The Horror, the Horror
Wednesday, I switched on the radio at work to catch the six 'o clock news and heard about the killings at Dunblane. A lone man enters a primary school and shoots dead 15 children and their teacher, wounds several more children and teachers and then shoots himself. I feel the same numb, chill horror and despair that I felt the night that I switched on the radio and heard of the Locherbie bomb.
And the following day, I'm coffeeing with Rory only to find that he's due to be attending a wedding in Dunblane in less than a month and knows the area, the school and his friends who are to be married will certainly know the families who have suffered loss. And, as ever, what was distant becomes immediate.
In The Guardian, the cartoonist Steve Bell manages the impossible and finds a perfect image to encapsulate the loss. He draws a photograph of what must have been the class photograph for that infant group. But the photograph is torn, ripped jaggedly from side to side and all that is left is some ankles and feet. The rest of the image is blank. I read the factual reports with a heavy heart and concern. I looked at the cartoon and cried.
But even as I have grieved and felt the anger wash over me, it doesn't add up. Even on that first night, I could feel prickles on the back of my neck as the news reader talked of the gunman as being a disgraced scout master. And now, by the weekend, it's out in the media that he was, indeed, an accused pædophile and he's called A Monster by the tabloids.
So, he's marginalised, not one of us, beyond the pail, a disgusting pervert. He couldn't possibly be an ordinary person to have done such a thing. There's almost an audible gasp of relief that we can all hang the peg of pervert upon him and dismiss his actions as belonging to someone outside of the group. Questions will be asked. But the questions that will be asked are directed at the level of who authorised his ownership of guns.
And the questions I want to ask are "What is the agony and devastation of soul that afflicts a man for such a period of time that he believes that his correct and logical next step is to pick up a gun and shoot down a five year old?", "As you make breakfast for yourself on the morning of the shooting, as you are priming the guns, knowing the deeds you are about to perform, do you hope you will succeed or fail?", "What is the chain of guilt and fudged responsibilities in such a close knit community that creates the climate wherein the monster that lurks in us all can be released in such a fashion?"
No-one will ask such questions. And this morning, Saturday, a mother has knifed to death her 11 and 14 year old sons: her husband, their father, came home to find the police cordoning off the house. And I can understand the need, the desperate need of some folk, who find their life, their very existence, such a torment that a release into death is a relief. Even in that despair, there can be a nobility. But to take others with you, that I cannot understand. And such a harsh revenge upon the world at large troubles me.
I've been preparing a meal for the Jameses while I've been writing this, sipping a glass of rather nice Chilean white wine from the Santa Carolina vineyard and listening to Officium. The occasion is a sort of anniversary meal for them as they've been back together again for nearly three months now - and we're not talking about James II's thighs here.
It would be unhealthy to pretend that there isn't a tinge of bittersweetness colouring my soul. How nice it would be for someone to prepare a meal for me to celebrate a three month strong relationship. Hey ho.
What with Keith and Philippe last weekend (I had a very sweet note from Philippe during the week thanking me for hosting that evening), time with Roland last night when he talked about his new partner, Colin (that's too common a name at the moment), time also with Julie when she talked about her new partner, Yvette, even Phil seems to have the hots for someone (so goodness only knows who's been shaking the doors of his monastic cell), I seem to be surrounded by people who are coupling off. Well, good luck to them. We'll see what happens when my turn comes.