I am here to kill myself. At Least that was the plan. Why? The usual suspects line up: depression, jealousy, boredom, capitalism, sugar, fucking life goals, whatever, take your pick. You can blame the friends, the family, or maybe just good old fashioned love. Maybe I just thought things would turn out better - most can relate. The gun in my hand doesn’t need a reason. But if you asked me at the start of all this, it would be him. 

The giant, egg-like head stares back at me with its oblivious, painted eyes. The relatively small legs of my hostage poke out from underneath, tied to a chair at the ankles. They are completely unaware of where they are, or how ridiculous they look covered by a humpty dumpty costume. We are companions in the shadow of the empty theatre, sat backstage, waiting for the final act. The smell around me conjures community centre everdayism instead of West End magic; burned water and ripe, old cardboard. The space is derelict of majesty or talent, so you could say it smells of a death, of sorts. Behind my captive is a clutter of set dressings and props that throw faint but strange shadows against the walls, by the faint light of an emergency exit sign that blinkers somewhere back there. The gun in my hand is not a prop though, it weighs heavy in my hand - though I guess that is how they come. Behind me is the dusty, red stage curtain that disappears up into the rafters above us. 

My prisoner mumbles from deep under the shell, beneath the gag. I wonder if they can hear me. But it doesn’t matter, there is nothing left to say. 

*

He looks so happy. And brave and wise, sexy and cool. Everything we all wish we were, but are not. There are those that think they are cool, scurrying around like delusional monkeys, but they are kidding themselves. They don’t have a movie poster with their face on. He does. The problem is that he is me, only braver, wiser… The poster sells itself as a classic family adventure, with an all-star cast of grinning idiots of unreasonable beauty. Though to me it looks like someone has taken my face and transposed it onto one of those things I had as a kid - dreams. 

‘You look a lot like him,’ a girl says to my side. I turn to see a small, ginger girl just a few years younger than me at maybe sixteen, nodding with moronic certainty. ‘Must be nice looking like a film star.’

Nice? Nice? I bite my tongue. After all, I am on shift and the cinema frowns on staff telling customers how they should give up on trying to have thoughts of their own. Instead I drag a smile up across my face, much like how a child clumsily holds adult jeans up at their waist pretending to be all grown up. ‘Can’t wait for it to come out,’ I say. Luckily it is enough to meet my end of the conversation this time, and she trots off to find the rest of her orange family. 

Max Flix Cinema is what people try to call cultural heritage, in that it has stood in Croydon for quite some time. However, as it is devoid of any culture, this seems to be more of a ploy to up its appeal and gain council grants; and if it wants to stay open it probably needs them. Built in the early eighties, it is architecturally, stylistically, and technologically a bit shit; the same as most of Croydon really. Though whoever built it did try to borrow the regal stylings of actual famous theatres, the funding and flare was unfortunately absent, so instead it just comes across tacky and old. Plus with much smaller screens than the big new theatres that are located just hundreds of metres away, it is amazing that anyone comes here at all. But then maybe some people enjoy the baked-in smell of burned popcorn and the leftover aroma of a time when smoking indoors was still allowed. But I guess it must be something, as it can’t be the purple felt walls or the service. 

In the mix of shuffling apes caught up in their personal hallucinations about how great they are, two men walk past me hand in hand, bold as anything. Exact doubles of one another - Other love. I grip the handles of my tall dustpan and brush tighter in each hand. I am unsure if I am jealous or judgemental. I think about holding my Other’s hand and the rage comes up - definitely judgemental. 

‘Jack, Jack,’ Max calls, excitedly bounding up to me. He is also ginger, but in a more freckle affected way than the sighting of his species in herd formation in their natural environment just moments ago. There is something about him that makes me itch. Life seems to be going well for him, a uni student on holidays earning a bit of cash. I believe he has a girlfriend, a future, a mother… But he doesn’t seem to deserve any of it. Rather than an idiot savant, he appears to be a charismatic-less winner. Further proof that life is a fix, if you needed it. Like how he wears the same uniform as me, but his burgundy waistcoat seems to actually fit, wear as mine is at least a size and a half off. ‘Have you heard?’ He asks. 

