say, ‘could I know you? I’ve never met you before. Apart from when I saw you the other day.’
She looks away, like she’s planning her next move. I start to walk away; she reaches out and grabs my arm. Fear pricks at me. She pulls me close.
‘You don’t know who you are.’ It’s not a question. She’s shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t know how this could happen.’
‘No? Well, maybe you’ve got the wrong person,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’d like to say it was nice meeting you, but . . .’
I don’t finish the sentence. My narky little comment doesn’t feel appropriate now. She looks as though she’s going to cry. Is it another tactic? Doesn’t matter either way. I’m out of here. I’m about to run out of the shop, when I stop, hesitate. Who does she think I am? Shouldn’t I find out? She and her friends have been wrecking my life. I should find out who they are, find out as much as I can so that I can do something to get them off my back. Otherwise they might just keep following me. Otherwise it might never be over.
I look at her, catch her eye. Is this something I’m going to regret? Was this all part of her plan? In a week will I be holed up with all those freaks with the eyes in some weird cult place where I have to take ten wives and pray to an alien?
‘Look,’ I say. ‘Tell me what’s going on. Tell me why you’re following me. Tell me who you think I am. Maybe I can help you find the right person.’
I don’t know why I said that. The last thing I want to do is help her. It’s just that she looks so . . . broken. It makes me feel bad for her, even if she and her friends have been screwing with my head. Maybe she’s depressed like Mum was. Maybe it’s her head that’s fried, not mine.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t . . .’ she mutters. ‘I can’t . . . If you don’t remember, I don’t know how . . .’
‘Remember what?’ I ask patiently. I’m in control now. This is better. This I can do. She’s the freak, not me. ‘What’s the problem?’
She looks up at me. ‘If you don’t know who you are, if you don’t know what you are . . . I don’t know what I can do.’
Her voice is breathy. I wonder briefly what someone listening in on this conversation would think. I wish someone was; I want corroboration that it’s actually happening.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Well, why don’t you try telling me who you think I am. Maybe I can clear up the confusion.’ I’ve adopted that patient, patronising tone I’ve heard Patrick use. The tone he uses with me most of the time. I shake myself.
‘Clear up the confusion?’ She looks irritated. ‘You really think I’ve got the wrong person?’ She shakes her head again. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ She sighs. ‘You can’t.’
‘Know what?’ I’m getting irritated now. ‘And stop saying I don’t know, like I’ve forgotten or something. I haven’t forgotten anything. I’ve got a great memory. I never forget anything.’
‘You don’t?’ Her head shoots up. ‘What do you mean?’
I blanch slightly. I wasn’t exactly telling the truth just then. But she doesn’t need to know that – it’ll only encourage her. ‘Just don’t tell me I can’t remember you. If I knew you, I’d remember. OK?’
‘OK.’ She nods, bites her lip. Then she looks around. ‘I should go.’
‘You’re not going to tell me anything?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know where I’d even start.’
I glance over at her and catch her eye. There’s something about her expression, something incredibly sad but really warm too. Comforting almost. I feel myself softening. Feel myself drawn to her suddenly.
Then I kick myself. She’s manipulating me. Her eyes aren’t warm; they’re strange. She’s strange. I look down at my hands.
‘Are they all with you? All the people who’ve been following me? With the weird eyes?’
‘Weird eyes?’
I feel bad. Like I’ve insulted her. I
She looks away, like she’s planning her next move. I start to walk away; she reaches out and grabs my arm. Fear pricks at me. She pulls me close.
‘You don’t know who you are.’ It’s not a question. She’s shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t know how this could happen.’
‘No? Well, maybe you’ve got the wrong person,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’d like to say it was nice meeting you, but . . .’
I don’t finish the sentence. My narky little comment doesn’t feel appropriate now. She looks as though she’s going to cry. Is it another tactic? Doesn’t matter either way. I’m out of here. I’m about to run out of the shop, when I stop, hesitate. Who does she think I am? Shouldn’t I find out? She and her friends have been wrecking my life. I should find out who they are, find out as much as I can so that I can do something to get them off my back. Otherwise they might just keep following me. Otherwise it might never be over.
I look at her, catch her eye. Is this something I’m going to regret? Was this all part of her plan? In a week will I be holed up with all those freaks with the eyes in some weird cult place where I have to take ten wives and pray to an alien?
‘Look,’ I say. ‘Tell me what’s going on. Tell me why you’re following me. Tell me who you think I am. Maybe I can help you find the right person.’
I don’t know why I said that. The last thing I want to do is help her. It’s just that she looks so . . . broken. It makes me feel bad for her, even if she and her friends have been screwing with my head. Maybe she’s depressed like Mum was. Maybe it’s her head that’s fried, not mine.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t . . .’ she mutters. ‘I can’t . . . If you don’t remember, I don’t know how . . .’
‘Remember what?’ I ask patiently. I’m in control now. This is better. This I can do. She’s the freak, not me. ‘What’s the problem?’
She looks up at me. ‘If you don’t know who you are, if you don’t know what you are . . . I don’t know what I can do.’
Her voice is breathy. I wonder briefly what someone listening in on this conversation would think. I wish someone was; I want corroboration that it’s actually happening.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Well, why don’t you try telling me who you think I am. Maybe I can clear up the confusion.’ I’ve adopted that patient, patronising tone I’ve heard Patrick use. The tone he uses with me most of the time. I shake myself.
‘Clear up the confusion?’ She looks irritated. ‘You really think I’ve got the wrong person?’ She shakes her head again. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ She sighs. ‘You can’t.’
‘Know what?’ I’m getting irritated now. ‘And stop saying I don’t know, like I’ve forgotten or something. I haven’t forgotten anything. I’ve got a great memory. I never forget anything.’
‘You don’t?’ Her head shoots up. ‘What do you mean?’
I blanch slightly. I wasn’t exactly telling the truth just then. But she doesn’t need to know that – it’ll only encourage her. ‘Just don’t tell me I can’t remember you. If I knew you, I’d remember. OK?’
‘OK.’ She nods, bites her lip. Then she looks around. ‘I should go.’
‘You’re not going to tell me anything?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know where I’d even start.’
I glance over at her and catch her eye. There’s something about her expression, something incredibly sad but really warm too. Comforting almost. I feel myself softening. Feel myself drawn to her suddenly.
Then I kick myself. She’s manipulating me. Her eyes aren’t warm; they’re strange. She’s strange. I look down at my hands.
‘Are they all with you? All the people who’ve been following me? With the weird eyes?’
‘Weird eyes?’
I feel bad. Like I’ve insulted her. I
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