Ninety-Three
Ruby tidied her bedroom. Silly, really, because it didn’t matter and she certainly wasn’t doing it to get out of yet another row with her parents. But it helped order her mind and make her feel more prepared for what lay ahead.
Clothes neatly folded. Keys left on her bedside cabinet, along with the ‘Book of Hate’. A box stuffed with all the printouts was at the foot of her bed.
On her knees lay another box, this one filled with family photos of happier times. Drawings from Mouse of characters from her favourite books: Matilda, Oompa-Loompas, the Wicked Witch of the West, Aslan. Tickets to concerts her parents had taken her to. Birthday cards filled with meaningless messages, because words were so much easier than actions.
When had their love turned to disinterest?
Ruby felt like the most hated girl in London.
She had called Childline once. She had read on a poster at school that in the past year it had received almost 19,500 calls from children with suicidal thoughts. A mere 0.6 per cent of the NHS’s budget was spent on children’s mental health. It had made her burn with fury at the time, but now there was nothing left but ash and warm embers.
Did she have the strength to carry her plan through alone, she wondered. Or would this be one more failure to add to the list? She moved the shoebox of memorabilia from her lap and pulled something else onto it.
Dad’s shotgun.
Everything was ready except her.
She sat without moving for a very long time. Long enough for her to grow stiff and uncomfortable.
Her phone buzzed like an angry wasp.
Finally, she moved.
Imminent death focused Benjamin’s mind. The whirling and panic had stopped. No need to reach inside the cabinet in his study, and have another drink. He felt lighter than he had for years, after shrugging off the mask that had been weighing him down.
He would write a letter apologising to Dom, Ruby, and Amber, and explaining everything. But what about Kendra, and his unborn child?
He kept forgetting about Kendra’s pregnancy, thanks to everything else on his mind. That spoke volumes about his feelings for the young woman. But what of this third child of his – someone he would never meet if he went through with his plan to commit suicide.
Not if, when.
When he died, Kendra would lose her home, because he owned the property she lived in – or rather the bank did. She thought he paid her rent, had no idea he was actually her landlord. Just another lie of his to add to the mountain of untruths. Kendra would be left with nothing, like Dominique. The knowledge of what he had done to her made him hang his head in despair. He stared down at the leather of his antique desk and gave a shuddering sigh.
He didn’t love Kendra, he never had. He had used her as a prop to shore up his ego. Soft young puppy flesh to make him feel less like the middle-aged sad act he’d become; she meant little more to him than his fancy watch or car, another appendage with which to impress people and prove what a winner he was in the game of life.
What a complete shit.
The pink and blue ribbons tied around the pregnancy test grew grubby from his repeated worrying at them. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine the child: a mixture of Ruby and Amber. He wished he could stick around to see it, to find an alternative way. It wasn’t an option. Instead, he had to explain to Kendra how sorry he was for leaving her literally holding the baby. This was his only option, though; the question was how he was going to make her realise it.
‘Dear Kendra,’ he wrote. ‘By the time you read this, I will be dead.’
His Biro paused over the paper. Was that too melodramatic? But there was no point beating about the bush, he might as well tell her immediately. He had no idea what else to say. Read the line again. A tear trickled down his nose, and he wiped it before it could splash the paper.
‘I’m not the man people think I am. I’ve done so many stupid things, and got myself into a lot of trouble. Despite the bravado, I’m a coward. I can’t cope with the pressure. I’m so sorry for letting you and our child down.’
This was not a time for holding back. Benjamin told his mistress everything, just like he would later confess to his wife. When the note was finished, he sat back and nodded. He felt better for getting it out. He was by no means doing the right thing by Kendra, he knew that, but at least he was leaving her an explanation. Now he only had to deliver it.
He listened, to check if anyone was awake, but no sounds came. The clock chimed midnight and he realised with a start that it was Christmas Day. No one heard the door click shut behind him.