The Ultimate Betrayal

The day starts like any other. I’m out on my round, pushing my garish red HTC through the streets, delivering the nation’s birthday cards, bills, Amazon regrets, and whatever other treasures people have ordered at three in the morning. The trolley is so overloaded it’s beginning to resemble a small mobile warehouse rather than a piece of postal equipment, groaning in protest every time I bump it over a kerb. The morning is warm. Birds chatter from hedges. Somewhere nearby a lawnmower drones away; the sort of pleasant suburban soundtrack that makes you believe, however briefly, that nothing strange is about to happen. Then I notice a man standing further down the pavement. At first, he doesn’t register as anything unusual. People hover around posties all the time. They’re either waiting for a parcel, hoping for important news, or preparing to ask a question that could have been answered by a quick glance at Google. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a flat cap pulled low over his face. Entirely forgettable, except for the fact that he keeps looking at me. Then he smiles. I smile back. That’s what us posties are trained to do. “Morning,” I call. “Amanda!” I stop. Squint. The facial-recognition software inside my brain begins desperately searching old archives. Then it clicks. “Darren?” His grin widens. Bloody hell. I almost don’t recognise him. Partly because it’s been years. Mostly because the last time I saw him, he looked considerably less like a retired dock worker. “What’s with the flat cap?” I ask. Because curiosity is a nosy cow. His smile immediately falters. “Oh.” Slowly, and with all the enthusiasm of a man removing a bandage, he lifts the cap from his head. Jesus Christ. The man is bald. Not “starting to lose it” bald. Not “a little thin on top” bald. The hairline hasn’t retreated. It’s left the chat entirely. A few brave survivors cling stubbornly to the outskirts of his scalp, but otherwise his head gleams magnificently in the morning sunlight. Meanwhile, the rest of him appears to have spent the past decade wrestling bears for exercise. His shirt strains against shoulders the size of small wardrobes. His arms look capable of lifting a family hatchback with a week’s shopping, two children, and a Labrador still inside. His head, rather unfortunately for him, looks like a freshly polished bowling ball. It’s a deeply confusing aesthetic. He notices my expression and quickly replaces the cap. “It runs in the family,” he says glumly. “I wasn’t judging the lack of hair, Darren.” “No?” “No. It was more the flat cap.” He sighs. “Sadly, the flat cap is here to stay.” Looking at him now, I realise we’ve both become different versions of ourselves since those days. Older, hopefully wiser, carrying histories we didn’t have back then. Though admittedly only one of us appears to have aged entirely through the scalp. Darren has always been one of those people I’ve struggled to dislike. Life occasionally throws you individuals who are fundamentally decent, even when every romantic fibre of your being is waving a massive red flag. Years ago, we’d had a brief fling. Most of the details have faded with time, but one particular memory still haunts me during quiet moments. He was The Licker. Yes. That kind of licker. We were in the middle of going for it, overcome by what I can only assume was enthusiasm, confusion, or a catastrophic misunderstanding of foreplay, when he suddenly licked the side of my face. Not a little lick. Not a playful lick. A full-contact Labrador lick. One enormous wet slurp from jawline to temple; the sort of lick typically reserved for returning soldiers, missing owners, or people carrying sausages. The moment died instantly. Not stumbled. Not faltered. Died. Flatlined. Gone. Which was a genuine shame because he really was a lovely chap. But romantically? Absolutely not. Licking is a deal breaker. Tongues entering ears are also a deal breaker. And let’s not get into nipple-gate. But those three sit surprisingly high on the list. Still, we remained friends over the years. The occasional text. The odd catch-up. How’s life? How’s work? Still having those crazy dreams? The sort of friendship that drifts in and out of existence without ever quite disappearing. And yes, he knows about the dreams. Hopefully he’s not reading this one. Although if he is, we’ve already crossed the bridge where I describe him as a bald ex-lover who licked my face, so there’s probably no saving things now. Darren, you’re lovely. But less tongue. Much less tongue. We begin