one

1.

Hindsight is normally seen as something of an advantage, but sitting there, machine coffee in hand, enthroned upon his plastic stool, reflection brought nothing except for the depressingly clichéd-how had it come to this?  Around was a room erupted in silence.  It was a place of cleanliness; frantic cleaning, where staff worked and people broke silence for the simple sake of there being nothing else to do.  Bright lights hung, illuminating the pristine white.  Footsteps cracked on the perfectly level floor.  Monitors hung in opposite corners.  No one looked.  No one ever did.  It was somewhere apart from reality; where quite dignity pervaded every conversation, a families’ best kept friend, it hung through the air, collapsing into every tired thought of, ‘we can recover from this’.  It was the waiting room, and it was finally where he realised he was alone.

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The wet ground glistened in the electric blue light. The odd car silently whirred past- The channel one news crew were probably on their way.  Onlookers peered from balconies, both the west and east flats were ablaze with activity.  A simple bewilderment, an exchange of superlatives.  Above the din, Lawrence picked up simple phrases, ‘incredible’, ‘he saved us all’, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it’ and it struck him, everything had changed.  Words of bellicose belligerence eclipsed in a night for unified amazement.  And yet he wondered, despite, he knew now for a fact, the end of the animosity, had one idolising idealism simply been swapped for another?  ‘I doubt this is what Bill had in mind’ he mused to no one in particular; laughing inwardly as from every angle came, ‘You know Bill May?’  He was in the game now, the problem was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play.

         Holster still at hand, a policewoman came towards him.  ‘Mr Thompson, we’re ready for your statement now’.  It was going to be a long night.

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His entire body rang out for this to be over, as he planted his third plastic cup on the table.  It was this he couldn’t take.  The unknown.  Yet through the pain, he knew, deep down, what scared him the most was not simple grief.  It was the guilt he felt that he was to blame.  It hit him like a furtive needle, plunging straight to the heart.  A wild panic, a disgust worse than death.  For he had found finally who he was, and nothing could change that. 

         One by one the room emptied.  Families filed out as the news came.  Overjoyed or distraught, it mattered little.  Who were they anyway?  To impose their problems on him –just by being near him.  Did they not feel the insignificance of their pain?  Was he supposed to empathise? 

         Perhaps hours passed.  Time seemed insignificant.  He wasn’t reflecting anymore, he simply felt too tired and too scared to consider any of it.  Voices, his surroundings, people, footsteps fading down the corridor…all seemed a blank nothingness.

         And then it came.  From the abyss, a hand, a calming upon the shoulder; it was comforting, it was twisted and crusted, a veiled dagger.  It screamed half-hearted sympathy.  There was no escape now, someone knew, someone could tell.  Captivated by terror, he turned up to the face towering above him.  A kind face.  It was a condescending majesty, a revered art among the purveyors of death. 



Then dread, in all its simplicity. A certain feeling of utter helplessness that chilled him.  He felt small; a fool who had broke everything.  And there was no escape.  He could see the air moving from the chest.  He could see the movement in the lips.  Was it the loss that scared him, or the fact that he had caused it?

‘John Edward Stevens?’ such a presumptuous question, coming only from someone who knew he had the recipient in a noose.  ‘I’m sorry’.



It was a release to a choke.  He could feel something moving inside him.  His guilt had come alive, it bore down upon him, and he was a killer.  He spluttered for breath, ‘there was simply nothing that could be done’, he whitened, sweated, eyes bulging, he fell to his knees, drowning, ‘the wounds were simply too deep’, he collapsed, shrinking, hiding from inevitability, something was coming up, it was too much, ‘I know this can be hard to take.  Are you ok?’  He was falling, breaking up, drowning, this was death, ‘would you like some water?’ it was too much, he was drowning…He vomited all over the doctor’s coat.



A call for assistance came.  Perhaps he was to be restrained.  Nothing seemed to matter any more, he felt stupefied.  Maybe the police?  Trial?  Execution?  He got up, left the room, out of the ward, -reception, no one in the way, a blur to the left, he sprinted.  Out of the door, from the hospital, John ran.

