The ghost of David Kelly

The sad, harmless, bearded face of David Kelly has been staring out of news reports again. Our national obsession with the death of this man follows us around, a lonely spectre dogging our social memory. I'm almost amazed that so many busy professionals and experts have taken up his hopeless case once more - reminding us of the sad, ambiguous story of his death which no amount of spin or apathy could neutralise into background noise.

It reminds me of a question posed by my English teacher when we studied Hamlet at 'A'level. The ghost of Hamlet's father follows him around, like a guilty conscience. Our teacher asked us whether we thought the ghost was real, or just a manifestation of Hamlet's tortured psyche. I didn't know the answer, but it feels as though David Kelly's ghost still haunts us for our collective weakness and reluctance to question the terrible, transparent story we were spun.

We killed him one way or another. Taunted, vilified and scape-goated by Downing Street bullies through the very media who exposed him to their gaze. And we, bystanders, hapless members of the public. We watched on like children in a playground. Now those scenes replay themselves in our collective mind, grown older but perhaps no wiser in the intervening years.

"Do not forget. This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose...."

Empty

The city groans with unexpected lightness in the Summer months. Streets are quieter than usual and the parks empty of joggers in the morning, picnicking families in the afternoon. An unfamiliar population takes over, with matching backpacks and guides with clipboards flapping at their sides as their ranks pass by.

Trying to sell plants for charity in the park is a thankless task in the hot sun or drizzling rain. In an hour maybe six people pass by - tourists with no space for rosemary or mint in their picnic bags; grey, haunted faces walking alone, bereft of the crowds in which they would usually be lost; stressed parents, feeling the strain of the school holidays as their children crash into them on recumbent bicycles.

Who would have thought this season would be such a barren time? The city's population so unfamiliar, daily routines indiscernible in the chaos of lost feet on the pavement. Unnoticed by its inhabitants on beaches and in villas far away, Autumn's rustling steps can be heard in the distance. The brown edges of the trees, once signifying parched heat, grow slowly towards the centre. In the breaks in hot sunshine, the wind has a chilly edge. Neglected in this August month, I worry that the city will appear strangely changed to its returning inhabitants. But no, after a few short days surely,all will return to those instinctive rhythms that inspire the tunes of my writing?