The End; The Beginning

            I could bore you with paragraphs of descriptions portraying the multi-coloured flowers, the quaint country church, the aunts and uncles and the uncomfortable badly fitting and hilarious morning suits. I could even tell you of the panic as I sent Ed to pick up the rings.

            The worst part of it, though, was the fretful anxiety. I was nervous about the blackmailer: could he or she really ruin the day? How would it be done? I was nervous about Alice’s words the other day, and my own feelings, Sharona’s feelings, my parents, even Ed. I was nervous as hell.

            But I’m not going to tell you about that. Instead I’m going to pass straight to the moment that ended this last year and started the rest of my life.

 

*

 

            “And now, before we go any further, it is of course my duty to ask whether there is anyone amongst you who may object to this union between Thomas Evans and Sharona Sophia?”

            For some reason I turned to face my audience and in that moment time slowed. I looked out over all their faces and in them saw my life. I saw all those before me who had married and saw my future. How many had settled? How many had made rash decisions?

            I saw the events of the last year, since Annabell left me almost exactly a year ago, with new clarity.

            I turned slowly to look at Ed and I realised now that everyone in the room held their breath, as though they too knew that nothing further might be done until this moment had passed. For the first time in so many years I was master, not only of myself, but of the assembled masses. They waited for me.

            I looked into Ed’s eyes and saw bravery suppress truth. My mind was decided.

            “I object.” I said. My firm, deep, unwavering voice echoed about the silent church.

            Nobody murmured. They waited still. I allowed a moment to pass. I was aware of Sharona by my side, unmoving.

            “The time has come to be brave,” I said, taking Sharona’s hand by my side but still looking out, into the eyes of the audience. “I’ve spent my life being swept along by the passions of others but in this last year two marvellous individuals have taught me, in their own way, that to be true to yourself is to be kind to those around you. Self-deception is the cause of all our greatest pain: it is time we began to follow our hearts and forget our rationality. A mind can always be persuaded, but a discontented heart can never be quietened. Today, there shall be a better way.”

            I took Ed’s hand and brought him around in front of me. He was smiling now and looked at me with an expression of perfect pride. I turned to Sharona and she too smiled to me, blessing me with this sanction of my words. I leant towards her and kissed her tenderly on the cheek, brushing aside the dark hair that escaped from her careless style for the last time. A tear formed in her eyes and she allowed it to spill down across her cheek, though her smile did not break. I brought her around too, opposite Ed. I stood above them now, as though I were the reverend and they the couple to be.

            “These two are my best friends and my family. I love them both with all my heart and I always will for all they’ve taught me of bravery, adventure and honest friendship. So loyal have they been to this duty of educating my weakened soul that they too have fallen foul of their most denounced vice. They have denied the truth in their own hearts. For my sake they have stood back from one another, time and again, while all the while it is they who have been in love.”

            Ed and Sharona looked down at their feet like shy teenagers.

            “Don’t be like that now!” I said. “As I have said, now is the time to be brave!”

            I still held their hands and now I brought them together. As their fingers touched they both shook and drew breath. Still the audience was held in the grip of something magical. Nobody dared whisper or shuffle. All eyes were on the barely touching fingers of Ed and Sharona: the divine image of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel – the spark of life.

            All at once Ed looked up and stepped into Sharona. He took her in his arms and kissed her with a gentle passion. It pierced me straight to the heart and my soul was shredded, the parts separating in the wake of the deepest cut. The layers were torn from me, one by one. But only at the darkest, innermost depths could the softest, hottest, most heart-breaking essences be found and felt: truth, beauty and this picture of fate’s acquittal before me.

 

*

 

            “That’s enough!” came a loud, female voice from the back of the church. “Yeah, you heard me! This is all nonsense – cock and bull.”

            Jane came striding down the aisle towards Ed and Sharona. For a moment I caught the old look of terror in Ed’s eyes. Jane stopped half way along, however, and span, glaring wildly at the audience.

            “Tell me you don’t all swallow this rubbish? You think this is romantic, do you? Do you see this paragon of honest friendship and passion? I’ll tell you of it; I’ll tell you of him,” she pointed at Ed, without looking at him. “He’s married! To me! Yes, that’s right.” She quietened slightly. “I thought he loved me too, once.”

