It Makes No Sense

I just want to break the world.

I want to see it snap in two. And again.

And again. And again, until there is nothing left.

Nothing but the dust, and sweat and tears and blood.

For all the times that you think that there is nothing in the world giving you even the slightest glimmer of joy, when you think that there's nothing left and no more hope.

For all those times. Know that there will be a time when you are right.

The universe is chaos, is creation and destruction is wonder and beauty and emptiness. It is the void and it is everything there ever was, and everything that will ever be. All of the possibilities, all of the pain and the happiness. All of it. All of the birth, and all of the death. Every single thing, living or dead and for everything that never was.

How dare the world keep turning, the sun still shine ? How can they possibly do so when he is no longer here ? How ? It isn't fare, it isn't right. It just makes no bloody sense.

I close my eyes. My brain tricking me again, providing me with memories of him holding me. Protecting me against the night. The feeling of his breath against my neck. The way his stubble scratches me. His big, powerful arms wrapped around me, holding me close. His warmth. His smell. That gentle touch as his fingers delicately trace circles and ellipses on my skin.

But it is just the universe being unkind. He isn't here, and now, never can be. I don't want to cry, but cannot help it. How I thought that I ran out of tears days ago, but every day I prove myself wrong. Maybe the emptiness in my heart is filled instead with tears. Endless fucking tears that will never bring him back, never bring him close to me.

I just want to get home

The front door seemed stiffer than usual. The lock turning with greater difficulty. While he struggled with the front door he noticed how flaky the white paint on it had become. Another job to be added to the list of things that barely ever got done. To him there was always another day. Sometimes he missed the days before he had bought the flat, when he rented. In those days he would simply have to call the landlord to ask for something to be fixed. Between the ability to make any deterioration someone else's problem and the choice to move home every couple of years he had gotten used to not having to be concerned about flaky paint or stiff doors.
Renting also meant that he did not have the freedom to change anything beyond the layout of his own furniture. This was a feature he had failed to take advantage of since moving in. Save for adding some self adhesive mirror tiles to the ensuite and bathroom, the carpets and walls were exactly the same. Stained carpets and marked, faded magnolia walls were other things he had on his list to sort out. He wanted to, just not enough to actually spend the time and money doing anything about it.
The change in design of shoe rack, and its contents also failed to register on David's mind. He was just glad to get home after a long an exhausting day capped off with a dreadful drive home in pouring rain.
It wasn't until the door at the top of the stairs opened suddenly that David started to take seriously any hints that something was off. By this point there was no time for him to react. The woman standing at the doorway screamed. David screamed. He jumped back, only just managing to stop him launching himself backwards down the stairs.
'Who the hell are you ?' he spat out, gasping for breath. 'What the fuck are you doing in my flat ?'
'Your flat ?' Her screaming ceasing mid screech. 'I've lived here for five years. This is my flat ! How did you get in !' She took a step toward him. David, intimidated gingerly retreated a step lower on the stairs. He produced his key.
'This is my flat ! This is my key ! See !'
'I bought this flat from the family of some guy that had died on the way home from work. His car came off the road in the rain or something. Who are you and what are you doing here ?'

Bags of Trouble

From Robbie’s vantage point he could see clearly the hundreds of people below him. Some marching with militant determination, others completely lost. He scanned them for potential. Their attention drawn to the information boards hanging overhead and away from whatever bags they had brought with them. Distracted mid rummage. Bag left open. Flaunting the tempting valuables inside. Their uncertainty making them vulnerable. 

He worked in concert with Vicky. They had it down to a fine art. They had a system. Each taking turns to spot the opportunities and direct the other over the phone. They were always careful never to stay in one place too long, never get greedy. Never get noticed. Spot. Take. Escape. 

So many clever but dumb people for Robbie and Vicky to relieve of their possessions. Dressing like their targets in smart office wear, they blended in. Even the more cautious passengers would not pick up on someone who looked like just another office drone, walking through the crowd immersed in their own important but worthless conversation. They made sure to be easy to miss. So many busy and stressed people hurrying to and fro. Frantically searching for the right platform or exit, racing for connections. Focused on everything but the things they had with them. Shiny things. Portable things. Expensive things.  

Right now Robbie was guiding Vicky towards a tall bald middle aged man. He had taken his rucksack from his back. He was slowing down and looking up, searching from left to right for the details of his next train. The man unaware as Vicky closed in from the side, carrying on her practiced conversation with Robbie. Her eye drawn to the green rucksack he had placed on the floor. 

At the last moment he moved his right foot inside one of the straps. Vicky veered away. Cursing under her breath. Had he seen her ? 

