The Life Lived

By Ian Murphy

Sarah Morgan's death has haunted those who loved her. A lifetime later, her cantankerous widower Miles, having lived an inconveniently long life in the depths of the Scottish Borders, now approaches his own end. Architect of his memory, he seeks to find those responsible for the death of his wife, losing himself in a maze of fading memories, suspicions and betrayals to uncover the truth before his own time runs out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Murphy
• Release date: Jul 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393575047

Book preview

One

Slow down, he thought. He clenched a fist over the curved handle of his cane. A hostage to Mrs Allsop’s version of driving, this was one of the few experiences of his dotage where Miles Morgan was glad to be going blind. He could see little of the road, nothing of the speedometer, yet he took comfort in the assumption that even Death would struggle to catch them at their current speed. They hurtled headlong through the mist of the spring rain, and the narrow country road began to resemble a river running through the hedgerows.

‘There’s no rush,’ he said, clearly and distinctly, having cleared his throat. ‘It’s not a race.’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs Allsop, all mock surprise, with her eyes on the winding road, ‘It speaks.’

Miles ran a fingertip over the miniature dial of his hearing aid and irritated Mrs Allsop with it as it whined and whistled at her. She was tolerant to a point. She had become more carer than sister-in-law over the years and, as always, had offered to collect the old man from his hospital appointment that day. The infirmary of Edinburgh was many miles north and the alternative hospital transport would return him home safely but slowly. He had no qualms about utilising Mrs Allsop and her car, as there was no-one else to impose upon, and it meant he would not have to endure the bus or its passengers. Mrs Allsop could also see for herself if he had offended the doctor once again.

The two of them had been sitting in silence since leaving Edinburgh, the old man having banned any further discussions concerning cataracts, care homes and the opinions of doctors who did not know what they were talking about. Mrs Allsop pursed her lips as she held her tongue, emphasising the cluster of wrinkles that gathered around her mouth as she did so. She slowed down as she signalled, turning west onto a narrower road that brought the low rise of the distant Cheviot Hills into view. They were now in the depths of the vale and the landscape soothed her as it had always done. She moved up through the gears once more.

For an old gal, Miles had thought, she certainly drove as if time were running out, and he supposed that it was. Thinking his thought, he then raised a hand from the cane that was clamped between his knees and disturbed his spectacles as he rubbed his eyes.

Do cataracts itch?

His farsightedness had crept up on him through his later years and he had adjusted well to such a world.

Now cataracts.

He sighed as he applied pressure to his eyelids and thought that he had seen enough of life anyway, so no matter. He returned his hand to his cane without any thought to it, and the wet road ahead became as indistinct to him as the road behind. But he knew these roads well. With rain and mist and the hypnotic wiper blades interfering with his view of the world, the old man turned his attentions to his driver. Her profile remained severe as she tore around the bends, following the rise and fall of the land, and Miles pondered the rules of the road that this woman violated on any given journey. He allowed himself a private laugh as he considered how calm and composed the bird-like old gal was, rigid in her tweed reserve. Unfortunately for the world, Miles often thought, she was one of a dying breed. He considered her a woman of false beliefs and he almost envied her for it. She had faith regardless.

She threw them around another blind bend, confidently avoiding the bloodied carcass of something-or-other as flattened as the road it lay upon, and they continued along the hedge-lined straight, the snow-capped peaks of the borders now decorating the distance. Miles then became aware that the bridge would soon be upon them and he was failing to resist the memories that the road home evoked. With little need for thoughts of ambition or hopes for the future, no fear of consequence, there was nothing of a greater interest to him than those days already behind him. The irrelevance of all that Mrs Allsop wished to speak about, the preparations and prescriptions, the advice of doctors and solicitors and specialists; all were distractions. The lack of meaning he had acquired made it all the more important for him to remember what he could, while he could. He felt that he was now outliving his own past, that memories were all he had to occupy his time; everything else had fallen by the wayside with the years.

