by J. A. Baker
‘Do you want to talk about your brother? Are you ready for that yet?’
Leah’s head throbs. She shakes it to indicate that she doesn’t want to talk about him. About what she did to him, about what he did to himself. It’s too painful. Even thinking about it hurts. A discomfort so strong, so overwhelming, it feels as if it has become part of who she is. It’s there all the time, has taken root under her skin and is chiselled deep into her bones.
‘How did he die, Leah? Tell me how he died. I think it’s time now, don’t you?’
She can’t stop the tremble in her hands, her head, her legs. She is shaking uncontrollably. Is Will right? Is it now time to speak out about it? She wants to, she really does, but can’t seem to find the right words. Even in her head they sound ugly, ill-fitting. How can she possibly go about telling him what happened that day up on the cliff? How she ruined everything.
She was angry. Always angry. Angry at her parents, angry at her brother, furious at the world in general. School was shit, with few friends. Home, after discovering that certificate, suddenly felt like a hostile place. She was disenfranchised, left out in the cold. All she did was lash out and it caused a deep dark vortex in their family, sucking them all under, dragging them down to the bottom of the earth, down with all the grit and mud and filth.
And then there was that day, that knock on the door. Those policemen standing there, telling her mother what no parent should ever have to hear. Losing Lucy was bad enough. Her parents and little Lucy’s parents had suffered enough, but somebody somewhere decided that that was just the beginning and they kept the hatred and hurt going. There was no end to it. Still isn’t. It just goes on and on and on.
And it’s all her fault.
She knows that but can’t seem to stop it. Hatred and hurt follow her about, straggling behind her like a thickset shadow, corrupting everything and everyone she comes into contact with. She’s toxic. Always has been.
‘How did Ellis die? You need to say it out loud, Leah, to get it off your chest. It’s bothering you, we both know that. Since the accident everything you have ever done has preyed on your mind, hasn’t it? Perhaps the time has come to clear the air, to start again with a clean slate.’
She looks at Will. Did he just say those words or was the voice only in her head? Her heart beats fast, too quickly. She feels dizzy, can hear her own blood as it rushes through her veins, roaring through her ears, gushing, pummelling against the thin skin of her neck.
‘The police came,’ she says, swallowing over and over, almost choking on her own saliva. ‘He was late home from school. He’d had a fight. The school had called and spoken to my mother about it. She rang them back when he didn’t arrive home and they assured her that he’d left at the normal time and that they hadn’t seen him after that. She called his mobile, but it was switched off. I came in and she asked me if I’d seen him.’
‘What did you say? Had you seen him?’
‘I can’t remember exactly what I said but I know that it was horrible. I was still furious with them all. And anyway, he was older than me. It should have been him looking out for me, not the other way around!’ She’s unsure how to handle this, this unplanned revelation and finds herself deflecting the blame away from her own failings.
That’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done.
Leah spins around, searching for the voice. She sees nobody, holds her breath and stares at Will.
‘And what happened next?’
‘Next? I watched my mother open the door, saw the police enter, and I hid in my room. Then–’
‘Then?’ Will asks, a little too calmly. ‘What happened after that, Leah? What happened next?’
‘Then they spoke to my mother and said those words that no parent should ever have to hear. There was a couple of seconds of silence, maybe longer. It felt like it went on for forever. Then she screamed. My mother screamed and screamed and screamed. I stayed in my room, hiding from it all, and then I heard it – the sickening bang as my mother fell to the floor and sobbed.’
19
2005
He empties his mind on the way there. It’s the only way he can go through with it. He doesn’t want his brain to be filled with the clutter of everyday life. What he’s about to do is a significant thing. It warrants a period of quiet reflection. It’s critical that he does this thing with a clear head. No distractions. Nothing that may force him to change his mind.
