by Paul Roscoe
Buddy lit up, but his cigarette tasted bitter and strangely tart; he dropped it to the dusty tarmac, letting it smoulder. “So what do you expect me to do? Kneel down and beg for mercy? Plead for forgiveness?”
David raised an eyebrow and adjusted a button.
“Is that what the others did? Tell you how they didn’t really mean to hurt you? If they did, they were lying.” Buddy’s eyes fell to the floor. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m not going to lie about it. I want no one’s forgiveness, especially not yours.”
David placed the top hat on his head, and adjusted it. “Fine. Fine. In fact, you’re in luck, as I have no forgiveness to offer. To tell you the truth, I have very little idea what you’re talking about. But then my mind is often lost in darkness – those lost, small moments of forgetfulness into which we so often step.” David tilted his head like a curious dog. “Still, have you never contemplated the idea that it was what you didn’t do, as much as what you did, that caused so many problems?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, but that’s more his sort of thinking.” He cocked a thumb towards Alex.
“Very well. I trust you’re interested in how this goes?”
“Of course, but I’d like to say one thing.”
David nodded.
“David, I wish I’d known you better. Either to like or dislike, it doesn’t matter.” Buddy crossed his arms. “The point I’m trying to make is, to me you were just another kid. It would have been better to have hated you, and have that as some kind of memory. But I can hardly remember how you were back then…and that’s a terrible shame.”
David eyed him carefully, as if doubting his sincerity, and then a large smile spread across his face. “Well said, Buddy. Well said.” He raised his hands to Buddy’s face. “Now, close your eyes and see what you have to.”
Buddy closed his eyes and felt cold water splash against his face.
On reflex, he opened them. He stared straight ahead, still not ready.
Water dripped from the face in the mirror, the one that seemed slightly different in a way he couldn’t quite place. I need a cigarette, he thought. As he dried his face, the dream hung there, undecided, just the image of his terrified old friend and a boy he couldn’t possibly know. Was that all there was today? Was that the last one? Somehow, it felt so.
He gazed into the mirror. For someone who seemed to be getting less and less sleep every day, Buddy thought he looked better than of late. Maybe that was the thing he couldn’t quite place. No dark circles under his eyes, no drifting pupils, and even his complexion seemed to be reversing some of the damage it had recently sustained. Buddy rubbed at his chin, watching his reflection do the same in the toothpaste-spattered mirror, and the thing finally occurred to him.
He was clean-shaven.
Buddy rubbed his chin some more, not quite believing what he was seeing. He had no memory of shaving whatsoever; besides which, he always shaved in the mornings. Buddy scrambled to piece the previous evening back together; as far as he could tell, he’d seen Alex off at the arranged spot, returned home, then had simply gone straight to bed. Had he watched a little TV? Spent any extended time in the bathroom? Had he done anything other than stomp upstairs, take a leak, throw his clothes in a pile at the bottom of the bed, and dive under the covers? He didn’t think so, but the more he questioned it, the more anything seemed possible. As he searched for an alternative, the sensory memory of shaving came rushing back as encouragement, or as something to confuse him: running water, the feel of the razor in his hand, heat on his skin. Maybe he did have a shave. Maybe Alex’s little dig had hit the spot.
The rugged look. Big joke.
He ran his hand over his chin. Whichever way, it was a fine job, still really close even after a night’s sleep.
A fine job.
Buddy swallowed, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
“Is that it?” he asked the face in the mirror. “Am I done now?”
There was a choking sound in his throat as he fought the lump there.
Not quite, his eyes replied.
He stopped rubbing his chin and braced himself. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead, he took two steps back from the mirror…and finally turned to look at the thing he had been working so hard to ignore.
The body in the bathtub was still; the dripping tap sending tiny ripples of red water across its chest. Save for a small arc of red droplets, the surrounding white tiles were spotless. The boy seemed caught in either ecstasy or a moment of great realisation: his eyes stared at the ceiling, his mouth in the shape of an O. A long, thick gash stretched below his stubbly chin, the razor blade still caught in a puffy flap of skin.
