5th March -When no-one else can understand me. When everything I do is wrong.

Two hours before tomorrow became today, we crossed the border into Scotland, and about four or so hours after that, as the Moray Firth first came into view, we diverted from our route to the Highlands, to take a peek at the Secret Beach, half an hour away to the east. I held the map book, and navigated, but to Friend John’s instructions. And, little did I know, we weren’t stopping for a breath of fresh air before the final leg of our mission, it turned out to be the first leg of local reconnaissance.

A milky puddle somewhere far away told us that a nice day was coming. John rolled a cigarette as we strolled the short distance to the western tip of the beach. Collings’ lifeless body remained in the well behind the front seats.
“I wonder how often it’s like this?” I wondered. I did, I wondered it. I remember.
“Like what?” asked John.
“Empty.”
He said nothing for a while, then squeezed the fag out between his fingers, and said, “Let’s go before it changes.”

We picked up the route, skirting Inverness, then onwards towards Loch Fannich. Still, Collings remained silent behind. As the new day splintered through the cracks in the hills, I started to conjure with the notion that we had accidentally killed him; or that John, perhaps, had quietly delivered the final blow while my attention was elsewhere —that this project was now about disposing of a corpse; something he’d decided to keep from me lest it induced an unhelpful panic. But he was as disinclined to explain his actions, as I was to pry. He was the expert. And honestly, I enjoyed observing him in action. He came alive in these moments, and had an implicit understanding of what it took to deliver his project when chaos reigned, the Rudyard Kipling way. May peace be upon him. Them both.

We pulled in at the eastern car park of Loch Fannich. And again, we left the car without a thought to Collings, to take in the surroundings.
“Look at this,” said John after a while, encouraging me towards the edge. “Steep, isn’t it?” We peered over the edge of the sheer cliff face to Loch Fannich below. “And deep, don’t you think?” he added.
I dropped a pebble over the edge. It was.
“Good to know,” he said. “Let’s get back to Loch Achilty before it’s morning.” We’d driven past signs to Loch Achilty on the way to Fannich.

Silence.

Was it for me, or for Collings? I was reluctant to ask any questions for fear of spoiling the mission. But it’s how they get a hold of you, isn’t it? —an unearned deference, given to those who refuse to explain, lest it reveal their sophistry. That was not the Friend John I knew, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that it crossed my mind: that he was a league above the normal run of oppressor, and he’d suckered me in to a T.

Yes, it was a day of wonder, alright.

We arrived at the car park serving Loch Achilty as day broke. There were no other cars, and no requests for payment. That was good. No cameras.

To John’s suddenly hurried instructions, we made the most of the disappearing moments we had to ourselves. I ferried the dinghy and its kit to the shore of the lake in a couple of journeys, and had it just about pumped up as Friend arrived with a slightly docile Collings, on the end of a rope, fastened to his neck like Lucky in Waiting for Godot. He tumbled down the slope, with that barely-awake, stiff-legged walk, jolted this way and that by Friend, like an errant dog on a leash.

If only! I started to paddle hard from the bow of the dinghy but went nowhere for what seemed minutes on end, until finally our craft broke into a reluctant momentum. Then, as we found slightly deeper water, and something of a tempo developed, I suddenly felt the rope go taut, as Friend jolted Collings from his stationary position, into the start of a long swim. What was hard going, now felt like dragging an anchor through a sea of treacle.

But on we went, and when we got ourselves out into the deep, progress became easier again. I guess Collings was swimming. He’d have to, if he wanted to survive, but how he did, fully clothed with all his fingers broken, well, it gave me cause to wonder. I daren’t look round, not for the dread of seeing Collings in his final moments, but because I knew if I didn’t keep up the relentless rhythm, I’d stall, and perhaps never get going again.

The island, our intended destiny, was out of sight until those first twenty minutes were behind us. When it came into view, it was still so far away that it presented as a promontory from the north coast of the loch. I was spent by the time its definition came clearer, and Collings, behind, well, to be honest I wasn’t sure that he hadn’t sunk to the bottom already.

