After I lost him, you know, that was when I started to lose myself. Bits of me seemed just to drift away, as though they wanted to be with him, and not with me anymore. My silly memory got so much worse in my forties. And now, half the time, I don’t know what I did yesterday, or even where I went. If I did. I don’t, of course, ever mention this to the doctor. I can guess the grim and fussy result.
But to go back to the dream. There was the siren, and then I looked out of an uncurtained window—which I doubt I’d have done, or ever did, in the childhood blackout. I could see them all coming, on the blacked-out sky, the bombers, like a swarm of horrible fat wasps or flies. And their eggs falling out of them. And concussions miles off and then nearer and nearer. And the sky flickering red. And then one of the planes came in through the window at me so I jumped away. It wasn’t very big, only about the size of a child’s balloon. But it dropped the bomb straight down on my carpet. And everything exploded with a terrific bang.
I leapt up from my chair and stood clutching at the back of it, and for a few seconds, even wide awake, the room seemed full of burning crimson fires. It was the electric fire, of course, that was all.
Emenie:
94
Throughout the rest of the short day and the evening I couldn’t settle.
I walked up and down the flat, even through the bedroom now, round and round. I didn’t want to go out and through the rest of the house. It seemed full of weird noises, as though other people were there. Only they weren’t. No one had broken in, or could have got in without breaking in. But everything felt wrong.
Obviously it was because of what had happened in the park. What hadn’t happened—the man I hadn’t killed although he had been mine.
Never before had that sort of disaster befallen me. Once or twice, even, in the past, where I was almost interrupted in the instants of action, I’d managed to forestall everything, yet do just enough to be able to start the procedure off again, and continue and conclude once my way was clear.
And this time no one had interrupted. No one was about. It was a flawless situation. That still, white-grey air, the silent sound across the trees—such a pristine canvas, inviting, urging the master stroke—I should have been able to enjoy it to the full. What had happened to me? Why? Why. I hadn’t lost my nerve, or ability. It wasn’t that. Just some extreme—almost physical—failure of connection between my will and my reflexes. Sort of like the kind of thing that might happen when you were half asleep. You roll across to grab and shut up the alarm clock, (in the days when they were necessary), and instead your hand passes through thin air; you’ve missed the target.
But really, it hadn’t even been like that. It was as if my brain shouted Go! And my hands, already reaching out, had suddenly answered No.
The worst thing was I was frightened. This hadn’t happened before. Now it had. Which meant it could happen. It could happen again. And again…
The world got dark outside.
95
Eventually I found half a bottle of wine left in the fridge. It didn’t taste too bad and I drank it all straight down. Then I went to my made-up bed on the sofa. I didn’t want to sleep in the bedroom. That hadn’t changed.
The electric fire was on, and I left it on. I was very cold.
Bit by bit the wine started to fuzz over the chipped edges of my shock and grief. I began to form a plan. Perhaps, tomorrow, I should try again. I would take the gun this time, make it easy on myself. It might not be quite the right method for my next victim, but it would do. I couldn’t be fussy now; I had to make everything work.
I told myself to stop worrying. Anybody could make a mistake. Even I could, after so much perfect-making practice. It had just been the time for it, that was all. One slip doth not a downfall make.
I heard myself giggle stupidly, and felt sleep come gently in, coating me in layers of warmth and wine and abruptly stirring optimism. It would be all right.
96
An explosion…
The air cracked and blew about in bits.
The bang reverberated inside my ears. On and on.
The atmosphere was crimson with more than the reflection of the single electric bar.
I thought: A bomb has fallen through the roof.
I rolled off the couch and pulled myself upright. I didn’t know where I was for a moment. I could smell petrol and fire, and where the door was behind the peacock screen, the door to the outer hall, was the origin of the deep red glare. No sooner did I think this than the peacocks began to burn.
What was it? Not a bomb—surely not a bomb. And if so, why here?
I thought of a shambling lout with greasy hair, and another one in a ruined uniform who had, like the old song, called me Madam. Bruvva and his mate.
The door was burning. Which meant the outer hall must be. The nails sealing up the wide old letterbox in the front door must have been picked or ripped
