by Sarah Lotz
(Sound of a thump, followed by a toilet flushing)
Never again. Never fucking again. Darren–you remember, from social services–is going to be here in a few hours and I can’t let him smell the stale booze on me. But it helps. I can’t deny that.
Oh God.
12 March, 11.30 a.m.
Think I got away with it. Was careful not to reek of mouthwash, which is a dead giveaway. Found one of those cheap spray-on deodorants at the back of the bathroom cupboard, which made me stink of manufactured musk instead. But it’s the last time I’m going to take a chance like that.
Not that I spent much time with Darren in any case. Jess had him wrapped around her little finger as usual. ‘Darren, do you want to come and watch My Little Pony with me? Uncle Paul bought me the whole series.’ She definitely wasn’t this outgoing before the crash. I’m certain of that now. She and Polly were never what you’d call precocious. They were always shy around strangers, but I guess a slight change in behaviour is to be expected. Darren says we should think about putting her back in school after the Easter hols. We’ll see what Dr K says.
Thanks for being so understanding about me not sending you the recordings for a while. It’s just… talking it out like this… it really does help, you know? I’ll get back to the proper stuff soon, I promise. It has to be grief, doesn’t it? Denial or whatever. Isn’t that one of the stages everyone goes through when they’re in mourning? Thank fuck Jess isn’t going through any of this. She seems to have accepted everything, hasn’t even cried yet–not even when the dressings came off her face that first time and she saw her scars. They’re not bad; nothing that a little bit of make-up won’t fix when she’s older. And her hair is starting to grow back. We had some fun the other day choosing hats on the Internet. She picked out a black trilby that was remarkably stylish. Can’t imagine pre-crash Jess going for that kind of thing. It wasn’t very Missy K, who has the dress sense of a retarded, colour-blind drag-queen.
But still… accepting everything like she has… that can’t be normal, can it? I’m almost tempted to show her the family photographs I put away before she came home, see if I can jump-start some sort of emotional response, but I’m not ready to look at them yet and I’m careful not to get too upset around her. Now they’ve released what they call their preliminary crash findings, I hope to Christ this is going to mean I get some closure. And 277 Together is helping. I haven’t told them about the nightmares. No way am I going to do that. I trust them, specially Mel and Geoff, but you never know. The fucking papers will print anything, won’t they? Did you see that whole sob-story thing in the Daily Mail– the Daily Heil, Stephen used to call it–about Marilyn? She says she’s been diagnosed with emphysema, ‘And all I want is to see little Jessie before I die, boo hoo.’ Pure emotional blackmail. I keep expecting to see Fester and Gomez skulking outside the house. But I suppose even the Addams Family aren’t stupid enough to risk a restraining order. And I can always call Mel’s hardcore geezer son Gavin to come over and put the fear of God into them if they do show up, can’t I?
Christ, listen to me. Babbling like an idiot. It’s the stress. Not getting enough sleep. No wonder those American Gitmo bastards used sleep deprivation as a torture tool.
(The sound of a ring tone–the theme to Dr Zhivago)
Hang on. Phone.
11.45 a.m.
Lovely. Well, that was nice. A hack as usual, from the Independent this time. Isn’t that supposed to be a rational paper? Wanted to know how I was feeling about the rumours that one of those religious pricks is going to start searching for the fourth horseman, if you can believe that.
What the fuck has it got to do with me? Jesus. The fourth kid? It’s such bollocks. He even had the gall to ask me if I’d noticed any change in Jess’s behaviour. Seriously? Is this what the press is up to now? Believing in snake charmers and religious freaks? Are the nutters running the asylum? Oooh, that’s not bad. Must remember to keep this in when I delete all the dream stuff.
Right. Coffee, get Jess dressed and then off to Waitrose. Only two paparazzi Neanderthals out there today; should be able to slip out no problem.
15 March, 11.25 p.m.
Hmmm… not sure what to say about this. Weird day.
This morning, paparazzi or not, I decided we needed to get some fresh air. I was going stir-crazy and Jess has been watching way too much TV. But we can’t go out most of the time, not if we don’t want to be papped to death. Thank Christ she has no interest in the news channels, but there’s only so many times I can hear the My Little Pony theme tune without my brain exploding. We walked down the lane to the stables at the end of the street, trailed by a group of greasy hacks with comb-overs.
