The Time Traveller
16: Brigg Hill 2-04-84
“No one really cares.The effort’s gone from me.No love affair, And no friendly faces.No one understands,And now it’s time to leave.Pointless, endless miseryTake it away from me, Because no one really cares.”
…excerpt from ‘No One Really Cares’ - words and music by Woodrowe, 1983
#
The scars are still on Viv’s hand - I suppose as a constant reminder.
I remember once, hearing of a suicide on the hill, Brigg Hill, of someone I knew. I didn't know him very well, but I did know him. I went to School with the kid. I don’t think anyone I could talk to about it knew why he did it. Teenage angst? Ah, that can’t be the blame for everything, can it? Surely there’s some underlying reason, and that suicide becomes the only way left to draw attention to it. No one wants to kill themselves, not in the end.
It reminds me of another incident, of a story told to me by some Builder I was speaking to one time for some reason - lost to the mists of time now, I suppose - but I remember him telling of when the company came to cut down the trees to make way for cheap affordable housing, there was a short Desire Line footpath at the rear of the fence to the properties. Along there, so he told me, they found a man - hanged himself. The way he told it, it was obvious from the scuff marks on the branch below the hanged man’s final resting place, that right at the last moment, reason returned to him and he tried to stop it happening.
See, no one really wants to die?
Over a woman, apparently. How cliche’d is that? Don’t get me started on autoerotic asphyxiation.
I used to contemplate suicide. I had a big knife. I used to lie on my bed in the dark and cry when I hadn't the guts to carry it through. I used to think that was as low as I could get. I wasn’t even close.
And you know, I wasn't even Christened? Parents thought it a choice of mine when I grew older. So does this mean I have no soul? If I were dead, what would that mean? If anything?
#
I picked the stylus from the ever rotating turntable, relieving that inner groove from the constant clatter and the repeated scrick-scrick noise and crackle of collected fluff upon the needle, sounding quite clearly through the muffled low tech speakers of Viv’s Hifi. ‘No One Really Cares’? Not true Viv. Not true.
#
It’s funny the distinction between dead and nearly dead. Sure, I could forgive him, but it’s such a cowardly thing to do. Why should he get out of the pain, the remorse, the long, endless loss? What makes him so special?
Viv was sprawled over the bed, and somewhat on the floor. There was evidence of much drinking, from the discarded cans and half empty bottles. What remained of the contents of the pill bottle was neatly arranged for full effect, so that whoever found him would think it a beautiful tableau of remorse. But he didn't get to leave it all behind. I needed him. I needed my soul. I needed it so badly.
I walked him around, kicking the debris of a final meal out of the way, the clink of can hitting can and occasionally bottle was a symphony to grief misdirected. His will remained, part of him still desiring to live. Eventually his gag reflex returned, and with the help of a finger or two, he began bringing up the darkness that had begun to settle into his system. Over and over he exerted, and I sat by him, rubbing his back for all the good it would do. It wasn't long until he could talk, some of his senses returning it seemed, from the nightmare of eradication.
“I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know what came over me.” he croaked, spitting out bits of vomit, now fairly much a dry heave. His system obviously was leaving nothing to chance.
I slapped him on the shoulder, a little too blasé for my own liking, “Oh, it happens, kid. Happens more times than you’d care to think. Long term solution to a short term problem.”
He looked at me then, and for a minute I thought he was either going to shout at me or punch me. As it happened it was neither. He laughed.
“You know what? You’re right.” he said at last.
“I usually am.” I said, jostling him a little in the ribs, “And remember, nothing is truly lost. Listen -“
And so I told him, “You know, one day I needed spiritual succour, and looked for it in the world’s religions. I tried and dismissed Buddhism as the organised religion it is and shouldn’t be, preferring to be more of an Existential Buddhist - or as I prefer, an Agnostic Atheist. Philosophically, even at a low percentage chance, the notion of a God could exist in an infinite universe. But I doubt it.
“Don’t get me wrong! I wish I could believe. I want to believe. I want God to exist. I want someone who can guide me, give me a way to live so I can gain entrance to an afterlife.
“But, though I hope I’m wrong, I think we just die, eventually to be forgotten in the grand scheme of history. Even the universe will disappear at some point. All existence at any moment of time will be pointless then. Don’t you see?
“So people do things to distract themselves from that thought. And that was what was missing from my life. Still is to some extent. But I realised the point of life is to take advantage of whatever you can to distract you from your inevitable death, with you as an entity being forgotten and all life being ultimately and universally pointless. It’s not a pretty though, I grant you.”
It’s why I struggled to discover time travel.
