Land of the Living

'Yes, I heard,' he said. 'Eventually. I heard from the police. They came here.'

'I tried to phone you,' I said. 'You weren't here. Well, you know you weren't here, of course.'

'I've been away.'

'Terry,' I said, 'I've been having the most well, the most terrible, terrible time. I want to .. .' I stopped, I didn't know what I wanted or what to say. I certainly did not want to be sitting in a chilly room with an angry man. A hug, I thought. A hug, a cup of cocoa, someone saying they're glad I'm home, someone saying they missed me, someone making me feel safe. That's what I need right now. 'I can't remember things,' I said at last. 'I'm all in the dark and I need your help to sort things out.' No reaction. 'I should be dead,' I said.

Another bloody slow drag at the cigarette. Was he on something? There seemed to be an extra beat before everything he said, as if there was some ironic subtext that I was missing. People talk about being able to feel when a storm is coming. Their old war wound starts to ache or something. I've never been able to manage it myself. My own war wounds ache all the time. But whenever a row is coming with Terry, I can feel it. I can feel it all over my skin and in the hairs on the back of my neck and in my spine and my stomach and behind my eyes, and I can feel it in the air. But this time my own anger stirred inside me, too.

'Terry,' I said, 'did you hear what I said?'

'Am I missing something?'

'What?'

'Is this some weird way of coming back?'

'They discharged me from the hospital. That's all. What did they tell you? Haven't you heard anything about it? I've got so much to tell you. Oh, God, you'll never believe it.' I gave a gulp when I heard myself say that, and hurried to correct myself. 'Except it's true, of course.'

'Isn't it a bit late for that?'

'Sorry? I guess you've got a few things to tell me about as well. Where were you?'

Terry gave a barking kind of laugh then looked around as if he was worried that someone else might be looking at him. I closed my eyes then opened them again. He was still there in the wicker chair, smoking, and I was still here, standing over him.

'Are you drunk?' I asked.

'This is some kind of put-on, right?'

'What do you mean?'

'Is this some way of getting back at me?'

I shook my head to clear it, and it throbbed violently. I felt as if I was seeing everything through a grey mist.

'Listen, Terry. O K? I was grabbed by a madman. He hit me on the head and I blacked out. I don't know what happened, only some of it. But I could have died. I nearly did. I was in hospital. You weren't around. I tried to call you, but you never answered. Probably you were on a binge, is that it? But I've come home.'

Now Terry's expression changed. He looked puzzled, completely thrown. His cigarette burned between his fingers as if he'd forgotten about it.

'Abbie .. . I just don't get this.'

I sat down on the sofa. The sofa was Terry's. I think his mother had passed it on to him years before. I rubbed my eyes. 'I know the police talked to you,' I said warily. I wanted to tell as little as I could to Terry. And that was part of the problem, wasn't it? 'What did they say?'

Now it was Terry's turn to look wary. 'They wanted to know when I'd last seen you.'

'And what did you tell them?'

Another slow drag on the cigarette. 'I just answered their questions.'

'And they were satisfied?'

'I told them where I'd been staying. I think they made a couple of calls to check. That seemed to be enough for them.'

'What did they tell you about me?'

'They said you'd been injured.'

' 'Injured'?' I said. 'That was their word?'

He gave a shrug. 'Something like that.'

'I was attacked,' I said.

'Who by?'

'I don't know. I never saw his face.'

'You what?' He gawped at me. 'What happened?'

'I don't know. I've got no memory of it. I was hit. Hard. On the head. I can't remember anything for days and days.'

I had his attention now. He clearly had so many questions, he could hardly think of which one to ask.

'If you don't remember anything, how do you know you didn't just fall over and hit your head?'

'He took me prisoner, Terry. He was going to kill me. I escaped.'

At this point, I suppose, pathetically, I felt that any human being would come over and hold me and say, 'How awful,' but Terry just carried on with his interrogation, as if he hadn't really heard what I was saying.

'I thought you didn't see him.'

'I was blindfolded. It was in the dark.'

'Oh,' he said. There was a long pause. 'Christ.'

'Yes.'

I'm sorry, Abbie,' he said awkwardly. It was far too little and it came too late to mean anything; awareness of this was written all over his face. Then he asked: 'So what are the police doing?'

This was the question I had been dreading. This was why I hadn't wanted to get into a detailed discussion. Even though I knew I was right, I felt ashamed even in front of Terry and at the same time I felt bitterly angry with myself for that.

'They don't believe me,' I said. 'They think it never happened.'

'But what about the injuries? Those bruises?'

I pulled a face. I wanted to cry but I absolutely was not going to cry in front of bloody Terry. Which was another part of the trouble.

'From what I understand, the people who are on my side think I imagined it. The people who aren't on my side think I made it up. They all think they're doing me a favour by not charging me with wasting police time. So they've turned me loose. I'm out in the open again, with no protection.' I waited for him to come over to me. He didn't move. His face had a blank look to it. I took a deep breath. 'So what's happened with my stuff ? Who took it?'

'You did.'

'What? Me?'

'Two weeks ago.'

'I took it?'

'Yes.' Terry shifted in his chair. He looked at me closely. 'Is this true? Do you not remember anything?'

I shook my head.

'It's all fuzzy. There's a whole dark cloud over the last few weeks. I've got a vague memory of being at work, of being here. Then it all fades. But what are you talking about? What do you mean I took it?'

Now it was Terry who looked embarrassed. His eyes were flickering, as if he was thinking quickly, trying to come up with something. Then he looked calm again.

'You left,' he said.

'What do you mean?'

'It's not as if you haven't threatened to about a million times. And don't look at me as if it's something that's my fault.'

'I'm not looking at you in any way at all'

He narrowed his eyes. 'You really don't remember?'

'Not a thing.'

He lit another cigarette. 'We had a row,' he said.

'What about?'