Let’s not beat about the bush.

A tank belonging to a Russian Motor Brigade with a V emblazoned on its front turned its turret toward the building in which a family hid in a cellar. It fired. She did not know them. She does not know the other family which were watching television when a missile ploughed through their apartment block years ago in Aleppo. Shit happens someone might say. It doesn’t happen to me they might say. From this perspective all those deaths are tangential to what does mean something. That is the unfortunate reality where people are generally dispassionate about what occurs at a distance. In law we talk about proximity. He was right up to her, leaning forward into her interpersonal space which until recently had been under the Covid laws illegal. He was mansplaining again. She felt ill at ease. You see she was breaking up with him. Why not? She stirred her latte. The surface presented a good example of those fractals. He was off on his tour of topics.

He would argue about the pronunciation of latte for god sake. Blah, blah. Why doesn’t he realize, what he did? Of course there is the world of difference between the young conscript tank driver from one of the smaller ethnic regions who was scared shitless and in a serious disconnect from the reality of the consequences of what he has done, and Max. Yet, here was Max closer than a drone pilot. Max is a suitable name for a Rottweiler, she thought. How terrible to drag in war for analogies or metaphors. Blah, blah. What had lead to this situation? They had been living together for one year almost to the day in a place in Canary Wharf. Anniversaries are stressful. Statistically more people die on anniversaries and special occasions. Certainly, her love for him had died. Was it even love? Meeting someone after four Cosmopolitans and god knows what else and going to their place and shagging one’s brains out, is not really love by any stretch of the imagination. It is marginally better than a series of Tinder dates. Since, then it had been a damage limitation exercise. Slowly, but inexorably the two would break up. Besides, she could quite rightly point out that from the beginning there was something amiss. He had a tendency toward aggression. They argued and at some point he pushed her with his rugby playing mass against the wall, frustrated that he could not win her over by shouting, cursing and being very drunk and vile. To be perfectly honest she was afraid of him. She stirred the latte and winced as she thought of that incident. No it was not love. Lust perhaps? He was red haired, an accountant in a well known city international firm. Making good money. Had gone to a good university. Parents still married had a place in the Home Counties. Father (she would not give him a name) a stockbroker with a gentleman farming background, mother was what they used to call a Sloane Ranger. Stables. Horses. Sheep. Dogs and cats. Was that what one calls a good family? Is goodness ever genetic? She doubted that. He probably knew more about derivatives than dinosaurs at the age of seven. Her father Dimitris on the other hand a carpenter of Greek origin was kind and gentle. He would not hurt a fly. He passed away as a result of a hit and run accident. They never found the bastard who did it. She was thirteen at the time, and after a couple or more years of depression, she decided she would go for law. Starting with the A Level. She excelled and at the age of thirty-five was at a firm specializing in intellectual property. The cafe was near all those wonderful examples of excess. London that had for years been low-rise was now high-rise. Money is the fertilizer for buildings. Max’s father cheated on his wife. Nothing wrong with a bit of dilly-dallying he would argue. He was florid in the face and looked uncannily like Charles Gray. Google him. You always felt he was ready to corner you. There was menace in him. She did not like him at all. When they went for those dreaded Sunday roasts, she avoided conversation with him. He was always one for putting women down. Not that his wife was easily put down. She loved nothing better than to yell at their staff. Yes they had staff. She had a foul temper. Her terriers did too. When Maria got close the terriers named after the famous ice cream brand, snarled. “She has to get used to you, MA-ria.” Language was a means of putting ONE down. There was so many micro-aggressions you could start a fire like the stones she used in the girl scouts. He did it as well. Same habits. When you spoke, they finished your sentences or went off topic as if your ideas were redundant. The father had come up very close when they went fly-fishing. She could smell his cognac breath and the paunch on her back as he took hold of her hands to demonstrate. She flinched which annoyed him, “Let me have a go,” said Max as if they were training a dog. The father let go in a huff. He was clearly a man who could slap or throttle you. Max was of the same stock. It was always when they were discussing some legal point. She knew her law. “MA-ria let’s leave the men and have a drinky-pooh.” Constance took her by the wrist. Maria heard a grunt. The mother was also the type to whip you. She looked at the “staff” with pity. Constance drank a fair bit. It must have helped with those infidelities of his. “Just ignore him if he gives you a pat on the posterior. He’s old school, can’t help it, brought up as non woke.” Maria bit her tongue. The relationship was over. But, it got worse. “You must be used to it though, I mean the Greek men were notorious for touching bums.” It was time to go. She had to think of an excuse and work was the best one. Max was of course not happy, because he was oblivious to what was behind the quick exit. He tried to get to open up in the car, but she was too tired. Too tired of him. His parents would view her as difficult. “You don’t like them, do you?” “What?” “You know what I am saying, don’t beat around the bush.” She was driving as he had too many drinks. She had one glass of wine and despite Constance’s attempts to ply her