WILDERNESS

by Michael Keenaghan

Out on the wasteground the car came slowly to a halt. Ryan was staring straight ahead, heart pounding, hands still gripping the wheel. The air around him was electrified; the dark shapes of the distant derelict factories glowing in the night. He turned to the seat next to him, saw the knife covered in blood. He caught his face in the mirror and hardly recognized himself – eyes possessed, blood smeared like war paint. Jesus Christ. No. He slammed his head down onto the wheel, harder each time, as if to jolt himself from a nightmare. But it was too late. What happened tonight was irreversible. A trip into hell that would only fully end when he picked up that knife to finish it, cut it dead.

Six fucking years ago. He should have driven out here then. Driven out with a shotgun and put it straight to his head. It would have been easy then, made perfect sense; hurt nobody but himself. Six years ago after a decade in prison. Before he’d got married, had a kid. Deluding himself that he could settle down, be normal, live a normal life. He stared out to where the old towerblocks had been. Ryan had grown up there.

Twelve floors up with a view over the fields and waterways, factories and wastelands that cut a swath through East London, stretched for miles. These places had been his playgrounds. Climbing over the fences into the industrial estates, breaking in through the rooftops, chased by guards and their torches, police and their dogs, running back into the estates, living for laughs, without a care. A youth spent following the crowd, following the herd. But the herd disappears and you’re on your own, staring into space, the laughter roaring back at you, cutting through the years.  Ryan thought of the crime that had put him in prison. He was twenty one at the time. He could see the man’s face right now. The man in uniform chasing after him.

The man working for a cash delivery firm. Chasing after a case of cash that belonged to neither of them. The man on a basic wage, the company insured to the hilt. The man unarmed, unsafe, yet he kept coming. Ryan reaching the car, telling him to stay back, stay fucking back, telling him the gun was loaded, but he didn’t listen, lunged for him, tried wrestling it out of his hand.  The shot got him square in the chest, sent him flying back with force. Ryan was stunned. Jumping into the car, speeding away, praying he hadn’t killed him. But of course he had. The man bleeding into the gutter, dead before the ambulance even came. And Ryan in prison.

New rules, new way of life. Death burning away in the backdrop, the death of a father-of-four, a man just doing his job, supporting his family, gunned down in cold blood; the papers milking it, rubbing it in. But inside was a different outlook. The death of a man in uniform, one of life’s screws, life’s pigs.. Death of some fucker playing hero – too fucking bad. But Ryan tried his best not to even think about it. Divorced from reality. Divorced from the horror trying to make a new life for himself; Wandsworth, Scrubs, Belmarsh. Pulling down the shutters, blocking it out. Only ever seeing things how they really were years later, on the out, when he had a family himself. 

Adjusting to life back on the outside wasn’t easy. It hit him hard. He’d expected changes, but never the extent. He’d heard they’d knocked down the old blocks, but walking along the new closes and cul-de-sacs in their place, he didn’t recognize a soul; not a face, nobody. It was shocking. A different world now. He’d always imagined the world outside would have somehow stood still, been waiting for him. But the reality was hard to take. Sitting in a cafe afterwards, actually disorientated, questioning if he’d maybe imagined everything: his past, his memories, his whole fucking life. Waiting for a crowd of people to jump out laughing, old familiar faces pulling away the props, kicking the film set away. 

No chance. Life had moved on – moved on without him. Without a care. Days, nights, walking the streets feeling like a stranger. Feeling invisible. 

He got in contact with a couple of his original mates who had moved further out; people he’d grown up with, people he’d trusted. They met up and had a drink, but it wasn’t the same. His mates married with kids now, settled down. A few drinks, a chat, doing him a favour, then they’d piss off back to their lives. He felt it instantly: time having severed the bond, nothing there anymore. They were strangers and so was he. He never saw them again.

The past was dead. Over. Almost like it had never existed. Maybe this – life on the outside – was his real prison sentence; his real punishment. A voice in his head laughing at him. Taunting him. The settling of scores. All downhill from here, you murdering bastard. He was living in a hostel, drinking alot and the drink only making it worse. Constantly looking back. Memories haunting him. Carefree days when he was a kid, a teenager, before he’d fucked up – all those memories poisoned somehow. Suddenly he was wondering how he could have even raised a smile with all the shit that had gone on. Stuff at home. His dad pissing off at fifteen. His mum dying of cancer four years later. It was like he’d put on a front, shrugged it all off, buried it all, until now.