That was when I heard a weak cry. It was followed by a sudden flurry of action behind me, as Friend John frantically started to wind in the rope. I felt the dinghy sink slightly as Friend brought Collings close, and allowed him to throw his arms over the side. I sensed him strain to hold his head up with the rope to prevent it from slipping under water, Collings no longer capable of doing it for himself.

When we met the shallow water of the island, Friend pushed him from the dinghy, knowing that he’d find his feet safely on the loch’s bed, then left him to make his way onto dry land on his own terms. I pulled the dinghy to the shore, unsure what was the next part of the plan. As Collings arrived, Friend John took the rope from his neck, and let it fall to the floor. He was broken.

“Right, get those wet clothes off,” said Friend. He might as well have added, “It’s been nice, but we’ve got to get going.”
Collings didn’t exactly resist, it was more that in his total exhaustion he was incapable of complying. He’d slumped down in a sitting position, head dropped, saying nothing. I thought for a moment that he’d commenced the process of dying. Friend merely sighed, and approaching him in a business-like manner, proceeded to untie his laces and remove his shoes. Then he took off his socks, trousers, sweater, and T-shirt, until he was left in just his boxers. He bundled up the clothes and threw them into the dinghy, then returned to empty the contents of the carrier bag at his bare feet. It was a pitiful sight. Him, abject, helpless, with a dozen tins of beans, a two-kilo bag of porridge oats, and some cereal bars in front of him. The few pathetic items that would stand between him and certain death once we were gone.

Back at the Secret Beach an hour or so later, John removed Collings’ cap and Man-at-C&A jacket, to put them in to the dinghy with the rest of his belongings, and we stood and watched until the current caught it and took it away.

“Right,” he said, tucking what was left of the five hundred pounds cash into his front pocket. “That’s all we’ve got ‘til we find work. Or meet Fried Egg.”

Hear that? He failed to include, “Or get home.” The place where we’d left our IDs and access to  money.

“Come on, let’s finish it,” he said. “We’re us again now, and need to get out of this area.”
But instead of driving south, he went north and west again, back towards Loch Achilty, then bypassed it to arrive once more in the car park of Loch Fannich, where we’d spent the early moments of the new morning.

We were swift in our actions now, fully aware that we only had a few more hours of anonymity left, and wanted to be as far away from where we were when it came. We packed everything of our own from Collings’ car into our two backpacks, wiped down everything we’d touched, then put the car in drive, and watched it go over the edge of the eastern cliff face of Loch Fannich to disappear into the deep water below.

We set off by footpath, avoiding the road, to walk back to south-east England, and walked briskly for at least an hour or so, without speaking.

“I thought you were going to kill him,” I said eventually.
Friend stopped, swinging his backpack round to the floor, to take out his water. Crouching, he looked up at me, grinning, “Is that what you’d have done?”
“Not when we set off, but I could now… or then, when we were, you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

I started to describe the epiphany I’d experienced on the way up, how it had been precipitated by Collings’ observation about the entitled narcissist who’d acquiesced in the false notion of intellectual superiority just because he possessed an aptitude for a given style of assessment in his formative years.

I was the him, by the way, in case that wasn’t obvious. It took a while. And some time later, it ended like this: “I’ve realised that intelligence isn’t my superpower. That I constructed a false personality around being the smart one. But it isn’t true; that I spent my life avoiding failure like it’s radioactive. That’s why, whenever I faced a real problem, like getting and keeping a job, I can’t.”

Friend laughed, “You mean ADHD-autistic, don’t you? And you are smart! You’re full of great ideas, better than anyone else I know actually, but you just don’t see them through. That’s what you are, in case no one ever told you.” Then he added, “I hope you haven’t been listening to that snake?”

He was nothing if not frank. But I liked hearing him say that. It took away those doubts I’d had about his motives. We were one, and he covered my shortcomings, as I hoped I compensated for his. Like knoqing how to say, “Anchors Aweigh” and all that. Et cetera. “Whichever one of you is right,” I said, “I’ve got to change. I’ve got to become a completer. Someone who can close the deal and put his opponent to the sword.”

