The Vikings came from Scandinavia, travelling very long distances from home to settle in other lands, including Britain, France, Ireland and as far as North America.
It’s three a.m. and he hasn’t fallen asleep yet, not even for a few moments. His eyes are wide open, pupils fully dilated, and the room feels hot and airless. He lifts his head and looks through the monochrome gloom to the curtains, hanging heavy and motionless. What to do? If he gets out of bed to open the window, he’ll need a pee. But then he’ll be fully awake and might as well make a cup of tea. Watch a bit of telly. Check his emails. Read the latest threatening text.
That’s the real reason he can’t sleep. Nothing to do with the stuffy atmosphere, or the bottle of wine he drank with dinner. He eases himself out of bed, rising to his full, imposing height. He wraps a bath towel around his nakedness and, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click, pads barefoot down the stairs.
He creeps into the living room and gradually turns up the dimmer, catching his reflection in the patio doors and seeing a tall man with a decent set of abs, a strong straight nose, and bright blue eyes that contrast well against his full auburn beard. He’s known as the Viking. In his fifties, and yet the female students still flutter around him, begging for ‘feedback’ on their mediocre essays. For years he revelled in his striking Nordic looks, but now they feel like a curse.
He goes to his briefcase and takes a small pay-as-you-go phone out of the inside pocket. He forgot to put it on charge at work and now there’s hardly any battery left. He squints at the tiny screen, his stomach sinking as he reads the messages. So she’s awake too.
The deadline is almost up.
I mean it.
Then a fifteen-minute gap.
Are you ignoring me?
Five minutes.
Such a bad idea.
Then nothing for an hour. Perhaps, like him, she went to bed. He imagines her tossing and turning between the sheets, unable to sleep with her brain on high alert for the bleep of his reply. She’ll have taken his silence as enemy action, because that’s what she always does.
You have till the end of today.
He wants to tell her to fuck off, but that will only make things worse. They need to sit down face-to-face and have a grown-up conversation; you can’t discuss an issue as complicated and important as this by text message. Texts are short-form communications for making arrangements to meet, for apologies and reminders, expressions of affection or hurt. They’re particularly useful for lies and deceptions, and he has exploited these particular functions for many years. But this is different; she’s using her phone as a weapon. Not only is it irresponsible, it’s undignified; all the players in this game are worth more than that.
He starts prowling the room, his feet slapping against the stone flooring. He won’t be pushed into making a snap decision that will change lives forever. If he can’t stop her completely, he should at least play for time. He picks up the phone again, his large fingers stumbling over the tiny keyboard as he types in the words, cursing as he automatically adds kisses then instantly deletes them. Like he feels any tiny morsel of affection for her right now.
Let’s talk this over.
Her reply comes back almost instantly. No more talking. Time for action.
Give me more time.
You know my terms. Agree to them or else.
Or else. What is she, a kid? He knows she could cause colossal damage, but surely she’d never have the guts to follow through. Then again, she’s at the end of her tether; people do terrible things when they’re pushed to the limit. It doesn’t bear thinking about, and yet he’s thought of nothing else for weeks. He bangs the cluttered white wall with his forehead and a framed print shudders in sympathy. How did he let himself get into such a stupid mess?
Actually, enough of this. Time to be a man and take control. He sits on the arm of the sofa and turns to the phone again. Types. Or else what?
No response.
He stares at the screen for a couple of minutes, waiting and wondering what the silence means. She won’t have given up and gone to bed, that’s for sure. Is she trying to think of a suitably tough reply? Or has she finally come to her senses and realised there are other ways to solve this?
He stands up, his muscles tight and restless. The stale, overheated air feels suffocating. At times like this, there’s only one thing that has the power to relax him. An activity so demanding of his concentration that thinking of anything else is impossible. She’s waiting for him in the garage. Ever faithful, ever willing. The winding lanes will be empty, the air sharp and fresh. It’s been raining heavily and the tarmac will be slippery in parts. Poor riding conditions, but that’s good. The greater the skill required, the easier to forget all this shit. He’ll set himself a challenge to take the corners faster than he’s ever dared. He’ll ride up to Black Hill and watch the sunrise, then find a roadside café on the way back and have breakfast. His fingers start to tingle, his imagination already twisting the throttle.