She looked down at the floor for a moment and then suddenly glared at me. She took several steps toward me but I didn’t shrink away. Not this time.

“And you!” she said to me, “You’d better not be throwing all this away because of those blackmail notes you’ve been getting! They’re his doing too. I’ve had him watched, I know everything about him.”

I started slightly but remained calm. Her words made sense and came as little surprise. I’ve always known it was Ed, somewhere inside. He’s complicated and so are his methods, but no one should ever be dismissed for a single transgression or flaw. Nor should a man be forsaken for two, for in truth I knew of the next revelation as well.

Two police officers walked down the aisle now, approaching Ed.

“Thank you, Ms Donavon, we’ll take it from here,” said the first.

“Mr Donavon, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of obtaining a money transfer by deceit. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be recorded and later produced in court. Equally, anything you fail to mention now that you later rely on in defence may lead to an inference taken against you in court. Do you wish to reply?”

“This is about the money coming from my account, isn’t it?” I asked, interrupting.

“Yes sir, it is.”

“Good, well I’m terribly sorry to have put you to this inconvenience but I had meant to inform you that I wished to withdraw my statement. While going through all the paperwork to sort out this wedding that you gentlemen have kindly attended I realised that some time ago I had signed off permission to Mr Donavon to withdraw the questioned amounts from my account. As you will see, if you check our records, the two of us have lived together for the past year. The transfers relate to various sundry property bills. Again, I’m extremely sorry to have put you to this trouble but I’m afraid you must release Mr Donavon. He’s an innocent man.”

“I see,” said the officer. He contemplated the tale for a moment. “You know I’m going to have to file a report on this. My superiors may wish to consider a charge of perverting the course of justice against you. Do you maintain your withdrawal?”

“I do,” I said, for the only time today, the only time I could have meant it.

“Very well,” he said, and they departed.

 

“Jane,” I said, “we’re all moved by your words and I can’t sufficiently express my sympathy for you, but I won’t turn from Ed now. It seems you know more of his actions than I, but you don’t know his heart. This last year he stood up for me and fought my battles, physical and psychological; he pushed me into battles of my own; he saved me from a cave-in and forged through a life-threatening blizzard with me. He placed my salvation ahead of his own happiness. He shot me with an arrow when I needed it the most, when no one else could’ve done it. I won’t be moved from his side.”

Jane lifted up her head and narrowed her eyes.

“I’m not done with you Donavon!” she declared. But she too departed.

I turned to Ed and he came slowly towards me. His eyes were wet and he embraced me warmly. He whispered his thanks, his apologies. I watched Sharona over his shoulder. She held my gaze almost shyly and finally broke, turning her eyes demurely to the ground.

I pulled myself back from Ed and placed one hand at the base of his neck, flesh to flesh. I looked him in the eye and gave him half a smile.

I turned and began to walk from the church. The spell over the audience broke and they came to their feet and began to applaud raucously. I looked down bashfully and smiled. My father leapt to his feet and slapped me on the back before standing behind me, clapping for everything he was worth. My mother’s voice was the final sound to accompany me:

“How can you congratulate him? Do you have any idea how much this all cost?”

 

*

 

            Outside the church I discovered, appropriately, that it had begun to rain hard. I strode right out into the midst of it and laughed loudly. I span and allowed the droplets to trickle down off my hair, over the contours of my face and on beneath my shirt, wrecking my expensive suit.

            I flipped a coin and began to walk to my left down the road, leaving them all behind me. My mind was pure sensation, nothing else mattered.

            After no more than a minute I heard a voice on the wind.

            “Tom!” she shouted.

            I paused and raised my face to the heavens, waiting and feeling the water splash over me.

            “Tom!” she shouted again, closer now. Almost by my side.

            And then, breathless, she was there.

            “Tom, that was wonderful, I’m so proud of you.” She whispered into my ear.

            I turned and smiled at her. Her dress was wet through and stuck to the curves of her body, a figure I’d so often admired, and denied.

            I laughed and took her by the hand. She squeezed my hand and we began to walk slowly along the road, listening to the patter of rain across the fields and forests about us.

            “It’s bad luck to get married on a rainy day anyway,” I said.

            “Let’s not talk about luck,” she said.

