Kaleidoscope 2

“Your mum texted me.” says Samantha. “She’s worried about you, says you were weird at lunch.”

“Weird? Or bored?”

Samantha smirks. Despite the smile, she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. More specifically, the weight of having to navigate the world by my side. 

I am the burden. I handicap this smart, bright woman who should be soaring, who might have turned a masters degree in history into a PhD and be enjoying the spoils and plaudits of a career at the top of academia, if she hadn't met me and got sucked into this vortex of misery. Getting married too young, having a baby too young. All discussed, all manageable, in theory; I was going to win the bread and she was going to continue her studies. We would have help with Jonah, which I would pay for, to allow her to write her thesis. My brilliant wife, a shelf of her books, her TV shows.

I wasn't trying to con anyone. I believed in the plan as much as Sam did. I just wasn't able to hold up my end of it. I could win no bread. I went out into the world with a mixture of optimism and fierce determination, and I failed incrementally until I failed completely.

Those first few jobs, which I struggle to even remember now, seemed promising. Good positions, decent salaries. All I had to do was hold on. All I had to do was take a little bit of shit and it would all be alright. For Sam. For Jonah. And I could not do it. Who did I think I was, that taking the same shit as everyone else was somehow a huge personal affront? Who was I to object, when everyone else seemed to just accept and move on? Well, I was James McGill, and I was entitled to better. I called it out. I was let go. Over and over. A man incapable of learning from his mistakes. 

I had gone out into a world of ladders and found only snakes.

And so a trickle of money never turned into a stream. And then that meagre trickle all but dried up. There was no money for childcare, there was barely enough for rent. Sam put down her pen and her books and got a part-time job as a teaching assistant. Not a professor, not even a teacher. A teaching assistant. And we kidded ourselves it was just temporary. But that was eight years ago. A PhD ago. 

How long does potential last? How long can you cling to a dream before you realise that the dream is never going to happen and you settle for what little you have? Because you, Samantha McGill, can never reach the heights while your husband is holding onto your ankles. You have married a gravitational force, dragging you into the ground. And he will not let go because he cannot face a life without you. He cannot self-sacrifice. He is going to sit at this kitchen table every single night, watching the light slowly die in your eyes, because destroying you is preferable to leaving you. Because, for some unimaginable reason, you don't yet hate him as much as he hates himself.

"And she's got red hair, almost orange, and it's kind of cropped--"

"What's cropped?"

"Like really short, like..." I hold my finger and thumb apart to demonstrate the length of the hair. 

I'm perched on the edge of Jonah's narrow bed. It's story time and what we're engaged in here is a serialised retelling of my daydreams. This is the best part of the day, the best part of my life; sharing this imaginary world, conjuring a few moments of genuine delight in another human being. 

I imagine Jonah, older, delivering my eulogy. He wasn't much of a human being, this wrecker of lives, this destroyer of dreams, this failure. But I remember the stories he used to tell me, this time we shared where he was something fractionally more than nothing. 

"And inside her long black coat, when she opens it, there are all these rows of specially made throwing knives," I continue.

"And she's one of Dieter Morenz's Havoc Brigade?"

"That's right, she's one of his most trusted assassins. Her name is Galina Blink."

"Is she faster with a knife than William Poe is with a gun?" That innocent enthusiasm, those wide-eyes.

And then a soft knock on the door and Sam appears, and I can tell immediately that something is wrong. She forces a smile for Jonah's benefit.

"Sorry, can I talk to you about something?" It's not going to be anything good. What have I done now?

I turn to Jonah, tell him we'll find out just how fast Galina Blink is tomorrow night. And then I kiss him goodnight and Sam does the same and we turn out his light and slip from his room into the path of whatever new problem is barrelling our way.

I read the e-mail through for the second time. I'm sitting at Sam's out-of-date laptop, at the kitchen table. She's standing behind me, motionless. When I finish reading, I look up and I see that she is silently crying.

"This is the risk of being a tenant," I say, like the world is reasonable and I am wise to its ways, "The landlord gets greedy, or needs money, or whatever, and he wants to sell. I mean, it's his place."

My voice stays level as I say this, but my stomach is turning over. Dizziness. Nausea. Another trapdoor giving way beneath me. However far you fall, maybe you never truly reach the bottom.