He goes back to the bedroom, stealing yesterday’s underwear and T-shirt from the floor. He tiptoes downstairs again to fetch his leathers from the hall cupboard, pulling on the tight, unrelenting trousers and zipping up the Marlon Brando jacket he’s always being teased about. His boots are lying chilly in the porch and he puts them on, buckling the straps and stomping out of the house with his helmet and studded gauntlets tucked under his arm. The sky is dark, the stars shrouded in cloud, and the downpour has given way to a fine watery mist. As he crunches across the gravel, he can hear the trees dripping. He takes a deep breath, and fills his lungs with the innocence of a new day.
The garage door rattles as he pulls it up and over, the light coming on automatically to reveal the Bonneville in all her shiny black glory. Oh God, he loves this bike, the T100, an updated version of the 1960s classic he dreamed of owning when he was a teenager. Raised handlebars, a low-slung seat, flashy chrome pipes and eye-catching paintwork. She’s even got retro scuff pads on the fuel tank. Okay, he admits it, he’s what they call a ‘born-again biker’. A middle-aged, middle-class man desperate to recapture the energy and freedom of youth. And the bike hasn’t disappointed him; if anything, the sensations have been stronger, the thrills more addictive than when he was young.
The reimagined Bonneville has an electronic ignition and ABS, but she’s still a powerful, challenging ride. Nothing beats the roar of liberation as you tear down an open road, the engine vibrating through your thighs, your body an echo chamber for the thunderous noise. The joy of complete oneness as you interlock with the machine, trusting your instinct to lean into the bend at the perfect angle and accelerate out at just the right moment. The freedom of visor-down, black-leather anonymity as you weave through the traffic to beat the lights, swearing at motorists who dare to block your way. And later, on the home run, your passion spent, easing off the throttle, gently on the back brake, feathering off as you bring her to a stop and take your hands off the bars. The thrilling possibility of death; the relief of still being alive. It’s enough to turn a man to poetry.
He quietly wheels the bike to the end of the drive, then climbs on, fires up and speeds away. There are no street lamps or white markings here, making the road look and feel like a track. Oncoming traffic is extremely unlikely at this hour, so he takes up a confident position in the centre of the lane and accelerates. There are plenty of blind corners ahead to satisfy his lust, but in truth, he could drive this route with his eyes shut, navigate like a bat from the sound of the engine bouncing off the trees and hedgerows. He twists the bars and feels his way expertly around a sharp bend. This is all he wants to do, to ride and not think, to let his body be his brain.
He feels the wind wiping his face clean, the soft rainwater rinsing him out. He is a free man, his own master. But the sensation of happiness doesn’t last long. He feels a vibration in his chest – it’s his wretched phone, ringing from his top inside jacket pocket. Impossible to hear the ringtone above the rush of the engine, but he knows it’s her. So now she wants to talk. Why did he bring it with him? Why didn’t he put it back in its hiding place? The vibrations continue like an alien heartbeat, the insistent pulse of the enemy.
Enough calls, enough texts. Enough accusations and demands and threats. Enough, enough, enough. He takes his black-gloved hand off the bars and drags down the zip of his jacket, reaching in and extracting the phone. Letting out a triumphant, wolfish howl, he hurls it into the undergrowth and rides on, twisting like a ribbon around the bends. The feeling of freedom is so overwhelming and so sublime that for a split second he forgets he’s riding a modern-day motorcycle with considerable poke.
It happens very fast, and yet slowly enough for him to know that there’s nothing he can do to stop it. The road lurches suddenly to the right and he doesn’t ease off, doesn’t lean, his instincts deserting him along with the anti-lock braking system. A puddle of water forces itself beneath his tyres, and he skims over its surface like a polished black stone. He spins. He flies. Then hits the all-too-solid tree.
The Vikings believed that there was a misty, chilly world beneath the earth called Hel, the home of the dead.
