Love Byte Read online

  The funeral took place five days later in the same church where only a few years earlier we’d been married. It was a desolate and gloomy January morning with intermittent sleet. The service passed me by; I can only remember bits of it. I’m told that Andrew Gillan delivered a touching and appropriate eulogy, whatever that meant, and everyone who mattered to Lindsay was there, except maybe her father. He had managed to avoid Lindsay for most of her life and managed to avoid her death as well. It was his loss and it gave Pauline something to moan about but I wasn’t bothered. Lindsay had given up on her father by the age of ten and I had never met the man. He lived in North London with Myah, a Vietnamese woman he had met while working in Thailand years earlier. He sent some drooping flowers and a cheap card. Lindsay deserved better: he shouldn’t have bothered.

  At the end of the service, just as we lifted the coffin, James Blunt’s worldwide hit ‘Beautiful’ started to play. This was at Lindsay’s request; she’d planned her funeral in meticulous detail. As the haunting notes of the song floated up into the rafters of the ancient church my despair sank to the floor. I also knew that from that day forward, whenever I heard that song, it would transport me back to that dark moment.

  I remembered lowering her coffin gently into the gaping hole that was to become her grave, and the icy wind that whipped around the cemetery. I remembered the dank scent of the freshly dug earth and the tears that were shed. I recalled the sad faces that floated in front of mine, offering hope, sympathy, memories of happy times and shared grief.

  I left the gathering after the funeral early, my excuse being that Amy had to go to bed. The truth was: I’d had enough. I declined any help that evening, leaving Pauline to deal with the food and drink bills, and drove home.

  Amy was tired; the day had been an exciting one for her. She obviously knew nothing about funerals, and was now used to her mummy not being around. To her the day was just a long one that stretched her bedtime out to eight o’clock. I didn’t bother bathing her but simply washed her hands and face before I settled her down in bed. I let her drink her bottle half-lying down. She drifted off to sleep midway through her milk and I had to pull the teat out of her mouth. It made a popping sound as I did so.

  Downstairs in the quiet and warm living room, I allowed myself to weep, the sobs racking my body like electric jolts as I poured out my grief.

  Grief is a weird thing. At first I was crying for myself, not for poor Lindsay. I was grieving for the desolate aching her death had left inside me, then for Amy who would never know her mother, and finally for the world which seemed a much poorer and emptier place without my wife in it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That had all been around seven months earlier and there I was, staring at an email. From whom? A prankster? If so, who? Maybe one of Lindsay’s old work mates or perhaps someone she had pissed off over the years? My wife was a lovely person but she didn’t suffer fools gladly (except me for some reason) so I could understand that maybe somebody somewhere might harbour a grudge against her – but if so, why wait until now?

  I began to read the text which was headed up in large letters:

  Love Byte 1

  My gorgeous husband Andy

  I’m pretty sure that you will be shocked to receive this from me, what, six months after my death?

  Seven and a bit actually, but not a bad guess in the circumstances I suppose, sweetheart, if this was from you.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve got, but I’m in an optimistic mood. I will keep this email short, partly because I’m very tired tonight and partly because I know this will be messing with your head, but I hope you like my title. I know you are not as up on techy stuff as me but a ‘byte’ – as you should know – is the smallest group of information that a computer can process in one go. And that’s what I’m gonna do: give you little ‘bytes’ of information that your brain can handle – and as they come from me, they are loaded with love!

  One more thing. I do hope you had me buried as agreed, Mr Hunter. If you changed your mind and had me cremated I WILL come back and haunt you . . . oops I’m doing that anyway. Cool eh?

  Anyway – more of that later. Your first thought will probably be, ‘Is this real?’. I mean really from me, not unreal as in you’re having a mental breakdown and imagining it or anything LOL, but I can assure you it is.

  The other thing you will be wondering is why? Ah, babes, that will become clear later, but in this email, I’m going to break you in gently, like the first time we slept together, can you remember that? I can.