‘Smile for the camera, Jess!’ they were crowing, panting round her like a posse of paedos on a day-trip out of Broadmoor.
It took all my strength not to tell them to go fuck themselves, but I put on my ‘good uncle’ face and Jess played up to them as usual, posing with the horses and holding my hand while we made our way back home.
As we were due to meet with Dr K the next day, I thought it might be an idea to try again to get Jess to open up about Polly, Stephen and Shelly. It’s worrying me, her being so self-contained and… happy, I guess. Because that’s what she is. All the fucking time, like a kid from a 1980s cheesy American sitcom. She’s even stopped using bad language.
As usual, she listened to me calmly, that slightly patronising expression on her face.
I gestured at the My Little Pony episode playing on repeat–I have to admit, despite the godawful theme track, the show is weirdly addictive. By now, I pretty much know every episode off by heart. ‘Remember when Applejack refuses to accept any help from her friends and she ends up getting herself into trouble, Jess?’ I wittered on in my Cheery Uncle voice. ‘In the end Twilight Sparkle and the others help her out and she realises that sometimes the only way to deal with difficult issues is to share them with her friends.’
Jess didn’t say anything. She looked at me as if I was completely bonkers.
‘I’m saying, you can lean on me whenever you want to, Jess. And it’s fine to cry when you’re sad. I know you must miss Polly and Mummy and Daddy terribly. I know I can’t replace them.’
‘I’m not sad,’ she said.
Maybe she’s blocked them out of her mind. Maybe she’s pretending that they never existed.
For the thousandth time I asked her, ‘Shall I see if any of your friends want to come over and play tomorrow?’
She yawned, said, ‘No thanks,’ and went back to watching those bloody ponies.
3.30 a.m.
(Sobbing)
Mandi. Mandi. I can’t take it any more. He was here… Couldn’t see his face. Said that thing again, which is all he says:
‘Why did you let that thing in here?’
Oh God, oh fuck.
4.30 a.m.
There’s no way I can go back to sleep. No fucking way.
They’re so real. The dreams. Incredibly real. And… shit. This is beyond mental… But this time I was sure I could smell something–a faint odour of decaying fish. As if, over time, Stephen’s body is rotting. And I still can’t see his face…
Right. That’s enough.
I have to stop this.
It’s absolutely insane.
But… I’m thinking maybe all this stems from guilt. Maybe that’s what my subconscious needs me to deal with.
I’m doing my best for Jess, of course I am. But I can’t help but feel I’m missing something. That I should be doing more.
Like when Mum and Dad died. I left it all up to Stephen. Let him do all the arrangements for the funeral. I was touring at the time, doing an Alan Bennett in Exeter. Thought my career was more important; convinced myself that Mum and Dad wouldn’t want me messing up my big break ha ha. Some break. We were lucky if the house was half full most nights. I suppose I was still angry at them. I never came out to them, but they knew. They made it clear that I was the black sheep
of the family and Stephen was their golden boy. I know what I told you before, Mandi, but me and Stephen weren’t close as kids. We never fought or anything, but… Everyone liked him. I wasn’t jealous, but it was easy for him. It wasn’t easy for me. Thank God for Shelly. If it wasn’t for her, we would never have re-connected.
But I knew… I’ve always known… He was too good, Stephen was. Better than me.
(a sob)
Even stood up for me when I didn’t deserve it.
And I knew in my heart, deep down, that he knew I wasn’t good enough to look after Jess.
Him and Shelly… they were successful, weren’t they? And here’s me…
(a loud sniff)
Listen to me. Poor little miss self-pity.
It’s just guilt. That’s all it is. Guilt and regret. But I’ll do better with Jess. I’ll prove to Stephen that he and Shelly were right to give me custody. Then maybe he’ll leave me alone.
