Dead Man's Suit

Daniel Mayhew

Fame is a curious thing. I've gone through sixty-eight years without so much of a hint of it. I never wanted attention, never courted it, but all of a sudden I am a genuine celebrity. I have quite a following now and it's growing all the time. My fame is a strange kind in that it's second-hand; it's someone else's fame that has landed on my doorstep. I sit here on a Saturday evening in the dark save for the flickering of the telly. It's brutally cold out and I'm glad to be inside. There's a singing contest on the telly and I'm slumped into my old settee (well away from the window just in case). A contestant is saying that if she couldn't sing, she would rather be dead. She just wants the public to vote for her. She says she wants to give her family a better life. She looks tearful. She starts singing; it's a big booming song about her heart. It's not quite my thing but she clearly has talent. I guess it's not bad.

The phone rings and it takes me by surprise. I rush up the hallway to the kitchen, flicking the lights on. It's Judith. She asks me if they've been round yet and I tell her they haven't. I don't tell her about what happened today because I know she'll worry. It's difficult for Judith. She never wanted me to move out but I insisted on it. When the cancer went and I didn't die as I was supposed to I couldn't go on being cared for could I? She says all this is worse than seeing me go through the chemo and the ops. ‘Look after yourself Dad. Phone me if you need me,’ she says and I put the phone down and go back to my seat in front of the telly.

I caught one this afternoon. I was washing up, listening to the football on the radio. City had just equalised and I allowed myself a little smile. Then I looked up at the window and through the condensation I saw a figure in the yard. I slipped the marigolds off and quietly opened the back door. And there he was, a little lad in one of those hooded tops and tracksuit bottoms, spray-painting the wall. I stepped out and asked him what he was doing. He jolted as if shot at, and fixed me with wild eyes. He turned quickly and considered the back gate, but I grabbed him. He struggled wildly, shouting for his mates who were nowhere to be seen. I dragged him inside, locked the back door and sat him down at the kitchen table. ‘Now then,’ I said, but he didn't reply. He was mute but breathing heavily. Sweating.