DEAD WORDS
Aunt Mary,
Don’t show this to Michael. I will be coming there in three weeks. The fourth Sunday in April. For about a month. Then I must come back up. This is all I know till I get there. I am sorry everything is such a jumble. Perhaps we can tidy it up together before you speak at the memorial. I ought to warn you. Much of what Arthur wrote privately is terribly dismissive of where he came from. Right enough but Michael won’t understand probably. Tell him I cannot speak to him until I get there. He left two messages in the night. He is drinking again, clearly. These notes are intended to comfort you. Try to get Michael sober if you can. I don’t really want a repeat of what went on at the funeral. If you think I ought not to come yet I won’t. We didn’t really get time to talk. I will bring the “diaries” with me. I didn’t dare send them. You have to request a copy of the coroner’s report, in writing. I was allowed a read, in person, but was only entitled to a copy of the front sheet (because it is public anyway).
On this front sheet they put the hard facts. It’s a summary. I didn’t tell you this before. It lists Arthur as a single man aged 52, engaged in the building trade! This they got from a note he had on him. He used his real name and not Daniel Lever. The note also gave date of birth, occupation, and nationality. The name and the nationality are right. But the date of birth is six months too late on the corresponding day in June. As for being in the building trade, well it is completely unfathomable at first. Why would he want anyone to think he worked in the building trade instead of social work or that he was the writer Daniel Lever? He gave them no address and they don’t seem to have put themselves out beyond contacting you, visiting the flat, and looking for a note. Another dead Irish man. Off on the plane with him to bury in the homeland. Little they new.
The time of death is given as 11.34 a.m. How awful it must be for you Mary, but you are strong remember and now we must decide quickly and act to protect your brother’s memory and the interests of your family. I will do what I can, but from here, mostly. I will remain his editor, if that is what you want.
I think that the Coroner must have tried his hand at writing. Mr John Rowlabel. In extraordinary language, he begins the main report:
“He posed, arms aloft, face towards the sky, fingers fanned. A temporary statue. No one had seen him climb the tower that forms the northern approach to Blackwall Tunnel. Like a diver he fell, in love with water, his birth sign, ignoring the tarmac; his occupation. As this distressed man fell, he was hit by the oncoming lorry, which roared into him. It tossed him ahead, killing him instantly, snapping, then mangling his body. The driver of the vechile has, in shaking, convulsive, vividly recalled images told this court of a rapturous look upon that man’s face. The driver is blameless. He will, no doubt forever, suffer hauntings of that moment and, so my experience tells me, he will in addition re-rehearse the sounds from those moments when he screamed in harmony with the tearing brakes but could do nothing.”
That does not seem to me to be the usual language of a Coroner but good charm to him. Mr John Rowlabel seems to be of a rather “colonial” disposition. Under different circumstances I would want to meet this British man. The office woman told me that, in his independence, he sometimes sat alone in court facing cases that attracted merely official witnesses. In these cases he would tend to “colour in”, add viable patterns which could be inferred. It seems that this happened to Arthur. Even in death he has managed to capture another odd moment.
I won’t repeat the medical parts. A horror story list of injuries in the battle between metal and flesh. It lists the cause of death and the probable sequence of physical events in those slowed seconds. The verdict you already know.
They found a knife is his pocket, and the report mentions that he had cuts to his arms and his left side lower rib cage. He’d maybe started that business again, but it is inconclusive on this point. Though, as you can see from the extract, it is in the writing.
I went to the house two weeks ago, where I found the diaries. You asked me what this was about, how the worm in his heart was grown. I have found out what I can and I will bring those words with me. In the meantime, if you agree, we should seem to not understand the situation ourselves and present this to associates, relatives and the Sunday supplements when they kick in. I am refusing all calls until after the memorial. This process must be managed, which makes me repeat the need to bring Michael under control.
As usual there is no way of knowing when Arthur wrote individual pieces, but I’m reasonably confident of when he wrote the last extract. Perhaps on the morning he left for London, or the night before. Weave what you can into the memorial notes you are writing. If you need me to aid this I can intersperse a few memories of my own.
