Annus Horrilibis

Latin wasn’t John’s bag, but the phrase annus horribilis had stuck like snot on the periphery of his mind. The Queen had had a bad year and had labelled it in this manner. John found this to be amusing. There were some words or phrases that weren’t expletives, but could be spat from the mouth in the very same way. He imagined The Queen firing annus horribilis out of her mouth with maximum disdain, sending courtiers, ambassadors and long-suffering servants this way and that in a blind panic at this hilarious expression of rage.

Now as he suffered through his own truly bad year, John struggled to turn the corners of his mouth upwards. The muscles of joyous expression had atrophied in a soup of sadness and depression. What could go wrong had gone wrong, to the point that John could confidently ask the universe what could possibly be worse and know that he’d caught it out. For were the universe to gift him with anything else, John just wouldn’t care. The truth was, were he to receive another dark gift, it would send him over the precipice into the blessed oblivion of the abyss. He didn’t have the guts or energy to take that last step forward into the eternal darkness though. He was where he belonged, and that was in a limbo of crushing pain.

If the universe lay in wait with a counter to all his woes, John suspected that he would reject that gift. The prospect of opening the wrappings and being faced with positive emotions made him cry inside. He was no longer worthy of such things. He had become alien and contrary in his nature. He was damned and that was all there was to it.

The kitchen sink was slowly vomiting dishes and cutlery from its mouth. There was a coating of foul bile upon each object it was attempting to eject. The sight of it was symbolic of John’s existence. He looked away, only to find several similar installations imbued with the shame of his pathetic plight. 

Often, he would languish in a house that was once his home. Linda had taken the home with her when she had left him. He hadn’t seen that one coming, and even now, with the curse of retrospect, he couldn’t discern the fork in the road where they had parted ways. He knew there was a fork, but it wasn’t his. He’d not been a partner in the change that had been inflicted upon him. That change had occurred in Linda’s imagination. She’d had an affair with an avatar of John and that affair had turned more sour than the milk in John’s fridge. 

Linda had worked through their relationship with Bad John until there was nothing left of it and only then had she come clean. When John had tried to reason with her, she raised her shield and upon it, writ large was the legend; you would have said this. John had been thwarted by a series of assumptive lies and had been afforded no appeal once sentence had been passed.

Worse still, Linda had embarked upon a campaign of re-education, telling friends and family about how John had changed and what kind of man he was now. Her marketing campaign had been hugely successful. People had short and selective memories and Linda landed it all from the position of wronged woman. She was the victim and John was an unthinking, unfeeling lumpen thing. The rebranding to Bad John was easily effected as this was the entertaining stereotype that people bought into. Sod the reality of the real person they had once been friends with.

John suspected that some of his male friends saw through the lies of the campaign, but the problem was that Linda had also launched a charm offensive with the wives and girlfriends. A war on the home front that nullified these potential allies. These boys were wise enough not to rock the boat at home. Too much to lose. John was a stark warning of the fragility of marriage and relationships. A dire consequence of their collapse.

He hadn’t helped himself as he himself collapsed with the shock of what had happened. The timing was astoundingly cruel. He’d left his job of twelve years to set up his own business. Optimistic and cheerful. He was going to make his mark in the world and with Linda by his side, they were an unstoppable team.

Her withdrawal from the partnership had completely wrongfooted him and he didn’t have the routine and comfort of the nine to five to fall back upon. His world was already in flux and now it was in freefall. He no longer had his sense of purpose. Over and over he heard the words; what’s the point?

When Rex died, an important part of John died too. Rex was only eight, and again, John didn’t see it coming. His canine bundle of love was the only light left in his life. The only thing that still mattered. Rex was going to take John for a series of walks that would see him back to where he was always supposed to be, but then he went off his food, and as soon as that happened, John knew.

“No, no, no…” he whispered softly as he held Rex in his arms. But Rex stared up into John’s eyes with a pitiful look that told him there was no denying this.

He put off going to the vet’s for three days. Hoping against hope that Rex was having an off day or two. As he drove to the vets he felt Rex’s sad eyes upon him all the way. He was limp and whimpered as John scooped him up in his arms. 

“How long has he been like this?” the vet asked. The tone wasn’t accusatory. It didn’t have to be. John would have received a comment about the weather as an accusation in that moment. He’d let Rex down. Linda was right, it was all John’s fault.

