I Know What I Saw

‘Don’t come closer,’ he said. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I need to think it through. Wait.’ He held out a hand in my direction. I stopped in my tracks but was on my toes, ready to leap out and grab him. He looked like that boy I remembered, the one who cried over crisps. All I wanted to do was comfort him, rescue him.

‘Okay,’ I said and held out my palms. ‘Take your time.’

I waited and watched as the machinery in his head whirred. I followed him in my head, tracing the paths I knew he was taking and suddenly I realised where he was heading.

‘But you know you can’t redeem anything through death,’ I said quickly.

‘Ha,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure Jesus would agree.’

I swallowed. We were there – at Jesus – more quickly than I expected.

‘You’re Jesus now?’ I said. ‘Okay, then you’ll have to be killed. Suicides don’t provide redemption. Besides, an atheist like you? Come on, Rory. Stop being an idiot. Get off that wall.’

‘Okay, brother,’ he said, smiling from the corner of his mouth. ‘Okay, I’ll get off – but you tell me. What’s the penance? There has to be one.’

He teetered for a second and then steadied himself with a hand. I was halfway to him by the time he was stable again. His hand flung out again by way of warning.

‘You don’t need redeeming,’ I said, stopping. ‘Not you, of all people. Come on. Back here.’

He laughed a little. ‘But the oblivion. There’s the oblivion I relegated you to. That’s a crime,’ he said, his voice becoming shrill.

‘I was being dramatic.’

‘No. Not dramatic. You were being truthful,’ he said seriously. ‘So, tell me, Xand, how do I recover from that?’

The wind up there felt strong. It came upon him suddenly, buffeting him and panicking me.

‘You can live,’ I said quickly.

‘And then what? I knew it all along. I saw it. I saw how he was with you and how he was with me. And I did nothing. I didn’t want to. I wanted it to be like that.’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ I said and the words or half of them were carried away by wind.

‘I do, Xander. What do you think all of this is? My life’s misery hasn’t just been about this,’ he said.

He was crying then and tears ran down his cheeks in fat streams, and suddenly I was thrown back to that same day in the park, Rory on his knees, Wotsits sodden on the grass. I stepped forward and he yelped, holding out his hand.

‘No!’ he said, eyes blazing.

In a single step, I could be up against him. It would take just one step. I fixed my eyes on his. He was crying so hard that all I wanted was to hold him. He was crying so hard he was in danger of falling.

I took the leap and threw my arms around him. He stiffened before collapsing into me. He sobbed and as he did he clutched at me. I pulled him back over the rail and he crumpled to the floor. We stayed like that for some minutes.

‘Come in, Rory,’ I said, once he had stopped crying.

He looked up at me, his face wet and red at the eyes and pulled himself to his feet and allowed me to usher him in.

When I left late the next morning, he saw me to the door and embraced me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. But I didn’t read any sorrow – only desperation.

When he dropped to his death some days later, I buried this episode in my head. And now it comes back to me.

And yet.

And yet there is a version of this memory in which I threw my arms around him and held him as he teetered on the balcony. I smothered his sobs and then once they had subsided, I wiped his eyes. My hand was there on his head, stroking his hair. I whispered to him, my love. And my forgiveness.

And as his breathing settled into a steadier, slower rhythm, I leant into him.

And, gently, I pushed.

49 Tuesday

It takes an hour to reach Waterloo Bridge. It is the one that I use more than any other to cross the border. It has none of the beauty or the fancy ironwork of Chelsea or Albert. It has no lights, or towers. There is only one thing to mark it out from every other: the view.

I avoid it, now, that view. But halfway along I stop and gaze into the river instead. The river’s muddy faces swell and shift but they are still impassive, inscrutable. Tourists and workers in suits and coats pass behind me but don’t give me a second look. I don’t want to be seen. I could climb over this low barrier and slip into the water without so much as a turned glance. I would slide in like a knife and sink to the bottom with mouthfuls of river water in my stomach and lungs. The cold of it, the shock of it, will make me gasp. I will flail and when the water begins to claim me, I will rail and fight as my body’s instincts overpower my will. But then, after a brief rattle of life, I will go.