I notice a newsagent’s as I head toward my car and I glance at the Evening Standard on display in the window, trying to draw in the crowds with the latest headlines.
I see the photograph on the front page and I stop.
My smile wobbles and falls, crumbling like a building under the expert hands of a demolition team, and I go inside the shop and buy my own copy.
never forget that revenge is a universal goal
The Oi Man has a name, a real name. His name is Henry Johnson. His name is Henry Johnson and he’s thirty-six years old.
A huge, full-color photograph of the Oi Man appears on the front of the Evening Standard. It’s a flattering photo. He looks normal. He could be anyone. He could be your neighbor.
According to the leading article the Oi Man (Henry Johnson, says the printed words) tried to murder his wife with a garden spade at his home earlier today.
Allegedly. Although there are eyewitness accounts, so things are looking pretty cut and dried. And he’s been carted away and charged with attempted murder.
Stupid man involving witnesses. Revenge isn’t just about impulse, it has to be thought through; revenge has to be focused. Planned.
Is he a moron? A half-wit? An imbecile? What was he thinking? I mean, in the back garden? Was he not thinking at all?
There’s a photograph of Mrs. Oi Man beside the photo of her husband, but it wasn’t her picture that caught my eye as I was walking by. No, I didn’t even recognize her, didn’t even know it was Mrs. Oi Man until I began to read the article and looked more closely. It’s one of those glamour photos where your wife or girlfriend is supposed to be transformed into someone else, and for Mrs. Oi Man it worked. She looks different. Her skin is still coated in heavy layers of makeup and her hair is all big and poofy, a far cry from Hollywood glamour, but she looks better, not so cheap. She doesn’t look classy, she could never look classy, but I bet she likes it. I bet the Oi Man likes it, too. Or liked it. Something tells me he’s not so keen on her now.
Henry Johnson, Oi Man extraordinaire and professional lorry driver, returned today from a trip to France.
I’d ceased thinking about the Oi Man. I’d assumed he’d received his dose of humiliation last week, but all this time it was just lingering, dark, black revenge hiding, hovering there, waiting to strike like a cobra from the shadows.
How did he find out? Did his friends stumble across the photos in the pubs and save them for him? Did Mrs. Oi Man—Mrs. Johnson—set aside the envelope in a pile for husband Henry and did he open it as soon as he returned from his work abroad?
Henry Johnson has a history of violence.
This should come as no surprise to me—he nearly cut off my ear with his makeshift missile—but it does. I didn’t expect him to try to kill her. I didn’t expect him to try to kill anyone. I knew he was a thug, but not all thugs are murderers.
I never predicted this. It wasn’t my plan. I didn’t intend this to happen. It’s my fault. I caused this. I. Me.
I saw a means for vengeance on the Oi Man and I got swept away, not caring that she might suffer, too, not thinking beyond my own desires.
Mrs. Oi Man—Clare, her name is Clare—was brutally attacked. Clare was assaulted in her back garden with a spade.
According to the newspaper, Mrs. Oi Man was planting a new rosebush. A Princess Diana rose. She was using the spade to plant it. Does she like gardening? Or does Mrs. Oi Man simply love Princess Diana? Is Clare one of the People’s Princess’s people?
I can just picture the scene. Mrs. Oi Man gardening in the back in a skimpy top with her breasts straining to pop out, the net curtains of the overlooking windows twitching, the elderly gent next door desperate for a peek, wanting to enjoy a spot of harmless ogling, when the Oi Man storms into the back garden shouting and yelling, swearing and cursing. The Oi Man grabbed the spade from her hands.
Did Mrs. Oi Man suffer? No, her name is Clare. I have to call her that even if I wish I didn’t know her name. I owe her that much. Did Clare suffer as she was beaten to unconsciousness?
I think she did.
Henry Johnson tore the garden spade from her hands and beat her nearly to death. He beat her to the ground. He beat her again and again. He beat her when she’d stopped moving.
