Vol. 3: A Kingdom by the Sea
I
Chapter 1: (Radio) Waves
See, here's the thing: life is not a cohesive narrative. It's made of puzzle pieces. It's layered.
Erase all documentary evidence on, say, Hitler, except for a letter written to him by Eva Braun in which she recalls that stroll that they took on that sunny Sunday last summer, mein Liebling. And if that letter was all that survived of Herr Hitler, then two hundred or two thousand years from now some historian could only conclude that Hitler was probably a charming, lovable man who took his lady friend out for walks back in the twentieth century.
And that'd be it.
All the bad things, all the shit and regrets and all that murder – erased.
Because one piece of evidence does not logically take you to the next one. You always have to stop and take in the bigger picture. Ask yourself what you missed.
Who you missed.
Because events just happen, unplanned and spiralling. People just happen.
And you can squint and turn and twist history around without ever figuring out how you got to where you are now.
Where that significant turn was.
And did you turn on your own or did someone push you?
* * *
The rain outside is torrential, accompanied by a loud, tree-abusing wind coming in from the Atlantic. It's the kind of a surprise storm that we get up here, and the beach will be white with snow next morning, before it melts away.
The phone line is shitty and keeps crackling. "What?" I repeat, and, "What? I can't –"
Vicky's voice is muffled, and a baby cries in the background, and she says something like "he wants" and "questions."
"No, no interviews," I say, standing in my living room, staring out of the window and onto the desolate beach. She knows I don't do interviews. I don't understand why she's even suggesting it.
The windows are double-glazed thanks to the rare spark of genius by the previous owner, but the cold radiates through and onto my bare skin. I keep the receiver to my ear and wrap my other arm around my middle, regretting that it's getting too cold to walk around in mere pyjama pants now.
It always was too cold, but now it's beating me.
"Ryan," Vicky says, sounding frustrated.
"Listen, there's a storm coming in from the ocean. The reception is shit. Put it in the mail, alright? But I don't do interviews. I do nothing. Remember that."
I wait for a second in case I receive a reply, but I don't. I place the receiver down, and then wrap both arms around my middle. Sink back into the silence and its comfort, staring outside.
The waves coming in are big, washing onto the shore with white, salty tips. It's late November, and the nature's getting brutal.
Good.
I go back to the kitchen where I was before the phone rang. The floorboards creak in a familiar way, and I step over the third one from the cooker because that's slightly loose. I should fix that, but don't. Some things just are better wrong.
The tea is still steaming in its cup, and I top it off with whiskey. Only three things can ruin a man: fame, men and twelve-year-old whiskey. Can't shake off all of my vices, can I?
