Authors: John Marrs
What terrified me the most was the fear of not knowing what lay beyond my life. My best hope was the perpetual nothingness of purgatory. The worst was a continuation of how I was living now, only with flames scorching my heels. I wanted death to remove me from that misery and not replace it with something equally as ghastly.
But how could I be sure it would? There was no guidebook or wise old sage to confirm I wouldn’t be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. So my only escape route was a risk I became too afraid to take. But was it the only escape route?
‘What if you just walked away?’
The voice came so suddenly and so unexpectedly, I thought it belonged to somebody else. I looked around but the woods remained empty.
‘Your death doesn’t necessarily have to be as a result of a physical act,’ the voice continued, almost singsong like. ‘What if you just erased the last thirty-three years and simply disappeared?’ I nodded slowly.
‘You can never be part of the lives of anyone you know again. You’ll have to force yourself not to worry about them or contact them again. She’ll assume you’ve had an accident but can’t be found, and then eventually she’ll come to terms with her loss and move on. It’ll be better for all of you in the long run.’
While I couldn’t kill myself, I could do all of that. I wondered why I hadn’t considered it earlier. But when you’re sinking in the depths of depression and think you’ve found an escape route, you stop searching for an alternative.
‘Start again tomorrow, Simon. You’ve wasted enough time already.’
*
I barely slept that night. Instead I imagined what my new life might entail, how I might reinvent and improve myself and where I could run to. I came up with few answers, but the excitement of the unknown superseded any fears.
I walked into the woods one last time that morning, where all of the madness had begun. And I said goodbye to every significant person in my life, blowing each one into the air like dandelion seed heads until just one remained.
There’s less motivation to run when you’re not being chased. So before alarm bells rang, I took a deep breath, released my clenched fists and picked myself up from the tree trunk.
I placed the towrope back in its rightful place and left the woods as a man who no longer existed.
1.15pm
It’s remarkable how much ground you can cover by walking without purpose. With no direction in mind or inner compass to guide me one way or the other, I resolved to keep moving.
I followed the bright globe in the sky illuminated by a billion tiny light bulbs across fields, pastures and sprawling housing estates, through tiny hamlets and over dual carriageway bridges. I passed a sign that read ‘You are now leaving Northamptonshire, thank you for visiting’ and smiled. That’s just what I’d been for all my years - a visitor.
Suffused by a renewed sense of optimism, I recognised I’d always been too self-involved to absorb the world around me, or to appreciate its entirety. I’d never taken pleasure from simple delights like picking raspberries from roadside bushes, eating apples from orchards or drinking fresh water from brooks.
But modern life wasn’t like the Mark Twain novels I’d read as a boy. Pollution had embittered the taste of the raspberries; the apples were sour and water didn’t really taste like water unless it was mixed with fluoride and flowed from a tap.
None of that bothered me. My new life had begun and I was there to learn, to understand and to enjoy. By retreating I could advance. I had nowhere and everywhere to go. I would start afresh as the man I wanted to be and not the man she had made me.
4pm
The sun began to weigh heavy on my shoulders and my forehead was sore to the touch, so I untied my shirt from around my waist and used it to cover my head. A road sign ahead revealed I was a mile and a half from the Happy Acres holiday park we’d once driven past on our way to somewhere else to play happy families.
Ramshackle and surrounded by barbed wire fencing, on the surface its name appeared ironic. She’d said it reminded her of a documentary we’d watched on Auschwitz. But the owners of dozens of cars packed with families staying in its shabby holiday homes didn’t share her view.
I entered through the open gates, held together by brown, flaked paint scraps and rust. Thirty or so static homes were positioned in a large arc. Others had been thrown around in more remote locations by overgrown hedgerows like an afterthought. Children filled the air with squeals; mums and dads played cricket with them and grandparents sat listening to crackly medium wave stations on portable transistor radios. I envied the simplicity of their happiness.
