part0025

There’s the kid next door, rolling eggs along the path, giggling while she races after them, to the point where each one strikes the garage wall. All the noise is disturbing my hangover, and the stench of the white mush hangs in the air, kneading my guts. It smells like sulphur.

I stand abruptly, the chair crashing to the floor. Moments later, I’m marching through excoriating sunlight. For a moment, I consider that I should really speak to a parent – Charlotte and I have only been here a couple of weeks and we’ve yet to be introduced to our new neighbours. But when you’re still drunk from the night before, you have a free pass to subvert etiquette.

“Hey, you!” I snap through the privet. “Enough with the Easter eggs, yeh? Have you ever watched ‘Children in Need’? Kids your age are starving in…” Here I consider the countries where kids her age are starving. Is it still Ethiopia? “Africa.”

I can’t be sure if she heard or even understood; my voice is slurring badly. But her laughter alters, developing a sadistic edge. I glower through the branches and glimpse movement. Then her face materialises among the foliage, lips curled into a sneer, eyes boring into mine, before vanishing so abruptly, I wonder if I imagined it. Ever crazier hallucinations are a symptom of my increased bingeing. Stumbling backwards, I only realise I’m still clutching a glass when, it slips from my fingers and shatters on a paving stone.

Staring at the amber fluid snaking along the cracks, I hear a triumphant cackle. I definitely heard her that time. But my fury wanes: she’s only a child; judging by the bicycle propped by their front door the day we arrived, maybe eleven or twelve?

Next thing, I’m rifling through drawers and cupboards like a burglar. “Where’s that other bottle, Charlotte?” I roar. “Charlie, you still here? ” The only noise is another egg trundling to its doom. “That brat next door is doing my fucking head in with her stupid Easter eggs. I was watching her earlier, sitting in her garden, painting them … taking ages to create intricate patterns … only to smash them to bits. Hey, you in, Charlie? I’m popping into the village.”

When I seize the car keys from the mantelpiece, my toe catches a fold in the Persian Rug. I thrust an arm out. Charlotte’s expensive Chinese vase dashes onto the hearth. I steady myself against the wall, dislodging a picture that tumbles face forward, glass splintering. Scarcely giving either a second glance, I negotiate the tricky steps down into the kitchen.

My drinking has spiralled out of control, but yesterday was particularly bad. I’ve no memory of whatever blazing row culminated in Charlie launching a photo album at me. Its contents are strewn over the tiles like the aftermath of a looting. I woke among this debris at half past four, feeling as if I was being stretched on a rack .

I claw a fistful of photographs. Here is a microcosm of our lives together: our wedding, various birthday and anniversary occasions, the pair of us in ski suits or snorkelling attire. My gaze lingers on an image of me grinning behind the wheel of my previous BMW, the gleaming white 5 series.

My reverie is destroyed when two eggs strike the French windows. The harder I blink, I realise my bleary vision has conjured two of them. Yolk slithers down the glass.

Incensed, I seize the handle and barge outside again. Overly hasty, I slide across the grass and crumple in a heap, my face scraping across stones. But the kid has made good her escape, and my demise is greeted with sniggering from the far side of the hedge. This stokes my anger ten-fold. I yell: “I’m going to take every last one of your stupid Easter eggs and smash them all to pieces !” This provokes another chuckle, and no wonder: smashing them all to pieces seems to be collusion rather than punishment.

The privet hedge forms a tangled barrier between our two houses, running along a wall adjoining her parents’ garage. The brickwork requires pointing, but the wall’s weatherworn façade was obviously ideal for her fleeing. It will allow me even swifter access.

Digging my toes into the cracks, I grunt with the effort of climbing upwards, branches stabbing at my enflamed cheeks. As I heave myself higher, until I’m level with a skylight above the garage, the stink of sulphur grows more acrid. Pausing for breath after the unfamiliar exertion, I gaze through the murky pane. Cobwebs mask the gloomy interior. I glimpse the ground level, twenty or so feet below, where a space is large enough to accommodate a 4x4.

Searching for my nemesis, I scan the shrubbery. A burgeoning rhododendron bush sprawls beyond the hedge, its pink blossoms almost translucent. Aside from their stirring against the gentle breeze, I notice more purposeful movement. I freeze, fighting against the alcoholic film causing my eyes to stream in the harsh daylight. Grinding a knuckle into my eye sockets, I concentrate. Creeping beneath the bush, she’ll be clutching another fragile grenade.

I hunker down, ready to spring from the wall, choosing a landing position among an expanse of grass. Shielding my eyes, I also notice the point where her Easter eggs have been getting pulped all morning: just in front of the garage; so close that, the odour of sulphur catches the back of my throat.

Inadvertently, I belch; the horrid taste of regurgitated whisky corroding my tongue. Screwing my eyes shut, I fight against the onset of nausea. But, the hardboiled eggs are overpowering my fragile stomach. I take deep breaths to no avail. My guts heave, and a foul concoction bursts forth, forcing me to cough, splutter, and spit a disgusting mess overboard. Struggling to breathe, my fingers dig into stone, hands quivering with the effort of maintaining this precarious balance, while my body is wracked with further spasms.

