You know why. That was Sandra’s answer.
And you did know why. Because you might rip up somebody’s roses. You might go spray-painting. You might eat pasta off the carpet. However, if you did step outside, an alarm would go off. And why? Because day fifty-four started with a knock on the door. Sandra was up, you weren’t, but it was the alarm guy. Two of them actually. You wandered down in your robe an hour later and they were standing in the kitchen talking to Sandra, who had just made them coffees, and you didn’t like the way they were looking at her, but what was worse was the way Sandra liked the way they were looking at her. They introduced themselves to you while they had their coffees, then they went back to work while you went and lay on the couch to think about the next book. It took them three hours in the end, and then they showed you and Sandra how everything worked, but you didn’t pay much attention because you were in your Who gives a shit phase, and why not? These alarms were there to control you, and what forty-nine-year-old man likes to be controlled? Every time an external door gets opened now a signal is sent to a wristband that Sandra is wearing to alert her. At least you’re not on a leash. Or are you?
It was not long after they left that Mandy called. She said after much discussion in the office it’s been confirmed that a ghostwriter will indeed be taking over. There are two options. One is to have the ghostwriter not actually be a ghost, and to have his name on the cover, sharing the workload, sharing the credit, sharing the royalties almost evenly. Option two is the ghostwriter remains a ghost, only your name goes on the cover and the world won’t know you had help. However, option two comes with an even further reduced royalty rate. You don’t want a ghostwriter, but if they’re going to do it, it’s better nobody knows, and you told Mandy that.
Sandra saw it differently—she saw your ego getting in the way of money the family could use, but you really can’t face having your name on the cover along with somebody else. She’s just upset because mentally she’s already spent the money on a holiday with the baker. Sandra may be right about the ego thing, but it is your career, all that work, all those years—you can’t now say to the world This is my new book—I couldn’t write it by myself. The surprise was Sandra didn’t argue, in fact she hugged you and said of course she understood.
In the afternoon she took you suit shopping. You chose a dark one with pinstripes, and Sandra chose a light blue shirt to go with it. You’ve been measured up, and the suit will be ready in another week. It’ll look great at the wedding, and great in your coffin too. Then came the dessert tasting in the evening and you are, F.J., a dessert guy. You could live on desserts, and why not? Soon you’re not going to care how you look.
Okay—you’ve been patient, you’ve just had another G&T, which makes three, so let’s get down to business. At first you were freaked out, of course you were, because the street was full of flashing sirens and people, there was a fire engine and two cop cars and the first thing you thought was that your house had burned down.
It wasn’t your house. It wasn’t anybody’s house.
It was Mrs. Smith’s car, parked up her driveway, smoldering away. You had missed the show as the flames had been put out fifteen minutes earlier. There were updates from the neighbors who were all standing on the street that Mrs. Smith’s car had been set aflame. Mrs. Smith was on the front doorstep of her house, the freshly painted walls behind her, running her mouth at a hundred miles an hour to the police officers trying to keep up. She pointed at you when she saw you. You were The Man Goes Burning from your ghostwritten book.
Somebody had torched her car.
And not this somebody, because this somebody was being rude and not lightening up to the baker who your wife is banging, so this somebody had an alibi, and fifteen minutes later when a pair of officers (not the same pair as Cunt Thursday) intercepted you as you pulled into the driveway to ask what you had seen, Sandra told them neither of you had been home.
Well somebody is home, the officers said. The lights have been on and off over the last few minutes.
I assure you there’s nobody home, you said, which you knew wasn’t true because Eva and Rick would be there, they’d made better time than you on account of your window-shopping on the way back to the car to give them more time. Along with Eva and Rick there would be many of Sandra’s friends and work colleagues and some family. At that moment they would be hiding in the dark behind furniture getting ready to jump out and say surprise, which it really would be as Sandra’s birthday is tomorrow.
We’re going to need to search your house. If you’re adamant there’s nobody home, then it’s possible the person who lit the fire is hiding in there, one of the men says.
It’ll be our daughter, you said.
Eva won’t be there, Sandra said.
There’s no need to search the house, you said. I’m sure it’s just Eva.
But it won’t be, Sandra said. What if somebody is hiding inside?
There’s not, you said.
Sandra didn’t believe you. Sandra offered them her keys, and there was nothing you could think to do as the officers went to the front door. When you tried to go after them, Sandra stopped you. Did you have him do that? she asked, and she was angry, vein-throbbing angry, not like the time you forgot your anniversary a few years back but closer to the time you forgot her birthday. Which you hadn’t forgotten this time, but were somehow in the process of ruining.
What? Who?
You know what and you know who, she said.
I really don’t, you said, and you really didn’t.
Because you don’t remember. You’re going to use this . . . this stupid disease as an excuse for everything now, aren’t you?
She was frustrated and lashing out, and the counselor had warned that you wouldn’t be the only one going through the five stages of grief. In all your wallowing and angst, buddy, you’d forgotten that. Sandra is at anger, coming right off the back of stage one—infidelity.
I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.
Hans set that car on fire to hide the fact you were the one who spray-painted her house, she said, and now he’s hiding in our house and you know he’s in there.
I did no such thing, you said. And he’s not in there. I promise.
I don’t want you seeing him anymore, are we clear on that?
You weren’t up for an argument, so you told her you were clear on that.
Then make sure you write it down in your bloody Madness Diary.
It’s a journal.
The police were at the door. Both of you were close enough to the house to hear everybody shout out surprise as the lights inside were thrown on as the police walked inside. In hindsight, you were lucky nobody got shot.
Sandra’s anger disappeared then. The police backed out and read the situation accurately, gave Sandra a few minutes to acknowledge the occasion, then spent the next hour taking statements as everybody else socialized.
Do me a favor, you asked them as they left.