by Jon McGregor
laura: . . . on a reducing script since August or something, it was part of my order, and I was like basically clean and that, I was down to like fifteen mil. I was booked into rehab for the New Year, no one else knew about it apart from my keyworker and them lot. None of the others knew only they knew I’d been on the script.
coroner: But on this occasion you decided to take some, what, some heroin?
laura: Yeah. I just fancied one last go. And Danny had enough to spare.
coroner: So you went to your room in the hostel, took the drugs, and forgot to deliver the food until, when, the next day?
laura: I never took it.
coroner: You didn’t take the heroin?
laura: No I mean I never took the food up to him.
coroner: No, but in your statement you say you remembered about it the next day, and asked someone else to take it to your father’s flat for you?
laura: Yeah.
coroner: And who did you ask exactly?
laura: Ben. I was scared I was going to lose my rehab place on account of doing the gear again so I was running around looking for my keyworker to get it sorted, and I found Ben hanging around by the hostel waiting for someone, so I gave him the bag of food and asked him to take it up there. He said he was going up there anyway. I thought it’d be all right. And I weren’t worried because I thought someone would have been up there by then anyway, I thought like Heather or Jamesie or Maggie or someone would have been up there and sorted him out. There’s always people up there usually.
coroner: But it seems that no one had been there.
laura: No.
The men leave and we stand around the silent sealed box. Night passes and the morning. There are eight of them now. Black suits and black shoes and black leather gloves. They slide him into the back of the van. Three of them climbing into the seats in the front and five of them getting into another car and driving out of the courtyard and out through the gates and out along the main road beside the river which leads to the edge of town. We go with them. What else can we. And what about Heather why didn’t she come. Why didn’t she go to the flat to help. Did she. Was she there. Did she really go knocking on the door. Banging on the door going Robert open up the door. Shouting in the letterbox and pressing her face up against the filthy glass. Was she there. And when she went off looking for the others or. Off for Christmas dinner at the day centre. Did she forget to say anything to anyone. Or did she think. What. Something like sort of fuck him or serve him right. Did she. Don’t it matter now. Did it. Where has she. Who. And when we get to the crematorium the men step out of the car and stand around and wait for the previous service to end. The mourners filing out through the wide glass doors into the gardens on the other side of the building and behind them the tall thin chimney begins to smoke. The men slide Robert’s coffin from the back of the van and heave him up on to their shoulders. And not even Laura is here. No one is here. The tall thin chimney begins to. And we could be heaving him up on to our own shoulders but we’re too late for that now. We could be throwing flowers and blowing trumpets and singing low mournful songs as he is carried in through the doors of the chapel on the broad black-suited shoulders of men who barely know his name. But we’re not and no one is and no one will and it’s too late for any of that now. And not even Laura is here. Not even Yvonne is here. But she’s miles away now. They carry him up the aisle to the front of the chapel. And with a count of three they drop him from their shoulders and lower him on to a conveyor belt in front of a pair of red curtains and they turn to leave. We stand in a huddle at the back by the. What else can we. The vicar stands at the front in his robes. Holding the service book open and watching the men walking away and when they get to the door he calls them back. He says Am I missing something. They look at him. He says Can you see anyone else. They look down at their. He says I’m not going to stand here and see this man off by myself. He says Is there somewhere more important you. And they turn and walk back up the aisle and take their seats. And the vicar begins. We are gathered here today. All these people going out of their way to treat him right now. After he’s. When before they never even.
coroner: . . . seems that neither Ben nor anyone else delivered the food.
laura: No. I don’t know. I don’t know what happened after that.
coroner: No, indeed. The police have been unable to track down anyone who did see your father after the time you left the flat, and the neighbour who called them to the premises was unable to recall hearing any visitors after the date she says she saw you and your friends climbing in through the kitchen window. And following your statement to the police, the photographic records of the scene were reviewed and no evidence of the items you described purchasing at the garage could be found. So we must conclude, as we are sadly unable to ask Ben in person, that for whatever reason he didn’t or wasn’t able to deliver the food.
laura: (inaudible) (expletive)
coroner: I think we’ll leave that line of questioning there; it’s unlikely to shed any more light on the cause of your father’s death and I can see it is causing you some distress, for which I can only apologise.
Are you happy for us to continue, or would you prefer to take a break?
laura: (inaudible)
coroner: Thank you. I have no further questions. If you’d like to return to your seat I shall attempt to conclude our examination of the fourth question I referred to in my introduction.
laura: (inaudible)
coroner: Did you have anything further you wanted to add?
laura: (inaudible)
coroner: No. Right then. Thank you. I’ll move on.
