Chapter Text
Withnail had expected quite a few folks to turn up, but the number of people that attended the service still caught him by surprise.
Lisa and Jay were there, and Ginny, of course. Even Marwood's mother and sister turned up, their faces displaying equal measures of grief and disbelief, because the bastard hadn't even bothered to tell them he was dying. And Danny and friends showed up, as well as a bunch of RADA kids and even some of the professors. A few people from the film industry, some fellow bookworms from Marwood's book club, a little crowd of his readers and fans...
The church was full.
Lisa had somehow persuaded him to give a speech. He improvised. He got all the right responses - flutters of affectionate laughter, tearful smiles and all that, at all the right places. So he must have done it right.
But later he realized he couldn't remember a single sentence he'd said. It was all a blur. He just remembered standing there at the speaker's desk and feeling hopelessly alone with his grief.
He didn't have the words for how he felt. Words couldn't quite contain the sudden gaping absence.
He left the service early.
...
Lisa found him on a bench behind the church. He barely noticed her approach.
“That speech was beautiful, Withnail,” she said as she sat down next to him. "Especially the bit about the drunken Edmund soliloquy. Would have loved to witness that."
“Could you leave me alone?” He muttered.
“No.” She took a tobacco box out of her handbag, opened it and produced a joint. “I want to bury the hatchet.” She lighted the joint and took a puff before offering it to Withnail.
He hesitated for a moment, but then he accepted. He inhaled deeply and slowly blew the smoke out. “Whatever possessed him to leave the damned bookshop to me... And that hag he used to play scrabble with... I'm still trying to figure out whether to be deeply touched or royally pissed off.” He passed the joint to her. "The dope's shit, but thanks, anyway."
“Inheriting Jay ain't that bad," she said. "Look at us... We've inherited you. Now that's bad.”
“The sentiment's mutual,” he said, wondering just how much he really meant it.
She mused: “He was so anxious not to leave any loose ends... You think he actually plotted this out like a book? Drew a little scheme in one of his notebooks and wrote us all some sort of happy ending before he stuffed himself with barbiturates and washed it all down with scotch?”
“He most certainly did. What would I give to have the fucker back, even if only to tell him what I think of his silly matchmaking shenanigans," Withnail replied. "So...” He looked at Lisa and gestured for the joint. “That leaves you and me with...what exactly?”
Lisa passed the joint to him. “The grief, you idiot.”
...
It took Withnail a few weeks before he even contemplated opening his 'personalized edition' of Wilde's fairy tales and he needed several more days to actually muster enough courage to do it.
As he flipped the book open, cautiously and apprehensively, the old post-it note fell on the floor. He was just about to pick it up, when it occurred to him it had been removed from the contents page and stuck to another one. Page 25. The paper was still slightly creased.
'...“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince...
There had been an update since the last time Withnail had turned those pages.
“...you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”
The last three words in that sentence were circled in bright crimson ink and a new note was scribbled at the bottom of the page:
I believe you're awaited in a happier climate, silly bird, so don't wait until December.
Move on.
Chin chin.
Withnail went pale as a sheet.
He flung the book into the corner and yelled at the top of his lungs: "Coward is all you ever were, you fucking bastard!"
The omnipresent stifling silence swallowed up the outburst and yawned its ugly maw open at him, leaving him even more acutely aware just how alone he was.
He sighed and went to collect the book and all the scattered envelopes that had been inserted between its pages.
"You should have told me," he muttered as he gathered the envelopes and inspected the book. He gently, apologetically caressed the creased pages. "You should have waited for me, you fucker, and let me see you off..." His voice choked into a stifled falsetto as his eyes began to burn. "And you should have bloody told me."
A bottle of red and a pack of cigarettes later, he opened the book again.
"Me too," he mumbled, a small sad smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He opened another pack of Gauloises and, having run out of wine, poured himself a glass full of Scotch. "Happier climate, God Memnon, gold-fish and red ibises can go fuck themselves, sunshine."
...
Dear Ginny,
months ago I promised you that I'd let you read that epistolary novel I was working on. Then I gave you the unfinished thing, because I didn't believe I was going to get to the last chapter.
Turns out there was only one more chapter left to write, I just wasn't ready to write it until very recently. I hope you like it. It's not very polished, I'm afraid, but neither were the previous ones. It's been a purely therapeutic project from the beginning, anyway, so it probably doesn't really matter.
Thanks for everything,
Peter.
…
Man thing...
You may find this hard to believe, my unfortunate, unwilling and only friend, but I'm almost as tired as you are.
You barely lived a year ago, entangled in a web of flowery phrases and obscure metaphors that plagued every page of your life; shielded from the eyes and minds and hearts of others and hiding from yourself.
You've always performed best under pressure and under a deadline. So I gave you one.
And I'm a bit disappointed with you, to be perfectly honest.
At least you've faced yourself; seen & felt your whats, hows and whys for what they really are.
Other than that, it's been a drearily uneventful year, I must say.
You still wear that web of words and silences like a shroud. You hold onto it as if that was all that held you together.
It probably is.
As much as I love you, man thing (of course I do, I am of you, after all) - you're a messy patchwork of unspoken confessions and stale regrets.
Maybe there's a ray of sunshine trapped in there, somewhere, waiting and begging for you to let go.
The man smiled as he rolled a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, scrolled down to the middle section of the page and began to type
T H E E N D