Dating : Love and Other Punishments Part 1 of 4

Part 1 of 4

There comes a point when people simply expect you to get over the death of your wife and children.

I can’t say I blame them. After all, who wants to be around someone who mopes all the time, blithering on about their dead loved ones? Who wants to hear how every waking moment is agony? I certainly wouldn’t.

Of course, I never talk about it anymore. What on earth would be the point? I can’t bring them back. The subject would only cause embarrassment. Better to cry in the privacy of my own home, away from cold, harsh, judgemental eyes. The eyes have got so very cold. I sometimes wonder if there is any compassion left in this world.

I have to believe there is. Otherwise, there would be no point dragging myself out of bed, shaving, showering, putting on that grey work suit, and forcing the stale cereal into my mouth. Even washed down with tea, my throat constricts when I try to swallow. I can’t remember when I last enjoyed a meal. My head pounds. The hangover is particularly bad today.

I glance outside the window of my 27th story flat. The city is a purgatory of drab grey in the January rain. What happened to colour? Ever since they died, just over three years ago, everything seems desaturated, as though someone dialed down the chroma settings on a television.

I finish breakfast, put on my shoes, and head out of my flat to the lift. It’s always uncomfortably packed, with a tense air of silent, simmering impatience. After enduring the awkward journey down, I spill into the lobby with my fellow passengers, and head out of Municipal Housing Block AA23, into the rain. Stinging winds lash my face. At the monorail station on the other side of the street, I scan my wrist on the access panel. The turnstile lets me though. I run up the escalator to the platform, just in time to catch the 8:22 train.

After boarding, I stare at the grey blur of flats, office blocks, and corporate headquarters, as we head into the city centre. My mind is numb. I wish I could think of something other than the pain, but I can never escape it. At least at the office, I can bury myself in the endless calls, claims, and paperwork of Prometheus Insurance.

Twenty minutes later, I arrive at my station. I step into the street, momentarily distracted by the gigantic virtual video display that looms on the side of the office building where I work. A BBC newsreader bellows above the melee of self-driving cars, trains, and busy pedestrians.

‘Today, the public flogging of Charles Jackson and Irene Watson will take place in Trafalgar Square. A large crowd is expected to turn out to witness the punishment after both were convicted of fraud in a banking scandal that left millions without pensions. Jackson and Watson, who were each sentenced to thirty-six lashes, will also serve fifteen-year prison sentences and have been stripped of their assets to boost the compensation fund for those affected by their crimes.

‘In a speech to the House of Commons, Prime Minister Jane Young said “The punishment of Charles Jackson and Irene Watson will serve as an example to others who would try to defraud the British people. You will be found out. You will be severely punished. Justice will be done.” The leader of the opposition, Caroline Adams, condemned the punishment as “medieval and barbaric”, to jeers from many in the Commons, including members of her own party…’

Rolling my eyes, I enter the Prometheus Insurance offices. I am much of the opinion of Caroline Adams, but we seem to be in a minority these days. Jane Young based her last election campaign primarily on eye-for-an-eye justice and won with a massively increased majority. Several radical reforms later, we’re living in a country that Daily Mail readers could only dream about a few short decades ago. It isn’t just the UK either. All across Europe, there has been a similar swing to the extreme right.

A few moments later, I’m sitting at my desk in the vast open-plan office on floor seven. I click through several files on my computer. Claim assessments galore. I check my appointment schedule for today and note with a modicum of dismay that I have meetings with at least two people whose claims will be denied on absurd technicalities.

I pause, standing and glancing at the almost endless rows of perfectly symmetrical desk booths stretching ahead; at least a hundred men and women, all following the dreary Prometheus dress code, all processing claims, speaking with clients, or taking calls. A great sea of monochrome misery.

The world didn’t use to be like this. I can’t believe the absence of Katie, Billy, and Tom really makes a difference to anyone but me and perhaps some of my extended family, yet it feels as though their deaths broke the world.

