She asked me to kill her often. Rather, she asked me to switch off the machines.

'The machines aren't keeping you alive, Gran. They're just monitoring you.'

'Smother me then.'

It had been five days since they'd changed her cannula. She glared at the young man, not wincing as he shook and tried for the third time to snag the vein beneath the gravy skin.

'You,' she said to him, 'how would you like to smother me?'

The boy scratched for a mirthful response, nothing witty was forthcoming. Gran didn't blink. Eventually, regrettably, he spoke.

'Smother you with hugs!'

I couldn't watch. I stared at the ever-beeping monitor. One of Gran's one hundred and ten beats that minute coughed up a splash of her blood into the needle before it was pushed back into her by the first drops from the IV. The kid had managed it, and promptly turned and ran.

Gran tilted her head back, roared a laugh, 'fuck!' she said as she leant back towards me. 'Switch off the machines'.

Thankfully Gran had a private room. People think that people with Alzheimer's can't express well what they want. That isn't true. They're better at saying what they really want than most people. It's because what you want is shaped by what you wanted a moment ago. That's where they get stuck. Hopes, dreams, desires, it's all memory. Gran usually wanted crisps, though she wasn't allowed them. Or that TV show 'Life on Mars'. But most of the time she wanted her Martin. We must have watched the first episode of Season 1 over a hundred times in that room. I thought about getting another box set that wasn't all scratched up but there wasn't any point. Episode 2 would have just confused her anyway.

Two nurses came in to flip her. I'd been away for the past week and no one had bothered. The sore on her right buttock was bad. She cried when they dressed it. I moved the cushions around and adjusted the bed so she could stay on her side for a while. She'd soon forget why she was lying like that and try to roll back so I pulled my chair up right beside her and laid my hand on her back. She was sweaty.

I'd stopped being angry about it months ago. Now I was mostly curious. Was no one else ever going to visit her? She wasn't the most approachable, didn't have too many friends. But it was her kids that I couldn't wrap my head around. My so-called aunts and uncles. She was already in the ground. People think they're not really there. What the fuck does that mean? They're not really there. In many ways she's pretty fucking Zen. She's the most present person I've ever met; she just keeps popping up in different places.

Gran had been a social worker. She'd seen a lot of people who'd been hurt pretty badly. A lot of young people. A lot of kids. Doesn't make for the most trusting of people. Fair enough I reckon. Gran thought everyone was capable of unrelenting evil, she's not wrong. That stuff, the things some kids endure, that she remembered. She was like a full SD card, full of illegal images. She would talk to me about them. She'd name names. I can't say if it helped her, her heart rate would usually spike when she'd talk about so-called aunts and uncles. Then she'd ask for her Martin again. I'd tell her he'd gone to the bathroom and would be back soon. Her stories always helped me - helps to put your own life in perspective.

We hadn't managed to talk about what I'd come to talk about that day, and the conditions were great outside. I couldn't bring myself to waste it.

'Sorry, Gran, I have to go.'

She just waved a hand. I clicked the remote and the TV lit up its dull blue screen, I stepped over and turned the DVD player on. It whirred as it found the start menu for Life on Mars. Episode 1.

The lady on the front desk didn't look up from her phone as I passed by. I looked at the familiar dark patch by the umbrella stand, wondered when exactly some poor old sod must have shit themselves so awfully right there. Could have been from the fucking eighties, state they left the place in. That entryway is the worst part of the whole bloody building. Stains everywhere, damp swamped the dark corners of the ceiling. Paint flaking off every window-frame, all the seals bulging and warped. Every new resident got the same pamphlet on arrival. None of them read it, but they all got the real message regardless; let's all hope it's over quickly.

I hopped in my red Corsa. Back seats occupied by two large mats, my backpack sat in the footwell of the passenger side. It stank. My car always stank. But climbing shoes do stink. There's not too much you can do about it. I was about thirty minutes from Stanage. Only ten minutes to get to the boulders too. Seemed a good choice given the fact it was already five o'clock and I hadn't planned a big session. Stanage Plantation has some of the most famous bouldering in the world. Bouldering is what we call rock climbing on small walls, without ropes. You just put a mat or two down and climb. We call the routes 'problems'. Every established route gets named by the first ascensionist, and they give it a grade. Other climbers who do the route can downgrade it if they think it's easier, it's a neat enough system. Most of the rock in the Peak District is gritstone. It's porous, which means when it's warm the moisture comes to the surface and the rock feels greasy. Conditions have a huge effect on grit in how you experience the climb. If it's hot, even an easy climb can feel impossible. But on a day like today; cool, five degrees celsius, a light breeze - the friction is good and you can just stick to the rock.