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There was a chill in the night air.  Most of the rain had begun to soak away.  It drained seemingly to nowhere, no puddles remained.  Street lamps glowed bright yellow in the night, their globes illuminating, burning the sky.  Above the rhythmical din of the rubbish machines as they quested for litter, almost nothing could be heard.  It wasn’t a deathly silence, for that gave the impression that life had been here once; it seemed timeless, apart from reality.  He pulled his collar up, it was past curfew an…. Was that footsteps?  He knew he couldn’t take chances, the police surely knew now.  He had to find somewhere to hide.



He ran intermittently through deserted streets.  He thought he knew the city well, but at night, with no easy-access intranet points, it was a labyrinth, of concrete, glass and tar.  Half of him even wished he would pass upon a residential area.  He needed something to see, anything to stop him thinking.  He felt cowardly for running, a disgrace to the memory of his dead friend.  But no-one would understand, he had only wanted to help.  Yet through it all, there was still the denial; the simple refusal that anything like this could still happen here, to him.  After all wasn’t the government supposed to protect them from this?  Disaster was meant for far off places, - to put you off visiting; one of those things in the news to sigh at, or whinge about or sometimes to just change the channel to try to hide the feeling of desensitisation.  But more than anything he feared the quiet.  It wasn’t ghostly, - it wasn’t even scary- it was just empty.  He felt in a bubble.  In his own world, alone to his mind.  And it was shrinking, closing in on him, he was suffocating. 

More time passed.  Minutes faded into the incessant ring of sole on pavement.  At times he walked in the centre of the road, closed his eyes and shut his hands over his ears.  Perhaps something would hit him.  He wished for something to end this, just something to end the hebetude that had been his life.  Nothing came.  That would mean something to finish this nonentity.

                                           

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Lawrence sat in the common room. The gang was mostly here.  Electricity coupons were still sparse so they sat amongst the rugged sofas in a ghostly twilight.  There was just an old lantern that had been found in the cleaner’s store, everyone leaned in towards it, trapped in its glare.  Its incandescent light seemed to bring most to a point of silent reflection.  Robert was here, humbled in the corner.  Everyone was too sympathetic to realise the faint stench that rose from his corner.  Phillip lay discarded across the floor –he had fainted in the commotion- no one seemed to care.

No one spoke.  The only movement was that of bottle to mouth, or the almost embarrassing walk to get another.  Feelings seemed mutual; alone in solitude, there was nothing to provoke anyone to speak.  It was all over.  Everyone felt it.  Despite the struggles and difficulties he had with many of the people there, in both flats, Lawrence did feel a certain sense of sadness.

Slowly everyone faded away.  Phillip stayed asleep, Robert crying quietly in the corner.  Bill faced Lawrence.  Across the light he faced him, staring into the light.  Eventually he looked up.  He peered into Lawrence’s eyes.  He looked different now; he seemed to have more presence.



He looked down again, ‘we have to find him, you know’ 

‘I know’



Silence fell over the room again.  Time passed.  They knew they had to find him soon, before he did something stupid.  They were preparing themselves.  Lawrence felt so tired that even something like dodging curfew felt hard now. 

‘I’ll get my car’ Lawrence said eventually.  Together they stood and left.  It was going to be a long night indeed.



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    But he knew he couldn’t do it.  He knew it wouldn’t happen.  He was too broken.  He wished for nothing more than an incandescent light, to erupt towards him and power him into eternity.  Perhaps some explosion, a failure to restrict late night gas; a build up, and a spark…and then…simplicity.  He cared little for dignity anymore; he could only take solace in the fact that it might be quick.  But he couldn’t do it.  To take a dagger to himself, felt like plunging another into Kevin. 