All that pain suddenly there, burning at the forefront. All that mess. All that anger, confusion, hate. In the hostel everybody was up to one thing or another, some of the blacks doing street crime, coming back boasting, laughing about it; and the coldness was rubbing off on him. Sometimes he’d wait by the station, see someone on their way home from work, follow them down the backstreets and rip the bag from them. Mainly women. Easy targets. People who’d scream and let him run. It was a cowardly thing to do, but he wasn’t in his right mind – being skint making him feel even worse. But things started to escalate. Turn violent. One night he jumped a bloke, got him down and grabbed his wallet, but the bloke didn’t go with it, started fighting back, giving good. Ryan lost it. Went fucking mental. Kicking him, stamping him into the gutter – on and on – the bloke out cold – two women screaming across the road – a bloke shouting from a window – you’ll kill him, you’ll kill him. Ryan suddenly flashing out of it, scarpering. He drank himself to sleep that night, but in the morning the sight of the blood covering his trainers shocked him into sanity. What the hell was he doing? What the hell was happening to him? He’d reached the lowest ebb. No conscience. Total fucking scum. He spent the morning waiting for the police to burst in, cuff him and drag him back to prison. Maybe things would be better that way. But they never came.

He put what was left of the bloke’s money into a church charity box and swore to himself it had to end. He had to change. Had to. Before he killed someone. Killed himself. Sitting there all day in the darkened church, silently breaking down.

The priest coming over, and Ryan talking to him, telling him everything, and the priest listening, actually caring. And together they prayed. Ryan praying for guidance, praying for hope. Properly praying for the first time since he was a kid.  From that day on, things changed, things happened. He got a job with a decent company driving a van. It went well – forward all the way. He was out there, back in society, back in the swing now. One night in a pub he met a woman. Her name was Debbie. They hit it off right away. Started to see each other all the time. He told her about his mistake and his time in prison, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter. They were in love. Felt like teenagers.

Things happened fast. Debbie soon pregnant. Both of them over the moon. And they got a flat, decided to get married. And he’d finally got his act together – was finally living. Not in prison and not in the past (a world that probably never existed, a world probably only ever inside his head) but in the real world, the here and now. Day to day, driving a van, bringing home the bread, being with his wife, watching his kid grow, enjoying the family that had formed around him, a family that would be perfect, the best it could possibly be… If only he could keep it down. The poison bubbling within him. The voices whispering in his ear. The silent germs multiplying in his dreams. Keep it all in, not let it seep out. The threat of rejection always there, somewhere around the next corner, waiting to jump, take your wife away, your kid away, your whole world, rip the floor from under your feet, you’re going down pal, down down down. To this. To now. Ryan staring out into the dark. The distant sound of sirens – approaching; then slowly receding. Lights sparkling across the housing estates. Distant trains flashing into the black.

He thought of a night a few months ago. A row with Debbie that had sent him driving off into the night, out of the house before he did something silly. Off and away not knowing where he was going. Ending up at a pub somewhere, Edmonton, Ponders End, he didn’t have a clue, sitting at the bar staring into his pint, then moving onto doubles, watching a group of locals playing darts, friends for life laughing and joking, and the next thing he was on his feet, squaring up to one of them. What are you fucking looking at you fat cunt – What did you just say? Bang. Getting kicked up and down the pub, tables chairs turning, blood on his face, blood on his hands, come on you cunts, begging pleading for more more more. The landlord picking him up in the end and tossing him out, telling him to piss off before the police came, crowds still baying in the backdrop, rabid dogs clutching pool cues, Ryan staggering to his car, off and away..

