Chiral Mad 3

by Stephen King

“Didn’t you want to see it again?”

  He can’t recall, and he hopes she isn’t playing word games to hide her own confusion. As he dozes through more mathematical broadcasts he tells himself he’s keeping Audrey company, not ensuring that she won’t have to deal with the alarm on her own. When at last the programmes end he follows her upstairs, having remembered the code to type despite the shrill insistence of the alarm panel. He can forget about numbers for a while, though he certainly mustn’t forget any of them.

  They desist from swarming in his skull as the sensation of gripping Audrey’s waist gives way to the dark. When he wakens he isn’t holding her, and he calls out, blinking at the cold light that shines through the bedroom window to blind him. “Don’t you remember what I’m doing today?” Audrey says.

  He mustn’t wonder if she’s asking him to remind her. “It’s your day with the girls.”

  “Then I’ll be off unless you need anything.”

  Since she and her colleagues have retired they meet weekly to see a film or a show or just to spend the day in reminiscing. “Have a fine time,” Vernon says and is left wishing they’d exchanged a kiss. He can’t recall when they last did. Surely they aren’t too old.

  A shower helps him waken fully—it sets him shivering until he shrinks away from the fierce hot water. While Audrey’s out he’ll make dinner. He finds a parking space in sight of the supermarket entrance, which means he needn’t hold the registration number in his mind. “Face it,” he mutters as he collects ingredients for salad and a pasta dish. “Use your head.” He’s almost at the checkout when he realises he doesn’t know which number relates to which card. He mustn’t feel helpless when he can pay cash, but he avoids the girl who served him yesterday, because he can do without being asked if he’s on his own today. Once he has stowed away his change he risks using the machine outside the supermarket to check the number for the debit card. “Face it,” he says like a prayer, and he’s right, which he can’t help telling the queue as he turns away. He finds the car almost at once, and as soon as he’s consigned the insistently rustling plastic bags to the boot he drives home. “I add,” he says and quells the alarm, only to feel he has forgotten something else. He’s setting out the ingredients in the kitchen when he remembers that he still hasn’t given Audrey her share of the money he took from the machine the night they encountered Billy Meredith.

  He ought to check that there’s money for her to draw out if she needs it. He limps upstairs, rattling the banisters, and switches on the laptop in the spare room they’ve kept saying they’ll turn into more of an office. At least the elongated identification number for the bank accounts is stored on the computer. He pokes the debit card into the reader—“Face it,” he has to say—and is given twice as many digits to enter on the screen. Why do the balances look like a jumble of numbers? Perhaps because he’s desperate not to see what’s there. He brushes the screen with his fingers and then scrapes it with a nail, but none of this shifts the intruder, which isn’t a flaw in the glass either. It’s a minus sign, showing that somebody has withdrawn a thousand pounds.

  How can it have been Billy Meredith? Who else can it have been? The sight of the digits—a one multiplied by three gaping holes—seems to let worse than age catch up with Vernon, turning his mouth dusty and shrivelling his brain. Could Audrey have obtained the money on Meredith’s behalf? Vernon logs out of the bank’s site and shuts down the computer, because the sight of the negative amount is infecting him with a tremulous kind of paralysis. He rummages for his mobile and calls Audrey as he wanders out of the room. Perhaps she’s in a cinema, because an all-purpose female voice tells him she’s unavailable. He’s limping back and forth at the top of the stairs as if the landing has become a cage when he catches sight of an object under their bed.

  He groans while he clutches the mattress through the quilt and lowers himself to his knees inch by inch. His first grab strews the hidden treasure across the floor and out of reach. His cheek is pressed against the musty carpet by the time he manages to gather all the crumpled notes. He dumps them on the bed and levers himself to his feet, and loses count of how often he has to count the banknotes to be sure they add up to a thousand pounds.

