Dead Astronauts by Patrick Whittaker

Years passed. I married Pam. We tried and failed to have children. And then she took ill and died.

People said I should remarry. I always said it’s too soon. And they’d nod understandingly and tell me my pain would ease and one day I’d find myself a good woman and be happy again.

But the pain grew and I could tell no one the horrid truth – that I didn’t grieve for Pam. Only for Shirley, the girl I should have married.

She and her parents had left the locality as soon as the education system had finished with her. Nobody seemed to know where they’d gone.

Whenever I saw the oak tree, I thought of her and wondered what she was doing with her life.

Well, now I knew. She was married to a porn star and was living in the cottage that had been my childhood home.

What a bastard Fate is. A clever, witty bastard; ironic and cruel.

Mr and Mrs Jerry Granville went away for a couple of weeks to work on a film.

At their request, I visited the cottage each day to collect their post and check all was well. Every second in that cosy love nest was purgatory and I stayed no longer than I had to.

I knew if I ventured into the living room and saw one thing that was his it would be like a hot poker skewering my heart.

Then came that Sunday. I should have gone to church but I was in no mood to commune with my maker. Let others listen to the trite platitudes of the Reverend Morris. Let others sing about God being their shelter from the stormy blast.

I planned to get roaring drunk.

My mission was swiftly accomplished and as the bells in Dingle Marsh rang for morning service, I marched to the cottage, bottle of illegal hooch in hand, singing Onward Christian Soldiers. I entered the cottage heedless of the fact that my boots were covered in liquefied cow shit.

When I’d started drinking, it hadn’t been my intention to invade the cottage. But alcohol feeds perversity and before I knew it I was at the top of the stairs facing the door to the master bedroom.

Don’t do it, I told myself. You’ll regret it for the rest of your days.

You have to know, said the alcohol. Confront your demons, Shaun Delaney. Or they’ll never go away.

Common sense was never a match for hooch. I pushed open the door, half-expecting to see the bedroom of my boyhood.

The bed was scarcely visible beneath a mountain of skimpy underwear, rubber clothing, whips and manacles. Handcuffs dangled from picture hooks. The mantelpiece was lined with dildos, vibrators, butt plugs, electric fannies, cock restraints and nipple clamps.

Oh bloody double fuck. Why the hell did I have to go poking my nose into other people’s business like that? I might just as well have performed open heart surgery on myself with a rusty can opener.

Cursing myself for a fool, I staggered out of the cottage and made a beeline for the oak tree.

I sat with my back against the trunk. Autumn leaves crunched beneath my arse as I made myself comfortable.

There were a few mouthfuls of hooch left. I finished them and tossed the bottle aside.

Sleep, that blessed release from the cares of the world, began to descend like a theatre curtain. As my head lolled to one side, I saw the gnarly protrusion with which Shirley had fornicated all those years ago.

And then I was asleep and lost in dreams of acorns, butt plugs and nipple clamps.

When Shirley and her husband returned, my hatred for Jerry grew and grew. So did my loathing of the tree – or at least that part which had penetrated my one true love.

One night, under the influence of alcohol, I fetched an axe, sharpened it on a whetstone and admired its wicked edge. The face reflected in the blade belonged to a maniac with a five day beard.

Whistling tunelessly, I set off down the road intent on separating Jerry Granville from his pecker.

The sobering effects of the night air allowed a modicum of rationality to take root. And I got to thinking maybe I should spare Jerry - at least until I’d devised a surer way to be rid of him. After all, chopping off his todger wasn’t guaranteed to kill him and there was every chance he’d be surgically reunited with his John 115