I’ve been a passionate writer since childhood, crafting role-playing games, stories, and characters, fostering an innate passion for writing with a print media degree and experience in copywriting and screenwriting. I have written short films for local film makers and creative briefs for D&AD in the past. My work has been recognized in competitions, like being a finalist in the British Short Screenplay Competition in 2003 and the Austin Film Festival in 2020 for my feature script, “Lunar Jetman”.

I am currently trying to write as much as I can, such as short stories, 2 novels and also screenplays, drawn from my lifelong passion for storytelling.  Although my writing has not yet secured formal publication, I am actively pursuing various avenues to bring my stories to life.

Closure

23rd March 2020, Lockdown was imminent, my Dad wasn’t doing so well. Just as his health was declining, normal daily functioning was also starting to decline and become disrupted by the spread of the virus.

As I drove with my brother to the Care Home, a creeping dread told me this could be the last time I would ever see him, even though the Government had said in 12 weeks they would be able to turn the tide of Coronavirus, I didn’t believe them.

From the passenger window, I saw cars, shops, and houses. The world outside passed by, indifferent to my gaze. A black Nissan Juke, a man in a blue jacket walking a dog, an overflowing bin by the side of the road. The mundanity of it all was almost comforting. The world kept turning. The smeared windscreen, the reflection of my own face, the distant hum of traffic – it was all part of what was going on, woven together in a chaotic yet strangely harmonious way. The car’s rhythm lulled my senses into a state of near-numbness, a feeling of detached observation. Now I was just a spectator watching people continue their routines like normal but I could sense an irreversible change was happening.

I knew when I saw my Dad, ‘All the things I had to say’ to him, would finally have to be said and I was hoping I could get him to finally admit to me what he never spoke of.

Throughout my whole life, I never had the courage to speak to him and I knew today would be my final chance.

In our family there were probably more things left unsaid than ever said. Emotions and feelings were always kept internal. An unspoken agreement had been created to maintain a facade of tranquillity. It was as though revealing our true feelings might unravel the intricate ‘Happy Family’ web that had been woven. As a child I’d say I had a great childhood but as an adult the amount of elaborate deceptions employed to create this illusion diminished the fond reminiscence.

Misunderstandings were fostered and buried, assumptions, resentments, and unspoken, inner conflicts simmered beneath the surface. It was a silent war, fought in the realm of unspoken words and repressed emotions.

We were relations without a relationship, who even at this final hour were unfamiliar characters in an estranged story.

As we got closer to the Care home I couldn’t tell if my brother had the same sentiments as me, our only conversations were always piss taking and small talk

Now, you would have thought, we would share a deeper understanding between each other but too many lines had been crossed.

We had to go visit my Dad together but we had barely spoken, apart from the clearly defined formalities that the situation demanded. The tension between us was palpable, echoing the unspoken grievances and unresolved conflicts that lingered beneath the surface.

I knew for a fact he had been taking money from my Dad, he had his bank card, but I didn’t want the confrontation, yet. Also, My Dad’s Will had gone missing, I couldn’t trust him.

I broke the silence, “Did the Will ever turn up?”.

“Nah”, he said, obviously not wanting to elaborate.

“He said it was in the suitcase, under his bed…”

“Wasn’t there”.

“I thought he said that’s where it was”.

“He’s Doolally tap since the infection, it could be anywhere, he could have eaten it for all we know”.

He turned on the radio to end the conversation.

The news came on, it had become a monotonous report of a rising tide of infections and deaths. At first, it seemed distant. Each day it came closer.

The numbers spiralled upwards – cases, hospitalisations, deaths. The invisible threat now had a chilling physicality, pictures of people laid out on ventilators, stories of neighbours, friends contracting an illness that nobody seemed to know anything about or even if they said they did, it was all conjecture.

As we arrived at the Care Home, the sun lowered into the late March sky. The light was casting long, skeletal shadows as we got out of the car. The oppressive weight of the sky seemed to mirror a growing sense of dread. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something, something terrible. The vibrant promise of spring, usually just on the horizon in late March, felt impossibly distant, replaced by a suffocating sense of apprehension.

As we walked through the open doors, there was no-one around to challenge us. It was quieter than usual, nobody was at reception.

Normally the care home hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the clatter of trolleys. Today, an eerie silence had settled.