For reasons known only to the ancient plumbing, an air bubble dislodged the bath plug. Slowly, the bloody water began to drain away. Buddy watched as the water gradually revealed his naked corpse, and even before the liquid was little more than a puddle clinging to the underside of the pale flesh, it became apparent that he had cut both wrists before finally making the messy job of his throat. Buddy nodded to himself. That’s just like me, he thought. Wanting to make certain, wanting to do the job right. The blood belched deeply and swirled down the pipes, the sound resonating throughout the quiet house, making him shudder. He waited, frozen, as the final drops slithered towards the plughole.
Buddy saw everything again in slow motion, watched himself wake up and wander out of his bedroom, saw the light at the end of the hall, saw himself before the toilet, eyes averted, before the sink, eyes half-closed, and now before the bathtub, eyes wide open.
And for a few moments, he saw nothing at all.
In this state of nothingness, he grabbed the mirror from above the sink and smashed it on the edge of the basin; he hauled the entire shower curtain rig from its wall sockets, bringing the contraption down on the dead body in the tub; he ripped the cover from the toilet bowl, picked up the lid and threw it across the room; he cleared the contents of the airing cupboard with one sweep of an arm, spilling sanitary towels and toilet rolls everywhere; and, at last, he dumped the contents of the litter bin – mostly used tissues and cardboard tubes – on the corpse’s head.
When he began to see things again, he realised that he was curled into a foetal position on the bath mat, shivering, fists bloody. The curved side of the bath was smudged with fresh blood and old dust. Buddy rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, feeling the world rush beneath him, holding him in place.
He lay like that for a while, feeling the earth’s endless hurry.
The first thing he notice when he reopened his eyes was that someone had re-hung the shower curtain. A small and surprisingly painless turn of the head confirmed that the toilet seat had reattached itself. He tried to get up, but a sickening dizziness swept through him, forcing him back to the floor.
“What…the…fu-”
Buddy’s head dropped back on the bath mat and his stomach lurched. His limbs tingled with weightlessness, like a rollercoaster’s descent following its endless climb. The hard, artificial light of the bathroom was swallowed by indigo darkness, which pressed softly into dim shapes and shadows that loomed over him.
The world was the sound of screaming birds and howling wind.
2
Buddy was too busy scurrying around the playground to notice the boy in the dark clothes emerge from beneath the shelter, but Alex saw him fine. He strolled onto the playground and then did a comedic double-take at Alex. Alex waved…and then realised who he was waving to. An unnerving sense of dislocation jolted everything away. All he could see was a faded blue semi-circle on the playground floor, part of the markings for some ball game he had never played. As he stared at the floor, unable to do otherwise, David and Buddy talked about him. But he couldn’t make sense of what they were saying; their voices were muffled, covered by the sound of his breathing.
As the dimness of his bedroom began to fade into being, Alex was relieved to see the familiar sights of his alarm clock and bedside table. Alex stared at the digital
display, watching the arrangement of lines and spaces slowly configure into meaning. It was way too early to get up, but he was no longer sleepy.
He lay there, allowing his dream to replay section by section until finally the daylight of dreams withdrew.
And then Alex began his last morning on earth.
Chapter Eleven
1
Buddy had shown up at midnight and had been sleeping ever since. As there seemed little point in waking him – both agreed that grasping the basics of the afterlife was neither urgent nor very demanding – Mary and Tom just waited in silence, and watched.
It had been a long night.
After the drama of Buddy’s entry – the birds had fascinated Tom, and although Mary had feigned indifference, she too had held her breath until the last swallow departed – they had expected a full and frank conversation with their old gang leader. As it happened, though, Buddy had simply peered at the sky through half-closed eyelids then fallen into a deep slumber. Unsure how to react, Mary and Tom had wished each other a goodnight, and then joined Buddy on the thick grass.
