Uncle Paul, or Life Goes On…
Boris sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. There was nothing particularly interesting about it, nor any answers to his questions. He sighed and glanced at the half-drunk, over-diluted tea in his mug. No more teabags left, and no money to buy any, either. Boris stood, poured the tea down the sink, rinsed the mug, filled it with lukewarm water from the kettle, and drank it in one go.
How had he ended up here? There had been everything—work, a flat, a wife, a daughter… Now, there was nothing.
—
Boris was fifteen when his mother brought a man home. She clung to his arm, pressing close.
“This is Uncle Paul. He’ll be living with us now. We’re married,” she said awkwardly, fiddling with the collar of her floral-print silk dress.
Uncle Paul looked much older than her, shorter, and painfully thin. He studied the scowling teenager with detached calm.
Boris wasn’t a child—he’d guessed his mother had been seeing someone. She often slipped out in the evenings, claiming she was at a friend’s. She’d return with a dazed, guilty smile and smudged lipstick. He hadn’t minded the independence.
Everyone said his mother was young and beautiful. It was nice to hear, though Boris didn’t see it himself. A mother was a mother—no worse than anyone else’s. But *young*? Anyone over thirty seemed ancient to him.
His father was a mystery. Mum never liked talking about him. And now here she was, bringing Uncle Paul into their home. Hadn’t the two of them been fine on their own? Boris turned and stomped off to his room.
“Boris!” Mum called after him, voice cracking.
He slammed the door.
Later, she came in, perching on the edge of his bed. “Love, he’s a good man. Steady. Things will be easier with him around. Don’t be jealous—you’ll always be the most important person in my life.” She smoothed his shoulder. “I’ll fry some potatoes, and we’ll have supper. Just… try to behave properly around him, alright?”
Mum fluttered around Uncle Paul, cheeks flushed, gaze misty. Boris seethed with jealousy. Wracked with guilt, she started giving him more pocket money—buying his affection.
“Don’t be angry with your mum,” Uncle Paul said one evening. “She’s done her best. You’re nearly grown—a few more years, and you’ll have your own family. Think she should be alone then?” He shook his head. “I won’t hurt her.”
Boris scowled but knew he was right. To his credit, Uncle Paul never pestered him about school or future plans.
After finishing school, Boris announced he wasn’t going to university—he’d join the army instead, feeling like an outsider in his own home.
“Good decision.” Uncle Paul cut off Mum’s protests. “The army’ll teach you discipline. Respect for that. You can always study later, part-time. Education matters—serve first, figure the rest out after.”
A year later, a broader Boris returned. Mum hugged him endlessly, laid out a feast. For the first time, he let Uncle Paul embrace him too. They drank together, Boris getting sloppy fast.
“What’s next?” Uncle Paul asked. “Too late for uni this term. Any skills?”
“Give him time!” Mum interjected, patting Boris’s shoulder.
Boris mentioned his army driving licence—anything with wheels, he could handle. Fixing engines, too.
“Perfect. A mate of mine runs a garage. I’ll put in a word—decent wage, but hard graft.”
“I’ll take it.”
A month later, with his first pay packet, Boris declared he’d rent his own flat.
“Absolutely not!” Mum panicked. “Who’ll cook for you? You’ll just drink and chase girls—”
“Leave him be, Lucy,” Uncle Paul chided. “You were young once.” He turned to Boris. “Smart move. Not like he can bring lasses *here*.” He vanished into the hall, returning with keys. “Stay in my old place. Tiny, on the outskirts, but fine for one. Got it in the divorce. Tenants are leaving—I’ll call them.”
He clapped Boris on the back. “Be careful with women—take your time, pick wisely. And if things go south, don’t lose the flat in the split. And go easy on the booze.”
With that advice, Boris began his independent life. Mum visited at first, bringing soup and meatballs—”A boy needs hot meals!”—until he got a girlfriend, then she stopped. He and Stacey lasted almost two years, during which he started part-time mechanical engineering studies at uni.