            “Fate?”

            “Are they any different?”

            “Ever so! For only one truly exists.”

            We had paused our walk and turned to face one another. Alice placed her hands on my chest and then shyly removed the red rose from my lapel. It was in a sorry state but she held it to her cheek nonetheless and allowed its petals to caress her skin. She closed her eyes and parted her lips, just slightly.

            I kissed her, long and lingering; soft, red and heart-breaking.

Guilt, Grief, Horror.

          I’m sick to the core, physically and at heart.

            I don’t know where I was when I woke this morning, but I can be sure that I wasn’t alone in that bed last night. I’ve got the photographic proof: I found a Polaroid stapled to a note by my side:

 

            “Shall we do this the easy way, or the hard way? I’ll be watching. Don’t go through with it.”

 

            I was handcuffed to the bed. I glanced around and found a key lying on the bed. I just about managed to unlock the cuffs with my spare hand and mouth in awkward combination.

           

            Then I sat, looking at that picture, paralysed with guilt, grief, horror. What the hell happened last night?

Stag Night

          It turns out Ed has organised a surprise stag night for me tonight, the bastard. He’s just given me five minutes’ warning so I’ve got to get ready. I’ll report tomorrow!

The Final Goodbye

          I’m officially on wedding leave now. My clerks don’t believe I’m really getting married. They think I have commitment issues and they consider me thoroughly capable of inventing a wedding as a mere pretext to take more time off. Have I earned nothing through the last few months of solid service?

            Annabell called me today.

            “Were you ever going to tell me?”

            “No.”

            “Can I come?”

            “No!”

            “So the last five years meant nothing to you then?”

            “Four.”

            “Well… I’m happy for you. Bye Tom.”

Pauses Mean More than Words

          I got a call from Alice this afternoon, whilst I finished off my work.

            “Hi there Tom!”

            “Hi Alice!”

            “I… just wanted to say thanks for inviting me on Saturday.”

            “That’s okay, thanks.”

            She paused.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t help clean up. I hope it wasn’t too much bother for you.”

            “It’s fine, really.”

            “Okay. Well…”

            She was going to end the call. I found myself somehow moved.

            “Alice!”

            “Yes?” she replied, quickly.

            “I… Will you come to the wedding on Saturday?”

            “Oh. I don’t know.”

            “Ah, I’m sure you have plans… I’d love to see you there though, if you become free, that is.”

            “Okay.”

            I wondered what to say. Alice wasn’t helping. Perhaps she wondered too.

            “Okay,” I said, “I guess I’ll speak to you soon then?”

            “Yes. Bye Tom.”

            “B…”

            “…Tom!”

            “Yes?”

            “Tom, I like you,” she said quickly, then stopped dead and silent for a moment. “All I’m saying is… don’t make any decisions that aren’t your own. Please? Just make sure everything feels right.”

            I thought about it.

            “Thanks Alice.”

            I hung up.

Dilligaf

          A bit of lightness for today’s entry. This was my second to last day of work before I go on holiday for the wedding and honeymoon. You’d think a man about to be married would be embarking upon a magnificent career and yet I found myself today at Bracknell Magistrates Court dealing with a youth.

            The kid was eleven years old and stood charged with the grave offence of swearing at police officers.

            I read his interview on the train. He’d answered every single question with one word: ‘Dilligaf’. In conference with the boy and his father I was informed by his laughing father that this meant ‘do it look like I give a fuck?’

            In this same conference I was informed by the boy that he’d ‘remembered’ that he was shopping with his father and grandfather at the time of the alleged incident. They fiercely denied any suggestion that they might be mistaken on this point.

            “But wot no one seems to understand, right,” began the father suddenly, “is that my son only told those coppers wot ’e did ’cos they asked ’im.”

            “Yeah,” chipped in the boy, “I woz only tellin’ the truth.”

            “They asked ’im wot ’e thought of ’em.”

            “’an I told ’em: buncha useless wankers.”

            “I see,” I said, sympathetically. “And this was while you were out shopping, right?”

            “Er…” said the father. “Er… yeah. No. Wot? No. This was another time altogether.”

            “I see. Yes.”

            Eventually I secured them an alternative charge of swearing in a public place and forced a confession out of the kid for that.