Dual carriageways, flyovers; lights burning in the night. Lea Valley Viaduct. Up, up, up into the air. The ragged edges of the city spread out all around him: the industrial estates, scrapyards, the massive waste-plant with its chimney towering to the sky. Ready to end it all there and then, take a mad turn, a mad plunge, crash, body twisted into the wreckage, never seen again. But something that night pulled him back, a light somewhere, a spark of sanity, and he remembered the priest, thought of that day six years before, tugged from the brink, and he drove for miles back to the church, standing in the rain, the sudden downpour, knocking on the presbytery door, a different priest in front of him now, telling him Father Rourke wasn’t there, had passed away four years ago, the priest trying to get a look of him in the dark, like he could feel it, sense it, the evil pulsing within, serpents demons howling from every pore – get off my doorstep and be banished to hell you fucking murderer. But in reality it was the bruises, the blood. Asking if he’d been in an accident, if he was okay, if he needed a doctor. Ryan asking him what Father Rourke had died of. The priest telling him he died of cancer. Ryan walking away. Back to his car. Back to earth. Back to some kind of half-sanity that made him sleep in the car until morning, go to work in the day, go home in the evening and make up with Debbie.

Little Karen happy on the floor in front of the TV, happy that Mummy and Daddy were back to normal, back on the sofa cuddling each other, Mum joking about his black eye and bruised lip saying that Daddy had been a naughty man and someone had given him a good pasting, that’s what happens to naughty men, Mummy kissing him, soothing him – Mummy not shouting at him, screaming she hated him, screaming she was going to leave him. The two of them all over each other. Going into the bedroom and locking the door. Ryan slammed the wheel in front of him; roared until he was hoarse. Jesus Christ, what had he done? He loved them. Needed them. Jesus Christ…

But this was it. His final punishment. Final mockery. Losing control. Losing everything. Just like the voices said. Just like they warned. Like they promised.  Tonight. The scene he’d left behind him. Coming in and trying to eat his dinner and Debbie shouting at him. Sitting there knackered, silently eating, staring at the TV and Debbie’s voice grating, cutting into him. Bills, rent, clothes, never a treat, never a holiday; never this, never that; only a losing battle, the rug pulled from under his feet, everything caving in, no home, no family, threats all around him.

But he was trying his best. Doing what he could. Times were hard since the company dropped him. Decent work hard to find. Labouring, decorating; a few weeks here, few weeks there. What did she want him to do? Go out and get a shotgun and put it to someone’s head? Is that what she wanted? Is that what she was driving him towards? Maybe it was. Debbie just seeing a man in front of her who wasn’t providing. Who maybe wasn’t capable. Who only had so much in him. Who was maybe better off in prison after all. Back with his mates, his clothes washed, his meals catered for, everything done for him… Back inside with life’s failures, life’s dreamers…

But this is the real world you know, are you listening to me? –SHUT THE FUCK UP!– Oh, you’re going to stab me with your fork, are you? That’d get you back inside, wouldn’t it? Back where you fucking belong, you bastard. I’m sick of it. Sick of you… slapping bills down in front of him…. I must have been a mug marrying you. Must have been a fucking idiot… on and on and on, her voice… Are you listening to me? Pushing his head hard, goading him. He ignored her, turned the TV up louder; laughing faces, mocking, jeering. His wife shouting at him. Failure all around him…. And he wondered if when he was younger he could have bettered himself, done something with his life, found some kind of solution, made everything right. But it didn’t happen. Probably couldn’t have anyway. Nothing but brick walls. Rejection. You’re not good enough. Know your place. Fingers pointing down. Down there in the mud. Down there in hell, you demon.  There all along. Failure. Through all the jokes, smiles, laughter of youth. All the years laughing in the face of the world, two fingers in the air, fuck you, until youth ends, youth dies, and what then, what now. Reality. His wife telling him that one day he’d come back and they’d be gone, never seen again…

And he’d be on his own – lost – adrift in life – falling down – down down down… screaming into the black… screaming into Hell… 

Her face right in front of him… mouth moving… words … noise… And he could see her eyes, pools of blue, dull now, no light, and he wondered where the love was, where it had gone, if it had ever really been there atall, if he’d only imagined it like so many other things, a fantasy of love and care; warmth, togetherness. The truth something different, right there in front of him, a face of disgust, a leer of mockery and hate. Taunting him, goading him: Do it Do it Do it.    He lunged. Grabbed her by the throat and drove the steak knife into her stomach. Her eyes wide, shocked, as they staggered violently across the room. Blade going IN-IN-IN, lights flashing and crowds cheering, AGAIN-AGAIN-AGAIN. Up against the wall, Debbie’s head on his shoulder now, arms by her sides, rocking from each thrust. Crowds fading. Knife drawing to a stop. Ryan holding her; gripping her; man and wife in a locked embrace. Then slowly her body sliding from his grasp, falling to the floor; unmoving.

