Beyond the Rage by Michael J. Malone Page A

demanding attention and an emotional articulacy he didn’t possess.
    His answer was to drive to the spot where his he had spent many evenings as a teenager contemplating death and whether the cold would kill him before the water swamped his lungs.
    The fourth letter was different, reflective and if you knew where to look, layered with meaning. It was also quite clear that when he wrote it his father was drunk.
    The first three letters had been addressed to Kenny. This one was headed Dear Kenneth , as if now that he was twenty-one he had outgrown the boyish air evinced by the derivative, Kenny. As far as he was concerned it was patronising. A poorly penned attempt by a stranger to reconnect with his son.
    He recognised his impatience and decided that as this was the last letter he should read it as if coming to the whole experience fresh. He exhaled sharply, sought his centre as he did when he was about to fight someone. A relaxed mind was a more receptive mind, he told himself.
    He read.

    Dear Kenneth,
    Happy Birthday, son. 21, eh? Time for you to get the keys of the house and all that.

    Then there were some lines that had been scored through so harshly it made them illegible.

    …Sorry about that , this is only my ninth attempt at this letter and I’m running out of paper. And booze. And booze is needed for this, I’m thinking. You know, typical Scot. Emotion can only be examined in a state of inebriation and the problem is that once pissed you overdo it, don’t you?
    So, you’re 21 and I haven’t seen you for ages. It was just weeks – or was it days? – before your thirteenth. I always remember your mum kidding you that you were turning into a man. Just like your dad. Some dad I turned out to be. So that’s the last time I saw you. Apart from that one time I stood by the school gates when you would have been in fourth year at the academy. You looked so well and strong and confident striding among a group of your mates that I didn’t dare come over and speak to you.

    Kenny broke off from reading at this point. His eyes were misting and he could no longer see the print. He coughed. Fuck, my dad was close enough to speak to me. Why didn’t he? He would have given anything for that moment to be returned to him. What would he have said? He saw his father before him and his stomach shifted and surged.

    ...I just stood there like a big lump. Desperate to say hello. I even practised for the moment when we faced each other. ‘Hi, Kenny. I’m your dad.’ I said it over and over again. Like it was a prayer. But when I saw you it all vanished and I could no more walk or talk than I could fly. I got a wee bit emotional that day. So much so, some woman came over and asked if I was okay. She even handed me a hankie. I told her to piss off. That’ll be the last time she speaks to a stranger, so I’ve done her a favour, eh? You looked like you had my height and your mother’s good looks.
    Does it hurt you to mention your mother? She was an amazing woman. Softened my rough edge and made me more of a man. Cliché but true, it was a privilege to be married to her and I’ve missed her every day since.
    And you. I’ve missed you...

    Oh fuck off, thought Kenny.

    ...You probably don’t want to hear it and who can blame you? A boy needs his father and I abandoned you when you needed me most. The change from boy to man is a difficult time and if you were anything like me – a cocky, aggressive bastard – it can’t have been easy.
    If you’re as bright as I think you are, well, you are your mother’s son...

    Turn it down, Dad, for crying out loud.

    ...you’ll have noticed a change in this letter from the previous ones. Well, it’s because I’ve been given another chance. I met a lovely woman just after I sent your last letter. We’ve had one baby, a girl, and there’s another one on the way. Having these other kids has me thinking about you more and more. I’m older and wiser and full of what might have