“They can’t deliver ? I’m not putting up with that !” venting her frustration in character. Her behaviour and look both practiced to enable her to merge back into the masses. You can’t spot the shark that bites you in a sea full of them. She remained invisible to others locked in their own worlds, ignorant of the dangers in this one. The person she had been heading for hadn’t even given her a glance. Ignorant of how close he came to losing his rucksack and all of its prized contents. 

With a sigh Vicky moved on. Scanning for her next target.

The initial tide bringing wave after wave of commuter into the city had ebbed. They would all now be sat like obedient little soldiers at their computer screens, inside their boxes of metal and glass. Robbie and Vicky lent over the barrier of the upper level. Munching on the overpriced pasties they had both purchased. Two showers of pastry fluttering onto the heads of those below them. 

Although the office workers had dispersed, Waterloo Station continued to be busy and chaotic. Instead of the serious and stony faced uniformity the station was now pulsing with brightly dressed holiday makers.  

Robbie and Vicky did not stop to consider the difference of their targets, only the change in types of items they were likely to secure. Naturally, in the rush hour periods the people zooming around the station with little attention for their belongings would be carrying expensive laptops or tablets with them. When the holiday makers replaced them, the tourists would bring a different bounty in addition to the obligatory mobile phones and tablets. There would be large amounts of cash stuffed into their bags as well as high end cameras. Some of the holiday makers would have complaining children in tow. The children provided another distraction for the adults, giving them something else to worry about than their luggage. Robbie and Vicky had agreed a long time ago that they would not mark one of the spoiled little brats. The adults however, were still fair game.

The trick as ever was to spot the opportunity, get in and out without being noticed. Spot. Take. Escape. Half the trick was to remove the item with such confidence that it appeared to belong to you, and be gone before the target even realised that their item was missing. This part often made Robbie chuckle. Vicky made it look so easy. Theft as art. This was ballet on a grand echoing stage with other people’s props. They would make their exits from the station separately, meeting up at a prearranged spot after making sure no one was in pursuit. 

You had to keep your head to get away with it. And get away with it they did. Vicky and Robbie are very good at what they do.

As the day marched on, thousands of people spilled out of the endless line of trains under the careful eyes of Robbie and Vicky. Each new batch of those passing through brought a fresh catch. There was a rhythm to it.

Vicky directed Robbie toward one likely looking customer. A man in his late twenties, looking rather distressed. Eyes wide in panic. For Robbie and Vicky, distressed meant distracted. The heavy black rucksack slung over his shoulder. By continually cushioning the bag with his arm he unwittingly betrayed its value to others. Looking around wildly did nothing to increase his awareness of the circling Robbie as he closed in, phone pressed tightly to his ear.

Robbie continued his fake conversation with Vicky. Steely eyes focused as he bore down on his target. The man completely unaware. He started removing the rucksack. Slowly and gently slipping his arms out of the straps, he carefully lowered the bag to the floor and twisted his body away to his left, searching for something in his jacket pocket. This was Robbie’s moment and he did not intend to waste it. Vicky gave him the word over the phone. Robbie reached down and grabbed the bag. It was heavy. A smile on Robbie’s face. Heavy meant expensive. 

Walking fast towards the exit he could sense a commotion behind him. Practiced at his part, Robbie powered on ahead, never looking back. 

Robbie opened the bag. From where she was sat Vicky couldn’t see what was in it. The sudden loss of colour in Robbie’s face gave her no clue.  

“What is it ?”

He looked at her. Unable to speak. He moved slightly to show her. Gently angling the bag. She moved in closer, impatient. They’d both heard stories of bags fitted with tracking devices, or set to cover you in special paint when opened. This was different, but still very, very wrong. His facial expression was beginning to scare her.  

Three things happened in very quick succession. 

Vicky screamed loudly.  

Robbie dropped the bag.

They both dived over the sofa.

Tumbling awkwardly a mess of arms, legs and heads colliding with each other as they tried to crouch as low as humanly possible. 

After what felt like hours they both gingerly peaked their heads from behind the sofa. On the floor in front of them, where Robbie had dropped it, the bag lay open. Wires poking out. Two bottles of liquid visible. One dark grey, the other red. This was no tracking device. This was something much, much worse. 

“Look !” She was pointing at the television. She scrabbled down between the cushions to recover the remote control while he tried to recover control of his bladder. 

The woman from ITN emotionless as she justified the interruption to the meaningless daytime entertainment that was supposed to be on. Robbie and Vicky usually took comfort from realising that there were people in far worse situations than they were. 

Today that was no longer the case. 

The view on the television cut to a man standing outside Waterloo Station. The streets around him were chaotic. Packed with people being commanded to move further down the street by Police officers. The people looked bemused, angry and distraught.

“Not ten minutes ago Debbie, the Police shut down London Waterloo and started clearing the station. No trains or tube will call at, or travel through the station until further notice. As you can see the streets are full of passengers who had been going about their business, in the city to see the sights, maybe going away on holiday, or here to meet loved ones.

