Revelation

 

by Timothy Marriott

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Promo Trailer HERE

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PROLOGUE & OPENING CHAPTER

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PROLOGUE

 

A man stands naked in the moonlight, his bare feet sinking gently into the cool sand.

 

The air is alive with the persistent chorus of cicadas hidden in the brush at the head of the long, curved beach. Their sound echoes off the rocks, blending seamlessly with the gentle surf as it rolls in and out, creating a rhythm that seems to pulse in time with his heartbeat. The waves send up a spray, catching shards of moonlight that flicker and fade with each surge. 

 

The sound of sea and cicadas grow louder in his mind, building into a deep, thunderous drumming that feels at first distant but increasingly imminent.

 

He turns towards the ocean. In the surf, splashes catch his eye as phosphorescence bursts into view—a luminescent sea of stars swirling in the water. 

 

Suddenly, from the foaming waves, something massive and wild emerges. Hooves crash through the surf: first one, then two, then three, and finally a fourth. Four horses, each distinct, are charging at full gallop along the beach.

 

At the front, a pale grey horse leads, its head crowned with shimmering spray, appearing almost ethereal in the moonlight. 

 

To the left, another horse—a chestnut with a deep red hue in the pale light—scatters the water as it gallops through the shallows, its hooves glistening like shining swords slicing through the sea. 

 

Behind these, a third appears: thin, bedraggled, black and bony, its deep-set eyes fixed intently on the man. 

 

Last of all follows a huge, dappled grey, its coat radiating a greenish hue in the moonlight as it moves with long, majestic strides across the sand.

 

The man is rooted to the spot, paralysed by innate fear and awe at this magnificent sight. The first two horses thunder past on either side of him, so close that he can feel the rush of air and the spray of saltwater from their hooves. As the third charges, he throws himself aside, narrowly avoiding its path. But as he straightens, the final stallion rears before him, its massive hooves beating the air. Instinctively, the man lifts his hands to shield his face as the horse begins to descend, flailing and thrashing. A rasping screech, from man or beast or both, echoes across the bay as the man falls back under the hammering hooves.

 

Then they are gone. Hs is alone again, lying back on the sand as shallow waves lick his feet and mock his wide eyed terror.

 

High above, on a sandbank at the head of the beach, a figure stands watching. Silhouetted against the moon, she lets a thin smile play across her handsome face, her mane of long, dark hair caught in the breeze. Without a word, she turns and walks away, leaving the scene beneath the moonlit sky.

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CHAPTER ONE

‘I, John, your companion in tribulation . . .
was on the island of Patmos’

Revelation 1:9

 

A ferry draws steadily towards the historic port of Skala, nestled on the Greek island of Patmos. It is the early morning of a late September day. Sunlight spills through the ship’s window, casting a gentle golden glow across the passenger lounge and lending the air a sense of tranquil warmth. Outside, the Aegean lies perfectly still, a mirror to the vast azure sky above, stretching out towards the distant headland that is gradually coming into view. The serenity of blue sky over crystal sea is absolute.

 

Jon stands at the ship’s rail, gazing out over the calm expanse of water. His expression is marked by deep lines, each one a testament to pain and loss. Yet, beneath this weathered exterior, there is an unmistakable sense of quiet resilience—a stoic determination that drives him on in the belief that he will find some meaning in this adventure, some form of release. Despite the sorrow etched into his features, Jon’s presence at the rail, looking out, looking forward, suggests a man who, though shaped by suffering, remains resolute and constant as he contemplates the sea stretching before him.

 

His lowered stare, unfocused eyes and rounded shoulders, hints at years spent chasing hope through disappointment. With a gentle, almost absent-minded gesture, he brushes strands of unkempt, greying hair from his eyes—a movement that speaks more of habit than vanity. Behind him, his battered rucksack, a faithful companion on many journeys, rests on a worn bench—the same place where he had spent the night, head pillowed against its faded fabric, finding whatever comfort he could in its familiar presence.

 

He tugs at a small tear beneath the arm of his old, light cotton checked shirt, not out of embarrassment, but from a quiet stubbornness to make do with what he has. The shirt, though threadbare, is a favourite—one that carries memories of better times and serves as a reminder of the simple pleasures he still seeks and values. And after all, what would be the point of buying a new one now?

 

Jon’s figure is wiry, his deeply tanned skin bearing a grubby hue—not just a sign of days without a proper wash, but also a testament to the mixed, mongrel heritage he carries with humble pride. Around his blue eyes, the frown lines are carved deep, yet his gaze is gentle and searching, peering from beneath a heavy brow that shelters his quiet hope. He has never thought of himself as tall, and moves with an apologetic stoop, his head often bowed and eyes flickering from side to side beneath an unruly fringe. Despite this, there is a warmth to his presence—as he takes in every figure, every face on the ferry with him, as he picks up a toy dropped by a toddler and unnoticed by the mother, deftly placing it in the undertray of a push chair, there is a sense that Jon, for all his flaws and failures, remains quietly kind, carrying a compassion for others that is rarely spoken, but always felt.