The neighbor, neighbors, one, two, maybe more, I don’t know, phoned the police.
The Oi Man beat his wife nearly to death with a garden spade.
I don’t know how she’s still alive. Did some small measure of mercy move him? Did the Oi Man remember his love for her when they’d first met? Did he pull himself back so that he didn’t split open her head like a watermelon?
Did it take her a long time to sink into oblivion? One minute? Two minutes of agony?
She was nearly dead when the police finally subdued the Oi Man. Fortunately for her, fortunately for me, the paramedics were there and they saved her life, they prevented her slipping away. They whisked her off to hospital, but the newspaper says her chances of survival are slim. Clare’s in a critical condition.
They don’t expect her to make it. If she dies the Oi Man will be charged with murder.
If she dies it’ll be my fault. It’s my fault anyway.
Will she die? Please don’t die. I don’t want you to die.
Even the glamour-photo people could do nothing for her now. Her body will be a mass of bruises, swelling and cuts, and she’ll be multicolored and puffy, something to haunt a child’s nightmares.
Oh, God, please let her live. Please let Clare live. Not for me, I’m not asking for me, I’m not so stupid I’m asking anything for me, but for her. Please, God, let her live. She doesn’t deserve to die.
And what about the rose? Was Clare able to plant it? Or does it lie on its side, forlorn and abandoned and covered in blood, part of the crime scene? Will it wither and die, slowly suffering the torments of thirst as it’s hidden behind police lines for weeks on end?
Clare might die because of me.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. My revenge was against the Oi Man, not Clare, never Clare; I didn’t want her to suffer. Sure I knew it’d make things awkward for her, but I didn’t want her to experience physical harm. I certainly don’t want her to die.
Maybe it would have happened without me. Maybe the Oi Man would have returned a day early from one of his trips and walked in on his wife and her lover and maybe he would have beaten them both to death. Is that my consolation, then? Do I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, I saved the life of the lover by letting the Oi Man find out my way? Yeah, right, some consolation prize.
What if. What if.
Well, what if Jed and Sarah had never betrayed me? If that hadn’t happened none of this would be happening now. But it did happen and this has happened. There’s no turning back the clock.
Clare might die. Clare might die because of me. I told myself that she’d want a divorce, that she’d want to be free of him. But not like this. This was never my plan.
And will the police learn about the photos? Will they try to find out who took them? Who sent them? Will they discover the twenty-seven pubs?
But they won’t find me. I was careful. I didn’t break any laws, legally I did nothing wrong. I wasn’t trying to blackmail the Oi Man. No, I wasn’t interested in blackmail. I wanted my revenge. It was as simple as that. Revenge.
Does this count? Do I now sit back and smile all happy and content that I can remove the Oi Man from my list?
Clare’s in a critical condition. She’s nearly dead because of me.
I’m one of the elite, but I’m not supposed to prey on the weak. I don’t want to be like the Oi Man, I don’t want to cause anguish and suffering, not to the blameless. I’m not like that. I don’t want to be like that. Clare isn’t as white as snow, she probably isn’t even nice, but she didn’t deserve this.
It’s like I’m the murderer—oh, okay, attempted murderer for the moment—and the Oi Man was merely the implement. My puppet. My weapon. All I had to do was tug ge
ntly on his strings and he kicked out. The fact that I didn’t forecast the forcefulness of his response doesn’t exonerate me.
I pointed the Oi Man in the right direction and off he went.
I practically sentenced Clare to death.
What have I done?
Was she crying as he struck her? Did she plead for her life? Was she screaming in terror?
She might die. She might die because of me.
And I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life.
Will it get easier? Will this horrible guilt ease? Will I gradually gloss over the true extent of my responsibility as the years pass?
Maybe, but I don’t think so.
Even if she lives (please, God, let her live) I’ll know what I’ve done.
I’ll have to live with it.
How will I live with it?