Chief Inspector Lesley Mulvaney from The Metropolitan Police made a statement moments ago.”

The image on the screen changed to a room filled with journalists and cameras. The wall behind the platform lined with posters of actors pretending to be happy and helpful policemen and women. Not the sort that Robbie and Vicky had ever encountered.  

A woman in police uniform edged her way to the lectern in the  middle of the platform. The moment she came into view a thousand cameras started flashing, and dozens of reporters shouted indecipherable questions all at the same time. As she took her position, organising her papers, she cleared her throat. The journalists took their cue. Hushed silence descended.  

“A short time ago we were made aware of a video claiming ownership of an imminent attack to London’s transport network.”

The flashing from the cameras increased to fever pitch. Several of the journalists shouted questions. She ignored them all.

“The video warned of an attack due to take place today at London Waterloo Station at one fifteen pm.”

Robbie nervously looked down at his watch. The time was one thirty eight. He looked at the malicious contents of the bag in the centre of his front room. His attention was drawn back to the screen when Mulvaney resumed talking. Neither Vicky or Robbie could find a single word to say. Not that they would dare to utter any if they had. 

“We have apprehended the individual from the video. It appears however that before he was able to detonate his device he was separated from it by two quick thinking members of the public. We are eager to speak to these two citizens, to confirm their safety and take necessary steps to disarm the device.”

Chief Inspector Mulvaney continued to speak but her words were drowned out by a barrage of questions from the journalists.

Robbie and Vicky turned to each other. Mouths open. The same frightened look on each of their faces. 

“What the fuck !”

Stupid Boy

Every other Friday Cynthia Nelson invited a carefully select number of people from the village to her expansive house. 

The pleasure of observing people pretending to enjoy chewing on boring sandwiches or drinking foul tasting tea was not the aim of the gatherings, but it was a bonus. It was not from warmth or generosity that she kept this habit. She repeated this arrangement so as to exert a cruel and calculated form of control over her guests. 

The villagers went along, grimly resigned to their fate. 

Mrs Nelson did not live in her palatial residence alone. Her son, Steven also lived there. 

Steven was something of a taboo subject. No one ever mentioned him to her. Opportunities to mention Mrs Nelson to Steven did not arise for he had never engaged in conversation with anyone in the village. Never. Not a single word to a single soul. Not one.

Steven’s relationship with his mother was hardly verbose either. They barely spoke a word. An arrangement that suited them both. Any words they did exchange were delivered with spite and venom.  

How could she talk to him, when the way he spoke, the way he walked was every day, and in every way a reminder of the man that had betrayed and deserted her?

A further mystery was the sudden disappearance of Mr Nelson four years ago. Like any other village, whenever details were not forthcoming, speculation and conjecture filled the void. 

The explanations of Mr Nelson’s vanishing lurched from the impossible to the ridiculous. One being that he had simply ran away with the cleaner. Another that Mrs Nelson had bludgeoned him to death with one of her tea-pots before burying him in the vegetable patch next to the summer house. 

The theory went that this accounted for the prize winning marrows Mrs Nelson entered every year at the village fete. 

The oppressive atmosphere at her events, complete with forced laughter and cucumber sandwiches was never an enjoyable event for her guests. Which of course was entirely her intention. 

Cynthia Nelson was placing her empty tea-cup onto its saucer, and nibbling delicately on a Nice biscuit when one of the guests suddenly fell to the floor. 

Such poor manners. Mrs Nelson tutted as the cup and saucer tumbled down the collapsed guest, spilling their contents before crashing onto the hardwood floor. Mrs Nelson stood. Her movement serving to communicate her displeasure. 

It was fortunate that one of her regular guests was Doctor Miles. The young Doctor had moved to the village several years ago, an idealistic and principled man. She had taken particular pleasure in crushing his spirit.  

His concern for the collapsed guest was very clear, but he dare not move until permitted by Cynthia Nelson. 

With a dismissive nod she released him and off the boy doctor went to tend to the fallen guest. The cause of such disruption. Such selfishness. There is a need for order, and this sort of thing just would not do. A terrible burden for her to bare, but bare it she must. These fools needed someone with discipline and control to show them the way and prevent them from descending into anarchy. She sighed as the doctor went about treating her failed guest. She would want to know their name so as not to invite them again. The boy doctor appeared rather shocked if not overwhelmed with the situation before him. 

The boy doctor quietly enlisted the assistance of three other guests. They set about removing the prone guest from the room. Although irked by the commencement of such action without her permission, she conceded it was best to remove the source of the disruption. 

The other guests formed an informal semicircle around where the woman had fallen. The whispers started, sniping back and forth. Mrs Nelson was no fool. She knew of the tattle tales in the village. 

