suicide planned, failed.

We begin with the end. When the body was discovered. When they came across her corpse hanging from where the lampshade had been removed and replaced with a sinister synthetic rope that rotated left and right.

The chair was on its side like a stiff caricature of death. 

The walls had been stripped bare too. What remained was nothing but little scars where the blu-tac and tape had once been. The desk had been cleared of the clutter which had been there only the morning before. 

They stood in the doorway, shocked, aghast. Death had struck the family in the middle of summer. Summer was when the days were long and the sun always seemed reluctant to set. And of course, school was out but the icecream van would come around without fail at 4, teatime. 

What had compelled this poor creature to her death? Did she think that it would all end when she was trussed up and swinging to-and-fro in the middle of her bedroom? 

There was no suicide note. But the family did not need one. But then again, suicide really did not solve any of the problems. It had been planned. She had searched desperately for ways to kill herself. But pills did not seem to be a good option. She had no prescriptions and doctors were loathe to give her anything. She looked too unstable. How about a knife then? She had shook her head, conjuring up images of blood, a whole tub-full of plasma and cells, head in the reddish water. It was lengthy, drawn-out. 

These things take time.

She had been down aisles of her local pharmacy, browsed the internet. Fumed at her bad luck of course. Was there no magic pill to take away her life painlessly and easily? Why did death have to be so difficult to create. Surely, human life was fragile.

Or was it just making a mockery of her futile scheming? Or was is plain physical resilience? She'd lived in pain for several years now. She had brought herself to the brink but her body always hauled her back, gasping for air. How about jumping in front of a train?

The Victoria line was ridden with mice. She had seen them scuttling below the heavy, steel rails. Then the train would thunder past. The carriages produced a dull clunking noise when the passed over each segment of the track. You always felt the wind squeezing out of the tunnel before the train itself emerged. No. Jumping was too scary for her. Her body would be spread out over the tracks, smeared against the walls, bloody on the underside of the carriages, her organs open for a rodent festival.

When did these thoughts start to pervade her every waking moment? They had interrupted her day. Sceptres of death. A sense of utter failure. She wanted to stare into emptiness at point blank. Be asked to do something drastic.

unprecedented noontime death (2)

When they finally forced the door open, I could tell it was not a pleasant sight. I opened my own door, only to be greeted by voices and confusion. Two policeman and another person whom I guessed to be a plain-clothed detective stood. A smattering of other people from floors above and below stood outside the lacquer-red door of No.4. I felt a small pang of surprise and sadness, recognising the door where two little wooden angels hung above the spy-hole. But it seemed by empathy and curiosity stopped there. I had never known No.4 and the doorway was too full of people for me to see whatever grisly sight lay beyond it.

There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned my head and was regarding No.8, the twenty-something layabout. He saw me, or he saw my head craning for a better view and had came over. He started to ask me questions. It doesn't take much imagination for you readers to wonder what it was that he wanted to know. Then I was cut off as one of the officers came over too, the plain-clothed one, flashing her badge (for yes, it was a she and I abhor female officers). They all wanted to know if I'd heard anything suspicious that morning or last night. Apparently, it was a suicide but nothing more could be said until after the coroner's report. I gave them my contact details.

Then the policemen left to do a round of the entire four floors. An ambulance and another car of inspectors arrived. The body was hauled to the ground floor and probably arrived at the morgue on that afternoon.

I watched all of this, arms folded over my chest. It was nearly 2pm but I was still in pyjamas We stood in the doorway. Me and my neighbour, No.8 passed the hour with nonchalant conversation. We had been barred from leaving due to the investigation. He rubbed his sleep-filled eyes. It was bank holiday after all. Everyone had expected a long sleep, a lazy lunch and perhaps a walk to the highstreet or the park. The incident was certainly unprecedented.

He inquired about lunch and we met at the entrance to the flats fifteen minutes later. Clad in a trench coat over a black shift, I managed to compose myself. The suicide on our floor of the flats had unnerved us both but I wanted to enjoy the good weather and my new acquaintance. Before we made off to the highstreet, No.8 stretched out his hand towards me.

That was how I came to become acquainted with Eddie Rhea of No.8, Dulwich Heights.

"My parents called me Edward actually but I don't think I could stomach being called that at the moment", he said, grimacing. "We used to have this awful milkman called Edward and of course I was named after him. We used to live in Dublin."


He looked more alert now and wanted to know more about me. I gave him the answers, avoiding the fact that I had been without a job for the last year or so. That was a delicate matter really and I doubt I will impart the whole story to the reader either.

Lunch ended. We strolled to the park. The conversation turned to the unfortunate fate of No.4

It was turning out to be as uneventful as ever.