It had been a lifetime since he had felt the need to drive and he no longer did, and he now sat trying to recall what it must feel like, charging along at obscene speeds where a flick of the wrist could end everything. Nowadays, he was content to go through life a passenger. A stranger came to mind, a gentleman who had driven him much slower along the very same road many years before on one particular day he could not forget, despite his best efforts. He recalled that man fondly, because he  had never known him, and the weather on that particular day had been colder and wetter than it was now.

That had been, what, fifty years ago? Sixty?

‘Talking to yourself again?’ asked Mrs Allsop, singing the words.

‘Eh? Was I?’

The road continued between fields of dirt and Mrs Allsop reduced her speed as the stone arch of the bridge came into view.

‘Home soon,’ she said, and sounded defeated as she did so.

Miles ignored her and surrendered himself to memory with fists clenched, the blood being squeezed away from under the skin of his knuckles. A faint smile faded as he felt the rise of the bridge move beneath them, and he found it somewhat difficult to relate to that version of himself who had thrown himself from that bridge all those years ago.

Two

All those years ago , remembered as 1953 or thereabouts, Miles had concluded after much one-sided deliberation that the only people who loved him were those who had never known him. He thought the same could be said of most people. He had been of the view that if a man lived long enough, and perhaps well enough, he may just happen across where he had started out from, old and weary, but that would be where he would wish to remain. The present and its people were unattractive until confined to the past, and Miles retreated to those places of the past whenever possible. Living life motionless, the world no longer promised a welcome horizon. Such was no longer possible. Being still was what he had done best of late. In the many days leading up to his current half-hearted resolve, the most effective means of taking control of his life was to simply take it.

The imperceptible vibration of what remained of Miles Morgan sat numb on the cold stone arch of the bridge, the collar of his tweed jacket upturned to little effect, the freezing winter waters passing beneath his feet. The wind blew through the skeletal branches of distant trees, moved silently across the sodden fields, then found Miles, threatening to deliver him from his indecision. If there was a sun that day, it lurked behind the sky and diffused itself over the surrounding patchwork of the farmer’s kingdom of dirt. As Miles sat, he considered himself a dead man surrounded by a dead land.

Light rain fell reliably and created a soothing quiet, acknowledging the approaching storm that lingered above distant hills. Looking down from the stone on which he sat, Miles parted his brogues to reveal a distorted reflection of something pretending to be him, but which he felt more separated from than ever before. His image shimmered amongst the expanding circles that emerged on the water’s surface with each drop of rain.

How did I get here?

Without much thought but with more than enough malice, he suddenly did his very best to tear the hair from his scalp with both hands; confident that it would not actually tear out. The rage turned to pain and to muffled sobs, and having been here before, Miles Morgan recognised the pointlessness of it and he let his head fall into his chest, nestling close to an exhausted thirty-one year-old heart.

He calmed. He had to be calm to go ahead with that which he was about to do. And he was to do it this time.

Oh yes.

Life had finally beat him dead. All he had to do was dispose of the body.

Miles had now been there for longer than was comfortable. He was not dressed for the rain and his trousers were now clinging to him. The muttered curses directed at his current state were interrupted by the sound of a repetitive, metallic click. He turned to the sound to see an older man pushing a bicycle over the bridge. Miles stared at the man as the man walked by without a word. The man stared straight ahead.

Go away.

The man was old, as old as Miles’ father would have been, with a beard that obscured his neck. Miles continued to stare until he had to turn his head when the man passed behind him. With eyes on him, the man offered a furtive glance and smiled a hidden smile beneath his beard.

‘You’re soaked through,’ said the man as he walked on. Once across the bridge, which was not particularly steep, the old man mounted the frame, and continued on his way.

Miles now felt deflated that the passing cyclist hadn’t questioned a man sat on the edge of a bridge with swollen eyes and a head hung low. Perhaps a conversation, some concern or compassion could have made all the difference, Miles had thought  many times since. Some understanding. Reassurance.

No. It wouldn’t change anything.

Miles could not recall the last time he had spoken to anybody. People had stopped coming to the house just as they had stopped phoning, which allowed him the isolation that he had craved.