Mrs Nelson jumped when the Doctor appeared close by her side. She had not registered his approach. She did not allow anyone to get this close to her. Her already low opinion of the boy doctor sunk lower. 

“Mrs Nelson, I have the most terrible news”

Cynthia Nelson slowly turned to face him. This pathetic excuse of a man before her, out of breath, disheveled. Beads of sweat forming on his forehead. 

“What is it Mr Miles?” She demanded, purposely refusing to use his title. Denying him any recognition of elevated importance. She must be the only person of importance in any room she entered. 

“Tracy Collins” He paused to recover his breath. His chest falling and rising rapidly. “Tracy Collins is dead”.

Mrs Nelson kept her eyes on the creature before her. “Who ?”

“Tracy Collins, the daughter of Robert and Kathy Collins. She’s dead.” The boy doctor clearly expected this news to mean something to Cynthia Nelson, and it did. She was most annoyed by the event. 

“I have no idea why you would think this a suitable place or time to discuss such a matter. Nor am I sure why such a revelation should be important to me in the slightest. Can you not see Mr Miles, that I have guests?”

A boy without the backbone required to be a man, this child doctor, she thought. He continued to talk, further to her displeasure. 

“The lady that collapsed..” He said, voice wavering, but pointing at the spot from where she had been removed not moments before. “That lady was Tracy Collins”. 

The boy doctor dared not speak further, though he clearly wanted to say more. Mrs Nelson paused to consider events. 

“How..inconvenient !” She proclaimed. Such lack of respect to have the nerve to die at one of her friendly gatherings. How dare she ! 

Cynthia Nelson simmered with indignation. She was about to speak again when a noise behind her demanded her attention and that of the whispering villagers nearby. 

In similar fashion, another of her guests crashed to the floor. The thick set man with short ginger hair met the floor with a thud, shaking the room. A gasp escaping from the mouth of the woman next to her. Another of Cynthia’s precious tea cups crashed to the hardwood floor. The woman started to sob as she shook the man violently. She screeched in desperation for someone to help her. 

Do these people have no idea of how to behave properly ? Such lack of control. 

The Doctor started moving toward the man and woman. Spilt tea seeping across the floor toward the rug. 

“Mr Miles, please can do something with that man ?” Cynthia Nelson instructed. The boy doctor had already started his work. It was important that her guests saw Cynthia was in charge. Directing as was her place. What was the proper way to conduct oneself in such situations ? What was the correct way for a host to behave when their guests started dropping to the floor in full view? The shaking of the boy doctor’s head, and the consolation he bestowed upon the woman told Cynthia Nelson there would be no recovery for this guest also. Such disruption !

Again stepping ahead of himself, the boy doctor motioned for his cohorts to come over. They each grabbed a limb, setting off the wailing of the woman.

Cynthia marched over to the lifeless body. The woman looking up at her, face awash with tears. The woman’s wailing suddenly silenced in shock and disbelief as Cynthia swung her left leg back before kicking out at the man’s torso.

“Get up ! Get UP! I demand you get up!”

The vultures from the village sharply taking in their breath as one. 

Cynthia Nelson felt herself being pulled away. Someone had their hands on her ! Such impertinence ! She was steered her back towards her chair. 

The fallen ginger man was lifted and removed by the men. The woman’s wails interspersed with her calling his name as she followed them into the next room. 

Such disruptions cannot be tolerated.

“You can never be sure !” She proclaimed to no one in particular. “He may have just passed out.” 

“He is quite dead Mrs Nelson. I can assure you.” The boy doctor informed her softly. He had always annoyed her, but today his actions were positively infuriating. She would not be inviting him to another party for quite some time, this much was certain. 

The boy doctor left her to attend to the woman who could be heard sobbing in the next room. Time for Cynthia to collect her thoughts. Order must be maintained. 

Cynthia Nelson’s eye caught before her a folded piece of white card. She had not noticed this earlier. How it came to be sat next to an unwanted slice of cake on her mahogany side table she did not know. She was instantly certain of the card’s origin. The two sides did not line up to each other exactly. It had been folded without care. She reached forward and picked up the card, turning it over in her hand. The writing on the reverse confirming her suspicion as to the source. She easily recognised the undisciplined and lazy scrawl of her son Steven. She shook her head, recalling the large sums of money she had wasted trying to cure her offspring of his messy output.

‘Mother. I do hope your guests like the cake. I made it myself.’

She huffed. Such a constant source of disappointment her son. He had not remembered that she hated the taste of pineapple. The untouched pineapple upside-down cake sat before her. How could he miss such an elementary detail ?

Another of her guests claimed the portion plated before her. She sat without comment as they sliced off a fork full and guided it slowly to their mouth. 

“Stupid Boy” She cursed as the clatter over by the sandwich table announced the dispatch of a third guest, and the loss of yet another teacup and saucer. 