‘Heard what?’

‘He’s here, he’s actually here.’

‘Who?’

‘Who? Him. You. Him.’ He points up at the poster of my Other. 

My stomach turns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He has just arrived. He’s doing some tour of cinemas where they are playing his film or something. The Salamander is giving him a tour out back as we speak. I thought you of all people would want to say hi.’ The Salamander is the nickname for Mel, our assistant manager. 

‘He’s here?’ Someone says. I think it was me. The feeling is here, what Mum used to call the spikey jangles. Motor function, speech and movement is now impaired by circuitry uncertainty. 

‘Come on.’ Max pulls me by the arm, dragging me towards a door marked Staff Only. ‘He’s in here. Do you want to straighten yourself out, you look, well, just maybe tuck yourself in a little.’

‘Okay.’ I do as he says without question, staring at the closed door with the same intensity that widows stare at the tops of coffins, examining the grain of the grave in fine detail. If religion is the opiate of the masses, anxiety is the override. I am stuck in automatic pilot. 

‘You ready?’ Max grins at me. 

‘Wait, what? No, I don’t think I want to.’ 

‘Don’t be silly, this must be a dream come true for you. How often do you get the chance to come face to face with what you could have been? This isn’t some cheap fortune tellers at the travelling fair, this is real. You can look your own potential right in the eye. Do you know how many people would love to see something like that? Come on, take a breath, this is your moment.’

I just stare at the door like a deer stuck in the headlights of what he hopes is two motorbikes. Hope being the only chance of survival. Which I guess is why we end up with so many dead deer. 

‘Ready?’ I hear Max asking. He sounds as far away as the second echo. The door opens and it comes flying at me - a giant me, or him. All I see is his face speeding at me. There is a part of me that knows it is cardboard, that this is one of the big cardboard advertisements of my Other that will stand in the lobby promoting his film. And of course I know that my Other hasn’t become a literal giant and is jumping out on staff members at a tatty old cinema. But I jump and flail as his face comes rolling towards me as fast as a boulder in his shitty adventure movie. Falling to the floor, I start to register the laughter that has already started. And by the time I hit the floor, it is all I can hear. Max is slapping his knee and pointing at me, bent over in hysterics. Ben is Max’s BFF; the same age, with thick black hair and the jawline of a wheel barrel. I think of him as a background extra who’s parents have slipped the director to give him some lines. He drops the misappropriated cardboard cutout of my Other, and laughs so hard he has to lean against the wall. Presumably he would fall over with hilarity if he didn’t. They are joined by several more of the male staff of the theatre; their special choir, each unimpressive in their own unique way. I myself am going through a mix of emotions, humour not among them. 

‘That was classic.’ Max is choking; not enough for me. 

‘Your face. You were like rughuh.’ Ben pulls a face. It is not complementary. In fact it seems to suggest that I just had a small stroke. 

Some of their gang wipe tears from their eyes as I pull myself up and patiently wait for this to end. 

‘You know what, you’re a classic, Jack,’ Ben says. 

‘Yeah, yeah, he is though, right?’ Max laughs. 

They walk away, still giggling, slapping each other on the backs. I can almost hear the reminiscent narration of an 80s TV kid talking about the best days of their lives. 

‘You should stand up for yourself.’ 

I turn to see Veronica leaning nonchalantly against a wall. It is how she stands most of the time. Boomers would say she is prickly, non-lady-like, or boyish or rude. I say she is perfect; a small, slight thing, with black hair and darker eyes with her own brand of not-giving-a-fuck vibe as the cherry on the dry cake. She is also the love of my life and best friend. She is just unaware of both. I’d imagine she’d say we were mates at best, or I was the weird boy from across the street at worst. ‘I guess. But what would be the point?’

