Deleted Scene

(Scene from the POV of Martin Greenwood, Michael’s father. This is just after Michael returns in the middle of the night after disappearing for a decade. Michael was always volatile and frightening. Now - even more than before - something about him is not quite right.)

  I pretended to fall asleep because I did not want one of those grand debates even older couples sometimes get into about the nature of reality. But in truth I lay awake for a long time wondering just what we had down there.

As I pondered I became angry. Michael had ruled our lives with hhis extraordinary temper then bailed out. Not only had I lost my son, I had also lost my wife. For over a decade Claire had shut down like a TV on standby, waiting for some word from him. Every moment was defined by whether or not Michael came back. Now we discovered he had been alive and well all along. And he did not even apologise.

It had taken me a long time to let go of my hopes for him. He had all these practical skills – talking, writing, arguing - and I’d hoped he would go to the bar. He was a bit of a pugilist and I thought it might be a good outlet for his aggression. I suppose I also had secret fantasies about being a barrister and I hoped Michael might fulfil them. Aren’t our children supposed to make us proud?

But I let go of all of that after he disappeared, and now I saw things more clearly than Claire. His disappearance was actually a mercy. Every moment was quieter, more comfortable, more productive. Life had a linearity, a clarity that he had blurred and despoiled since the day he was born. We stopped having to contort ourselves like circus performers to avoid upsetting what should not be so easily upset. The eggshells were gone, and the ground was solid, faithful and uncomplaining beneath my feet. I found it easier to get on with people because I was no longer the man with the peculiar son who might therefore be peculiar himself. Instead I had become the man who knew loss and yet carried on with good cheer. Much more comfortable for everyone concerned.

  The truth was that I wished Michael had stayed lost. Perhaps he was not as volatile as before but I found him threatening, thuggish. I did not trust his detached demeanour further than I could throw it. There was something about his shoulders – one was lower than the other and had a strange bony peak in it – that made him different, Michael but not Michael. A simulacrum. That smile of his – the way it stayed fixed on his lips, as if he was a puppet. Nobody smiled like that. I resolved to get a lock on our bedroom door the very next day.

  It started to rain and although the windows were closed there was a clatter, leavened by the odd pop of an individual raindrop on the window pane. Ordinarily I would find it pleasing but tonight I was too angry to enjoy it. It was only when a great fatigue overcame me that I finally fell asleep.