We drove to Beachy Head with plenty of exhaust pipe to make sure. In the boot we´d also put rat poison and packed a picnic and some wine to wash it down. Painkillers. A rope. Some scissors and a pistol that I´d had to go to a really rough and scary pub car park to buy from a man called Ellis. I´d printed a route from the AA website. 76 miles.
I´d made a compilation tape of songs that would make you want to kill yourself for the journey down. Just to make sure. No mood killers. No Motown. Side One was the saddest songs ever.Some Nina Simone, a song called ´Lost Cause´� by Beck. Songs that take you to a place that breaks your heart for a few minutes. That´s all we need. A few minutes to decide that we´re definitely going to do it and how we´re going to do it.
On the other side were the worst songs ever. You know the kind of thing, the novelty number ones, that Orville song. The idea was that we´d never get to hear it hopefully but just in case our resolve was tested we´d have fresh impetus.
We wanted to beat the traffic so we left soon after lunch. It´s a two-hour drive and the last thing you need when driving to oblivion is hold ups. I checked on the internet before I left and there weren´t any roadworks. There´s rain due apparently across Sussex and Hampshire in the late afternoon.
The internet is amazing, isn´t it? It´s full of fascinating stuff. Mind you, I was a bit disturbed to read that there is a patrol team at Beachy Head looking out for people they think might be planning a suicide bid. Luckily, it´s me and the wife. I doubt they´ll be on the lookout for couples with picnic hampers. Fingers crossed.
The sun wasn´t shining. It was a grey Wednesday afternoon. I´d left a letter explaining everything. The kids have both grown up, the youngest is at university but she´ll be alright. They both will. It´s just better that we go now. We don´t want to be a burden. We always said we´d go together and we are going together.
Annoyingly, before we leave I really need a piss. I think for a moment about just wetting myself as there´s no point worrying about the mess and the smell. I´d be dead by teatime. And it would be a one-off. I wouldn´t continually be stinking of piss like my dad in his last years. Poor bastard. He´s been gone two years himself and I´ve never really mourned him. It´s relief I feel. Sometimes I find something that reminds me of him and I´m almost tempted to try and force out a tear, find some hidden well of pent-up anguish and grief but I never give in.
I don´t really expect the kids to understand but it really is our choice. We are still relatively young I suppose but the deterioration´s already well under way. I can walk but I can´t run. Well no more than 4 or 5 yards. My back is always giving me grief. The hearing´s shot. My mind is still pretty good but I´ve started to forget things. Nothing major but it´s in the post.
As for the wife, well she reckons she´s bound to get the old cancer in the end. She´s smoked for 40 years, 20 a day. Her mum and dad both smoked and they went the same way ¸sneaking out the hospital doors for the sweet relief of the thing that killed you. She´d noticed a bad cough that won´t go away a week or two back. We started talking and that´s when we made our minds up.
I´m 56. She´s 54.
I finish my piss. I open the letter and re-read it one more time to make sure I´ve left nothing out and no-one out. The will´s sorted. There´s a couple of grand in the bank, we´ve left that to the grandkids. Half each. The house is paid off. That´s for the children to sort out amongst themselves. Hopefully they´ll be sensible. Rent it out for a bit till the property prices pick up again. Make a few quid. Treat themselves.
I don´t check my email.
I reseal the envelope and find my wife checking her make up in the rear view mirror. She´s still a beautiful woman. I don´t want to watch her grow old. She hates her grey hair. She hates her skin. She doesn´t believe me when I tell her she´s still beautiful. But she is.
Me, I´ve put on a bit of weight since I lost my job. Stuck around the house all day you get bored, you have a few extra snacks. There´s a bit of heart trouble in my family but mine´s self-inflicted. I eat too much and I drink too much. I notice my belly even more than usual when I put my seatbelt on.
Did you know that Lithuania is the number one country for suicide? I´m not entirely sure why. Perhaps everyone´s just naturally miserable. Nearly all the top 10 are the old countries that used to be the Soviet Union. Perhaps they don´t like being free. I don´t know. The cold can´t help.
