‘There’s another young woman in your company who is not currently legally bound. She’s also very happy to talk. It’s enough to get this story out there.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
‘I have connections in your bank, and I believe there are a number who have yet to speak up, but it’s amazing what happens when one breaks the ice.’
Josh stops and looks at me, his face red and puffy.
‘You can avoid all this trouble, though.’
‘What do you want?’ he says, and sits down.
‘A small favour. An associate of mine wants to be made partner. I want you to make that happen. It may just save your marriage, and even your career.’
Chapter46Memories
Wednesday, 18 December
Christmas lights make driving much less aggravating. There are none in this flat, however, and even the bright red poinsettia I brought as a gift looks sparse and lonely. It doesn’t help that I’m staring at a pistol with a heavy wood-effect grip and angular green barrel, and I’m not entirely sure why.
My main preoccupation as I sit here in Hollis’s flat, is that I lack the additional two hundred thousand for the estate agent, although, fortunately, none of the four families that viewed it have made an offer. It’s partly because I spent Saturday sitting outside the house as they looked around and left information on each of their windscreens pretending to be from a neighbour, explaining the undeclared moth infestation that has led to the owner’s swift departure.
Stephen, meanwhile, is no help to anyone. His mother didn’t even have a stroke. It was merely a sudden drop in blood pressure. Her heart did stop for a minute or two, but once they put her in a coma it started right up again, and yet she’s acting like she’s had triple bypass surgery and is playing him like a violin.
‘It’s a 0.22 calibre Pardini SP,’ says Hollis in that way men have of valuing technical data over narrative.
‘A gun,’ I say, a little concerned as this was a man I shoved off a cliff face.
‘I’m a competitive shooter now,’ he says, turning it reverentially.
‘It’s a lovely colour.’ It’s clearly not the response he’s after.
He puts the gun down and picks up a photograph of a dog.
‘This is Malory,’ he says.
‘Yes, I know.’
Hollis stares at me. ‘You remember Malory?’
I’m flummoxed. An early mistake. ‘I do, but I don’t, if you know what I mean?’
‘Not really.’ He shakes his head.
‘It’s odd,’ I say, covering the obvious tyre tracks. ‘It’s as if I have memories, but they’re not connected to anything. If I’d seen you in the street I would’ve known your face, but I couldn’t have told you why or where.’
‘Huh,’ he says. ‘Isn’t the mind an amazing thing? It’s like your brain knew there was a problem when you fell and did a quick back-up, but you can’t access the memory because you’ve got no RAM.’
‘Absolutely like that.’ I have no idea what he’s talking about but he’s pleased with himself so I smile. I remember how proud he used to be if he’d managed to defecate in a public bathroom. Well done, Hollis, I used to say.
He approaches me with two cups held in indentations on a plastic tray that fits to the front of his wheelchair. He stops by my side, and my drink alights (I think that’s the right word) at my table.
‘It was a nightmare before I got this tray. You know, the little things can really stump you, if you’re new to it all.’ He looks up at me, a dreamy look in his eyes. ‘You never realize what you’ve got until it’s gone.’
I don’t share his sentiment. I knew exactly what he was long before he was gone.
‘Which was the worst thing to lose, Hollis, your legs or your wife?’ I say, partly because I’m faintly interested in his answer.
‘Come on – you can’t ask me that! You know the answer. It’s you, every single time, even if I had four legs.’
