The Dirty Works of Shane Levene

 

"I'm sat here staring back across the park that crosses yesterday an' I see them same flowers, their confetti-heads gently blown off dispersed scattered an' I'm sat stopped in an eternal present an' the second fade of autumn's creeping an' He comes to me in dreams. Christ.

​

You've no idea what I'm going on about, have you? You must think me nuts? You must be thinking: WHO is this crazy woman an' what in the world is she harping on about? No... No... It's okay. I'd think the same. I'd probably get up'n leave an' find a quiet spot well away from me. That's how it is. In our most dire moments we become so burdensome. The one time we need someone to hold us up is the one time we've become far too heavy to support. So, if you'd like me to leave, just say, I'll understand. I mean, seriously, who does shit like this!? What normal person plonks themselves down an' acts like this in front of a total stranger? The world gets too much sometimes. That's the only answer I have. Bet you think me even more nuts? But it's the truth an' I'm tired. I could sleep. I could sleep right here. But you'd soon notice my words have stopped an' my breathing has eased an' you'd take your chance an' creep away an' then a darkness would enwrap me an' He would come an' the world won't coo-coo me then. So, I'm not going to go to sleep, but feel free to tell me to leave, if you like.

​

Can I ask you something? Have you ever had someone imprinted on your mind? Branded deep inside... Like each blinked memory is watermarked an' there's a ghostly signature tune that haunts every moment of life? Don't bother answering that. I'm quite sure I didn't ask in any real hope of an answer. Questions are rarely anything to do with the questioned. Questions are mostly just a ploy: a deceitful way of pretending we give a shit about someone else while continuing to talk about ourselves.

​

“Did you study?”

“Blahdiblahdiblahdiblah... ...”

“Yes, I studied psychology and criminology. 5 years at so n' so' university,   etceteraetcetera... Do you speak any other languages?“

“Blahdiblahdiblah... ... “

"Interesting. I speak fluent Spanish and Italian, a smidgen of Russian and even less Arabic, etceteraetcetera...”

​

Huh? Never mind. Pay no attention to me. I wasn't really talking to you anyway.

 

You don't speak much, do you? No need to justify it... It's not a fault. I never used to speak much either. It's strange. When I didn't speak people thought me dumb, an' now I do speak, they think me crazy. You can't win. You're not supposed to. Answer me this: Why do people do such shitty things to themselves? Christ, damn people! What are they thinking? I don't suppose we'll ever know. It's a silly thing to ask, but it was a genuine question. Did you feel that? I'm sure I felt rain. You didn't? Then it was just me. I always think I feel rain; just the tiniest speck. I'll wipe my cheek an' look up an' try to catch it coming down but there is nothing, just sky an' cloud an' cloud an' sky an' beyond that who really knows? That man. The one I mentioned. He jumped from the 9th floor out his hospital room window. March the 3rd, the year before last. Can you imagine that? Leaping from 9 floors? How could life have gotten that impossible? How could someone ever think that that was the only an' best solution? I used to say it was selfish, but that's not what it is. It's not courageous either. Do you think suicide is courageous? I don't. At best, in some situations, I guess it could be an option... But it's still not courageous. Just the easier thing to do. But I'm biased. When something like that happens to someone you love you can never justify it. When you're what's left behind, part of the aftermath, no... There's no understanding it then.

​

Damn him! It's 2 years now an' I can't bear closing my eyes. 9 floors. Do you have any idea of what happens to a body when it falls from that height? I thought I did. I'd read somewhere that you have a heart attack an' lose consciousness well before coming to a stop. That's what I hoped the autopsy report would reveal. I only read it for that small peace-of-mind. It's not what I got. Far from it. No. I wasn't prepared for that, not at all. You wouldn't think it, at least I didn't, but a fall from that height can do the most unexpected things. The trauma that shudders through a body on impact is tremendous. It's a closed system. Once that reaction starts, it has no place else to go. Pablo... That was his name. Christ. He lost an entire hand. His other... the other, was almost entirely de-gloved. Far worse, though, were the leg breaks. There were so many leg breaks that they were impossible to quantify. Both feet snapped... Compound fractures of both shins an' the left fibula... The pelvis pulverised like chalk. Internally things were even worse. That's what killed h--... Proved fatal. I mean it would have been fatal anyway, it was just the internal injuries that got there first. But the worst, the real headfuck, was when I read that he--, er, that the brain was sentient for over 20 minutes after impact. That knowledge is the knowledge that cut me down. How could a body be conscious after that? How? An' what would it be feeling? Staring at its own hand laying disconnected on the ground besides it? Remarkably, the only head trauma sustained was the teeth biting off the tongue. Can you believe that? Can you believe that a life could feel so wrong that your best option is that? I wish I never read that fucking report. I wish I would have left it alone. But I was searching for my own closure. The me of today... Sat right here... in this endless present, is the consequence of me reading that report. I am the manifestation of all of those horrific details. An' I don't want to sleep because he comes, but he comes like that, in pieces, forever begging me to end his suffering. But there's nothing I can do an' so I wake up begging for someone to end mine.

