Atlas

I didn't mean to kill my girlfriend but I did mean to burn down her house.
That might sound quite a bit odd and you might think I'm a complete mad man but trust me I'm not. If you asked anyone what I was like then they would probably say Who's Rory Molyneux? That's exactly what type of person I am, forgettable. I used to be fine with that up until the start of last summer. That was when I met Jemima, my first ever girlfriend, and that was when I got my first birthday present from my father in 10 years. That didn't help. What kind of present is an atlas anyway, that only confused me more. But trust me, you don't have to be worried that I'm going to go all crazy and start telling you how I hear voices and all that and that the voices told me to kill Jemima, it's nothing like that, I'm more likely to be the exact sort of person who would never hear a single voice in his entire life. I don't even talk to myself, not even when I'm in the shower or in bed and can't sleep. I'm that dull, I can't even think what to say to myself. I'm boring really, very boring. That's the first half of my problem. Jemima wasn't boring. Jemima was amazing and she could probably talk to herself for hours and laugh at everything she said to herself, she'd have herself in hysterics, she'd probably fall in love with herself after about five minutes. If Jemima ever heard voices then they'd probably be reciting her poetry or something. If you ever saw us walking together you'd probably wonder what she was doing with me, she's that beautiful and I'm that ordinary. That's the second half of my problem. Jemima Stringer was always too beautiful for me and something like that was never going to last.

I'd just finished my exams and I was pretty sure I'd done fine enough to get into university. It was July and I wasn't doing much, I was doing so little really that even I knew I was being lazy. I woke up on my birthday and I knew I had to get out and find a job for the summer. I couldn't look at myself whilst I was shaving, I just saw a lazy slob looking back and it was starting to get old. Pretty soon I was certain I'd become that slob permanently, spending his days sat in tracksuit bottoms and the same bean stained t shirt watching Jeremy Kyle over and over. So what I had planned was that I was going to go out, even though it was my birthday and everything, and I was going to go into town and find a job. I didn't mind what job I got, I'd just walk around and ask in a few places. I kind of fancied working in a bar but then I don't really go to pubs much so I probably wouldn't have been very good at that, not much good at bantering with the drunks. You have to banter if you want to be a barman. My uncle Wacky told me that. He said that I'd be a shit barman because I couldn't hold a conversation. He said that most barmen are story tellers and he's right really because I've never been good at making stuff up. I even struggle with lying. One of my biggest problems is that I'm constantly telling the truth and that's not a good trait. Say for instance one of my friends asks if they look good then I'll most likely tell them they look like hell and they'll get pissed off with me. That's why I don't have many friends, I'm not just honest with people I'm over honest. Wacky says I'm blunt. He says I haven't got an ounce of imagination. He' right of course but it doesn't bother me too much. For one thing it's not like I want to be a writer or anything. I want to be an engineer, that's why I did physics and maths even though it would've been easier to do English or Drama or something. See I'm sure I could've scraped a C in any of those subjects and got into University and studied Performing Arts or New Media but I never wanted to do any of that. I've never wanted to do much really but my dad was an engineer and even Wacky says that dad was always rolling in dough. I think that's what I want, money. Who wants to be poor anyway, no one in their right mind would want to be poor so even if you hate physics and maths, and I do, and even if you wouldn't mind the idea of a cushy few years at university writing plays then you should really think about what might make you some cash in the end. I've done my research, engineers make good money.
It was weird because as I was coming downstairs in my shirt and trousers, both ironed by Wacky because ironing was one of his favourite things to do lately, and I was imagining what my dad would think of me going off to University to study engineering, if he would have been proud of me and given me all his old books and some insider tips or whatever. I'm not saying I was like painting a picture in my head or anything, I can't do that, I was just walking down the stairs and thinking to myself whether he'd be happy or not. I'm sure he would but then maybe it was all those years of engineering that made him go off. Maybe being an engineer does that, makes you get up off the couch one day whilst Countdown is on and just walk off and not even care who looks after your son. That's what my dad did. It was September 12th 2001, the day after those terrorists flew their planes at the World Trade Centre, and dad just vanished. It wasn't even like I had a mum to look after me. See that's why I wasn't walking down the stairs wondering what my mum would think of me going off to University, I could never wonder that because I never knew her, never even saw her once. Don't ask me what happened to her because I couldn't tell you and if you did ask I'd probably just pretend that thinking about her upset me and tell you I didn't like talking about her. The truth is no one has ever asked me about her. I'm not the type of person people bother to ask questions. I'm dull and blunt remember.
But it was weird that I was thinking about dad because just as I got to the foot of the stairs there was a knock. I could see the postman's red jacket through the glass so I opened it and he handed me this package. It was wrapped in brown paper and had about twelve stamps on it and addressed to, and this was strange too, Master Rory Molyneux esq. I'd never seen my name written like that before and so I said cheers to the postman and I opened the package right there. I knew it was a book before I opened it, it had that book feel to it, heavy and solid and more than anything it was shaped like a book. It was pretty obviously a book.
I pulled back the paper, not like desperately tearing it off, and I saw the world all blue and green and white and yellow against the shiny blue of the cover and then the words Collins World Atlas above the world. It was a strange thing for someone to send. I mean who wants an atlas? Who would think to send an atlas as a birthday present? I was assuming, making myself an ass and all that, that this was a present because there was no other reason for someone to send me a package on my birthday. It wasn't like a leaping assumption so I don't think I believe all that ass stuff. I was right anyway, it was a present.
I opened it to the first page and there in his weird way of writing in small capitals, was my father's handwriting. I read it a few times, standing there whilst Wacky was shouting me that he'd made me toast, and I then read it again. I couldn't quite take it in really. I hadn't heard anything from my dad since he vanished and now here was an atlas and words written by him. I read them one last time, mouthing the words.
Dear son, I'm sorry I can't be there today. At least you'll know where I've been now. Have a happy birthday. Love Alan.
Wacky shouted that my fucking tea was fucking cold now so I shut the atlas and put it by the phone and went into the kitchen to drink my cold tea and eat hard toast.