I was lying on my futon. It was raining outside. I was cold, and the futon was lumpy and thin. And I thought to myself, Matt, you arse hole! She was crying out for help. My help. And I just let her walk off to die. Some grand pact between us! That was my pathetic gesture of friendship. She would send me her manuscript. The story of her life! Before she did it! And I would be the one to ensure her immortality. Her place in the history books! Her little voice.

She never did tell me why she wanted to die. Or what demons she wanted buried with her. For a woman of such sadness, she smiled an awful lot.

The wind was very strong outside. The rain was heavy and smashing against the walls and windows. There was lightening and some loose objects flying around the streets. It was difficult to sleep, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Shaquilla. She told me once that one time when she was in Bangladesh during November, there was a great storm. I don’t know whether it was a typhoon, tornado, cyclone, hurricane or whatever. I’m no expert in turbulent weather. But I remember her telling me about the ripped up trees, the flying corrugated roofs and the dead bloated animals and people washed up on the beaches or stranded on top of trees. I wonder! Perhaps she’s still alive? And may be it’s windy out there too? And she’s thinking about me …listening as she told me the story. The story of the day the lights went out.

It’s been three months. May be she’s still writing. But, why hasn’t she replied to my emails? I wrote as often as I could. I didn’t just forget about her. And in every email, I told her not to do it. I told her to come back and talk to me about it. To talk about whatever’s bothering her. I said that even before she left. She just looked at me and smiled with her very sad, but gentle eyes, and said something about acid corroding the inside of her soul and it being too late.

I should have gone to the airport with her, and even then tried to get her to change her mind. I should have gone with her to her mountain. I should have followed her everywhere like a shadow. Or even better, like the clouds that shroud the mountainside. She talked about them so many times. She was a woman who liked fragments. She found them romantic. Much more poetic than clear blue skies and a complete vista stretching out its every clearly visible detail. I should have been with her. I should have been there. I should have stopped her from dying. I’m the only one who knew. I’m the only one who could have saved her.

But instead, I did nothing. I just respected her wishes and agreed to try and get her story published. So I agreed to try. That was my token friendship.

And in the semi-darkness of my futoned-room, with the world of my imagination churning itself to bits outside, I could see her face gazing up at me. And all that hair. All that long, curly, black hair streaming back over the pillow. She had gorgeous tits. And we made love that one time.

Oh don’t tell me that’s why she wanted to die?

I had no condoms. And she said no fucking without ‘em. But, in the end, I went in anyway. I knew she wanted it. I knew that’s what she wanted. She liked it. She wasn’t upset. She couldn’t have felt violated. She said “NO!” I know. A couple of times. But didn’t try to stop me. Her legs were wide open. She would have closed them if she really didn’t want it. I know she wanted it. I know she enjoyed it. I saw her eyes. I saw her laugh. I saw myself laugh. We both laughed. It was a laugh. We both enjoyed it. I know she really enjoyed it. I know she did.

I was the one who didn’t want things to go any further between us. She did.

Oh my God! You bloody bitch! This isn’t all just because I don’t want to fuck you any more? …Is it?

If you’re still alive, I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for putting me through this. And if you’re not, then why the bloody hell did you have to tell me about your plans? You said you wanted the death to look like an accident. You said you didn’t want anyone to know the truth. Suicide was a very violent act. It would really upset people if they knew. You didn’t want to be remembered as some sad bitch found overdosed on pills. You would be the adventurous woman who went for it. But, unfortunately, fell off the side of a mountain. And I would be the one who just happened to be the friend reading your manuscript for you while you were away. Ready and waiting to thrust it into the world arena. Well, it’s not fucking fair. You didn’t think about me. Did you? You didn’t care that I might be upset. This is your way of making sure I never ever forget you. You want to haunt me forever. You want me to think of you and what I could have done. Or what I should have done… To save you.

Bet you’re having a fucking good laugh about me right now. Doped up to the eyeballs in some ashram somewhere. Or may be in heaven. Looking down on me and thinking the bastard deserves it.

But, where’s the manuscript? You were going to send it to me. In your last email from Calcutta three months ago, you said that you were off to your mountain. You said you were going to write it there and send it off to me before, as you put it, disappearing off the face of the earth. I emailed you so many times after that. So many times begging you to come back. But, nothing. You just disappeared off the face of the earth just like you said. Leaving me with that promise I made you. The promise not to tell anyone. Not a fucking soul.

No one knows anything. I phoned your office. They know nothing. They thought you’d just taken two weeks off to redecorate your flat and then just never came back. The police ask so many bloody questions. May be they think I killed you. I tell them nothing. You asked me not to. But, this wasn’t the plan. You were supposed to have sent me the manuscript. There was supposed to have been a body. Things were supposed to be simple.

Really, really, really painful!

But, relatively simple.

You don’t understand what you’ve done to me. I can’t see or hear or touch or smell or taste or just breathe in anything to do with art or food or film or music or creepy-crawlies or pure maths or poetry or even just the weather outside without seeing your face and those sad eyes sitting strangely with that huge smile of yours.

I would do anything to see you standing outside my door now. Rain soaked. Alive. Just tell me what you want.

It was Darjeeling wasn’t it? Where you were going?

You’re still alive. Aren’t you? You just haven’t finished writing. Okay, we’ll do it your way. I’m coming. You can show me the clouds and we’ll have a long chat and a cuppa tea, and you can tell me all about it!

Just, don’t die on me. I want to see you again. I really, really want to see you again. To know that you’re alright. To hear you stories. To see your face.

Oh my God. That’s what this is all about. You want proof. You just wanna know that I care. Well darling, I do care. You know I do. And, I know you’re alive. And I will see you again. I know I will.

I smiled, I knew she was still alive. All I had to do was go to Darjeeling to find her. I don’t think it’s a very big place. It shouldn’t be that difficult. The weather outside was still turbulent, but I felt calm. Happy. I would go to Darjeeling. I would find her. I would listen. She would realise. She would know just how much she means to me as a friend. There was still time. I can save her. And I will.



---Jib, one evening in December 2000, sat at home in front of my computer. Narrator: Matthew. From: ‘Shaquilla’s Papers’