The sun’s weak rays warm his back as he passes through the park and heads over the bridge, stopping to listen to the hiss of the vehicles below. Even the thunderous roar of rush hour traffic doesn’t displease him. In fact, he rather enjoys standing there, watching cars passing underneath his feet. He ponders over where they are all going to, where they’ve come from, what their lives are like, whether they are happy with their lot in life or whether, like him, they are entrenched in an existence of complete misery. He hopes not. He hopes they are happy. Despite not knowing any of them, he wishes them happiness and a good life. Everybody deserves contentment and a certain amount of joy in their lives, don’t they?
Looking down over the edge to the dark asphalt beneath, at the traffic that pounds it relentlessly, he feels a bout of dizziness begin to muscle its way in. So many cars, so much speed. A snaking line of lights, brightly painted metal, road markings and tarmac that blur and twist as he watches from above, his eyes locked on the traffic, mesmerised by the energy and momentum. People holed up in cars, trucks, buses, all on their way to somewhere else. People clutching steering wheels, children in the back seat, arguing, crying, laughing. Truck drivers fighting exhaustion, bus drivers trying to stick to a rigid timetable. Car drivers desperate to get back to their neat little homes and their families and pets, more than ready for their evening meal, perhaps a beer or maybe a glass of wine. People, just ordinary people, that’s all they are. All crammed together, and yet all very much alone.
Despite the initial dizziness, peering down over the side of the bridge doesn’t frighten him. He relishes it, is giddy at the sight and sensation it gives him. When he and his sister were younger, their mother wouldn’t allow them to walk over this way. She said that the handrails on the bridge weren’t high enough and that the sound of the traffic below and the speed at which the vehicles travelled made her feel as if she was about to pass out.
He takes a deep breath, leans farther over and thinks about how it would feel to do that – to pass out right here, to lose control and fall onto the tarmac beneath, to feel the crack of your bones, the almighty smash of your skull as you hit the deck, to be pummelled and knocked about by car after car after car until there is nothing left of you but bits of torn and bloodied skin and a pile of broken bones, unrecognisable, even to those closest to you.
He smiles, picks up his pace and walks to the other side, safely away from the height and the speed and the noise and the danger. He stops at the end of the bridge and looks back. Not there. He wouldn’t do it there. It’s too obvious, too predictable.
He has other plans.
Instead, he walks into town, finds a bench and sits down. It’s busy, everywhere crammed with commuters and shoppers, folk bustling past him, their faces lined with worry, their features creased with anger and exasperation. So many broken, miserable people. All in a hurry, no time for anything or anybody. Is this what life is supposed to be about? People simply finding a way to get by, a way to get through each day without giving up, only to go to their beds at night, blot it all out, then arise eight hours later and face the same problems the next day, their lives on repeat, their daily routines continuing ad nauseam. Misery heaped upon misery. Not a chink of light to be seen in their dark, forlorn existences. Isn’t life supposed to be better than this – more fulfilling, more pleasurable? More frigging rewarding? And if not, then why not? Even with his problems, he looks happier than this lot. What is the matter with them, all these stricken people? Why don’t they smile, nod at passers-by, do anything at all to look as if they’
re actually glad to be alive? He focuses on one lady, sees her as she moves past, her head dipped, too low to acknowledge anybody around her. He tries to catch her eye, to smile at her, show her a friendly face but she is oblivious and rushes past, gone before he can say or do anything. Do these people not realise how lucky they are, how easy they have it, how fucking privileged they are to actually be here? There are hospitals full of ill people – patients dying, children with terminal diseases, grasping onto life for as long as they can and yet these people stagger around town as if they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.
He thinks of his sister and her permanent frown, her own dark cloud of misery that follows her wherever she goes. Maybe that would be the kick up the arse that she needs – to visit a hospital ward for the chronically ill, make her realise how lucky she is to have the life that she does. Then he thinks that perhaps it would make no difference to her, that she is probably beyond redemption, her blackened heart too stone-like to ever soften to the woes of others. She’s too wrapped up in her own little cocoon of discontentment and anger, blind to the needs of anybody else to ever care.