  When did Audrey take them out of the account? Did she intend them for Meredith, or was she trying to ensure that nobody could steal them? Vernon crams them into his pocket and tries again to call her, but only the anonymous voice responds. Suppose Audrey withdraws another generous sum before he contacts her? He can’t think of a message he would feel comfortable with leaving—they should surely talk about the issue face to face—but she could be knocked down or worse by a thief. Although what Vernon has to do distresses him almost more than the danger she may be in, he can’t think of an alternative, and so he phones the bank.

  Its voice is indistinguishable from the one that answered Audrey’s phone. It lists options for him, and then another selection of keys to press, which leads to a third set. The task seems childishly simple, and yet the sluggish succession of numbers feels as if it’s gnawing at his mind. “Yes, I’m an existing customer,” he tells them. “Yes, I’ve a query about my account. Yes, I want to speak to a customer service operator.” He earns himself a jolly electronic jig that sounds blurred by overuse, though it gives the voice several opportunities to assure him how important his call is. At last a different voice says “Edie speaking. How can we help you today?”

  “We have a joint account with you. We need—”

  “I’ll just need to check your details for security.”

  He’s afraid she will ask for one of the codes, but she only wants his full name and address and date of birth and account number and two letters of his mother’s maiden name and a recent sum withdrawn from the account. “A thousand pounds,” he cries, “and that’s what I want to talk to you about. My wife—”

  “One thousand, Mr Henshall. Yes, I see that here,” Edie says, disconcerting Vernon so much that he clutches at the wad in his pocket to convince himself he has it. “And what can we do for you?”

  The delay in coming to the reason for his call makes it even harder and more painful for Vernon to admit “We need to take my wife off the account.”

  “In order to do that you’ll have to visit your branch.”

  “Why have I had to go through all this if you can’t do it now?” At once Vernon is ashamed of his outburst. “Sorry. Not your fault. We’re all at the mercy of routines,” he says. “All right, I’m on my way.”

  He is until he remembers it’s unwise to carry so much cash. He shouldn’t hide it under the bed—too many old folk were supposed to do that in the past—and so he shoves it into his pillowcase. When he hastens out of the house he finds he left the car out of the garage yesterday, which at least saves time now. The smell of newness aggravates his guilt, but surely he’s acting in Audrey’s best interests. Once he has parked near the bank he tries calling her again, only to rouse the lifeless voice.

  The bank is opposite the supermarket across the mass of vehicles in the retail park. Beyond the deferential automatic doors several clerks even younger than Vernon thought a thief might be are seated behind desks, and he limps over to the closest. “Can I have a word about my account?”

  “Have a seat, sir.” The young man is labelled Adam, which doesn’t quite fit as a code. “Do you have the number?” he says.

  It’s twice the length of any of the codes, and Vernon can’t bring a mnemonic to mind; perhaps he and Audrey never thought of one. “I’ll have to give you my details instead.”

  This turns out to be the entire procedure he went through on the phone. “A thousand,” he declares once more and imagines someone stealing it from the house. Adam passes him a card reader, and as Vernon inserts his card he’s provoked to say “Why did you send us that email telling us to change the number?”

  “I don’t believe we did. Was it addressed personally to you?”

  “To all your customers.”

  “We’d never do that.
It must have been a scam or maybe just a prank.”

  “A prank.” Vernon feels brittle with panic. “Well, we changed it. I did,” he says and thinks for a moment that he has betrayed the number to the bank clerk. He types the digits, which the machine tells him are wrong. “Wait a minute,” he pleads, “just give me time,” and clamps his forehead with his finger and thumb, digging the rest of the fingers into his face. This brings back the word he should have used, and as soon as he’s able to see again he types the number. “In your face,” he mutters like an impolite pupil.

  “That’s all in order, Mr Henshall. How may I help?”

  “For reasons I’d rather not specify we need to make me the only one with access to the account.”

  “I see.” Adam keeps a noise in his throat, not quite a cough. “Mrs Henshall will have to come in with you,” he says.

  “The girl, what was her name, five four nine five.” As Adam gazes with some form of patience at him Vernon blurts “Edie. She said nothing about that. All she said—”

  “We’ve nobody of that name here, Mr Henshall.”