 

As the ferry nears the port, Jon reflects on the last four months, backpacking, island hopping, beach combing, and drowning in locally made raw red wine. Whatever became of the promise of a summer filled with enlightenment and discovery?

 

Not a chance. Rather, this summer has become a reinforcement of failure, regret and a creeping despair. Jon has wandered aimlessly, from the mainland to one idyllic island after another. Some of these islands present a picturesque vision: pristine whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, blue shutters standing out against the stonework, windmills turning lazily in the gentle breeze, and beaches crowded with rows of sun loungers and umbrellas, each spot claimed by hopeful holidaymakers seeking a taste of paradise. And yet some of these islands have been little more than barren outcrops populated by scrawny goats and a few tired dispassionate locals, the land coming alive only around their small harbours where colourful fishing boats—each one a unique patchwork of peeling paint and weathered wood—bob gently on the still water. These harbours, poignant in their simplicity, offer a stark contrast to the more commercialised shores of the developed all-inclusive holiday destinations.

 

Then there are the other islands, where the charm of classical fishing caiques—ancient vessels, their hulls thick with countless layers of cracked paint—struggle to compete against the ostentatious presence of fabulous modern yachts. These luxury vessels, symbols of opulence, wealth and privilege, crowd the harbours, their size and splendour dwarfing the humble working boats. As the season winds down, most of these yachts lie empty and locked, their interiors concealed behind closed blinds, indifferent to the glaring contrast they create. They remain quietly moored, recovering from the brief August onslaught when, for a few weeks, they became playgrounds for the wealthy— fathers bloated with corporate excess, mothers and mistresses sculpted by botox, and their overindulged teenagers who swarmed briefly across the decks, only to leave the boats deserted once again as the summer passes.

 

Many of the little port towns along Jon’s journey have radiated a kind of classical charm, with their stone squares and marble steps worn smooth by centuries of passing feet. In late summer, however, these picturesque streets and winding alleys are often overwhelmed by crowds spilling out from colossal cruise liners. Passengers, disgorged en masse, flood the town to marvel at a church or statue, brandishing mobile phones to snap selfies or lugging heavy telephoto lenses around their necks. In Jon’s eyes, these tourists curate images of local life but rarely contribute anything meaningful to the community, spending little more than the price of a coffee, a postcard, or an ice cream before retreating to their floating five-star hotels. There, they breathe recycled air tinged with diesel fumes and the risk of shared infection, isolated from the reality of the islands they visit.

 

Yet, as Jon’s route north from Rhodes has unfolded, it has offered him a greater sense of authentic discovery. Exploring the smaller islands scattered along the Turkish coast from Rhodes to Lesvos, he found the experience more rewarding. The first stop was the diminutive island of Symi, where a scooter hire shop tempted him with the promise of a day’s freedom. The reality, however, was a single road that fizzled out just a short way beyond the town’s edge. The sight of other tourists, looking lost in their ill-fitting helmets and aimlessly zipping up and down the same stretch of road, should have been a warning. At least Jon realised quickly enough to abandon the effort, park by a welcoming taverna, and tend to his disappointment with a flask of good wine and a hearty bowl of briam vegetable stew.

 

Chalki came next, its charming harbour welcoming Jon with a tranquil scene. A short walk over the hill brought him to a perfect bay, lying beneath the crumbling remains of an old Turkish fort—a reminder of the island’s layered history. The hike, stretching over four hours in the heat of the afternoon, was not for the faint-hearted. Jon was grateful when, at the first taverna on the descent, he encountered a young tourist doctor enjoying a beer. Her well-chosen supply of rehydration tablets, tucked away in her knapsack, proved invaluable, as did her friend’s bottle of chamomile after sun cream. Their company was pleasant and lively for a time, but before long the age gap dawned on him—he was nearly twice their age—and he found that generational and cultural references were lost, misunderstood or alien to him, leaving their conversation to fizzle out. In truth, Jon felt more kinship with the scrawny old stray dog that accompanied him for a while, until the animal’s rightful owner—the village postman—reclaimed his companion with a stern look and a bag of biscuits. What fickle affections these Greek strays have...

 

Tilos, in contrast, offered serenity and a slower rhythm. The little port of Livadia was a picture of visual perfection, while the so-called ‘ghost village’ of Mikro Chorio provided a space for quiet, spiritual contemplation. On the unspoilt beach at Eristos, without a single sunbed or umbrella in sight, Jon found hot stones and shallow, warm water—ideal for cooling off after his time in the sun and soothing old bones aching from hard beds and long walks.

