The Empty Chair

Mat has been made redundant. Now, before anyone starts lighting candles and playing violins, he’s still very much alive. He’s simply lost his job. Unfortunately, a surprising amount of a person’s identity comes wrapped up in what they do for a living, and when somebody suddenly takes that away, it leaves an odd-shaped hole behind. The redundancy has knocked him sideways. He’s financially, emotionally, and, on particularly dramatic afternoons, spiritually broken. One moment he knew exactly who he was and where he fitted into the world. The next, somebody in a meeting room had effectively informed him that he was no longer required. Since then, he’s been coping in increasingly creative ways. The first is pub visits, which is new territory for a man who barely drank before. The second is writing passive-aggressive essays on Twitter at two in the morning. The third involves inventing increasingly imaginative names for his former bosses. One of them is known only as Ball-Bag Chin. The other has acquired the rather less subtle title of Cunt Face. As I walk into the kitchen, I find Mat standing over the sink in his dressing gown, angrily attacking a peach. Juice runs down his chin and onto the front of his gown. The peach doesn’t stand a bloody chance. He pauses mid-chomp, turns to me slowly, juice still tracking down his face, and holds up the half-eaten peach. “Ball-Bag Chin’s head.” I nod silently, and decide not to probe any further He takes another aggressive bite, chewing like it’s personally wronged him. The truth is, beneath all the anger, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. For years his life had structure: a routine, a purpose, a reason to get up each morning and be somewhere. Now the days stretch ahead of him like an empty road disappearing into fog, and I suspect that scares him more than he’s willing to admit. People often talk about losing jobs as though it’s purely financial inconvenience, when sometimes it feels more like a bereavement — the loss of a future you thought was certain, and a version of yourself you expected to become. The loss of a version of yourself you thought you’d still be next year. “Pub?” he asks. Oooosh. I’d rather bloody not. I had plans. Excellent plans involving pyjamas, a blanket and slowly sinking into the sofa until I became part of the upholstery. Not mingling with people I don’t like, making polite conversation, or listening to somebody explain craft beer as though they’d personally discovered hops. Unfortunately, Mat is already reaching for his keys. Half an hour later we’re standing outside The Plough. The place is packed, bodies spilling from every doorway and window like somebody has overfilled the pub and forgotten to pop the lid on. Inside, it’s worse. The air is thick with conversation, laughter and enough body heat to power a small village. We fight our way to the bar, secure drinks, then retreat outside before somebody accidentally elbows me into another dimension. The first prosecco goes down alarmingly well. Smooth. Cold. Just enough to convince me that a second would be an excellent idea and in no way the beginning of a series of regrettable decisions. When we return to the pub, however, the door is locked. A sign hangs from it. ENJOY YOUR DRINK. NOW PISS OFF. “Charming,” I mutter. Mat studies the sign. “I want another bloody drink.” Of course he does. There are people who hear the word no and accept it. Mat has never been one of them. So we begin circling the building like two mildly intoxicated burglars with neither the skills nor the fitness levels required for actual crime. Round the back we discover a side entrance leading into a dimly lit lobby. A crowd stands gathered in a loose circle, speaking in hushed voices. The conversation stops the instant we enter, as though somebody has pressed the mute button. Every head turns. Nobody speaks. The silence feels oddly rehearsed, as though they’d all been discussing us moments before we arrived and hadn’t quite agreed on a cover story. “Don’t let us stop you,” I snipe. Judging by their expressions, we already have. Behind them sits a lift. Or something claiming to be one. It looks ancient and rickety, as though it’s been patiently waiting for someone to put it out of its misery. The metal doors are scratched and dented. The buttons yellowed with age. “Shall we?” Mat asks. A woman from the crowd clears her throat. “I wouldn’t.” Another nods solemnly. “…If you want to come back alive.” Mat presses the button anyway. Naturally. The doors groan open. I peer inside. The thing looks less like a lift and more like the sort of contraption featured in a newspaper article that begins with the word tragically. “What if we get stuck?” I ask. “I’m sure we’ll keep ourselves amused,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “In a dusty old lift? Not a chance.” The doors close. The ascent begins. Slowly. Painfully. The lift groans around us like an elderly arthritic giant reluctantly climbing a staircase. Every few seconds comes a metallic shriek, an alarming rattle, and a noise that sounds fatal. At one point I’m convinced I hear a spring snap; probably something fundamental to our survival. The higher we climb, the stranger everything feels, as though we’re drifting away from something solid and into somewhere built from memory. Eventually, after what feels like several geological eras and at least one minor extinction event, the doors wheeze open. The sixth floor. At the end of the corridor stands a single apartment door. Mat tries the handle. “Shouldn’t we knock?” “Nah.” He grins. “Live a little.” The door swings open. And suddenly the dream changes shape. The silliness that has followed me all evening doesn’t disappear. It simply steps politely to one side, making room for something older. Something quieter. The apartment is enormous; not merely large but impossibly large, the kind of space dreams create when they ignore reality entirely. A perfect time capsule. Burnt orange carpets. Bright yellow furniture. Floral wallpaper that seems to breathe gently in the corner of my vision, as though the room itself is alive and trying not to draw attention to the fact. The air smells of tobacco, old photographs, Sunday dinners and the peculiar comfort of somewhere you haven’t visited for years but somehow recognise immediately. A sunken conversation pit dominates the centre of the room. And sitting comfortably within it is Mike. Mat’s father. Gone from this world and yet somehow pipe in hand, healthy, relaxed, and looking less deceased