I was here for Deliverance. 7b+. It's a classic problem on a boulder called the Pebble. It's a hard climb. Slightly easier for me because I have a +2 ape index. My arm span is 2 inches longer than my height. Deliverance is quite reachy. There were a few kids at the Pebble when I arrived so I dropped my mats behind them and watched while I warmed up my fingers. You really don't need warm fingers for this problem. It's all in the feet. But I always warm up regardless with a little wooden block with two edges carved into it, one side 20mm and the other 14mm thick. It has a short rope lashed around it. I wrap the rope around my foot, grab the 20mm edge and just pull gently. It helps get blood to your fingers, activates all your tendons and you can get used to just pulling. Once you've had finger tendon and pulley injuries, you always like to warm up.

The kids were struggling on the route. Starting on a crack on the left side of the wall. It is a vertical face, not overhanging. You step up onto the start, adjust feet and step out right. There are a couple options for your feet, but they are tiny crystals. But the conditions were good. Kids these days are used to climbing inside. Too many mats, too much dynamic movement, closer to parkour than climbing. They were getting the right foot in place and leaping, they were hitting the hand hold but their hips weren't coming with them, so the foot was just booting them all off.

I stepped up, waiting my turn, they graciously stepped aside to let me go. I've done this problem more times than I can remember. It's beautiful. I stepped up to the start hold, adjusted my feet before stepping right to the foot hold I always use. It's been climbed a lot, so it was a little slick. I pulled right and reached out for the sloping right hand hold. Then I leant back a little, brought my left foot in to the next step up before readjusting my left hand on the small crimp a little higher. I was in position for the last move. The heel of my right foot pressed down to get as much rubber on the foothold as I could as I prepared for the big step up to get my left hand up over the lip of the boulder. I sank my hips slightly, felt myself build tension through my right toe, a gentle pull on the right hand to steady myself as I stepped up. Felt my left hand crest over the lip, plenty of space, I didn't need the extra inch reach. I matched hands, brought my heel up to the top of the boulder and rocked out and over the top to the familiar perfect view. Sun low over the Hope Valley.

I made my way back down the south wall of the Pebble. The kids were impressed. It's not very often that you see someone climb Deliverance. They thought I did it first try, a 'flash'. I walked them through it, told them the best way to climb it, but they just kept throwing themselves at it. Every movement was way too fast. Their real problem is that they don't mind falling. Too much comfortable climbing inside. It's bad for the mind. You should be afraid. Fear makes a much better climber.

There are so many types of climbing. Within bouldering you could split it mainly between slab and overhanging. Overhanging is obvious, the rock comes out over you, you need to be very strong, very powerful. Slab is the opposite. The rock leans away from you. Many slab problems are made harder by their being very few handholds. So you just carefully place your feet and balance your way up the wall. I love slab. It is so precise, so delicate, so sketchy. I made my way around a few more easy problems at Stanage before heading back to the car. I wasn't quite ready for home. I drove back round towards Hathersage and stopped off at Fox House for a pint of Moretti. The table I usually like was taken, but I found a spot near the fireplace. I watched out the window towards the outside seating area as the climbers arrived. Massive bouldering mats strapped to their backs, like turtles coming ashore. They'd been climbing down in Burbage Valley. I don't climb there anymore, despite it being my nearest crag. I spotted a couple people I knew.

Anna came straight over to me and said, 'Swear I'll never fucking get West Side Story.' It's a classic. Perfect vertical face. Very technical climbing, bad holds. It's also pretty high. Though the second half is easier. A bloody hard boulder. 7b+.

'Where'd you get to?'

'I get the right side-pull before you launch for the break'. I know the move well. The break is a good hold in the middle of the face. But going for it is the crux.

'But every damn time my foot pops'.

