with him. I hate him because I remember everything he tells me and yet my own memories have been flushed away.
My redundant brain has apparently decided that it is imperative for me to recall an inane collection of things which serve no purpose, while anything immediate and relevant slips inconspicuously out of my ears. I remember Eric Stafford at school telling me he’d once seen his mother plucking her pubic hair; the time I found a decapitated pigeon jammed up beneath the back bumper of my car; the phone number of Angela’s sleazy supervisor at the Bowlplex, the way he slung his arm around her when she arrived at work, the way he gave her shoulder a little squeeze and told her to hurry off and get into her uniform, and how I wanted to put his head in the ball polisher. I remember the recipe for fishcakes that I used to make for Lydia, the ones I never really liked and haven’t made since she died. I still remember Heather’s fourth-finger ring size.
The things I need to remember lie just out of reach, up in the top-right corner of my vision, driven to the edges of my consciousness by the useless drivel I can’t get rid of. If I sit perfectly still, the unwanted memories crowd in like radio babble. They keep me awake, jostling for attention, hoping to be the one that I choose, hoping they’ll be the one to cause an epiphany. It’s not really their fault; the problem’s in the processing. My brain can no longer distinguish between the relevance of being able to recite the third verse of
Away in a Manger
or knowing if it’s Tuesday or April. Walking helps, sometimes, coaxing an elusive memory down low enough for me to swing on. I should walk. I should try to find another doorway. I realise I am standing with none of the poise of Tai Chi in front of my other neighbour’s room and the woman inside it cranes forward in her bed to catch my eye.
“Hey, Mr Solemn!” Ingrid says.
I try to start walking again, but the synaptic orders fail at the first post and I remain helplessly frozen outside her open door.
“Come here, will ya?”
I stare straight ahead, waiting for my limbs to regain function. Hurry, she’s going to want to talk and -
“Do you need a bible?”
I shake my head.
“Do you need a packet of Turkish Delight?”
Chin left, chin right.
“Do you need… ” she pauses, glances down at her lap, “… an audio book box set of
The Lord of the Rings
on CD, read by Rob Ingles?”
I turn my head a few inches to the left. She’s smiling. “I don’t need any of this silly crap anymore,” she says. “Come here, Mr Solemn.”
My legs obey her voice. I’m rather surprised, and frankly quite annoyed with them.
She props herself up on an elbow and considers me as I shuffle-stop inside her doorway. “Well, you, you’re a scrawny little thing, aren’t you? If you’re not eating your puddings you can send them over to me.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve seen the nurses do it to her face and she doesn’t seem to notice.
“I know,” she says, “I’m ridiculous. Just ignore me like you usually do.”
I blush. I should be turning, leaving, but I cannot move.
She considers me for a moment. “Are you stuck?”
I nod.
“Right. Well. While you’re here, you might as well fill me in on your bits and bobs then. Normally I only get the snippets from the nurses and my sister, Yvonne. Not gossip, Mr Solemn, just the goings-on.”
My eyes plead for her to let me go but her expression is immovable.
“So, what did you do?” she asks, when it’s clear that I’m not about to offer up any information voluntarily.
I glance behind me at the empty corridor and take a subtle micro-step backwards towards it. The doorway is heating up like a jet engine. I can feel the hot air swirling, the particles getting excited, the lightning beginning to build. She’s waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t understand. I shrug.
“What did you do to get dumped here?” she says, within a single sigh. “You
My redundant brain has apparently decided that it is imperative for me to recall an inane collection of things which serve no purpose, while anything immediate and relevant slips inconspicuously out of my ears. I remember Eric Stafford at school telling me he’d once seen his mother plucking her pubic hair; the time I found a decapitated pigeon jammed up beneath the back bumper of my car; the phone number of Angela’s sleazy supervisor at the Bowlplex, the way he slung his arm around her when she arrived at work, the way he gave her shoulder a little squeeze and told her to hurry off and get into her uniform, and how I wanted to put his head in the ball polisher. I remember the recipe for fishcakes that I used to make for Lydia, the ones I never really liked and haven’t made since she died. I still remember Heather’s fourth-finger ring size.
The things I need to remember lie just out of reach, up in the top-right corner of my vision, driven to the edges of my consciousness by the useless drivel I can’t get rid of. If I sit perfectly still, the unwanted memories crowd in like radio babble. They keep me awake, jostling for attention, hoping to be the one that I choose, hoping they’ll be the one to cause an epiphany. It’s not really their fault; the problem’s in the processing. My brain can no longer distinguish between the relevance of being able to recite the third verse of
Away in a Manger
or knowing if it’s Tuesday or April. Walking helps, sometimes, coaxing an elusive memory down low enough for me to swing on. I should walk. I should try to find another doorway. I realise I am standing with none of the poise of Tai Chi in front of my other neighbour’s room and the woman inside it cranes forward in her bed to catch my eye.
“Hey, Mr Solemn!” Ingrid says.
I try to start walking again, but the synaptic orders fail at the first post and I remain helplessly frozen outside her open door.
“Come here, will ya?”
I stare straight ahead, waiting for my limbs to regain function. Hurry, she’s going to want to talk and -
“Do you need a bible?”
I shake my head.
“Do you need a packet of Turkish Delight?”
Chin left, chin right.
“Do you need… ” she pauses, glances down at her lap, “… an audio book box set of
The Lord of the Rings
on CD, read by Rob Ingles?”
I turn my head a few inches to the left. She’s smiling. “I don’t need any of this silly crap anymore,” she says. “Come here, Mr Solemn.”
My legs obey her voice. I’m rather surprised, and frankly quite annoyed with them.
She props herself up on an elbow and considers me as I shuffle-stop inside her doorway. “Well, you, you’re a scrawny little thing, aren’t you? If you’re not eating your puddings you can send them over to me.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve seen the nurses do it to her face and she doesn’t seem to notice.
“I know,” she says, “I’m ridiculous. Just ignore me like you usually do.”
I blush. I should be turning, leaving, but I cannot move.
She considers me for a moment. “Are you stuck?”
I nod.
“Right. Well. While you’re here, you might as well fill me in on your bits and bobs then. Normally I only get the snippets from the nurses and my sister, Yvonne. Not gossip, Mr Solemn, just the goings-on.”
My eyes plead for her to let me go but her expression is immovable.
“So, what did you do?” she asks, when it’s clear that I’m not about to offer up any information voluntarily.
I glance behind me at the empty corridor and take a subtle micro-step backwards towards it. The doorway is heating up like a jet engine. I can feel the hot air swirling, the particles getting excited, the lightning beginning to build. She’s waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t understand. I shrug.
“What did you do to get dumped here?” she says, within a single sigh. “You
Similar Books
