Rhinoceros 32 (Epilogue)
The sun had passed its zenith. Many weary walkers, growing pink and frazzled, had piled into already crowded pubs and cafes.
Alan, dressed in a jacket of uncertain provenance, scuffed shoes (Shapers, TK Maxx), checked shirt (Primark sale), corduroy slacks, hair thinning, in need of a trim, lank like an old dog's, a small hole in his right earlobe from a previous brave attempt to join the post-punk generation, sits on a millstone in an ancient quarry., glad to leave the crowds behind, a private man valuing this privacy.
Jen, with freckles aforementioned to the fore, hair tied back (utilitarian), clothes practical rather than figure hugging, lacking the threadbare and dog-eared tendencies preferred by her partner, stands by the millstone, hands on hips, looking upon the gorge with an appreciative and contemplative stance. She begins the conversation.
"So do you regret getting mixed up with the Mitchelsons?"
"No regrets, Jen. Well, yes, but it isn't really worth it. May as well learn from whatever gets thrown at me, move on."
"Makes you sound like a fatalist."
"Yeah, perhaps. Recent events had a hand in that."
"I still would have gone straight to the police, though. Every time."
"Yeah, well, I've worked with the police quite a lot over the years. I think Ryon and I share an opinion about their legendary fairness and efficiency. Besides, you're sensible and pragmatic."
"Then you will have to learn to be. If we are going to be an item, I mean."
"An item?"
"Alright, a feature. A thing? A pair? Whatever."
A stillness settled across the moors, like a song sigh of resignation. Coolness gathered in the longer shadows, preparing to bleed across the heated landscape. Jen continued.
"It's all about fear. The fear is more important than the pain or the damage."
"What? Oh, the Mitchelsons again. Well, it worked, I was fucking terrified."
"I can image. Or at least I think I can. Bit like being bullied at school. The psychological torture, the looks and whispers. Girls are better at that than boys."
"Hmm. Maybe."
“So they put the footage of your Head on YouTube?”
“The Mitchelsons? I guess so. Ryon never said. But the police traced it back to their laptop, so I suppose they did. But it could have been any of the goons in their house. Perhaps they got bored waiting around for Mitchelson to fart.”
“So, the Mitchelsons basically saved your job.”
“Jen, if you want to play spot-the-irony, I’ve got a list.”
“And that’s where the story ends?”
“Not quite.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t think stories have endings in reality.”
“You’re not suggesting you are about to do yet another dumb thing? Get another beating for your efforts?”
“No. I’ve realised now that the world is... well, my place in it is decidedly tenuous. All my life I’ve struggled to learn face to face contact, the art of small talk, the intentions behind people’s words. But I also believe that we can be anyone we want, like an avatar, it's just very difficult. We are all habitual creatures.”
“Are you writing a thesis?”
“Just catching up with reality.”
"Let's go home."
"Home..."
"Eh?"
"Just relishing the sound of it. Home..."
It turned out to be surprisingly easy. In fact Alan thought that the ease of it all was wrong; it made him uneasy. So little physical effort. The internet should be incredibly difficult to work, like a traction engine, or a clock radio. It's so big, complex. How can anyone be permitted to work it? Without a licence.
So first he got himself a YouTube account. That involved thinking up a password and a name. Then he clicked ‘Upload’ and located the video. The film needed a title. Alan thought for a minute. No point being obtuse. He typed in ‘The Mitchelsons caught at last’. Then he typed a few keywords (‘Criminal, stolen, secret…’) for tags and a short description of the film, ensuring he included a few pertinent details, specific to the events. Done.
He sat back, both scared and pleased with himself. Then in his new mindset of purpose and forward motion he looked up the contact details of the local paper. He wasn’t sure this would work, but his mind raced ahead, anyway. Letter or phone? He went for the quick option. Risky, he thought, but he was becoming reckless. He dialled. He asked for a reporter, waited, listening to the tinkle of a supermarket tune, then heard a voice, more bored than curious.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got a story for you.”
The thought of the nation tuning in to his own story was both comforting and, in terms of physics, universally expansive. Alan felt like a sporadic particle created by incredible impact, at once a part of everything but soon to die as though never having existed. Even fifteen minutes of fame is too long for the twenty first century. A minute will do it, he thought, as he reflected on the post-event glow after the evening news. That’s another thing he had recently discovered – the television was in his flat all along, in a small window via the internet. Life was all windows and quick navigation these days. Time didn’t pass by any more, it scrolled down.
The reporter was emphatic in his facial earnestness and hand gestures. There was too much of him, really; he was enjoying the story so much. He stood before the Sheffield Magistrates Court as the wind ruffled his sideburns and told the nation that the conviction of the ‘notorious’ Mitchelsons had been supported by a ‘sensational online posting of an incriminating video’ showing the evil masterminds at work. And although the evidence was inadmissible in court, the impact would have wider reverberations throughout this nation'. Yeah, right, Alan thought. It will be forgotten about in a week, Britain remaining unfixed. The reporter went on, too much time to fill. He believed that the film had been ‘shot and posted online by a disgruntled former associate of Mr Mitchelson’, and that this had ‘lifted the lid on a murky world of internecine thuggery, Artful Dodger style thievery and a black market underclass. He really was getting very full of himself, this reporter. Perhaps there was a studio job in the offing. He went on, 'The magistrate pointed out that the days are gone when we all tolerated an Arthur Daley spiv in our midst,' and he stared fixedly, righteously, at Alan, steeped in his own verbosity, “He has been replaced by the modern fence, as likely to crowbar you over the head as mark up a watch that fell off the back of a lorry.” And so he concluded, signing off with heavy emphasis on his name.
