Byker Books

 

 

 

That morning.

 

That morning after that night.

 

Fiona knew he couldn't ... knew he wasn't ... but she insisted. Leo had tried, really tried, but it all became farcical and she'd laughed and called him a useless fucker. Which he was. He'd tried again in the morning, but she wasn't interested by then and went off to work without saying anything, but he could tell. It was the final inevitable nail. On the way out he picked up a packet of her anti-depressants and popped a couple. That would teach her a lesson. Lesson? Oh my God! Lessons!

Leo popped two pills as he started his own lesson. Bents Park comp, where he was cribbed, cabined and confined, though there was a view of the sea. The wind blew strong and cold from the east and great waves crashed on the sands. He considered the harbour with its piers. The lighthouse on the north tall and elegant, almost rampant, with a penetrating, bright, white light. On the south side the truncated one, stumpy, with a feeble red light. For a sad moment he empathised with a lighthouse. He popped another pill.

Then the kids arrived. They were well behaved by and large for they had a certain respect for Leo. They felt a little sorry for him as he often seemed down in the dumps, but he was fair and kind and seemed to know what he was talking about. They also had a vague suspicion that Shakespeare was important and even if he wasn't then exams were.

 

Leo explained how they were going to think about one of the most significant soliloquies in Macbeth. It showed the state of mind the protagonist was in just before his final conflict. Leo recited the speech from memory:

 

'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

 

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

 

To the last syllable of recorded time;

 

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

 

The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!

 

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

 

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

 

And then is heard no more...'

 

Why, Leo asked, was Macbeth feeling so gloomy about his life?

 

'Yes Cynthia?'

 

But while Cynthia talked, Leo became introspective. His candle was nearly out. He had strutted on the stage too long, been the fool and the victim too many times. Soon he would be heard no more.

 

'Thank you Cynthia. And then Shakespeare says:

'It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing.' What do you make of that?'

That just about summed things up. Like Pilate Leo did not wait for an answer. He sped from the room for the last time, negotiated the stairs and ran out through the main entrance. He raced past his parked car and out of the school grounds. After crossing the South Marine park, he bolted through the bright and noisy fairground and onto the pier. One mile long with the cold wind blowing straight into his face.

 

This was something he should have done a long time ago. There was a new purpose in his stride, a new determination in his steps.

 

But then the open, windswept pier became a dark tunnel, moist and clinging. He was striding energetically along it but at the same time being dragged helplessly and unwillingly onwards.
There was a sudden barrier, a tall, iron gate and a warning about dangerous waves.

 

 

He climbed the tall railings with an unprecedented strength and an agility. A force was compelling him, pulling him forward and he felt pains in his head as if it was being compressed, trapped in a vice and this made him race faster to try and free himself from the grip, so that he flew like a hovercraft over the rusty rails and past the seaweed covered rocks, with salt water lashing down on him, threatening to take his legs from under him. He arrived at the stunted lighthouse at the end of the pier, a fitting place to end it all. A light at the end of the tunnel. With one last push he clambered onto the concrete parapet and looked down at the surging, angry waves, anxious to devour him, licking at his feet, trying to suck him under.

 

 

But then, as he was about to topple, a great wave, a freak wave five times the size of the others sprang like a fiend from the sea and sent him sprawling backwards onto the concrete. Stunned for a minute, he tried to recover his purpose and complete his mission. Though everything was now a blur, he strode manfully onwards, like Mercury with winged heels. It was exhilarating, speeding again through a tunnel towards the light. Over the locked gates and then there was music, spinning coloured lights, screams and yells and the jangling of coins. Now another set of iron railings and the gates, with golden spikes. And there was water and white wings like angels, white wings, white wings, soft white wings all around. Then he fell forward, down into the cold, welcoming, death-granting water. Escape at last. Heaven at last.

But no one else saw it like that.

When he had recovered from his coma a week later, he found himself in deep trouble. He had apparently run back along the pier, away from the sea, through the fairground, frightening revellers as he sprinted, flailing his arms and shouting incomprehensibly, into the park where he'd run into the lake and dived on some unsuspecting swans.

Fiona started divorce proceedings and accused him of being both a nutter and a pervert. South Tyneside Local Education Authority dismissed him from his post at Bents Park comp because of unprofessional conduct.

 

There was the consolation though of that exhilarating flight towards oblivion thwarted only by that freak wave. One day, with the right weather conditions, with the wind in the west perhaps...