In The Air Tonight

Author's note: I recently watched an interview with Phil Collins on the Jimmy Fallon Show. Phil was asked about the long-rumored meaning behind his song, "In the Air Tonight," and he explained (for probably the millionth time in his life) that the rumors were not true. He then added an explanation that was new to me: the song is about his divorce from his first wife and all the anger and bitterness he felt during that time. That little nugget of info gave me the inspiration for this story.

All too often, it seems that "consequences" stories don't mention the consequences of revenge. And all too often, we only see one side of the story. This story is told from the perspectives of three different characters, which will hopefully provide a full picture.

I'd like to thank HeyAll and Zeb_Carter for providing me with some legal and law enforcement background to support my story. Needless to say, this story is a work of fiction, and is in no way reflective of Phil Collins' actual life story.

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CHAPTER ONE: PHIL

There was something in the air that night. It was as if the universe were speaking to me. Every star and planet seemed to align specifically on my behalf in order to make the events of that evening possible. I couldn't have planned it better. Strangely, though, I didn't plan it at all. It simply happened.

My name is Phil Tomlinson. Yes, that Phil Tomlinson. I had accepted the invitation to the party at the last minute, as I wasn't sure that I would arrive in time to attend. But fate intervened and I caught an earlier flight than expected. That is how I found myself standing at the edge of a pool watching a man drown.

Oddly enough, I didn't feel any emotion at that moment aside from a peculiar numbness. It was as if I were watching a movie in an empty theater - a movie created for my eyes only. I took a drag from my cigarette and watched his face disappear below the surface of the water and fade into nothingness. My thoughts retraced to the last time I had ever seen that face. Up until that night, it was the first and last time we ever met.

It was the middle of summer, more than five years earlier, when I was introduced to a man named Tom Schilling. We were having some work done on our kitchen at our home in Hidden Hills. Tom owned a home improvement business and came highly-recommended by some of our friends. I didn't think much of him when we met. He seemed like just another blue-collar worker who filled his time on this planet performing back-breaking manual labor for a fraction of the income I earned from playing music. The only noteworthy thing I noticed about him was that he wore a San Francisco Giants hat. I hated the fucking Giants.

After shaking the guy's hand, I retreated to my office, where I was busy jotting down some lyrics that had popped into my head. After a while, I returned to the kitchen to get a drink. That's when I saw the two of them. My wife, Vanessa, stood face-to-face with this knuckle-dragger, at what we'll call an "intimate distance." They were whispering to each other and grinning like a couple of schoolkids playing hooky. He reached up and brushed the hair away from her face and she blushed and turned abruptly. I ducked around the corner just in time. When I peeked back around the corner, she was gone, and he had returned to his work measuring our cabinets.

I could feel the rage bubbling inside my gut. My first instinct was to walk up behind him, snatch his hammer off the counter, and beat him with it. I thought about confronting Vanessa. I thought about taking a torch to the house and burning it to the ground. I considered many different options, but the fact was that I had no proof of anything. All I had was a twisted belly and a strong suspicion that something was going on behind my back. I returned to my office and closed the door behind me. I called my agent, Larry, and asked for him to connect me with a private detective.

"What for?" Larry asked.

"It's none of your damned business," I barked. "Just find me someone who knows what the fuck he's doing. Someone good at surveillance."

I would've performed a little surveillance on my own, but the second leg of our tour was set to begin the following day. I spent the rest of that day playing on the floor with my three-year-old son, Phil, Junior. We called him "Little Phil." He was the youngest of our three children, our only son, and the blinding light of my life. His favorite activity in the world was beating on the drums just like his old man. He was already showing some talent at that young age, believe it or not. A chip off the ol' block.

"Okay, show me a paradiddle," I said to him.

He looked up at me with his big blue eyes and chubby cheeks and executed it perfectly.

"Now, a double."

Another precocious smile, and another perfect execution.

"How did you get to be so good at that?" I asked, taking him in my arms and squeezing him tight.

"Just like Daddy," he responded. That kid had a way of melting my heart.

