28April
Two years ago I had everything: a steady job, a house in a leafy suburb of Manchester, my wife Eleanor, plans for the future and a flicker of hope. Now there is nothing left. The ache of losing her is a weight I cannot bear, and I cannot simply accept it. If I could turn back that cursed day, I would move mountains to stop it from happening. If only
For the first time in two long years I found myself hurrying back to the oppressive silence of our empty home. At last I could settle the score for Eleanors death. I had meant to stop at the offlicence for a bottle of whisky, but I changed my mind. The hour of vengeance was upon me, and my mind must stay clear. I went to bed early and, surprisingly, fell asleep quickly. Two hours later I woke up, heart pounding, gasping for air. In the dark I kept hearing Eleanors breathing beside me, hoping that when I opened my eyes I would see her there. But the pillow lay untouched. I slipped back into sleep.
My hand brushed the sheet; it warmed under my touch, a cruel illusion that Eleanor had just been there moments before I stirred. Sleep would not return. I lay staring at the ceiling, the plaster turning a ghostly white in the gloom, replaying two years of waiting, longing, and the certainty that my enemy had returned. I knew it.
That illfated morning Eleanor had taken off work early to attend a prenatal scan. She was hoping, after years of trying, that she might finally be expecting. She stood at the edge of the pavement, and as the green walk light flickered, she stepped onto the zebra crossing. She didnt see the car barreling towards her, trying to beat the tide of pedestrians. A cyclist on the opposite side was about to collide with the same vehicle. The driver swerved sharply to the right, sending the car straight into Eleanors path. She was killed instantly. The driver received a twoyear custodial sentence; the cyclist escaped with bruises. Doctors later declared that Eleanor was not pregnant after all.
My foe now lives on, presumably with his wife and child, while I am left with nothing, no hope, no purpose. I have long resolved to kill the man who caused this, to crush him with the power of his own engine. Let his family endure what I have endured. I will not hide, I will not run. If I die, I will die with the same resolve I felt when Eleanor slipped away. Revenge has become the only thing keeping me alive.
Sometimes I drive to that crossing where Eleanor fell, buying a single red rose and placing it on the curb. Passersby glance past, oblivious. I stand there and try to guess what Eleanor thought in those final secondsperhaps she was waiting for good news, taking one last breath before stepping onto the road.
I have visited the grave, attended church, but no solace comes. Only when I finish what I set out to do will I feel any freedom. Exhausted, I rose, took a hot shower, shaved carefully, then ate a simple toast with tea, watching a stubborn stain on the wall where Eleanor had meant to hang new wallpaper. I left the house in a fresh shirt, casting one last look back at the empty rooms. Will I ever return?
Initially I drifted aimlessly around town, killing time. It was too early; my enemy was still lounging on fresh sheets beside his wife, or perhaps already up, stretching, heading for the bathroom, scratching an itch just below his waist. He might have taken the toilet, yawned, then showered while Eleanors breakfast simmered on the stove. I imagined stepping out of the shower, scented with eucalyptus, kissing his wife, sitting opposite his son at the kitchen tableEnough, I thought. The murderer of my wife cannot look so decent.
In my mind the enemy, the night before, had drowned his sorrows in a few pints, trying to make up for two lost years. He awoke with a throbbing head and a parched throat, gulped water straight from the tap as he would in a cell, and went about his day in his underwear and a plain tee. Now thats the sort of man I should face, I told myself. Hes not worth pity.
I turned the car around and drove to his house. I parked where I could see the front door. Two boys were playing on the driveway. I waited. Sooner or later the man would appear, alone or with his familydoesnt matter. If not today, then tomorrow, revenge would find him.
It was late April. Fresh shoots poked through the hedges on the sunny side of the garden, the pavement was still damp from the nights rain, the sky was overcast and cool.
A small boy, about six, burst out of the front door, ran toward the playground, then paused when he saw my 4×4 idling. Could he be the son of my enemy? I wondered. I rolled down the passenger window.
What do you want, lad?
Nothing, he said, looking straight at me, unafraid. My dad also has a car, not as flash as yours.
And wheres it now? Sold? I asked, hoping the answer would give me a clue.
