Dear Diary,
Two years have slipped by since I lost everything: my marriage, my plans, any hope of a future. I still cant bear the ache of that loss. If I could turn back that cursed day, Id move heaven and earth to stop it from happening. If only
For the first time in two years I hurried back to the oppressive silence of the empty house on the outskirts of Leeds. At last I could settle the score for Emilys death. I thought of stopping at the offlicence for a bottle of whisky, but I changed my mind. The hour of vengeance was at hand; my mind must stay clear. I went to bed early and, surprisingly, fell asleep quickly. Two hours later I woke with my heart pounding, gasping for air. In the darkness I kept hearing Emilys breathing beside me, hoping to open my eyes and see her there. The pillow was untouched. Back to sleep.
I ran my hand over the sheet; it warmed under my touch, giving me the deceptive impression that she had just lain there. Sleep would not return. I stared at the ceiling, its whiteness stark against the night. I replayed two years of waiting, of yearning for revenge. The enemy had returned, I knew it.
On that illfated morning Emily had taken off work early to go for an ultrasound at the clinic. Shed been trying to conceive for years, weary of the endless tests, longing for a child.
She stood at the edge of the pavement on Oxford Street. A green man flashed on the traffic lights, and she stepped onto the zebra crossing first. She didnt see the car barreling toward her, trying to squeeze through the crowd of pedestrians. A cyclist on the opposite side was about to collide with the car, making a crash inevitable. The driver swerved right, sending the vehicle straight into Emily. She died instantly. The driver was handed a twoyear custodial sentence; Emilys life could not be bought back. The cyclist escaped with bruises. Doctors later declared that Emily was not pregnant after all.
My enemy lives on, perhaps with his own family, while I am left with nothing, no hope. I have long decided to kill the man who took Emily from me, to hurl him with the full force of a cars engine. Let his family endure what I have endured. I wont hide or run. Id even die doing it. I died with Emily two years ago; there is no life in merely waiting for revenge.
Sometimes I drove to the very crossroads where Emily fell, bought a bunch of wildflowers and laid them at the curb. Passersby glanced past without stopping. I lingered, trying to guess what Emily thought in those final secondsperhaps hoping for good news. She took a last breath and stepped onto the crossing
I visited the cemetery, the local church, but found no solace. Only by avenging my enemy might I find freedom. Exhausted and sleepless, I rose, took a shower, shaved carefully, then ate a simple toast with tea while staring at a damp spot on the wall where Emily had planned to rehang wallpaper. I left it untouched; the blot is now part of my memory. I slipped on a clean shirt, cast one last look at the empty room. Will I ever return?
At first I roamed the town aimlessly, killing time. Too soon. My enemy was still lounging in fresh sheets beside his wifeor perhaps he had already risen, stretched, shuffled to the bathroom, nudged his foot just below his trousers, relieved himself with a yawn, then taken a shower. His wife had already set the breakfast table. I imagined stepping out of the bathroom, scented with shower gel, kissing his wife and sitting opposite his son at the table. Enough, I thought, the enemy looks too decent. The man who killed my wife cannot be that handsome.
I pictured the night before the confrontation: the enemy had drunk heavily, trying to make up for two lost years. He awoke with a splitting headache and a thirst that drove him to gulp water straight from the tap, as he used to do in prison. He didnt shave. Dressed only in his undergarments and a Tshirt, he sat at the table. Now thats right, I told myself. Thats the kind of man I can kill without remorse.
I turned the car around and drove to his house. In the front garden I parked so I could see the driveway. Two children were playing on a swing set. I settled in, waiting. Sooner or later the man would emerge, with or without his family. Not todayperhaps tomorrow vengeance would find him.
It was late April. New leaves were pushing through the hedges, the asphalt still damp from the nights rain, the sky heavy with clouds, a chill in the air.
A small boy, perhaps six, burst from the front door and ran toward the playground, spotting my SUV parked nearby. Could he be the enemys son? I wondered, lowering my window.
What do you want, lad? I asked.
Nothing, he replied, staring unflinchingly. My dad also had a car, not as fancy as yours.
Wheres it now?
He crashed it, havent bought a new one yet.
I studied the boy, trying to find any resemblance to my target. Nothing. Perhaps he looked more like his mother, whose face I could not recall. The enemys features, however, were seared into my memory. A few raindrops dotted the windshield.
Want a seat? Youll get wet otherwise. I opened the passenger door.