than half the people I know. “You made it,” he says warmly. “You’re just in time for supper.” He rises from the sofa and leads us through to the dining room. The table is so vast that the far end disappears into a haze of lamplight and conversation, stretching seamlessly into infinity. And every seat is occupied — or almost every seat. People are talking, laughing, eating, passing dishes. The sort of ordinary supper-table chaos that exists at every family gathering, where three conversations happen at once and nobody is entirely listening to anyone else. The atmosphere feels warm and familiar. Not despite the fact that almost everyone here is dead. Somehow because of it. Faces emerge from memory one by one, as though somebody is developing old photographs inside my head. Mrs Pickles, my favourite teacher from school, is buttering bread and laughing at something she can’t possibly have found funny. Trevor and Pat, my childhood neighbours, are still arguing over cutlery, which is oddly comforting because even death appears to have accepted that Pat is in charge. She’s still wearing the trousers. Trevor looks exactly as I remember him: a man who long ago realised life was easier if he simply agreed with whatever Pat had decided fifteen minutes. For a moment I ponder whether they’ve forgiven me for repeatedly climbing over their wall and peeing in their bird bath when I thought they weren’t looking. Pat caught me mid-stream once, like some sort of mischievous water feature. She didn’t say a word. Just slowly backed into the house and locked the door behind her. In all fairness, I was six. And a profoundly odd little creature. Further down sits my grandad beside my grandmother. They’re sharing a bread basket. They’re sharing a bread basket. The fact they aren’t attempting to gouge each other’s eyes out with forks over whose turn it is to pass the butter is perhaps the strongest evidence that we’re no longer operating within the mortal realm. Mr Strange sits in the corner, strumming his guitar and earnestly singing about prayer being a telephone to Jesus. As a child, I always suspected he believed Heaven operated a twenty-four-hour helpline for the bewildered, the troubled, and children who’d forgotten their PE kit. My nan is feeding scraps beneath the table to Tessy. Always a feeder. Nan’s preferred love language was overfeeding. Cakes, sweets, biscuits, sandwiches — if you left her house without feeling slightly uncomfortable, she’d assume she’d failed as a grandmother. Tessy recognised a kindred spirit and spent most of her life positioned strategically beneath the dining table. I look around the room. At all the people who once occupied entire chapters of my life. People who once felt permanent, until one day they weren’t. People who quietly stepped out of the story whilst I carried on turning pages. Every face seems to carry its own small ache. A reminder that the world keeps moving no matter who gets left behind. Then I notice it. Not a face. Not a voice. An absence. The empty chair, sitting quietly among the occupied seats. One absence. And I know instantly who should be sitting there. Dad. Sixteen years gone. Sixteen years of birthdays. Christmases. Ordinary Tuesdays. Questions never asked. Answers never heard. I stare at the chair. The longer I look, the heavier it seems to become, as though absence has weight. A sadness settles over me. Because despite everything I’ve seen this evening — the haunted lift, the impossible apartment and the dinner party populated by the dead — I genuinely expected to find him here. “Thought he’d be here.” The words leave quietly. Across the table, Mike removes his pipe. He studies me for a moment. A gentle smile touches the corner of his mouth, as though he’s known something all along that I’m only just beginning to understand. “He is here.” I frown. “What?” “Your dad.” I glance around the table again. But none of them belong to him. “No,” I say softly. “He isn’t.” Mike chuckles. “No.” He leans forward. “Closer.” I spin around. Nothing there. Only wallpaper breathing in the light. “What do you mean?” Instead of answering, Mike reaches across the table. Past plates. Past glasses. Past the years. Then gently presses a finger against my chest. Against my heart. “There.” The room falls silent. Even the guitar stops. The word lands somewhere beneath thought. Around me, conversation resumes. Trevor complains about the cutlery. Nan feeds Tessy. Mrs Pickles laughs. Life, death and memory continuing around the same table. I look back at Mike. “Then what is this place?” “Memory,” he says simply. I glance around the table again. “Are they dead?” “Some of them.” He smiles faintly. “Not really.” He watches them all carefully. “They’re here because somebody still carries them.” The room shifts. Not heaven. Not afterlife. Something else. A place built from remembrance. Held together by stories. “The funny thing about people,” Mike continues, relighting his pipe, “is they think death is the opposite of life.” He shakes his head. “It isn’t.” Smoke curls lazily towards the ceiling. “Forgetting is.” Nobody speaks. Not even Trevor, which feels unnatural. “Every story told. Every photograph kept. Every time somebody says their name.” His eyes settle on me. “That’s how places like this stay full.” I sit quietly for a moment. Then ask the question that’s been waiting at the back of my mind. “And what happens when everyone lets go?” For the first time all evening, his smile falters. Not completely. Just enough. He takes a moment before answering. “Then they finally get to leave.” Around us, the dinner continues. Trevor and Pat are still arguing over cutlery. Nan is still feeding Tessy beneath the table. Mrs Pickles is laughing at something Grandad has said. The room feels warm. Comfortable. Loved. Not a place of endings. A place of holding on. A place built entirely from the people we cannot bear to lose. I look again at the empty chair. The chair I’d spent the entire evening believing belonged to my dad. But now I understand. It was never his chair. It never had been. I look around the table one last time. At all the faces. All the ghosts. All the people still being loved into existence. Then I look at the chair. And this time it doesn’t make me sad. Because for the first time in sixteen years, it doesn’t feel empty at all. When I wake, the feeling follows me. Not grief. Not longing. Something quieter. Like finding a light left on in a room you thought had been emptied by time. Some people never really leave. They simply stop standing beside us