Only him now, breathing heavily, knife in hand, staring at the blood-smeared wall, staring at Debbie, unsteady on his feet, the room shifting balance, ready to throw him aside.  A sudden presence behind him; senses electrified. Standing in the doorway was Karen. She was five years old now. Her birthday had been last week. There’d been a party. Kids from her school. Music, games, sweets, a cake. Ryan had had to work that Saturday, but Debbie and another mum she knew from the school had come to help.

Ryan coming in as everyone was leaving; mums dads collecting their kids, smiling, laughing, everybody happy. Debbie hugged him as he came through the door. Told him everything had gone great. And he helped with the clearing up, played with Karen, made a fuss of her, carried her on his back, bouncing her around, and she couldn’t stop laughing. And later he’d sat with Debbie, watching TV, cuddling close. Karen tucked up in bed, fast asleep. Mummy and Daddy on the sofa, making love. Mummy on top of Daddy, and Mummy’s top pulled up, and Daddy’s hands there. Karen standing in the doorway clutching her teddy bear, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, saying she was having a bad dream, Mummy rushing to her and telling her not to worry, and telling how Mummy and Daddy had been cuddling, just playing, taking her back to the bedroom and reading her a story and soothing her back to sleep, back to good dreams, a good world where good things happen to all.

Karen now in that same doorway clutching that same teddy, but with an expression he’d never seen before. Eyes open wide.. Staring beyond the facade. Beyond dreams. Her childhood wrenched from her grasp, whole world ripped apart, tossed screaming into hell. Suddenly she ran. Up the hall, darted into her bedroom. Dolls, toys, teddy bears, a wallpaper of fairies and magic wands, worlds of wonder, worlds afar: all useless now. Frantically locking herself in, holding herself against the door, against the pounding. Screaming, screaming, screaming.. Daddy bursting through and Karen running to her bed, under the duvet, trying to cover herself, hide herself; begging, pleading. But it was over now.

The future didn’t exist. He’d seen to that. Crossed that line. Karen curled tight, cocooned in the sheets. Only madness now. Insanity. Daddy with a knife in hand. Mummy dead on the floor. No way back. No way home.. Karen begging screaming for release. He stood over her. His blood burning, tearing through him like a larva, like a poison. Tightly he closed his eyes. There was no choice. He brought the knife down. The room shaking, rocking like a ship. A ship in a sea of snakes. Snakes in his head, eyes, mouth. The screaming of demons, screaming of hell. Blood fusing with tears until there was nothing left. Only silence. No reality. Reality dead. Overcome. Conquered.  He walked back to the living room, a strange sense of numbness over him. Turning off the television, turning off all the lights, and heading out to his car. It felt like he was walking on air, floating on mist, like he wasn’t real anymore. A ghost. Turning on the engine and gliding off. Back to the beginning, back to the start. 

It was 2am when they finally came. The cars and the sirens and the helicopter with its thirty million candlepower spotlight. Men dressed in black, men with guns, men in position screaming GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE CAR!!! OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR WITH YOUR HANDS UP NOW!!! Out in the wastes; this place of ghosts, place of dead dreams, place of reflection too hard to bear. Door opens. Man steps out of the car – ready to surrender, ready to be grabbed, ready to give it all up. But instead producing a bloodstained knife and lunging for the nearest figure. And CRACK-CRACK-CRACK go the guns, CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK echoing out across the Valley, across the city, and out to space: reverberation neverending. Body falling to earth; to the bricks and weeds and broken bottles. A bed of broken dreams. Staring up at the light in the sky as the figures surround him, swarm, turning light to shade, the world to darkness.  

 

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, December 1st, 2008 and was filed under Blog, Featured, Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~