I lost control

I’m a control freak – especially since Al died. My mother had no concept of just how much control I exercised when I didn’t cry at his funeral. For me dignity was everything. And weeping and wailing would not serve him any useful purpose and would interfere with what needed to be done – so I refused to allow myself to do so.

Tonight I came close to losing it. I mean really losing it. I know it was understandable – almost excusable– but it scared me.

I’d booked to take my youngest to the cinema. We were seeing ‘Bridesmaids’ - a funny (rather more raucous than I was comfortable watching with my 15 year old daughter) chick flick on our usual Orange Wednesday two-for-one deal.

We stopped at the supermarket en route to pick up snacks rather than pay outrageous cinema prices. We had to be quick as I’d agreed to speak to a colleague about work at 6pm and knew I had just 20 minutes to get in and out of the supermarket before calling her and the film started at 6.15pm so the window of time was tight.

And suddenly, just as I opened my car door to get out, he was there.

I stared at him and said, “Oh no.”

My daughter followed my line of vision and said, “Oh Mum - is that him? Is that the man who killed Al?” She’d only ever seen him once – the day he was given a 6 month suspended jail sentence but clearly, his face is as ingrained on her mind as it is on mine.

I didn’t know what to do. Simultaneously I felt panicked and furious. I was rooted to the spot yet desperate to say something/anything to him. Common sense told me to stay in the car ... not follow him ... sit tight ... say nothing.

Something else – I don’t know what – made me get out. I know I excused it by saying that we had to be quick so we’d better just get on with things. But I knew I was making the wrong decision – I knew I was just finding an excuse to look him in the eye ... to make contact.

He was standing near the entrance to the shop, smoking a cigarette when we walked past him and I was suddenly hit by a blind fury. The words were out of my mouth and I don’t think I could have stopped them.

“Christopher Clamp?”

He nodded and looked quizzically at me.

“You killed my son. You ran my son over and you killed him. And you didn’t even express any regret.”

I was stunned by how my voice was loud but I wasn’t shouting. There was a small group of people nearby and I wanted/needed them to know that this man was a monster – that he had killed my son. I don’t know why I needed that but I did. I didn’t want to scream and shout but to state my case clearly. I guess there was at least a little control there then.

In a very childish tone of voice, he said, “Well I did say sorry -OK?”

I said, “No Mr Clamp – it is not OK. That was no apology because you grinned at me when you said sorry – do you remember that? Do you remember how you smiled at me when I suggested you might want to say sorry?”

He replied, “Well I’m sorry – alright now?”

“No Mr Clamp. It isn’t all right because my boy is dead because you murdered him. You saw my son in the road and you revved your engine and then your drove right at him. You murdered my son and he is dead and I hope you rot in hell.” My fist was clenched. I could feel my nails digging into my palm. I could feel the diamond ring (bought for Al’s 18^th birthday but never given to him) I always wear had swivelled round and the diamond was also digging in. And I wanted to punch him. Right in the middle of his face. I wanted to smash his nose into the back of his head.

And then I realised that my daughter was holding my arm saying, “Come on Mum.”

We walked into the Supermarket. I was shaking so violently that she took hold of my hand to steady it. We bought chocs and headed for the individual tubs of ice cream. I knew I was going to shovel food in because I didn’t know what else to do. But I decided that this was most definitely a ‘what the hell’ moment so bought it anyway.

However, en route to the ice cream, he was there again. He had followed us into the shop and was perusing the soups. I know he is of little intelligence but even I was stunned by this. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that he might just want to avoid me?

Again, bless her, she just said quietly, “Come on Mum.” We got the ice cream, paid and left.

We arrived at the cinema and I made my call to my colleague. I poured out the events to her. She was lovely. She listened and wanted to come over but, as she was 45 miles away and in the middle of Eid celebrations, we both knew that was out of the question. And anyway, I had a film to see. My daughter had already spotted some friends and darted off to say hello – funny (but good) how kids can just switch their focus like that.

We watched the film. It was funny but contained a couple of scenes I’d rather my daughter hadn’t seen and a word that should not belong in a film rated as 15. I ate ice cream and Maltesers but had to stop because after just a few, my stomach rebelled and I was in agony. I guess stress, ice cream and Maltesers aren’t too great a combination after all. I remember a time when chocolate seemed to solve all of my problems. I guess coming face to face with the man who killed my child was just too big a problem even for chocolate.

I wish I hadn’t lost control. I hated her seeing me like that. Whatever happened to setting an example?