Frederick replied.
“Where’s it coming from?”
“There’s a pipe. Down there. It’s not big enough to fit through.”
“Can you drink it?”
“Would you want to try?”
I glanced behind.
“Don’t worry—it’s all fine—no-one ever comes here. And no, I don’t—I just don’t know why.”
I swept my arms from side to side, enjoying the feeling of wet waves about my limbs, heavy in my clothes, spinning and feeling the slow movements of my liquid body. The water spread out through the fading light, an endless ocean wide and long. Frederick splashed his way back to land.
The water had a scent, a scent I couldn’t place, one which crawled into my nose and stung my sinuses. I had smelled it before my death sleep, I knew that much. Frederick didn’t seem to notice. He crouched with his back to me, examining the stone-scattered ground by the water. I waded over and knelt next to him, my knee scraping shards of rock.
“What is it?”
Sprigs of plants were sprawled and played between his fingers. They were red and green and tiny. I moved away and brought myself to the ground, kicking at the water with my toes.
“How many memories have you had, Frederick?”
“Well. I don’t know.”
“You remembered art.”
“I did.”
“Did you remember anything else?”
“A few things,” he paused as he turned around, still crouching. He leaned his face into mine. I felt each word against my cheek. “I remembered having four meals a day. I remembered people have their hair cut evenly on all sides. I remembered sayings, like ‘Any old iron’ and ‘Don’t eat yellow snow’. I remembered sex, having sex when you broke up with someone—to say goodbye.”
The last one stung. I slung a scatter of small stones over the water.
Frederick moved his head into my lap. I placed a pebble on his forehead.
“Did it all make it into the book?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did everything you remembered make it into the book?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
I didn’t answer. I took the pebble from his face and flung it into the water. Chlorine. Where was that word from?
THE LIGHT WAS STRANGE from the moment the sun rose. It was a heavy bruised colour. I let in a sliver through the curtains. He lay half-dozing, half-awake, propped up against the wall as though it would collapse without him. Now and then he would snort or murmur, his arm resting gently against mine. The window was battered with heavy-falling droplets, falling in short bursts, tinny shots from the sky. I lay half-dozing, half-awake, one foot in the triangle home and the other somewhere else.
We were both slumped over stickly linoleum. I was careful not to place my hands upon the floor, instead resting one on Frederick’s thigh, the other on my own. Sleep was edging away from me, being absorbed by him, into his young body which was clad in well-sewn green cotton. His breathing grew deeper and heavier as he drew more sleep from me, sucking it in through his mouth and nostrils. Perhaps if he took too much he would sleep forever, and I would be stuck with the weight of a young man on my lino. Perhaps I would have to feed him, move his mouth to chew for him, clean up after him when it came out again...
He opened his eyes and for a moment they rested on me, before slipping back behind half-closed lids. I ran a finger through his hair then pressed my weight on his thigh to push myself up. He gave a hollow grunt and leant forward, before leaning back into sleep.
I had slept with no memories. The days were flowing into one another so quickly and smoothly that I thought very little of the stone woman and her stern grimace. What did I even need memories for?
I went to make breakfast, pulling the plastic tray from under my bed. It was nearly empty—a dice-size block or two of bouillon-butter, slices of green-mottled cheese, firm rye bread, rice. There was little point in preparation and so I piled bread, butter and cheese into my mouth, forcing it down my
“Where’s it coming from?”
“There’s a pipe. Down there. It’s not big enough to fit through.”
“Can you drink it?”
“Would you want to try?”
I glanced behind.
“Don’t worry—it’s all fine—no-one ever comes here. And no, I don’t—I just don’t know why.”
I swept my arms from side to side, enjoying the feeling of wet waves about my limbs, heavy in my clothes, spinning and feeling the slow movements of my liquid body. The water spread out through the fading light, an endless ocean wide and long. Frederick splashed his way back to land.
The water had a scent, a scent I couldn’t place, one which crawled into my nose and stung my sinuses. I had smelled it before my death sleep, I knew that much. Frederick didn’t seem to notice. He crouched with his back to me, examining the stone-scattered ground by the water. I waded over and knelt next to him, my knee scraping shards of rock.
“What is it?”
Sprigs of plants were sprawled and played between his fingers. They were red and green and tiny. I moved away and brought myself to the ground, kicking at the water with my toes.
“How many memories have you had, Frederick?”
“Well. I don’t know.”
“You remembered art.”
“I did.”
“Did you remember anything else?”
“A few things,” he paused as he turned around, still crouching. He leaned his face into mine. I felt each word against my cheek. “I remembered having four meals a day. I remembered people have their hair cut evenly on all sides. I remembered sayings, like ‘Any old iron’ and ‘Don’t eat yellow snow’. I remembered sex, having sex when you broke up with someone—to say goodbye.”
The last one stung. I slung a scatter of small stones over the water.
Frederick moved his head into my lap. I placed a pebble on his forehead.
“Did it all make it into the book?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did everything you remembered make it into the book?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
I didn’t answer. I took the pebble from his face and flung it into the water. Chlorine. Where was that word from?
THE LIGHT WAS STRANGE from the moment the sun rose. It was a heavy bruised colour. I let in a sliver through the curtains. He lay half-dozing, half-awake, propped up against the wall as though it would collapse without him. Now and then he would snort or murmur, his arm resting gently against mine. The window was battered with heavy-falling droplets, falling in short bursts, tinny shots from the sky. I lay half-dozing, half-awake, one foot in the triangle home and the other somewhere else.
We were both slumped over stickly linoleum. I was careful not to place my hands upon the floor, instead resting one on Frederick’s thigh, the other on my own. Sleep was edging away from me, being absorbed by him, into his young body which was clad in well-sewn green cotton. His breathing grew deeper and heavier as he drew more sleep from me, sucking it in through his mouth and nostrils. Perhaps if he took too much he would sleep forever, and I would be stuck with the weight of a young man on my lino. Perhaps I would have to feed him, move his mouth to chew for him, clean up after him when it came out again...
He opened his eyes and for a moment they rested on me, before slipping back behind half-closed lids. I ran a finger through his hair then pressed my weight on his thigh to push myself up. He gave a hollow grunt and leant forward, before leaning back into sleep.
I had slept with no memories. The days were flowing into one another so quickly and smoothly that I thought very little of the stone woman and her stern grimace. What did I even need memories for?
I went to make breakfast, pulling the plastic tray from under my bed. It was nearly empty—a dice-size block or two of bouillon-butter, slices of green-mottled cheese, firm rye bread, rice. There was little point in preparation and so I piled bread, butter and cheese into my mouth, forcing it down my
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