            Honestly, how am I expected to provide for a family on the back of this nonsense?

Empty Cans

          Today began with a long and tedious tidying session, as we tried to fix that which the party had broken.

            I wanted to find the words, or the balls, to take them on.

            I wondered if this marriage was such a good idea. Where was the certainty in my heart? The thrill in my soul? It’s only a week away.

            I picked up empty cans in silence.

Artless Civility

          The Murder Mystery Night was arranged in segments. For a time we’d be acting out specific parts by reading out lines on cue from each other. The rest of the time we were free to move about and discuss whatever we wished with the others, so long as we remained in character.

            Half way through the evening I noticed that the food was beginning to run out. I went out of the living room to the kitchen to collect some more and there I found Alice, sitting alone at the kitchen table.

            “Hello!” I said.

            “Hi!” she replied, looking up and smiling.

            “What are you doing out here?”

            “I just thought I’d take a break.”

            “Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?” I asked. Perhaps my character had inspired this artless civility. I sat down next to her quickly, in order to move on.

            “Thanks for inviting me here,” she said, infected by this very awkwardness.

            She was close to me, for it is only a very small kitchen table we have. She faced across the table and her hair fell across her eyes. I couldn’t see her expression. Somehow affected, I reached out without thinking to push aside her hair that I could look on her face.

            She twitched at my touch and took a sharp breath, glancing at me from the corners of her deep brown eyes. She appeared paralysed for a moment then very slowly she turned to me and placed her hand over mine upon which remained upon her cool smooth cheek. Her lips parted, sticking, first, for a moment and then spreading. But there was anxiety in her eyes.

            All at once noise crashed through the scene and shattered it, speeding our senses back to reality. Someone had opened the living room door. I jerked my hand from Alice’s cheek and stood, knocking back the chair. Without turning back I walked from the room and made straight for Ed’s little balcony, in search of some cold air.

            The curtains were drawn across the door that led to the balcony and I pushed them apart. There were two figures already out there, caught together in a manner of embrace. A girl leant back against the railings, tilted away from a taller man who bent his shape over her. His hand lay within her thick hair, supporting her head as she leant away. Slowly he began to drawn her into him but then she saw me and threw him off.

            I ran from the curtains.

            “Tom!” she shouted after me. “Wait!”

            I burst into the living room and went immediately to the nearest bottle of wine.

            Sharona was scarcely a moment behind. “Tom!” she repeated, “It’s not how it looked.”

            “I don’t want to hear it,” I growled.

            There was silence about us now. All eyes were upon us. I growled wordlessly.

            “Can’t we go somewhere and talk about it?” she asked.

            “No. These people came here for a performance. They came here to see something imaginary.”

            “Not this!”

            “Why not? This seems as imaginary as anything else.”

            “Tom!”

            “Alright,” I said, and we retreated to the kitchen, followed by light applause from those whose confusion about whodunit was now exasperating.

            In the kitchen Sharona told me that Ed was drunk and just being his usual self. She told me that nothing would ever have happened and that they were just standing close to alleviate the cold of the night. I could scarcely believe her but the kitchen scene was all about me and I could only picture Alice, watching me from the corner of her eyes, and so I could do nothing but accept Sharona’s words and smile, weakly.

            We made it through the remainder of the night with some difficulty but eventually everyone departed. Robin congratulated me on my acting skills but professed some confusion at the relevance of the living room scene.

            The moment the last guest was packed out the door Sharona went to bed, professing tiredness. I found myself alone with Ed. We sat in silence for a short while, looking at the domestic devastation about us.

            “Night then,” I said, at length.

            “Night,” he replied, and stood to leave.

            “Wait!”

            “What?”

            I tried to find the words. Why wouldn’t he just apologise, or explain, or acknowledge it? Why should I be the one to speak?

            “Nothing,” I said, resigned. I shook my head and released the breath that I’d held, looking away.

            Ed went to bed.

Casting

          We’ve decided on a 1930s themed murder mystery party for tomorrow night. We ordered a kit online and made everyone read through it so they can get the right costumes tomorrow before they arrive.

            Using some of the money from the diary of Armand Duplessis we bought an old original gramophone and some records from the thirties from a little shop Ed had once seen on the High Street at Hatch End.