"We'll find somewhere," I say, uselessly, "We'll figure it out."

Why don't I stand? Why don't I hug her? Why don't I soothe? Because my presence, my touch, is not reassuring. I am toxic. Proximity to me has already ruined her, don't do any more damage. 

"You mean I will," she says, "I'll find somewhere, because you're too busy at work. And what about the money? We know they won't give us our deposit back on this place, so where do we find a new deposit and the first month's rent?"

"We'll figure it out."

"How will we figure it out? How will we conjure money we don't have?"

"I don't know, Sam!" The anger comes so easily, because it's always there, just beneath the surface. "We'll figure it out like we did last time and the time before that, because our lives didn't work out how we planned and we move from shitty flat to shitty flat because it's just all fucked and that's how it is and it never fucking changes."

And I'm out of the chair and heading for the living room. I can hear her crying behind me but I don't go back because I can't bear to witness the devastation I cause.

I lose time again. A blank space and then I am sitting on the sofa. My phone battery is dead. How is it dead? I look at the clock on the wall. Two hours have disappeared. I turn out the lights and go into the bedroom. Sam is asleep, turned away from me. I lie down and stare at the ceiling and watch the darkness pass into light and then my alarm goes off and it's a new day and nothing has changed.

I walk into the kitchen. There is a card propped against the toaster. The word "Daddy" scrawled in Jonah's hand.

It's my birthday. I didn't realise. I open the card, see the drawing Jonah has made of William Pow battling the Havoc Brigade. He draws Poe like he draws me. I start crying.

My phone pings while I'm waiting at the bus stop. "Happy Birthday, love Mother xxx". 

The Number 23 bus comes into view. The queue of commuters shuffles forward.

Poe dives sideways off his stool. He lands, rolls and then springs off the balls of his feet and vaults over the counter just as the sushi conveyor belt brings his Beretta within reach. He snatches the gun from the plate as he passes over it, spins it in his hand, and brings it to bear on Galina Blink; gun inverted, aiming along the line of his index finger, at the same moment as the first throwing knife leaves her hand.

Blade and gun-metal clash with a clang and a spark. The shot goes wide and the Beretta slips from Poe's grip as Blink's second knife takes flight.

For a split-second, Poe thought she'd missed her mark.

But Galina Blink never missed.

Poe looks down and sees the hilt of the blade protruding from his chest, the bright bloom of blood already spreading out around it.

He looks up and Galina Blink smiles. She has a third blade ready to go, the tip held expertly between her thumb and forefinger. Her hand blurs for an instant and Poe feels a jet of air moving towards his face, the herald of something much heavier and more deadly.

And then everything goes black.

"Dude, what's going on?" Spence is waiting for me as I trudge to my desk.

"With what?"

"Wilson wants to see you upstairs. He called about five minutes ago, said to tell you to go straight up as soon as you got here."

"Which one is Wilson?"

"The half-orc with the psoriasis. 'It puts the lotion on its skin'"

I'm in quicksand. "What's it about?"

"Fuck knows. But he said you wouldn't be able to log into the system and you should go up straight away. It doesn't sound like they're offering you shares in the company."

You left this morning without saying goodbye. It's your birthday. Why are you closing yourself off? Why are you retreating from me? I know there are problems but they are our problems. Don't retreat. Don't run away from me. Don't leave me here alone. 

"Hans Schmidt is really really tall," says Jonah.

Up ahead, the parents gaggling at the school gate. 

"He's Austrian," says Jonah.

Peals of laughter. Emma Burgess is regaling her mum-clique with a story. You would hate Emma. I wish you were here. Old you, funny you. You'd hear her and you'd say something aside to me, just loud enough that she MIGHT have heard, just loud enough to be dangerous. And I would try to keep a straight face. 

I wish we could do this walk together sometimes. I wish you could share ordinary times with me. 

"He has one eye and a huge scar down his face and he uses this club with blades in it the Aztecs made," says Jonah.

Why haven't you texted me back? I'm sorry I lost my shit last night. None of this is on you. It's just how it is. It didn't work out how we thought, but it can still work out. Don't cut me off, don't take this burden for your own. I can't do this without you. I'm sorry I cried. This isn't your fault. 