“And that’s why music is so important to me. Music is the only thing that cannot die and will always be there for me. I know, all this is not universally pleasant is it? Why not try living in my mind for a few minutes. See how I cope with it. By the way, the answer is I don’t. How can I? I just need to find as many distractions as I can. We all do. Or it’s all over.”
And talking of music, the first record I ever bought with my own money was Rolf Harris Greatest Hits. The least said about that the better.
“I even remember when I got into Metal music. Like the non-conformist I was, I grew my hair, just like everybody else, which when it was at its longest, I could touch my coccyx with the longest tip of hair. Granted, I looked like a Serial Killer, or at least some kind of creature from a Slasher film, but it helped with headbanging.”
And yes, what is to come is not going to be astounding, a shock, or a particularly concealed piece of information. Viv was consumed by his despair, and as no one was around, he had no one to save him. This isn't some Christmas Carol kind of crap either. This was - is - real life. Two people died for one foolish act. These things happened.
Except they happened no more. I nearly lost my soul, in everything. Maybe I did.
#
The Funeral Director and the Funeral Home was a tide of stupidity, inappropriate comments and errors. I wish I had never seen, touched or breathed at the viewing for my Father? I can never escape that venomous odour of rotten eggs. just a thought of that smell brings up all the memories, flooding back into my conscious. I was far too young and Mom should have known that. The person there was a shell of the man he used to occupy. I remember the smell, the temperature, the touch of dead flesh, the hoping and wishing the person would just wake up? It was a sick, sick time.
Of course I didn’t have to go, but hindsight is always two score. In the end it just added to my distrust of the human race as a whole. The only person you can truly trust is yourself. Everyone, without exception, lets you down.
We were in the office of the Funeral Home, when the old duffer began to recite an anecdote, “I was working at the embalming table, when all of a sudden, the body groaned and shot up, sitting up, with dead eyes!”
“Isn’t this a little inappropriate?” asked Freddie, to one of the rest of us.
“You should've heard him on the way up. Talking about turning up to the wrong Cemetery, how dead people fart - I would’ve thrown up if it hadn't been so absurdly amusing.” muttered Cora conspiratorially.
“Well you either laugh or you cry.” I added.
“Or punch the idiot in the face.” mused Ippy.
“There is that, I suppose.” chuckled Freddie.
Seeing Brian Donald there, in his coffin, with silk shroud showing nothing but the face - the clammy amphibious and scaly face of the dead, that was all bad enough. Being directed to the wrong room at first, passing another viewing room with the door slightly ajar so we could see a body being prepared for viewing - how this person had a license to care for and bury the dead, I had no idea. It was the Police who had called him, naturally, and I wouldn't have put it past there being a little back-hander there from a relative or such. Everyone’s at it you know. I don't even remember his name, that Funeral Director.
Viv couldn't come and I didn't blame him. There was a residual guilt he needed to work out for himself, and being here wouldn't have helped him one bit. The band, Woodrowe, were notable by their absence. Nothing, not a word, a call, a card - nothing.
#
The Funeral itself was a quiet affair. Just us lot really, and anyone else who knew him. The Vicar, he hadn't a clue. It was a bog standard service - Psalm 23 and so on. When we left the Crematorium, we had little left to do. What choice did we have? We returned to what we knew, but frankly it wasn't the same. It never could be again, not in the way it had been.
#
How can everything look so good, and yet be so flawed? The grass is always greener, I suppose. Have I travelled time? Or am I mad? Is this a dream? Am I imagining all this? Surely this is just an ambiguous and insane, absurdly meandering wander through a concept, erratic, to match my mind? How can it be when I feel so much pain? Or is it just grief, tearing at the fabric of reality, like it does?
I have seen too many die. I thought I’d eradicated it, by time travel. Or did I simply set up a whole new set of problems? I stopped someone dying, so for balance, did the universe require some other death, no matter who? Who is worth more? Who deserved to live more? But - but, without that death, I would not have been the person I became.
Was that a good idea, or not? Was what I gained worth the hassle? The loss? The altered life, one that no longer exists as I knew it, not in the future, not in the past. It’s all changed, and it’s mostly my fault.
Remember, there are multiple threads of time and occasions running through existence, some that don't end anywhere, some that don't have any point, some that are memory, some that are delusion, some that escape definition, yet there is a through story, of the loss of innocence and what it means to be.
Perhaps it’s all about the human condition? Or existentialism, perhaps?
Of course, it’s not about anything really. It’s my life, in abstract form and filled with absurdity.
As I keep saying, in a way, it defies explanation - it just is.
C’est la vie. Que sera, sera.
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