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

They were both looking at me. The attention piercing from the one in charge. She was very collected and focussed. Her companion, although keeping his eye on me, was looking through the folder he had in front of him. 

'You wanted to see us, Mr...' She looked at her colleague, who referred hurriedly to his notes before reminding her of my name. 'Marks. Adrian Marks' I said, my voice wavering slightly. 

She turned back to me. 'Well, Mr Marks. What was it that you wanted to tell us ?' She waited again. Looking me straight in the eye. Enough that the discomfort it caused broke through my sudden inability to speak. 

'I work in a bar on Attlee Street.' My voice hoarse. My throat dry. 'I thought I should tell someone about what I saw.'

They exchanged a look. Not yet sure if I was really going to be any help or just some crazy time wasting lunatic that had just walked in off the street. I wished to all that I held dear that I hadn't seen what I had, that I had made this all up. I wish it hadn't happened. Out of breath, but there was more I had to say.  I needed to take my time again. They waited although I could sense their frustration rising. 

'I wanted to tell you what I saw, and what I did'. 

Now I had gained their attention. Now there was no turning back. The assistant sat with his pen poised over his notepad. 

'Okay Mr Marks. We're listening. Take it back to the start and tell us what you saw, and what it was that you did'. 

***

Last Night

I'm ten hours into my twelve hour shift at the Politicians' Arms. Thankfully it being the week after New Year, it isn't too busy. As much as I am trying to recover the excesses of the party season myself, so are the wallets of most of our customers. The place was less than half full.  There's only myself and Rachel on shift, but it's been quiet enough that we've both coped without incident. 

Considering the anxious shopping pre Christmas where our clientele raced to secure adequate gifts to demonstrate their love or fulfil their obligations, some of the same people were now desperately snatching time away from their nearest and dearest. Sharing a pint and time away from the loved and not so loved with friends.  

As well as the regulars, there's the odd few obviously out taking advantage of the sales. Weighed down with various bags stuffed with bargains. 

As I made my way round the pub, collecting glasses I noticed one couple that fit into neither category, sat in one of the cubicles down the back. Of a normal evening this area would be full of people ordering food, but it's been left empty by the other customers, with there not being any food on because our chef has gone home to Scotland for a couple of weeks and our boss too disorganised or too tight to arrange someone to fill in for him. 

I'm working my way towards them. I can't make out what they are saying. I don't need to. The body language says it all. He's leaning across the table, not in a threatening way, in a space invading way. He's all smiles and charm - or so he thinks he is. He's clearly not reading her reaction. She's backed into the chair so much that if she pressed any harder she'd actually break the laws of physics and pass through it. Her arms are rigidly fixed by her side with her hands on her lap. She's fidgeting with her nails, instead of looking up and engaging in whatever bullshit he's talking about. 

There's a few of empty glasses to clear from their table, some hi-balls and a couple of shot glasses. He doesn't stop when I start clearing them up. I'm surprised I didn't hear him sooner, he's really loud and obnoxious. You know the type ? The ones that like to hear the sound of their own voice and are utterly convinced they're the funniest thing to grace the earth with their presence. This poor girl is just sitting there, retreating into herself so much that she's really trying to actually disappear. 

Still who am I to judge eh ? He seems like a wanker, she seems like she's really not having a good time, but I'm not there to chaperone girls on their disastrous dates now am I ? Sad, I thought. But it takes all sorts. I try to make eye contact with her, but with her attention purely focussed on picking away at her own hands there's no way to gauge if she needs an escape clause or not. 

I've seen it before, many times. Guys and girls. Some will be upfront enough to ask me to help provide some plausible (or implausible) escape route should the need arise. Others will come to the bar with a running commentary of just how much of a washout things are. The ones that are going really well never need to tell me. It's always obvious they've hit it off, and it's nice to see when that happens. 

Rachel calls me back to the bar to help her with the queue that's built up. I stack the collected glasses so I can load them into the washer later and go help her.

Anyone that's worked with the public will tell you, that at times you just get your head down and get on with it. You don't really recognise or remember the steady stream of people that you're serving. I did however clock that the loud obnoxious guy was someone that I served as the brief rush died back down. 

He was talking to someone on the phone, as it became his turn to be served. It's always something that annoys me a little, but you have to come to expect it these days. There are people so absorbed by their lives and convinced of their own importance that they will think nothing of ignoring you, and the other people waiting while they finish their conversation. I'd been standing there waiting for his order for a couple of seconds, and starting to consider if I should move on to the next customer and come back to him. He announced to the person on the other end of the call that he needed to get some drinks in and gave me his order. 