Quite simply, we do not and cannot know exactly why Mr Radcliffe died. We can say that there is no evidence of anyone else having been involved, and so no evidence of a criminal act being responsible for his death. We can say that he was in a state of very poor health as a result of his lifestyle, diet and alcoholism. We can say that the condition of his liver, heart and lungs could all have contributed to his death. And we can note the pathologist’s remark that a sudden cessation of drinking by long-term alcoholics has been known to result in epileptic seizure, although we cannot say whether this is what happened to Mr Radcliffe.
We might be tempted to speculate as to the reasons why Mr Radcliffe abruptly stopped drinking, and what effects this may have had on his body. We might want to speculate as to why, when the food and drink he was expecting to be brought to him didn’t arrive, he failed to venture out and fetch some for himself. We might even want to speculate as to just how he came to be living in quite the degree of self-neglect and squalor he did, and why those around him felt this to be acceptable.
But none of this speculation would be relevant, or admissible, and none of it would help us reach a verdict today, or indeed give us any clearer a picture of the last moments of Mr Radcliffe’s life. Ultimately, the exact mechanics and circumstances of his death will remain a mystery to us. And sadly this is often the –
And so did his life flash before his. Did he lie there looking up at the cracked and ruined ceiling thinking over. Or not even thinking just seeing. From the beginning. A child in his mother’s. First memories of food and love and fights and shouting and playing and slamming doors. First thoughts of what of leaving home of finding someone to. Walking through the city in the middle of the night with a headful of drink and talk and the miles jolting by beneath his feet and the lights sliding. Finding Yvonne waiting for him outside the pub and what she. Later that night and again the next. Lining up outside the job centre and ending up in the army office. Training and marching and fighting and sleeping in a room with a dozen others. Crawling in the mud. Stripping engines and guns and new recruits. Weeks at sea heading south. The bullets the bombs the one explosion next to his head and the hours stretched out in the long wet grass while the troopships burnt brightly in the grey unsheltered bay. These things whirling through him as what not memories but as moments lived whirling through him while he lay there
on the floor. Is that what happened. And did he remember or see or live again all the times with Yvonne. When he came back from the real crisis and they moved into the flat and he found a job and they decorated the flat together and made it theirs. When Laura was born and he lost his job and he kept drinking and drinking until they left. And the pain in his fucking head. And the sound of the softly closing door. And the way she shouted at him and her voice seemed so far away. The way she would stub out her cigarette and push him on to his back for another go and the way she kept going on at him to find another job and he said What can I do there’s nothing going what can I do and this pain in my fucking head. And some days that feeling. Like a snared animal flailing around and making it worse. If he kept moving he could bear it but he couldn’t get out. And the thing that undone him. When she said I don’t understand you, Robert, and I’m never going to this isn’t what I wanted this isn’t what I want no more. Speaking quietly for once while he just sat there trying not to. This one moment whirling through his head the most as he lay there looking at the ceiling plaster crumble and fall. Was it that. Is that what happened. Did he see or remember or live all these things again. Like a lifetime in a moment. Like a dream of hours poured into. Is that what happens. Is that what happens to us all. When we. Did he see Penny waiting for him to wake. Did he see Danny climb in through the window. Did he see the police creep into the room and light him up. Taking pictures and measurements and putting bags over his head and his hands. Did he see us standing there watching and everything that happened to us before we arrived. Did he see us sitting here now. Is it this. Is this what happens. In the last moment. Is this what’s happening to us now. Is this what all this is. Like We are gathered here today.