As we walked into the corridor we saw the communal lounge was almost deserted, save for a few residents huddled in armchairs, their eyes glued to the news on the television. The newscaster’s voice echoed in the empty room, amplifying the sense of dread. They sat subdued and alone in their own thoughts and memories, or what was left of them.

To me they were Biohazards and I tried to keep as far away as possible from them.  I’d been reading too much of the news and Internet chatter, I admit, I was scared shitless of what this new disease could do to you.

I wanted to get out, I shouldn’t have come here, I wanted to leave and go home, to protect myself and my family. But the feeling that this could be the last time I would see my Dad kept me there.

But where was he? Had something happened? Had he escaped? Was I too late, had he died?

I walked into the Communal room to look for him as my brother went to look for a carer.

I was trying to keep my distance, avoiding eye contact as they all looked up at me. Last time I brought my 5 year old Son here and when he walked into the room it was as though something switched on when they saw him, somebody younger, full of life was in the room and it invigorated them, smiles came to their faces and eyes lit up. Now they just gave me a cursory glance, apart from one Man, he looked as though he was trying to get my attention.  I kept up the act of looking for my Dad, so as not to engage with him.

“Hey, Son”

I walked away from him.

“Son, over here”.

I kept looking around, although it was now obvious my Dad wasn’t here.

“Hey, Dave, I’m over here”.

I’m not Dave, so I ignored him.

The old guy wasn’t giving up.

“Son, I’m over here!”

His raised voice made me the centre of attention, so I left the room as quickly as I could, passing him on my way out.

His eyes were clouded with fear. “They’re locking us in,” he said, his voice shaking. “Just like prisoners!”

I smiled that non-threatening smile men do, where the corners of their mouths lift in a subtle, almost imperceptible curve and walked out the room holding the non committal ‘smile’.

“It’s not funny!” he shouted.

“Aren’t you taking me with you?” I heard him call after me as he raised his arms up.

In the corridor my brother was hanging around impatiently.

“Not gonna give your new Dad a hug?”, he said sardonically.

I gave a cursory laugh even though I hadn’t really heard him properly, it was only a few seconds later when I realised what he really said but by then the moment had passed to respond with a clever remark, so instead all I could say was, “Did you find him?”.

“He’s in his room”.

We made our way upstairs, passing care home workers rushing about looking stressed and harrowed. The atmosphere was tense with the news of the impending lockdown. They spoke in hushed tones, discussing the logistics of a lockdown while grappling with the uncertainty of the situation.

I peered into each room as we walked down the corridor, seeing the residents in various states of decline, some staring vacantly into space, others calling out for help or attention. 

My Dad’s room was at the end of the corridor, his door was open and sure enough there he was, sitting in a chair.

Sometimes you have a fixed image in your mind of what someone close to you always looks like. For me My Dad was a 6 foot 2 giant of a man, powerful and strong, someone to fear and respect.

But the man in front of me now was frail, grey, weak and coughing, with dribble forming around his mouth as he looked up.

He had been on a steady decline over the past few years with Parkinsons, falls, alcohol, neglect and time, all eroding him as his relevance faded.

He had gone from old fashioned Glaswegian stock, to the husk we now saw.

His eyes were glazed over and we didn’t know if his old self would be there, or it would be the delirious character that we had been visiting on and off for the past few months.

“You brought ma ciggies?”

It was the latter.

“No, you don’t smoke”

“I’ve lost ma fags, they’re here somewhere”.

He started to get up out of the chair

“No Dad”, said my brother “You don’t have any, you stopped smoking 40 years ago.”

My brother didn’t even try to whisper to me.

“He’s away with the fairies again”.

My Dad looked at me dead in the eye, his face contorted into a grimace, the one we used to fear as kids.

“Where the fuck have you been? “.

My nerves stammered as he hit them with that comment, yes we had been neglecting him, he wasn’t top of the list of my priorities during the daily grind, in fact he had become an afterthought.

“Well I Suppose you got your own lives”, he trailed off into a stare that took him somewhere only he could see.

Yes we had families and jobs and routines and he just didn’t fit into them, unless a concerted effort was made and that was always the problem, it was always an effort to include him, highlighted by us arguing about whoever had him for Christmas or other such events as being considered the one pulling the short straw.

Our failure to take the initiative in caring for our Dad emphasised the neglect, as we both relied on the other’s presence to fulfil our filial obligations.