  We were in town that Saturday night, I think it was our third date, and we were standing outside that horrible little pub in the high street – you remember the one, it burned down the following summer, no loss there – anyway we were outside because I needed a cigarette, and you were leaning on the wall waiting for me to finish. I looked at you and thought, ‘Tonight I’m going to shag you, mister.’ I was SO horny, and sure enough you came back to my flat and we made love until the sun came up. OK I didn’t exactly break you in gently, and I was a bit worried because – let’s face it – you are a few years older than me, and I wasn’t sure you’d keep up. But you did. I only mention this really so you will be convinced it’s actually me writing and not some hoaxer (is that a word, I’m not sure?).

  Hopefully the photo helps too, hard to believe I once looked like that, given the state my body will end up in. The rot’s already started, but I’m not going to dwell on that, as I’m sure it will only get worse.

  I know this is corny but at least it’s original – I’m going to mess with your life for a while. I’ll give you my reasons later but it will become clear eventually (I hope!) I think it’s only fair. I’m dead, you’re alive and you can’t stop me anyway. I know you can ignore my emails, but I loved you with all my soul, and if you loved me half as much, then you will listen to me. I have only your and Amy’s well-being in mind – honest. I also plan to try and right some wrongs that I couldn’t get to do while I was well, but I’ll tell you more about that later.

  Speak soon – well, not actually speak, that would be scary I think – but you’ll have to listen soon in any event!

  Your gorgeous wife

  Linz XX

  And that was it. I read it again and again until I’d practically memorized it and yet I still wasn’t fully convinced it was real. Lindsay was a systems analyst, so had a much better grasp of IT than me, but could she really set things up so that I received emails months after she died? The only date I could see was the date it was sent, which was today. I would phone my best mate Jamie the next morning when I got to work and ask him if this was possible. Jamie had an honours degree in something bonkers like Applied Physics and Natural Philosophy, but also had a much better understanding of this stuff than me. I needed to be sure I wasn’t being scammed or something before I could believe it.

  Lindsay probably wouldn’t like the fact that I was going to ask Jamie about her emails. She’d never been his biggest fan and tolerated rather than welcomed him. Her over-riding impression was that he was too good to be true. He was very much a political animal and me and Lindsay, well, we just weren’t into politics – which frustrated the hell out of him. Jamie would criticize our consumerist lifestyle and Lindsay didn’t like that at all. I also made the mistake once of telling her he’d cheated on his long-term girlfriend Molly which further lowered her opinion of him. He’d cheated on her more than once, but I never told Lindsay that after her reaction.

  ‘He’s a hypocrite, preaching to us about morality and avarice whilst he shags about behind Molly’s back,’ she had ranted when I told her. I felt guilty too as it was me who had introduced them. Molly worked in the Human Resources department in my work and they’d got together after Jamie tagged along on one of my work nights out.

  Jamie, though, was one of the good guys in some ways. He worked hard to try and help those who could not help themselve
s, and was never judgemental about those in need – unlike his capitalist friends (me) who in his opinion, needed to do lots more to change the world. He was right of course. He was big on saving the planet, recycling, saving the whale, public transport instead of cars and birth control in the Third World. Mine and Lindsay’s efforts at recycling consisted of putting our rubbish bags in other people’s bins when ours was full.

  He had lain off me since Lindsay’s death, probably realizing that I was now one of the ones who needed some kind of saving, even though I wouldn’t actively go out and seek it.

  Jamie Reitano was extremely good-looking with dark eyes and hair from his Italian lineage. He had a boyish face that girls just adored. Whilst I was thirty-two and looked my age, he was thirty-two going on seventeen. He also had the gift of the gab – he could literally have sold sand to the Arabs. If he decided to turn his back on his socialist conscience and sell BMWs instead, he’d make a fortune. I had told him more times than I could count that he was wasting his talent.

  He was also the only person I could think of at that point who would be able to tell me if the emails were likely to be real.