He returned to his call as I got the drinks ready. Both having a vodka and coke. I placed the first drink in front of him and set about completing the second. I had just finished adding the vodka to the glass of ice cubes when I looked back in the direction of this guy and I saw him take something from his pocket, pour it into the glass in front of him and stir it with the straw. Without a care at all he went straight back to his call.

***

'So you saw him put something into the drink.' The woman asked.
'Yes'
'I see'. She looked over at her colleague to make sure he was getting these details. 'We'll need to see the CCTV from the bar, assuming you have some.'
I nodded and took a deep breath before plunging back in. 'But that's not all of it.'
'No ?' She looked at me again. 
'While he was on the phone. While he was turned round, I came over with the second drink.' I stopped again. Not for anything like dramatic effect, but because my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. I was struggling to breathe. 'I swapped the drinks round.'
'Why did you do that Mr Marks ?' She knew the answer, but obviously needed me to say it myself. 

'He'd put something in the drink that he was going to give to his date. This arsehole was intent of doing god knows what to the poor unsuspecting girl'.
'So you believe it was some sort of date rape drug ?' The assistant was carefully writing down each word I said. 
'Yes'.
'I see.' Now it was her turn to pause as she gathered her thoughts before reaching for one of the folders. 'I'd like to show you something Mr Marks'. She opened the file and took out, five photographs placing them onto the desk. 

'What are these ?' I asked. The first photos before me showed a battered and squashed car against a large tree. I recoiled from the graphic nature of the images. Each shot moving closer in, showing the compacted interior of the car, the screen smashed, the roof buckled inward, the dashboard compressed. A bloodied airbag deployed on the steering wheel. 

'Joseph London worked at a local bank. He was twenty five years old'. She let the statement hang in the air. It sank in for me that she referred to him in the past tense. Oh My God ! He'd died. 

But I'd done the right thing, hadn't I ? I'd made sure that Joseph had not been able to drug his date. Whatever he planned for her that evening, it wouldn't have been good. I'd saved her from some unspeakable fate. Part of me thought that he had it coming, but I had never bargained on such severe consequences for him. I couldn't say I really felt that sorry though. It would be his family that suffered. Despite the horrific end, his date would never know what that night could have been. That was a good thing, wasn't it?

'What about her, the girl. Did she get home safely ?' My voice again soft and wavering. 

They both stared at me impassively. I looked from one to the other, desperate for an answer before she finally spoke. 

'No, Mr Marks. I'm sorry to say that Jessica was the passenger in the car when Mr London lost control and drove it into a tree at seventy-three miles an hour. They were both pronounced dead at the scene.'

The End

Misplaced Memory

Three years ten months and fourteen days. That's how long it's been. I can feel the fourth anniversary looming over me. In some ways I cannot believe that it's been so long. In other ways the time has felt like a sentence. The conviction as punishment. The guilt inside my head of course the most twisted ceaseless punishment possible.

I Bring Nanna cuppa tea. She's sitting in a chair, glasses on, reading the newspaper. Is she even taking any in ? I can’t be sure.

The sad thing being that the same paper will occupy have days on end. She won’t remember having read the story before. She will however get cross with me if I try to talk to her  while she's reading a paper. In some ways this is a blessing we don't have to go through the same questions over and over again. I sip my tea in silence.

“Don't let it get cold Nan”. I'll have to remind her again in a minute. I've become quite practised in making sure her tea is just right.

This took some getting used to. Flavoured milk Dad used to call it. I smile as I remember him emphasising the process of dunking the teabag in and out of the cup. “If the tea is anything more than off white in colour she’ll never accept it.” He would grumble. I have to get used to doing more than just making cups of tea, for her and for me. Everything changed. Three years, ten months and fourteen days ago.

***

I was in my room. Music on as loud as I dare, taking best advantage of being the only one in the house. Despite what Mum and Dad said about it being impossible to working in din, or ‘loud enough to wake the dead’ I was immersed in revising for my religious studies GCSE. Exams on Wednesday would be my last. Signifying the end of my secondary school education. The nervous wait that my friends would endure as they ticked off the days until results were posted was not to occupy my summer that year. My life, my hopes, dreams and everything I had taken for granted would be snatched away from me. To me that change, the split from my expected future to the life I have been living, changed the moment I heard banging downstairs.

I was singing along very badly to a track from the 1980s about some guy who’d been done over telling someone he loved them at Christmas. My friends and I used to mimic the song miming exaggerated reactions and playing out the words. After that day we wouldn't any longer.

I stopped the music. The split second of silence giving me enough time to think that I had imagined the sound. If only I had. I was reaching for the play button again when the banging repeated. Purposeful bangs in quick succession coming from the front door.

