I Can Never Say Sorry…

I can never say sorry to Jeff because if I did I’d have to explain and he’d never believe me; even worse, he might think I’ve gone mad. So I keep silent as the guilt eats me alive.

When Jeff left me, after nine years together, I hated him. He left me for Zac, who was only twenty-two. What did Zac know of life? He was just another pretty boy, but he’d turned Jeff’s head when he’d temped in Jeff’s office. Going through his mid-life crisis at thirty-nine, and panicking because he was turning forty, Jeff had chased after him.

I knew about Zac. Nicola, Jeff’s colleague and a pathological gossip, had delighted in telling me, but I thought it was part of his mid-life crisis and would blow over. So I just kept quiet. When Jeff said he was moving out to live with Zac, I felt as if someone had drop-kicked me in the head.

It only took him a month to really ruin my life. He got a solicitor to send me a letter saying that he wanted his share of the house we’d bought together. He didn’t mind whether I bought him out or if the house was sold, but he wanted his money. I couldn’t afford to buy him out, so I’d had to sell my wonderful home, just because that bastard had left me. He’d walked out on me, but I was going to suffer for it, not him.

It was then that I did it. I know it was stupid. I made a little cloth doll of Jeff. I made it from one of the old shirts he’d left behind. I found some of his old hairs from a comb he’d left behind in the bathroom. Then I took a long needle and pushed it into the doll’s belly, saying aloud I wanted Jeff to feel physical pain equal to the emotional pain he was putting me through. I added that I wanted him brought low so he would have to come back to me. As soon as I’d done it I felt stupid, I was like some love-sick adolescent being spiteful and nasty. It didn’t make me feel any better. I put the doll away in a draw in the attic and left it there. I didn’t tell anyone.

Shortly after that, Pete came to my aid. He said he’d buy out Jeff’s share of the house if I didn’t mind him moving in with me. Pete is an old friend and with property prices so crazy he couldn’t find anywhere to live he could afford.

It was when Pete contacted Jeff about all this that he found that Jeff was recovering from nearly a week of diarrhoea. Zac was going on about him being poisoned, but Jeff said it was just an infection.

I heard nothing from Jeff for nearly six months after that. Pete moved in and the two of us settled down to living together. Pete is someone easy to share a house with and it didn’t affect our friendship. Then, two weeks ago, I heard about Jeff again.

I ran into Dylan, an old friend of Jeff’s, in Soho. I’d been visiting a new client and I bumped into Dylan as I left that client’s office. Dylan was his usual friendly self so we had lunch together. Over our meal we chatted about the usual gossip. Then he asked me if I knew about Jeff. When I said no, he said Jeff had been diagnosed with stomach cancer; he had a huge tumour right in the middle of his stomach. He was finding the treatment difficult to take, he was on long-term sickness from work, and Zac had left him. Jeff was a mess.

When I told Pete about Jeff, he almost jumped on his phone and called him. They’d never been close, but in minutes Pete was driving me around to see Jeff. It didn’t take us long to reach Jeff’s flat, and Dylan had been right; Jeff was in a terrible state. The cancer was making him ill; he’d lost so much weight his skin had turned a dry grey colour and his hair was a greasy, lank mess swept back over his head. He was weak and finding it difficult to look after himself. Pete insisted that Jeff came to live with us. At first Jeff turned us down, but that didn’t last long. Turning into the Charge Nurse he is, Pete had Jeff packed up and into his car in minutes.

Jeff now lives with us, he’s moved out of that flat of his, and Pete and I are looking after him. He’s tired and weak from the chemotherapy all the time; some days he can barely get out of bed. He can’t look after himself anymore.

His tumour is big and right in the middle of his stomach, in the same place I pushed that needle into that doll that I’d made. I don’t believe in Voodoo or anything like that, but it can’t be a coincidence, it’s too bizarre for that. Was it my hatred and anger that caused Jeff’s tumour? Did I make him ill? Am I killing him?

I can’t tell anyone, they’ll think I’m crazy or worse; also can’t I say sorry to Jeff. It’s eating me alive, like Jeff’s cancer is doing to him, but no one knows how I’m feeling…