 

All this calm was left behind as he reached the madness of Kos. Here, the stark divide between overcrowded refugee camps and all-inclusive, gated holiday resorts was impossible to ignore. Tourists paid thousands to stay in these enclaves, enjoying the comforts of three meals a day and a swimming pool, barely aware of the contrasting reality just beyond the gates. Despite the island’s contradictions, Jon found moments of pleasure in Kos town, with its blend of tourist distractions, lively nightclubs, and the pleasure of fine open-air dining beneath ancient olive trees. He wandered the narrow back streets, discovering lesser-known culinary delights and characterful bars tucked away on corners. The harbour itself offered a multitude of options—sightseeing trips on yet another ferry, crowded catamarans, or even converted fishing boats promising comfortable crossings to Bodrun. Yet, all the while, the sight of migrant refugees waiting to make the opposite crossing in dangerously overcrowded inflatables stayed with him, a stark reminder of the visible tragedy and the deep cultural divide between those with plenty and those with nothing. The contrast was unavoidable, and Jon was left feeling powerless—a witness to the gulf between two worlds that shared the same horizon.

 

Jon’s journey continued as he boarded a high-speed hydrofoil, slicing through the crystal-clear waters on his way to Kalimnos. Feeling lightheaded with wind and spray in his hair, leaving the darker soul of Kos behind, this island offered relief and colour. A small but absurdly pretty harbour with tempting bars and small store doorways tempted Jon with local wares. Renowned for sponge diving, the island offers a myriad of sponge themed trinkets. Rather than braving the depths himself Jon settled for a dangerously phallic looking loofa bought from a street vendor—an absurd but memorable souvenir. A simpler exercise than searching for elusive deer once hunted by the ancient goddess Artemis on neighbouring Leros…

 

His time on Leros was spent wandering from one village to another, traversing the island’s quiet roads. While he did not encounter any goddesses or deer, he found himself drawn to the timeworn ruin of a medieval castle perched atop the cliffs at Pandeli. From this vantage point, Jon watched an old ferry chug past, a link to the outside world threading through the island’s rugged landscape. He lingered in the peaceful village of Alinda for a night and a day, soaking in its tranquil atmosphere before moving on.

 

The next stop was the smaller, laid-back island of Lipsi. Jon found basic accommodation in a beach room at Kambos, where the setting was as idyllic as one could hope for. However, his Kalimnos souvenir—the authentic loofa, surreptitiously labelled ‘Made in China’—proved short-lived, disintegrating in his hands during a cold, open-air shower. The episode was a fitting metaphor for the fleeting nature of his trip: moments of amusement, absurdity and culture clash, woven through an ongoing search for meaning and connection.

 

Finally, Patmos. Despite the warmth of the locals and the occasional good-natured camaraderie he has shared with his fellow tourist travellers, Jon finds himself unmoved. The friendly faces and gestures of welcome do little to lift his spirits or shift his mood. Instead, there is a heaviness in the air, the humidity of a late summer day, that weighs him down with a sense of aimlessness—a restless idleness that pervades his journey and offers no real comfort or distraction from his unsettled state of mind.

 

Jon’s body betrays the toll of his travels: his throat is dry, and he can feel the cracked, sun-chapped skin of his lips as he tries to moisten them with his tongue. There is an ache deep in his stomach—a dull, persistent pain that refuses to fade. Time itself seems to have lost its flow; the days no longer progress naturally, instead lingering in suspended animation where each moment reverberates endlessly, trapping him in the now.

 

Within this unyielding present, Jon feels assaulted by a barrage of unspoken, inarticulate questions, their echoes pounding through his mind without hope of resolution. The relentless dehydration has brought on a throbbing headache that infects his entire being, leaving him irritable and exhausted. More than physical discomfort, he is consumed by a deeper malaise: a bitterness that twists in his gut, a sense of loss that gnaws at his core, and a burning injustice that courses through his veins, colouring every sensation and thought.

 

Jon reflects on what an idiotic notion this is, the idea of reliving youth through backpacking and island hopping. Surely that world belongs to students and teenagers, not to those who have already travelled well past those years, loaded with regret and the bruises of time. The belief that one can go back, or somehow reinvent oneself, is surely misguided. The past cannot be erased by the simple act of booking a cheap flight; it lingers, attached to every waking moment like a dream that refuses to fade, heavy as the rucksack slung over your shoulders. You don’t leave that weight behind, you take it with you and the more you try to ignore it, the heavier it gets.

 

Change, in truth, is nothing more than a comforting illusion. We are, inevitably, the sum of all we have experienced and become. Rather than striving to undo what has been, or brooding over the shadows cast by earlier days or the uncertainties of what lies ahead, it is wiser to focus on the present—this moment, right now. For neither the darkness of the past nor the looming unknown of the future can be altered or foreseen. All that remains is the attempt to live fully in the present, carrying whatever history we must, but not letting it define or destroy the now.

 

As the island of Patmos comes into view, its outline gradually imprints itself on Jon’s weary mind. The scene before him is strikingly different from the archetypal Greek island postcard: here, the expected palette of gleaming white walls, vibrant pink bougainvillaea, and blue-painted balconies is replaced by a more imposing and enigmatic silhouette.