  I left my iPad lying on the couch and headed off to bed, checking on Amy before sliding under the duvet. The bed still felt empty and cold without my wife in it. We’d only been together a relatively short time, but it was amazing how quickly I’d become used to her sharing my space.

  The next morning, after a disturbed sleep peppered with strange dreams, I awoke before Amy and before Pauline turned up. I managed to shower, dress and consume some muesli before Amy started shouting, ‘Daddy, Daddy where are you?’

  I pretended not to hear her. This was a game we often played in the morning, and eventually she padded through in her bare feet from her bedroom having kicked her socks off again during the night. Her hair was all over the place and she had one of her arms out of her pyjama top. She regarded me accusingly. ‘Amy shouting.’

  I smiled at her. ‘I know.’

  ‘Daddy not come.’ I wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement, so I agreed with her, and slipped her arm back in the top. She smelled of innocence and sleep and I inhaled her scent deeply. I noticed once again that her vocabulary was always present tense.

  ‘Daddy play with dolls’ house?’ It was definitely a question this time.

  ‘No, sweetheart, Daddy’s going to workies. Gran is coming, she’ll play with you.’

  I could see the wheels going around in her head, as she decided whether to pout and kick up a fuss or wait and exploit Pauline on that front. Amy was at her most intelligent in the mornings, and decided on the latter. I gave her Rice Krispies for breakfast. She ate a few, smeared some over her teddy’s nose and the rest found their way onto the floor as usual.

  Pauline arrived soon after and shook her head at the mess we’d made.

  ‘Just leave everything and get off to work, I’ll tidy up,’ she ordered.

  I nodded and said guiltily, ‘Thanks, Pauline. I’m not at my best in the mornings.’

  I grabbed my jacket and left my apartment. I had realized a long time ago that there are two types of people in the world: morning people and everybody else.

  My wife was a morning person; I am not. I’ve always resented having to get up early for work to fit in with their timetable. I’d much rather have started at lunchtime and finished at eight at night. I once moaned about this to Lindsay saying, ‘I don’t understand why the world is run by morning people.’

  My wife answered pragmatically as usual. ‘It’s simple, sweetie, the world is run by morning people because they get up early and get there first.’

  Once out in the fresh air, I glanced up at the sky. It was blue and clear, though the weather forecast had predicted rain. The weather for most of the summer had been unusually bad. People don’t live in Scotland for the weather, but we expect a little sunshine in the summer months to make up for the practically perpetual grey skies the country endures for the majority of the year. To make up for it, August – thankfully – had mostly been warm and sunny. Today was no exception and consequently the bus that took me to work was stuffy and airless.

  There was the usual mix of people on board, at the front in the easy-to-reach seats were a number of pensioners, up at the crack of dawn and out and about when they really didn’t need to be. When I eventually got to retire, the last thing I’d want to do is get up early and go places. I thought the whole point of being a pensioner was to relax and take your time, sleep more and watch crap morning telly, where the ad breaks tried to sell you funeral plans and bus tours to Swansea.

  I might change my mind when I get to be that age, I suppose. My mum was a pensioner and she liked getting up early, she always has. It might be something to do with being in the ‘end zone’ of life, and sleeping at that stage might appear to be a waste of time. But I think it is just a generational thing: my mum grew up on a farm in the fifties and they were all up early feeding livestock and things, so it was expected that you went to bed early and got up early. But then the telly shut down at nine o’clock in those days as well.

  As well as a healthy sprinkling of pensioners, the bus also had the usual smattering of mothers – it was always the mothers – taking their kids to school or nursery.

