Eve Christmas had arrived, as it had for more years than he cared—or dared—to remember, like acquaintances made on a long-forgotten holiday who insist on maintaining a friendship which has no common interests on which to base it. Just when you have started to convince yourself that maybe they have finally got the message and are going to bother you no more, there they are on the doorstep, complete with photo album and unwanted gift. Once again, however, it was over almost before the last mouthful of turkey had been digested. And so he found himself sitting alone in his sparsely furnished room on the thirty-first of December. Another Christmas over; presents given and received, too much food eaten, too much alcohol drunk. Christmases past had been joyous, pleasure-filled occasions. His childhood Christmases had been without exception wonderful, and even those of his early adulthood had been enjoyable. Somewhere along the line, however, the joy had faded, like poorly made decorations left in the January sun. It probably wasn’t at any particular year. More likely, it was a slow, steady process, the pleasurable aspects inexorably giving ground to the relentless march of the gnawing sadness in his life, which seemed to gain strength and virility at the very times when it should have been most easily kept at bay. The bottom line of all of this, when he had analysed—and psychoanalysed—the whole problem, was that he was lonely. His was not a large family; nevertheless, he was still blessed with more living relatives than many: a brother and a sister, both married, with five assorted nieces and nephews between them; two grandparents still soldiering on, well into their eighties; and, of course, his mother. Christmas day, always spent with the family, was a noisy affair. In addition, he had a growing circle of friends, some near, some far, all loved. He turned down more invitations than he accepted, and even then he was out several times a week, on average. How, people used to ask him—when he still spoke to them about such things—could he be lonely, when he had so many family and friends around him? Wasn’t that impossible? Didn’t loneliness imply aloneness? It had always been clear that the people who asked this question had never experienced true loneliness, the ache that is only exacerbated by company, the pain of knowing that the total of all the people in the world is an odd number, and everyone else except you is one of a pair. He didn’t try to explain any more. Those who knew had no need of explanation; those who didn’t would never understand it. The strange thing was, he had never considered himself depressed. Maybe that’s the way it was with depression; you never realised you had it. But, compared to many others, he had a pretty good life. There were the family and friends, of course. He had a good job with prospects—assistant editor in a small but well-respected publishing house in the city. He had a nice place to live: spartan, yes, but through choice rather than poverty. Yet somewhere along the line, loneliness had encompassed his life. Three years ago, at the age of twenty-seven, he had made a promise to himself on New Year’s Eve: that he would not see in the New Year alone after the age of thirty. Had he known at the time that the promise had two quite distinct meanings? Maybe, maybe not. He was pretty sure that, at the time, he had meant it purely in the positive sense, that during the following three years, he would have found that special someone, the someone with whom it would by now be inconceivable to celebrate the New Year without. It was possible that he had recognised the flip-side of his vow sub-consciously, but it was only now, when the date was upon him, that he was consciously aware of the connotations: He was thirty, he was still alone, and today was New Year’s Eve. ~*~ Fortunately, there was a good selection of shopkeepers who had decided that the New Year’s Eve trade was too good to pass up by granting their employees an extra day’s holiday, and as he wandered along Ladbroke Grove, the icy wind biting through his fleeced jacket, there seemed to be more open than closed. When he reached the hardware store, he was pleased to find this was amongst the former. He walked through the tinsel-framed door, the cow-bell tinkling brightly in honour of his entrance. There were probably few of this sort of shop left, he realised. Such a dark, cluttered interior was very much out of fashion now, and with the burgeoning number of “out-of-town” DIY superstores, the days of the small, independent hardware stores were surely limited. And yet, somehow, they carried on, year after plodding year. Perhaps the merchandise had something to do with it—gardening tools, paintbrushes, nails, bolts and screws, galvanised watering cans—somehow these things lent themselves to being displayed in a cramped and haphazard way, something that was no longer acceptable with groceries, say, or electrical goods. He walked slowly up the aisle towards the counter at the back of the shop. He couldn’t readily see what he was looking for, and wasn’t really in the mood to spend a long time browsing, so he carried on to the counter to find someone to ask. There was no one there. He stood at the counter, looking around the shop to try and give the indication to any assistants who might be able to see him that he was waiting to be served. No one came. He looked along the counter; there was no bell to ring. After a couple of minutes, he gave a quiet cough, then a slightly louder one, which seemed to echo around the closely spaced aisles of the otherwise empty shop. He didn’t see where she came from, but suddenly there was a young woman behind the counter. “Good morning, sir. Sorry to keep you, I was just sorting through some seeds. Can I help you?” She was beautiful. It was the first thing that came into his head, and it was a quite instinctual thought; there was no conscious appraisal of her appearance, no mental measuring of vital statistics, or comparison against long-held concepts of ideal womanhood. This was something he simply knew, without any further cogitation required. This was a beautiful woman. That she appeared to wear no make-up, and