Yeah, that's why it's the crux. Can't do West Side Story without tension in that foot. Climbing is an exercise in managing tension. Every time you move for a hold your whole body has to tighten, you need to move to the position you want to be in. Hold, and then go. Ten pull-ups will get you started, but it won't get you far. It's just part of your posterior chain. Everything has to hold together, every part as you use your toe to press on a tiny chip, feel that tighten and run up your hamstring, pulling your hips into the wall like you're being vacuum sealed as you lock your hand in line with your shoulder, fingers digging down into a 14mm gritstone edge as you move to the next position. Then the tension adjusts and you need to find the exact balance points to move again. Fluid rigidity.

'Fucking hard climb, Anna, good effort getting to the side-pull. You'll get it. The hold at the break is a proper jug.'

'It's supposed to be cool again tomorrow. Come hang out?'

'I'd love to but I can't tomorrow, sorry. Hope you fucking get it!'

Anna made the right assumptions - that I was talking bullshit - but said no more. She just tried and failed to not make a face begging me to spend time with her, or anyone. I finished my pint, said goodbye to Anna and made my way home. I could go after work tomorrow, and Gran wouldn't notice if I visited or not. But I sure as fuck didn't fancy an afternoon in Burbage Valley.

My boss and his wife had their attic room converted a couple of years ago. It's where I lived. They'd never had a lodger before. I didn't get in their way. They were christians. That's why they had a lodger I think. I had to have dinner with them once a week. On Tuesdays. It was Tuesday.

'Did you see your Gran today?' asked Laura.

'Yeah, yeah she says hi.'

'How lovely, always give her our greetings' said Steve.

They didn't know she didn't have a fucking clue who they were. But enough about me. Steve started off about his day.

'Silverheys is a proper bloody nightmare'. He wasn't wrong. It was a two million pound build. All done on our end, but the client retain their five percent for twelve months and the snagging list was a fucking nightmare. Every fix was cutting our profits and that was barely the problem. The problem was the cashflow. Because the Silverheys family weren't the only bastards we were dealing with. Regardless, I just couldn't believe that Steve could talk so openly about it with Laura. Especially with Ava asleep upstairs. Fucking terrifying.

Silverheys was a very ugly fucking building too. They'd done it in that concrete brutalist style. Helped us keep costs lower but I thought it looked hideous. It had a nice staircase though, and the basement pool was slick. I'd spotted a couple cracks in the east wall as well that didn't look great. Could turn the whole thing into a loss if we needed to do something drastic. Snagging lists are for realigning doors, not structural reengineering. I knew it was a matter of time before Steve would have us praying. Shit. Now he remembered. He set his fork down.

'I am so sorry, honey.' He reached out and grabbed her hand and mine. We were an awkward triangle, but I just went with it. Sometimes it's kinda nice.

'Heavenly Father, all you ask is that we trust you. So that's what we do. Amen.'

They both gave my hand a squeeze as we all went back to our forks.

Steve spoke about Silverheys for another ten minutes before he asked Laura how it was with Ava today. Laura and I had finished our chilli, but she spoke while Steve ate.

'She was great today, she's always so easy. I took her to Graves Park. Went to the Animal Farm.'

'Of course,' said Steve, 'see the donkeys?'

'Always got to see the donkeys! Gosh, she loves them so much.'

She really does. It's kinda weird how much a one year old loves such a sad looking animal. All three of them loved donkeys so much because their hair is different colours across their back and neck. Shaped like a cross. Blessed by Jesus or something Laura told me once. I can't tell if they're fucking with me. But there's two at the Animal Farm, and they both have it. This cross on their backs.

We wrapped up dinner, I thanked Laura for making it, grabbed a Heineken and a frube off my shelf in the fridge and went to the attic. If you want to be a lodger, be a lodger in the house of a guy who owns a boutique construction company. It wasn't huge but they made the most of it. Bed, little ensuite, and they'd built a big bay window, so much better than a velux. I could see right out across Sheffield, more importantly I could see the Peaks. Right to Lady Canning's Plantation which backed out over the moor and dipped away, down into Burbage Valley. I sat on the edge of my bed, sipping my Heineken, looking out over the lights. A moment later I lay down. It was eight thirty. Fuck all else to do. I just lay there until morning. Got a few hours.

