Septimus Morrison was comfortable. In nearly all respects his life had been a success, he had reached his late fifties without any great tragedy tainting his life. His childhood had been idyllic, growing up in the country with two loving parents. He had married a nurse, Cynthia, twenty seven years ago. Everyday he was grateful for Cynthia's presents in his life. He had been blessed with two children, they where all grown up now but still remained the most astonishing people he had ever known. His career as an architect had proved fulfilling; and although not spectacular it would be fair to describe it as successful. Yes, Septimus Morrison was comfortable.

I didn't have the privilege of knowing Septimus well. We were passing acquaintances at best. On Sundays I religiously walked along the river, a contemplative ritual I indulged in whilst digesting my lunch and the Sunday supplements. I had walked passed Septimus every week for two years before we spoke. Regardless of the weather he would be sat underneath a large oak tree, his feet dangling off the bank. He was always sat in exactly the same position; roll up hanging from his mouth with his brows scowling in concentration at a well worn paperback. The only thing that ever changed was the book he clutched in his hands.

I was instantly intrigued by Septimus. He was an enigma I couldn't solve. He appeared to be an affluent middle age man, sat wearing chinos and a pastel coloured jumper. He was not the type of bonhomie character you'd expect to see every week sat by the river. I longed to speak to him, to know why he was always here, but you can't just approach a stranger. After about six weeks of walking past Septimus I began making eye contact with him. This gradually evolved into a friendly nod of the head, he would politely reciprocate. I was making progress, I then became a little bolder and began to say hello to him, this was followed by a friendly wave. It took a year and a half to get to this stage of familiarity. I was dieing to talk to Septimus, if only to speak to him about his reading material. After walking past him I would make a mental note of the book so dramatically demanding his attention. During my lunch break on Monday I hurried into town and bought a copy of whatever I had seen him reading. Septimus had unwittingly become my literary mentor. Without Septimus I would know nothing of Camus, Sartre, Dostoevsky, Elliot, Wolfe, Kafka or Kierkegaard. As I read these books I longed to know Septimus' opinion, I was worried for him. This man was clearly searching for unattainable answers.

I finally spoke to him in April. The lilacs had began to blossom and dappled sunlight reflected off the water. Septimus was sat in his usual spot, Waiting for Godot resting at his side as he made his cigarette. I said hello, as I has been doing for months now, he looked up and nodded in recognition. "Fancy a straight instead?" After all this time these words seemed so inauspicious I longed to be able to take them back. "No I can't smoke those things, it's weird but I prefer to make my own." It suddenly dawned on me that Septimus had been longing to speak to me too. I took a Marlboro Light from my pocket and sat down next to Septimus, he lit his cigarette and offered me his light. "Thanks," I glanced down at his book searching for a way to continue our conversation. "Beckett humm," I'd seen Septimus reading this play before, so I to had read it. I tried to recollect what I knew about the play, I wanted to impress Septimus. "I've always appreciated Becket's powerful and symbolic portrayal of the human condition as one of ignorance, delusion and paralysis." God I felt like a pretentious dick, I didn't appreciate this in Beckett at all, in fact I found the play extremely tedious and dull. I was quoting the foreword of my own edition. "You sound like Cliff notes my friend." We both laughed and I confessed my plagiarism.

I sat and talked to Septimus for two hours that first time. We talked about literature, he was amazed we'd read such similar books, of course I wasn't. We talked about sports, our families, how much we hated our work colleagues, and most importantly about our own personal ideologies, Septimus subscribed to Solipsism whatever that might be. The next week dragged, I couldn't wait for Sunday afternoon, for the chance to talk to Septimus again. Predictably he was sat in his usual spot, though this week he was the first to speak, "Hi, I hoped I might see you again." I sat down just as the week before, pulled my packet of rolling tobacco out and began making a rolly; I no longer smoked straights, I preferred to make my own. This became routine, every week regardless of the season or the weather I would sit for a little while and simply enjoy Septimus' companionship. I didn't tell any one of about our friendship not when it was over, and I know Septimus never told anyone about me. We never met socially and never bumped into each other anywhere else. This allowed certain freedoms, we could talk about anything. Our lives were very different and remained separate. Yet over the year that we became friends I learnt more about Septimus than anyone alive had ever know, I became his confessor. I alone could have prevented what would follow. I alone knew Septimus secret.