The drive down´s easy enough. We get peckish on the way down the A3 and nearly pull a sandwich out the hamper. But we´ve laced the sandwiches with rat poison. That reminds me. I haven´t put a note on the hamper explaining that. I wouldn´t want some policeman eating them whilst investigating the scene. We pull into a service station, a little one that´s been there since the 50s probably. I buy a pen and a notepad. The wife has a cheese and onion roll and a large slice of chocolate cake. I have a Twix. We share a pot of tea.
Outside the clouds are coming over. We finish our tea and get back into the car. I write a note on the hamper saying ´DO NOT EAT: CONTAINS RAT POISON. HONEST.´�
We decided that we would leave the method of our suicide uncertain right up to the last possible moment hence all the different options available to us in the boot. When we started planning it we just thought yeah jump off the cliff together. Join hands. Run off and well you know. Smashed onto the rocks below. But then we read about someone who´d survived in terrible agonising pain afterwards. And I thought what if only one of us dies. So then I thought about getting the gun. Like a bit of insurance you know.
The frightening thing about getting a gun is how easy it is. Ridiculous. I walked into a really rough pub at the far end of town. It was comical really. I just asked the barman if he knew anyone, explained I wasn´t a detective or an undercover cop or anyone official; I just wanted a gun to blow my wife´s head off. Well, there was no shortage of offers. It was an auction in reverse. All these villains trying to undercut each other. In the end I got a really rather smart looking handgun for two hundred quid. With bullets it was another fifty on top. I didn´t ask for a receipt.
So we´re finally on our way. We´re about 10 minutes away from the cliffs when the wife starts crying. And I pull over on a lay-by to find out what the matter is.
´I don´t want to do it now.´
´Why not? What´s changed your mind?´� I said.
´There must be something to keep us living. I don´t really much mind my life to be honest. I only said yes because I thought you wouldn´t go through with it.´�
She pulled out a cigarette from a packet I didn´t know she had. Maybe she didn´t have cancer after all.
Well, to be honest, I was a little annoyed now.
´I´ve gone to a lot of trouble to get us here.´� I shouted.
´I know. I know. I just changed my mind. Can we go home? Please�´�
My wife is still beautiful. Even when she cries I still see it. Her tears persuade me. So we get back in the car and it´s raining now. Great. I´ve got to drive back to Bromley in the bastard rain. And it will be rush hour. Bloody women.
I turn on the ignition and then my wife says, ´Put that tape on´�. And so we´re driving through the slowest, wettest, busiest traffic I have ever seen and we´re singing along to Nick Drake and I must admit that I´d started to feel quite pleased we hadn´t killed ourselves. Before we know it we´re turning into our little terraced street. And I´m even thinking about having a Chinese or an Indian for tea.
That´s when I notice our daughter´s car parked outside.
Oh fuck, the note.
Anyway, I run in. I´m trying to get to the note just in case Lisa hasn´t seen it yet and I didn’t notice her in the kitchen. There´s a note addressed to our son next to our opened and read note on the table. My poor Lisa has decided to take her own life. At this point I panicked and ran into the kitchen at the same time as my wife decided to light up.
Women are quite partial to sticking their heads in gas ovens when choosing suicide. It used to be the number one method in this country for women. The housewives choice. I read it on the internet. It´s overdoses these days. A box of paracetamol and a bottle of vodka. That´s the most popular. Anyway we never stood a chance. The explosion took my daughter instantly. My wife was crushed by a falling beam from an upstairs bedroom floor.
I was blown clear. Well most of me was. The oven door was torn off and severed my right leg below the knee. They say I died twice on the operating table. Typical. I´m in a wheelchair now writing this. Everyone thinks I´m a tragic victim of my daughter´s unhappiness. It´s awful really. I had no idea she was so unhappy. I guess I was wrapped up in my own little world.
I missed the funerals. Probably for the best.
I´ve decided to take myself on a little excursion tomorrow morning. There´s a gap in the garden and there´s a fence. If I´m lucky I can crawl away quickly without being noticed by one of the nurses.
I don´t want to be a burden. I wouldn´t wish that on my son. He´s got his own life to lead. This place can´t be cheap.
Crawl under the fence. Get on the motorway. Stick my head in front of one of those transporters. Maybe a lorry or a National Express coach. Something quick. That´s how I want to go. Quickly.