He couldn’t even remember their final argument. The breakup was painless—almost like she *wanted* it to happen. Other girls came and went until fiery-haired Katya. Heads turned when they walked together. Boris burned with jealousy; she teased him mercilessly.
With a year left of studies, terrified of losing her, he proposed. To his shock, she said yes. Right after the wedding, Katya announced she was pregnant. Stacey had been on the pill—Boris assumed Katya was too. The news blindsided him.
Mum voiced doubts—”Not even blond like you, is she?” Boris ignored her. His worry was space: a one-bedroom flat for three? Too cramped. Uncle Paul agreed to sell his place, adding funds so Boris could buy a two-bed.
When baby Alice arrived, Mum muttered about the dark hair—”Neither of you are brunettes. And early, but so *big*…” She hinted at a paternity test.
Boris dismissed it—all babies looked the same to him. Hair colour meant nothing.
Then, returning from work one day, he spotted Katya in the courtyard with a dark-haired man. They chatted like old friends. She stammered about him “asking for directions” when Boris approached. He remembered Mum’s suspicions but said nothing—until he saw the man again.
“Oi,” Boris called.
The man turned. “Yeah?”
“Stay away from Katya and Alice. See you near them again, I’ll break your legs.” Boris had filled out since the army—bigger, broader, a proper threat. The man hurried off.
At home, Katya fried cutlets, Alice played on the floor. Normal. Maybe he’d imagined it? But weeks later, Katya confessed—she’d never gotten over Alice’s real father. He’d vanished before she could tell him about the baby. Boris had been a convenient proposal. Now the man was back, knew about Alice, and wanted her to leave Boris.
“Go,” Boris said.
He watched from the window as Katya, Alice, and their bags disappeared into the man’s flashy car. Disbelief numbed him. He waited, hoping she’d return. Then he started drinking. Lost his job.
A chance meeting with an old schoolmate landed him work at an auto-parts shop. Months later, a large sum vanished from the safe. The mate claimed Boris had seen him stash it there. No money was found on Boris, but suspicion stuck. The mate offered to drop charges—for cash. Boris sold the flat. They parted on bitter terms.
Now he rented a dingy one-bedroom on the city’s edge. Wife gone, flat gone, job gone, money gone. Life in freefall. The landlady threatened to call the police if he didn’t pay up soon. Where would he get the money? Mum had died of cancer. And Uncle Paul? He’d forgotten about him entirely.
—
A pigeon landed on the windowsill, cocking its head at him.
“Sorry, mate. Not even crumbs to spare,” Boris said.
Sunlight flooded the courtyard. Kids clambered on a plastic slide, mums chatting nearby. A teen hung upside-down from the climbing frame. Boris stared—how long since he’d stepped outside?
He craved one last breath of fresh spring air. Yanking the window open, he startled the pigeon into flight. Leaning out, chest against the sill, he eyed the shrubs below. Fourth floor—probably wouldn’t die, just end up a vegetable.
An idea surfaced. He dug through a shoebox of old medicines—paracetamol, cough tablets, nose drops. If he swallowed the lot, kidney failure might do it… but slowly. Painful. He eyed the ceiling light—imagine dangling there, tongue out…
Bath tap running, he caught his reflection—gaunt, unshaven, hollow-eyed. *Corpse-chic.* A razor lay on the shelf. He fetched a kitchen knife.
Then his phone rang.
He jumped—who’d call *him*? The cheery ringtone drilled into his skull. He answered.
“Borya?” A frail old voice.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Uncle Paul. ’Member me?”
“Yeah.”
“Been poorly. In hospital. Come see me. Need to talk.”
“Where?” Boris eyed the knife blade—needed sharpUncle Paul gave him the address, and Boris hung up, staring at the knife before setting it down—perhaps life wasn’t quite done with him yet.