I raced down the stairs already conscious that whoever was there had been waiting for some time. They might give up and go away. Mum and Dad were forever ordering things online for home delivery. Although it was unusual for them to forget to tell me they were expecting something, it was not entirely unheard of. There would be many arguments where Mum had sworn she had told me and that I ’couldn’t have been listening’ or  forgotten. I’ve wished many times since that this would be just another book for Mum or computer gadget for Dad.

I was eager to prevent Mum or Dad having to go to the Post Office to pick up some random item, and all the grief that they would give me for not fulfilling my role as on hand delivery maid. I was in such a rush that I didn’t even look through the spy hole to see who was on the doorstep before opening the door. This alone would award me a half hour lecture about how I should not open the door without checking. ‘An impressionable young girl in the house on her own… anything could happen !’ they would say.

Something did happen. Something that made everything else pale into unimportance. In my mind, my expected future drained away as I opened that door. I’ve tortured myself that had I not done so things would be different. Funny how our own minds torture us like that.

So it was that I pulled the door open, without even registering who was standing there.

I remember saying that my parents weren’t home, that I was expecting them back in a couple of hours. I also remember the look the two police officers exchanged when I said it.

It’s funny isn’t it. Even when you know in your heart of hearts that you’ve done nothing wrong, whenever the police turn up you’re still expecting to be arrested and carried away. That day did nothing to lighten my feelings whenever I see the police. To this day I am overcome with heavy despair and dread when I see them. Still my brain raced through all the things I had gotten up to, or seen other people do. Oh for the carefree and reckless teenage life I had before.

I’ve played this moment back in my mind a thousand times or more. Over and over. We must have made our way to the front room, not that I can recall us getting there. Next thing I can remember we are sitting down. The officers have removed their hats. I’m on the sofa, with the lady police officer sat next to me. The man is sat facing me, in Dad’s chair. I’m starting to think that I should be offering them a cup of tea or something when he starts talking.

For some reason my memory of the words he spoke are locked in with my close focus of his mouth as his lips moved making the sounds come out. The sounds that would change my life. He looked like he needed a shave. Maybe he had been on shift all day.

He said my name. I didn’t even understand how he knew my name. ‘I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news for you…’ The heart that had been pumping furiously from my race down the stairs suddenly stopped. I didn’t breathe. I don’t think I even blinked. He explained to me what had happened.

My Mum, Dad and younger sister Becky had been killed in a car accident. There had been a pile-up on the motorway and a lorry had gone into the back of them. My mind flashing for a millisecond that they had come to rush me to the hospital to sit distraught by my parents’ and sister’s bedsides as a dutiful daughter and sister. Before I even scrabbled together two words asking how badly they were injured, he stopped me.

They had all been killed. I would later find out that my sister had died mercifully in an instant. My parents had been alive for a few moments longer, but I was assured that they would have been unconscious and not in pain. I have struggled so long to deal with my inability to believe that to be true. I so desperately wanted it to be the case, but there was a part of me that kept fighting, kept popping images of them screaming in agony into my head. Of them calling my name, calling out to Becky. So many times I had wished that I had been there with them.

It seems so pointless now, that I had stayed behind to revise for the exam I would not take. For the grades that did not matter. For the future that I would never see. If only I had gone with them.

Becky would be starting her exams now. Knowing her she would have been frantic with all the stress of it all. I would have been able to share my experience with her. To help her see past the fear. So petrified of getting it all wrong and messing up your life. She’d have had her laid back older sister to share tips on how to survive the impossible exams. How to deal with the transition to college and beyond. I’d have have been sharing stories with her of parties and nights out, of boys. Swapping secrets about how to get the clueless bastards to see that you liked them, but still get them to do all the running.

None of these things would happen for her. They wouldn’t even happen for me. The banging on our door that day killed the dreams and futures for both of us.

Here I was, nearly twenty, sipping tea and looking after my Nan. My Nan may be the only person I have left in my family, but she’s not really a whole person. My Nan, you see, suffers from dementia. There’s nothing I can really do for her other than to keep her comfortable and humour her when she asks me for the fifth time that day how school is going, or what time Mum will be home. I have to remind myself it’s not her fault. It’s the illness. It is hard though, to keep my emotions, my temper in check. The number of times I’ve shut myself in the bathroom, sat on the floor next to the bath, hugging my knees as I sob my heart out.

In some ways, as painful as it is for me, Nan’s condition is a blessing for her. She can’t remember the pain of the last few years. In her mind she’s reliving constantly some glorious part of her past. Sometimes it’s back when I was younger, sometimes it’s all the way back to Mum’s childhood. Sometimes I wish I could join her blissfully reliving the past.

I try to keep things as much of a routine for her as I can, but that is next to impossible with the varied shifts at the hotel and the late nights in the pub.

There are times when she doesn’t know who I am, and is talking to me about how proud she is of her granddaughter Evie. She tells me with a sparkle in her eye how clever Jessica is, and how she’ll be the first person in the family to go to university. “Just you see !” She’ll tell me.