“So, if you’d had your way, you’d have killed him then, would you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I hate him enough. And I know that all the natural instincts I’ve carried since forever, regarding conflict, are all wrong —all come from the wrong place. And I made a vow to myself on the way up here, that all that’s changed. I don’t know what it’ll take to actually change —conscious practice and repetition I suppose. Somehow, I’ve got to take empathy out of the equation in transactions. But I will. I actually wondered, if I thought you were about to kill him, whether I’d step in, and insist on taking it over. You know, to deliver the final blow.”

“Nothing. Well, you’re still being too ADHD about it all. You’re just working under a new desire to create a different outcome now, that’s all —it’s just another one of your great ideas.
The YOU behind it all, is still bringing the same tools to the transaction —one with rules, like it’s a game to be won in your favour by the application of logic. THAT’s the mind set you’ve got to escape from.”

We strode on in silence for little while longer, me not quite sure how to formulate a response, him, I suppose, wondering whether he should elaborate some more. Then he said, “You’re just too British about it. It might be the same thing —that ADHD thing, and your Britishness. You’re all supposed to be born with a stick up your arse you lot, aren’t you?”  He laughed again.

“I’m the opposite of uptight!”

Aren’t I? I’m too loose. Everyone knows that. Everything is loose. That used to be my slogan.

“Yeah, but… that whole idea of killing Collings. Your mind shouldn’t have been anywhere near that as an option. And that became a massive obstacle on the road: one that you either had to get round; or to allow it to defeat you. That’s not what revenge is about. It’s your revenge on your terms that counts. Not some notion about the right way to achieve it. You’ve got to do it the European way. Well, the Monte Cristo way actually. You know what I mean?”

I nodded. I think I did. I meant to.

“What sort of revenge is it to kill your adversary? That only does the wicked adversary a favour. You release them from the torment of being them. You’re a good and fair judge —don’t throw that away because you think it’s better to be colder, more cunning, crueller in your judgments. No! Give them the fair-minded judgment you’re inclined to now, but if they fail that forgiving standard, then you do something about it.
            Look at Collings. He might die. So what! He’ll do it over a few weeks, and he’ll have had plenty of time for reflection while he does. He probably won’t. And if he survives, and makes it back to his old life, he’ll never spend another day of it without wondering whether it might happen to him again —that you won’t have something worse in store for him. He’ll never forget the humiliating ordeal he’s been put through today let alone be able to deal with what might be coming next. That single experience should give him nightmares for the rest of his life. And he’ll never be able to stop thinking that he brought it all on himself. If he makes it back I wouldn’t be surprised to see him turn into a Methodist pastor. Or one of those people that lives in the bushes at Hampstead Heath, with their trousers permanently down round their ankles.”

Mmmh. Is that really correct? I wasn’t sure. “What if he comes back and tells the story? It might make for closure for him, and we’ll be locked up.”

“We won’t,” he said it with the confidence of a time-served mercenary, assassin, survivor. “More importantly, he won’t. Do you think you’re the only person who knows him as a fantasist? A bullshitter who’ll sell anyone down the river to promote his own interests? No chance. He returns home having been missing for weeks, an insurance claim already made, his car missing without trace, his clothes washed up on a faraway beach while he was staying somewhere else. No idea where he went, and how he got there? No idea about me, or my name? Hasn’t called or contacted anyone? An utter flake with a back story full of corroborative evidence of that personality flaw? No chance. But you know the best part, don’t you?”

I shook my head.
“When we go to get your money back from Fried Egg, he’ll realise that it probably was us, and he’ll shit a fucking brick.”
“You really are doing a Count of Monte Cristo, aren’t you?”
“We might as well make it fun,” he said, grinning. As long as you promise to use it as a learning process, and I really mean buckle down and commit to learning the European method of conflict resolution.”
“I will,” I said. “Deal.”

And it was a job, wasn’t it? With a future, and a mentor for a boss. What’s not to like?

It had been my first intentional crime too, and, I must admit, it felt nowhere near as bad as I thought it would. It’s much easier than you think, you know. The key to it all is about finding a worthy victim, who turns it into a morally neutral act for you. And this was the epiphany. I knew now that no one would have the better of me again. They’d be neutralised, or I’d happily die trying to neutralise them.