            Ed will be the ‘host’ for the night and only he will actually know ‘who-dun-it’. Sharona and I get to act a part, it should be entertaining!

Idle Threats

“Abandon the wedding or I’ll report everything you’ve ever done to your Chambers, the Bar Council and the Police. You’ll never work again.”

 

            Blackmailer’s back. I showed the note to Sharona.

            “So?” she said.

            “What do you mean, ‘so’? This could be the end of my career!”

            “Just deny it all, besides it’s getting old, these are all idle threats.”

            “But it’s strange isn’t it? This is the first time the blackmailer’s actually asked for something. Why try to make me call off the wedding?”

            “Well… you’ll do what you have to do.”

            I frowned and tried to fathom her. The corners of her eyes were turned up but deep within they were not smiling.

            “I’ll figure something out,” I said.

Invitations

          This evening we discussed the next adventure, based on Sweet Little Mystery. We settled on hosting a Murder Mystery dinner party at the weekend. Ed found a website online that provided host packs and ordered one that would give us a ‘Casablanca during the war’ theme. Then came the tricky part: the guestlist.

            We decided to invite Robin, Scheherazade (and her new boyfriend), Nicole, Alice, Ed’s younger brother (of whom Sharona had never heard!) and the two girls from the flat next door.

            “What about Jane?” I suggested, wondering whether time might have healed their mysterious wounds.

            Ed spat out his drink. “What’s your fucking problem?” he asked. “Why d’you keep bringing her into things?”

            “We’ve got Alice.”

            “Yeah, and I’m not too happy about that either! I’ve got an idea, let’s invite Annabell too!”

            “Okay… Point made.”

            “No, I’m serious. Let’s get Jane and Annabell here!”

            “No.”

            “Go on, it’d be hilarious.”

            “They wouldn’t come.”

            “Let’s try.”

            “No.”

            Ed stared at me, as though taking my measure. “I thought not,” he said.

A Long and Uncommon Day

          Ugh, what a day. We got up at midnight last night to wander out onto the streets. Ed had proclaimed that having no money also meant we could have no home, from midnight to midnight. As a further part of this idiotic plan we were only allowed a tatty old jumper each and no coat. It was bloody freezing.

            We wandered about for a while, wondering what to do.

            Eventually we stopped and stood still for a moment.

            “Er… let’s get drunk,” Ed said.

            “With what alcohol,” I asked.

            “Hmmmmmm…”

            “I actually need to sleep, Ed. This isn’t really very funny. I’ve got work in the morning.”

            “Christ, it’s only been half an hour and you’re giving up already?”

            “Actually I never really signed up in the first place.”

            “Oh, don’t do this to me now, Tom. So what? You get the girl and everything’s suddenly okay, you don’t need this anymore? It’s just like before, with Annabell: once you’re happy then to hell with everyone else, eh?”

            “Fine, but I’m sleeping whatever you say, even if it has to be in a park.”

            “Good, I guess it’s part of the experience anyway, sleeping out rough. Let’s do it.”

            We scaled the fence of a nearby park and lay down between some bushes. Sharona dragged us each in close on either side. She was trembling from the cold but smiling nonetheless, her eyes alive with adventure. It was a little nerve wracking, knowing nothing about our surroundings but trusting ourselves to unconsciousness. Eventually, against all odds, I actually managed to drop off.

            I woke only a few hours later in the middle of the night, appallingly stiff and cold. How such things can be survived night after night is entirely beyond me. I thought of my bed, so little distance away. It’s an average bed in all respects, nothing special, but God was it fit for a king in my mind.

            I tried to return to sleep and ended up thinking about money and the properties it shares with electricity, sight and oxygen.

            At the crack of dawn, after fleeting moments of rest amongst a broken, icy lake of discomfort, I decided to face the day, even if it would be tiring. At least movement might warm me up.

            I decided to walk to work where at least I could get on with something. Sharona stirred as I moved, no doubt feeling a sudden icy gap where my body had been pressed against her.

            “Where are you going?” she asked, waking up Ed.

            “Work,” I grunted, softly.

            “I’m coming.”

            “Oh for God’s sake,” added Ed.