My client, an exhausted single mum with four kids, is changing her baby’s nappy on the not-so-clean carpet, gripping his tiny ankles with one hand and cleaning his bum with the other. The room stinks of sickly-sweet poo and aloe vera wet wipes. She shouts out the information above his screams and I quickly type it in. I feel like a police interrogator, even though nobody’s forced her to come here. She stuffs the dirty nappy in the basket under the buggy, where another child is drifting off to sleep, sucking on her dummy. The older two are at school, she tells me. Their father has done a bunk. The poor woman can’t remember all the addresses she’s had over the last five years.
She’s typical of the people that use our services. Angry, tired, defeated. Either they don’t have access to computers or they have trouble reading and writing. Often both. I compose complaints to landlords, or appeals against parking penalties, or desperate pleas to debt collection agencies. I go through their tenancy agreements, explain the terms and conditions of their hire purchase contracts and reveal the mess they’ve got themselves into. I fill in the incomprehensible forms that are designed to put them off and read them aloud before they sign. If they cry, I offer tissues and a plastic cup of water. I do my best to listen to their troubles – aggressive exes, misbehaving teenagers, bouts of depression – but it’s not supposed to be a counselling session. I’ve been sworn at more times than I can remember, but I’ve never had to press the panic button under the desk. More often than not, they’re friendly and incredibly grateful.
There’s a knock at the door, and before I can answer, my supervisor walks in. Jill comes round to my side of the desk, leaning forward so that her face is hidden from my client by the monitor. Her brows are stitched together in a worried frown.
‘Josie, your boyfriend’s here. He, er, needs to talk to you.’ I look at her doubtfully. She must have got it wrong; Arun never visits me at work. ‘He’s in my office. I’ll take over.’ I stand up, still confused. ‘Take your handbag, love, then you won’t have to come back for it.’
That’s when I realise it’s serious.
I find Arun sitting nervously in Jill’s office. He jumps up and closes the door behind me. The roller blinds are already pulled down so that none of my colleagues can peer through the glass. I feel like one of my clients; vulnerable and afraid, not really understanding why I’m here or what I’m supposed to do. He sits me down in the chair opposite and takes my hands, rubbing them as if they’re cold. I can hear words, but they’re refusing to form into a coherent sentence.
Raining. Accident. Motorbike. Police.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘So sorry. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but your mum thought it would be better coming from me.’
‘Is she okay?’ Stupid question. Of course she’s not okay.
‘She sounded calm on the phone, but you know Helen, it’s hard to tell what’s really going on inside.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I whisper. ‘How can he be dead?’
My brain goes into spasm. All I can think is: today is Friday. We were supposed to be meeting friends this evening; I’ll need to cancel. I’d promised Mum we’d go over for Sunday lunch because we hadn’t seen them for weeks, due to social commitments that at the time seemed important and frankly more exciting, but now everything’s changed and I’m never going to see my father, ever, ever again. My thoughts unstick with a jolt and the tears start to flow. Arun looks at me helplessly, as if I’ve just sprung a leak.
‘There should be some hankies in the drawer.’ He finds the box, pulling several tissues out in a flourish and passing them over. I take one and dab my eyes, leaving the rest nestling in my lap like a white origami chrysanthemum.
‘When did it happen?’
‘Not sure. A farm truck came across the accident at five o’clock this morning. Jerry was already… you know… There was nothing anyone could do.’
‘Five in the morning?’ Dad was never up and about so early. I suppose he could have been going into the department to prepare a lecture. He liked to leave everything to the last minute, but he tended to stay up all night rather than rise at dawn. What if the accident happened last night and he was lying there for hours, bleeding to death? But surely somebody would have come across him before that.
‘Did you say a farm truck found him?’
‘That’s what Helen said.’
‘What was a farm truck doing in Manchester city centre?’
He shrugs. ‘Delivering something? Passing through? It’s not relevant, is it?’
‘Sounds odd, that’s all. Where did the accident happen?’
‘I don’t know, sorry. You’ll have to ask your mum…’ He stands and reaches for my hand. ‘Shall we get going? I said I’d bring you straight over. She shouldn’t be on her own right now.’
I stare down at my Japanese tissue flower. A farm truck. Five in the morning. It doesn’t make any sense.