I met with the rest of the band at the airport the following day. I had decided not to say a word to Vanessa about my suspicions. It was better to leave her in the dark, so she would think she was getting away with it. I did make sure to get one last fuck out of her before I left. She was always a good fuck. I even made her give me some head in the morning. If it was going to be our last time together, and she would no doubt end up with half of my shit, I made sure to get my money's worth.

Our band, Revelation, played a gig in Sacramento on Friday, and then another in Portland on Saturday. After Sunday's concert in Seattle, I got a call from the private dick Larry had contacted. He called himself Sherman. I don't know if that was his first or last name. It didn't matter.

"Mr. Tomlinson, I have a little bit of intel for you so far," Sherman said.

"Intel," I repeated with an amused scoff. "Let's hear it."

"Last night, at around 10:30, Schilling's van pulled into your driveway. He got out, went to the front door, and she let him in. There was no visible affection shown at the door, but I snapped a few pics of him heading inside. All the shades in the house were drawn, so I couldn't see anything happening, but I did see the light go on and off in your bedroom. He didn't leave until a little after 1:30."

"You're fucking kidding me," I said. "They fucked in our house? In our fucking marital bed?"

"Well, there's no way of knowing for certain," Sherman said, "but it sure looks that way."

I could feel that boiling sensation in the pit of my stomach again. I was so pissed, I was shaking. "Okay, keep watching her, and let me know if you see anything else."

"There's one other thing," Sherman said. "I looked into this Schilling guy. He's married. About ten years. He has a daughter, age eight."

"Fucking scumbag," I spat. "I want his home address and his wife's name."

"Already got it," Sherman said. "I'll send you the info."

I ended the call and looked around the hotel room. A ceramic vase was the nearest potential projectile I could find, and I took full advantage of it. It shattered against the wall into a million pieces. Another "incidental" item to add to the bill.

A full week passed before I heard from Sherman again. I spoke with Vanessa over the phone every night, as was our usual ritual while I was on the road. Although I tried to act as normally as possible, I'm sure that she sensed something was amiss. I feared that she may sense what was happening, and would change her behavior accordingly. But then Sherman called.

"I got it," he said. "Photos, video with timestamps, everything you need."

My heart sank. Even though I expected this news, it didn't diminish the shock and the pain. It felt like I'd been shot point-blank in the chest. With a cannon.

"What, exactly, did you record?" I asked. I had to know.

"Saturday night," Sherman said. "He showed up again. This time, she got in his car. Some elderly-looking woman came to the house just before he showed up and left with the kids."

"That'd be her Aunt Jenny," I noted. I couldn't help but wonder if her good, wholesome, church-going aunt knew why she was babysitting that night.

"Vanessa got in the car, and the two of them left," Sherman continued. "I followed them for almost an hour to a hotel out in the middle of nowhere. They checked into the same room together. Later in the evening, they went down to the hotel bar for some food and drinks. They were awfully friendly and flirty. They kissed a few times when they thought no one was looking. They stayed overnight, and he dropped her off early the next morning. I got photos and some video of everything I just described."

"Okay," I said. As desperate as I was to catch her in the act and prove her infidelity, having that suspicion confirmed felt like someone had reached inside my belly and twisted my guts in knots. It was becoming difficult to breathe. My head was spinning.

"You all right, Mr. Tomlinson?" Sherman asked. I didn't realize how much time had passed in silence.

"Yeah," I said, "I'm fine. Uh...thank you. You did good work."

"I'll send you everything I have," he responded. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry this happened to you. I've been a big fan of yours for years. Best of luck to you."

"Thanks," I said before ending the call.

Just like that, my life changed forever. It was only the latest in a series of difficult blows I had been dealt to that point. Although Revelation was still a popular band, we were selling fewer and fewer albums, and our concert venues became smaller and smaller. Our last album, Bacaba, was universally panned by critics and fans alike. The tabloids were filled with rumors about divisions within our group, and a looming breakup. Those reports were accurate, for the most part. We fought each other constantly, and plenty of blame was passed around. I wondered how much longer our band would stay together.