hid her shape beneath a brown smock coat, added, rather than subtracted, from the impression. Her long, straight dark-brown hair hung neatly down her back, her hazel eyes reminded him, bizarrely, of snow-covered woods. He realised neither of these two people was speaking, and he further realised that one of them—him—should be. “I…er, yes, sorry. I was wondering if you had any rope?” Maybe it was a cloud that had briefly occluded the sun; maybe it was his own wariness; maybe it was nothing at all. But for the briefest of moments, something happened in her eyes. Or behind them. Or something. It was past before he had chance to decide whether it was real. “Yes we do. What kind of rope was it you wanted, sir?” He realised he had no idea how to describe it. He had simply imagined it in his mind, but didn’t have a clue what the proper term was. She obviously realised she was dealing with someone with learning difficulties. “Well, was it for a clothes line, perhaps?” “No, something thicker, I think.” “How thick?” For a moment, he thought she must be referring to him rather than the rope, as he stuttered and stammered like an imbecile, furious with himself but unable to come up with anything resembling intelligent conversation, partly through being unsure of what it was he had come to buy, partly due to being the sole object of this gorgeous woman’s attention. Playing the part of a simpleton to a tee, he held up his hand, with thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. “About like this, I should think,” was the best he could manage. “Just a moment, please.” The woman nodded and disappeared through the door behind the counter, which evidently led to a further storage area behind the shop. She came back a minute later with a six-inch piece of rope, which was exactly the kind he had in his mind. “How’s this?” she asked. “That’s fine, just right,” he said, now wanting nothing more than to complete the transaction and get out of the shop, before his blush became even more obvious, and crowned by an outbreak of perspiration on his forehead. “How much did you want?” she asked, and that triggered the dreaded beads of sweat, as he realised he didn’t even know the answer to that, probably the most basic question she could have asked. He had to say something, anything, just to get this over with. “About eight feet, I should imagine. Yes, eight feet, please.” She nodded again, disappeared again, and re-emerged again, this time with a longer piece of rope than before, neatly coiled and tied up with thin string. “Will that be all, sir?” “Thank you, yes.” She rattled up the charge on the old-style cash register. Four pounds eighty. Was that all it cost to…? He forced the question in his head to remain unfinished, handed over the exact money, and left the shop, feeling the woman’s gaze follow him all the way. Even when he was out of the shop and heading back down the road—when it was impossible that she could still be watching him unless she had actually followed him through the door—even then, he felt her eyes on his back. Rather than fading as he put distance between himself and the shop, the feeling continued to solidify, and by the time he reached the corner with his own street, he was convinced that indeed she must have slipped out of the shop to watch him. As he turned off Ladbroke Grove and into Cornwall Crescent, he did something of which he was immediately highly embarrassed: he turned around to look back towards the shop. She wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t there. God, what an idiot. He had read somewhere that people who were serious about what they were doing didn’t write letters; the letters were written by people who, consciously or not, hoped to be discovered before it was too late. A cry for help, as it was always called. Nevertheless, he really did need to write a letter, even though he was completely serious about the action he was about to take. He needed to at least try and explain his reasons, and—as far as possible, at least—absolve his family and friends from any guilt or recrimination. It was difficult, but eventually he had a version he was reasonably happy with, and he placed the three hand-written sheets of paper on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He had no idea how to tie a noose; he had seen plenty of pictures, watched many films which depicted hangings of various descriptions, but he didn’t know the first thing about how to go about actually tying one. He decided that a simple slip knot, whilst nowhere near so elegant or ominous-looking, would probably be almost as effective. After all, it only had to work once, didn’t it? The flat, although within a modern building, had been fitted out to give a rustic feel, which included, serendipitously, exposed wooden ceiling beams. Fake of course, but nevertheless wooden and sturdy, just right for his purpose. Having tied the rope around his neck, testing the knot to make sure that it would actually tighten as it was pulled and not simply stick or unravel, climbed on a chair, slung the other end around the beam and tied it tight, with enough slack to allow him to drop when he kicked the chair away, but not enough to allow his feet to reach the floor. This part of the procedure at least he had thought about and managed to get right. He stood on the chair for a moment, listening to his heartbeat, which was strangely relaxed. Almost normal, he guessed; if it hadn’t been for the exertions of tying the rope, he thought it might even have been a little slower than usual. Something else, he realised, was unusual; there was no traffic noise. Although it was still the holiday period for many people, the traffic in this part of the city never stopped completely; for two or three minutes, he stood listening, and during that time not a single vehicle passed beneath his first-floor window. Amazing. Almost like the world was holding its breath, waiting for him to…do it. He kicked the chair away, started to fall towards the floor, felt the bite of the rope as the knot slipped tight around his neck, jerking his head back, stretching his spine, wrenching each vertebra away from its neighbours. He had enough time to realise