Septimus Morrison was suicidal. He wasn't depressed, he wasn't mentally ill. It's hard to understand but more that anything Septimus longed to be suffocated by darkness. Septimus enjoyed life, he was grateful for his comfortable life. The key to Septimus' urge was his consuming belief in the futility of absolutely everything. He was tormented by the fact that nothing he, or anybody did, mattered at all. He longed for unconsciousness. He longed to fall into an eternal abyss. He had felt like this for as long as he could remember, he'd felt like it before he'd met Cynthia in his twenties, he felt it during his picturesque childhood and he sure as hell felt like it now.

The only moments he could remember not feeling it were the days his children were born. He'd secretly sworn to himself never to have children, he couldn't inflict life on someone else knowing what he did. Septimus had a theory that the end of the human race would not come about through nuclear apocalypse, climate change or a meteorite hitting the earth. Instead he foresaw a time when popular thought would coincide with his own world view. He believed when everyone understood the curse of consciousness the only logical result was that nobody would want children. The last human child would be born. The population would gradually diminish as the remaining people died without being replaced. By the end of that last child's lifetime the human race would be extinct, wiped out by our own neurotic logic. Septimus was aware humanity was hundreds of years away from this, he knew there was nothing more rewarding or beautiful than your own child. This was why he had children himself, he couldn't have denied Cynthia the euphoria of being a mother. And now that his children had been born and matured he couldn't have denied the world the pleasure of his children.

Septimus was a conflicted man. He was amorous, nothing mattered more to him than human relationship. On the other hand Septimus wished he wasn't burdened by people, how could he kill himself in the knowledge that so many people would be hurt, feel guilt, and lie awake at night asking themselves what they could've done. He would often talk of how compassion undermined the justification for taking his own life. Yet he also believed that the worst thing a person could be is undermined. Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined. I'll spare you the pathos, you can guess the solution to Septimus' absurdity. Yes Septimus was a fatalist, humanist, and potential suicide all rolled in to one.

*

Septimus had become part of my Sunday. My Sunday walk was now an unalterable commitment. I dreaded the thought that some other engagement would interfere with my liaisons with Septimus. During the year I knew Septimus I was bound, I missed family Birthdays, I refused to go on holiday, and over-time at work was unfeasible. I dreaded our routine being broken. This went on for nearly a year, our meetings where almost identical, our conversations deep, revolving around the same theme, mortality. Only once were things different, jovial.

My Neighbour had gone away for a week, without thinking I'd agreed to look after their dog. He was a large, affectionate Boxer dog called Bruno. Most of the day he would skulk around my house, waging his tall whenever I condescending to stroke him. My only commitments to him were to feed him twice a day and to make sure he got plenty of exercise. I'd started to enjoy the loyalty of the dog, his undemanding companionship and the way he'd snuggle on the sofa with me when I was watching TV. Sunday rolled around again, and I'd spent the entire morning debating whether to take Bruno with me when I meet Septimus. I couldn't decide if his present would unsettle Septimus, after all he was a delicate man. I decided not to take Bruno, it was an unnecessary risk. I put my coat on, picked up my tobacco and keys and opened the front door to leave, without Bruno. Bruno had different plans, he bounded toward me, barking and waging his tale, I wasn't going without him. So Bruno and Septimus would meet after all.

