The Last Mile

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

Paul locked the front door. He didn't know why, because he wasn't planning on coming back.

As he walked down the garden path the curtain of snow flakes riding wildly on the breeze stung his eyes, and though it had only been snowing for a couple of hours drifts were already building up wherever the wind dictated. With an involuntary shudder he pulled up his collar to keep out the biting cold. 'Why bother with that?' he asked himself. 'Worried about catching a cold, are we? Bolster yourself, you great, steaming Jessie, surely you've got more pressing things on your mind than an icy wind and a bit of bloody snow. It'll all be over and done with before long, don't worry your cotton socks off about that. Soon you'll be six feet under in Ryecroft Cemetery alongside your mum and dad, soon you'll be pushing up daisies and feeding the worms - in peace, hopefully - and the cold, merciless, thieving bastard with the cheek to call itself life will never be able to hurt you again.'

Paul squeezed through a brand new Smart car and a battered white transit van, pausing to peek around the larger vehicle while several cars dawdled past from the right. 'Fuck the traffic, you pussy!' he told himself. 'A nice, gleaming Range Rover doing about seventy could be the answer to your prayers, it'll save all the umming and aahing and shall I's or shan't I's that doing yourself in will no doubt muster. I know you, sunshine; you're a coward through and through, you'll drop a clutch of Maltesers in your skidders as soon as it comes to nitty-gritty time, and you'll probably do your best to worm your way out of our deal at the last minute. Raw terror, I suppose, explains why you opted for your granddaddy's old Luger as the tool of choice for your own execution.....

I suggested that you should take an overdose of paracetamol and sleeping tablets and drift gently off to Valhalla or Teletubby land or wherever you think that yellow bellies who can't face the truth and choose to kill themselves go, but you wouldn't listen. Out of the kindness of my heart I gave you several viable alternatives. I suggested that you should run a nice hot bath, put on a bit of vintage Madonna, turn the volume up full-whack and slash your wrists, but you kindly reminded me that you don't have any hot water. Maybe you should hang yourself from the bannister with that length of strong wire tucked away in the shed, I said, but you wouldn't have it.

Perhaps a bullet through the brain is your best option after all, the devastation is swift and utter and there's no pain involved as long as your hands are reasonably steady, especially if you stick the barrel in your mouth in the time-honoured method. Shooting yourself is pretty much a hit or miss affair, there's no room for buggering up unless you're a complete retard, in which case you deserve all you get. My my, what a fine mess you've gotten yourself into this time..... Look where you're going, you dolt! I know I hinted that getting run over might be a good idea, but I've changed my mind. Think of the agony you'd have to endure if a car skidded in the snow and ran over your legs instead of your stupid head - it doesn't bear thinking about, does it?'

At the end of the street Paul turned right towards the main road. 'Your destination is approximately three miles away,' he told himself, 'and this damned snow is coming down thick and fast. It's a veritable bloody blizzard, buddy-o, so I'd hurry the fuck up if I were you. Mind you, it's not as if you can turn back, plod home and warm your tootsies by the fire in lieu of committing hara-kiri, because the power company cut off your gas and electricity nearly three months ago. Oh, and the vultures at the bank are repossessing your house in a couple of weeks time unless you magically find the several grand that you owe them. Ha! If you didn't kill yourself you'd have to go and live in a stinking, cockroach infested hostel, and then your missus would definitely leave you instead of just threatening to - I suppose she'd go to live with her mother, who's been looking after your kids for a while now because you can't look after them yourself. If you don't fancy the hostel maybe you could live in a nice damp squat, a sewer, perhaps - or, to quote the Monty Python team, a rolled up newspaper in a septic tank.'

“Shut up,” Paul mumbled. “For Christ's sake, at least give me a bit of peace during my last couple of hours on earth.”

The main road was strewn with semi-liquid, death dealing slush. The maths was simple: a slippery road surface minus council gritters (who are never where they are needed) plus a never ending stream of irate motorists equals total chaos. The traffic was bumper to bumper, and most of the motorists were honking their horns at their neighbours as if the action was capable of magically clearing the jam. It wasn't long before Paul neared the cause of the gridlock. A lorry had jackknifed, shearing off fifty yards of the roadside railings and felling a large tree, which had partly demolished the brand new health centre, which was due to be officially opened at the end of the week. 'Bummer bummer,' his inner satnav told him. 'Avoid that palaver at all costs. Turn here into Tynings lane, it'll get you to your destination eventually, it's just a bit more snakey-windy than the next road.'

It didn't take long to escape the worst of the racket, but Paul could still hear the faint buzz of horns when the main road was almost two miles behind him. A steady stream of vehicles was escaping from the chaos along the lane, and though the snow was getting pretty deep a lot of them were travelling much too fast. 'Turn right into Bealey lane, for safety's sake,' he told himself.