We take a taxi to the house. As soon as Mum sees me, tears spill out of her eyes and roll down her cheeks. We fall into each other’s arms, rocking and holding each other tightly, while Arun shuts the front door and squeezes past us. He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it up next to Dad’s long winter coat, the one he used to take to conferences in eastern Europe. We used to tease him and say he looked like a Russian spy. Dad always loved to look the part. He was very handsome and knew it. But he was upfront about his vanity, so we kind of forgave him.
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Mum says, as we finally peel off each other.
‘No, I’ll make it.’ Arun pushes us gently towards the living room. ‘You two go and sit down.’
We head for the sofa and I cuddle into her shapeless beige jumper and grey jogging bottoms. Her skin is pale and feels papery. She looks terrible, as if she’s been up all night.
‘What time did the police come round?’
‘About half eight, just as I was about to leave for work. As soon as I opened the door and saw them standing there, I knew what it was about. I always knew he’d kill himself one day.’
Something inside my stomach somersaults. ‘But… but I thought it was an accident?’
‘Sorry, darling, I meant riding that stupid bike. Every Friday night when he was on the motorway, I’d have my heart in my mouth waiting for him to get home. Why couldn’t he take the train, like a normal middle-aged man? It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford the fares. But no, he thought he was bloody James Dean. Pathetic!’
‘You can’t call him pathetic. He’s dead.’
‘I’m so angry with him, Josie. It was so unnecessary.’
‘Anyone want a biscuit?’ Arun enters with two steaming mugs of coffee, which he puts on the table in front of us. ‘Or I could make sandwiches…’
‘You’re a star,’ says Mum, forcing a small smile. ‘But I’m too churned up to eat at the moment. You have something, Josie.’
‘I’m churned up too,’ I say.
‘Of course. I didn’t mean to imply…’ She rests her elbows on her knees and leans forward with her head in her hands. ‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry…’ Arun pulls a face at me, as if to say, Was that my fault? I shake my head and he escapes back to the kitchen.
I stroke Mum’s back for a few moments. This is probably not the right time, but I have to ask her some questions. Until I know the full story, this won’t feel real. ‘Mum… please, talk to me.’ She pulls her hands away and sits upright.
‘What?’ She looks exhausted.
‘Arun said a farm truck found him at five this morning. Do you know where?’
‘Sorry, I… I couldn’t really take it all in.’ She waves at a package on the sideboard. ‘They gave me a booklet – there’s one for you if you want it. A family liaison officer is supposed to be getting in touch.’
I go over to the sideboard and pick up one of the booklets: Information and advice for bereaved families and friends following death on the road in England and Wales. A piece of paper is clipped to the front. It says, Detective Sergeant Ravita Verma, Family Liaison, Derbyshire Police. My heart leaps in a mad moment of hope and I swing round to Mum.
‘Derbyshire? Do they know for certain it’s him, or are they just going by the number plate on the bike? What if somebody stole it and went on a joy ride? We should ring his mobile, check with the department. He could be in the middle of a lecture – he could be alive!’ I dive into my bag and take out my phone.
‘Stop it, Josie. It’s him. The police gave me a description. It’s Jerry – without a doubt.’
My insides instantly drop again. I want to scream, I want to kick; I want to beat the furniture until I’ve no strength left. ‘What the hell was he doing out in Derbyshire?’
‘I expect he just went for a ride. He did that sometimes.’
‘At five in the morning? On a work day?’
‘Please, stop asking questions. What does it matter? He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.’ She stands up, holding her forehead. ‘I’ve got a headache. I need to lie down.’ I watch her totter out of the room, her body bent forward, instantly aged by the shock.
But it does matter. Dad liked to take risks, but he wasn’t stupid; he knew how to ride a motorcycle. And he had so much to live for, he would never have thrown it all away. Why was he out riding so far from family and home? Mum can put her head in the sand if she wants, but there’s got to be an explanation.
Unlike the Christian concept of hell, Vikings did not consider the afterlife a place for moral judgement.
We leave Mum to rest and call another Uber. As soon as I unlock the front door, reality hits me over the head and suddenly even a simple, ordinary action that I’ve done a thousand times seems impossible. I collapse at the threshold, feeling utterly defeated. Arun picks me up and staggers into the living room, tipping me onto the sofa. He fetches the duvet from our bedroom and wraps me up like a giant chrysalis.
