BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 17

WEDNESDAY
06.11.1996
ISAIAH

               As much as I loathed her, at no point in my life did I intend to kill my mother. But that's what I've done.

Our October phone call is stuck on replay in my mind: her cough, her reluctance to fix the heating, nun that'll kill me, not that you'd care. In hindsight, I'm able to rearrange the words to their true meaning: when I die, it'll be your fault.

The solicitor, sitting opposite me in a drab brown suit, speaks in the kind of semi-whisper used to show respect as he goes over her possession and assets and how inheritance tax is calculated. At least, that's what I think he's doing; I haven't caught a word in the last quarter of an hour.

All I'm able to focus on is the repetition of not that you'd care and I need a cigarette revolving in my thoughts. Until I shove a hand on my knee to stop the accelerating bounce of my leg under the table and cut him off.

'I ain't want it.'

The solicitor — Philip Gibson, I now remember — goes on for another sentence due to sheer inertia before he realises my interruption and stammers into silence. He stares at me. 'Pardon?'

'I ain't want it,' I repeat, calmer this time. 'Nun of it.'

Gibson blinks. 'Perhaps we should return to this in a few months when you've had time—'

'Thanks, but I ain't need no time—' I clamp my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Watch your tone. I do my best to obscure the irritation from my expression as I reel my accent in, trying to find a balance between polite and succinct. 'I don't want it. It'll only be trouble and none of it has worth, not monetary or sentimental. I'm happier not having to spend my time on it.'

'I-If you're entirely sure—' he says this in a voice that makes it clear he doesn't believe me to be '—you can disclaim the will. All your mother's property and assets will go to the Crown as "bona vacantia" — unclaimed property.'

I nod. 'I would like to do that then.'

Gibson remains sceptical. Since there are none in Lower, I had to find a solicitor in Upper Halsett and thus, he doesn't know me or Muma. If he did, I'm sure he wouldn't find this so surprising.

'It can't be undone,' he presses firmly. Arranging the documents in front of him, he glances at the wall behind me as if expecting to find instructions for how to proceed. 'Mr Matalon, I don't know whether you understand what it means. Once a will is disclaimed, you cannot change your mind. I implore you to take a moment to think it over — it's rather common for people still experiencing denial or anger to act rashly and come to regret things later.'

'I understand.'

My impatience starts to hew at my mask. Could he shut up and just listen to me? I didn't come here for advice, did I? The longer I look at him, the stronger the urge to throw the glass of water I was offered at the start in his face. My leg starts to bounce again. Fuck, I need a smoke.

'I mean, you've seen the state of her "assets". All I'll inherit are unpaid taxes and a broken phone. I don't want anything.'

'Don't forget your home—'

'That house ain't my home.'

Gibson stares for a moment longer, then, finally, he gives in. 'If that truly is what you want, I'll go arrange the paperwork.' Collecting the now-incorrect papers into a stack, he stands. 'Er... some of my colleagues will need to speak to you while you wait.'