#2 In The Dark

Prologue

"It was particularly difficult to read. The headline plastered in huge writing proclaiming your wife's death.

It's then particularly hard to read the next day's paper blaming you all for it. And yes that was what we had had planned. That was what was supposed to happen. But I reckon I simply wasn't ready for it yet: psychologically or emotionally. You'd think that being one of the only people on earth who knew that someone was alive would be relieving, yes? Especially if that 'someone' is a loved one. But it actually hurts. Deep inside. Because when you love someone, you have to talk about them all the time. You're so proud of who they are and what they've done that you can't keep your mouth shut. So when the majority of the world thinks she's dead, you can't say anything. Especially when everyone knows you as the man who killed her.

Especially when you'd planned it all, and the plan was succeeding, but the consequences were demoralising. Like you didn't want to go through with it anymore.

It was my idea. All of this. My creepy idea to fool a nation. And to fool one man who didn't know what it was liked to be fooled. But I always get far too ahead of myself. I start rushing towards a final answer before I've thought through what's going to happen in the middle. What's going to happen to others. And what's going to happen to me. I'd thought of fooling the people. But I hadn't thought about the middle, the missing, the hurt. And that's why I'm so glad it's over.

But it was particularly difficult to read the second time. The headline plastered in huge writing proclaiming your wife's death. Particularly difficult when you didn't know anything about it. When it was a shock to the system to read the newspaper telling you all about your own, resurrected wife killing herself to save you.

All I ever wanted was for her to be happy. All I ever wanted was to fool people with her by my side. And now, even if what she did made her happy, I won't see it. I'll just see have the damn photo of her in the paper and the crude headline of 'You Only Live Twice'.

I blame myself, naturally. I pushed us towards the plan. I left her to her own devices in prison. We were mad, evil, sadistic people, but God did I love her. So much. And now she's gone.

And I mention God briefly. And I always used to think about him. I always used to get so angry for not helping me. I'm not religious, not faintly. But apparently he loves us all, so it's always worth asking.

But now I know. Now I know why I can't blame everyone else. Because I bet God sometimes looks down on us from his heavenly place, and he shakes his head. I bet God just looks away, ashamed at what we've become. That we've morphed into vile, slippery beings, determined to do each other wrong. And he cries.

I'm writing this, for when someone finds it. This is where it ends. You may have forgotten me. Or you may just not know me at the time of me writing this. But you will. Because it's time to go out with a bang. Or a crash.

I can't cope, you see. Not knowing if it's all a farce again. Or if she's actually gone. I can't cope with not knowing. I need to know.

So when I said, 'it's all over', I wasn't being poetic. I wasn't meaning the original case either. It's all over. That's what people do when they can't cope, isn't it?

So I'm sorry. Sorry to Rob. And sorry to his little friend. I'm sorry to the prison. And I'm sorry to London. And I'm sorry to the world really. For tricking you. For keeping you in the dark. Because now I'm in the dark I don't know what to do.

And I'm sorry to you, Amelia. If you're out there. If you're alive. I'm so sorry. For everything. But at least you won't be kept in the dark. You'll know. You'll know I love you."

The silhouetted figure raised an eye up at the breaking dawn. The burning sun was a jaundiced eye to the view of many, watching silently, judging.

"And I'm sorry to you too, God," he murmured, hauling himself up and gazing at all around him. He could see the whole city from up here. And the whole city looked back.

It wasn't the highest he'd been. But it was close. And he wasn't planning on landing on two feet for this jump. He just wanted freedom. And freedom was what he was going to get.

He jumped up to the ledge with eager anticipation, looking quickly at the insects buzzing below him at ground level. And he plunged. Plunged face-first towards the insects. The insects that slowly started to grow with his increasing speed. They grew to spiders, to dolls, to children. The wind rattled him about, but left his smile undeterred. They grew from children, to teenagers, to adults.

And as he recognised someone far too well, he stopped. Something had hit him. Or rather, he had hit something. And that's all can be said.

That was the end of Jerry Adams.