I wish I could vomit. I want to vomit. I want to stand here and vomit all over the newspaper. I want specks of food and stomach bile to cover the words, to eat them up, to obliterate them so I won’t have to read any more. But I can’t. I can’t even taste it. My stomach has a funny feeling inside but there is no sick. I don’t have it in me to be sick. I wouldn’t even mind if some got on my shoes, if spots stained my trousers; it’d wash away, nothing’s permanent. But it’s not in me to be sick. Not anymore.
i can think of another name for me now
I’ve been standing on the pavement for twenty minutes, reading and rereading the Oi Man article over and over and over again.
Where’s my euphoria now? Was that really me? Am I really the same man who was grinning and smiling and happy such a short time ago?
Is Clare still alive? I have to know.
A cab passes and I hail it. I can’t drive, I can’t think how to drive, I can’t think how to get there. The only thing I know is that I have to get to the hospital and find out if she’s still alive.
I must have spoken, I must have told the cabbie where I want to go, but I can’t remember speaking, I can’t remember opening my mouth and speaking, but he’s driving and he’s driving and then we’re there, we’re pulling up out front. I hand him twenty pounds, telling him to keep the change, not feeling generous and philanthropic, merely not wanting to bother about the money. It’s only money. Clutching my newspaper and my two dozen roses, I climb from the car.
A crowd has gathered outside the hospital. Photographers, journalists, maybe a neighbor or two. Waiting, all waiting.
I approach with hesitant steps, trying to school my face into an expression of normality, but I haven’t practiced this look. I can hardly do my smile of euphoria and I doubt I’d manage that convincingly even if I tried.
Maybe I’ll pass for a grief-stricken relative distracted by the crowds. I’ll pretend that I’m here visiting my mother, and on my way in to see her I can spot all the people and wonder what’s going on. I roll up the newspaper, hiding the front page, keeping it tight in my hand, concealing the fact that I already know.
“What’s happening?” I ask a man at the edge of the crowd.
He holds a camera with a massive telephoto lens attached and his attention is focused on the hospital. He doesn’t even look at me. Not a bloodhound of a journalist then, or he’d sniff out my guilt instantly and start snapping pictures of me.
“Woman was nearly murdered by her husband,” he says.
Yes, I know that. And?
“Is she okay?” I ask. My palms are damp and I can feel sweat break out on my forehead. I’m an innocent gawker, I tell myself. This has nothing to do with me. Act unconcerned. General horror is acceptable but nothing specific.
He shrugs, watching the entrance, still not looking at me or he’d know, he’d be able to tell that I’m involved. “Doctor said she’s slipped into a coma.”
I curl my hands into fists and dig my fingernails into the flesh of my palms. “Is she going to make it?” I ask.
I hold my breath, waiting for the answer.
“Doesn’t look good,” he says.
Clare’s in a coma. She’s dying. She’s going to die.
I turn and walk away.
the awful truth
(i’ve turned into what i most despise)
All I want to do is go home to my room and stare at the sky of daisies. I don’t care if Amber and Noreen and the others are there, I’m numb and I just want to go home.
I walk, away from the hospital, away from Clare, away from the seeds of my destruction. I want to take the Tube, I want to feel a mass of warm, hot, alive humanity pressing against me, but I’m not entitled to this comfort. I’m alone and I deserve to stay alone.
I pass a bin and toss the flowers in. They were for Amber. They were for Amber from Alexander, but I’m not good enough for her. Why did I think I could just waltz in there with a pathetic bunch of flowers—as if twenty-four roses was enough to make it up to her—and she’d instantly smile and kiss me and open her arms to take me back?
I’ve been such a fool.
A minute later, two, three, four, I don’t know, time is passing in some strange Twilight Zone world and it could have been two hours for all I know, I reach another bin and throw in the paper.
If only my memories—my selected memories—were so easily discarded.
I’d purge myself if I could. Purge myself of being Alexander.
If this is what it’s like being me, being the Alexander in me, then I don’t want to be him any longer.