The beauty of the surrounding countryside was not lost on Miles Morgan that day, but it could not overwhelm his numbness. The world would keep turning in his absence. It was his life to live, so his to end. He decided that some passer-by, walking a dog, no doubt, would find him downstream, amongst weeds. Perhaps the cyclist would come across him once more. It would be a fine story to tell at dinner parties.

I am an anecdote.

No more parties.

No more of anything.

Miles no longer had an idea of how to function outside of the comfort zone of his own thoughts. He now knew how Sarah must have felt. Such a realisation made matters worse.

Enough.

He was thinking about her. How she had been. That image of her in the light of the kitchen, against the window, against a brighter day. He ignored his imitation of her forgotten voice in his head, mouthing forgotten words, because she only spoke his words through a dead mouth. Dead words from a body he had held tightly but never tightly enough, and never would again. A body that, the last time he had held it, had been limp, heavier than at any other time, and naked in its own defeat. He would never hold that body again.

The breeze picked-up and nudged his back, a gentle reminder from the present.

Did he jump or was he pushed?

Either way, Miles decided against making the required effort to steady himself and he fell towards the reflections below him. The falling man could not think of any reason to regret the final decision. He even felt it could have been considered a most relaxed ending.

Had it been the ending.

In a style true to his entire life, Miles Morgan did not succeed. He later considered that the mere gesture itself had been enough. It was the thought that counted. He would conclude that all that had gone before was now in its rightful place. In another style true to his entire life, Miles Morgan was mistaken.

The water was inconveniently refreshing.

Three

Sodden leather shoes ambled along the roadside. He walked cold and wet on a cold and wet day on the road that led home. To his house.

Eyes to the ground, he was vaguely aware of occasional motor vehicles that passed by in the dirt spray of their own making. The weight of mud that clung to his brogues, acquired from the fields he had crossed, now took its toll on his aching legs. In spite of the appalling conditions of the season and himself, he could not think of any weather that would better complement his current mood. He had always preferred the rain. He had always remembered moments in the rain vividly.

With the thick tweed jacket and thick cotton trousers clinging to him, Miles felt heavy all over. He rubbed at the persistent burning of his eyes that had manifested as a result of his tears, and he pushed onward along the miles of road that still lay ahead of him.

Amidst the white noise of passing traffic, he became attentive to the one vehicle that sounded different. It was different, because it had not diminished; it had pulled in to the side of the road. Miles looked up from his shoes to the motorcar that waited for him expectantly. He stood still for a moment and peered at the dark shape of the driver who was visible through the haze of rain and brake light. The exhaust exhaled hot steam into the cold air. As Miles approached, the door opened for him. Miles peered inside.

An elderly man, somewhat frail, leaned at an uncomfortable angle across the passenger seat, ‘Well, come on,’ he said. ‘You’re soaked through.’

Prompted by the remark, Miles looked down at himself unnecessarily, ‘But I’ll get your seat all wet,’ he mumbled.

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, I’ll get your seat wet.’

The driver looked ahead as if to locate his next words further down the road.

‘Well, that’s okay,’ said the driver, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He contemplated adding more, but then simply smiled as he turned his gaze back towards Miles.

‘Okay,’ said Miles, without enthusiasm. He got into the car and further into his own, aged memory. Miles had recalled this event many times throughout his life, and in many different ways, from many points of view.

And I am as old now as that driver was then, he now thought.

His younger, apparently suicidal self, had immediately felt worse for being out of the rain as he closed the door on himself. He made a point not to reach for the safety belt. The driver would not mind, as Miles noticed that he was not using his either. The motorcar drove away and onward and Miles noted that the old man did not look before doing so. Miles was increasingly uncomfortable, becoming aware of how wet he really was, increasingly shrink-wrapped in his clothing. He stared through the window and through everything, waiting for half-remembered conversation. For an unremembered amount of time, the battering rain seemed the only noise that accompanied the car’s air heater, which exhaled dust and a sickening warmth into the interior. The old driver’s glances could not choose between his passenger and the oncoming road, and his passenger sensed this.

‘Looks like you are about as wet as it is possible to be,’ said the driver. ‘Walking in this, you’ll catch your death.’