He sits, watching, thinking, working it all out. Life is a tricky path to navigate, there’s no denying that. It’s a mish-mash of everything – people, emotions, events. And there are no set rules, no handy guidebooks to help people work their way through the shit that gets thrown their way. No wonder they tear about in their cars trying to escape it all, crazed, desperate people, looking for somewhere to hide, somewhere better than where they actually are.
A pigeon struts near to where he sits, pecking the leftovers of somebody’s lunch – a half empty sandwich packet and a handful of stale crisps. His heart surges, feeling a flutter of joy as a smaller bird lands next to him and joins in the feast. He’s always loved animals and has wanted a pet for as long as he can remember. Possibly a dog even though he knows his mother wouldn’t ever entertain the idea. Too messy, too much fur. Too smelly. It’s good to dream though. He’ll definitely have his own when he’s older and gets his own place, and he’ll call it Gandalf. The dog that is, not the house. He chuckles softly to himself, the sound of his own laughter feeling good in his throat. He doesn’t care what type of dog; he isn’t fussy. It would just love him and he would love it in return. That’s what life is supposed to be about – love and compassion and being happy and making others feel the same way. He knows that now. He’s always known it. It’s just that sometimes things get muddled in his head, everything too difficult to fathom.
He sits for a while longer, thinking, watching. Something happens; a twist in his gut, an about-turn in his thinking. A full 360 degrees. Like an epiphany. He isn’t sure what has caused it. Maybe it’s sitting observing the world go by or maybe it was the walk over the bridge, or maybe it was thinking about nature and animals and the love they give freely and unconditionally that has made him think again, made him value life and everything it has to offer. Perhaps it was all of those things, seeing birds sharing their food, seeing all the pained expressions of the people passing by, scrutinising their features, the features that displayed nothing but torment and sadness and misery. It has unexpectedly transformed his outlook, completely altered his thinking.
Life isn’t that bad. He isn’t that bad, despite what friends and neighbours may think of him. And more importantly, he doesn’t want to be like the people he has seen today, to be a part of that sea of miserable faces. He wants to be happy, to be free of worry and guilt. Ending everything isn’t the answer. Staying to make this life better, is. If he runs away from every problem that he encounters then how will he ever be able to move on from this, grow into a better person, a more rounded person? He needs to face this head on, prove to the world that he isn’t a bad person, that he is resilient, compassionate, caring. That he is all of those things and more. Which he is. What he isn’t, is a murderer. Far from it. He is a young man with feelings and needs and thoughts and ambitions who is trying his best to fit in.
The waning heat still warms him through, caressing the skin on the back of his neck. He stands up, startling the birds who flap their wings furiously heading for the sycamore trees that frame the perimeter of the park.
He walks on, enjoying the moment, thinking how strange life is, that one minute he is about to give up to end all the misery and heartache he has endured and now here he is, glad to be alive, consumed with relief. He feels as if he has been led to the gallows only to be given a last-minute reprieve. He isn’t one of those commuters, wracked with misery, unable to get off the hamster wheel. He has options. How he chooses to deal with the hand that life deals him is completely down to him. That’s what he didn’t realise earlier. He is the one in control. He is the master of his own destiny, and boy does it feel good. A weight has been lifted. He is lighter than air.
He heads down Sutton Street, onto Station Approach stopping to listen to the rattle of the trains as they enter and exit the platform. That was his original destination – those tracks, those cold, hard, unforgiving lengths of metal – they were his plan, his way out of this mess, to lie down there and let the darkness consume him. That was where he could have ended up. But not now. Now he will head back. Back to his parents, his sister, his friends. Back to his home. That’s where he belongs. Not here in the middle of the city amid flocks of angry strangers, all desperate to be on their way to somewhere else. He is struck with an overwhelming desire to simply go home.
