Unlikely Events and Impossible Truths

1

I often wonder if I am the only person here on this vast earth that can look through things and see their gruesome innards. I would like to pretend that I am not on my own when I dismiss popular culture and seekers of fame. Though, through flashing lights and flowing false compliments of all that is vulgarly extravagant, I struggle to visualise how anyone could pass a higher judgement. I will draw your attention, perhaps, to one particular summer which corrupted my soul and all my interpretations of happenings thereafter.

It was a dry afternoon in May, newly eighteen; the world was my stage, though I never did occupy the spotlight. We sat on the lawn of one of my good friends, perhaps the only one who saw my discord with this world and had the good grace to ignore it. Myra wasn’t beautiful, not in the classical sense of the word; she did not possess flowing hair nor did her hair have an ethereal shine. Instead, she was large or larger, I should say, than the ghostly mannequins perched in high street windows, provoking fleeting bouts of depression in those who would walk past, comparing the figure of the plastic models to that of their own and finding themselves somewhat inadequate. Her one outstanding quality, however, were her eyes. Set in her kindly face, they were the kind of eyes that could comfort you even when you did not need the sympathy. They were neither hazel nor brown; I suppose I could compare them to the colour that leaves seem to acquire when they are beginning to fall in the autumn; a beautiful mix of chestnut and gold and mahogany. I assume that her eyes are what had caused Oscar to gravitate towards her almost two years ago, for the cynic in me has observed that personality cannot attract another person from afar and so one must possess at least a single aesthetically pleasing quality in order to attract another and subsequently fall in love.

Oscar was tall and broad, not muscular, but not overweight. Simply to say that he was large would be my most sincere attempt at describing his frame. He had dimples when he smiled, although he very rarely smiled at something which had not already been deemed amusing by a host of laughter from the rest of the group or, more specifically, Myra. Oscar had moved from the south a few years ago, they had met at school, he had seen her eyes, she had seen his smile, they had fallen in love and would probably be married by the time they hit twenty-five. And I was happy for them.
In the late sunshine, Myra and Oscar laughed together, the wit of one perfectly in tune with that of the other. Their laughs, mixing together in the warm atmosphere, seemed to harmonise in a
sparkling crescendo of noise that may have left the recovering heartbroken disconsolate once more. I would glance over now and again, as is unavoidable when sat within close proximity of a group of acquaintances. I would see a slight link of their fingers or an exchange of a knowing smile, as though they were speaking in the absence of words. It was then that I would avert my eyes, feeling as though I was intruding on an intimate moment that should not be tarnished by the gaze of a third party.

Another pair of eyes in this circle rolled back and forth in annoyance, settling again on mine, widening and rolling again, this time accompanied by the click of a tongue. James O’Brien was as cocky an individual as I had ever met and have ever met since. He was one of those people that could make you laugh at yourself in fear of feeling rude if you didn’t. It seemed that he thrived off the laughter of others, treating their laughter as a sign of their approval. Maybe this was why he and Oscar seemed to get on so well; his constant stream of jokes matching harmoniously with Oscar’s polite laughter. That afternoon James had been as mischievous as ever, cracking jokes at every opportunity, picking out your flaws and turning them into jokes. If you’d had a haircut, if you had on the same shirt as the day before, if you’d had a late night and bags under your eyes were showing, James would know. He was quite remarkable in that sense; he never missed anything. He was a watcher. He would have done well as a stand-up comedian; I should have told him that. One thing I noticed, however, was that his jokes were hardly ever aimed in my direction.

I had known James since we were very young, but had only become closer to him since my sixteenth birthday when he had been dragged around to my house with his mother. It could have been his experience of his sixteenth birthday only the year before that enabled him to empathise with me, or maybe it is true that some people just ‘click’ – that onomatopoeic utterance widely understood as the moment when two individuals fit together in an indescribable way. In any case, he knew that I was feeling awkward. Birthdays were always awkward for me, a whole day of attention, a whole day of gracious thank-yous and receiving gifts that I felt undeserving of. Somehow, he knew that my smile was hiding my insecurity, that my legs wanted to run upstairs out of sight and that my lips wanted to scream to God or to the keeper of time to speed up the seconds so that the day would be over and, as though wordlessly acknowledging all of this, he winked at me. I’ve never forgotten that wink. In the place of what would have quite possibly been awkward words to come from the mouth of a seventeen year old, it had told me that we would be friends.
I didn’t know much of James’ encounters with girls but I did know that, whatever Myra and Oscar had, he hadn’t found that yet. His demeanour didn’t show any desire to find love. After all, we were young, he was just nineteen; we probably didn’t have any notion of what love was. As for me, I tried not to think of love, the word seemed so over-used it would have tasted old and worn on my lips, so I decided that I would save love for later.

