Epitaph (6 page)

Dressed in just a bathrobe, Paul Crane was seated on the sofa gazing blankly at his television screen.

After stepping out of the shower he’d pulled the robe over his body and dried himself to avoid dripping on the carpet. After that he’d briefly considered having the sandwich he’d promised himself earlier but then decided against it and plumped for more vodka instead. He didn’t really feel hungry anyway. Why eat just for the sake of it?

He’d checked his mail and found that none of it was either interesting or important. The usual round of bills, circulars and other junk. Fortunately, none of the bills were for inordinately large amounts of money. It was one less thing to worry about and in this present climate anything he didn’t have to worry about was welcome.

There was an advertisement break on the television. Paul reached for the remote control. He didn’t want to sit and stare at a list of products that he could no longer afford, didn’t care to be told of holiday destinations he wouldn’t
be able to visit or know of the latest technological advances that were shortly to be beyond the reach of his suddenly limited finances. He flicked on to another channel.

More adverts. A never-ending conveyor belt of aspiration for all those who would never be able to afford the treasures shown to them. People like him now, he thought bitterly. Those who didn’t want to have products shoved down their throats. Paul suddenly felt as if he was the centre of some world-wide conspiracy designed to increase his misery and the realisation of how serious his plight actually was.

Looking at the adverts made him think about his own lost position, too, so that was another very good reason for switching them off, he told himself. He kept pressing the channel up key on his remote, becoming increasingly frustrated as each successive channel revealed yet more adverts. Paul pressed the button with more force each time, barely suppressing the urge to hurl the remote at the television.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered under his breath.

Salvation came in the shape of a music channel. No adverts were on display this time but it was showing viewers around the ridiculously ostentatious home of the latest rap star. The presenter was squealing appreciatively at each brainless utterance from the gold chain-bedecked subject of the piece, flicking her blonde hair and spewing words like ‘awesome’ and ‘amazing’ with a regularity that made him sick. Paul decided that if it was a choice between the adverts or a glimpse into the privileged lifestyle of some talentless rich bastard with more money than she knew what to do with then the adverts were preferable.

He changed channels again and caught the tailend of a music video.

More tuneless posturing, this time from some boy band that had won a recent television talent show that he’d been fortunate enough to miss. Paul glared at them as they finished performing their latest single, wishing all kinds of ill upon them and hating them for not having to worry about money.

Then the adverts began again. Food. Cars. Insurance. A never-ending progression of images and sounds designed purely and simply to make people think they needed what they were being shown. Paul let out a weary breath and thought how good he himself had been at that.

Well, if you’d been that good you’d still have a job, wouldn’t you?

The voice in his head was irritatingly persuasive.

‘I didn’t lose my job because I wasn’t any good,’ he said aloud and instantly felt slightly ridiculous for answering his own rhetorical question.

First sign of madness, talking to yourself
.

‘Fuck off,’ he said to the empty air inside the flat although the words were directed at the voice inside his head.

The voice of reason?

The voice of truth, perhaps.

Paul shook his head, irritated by his own internal dialogue.

He hadn’t lost his job because of his own ineptitude. That was a fact, and no amount of internal dialogue or any number of voices inside his head could persuade him otherwise. He’d been unlucky. That was it. Pure and simple. It hadn’t been his fault. There was no way he’d have been
able to avoid what happened to him. The choice had been taken away from him. If someone had offered him an ultimatum and told him that unless he did such and such a thing by this and that date then he would have done it. But no one did. Nobody offered him the opportunity to decide his own destiny. It was decided for him by others
(more powerful?)
who cared nothing for him or the way he lived no matter how they tried to persuade him that they did. They didn’t give a shit. Bosses didn’t care about their employees. They pretended to take an interest in them because that was how things worked. That was the accepted
modus operandi
in the workplace. No one really gave a fuck about anyone else. They merely went through the motions of seeming to be concerned because that was what was expected. If a worker felt more appreciated then he’d perform more capably. Fuck that. Paul Crane had never needed anyone to care about him or praise his work. All he’d ever needed was money. That was all the praise he wanted. All the recognition he sought. All the laudability he strove for.

A compliment and a caring word or a pay rise?

No fucking contest. Never had been. Never would be. Stick your compliments and your fake sincerity up your arse. Just pay me.

But no one was going to do that now, were they? No one was going to pay him because no one wanted to employ him.

The realisation seemed to hit him once again and he felt a cold shiver run the length of his spine.

You’re finished. It’s over. Everything you ever dreamed of, everything you ever worked for. All gone. Like it was never there.

He poured the remainder of the vodka into his glass,
cradled the expensive crystal between his palms for a moment and then drank, surprised that he wasn’t paralytic by now. He was normally a bit of a lightweight when it came to drinking. Five or six shorts and he was well on his way to being merry.

But situations change circumstances, don’t they? Or whatever that phrase is.

Paul sucked in a deep breath and allowed his head to loll back against the sofa.

His head felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton wool but he hadn’t yet acquired that feeling of total numbness and insensibility that he wanted so badly. How much more would he have to drink before that merciful oblivion enveloped him?

He thought about going to bed. Perhaps lying down in his bedroom would bring the nothingness he so badly wanted. Paul glanced at his watch.

Forget it. There’s no way you’ll be able to sleep just yet.

