didn’t treat me differently from anyone else in the office. Dead people weren’t off limits when I was around.
Yeah, Jim was much smarter than he looked. He knew I didn’t want death to define me.
Chapter Ten
Dr Harrison Warner (deceased)
Two months ago I received a hand-written envelope addressed to Harrison but redirected to me. It wasn’t unusual to have mail forwarded from London to Edinburgh. On one occasion, a letter was even addressed to Dr Harrison Warner (deceased) . The word in brackets, typed on the envelope like a curious footnote to the recipient . We’re not quite sure what happened to this man .
Personal paperwork doesn’t cease to exist when we do. Harrison’s hadn’t lost momentum, even though we’d gone through the channels to take him off mailing lists.
I opened these letters with desperate comfort or absolute rage. Fleetingly, I’d think–and hope–dear God, he still exists. Like dialling his mobile and listening to his phone message after he’d gone. Let’s pretend.
More often than not I’d phone those guilty of administrative error and scream, “My husband’s dead. He won’t be taking out a new credit card with you. Ever. Stop writing to him.”
“Yes, Mrs Warner,” was the usual droned response. “Please accept our apologies. We’ll put a note on his file for future reference.”
I’d grip the handset, harder, more demented. “Delete the goddamn file. He won’t be calling you. Trust me.”
There was never much reaction, unless I was informed that it was not possible to just delete files because it wasn’t my file to delete. For data protection security it was necessary to speak to the account holder in person.
Good luck, I thought, hopelessly, putting down the phone without bothering to disconnect the call.
The envelope stood out from the usual mailshots and junk because it was handwritten, which threw me. Personal correspondence had all but ceased after the condolences dried up. Who the hell still didn’t know ? I wondered.
Unfinished sympathies , my mother said, which I’m sure is a section from a self-help book. I definitely could have written such a book. People would surface from the past, bob up and want to know what happened. “Oh my gosh, I heard the news. How. Are. You?”
I would go through the motions and string together a credible answer using select key words: car crash, truly terrible, it’s okay, desperate shock, I’m fine .
On this occasion, though, I ripped into the envelope with wearisome frustration and was caught short when six photographs slithered onto Ralph’s marble kitchen counter, instant collage on a backdrop of brilliant white.
Thrown, I checked the front of the envelope to confirm it was Harrison’s mail. It was clearly addressed to him at our home address in London. Royal-Mail redirected to Edinburgh. Here in this apartment.
Looking down at the worktop I see colours: autumn brown hair highlighted with changing-leaves, red and gold. There is a peachiness to the skin that could easily be digital work of Adobe Photoshop but I suspect is the real deal, as are the deep-sea navy eyes that could lure a man to an underwater kingdom before he realises too late that it is oxygen he needs to survive, not love.
I see a beautiful woman.
Paperwork was also included: a bachelor’s degree in computer science from London South Bank University, hospital-headed paper on which someone had scribbled lyrics of a song. It was treasured stuff; a time capsule of memories belonging to someone called Vivienne Roberts. This is how it began, seemingly benign.
Chapter Eleven
Gracie Gold Collection
Corset Magazine threw me a lifeline. Demanding work ruled out free time to fret about The Watcher and hauntingly beautiful women. Jim was there with his cattle prod whenever I faltered, administering low-voltage reminders to get my head back to business. Hard work put distance between me and some kind of melancholic madness.
I had further
Yeah, Jim was much smarter than he looked. He knew I didn’t want death to define me.
Chapter Ten
Dr Harrison Warner (deceased)
Two months ago I received a hand-written envelope addressed to Harrison but redirected to me. It wasn’t unusual to have mail forwarded from London to Edinburgh. On one occasion, a letter was even addressed to Dr Harrison Warner (deceased) . The word in brackets, typed on the envelope like a curious footnote to the recipient . We’re not quite sure what happened to this man .
Personal paperwork doesn’t cease to exist when we do. Harrison’s hadn’t lost momentum, even though we’d gone through the channels to take him off mailing lists.
I opened these letters with desperate comfort or absolute rage. Fleetingly, I’d think–and hope–dear God, he still exists. Like dialling his mobile and listening to his phone message after he’d gone. Let’s pretend.
More often than not I’d phone those guilty of administrative error and scream, “My husband’s dead. He won’t be taking out a new credit card with you. Ever. Stop writing to him.”
“Yes, Mrs Warner,” was the usual droned response. “Please accept our apologies. We’ll put a note on his file for future reference.”
I’d grip the handset, harder, more demented. “Delete the goddamn file. He won’t be calling you. Trust me.”
There was never much reaction, unless I was informed that it was not possible to just delete files because it wasn’t my file to delete. For data protection security it was necessary to speak to the account holder in person.
Good luck, I thought, hopelessly, putting down the phone without bothering to disconnect the call.
The envelope stood out from the usual mailshots and junk because it was handwritten, which threw me. Personal correspondence had all but ceased after the condolences dried up. Who the hell still didn’t know ? I wondered.
Unfinished sympathies , my mother said, which I’m sure is a section from a self-help book. I definitely could have written such a book. People would surface from the past, bob up and want to know what happened. “Oh my gosh, I heard the news. How. Are. You?”
I would go through the motions and string together a credible answer using select key words: car crash, truly terrible, it’s okay, desperate shock, I’m fine .
On this occasion, though, I ripped into the envelope with wearisome frustration and was caught short when six photographs slithered onto Ralph’s marble kitchen counter, instant collage on a backdrop of brilliant white.
Thrown, I checked the front of the envelope to confirm it was Harrison’s mail. It was clearly addressed to him at our home address in London. Royal-Mail redirected to Edinburgh. Here in this apartment.
Looking down at the worktop I see colours: autumn brown hair highlighted with changing-leaves, red and gold. There is a peachiness to the skin that could easily be digital work of Adobe Photoshop but I suspect is the real deal, as are the deep-sea navy eyes that could lure a man to an underwater kingdom before he realises too late that it is oxygen he needs to survive, not love.
I see a beautiful woman.
Paperwork was also included: a bachelor’s degree in computer science from London South Bank University, hospital-headed paper on which someone had scribbled lyrics of a song. It was treasured stuff; a time capsule of memories belonging to someone called Vivienne Roberts. This is how it began, seemingly benign.
Chapter Eleven
Gracie Gold Collection
Corset Magazine threw me a lifeline. Demanding work ruled out free time to fret about The Watcher and hauntingly beautiful women. Jim was there with his cattle prod whenever I faltered, administering low-voltage reminders to get my head back to business. Hard work put distance between me and some kind of melancholic madness.
I had further
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