mum. I perch on the arm of my chair. They are sitting on the sofa, in the same places as before, and Lisa has the remote in her hand, pointing at the television. I’m not sure how long she has been frozen in this position. I notice that the stars and mountain logo of Paramount is paused on the screen. It looks like I’ll have no input into what we are about to watch.

  Dina and Lisa turn to me at exactly the same time. It’s the first time I’ve noticed just how alike they are. “Where’ve you been?” Lisa says.

  “Sorting the kids,” I say, surprised that I have to answer a question to which she already knows the answer. She only sent me up to them ten minutes ago.

  “Right,” Lisa says. Dina nods. “Anyone need a drink?” I ask. “No,” Lisa says, “we all have one.” I stand. I’m thirsty.

  “Just sit down, Richard.” She sounds exasperated. She presses play on the remote and the opening music begins. I leave the room to get a drink. As I enter the hall, I hear her curse me. The opening music stops.

  Moments later, I am back in my chair, a nice cold bottle of Corona in my hand. I’m ready for the film to begin.

  Lisa reads my mind: “Are you ready, Richard?” “Uh-huh,” I say.

  She presses play again and relaxes back onto the sofa.

  For the first time, I notice that Kenneth is sitting in the little wicker chair in front of the curtains that cover the French doors. His jumper is eerily similar in colour to the curtains and it appears his head is simply floating above the chair. He is holding a book, and I can’t tell whether he is asleep or not. I nod and smile at him, but he doesn’t respond.

  As soon as the opening subterranean scene begins, my heart sinks – to just about the same depths as the soon-to-be stricken boat we are about to watch. The monotonous beep-beep-beep of a radar sounds and at that moment I would happily be anywhere but here.

  Around the time that the ship sets sail, I reach for the atlas. Lisa shoots me a look, disgusted that I had even considered not concentrating on the film, even though I have been forced to watch it at least fifteen times before. I want to argue that it isn’t fair that Kenneth isn’t forced to watch, but decide against it. I’m not about to throw him overboard in the interests of saving myself. I decide not to bring him into it; from where I am sitting, he could easily pass as already dead.

  I put the atlas back down, smile at Lisa and turn back to the screen. Forcing me to watch this drivel makes me feel cheated. Cheated that these hours are being stolen from me. Taken away. I’m not interested in whether the lead man can dance an Irish jig in the belly of the ship. I couldn’t care less whether he should be doing a charcoal sketch of the socially well-adjusted lead lady. This is my life that is being stolen. And I am sitting back and allowing it to happen. Right before my eyes.

  In some ways though, the content of the film resonates with me. It’s a film about escape, about new starts. About living life.

  For the vast majority of it, I am able to stare at the screen yet think about my wider plan. About the choice I’ve made.

  Daydreaming.

  Plotting.

  Planning.

  Call it what you want, but my ability to remove myself from the film is the only thing that stops my temper from boiling over entirely. At first, as the film began, I could feel my chest tightening as each second passed. Questions pounded inside my head and I wanted to shout out: What am I doing here? Why am I here, tolerating this? Where are my choices for how I want to spend my time? This was my life that was passing by. My life. But I was able to overc
ome my outrage by dreaming of my cabin far up on the side of the hill, surrounded by acres and acres of woodland. The view from my little window looking down over the trees.

  In the summertime: a hillside blanket of vibrant green leaves. And the trees would end where the incline finally became flatland. A tessellated patchwork of yellow and green fields made up of almost-square squares for tens of miles.

  Green and yellow. Lemon and lime.

  Nothingness. I wouldn’t see another soul for weeks on end.

  And in the wintertime, my isolation would increase. The trees would shed their orange, red and yellow covering, like a giant quilt being pulled away and discarded. And I would be left with the skeletal arms of the trees, reaching out of the deep white snow, protecting me from humanity – orange flashes of fur and the lupine howl at dusk the only signs that other life even existed.

  From time to time, my dream would be interrupted by mindless absurdity coming from Dina. Sentences blurted out and greeted with a tut or shush from Lisa. There were too many to count, but the ones I remember are:

  “Do you think they really had cabins on the ship?”

  “How do you think those musicians remembered the notes without their songbooks? I’d say that was a plot hole, wouldn’t you, Richard?”

  “I didn’t realise that Celine Dion had been singing in 1912. That’s some career.”

  “To be honest, I think a piece of ice would just bounce off a boat. A boat is metal. Ice is only made of ice.”

  “If I owned that ship, I would’ve counted how many people there were and worked out how many lifeboats we needed. Probably before we set off.”

  When the closing credits finally begin, I am out of my seat in seconds. I busy myself blowing out the candles on the fireplace and then turn off the television. I suppose I want to make it clear that I am not going to allow any more of my evening, my life, to be stolen.

  “Bedtime then?” Lisa says. I sense a little sarcasm. “Oh, sorry, yeah.”

  “All this death has tired me out too,” Dina said, yawning.