He hesitated a moment as the rain intensified, then climbed onto the high seat and shut the door. The sound of rain was muffled inside. He gazed at the dashboards red lights with wide eyes.
Do you have heated seats? Does it gulp a lot of petrol? he asked, surprisingly mature.
I answered each question gladly, feeling foolish staying in the yard with a child.
Shall we take a spin? Its raining anyway, I offered.
He gave me a wary glance.
If you dont want, we can just sit, I said aloud, thinking, *What a brave, clever lad*.
My mum will scold me. I get it, he muttered, glancing again at me.
Shes not here now. Not for long, I replied.
We drove away, wondering who might have witnessed us. Children rarely note car makes or licence plates.
A voice in my head recalled an old saying: the best revenge is to strike at what the offender loves most. The decision came as naturally as breathing.
Whats your name? I asked.
Tommy, he answered cheerfully.
Tommy? So are we namesakes. Im Victor, I said, forcing a smile.
I told myself I would not kill him; a child could not be blamed for his fathers sins. The enemy could be dealt with, the boy could simply be taken far away and left. He would never find his way back. Let him search for his father and suffer.
Tommys sudden question snapped me out of my thoughts.
What? I asked.
I said my dad wasnt the one who hit the lady. My mum was driving, my dad sat beside her, he whispered.
What lady? a cold shiver raced down my spine.
My mum took the blame for hitting Emily. Shed never survive prison. Shes ill, often in hospital, he continued.
How do you know? I demanded.
Im not tiny. I heard them whisper, and mum told me herself, he said.
Heat flushed my face. My hands clenched the steering wheel with damp palms.
Why tell me this? Are you going to call the police? I asked.
My dads already served. You cant be charged twice for the same crime, Tommy answered, tilting his head.
Probably so, I muttered, forcing a laugh.
We had slipped out of town without me noticing. The rainslicked road stretched ahead, marked with white, straight lines.
Where are we going? Tommy asked, his voice tinged with a hint of fear.
I hesitated, then pulled over to the side, rolled down the window, and breathed in the fresh, wet air. The hum of passing cars grew louder.
Are you feeling unwell? Tommys tone now carried concern, his eyes understanding. A sudden rush of guilt hit me. Children and animals cannot be fooled.
I turned the car around and headed back toward the city.
Emily could not be returned. My enemy did not strike her; his wife took the blame and paid the price. Who should I now exact revenge upon? Her own fate is sealedher kidneys are failing, she has little time left. What did Tommys words mean? His mothers disease, his fathers sentence I imagined taking the innocent boys life for my own peace, but even that thought repulsed me.
Who were you with when your mum was in hospital? I asked.
Grandma. She has a weak heart and hates my mum, he replied.
The rain stopped. I watched the wet ribbon of asphalt stretch ahead.
How old are you? I asked.
Seven. Ill start school in September. Do you have any children? I felt a pang, wanting to tell him about my own son, the one I could never see.
He stared, perhaps sensing the emptiness inside me. Were here, I said.
We entered the driveway. The children inside hid from the rain, retreating to their homes. No one ran about hysterically. Tommy opened the car door.
What are you doing here? he asked, confused.
Just visiting friends, I replied, unsure.
He hopped onto the pavement.
Will you come back? he asked.
Maybe. If youre up for a ride, I could use a passenger. I have no son, no daughter, I said, then fell silent. If your dad ever buys a new car, perhaps he could lend it to you.
Thanks, goodbye, he said, his voice bright as the door slammed shut.
He lingered at the entrance, then turned away. I raised my hand in farewell, drove away, and bought a bottle of whisky from the corner shop. I found a patch of damp grass by the River Aire, sat down, and drained the bottle straight from the glass. The burn in my stomach felt like fire. I lay back, eyes fixed on the sky as clouds broke, revealing a clear blue.
A hoarse voice called out, Hey, mate, you alright? Youll catch cold. Two teenage lads were standing above me; I must have fallen asleep. I sprang to my feet, grabbed the nearly empty bottle, and heard a string of curses behind me. I didnt turn.
I got back into the car and drove home. For the first time in two years I felt a small, strange sense of freedom.
Lord, I almost did something terrible. Thank you for keeping me safe. I wish Id had a son like that, I whispered, tears blurring the road ahead.
Revenge, I realise now, is a life spent hating another. When you take vengeance, you waste your one unique existence on someone elseon the very enemy you despise. You lose, even if you think youve won.
