BLOG NUMBER SIXTY: ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS...

A TOTAL BASTARD by Steven Holding.

Kenny Stamp was staring out of his window when he first saw them.

His cramped bedsit, generously allocated to him by the council and conveniently located in the worst district in town, stood directly opposite a decrepit multi-storey car park that had long been closed. Since pawning his television set, Kenny would often find himself gazing over towards the breeze block monstrosity. He found it slightly more interesting than the slowly expanding damp patch that stained his peeling wallpaper.

But only just.

No cars used the building. The only moving traffic seemed to be the occasional hooker, trembling John in tow, looking for a little privacy to go about their business. Maybe not on par with a West end show, Kenny would muse, but at least the price of a front row seat was reasonable.

He was watching the gloomy, deserted street, checking it out for any signs of activity, when he noticed a slight movement in the corner of his eye. He glanced up at the top of the car park.

And there they were.

Perched on the concrete ledge of the building, legs dangling over the side, leaning forward and looking down. Kenny sniffed, studying the figure, weighing up the situation.

Maybe just a kid, wired on glue.

Maybe a jumper.

He let out a slow hiss of air.

He wished he hadn't seen them. For a second, he considered turning away, closing his nicotine stained curtains and forgetting everything. It was a tempting thought. He didn't own a phone and knocking on a stranger’s door and asking to borrow one was not a good idea. Not in his neighbourhood. Even if he could make the call, Kenny had his own reasons for avoiding the police.

Before he knew it, he was up, pulling on his denim jacket, heading for the front door, swearing softly under his breath. Kenny was many things. Had done many things. Was a man who lived comfortably with the weight of many wrong doings.

But he wasn't a total bastard.

It didn't take him long to reach the car park. The pedestrian entrance, once blocked off by a rusted sheet of corrugated iron, was now partially open. Kenny squeezed his wiry frame through the thin gap with surprising ease. He found himself at the bottom of the main stairwell. The place was a mess. Crude graffiti, broken glass, used condoms littering the floor. The air was thick with the biting stench of urine.

Coughing, Kenny headed up the steep staircase, taking the steps two or three at a time.

He emerged on the highest level. Across the tarmac, about fifteen feet away from him, he saw a hunched shadow. Kenny stared at the silhouette, considering his options. He decided to take a direct approach.

"What the hell ya doing dude?"

The figure slowly turned, looking over their shoulder, allowing Kenny a clearer view of his features. A man, not a kid. Middle aged. Grey hair. Booze stained complexion. An expensive looking suit, ruined now by the look of it, bright vomit stains splashed all down the front like a Jackson Pollock. Kenny wasn't certain, but the face looked familiar.

"Keep back!" slurred the man.

Kenny raised his hands, open palms facing outwards.

"Take it easy mate... I ain't looking for no trouble... Just saw ya up here, thought maybe it was a good idea you come away from the edge, yeah?"

The man shook his head, the side to side motion so loose and slack his skull looked dangerously close to simply rolling off his shoulders and toppling to the floor.

"No... I've made up my mind... Don't you try and stop me!"

Kenny winced as the tip of his tongue probed a rotten molar at the back of his mouth. The movement was subconscious, something he was in the habit of doing when he felt nervous. He took a small step.

"Listen friend," he said, shuffling forward another pace, "Sounds like maybe you had one too many... That's no bad thing... But we don't always do our best thinking when we've been drinking, do you get me?..."

Kenny peered over the edge of the building. The view made his stomach flip. His tongue jabbed at his bad tooth like a boxer working a punchbag. He found it difficult to gauge how serious the guy was. Maybe he meant it. Maybe all he needed was someone to talk to.

The man suddenly lurched, swinging one leg back over onto the car park floor, straddling the wall like a jockey.

"Don't come any closer!" he snarled. Kenny froze.

"Whatever you say man."

In the distance the sonic whine of sirens rose, then, just as quickly, faded away. The man's head hung limply. Kenny heard the moist, phlegmy sound of hiccups. The guy was obviously fighting to hold back tears. Seconds passed. He looked up at Kenny, bloodshot eyes struggling to focus, blinking hard, once, twice.

"It's all... It's all gone wrong..." he whispered. Kenny stared at him, trying to place his face, choosing his words carefully.

"Gone wrong? Jesus mate, nothing was ever right in the first place. The whole world was broken when we got here and the way things are going, we ain't going to fix it anytime soon. Take a look around you, the shit that's going down... Kids tearing up the city, coppers on every street corner, crazies killing in the name of their God... No wonder you're feeling depressed..."

The man let out a sickly belch. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket then pointed at Kenny. His hand shook violently.

"You don't understand..."

Kenny shrugged.

"Alright, maybe I don't... But I tell you this... You take a tumble over the side mate and you won't be waking up tomorrow with a sore head, you'll be waking up dead..."