Might as well stay here and stare at the TV. Watch adverts all night. You might as well watch them, you won’t be making any more. Ha, ha.

‘Yeah, very fucking funny,’ he murmured, changing channels again.

Gina Hacket groaned loudly as the mug hit the kitchen floor, slipping from her hand as she dried it.

It shattered immediately, pieces of the decorated ceramic spraying around like shrapnel.

Gina crouched down and hurriedly began to gather the pieces. Maybe there was some way she could salvage the mug, glue it back together, perhaps. However, as she collected the shards she saw that was a vain hope. It had broken into five distinct pieces but there were also dozens of much smaller fragments scattered across the tiles around her.

She held up the largest piece of the mug, gripping it by its still intact handle.

It should have read To Mum and Dad. The piece she was holding bore the legend

TO MUM AN

Laura had decorated it herself during an art class at school earlier in the year and Gina felt an inordinately deep sense of loss at breaking the mug. She tried to tell herself that it was, after all, only
a mug but the fact that her daughter had painted those words on the ceramic seemed to make the loss infinitely more keen. For one ridiculous second, Gina thought she was going to burst into tears. She remained crouching on the floor for a moment longer then slowly straightened up, set the five pieces of broken mug on the nearest worktop and retrieved the dustpan and brush from a cupboard nearby. Wearily she set about collecting the smaller fragments.

Why, she asked herself, did it have to be that particular mug? Why not the one with the football crest on it (although her husband would have complained if that had fallen victim to her carelessness) or the chipped one with the picture of a bulldog on it? Any one but the one that had been broken.

No good crying over spilt milk, she told herself. Or broken mugs for that matter. The joke didn’t seem so amusing as she dumped the tiny fragments into the pedal bin and returned the dustpan and brush to their cupboard.

She checked the oven, ensuring that the casserole she’d prepared earlier wasn’t cooking too quickly. She and Laura would have their dinner at five-thirty, as they always did. She’d keep some of the food warm for Frank for when he got home. Whenever that might be. As she inspected the casserole, Gina caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass of the oven door.

She ran a hand through her hair and noticed that her mascara was smudged. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed that particu lar fact in the hotel.

The hotel.

Her thoughts drifted back to earlier in the day. She experienced that same peculiar and disconcerting mixture of feelings. Guilt mingled with exhilaration. Shame combined with pleasure. It was always the same. After every snatched meeting she ran the same gamut of emotions. Before the event she was like a child
the day before her birthday. Almost breathless with excitement and longing and then, when it was all over again, the darkness descended upon her in the form of self-loathing and doubt.

Her affair had been going on for ten months, although Gina wasn’t sure if affair was the appropriate word to describe her liaisons. She met with a man periodically and fucked him. That was a more apt description of her current status. The word affair tended to imply candlelit dinners in expensive and intimate restaur ants followed by passionate lovemaking in fine hotels on crisply laundered sheets, not hurried fondling in a car followed by sweaty shagging in a Travelodge.

It was the second time they’d embarked on such a clandestine relationship (although the word relationship elevated it to something that it really wasn’t). She’d known him, worked for him, nine years earlier, when she’d been in her early twenties. Their first encounter had lasted for six torrid months before she’d become pregnant with Laura although, Gina reminded herself, there was never any question of the child being anyone’s other than her husband’s. By mutual consent they’d finished the first affair and Gina had left work to concentrate on her daughter.

During the interim they’d spoken occasionally on the phone or seen each other around the town but, only a year or so ago, they’d met up for lunch and Gina had reached for that excitement she’d experienced before with him and agreed to begin seeing him again.

She didn’t do it because she wanted to hurt her husband. She knew how much he’d been hurt by her first affair. She knew he loved her and would do absolutely anything for her.

Sometimes she was grateful that she was still married to him, that he hadn’t demanded she leave after discovering her infidelity. But he hadn’t because he cared too much for their daughter. He had said at the time that he would rather they stayed together
for the sake of Laura and Gina had agreed. She was relieved that her daughter had never discovered what she’d done because it would have been impossible to explain that she’d done it because the crushing normality of everyday life was sometimes just too much to bear. The daily routine just too soul-destroying and without hope. She wasn’t excusing herself. She wasn’t looking for salvation. She was just trying to explain her actions to herself.

And what would happen if Frank ever found out about this latest indiscretion? Would he walk out and take Laura with him? Where, she reasoned, was he going to go? No, if he ever found out he would be hurt, as he had been before. Deeply and probably irrevocably hurt, but he would insist they worked their way through the problem once more and he would never stop loving her. And he would blame her lover and not her. He would be angry with her but he would lay the blame for the affair squarely at the door of the man she was sleeping with. She wasn’t taking this for granted; she just knew him. That was his way. If confrontation could be avoided then Frank would find a way. And he would never jeopardise Laura’s happiness. He would do everything in his power to ensure that their daughter was oblivious. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. That was Frank’s way. Gina didn’t hate him for it. She didn’t think him any less of a man for it. That was just the way it was. However, in the meantime she would do all she could to prevent discovery. The feelings of guilt and shame might have been strong after the deed was done but before and during made those negative feelings almost worthwhile.

Gina returned to the washing-up, being more careful with the successive items of crockery as she cleaned and dried them. She glanced across at the electronic clock on the cooker and noted the time.

Laura should be home soon.