Simon Mulholland closed the front door behind him, breathed in the morning air, did a few muscle stretches and set off at a gentle pace down Cleveland Gardens. He jogged through the narrow passage that led to The Terrace, crossed the road in front of Barnes Bridge, and joined the path that ran beside the river.
This was how he began each Sunday – with an early morning run beside the Thames. It would usually clear his mind and set him up for the day ahead, but today, as he ran along the towpath looking at the river glistening in the September sunshine, the exercise was struggling to work its magic.
He knew exactly why.
Another dinner party. Another night sat round a Barnes table with other young professional parents talking about the usual stuff. Where to shop. Where to dine. Where to holiday. Where to ski. The best schools for your kids. How to get your kids into them. How to keep them there.
And all with that horrible competitive edge that made any encounter with friends nowadays like a parents’ race at sports day. He couldn’t remember when he started to hate these occasions so much that getting drunk became the only 4sensible response, but he knew that last night he had needed to drink more than usual to get through. And it was the drink, together with the hostess’s spicy Indian food, that was making this morning’s jog so difficult.
He struggled towards Hammersmith Bridge, and carried on along the towpath until he was opposite Fulham Football Club, where he took a right, heading back to Barnes on a path that ran beside the playing fields. This morning’s run, far from making him feel better, had made him feel considerably worse. His head had not cleared – it was fuzzy and aching – and his stomach felt as if something was wriggling inside it trying to escape.
He cut across the common and joined the path that ran beside the Rocks Lane tennis courts. As he did, he slowed down almost to a walk in the hope that gentler movement might make him feel better.
As he jogged past the courts, his stomach cramped.
He stopped by the couples playing early morning doubles and crouched down. He knew what was coming, and he knew it was coming quickly. He looked to his left and saw a path leading into a clump of trees. That would have to do.
He got to his feet and, unable to move freely and still clutching his stomach, hobbled his way into the trees, hoping to find somewhere out of sight of the tennis players or of anyone walking along the path.
Focused on what he needed to do, he didn’t notice what was around him. He saw none of the headstones, none of the statues, none of the broken monuments. All he saw was trees, plants and foliage. All he saw was cover.
He headed in further, desperate to do what he needed to, but anxious for privacy. He found a small space between two stones, and, giving a final look around to check that 5no-one was in sight, dropped his shorts and pants, lifted his runner’s shirt and squatted.
Out it came.
He gasped with relief as everything loosened and what had become of Alice’s Indian food spattered onto the leaves below him.
It squirted onto the ground with a terrible force and his nostrils filled with an acrid stench. He glanced around again, anxious that someone might have seen him, but no-one was in sight.
He lifted himself up and examined the brown pool he had deposited, wondering how best to cover it up.
He shifted some leaves towards it with his trainers and, as he did, his eye caught something on the ground.
A hand.
A hand lying, palm- down, beside a headstone.
Simon pulled up his pants and shorts and then, eyes fixed on the hand, he moved closer to the stone. He peered over.
The body lay on its front, one leg raised, one arm stretched out behind, the other reaching round the side of the stone. Jeans, trainers, fleece – and a pool of blood spread on the ground beneath.
He bent down further to make sure. It was as he feared.
His stomach tightened again and he felt another uncontrollable convulsion in his body.
He turned away from the stone and emptied himself again.
This time through his mouth.