Although filled with honest intentions of sleep, Tom had eventually rolled on his back and stared at the starlit sky. Midnight had never seemed brighter. As he lay awake, watching the low, round moon that floated directly above him, he noticed how the summit had an ambient light that was entirely its own. He considered blaming the twinkling lights that flitted across the distant, unseen landscape, but he knew that didn’t make much sense – those lights lay far beyond them, whereas this light was close at hand. As his notions of sleep gradually fizzled out, Tom came to the conclusion that this place – this special place, where they found themselves no matter where they turned – had an air to it only they could see. It was like the lighting filmmakers used for scenes supposedly taking place in total darkness: a general, sourceless light that just is. The grass bending softly in the wind, the graffiti inscribed in the beacon’s stone, the calm, unfazed expression on Mary’s face – everything was bathed in enough light to see, but only just. Tom imagined he could wander these hills at any time and never find a hollow too dark, or a meadow too obscure – not that he had any immediate plans to do so.
He rolled over on his side and shut his eyes.
“Tom?”
The possibility of sleep seemed to get up and wander the hills on its own.
“Tom, are you awake? Your breathing’s quiet.”
Ah, well.
He sat up and crossed his legs, and she did the same. “Good evening, Mary. Lovely, isn’t it?”
She offered him a small smile and they sat silently, watching the twinkling lights of the motorway’s cars and trucks.
At some point, Buddy started to snore.
2
Walking downstairs, Angela’s legs felt detached from the rest of her body, and her head felt as if it was being attacked. Breakfast TV blared adverts for children’s toys and medicines. Acrid, greasy smells coated the air, cooking smells that were no longer connected with the notion of food as she recalled it. She reached the front door, savoured its cool whisper of letterbox air, and turned to confront the living room. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, peering through the connecting archway. Angela watched her produce the TV remote control from a pile of newspapers in the centre of the table and point it in her general direction. The room fell silent.
Her mother favoured her with a measuring look. “What do you think you are doing?”
“What it looks like, I guess.” Angela dropped her bag and adjusted her school uniform.
Her mother drained her mug and looked about the kitchen, searching for whatever she was supposed to do in these circumstances. She started to rearrange the items on the table. “You don’t have to go in, you know. I said you’d be off for a week at least.”
Angela waved her back into her seat and reached into an overhead cupboard. She watched her hands remove the coffee tin, measure two scoops in the machine, and flip a switch. Then those very same hands started putting a slice of toast together.
“I know. But I want to go in. I don’t know why. Maybe it’ll be good for me. Snap me out of it.”
Then her mother was out of her chair and standing closely behind her, her hands rubbing her arms. Her mother started to speak softly, almost cooing. “You know, you don’t need to snap out of anything, Angie.” She stroked her hair. “You can just ease yourself out.”
The toaster popped, and Angela continued making her breakfast.
“I’m sorry, mum, but I just don’t want to sit around and mope about all day. I just want to take my mind off it.” She focused on buttering her toast as she said this – avoiding eye contact made lying easier.
Her mother sighed. “Well, if that’s what you really want to do, then okay. But don’t feel like you have to put a brace face on any of this. No one expects that.”
Angela poured her drink, plated her toast, and took a seat. The remote sat untouched on the pile of newspapers, and she almost reached for it herself when it occurred to her that perhaps she didn’t want to hear the news, that perhaps she’d had enough news to last a lifetime. Her mother sat down beside her, her chair squawking on the tiles. The toast was too dry and Angela swilled her tasteless coffee to get it down. The table, pinewood and pockmarked, seemed somehow massive beneath her elbows. Her mother pulled her chair up, squawking again but also banging the table this time, sending a thud through her bones. Tiny ripples erupted in her drink and she wiped her eyes, unable to hide her tears.