  “Don’t try and make out I’m deluded. She was on your number that I rang, and she wanted all the rigmarole you did.”

  “That would be a central number. If you want to alter you and your wife’s account both signatories have to be present, I’m afraid.”

  “Then you and your damned numbers, you’ll be responsible for whatever happens.” Of course Vernon is as well, and in a worse sense Audrey can’t be said to be. “I’ll bring her as soon as I can,” he says and almost sends the chair sprawling in his haste to leave the bank.

  Should he change the security number while he has access to a machine? That would save Audrey from taking out any more cash that might put her at risk, but now the thought of subjecting her to that kind of confusion when he isn’t there to help her appals him. “Three five five four,” he mumbles as if that can make the yelps of the car sound less like a lost creature calling out for somebody it knows. He drives home and parks in the garage, and unlocks the front door to be met by silence.

  The alarm should be demanding to be told its number. Has an intruder set it off while the Henshalls weren’t home? As Vernon falters in the hall he hears a man’s voice in the house, and he’s even more perturbed to realise that Audrey is talking to the fellow. Even if her presence explains why the alarm didn’t greet Vernon, who has she brought home? He can’t help thinking it’s Billy Meredith. Perhaps she hasn’t just taken pity on their old pupil; perhaps she’s attracted to him—to something he can offer that Vernon no longer can. They’re in the front room, and Vernon flings the door wide. “What do you think—”

  There is indeed a young man in the room. He’s on the television, talking about algebra. Vernon feels even guiltier, not to say ridiculous, for the assumptions he made. “Sorry I came in like that,” he says. “I didn’t know who was here.”

  “So long as you do now, Vernon.”

  “Do you mind if I switch this off?” The television is distracting him—all the letters and numbers are—but when he does away with them he’s thrown to hear her say “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, just—” He isn’t ready to mention the bank; he needs to make the situation as painless as he can for both of them. “Just getting the makings of dinner,” he says. “You oughtn’t to let me forget there are two cooks in the house.”

  “You needn’t have, Vernon. I couldn’t go out, you know.”

  Vernon finds he’s reluctant to prompt her. “You couldn’t …”

  “I didn’t go out because I forgot the alarm code.”

  “When didn’t you?”

  “Today, of course. The day I usually spend with the girls. Never mind, I expect they’ll understand.”

  Vernon is afraid to. How much more about her may he have overlooked? “That’s why we want less to remember,” she says. “Let’s have just one number.”

  “We’ll need to change them at the bank.”

  “We will tomorrow, shall we? You don’t want to go out again.”

  Vernon is ashamed to welcome the delay. “You watch your programme,” he says like an apology he can’t acknowledge, “while I make us dinner.”

  “Don’t do much for me. I’ve already eaten.”

  He can’t bring himself to establish whether she believes she has dined with her friends after all. He’s hearing the retort she gave the woman in the supermarket queue. Perhaps the reason why he hasn’t grasped how badly the demands of the numbers have affected Audrey’s mind is that she won’t admit it to herself. “You watch anyway,” he says. “You sit and rest. My turn to do the housework.”

  Quite an amount is waiting. He supposes their age is to blame. He keeps returning to the front room to make sure of Audrey, but she has hardly moved except to draw the curtains, unless they were already drawn. He’ll leave the dinner until she can do it justice, and so he microwaves a carton of casserole from the freezer and brings it on a tray to the front room. Since he can’t persuade her to share it, he finishes it himself. He watches her programmes to the end, and then he clutches at her beneath the quilt, feeling desperate to keep hold of all that they have together. He thinks the lump in his pillow will never let him sleep, but he’s jerked awake by hearing Audrey say “Whenever you’re ready I am.”

  He needs to deal with the situation before he loses his resolve. He goes through his morning ritual almost too hastily to remember that he has, and then he keys the alarm and ushers Audrey to the car. It assails him with the scent of guilt again; he doesn’t want to think how it was paid for. He’s aware of keeping his thoughts too much to himself, and makes a timid start at speaking. “I never gave you any of that cash from the machine.”