Something along those lines.

Miles pondered the possibility, but he could not think of a response worth offering, so did not. Instead, he sat numb, and considered whether it would be possible to make his heart stop by sheer willpower alone.

‘Where do you wish to go?’ the driver had said, as he furtively checked for oncoming cars and bends in the road.

Without turning his attention to the old man, Miles said, ‘Just home. It’s not far. Thank you for stopping.’ In saying so, he realised that he actually meant it. He turned and offered a weak smile to the old man. He then looked at the hands on the steering wheel. They were thick and strong, with inelastic skin draped over thick veins and large, stubby fingers. Despite the age gap between the two of them, Miles was not confident that he could defend himself against such hands.

The driver followed the eyes of his passenger, ‘Fifty-three years.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Miles.

‘Of marriage,’ said the driver, fingering the metal band on his finger.

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. Fifty-three years but no longer counting.’ The driver’s face had fallen.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

The driver moved his left hand to the gear stick, out of sight, ‘No need to be sorry. It’s just that time of life. Things fall away.’

‘Fifty-three years. That’s a long time,’ said Miles, and he tried to sound positive.

I always found positives for others.

‘Not long enough,’ said the driver, shifting gears with the incline of the road. ‘Quite some weather to get caught out in,’ he said. ‘You’re shivering. You want the heater up, yes?’

‘No, that’s fine. I’m okay.’ Miles felt sick to his stomach in the warmth of the car. He did not want to chat, and his stomach did not want him to chat until it had settled, but he knew he would not get away with silence here.

You live out here somewhere?

‘You live out here somewhere?’ Miles had said.

‘Yes...’ said the driver. The ‘yes’ was conditional in some regard. Considered. ‘I’ve been here all my days,’ and he turned to Miles, ‘More than I care to mention.’ A smile came to the driver as he returned his gaze to the road. ‘And yourself? I can’t think of any places nearby within reasonable walking distance. What are you doing way out here? Where are you from, exactly?’ A tension had crept into his tone. A suspicion.

‘I’m a couple of miles on from the mill,’ said Miles, ‘There’s good walking around and about. I like to take walks. Long walks. I had nothing better to do.’

Defensive.

‘I meant, originally,’ said the driver. ‘Your accent is strange.’

‘I’m not a native, if that’s what you mean, but I have been here many years now.’

‘What brought you here?’

‘Work. Wife. We spent time in Edinburgh before moving down here. People say I have a soft accent now.’

‘Which people?’

Miles stared at the man, ‘Just people.’

Veins pulsed along the hands of the driver, ‘I used to walk around here too, and up in the hills.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. I wasn’t always this old,’ he said with a smile and a wink. ‘Bagged a few Munros back in the day. Wonderful days away from the world.’

‘Oh, serious walking.’

‘Yes,’ grinned the driver. ‘And you?’

‘I just walk around. I walk the roads and the woodland. I tackled the Cheviots with my wife a few times.’

It just slipped out.

Now Miles caught the driver’s eyes peering at his hands.

‘And you don’t wear a wedding band,’ said the driver.

‘Not all men do. I don’t need a ring to remind myself.’ The attempt at flippancy had been camouflaged by irritability and Miles cursed himself for falling into such a conversation. He wanted the driver to pay full attention to the road. The rain battered down onto the motorcar and the noise of it filled the void left in the wake of Miles’ comment. He no longer felt like talking, and turned to his misted window until the driver felt the need for further conversation. Miles wondered if the old man was one of the few people who could handle a nice, long, healthy silence.

‘So,’ said the driver, ‘Other than walks in the rain, what do you do?’

The question Miles loathed.

‘Nothing. You?’ An automated response within a sigh.

The driver laughed at the speed of the response, ‘At my age? As much as you, by the sounds of it. Not much going on these days. Such is life.’

‘Hmm.’

Miles was not concerned by this man’s life and declined to follow through.

