The Straw That Broke Kev’s Back

Date: 11/9/2025

It’s another delivery day, and I’m out with Kev — Kev of the creased face, Kev of the hollow eyes, Kev of thirty-five years and one frayed nerve left. The van is obscene — pregnant with parcels, boxes stuffed into boxes, the whole thing bulging like it might give birth to more cardboard if we so much as open the doors. “People have nothing better to do,” I mutter. “Buying crap to fill the void.” Kev just grunts, staring ahead with the glassy patience of a man who’s seen every postcode in hell. We’re good workers, though. That’s what they say. We get on with it. We don’t throw in the towel; we just wring it out and keep wiping the same damn floor. The customers are the usual zoo of the damned — lonely pensioners gripping us with ghostly hands to reminisce about rations and real manners; doorbells that summon nobody; angry voices through curtains asking where their joy is, as if I’ve hidden it under the doormat. Kev throws a parcel over a back gate. It lands on the roof, rolls, and dies in the gutter. “They’ll find it,” he says, like he’s given his last crap. I’m kicking a packet into a letterbox, whispering profanities to cardboard. “Get in there, you—” The door opens mid-curse. “What did you call me?” says the old man, blinking at me like I’ve insulted the Queen. It’s fine. Happens all the time. Not the most humiliating thing today — not after I opened a door I thought was a porch and ended up face-to-face with two strangers, forks frozen mid-air, gravy clinging to their chins. “Sorry,” I said. “Clearly looked like a porch. Enjoy your sausages.” By mid-afternoon, Kev’s eyes are two sinking ships. The light has gone down with them. I suggest, “Maybe call it a day?” He shakes his head. “Let’s get it done, Mand.” Every time we open the van, the parcels seem to multiply. They breed in the dark — fat little gremlins with sticky labels, laughing at our futility. I half expect to hear them whispering. “Kev,” I say, “we’re not going to make it.” He sighs, long and volcanic. “Let’s just get it done.” The sun dies. The houses glow with domestic peace. We’re still trudging, torches strapped to our skulls like miners searching for the last scrap of daylight. I return to the van and find Kev hunched over, snoring softly, a parcel still cradled in his lap like a newborn. “Kev!” I shake him. “We’ve got to get back.” He stirs, eyes two slits cut into dusk. It’s quarter past midnight. The van smells of damp cardboard and despair. “Let’s go back,” he murmurs finally. The drive is a fever dream. Kev sways across lanes, eyelids heavy as lead. I’m shouting encouragement like a deranged cheerleader of the dead: “Not far now, Kev. You can do it.” When we reach the depot, it’s like unloading a hearse of corpses. The parcels stack up again, impossibly many — an optical illusion of toil. The Big Boss stands at the door, arms folded, jaw squared like a brick wall. “You’re meant to deliver them, not bring them back!” Kev’s too tired to fight. His breath is smoke, his eyes two live wires ready to spark. Then something breaks. “Kev—?” I start. But it’s too late. A low, gutterial snort escapes him. He plants his feet, scrapes one back across the concrete, and drops his head like a rhino sighting its target. He charges. His skull connects square with the boss’s stomach — a meaty thunk — and for a moment the man folds inwards, his torso compressing like a delayed balloon. His face puckers in surprise, eyes bulging, then fwump! — he rockets backwards, arms windmilling, letting out a high, wounded squeal that echoes off the rafters like a toddlers cry. He lands somewhere up there, tangled in the pipes, whimpering faintly. Kev straightens his back, exhales and dusts off his hands. “It’s been nice knowing you, Mand.” And he walks out the door, leaving behind only the smell of sweat and something scorched — the scent of a man burnt clean of purpose. The scene folds in on itself — creases and collapses like a cardboard box. And now I’m somewhere else. A cabin. Walls breathing with damp. Insects tick along the floorboards like wind-up toys. It smells of decay and someone else’s bad memory. Grandpa Mike once took us somewhere like this, years ago. I can still feel the crawl of things unseen. A knock shatters the air. Two faces pressed against the window — grey, wet eyes like boiled eggs. “You’re in our cabin!” they shout. “Oh. Am I?” “Yes. We’ll call the authorities.” I step outside, hands raised, surrendering to their disbelief. “Sorry, I don’t know where I am.” They look at me with pity — the kind reserved for strays and the newly insane. Then, from behind a bush, Keiren from work appears. “Hey Amanda. You look lost.” He offers his arm. I take it without thinking. We walk until the cabin fades. The world reforms itself into town — streetlights, laughter, the illusion of normalcy. My friends are gathered, giggling like schoolgirls who never grew up. Liz, Sophie, Laura, Jenni — all there, orbiting around bottles like planets of oblivion. “Where’s the wine?” Liz snaps. “You seem to have plenty,” I say. “You need to bring a bottle,” she insists, voice like the click of a lock. “I can buy one.” “A bit late for that,” she says. Her eyes glitter like shards. The laughter dies. The night feels made of tinfoil — thin, crinkling, false. “I have wine,” Keiren says, producing a bottle from nowhere. I laugh, though I can’t feel my mouth moving. “Maybe another time.” I turn away. My daughter Phoebe is outside a shop, dragging vapour into her lungs like she’s trying to fill a void too. “How’s it going?” I ask. She shrugs. “Wanna go swimming?” The pool glows a murky turquoise, light trembling like it’s afraid to be seen. The air hums with chlorine and ghosts of laughter. Phoebe slices through the water with quiet precision, surfacing every few seconds to strike another number onto a crumpled sheet. I watch her, chest tightening. “You keeping score?” She nods, not looking up. “Gotta hit the number.” I lean closer. The page flutters on the poolside tiles — wet ink, fading digits. 111. Something in me shifts. A ripple that starts small and spreads until it feels like the water itself is breathing. Kev’s face flashes in my mind — his sunken eyes, his bent frame, that final charge into futility. I realise, all at once, that I’ve been trudging behind him my whole life: parcel after parcel, excuse after excuse. Phoebe looks up at me then, eyes wide and clear. “Mum? You coming in?” The water gleams like liquid moonlight. I hesitate. And then — without knowing why — I step forwards. Shoes, uniform, everything. The cold hits like a baptism, sharp and clean. The ripples spread across the surface, swallowing my reflection, No distorting it until it no longer looks like me at all. Something drifts towards me, bobbing softly on the water. A postcard. I catch it in my trembling hands. The ink is running, the paper swollen, but only one thing remains legible: 111. I blink, and the pool lights flicker — brighter now, almost golden. For the first time in forever, I feel light enough to float.