All that pressure took its toll on me. I was expected to deliver, both as the lead vocalist and the lyric writer. The long road trips were wearing on me, both physically and mentally. Vanessa should have been there for me to help relieve my stress, but instead she only added to it. She became more and more needy, and we fought more often than we got along. I was busting my ass to make a good life for her and the kids, and she didn't seem to appreciate it. On top of it all, the fucking bitch was sleeping around on me.

Nearly two weeks passed before we returned to L.A.. That gave me time to contact my lawyer and start the paperwork. I continued to speak with Vanessa on a nightly basis, and maintained my charade of pretending that nothing was wrong. I figured the less time she had to prepare, the better. In the end, it didn't make much of a difference.

Although we owned a home in New York, our home in Hidden Hills was our primary residence. Since California is a no-fault state, and I lacked the foresight to craft a prenup agreement, Vanessa would end up with half of everything we owned in addition to a sizeable alimony check. The fact that she was a cheating whore apparently wasn't a factor. I had busted my ass to give her a certain "lifestyle", and now, according to the state, she was entitled to that lifestyle indefinitely. "Fucked up" doesn't even begin to describe our legal system.

Rubbing salt into the wound, she would also end up with full custody of the kids as well. That part actually made sense to me, as I was on the road more often than I was home. At least I would get visitation rights. Imagine that: my wife cheats on me, and the state "allows" me to occasionally "visit" my own kids.

Before I arrived back in L.A., I asked Vanessa to get her aunt to watch our kids for the day. She probably thought I had romantic plans. Her assumption couldn't have been further from the truth. I wanted an empty house because I had prepared an epic speech, complete with pictures and video. I couldn't wait to seeing the look of shock and humiliation on her face as I laid it all out on the table.

I burst through our door, slammed my suitcase onto the floor, and marched into the family room, where I knew she would be waiting for me. I didn't get the reception I expected. Instead of rising to her feet and running toward me for a hug, Vanessa sat quietly, staring at the TV, as if she hadn't heard my dramatic entrance. I simply stood there for a moment, assessing the situation. At last, she flicked off the TV and turned toward me. That's when I noticed she had been crying. Her eyes were swollen and red. Used tissues were balled up and piled on the table beside her. Her mascara was smudged and her hair was a ratty mess.

"We have to talk," she said softly.

I stood there, dumbfounded. Was she seriously trying to hijack the confrontation I had been planning for weeks? I began to speak, but she interrupted me.

"I want a divorce," she said.

I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I just stood there like a mannequin waiting to be dressed. I had trouble forming words in my head. How the hell did this situation get turned on its head? After what seemed like an eternity, I finally found my voice.

"YOU want a divorce?!" I shouted. "Fuck you, Vanessa! I'm way ahead of you, you fucking cunt! I've already contacted my lawyer! Proceedings are well underway!"

"Good," she said, a little too nonchalantly. She wasn't supposed to be happy about this.

"I know all about your little affair," I said. "I even have the photos to prove it. Don't worry - I've already sent copies to loverboy's wife and family."

Vanessa suddenly stood from the couch and looked at me with disbelief. "You didn't."

I nodded, grinning from ear to ear. Finally, she was feeling some of my pain. "You're damn right I did."

"But how did you—"

"I hired a private detective," I said, relishing the expression on her face. "Tell me - how long have you been fucking Joe Lunchbox?"

She shook her head slowly, still staring at me, wide-eyed. "It was a one-time thing. It's already over."

"Aww, that's too bad," I said. "Lover's quarrel?"

"Fuck you," she said. That pissed me off.

I marched across the room toward her, and she backed away quickly. The fear in her eyes stoked my anger even further. She retreated until she hit the wall. I stood in front of her and breathed down her neck.

"Fuck me?" I snarled. I stuck my finger in her face. "Fuck. YOU. You worthless piece of shit."

I had never hit a woman in my life, though I desperately wanted to hit her at that moment. As enraged as I was, though, that little voice at the back of my head spoke to me. It was the voice of my father, who taught me never to hit a girl. So I slammed my fist into the wall, right beside her head, leaving a massive dent. Unfortunately, I hit a stud. I immediately clutched my busted hand and hurried from the room.