It was easy to forget about him, though each time we did the debt of conscience stacked up.

For as long as I can remember my Dad was always insisting he’d never go into a home, however, in this very moment, he sat defeated, a stark contrast to his former resolute stance.

He became ill in December, then a fall and a urine infection brought him here. For years he’d been rotting away alone in his flat, stubbornly refusing help, as to him that would be seceding control of his own self. He clung to the belief that he wasn’t old enough, even at turning eighty, his pride blinding him to the reality of his deteriorating health and isolation.

He had been relegated to the sidelines, the man who had spent his life working day after day, providing for us, trying to bring us up right, sacrificing his own life.

His own dreams and aspirations gradually faded into the background, although I never knew what they were or could have been. He was a product of a bygone era, where duty and responsibility reigned supreme. But now, at the end, he found himself at the bottom of the list, his needs overshadowed by the demands of a world that had moved on without him. 

“Looks like there’s going to be a lockdown Dad”, my brother said.

Vacant look from my Dad.

“Will I get my fags?”

“You don’t smoke Dad”.

Back to the vacant look.

I tried to explain, “The virus Dad, they’re going to have to lockdown the country to stop the virus, you know, it’s been on the news”.

“At least you’ll be safe in here”, my brother said.  Famous last words.

It didn’t seem to register. If he wasn’t getting that, then what hope did I have to be able to talk to him?  I needed to talk to him, the clock was ticking, seeing him now pretty much confirmed what I was thinking, this would be the last time I would see him alive.

A Carer walked past our room and then came back and reacted to seeing us there.

“What are you doing here?”

My brother was standing nearer and as she was looking at him he replied.

“Visiting me Dad”

“I don’t think you can be here”.

“We’ll not be long”

“I better go and check, I think you’ll have to leave”

“Give us 5 minutes”

“I don’t know about that, I don’t think you should have been let in here”

With that, she left to seek confirmation.

I shouldn’t have come here with my brother but at this point I didn’t trust him to go alone and consequently I don’t think he trusted me, so we always went together. But the problem with that is you cannot talk, like really talk – small talk and trying to relay and extract information were as far as you could go.  And now it looked like I wouldn’t be able to talk at all, I would never get to speak to my Dad for the last time.

“Can you go and see if we can stay for a bit?” I asked my brother.

“Aye, I’ll go and find out”, with that he left the room.  I could tell he didn’t really want to be there, so it was a good excuse for him to leave.

If I wanted to say what I needed to say it had to be now, I would never get another chance.

I knew he was dying, his spirit had already gone, along with the image I had of him. There was no time left, it was running out.

“Dad?”.

His eyes looked directly into me, a rare circumstance.

Flashes of flipbook memories of our relationship flicked through my mind in a blur; shouting, anger, violence, annoyance, laughing, lecturing, criticising, giving, grieving, shaming, walking, staring, slapping, swimming, drinking, sleeping, hugging, crying, pushing, laughing.  Each one distinct yet connected by the thread of time. Each one fleeting yet poignant.

“What is it?”  His tone suggested annoyance but his eyes were friendly.

I searched for the words but they didn’t come.

How could I put a lifetime into a few sentences?

“Nothing, just seeing if you’re Ok.”

Glazed eyes kept looking.

“Aye Son, I’m fine”.

My brother came back into the room and interrupted the moment. 

“Looks like they’re wanting everyone out, we have to go, now”.

His abruptness gave me no room to dispute the fact, we had to go.

“Bye Dad”, my brother put his hand on my Dad’s shoulder, his final farewell, although he never knew it.  My Dad tried to touch his hand but my brother pulled it away.

If I gave my Dad a hug, would it look too upstaged?

No, I knew this was it. I gave him a hug and whispered into his ear, “Love you Dad” and walked out of the room, that was it, that was ‘All the things I had to say’.

We had a couple of phone calls after that but none of them were coherent or meaningful.  Eventually one day in April the call came from the Care Home, my father had died in the night, they didn’t know why, although I had a good idea.

My Wife and Son hugged me, we all cried.

Because of Covid there was no funeral, I never spoke to my brother again either, sometimes it’s easier to cut the ties that drag you down.

My wife consoled me, “The family you’ve made is more important than the family you came from”.  She was right, I should appreciate what I had and try not to repeat the mistakes of the past.