with more. Max on the other hand. He had been in the father’s study and no doubt had a man 2 man tête-à-tête over whiskies. She had heard the father say, “You are not thinking of marrying her? I mean a fling is fine.” “No, no, it’s not that serious, you know me, Dad.” Throughout the drive back to London she kept quiet, as Max went on and on about not letting it get to her. Obviously she wanted out of it. When they got back to the apartment she made a beeline for the guest bedroom and locked it. Max furiously banged on the door and after a few for fuck sakes went to the main bedroom. In the morning he found she had gone to work already. They met at lunch time in the cafe. She wanted just a latte. He was piling into a sausage toastie. “Look, what I am saying is that they can be a bit tough at the beginning, but…” “Max I have drawn up a list of what is yours and mine.” “What?” “I’ve had enough.” “Enough? I mean we have only been together for a year and a bit.” “I don’t want to argue, here is the list and we can split the deposit money.” “I don’t want to split the money for fuck sake, I… did Dad try something...I mean he can be bit of a Donald Trump.” She looked at him in astonishment. “Do you mean he has done this in the past?” “It’s old school, you know what I mean, they are set in their ways.” “Old school! Your mother used that exact same expression.” “What did he do, pat you or something?” It was the way he said it. He was being unbelievable as if it was, defensive. He was defending a system of sexual abuse. “I have to go now, I will get someone to pick up my things. Good bye Max.” He reached out to pull her back, but she managed to freed her arm from his grip. He looked as if he was going to explode then stopped midway only to sit down and look hurt. When she was out of the cafe, he tore the paper with the list into tiny pieces. At night in the hotel she ordered a bottle of wine for her room. There was a lot of crying – mostly out of rage. How could she have got herself into this situation? But things took a decided turn for the worse. After she separated from Max and moved into her small apartment in Camden Town – a place more in keeping with her spirit and nature. She was coming out of the office, it was around eight o’clock in early spring, an April evening when the sun had set. It had been raining, and promised more showers. She came out down the steps leading to the pavement below and was checking for rain when she was accosted by the voice and presence of the father. He blocked her way. She tried to ignore him but he was insistent. “Young lady I want a word with you.” She was looking to see if there was anyone else around, but no one was there except someone on the fifth floor. She had been working late for a client. “Stop where you are.” He was on one of the steps. Wearing a grey mac and looking very much like Charles Gray. He was menacing. “I have nothing to say.” “Well I do, you have made our Max’s life a misery.” As he spoke she was looking for an escape route. When she edged one way he countered her. “I do not want to say anything – can you please stand aside.” Perhaps she should have said something else. Maybe entered into a dialogue. He took it as a provocation and struck her with the back of his large hand with its signet ring. Her face smarted and she had to steady herself from the impact of the blow. It was instinctive. She used her umbrella to prod him in the chest. He lost balance and fell backwards. Gravity took him to the road and it would have to be at that very moment a courier van with an order was driving at some speed. There was absolutely no time to brake. To her horror she heard him scream as the van crashed into him. She was so close she saw the father’s body turn into a bloody pile. The driver came out in panic. In a state of shock he would not make the best witness nor the cleaner on the fifth floor. There was thankfully a dash camera that caught the father falling backward. Obviously he had been struck. Maria was helpless. Who would believe what happened? The slap on the face had left a red mark, but by the time the police arrived it was almost gone. However, the prod in his chest was still visible and identifiable in the autopsy. Was it a case that she had used reasonable force? Had she used the umbrella as a weapon or was it purely instinctive self-defence? At first she was the victim and now they were looking at her as the suspect! She phoned a friend, a colleague from uni who specialized in criminal law. Could they help? Was she facing involuntary manslaughter charges? Did she know that by prodding the father he would fall to the ground and injure himself? There were several scenarios. It went to court. The family insisted as did the Crown. It had to. There were precedents. Only recently in a squabble a man had pushed another to the ground. The other party died. The defendant got four and a half years. She could almost swear that Max was smiling with his mother. After all he was going to inherit something and this was an uncanny form of kismet. She was meant to go to prison. It was looking that way until the defence brought in witnesses, staffers, who provided evidence of the father’s bullying nature and cases of actual bodily harm that had been settled out of court. These accounts were enough to turn the tide. Afterwards it was easier for the jury to agree with her narrative. The use of the umbrella had been defensive and a means to simply make space to escape from a man with a history of violence against women. Constance screeched when the verdict of not guilty was announced. It had been close. Very close. Her job was on the line. In her mind she thought about the scene, over and over again. Why had she prodded him so hard? Her friend told her to shut up. What about the van driver? Hadn’t he been speeding? Where was he? What was the order? Wasn’t he the killer? She didn’t think about that. He had been the one who actually killed the father. How was it the focus shifted toward her? “Don’t ask too many questions, be thankful you got off.” “What?” “I mean that if…”?