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Tonight A Man Died: Shortbread's Light Bite

Published 9 months ago

Today, while searching through the Shortbread archives, I stumbled upon this tale about our most morbid curiosity.

Tonight A Man Died by Eva Giannetti

I came home from work early, bored, depressed, nothing to do, nothing on the telly.

But...

Tonight a man on our street died.

The evening would be different.

A death. Sudden unexplained death. The most dramatic of events right there, on your doorstep. No need for the telly. Neighbours are out.

Along the terrace everyone is talking. Everyone wants to tell the story. It is so exciting – for each there is something different from the routine. The last arrival must be allowed to share…

I am still sitting in my car, they gather round.

“Have you heard?”

“Dead.”

“Murdered?”

“Maybe. Don’t know.”

“Suicide?”

“Also possible.”

“Really?”

What should I say?

His brother comes to my car. A pain shared is a pain halved, he hopes. He also hopes to find a friend. He feels alone. I know it. He leans on the roof of the car, seeking support. A tough young workman, his hands are so rough perhaps they are scratching the paint; his pain is too great for him to carry and tears that he is not even bothering to hide, overflow his eyes and leak down the side of his nose.

His brother has overdosed: suicide or murder? Both can cause only pain. There is no apprenticeship to teach anyone how to deal with the job to be faced here.

He is also burdened by a professional guilt:

“I didn’t finish in your house. I’m sorry. They came, called me to come. I ran. I said, ‘oh, no. Not again. He’s tried before.’ I knew, I just knew. I thought, ‘he’s killed himself.’ Dear God, I hope he didn’t. What’ll Mam say? I’ll come and finish. I promise. I’m so sorry.” He is buckling under the weight of his doubts and his pain. I can almost feel him shake.

I too feel guilty. I pretend the unfinished job hasn’t occurred to me. It has. Still I say:

“Please don’t say that. I am so sorry. You poor thing. Don’t worry about the job.”

I wonder what state my house is in. I wonder when he’ll come to finish.

There’s movement. Blue lights give our dreary terrace some brilliance.

“Have to go. Police and all that… they say there’s bruising... might be murder…”

“Murder?” I am shocked “I am so sorry.”

Should I offer to accompany him? Best not.

He says “There’s a lot of bruising: hands, face, neck…”

“A fight?”

“Could be. Hope so. Still could be he did it.” His voice hiccups at this thought. Suicide is much the worse option. “Here they are. Must go.”

I park and go into the house at last.

By the time I have unlocked the door I too am weighted down by guilt.

I am part of the drama.

I had that man in the house; I had him do odd jobs. I complained he was always late. I complained that the jobs weren’t well done. Could it be I complained too much. Could I have pushed him to the edge? Could I have contributed to someone being so unhappy they could end their life?

The thought is at once gratifying and terrible.

Adrenalin pumps through me - I know why there is a crowd at the corner: we are glad to be an active part in the action. Life is no longer boring. We have something to say. I am important. I am part of the adrenalin that is in the blue lights running round and round, in the uniformed bodies toing and froing, in the huddled bodies talking in the street below. In our lives there is action. There is excitement.

This is no place of boredom.

My office is boring. The TV at home is boring. Everyday the same.

Death is interesting. Death brings excitement. Something different. At last.

I go into my kitchen. I can see the blue lights flashing below reflected in my clock, a flash of light then darkness, another short light then black again.

They go on and on.

After each light the darkness is deeper. The lights make the darkness deeper.

I look out. Already the crowd is thinning. They can do nothing. They cannot fix what is broken. No amount of gossiping can do that.

Would they want to? He was not really liked. Not in life, that is.

The crowd of neighbours standing in the wind and rain. Waiting. Unable to do anything. They cannot make it better. Cold hopelessness seeps into them. They cannot leave him alone. Not now. Not when he has been alone so long. Can they?

The people huddled in the street are feeling cold. It is raining. Talking doesn’t heat you. They are feeling cold through and through. There’s a film on the TV. Might be worth watching. They move away slowly, quietly one or two at a time.

I watch. I do nothing. Is death boring? I wonder.

Death is not exciting. Death is sad. Death is dark and cold and long.

The brother stands alone with the policeman, still crying.

The cheerful blue lights glare at me.

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