It’s a rotten, cold dark afternoon in December 2003. I’m 21 years old. I’m sat on my bed at home. Usual routine, finish my 6-2 work shift, gym on the way back, then shower and relax. It’s 4:30pm and almost pitch-black outside. The doorbell rings, we have 2 Alsatians – they always go crazy when someone’s at the door. I hear my Mum shift downstairs. Try to calm the dogs and move towards answering it. I myself move to help her. I can’t explain why. Our house is small, the stairs down tight and narrow and the hallway barely enough for one person to stand upright in. My Mum enters the hallway and slams the door to the lounge shut so the dogs – even wilder than usual - can’t escape.
I shuffle and squeeze past her, and out onto the drive to see who it is. 3 men stand there, white jackets, black hair. Calmly smiling, asking where my Dad is and that they’re here to see him. I only click in this moment, there’s no car on the drive. It’s 4:30pm and no car. He works at a local factory a mile and a half down the road. He does a 7am – 3:45pm shift. He’s home at either 3:53pm or 3:54pm every day without fail. If he pulls his car up at 3:55pm, I wonder where he spent that lost minute. But it’s 4:30pm and he’s not here. The men stand in triangle formation in front of me. Smiling intently. My Mum, in the doorway, tells them an obvious and contrived lie. “He’s visiting a family member in hospital out of town, he won’t be home for a while”.
The men refuse to break their smiles but look annoyed with her answer. We stand there breathless for 20 or 30 seconds. I’m offended and severely irritated by their presence. It’s freezing cold but hot flushes wave over me. My hair sticks to my forehead. They turn in unison and walk away. They get 30 yards away from the house and my rage fills me to the brim. I give pursuit, only walking at first. I hear my Mum calling me back, but I intently ignore her. I follow the 3 identically dressed men but struggle to keep up. They walk as fast as I can jog, for a mile maybe. I know this town like the back of my hand, but I don’t recognise where we are. A scrapyard or dumping ground of some sort. There’s only one of them, I’ve lost the other 2.
“You!” I shout. I’ve never felt more murderous rage. It streams out of my mouth and skin. My muscles tighten like ratchet straps and veins threaten to tear open. The man slows and stops, has his head down, he turns around. Looks up at me, a kind of … toothy smile. I struggle to explain it but he’s … he’s all 3 of the men from our drive. An amalgamation of their collective features. He smiles knowingly. My rage is even greater than my fear. I march at him and unload … right fist to the face, left, right, left, right. All connecting as purely as can be. He’s barely moving. After 8 or 10 shots I gas, my knuckles smashed … stumble back. His face is crushed, but he stands impassively. HEAVE … he kicks me to the midsection, and I fly 10 feet backwards. I was hit by a car 2 years earlier and it was exactly the same. Desperately gathering myself up, I see him looking over me. Face totally recovered and as before. Dog barks incredibly loud, my name is called. My Mum has followed me, she stumbles across the wreckage and releases the beast. Our beast! He hurtles towards me. The man turns and walks away and disappears through the terrain.
I gather myself up. I’m less injured than I have any right to be. We walk back home, my Dad’s car is on the drive. He’d finished work late for the first time in 10 years. And missed a huge car wreckage as a result.