Thursday 1st January.
For the sake of Auld Lang Syne the weather is dismal –
a well worn, well- known uniform of grey allied only with
ducks.
With the binding tight, a new page is turned. The taut spine
ripples into veins on the leather-bound cover. Every opening
feeds a new tributary until the mass converge running into
the slipstream of life which this year is called 2004.
As life passes by, new chapters will be written for each
new day, caressed by a silky ribbon divider that becomes
the lonesome boatman on this river we call life. Nobody
sees what this boatman knows. Waves of words, highs and
lows lap his bough, run him aground, ride the storms and
sometimes lay anchor in calm waters. But he’s never
run the fury of a storm called truth, always managed to
steer clear. This year though he is about to set sail.
Today I killed a man. The wind is in my sails.
I trussed him up like a Christmas Turkey in a butcher's
shop window and let him hang. It’s the right time
of year for disposing of dead wood. Rubbish skips everywhere
house the remains of the season’s festive trees. Their
lifeblood seeping as honey coloured sap. Now, congealed
it slowly cries from every orifice.
I was methodical. I covered every angle and made sure I
did the job right. But now I write this as a dead man walking,
and I fear. I am starting to feel afraid. Afraid of what
will happen to me and what people might say, I can hear
them now. But who are they to judge? They should be patting
themselves on the back. They killed him.
I watched him over a long period of time and knew him better
than most, that’s why it was easy, I knew his every
move. But he was elusive, very elusive. On the surface he
looked normal, with a wife and child this model father was
the vaccination of immorality. He was paid reasonably well,
and he dressed and groomed to perfection. He had friends
- they may beg to differ, but he did acquaint himself with
a few. On the very rare occasions that he did socialise,
his pecking order in the brood would be the grain, mostly
noticeable when he went to the toilet or bar and a glance
would confirm that feeding had begun. When he returned the
gluttons then regurgitated their belched laughter, then
a boring conversation to break the silence.
His friends or foes, whichever is preferred, were not too
perfect either, and given more time I may have witnessed
them pull a wishbone of hindsight. Of the few acquaintances
he had, one sticks out. This guy was thirty-something with
a body weight to match. He was single and living with his
mother. He was a mummy’s boy, a curtain-twitching
busybody. A gossip whose apron strings hung on every word
and movement.
The type of man who gained comfort and sought approval by
gossiping about other people’s shortcomings, diverting
attention from his own. There was also the clichéd
confidence building materialistic boys toys. The car, top
of the range and always shone to perfection, the thick and
chunky jewellery hanging around his bulldog neck. All in
all, he was the dog without the bone, digging holes everywhere.
These people with their sad and lonely existences prompted
my action. One day the Bulldog will sit on his hind legs,
ease his heckles and see the error of his ways, but for
now I will present him with a gift called guilt. When he
does hear about his acquaintance's demise, rest assured
he will cry his crocodile tears among the crowd, use the
soundbytes to his advantage and over a cheap toast pick
another sad, unsuspecting victim to bully and harangue.
I pity them.
As my turkey hung I could hear his heartbeat and feel his
fear, yet sense his relief. He had lived his life as the
subject of ridicule, a social misfit to the inverted snobs
surrounding him, the Jack the lads who scorned the very
thought that he was different.
I wonder who will find him. Will it be his wife? She would
be the most likely. If so what would her first reaction
be? Shock, then anger, but in the aftermath when all’s
said and done she could sit silently and reminisce about
the good times. About when their only child was born and
the joy that that brought to them - watching her little
eyes, pools of eyes looking to them for the first time in
recognition of their voices. Her first steps, first words.
Although I have attached feelings of fear to my actions,
I cannot feel any guilt, this will be left to many others,
those with vested interest, but not I. They see his wife
walking the road alone with the pushchair, unable to give
her a lift, not knowing how to break the awkward silence.
They’d pass places whilst making connections. The
church where they had got married. The graveyard- they would
pass the graveyard and she’d glance out of the window
while quietly mouthing the words "Hello love".
His daughter would light up with a big smile and say "Hiya
daddy". No, I will leave that guilt to others.
I started off my diary entry sailing into a storm called
truth. With wind in my sails I’ve made it to the other
side, but I have made it there in more ways than one. Whoever
should happen to be reading this entry say "Hello"
to its author. He is the man hanging beside where you stand.
I wonder if I am smiling? I was when I wrote this. I was
happy and at ease because I knew I was about to kill this
man. A man that I did not like…myself.
At last I have a resolution that I can stick too. My New
Year's resolution has become a success.