  Despite my pass-remarkable attitude I actually liked public transport, I didn’t need to find a parking space, or pay through the nose for the privilege. I didn’t need to worry about going for a few beers after work, not that I did that very often, but it was always an option. Above all I didn’t need to fork out directly for the petrol required to sit in a traffic jam going nowhere for half an hour. Also on the bus I got to people watch. The only thing I would change would be to fit air-conditioning for these occasional hot days, and improve the suspension so that they didn’t rattle and bounce so much over the pot-holed streets of Scotland’s capital. The trams were due to be introduced any day now, but then the council had been saying that for nearly five years and I wasn’t holding my breath.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Although it was a good place for daydreaming and people watching, I didn’t always use the bus. I also owned a three-year-old Audi A4 Quattro. I think to the majority of the female half of the population that won’t mean much, and to be honest I’m with them on that. My wife was the car-mad half of our partnership, being weird that way. She loved cars, football and boxing. I could do the football bit, the boxing I never understood the point of, and cars to me were really just about getting from A to B.

  When I first met Lindsay I was driving a ten-year-old Honda Civic, in my opinion a perfectly acceptable and very reliable vehicle. (I remember that I said those exact words to her on our second date. I daresay that if we’d had that conversation on our third date, we might not have had our first shag.) Anyway, she had just taken a large mouthful of wine and choked. Some of the wine dribbled out of her nose (attractive or what?) as she coughed and spluttered. That was when I started to learn more about Lindsay and cars. She owned a bright red (every car had to be bright red for her) Mercedes SLK convertible, and the insurance costs at the time for her must have been huge – she was only twenty-four. Soon after, she traded it for a BMW 1 series and just before we got married, that was traded for the Audi. (Note the car lingo, ‘traded’: Lindsay taught me that.)

  The Audi for Lindsay was an acknowledgment of her becoming an adult; it had room for five grown-ups. One night, not long after our wedding when we were out and had, just for a change, drunk too much, she tried to explain her theory about cars with five seats in a sexy slurry voice. I was daft enough to listen – probably because she had a sexy slurry voice. Blokes love sexy slurry voices, especially when they belong to their wives.

  ‘Cars with five seats are either for a mummy, daddy and two kids in child seats, because after the child seats are installed there’s no room really for anyone else, or for the catholic family with three kids – but in rea
lity that wouldn’t work because if you had three kids the boot wouldn’t be big enough for all the stuff, and you would need to move up to an SUV or a weird family car like the Renault Espace. No, what really happens in cars with five seats is that you have space for mummy, daddy and baby. Then if you need help there’s room for your mother, or if you are really posh, an au pair, though she would probably demand to sit in the front.’

  Lindsay paused and I could see her alcohol-fogged mind whirring. ‘When we have our baby, I think we could afford a nanny, or an au pair, especially if I went back to work full-time. What do you reckon?’

  I nodded and smiled, agreeing to anything as long as the sexy slurry voice kept talking. ‘Yeah, probably.’

  She misinterpreted my contented expression, probably because in my inebriated state it resembled a leer.

  With an aggressive change to her voice she said, glaring at me, ‘Then the cow would want to shag my husband and that would definitely cause some problems, and if she was nice-looking then you’d probably want to shag her back.’ Lindsay paused with tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t believe you want to shag the au pair; we’ve only been married a few weeks, and you are cheating on me already.’

  I remembered, unsuccessfully, trying to work out where the sexy voice had gone and how the hell I’d ended up in this conversation, especially in the middle of a busy bar. Lindsay stomped off out of the pub in a huff. I chased after her, the cool air only accentuating the effect of the wine we had drunk. ‘Lindsay, what’s the matter?’

  She turned to face me. ‘You’re the matter. Shagging the fucking au pair, and we’ve not even got a baby yet.’ Three youths walked passed jeering at us arguing.

  ‘Lindsay, stop shouting. I haven’t shagged the au pair, I wouldn’t shag the au pair. We haven’t even got an au pair.’

  Lindsay considered this new information for a moment. ‘I know, but you would, wouldn’t you?’ She pointed her finger at me accusingly, her eyes blazing. ‘She’d be a little blonde thing, twenty-two, over from California or Thailand for work experience and she’d make sure she was alone with you when I was out, and slowly wheedle her way in, seduce you, then before you know it, I’d come home and catch the two of you. She’s got her knickers off and your hand’s up her skirt. I’ve seen it before, happens all the time.’ She turned and stomped off again.