Steve cycles to work. I walk. He was getting in at five these days. I pay my respects and make sure I'm there by eight forty five. I'm in charge of procurement for Cardinal Construction. Which at the moment meant being in charge of borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. I'd opened accounts with every merchants in Sheffield. Travis Perkins had shut our account three months ago due to unpaid invoices. But an MKM had just opened in town basically that same week. A rep had walked in and begged for our business - I got good terms and managed to get the gear we needed for the snagging list at Longton Lane. What we really needed was a new fucking project. I want to say Steve was tendering for eight potential jobs that week. We just needed one. One with a fat downpayment or we were all fucked. When he wasn't on the phone you could hear Steve quietly to himself, well, to his God.

'All you ask is that we trust you. I trust you.'

I have no idea whether that man is admirable. I've no compass for it at all. Is that impressive? Does it help? How can it?

He stepped out at eleven, to deliver a tender. A few minutes later the Silverheys foreman walked in. He was a bit of a prick but he was generally good at his job. He was short. Irish. From Donegal. Went by 'Jockey', or just 'Jock'.

'Where's Steve?' He asked.

'Out to tender for Monkton Monsieur Jockstrap.'

'Let us pray, all you ask is that we trust you!'

I didn't laugh.

'Don't worry too much about the east wall by the way, it's just settling.'

'I'm not sure about that.'

'I've seen it a hundred times. Honestly, it's fine. We'll just keep ticking off the rest of the snagging list.'

I opened the Silverheys binder and pulled out the list. A lot of shit from Plumbase was wrong. Kitchen and bathrooms were a bit fucked. I'd need to root out the old POs, get parts returned and the right fixtures in. The other shit we already had. I told him we had plenty of caulk and grout in the container outside. They already had the paint they needed on site for at least ten of the items on the snagging list.

Once he'd gone I had lunch. Not much to do. A procurement manager for a company with no money is always at a loose end. But I'd get to the POs for Silverheys and check what was ordered against what was delivered and what was on the original designs. Something to keep me occupied for the afternoon.

I didn't see Steve after he'd gone for the Monkton tender. But I hoped his God had listened to him. When I'd wrapped up and sent off the corrections to Plumbase I decided to head to Marie's. I went a few times a week. Sheffield houses look normal, and it's probably still only a tiny proportion of houses that have one, but I reckon Sheffield has the highest density of home boards in the world. A board is a simple DIY eight by ten foot bit of ply, leaning forwards - usually at about forty or fifty degrees - in a cellar or garage. Cellars are great because they stay cool. Then you load up the board with climbing holds. Lots of people carve their own out of wood they find. You have to be a strong climber to manage any route on a Sheffield home board. They're usually very old school. Steep climbing on bad holds. Marie hadn't taken down Joe's board, and she was happy for me to keep a key and use it. She knew I didn't like the commercial climbing gyms anymore.

I went round the back of the house and straight down the steps to the cellar door. Inserted the key, gave it a little shunt north before I could click the latch open. It was cool down there. I went over to the hangboard, warmed up my fingers on the 20mm edge, then the 14mm. Then I moved to the mats that sat below the board and did some frog stretches to open up my hips.

Joe had kept a folder with photos of his routes. I kept adding to it. Every page was a photo of the board with the start holds circled with green marker, the bulk of the problem's holds circled in blue, and the finish hold marked orange. Every problem was named and graded. I didn't need the folder, I knew all Joe's problems by heart. I started with a couple classic 6b's; Return of the Naive and Uberville. Climbing routes are also repositories of long-forgotten in-jokes. I never knew Joe as being into classic literature, but I liked the route names. The problems were crimpy but fine. Crimpy just means the holds are just sharp, small edges. There are a bunch of ways to grip a hold. Most commonly for me on the board is a 'full-crimp' grip. It's where my fingers wrap onto the edge, and instead of leaving my hand more open and neutral, I curl and point my fingertips down into the edge, so my second knuckles are the highest point on my hand. Then to apply even more force I wrap my thumb over the top of my index finger. It allows you to apply a lot of force, but comes with a lot of risk. So on Uberville I made sure to relax my hand, move into a half-crimp grip where I don't engage the thumb and risk injury. I save full-crimp for the really hard stuff now.

'I didn't hear you come in,' said Marie. I hadn't heard her come downstairs either.

'Oh, I'm sorry, I should have text or something.'

'No, you're all good, happy you're here.' She moved towards me, hugged me. She stepped back to the bench at the back of the cellar room. 'What are you working on?'

'I don't know. Just warming up. Joe's routes are so fucking good. Even the warm-ups.' She winced a little. I don't know why I brought up Joe. Stupid.