The vet examined Rex for all of a couple of minutes, “we can run some tests,” she said without enthusiasm.

But John was shaking his head, “he deserves better than that.”

Half an hour later, John was sitting in the driveway of his house. Haunted by the empty collar, from which dangled Rex’s lead. He stared at the empty eyes of a house that would be haunted by tragic absence and for the one and only time he cried. He cried and cried, wondering how much of his sorrow was self-piteous. Wondering what it was that he was crying for. All of it? Or none of it? He couldn’t tell, and he had no answers beyond the hurt he was experiencing. 

That was when his house began to decay. Mirroring the ruination of his life. John knew that he could do better. He knew that he knew how to do better. But the fight had left him. He’d given up.

So, it was with some degree of interest that he left his mausoleum and entered the world of the living. He had no plan and no direction, only a desire to leave the house and move outwards. What that surprise momentum would result in was anyone’s guess.

He drove, and as he drove he became aware of two things. One was the collar and lead laying in the footwell of the passenger seat. Another discarded object that he should have taken more care of. The other was that the car needed fuel. This last, forced an action and that act was John’s mixing with the natives, albeit with the defence of a counter to separate them. This impromptu interaction resulted in a smile from the man who handed him his receipt. John automatically returned said smile and felt something awaken within him.

Maybe this was why he found himself at the train station car park, and as he climbed out of the car, he reached into the footwell, detached Rex’s collar and put it in his pocket. Throughout the subsequent train journey and his walk in Town, he rubbed the collar betwixt finger and thumb. A comfort and a charm. Occasionally, he would sniff his finger and remember his faithful hound. A pang of regret and sadness echoing the remembrance in the knowledge that Rex’s scent would fade. John vowed never to allow the memories to fade though, and in this vow he was lifted a little more.

All the same, his wanderings in Town were surreal. He wasn’t there. This wasn’t happening. There was a veil behind which he glimpsed the lives of others. The stream of life flowed, but he was no longer in it. Insulated in his grief, he was set apart. He thought about the circle of Rex’s collar and how he had undone it for the final time. Never would a dog wear that collar again. 

The weight of the surrounding world weighed upon him heavily as he waded through the treacle of his depression. He resented the life and vibrancy that surrounded him and so he painted it grey. 

Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here. Didn’t know how he had come to be here. The collar in his grip seemed to be telling him something. Not an excuse for a walk, but a compelling reason. And so despite his resistance to doing so, he continued to put one foot in front of the other. Ceasing to move held awful consequences. He feared that he may freeze in place and lose the ability to escape this place.

As he focused upon the act of moving, he pondered the concept of escape. It was all very well wanting to leave a place, but surely there had to be a better alternative to escape to? He didn’t even bother considering escape options. All that mattered was to keep moving. It was possible that he would see something and know it for what it was in the seeing.

It was during this simple struggle that John saw him. 

There was a blast from the past, and everything changed. 

John was released from his self-imposed fog of misery and he bounded forth. There was a light of hope that drove him on. Rich! He’d seen Rich. He followed the man through the streets of Town for a full five minutes before the reality of his situation tapped on his shoulder and bade him at least slow a little and consider what it was that he was doing.

Rich was dead, and he’d been dead for these past few years. Possibly longer. John wasn’t one for marking dates. Linda had reminded him of that failing as she sucker punched him and trailed a knee for his chin to hit as he went down.

All the same, he continued to follow the man. His blood was up. All that mattered was the hunt. The hunt for meaning. This was why he was here. He had to do this. 

When the man who John was willing to be Rich entered the Nag’s Head, John paused outside the door. There was an irony here and there was sorrow and fear. Rich had lived life too hard. Stress and good living had reduced the odds of his life to a point where he rolled the dice once more and there was an inevitability to his loss. 

John eyed the brass handle of the door, telling himself that he could walk away. That he could turn around right now and that would be an end to it. He slipped his hand back in his pocket to find Rex’s collar, but it was gone. He turned the way he had come and gave the pavement a cursory examination, but he already knew that he wouldn’t retrace his steps. Not now. Maybe not ever. Turning back to the Nag’s Head, he walked in with a resolve he hadn’t possessed in a long while. 

