Suicide 2: A Novel, La

2. Return of the Cunt

Author’s note: Come ed, la. Read part 1 here

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Twelve days. Twelve bastard days I’ve sat there dripping, stinking the fucking gaff out before someone’s finally come along and raised the old bill. Knew I’d fucked it expecting Blind Billy from next door to find me note. Not been able to move or nothing since I done it, so I’ve just been sort of waiting around not doing much. Left the telly on but even that’s got proper boring after a couple of days, you know. Never thought I’d hear meself say that.

The rozzers have turned up, eventually. Felt a bit embarrassed, be honest with you. One of them started going through me DVDs and making snarky comments. The other one’s chored me toaster and all, cheeky cunt. He has fed me goldfish as well, though, so no hard feelings, la.

Wherever they’ve took us, it’s cold as a witch’s tit. Proper dark inside a body bag as well. Keep sorta drifting in and out. Not sure if this is what dying’s like or what. Thought it would have been a lot quicker than this, though, wouldn’t you?

“What have we got, Steve?” some kid says. There’s a couple of fellas talking above me. No idea what they’re up to. Hoping they’re not wrong ‘uns come to fiddle with a stiff, like. Our kid knew a fella off the estate who got banged up for that. Dead nasty.

“It’s written up as a suicide: gun shot to the head. Should be a quick in and out job, Bob”, the other lad’s said.

“Let’s get started, then. Unzip him, Steve. I’ll get the saw.”

What’s this cunt on about, ‘Saw’? I’ve thought to meself. Nobody’s getting sawed, la. The bullet was bad enough.

“Jesus, he’s made a right mess of himself, Bob. Massive head trauma.”

Steve’s pulled the zip down and started fondling me bonce. His hands are proper warm, though—almost feels nice. Like getting into an hot bath after you’ve run home from school in the pissing sleet. Won’t miss the bastard weather round here, I can tell you that for nothing.

“Looks fairly routine”, Steve’s said. “Let’s get some photos and then we’ll crack on. If you’ll pardon the pun.”

“Ha—right oh, boss.”

Fucking camera’s started flashing right in me face. Me ma used to do that to us when we was little ‘uns. Always snapping us, she was. Said she never wanted to forget her kids’ faces at any stage of us lives. Fucking funny that given how she got near the end.

“Caucasian male, late thirties”, Steve’s said into Bob’s little tape player thing. Come ed, la, I’m only twenty-seven. Not taken the best care of meself, maybe, but don’t push your luck, lad.

“Parietal bone completely destroyed. Very little brain tissue left inside. Occipital region partially fragmented—everything else obliterated at the back. Moving around to the front now: facial structure mostly intact. Some damage to the right orbital cavity but the eyes are present. Burns inside the mouth and throat consistent with a low-caliber gunshot.”

“Shall we start the dissection?” Bob’s asked as he’s snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and started sharpening a big fuck-off cleaver. The fuck are these two mad lads up to, la? It’s like an horror movie or something—one of them video nasties me uncle Eric used to flog in the 80’s before the Rodneys carted him off for diddling.

Out of nowhere, they’ve gone into me chest with a fucking blade, and I’ve shot right up and said,

“Come ed, lads.”

Well, Bob’s lost the plot and dropped a fucking bollock. Cracked his head on the floor and all. He’ll need a few stitches in that, surely. Steve’s stayed upright but he’s just sorta staring at us with his gob wide open, like.

“What you gawking at, mate?”

“You’re…”

“I’m fucking freezing is what I am, la. What yous done with me trackies?”

Bob’s been carted off upstairs to get his bonce sewed up while me and this Steve lad have sat there chit-chatting. Turns out he’s a Toffee, but he’s made us a brew, so no hard feelings.

“Remarkable”, he’s said, pulling them doctors’ whatsits out of his lugholes—telescope or what have you. “No pulse.”

He makes a couple of phone calls and about two minutes later the room’s full of white coats. I fucking hate quacks, la. Nothing but trouble with these cunts. Me grandad made it an hundred years without ever stepping foot inside an hozzy. He goes in the day after his last birthday for an ingrown toenail and dies a week later from fucking gangrene of the William. Dirty bastards, they are.

“Tell me, sir,” one of them’s said, “are you in much pain?”

“Pain? I’m in fucking agony, mate—pure turmoil. Why do you think I’ve blown me head off, like?”

“I meant physical pain—from the injury?”

“Oh. No, not really, my mate. I can’t feel much, be honest with you. Bit cold and that. Not much else.”

I’ve took a swig of me brew and it’s just sorta trickled out the back of me head, like. I’m spitting fucking feathers and all. Thirsty work, topping yourself.

The quacks have done a bunch of tests and that. Overheard a couple of them talking about writing me case up for some fucking journal, but I’ve telled them I need paying for that—royalties or what have you.

“So, Steve,” I’ve said to the fella, “what’s next?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, what’s the protocol, like?”

“Proto-there is no protocol for this. You’re dead, my friend.“

“Yeah but I’m not though, am I? I’m still fucking here, la. I was meant to die. I wanted to die. But instead I’ve waked up here with a bastard hole in the back of me bonce and no keks on, la. What am I gonna do, like—walk home with me William hanging out? The Rodneys’ll love that. I’m on parole as it is, mate.”

“I’ve no idea what you should do. But I’m afraid I can’t let you leave until we’ve completed our write up.”

“Fuck you on about, ‘write up’?”

“An autopsy is always required in cases of suicide. Standard procedure, I’m afraid.”

“So what are you saying, la?”

“If you’ll just lie back, I’ll be as quick as I can.”