21 March, 11.30 p.m.
I gave in and asked Mrs Ellington-Burn to look after Jess while I went to the 277 Together meeting tonight. I usually take Jess with me, and she always behaves like a little angel. Mel sets her up with something to do in the community centre foyer, colouring-in or whatever, and I bring Stephen’s Mac along so that she can watch Rainbow Dash and the girls on repeat, but a few of the 277s… I don’t know, I get the impression that it’s awkward for them if she comes along. They’re all lovely to her of course, it’s just… well, I can’t blame them. It’s a blatant reminder that their relatives didn’t survive, isn’t it? Must feel unfair to some of them. And I know they must want to ask her what those last seconds before the plane went down were like. She says she doesn’t remember anything, and why would she? She was knocked unconscious when it happened. The AAIB investigator who came to talk to her before they had that press conference did his best to nudge her memory, but she was adamant that the last thing she remembered was being in the pool at the hotel in Tenerife.
Mrs E-B practically threw me out of the door, couldn’t wait to hang out with Jess. Maybe she’s lonely. I’ve never seen anyone apart from the Jehovahs visiting her, but then she is such a miserable old cow most of the time. Thankfully she left her yappy dog at home, so at least I didn’t have to worry about its vile poodle hair getting all over the covers. I don’t think her sniffiness towards me is personal. Geoff said she looks at him as if he’s got shit on his shoe (a typical Geoffism), so I think it’s just her monumental snobbishness at play. I was nervous about leaving Jess with her, but Jess just cheerfully waved me off. I haven’t said this out loud before, but… sometimes I can’t tell if she really gives a shit if I’m around or not.
Anyway… where was I?… Oh yeah. 277 Together. I almost blurted the whole thing out. Told them about Stephen. Told them about the nightmares. Christ. Instead, I rattled on and on about all the press attention, how it was getting me down. I knew I was eating into everyone’s time, but I couldn’t stop.
Finally Mel had to interrupt me as it was getting late. While we were having tea, Kelvin and Kylie stood up and said they had an announcement. Kylie turned bright red and twisted her hands, and then Kelvin told us that they’d started seeing each other and were planning on getting engaged. We all started crying and clapping. I was a bit jealous, to be honest. It’s been months since I’ve even had a drink with anyone I’d remotely like to shag, and there’s not much chance of that now, is there? I can just imagine what the Sun would say. ‘Jess’s Nutty Uncle Turns Home into Perverted Sex Den’ or something. I told them I was happy for them, although he’s way older than she is, and the whole thing seemed a bit hasty–it’s only been a month since they started going out.
Still, he’s a good bloke. Kylie’s lucky to have him. Really sensitive underneath all those muscles and that ‘yeah man, innit’ attitude. I started developing a bit of a thing for him myself after I heard him read that poem at the memorial service. Knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Kelvin’s as straight as they come. They all are. I’m the only gay in the meeting, ha fucking ha. After everyone had congratulated them, Kelvin said his folks–he lost both of them in the crash–would have loved meeting Kylie; they’d been on at him for decades to get married. That set us all off again. Geoff was practically bawling. We all knew that Kelvin had given his parents the trip to Tenerife for their ruby wedding anniversary. It must be bloody awful to deal with that. It reminded me of Bobby Small’s mum. The reason she was in Florida was to look for a place where her parents could settle down, wasn’t it? Horrendous. So much for fucking karma.
A group of 277s were going to the pub afterwards for a few drinks to celebrate, but I decided it wasn’t a good idea to tag along. The temptation to have a stiff drink would have been too much. I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but several of them seemed relieved when I turned them down. Probably just my old friend paranoia rearing its ugly head again.
When I got back, Mrs Ellington-Burn was slouched on the couch reading a Patricia Cornwell novel. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get home, so I decided to ask her if she’d noticed anything different about Jess–appearance aside of course–since the crash. I wanted to see if it was just me who thought Jess’s personality had undergone a Doctor Whoish transformation.
She thought about the question long and hard, then she shook her head, said she couldn’t be sure. Still, she said that Jess had been ‘an absolute treasure’ that evening, although surprisingly, Jess had asked to watch something other than My Little Pony. Mrs E-B rather testily admitted they’d gone through a marathon of reality shows–everything from Britain’s Got Talent to America’s Next Top Model. Then Jess had gone to bed without being prompted.
As she still didn’t make a move to leave, I rather pointedly thanked her again and smiled expectantly. She got to her feet and stared straight at me, the jowls in her huge bulldog face quivering. ‘Bit of advice for you, Paul,’ she said. ‘Watch what you put in your recycling bins.’