 

Central to Jon’s view is a structure that immediately commands attention—a formidable fortress perched atop the island, resembling a tarnished crown set upon the broad neck of an ancient, flat-headed deity. This imposing edifice, austere and dark, is not a castle but the medieval monastery of St John, looming high above the town. Its sombre, fortified walls stand in stark contrast to the surrounding brilliance: the dazzling whitewashed buildings below, illuminated by the morning sun, and the cheerful flower-laden balconies with their blue shutters, which characterise the town at the monastery’s feet.

 

Jon is transfixed by the splendour of the scene. The sky above is a flawless, celestial blue, unmarred by clouds, while the sea below glitters in the sunlight, its waves murmuring softly against the shore. The beach stretches endlessly, curving eastwards and lined with feathery tamarisk trees, which seem to melt into the hazy distance west of the dock. Even in the early hours, the sun’s heat is enough to draw a shimmering veil of warmth from the quayside.

 

He draws a deep breath, absorbing a view that feels almost too perfect—a quintessential image of late summer in the Greek islands. Yet, the brooding presence of the monastery above hints at something more profound. Patmos, Jon realises, is an island of contrasts: it enchants those who appreciate complexity, who enjoy their coffee bitter and their wine robust, and those who relish a touch of spice in their chosen paradise. The landscape, with its juxtaposition of beauty and austerity, resonates deeply with those seeking more than just surface tranquillity.

 

Lacking sleep, a wooden bench on the open deck of a ferry is not a recipe for a peaceful night, Jon is a little disorientated. He fiddles with the clasp of his watch – a Rolex; a Perpetual – a timepiece that never ages. Glancing at it now, he is reminded that he used to treasure that watch. It cost him a fortune, a symbol not just of the world of Western male privilege that he was born into but the wealth he once acquired. Now it feels like a ridiculous indulgence, out of step, out of time in this ancient world. He should sell it, get some cash and spend a few nights in a nice hotel, clean himself up and perhaps get a new suit. As if that would do any good. A crooked, cynical smile breaks the tired face for a moment as he clicks the clasp shut on his wrist.

 

Below him, the car deck is alive with activity as impatient passengers prepare to disembark. Engines splutter into life, filling the confined space with the odour of petrol and anticipation. A small pickup, its bed piled high with vegetables, edges forward in the queue, while a handful of fellow travellers—some burdened with bags and battered rucksacks—wait their turn to leave the ferry behind. Amongst them, a group of national service soldiers, homeward bound on leave, shift restlessly in their camouflage and khaki uniforms. Their faces are marked by fatigue from the journey, and their demeanour is surly, their eyes glancing with suspicion towards the outsider in their midst.

 

Jon, clad in tattered jeans but conspicuously marked out by the expensive watch on his wrist, feels the weight of their unease. There is a tangible sense of resentment in the air, an unspoken question hanging between them—who does he think he is, this foreigner mingling with locals at the tail end of the tourist season? Perhaps, they wonder, he fancies himself a late-blooming adventurer, trying to recapture the spirit of his more adventurous youth. The judgement in their gaze is clear and unyielding: what a wanker.

 

Jon drops his head, careful to avoid the inquisitive gazes of those around him. A tangled lock of his unkempt hair falls forward, creating a thin veil that shields his expression from view. The soundscape is abruptly dominated by the harsh clatter of the pickup’s starter motor, which drowns out the shouts of the crewmen. The ancient vehicle sputters to life, its engine belching a thick cloud of black diesel smoke that quickly fills the enclosed car deck.

 

The young soldiers nearby watch the scene with unconcealed disdain. As the fumes billow around them, they drift apart, waving away the offensive smoke with grubby hands protruding from their rolled-up sleeves. The uniforms hang awkwardly on their barely grown frames, the fabric loose and ill-fitting, youth and inexperience embodied in an oversized cheap camouflage combo.

 

On the dockside, Jon notices a gathering of locals. Some are waiting to greet returning relatives, while others stand poised to offer rooms, studios, or apartments to arriving travellers. There are also those who appear simply to be onlookers, eager to witness the daily ritual of the ferry’s arrival—a highlight in the island’s quiet routine. This is the final port of call on the ferry’s journey through the Dodecanese before it makes its return to Rhodes, so every passenger is preparing to disembark.

 

Remaining on the upper deck, Jon lingers in the shadows near the gangway, his presence marked by a mood of quiet withdrawal. He appears as a solitary, brooding figure, half-hidden and detached from the bustle around him. Suddenly, a group of children, full of excitement and impatience, race towards the ramp. They brush past Jon, their laughter and shouts brightening the atmosphere as they hurry to meet grandparents waiting eagerly on the dock below. Jolted by their exuberance, Jon instinctively steps aside, momentarily displaced by their youthful energy.