My day passes in a haze of indifference. I approve certain pay-outs and deny others. During the afternoon, I am summoned to the office of Eric Stevens, my boss. He’s a short, bald, bespectacled man with a goatee, who insists on sitting on an excessively raised chair when behind his desk berating underlings.

‘I’ve been looking at your pay-outs old boy,’ Eric says, his high, whiny voice annoying me even more than usual. ‘You authorised payment on the Walker claim, which frankly I think demonstrates questionable judgement. Are you sure you made the right call?’

‘Someone vandalised their car Eric, and the claim seemed clear enough to me.’

‘They are only covered if the car is on their property, and it wasn’t.’

‘It was parked on their driveway.’

Eric pressed a button on his computer, bringing up a holographic photograph just above his desk.

‘Ah! But in the photograph, you can clearly see the car bonnet protruding slightly over the pavement next to the drive.’

‘So you’re saying I should have denied the claim based on what, exactly? That an inch of the car was invading public pavement airspace?’

‘You should have argued.’

‘We would have been sued!’

‘Yes, yes we would have been sued. But then we would have settled out of court for a greatly reduced sum. Remember, we can’t help those who genuinely need payouts if we pay-out where claims are fraudulent.’

‘The Walker claim wasn’t fraudulent.’

‘Look here old boy, you need to look at the bigger picture. Our clients. Our shareholders. Our staff. What would happen if we all lost our jobs in a cost-cutting drive, due to excessive pay-outs? What would happen if you lost your job?’

It’s difficult to know how to reply to this. I could easily get another job, but I’ve been with Prometheus Insurance for many years, and the mundane routine keeps my mind busy. The dull, repetitive, familiar nature of what I do actually appeals to me. It numbs the pain.

On the other hand, I can’t just turn down claims in the morally reprehensible way Eric suggests. Other insurance agents have indeed done this using similar ruses, settling out of court if sued, when their clients have the means to pursue such a course. But I can’t do that. My absolute sense of justice will not allow it.

‘Eric, it’s a changed world out there,’ I say. ‘The laws are severe. If I did what you’re suggesting, I could end up being publicly flogged for corruption.’

‘So that’s what you’re afraid of? Don’t worry old boy. I have the legal department all over stuff like this. Believe me, we aren’t breaking the law. You could have denied that claim, and you wouldn’t have been breaking the law.’

‘I can’t do what you’re asking. It’s immoral.’

‘Immoral perhaps, but not illegal.’ Eric sighs. ‘Oh for God’s sake, stop looking so glum… It’s your job. If it depresses you that much, just leave.’

‘I’m not depressed.’

‘Yeah, well you could have fooled me. Look, I’ll be honest with you. You need to pull yourself together. I’m sick of this celebrity bereavement routine.’

‘You think I sought out that celebrity?’

‘I don’t care. The point is, it was over three years ago. My sympathy for your predicament has officially expired. Time to get over the past, and get on with your job. Here’s the bottom line: Either do what you are paid to do, and bury those moral scruples of yours once and for all, or we’ll find someone else who can.’

Later that day I sit in Murphy’s, a spit and sawdust bar that’s not too expensive by London standards. I hit the scotch, as usual. The barman knows me well enough to know I don’t want company or chit-chat. Numbing the pain is my order of business.

I consider how cowardly it is to lean on booze like this. I also consider my cowardice at kowtowing to Eric’s bullshit. Should I just leave my job and find a better one? Familiarity with the mundane routine cushions the ongoing churning in my stomach, and I don’t want to leave my job for that reason. It’s utterly pathetic, and I hate myself for being so wretched.

A woman with bleach-blond hair and too much makeup sits on the other end of the bar, staring at me. After I’ve downed a couple of drinks, she approaches.

‘Rough day?’

I nod.