  “Never mind, Vernon. I haven’t needed it.”

  “You’ve made do with what you had, have you?” He can’t look at her while he asks “Do you happen to remember how much you took out last time you used one?”

  “I can’t say. Does it matter?”

  “It was quite an amount. Too much to be carrying around with you.” When she doesn’t respond he says “It was a thousand, Audrey. I found it in the house.”

  “Did I do that?” Her sad voice grows defensive as she says “Maybe it’s safest there. You said yourself someone could steal the number.”

  “Shall we make it just one on the account to be safer?”

  “The number, you mean.” Before he can force himself to be less ambiguous Audrey says “No, you’re talking about me. You think I can’t be trusted.”

  “I only want to take some of the pressure off your mind.”

  “If you think that’s the problem we’ll have to see what happens. We both knew this kind of thing might catch up with us.”

  He would be relieved by her attitude if he weren’t so abashed. Except for having to concentrate on the road he would reach for her hand. “Shall we agree on a new code, then?”

  “I know one you might remember.”

  She sounds almost playful, but when she tells him he has to take a firmer grip on the wheel as the car nearly strays into the adjacent traffic lane. “I know what we can have instead,” he says as steadily as he can manage. “We’ll change one letter.”

  This early in the day he’s able to park close to the bank, and there’s no queue for the cash dispensers. He leans on his stick while he jiggles the card into the nearest machine. His hand is so shaky that it infects the rest of him, dislodging the word that he tried to keep in his head, and he almost types the one he didn’t want to hear. “Not that,” he insists, he doesn’t know how loud. But when he types 4554 instead the screen tells him he’s wrong.

  He feels like a child who can’t perform the simplest mathematical task, and then he realises he has yet to change the code. “How incompetent is that?” he mumbles, turning to share a wry laugh with Audrey. Nobody is anywhere near him.

  She must have gone into the bank. Vernon almost neglects to retrieve the card before he follows her. He can’t see
her through the glass doors, and even once they move aside she isn’t visible. “Where are you?” he calls, and when the clerks at the enquiry desks all stare at him he demands “Have you seen my wife?”

  They needn’t look as if they think he’s being unreasonable or worse. “We’re customers of yours,” he assures them. Perhaps Audrey is in the supermarket; he can locate her easily enough. He gropes for his phone, only to be answered by the automatic voice far too reminiscent of the one that listed number after number when he called the bank. He’s so unnerved to hear it that he doesn’t merely end the call; he jabs a key that shows him a question. Yes, he wants to be rid of the artificial voice, and he pokes another key. Just too late he sees he has deleted Audrey’s number.

  “Look what you’ve made me do,” he cries, staring at the clerks until they take refuge in their work. He tramps through the bank to make sure Audrey isn’t there, and then he limps into the supermarket. She doesn’t answer him in there either, and he doesn’t come to him in the car park, however loud he shouts across the empty vehicles. His mouth has grown as dry as his hands and feet have turned clammy, and his skull feels like rusty tin. He could call the police—he hasn’t forgotten that number—but he oughtn’t to embarrass Audrey unless he absolutely must. Perhaps she’s on her way home or even there by now, and he squeezes the key fob until he locates the car.

  He can’t see her as he drives home. He’s distracted by realising that he could have asked the bank for her mobile number. It begins with 0 like all its kind, but what’s the rest? Not O I hid, not O face, O feed, O heed, O dear … He’s still struggling to think of it when he unlocks the front door and sets off the alarm. So Audrey isn’t home yet, and the disappointment almost makes him type the word he’s determined to forget. “I add,” he cries and switches off the electronic threat. He’s loitering aimlessly in the hall, which smells like memories grown stale, when someone rings the doorbell. “Where did you go?” he pleads as he fumbles with the latch.

  The woman on the doorstep isn’t Audrey, though for a breath her caring look lets him hope she is. “Mr Henshall?” she says.