There are no further clues at the house. It was completely tidy, just the bed was unmade. The phone book was full of names. No milk or food. The diary was on the floor by the bed, pen in the middle. It is not a bought diary but rather it is bound plain paper. It is filled intermittently and dated by hand, at the top.
I opened the windows (I thought of what you’d said).
The place is heavy with him, Mary.
Mary, the final piece written in the diary is dated in the future - for his next birthday.
I think that Arthur may have been about to enter another depressive period. I think he may have been covering this up for a while.
Your brother Arthur felt feelings intensely but he was clever with emotions. He was conscious of them, in my experience, and could control them. Another book by the bed - there was a pile actually – was by Damasio.
I wonder what you will make of the extract. Do not let it depress you Mary. All of the old themes from the early days are back as you’ll see. There is no humour and little light except those oppressive, scorching, rays which were wickedly designed to show up our “shame” inside, and which, despite some fifty-five years of trying, he did not rid himself of. What a heritage mother Ireland gives us.
The extract seems to me to be full of mud and heavy rain. Someone pinned down and confused. Unusually he has fused very obviously autobiographical detail using, from what I have gathered, real names (so be careful if you do use this). There was clearly a gathering storm at work. He was due at work on the morning he was in London. The morning he chose for dying. There was a meeting. They won’t say what it was about, but it was clearly important. I spoke, eventually, to the Head of HR to get a feel for things. It may be something, it might be nothing. I mentioned some of the names from the piece I think I get the impression that Arthur had done something improper. Also he had phoned them in the morning, though they are giving nothing away. Arthur was liked there. Lots of generous words about him. “The big fella”.
Although maybe he decided not to go because he was dog tired, or ill. If he did wake in the way that he has that fellow describing it in the extract maybe.
I didn’t tell you at the funeral. It took a month from when you phoned before to tell me you had had no contact, before I saw him. That was two months ago now was it? We went to a pub for food. A carvery. He was fine really. He looked tired but he’d lost weight at any rate, which was a requirement. He had stopped taking anything. Just propanolol, I think he said. To slow his heart. We talked about George Burchett (the tatooist) and horse racing. I lost £20 on the strength of it.
Also he told me a funny story about work. He’s in an interview situation. The panel is headed by William J William, the big bean. Only they are not in the room yet. He’s been told to take a seat. Ten minutes later a beautiful young woman pours in, he’s told there’s coffee on the way, and she pours out again. He’s looking for something to do. So he decides that he does not like the layout and that he’s going to move his chair. He wants to be comfortable for the grilling. When he takes hold of its puffy arms they come off in his hands. At that exact moment William J William and the crew roll in. He has to sit there. Chair arms on the floor, drawing attention to themselves. For the love of the Lord Jesus he told me, laughing. But he got through it seems. It was a good story Mary.
I think we should do two things. Keep the dismissive writing away from the local media there, and not dig too far into any work problems (though in all honesty if he has acted improperly it is bound to surface, eventually).
The Social Worker is dead. Arthur Seymour is dead. He is buried. Nobody knew him.
Everybody knew the writer Daniel Lever but we must decide what we will say about him at the memorial.
I do not know what else I should say to you about Arthur
I love you Mary.
I have always loved you since the time we first touched. When that bastard of a husband of yours dies you can be with me. I’ll bring you here in a boat full of flowers, if you like. Do not weep too much for your brother, Mary. Goodbye for now.
Please don’t ring.
Diary Extract – Arthur Seymour
24 June 2009.
VOICE
He is dreaming a pitch dark dream. This does not concern him. The authoritative voice having been away for some two years has now returned. He thinks he is asleep. This is crucial. To be hearing this voice whilst awake would be important. It would require change. Asleep it is more legitimate. He is lying there. In the centre of the wooden bed that is too big for him alone, now; which lies next to the ashtray that has become too full for his own good; which rests upon the old wooden radio in use for a little cabinet. Given by the father. In the morning, bowed, sitting sideways on the bed edge, he will pause, reflect, rub his eye lazily, gather some dust from the wooden surface to consider with his fingers, and he will be reminded of his sorrow. But now, deeply, rhythmically, he is breathing slow his dreamy breath, lying chin-raised on his back, naked, thin, abandoned by cover. He lies straightened, his legs crossed and his arms stretched out on either side of him. Hands unclenched, palms up. The authoritative voice is like oak, solid, age old. It roars, mockingly, goading.
