The Unexpected Occurrence of Thaddeus Hobble (15 page)

* * *

I didn't want to face Lucy. I didn't want to face anyone. My own mother had seen the whole thing happen with her own eyes – my fall into the abyss. There was a studio set up ready to interview me, ready to pry into my innermost feelings on the event, but I just wanted to die. Alone now for the briefest of moments as the live interview was being prepared during the ad break, I stared at myself in the dressing room mirror. Was the reflection even mine? It looked ghastly and inhuman, perverted beyond the depths of depravity. How could I have agreed to take part in this show? I'd been so confident about it, so in need of external attention. The hunger for instant fame had blocked the reality from my mind. I'd been shy and nervous, yes; so why had I plucked up the courage to put myself in such a position? But then I thought of David… and I wanted him. Suddenly I felt myself tugged away from this place and cast down elsewhere.

* * *

Stuart was sitting across from me at the breakfast table, grinning just a little too much. I don't know what he had to grin about. Was the prospect of a day of school ahead of him cause for such mirth? Being that little bit younger than me, he still had a yard's length to go before finishing his educational stint, but somehow I felt less advanced than he. That grin was all it took to make me feel he knew something I didn't, or had done something I hadn't. It took me all my strength not to yell at him and cause a scene. But, I wouldn't let him have that.

‘What are you plans for the day, Peter?' he suddenly asked me in a sly tone.

‘Yes, Peter, what
are
your plans for the day?' Mother rounded, squaring her eyes at mine as she joined us at the table with a slice of toast slathered in marmalade.

‘I have important work to undertake down at the police station,' said I, deciding to at least attempt some sort of fabrication.

‘What important work?' Stuart carried on, that nasty glint in his eye as the morning sun caught his bright blonde hair. I ducked away, surprised by its intensity.

‘Speak up,' Mother roared. ‘Another day of fannying around, is it?' She took in a mouthful of toast, and carried on talking: ‘You need a job, Peter, not this obsession with solving local mysteries.'

‘But, I feel drawn to it, Mother,' I cut in gingerly, shielding my face from the onslaught of moist toast shards shooting from her open mouth. Stuart giggled. ‘I feel the need to solve crimes.'

‘Rubbish! You're wasting your life, Peter. You need a job, not a passion. You don't want to end up one of these middle-aged losers living on welfare at home with their mothers, do you?'

I felt rather broken by this. Still, it was nothing new. I'd heard the same thing day in day out since finishing school, and Stuart knew exactly how to initiate such diatribes. That was how we left the discussion, for soon enough I had finished my own breakfast and headed out on my bicycle to Myrtleville police station. There, I knew I would find, amongst other interesting things, Lucy Davies. Short, dark-haired and round-bottomed, she was a sight almost too overbearing to look at. If you stared for too long, it would result in the extermination of your sight – nothing more would you wish to look upon, as you'd have already seen it all. We had very much hated each other at school, but now that the bonds and restraints of such a tired institutional set-up were banished from our young lives, we could go about constructing some form of connection.

She passed me in the main reception as I entered the station. I went to say hello, but she was already gone – possibly from my day altogether. Would there be another opportunity to see her again today? This drew the air from my lungs, the strength from my legs. I thought about going after her, then decided against it. I sat down and mulled things over. Then, she walked past again, heading back the way she'd come. I stood up and stepped towards her.

‘Lucy,' I greeted her, ‘hi!'

‘Hi,' she said back, carrying on her way. She pushed the double doors ahead of her open and stepped through. I followed beside her, covertly drawing in her scent when proximity permitted. ‘What do you want?' she asked, stopping and turning to face me.

‘Good question,' was all I could respond with. She rolled her eyes and carried on. ‘Actually, I, erm,' I thought, her pace difficult to allow thinking time. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to, you know…'

‘No, I don't know,' she responded indifferently, reaching Inspector Hastings' door.

‘Go out with me.' I took the plunge. All she did was laugh in my face, before knocking on the door.

‘Come in,' Hastings called out, and she did so, closing the door in my face. At once I was again plucked away and thrown down further along my life.

* * *

I walked into the hallway. It was dark, the curtains still drawn. I opened them and walked into the living room. Words cannot describe the sight that awaited me. There was Lucy, sprawled on the carpet and covered in blood. She was naked, her battered body left in a heap like a discarded pile of rubble. I dropped to my knees, weeping, shaking her and begging her to wake up.

* * *

The police had me lined up as her killer, and this was too much to contend with. I became cold, uncooperative and disruptive to their neat plans for a tidy case. Noose was the only one who believed me, for no other reason than he just did; but he had his own problems. As he was leading me through the police reception one day during investigations, his wife and their young son charged in and began yelling abuse at him.

‘How could you do this to your family?' she was screeching, the tears flowing and her face bright red. She was certainly older than her husband, and looked rather drawn and lifeless with it too. There was something not altogether sincere about her tears. Indeed, why had she come to Noose's place of work to have this argument? ‘Where is she then?' she went on.

‘Go away Sam, I'm working.'

‘Look,' she carried on, yanking at her son's arm and pushing him at Noose. ‘Just look at what you're ruining for a quick fling with that slut Nicola.' The boy looked up at his father, puzzled and as angry as his mother.

‘Please, we'll have this discussion later. I must get on with Peter's case.'

‘Ah, so this is
the
Peter Smith you're so obsessed with, is it? Don't bother coming home, Henry, we're finished.' She stormed off, dragging the boy with her.

‘But, Sam, wait,' he called back.

She turned back in the doorway, shouting: ‘Always about the job with you, never about your family. Well, you enjoy yourself. Poor Gary doesn't even know who his father is these days. He never sees you now, and he never will again.' She left, the door swinging open and shut for nearly a minute afterwards due to her force.

‘Bit awkward, that,' I said to Noose, trying to look sympathetic. I was not really in the mood for sympathy – nobody had shown me any – but this sergeant had at least shown me some form of care and interest. I tried desperately to block all the hurt and torment from my mind. Lucy was everything to me, I just had to make her nothing or her senseless and barbaric murder would be my undoing. I was good at forgetting and making everything nothing.

* * *

You, the reader of my memoirs or whatever they are, needn't be made privy to my current placing as I write this – all you need to know is that I am catapulted into an unfathomable place so distant that it is neither in the future nor past and I remember everything about all my prior existences. Did I ever make old age? Was I eternally reborn throughout history with diminishing returns? I have been a child so many times and I have been a young adult so many times as years, and human existence, have trundled on. I have also been trapped endlessly in what should only be described as my final life. My final life, or lives, beginning with my birth in the year 1975, is so vast and complex as to herniate even the most advanced mind. The reasons for being held back from moving on to the next life, as per the routine of The Space's gift, were to provide me with my only chance of living a full singular life – with the woman who was waiting to be by my side. However, I had not bargained for Reaping Icon and his games, least of all with the removal of my memory at his whim. He is that niggle at the back of your conscience pushing you to cruelty – pushing you to the sad truth about humanity. With the power to close The Space off from humanity and thus end our curse lying on my shoulders alone, I was the final link between The Great Collective and The Space. The problem was, I didn't know it. I am not living, I am dead. I am existing in an endless cycle of cruelty. To cease this incessant routine is to live.

Hello. My name is Peter Smith. I am dead.