Is this what all we are seeing now. What Steve sees as he lies on the mattress in his whitewashed room. Ant lying beside him, stiffening and slackening and falling quiet, H waiting for them both to wake, Danny standing in the yard and calling up and throwing stones through the window, that woman Marianne or Marie and the smoke rising from the village and the policeman saying Even the dogs. And the way he fell from the Land Rover while it raced along the track outside Stanley, thinking What kind of war wound is this when the fighting had all been done before he even got off the ship, the fight with Robert and the fights after dark at school and watching the police creep down the hall to where Robert lay and Ant going Look I’ll show you what the fuss is all about. And is this what Ben sees as he crouches behind the bins in the carpark basement, the three days rattling in the cells, the way he’d taken Jamesie down in the day centre and the way Mike had disappeared before the police arrived, and himself white-eyed and blue-lipped going over. And Robert being carried out to the van. And his sister slapping him round the face going What did you ever do, and that bloke who paid to take him home and tried to, all that, and Mike giving him that warning, all that It’s for your own protection la but you’ll need to ease off with that mouth of yours else something might, and what Heather did, so what, and is this what Danny sees, curled up on the phonebox floor, the daylong march around town with no one around and Einstein chasing along at his feet, and slamming the door on Laura’s room, and climbing out of the flat with her, and his brother pushing him back out the door and his brother holding him up one time when he was sick all over his bathroom floor, his brother holding him tight, and Robert on the floor, and Robert in the bodybag, and Robert with his chest cut open on the table, and Laura sitting straight-backed in the court with her hands wedged between her thighs, and is this what Heather sees, kneeling beside her bed with the long white curtains blowing into the room and her heart slowed to a stop and the blood all sinking down towards the floor, Danny buzzing away on the intercom and shouting up at the window, her front door crashing in when they came for her kids, the time up on stage when the band let her play, the crowd, the way the crowd looked at her, Jimmy saying Best not tell anyone I’m stopping here though, the judge saying But while you allow your partner to remain in the house, and all those years on the road, and waking up with that tattoo, and Robert being carried in through the chapel door, and the four of them it took to hold her back against the wall, and everything she did to get rid of that and she still sees it all roaring through her now, and is this what Mike sees, all of this, every last moment, as he strides out into the road with his phone pressed against his ear, going No you listen to me pal you listen to me what have you done, what have you gone and done this time, I’ve been looking everywhere and I can’t find no one now they’ve all gone, what’s happened, what have you gone and done, and what about Laura, what about that girl, what have you done to her now, well youse can all stop talking now I feel much better now thank you now I got a bus to catch. And is all this what he sees as he lies there in the hospital bed. Wires and tubes coming out of his body and his shattered bones twisting back. Like healing. And his eyes closed for weeks and some machine going beep and ping and keeping him comatose so his body can. While these visions go surging through his blood. All this. Is it. Is that what all this.
And the red curtains part and the coffin rolls away. There’s no music. Who would choose the. The vicar closes his book and thanks the men and they stand and walk away. We follow Robert’s coffin. What else can we. On the other side of the curtains. We see two technicians. Opening a heavy steel hatch and rolling the coffin through. Sealing it shut. Turning dials and pressing buttons and standing aside to let us watch through a thick glass panel as the flames begin to rise. Blue and orange jets of fire in long straight rows. Like an oven. Tongues of fire. And the thin wood of the coffin quickly chars and smoulders and crumbles into ash around his body, and his flesh spits and cooks in the roaring furnace heat, melting around his bones which splinter and crack in the blinding firelight. Outside the tall thin chimney. Footsteps and voices and organ music in the chapel as the next group of. Minutes pass. Little more. What’s left of him. The burning. Charred pieces of bone and. The technicians open the door and rake over the embers and fire up the furnace again. The blue flames burn cleanly now. They rake the ashes through a grille and into a steel pan to cool. They set them aside. What’s left of him. And what do we do now.
We sit at the back of the court. And we watch Mike. Struggling to his feet. His crutches crashing against the chairs in front as he hauls himself to his. The court usher saying If you could just. Laura with a hand over. And Mike going I’ve had enough of this pal I’m. I’ll see you around I’ll. Dragging his feet across the. And everyone. And crying out each time his foot. The door closing behind him and the room still ringing with his presence and we watch Laura. The tilt of her head as she watches the coroner gather her. And she realises there are no more. But what about. Everything else she needs to know. Everything else she wants. But she won’t. It’s not. It’s what is it outside the remit of the court. Isn’t it always. Aren’t we always outside the remit. We watch. Pushing her hair back behind her. Rubbing her hands on her. Where will she go now. What will she. Leave town and. Stick to her script and wait for another place in. Will they let her have another. And that keyworker what can he. Will she get up again. What else can she. Will she keep getting up again. And will she wake up in the morning and think about making a cup of tea. Putting on the kettle and waiting for it to boil. Finding a mug and a teabag and. Is there space in her head for. Watching the teabag rise to the surface and turn and fall. Can she give herself the time. Is she halfway there and. Waiting for the tea to brew. Scooping out the bag and dropping it in the bin and stirring in the milk. Can she make plans now. Is there space in her head for. Sitting at the table with the steam rising out of the mug and catching the light and turning in the air.
And Mike still struggling down the street. His two crutches scraping along the ground. And crying out. Huh hah huh. A crowd of pigeons scattering at the sound of his voice and circling overhead. Settling on a rooftop and rising and circling and settling again and Mike going. Huh. Hah. Huh.