REGRET

Every night it was the same dream; a thud, a scream, the sickening sound of bone and metal being crushed by nine tons of bus; Steve jumped on the brakes, but bicycle and rider together were swept underneath the bus like a cardboard box. The victim’s face was revealed for the millionth time; his daughter, Emily, her chocolate eyes vacant, parallel lines of blood across her forehead.  All of a sudden, ex-wife Karen appeared from nowhere, dressed for a funeral, and began raining blows on Steve.

‘What have you done to my beautiful girl?’ she shrieked, her eyes red with furious tears.

‘I don’t know; I must have dozed off,’ he mumbled in reply. ‘I haven’t been able to sleep since you left.’

‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’ she sobbed.

Steve awoke abruptly to the sound of ambulance sirens, and the realms of sleep and reality began to disentwine themselves. He recalled that Emily was away on her gap year following the Inca Trail, whatever that was – he’d received a postcard of a llama wearing a hat at only two days ago.  Karen was in Maidenhead, living with Tony, pregnant at forty-three. In the far corner of the dark room, a mouse rustled in the bin.  Steve glanced towards the radio alarm – 3:22am; his bladder felt heavy after yet another night on the lash, so he weighed up the pros and cons of traversing the cold passage to the toilet, and decided to stay put under the warmth of the duvet

He flicked on the radio to block out his nightmare, but all the preset buttons were set to the same channel – some easy-listening rubbish, so he gave up and returned to his silent thoughts.   

Steve was forty-five but looked older; the battle between baldness and greyness raging on his head was too close to call, and the curvature of his midriff was a testament to the countless times he’d heard the bell for last orders and rushed up to grab one for the road. His drinking had cost him everything: firstly, his job on the buses – too many missed shifts – then, in quick succession, his marriage, his home and the respect of the daughter he loved more than anything.  Now he lived in a bed-sit and drove an unlicensed minicab to make ends meet, when he was sober enough. As on many previous nights, the tears began to flow; for the wife and child he’d driven away and for himself and the choices he’d made and would have to live with for the rest of his pathetic life.

Steve turned on the lamp and reached out across his bedside table for a measure of the liquid solace that always remained within arm’s length through these troubled nights.

As he put the bottle to his lips, out of the corner of a teary eye he spotted Emily’s postcard – sent more out of duty than daughterly love. On closer inspection, it might be an alpaca.