"And sometimes he teams up with Galina Blink, who is the lady from the Havoc Brigade with the knives," says Jonah.

This incredible boy. This innocent boy, who knows nothing of money or work or insecurity. This blend, this synthesis. So much more than the sum of us. You're filling his head with these stories, and they animate him so much, they spark him. He lives in this world you created. Don't retreat from him too. Come back to us.

"There's Xander!" says Jonah, and he's suddenly straining at my hand. I hold him back, bend to kiss him, tell him to have a good day. He smiles, but his mind is already in the future. I let him go and he runs to Xander, laughing, sharing some aspect of this nine-year-old world that I have long forgotten.

I watch him through the gate, standing back from the mum-clique, unnoticed. 

"No one was that happy to be in school when I was a kid." A man's voice, American, right at my shoulder.

I turn. He's a little older than us, maybe early-forties. He looks like a film star. I take in a grey suit, open-necked shirt, a dark Crombie overcoat. A splash of colour lent by a lime green cashmere scarf hanging loose around his neck. And when he smiles at me. A row of neat white teeth. The corners of his eyes crinkle.

"I'm sorry, were you having a private moment? I didn't mean to intrude."

Up ahead, I see some of the mum-clique, their DILF radars already pinging loudly, looking him over, nudging each other.

This man is everything we're not; rich, relaxed, comfortable in his own skin. You'd hate him on sight.

I fumble words, "I'm sorry, no, I was..."

"My daughter's first day." 

I look down and see the little girl holding his hand. She's watching me intently, with wise, adult eyes. There's something slightly creepy about her gaze.

He bends to her, whispers something. She lets go of his hand and walks, lady-like, to the school gate. She doesn't look back before she has vanished into the crowd.

"She's joining late, and probably leaving early," he says. His voice is smooth, it sounds like hot coffee and the Sunday papers on a terrace beside an Italian lake, "I'm over here for work, maybe only a month or two. Peter Jensen..."

And he extends a soft hand, the nails perfectly manicured. A firm grip, reassuring.

"Samantha McGill. Sam."

"I'm sorry, I know the over-friendly American thing makes you guys uncomfortable."

I smile, "No, it's fine." Useless.

"Like I say, we're probably not sticking around and I don't really know anyone here, so..."

"Sure." Sure? When do I ever say 'sure'?

"I'll let you go. These precious few hours of freedom, right?" That smile again.

I nod. Dumb. Useless. 

"It was great to meet you Sue," he says, and he turns to go.

"Sam," I say, too quiet for him to hear. I look at the mum-clique, but they're not on me, their eyes are following him across the road to where a uniformed chauffeur holds open the passenger door of a sleek black Bentley. 

I mean, seriously?

He shares a joke with the chauffeur and climbs into the car, laughing. I watch the car pull away. It's a different world, James. 

Wilson is in his thirties. His skin condition makes his face look like it's been badly sunburned through foliage. He has a shit haircut and an off-the-peg suit and a tie with stains on it that looks like it was knotted by an eleven-year-old. 

This office, with its partition walls and its scratched, MDF door represents the pinnacle of something for Wilson. It's a giant "fuck you" to the bullies in the playground and the clever kids who thought they were so much better than him, and where are they now, eh? Teaching or something, probably, while he pulls down £85,000 before tax and drives a 3-series BMW because he dodged the whole notion of a family and commitments so every penny he earns is his to spend. 

I imagine he reads Jeremy Clarkson and goes to strip clubs and thinks that one day he'll marry a Russian or a Thai girl significantly younger than him and he'll move to a village with a cosy pub and the girl will suck his cock all day long.

Before any of that can happen, though, there's this prick from downstairs to deal with...

"What does the name Dieter Morenz mean to you?" His voice has an estuary twang that I'm pretty sure is affected.

"Dieter...?" How has he heard this name? These are stories for Jonah. Is someone listening in? Are they bugging our flat...?

"I'll save you the bother of lying to me. You post to social media under the name Dieter Morenz. You do this during work hours, incidentally, which is a sacking offence from the get-go."

"Social media? No, I don't even have--"

"One of the nerds traced the posts back to your smartphone. We have dates and times, dozens of them. The denial ship has sailed, my friend." This prick.