 

V

 

Not so long ago, Jon had found himself in a very different kind of crowd. He remembers how a similar group of enthusiastic ‘children’ masquerading as young professionals had once swept past him in a flurry of energy. He recalls with uncomfortable clarity the clinical, clean open-plan office, perched high above the city on the nineteenth floor. Here, the environment was charged with ambition and adrenaline, as several young traders surged by, engrossed in excitable chatter, celebrating the success of a freshly secured deal.

 

Amidst the bustle, a clean-shaven Jon emerges from the haze of his selective memory. In this recollection, he appears paler and heavier, dressed in a grey suit that seems almost to absorb him, making him invisible amidst the relentless activity of the trading floor. He recognises, with a dull ache, that he is ignored, overlooked, and out-dated—a relic among the feverish youth. The traders around him move at a frenetic pace, their actions sharp and purposeful, while Jon experiences himself as if trapped in slow motion, his body weighed down as though he is wading through treacle.

            

He drags his hands wearily across his desktop, his gaze lingering on the twin screens before him, each filled with a dense web of graphs and data. There was a time when these shifting patterns told a story he could decipher; now, the graphs appear as a bewildering tangle, all lines spiralling downward, a visual representation of decline and loss. The sense of meaning that once animated his work has dissolved, leaving only the sorrowful evidence of things falling apart.

 

Jon is done with this. While he knows, deep down, that he is capable of rescuing the situation—pulling things back from the edge of catastrophe—he finds himself utterly bereft of motivation. The sheer scale of the effort required is overwhelming, and the thought of trying only fills him with fatigue.

 

A door clicks open beside him, leading into a private side office. A woman appears, younger and impeccably dressed in a sharp suit. The nameplate on her door reads ‘Pippa Harris, Executive Director, Wealth Management’. She calls out to him, her tone brisk but polite. 

 

“Jon, could you pop in for a minute please?”

 

With a weary sigh, Jon rises from his chair, moving without enthusiasm towards her office. In his mind, he is already bracing himself for what awaits him beyond the open door: the inevitable reckoning, the execution of someone who has become outdated, underperforming, and redundant. The sense of dread is inescapable as he steps forward, knowing all too well what is to come.

 

V

 

The ferry jolts as it hits the dock, forcing Jon to grip the handrail tightly in order to steady himself. The sudden, physical shock pulls him out of his sorrowful reverie and back into the present moment, anchoring him to the reality of the here and now. Almost immediately, a rusty speaker positioned not far from his head crackles into life, its abrupt noise making Jon duck instinctively. A voice bursts forth in rapid, staccato Greek, filling the air with unfamiliar urgency. After a brief pause, an English translation follows, clear and commanding:

 

“Patmos, this is Patmos. This is the last port of call. The final destination. All passengers are to disembark here.”

 

A sudden, persistent beeping slices through the air, signalling that the ferry doors are beginning to descend. Harsh and unforgiving, the alarm dominates the deck, its shrillness almost painful to the ear. As intense light pours across the space, the dock comes sharply into focus, each detail illuminated by the midday sun. The ramp, heavy and unwieldy, crashes down onto the concrete with a thunderous impact—so abrupt and violent that Jon cannot help but wince. He wonders, with a flash of irritation, whether such force is truly necessary. Must the process be so jarring? And does the alarm have to be so unbearably loud?

 

Jon feels no urgency to move. Instead, he props himself against a cold metal beam, eyes closed, letting the cacophony wash over him. The beeping continues, relentless and inescapable, echoing not just around him but within him—resonating in his mind, ricocheting inside his skull, growing in intensity the longer he waits.

 

V

 

The incessant sound triggers another recollection, another fragmented memory, the past revisited in random order, never sequential, dreamlike, yet startlingly fresh and clear on the mind. This one of a kitchen, where the oven timer is beeping insistently to announce that the cakes are ready. Jon stands, slightly awkward, leaning against the doorframe. From behind, a boy approaches, hesitating only for a moment before squeezing past Jon on his way out to the garden, a football tucked securely under one arm. Too late Jon realises he has been blocking the way and steps aside.

 

A loud sigh breaks the silence, followed by the clink of a glass. The sigh comes from a woman seated at the kitchen table. She turns to watch the young boy as he leaves, her gaze lingering for a moment. In front of her, a laptop is open, and the table is cluttered with papers, leaving barely enough room for her glass of iced tea. Rising to her feet, she carefully places the glass on a battered, stained coaster resting on the faded pine table. As she does so, she runs a tired hand through her hair, exhaling slowly—a gesture of both habit and fatigue. She is a young mother, clearly busy and accustomed to juggling multiple tasks at once. In stark contrast, Jon stands idle, contributing little to the activity around him. One is multitasking, the other is not tasking very much at all.

 

This is Gina’s kitchen. Jon, her father, is ill at ease. He might say he was merely lost in thought at the threshold, unaware of his grandson’s approach, with no intent to impede the boy’s path. Yet Gina is incredulous, standing with her hands on her hips, her posture conveying both exasperation and disbelief at her father’s absent-mindedness.

 

“Dad! For heaven’s sake, Dad, you’re always in the way! Are you even going to...?”