“Angie, you really don’t have to go in. I don’t know what else to say, but you really don’t have to do this.”
Angela took a tissue from the lilac box at the end of the table and blew hard. Then she wiped her eyes and deposited the remains of her breakfast on the draining board. “I’m off.”
Her mother slouched back in her chair. “I suppose I’d better go in then.”
“I could write you a note.” The two women smiled at each other. Angela kissed her mother on the cheek, grabbed her bag from the living room, and closed the door behind her with a gentle pull.
Nicola Welch automatically switched the TV back on and yawned. I could write you a note? Where did she ever learn to come out with stuff like that? Then it occurred to her, and for a moment – just for a moment – the death of her daughter’s boyfriend was a small relief. She shook her head, banishing the notion before it could get a hold on her.
I liked Tom, she told herself. Angela could have done a lot worse.
Yes.
She reached for the newspaper stuffed at the bottom of the pile and spread it on the table. Yesterday’s edition of The Bracton Telegraph had come out too early to include mention of Tom’s death, but Mary Townsend had made the front page. A blurry, black and white photograph of a miserable girl with greasy black hair nestled beneath a basic but effective headline: SCHOOLGIRL FOUND DEAD IN GARAGE. Nicola leaned in towards the photograph, focusing on the individual dots that made up the dead girl’s face. The knowledge that next week’s edition would have a similar story but with her daughter’s boyfriend pasted on the front page instead was surreal and unbelievable.
It’s like the next few days have happened already, she thought, and began to read.
*
Angela put one foot in front of the other, feeling her heels connect with the ground and become part of it. She did this a number of times and eventually arrived at school. Then, as the bell’s clanging echoed down long, grey corridors, she stepped beneath the glass atrium. As she did, the deep feeling of disassociation she had woken up with started to wear off. She had things to do, after all. She clutched her school bag, feeling its contents. I’ll talk to Alex first, she thought, fingering the package, making sure she could feel the spine, then maybe Buddy, if Alex won’t listen. Angela tried to imagine what she might say as an opening line to either boy, tried to picture herself reaching in her bag, pulling out Tom’s diary, and passing it over, but nothing came. Maybe she wouldn’t show them the diary, at least
not at first. Better to try to get their trust on merit, without using bait. But how can I speak to Buddy? How can anyone speak to Richard Budden?
I’ll find a way.
A second bell rang and the corridors sprang to life. Pupils streamed everywhere. Angela darted towards her registration room, hoping to catch her registration teacher. As she reached the door, Mr Braithwaite emerged, hunched beneath his trademark brown cardigan.
“Angela. You’re here.”
“Sorry I’m late, Sir.”
“Yes, I mean, no. Er...that’s fine. Listen,” her teacher held the door open for her and nodded towards it, “come in for a minute.”
An uneasy feeling took hold in the pit of Angela’s stomach; she followed Mr Braithwaite’s gesture and floated into the classroom as pupils continued to charge past the open door.
They were all walking in the same direction.
“Another assembly,” she said, as the man whose glasses made his eyes look twice their natural size settled into his chair. He removed them, rubbed the two dark red marks on the bridge of his nose, and nodded. “Another assembly.”
Angela looked at her hands, which were clenched together, and she sank against a nearby desk. “Who was it this time?”
3
Their old gang leader opened his eyes. He stared at the grey morning sky with a puzzled expression, and yawned. Then he closed his eyes again and spoke gently to the girl sitting beside him.
“Mary, was that you I heard before?”
Mary stared at the ground, inspecting the dried sheep droppings near her ankles.
“Yep, that was me alright.”
“And was that Tom I saw before, leaning over me, closing in for the big, romantic snog?”
“That was Tom.”
Buddy yawned once more, sat up, and scratched his neck, taking in his environment. “Bracton Hill. Who would’ve thought heaven looked so dull?”
Tom appeared from behind the beacon. “I don’t think this is heaven, Buddy.”