Going, digital

From: James Scatrell
To: My Dear Daughter
Subject: My death
Sent: 22 September 2004

Eileen

I died today. It was by my own hand, but there will no doubt be speculation over how I did it. Alone. In a room sealed from the outside. A human body shattered into a thousand pieces, all now limp, sticky and dripping on the blank concrete floor. You will shortly be brought in to explain my state of mind. Laughable, isn’t it? Science doesn’t believe that sentient beings such as dogs even have states of mind, so how can you look into my head and say otherwise. I am sure the police will come to find you soon. Two officers, I expect. One male, one female. Then you will know it’s true.

James (Dad)

From: James Scatrell
To: My Dear Daughter
Subject: My funeral
Sent: 26 September 2004

Eileen
I expect my funeral will be tomorrow. That’s when I booked it. This email – isn’t the ability to delay delivery a delight? – contains my valedictory address. It’s your job to read it out, word for word:

“James Scatrell would like everyone gathered to know that you are all, in some part, responsible for the good parts of his life. Equally, as members of a Western culture that values personal freedom above the planet, you are all responsible for his and your own downfall. For any of you to live a truly sustainable existence would involve reducing your resource use by 95%. Any suggestion that we can get there by increasing recycling is flatly absurd. It’s only like beating the environment with a slightly smaller stick. Suicide is the only answer. I intend to encourage as many of you as I can to follow my example. You will be receiving your instructions shortly, one by one. Keep checking your inboxes. I have seen enough of this world to appreciate its delights. If you haven’t, tough. You can’t say you didn’t you’re your chances. Goodbye.”

James (Dad)

From: James Scatrell
To: My Dear Daughter
Subject: Your death
Sent: 28 September 2004

Eileen
It takes not only time but also my signature to see my messages deleted from the server. I am no longer in a position to make that happen. Tough, eh? And so my campaign starts. Eileen, every one we all know has spent years building your confidence to no avail. Face it, love. You are even uglier and fatter than you think you are. And when people say you are your mother’s daughter, it’s not a compliment. You have the fashion sense of a mandrill’s arse. That seed of doubt in your mind needs room to grow. You are not a fit member of the human race. Leave it now. There is no disgrace in following my path.

Dad

From: James Scatrell
To: Jim Landing
Subject: Your death
29 September 2004

Jim
It’s me, the Scatmonger from beyond the grave. I am copying this email to Gordon at The Bank. You know Gordon has never liked you, and I intend to give him reason. Gordon has received a safe deposit key in the post and is awaiting these instructions. Well, go to HSBC on Westland Road and present it, Gordon. You will be handed all the reason you need to seal Jim’s fate – the full financial story, fraud, embezzlement, adultery, the lot. Goodbye, Jim. There’s even less point your wasting planetary space now.

James

From: James Scatrell
To: Tony Gonditts
Subject: Your death
30 September 2004

Tony
You know why teenage suicides are on the up? It’s because the kids have finally caught the right idea. Life really is crap. Growing old is disastrous. Wrinkles are as uncool as it gets. You have no significant future with those GCSE grades. And as for that girl of yours? Even I had her. End it now, Tony.

James

“Hey, Sir, Inspector. Have a look at what I found in Mateyboy’s Outbox. Looks like he really was some kind of eco-nutter after all.”

“Shee-it! Nice find, Constable. We don’t need a suicide note to know he was on his own, so this doesn’t look like anyone’s business now. No use making matters worse. Hit delete.”