There was an awful moment when he thought he’d lost his quarry, but then he saw the tall figure of his erstwhile friend. He was further along the bar, his back to him. But John would know Rich anywhere. If this was his doppelgänger, then he must be a twin. Or a clone. He tried not to question the inexplicable hope he had that this stranger could be his deceased friend. Reliving an impossible past in favour of the dread reality he’d found himself caught up in.

Ordering a pint helped justify his position at the bar. Buying him more time at this vantage point. He drank deeply, discovering his thirst only as the liquid reached his lips. As he lowered the glass of bitter, Rich turned to the barman for his second drink and John saw him for the first time.

His heart stopped. John knew this because he became aware of it having been beating like a bass drum in his ears in the moments prior to the big reveal. His heart ceased beating and time stood still, for not only was this Rich, but beyond him, sat on a bar stool was Sarah. Sarah was a mutual friend who had also lived life full tilt. She was someone who had it all before her, but never quite accepted that. Never quite got into her groove. There was a battle that raged within her. A battle that would never see her victorious. The point to that conflict was to let it go and walk away. To find peace. 

Rich handed her a drink and they exchanged a smile. Their smiles warmed John in a way he had never experienced before. In that warmth, he felt more at one with himself than he ever had. The eery familiarity of the figures along the bar dissipated and all John had was the reality of them. There was hope in this, and he clutched at it like a drowning man.

“Fancy seeing you here.” 

The voice was more familiar than that first fleeting glimpse of Rich. John placed his pint down carefully, steadying a hand that threatened to break out into a major tremor. Slowly he turned to the source of the voice, not daring to hope that his ears heard true.

“Paul!” 

He flung his arms around his friend and crushed him in a thousand unspent hugs. Every single missed opportunity for meaningful contact was in that hug, and Paul returned the embrace with a ferocity that John felt in his very soul. The feeling overwhelmed him beyond the point of tears and when they eventually let go and stepped back, their eyes sparkled with a vitality of love that is seldom witnessed.

“I…” began John.

But Paul was shaking his head, “don’t. Not here. Not now. Save those words.”

John fell to silence and nodded instead.

“Let’s sit down,” Paul said before walking to the far corner of the pub, but not before nodding at the barman.

As they took their seats, the barman placed two fresh pints before them. John looked up at the man with a questioning look.

“Doesn’t do to stare,” said Paul.

John looked away, not quite knowing what he’d been looking at.

“I’m not…” John’s words trailed off, Paul’s expression a warning.

There was a pause in which Paul drank some of his pint and John followed suit, the natural desire to mirror a friend coming to the fore.

“You are,” Paul said before taking another swig of his pint, “and you’re not.”

John nodded, thinking he knew what Paul meant.

“You have a choice,” Paul said sadly, “we always have a choice. That’s what life is. A series of choices.” 

John took in his friend and smiled, “thank you,” he said before raising his pint and touching it against his friend’s glass. They exchanged a look that stretched out for an eternity. A shared moment that contained everything and more.

John nodded again, looking out across the pub he spoke to his long lost friend, “this is where we bumped into each other all those years ago. What were the chances of that? Shame there’s not a…”

He was going to say a table football, or at least a pinball machine, preferably an Adam’s Family pinball machine that had seen better days, its metal playing surface permanently magnetised so the balls behaved in strange and magical ways. Games the two friends had bonded over. But as he turned back, there was no Paul. Without looking back along the bar, John knew there would be no Rich and no Sarah. They were ghosts from his past, but much more than that. They were a part of him, and his love had brought them back, if only for a fleeting visit. 

He smiled nostalgically as he finished his pint, taking some solace from the empty glass opposite him. 

“Same again?” 

Only now did he notice the presence beside him. The barman had come across to his table.

“Why not?” answered John, handing the man both empties.

He watched his pint being poured in the silence of the empty pub. Took in the old and weathered wood. The mottled mirror behind the bar. As the barman returned and handed him his pint John’s brow creased, “have we met before?” he asked, “you look strangely familiar.”

The barman smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I get that a lot,” then he winked, “comes with the territory.”

John watched him go, dismissing half thoughts and half-truths and returning to the business in hand. He raised his glass and made a silent toast, feeling the eyes of the barman upon him.

There was a choice to be made.

There was always a choice to be made, even if it wasn’t to choose and remain headed in the current direction of travel. Or stagnation, as the case may be. To give up was a choice that countered the choice of letting go.

John chose to drink his pint.