Alan could not stop smiling. How quick a facilitator of fantasies the modern media is. How reactive and predictable in its haste to put words to the perceived world. Alan, or any other intelligent consumer of the news, could have written that reporter’s script in advance.
The phone rang.
“Mr Scope?” asked a voice, only slightly familiar.
“Er, yes?”
“DC Wright. We met recently in your flat. We had an inconclusive discussion about the Mitchelsons.”
“Oh yes.”
“Can we talk for a minute?” Before Alan could answer, he went on. “The Mitchelsons, Mr Scope. I expect you have been watching the news.”
“Erm, I did catch something about them, yes.”
"Hmm. I got your letter. Thanks. But putting the stuff online like that was, well, it complicated the case. The CPS nearly killed it. You shouldn't've done that, Mr Scope."
Alan thought for a few seconds. This should be easy, really. After all, a few years in Greenlands School and, without even realising it, he had acquired enough stonewalling skills to blank out a lottery win. He’d never considered this until now.
"How do you know it was me?"
But the voice in the receiver carried on in disregard.
“It puts you at their gutter level, Mr Scope. A bit like dogs, really. Pissing on each other's trees. You should've left it to me.”
“Perhaps.”
"When I called round to your flat, Mr Scope, you seemed, um, evasive. Perhaps you were weighing up the odds even then, eh?"
“That’s one of many possibilities, DC Wright.”
“Well, that’s by the by. The crux is that we are now actively searching for Ryon Walker. I understand he has discharged himself from hospital recently. Did you meet him?”
“Why would I?”
“A long-standing involvement on a personal and professional level, Mr Scope.”
“That was until…that was then. He’s left school now.”
“So you don’t know where he is currently residing?”
“Nope.”
"No communication from him?"
"Nope."
"Nothing?"
"As I said-"
"Yeah, got it, you helped him and his mum out, visited him at home, advocated for him, entwined your life with his, but now, nothing. Finito."
"It was - is - my job."
"I've got a job, too, but I don't visit the crims socially in their homes."
"That's why you didn't go into teaching."
“Anyway, that's all by the by. You are saying, categorically, that you didn’t see him on his recent stay in the Northern General?”
“I knew nothing about it.” Of course, Alan thought, breathing a nervous sigh away from the mouthpiece, it’s a lot easier over the phone.
“Right. Of course. And the film of the Mitchelsons that’s been all over the news recently – which you, um, say you caught something about, that wasn't concocted, planned, dreamed up by you and Ryon Walker all along?”
"Is that what you think?"
"I think whatever the evidence tells me to think, Mr Scope. Both you and Ryon hated the headteacher, the film came from your camera which ended up in Ryon's possession-"
"Nicked!"
"- ended up in Ryon's possession. Just facts, that's all, not thoughts."
"The case is over now. Mitchelson is inside."
"Loose ends, Mr Scope. Very messy. He won't be inside for long with good behaviour."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a fact."
"How reassuring the police force are in these difficult times."
“And there is nothing further you can tell me about Walker, a person you were, until recently, very close to, and who is now being sought by the police in connection with a number of serious offences?”
“I’m sure I would tell you if I knew any more.”
“I’m sure you would, Mr Scope. Well, I’ll leave you to ponder on the implications of our conversation.”
“I will. Thank you for calling,” Alan said brightly, wondering if he was going just a tad too far. He could hear the detective breathing down the line. Alan imagined his cluttered work space, the phone cupped in the crick of his neck, his pen recording each self-incriminatory comment. But what could he do? Alan’s experiences of the police told him that once they'd got their result, the loose ends would be left frayed as other cases took over and new targets needed attacking. He and Ryon and all the rest will be left to time and fate. Alan shrugged, entirely for his own benefit.
“Mr Scope?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a solicitor?”
“Why?”
“Just wondering. Goodbye, Mr Scope.”
Before Alan could reply the phone had cut off, and he was left listening to his own irritated exhalations. But Alan knew. He knew things that he didn’t even realise he knew. As was said. It was all thanks to Ryon and his misshapen life skills. Survive. That's it, really. And although he hoped never to see the looming form of Ryon again, he retained a quirky fondness for him, as one would a once-familiar postcard on the mantlepiece. Alan looked at the nebulous world in his vicinity, the new possessions, strange furniture belonging to someone else, waiting for him to assume some kind of shared ownership, and he spoke boldly to this world, in words of a large font, 72, Arial. “Thanks, Ryon,” he intoned, projected from the stage of his being, his imagination. Survival, yes. He brushed his hair back and scratched his sore face, grinning at the existential absurdity of it all.
“Thanks, you stupid bugger.”
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