distressed, and would have no difficulty drawing from me the reason. Yet how could I explain to her, when I couldn’t make sense of it myself?
I remembered (it came to me unbidden, and from so far in the past that it could be treated as reliable, not being involved with recent distortions) that I’d for years used as an amusing tale at dinner parties the fantastic adventure that had befallen one of my school friends. Yet when I’d met him years later, and reminded him of it, he’d looked at me blankly. It had meant nothing to him.
Memory is like that, I tried to encourage myself. It embroiders itself, tidying the loose details, trying to make sense and logic from a chaotic reality. So was I now to accept that my mind, with some excuse because of its battering, had altered the simple completion of a withdrawal notice into the more complex but explosive details of a statement? The fact was a withdrawal. Yet my brain wanted – demanded – that I be presented with a logical reason for having gone round, on that 16th November, to Pool Street Motors and apparently taken the place apart looking for trouble. So I couldn’t trust my memory.
I ’d had glimpses of what my personality might have been, and now had to accept that it could all be false.
I could be anybody. I might even, in spite of the spontaneous vision in Nicola’s office, have accepted bribes.
It was clear that I would have to start again from scratch. Try to forget what had already been recalled, and approach the whole thing slower and with more circumspection, sliding in on it from a different angle. If I dared.
I sat on the edge of the bed, struggling with my courage. Already shaken, I found it far too easy to let it all go, and accept the loss of a day out of my life.
But I wasn’t going to be able to let it go. My car was due for collection. I could not avoid another visit to Pool Street Motors.
In the morning I told myself that it would seem indecent to appear there too early, but that wasn’t the real reason for taking my time. At ten I walked up to the garage, and for one wild moment, seeing the Volvo standing out there in the forecourt, I thought I might simply climb in and drive away. Then I noticed Clayton standing inside the self-service shop and watching me through the window. I had time to extend him my mental thanks for having saved me from stupid cowardice.
They had cleaned it for me, and polished it even, and it stood there, four-square and with its tyres at proper pressures, as stolid and reassuring as ever. I walked round it, and stood back, strangely reluctant to slip behind the wheel. Then Clayton was at my elbow.
‘ You’ll see I got it taxed,’ he said. ‘We filled the tank, put you a new battery in, and it’s going a treat. I ran it round the houses myself. Just great.’
‘ It’s good of you.’
‘ Did you fix up the insurance?’
‘ No.’
‘ Never mind. I can do that. A year’s insurance on the house.’
‘ The MOT...must’ve run out.’
‘ Done it,’ he said with eager pride. ‘Relined the rear brakes and put you two new brake pipes in.’
‘ That’s nice.’
I saw that the keys dangled in the ignition lock. My eyes had been on them for the last few minutes, as I had no wish to meet Clayton’s gaze, but nothing had been registering. Now it did. There were three keys.
I opened the door and slipped them from the lock. One for ignition and the doors, a separate one for the boot, and the third...it was a cylinder lock key, which I recognised as the key to the side door at the Social Security office, my private key for when I’d needed to go there after hours. But it was here. I’d left it here , with the car.
For a second my mind stumbled over it. When I managed to speak, it didn’t sound like my own voice.
‘ Why was the car here?’ I asked. ‘You kept it here. Why?’
Now I’d turned to face him. He looked startled. ‘You don’t know?’
‘ You know damned well I don’t.’
‘ It
I remembered (it came to me unbidden, and from so far in the past that it could be treated as reliable, not being involved with recent distortions) that I’d for years used as an amusing tale at dinner parties the fantastic adventure that had befallen one of my school friends. Yet when I’d met him years later, and reminded him of it, he’d looked at me blankly. It had meant nothing to him.
Memory is like that, I tried to encourage myself. It embroiders itself, tidying the loose details, trying to make sense and logic from a chaotic reality. So was I now to accept that my mind, with some excuse because of its battering, had altered the simple completion of a withdrawal notice into the more complex but explosive details of a statement? The fact was a withdrawal. Yet my brain wanted – demanded – that I be presented with a logical reason for having gone round, on that 16th November, to Pool Street Motors and apparently taken the place apart looking for trouble. So I couldn’t trust my memory.
I ’d had glimpses of what my personality might have been, and now had to accept that it could all be false.
I could be anybody. I might even, in spite of the spontaneous vision in Nicola’s office, have accepted bribes.
It was clear that I would have to start again from scratch. Try to forget what had already been recalled, and approach the whole thing slower and with more circumspection, sliding in on it from a different angle. If I dared.
I sat on the edge of the bed, struggling with my courage. Already shaken, I found it far too easy to let it all go, and accept the loss of a day out of my life.
But I wasn’t going to be able to let it go. My car was due for collection. I could not avoid another visit to Pool Street Motors.
In the morning I told myself that it would seem indecent to appear there too early, but that wasn’t the real reason for taking my time. At ten I walked up to the garage, and for one wild moment, seeing the Volvo standing out there in the forecourt, I thought I might simply climb in and drive away. Then I noticed Clayton standing inside the self-service shop and watching me through the window. I had time to extend him my mental thanks for having saved me from stupid cowardice.
They had cleaned it for me, and polished it even, and it stood there, four-square and with its tyres at proper pressures, as stolid and reassuring as ever. I walked round it, and stood back, strangely reluctant to slip behind the wheel. Then Clayton was at my elbow.
‘ You’ll see I got it taxed,’ he said. ‘We filled the tank, put you a new battery in, and it’s going a treat. I ran it round the houses myself. Just great.’
‘ It’s good of you.’
‘ Did you fix up the insurance?’
‘ No.’
‘ Never mind. I can do that. A year’s insurance on the house.’
‘ The MOT...must’ve run out.’
‘ Done it,’ he said with eager pride. ‘Relined the rear brakes and put you two new brake pipes in.’
‘ That’s nice.’
I saw that the keys dangled in the ignition lock. My eyes had been on them for the last few minutes, as I had no wish to meet Clayton’s gaze, but nothing had been registering. Now it did. There were three keys.
I opened the door and slipped them from the lock. One for ignition and the doors, a separate one for the boot, and the third...it was a cylinder lock key, which I recognised as the key to the side door at the Social Security office, my private key for when I’d needed to go there after hours. But it was here. I’d left it here , with the car.
For a second my mind stumbled over it. When I managed to speak, it didn’t sound like my own voice.
‘ Why was the car here?’ I asked. ‘You kept it here. Why?’
Now I’d turned to face him. He looked startled. ‘You don’t know?’
‘ You know damned well I don’t.’
‘ It
Similar Books