Also on the lawn were Iris and Morgan. Iris Saday was half Egyptian and possessed one of those much sought after constitutions which made it damn near impossible for her to gain weight. Her skin was naturally dark and I assume her hair would have been darker had it not been dyed peroxide blonde. I always wondered why she had traded such beautiful dark hair for something so superficial, but it was never in my nature to criticise others when I could see so many flaws in myself. Strangely, ‘Saday’ was not her original surname, her parents had changed it from ‘Serrageddin’ soon after her birth because those around them had found it hard to pronounce; I would say that perhaps they just weren’t trying hard enough. She was very intelligent but hardly used it, setting her sights on a glamorous lifestyle of modelling then acting then singing. Or perhaps all of those things but in a different order; we were never quite sure. Out of all of those present that day, Iris was probably the one I felt least at ease with, we seemed too different to ever become close and she seemed too blasé to try. She wasn’t usually with us, but seemed to find herself at a loose end that afternoon and, living only down the road from Myra, had found herself laid full length on the lawn, propping herself up on two slender elbows.

Morgan Kaye was easy to get along with, though it had always been difficult to trust him. He had mousy hair and dark eyes that were deeper than any thought he had ever expressed. He was a ‘good time boy’, always the most animated when we were drunk. The first time I got drunk was with Morgan. I never asked where he got it from but he had some vodka, awful stuff, but my god did it make your head spin, sometimes a little too much. I was fifteen but thought I was older and I drank so much that I fell asleep. I remember it was raining that day, we went to a field maybe a mile from where I lived and drank until we lost every other motor function except to lift the bottle to our lips and down again. The rain washed away any memory of sadness because, when it rains, you seem to be only concerned with the fact that you are being rained on, not that your heart has been broken or that your parents fight too much or that you haven’t slept without having a nightmare for five years. Morgan was the same age as me but had always seemed older, he was quiet mostly, but not shy. He was very tall for his age and so had acquired a mannerism which caused him to stoop forward, as though he was always afraid that he might bang his head. I suppose that Morgan and I had ended up on that field that day because we were both young and bored and everyone else was busy. That was the day that I lost my grandmother’s ring. It wasn’t of any value, made from a sort of silver alloy and stamped with an image of Our Lady, it was small enough to fit snugly onto my little finger. She had given it to me when I was very small because I had been enchanted by it; as little girls are often mesmerised by shiny, pretty things. When I said I lost that ring, I said it to avoid any unfair accusations against Morgan Kaye’s integrity, but, as I would like this to be an accurate account of events, I will admit that my belief is that my ring was taken from me that day by the only other person on the field with me. We drank so much that I wouldn’t have noticed if it did fall off, but I am sober enough now to accept that it was too tight to ever slip from my finger by accident.

The five of us had been sat for several hours under afternoon sunshine but then, as is often the case with English weather, the sky began to cloud over, leaving hopeful blue patches obscured by threatening grey clouds. We had the radio on. Loud. The connector cable trailed from the kitchen window down onto the lawn where Oscar controlled it. Music was important to me, but the radio never aired anything I liked, looking back, that was probably why I liked it; it was obscure, almost exclusively mine. Then it rained. The water graced our skin like tiny drops of mercury, precious and poisonous. If only we had known.
The tragedy was devastating and over instantaneously. The singer on the radio fell silent, as if as a mark of respect for what would follow. Poor Oscar, we never saw it coming. Idiocy is often associated with the young. But youthful idiocy does not warrant death. I would say that murder warrants death, but that is another argument entirely. Oscar had been tumbling on the floor with Myra, frolicking in the rain. Her hair was matted to her face; obscuring her vision, at least she couldn’t see what happened. You see, if you haven’t already realised, water and electricity really are a deadly pair. Playfully, he threw Myra across the lawn, leaving her rolling and laughing, feigning injury, but still laughing. Thank God she was such a tease. You see, just as Myra left Oscar’s grip, The Boomtown Rats were playing on the radio. Oscar famously hated that band and so reached over to tune the radio into another channel. Still laughing, his fingers turned the dial, his gaze still aimed at Myra who was laid flirtatiously with her back to him, knowing full well her chiffon shirt had turned practically transparent. Then the circuit shorted and The Boomtown Rats were silent and Oscar was so suddenly, so terribly, dead. Everyone looked around for someone to blame, but not even Bob Geldof could take the rap for this one.