There were no witnesses, that was the problem. Nobody who could say what actually took place that afternoon, so assumptions were made. More tongues clacked, putting two and two together and once again being completely incorrect when they came up with five. They all thought they knew. They had the backstory; a young lad accused of a terrible crime, coming to terms with his guilt. What else was there to say? There would be talk that he had been unable to live with what he had done, that the guilt became too much for him to bear. And that is exactly what did happen. They went ahead with their vicious stories without any credible evidence. Evidence is for forensic teams. All they craved was gossip and tittle-tattle. What they didn’t know, they managed to fill in with their own suppositions and lies, blanks in the story filled by the loose lips of locals.
It happened as he took a different route back. Drawn to the station by the hiss and screeching of the trains, the slightly rubbery smell that permeated the air, he decided to take a quick look. He had loved railway stations ever since he was a young kid. They reminded him of holidays with his family. He remembered the excitement, the butterflies in his stomach as they boarded, bustling their way down the narrow aisles to their seats, having a table between him and his sister, his father pulling out a pack of cards to keep them entertained on the journey, his mother opening the foil that contained their homemade sandwiches.
Even the CCTV footage couldn’t determine the truth of the events of that day. He was just a shadowy figure, a silhouette who fell. Another tragedy. Another body. Another light snuffed out.
Stepping onto the platform, he felt positive, buoyed up by the thoughts that had settled in his brain; good thoughts, happy thoughts. Not the blackness he had become mired in of late. He had seen a chink of light, been given a helping hand out of the shadows and back into the sunshine.
‘Not here to see The Flying Scotsman, are you lad?’
He felt his heart soar, nodded and widened his eyes. Talk about good luck. He had no idea it was passing through. The man standing next to him patted his arm, smiled and shook his head. ‘You’ve just missed it I’m afraid, laddie. Sorry about that.’ The man gave a weak, apologetic smile and started to walk away, then turned and spoke once more. ‘You might catch it next week on its journey back.’
A hammering filled the lad’s chest. Next week. He would do that. It would be worth the wait. He could walk into town and stand on this platform with his camera, watching, waiting. He would be prepared. It was something to look forward to. A reason to keep going. A reason to be here.
He watched as the older man exited the platform, trailing behind the crowd of camera carrying people, leaving him alone. In the distance, he heard the familiar rush of metal against metal, the sound that sent butterflies spinning in his belly, and stepped forward to catch a glimpse of the oncoming train. Not The Flying Scotsman but a fast moving train nonetheless. If he got close enough to the edge of the platform, he could capture it as it passed through and hopefully get a good shot of its sleek body, that gleaming paintwork that never failed to make his skin prickle with delight. His love of photography had fallen by the wayside since that day, swallowed up by the misery and the accusations. Anything worth doing, all the things he used to love, crashed and burned once his life took on this unexpected turn. He had no interest anymore, no energy for them. He would turn all that around. Once he got back home, he would go back to playing football, going out with his camera, downloading music. Back to doing anything he wanted.
Fuelled by a sudden surge of adrenaline, he dug into his pocket, fumbling around, trying to free his phone. They weren’t allowed mobiles in school, but nobody ever took any notice. They were only phones, for God’s sake. He had hidden it in the lining of his old school trousers, deep in his secret pocket, switched off unless he wanted to take a picture or send a message. And now the damn thing was stuck, snarled up in torn fabric and strands of cotton.
Tugging to retrieve it, he took a step forward, aware that time was against him, aware that the train was just passing through and not stopping to pick up passengers. He took one more step closer, wanting to be at the edge of the concrete platform when it passed, then another, staggering as he lunged, his feet becoming tangled together, a sheen of sweat coating his skin as he realised what was happening. What was about to happen. His hand was lodged in his pocket, trapped between the lining as he tried to extricate his mobile from the snarl of cotton. He tried to right himself, struggling to regain his balance as his feet locked together and twisted beneath him.