​

We had two young children. Two. They're gone now. The government removed them. They said I was no longer fit to look after them. I wasn't. They reminded me of bits of him an' I couldn't bear looking at them. But I hope they are well. I hope that if anything good comes of this that it comes to them. Their life hadn't been great, even before. It was a volatile relationship an' we both took to our poisons. I wasn't a great mother. I know that. I still wanted to live. I'm ashamed of that. The children felt like a great heavy anchor, even a punishment. Men often want children for very different reasons. They think the chicks will keep the hen in the hen house. That's how it felt, anyway.

​

I really don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe I'm trying to unload, pass on my grief. I know that must make me a terrible human being, but that's how I feel. I'd rather someone else carried my torment an' that I be free. I'd pass it all on to you if I could. Seriously. I'd give it all to you right now an' wouldn't think a thing of it. Does that make me a terrible person? I think it must. Or does it make me just another person... Another selfish human being?

 

*    *    *    *    *

 

We met just down there, in Kensington Gardens. It was early winter an' I was feeding the ducks. When I turned to go an' get some more bread, he was sat on the bench watching. He looked awful, like he had been in deep refrigeration for some days. He had black trousers an' a black shirt an' a black an' busted eye. In that cold, his face was completely void of any colour. But there was something about him... Something wild. His eye was busted right here, right through the outside of his eyebrow. It wasn't fresh, but it was fresh enough to still have crusted dry blood around it. His hands an' knuckles were cut an' sore too. He had his hands clasped like this, his right hand over the left, lightly massaging it, like he was working knots of tension out the knuckles. I found out later that he had had a broken wrist. He looked dangerous... Like a wolf that had snook off alone to clean up its wounds an' resharpen its teeth. An' that's how I found him, all broken from his latest fight, watching the ducks being fed on a freezing winter morning. Sunday. An' then he left.

​

But why would you care for any of this? Do you care? Well, you say that but I know what's what. An' why should you care? Why should anyone care about such a random tragedy any more than they do a news report of a massacre somewhere or a senseless killing some place else? We only care if we have an investment in the spectacle. We care about as much as it affects us. The closer to home, the more we register the tragedy. I guess then it's not quite the same as a random news report. Today I brought this tragedy a little closer to your door.

 

Sorry? Speak with who? Me an' him? No. We didn't swap a word, not even a greeting. But we did swap something. On the bench, where he had been sitting, was pinned a small rip of paper: 'Pablo' it read, an' below that a phone number. I still have it. Here, let me show you it. Hang on... Here, here it is. This is the raggedy rip of paper that led me down into the catacombs. If I had any sense I would let the wind take it... But I can't. Letting go isn't an option. Would you let it go? Could you give up such a treasure when you have so little left? No. You can't. What would be left of our lives if we did that? An' no, I didn't phone the number. I had little experience of men an' even less of love back then. I kept it. I stuck it on my fridge an' I stared at it for a few moments each morning an' then again in the evening. But something about it terrified me. Have you ever had that feeling? It's like you're going to do something, in the end you're going to do it, an' yet all the while your body is physically rebelling against what it knows the brain will eventually make it do? That was the feeling I had. A sinister energy had found its way into my life... A black rolling fog, curling over me, an incubus, penetrating my sleep, bringing great turbulence to my dreams. It came in right then an' I felt it as clearly as an arm around my waist.

​

Am I boring you? If I am you must say. There's not too much left to tell. You already know how it ends an' whatever is inside its guts really isn't important. I am so tired. It's not easy to explain. It's not a tiredness I can even express. Maybe it's not fatigue at all. Maybe it's something else. Excuse me. One moment. I'm just thinking, consulting myself. Yes. I have... I know it. I've said way too much. That's one of the tricks that always gets you. They tell you it's healthy to talk of these things but it often just makes it even more real. One thing the human mind has evolved to do well is deceive itself. Sometimes it goes plain crazy as a means of damage limitation. I should have left it alone. Maybe if I learn to do that the world will turn kind once more. Yes. That has got to be the way. What do you think? Tell me. Maybe if I open my arms like this an' close my eyes an' bend far back, maybe madness will save me... Come swooping by from beneath an' enrobe me an' cradle me an' take me out of time for just a moment. Look... Like this... Open my arms an' be the Welcomer of all things... Let everything come pouring in an' through me... My spine curled backwards, my head back too, my throat stretched taut, giving myself up to whatever this life really is... To whatever it wants to do with me. There it is again. Rain. I felt it. I did. If only the heavens would open up an' wash me clean.... Wash the whole world clean. Wouldn't that be something? I'd open my arms an' lean far back then. Just imagine it... How foul the gutters would run. The whole world getting a good hosi-- Hey, look! Your shirt. It's rain... It really is! An' there's another! You see it too? Good, then it's not just me. Oh Christ... It's coming, it's on its way. Yes, yes, you get going... That's OK. Quick now. Get on out of here while you still can... Go an' find some shelter an' wait it out. Me? I'm staying right here... Right beneath it... Right in the thick of things. Now get along... Go! Run! Run like you've lost tomorrow."