The splint on my right hand prevented me from setting up behind the drums for a while. Normally, I would play the drums for a handful of songs, which our older fans seemed to appreciate. Throughout the next leg of our tour, however, I was forced to remain at the front of the stage for every song. This disappointed our fans, many of whom had come to see me on the drums. It was the first time in my life I ever heard booing while performing.

I went through every stage of grief in the ensuing weeks as the divorce proceedings progressed. First came denial. I couldn't believe our marriage was ending. I couldn't believe our family was being torn apart, all because of some fucking douchebag I didn't even know. I kept thinking that Vanessa would come running back to me and beg for forgiveness, but that never happened.

When I moved past the denial stage and into anger, that is when my writing really soared to heights that I had never imagined. The words poured out of my brain onto the page. Those lyrics were brilliant and dark, unlike anything I had ever written before. When I showed them to the guys in the band, I expected them to appreciate the raw, gut-wrenching emotion in the same way I did. Instead, they just looked at one another and tried to gently explain that the lyrics weren't right for Revelation.

I didn't take their criticism well. I stormed out of the studio with lyrics in hand, vowing never to return. That is when I moved straight past the "bargaining" stage of grief on to depression. That stage hit me hard. I hit the bottle. Then I hit the coke. I spent most of my time in my new L.A. apartment wallowing in self-pity, remorse, and regret. This period lasted far longer than it should have. It's a miracle it didn't kill me.

The one and only source of light during that dark time of my life were the brief moments I spent with Little Phil. I would send a car to fetch him at my former home, and he would visit with me for a day or two. We'd play the drums together, and for those brief moments it seemed that nothing else mattered. It was probably his visits that kept me from going completely off the rails. The kid looked to me as a role model, and I wasn't going to let him down. As soon as he left, however, I would plummet back into darkness.

Just when I thought I had reached my lowest point, I got a call from my agent. We had spoken many times of branching out as a solo artist, and I had always rejected the idea. After my disagreement with the band, however, I had nothing left to lose. I agreed to spend some time in the studio. As soon as I sat behind that drum kit, it felt as though I had been reborn. Music was the magic elixir I needed to light the way out of my self-inflicted fog. I felt inspired unlike any other time in my career.

Pounding those drums was cathartic, but it was the lyrics that really helped me release all the pent-up pain and anger that had been building inside me for so long. I unleashed a torrent of rage into the microphone, and for the first time in a long time I felt as though I were in control. From the expressions I saw behind the glass, I could tell that I was creating something special. That album would stand the test of time. The sounds that I produced in that studio would be heard long after I was dead and buried. The best part was that the entire world would know what that bitch did to me.

That album, titled

Duplicity

, went platinum in less than three weeks. I embarked on my first solo tour and played in front of larger crowds than Revelation had seen in years. In addition to Revelation fans, I seemed to have discovered an entirely new fan base. They were younger and hotter, and I took full advantage of it.

One night, after a concert in Charlotte, Larry sent a fan to visit me in my room. When I opened the door I couldn't believe my eyes. This girl was a spitting image of Vanessa - only younger, and with bigger tits. She was into pain, and it seemed as though I couldn't spank her ass hard enough. I flipped her over and fucked her as hard as I could. I even choked her a little as I plowed into her. Then, just as I was about to pop, I scooted to the head of the bed and completely doused her face with my spunk. She enjoyed it so much, she refused to wipe it off. She left the room wearing it like a badge of honor.

Another time, I opened my door to find a pair of twins. They were drop-dead gorgeous. Plump, luscious, juicy lips, and big, brown, doe eyes. They didn't want to fuck. They didn't even get undressed. They just wanted to suck my dick. I mean, they really wanted to suck my dick. Who was I to argue? I stripped down and hopped up on the bed, and they positioned themselves on either side of me. For the next hour, they teased me to tears with their tongues. They worked together on either side of my shaft, moving up and down, up and down, in perfect sync, as if they had practiced to perfection. When I finally erupted, it was like a geyser. I'd never cum so hard in my life. I nearly blacked out. At the height of that tour, I got more pussy in a week than I had in my entire lifetime. I was at the top of my game, and earning more than I had ever earned before. I had placed Vanessa so far in the rearview mirror that I didn't even think of her anymore.