Clive Becks would have liked to have been a lighthousekeeper. His schoolteacher and other children had laughed, as few openings were available in Moston, Manchester, thirty-four miles from the sea. Instead, Clive now worked as a hospital porter at the Manchester Royal Infirmary.
Four years ago, while working as a Health and Safety Manager, he nearly died, and his reward was dismissal. The mental scars would not heal, festering, hiding, whispering until he could no longer contain his anger. Society was a rotting corpse infested with self-righteous fools, and he was determined to send a bloody message to those responsible. If nobody wanted to listen, Clive would make them.
Regrettably, his teacher had extinguished his dream at a young age, but now it would burn as brightly as a million candles, the equivalent of a lighthouse.
"Clive felt as if his brain were made up of two hundred and twenty-four squares of jelly, each containing a light bulb. Every week, one bulb gradually began to fade until it was extinguished. The following week, another would go dark, then another. No amount of prescription drugs or cognitive behavioural therapy could halt the dying lights. That was four years ago, and now there were no more squares left. At least he no longer had to worry about the lights, as everything was dark.
What should have seemed abhorrent to any normal person no longer filled him with dread. Nobody had cared then, so why should he, as he set off for work? Clive didn’t mind the early mornings and enjoyed driving in the dark. The traffic was light, and he liked to imagine he was the only survivor of a deadly virus. Immune to the virulent strain, he was alone and could do anything, go anywhere, be anybody. While that thought might frighten most people, he relished its possibilities.
He was startled when he saw a deer running in a nearby field, its silhouette outlined by sickly lampposts. Mesmerised by the animal’s grace, it matched his speed, running parallel to his car. Perhaps it was the last of its kind, the sole survivor in a world doomed to fail. Maybe it would run until its heart gave out, stumbling to its knees and, like Clive, die alone but free. The thought took his breath away, and he felt as if he was no longer driving.
Running alongside the deer, his hot blood was pumping, nostrils flaring, and his strong legs pounded the earth. As the deer disappeared from view, Clive could still feel the animal’s presence. He hoped he might return one day as something equally beautiful, and for a brief moment, the lights had returned."
"There's a little bit of Clive hiding in all of us."