         

Suddenly he heard the sound of a car whir past.  What was the time?  He looked to his watch, broken.  The sky held no clues.  It was probably just a night shift worker.  Probably being the operative word.  The police seemed more likely.  A buzz came overhead.  He was in all probability near the airport, simply hearing a plane.  But then they could be above, circling, ready to pounce.  They being the operative word.  Almost without his knowledge, John broke into a run.  Part of him told him to stay still, and wait for retribution.  It was a very small part.  John didn’t really consider himself a coward.  But he realised that there were certain things that transcended a question of cowardice.  He still didn’t appear to recognise anything, but ran regardless.

         

And then came a second whir of a car.  It felt like it was closing.  The pitter-patter of the rain suddenly quickened, suddenly became much louder.  And he bolted.  Cutting left then right, he pressed for every last ounce of effort.  Faster, harder he sprinted; it was all he knew now.  The sound of his feet beneath his feet deafened him.  Down a back alley he turned.  Faced by a wall.  No time to climb.  He needed an exit.  Only a few days ago he would of looked at this with meek embarrassment, not now.  A side door.  Cameras would be watching, he had to go. He tried the handle.  Open?  No time to think.  He ran inside to find himself in a labyrinth of dark corridors, leading to evenly spaced doors, both left and right.  During the day this would have been a model of sensibility and efficiency; at night it was dark and gloomy.  He felt hunted.  A dank light half lit a route.  John followed it, he thought he might as well.  He paced as quickly and quietly as he could, although this did nothing to stop the ubiquitous, hollow echo that eluded from his feet.  He struggled to control his breathing, to dampen his racing heart.  It felt strange; this sense of pot luck, not knowing what could be lurking around every corner.  Humans weren’t supposed to be out of their comfort zone, isn’t that the point of computers?  Appearing round the last corner, hanging almost elusively at the edge of his vision, was what appeared to be a fire exit.  The illuminated instructions seen with all fire exits were above.

         

‘Don’t Panic.  Stay calm.  Don’t have an excessive heart rate.  Walk in single file.  Check those ahead and behind for injury.  Check that the FER (fast emergency response) system is activated’ and then slightly ironically ‘Good Luck’.  He leant against the wall, readying himself to run for safety.  Peering around the corner he waited.  One, two threeeeee… john sprinted for the exit, and then as if it was scripted, the inexplicable light flickered, and then faded.

         

It turned into a dash of blind panic along the corridor.  He could feel the wind rustle in his ears and the clang of his trainers upon the hard floor.  He almost forgot about the door, seemingly rushing up to meet him.  Almost, but still too late.  He hit it head first, and it didn’t buckle.



He felt himself against the floor; blood trickled down from his forehead and throughout his head there was an incessant ringing.  The wind had been knocked from him and initially he couldn’t get up.  What was he doing, this entire situation was feeling more and more ridiculous.  He had to believe it though- if only a little bit- it was always easier that way.  The ringing slowly fell away, and his breathing regulated.  He stood up, unsurely at first.  Leaning against the corridor he gingerly walked to the door, tried to pull the bar off, realised what he was doing, pushed it open, and staggered out. 



Ahead of him was another alley.  It was similar –almost identical.  He had to convince himself it wasn’t the same one simply because he was sure he hadn’t walked in a circle.  Or rather he hoped he hadn’t.  He sat down for a while, hiding behind a bin incase he was being followed.  He vaguely wandered whether the rounders were out tonight.  No matter, he had his I.D, probably.  The trickle of blood had stopped, a red thread dangling an inch above his eyes.  His head was sore to touch.  He felt tired, could just feel himself drifting away…. No.  He had to hide.  The Police were after him.  Possibly watching, waiting to pounce.  With instant vigour he stood up.  His balance and energy restored, his lethargy removed.  He slinked furtively to the edge of the alley.  Its mouth opened to a broad road.  Bare of its life flow, it seemed ghostly.  Across its wide birth loomed large a giant gate, flanked by imposing railing, capped with gold points.  It was instantly commanding of the scene, drawing in his vision to its dominate demeanour.  Just to be sure, he turned his hoody inside out and pulled it tight over his ears



The road was bathed in light, obviously watched constantly and he wasn’t really prepared to take any unnecessary risks.  He slinked out from behind the wall.  Halfway across, and nothing.