‘You know, once people know you are likely to cause a scene, they don’t give you a reason to.’

‘Thanks,’ I shrug. It is a yeah, cool, get ya kind of shrug. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Is that why no one messes with you?’

‘Yeah. You remember Charley Rub in Primary school?’

I laugh. I do remember. ‘He called you ratty.’

‘Yeah, and I grabbed his dick and pulled him round the playground.’

‘He squealed.’

‘Don’t see why, there wasn’t much to grab. All I am saying is, if you went a bit nuts at those dicks, they’d think twice about their silly little tricks. You can’t always be the kid that sits in the corner by himself, Jack.’

‘I wasn’t always by myself.’

‘You can’t count that French dinner lady.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Good, she didn’t speak English, so you just didn’t understand she was probably telling you to leave her alone.’

‘I meant you.’

‘Oh. Well, you know I just felt sorry for you.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And it was just easier to talk to you than just have you following me around.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So I don’t count either.’

‘Fair enough. But when are we going out for those drinks though?’

She smiles, despite herself. It is a beautifully unnatural sight to behold, like a robot eating bees. ‘Life is just too complicated for things like that.’

‘So you keep saying, but what does complicated mean?’

‘It is an adjective that means consisting of many interconnecting parts or elements.’

‘Right.’

‘Maybe in another life.’ And she turns and saunters away, leaving me wishing for the next life. I look down at the floor to my face, his face - our face. There is a heavy crease right down the middle from the tomfoolery. His smile now seems strange, wonky, broken. Maybe we have more in common than I thought. Or maybe he is living my next life, my best life. 

*

I am mesmerised by The Devil. That is who the email is from. I am sitting on my single bed before the buzzy blue light of my laptop, any hint of daylight shut out by my blackout shades. The subject reads: Join Us. Click bait. A scam. What on earth would the devil want with me? But for some reason I click: We can help you kill him, Jack. A picture of a gun is attached, which is in such high definition that I have to scroll to see the whole image. The gun looks real. Mostly because it’s such an unimpressive picture, just lying on creased, old white and yellow striped bed sheets that have picked up a few stains. I’ve always thought a real give away of a fake picture was that they spent too much time on composition and things. People who really want to send a picture of a gun or a mutilated body, or whatever fucked up stuff they are into, they don’t check the lighting or worry about getting the best angle. They just click. What crazy people photograph needs no fanfare, no filter or edit. They love their work which is not photography, but the subject. This is not only why you can identify fakes, but also why pictures of real shit have that extra dose of creepy everyday horror. They’re kind of suburban. This picture has that pedestrian ick. Plus the Devil apparently knows my name, which is never a good thing.  

Whether the photo looks real or not, this is clearly a prank and I have a few names that I can attribute it to. The sad reality is that there are probably more than I can name; I have always attracted a certain type of attention ever since I was little. It must be a prank. Anyone can find real looking gun photos online. Though it may be true that I have spent a lot of time on some questionable sites deep in the web, and things may have been said, but the internet is not real. This can’t be real. Can it? Real or not I am hypnotised by the image. There is just me and the gun. And the doorbell ringing. Which it may have been doing for some time now - perhaps for a lifetime. 

The doorbell is a fishing hook dragging me back to the surface, where instead of air I find the irritating melody programmed into our doorbell, which plays for a full three minutes on every press. Yes I have timed it. It is still playing as I trudge down the stairs of our little terrace house, not thinking about anything other than that gun. Someone was fucking with me, the only question is who? I open the front door to see uniformed policemen standing there and react with some unknown combination of blinking and mouth hanging openness. All quite reasonable. My first thought is that all I did was open a message. But I know that’s enough. It doesn’t take much to incriminate you, not when the N.L.R. were concerned; that’s the Office of New Level Registration. 

The laptop is still open. The email is still open! 

