Phil Kurthausen - Sudden Death

‘I don’t know whether you know but me and Tony had a daughter, Rebecca, not long after we split up.’

Split up? It was like calling a mugging an exchange of ideas about wallet redistribution , thought Erasmus. The daughter, he knew about. He had been told by a friend a couple of years after. It had been vinegar in an open wound but by then Erasmus had seen and done things that put things in a different perspective.

‘I heard.’

‘She’s in trouble.’ She began to sob and then while Erasmus struggled with conflicting emotions over whether to move around the table and try and comfort her, she pulled herself together.

‘Me and Tony split up five years ago and since then there’s been nobody else, at least nobody important. I’ve had to try and steer her through her teenage years alone and you know how hard they can be. Did you ever have kids?’

His stomach again, this time somersaulting at the thought of lost possibilities and alternate futures.

‘One, a girl.’

He looked out of the window at the Mersey. It was broiling, grey and angry.

‘It’s a cliché but you know it’s true; they change everything. Your life really isn’t your own any more, you would do anything for them, die for them at the drop of a hat.’

Erasmus wanted to say that was how he had felt about her. He said nothing instead.

‘I think she’s become part of something bad, something really bad and dangerous.’

Erasmus needed a drink and quick. The adrenaline causing his stomach to pitch and roll had flown through his nervous system and it was lighting up like a forties telephone switchboard. Unless he added booze he would be on the floor breathing through a paper bag before he knew it.

‘Drink?’ he asked and, not waiting for a reply, fished out a bottle of Yamakazi he kept on standby for emergencies. Luckily, there were two semi-clean glasses in the desk drawer and he filled both up with generous measures. He passed one to Karen and drank his in one, replenishing it straight away.

Karen looked on agog.

‘Shock of seeing you,’ he explained. ‘So what kind of trouble?’

‘Can you remember what it was like when you were sixteen? The strength of your emotions, how passionate you felt about the world, how it left you breathless with excitement at the possibilities?’

Erasmus could and even with the benefit of twenty years experience that had slowly crushed those dreams and passion, he could still remember the feelings that a piece of music, an argument, and the possibility of love, could bring.

‘I can, but I can also remember the angst, being miserable as sin and thinking I was being deep and lost in an existential fugue rather than sulking.’

Karen leant forward and Erasmus found himself mirroring her, shortening the distance between them across the desk.

‘About two years ago Rebecca changed. I was expecting it, of course, but it’s still a shock to the system when it happens. I wish I could apologise to my parents for what I must have out them through. She went from being a kind and sweet child to a selfish, sulky teenager who would shut the door to her room if she heard me coming upstairs and who barely talked to me, and this happened so quickly.’

‘Par for the course so far though.’

‘It’s not that I’m worried about, all that is normal. Annoying, but normal. What I’m worried about,’ she began to choke up again, ‘is what happened two days ago.’

‘What was it?’

‘The last six months, she’s been acting even worse than normal. Not coming down for dinner, barely communicating even when pressed and then I noticed she was covering her arms. It reminded me of a girl from school. When this girl turned fourteen she stopped doing PE. This wasn’t unusual, to be fair. Lots of us felt uncomfortable as our bodies began to change and the list of excuses for missing PE was always long. But she missed week after week and there are only so many times you can blame your period. She also took to wearing long sleeved blouses even in summer. Some of the girls bullied her.’ Karen’s eyes flickered to the side for second and she paused as though composing herself. ‘You know how children can be.’ She cleared her throat and continued ‘Eventually, the gym teacher, a tough old woman called Agatha had enough and when faced with her latest excuse, grabbed hold of her in the changing rooms and shook her, ripping the top of her blouse. She let go of her when she saw what was beneath the material. Old, white scar tissue crisscrossing her arm and newer pink tracks. She had been cutting herself. So, when Rebecca started covering her arms I was suspicious. But when I found a craft knife in her bag I knew.’

Erasmus always wondered how his experiences, day by day, changed him but the slow drip of the world meant it was hard to tell. Here, looking at the woman he had loved, he saw the change that life wrought on the once young. The Karen he had loved had been daring, fearless and full of adventure. It was difficult to square this with the anxious, worried woman in front of him.

‘I accessed her Facebook account. I’m not one of her friends, I used to be but she removed me, and her privacy settings are set on high. I guessed her password though. It was “Timmy” the name of our old dog. I logged on, violated her privacy but when you become a mother, you do things, anything.’ She looked down at the desk and then took a sip of the whisky he had handed her. ‘Her regular Facebook account was an eye opener, for sure. She has been smoking, a bit of drink, that I guess I expected, and so far, nothing that we didn’t do, Erasmus. Surprisingly, it seems that she is still a virgin. I can see from your face that you think I’ve gone too far.’

And it was true. Erasmus was trying to square what this Karen was telling him with the Karen who had been such an outspoken supporter of Human Rights, demonstrating against any number of dictatorial regimes.

‘Being a parent changes everything.’ She looked at him quickly and then away again. ‘I found something though. Her browser history showed she had been going to sites that dealt with self harm and – ’ her voice caught ‘ – suicide.’

This time she couldn’t help herself and she began to cry freely. Erasmus didn’t move. He was thinking. He was thinking of two instances ten years apart, each lasting no more than sixty seconds, when he had come close to taking his own life. The first had been six months after Karen had left him and he had found himself drunk again, staring into a mirror at eyes that hadn’t slept properly in many weeks, and the darkness and loneliness had felt as tight as a straitjacket, squeezing any remnants of joy left out of him. He had held a razor to his wrists and to this day he had no doubt he would have carried through with it unless at that very moment a burglar hadn’t decided to put a brick through the back window of the house he lived in and, incidentally, save his life. The second incident had been in Afghanistan, and was difficult to see as a memory, more a collection of blood-splattered images linked by rage and a desire to kill and to die. He blinked, forcing the memories away.

‘And then when I was at the computer an instant message arrived from a boy I don’t know. Someone called Ethan.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t know what to do but I knew I had to know. I typed in “yes” and sent a reply.’

‘What happened?

‘Nothing for a moment and then a reply asking who was this? He knew, you see. He knew I wasn’t Rebecca. But the worst part is I heard the door open to Rebecca’s bedroom and when I turned around to look there she was, standing there looking at me, crying. Instead of doing what I should have done I did what Agatha did to that girl from my school. I attacked my own daughter, I confronted her, demanded she show me her arms. When she wouldn’t I pulled and ripped at her shirtsleeves. She was screaming at me, clawing but I did it and there they were, scars, Erasmus.’