            We were somewhere in the vicinity of Queen’s Park in the North West of London, and the plan was to walk all the way down to my Chambers in Temple. It seemed to take forever. Even though Ed and I have walked far further together, this stiff, cold, miserable walk through a cityscape appeared to be never-ending.

            “I’m starving!” said Ed, as we walked past Holborn, almost there now. “Let’s beg, we need some money for food.” So saying he stopped and sat down on the pavement outside the tube station. Sharona and I watched on for a moment as he began to mumble pleadings to passers-by.

            “Come on, I can’t do this on my own. Split up and find your own patch, meet back here in half an hour.”

            I asked someone for the time (Ed had banned watches again, he seems to have issues with time) and discovered I had an hour or two before I might be expected at work. I wandered around the corner to the narrow streets behind the tube station and sat in an alley outside a pub, watching commuters pass and trying not to notice the faint scent of urine about me.

            I couldn’t bring myself to actually ask anyone for money, knowing how it annoyed me to be asked myself, and knowing that I didn’t really need it. I felt embarrassed and ashamed.

            I noticed someone come out the back of a sandwich shop opposite me and dump a bag into the rubbish. I contemplated my next move. Could I really stoop so slow? My stomach rumbled, desperate for more fuel to burn in the furnace within me that staved off hypothermia. I felt rotten to the core, as though my stomach had begun to digest itself in desperation. I stood and paused again, looking across at the bin. I shook my head and sat back down. I stood. And sat.

            I stood and strode across to the bin, pausing only once to glance about lest anyone might be watching. Quickly I snapped open the bin and examined the refuse. I found a sandwich in a plastic container, apparently unopened. Quickly I reached in and pulled it out with surprising, greedy relish. I slunk behind the bin, out of sight, and snapped open the container, quickly devouring the sandwiches inside. They were a touch stale, but perfectly edible, even if it was only tuna and sweet corn – does anyone ever buy these ones?

            I returned to Ed and Sharona who’d made enough between them for breakfast. I looked at Sharona and noted exactly how un-tramp like she looked, almost at home in her new clothes. I’m confident I could pick out the caste of commuter who dropped coins into her elegant hands.

            “I’m going to work, enjoy your breakfast. I’ll see you later!”

            At work, perhaps unsurprisingly, I was greeted with disdain.

            “Good morning, Sir, would you like us to send Billy out for a suit this morning?”

            Billy is our seventeen year old junior clerk.

            “No thank you, Frank.”

            “Very well, Sir. Perhaps just a razor then?”

            I smiled and retreated down to the basement.

*

 

            Lunch was a tortuous affair. I slunk out to find Sharona and Ed in a local sandwich shop dining out on their morning’s profits.

            “This begging lark is a piece of cake,” said Ed. “I think I’ll take it up.”

            I sat watching them for a while. “Er… can I borrow some money?” I asked, finally.

            “No. You’ve been inside all morning, nice and warm. This is your punishment.”

            “I’ve been working!” I looked imploringly at Sharona but she was silently eating her sandwich.

           

*

 

            At six I met Ed and Sharona on Fleet Street as arranged. It was pouring with rain and they were hiding under an archway playing some sort of hand slapping game, giggling like children.

            “Let’s go into a shop, or a museum or something,” I suggested, thinking to escape the weather.

            “We have to pretend we’re stinking tramps, we’d never be allowed in any such place.”

            Instead we wandered along across Waterloo Bridge, for the hell of it, since the rain had slightly abated. Eventually we met a real life tramp wrapped in a blanket in the IMAX underpass.

            He asked us for money, sensibly enough, but instead we sat down a few metres from him and began to beg ourselves. After a few minutes a passer-by threw some coins to Sharona.

            “What the hell are you lot doing?” the tramp shouted. “Fuck off, this is my territory.”

            “We should go,” I said.

            “Not yet,” said Sharona. She walked across to the guy and handed him the money. “Sorry,” she said, “we’re hungry too.”

            “I dou’ it. Look at yer.”

            “We’ve been living on the street all day, we’ve got nowhere to go.”

            “All day! Haha! All day! I’ve been here ten years!”

            “What’s that been like?” she asked, in all innocence, sitting down by his side.

            “Fucking awful, what do you think?”

            “But how did it happen?”

            He sighed. “How does anyone ever end up like this?”

            “Won’t you tell me?”