 

Jon snaps out of his thoughts, startled by Gina’s exasperated voice. 

 

“What?” he replies, unsure what he has done wrong this time.

 

Gina hesitates, her frustration evident yet tinged with a desire to soften the moment.

 

“Just tell me, Gina, what have I done wrong now?”

 

She tries to ease her tone, attempting to bridge the gap between them. 

 

“You know Joey would love it if you could, just once…” she begins, her words trailing off as she stoops to pick up the oven gloves that have fallen to the floor.

 

But Jon, lost in his own thoughts more than stubborn, simply can’t keep up. He stands there, misplaced and a little hurt, missing the point as he so often does. For a moment, he tells himself to get a grip, but the feeling passes, as surely as any grip he once had has long gone.

 

Gina sighs, her patience wearing thin. “No. Well, no, you’re not, are you?”

 

Jon, chastised and wincing as the oven alarm continues its relentless beeping, turns away. He heads out into the garden to try and find Joey, hoping, perhaps, to make amends or simply to be present.

 

Yet, once again, his timing is off.  The opportunity has already slipped away. Joey is gone, the back gate left open behind him, gone to the park to play with his friend, his friend’s dog and no doubt, the friend’s quicker off the mark and gainfully employed or fully pensioned up grandpa.

 

V

 

Back in Pippa’s office, the persistent beeping continues, echoing the uncomfortable tension in the room. Outside, a lorry reverses in the street, its mechanical warning joining the scene with the monotone repetition of a recorded message: 

 

“Attention, this vehicle is reversing. Attention, this vehicle is reversing...” 

 

The intrusive sound mirrors the mood. Jon, with a painfully accurate summary, breaks the silence. 

 

“So, it’s goodbye and fuck off, is it?” 

 

His words snap Pippa’s attention back to the present, forcing her to confront the reality of the moment.

 

Pippa tries to soften the blow. 

 

“Don’t be like that, Jon, look on the bright side. It’s a decent package, you could take time out, Lord knows, you’ll hardly be alone...” 

 

But Jon remains unmoved, his expression inscrutable, as Pippa searches for the right words. She is clearly uncomfortable, loathing the task before her, but bound by instructions handed down from above. Worse still, this scene has become all too familiar, an almost weekly ritual of breaking bad news to loyal staff, many who have served the company for years.

 

Pippa wonders what happened to the principle of ‘last in, first out’. Jon has been around since she first joined, a fixture in the company’s landscape. Yet, things have changed: Jon’s demeanour is now quiet and moody, his clients uncertain of him. His performance has declined alarmingly, and he is increasingly isolated; no one seems to want to work with him anymore.

 

Even at last week’s golf day, Jon was a crashing bore. Still a natural competitor, he wins with ease, but with little grace. He can’t even be bothered to pretend, he can’t even manage to lose a game to a client when he knows he should.

 

She draws herself back to the present, trying to steady her nerves and focus on the task at hand. 

 

“Look, I don’t know. Since Alex... Well... You’ve not been yourself. Take some time out – do a PhD, go fishing, play golf...” 

 

Pippa does not get the reaction she hopes for as Jon’s face descends into a scowl. This is not going well. It rarely does.

 

Struggling to fill the silence, she tries to suggest something—anything—that might offer Jon some comfort or distraction. 

 

“Maybe take your daughter shopping, take your grandson to a theme park.”

 

“There are easier ways to kill myself…”

            

Pippa lets out a nervous laugh, searching for something positive to offer Jon. 

 

“Look, I don’t know, you could travel? Yes, why not? Take the gap year you never had.” She tries to lighten the mood, referencing Jon’s history. “I’ve seen your file. You didn’t even do the university thing. How old were you when you came into this business?”

 

Jon’s reply is matter-of-fact: “I didn’t want to waste any time.”

 

Pippa presses on, “Forty years of this? More? God, isn’t it enough?”          

 

Jon’s response is subdued, a single word: “Yes...”

 

“So, get out! Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag and all that. I know I would if I could. Look, I’ll give you some time to think it through, get used to it, you know...”

 

“Thanks”

 

Pippa steels herself, determined to push through this uncomfortable moment and bring the conversation to its conclusion. Shit, let’s just get this over with. “No worries... Just...”

 

“What?” he says impatiently.

 

“Well, if you could clear your desk first,” she says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Yes, and if you could be out of the building, shall we say, no later than twelve?”

 

Jon glances sideways at the clock. It is just coming up to ten thirty.

 

“And, really, please believe me, I am sorry. I think... Well, I genuinely wish you all the very best for the future…”

 

It is a futile attempt to lighten the moment. Kindly meant, but her clumsy, awkward delivery makes the line seem insincere to Jon and does nothing to ease the mood as Pippa comes around from behind the desk and Jon stands and moves to the door. She puts a hand on the crook of Jon’s elbow in a last vain attempt to soften the blow. Jon turns sharply, the look is a glower, cynical more than raging, but all the same, the weight behind it is palpable, she can tell that there is something dark, bleak and destructive simmering under the surface. It’s not threatening, the anger is focused inwards, but she is deeply uncomfortable and can’t wait for him to leave. For a moment they are juxtaposed in a silent impasse.