As I walked along the river Bruno became more and more boisterous. I figured it was safe and let him off his lead so he could really stretch his legs. He would run ahead of me until he became aware of my absence at which point he would stop turn around and run back. He was a sweet dog, I was enjoying watching him have so much fun, after about half an hour of his boomeranging antics he ran off and didn't return. I figured I'd catch up with him. He'd probably just seen a feisty feline and was in hot pursuit, oblivious to my concern. As I rounded the corner towards the tree where I knew Septimus would be I found my concern about bringing Bruno along had been ludicrous.

Septimus was sat in usual spot, Bruno's front legs on his lap. Septimus' face was an inch away from the slobbering animal, "Hello, you're a hansom fellow, aren't you? What's your name?" Septimus ruffled Bruno's thick black coat as Bruno again wagged his tale in appreciation. What a fickle animal, I was taking care of him, me, It was me who had bought him to river. And Septimus, it was me he was supposed to talk to by the river, not some strange dumb mutt. I realise it was ludicrous to be jealous of Bruno. I think it was just the shock of seeing how affectionate Septimus really was. I reconciled myself with the fact that Septimus wasn't spooked by Bruno, in fact he seemed to enjoy his company.

"His name's Bruno, I'm looking after him for a neighbour." Septimus only now realised I'd arrived.

"Hello, oh he's beautiful. I just adore boxers, look at his flat nose," then addressing the dog again, "yes look at your flat nose, chasing parked cars again, haaa."

I explained to Septimus how I'd been worried he wouldn't appreciate Bruno's presents, how I debated this morning whether to bring him or not, and how Bruno had decided himself. Septimus explained to me how he admired all animals. How he saw in them an inherent nobility that humanity had lost. According to Septimus animals where free of the self doubt that he found so crippling. Bruno wasn't obliged to contemplate unanswerable questions. He petted Bruno as I lit my third cigarette since sitting down.

"You see, life is a habit, as much for Bruno as it for us. The difference is Bruno is blissfully unaware that there is an absence of a profound reason for living." I nodded in agreement, I recognised the words as Camus', but to this day I can't claim to understand them. As often happened during our talks I didn't understand Septimus, I just enjoyed listening to his deep erudite voice. Septimus took Bruno's head in his hands and looked him straight in the eyes, a smile crept over Septimus face as he gazed down at the dog.

"When I play with dogs I can almost believe in a sole, look at his eyes." Septimus pushed Bruno's head towards me, now I was gazing into the dog's face. He was right. Looking at Bruno all I could see was life, it seemed impossible that this could be extinguished completely. "Yes, I never believed in God, but I can see where those guys are coming from. Bruno is touched by the divine." With this Septimus stood, dusted himself down and walked away. This was the only time Septimus left before me. It was the last time I would see him alive.

*

It was April again, nearly a year since I first began speaking to Septimus. I walked along the river feeling full of the joy of spring, knowing the summer, like Septimus, was only around the corner. I can't say I was surprised by what I found that day, Septimus had spoken of it a lot, I guess I just thought it was hypothetical, that he'd never have the nerve. I saw Septimus ahead; my feet became routed in the ground. I simply stood and stared looking at what was once Septimus. I made a cigarette, and slowly smoked it, composing myself, mustering the nerve to approach him. Septimus had hung himself, his unmistakable corpse was limp, dangling from the tree we'd spent so many hours conversing under.

I approached the body, it was no longer Septimus. I wondered what I should do. I didn't know his family. I didn't know how to contact any one he knew. I must confess my strongest urge was to turn and walk away. He would be found eventually, no one would ever have to know I discovered him first. No, I couldn't do this, I owed him, I didn't know what, but I defiantly owed him. I took my phone from my pocket and dialled the police. As I waited for the police to arrive and deal with the ugly situation I looked up at Septimus, pinned to his pastel jumper was an envelope, his suicide note. I ripped the envelope off his jumper and trust it into my pocket. I still can't justify my actions, knowing what I do now though I'm glad I took it. I wouldn't read it until later when I realised Septimus knew all along that I alone would read it.