Thoughts of the malicious kid abandoned, pain gnaws at my arms. The ground seems even further away. Aware of traffic flowing by, I am struck by how ridiculous I must look. But, another queasy wave overpowers me, and I hurl down my shirt. Then, just as swiftly as the sensation came over me, it recedes, leaving overwhelming relief. My lungs suck cool air, banishing the acidic bile with a verdant aroma of flowers. Purged of sputum, my body craves more whisky to cleanse my bitter palate. Just as I am relishing the recovery, my peripheral vision catches the bush rustling. An egg cracks into the side of my head.

The glutinous innards slither down my chest, adding to the mess already staining the cotton. Shock having tempered my rage, I now focus on the rhododendron, preparing to pounce on the upstart. I glance towards my neighbours’ house, in case her vindictive acts have at last attracted a parent’s attention. Curtains drawn, they remain oblivious to the commotion in their garden.

Because my head is now recoiling from the impact, my position has become even more hazardous. My initial bravado has also evaporated. If I simply leap down now, I’m liable to sprain an ankle. Instead, I begin the process of squirming around, turning my back on my assailant so that I can grasp the top of the wall, then gradually lower myself, relinquishing my hold at the last instant. Once on terra firma, I’ll hunt her down, seizing the scruff of her neck, and dragging her over to the house, where I’ll rap on the door and demand retribution for their daughter’s actions.

Swivelling around, inch by painstaking inch, I’m now facing our garden. I feel the egg white soaking into the puke down my front, and I shake my head at what a trail of destruction being set in motion by such a young child. I’m about to begin the descent when, I hear her cackling again. It sounds as if she’s right at the foot of the wall. I jerk my head around in time to see another egg taking flight. The impact drenches my face in sticky goo that blinds me. Her laughter now hysterical, I feel the wall rocking beneath my grip until, my hands give way, and I’m pitching forwards, face-first, tumbling into our garden, the sudden violence inspiring a cacophony of blackbird alarm calls from surrounding treetops.

For drawn-out moments, I remain paralysed. As the screeching recedes, I consider the possibility that my ungainly fall has caused serious damage. Whether or not I have cracked any bones, I know my skin will be florid with bruises. Hesitantly, I reach out, gaining purchase, probing into the soil. I wriggle around onto all fours, then push myself up; the effort drawing tears. It feels like there could be blood coursing down my face. Standing as laboriously as a weightlifter, I lurch away from the wall; retreating from the sulphurous bouquet, that seems to cling to the squat outhouse in an invisible mist.

“I’ll deal with the fucking brat later,” I mumble. “First things first. More fucking drink is required … more than ever.”

Walking by the French doors, I glare at the windows, failing to see which one of the shining panes was impacted with the egg. I barge back into the house, unbuttoning my shirt, crumpling it into a ball. Padding upstairs, I seize a replacement from its hanger, then trip again and plummet all the way down to the ground floor, where my head cracks the bannister. More determined than ever, to put as much liquor as possible between this entire trauma and myself, I lock the front door and crunch across the drive to our garage.

Clambering into the black BMW, I generate a whole new series of aches that pummel my muscles. My fingers pulse when I grip the steering wheel. The cloying sulphur seems to have followed me into this confined space inside the car, contaminating my clothes. Shutting my eyes, I focus on the plush scent of leather and plastic. My lids grow heavier.

I squint towards the garage door, but it’s shimmering … I try to focus, until I’m no longer seeing the metal door at all, but am staring intently at the wild scene beyond the windscreen, while the white bonnet hurtles along winding country roads… I’m way above 50, edging towards 60… I nudge the brakes each time the tyres clip the verge, then I stomp more furiously as I round a sharp bend. The noise of the squealing brakes brings my head up, and my eyes snap open.

Drinking has turned day into night; during the day, I continually nod off this way, lapsing in and out of these lurid dreams. At night, I spend hours tossing and turning, and staring into the dark.

I’ve dropped the keys. Fumbling around at my feet, my fingers brush a bottle. I tug it out and beam like a kid on Christmas morning: it’s a three-quarters-full bottle of Jim Beam . How long it has nestled so tantalisingly beneath my grasp, is a mystery. Unscrewing the lid, I take generous mouthfuls, my tongue rolling around my lips, as I savour the sweet taste. I relish the burning sensation melting through me, its afterglow evaporating each niggling pain, every last anxiety. Now I’m sinking into a huge marshmallow …

I wake again, my forehead cracking the wheel. I know this narcolepsy will persist unless I get moving. Glancing at the bottle, I’m fleetingly impaled with shame. I’ve become a slave to this in such a short time. But, what I do know is this: one bottle won’t see me through 24 hours. My need to restock my supplies before the weekend is urgent, particularly since the village shop refuses to deliver. Apparently, I was abusive to their driver a few days ago.

