The pain would’ve jolted Arthur awake if it weren’t for the capsule tranquiliser. The needles pumped tens of thousands of preprogrammed cybernetic cells into Arthur’s bloodstream. Matrices of information rolled across the black screen. The touchpad performed a synchronisation and logged into a covert network.
Profiles of individuals appeared as a list, each with a mugshot. She scrolled through one face after another—mostly unsmiling ones, some with inattentive gazes, others frozen in the middle of speech, and all of them taken against backdrops of streets and homes and workplaces—faces belonging to those who didn’t know their pictures were being taken.
She chose one of them at random—a man who looked to be in his early fifties, set the grid accuracy to ten metres and tapped out a track. The device whirred and whined for a moment before telling her that the individual had been triangulated to a spot in Chiang Rai, Thailand. She then went down the list and stopped at a profile.
The name Qara Budang Tabunai glowered at her from the screen. Beside the name was an orthogonal blank where the mugshot would’ve been. She set the device to work. Thrice the system attempted to triangulate a position, and thrice it failed.
And here he is, right beside me. Hannah indulged herself in a smile. The jamming worked, and perhaps this was the best she could do for him.
Mornings were always crisp and sunny after a wintry night’s rain. The light that streamed in through the window was warm and uplifting. Arthur leapt up from the floor with the sleeping bag draped halfway over his shoulders and shuddered with a chill when he found the bed empty. He headed for the door, grabbed the lever and felt it turn in his hand. The door swung ajar, and in popped Hannah with a towel over her head.
“Morning,” she chirped. “Sorry, I took any towel I could find.”
For a moment Arthur failed to register the greeting. “I thought you left.”
“Relieved?” Hannah swung out her damp hair and proceeded to press them dry with the towel. “Shall we leave in five minutes? It’s past ten and I could eat a horse.”
They snuggled in the warmth of a small Mediterranean café off Mornington Crescent and ate poached eggs, flaky flatbread, and mutton kibbehs that came with sides of olives and pickled mushrooms. Arthur had a Turkish coffee served from a copper cezve, and lamented about its acidity and attributed it to its roast. On the other hand, Hannah loved it and had four shots of it.
Museums were closed that day, so they checked out the hippy stores at Carnaby Street and toured Piccadilly Circus. The walk kept them warm and they were hungry again by the time they got to Kensington. From a small Spanish deli just off Portobello Road they picked out a small selection of cheeses, two tin mugs and a bottle of Chianti.
At Kensington Gardens they found no footballs, no Frisbees, no pot-smoking hippies. The lawns along the scenic vista were misty and empty all the way to the Albert Memorial. They put out the wine and cheese on a mat. Arthur immersed himself in Kafka while Hannah read Vogue, their plans for a tranquil afternoon picnic playing out to near perfection except for the biting cold. Hannah, juddering, said this place was empty because they were the only stupid tropical schmucks trying to picnic on a winter’s day. Arthur suggested that they drink to warm themselves. And they downed almost half of the Chianti before the cold became unbearable.
The London Underground dropped them off at Euston where they transited from the agreeable warmth of the station to the icy street and then into the cheerless twilight that seemed to have descended far too quickly. Windchill had them scuttling into the nearest self-serve store they could find. “Wine rack’s almost empty,” said Arthur.
Hannah replaced one of the last remaining ice wines on the rack. “A good bottle of port would be a decent compromise. The Chianti was quite a let-down.”
“We could go somewhere else.”
“Tell you what.” Hannah jabbed her finger into Arthur’s shoulder. “I saw a Vinos way back at Woburn Place. I go get us a bottle and you go get the food. Surprise me with the selection. We’ll meet back in your room.”
Arthur looked uncertain. “You sure? I could—”
Hannah pressed a finger to his lips. “I expect dinner to be waiting when I get back.”
“A kiss would’ve been better.”
Hannah considered the request for an instant and then planted one on Arthur’s right cheek. “There,” she said, “you got one.”
Arthur rolled his eyes at it.
“No crossing the line, remember?” Hannah ran her hand tenderly down the side of his face. “Why don’t you give me one? Where I like it.”
Broodingly, Arthur leaned over and kissed her tenderly between her eyes. He felt a breath slip from her lips and he could hear the faint sound of swallowing.
Hannah pulled her hands away, turned around and strode down the aisle between half-empty racks of eggs and bread. She cast a lingering, sidelong glance upon him before she left the store. The doors closed to a dulcet ring of little bells.
Now alone, Arthur picked up a meatloaf with gravy and a salad at a discount—perks you would expect at the closing hours of Christmas Eve. He got two large Christmas candles—red ones with the twisting stems, a can of sugared peaches, cream and a loaf of sourdough. Then at a small Italian eatery just off Kentish Town Road he got ribbons of freshly sliced parma ham, stuffed olives and a few slices of rock melon.
The walk back to the residence was a long but leisurely one. It afforded a good workout, and Arthur shrugged off his jacket even before he entered the room because he was perspiring underneath it. He cleared the table, made the bed and returned the chairs to their places. He laid out the ceramic dishes and a rather handsome set of cutlery he had purchased from a thrift store. He put dinner on them, doubled-up two empty beer bottles as sconces and fitted in the Christmas candles.
As he was lighting them his eyes strayed over to a square note tucked beneath the top flap of a table calendar. He looked around and found Hannah’s hippy patchwork bag missing, along with all traces of her except for a used towel—his towel, draped upon a plastic hanger that hung from a doorknob of his wardrobe.
He dropped onto the edge of his bed, the same spot where Hannah had sat him down last night. He fixed his eyes on the candles and watched the drops of wax spiralling along the threads and solidifying halfway down the stem. He resolved to wait.
Maybe the London buses got their schedules messed up. Maybe the underground’s busted and she’s stuck somewhere between Mornington Crescent and Camden Town.
The clock read ten. It’d been three hours. The candles were down to less than a quarter of their original lengths, their beer bottle sconces adorned in popsicles of red petrified wax. The spread was untouched and the entire set up now resembled an altar to the kitchen god, complete with festive offerings. A couple of persimmons would complete the still-life.
Arthur shifted his weight. In the silence, the creaking of the old bed sounded like thunder. At last he retrieved the note from the calendar and flipped it over. Its message, in Hannah’s neat hand, did not surprise him.
Forgive me.
It was all for the better.
He ignited the note over a candle and dropped it into one of the tin mugs from the picnic. Then he tore off a page from his journal— last night’s entry, and accorded it the same fate. Such memories debilitate; they corrode your sanity and hold you back. In moments like this, Arthur was thankful for his amnesiac gift.