How can I live with what I’ve done? How could I have let this happen? What if Clare dies? I didn’t want anyone to die.
I can’t flush the impurities from my memory.
If Alex weren’t already dead this would be enough to kill him. Alex could never live with what I’ve done. How he would respond to my actions is not a secret: it’s clear what he’d do. He would break down and confess his sins to the newspapers. He would become a pariah and forever more be blamed for the Oi Man’s crimes, blamed for the attack on Clare Johnson, apple of her mother’s eye.
But he is dead. I realized that earlier today and it’s still true. Alex is dead.
And what of Alexander?
I’m not Alexander either. I don’t know who I am.
I’m some crazy man. A ruthless, selfish, crazy man.
I’ve gone beyond my initial Alexander-brief. I’m out of control.
What the hell was I thinking?
What about my vows to stand up for the weak? I was only supposed to be a predator to other predators, I was supposed to look out for the prey, I was supposed to protect them. They needed me.
And I let them down.
I wasn’t thinking of them. I was thinking only of me.
Alexander as I wanted him to be would never have slept with Amber. He should never have slept with Amber. I should never have slept with Amber. Not if I was going to hurt her like I did.
Sarah, Jed, Kenneth, they all deserved what they got. But not Amber. How could I have hurt her? Sure I felt guilty, I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I did it anyway. I did it even though I knew it was wrong. No one made me do it.
And what about Kate? I kept telling myself she was a predator, but why did I think that? Because she looked like she was on a manhunt? Just because she wanted a man doesn’t make her a predator. I was wrong: Kate wasn’t strong, she was just like anyone else, wanting to find her partner, her true love, The One for her. She might not have gone about it in the way I think she should have, but that doesn’t make her a predator. She didn’t harm anyone. She didn’t harm me. I shouldn’t have dealt with her the way I did. She deserved better.
I treated her like she was my own private whore and I didn’t even pay her or take her out to dinner. All I gave her was one lousy bottle of perfume that was another woman’s favorite. I didn’t bother to find out what scent Kate preferred, what scent she’d have liked to receive.
I just walked out of her flat after shagging her and never saw her or called her again. She wasn’t mean to me, she wasn’t vicious or cruel. I had no excuse to trea
t her like dirt. I could have talked to her, I could have taken her out for a meal, I could have at least allowed her to cook for me when she wanted to. I could have found a kinder way to break things off. I didn’t have to do it that way. I wasn’t thinking of her, I was only thinking of me, of what I wanted.
And Clare?
My revenge was supposed to be against the Oi Man. I can’t just decide I hate a particular person and determine to get hold of a bomb and blow up the building where that particular person works merely so I can get rid of him or her. Revenge has to be focused. It has to be earned. It’s like a retaliatory strike. How a retaliatory strike should be. Civilian casualties are unacceptable.
I’ve become one of them. I’ve turned into what I most despise.
I’ve become a predator who preys on the prey.
God, help me, I’m one of them. I’ve preyed on the prey.
welcome home, alexander, we missed you, can’t you tell?
The flat is blissfully silent, empty when I arrive. I head straight to my room, needing to see the daisies.
I open the door. And stop.
It’s not so empty after all. Amber and Noreen are in my room. Amber and Noreen are in my room, holding my things.
My boxes have all been torn apart and the contents smashed and scattered around the room. My clothes are slashed into dozens of tiny pieces. My records have been broken in half. My comics—I catch a glimpse of them beneath my shredded Savile Row suits—are ripped and crumpled. My Armani jacket looks like it’s been hacked apart with a knife.
The bed is heaped with piles of cassettes, the tape spilling out in long ribbons, CDs snapped in two, book covers torn away from their text.
Amber flushes and tears gather in her eyes. “Alex,” she says, in a whisper.
I cannot speak, I just stare at them, stare at Amber.
“Alex,” she says again, and her voice is a little stronger, “it’s not what you think. I—”
“I did it,” says Noreen.
Being Alexander Page 28