***

If the weather’s nice enough, I like to take Nan out for a walk. She’s nowhere near strong enough to walk herself, so I manage to get her into a wheelchair.

It’s the end of the holiday season now, and although the wind’s getting up a bit the promenade is at least clear of the bustle of tourists. I sigh at the thought that this would also lead to the reduction of my hours at the hotel. I’ll have to start finding something else to help fill the gap.

‘Fancy an ice cream Nan ?’ We’ve come to one of the traders still bravely selling Ice Creams in early September. She doesn’t respond. It’s not really a two way conversation with Nan. I lock off the weeks on her chair and nip inside.

I am concentrating on catching any drips from the 99s I have in each hand when I come back out. I do not see until the last minute the two police officers. Their presence prevents me from seeing Nan. I try to dodge round them, but they follow my attention.

‘Jessica ? Jessica Thompson ?’ The first one asks me. My mind is struggling to comprehend what is happening. What more catastrophe is there awaiting me ?

‘Jessica, we’ve got someone here who’d very much like to speak to you.’ The police officers move out the way. Hidden behind them is a woman that is kneeling on the floor to be at eye level with Nan. She is holder her hand. Nan won’t understand this will confuse her, upset her. I start to get agitated.

The woman stands up as she turns round to face me. ‘Hello Jessica. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time. Why did you leave like that ? Why ?’ She is getting upset, starting to cry.

‘Hello Mum’. Is all I can say as I lick the ice cream drips off my hand.

Sorry

They had left me, and I could not understand why. I couldn't begin to comprehend what would be behind such a betrayal. What had I done ? Had I said the wrong thing, reacted in a way to disappoint ? I could not know. 

There was only the note. If you can really call a piece of paper containing but one word a note. 

'Sorry'

Even the handwriting was a mystery, barely legible. Were they sorry that they had left me, or sorry for something else they had done which I was so far unaware ? Was I supposed to have apologised for some infraction ? I racked my brain for recent incidents where I was at fault, had said or done something, stepped out of line, spoken out of turn. I could think of nothing, and the handwriting was of no help. I could not even be certain whose writing it was. A single word on a sheet of A4 paper. Did the emptiness of the page signify a potential for further explanation ?

I did not know. I could not know. 

I tried holding the sheet of paper to the light, looked at it from various shallow angles. I even tried tracing out any words left indented upon it from the previous page. All this revealed was my predilection for nineteen twenties crime novels. No simple answers here. No Belgian detective to sweep in and solve the mystery with a mere twirl of a perfectly trimmed moustache. 

I searched the grounds next, only to confirm three things either from observation or from conversation with the young lady on reception. 

One. My friends had indeed checked out. Two. Their cars were all gone, so now I was also stranded without transport ! Three. They had settled not only their own bills, but mine before leaving. 

I had acquired some facts, but also discovered more uncertainties. More and more puzzling. What could be so urgent that had caused them to leave in such a manner, but to leave me behind ? None of it made sense. 

My mind became overwhelmed with the uncertainties. I was sorely tempted to go to the bar and either search for my answers with the assistance of whiskey or occlude my senses sufficiently that it no longer mattered. No ! I would be strong. 

I could leave. Check out. But go where ? Aside from the lack of transport, which I was certain could easily be arranged, where would I go ? Should I go home ? My friends had kindly paid for my room up to the end of the week. The length of time we had actually planned to stay. This meant they either intended me to stay on at the hotel, or to at least provide me with the option should I wish to take it. Did this mean they might return ? 

Sod it. I assured myself it was not a weakness to want to drink at a time such as this, and made my way to the bar. Mercifully it was not very busy at all, and I was served quickly. I sat in the corner absentmindedly rolling the ice around the tumbler as I stared through the inviting darkness of the spirit. 

My reverie was interrupted when I sensed someone standing over me. Their shadow moving across me, deepening the cosy haze around me another level towards darkness. 

'Hi. I'm Sonny' came the voice. At the same time he offered an outstretched hand. I looked up, instantly drawn to his eyes. Brown in colour, but kind, observant and deep. A flick of uncertainty on his face evaporated in an instant, replaced by a disarming smile. Without thought, I reached out my hand also. He took my hand with a firmness that was neither too soft nor too strong, but left me certain he possessed a hidden strength. I found myself leaning towards him. 

Taking this as a cue, he sat down. Still observing me deeply with those eyes. 

'My friends have all left without me, it's quite a mystery really..' I paused to drink some of my whiskey. My mouth suddenly dry. The corners of his lifted again. He had not taken his eyes off me. 

He leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice. There was a twinkle in his eyes. 'One man's mystery is another man's adventure, wouldn't you say ?' He asked rhetorically. 'What about you and I having an adventure together ?'