Suddenly, a roar of a motor could be heard.  A car flew round a corner towards him.  Two ambient lights, blinding him, he felt like he was looking into the face of death.  And how he welcomed it, no pain, no despair, surely this was the easiest option…

But the car swerved.  Skidding out of control on the damp road.  Spinning as it skidded, the back end of the car launched itself into a concrete wall with a solid thud.  The steaming car still there, john wondered by how much it had avoided him.  A foot perhaps? He began to think the universe was simply mocking him…



From his trance he emerged to cross the road.  Up to the big iron gate.  It rose above him, about ten feet.  And then a flashback to a

distant past, to the depths of this deep nightmare…



A hazy seen greeted him.  It was this park.  A deep afternoon sun cast all around, broken by intermittent shadows, thrown up by the kind trees- blossoming a late spring green.  In one such shadow they lay, arms entwined.  The park was busy, but he heard nothing, save from her sweet voice.  The sound of it seemed to encapsulate nature; it rose and fell, beautifully diverse.  The grass had been freshly cut, they lay in a bed of it.  The pleasant smell tickled his nose, he sneezed, he remembered her laugh- sweet, teasing and giggly- looking up through the branches of the tree above, he wished that time would stop…

Back to reality.  The trees looked stark now, desolate as their branches flickered in the chill air.  This was it.  What he needed. 

Could he climb the gate?  Would it alert somebody as to his whereabouts?  Couldn’t think of that now, this was where he wanted to die. 

He pushed up against the cold steel, and in total amazement, watched as it fell away from him.  He hit the ground heavy on his arm.  The Gate was open!  Blankly wondering how that could have happened, he quickly shut the gate as smartly as possible, before dashing away.  The park was huge, he remembered.  Bisected by a central path, it was a picture-perfect wilderness, of small, rolling hills, trees, well kept grass and pristine gardens.  No light followed him here.  His eyes gave him the blessing of about ten metres, give or take, and his ears were as alert as they could be. 



After a minute of running, he settled into a walk.  He was cold now, his depression deepened.  Occasionally a fallen leaf squelched beneath his feet, but most had been cleared. 



10 minutes past before it hit him.  This was it.  He would die here.  He only had one choice; to turn away from the path and find himself a hole.  He couldn’t face the public.  Not after everything.  He had to walk and wonder and writhe in mental anguish, his mind was devoid, he would become bestial, a shadow of his short fallings, a myth to scare the kids.  And he would collapse, of starvation or a broken heart he knew not, and die here.  Time would become irrelevant, the corner stone of civilisation mattered nothing to him.  After all, society had irreparably fallen out with him, or he had fallen out with it?  One or the other.



And as he thought, he stared up at the moon, and it beat down pale malevolence upon him, calling nature to dish out that one final blow.  So he turned away, to the grasp of the trees.  Unsympathetic glares all around, yet again he ran.          

The forest of trees took, screeching at him as the wind increased, branches cutting at him, he carried on going. 

Time passed indefinitely, the moon seemed to stay still.  He knew nothing of his direction, he heard nothing, to give an idea of his situation.  Before him loomed a large hedge, flanked by a massive tree, that hung over it.  Beneath the hedge, the earth fell away slightly, before apparently rising back up inside, leaving a well sheltered burrow.  He would stay here.  It was quiet, secluded.  It would care nothing for the world.



He scrambled down onto his belly, and slowly thrust himself forward, the gap was very small.  Gradually, he moved through and found himself in an area in which he could sir comfortably.  Dimensions meant nothing to him, but he found it adequate to await the call of the knell.

So he sat.  And he thought.  His whole situation flashed before his eyes, it had been so sudden to begin with.  Ruthless.  Then, after the world had appeared to lift him up, it had destroyed him once again.  Back had come the emotion, he felt wave after wave of despair and regret and guilt.  And then, when it had all washed over him, with nowhere to hide from himself.  He did the only thing still left to him.  The only thing he felt remained of him.  He sat there and cried.