Human Remains

it feels weird that I moved into your house. And now going on holiday with you. I’m no good at all this stuff; I never really understand people’s motives. And I’d really hate for you to be… you know… expecting…’
    ‘I’m not expecting anything, he said. ‘And it’s not weird that you moved in. We invited you, didn’t we? It’s what friends do – help each other out.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I was feeling hot all of a sudden. The fact that he was so disarmingly relaxed was making it far more difficult even than I’d imagined it might be.
    ‘You don’t need to be,’ he said.
    ‘Are you gay?’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, not that you have to be gay not to be interested in me, far from it, I mean why would you be interested in me, after all? I’m twelve years older than you at least and… well…’ I looked down at myself as though that made the point.
    Sam’s gulp of coffee had gone down the wrong way. When he recovered, he stared into the dregs of his cup intently, as though the answer lay in the foam.
    ‘I’m not gay.’ He was smiling, trying not to laugh. ‘I’m just happily single right now, is that OK?’
    There was a momentary pause. I sipped my tea. This wasn’t going very well. I was just working up to another apology when he surprised me.
    ‘It’s not that you’re not attractive. I think you’re lovely, and of course you’re clever and very interesting to talk to, even though you don’t seem to realise it. But…’ He took a deep breath in. ‘Can we just be friends?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said, with relief. ‘That sounds great.’
    ‘And that means we can go on holiday?’
    I couldn’t very well refuse now, could I? ‘Alright, then,’ I said. ‘As friends.’
    In my bag, my phone started ringing. The caller display showed a withheld number – which meant it was probably Police HQ. I took a deep breath and answered it.

Colin
     
     
    I’ve always taken pride in making the best of any given situation. Even if I do whinge and complain from time to time, I see that as being a healthy expression of indignation, pertaining to any infringement of my basic rights.
    In this case, my right to liberty.
    The solicitor (invariably they seem to send the junior out to me, a young man in an ill-fitting suit with a pustular outbreak around his hairline – but he seems efficient enough) has been unable to tell me exactly how long I might be here. They have me on remand, charged with abduction and assault, which is horrific enough but not beyond the limits of my endurance. I have achieved a certain notoriety already, and, as for those of my fellow jailbirds who choose not to take me seriously, I only have to look at them in a certain way and mumble a few incantations and they back off immediately. It’s really rather comical, and it passes the time.
    The downside to my notoriety is that this is the third remand centre I’ve been shipped to since my second arrest. Every time a suicide takes place in whatever institution I’m in, they decide I must be responsible for it and move me elsewhere.
    It’s utterly ridiculous, of course, as I’ve told them many times – I have no interest in death itself. Why would I even bother? Being moved around like this is a hideous inconvenience. I don’t know why they don’t just put me in some sort of solitary confinement; that would be infinitely more agreeable to me. I might suggest it if I get moved again.
    I am also getting letters from people in the most appalling circumstances – people paralysed following accidents, suffering terminal illnesses, those who want to ‘die with dignity’ but can’t afford to take themselves off to Switzerland and don’t want their loved ones to take any blame.
    I can’t help them, of course. Well, perhaps I could – and in response to one particularly touching letter I did reply suggesting they research voluntary refusal of food on the internet – but why the hell should I? There is nothing for me following their death, after all. There will be no process to observe.
    I’ve given up reading the newspapers. I was in an almost constant state of outrage. The debate about euthanasia that has been provoked by my activity was quite intriguing to follow, but once the ‘bereaved families’ formed themselves into a mutual support group I had to stop reading.
Bereaved families
, indeed. Where were they when their so-called ‘loved ones’ were suffering? What support did they provide to the lonely,