AUTHORITATIVE VOICE
Best keep your eyes tight shut just now. Are you lying there comfortably ? I am glad to be here with you again. I love the winter when the nights are long. And if there must be sun let it be cool, weak. I have an idea. Imagine the shape of Suffolk and then imagine you above it hovering - shall we say - God-like. The shape is waiting to fizz and move. To help describe I think it will need a voice don’t you ? There. Done. A boot furrowing voice to walk along the shingle, crack, crunch and kick. Female, of course.
THE VOICE OF SUFFOLK
Here it is now quiet, still and dark. Awaiting the rise of the sun. In the cold blue green copse worms are flexing to move, slowly busy. Then, down from the nested oak tree, a scratching, flitting animal movement to carry out some early bird task. To do and do what they do. Then - feather shiver stop. A sudden head movement to look, wait and listen. The fwoc fwoc of rubber tyres on cold steel cats eyes, dividing lanes. Choices. Jacqui Dawe. Is she coming to the rescue ? Gone by proof of no sound. Feather on.
Some of my people are already at work. It is inevitable. Not necessarily all dark figures. They are walking, checking, clearing, buffing, resetting. With keys. A torch. Radio communication. Eerie half dark rooms aglow from screen savers with their sway flags moving between each corner of the monitor. Endless colour shifting triangle patterns. A steady blip blip, fans long since on auto save. Everything is backed up, safe. Featous.
Outside idle cars are also waiting, clicking now and then.
The sun begins to rise.
In Ipswich, right now, a Port Authority man is killing a youth.
AUTHORITATIVE VOICE
Beautiful. She has a wonderful skeigh tone, eh? It skiffs along. His rapid eye movement. Narrator, be created to answer - can he sense that?
CREATED NARRATOR
He can, the lids heaving and lifting to accommodate the panicking movement of the eyeball. An urgent sense of his self returned until the authoritative voice begins again. Stay calm. Learn.
AUTHORITATIVE VOICE
For years you have worried and thought me to be God. I am not God. When you experience me it is grey, sounded in the sense of the wind, movement over the earth and not over the water or the deep. The smell of mud. The sky and the stars obscured by tall rustling trees. Leaves stuck to your boot.
With Him it is searing hot. A sun without shade, a stone wall. Neutral. Complex. Confusing and contradictory. Right. Unanswerable and unresponsive. Had-I-wist. He has managed to become a lot less interfering. Want to know why? He sees my point of view now. A sideways move. Way back He was just a mean son of a bitch sending floods and tumours and really sticking the knife in. Then He eased, sighed and sat back a little. In a moment of guilt He sent in someone New. That led to a famous head to head. The pattern of that dialectical dance is now forever repeated. It has been burned into time. You remember that stuck script? Here goes. Come along for the ride why don’tcha, get behind me for once. Enjoy the show. If you have any questions, just whisper in my ear. I am always listening. I don’t need prayers. All those markings, dances, and incantations and Latin. I don’t even speak the language. Just whisper in a certain kind of way. You’ll get the hang of it. I, for one, am perfectly willing to intervene.
But the world is so complicated now, and I am so busy. Job has split into a million people. I can hardly keep up. Which is why I have to work, night and day. And day. And night.
You think you know the truth? It was me who created your place. I rent it from Him. I always have. My covenant with Him precedes yours. I made man with spit and lime. He is rebellious against me. That is, He won’t leave it alone. He will not keep to His part of the bargain. Just one more request, just do this for me and I will soar away through sky and let you get on with it. Want to hear the indescribable sound of the rebellow of the whisper of God? It is erotic, terrifying. Eyes closed, loving.