walking together while I continue my round, and to my surprise the conversation settles into an easy rhythm. We talk about music, the 90s, old television programmes, dreams, and the strange speed at which time seems to accelerate once you reach adulthood. One minute you’re nineteen making questionable romantic decisions. The next you’re discussing cholesterol and wondering where twenty years went. Occasionally I break away to post a letter through somebody’s door, then wander back and pick up the conversation exactly where we left off. Hours drift past almost unnoticed. Street after street. House after house. The trolley empties, the sun climbs higher, and before I realise it my workday is finished. It’s been a lovely afternoon. The kind that reminds you why some people remain in your life long after the romance has packed its bags and left. I glance down at the HTC. Empty. A rare and beautiful sight. “Well,” I say, staring into the distance. “I suppose I should head back.” Darren’s face wilts like a flower in a heatwave. He removes his flat cap again. Without it, he suddenly looks oddly vulnerable. Like a disappointed thumb. “I live just around the corner,” he says. “Oh?” “There’s a show I’ve recorded. I think you’d really like it.” I blink. Recorded? Who records television anymore? What is this? 1998? Do you also own a fax machine, Darren? A Blockbuster membership card tucked safely in your wallet? But the bigger issue is the small voice in my head reminding me that I should leave. I’ve got a lovely husband at home. A happy marriage. A life I genuinely adore. Nothing about this situation is inappropriate, yet it somehow feels like I’m already halfway through making a mistake. I should smile politely, say it was lovely catching up, and continue on my merry way. Instead, curiosity — that nosy little bitch again — raises her hand. A television show sounds nice. A cup of tea sounds nice. A bit of nostalgia sounds nice. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s innocent. Perfectly innocent. No licking involved. “Oh, go on then.” The words leave my mouth. Regret follows shortly behind them. A few streets later we arrive. I stop dead. The house is enormous. Not British enormous. American enormous. The sort of house that comes with a pickup truck, a shotgun, and at least three generations of family drama. A huge wraparound balcony stretches around the front, and a rocking chair creaks gently on the porch despite nobody sitting in it. The whole thing looks like it belongs in Texas, not wedged awkwardly between two perfectly ordinary British terraces. It’s as though somebody accidentally pasted an American soap opera onto the wrong postcode. I stare. Darren doesn’t seem remotely concerned. My HTC trolley is abandoned in the front garden. It promptly rolls into a hedge and disappears from sight. The universe couldn’t have been clearer if it had burst into flames. “DARRRRREEENNNN!” The voice erupts from somewhere upstairs. I nearly leave my soul behind on the doorstep. Darren winces. “That’s my mum.” “Right.” “Ignore her.” Another shout rattles through the house. I glance upwards. Forty years old and still living with Mum. Not my business. Not my circus. Not my strangely vocal monkeys. I follow him inside. The living room feels frozen in time. Everything is slightly outdated, slightly faded, slightly stuck, as though the house gave up modernising around 2004 and simply refused to participate any further. And sitting proudly in the corner is the television. An actual box television. With corners. Proper corners. The sort of television youngsters would mistake for a piece of furniture. “Wow,” I laugh. “There’s a relic if I ever saw one.” “If it ain’t broke, why fix it?” Darren replies. Fair point. He fiddles with the controls. The screen crackles to life. Then my stomach drops. Because I recognise it instantly. The exact episode. It’s our show. Mine and my husband’s show. The show. Eight seasons. Hundreds of episodes. Years of cliff-hangers, betrayals, twists, theories, and increasingly dramatic season finales. We’ve been carefully watching it together, one episode each evening. Savouring it. Protecting it. The final episode has been waiting for us. Patiently. Faithfully. And there it is. Ready to ruin everything. Darren smiles. “It’s the last one.” Oh no. Oh dear. Oh, for God’s sake. I’ve made a terrible mistake. This is it. This is how marriages end. Not affairs. Not money. Not irreconcilable differences. Spoilers. The silent killer. I open my mouth to protest. But Darren has already pressed