Snowy rolls over on the ground, about twenty feet away from the patio, and Stephen remembers.
Elizabeth will be back soon. She will find his car keys and he will go out and buy cigarettes. Perhaps he will visit his dad – there is something he needs to tell him, though he can’t for the life of him remember what it is for now. He will have written it down somewhere.
Snowy, the sofa, Elizabeth. Stephen is loved and safe. Whatever else is going on, and something most definitely is, Stephen is loved and Stephen is safe. That’s a starting point. A rock on which to stand.
Outside a dog barks and Snowy decides to make his exit. Stephen approves; it pays to be cautious. All very well rolling around on the grass, but you mustn’t ignore a barking dog. Until tomorrow, my friend.
Elizabeth lives here – Stephen can tell by the pictures on the wall, and the glasses on the hall table. He is looked after. They are married; perhaps they have children. That’s something he should know. Why doesn’t he? That’s a question he needs to crack.
When Elizabeth arrives, he will go to kiss her, and he will be able to tell for certain if they are married. He is sure they are, but you can’t be too careful. It pays to be cautious. Barking dogs and what have you. He will make her a cup of tea. He wanders into the kitchen, his kitchen, though you’d be forgiven for not knowing, and realizes he doesn’t quite know how to go about it. There’s a knack, he knows that. He begins to worry that he should be at work. There’s a job he hasn’t done. Is it urgent? Or perhaps he has done it already?
What’s the chap’s name? His pal? Kuldesh, that’s it. The name on everyone’s lips. Married to Prisha, Stephen sent his love to her.
He turns on the tap. That’s the starting point, he is convinced of it, and it surely isn’t beyond the wit of man to work out the next step. He looks for clues. He’s in a kitchen, but not his own. He begins to feel small and weak, but tells himself to calm down, to breathe. There will be an explanation. He starts to cry. It is just fear, he knows that. Bloody pull yourself together, old chap. Whatever this is, it will pass; the picture will clear, there will surely be a voice to soothe him?
Back to the sofa is probably the safest option. Back to the sofa and wait for this Elizabeth. Bit of thinking time, try to work out what’s missing. Maybe see if Snowy will visit him today. Snowy is a fox with white ears, quite the sight, visits every evening. Elizabeth feeds him in secret, and she thinks Stephen doesn’t know.
He sits. There is a key in the lock. Could be anyone. Stephen is scared. Scared but ready. Water is overflowing from the sink and falling onto the kitchen floor.
It is Elizabeth, the woman from the picture. She smiles, and then sees the water pouring onto the kitchen floor, and she sploshes over to turn off the tap. She is very beautiful.
‘I was making you a cup of tea,’ says Stephen. He must have left the tap on.
‘Well, I’m here now,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Why don’t I do the honours?’
She walks to the sofa and kisses Stephen. And what a kiss. Boy, oh boy, oh boy, are they ever married!
‘I knew it,’ he says. But why couldn’t he remember? Why wasn’t he sure? A bell rings somewhere deep within. Harsh and shrill.
She touches his face and he starts to cry once more. Elizabeth kisses the tears away but more come.
‘I’ve got you,’ says Elizabeth. ‘No need for tears.’
But the tears keep rolling. Because Stephen has had a flash of memory, of recall. The flash is fuzzy and bent, like a beam of sunlight through a broken stained-glass window. But it is enough. He knows, in that moment, precisely what is happening. He sees the water on the kitchen floor, looks down at his tattered pyjama trousers, and holds the pieces of his mind together for long enough to understand what they mean. And what they are going to mean in the future. Oh, Stephen, of all the luck. He looks at his wife, and sees in her eyes that she knows it too.
‘I love you,’ he says. Because what else is there to say?
‘And I you,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Are you cold?’
‘Not with you here,’ says Stephen.
Elizabeth’s landline rings. On the stroke of midnight.
Ron is bundled to the floor the second he opens his front door. A hand over his mouth, a knee in his back. An urgent whisper in his ear.
‘You make a sound and I’ll kill you? Understand?’ A Liverpool accent. Not Dom Holt though. Ron nods his assent. This is the sort of treatment he used to get from the police on the picket lines in the eighties, but he’s forty years older now. Let’s get the lights on and assess the situation.