The driver looked ahead and Miles took the opportunity to study the features of this man who may, or may not, be at Death’s door. The pale weathered skin of the face hung loose and the whiskers that threatened to bring colour to his complexion certainly suggested a man at home without a woman. His eyes were shrunken and the whites had yellowed with age and Miles wondered how far down the road the man could see. Through the mist and the rain, it was difficult for Miles to see the road ahead.

‘Is there anything you would like to do?’ The driver was persistent.

Many things.

Curl into a ball, Miles had thought then. He considered the question he could never answer, but he did not want to seem anymore pathetic than he already did. He really wanted an answer to come to him. The motorcar seemed to veer onto the middle of the road as Miles considered his response.

‘Sorry,’ said the driver. ‘I’m curious, that’s all. Nosey, as my wife used to say. Just tell me if I’m talking too much. I tend to talk mostly to myself these days and I rarely bore myself.’

The driver allowed no room for Miles to interject and the memory took control and he continued talking.

‘A man I knew once, a long time ago, decided he didn’t want to do anything with his life. This was just after the war, you see, the ‘Great’ one. It was difficult, as I’m sure you know. More so than now. Anyway, he had decided that if no-one was going to give him a job, he wouldn’t have his time wasted trying to find one, as if the world didn’t deserve his talents.’ The old man shifted in his seat as he dealt with a sudden twinge of pain somewhere. ‘Now, what these talents were, nobody knew, because he had never really worked anyway and claimed not to have any real idea of what he wanted to do with himself, or what he had to offer. He just knew what he didn’t want to do, which was most things. He didn’t want to be a part of the problem. Didn’t want to contribute negatively to the world, to society. To him, most actions in life had a negative impact. His time in France hadn’t helped. He had been one of the more reluctant types over there. He felt cheated out of those years.’

‘And what happened to him?’ Miles had feigned interest.

‘Very little, but at least he wasn’t part of the problem.’ And the driver had imparted a little tirade of wisdom that was lost on Miles, who felt none the wiser. ‘I suspect that you just don’t know what the problem is,’ added the driver.

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Oh I wish I knew myself.’

You knew what the problem was.

Miles decided that the old man was not going to look at the road in a hurry, and looked to the road himself in the hope of prompting him. A car hurtled by in the opposite direction and failed to distract the old man. Miles then looked at the years of life behind the driver’s aged eyes. Yellow. Tired. Full. Miles turned away reluctantly. He was becoming aware of his proximity to home. To the house.

‘This is me,’ he said, pointing ahead, ‘Just that break in the trees on the left there.’

The trees lining the road had become momentarily and partially obscured by a stone wall that was only just taller than a man and which led to the entrance of a driveway. The wall was as grey as the day itself and difficult to determine.

‘Home and dry, as it were,’ said the driver as he applied the brakes.

The motorcar settled at the base of the driveway; two dirt tracks disappearing amongst the branches and the rain, leading to a glimpse of a grey building.

‘Nice house. Nice home,’ said the driver, though he could barely see it. ‘You’re fortunate to have such a home. It looks very grand.’

You thanked him quickly.

‘Thank you for the lift,’ said Miles as he stepped out, a struggle in his wet clothing, and he was thankful to be back in the rain once again. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Take care, then.’ He waited for a response that did not come and looked down at the wet patch he had left on the passenger seat. The driver was also staring at the patch. Miles slammed the door harder than he had intended, but as hard as he had wanted.

Moving up the muddied driveway, Miles glanced back as the car just sat there, its occupant once again vague through the misted window. Miles turned away and walked on, listening for the sound of the car pulling away. The rain and the mist and the turn in the driveway obscured the memory of the vehicle and its occupant. Miles trudged along the dirt-puddle track lined by leafless trees and he was weary enough to appreciate the house that came into view; a former manse that had been his on a platter. It was no longer home to him, but it was where he lived and there was no better place he could think of going to right now.

There was now an overwhelming sense of morbid achievement creeping into his thoughts. He had actually tried it. He had actually given up. He felt some of what he thought she must have felt. Standing in the rain outside the broad front door of the house, wishing he could just stop, Miles nevertheless felt satisfaction that he had made it to the bridge this time.