‘I’m Sally. I work over at the hairdresser just around the corner from here, and my God, I’ve had a rough day too… It’s just been relentless. Two of my customers had hair dye go wrong, and one of them, she wouldn’t shut up about her useless oaf of a husband, who won’t get off his arse and get a job since he got made redundant. I reckon she should just leave him, but it’s not that simple when there’re kids involved. I should know, having been very unappreciated by my ex-husband, and…’

Sally’s voice is like nails down a blackboard. I can’t bear her deluge of incessant banality.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I know you mean well, but I’d rather be left alone.’

The woman frowns. ‘Why would you want to be alone?’

‘Some people like to be alone.’

‘Well, that’s just weird. You’re weird.’ She frowns. ‘You look familiar too. Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Yeah, well I could have sworn I recognised you. Perhaps we know some of the same people.’

‘We don’t.’

She glances down, finally noticing the wedding ring. ‘Oh… Sorry. Didn’t see that. Didn’t know you were married.’

‘I’m not. She’s dead.’

‘Awww… Dead. Hang on! That’s where I know you from! You were on the telly!’

I groan inwardly. The horrible media frenzy that accompanied the murder, the investigation, and the trial died down ages ago. Except now this woman has recognised me. There’s no point denying it.

‘Yes, yes, I did appear on television a couple of times.’

‘A couple of times? That Christopher Chapman case was plastered everywhere! I feel so sorry for you, having your wife and kids murdered like that. I hope you’re feeling better now, at least.’

This woman is setting my teeth on edge. I hardly ever get stopped by random strangers anymore, so this whole encounter is a particularly unwelcome reminder of the recent past. People used to grab me in the street, wide-eyed and tearful as if they actually knew me. I would be offered random sympathies, usually of the thoughts-and-prayers variety. But one or two of them were stalkers, and in the end, I had to file a number of restraining orders.

‘Listen, I really would rather just be left alone…’

‘I bet you’re thankful for what they did to Christopher Chapman. Making him experience being stabbed to death over and over again, in that virtual reality machine of theirs… What’s it called? The Justice Machine. Anyway, the punishment fits the crime and no mistake. He stabs your wife and kids. He gets to experience the same. I hope he rots in hell too…’

‘Yes, well I don’t really approve of what they did to him.’

The woman stares at me like I’m mad. ‘Seriously? The man murdered your family for drug money!’

‘Look, I don’t want to talk about…’

‘Are you one of those liberal do-gooders, like Caroline Adams? They had their chance to tackle crime with their namby-pamby, touchy-feely rehabilitation crap, and it proved useless. Crime rates are way down since Jane Young took over.’

‘I think you’ll find that’s debatable. Anyway, I’m going now…’

The woman looks mortally offended, muttering something inaudible and doubtless insulting as I get up and leave the bar. I can’t stand people who won’t take the hint that I want to be left alone.

Outside, the streets are cold and rainy. I decide to get drunk at home tonight, so head back to my flat. Once there, I break out the whisky and watch old home movies of Katie and the boys. It’s great to remember the good times, before that bastard Christopher Chapman got to them.

What I said about the killer of my family to Sally was true. I hate him with every fibre of my being, but that doesn’t mean I approve of what they did to him. This new variation of the death penalty — making someone endure the same terror and agonies as the victim in a virtual reality world for the rest of their lives — is simply horrible. Christopher Chapman will experience being stabbed to death over and over and over again, until his body finally gives out, decades from now. Of course, he’ll probably go insane long before then. Everyone tells me I ought to feel happy about this, but it just makes me feel worse.

I sit on my sofa with tears in my eyes, watching old footage of the family at Tom’s third birthday. Katie, Billy, and I all sing happy birthday. He tries to blow out the candles and makes a funny whistle. Then he grins.

My son smiling.

It breaks my heart every time.

The video jumps to me on the sofa with Katie. I remember it was later that evening, after the children had gone to bed. She’s just sitting there in jeans and crop top, looking tired but happy. After she notices I’m filming, she gives me a look that led to a wonderful moment when I turned off the camera. A sob rises in my throat, but I force myself to keep watching. The pain is all but unbearable, but in these moments, I’d rather suffer. What’s the alternative? To never look at her face again?