'You must have done all his problems by now, surely.'

I laughed - 'No fucking way. I'd need years down here.'

'Well I'm not going anywhere. You'll get there.'

I wouldn't get there. Joe had set 8c boulders on this thing. Marie was a decent climber, but she didn't properly understand the mechanics of the rift between me and him. I knew my body, there was no getting there. A couple more problems and I was feeling warm. Marie hung out a while while I worked on my latest project. A 7c+ Joe classic called Midnight in Lagos. I've done all the moves in isolation, but I can't link them. Didn't manage to today either. In between attempts Marie told me about her day. She worked at the one nice coffee shop in our village. Marie was great, I could always see why Joe loved her so much.

'I should get going.'

'It was great seeing you, sorry if I bothered you. It's always nice when you're down here.'

'Not at all, Marie, thanks for letting me climb here.'

'You're always welcome. Joe loved you so much.'

I felt sick. We hadn't mentioned Joe so much in months.

'What are you up to tonight?'

'I'll go check in with Gran I reckon.'

'Give her my love.'

The girl at the desk was on her phone again. I nodded as I strolled past. No sign-in. I could have been any creep wandering in off the street. I went straight to the stairs on the right of the foyer, past the lockers. I used to deliver papers here fifteen years ago. Most of the papers I delivered were to care homes. I made my way to the second floor and stepped into room 216.

'Hi Gran.' She was looking away from me. Out the window at an oak tree.

'Where's my Martin?'

'He's just popped to the bathroom, he'll be back soon.'

She seemed more distressed than usual, which was frustrating. I'd been three times in a row now and we hadn't had a chance to talk about it. I sat down beside her, grabbed her hand. She looked over at me. The beep of the monitor slowed slightly. Time to talk.

Right then the door opened and a nurse in her fifties stepped in. She was grey. She held a tray with a small bowl of yellow mush and a purple mush. Gran was on baby food now.

'How has she not been fed yet?' I asked.

'Sorry, there's only two of us on tonight.'

'Yeah but it's eight pm, what the hell?'

'I said I'm sorry.'

She stood over her and attempted to begin scooping the yellow mush into her mouth. Gran wasn't having it. I could see the lines around her mouth darken as she strained to keep her mouth closed. The nurse just slathered the first spoonful across her lips.

'Give it to me,' I said. The nurse carried on.

'I said just give it to me, I'll do it.' The nurse didn't protest. Just handed me the tray and walked out. I grabbed a few tissues and the bin and brought them right beside me.

'Come on Gran, you need to eat.'

'It's fucking disgusting.'

'I know, I'm sorry.'

'I'm in hell you know. This is hell.'

'I know. Come on.'

I held up the spoon with the yellow mush.

'The purple one, please.'

I cleaned off the spoon and dipped into the purple mush and held it to her mouth. I nodded gently, watched her jaw lightly unclench. I waited a moment more for her to open before putting the spoon in her mouth and tilting it up as I removed it to scrape as much mush off the spoon onto the inside of her top lip as possible. She held it there in the front of her mouth for ten seconds or so before she yielded and reached for her swallows. The purple mush was edible.

Thirty minutes later the purple mush was gone and we'd even managed three mouthfuls of the yellow. I don't know what she ate when I wasn't there. Neither did she.

It was close to nine. I could see she was tired. But I hadn't talked to her about Joe for two weeks, and the anniversary was approaching. I always checked whether she remembered anything from our old chats. It's good she didn't, that's the whole point. But part of me wished I didn't have to start from scratch every time. Especially when her runway was getting shorter every day.

'Do you remember my friend, Joe?'

'From school?'

'No, we only met in 2018. We climb together.'

'I don't know any fucking Joe.'

She was too tired for this. I didn't have long.

'Gran, can you listen to me?'

'I am listening, what are you talking about? I don't remember any Joe.'

It's never easy, confession, but it's simple. It requires precision. Tension. Balance.

'He got hurt, Gran. Badly hurt. I hurt him.'

Pain and anger washed over her face as it so often did. I was one of them then, one of those evil men on her SD card.

'Put on Life on Mars will you,' she said, 'and when is Martin coming back?'

'Back soon,' I said as I headed for the door, 'goodnight Gran.'

If you want to read the whole thing, text me

← →