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No.’ I reach for his hand. ‘Thanks.’
He looks fidgety. ‘I ought to call work, tell them I won’t be in for the rest of the day. If you need me, I’ll be in the bedroom.’ He leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him. I turn my face to the cushion, sucking in the fabric. Everything is still and quiet. I can’t remember ever feeling more alone.
Dad is dead. My father… is dead. No… He can’t be. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone from the world. I’ve not seen him with my own eyes, I’ve just got other people’s words to go on. What if it’s all been some dreadful mistake? A case of identity fraud. It does happen. I’m filled with a sudden urge to try his number, and dip into my bag for my phone. I can feel my heart pounding as it rings out twice, then goes to voicemail. ‘Hi, leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.’ His voice is so warm and familiar, it’s as if a tiny part of him is trapped in the handset. See? He’s not dead, just busy. Typical Dad, going off the radar, not reporting in when he’s supposed to. He often doesn’t pick up, and he’s always been hopeless at returning calls. No point in worrying. He’ll be back when he’s ready; in his Marlon Brando jacket, clutching a bottle of Scotch and a bunch of petrol-station flowers. ‘What’s up, princess? Look, I’m here! I’m fine!’
Except you’re not fine, are you, Dad? You went and got yourself killed. I wish to Christ you’d never bought that fucking motorbike.
I toss the phone angrily into my bag. As it falls, I glimpse the booklet Mum insisted I took away with me and pull it out. I flick through the first few pages. What happens now? it says. Words swim before my eyes – loved one, mortuary, post-mortem, tissue samples, coroner, inquest – but it’s like I’m reading in a foreign language. I know the vocabulary but can’t understand the sentences. It’s all too down-to-earth and practical. I’m not ready for this yet.
I shut the booklet and rest it in my lap, closing my eyes and summoning up an alternative image of my loved one. Not in his motorbike leathers, sprawled awkwardly across the tarmac, but lying on an ancient battlefield, a bloodied sword at his side. He has died an heroic Viking death, defending his land and people. Odin has sent the Valkyries to snatch his soul from his body, and, even now, they’re flying over the rainbow bridge that connects the earth to Asgard, where the gods live. Viking warrior Jerry Macauliffe will take his place in the great hall of Valhalla, and spend the afterlife drinking and feasting in an endless party. That would suit him down to the ground. I hope those ancient stories he used to tell me turn out to be true. These silly thoughts comfort me for a while, but they don’t stop the tears.
Arun emerges from the bedroom, takes one look at my ravaged face and reaches for the kettle. There’s going to be a lot of tea-drinking over the next few days, I think. He sits on the edge of the sofa and strokes my hair while I sip listlessly. My eyes are smarting and my nose is so bunged it feels like I’ve suddenly come down with a bad cold.
Somehow, the rest of the day passes. We hug. We hold hands. I nibble the edges of a piece of toast but the crumbs stick in my throat, making me cough. We stare down at the rug or up at the pictures on the wall, every so often breaking the silence to say, ‘I still can’t believe it’ or ‘It doesn’t feel real’ or just ‘Why?’ As the light fades, Arun draws the curtains and turns on the heating. He orders in a Chinese, but most of it goes in the bin. I try to call Mum several times, but she doesn’t answer. I contemplate ringing the family liaison officer to see if the police have any more information, but it’s the evening now and I suspect she’s finished her shift.
We go to bed, and to my surprise – even shame – I manage to sleep and don’t dream about Dad. I wake up on Saturday morning forgetting for the briefest of moments what’s happened. Then I remember; stuffing my fist into my mouth so that Arun won’t be woken by the uncontrollable sobs.
I get up. Shower. Dress. Try Mum again, but she still doesn’t pick up and I start to worry. It’s not a problem if she doesn’t want to talk, but I need to know she’s okay. I text her instead and at last she replies. Resting. Come over later if you want.
Arun decides I need a cooked breakfast. I return to the sofa and watch while he bustles around the kitchen, peeling mushrooms and defrosting sausages. He gets the liquidiser down from the top cupboard and makes a smoothie with the last of the fruit and a floppy carrot. T. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