He crashed it, havent bought a new one yet. He stared at me, trying to read my face.
I searched his features for a hint of the man I hunted, but found none. Perhaps I saw his mothers likeness, which I never knew. The rain dotted the windscreen.
Want to sit inside? Youll get wet out there. I opened the passenger door.
He hesitated, then, as the rain intensified, he climbed onto the seat and shut the door. Inside, the rains roar was muffled. He stared at the dashboards red glow.
Do you have heated seats? Does it gulp a lot of petrol? he asked, sounding older than his years.
I answered all his questions, feeling oddly protective. Shall we take a spin? Its still raining.
He gave me a sideways glance.
If you dont want that, we can just sit. I said out loud, but thought, Brave kid.
My mum will scold me, he muttered. Shes not around right now.
I drove away, wondering if anyone had seen us. The children wouldnt remember the make of a car, nor the number plate.
A voice from my memory whispered that the best revenge is to hurt what the offender loves most. The decision came unbidden.
Whats your name?
Vick, the boy replied.
No wayVick, we share a name. Im Victor. I laughed softly. I wont kill you, lad. Youre not to blame.
He said he wasnt his father who hit the woman; it was his mother driving, his dad seated beside her. The woman was my mum, he whispered, eyes widening. My dad took the blame. Mum cant stand prison; shes ill, often in hospital.
How do you know all this? I asked, a chill running down my spine.
I heard them whisper. Mum told me herself. The heat rose in my chest; my hands clenched the steering wheel.
Why tell me? I demanded. Will you call the police?
My dads already served. Can you be charged twice for the same crime? the boy replied, cocking his head.
I forced a smile. The car rolled out of the suburb, the rainslicked road stretching ahead like a white ribbon.
Where are we going? Vick asked, his voice tinged with fear.
Im not sure, I muttered, pulling over, lowering the window, inhaling the fresh, damp air. The hum of passing traffic grew louder.
Are you alright? he asked, his tone suddenly urgent, his eyes seeming to understand more than his years should allow.
I felt the weight of his gaze, the raw honesty of a child. I dont know what Im doing, I admitted, turning the car back toward the town.
Eleanor could not be brought back. My enemy hadnt struck her; his wife had taken the blame. Who now deserves my wrath? Her own fate was sealedher kidneys were failing. What about me? I had decided to exact vengeance on an innocent boy.
Who looked after you when your mum was in hospital? I asked.
My granny. She has a weak heart and never liked my mum. The rain stopped, leaving a glossy strip of road ahead.
How old are you? I pressed.
Seven. Ill start school in September. Do you have children? The question struck a chord; I wanted to tell him I had longed for a son.
He shrugged. My dads car broke. Hes thinking of buying a new one. Maybe you could? He trailed off.
Thanks, goodbye then, I said, opening the door. He stepped out, looked back at the car, then at me.
Will you come back? he asked.
Well see, I replied, a smile flickering. If I do, will you give me a ride? I have no kids, no wife. He fell silent. If your dad buys a new car, maybe you could take it for a spin. He wont regret it.
Thanks. Farewell, I said, barely moving my lips.
Vick lingered at the doorway, then turned and walked away. I drove to the riverbank, bought a cheap bottle of whisky from the corner shop, and sat on the wet grass, drinking straight from the bottle. The burn seared my throat, and I lay back, staring at the sky as the clouds drifted apart, revealing a blue expanse.
A hoarse voice called out, Hey, mate, youre going to catch a cold? Two teenagers stood over me. Apparently I had fallen asleep on the grass. I leapt to my feet, shuffled to the car.
Hey, you want another drink? one shouted.
Its too early for that, I replied, picking up the almostfull bottle.
A swearing outburst rose behind me, but I ignored it. I got into the car and drove home, feeling, for the first time in two years, a strange sense of freedom.
Lord, I almost did something terrible. Thank you you kept me from it. I wish I had a son to pass this madness onto The road ahead blurred as tears welled in my eyes.
Revenge is a life lived for the hatred of another. When you pursue it, you spend the only unique life you have on someone elses, even on an enemy. You lose, even if you think you win.
