18 3 14

Claire has obtained for me a gun (from Manchester gangsters she knows). Ash she hands it to me she warns that it ‘goes off easily’ and to be careful. It is wrapped in an off-white napkin. 

Amalgam of Eoin and David. He/they and I are wandering through sparse woodland with the intention of using the gun. The scene is almost joyous; we are not-quite laughing as we sort of frolic in-between trees and kick-about on the dusty ground. He is brandishing the gun and the forest seems to be empty (it isn’t clear if our intention is to shoot a particular person or thing) and the gun goes off. After a few seconds I hear the dreadful sound of an unseen body dropping heavily to the ground accompanied by an anguished cry. We run from the scene for as long as there are no people, stopping and strolling arm-in-arm like lovers when people are there, assuming that a loving couple are above reproach. Police cars arrive, police officers spill out of them: eyeing us with generalised suspicion and passing us by. We seem to have got away with it, but, realising that our days are numbered we separate: me to the coast and he inland. 

She finds me wandering by the sea. It is the North Yorkshire coast, easily identifiable by the close proximity of desolate moorland. I trip through a strip of woodland that runs parallel with the water to her house, into which she invites me to stay with her large family, in spite of the fact that I was complicit in the shooting that injured her. I suspect she knows it was I, and yet she shows concern for me and my daughter, who is absent. I must find her and rearrange my existence. We discuss my movements; she gives me a key. I am suspicious of her kindness but know that I have limited choices.

My plan is to go and see my daughter and Claire at our home, though I know this is very dangerous. I say I will return late (there are inner and outer doors: I am to leave the outer one unlocked and lock only the inner door. Her eldest son, who would return later than me will then ensure the outer door I locked when he arrives). It is finally decided that I will instead return in the morning. I begin to pack my things, anxiously seeking a plastic bag into which to stuff my red Afghan jacket that identifies me and an accomplice of the shooter. I am thinking: I could sell it; I need money and may get £40. I am thinking: I should burn it; it exposes me and I should be inconspicuous. Then my mind turns to disguises. I think: I must cut my hair off. But my face is he same; I should slash it with a knife.