that it had worked. Then he thought no more. ~*~ Awakening was not a single, precise event. Coming back to consciousness was like swimming upwards through treacle: several times he broke the surface, only to be almost immediately sucked back down, with barely time to become aware of his surroundings. Finally, the conscious periods became longer, eventually joining up into an extended wakening, and he realised that he was lying on his back, looking up at a brightly lit white ceiling. There were lights, but they were incapable of giving out the amount of light that seemed to be attacking him from all sides. It must be daytime. Sounds came to him—bright, efficient, somehow medical sounds. He was in hospital. It didn’t work. They were the only three words he seemed to be able to remember out of a vocabulary amassed during his thirty years. It didn’t work; the verbal trio gambolled around his head, refusing to bring their friends into the game, refusing to go and play somewhere else. Round and round, over and over, the same three words. Eventually, more words seeped through into his mind, though reason was some way behind. He began to see brief images of his last recollections: the letter…the rope…the chair…the beam…climbing, tying, waiting, dropping… The fiery pain around his neck and shoulders told him that the knot must have tightened, so how had he ended up in here? He gave in to the pernicious tiredness that was again calling him down into the blackness. He dozed for a while—how long, he couldn’t say. When he awoke, the light had changed subtly. Though it was not totally artificial, he could tell that the natural daylight was much lower now. Something else was different, too: There was someone sitting by his bed. Automatically, he turned his head to look in the person’s direction. The movement caused the smouldering fire in his tortured neck to flare up as with a sudden blast of oxygen; a wave of pain coursed through him that threatened unconsciousness. He winced and drew in breath sharply, barely holding back a yell of agony. Resting his head back on the pillow, he took a few breaths, trying to keep as still as possible. Gradually, the flames of pain died down again and, keeping his head still, he looked across at the chair that was now occupied. The woman was even more beautiful than the last—and indeed, also the first—time he had seen her. She looked at him with those winter-woods eyes, which were somehow comforting and at the same time, slightly amused, though not in a malicious way. He knew the face, recognised it immediately; it was the woman from the hardware store. But his beleaguered brain was incapable of turning cognition into comprehension. Though he knew exactly who she was, he could find no earthly reason why she should be here. He decided to ask her, and started to speak. Or at least, he tried to start to speak. What actually came out of his mouth was the dry creak of a hundred-year-old hinge. The attempt to use his vocal chords had also caused the burning pain to spread to his throat, and he grimaced. Then the woman spoke. “Would you like a drink of water?” The voice was so soothing, for a moment he had an hallucinatory image of somehow drinking the voice, imagined it sliding down his throat like honey. He nodded. She leaned over and poured a little water from the pitcher on his bedside table into a plastic cup. She held it to his lips while he took a sip, spilling half of it down his chin. The half that ran down his throat, however, was the sweetest, coolest water he could ever remember. It quenched the dryness and extinguished the flames. He relaxed back into his pillow, enjoying the relief in his throat. After a minute, he decided to give speech another try; in case his vocal apparatus limited him to a single question, he decided to ask the most pressing one first. “What…what are you doing here?” A smile lit up her finely shaped features. “I’m here to see how you are, of course.” He supposed that was a reasonable explanation of why someone would be sitting by his bed, but it didn’t really answer the question. He tried another. “How did I get here? What happened?” The smile faded a little, to his disappointment, though even the serious expression that replaced it was beautiful in its own way. “You got here because you did a very stupid thing, but fortunately, it didn’t work.” “Why?” “Because, thank goodness, you chose me to buy your rope from.” Incomprehension must have been written all over his face, so much so that she smiled in spite of her attempts to remain in admonishing mood. “When you came into the shop today, I could tell…there was something, something in your eyes. When you asked for the rope, I knew.” She shrugged in a slightly coquettish manner. This was a woman who could not stay serious for long. “So, before I gave it you, I took the liberty of partially cutting through it.” An explanation for his current situation slowly began to become visible, as a road seen through a rain-washed windscreen. “It was the only thing I could do,” she continued. “I knew that if I just refused to sell you the rope, you’d go elsewhere. There was a look of determination in your eyes, too. And if I’d cut almost all the way through, the rope would have snapped straight away. If it had, I didn’t know what else you might try. So this was the only way.” She finished, looking rather pleased with herself. “I’m glad it worked.” He closed his eyes again for a while, though he wasn’t particularly tired. He just found it easier to think with his eyes closed at the moment. Her explanation had answered all the questions he had been asking himself since he awoke. In their place, he had many other questions, but at the same time, none at all. They all seemed somehow unimportant. Finally, after discarding most of them, one remained. There was one more thing he wanted to know, had to know. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was looking back, and somehow he knew that she had been looking at him all the time. He asked the single question. “What’s your name?” The smile was back, in fact it was now a grin. “It’s Eve. And I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Copyright © 2001 Simon King |