            He looked her up and down and leered slightly. Ed stood and moved slightly closer. The guy glanced at Ed, and back at Sharona. “It’s alright,” he said, “I won’t hurt your girlie.”

            “It was the booze,” he said, settling back against the wall. “Back in ’96 I was running a successful little building business. Wife, two kids, the works. Well, you know how it is, the job starting collapsing, I started shagging the wife’s sister and before I knew it I was staring out the bottom of a bottle on the street, bankrupt and disowned by the family. That wasn’t the worst of it. I tried to pull myself together and start again but I found out my wife had been having an affair as well with me best mate. He moved in after I left and I heard tell he’d hurt my eight year old daughter and beaten my wife. I was in agony about it all day, drinking. I wanted to go there and kill him, but I never made it, just collapsed on the street like a drunk. I’ve been out here ever since.”

            “That’s sad,” said Ed, without any apparent sympathy. “You don’t listen to music do you? What’s your favourite song?”

            “I’ll tell you a beaut’,” he replied. “Sweet Little Mystery, by John Martyn. Do you know him? I managed to see him here in London a couple of years ago. It took me a month to save the extra money, but it was well worth it.”

            He began to sing a few lines and towards the end Sharona joined in with the chorus. He smiled an honest smile of pleasure and kissed her quickly on the cheek. She patted him on the shoulder and stood to leave, smiling.

            After that we all, even Ed, began to feel a certain sense of shame in this adventure, a sort of hypocrisy, so we decided to walk all the way home and be done with it. We’re there now, and exhausted from a hell of day.

Plans

          My Mother was waiting for us at the flat when we returned this morning.

            “Darling!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? I’ve been terribly worried – we have so much to do! Sharona, come here and help me decide which flower arranger to go with. Tom, look at those magazines and please try to find a theme for the men that isn’t vulgar!”

            Sharona smiled sweetly and attended to her task.

            “I’ll just go sit in my room then,” said Ed.

            My Mother looked up at him briefly, as one might at a bluebottle buzzing in the corner, before returning her attention to the flowers. Ed skulked off.

           

*

 

            Hours later we had planned much of the wedding. Sharona had been perfect throughout, without even so much as a pity-seeking or angry glance. Something about that makes me uncomfortable. Shouldn’t she be more stressed about it? Shouldn’t she care more?

            My Mother finally retreated home and Ed edged out of his room nervously. We switched on the television and blanked out for half an hour before dinner.

            “Tomorrow,” said Ed, “we’re going to have no money.”

            “It’s not that expensive, Ed,” I replied, “and we’ve still got all that money from Armand Duplessis’ diary.”

            “No no no, it’s another adventure. The last song in the pub last night  was Common People, so we’re going to live like common people, do whatever they do, and have absolutely not a single penny to our names in the process.”

            “Hmmmmm,” I said.

            “Great idea, Ed!” said Sharona.

Monophonic Fable

          Today we planned to go to the seaside again, following Ed’s ‘Sea Song’ adventure.

            In the end we trekked out to Dell Quay on the south coast and found a peaceful but dull little cottage by the sea. This evening we wandered out through the crisp cold wintry night to a homely pub overlooking a small harbour through little mottled glass windows that gave one the impression of looking out of the captain’s quarters on a fine Ship of the Line.

            We ate quietly, without urgency but also without inspiration. I watched the other two, wondering which of us might strike life into the thing. I caught myself looking at Sharona as though she were still a mystical creature from fable, rather than my wife to be. I glanced over at Ed and saw him watching her too.

            “Ed,” I said, “you do realise you’re not coming on our honeymoon, right?”

            “I see how it is,” he replied. I’d been half-joking with him but his response was gruff. These days it’s impossible to read his intonation, it’s monophonic: abrasive.

            I’d be a fool not to suspect him. I know it often must seem as though I stagger through life with naïve impressions of those about me, giving credence to their better natures, but I’ll not pretend I haven’t seen the way Ed looks at her.

            I’ve thought of the many occasions I’ve left them alone. I’ve thought of Ed’s vague claims, back when he was trying to split me from Annabell. Back at the beginning of November, when Sharona was coming back he… taunted me with it. But was he just trying to stir me into action?

            Or wasn’t he?