 

Outside the window, the world carries on regardless. The beeping of a reversing refuse lorry fills the air, the automated warning— “Attention, this vehicle is reversing…”—cutting through the silence, a jarring counterpoint to the emotional turmoil unfolding inside.

 

V

 

Back on the ferry, back in the present, his smart suit long gone, and back in his faded, ripped and holed check shirt and torn jeans, Jon steps forward towards the exit. He momentarily loses balance. The crewman steps back, smiles and holds his palms up to indicate he meant no harm and Jon is immediately embarrassed. He attempts an apologetic smile and mutters a thin, “Sorry, sorry . . .”

 

Jon is returned once more to the present, the sharp contrast between his current state and former self all too evident. The smart suit he once wore is now a distant memory, replaced by a faded, ripped, and holed check shirt, and equally battered jeans. He takes a hesitant step towards the exit, but he momentarily loses balance and the hand on his elbow is no longer that of Pippa, now it is a crewman in fluorescent waistcoat over grubby denim reaching out and steadying him.

 

Reacting instinctively, Jon turns and shrugs the man off, embarrassed by the sudden contact. The crewman responds with a gentle smile, stepping back and raising his hands in a gesture that signals he means no harm. Jon’s face flushes with discomfort at his own reaction. He manages a thin, awkward smile and mutters an apology, his voice barely audible: “Sorry, sorry…”

The crewman remains charming and polite; “Parakalo. Please. No problem.”

Jon puts his hands to his head as the beeping continues. The ringing in his ears is reverberating in his cranium, like a bad case of tinnitus on speed, becoming too much to bear; please stop, just stop.

 

V

 

“Please let it stop…”

 

So, Jon’s mind leaps him back again to another random snippet of the past. It is just over three years ago, and Alex holds her head in her hands. A packet of pills lies in front of her, her scarf on the table next to them, as her cell phone lights up with another message. She pulls her hands away from her face and a few small strands of grey hair fall between her fingers. Picking up the phone she turns it over to try and find the power button to turn the damn thing off, to put an end to the buzzing as well-meaning friends add desperate, philosophical, inspiring, kindly intended, but ultimately useless, platitudinous messages.

 

The kettle on the side burbles madly away and then clicks to indicate it has boiled. She looks up and hums to herself, trying to remember a tune, then breaking into the words as the cogs turn in her brain, the image of an ancient commercial floats into her mind and she gets there; “I like a nice cup of tea in the morning; I like a nice cup of tea with my tea.”

 

Jon comes through from behind her and takes a mug from the rack as he joins in with the tune:

“- and when it’s time for bed, there’s a lot to be said for a nice cup of tea.”

 

A moment of tender laughter is shared between them.

 

Jon beams at his beloved wife. Dear lord, he loves her so much. But it almost hurts her more to know it. How can this be happening? How can this be real?

 

But, yes, a cup of tea solves everything. Time to breathe, relish the hours that we have left, make the most of those comforting words and put on a brave face. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Grin and bear it as best we can and leave the world, or at least our small part of it, just a little the better for our presence here.

 

The teaspoon in the mug rattles loudly as Jon gives it a good stir. Two thirds tea, one third milk. Oat milk. Just the way she likes it. Devotion is presented in a hand painted ceramic mug of clowns in bright pink and blue tumbling over themselves on a yellow background. Whittard of Chelsea printed on the bottom; it is a happy memento from... when? Too many years ago to remember how many but holding the mug is as comforting and familiar as the warm brew it contains.

 

So, answer some of those kind texts, reassure them, ease their pain even if you can’t ease your own. That’s what mother would have done, isn’t it? Isn’t that what she did? She was always good at fixing things, fixing people, ‘make do and mend’ applied to personal relationships as much as a woolly jumper. That’s where the inherited compulsion to save the world comes from, the need to look after everyone. Old school values, not for this narcissistic age perhaps, but one can’t shake one’s heritage completely.

 

“Biscuit?” A break in the voice as the word catches in his throat.

 

“No thanks, just the tea is lovely. Thank you, Jon.” 

 

And, anyway, what’s the alternative? A final grand gesture? Take a long jump of a short pier? Throw yourself off Beachy Head cliff in a five hundred feet plunge? And ruin the lives of others who are forced to pick the pieces off the rocks? No.

 

No. But if only that damn phone would stop buzzing. How the hell do you change the tone? Even vibrate makes an unholy, invasive din as it bounces around the table. Dear God, there it goes again.

 

V

 

In London the lorry is still beeping in the street below, waiting for a large car to move out of the way. The blast of a horn floats up towards the open window on an upper floor of the office block where Jon watches impassively. Two men in reflective jackets close in on a blue Chelsea tractor, a large four-wheel drive sport utility vehicle that is neither very sporty nor very useful. 