The man screwed up his face. He seemed to be thinking, mulling over Kenny's words.

"That's what I want..."

"You sure about that?"

The man rubbed at his forehead.

"Yeah... She's gone... She's gone forever..."

Kenny sighed.

"Man, they all leave you in the end, don't you know that? Shit, that's just the way of the world! Them's the rules brother... Happens to us all, and I'll tell you this for free... Ain't worth doing what you're thinking of doing, no way man, not over some girl..."

The man glared at Kenny. His expression seemed to shift like a rolling cloud, a confused mixture of emotions flickering across his face, visible for a fleeting second then disappearing once again below the surface. Anger. Disgust. Fear. Kenny recognised them all. Knew them intimately. But there was more than that. A bell was ringing somewhere in Kenny's mind. He knew him. He was sure of it. He was positive.

"My daughter," mumbled the man, "My daughter... My little baby... She's gone... She's dead..."

The tears came now. Heavy, chest wrenching sobs. The man clutched at his head, scratching, fingers pulling skin, digits tearing at hair.

Kenny gasped, the clarity of realisation snatching his breath.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, "You poor bastard... You're Jessica Archer's father..."

Kenny knew then where he had seen the man's face before. In grainy black and white photographs, splashed across the front page of the well-thumbed tabloids he would fold over and scan through on the rare occasions he was flush enough to pay a visit to the bookmakers. As removed from the real world as Kenny liked to be, it was one news story that it had been impossible to avoid.

Jessica Archer.

Her whole existence condensed into a headline, her life and soul summarised with a single soundbite.

Victim.

A thirteen-year-old girl. Good school. Good grades. Bright future ahead of her. Everything to live for. Missing. Found three days later in a shallow grave on a patch of abandoned wasteland. Dead. Strangled.

Murdered.

The killer had still not been caught.

Kenny felt a slight shiver running the length of his back, up and then across into the cold, aching bones of his shoulders. Archer continued to rock backwards and forwards, arms wrapped tightly around his body, clutching wildly at himself. He looked like a crazed escapologist, grappling with an invisible strait jacket.

"Fucking hell man..." said Kenny, "I'm... I'm sorry... I'm sorry for your loss..."

Archer growled, a long drawn out moan, low and guttural. Kenny flinched, unsettled by the sound. He coughed loudly, clearing his throat. He didn't know what to say, what words to use. Despite this, he suddenly found himself talking.

"This is some fucked up shit man... I... I know you got be feeling a lot of pain right now, but this ain't the right thing to do... You got to try and fight whatever is inside you man, squash that demon right down... No matter how fucked up everything is, things change man. Life moves on, you dig?"

Archer fell silent. Kenny realised that he was sweating, the drops of moisture chilly upon his skin. His body felt tense, each muscle and ligament pulling tightly, straining, waiting for something, anything to happen. He thought about moving closer, then decided against it. He wasn't even sure if he was capable of movement.

"You are given things in this world..." whispered Archer, his words so soft Kenny could only just make out his voice, "Gifts... Such wonderful, beautiful gifts. Blessings. You have them, and they are so special, so exquisite... You treasure them, worship them almost, until, eventually, they become greater to you than life itself..."

Archer trailed off, his sentence hanging in the air, unfinished, incomplete. He raised his head and looked at Kenny.

"I'll tell you a secret... Something I have learnt the hard way... The painful way... You may not think it, but in this life, it is possible to love something too much... Absurd, isn't it? Too much love... How can that be? But it's true..."

Archer lurched suddenly, wobbling from side to side like a trapeze artist.

"It wasn't your fault man!" shouted Kenny. Archer steadied himself, looking down to his side, gazing over the edge of the building. For a few seconds both men remained motionless, a silent tableau frozen in time, each of them nothing more than a statue.

"Noooo!"

Archer's voice, loud and clear, sounding perfectly sober now, shot through with the stern tone of a parent scolding a naughty child. It shattered the silence. Kenny jumped, his heart rising up into his throat.,

"No..." repeated Archer, his voice quieter this time, "It... It was..."

He looked up at Kenny.

"It was my fault..."

Kenny stared at Archer. He gazed into his eyes, looking, searching, seeking.

He saw nothing there. Nothing at all.

Archer slowly raised his arms, spreading them wide, fingertips tickling the empty air. His head rolled backwards, staring up towards the sky, mouth open wide.

And then, in an instant, he was gone.

Shaking, summoning up what little reserves of courage he had left, Kenny walked over to the ledge. He braved a quick glance at the carnage below, swallowing hard as he took in the scene.

For a second, he contemplated making his way down. Frisking Archer's pockets, seeing if he had a wallet, any cash. Maybe a phone.

Shaking his head, he rejected the idea.

He may have been many things.

But he wasn't a total bastard.