hovering
in the background like the Windows screen saver on my laptop.
In my whole adult life, there has never been a day with nothing to do.
The time at university was filled with cramming my head full of knowledge, analyzing problems, writing essays, while at the same time using
every free minute to earn money. The pressure cooker atmosphere of the
stockbroker scene often left me exhausted by the time evening arrived,
and the weekends were always busy, first with housework, then with
leisure activity. Even on the only holiday I ever took, the one to Italy with
Gary, every day there had some scheduled activity or some place to visit.
And now it seems, all I can do is wait, wait for the police to abandon their
investigation for lack of evidence. During that time I’ll remain suspended
in limbo. It feels like being on a flying fox over a hardly moving river,
stranded at the lowest part of the wire, still over the water, not able to
reach the end platform, to reach safety. Should I wait indefinitely until
rescue arrives or should I try to swim ashore? That means letting go and
dropping into the river, where hidden eddies might pull me under and
crocodiles are lurking under the surface. My intuitive preference is to
jump and swim. But what does jump and swim mean in this situation? I
don’t know and that is the frustrating aspect.
In the end, I opt for wait, at least for another few days, before reassessing my situation. I might use this free time to revisit some of the art
galleries I haven’t set foot in since my teens — the Tate Gallery and the
National Gallery. There might be interesting temporary installations at
some of the smaller private galleries. If desperate, I might even find my
way to the Victoria and Albert Museum or the British Museum. And then
there are always my two little sisters. They would love my visit and I
would enjoy that too. Being with them might even chase away my
frustrations temporarily. I make up my mind to see them today after
school.
Thursday, 23 rd October, 10:50 a.m.
To my utter surprise, I get another phone call from Gary. He asks me to
meet him urgently over his lunch break. We agree to rendezvous at ten
past one in a café near the Liverpool underground station, a place where
no stockbroker would ever want to be seen. In contrast to the previous
two calls, his voice sounds calm. Has he changed his mind? Is he going
to apologize for his behavior? And what will be my response? I frankly
don’t know how I would react if he tried to make up. Something deep
inside me warns that there is no going back to what was before. I would
never be able to trust him fully. There would always remain a fear that he
might turn nasty again. But I’m willing to hear him out and then make a
decision or maybe ask for time to think about it.
I’m first at the café and order a fresh orange juice. Gary rushes in at
fifteen past. He sits opposite me.
"Why haven’t you retracted your statement yet?" he questions without
any preamble, without a word of greeting.
My heart sinks. The "hello Gary" dies on my lips. No, he isn’t trying
to make up. He is only banking on forcing me to give in to his demand if
he confronts me face to face.
"This whole thing cannot continue like this," he adds after a short
pause, putting exaggerated emphasis on each word while keeping his
voice calm and measured. "This policewoman dared to come to Goldsax
and ask for me. She wants a formal statement. Colleagues have been
asking questions and the secretaries are gossiping. You have to retract
your statement. There is no other way."
I’m working myself into anger. Does he know me so little that he
expects me to perjure myself for the sake of his promotion, which is by
no means a sure thing even if the police never question him? "No, Gary,
I will not retract my statement. What I told the police is the truth and I
will stick to that."
"Do you think having the police show up at my work will help with my
promotion, do
in the background like the Windows screen saver on my laptop.
In my whole adult life, there has never been a day with nothing to do.
The time at university was filled with cramming my head full of knowledge, analyzing problems, writing essays, while at the same time using
every free minute to earn money. The pressure cooker atmosphere of the
stockbroker scene often left me exhausted by the time evening arrived,
and the weekends were always busy, first with housework, then with
leisure activity. Even on the only holiday I ever took, the one to Italy with
Gary, every day there had some scheduled activity or some place to visit.
And now it seems, all I can do is wait, wait for the police to abandon their
investigation for lack of evidence. During that time I’ll remain suspended
in limbo. It feels like being on a flying fox over a hardly moving river,
stranded at the lowest part of the wire, still over the water, not able to
reach the end platform, to reach safety. Should I wait indefinitely until
rescue arrives or should I try to swim ashore? That means letting go and
dropping into the river, where hidden eddies might pull me under and
crocodiles are lurking under the surface. My intuitive preference is to
jump and swim. But what does jump and swim mean in this situation? I
don’t know and that is the frustrating aspect.
In the end, I opt for wait, at least for another few days, before reassessing my situation. I might use this free time to revisit some of the art
galleries I haven’t set foot in since my teens — the Tate Gallery and the
National Gallery. There might be interesting temporary installations at
some of the smaller private galleries. If desperate, I might even find my
way to the Victoria and Albert Museum or the British Museum. And then
there are always my two little sisters. They would love my visit and I
would enjoy that too. Being with them might even chase away my
frustrations temporarily. I make up my mind to see them today after
school.
Thursday, 23 rd October, 10:50 a.m.
To my utter surprise, I get another phone call from Gary. He asks me to
meet him urgently over his lunch break. We agree to rendezvous at ten
past one in a café near the Liverpool underground station, a place where
no stockbroker would ever want to be seen. In contrast to the previous
two calls, his voice sounds calm. Has he changed his mind? Is he going
to apologize for his behavior? And what will be my response? I frankly
don’t know how I would react if he tried to make up. Something deep
inside me warns that there is no going back to what was before. I would
never be able to trust him fully. There would always remain a fear that he
might turn nasty again. But I’m willing to hear him out and then make a
decision or maybe ask for time to think about it.
I’m first at the café and order a fresh orange juice. Gary rushes in at
fifteen past. He sits opposite me.
"Why haven’t you retracted your statement yet?" he questions without
any preamble, without a word of greeting.
My heart sinks. The "hello Gary" dies on my lips. No, he isn’t trying
to make up. He is only banking on forcing me to give in to his demand if
he confronts me face to face.
"This whole thing cannot continue like this," he adds after a short
pause, putting exaggerated emphasis on each word while keeping his
voice calm and measured. "This policewoman dared to come to Goldsax
and ask for me. She wants a formal statement. Colleagues have been
asking questions and the secretaries are gossiping. You have to retract
your statement. There is no other way."
I’m working myself into anger. Does he know me so little that he
expects me to perjure myself for the sake of his promotion, which is by
no means a sure thing even if the police never question him? "No, Gary,
I will not retract my statement. What I told the police is the truth and I
will stick to that."
"Do you think having the police show up at my work will help with my
promotion, do
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