"It's a made-up character, I tell my son these stories at bedtime that--"

"Yeah, I'm sure you're a really great Dad."

He slides a manilla folder across the desk to me. Something has gone badly wrong, but I have no idea what it is.

"You've been using your work computer to partake in some extremely unpleasant activity online."

I open the folder. Pages and pages of tweets and Facebook posts.

"Online trolling," says Wilson, "abuse, death threats. Threats of rape, I believe, too."

The pages blur at the edges. My heart races. I flick dumbly through this pile of evidence. The account name: @dietermorenz. The profile picture is my face. But I know nothing about this. Dieter Morenz has abused women, threatened to kill homosexuals, trans people, people of colour. Dieter Morenz has made a convincing bid to be the worst person on the internet, and that is a high fucking bar. But there is no Dieter Morenz...

I look up from the folder. Wilson is watching me, like a cat playing with its food.

"This is a mistake," I tell him, "A misunderstanding. I... I would never..."

"These come from your phone and from your work computer, all during office hours, all while you were logged into the system. I'll be frank with you..." He looks down at the file to check my name, "...James. I'm pretty broad-minded, but I find this disgusting."

"It is disgusting. It's completely disgusting. But it's a misunderstanding. This isn't me..." I have an idea. I dig my phone out of my pocket. "Look..."

He sighs. He doesn't want to hear the defence's arguments. I unlock my phone to show him there are no social media apps and am immediately faced with a panel of social media apps. How did they get here? I don't have these apps, I don't have any accounts... And yet there it is; @dietermorenz, and all the offending posts in an endless scroll. Wilson must see my face fall. He shakes his head.

"No, but this..." I murmur, but the protest has nowhere to go.

"I have no idea if there will be criminal charges," says Wilson, "But as of now, you're out of here."

"Out? No, you don't understand. Whatever has happened here, you can't--"

"I absolutely can. You're on a zero-hours contract. I can drop-kick you onto the street whenever I want, and I do want. Get your shit and get out."

I don't think my legs will work, but somehow they do. The room swims and moves around me as I head to the door. What is happening here? Another trapdoor, another false bottom to my life has just given way. Sam. What do I tell Sam? We have to move. We need money. My heart pounds. I'm struggling for breath. Darkness around the edges of my vision. Exhale. Force air out, don't try to inhale. This is a panic attack. You've had them before. Don't fall apart here, in this asshole's office. Get outside. Get your shit together and get out.

Outside in the corridor. I can't breathe. I can't inhale, I'm holding air in. Breath out... Two... Three... Hold... Two... Three... Breath in... Two... Three...

Downstairs, in the main call centre. Phones ringing, voices. No one looking up at another nobody walking the aisle. I never wanted to be here. I always dreamed of leaving. But not like this.

Up ahead, I see him. Spence. Headset on, he's laughing at whatever is being said to me. Next to him; my desk, my computer. The only person with access. My friend. He cackles again. When I went to the bathroom, when I was out for lunch. Spence is always at work before me. He leaves after me. He has access to my computer. I never guarded my password from Spence, because who cares? 

I pick up the pace and I turn down the row towards my desk. Spence sees me coming. He ends his call. He takes his headset off, looks at me.

"So what was all that ab--"

And I swing a fist into the middle of his face. He tumbles off the chair. Someone screams. I move closer. I throw his chair out of the way. He's trying to scramble back, but he has nowhere to go. I think someone needs to stop me. I think I'm going to kill him right here, in front of everyone.

And then there are hands on me, and the room is rotating around me. Scabby carpet tiles against my face, breath forced out of my lungs. 

And Spence is on his feet, clutching the side of his face, "What the fuck?!"

I snarl at Spence. People are holding me back. Already I am glad of this, the wind leaving my sails. I don't want this. I want to get as far away from this as I can. 

Spence stands, staring at me. I glare at him. I shrug people off. I look to my desk. What do I need? Nothing. There's nothing of me here. There's nothing of me anywhere.

I walk to the lift for the last time. I press the button for the last time. I ride down for the last time. I walk through the lobby for the last time. I step out onto the street and I look up at the sky.

For the last time.