 

The scene below is all hot air and no action, just lots of testosterone fuelled posturing. Jon can imagine the angry man with a small personality sitting behind the steering wheel of the four by four and, sure enough, the driver's window slides down and a shaved head leans out to have his say, a belligerent attitude and a bald pate shining pink in the weak sunlight. The finger pointing starts and incoherent shouts follow, peppered with a few colourful and articulate curses. But the impatient man’s stand is short lived, and the reflective jacket stands impassive, his hands on his hips, as finally the car reverses back up the narrow street. 

 

Jon closes the window and the banter from below is muffled. He turns away, taking a cardboard box off the windowsill as he leaves the room. A last glance back at an empty desk and thin bare partition walls before he drops his head and makes his way out into the corridor.

The sound outside and inside Jon’s head ceases with one last ‘ping’.

 

V

 

Ping. Back in time, another memory, as Jon stands in front of a microwave oven in his kitchen. He opens the door and reaches in to take out a steaming baked potato. It is red hot and burns his fingers. He whips his hand away dropping the potato, which rolls out onto the freshly cleaned worktop. He wrings his hand and sucks his scalded fingers. Pulling a drying-up cloth from the drawer under the counter, he tries again, picking up the potato and gingerly placing it on a small floral plate.

 

Taking a sharp knife from a knife-block Jon holds the potato in his left hand, protected by the cloth, and pierces the skin with the point of the knife, clinically and cleanly slicing it down the middle and letting it fall open. Pleased with himself, he takes a plastic bottle of mayonnaise, flips the lid and squeezes some onto the steaming innards of the potato. Grabbing a tray from the side he places the plate and its appetising contents on the tray with a small knife and fork. Flipping the cold tap on at the sink, he lets it run for few seconds before pouring cold water from the tap into a glass. 

 

Balancing the glass and plate on the tray, Jon steps out of the kitchen and begins to climb the stairs. An urgent call echoes down the stairwell. “Jon! Jon! Where the hell are you?”

 

“Coming, darling, just coming…”

 

Jon comes off the top step and crosses to the bedroom door. As the door swings open... “There was no need to be all day about it!” 

 

He proudly places the tray on a large bedside table beside the bed where Alex lies propped up on pillows with a brightly coloured headscarf tied around her head, an open book at her side as she pulls off her reading glasses and pinches her nose between thumb and forefinger. Smiling, his blue eyes twinkling, Jon plays the part of the room service waiter…“Lunch! Just as you requested, madam, Pommes de Terre a la Mayonnaise!”

 

The response is harsh and quick; “What…?”

 

“Baked potato, with lashings of your favourite Heinz Mayo…”

 

Alex is confounded. “What the hell are you talking about?  I hate mayonnaise!”

 

Jon drops the act… “It’s what you asked for…”

 

“No, I didn’t, why would I do such a thing?”

 

“But you did... Perhaps you forgot.”

 

“Forgot? Of course I didn’t forget. I’ve never liked mayonnaise. You know that. Surely you know that. In all the time that we’ve been married have you ever seen me put mayonnaise on anything. Just answer me that. Have I ever? Have I?”

 

Crestfallen, Jon looks down at his feet, a scolded schoolboy. “I don’t know… It’s just what you asked for…”

 

“Are you calling me a liar? You are, aren’t you? You’re calling me a liar.”

 

“No. No, of course not…”

 

Alex’s voice rises to a thin screech, “Take it away, will you? Take it away!!”

 

In a fit of temper, Alex sweeps out her arm, sending the tray flying onto the floor. The glass of water sprays Jon as the potato and mayonnaise splash out in bits and pieces onto the carpet.  Shocked at her own outburst, Alex turns her head away and buries her face in the bedding as Jon goes down onto his hands and knees to clear up the mess.

 

Jon becomes aware that Alex is now sobbing, short little gasps of breath, or at least, as much as she can manage as she gives little, wheezy wails of anguish into the soft pillow. He looks up, getting up on one knee and places a hand on the bed next to her trailing left arm… “I’m sorry, darling, I’ll get you something else.”

 

She is almost inaudible, into the pillow… “No… No, don’t bother.”

 

Jon takes his wife’s left hand in his and although she doesn’t turn over, keeping her back to him as she gasps for snatches of breath through the tears, he is, at least, a little comforted by the gentle squeeze she gives him in return.

 

Eventually her breathing becomes regular, her tears relent, she turns a little towards him and mutters quietly. “I’m so sorry… I know I shouldn’t say it. I know I shouldn’t… but it just seems so bloody unfair.”

 

“Yes… yes, it is.”

 

With her back to him, Alex remains unaware that Jon, too, is quietly crying into the pillow. As he sits beside her, his own emotions swell within him—an intense mixture of dread, fear, and profound sorrow that threatens to overwhelm him. Though she cannot see his tears, they mirror her anguish, both caught in the silent storm of their shared pain.