I dig the fob from my other pocket, aiming it, squeezing until the door judders upwards. Blinking against the invasive light, I switch on the engine. Puffs of exhaust ghost by. Taking another slug, my trembling palms caress the dashboard. Fatigue washes over me …

… the airbags envelop us, smothering the ugly duet of our screams. After an age, I finally turn to Charlotte, caressing her cheek. “I’ll get help, Charlie.” Unclipping my belt, I extricate myself from the dented white chassis, glancing in both directions. The road is deserted, the only sounds: rooks cawing from a field. I teeter over to her side, wrenching open the passenger door, shock exaggerating my shambolic movement. After unclipping her, I heave her limp body over my shoulder, and carry it awkwardly by the buckled tree trunk, struggling through the undergrowth to the opposite side, then shoving her into position beneath the airbag, and twisting her fingers around the wheel. Retracing my steps, I finally slump into the passenger seat, thumb 999, bark at the voice at the other end, then wait, feeling Charlotte’s warmth in the seat. An alcoholic haze envelops me, dragging me into a fitful slumber before I hear the sirens.

The accident happened last Sunday afternoon. Monday’s tabloid headlines were predictably salacious: ‘EASTER HORROR ON COUNTRY ROAD’ … ‘MP’s WIFE CAUSES DEATH CRASH.’ As the unwitting passenger, I was portrayed as the victim of a terrible event, my widower status inspiring widespread messages of condolence. The opposite was the case for Charlotte. Despite her fatal injuries, the small amount of alcohol in her bloodstream condemned her as a drunk driver. But her vilification demonstrated exactly what would’ve happened to me had I not had the courage to make that split-second decision. In my profession, a ruthless streak is one of the attributes separating greatness from mediocrity; the leaders, from those they lead. Had I not apportioned blame in that way, a rising Westminster career would have been destroyed, and the country, as a whole, would’ve lost out. I wasn’t going to end up like Ted Kennedy: forever tainted by the crash at Chappaquiddick Bridge.

When I return to the House, after the Easter recess, and the end of my compassionate leave, I’ll book into rehab. Everyone will sympathise - constituents, journalists, colleagues, opponents. I anticipate remaining the centre of attention for all the effusive well-wishers, especially the many eligible women, who’ve been sending cards, photographs and phone numbers; as an aphrodisiac, power and heartache are a potent combination .

I’m about to disengage the handbrake, when I realise I’ve inadvertently shut the garage doors. Exhaust smoke swirls below the level of the windows. My liquor-addled mind pictures the walls closing, as if I’m trapped inside a cave, like Jesus was; like that circumstance celebrated by all that nonsensical, fucking egg destruction.

“Thankfully, I don’t need divine intervention to be released,” I announce, patting the seat beside me for the fob. It isn't there. Black clouds envelop the enclosed space. I try snatching a breath, but imagine my ribcage being constricted by some horridly thick serpent. My unravelling thoughts add glistening scales to the terrible vision. Then a brief fissure in the murk reveals a face. A palm slaps the windscreen, the sudden jolt hauling me back from lethargy, and inspiring a vicious coughing fit.

“Who’s there?” I must’ve nodded off again. The noxious fumes are conspiring with the alcohol. Desperately, I twist the key to kill the engine, but my fingers are quaking so erratically, it snaps in the ignition. Sapped of energy, I hack and splutter, each attempt to breathe like shears, lacerating my chest. I feel consciousness ebbing.

Mesmerised by the dense fog, I flashback to the moments after the crash. Before I went to Charlotte, I staggered over to the tiny figure entangled in a crumpled bicycle, ashen-faced and blinking up at me. When I’d jerked the wheel, too late to avoid the collision, her head had whipped round, her white eyes locking onto mine. She saw me at the wheel. So, before swapping Charlotte over, I had to do this. I bowed to her paralysed body, placing my palm over her nose and mouth. She hardly twitched, as I starved her of oxygen. After agonising minutes, while every sense bristled for the sound of oncoming traffic, I probed her neck, checking that her pulse had gone. Her glazed expression seemed to follow me for a second, before fixating on the beautiful blue sky. Incongruously, I touched her lids shut.

When I made my way round to the passenger side, I noticed a wicker basket, attached to the front of the bicycle with yellow ribbons; eggs were strewn over the tarmac, their shells painted in myriad colours. Perhaps she was on her way to the village church. No wonder I keep having phantom visions of Easter Sunday, fantasising about being egged, and smelling eggs. Conversing with a deceased loved one is natural, when you’re grieving; being haunted by a mischievous poltergeist I put down to the D.T.s.

Among the shifting veils of gas, the face appears again. The girl’s gleeful expression gloats over the sight of my wilting body; her harsh laughter escalating at each of my pathetic attempts to struggle with the handle. Yet another hallucination. What the fuck else could it be?

The mirage is aural, too. I hear a faltering voice. “This is how mummy and daddy did it … after the policemen came to my house to tell them what happened to me …”

“No! ’ I gasp. “Leave me alone!”

“When the police found mummy and daddy in the garage, one said to the other, he would never forget that smell, the smell the exhaust made, ‘cause the engine was running so hot … he said it reminded him of rotten eggs … ”

I no longer have the strength to escape, or to deny, the stark realisation that the vile darkness clogging my trachea isn’t going to stop; and the sulphur has nothing to do with Easter eggs or car fumes, but can only be the stench of Hell …