The Last Waltz           

Martin Cavendish was twenty six years of age.  In the prime of his life, many would say, and certainly too young to die.  But he was going to die, he'd decided that this morning after he'd received her letter.

            The Inner Harbour appeared very dark and uninviting as he looked over the low protective railing, and the prospect of jumping  into it did not appeal to him at all.  He glanced furtively to his left and right.  There was no-one in sight, but at that time of a mid-week night it was hardly surprising.

            For most of the day he'd laid on his bed reading and re-reading her letter.  “Good-bye, and thanks," she'd finished it, "Glenda".  Glenda . . . Glenda . . . even now the thought of her name tore at his heart and he felt a dull ache inside.

            Of course, if Tony hadn't been away things would have been different.  Tony was his closest friend and the ideal room-mate.  He'd have cheered him up, taken him out for a beer and made everything seem right again.  But Tony was in Vancouver and wouldn't be back until tomorrow.

            Martin took another look at the dirty water  below.  No, he decided, he couldn't do it.  Not that way anyhow.  He was no Olympic swimmer,  but he was good for several hundred yards.  He would probably drown, but slowly, struggling and screaming all the while . . . and no woman was worth that . . . not even her!

            Seven months they'd been going together.  Three, four, sometimes five times a week they'd seen each other they'd painted the city all the shades of red imaginable.  They'd wined and dined in the finest restaurants; slummed and bummed in off-beat dives or stayed at home and made passionate love  in front of a log fire as their moods decreed.

            He took the Browning 9 mm automatic from his raincoat pocket and leaned on the low parapet.  Now that was the way to die!  He fondled the gun lovingly languishing its oily, blue-metallic feel.  One shot from his target pistol and that would be it.  Oblivion.  Peace.  An honourable death.  A death worthy of a the gentleman he believed he was.

            "Excuse me?" the little man with the Canuck’s baseball cap said, tapping him on the shoulder.

            "Huh!"  Martin started in fright, the sudden surge in adrenaline leaping his heart-beat up to over one hundred a minute.

            "Sorry to bother  you," the little man continued.  "But could I have a light?"

            "No!"  Martin shouted his nerves still jangling.  "Don't smoke!  Go away!"

            The stranger backed warily off from the wild looking man whose eyeballs bulged from their sockets.  "OK, OK!" he said.  "Forget it!" and walked quickly towards the Laurel Point Inn, looking back occasionally over his shoulder.

            Martin stared down at the blackness that had taken his gun.  In his fright it had fallen from his grasp into the murky depths below.

            Shaking his head silently he sighed deeply.  Who would believe that killing oneself could be so difficult?  Then, in no particular hurry he straightened himself up and began walking, back towards Government Street.

            Tony would find the hand-written note he’d clamped to the refrigerator door when he returned tomorrow.  He'd be shaken by his death, but would understand why.  It was all explained in the lengthy letter.

            The sound of taped music caught his ear.  It came from a restaurant which was still fairly busy despite the late hour.

            "The Blue Danube," he said quietly leaning against the wall.  Wow that took him back!  It must've been five years ago at his high school graduation . . . No make that eight years!  God how time had flown by!  Now what was her name?

            He racked his brains.  Linda!  That was it.  Linda Swain.   To think that at one time she’d been the love of his life.  He'd seen her only the other day.  She'd been wheeling twins along Dallas Road and, judging by the size of her, would be producing another set in the not too distant future.  He'd even asked her to marry him once.  Martin shuddered at the memory.

            Slowly the similarity of that situation and the present dawned on him.  When Linda had said “no” and ended their relationship, he'd been devastated.  But he'd got over it.  Why should this time be any different?

            He'd go back to the flat.  Tear up the ridiculous note he'd left for Tony and dig out that little black address book of his.  In a few days he'd have forgotten all about a woman called Glenda and his life would go on.  Yes!  That’s what he’d do!

            Smiling happily to himself he set off across the road singing to the tune that had played such an important role in his life.  The Blue Danube.  The last waltz.  “Ta ta ta ta ta . . . pom pom . . . pom pom . . . “

*          *          *          *          *

            Tony rang Glenda immediately the police had left the Fernwood basement suite he shared with Tony.

            "Yes," he said.  "Just after midnight,  this morning, so the mounty said.  He stepped right out in front of a cement truck just by that new  Austrian restaurant on Douglas and Yates.  Some rookie cop  saw it all.  He says Martin had been leaning against the wall for a full ten minutes before he did it, apparently listening to the music, plucking up the courage I guess . . . Pardon? . . . Hell that's not important Glenda! . . . Well, if you must know it was the Blue Danube.  They used to end our dances with it when we were students.  Yes . . . that's right . . . it was the last waltz."