THE WHISPER OF GOD
I promise you will see me spill away, pour out of the world though a grey black electrifying Moses mocking sky; once I have said my goodbyes. Then back to just you. Remember when it was only you and the animals here, and you at your drawing board? There is just this guy. Here’s the paperwork.
AUTHORITATIVE VOICE
I close my eyes and love Him. I am betrayed every time. So, here you are. What do you think? I mean, in general, will you be tempted? Will you lie? They are waiting to investigate you. Likely to be dismissed I’d say. They are coming for you. Gathering from all over to talk with you. Listen.
THE VOICE OF SUFFOLK
Here is six from nine.
One. Hear the sound of the sound of the sea gently translocating. Remember the man from the Grunsburgh Leg Club? You gave him some Government money for volunteers and his swabs. And a specialist chair. Joe Flint stands then at the side of the sea on damp now uncovered pebbles, his one longer leg lying comfortably lower in the shingle. Sea regarding he looks along from left to right comparing and contrasting how the line of lapping wet was at one place in and another out. A tired line of soldiers with sea spray breath struggling toward the shore. Not like London eh Joe? Where the Thames does the okey kokey on the steps at Greenwich. What are you doing up do early Joe, standing at the side of the Sea? What’s the matter? After 57 years of practice can’t you sleep? Big day ahead Joe. Mrs Kendall unstacking the chairs, will see the suit and ask, shyly as ever, “Are you not with us today, Joe?” “No, Mrs Kendall I have a meeting this morning, in Ipswich”. In awe to repeat “In Ipswich, really?”
Two. An old home visit. Bet you’d care not to remember this. Want to hear how she is now? At hate am awaking in a sweat will be Patricia Little. Lithe, sexy, deadly. Tending to be middle or upper class, intelligent with at least one alcoholic parent. At risk of self harm. Remember writing that in a letter to the doctor? Poor Patty. Patricia - I hate myself with venom. Patricia – because I want to punish myself with this cut. Patricia - because it makes me feel like my carcass has some life; because it destroys or lessens or minimises the pain and feelings I have inside; because it is my survival strategy; because when I do not self harm I am suicidal therefore I need to self harm to keep ticking over. My philosophy. Ticking over.
Three. Laura Tyre’s cab man’s car is ticking over as she emerges from her bungalow, bag on lap, face set, pushing at the wheels of her chair moving with intention, forward. In the car she looks at the papers as, with a fizz on the cab man’s radio, she enters the County of Suffolk. Later she will sit at the meeting wheeling gently in and out two inches as she listens to Mr John Terrier.
Four. Mr John Terrier in full meeting mode, having risen alone in one smooth movement to sit up in bed, then robe, and walk across fields into town, swinging gently his bag full of evidence. In plenty of time. Smooth dressed. Silken voice, questioning quietly among them, building to agreement, reasonable manipulation. Consensus. When all agree he has it written down. Mr John Terrier rising, concluding, self filing and jacket buttoning and then looking to the door as the door - all look – in through the door comes a suit. No matter who, never mind the identity who. He hands the risen John Terrier a note, then quietly away. “Ah”, says John, “apologies”, he says, showing the note, “we have apologies from Arthur, which should be entered into the minutes”.
Five. Handing out confidential papers is Mr Frank Fosdike. In his fifties Frank. Had enough of this job Frank, wanting to retire Frank, endlessly handing round papers, mindfully.
Six. Jacqui Dawe is jangling gold from her wrist to the steering wheel of her car. She is late but she will not arrive, for, at the flick of an authoritative finger, she will slide into sleep. Bloodied, broke, in distress, clacking out Morse code on the plastic dash of her dashed car. Murmuring her apologies. Views not heard, next meeting maybe. Appeal. No one to save you now.
AUTHORITATIVE VOICE
No one to save you now. It is coming like a sheet of rain. Why don't you awake? Exuviae.
VOICE
On an instruction to wake, he awakes exhausted, stiff and cold.
James A Bullion - written 2000, revised June 2008