I was hit with another wave of paranoia, for a second I thought maybe she’d found one of my bottles of what I call ‘coping booze’ and was about to blackmail me. I’ve made a big deal about being on the wagon, so I can hardly have that coming out. Not on top of everything else. ‘The press, you see,’ she said. ‘I’ve caught them digging through the bins a couple of times. But don’t you worry, I sent them on their way.’ Then she patted my arm. ‘You’re doing a good job. Jess is absolutely fine. She couldn’t be in better hands.’
I saw her out, and then I burst into tears. I was limp with relief. Relief that at least one person thought I was doing some good where Jess was concerned. Even if it was that crusty old cow.
And now I’m thinking, I have to get the nightmare situation under control. Get my act together, bury the self-pity once and for all.
22 March, 4.00 p.m.
Just back from Dr K.
After he finished with Jess–the usual, she seems to be coping, we can definitely look at getting her back into school soon etc. etc.–I tried to talk to him about some of my concerns. Mentioned that I’d been having bad dreams, but didn’t go into detail for obvious reasons. He’s easy to talk to, kind, overweight, but in a cuddly bear way that suits him, not in a ‘hide the cakes quick’ way. He says that my nightmares are a sign that my subconscious is working through my grief and anxiety and as soon as the press attention wanes, things will settle down. He says I mustn’t underestimate the pressure I’m under from the hacks, the Addams Family and the nut-jobs who still phone occasionally. He says it’s fine to take something to help me sleep, and gave me a prescription for some tablets that he says are guaranteed to knock me out.
So… let’s see if they work.
But I’ll be honest. Even with the sleeping tabs, I’m afraid to fall asleep.
23 March, 4.00 a.m.
(a sob)
No dreams. No Stephen. But this… this is, uh… not worse, but…
I woke up–around the time Stephen usually comes, three a.m.–and I could hear voices coming fro
m somewhere. And then a laugh. Shelly’s laugh. Clear as day. I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, heart in my throat. I don’t know what I was expecting to find, maybe Shelly and Stephen standing in the hallway saying how they’d… fuck, I dunno, been kidnapped by Somalian pirates or something and that was why we hadn’t heard from them. I was only half-awake, so I suppose that’s why I wasn’t thinking straight.
But it was just Jess. She was sitting inches away from the television screen watching the DVD of Shelly and Stephen’s wedding.
‘Jess?’ I said really softly, not wanting to give her a fright. I was thinking, fuck, has she finally decided to face up to their loss?
Without turning around she goes, ‘Were you jealous of Stephen, Uncle Paul?’
‘Why would I be jealous?’ I asked her. Didn’t occur to me then to ask why she was calling him Stephen and not Daddy.
‘Because they loved each other and you have no one who loves you.’ I wish I could get across her tone of voice. Like a scientist interested in a specimen.
‘That’s not true, Jess,’ I said.
Then she said, ‘Do you love me?’
I said yes. But it was a lie. I loved the old Jess. The old Paul loved the old Jess.
Fuck me. I can’t believe I just said that. What do I mean by the old Jess?
I left her rewatching the DVD, then slipped into the kitchen and found myself unearthing an old bottle of cooking sherry. I’d hidden it away–out of sight, out of mind.
She’s still watching the video now. Over and over again. The fourth time now, I can hear the music they played at the ceremony. ‘Better Together’ by Jack fucking Johnson. And she’s laughing. Laughing at something. But what could be funny?
I’m sitting looking at the bottle now, Mandi.
But I won’t touch it. I won’t.
Geoffrey Moran and his wife, Melanie, were instrumental in setting up 277 Together, the support group for those who lost loved ones in the Go!Go! Air disaster. Geoffrey agreed to speak to me in early July.
I blame the press. They’re the ones who should answer for this. You hear about that phone hacking, them getting away with printing lies; I couldn’t really blame Paul for getting a bit paranoid. The buggers even tried to get me and Mel to say bad stuff about him a few times, came at us with leading questions. Mel told them to sling their hooks, of course. We’re tight at 277 Together; look after our own. Now, I think it’s a miracle myself, those three kids surviving like that, it’s simply one of those things in life you just can’t explain. But try telling that to your alien fanatics or those Yanks with their conspiracy bollocks. And if it wasn’t for those bleeding reporters, none of that crap would have seen the light of day. They’re the ones who kept it in the public eye. Buggers should be bleeding shot, the lot of ’em.