‘Not your time... yet’ by Dean O. Arutoghor

‘Not your time yet’ by Dean O. Arutoghor ©

Phil had decided that very morning that death would be a better option than facing the shame of such a scandal. So, taking a deep breath, he crossed himself, closed his eyes, took three big steps into the middle of the busy road and stilled himself for the impact.

An unimaginable pain shot through his whole being when he heard the collision…Heard but not felt because when he opened his eyes it wasn’t his body that was mangled. It was that of another poor pedestrian who was pinned against a shop front by the car that had swerved onto the pavement to avoid hitting Phil.

Is this some version of hell he had not read about in the bible, he asked himself? He pinched himself hard for an answer. He felt that. So, he wasn’t in hell then?! Come on man. How difficult can be it be to get yourself killed on a 30 miles per hour road especially in front of a carefully chosen car that was 10 over the speed limit? He took a few seconds to take in the chaos he had caused by his clumsy attempt to end his life and then did the only sensible thing left to do in such a situation: he ran off.

Phil’s wife and two daughters were holidaying abroad and were not due back till the following afternoon. Plenty of time for him to top himself without any interruptions, he thought…Also before the police would be able to identify and track him down as the crazy guy who caused the road accident earlier that day. In a police cell, they would be watching him like a hawk and that would limit his chances of topping himself.

Without another second wasted pondering his options, he got to his feet and marched to the bathroom. He would swallow in one however many tablets where left in the paracetamol container and wait for death to take its cause.

‘Shit,’ Phil stared in amazement. Only two tablets were staring back at him from the bottom of the container. Come on. This is not happening.

He looked at his wristwatch. It was ten past ten. PM. Even the Asian corner shop at the top of his street that opened till late would be closed by now. Where else was he was supposed to buy enough tablets at this time of the freaking night?

Feeling even sorrier for himself than when he first started the day, his chin sunk to his chest…and that’s when he saw it. His belt. Of course. For an intelligent man, he could be slow sometimes.

Five minutes later, Phil was nursing his aching backside on the sitting room floor after the light fitting on the ceiling he had tied his leather belt to had given way under his weight. He looked up scornfully. ‘You are messing with me,’ he scolded God. The omnipresent One must have winked and smirked back.

Just under ten minutes later, Phil’s car screeched to a halt in front of his nearly deserted local train station. Without bothering to kill the engine he jumped out and tried to sprint to platform 3. Five years ago when he was younger and fitter, Phil would have been able to bound down the flight of stairs on platform 1, sprint through the tunnel and then scale the stairs up to platform 3 just in time to throw himself under the speeding train to London in about thirty seconds. Today, three stone heavier than he was back then, Phil made it to platform 3, huffing and puffing, in one and a half minutes. Just enough time to see the back end of the train disappearing down the tracks. He stared in disbelief before bursting out in laughter. Now he was convinced God was truly toying with him. This was not so far-fetched to him. He was after all a pastor at his church.

‘Ok. Ok,’ he spat defiantly. ‘Let’s see you try and stop this one.’ With that, Phil strode back to his car with purpose.

He revved his car engine for about thirty seconds. Almost as if he was daring God to race him to his next destination…And that destination? A bridge, nineteen miles away. A bridge that ran over a lake that barely rose above 6’1” even after ridiculously heavy downpours. That didn’t matter, Phil reassured himself. He couldn’t swim and he was only 5’7” so he would still drown anyway when he jumped in. And at this time of the night, he wouldn’t have to worry about some pesky do-gooder diving in to rescue him…

…Only that was exactly what happened. Despite Phil’s attempts to drown his Samaritan with him, the guy, a passing trucker, was a strong swimmer and managed to drag a sodden and pathetic-looking Phil out of the dirty water with just one hand.

This time, Phil cried instead of laughing like some jackass. Not because of another failed attempt but because the Good Samaritan had not taken it personally when he gave him a mouthful of abuse for rescuing him. All he said was that there were professionals who could help him and then offered to pray with him.

The following morning a dispirited Phil sat at his dining table absently chewing on his breakfast of porridge and banana as he waited for the dreaded email that he spent most of the day before trying to kill himself over. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was thirty minutes before the plane carrying his family back from their visit to his in-laws in Barbados would touch down at London Gatwick Airport.

God, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that there was no escaping this one. Phil would have to face up to the consequences of his actions fifteen years ago. His carefully crafted reputation as a family man would be gone just like that. One moment of indiscretion with a young lady he met on holiday at Ibiza years ago was coming back to bite him in the arse. Damn Facebook. She would never have found him otherwise.

Of course the DNA test would show the child was his. He was certain of it. He was a virgin. She was a virgin. He was on his stag do. He was responsible enough to use protection but accidents happen. Did happen. She assured him she would take care of it if the pregnancy test she vowed she would take when she returned home to England came out as positive…And that was the last he heard from her…Until two weeks ago when she suddenly contacted him via Facebook Messenger claiming that her son was his and because she had lost her job and was desperate for money, she felt the need to implore him to do the right thing and support his offspring.

The email from his one night stand a decade and a half ago arrived just two minutes after the text from his wife informing him that their plane had landed safely at Gatwick Airport and that she would text him again after they entered the pre-booked taxi that would ferry them home in about an hour’s time.

Phil’s index finger hovered over the email titled ‘Result’ for what seemed like an eternity. He knew this would be a life-changing moment. Life-changing for the worse. There was no way he was going to be able to support his other illegitimate child with the kind of cash his mother was asking for without his wife knowing. She kept an eagle eye on their joint account and his account. He had never been disciplined when it comes to money so had long ago given full reign of the family’s account to her.

He reckoned he had just under an hour to have another go at killing himself after looking at the email to confirm that the child was his. Of course it wouldn’t be a pleasant sight for his family to come back to but if things had gone to plan the night before then he wouldn’t be choosing to do it at home.

His eyes widened when he finally saw the result. Then he stared and stared, stunned into inaction for a good few minutes. He was almost afraid to blink in case the result suddenly changed. There it was in black and white…

He put a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh but his body was shaking so much he thought he was literally going to combust with joy. The child wasn’t his. He had not fathered another child apart from his two lovely daughters with his wife. He wouldn’t have to fork out a fortune in back payments for child support. Heck, he wouldn’t even have to tell his wife that he wasn’t a virgin when they first had sex after their wedding, something they had both prided themselves on for years. His reputation would remain intact. He would still have the respect of his daughters and his congregation.

In his excitement, he wolfed down a mouthful of banana and porridge, got to his feet and started doing some weird dance in celebration. He was still punching the air vigorously with his right fist when his left hand suddenly grabbed onto his throat. His eyes bulged. He tried to cough but couldn’t. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. He tried to call for help but couldn’t. He tried to stay upright but couldn’t. His eyes bulged some more as he staggered backwards, tripped over a chair and knocked his head hard on the wooden floor. A minute or so later, Phil stopped gasping for air and lay perfectly still.

His wife and daughters arrived home not a considerable time afterwards to find porridge mixed with banana still seeping out the side of daddy’s mouth.

END