play. And then it happens. Patrick. Sweet, loyal Patrick. The underdog. The fan favourite. The man we defended through eight seasons of increasingly suspicious behaviour. The character we’ve spent years rooting for. Turns out to be the knife-wielding murderer. Not misunderstood. Not framed. Actually the murderer. The mastermind. The villain. The sneaky little bastard behind absolutely everything. I nearly inhale my tea. The cup rattles violently in my hand. Years of emotional investment collapse in a matter of seconds. This revelation shocks me more than Darren’s baldness. More than the flat cap. More than his screaming banshee of a mother. And considerably more than the fact, at some point during Patrick’s villain monologue, Darren has quietly removed both his trousers and underwear. I blink. He is standing there completely naked. Smiling hopefully. He obviously believes events are unfolding very differently to how they actually are. Honestly, I’m still more upset about Patrick. “I’ve got to go.” “What?” “I’ve GOT to go.” I leap from the sofa. Darren scrambles after me while attempting to pull his trousers back on, which can’t be easy while simultaneously trying to salvage your dignity. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you—” “Wanted to watch television? Yes. I was already struggling to process Patrick. This feels excessive.” I burst through the front door. Tears prick my eyes. Partly from panic. Partly from guilt. Partly because the devastating revelation that Patrick was a fraud. And partly because my HTC trolley has now been eaten by a bush. After a brief wrestling match with both nature and Royal Mail equipment, I finally free it and begin power-walking towards the depot. Halfway there, my phone vibrates. A message from my husband. My stomach drops instantly. I open it. “I’m sorry.” Excuse me? I stop walking. Scroll. “I couldn’t control myself.” Now hold on a minute. Scroll. “Please forgive me.” Oh, we’re escalating. My heart attempts to eject itself from my chest. Scroll. “I cheated.” The world stops. Everything goes silent. I stare. I blink. I briefly consider whether I’ve wandered into someone else’s marriage. I read it again. Then I keep scrolling because apparently my husband has chosen to process his guilt through excessive correspondence. And eventually I reach the end. “Patrick is the murderer.” Oh. I stand there in the middle of the pavement laughing like an idiot. A proper laugh. The helpless kind that arrives when reality becomes too ridiculous to process. Because my husband cheated too. Not actual cheating. Television cheating. A lesser crime, but only just. He’d watched the ending without me. I’d watched the ending without him. We had both betrayed each other. Mine just happened to involve a bald man in a flat cap attempting a misguided seduction. His managed to stay fully clothed. Emotionally speaking, I’d say we’re about even. Relief floods through me. Warm. Wonderful. Ridiculous. Perfect. I pull out my phone. My thumbs hover above the screen. Funny story… Delete. You’re never going to believe how I found out… Delete. Firstly, before you ask, Darren was involved… Delete immediately. I stare at the blinking cursor. Because suddenly I realise something. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I know. And more importantly… He definitely doesn’t know how I know. I picture trying to explain. Funny story, love. I accidentally watched the final episode with Darren, the bald ex-fling who once licked my face like a golden retriever before removing his trousers while his mother screamed from upstairs. Even in my head it sounds made up. No. No, that somehow sounds worse than actual cheating. I lower the phone. The message remains unsent. Ahead of me, the depot waits. Behind me, Darren’s mansion slowly disappears from view. And somewhere between the two sits a secret so utterly ridiculous that explaining it would take longer than simply taking it to my grave. I know Patrick is the murderer. My husband knows Patrick is the murderer. Neither of us knows that the other knows. We’re both guilty. We’re both keeping secrets. And somehow neither secret is the one that should be. And for reasons I cannot fully explain, I decide to keep it that way. Perhaps one day I’ll tell him. Perhaps one day we’ll laugh about it. Perhaps one day Darren’s trousers will finally receive the closure they deserve. But not today. Today, the secret stays with me. After all, some betrayals are easier to confess than others… and some stories are simply too strange to survive the telling.