‘Jack?’ It is a friendly voice. I am back in the moment and the Constable’s uniform fades away to reveal the man underneath. I know him. He stands aside to reveal my father. I struggle to stop myself from laughing out loud. God my mouth is dry! ‘I am afraid that your father has been back over there again, despite the restraining order,’ PC Masters explains. He has been here a hundred times before. He’s tall and a bit thick sounding; but friendly, nice, dutiful. Like a golden retriever that has been spoiled by treats every time he does something right, and is now a really well-trained fatty. PC Turner stands behind his colleague looking bored. He has also been here before. He is slightly younger and has the air of a man that thought he would be further ahead in life, though it is unclear looking at him how he made this assumption. He has a boss eye, flat feet and a strange double chin that sits behind a pointy bit, which makes his neck resemble it’s pulling a face. Both the men are giants compared to my father. ‘You understand?’ Masters asks. 

‘Right,’ I say, not feeling I am holding up my end of the conversation. 

‘She is pressing charges this time. Do you know what that means?’ Masters employs more tone, impressing on me something of gravity. Dad’s just standing there held at the arm by PC Masters, head hung. He has new grey hair and isn’t wearing shoes. I thought about it. No, no I don’t really know what that means. I suppose my face is giving off some dunno vibes, as the answer is given without any prompting. ‘It means court. And some sort of punishment. A criminal record. Maybe a fine. Maybe a custodial sentence.’

I look at Dad. A life spent at an insurance firm while bringing up an ungrateful turd and an even more ungrateful turd. His belly has that bulge you get as a mark of age which he has been cultivating since his forties - he’s now in his sixties. Jesus, he is wearing a cardigan. Don’t prisons have some sort of dress code? ‘Right,’ I say. 

PC Masters pushes Dad forward and releases his arm, lending Dad the velocity to move into the house. 

‘Thank you,’ I say, without feeling any gratitude at all. Closing the door, Dad has already wandered off into the house. I call after him. 

Our home is a standard terrace house, several rooms stacked in a neat column, propped up by neighbours. It is spattered with old furniture, tea mug rings, the smell of oven and two thickness levels of dust - front dust and behind things dust. Parts of the house are halfway through being decorated and have been for many years. I find Dad sitting in the dining room at the back of the house. He is at our dining table which is filled by a large, semi complete jigsaw; which has meant no one had done any dining here for some time now. Behind him is a cabinet full of plates and posh glasses that operates as some sort of household museum. There is an old picture of Mum too. You can tell the picture of Mum behind him is old. The colours are punched out, the composition is guerilla at best, and she is smiling in that forced way people do when someone sticks a camera in your face and says smile. But then her smile always looked a little forced, even at the best of times.  

‘I thought that would work,’ he says, fussing over pieces of puzzle as he starts working on the five thousand piece beast that is spread out into semi completed neighbourhoods. ‘It was the same flowers I had given her on our first date. I can’t imagine how I hadn’t thought of it before.’ He attempts to lay pieces of blue that do not fit against other pieces of blue. You can sort of make out that the image is of a young tribal boy with a spear fighting an angry bear. And sky - a lot of blue sky. ‘I don’t understand why she doesn’t remember.’ 

‘Because...’ I stop myself. Dad looks up at me, eyes wide, searching. 

He shakes his head and continues with his puzzle, pretending he doesn’t know what I was going to say. People are clever like that. Everyone seems to have a special ability to pretend everything is just fine. ‘It was an amazing night. Who could forget something like that? The flowers may seem like a small detail, but not to me. And not to her. She must remember. I just don’t understand why she’d say she doesn’t.’ 

Dad’s attention falls back in time. He mumbles to himself as he frets over the jigsaw. But I have other things to deal with - one email and several hundred posts to delete. As I do try to complete this mammoth task, I wonder if I should just delete all my social media accounts. After all, most of my feed is fan groups of my Other, or the fake lives of people I went to school with and don’t actually like. Who would choose to be alone though?