A small café kiosk caught my eye, bordered by sun-faded plastic tables and chairs. Checking my pockets for change I grinned when I found a crumpled £20 note that must have survived the last washday. Already the new Simon was proving luckier than the last. I ordered a cola from a disinterested girl behind the counter who rolled her eyes as my change cleared out her cash register.
I remained in my chair well into the evening as a spectator, studying the holidaymakers like it was my first visit to earth. I’d forgotten what family life could be like; the way we were before she disembodied me.
Memories of our holiday to Benidorm a year earlier flickered to life; the apartment we rented, the endless fun the swimming pool gave the children and how she’d spent much of it with morning sickness. Then I recalled the dark clouds rolling across the sky only I could see.
I stopped myself. I would not think about her and the repercussions of her actions. I was no longer a bit part player in her pantomime.
8.35pm
The smell of barbecues and scented candles wafted through the caravan park as night approached. I presumed I’d been invisible to everyone’s radar until a bare-chested, middle-aged man ambled towards me at the cafe. He explained his wife spotted me throughout the afternoon sitting alone and invited me to join his family for some grilled food.
I gratefully obliged and filled my stomach with charred hotdogs until my belt buckle pinched my belly. I listened more than I spoke. And when they asked questions about my origins and my length of stay, I lied. I explained I’d been inspired by the cricketer Ian Botham who’d recently completed a sponsored charity walk from John O-Groats to Lands End. So I was doing the same, for the homeless.
I quickly learned how easy it was to be dishonest, especially to people who were willing to accept you on face value. No wonder my wife and mother had found it so easy. My hosts were impressed and when they offered me a £10 note for my chosen charity, I neither felt guilty nor the need to explain how my charity began at home.
Thanking them, I made my excuses and headed towards a cluster of caravans on the perimeter of the field. It wasn’t hard to fathom which lay empty and after a quick flip of a metal latch on a rear-window, I discreetly climbed inside one.
The air was stale; the pillow was lumpy and stained with the sweat of strangers and the starched woollen blanket scratched my chest. But I’d found myself a bed for the night. I wiped dirt from the inside of the window, looked out at my new surroundings, and smiled at the gifts a life without complication was bringing me.
Both my body and my mind were shattered. My calf muscles and heels throbbed, my forehead was singed and my lower back ached. But I paid scant attention to temporary ailments.
Instead, I slept as soundly as a newborn baby that night. I had no dreams, no plans and most importantly, no regrets.
***
Today, 8.25am
She sat in the dining room with her laptop computer resting on the mahogany table. She looked at the photograph of New York’s Fifth Avenue printed on the placemat underneath it and smiled. She hoped they’d find the time to return there before the year was out.
According to the date on her inbox, James’ most recent email had been sent in the early hours of that morning. It had been a month since her eldest son had last flown home to visit, but travelling around the world was part and parcel of his life now and she’d grown accustomed to it.
Despite his demanding career, he regularly made time to keep her up to speed with his antics. And when he hadn’t jotted down a few lines, even just to say hello or that he’d write more later, she’d log on to his website or Facebook profile to read his updates. Robbie had tried to demonstrate how easy it was to Skype, but she’d only just mastered how to record her soaps on the digibox. One thing at a time, she’d told him.
The art of picking up a fountain pen and writing a letter was something she missed. She was disappointed that most people found it too time-consuming or old fashioned to put pen to paper instead of finger to keyboard. But it had been years since she’d last sat down and written anything herself, apart from her signature on business contracts.
Emily had only just left the house and would be back in the evening to collect her for dinner. That’d give her ample time to reply to James and order those biographies she’d been meaning to buy from Amazon. But before she could begin any of that, a knock at the door interrupted her. She removed her reading glasses, closed the lid of her laptop and went to answer it.
“Have you forgotten your purse again darling?” she shouted as she pulled down the handle. But when the door opened, Emily wasn’t standing there. It was an older gentleman.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were my daughter,” she smiled.