It took about fifteen minutes for two police men to arrive. The details of what took place aren't important; needless to say they dealt with the corpse. I had to go to the Police Station to answer questions, I was informed this was just procedure, I wasn't accused of anything. I told the police how I walked down the river every Sunday, and how I had just come across a man hanging from a tree. I lied and claimed I had no idea who the corpse might be. I'd never told anyone about Septimus and I certainly didn't feel like starting now. After about half an hour they let me leave. They said they'd be in touch if any thing came up. I told them I'd be happy to help. The Police didn't ever ring. I was more than a little thankful. It wasn't until later that week I found Septimus' note. I'd been preoccupied with guilt, I alone had known Septimus was suicidal, surely I could have done something. I knew this was stupid and sentimental, it was one of the reasons Septimus had claimed he couldn't kill himself. He'd be disappointed in me to know I was feeling this way.

I didn't normally buy the local paper, it was just full of reactionary locals complaining about nothing. But I thought there might be an article about Septimus so I'd been reading it from cover to cover for three days, there'd still been no mention of his death. The Thursday after Septimus' departure I was stood in line waiting to pay for my paper, I reached into my pocket searching for change when I felt the envelope I'd torn from his chest. I didn't have to pull it out, I suddenly remembered I'd taken it. I knew I had to wait till I got home to read it, I didn't know how dramatically I might react. I paid for my paper and hurried back down the road to my house.

I sat on my sofa turning the envelope over and over in my hands. I was filled with doubt. Should I open it, maybe I should find out where Cynthia was and let her read the letter first? I had no idea what it might say. Cynthia was probably inconsolable right now anyway. Probably best to read it first. I slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. Inside was a folded sheet of writing paper, I unfolded the letter and read it, and then I re-read it. There were only three words, printed in block capitals in the centre of the page, SEPTIMUS IS SORRY. I found a beautiful honest economy in what Septimus had written. I knew a poem when I saw one.

The words lingered in my head, Septimus had made no excuses, given no reasons but with these three words he'd completely conveyed how he'd felt. I decided Cynthia should know about them and promised myself I would confess our friendship to her. I turned my attention to the paper, if there was an article, obituary, or announcement of a funeral I could meet Cynthia. And there it was on page 2, Local Man Found Dead. I read the article, all the details were there. He'd been found hanging on Sunday, by a local walker, Police were not treating it as suspicious. The man had been identified as one Thomas Prentice, a local librarian. He had one sole relative, a brother who lived in Australia, it had taken three day to contact him, this why the story hadn't been printed till now.

At first I thought it was a mistake. It wasn't Thomas Prentice, librarian, who'd been found it was Septimus Morrison, Architect, father of two, loving husband of Cynthia Morrison. It began to dawn on me that for the whole year I'd been talking to a figment of Thomas Prentice's imagination. How could I believe anything he'd told me, any of the philosophical guff he spouted? At least one thing was true this man had been suicidal. I shut my eyes and lay back on my sofa. I didn't know what to make of this information. At first I was infuriated, I'd spent four days mourning a man who'd never existed. I'd been upset for his family, they didn't exist. I sat up and looked at the news paper again, no it was true, Thomas Prentice was dead. Underneath the paper was the note, Septimus is sorry. Looking at the letter I began to see things in a different light, I had known Septimus Morrison, now Septimus was dead, that was true. It didn't matter he was fictitious, he was as real as anyone I'd ever known, maybe more so.

That Sunday I had dinner and read the Sunday supplements, I wished I could speak to Septimus. I hated my routine being broken. I decided I would still go for my walk, I would still sit under the tree and smoke roll ups, it would be my personal tribute to a man only I had known. I put my jacket on, realising I would have no one to talk to I picked up the book I was currently reading, The complete works of Borges. I arrived at our usual meeting place and sat down, content to sit alone and read for the next few ours. I made myself a cigarette and cracked the spine of my book. I was about to finish the first page when a man approached me, "Got a light mate?" I took my lighter form my pocket and he introduced himself. I shook his hand and said "Hi, my name's Septimus."

August 2004