Dig Your Own Hole (9/9) By Joe Hakim

(1/9), (2/9), (3/9), (4/9), (5/9), (6/9), (7/9), (8/9), (9/9).

"You don't actually believe that shit do you?" Chris asked. "Well, the other day I saw one of our foremen decapitated in a manner that could have come straight out of The Omen, and I've just had to tie my girlfriend to the bed because she turned into a witch and tried to strangle me; so yeah, I do actually believe that shit. 'And that's before you consider the fact that all this other shit has happened to you, bringing you to the office so you can spill your guts at the same time as me. Coincidence or curse, Chris?" Chris laughed, wheezing like a set of broken bagpipes. "Either you're crazy, or you're right," he said.

Just then the office began to rattle with loud, harsh, cruel, laughter. We looked around, but the sound seemed to be coming from the building itself. The walls began to shake as if they were being hit by huge invisible fists. Things began to fly off the shelves and desks across the room. "What the fuck is going on?" Chris shouted as he dived for the floor. I pressed my hands to my ears as the laugh got louder and louder. The windows shattered and the whole office seemed to be working itself free from its foundations. "Please stop," I screamed, and then suddenly everything went quiet. "Do you believe me now, Chris?"

Chris looked up. "Ok, ok," he said, waving his arms. "I believe you, I believe you'. As we got more and more pissed, we managed to formulate a plan. We decided to move a load of propane tanks over to the foundations and open them up. We hoped that the ensuing explosion would be enough to mess everything up to such a degree that all the evidence of our wrong-doings would be destroyed and covered up. It was shit plan, admittedly, but we were so pissed by this point that it seemed to make perfect sense. We dragged the tanks over, covering ourselves with mud and shit in the process. We even managed to laugh when I fell over and ended up face down in a ditch.

Chris was huffing and puffing, barely able to catch his breath, by the time we finished, but we had managed to bring all the tanks over. "I just need a sit down," Chris said, lighting up a cigarette as he plonked himself down on a stack of bricks. "I don't think lighting up's a good idea in the circumstances," I said as I began to loosen the valves on the tanks. Soon this will all be over, I thought, as I heard the hiss of the gas escaping. Chris said, "I'm not feeling too well," and then I heard a crash as he fell off his pile of bricks. I turned around and went over to him.

He was clutching his chest, his eyes wide and filled with terror. "I think...I'm having...a heart attack," he spluttered. "C'mon, keep it together, Chris," I said. "We've got to get out of here, I've opened the tanks." I shook him but it was too late; his lips were already turning blue. I shouted, "Fuck, get up Chris," but there was no more time. I looked down to see the cigarette still burning on the floor. I had to leave; otherwise I would have been blown to smithereens along with Chris and the whole building site. I heard the explosion just before I reached my flat. The tanks took longer than I expected to go off.

I didn't bother to check on Jenny when I got in. Things had deteriorated to the point where I was completely fucked no matter what happened next. If she had gone back to normal I would be facing some domestic abuse charge, and if she had stayed as an old hag - well, I didn't even want to think about what that meant. So I opened a beer and sat and watched the sun rise. I knew that at some point there would be a knock on the door and it would be the press and the police, waiting to drag me across the coals for everything that I had been involved in - the cover-ups, the deaths, the explosion - and I was as guilty as sin, there was no point in trying to pretend otherwise.

But I didn't care at that point, because for those few brief seconds, as I sat savouring the silence and the taste of a cold beer, life was still good - life still had potential. And so did I.

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