The man smiled back, removed his Fedora and slicked back some of the stray grey hairs the brim had loosened.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He didn’t reply but held her gaze and waited, patiently. She noted the quality of his three-piece tailored suit and his Mediterranean tan and she was quite sure from just a cursory glance that his pale blue tie was pure silk.
Although she felt a little awkward by his continued silence, she didn’t feel threatened. He was attractive, well groomed and something about him felt familiar. The cogs in her brain spun quickly. She never forgot a face, so why couldn’t she place him? He wasn’t from the village, unless he’d recently moved into the new estate behind the farm.
Maybe she’d met him in Europe on a buying trip, but then how would he have known where to find her? No that’s just silly, she thought.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, politely.
After another pause, the man opened his mouth and began to speak.
“Hello Kitty, it’s been a long time.”
She was puzzled. His eyes… his beautiful green eyes… she knew them… and nobody called her Kitty except for her father and…
Without warning, her stomach dropped like she’d fallen thirty storeys in a split second.
CHAPTER TWO
Northampton, Twenty-Five Years Earlier
June 5, 4.45am
My eyes stung like they’d been splashed with vinegar. In the space of twenty-four hours, I’d barely closed them. My whole life revolved around waiting for Simon to come home.
I went to bed in the same clothes I’d worn all day, as if putting on my nightie meant accepting it had drawn to a close without him. And as much as I was willing for it to end, the thought of living through a second day like that frightened me.
I left our bedroom door ajar so I wouldn’t miss the sound of the telephone’s ring or a policeman’s knock. And I lay perfectly still on top of the quilt because being trapped between sheets and blankets might cost precious seconds in the race to get downstairs. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I was so anxious, the slightest crack or creak had me on tenterhooks in case Simon was dashing across the landing to tell me it’d all been a silly misunderstanding.
I imagined how he’d then hold me tighter than I’d ever been held before and those horrible twenty-four hours would become a bad memory. Those long, long, hours since I’d last shared my bed with him. Since I’d last heard him whistling ‘Hotel California’ to himself as he mowed the lawn. Since I’d last watched him catch ladybirds in jam jars with Robbie. Since I’d last rinsed his stubble from the sink. Since I’d last felt his warm breath on my neck as he slept.
My eyes were still open when dawn broke. It was a new day but I still ached from the torture of the last.
8.10am
“Where’s Daddy?” asked James suddenly, his eyes looking past the kitchen door and towards the hallway.
“Um, he’s gone to work early,” I lied, and swiftly changed the subject.
I’d tried my best to pretend everything was as normal when the kids woke up. But as they finished their toast and packed books inside bags, my hugs lasted longer than usual as I tried to feel you inside them. Caroline arrived to take them to school for me while I poured my fourth coffee of the morning and waited for Roger.
“That’s just going to put you more on edge,” she said, pointing to the mug.
“It’s the only thing keeping me sane,” I replied and paused to stare at my hands to see if they were still wobbling.
“What if he doesn’t come back, Caroline?” I whispered out of James’ earshot. “How can I carry on without him?”
“Hey, hey, hey, let’s not think like that,” she replied, holding my hand. “After the hell the two of you have been through, he’ll move heaven and earth to come home if he can.”
“But what if he can’t?”
“You mark my words, they will find him.” I nodded because I knew she was right.
“I’ll take Emily with me as well if you like,” she suggested, already pulling the pink stroller from the cupboard under the stairs. “You should try and get some sleep.”
“Thank you,” I replied gratefully, just as her partner arrived, accompanied by a stern-looking uniformed policewoman Roger introduced as WPC Williams. Caroline ushered the kids out of the back door before they saw my visitors. We sat at the kitchen table and they took out their pens and pocket notebooks.
“When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs Nicholson?” WPC Williams began. I didn’t like her scowl when she said ‘your husband’.