A couple of hundred yards into Bealey lane, which was much quieter, Paul came upon a red Metro sitting at an odd angle with its hazard lights flashing. The vehicle's nose was buried in the hedgerow and its tail was blocking half of the road, which aroused a flurry of honking from a cold-hearted prat in a big fuck off Volvo. At the side of the car stood a woman waving her arms at the passing motorist. She was an elderly lady, Paul realised, she was wearing just a cardigan and slacks and a thin jacket, and she was in desperate need of help.

'You'll walk straight on or turn tail and scarper if you know what's good for you,' he told himself. 'Let somebody else help the silly old moo, eg one of the miserable fuckers driving past without giving her a second glance. What can you do, anyway? Another vehicle could easily pull the car out of the hedge, but you bloody well can't.'

“Shut it, will you?” Paul muttered under his breath as he neared the woman. “You, er, look like you could do with a bit of help.”

“Oh, too right, sonny,” she said. “I was doing fifteen miles an hour, if that, as I came around the bend. It was like being on an ice rink, all of a sudden the front wheels skidded to the left and the back ones to the right, and my car did a perfect pirouette into the hedge. I've tried backing out but it's hopeless, the wheels just spin. I was on the way home from visiting a friend just a few miles away, and I forgot my damned phone. I didn't have the sense to bring a winter coat either, I'm bloody freezing! Thirty three cars have passed me since I got into this pickle, believe it or not, and not one of the tossers has stopped or offered to call for help.”

“I haven't got my phone with me,” Paul said. “Even if I had it wouldn't be any help, because I don't have any credit and it hasn't been charged it for a while. I don't suppose you have a shovel in the boot.”

“No, I'm afraid not. Maybe if they'd forecast snow..... No, that's nonsense, if I knew it was going to be anywhere near this bad I would never have left the house.”

“What about some cloth or cardboard to stick under the wheels so that they can get a better grip?”

“No, I don't have anything like that,” the woman replied.

“We'll have to use the mats out of the car, then. They're the thick rubber type, I see, they should do the trick without too much hassle.”

Ten minutes of pushing and rearranging rubber matting later the old lady's car was back on the road, and she couldn't have been more thankful. “Take it!” she said as she tried to shove a twenty pound note into Paul's hand. “It's just a small token of my appreciation. Please take it, young man, it will make me very happy.”

“I don't want it,” he said. “Money isn't much good where I'm going. Which is marvellous when you think about it, because money is the root of all evil.”

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, just over there,” Paul said, pointing vaguely at the snow covered field beyond the naked hawthorn hedge. “There's a little pool in the woods over there where we used to swim when we were children. It's still a lovely place now, I take a walk over there sometimes.

I've travelled a long way over difficult terrain, lady, and I just have the last mile of my journey to go until I'm home and dry. My missus will have the heating on full blast when I get in. The bath will be running as soon as I walk through the door, and there'll be a pot of Irish stew simmering on the back hob. I like it with dumplings and thick, crusty bread dripping with best butter. The kids'll be playing with their Ipads, no doubt – you wouldn't believe the gadgets they have, the spoiled little buggers. Maybe we'll go and see a movie when we've eaten.....”

“Throw it away, Paul,” the old lady said calmly.

“Throw what away?”

“You know exactly what I'm referring to. The gun in your pocket, the Luger that your grandfather wrenched from the fingers of a German he falsely claimed to have shot during the Second World War. It has an SS symbol on the hilt, it belonged to an officer. It's as rusty as I don't know what, though, you've hidden it in the shed for years because you know that if your wife finds out you still have it she'll bin it. You've got six shells, am I correct? Do you know how unstable old gunpowder is? More than likely the weapon will explode if you attempt to fire it, it'll blow your hand off and embed chunks of white hot shrapnel in your face rather than kill you cleanly, and that's not a nice way to go. Throw it away; lop it gently over the hedge into the waterlogged ditch on the other side where it won't be a danger to children. There.....

Angela does love you, Paul, despite all the screaming and shouting over your financial situation, and so do Farrel and Gretel. Not only do they love you, they need you, believe me. They can't live without you, so if you kill yourself you're effectively killing them. Dry your eyes, man, the time for crying has passed, it's almost time for clearing away and rebuilding.

Listen to me, I'm going to utter the most important three words you're likely to hear concerning your current situation. Are you ready for enlightenment, son? Here goes. Fuck the house. Yes, I know you slaved for eighteen years to pay for it brick by brick and the bastards are unjustly taking it away from you because your company folded and you lost your job, but fuck it, forget it, let it go. Have yourself declared bankrupt, which will get all that debt off your back. And then you'll be offered a new job in the south of France. At the end of May, if you can't stand the anticipation. You have a wonderful future, Paul, and that future involves your whole family - no one's leaving, nobody's chickening out..... Didn't I just ask you to stop blarting? Jump in the car, man, I'm taking you home before you catch your death.”