8
The house was silent. The police had gone, and Malcolm guessed that they would not return. He was stood in the living room. It was as it was before his father decided he didn’t want his mother around. It was normal. Television. DVD, Hi-fi, a few newspapers. A few clothes over the back of the sofa. Paraphernalia covered the mantle-piece. Bills, circulars, notes, a few coins. The rest of the house was similar. Normal.
He collapsed onto an armchair and closed his eyes. Bang goes uni work, he thought. Aspirations on becoming a software engineer would have to wait. He had a 3000 word essay to write on ‘File formats and extensions’, before Thursday, in two days time. He hadn’t written a word, hadn’t given it a thought, and knew he wouldn’t. He just had to know what drove his mild-mannered father to murder his mother. He could not concentrate on anything else.
He got up and was about to walk into the kitchen when his mobile phone rang. It was in his coat in the hall, and he hurried quickly to find it. Eventually he flipped it open. It read: Anonymous call.
“Hello,” he said. “Who this?”.
“Malcolm, this is Sergeant Drake. I’m ringing with regards to your father”. He paused for a few moments, waiting for Malcolm’s acknowledgement.
“OK,” he prompted.
“I’m afraid he’s dead. He committed suicide this morning”. The news didn’t need time to sink in. He threw the phone at the wall.
“Fuck!” he shouted. He leaned with his forehead resting on his arm against the wall, breathing fast and unevenly. His eyes were as tightly closed as they could possibly be. No comprehensible question would stay in his mind for longer than an instant, but all of them indicated confusion. All wanted answers he could not give. After a while, his eyes red and watered, he picked up the mobile and found that it was still working. He rang Tom Parker, who answered after two rings.
“Tom, I need a fucking drink,” he said.