was all actually true, though he hadn’t given me a copy, despite my begging)
Seriously?
Yeah! (nervous laugh) I know, it’s mad, isn’t it, but he’s just this kid genius and he does stuff like this for fun, and…
How did you know my room number?
(I was sweating) … erm, same thing. Benny, he developed this app, you just get near to a hotel and you can see a list of all the guests and their room numbers, it all just comes up, I mean. (Again, this was true and Benny had actually given me a copy because he wanted to show off, and he urged me to try it out).
(Mark was studying me). So you just got here?
(I gulped). Literally just. I thought… I thought I’d just look in and see….
See me in bed with another woman? Take photos and show them to Louise?
No! Well, yes, I mean, no! I just wanted to know…
(He sighed). Yeah, yeah, I guess you did. You are my best friend, after all. I can only hope you wouldn’t have told her if you had found me….
No! No, of course not…
I’m not having an affair, anyway. Look, I’m all alone. Come on, let’s get out of here and I’ll buy you a drink.
He reached over and pulled the bathroom door shut, picked up his case and stepped out of the room, beckoning me to follow. Well, what could I do. The night was cool and my face was hot and my suit was broken and Mark still thought he was my best friend and I had drunk way more whisky than was necessary. The next bit was probably quite important but at the same time I am not going to tell you about it because I have no clue what happened. Blame the alcohol, blame my shocking memory but the plain and simple truth is that my last memory of that evening was following Mark out of that hotel room, my mind hazy with lack of sleep and fearsome imaginings about that black bag he was carrying and what exactly happened in that hotel room, and my next memory was of waking in my bed, in the bedroom of my flat, with a sore head, sore arms and sore legs, a t-shirt covered in blood and a very blank space where the last few hours should have been.
When I was at university I took a course on dream imagining. Not that it had anything to do with my actual degree course – I’m not going to tell you what that was, it just makes me depressed to think about it – but at least I used my time wisely, spending most of it in bars or at parties or in bed. I did, though, join societies and take other courses that interested me, one such being called Dreams and Imagination. I think you’re a man, but if you’re not I hope you’re not offended, because I’d rather be honest about the fact that one of the reasons this particular course interested me was that it was being held in the Arts faculty, and everyone from the Science faculty (of which I was a reluctant member) knew that Arts faculty members were, without a single exception, beautiful, innocent and in desperate need of a man, and it seemed therefore that my choices of extra-curricular activities were skewed somewhat in this direction.
Most of the lectures I attended made no sense whatsoever, and I did sometimes wonder whether Arts students were born with materially different brains from their scientific counterparts and consequently whether I was ever going to be able to form a relationship that existed outside of the confines of bedsheets – if that were indeed a bad thing - without having first mastered the understanding of the fundamental questions of the universe.
I think sometimes that’s the core of the difference; we as scientists are looking for answers and evidence, and we invented mathematics as a way of expressing those. Mathematics is a truly beautiful language, with no room for interpretation or error or deviation into fanciful, romantic notions. I shudder to think what mathematics would have felt like had it been invented by an artist. I can just imagine Newton trying to explain gravity, trying to grapple with the sentient feelings of the apple as it fell, or more probably not even asking whether the apple fell, and not why it fell, but what would have happened if it hadn’t fallen. Everyone (except for politicians) knows that the world isn’t run by politicians, but most people still think it’s run by big business, so called captains of industry, and that is just so far from the mark.
The reality is that the world is run by scientists, people who give us the vision and the knowledge to move on to the next stage, people who are masters of the new evolution. Imagine where we would be if it had been the other way around; we would still be living in caves, but at least we would know that the cave had feelings. That’s not to say that I don’t respect and understand art; well, actually I don’t understand it, but I do respect it, and none more so than when it gives itself over to science, such as in the interpretation of dreams. I do mean respect in its broadest sense, and not necessarily specifics, because the lecture I attended that day, as usual, made no sense, and I only remember it for two things. The first was that you should never ask anyone, ever, to interpret your dreams and let them tell you what it means about your emotional and psychological wellbeing, especially in front of a classroom of people that you are trying to impress, or at the very least not trying to look like a complete idiot in front of. The only reason that I put my hand up - the only reason - was because the lecture was being given by Miss Anna Dunnsbury, the most gorgeous PhD student, who a had a lilting, heart-breaking voice and who had never even realised I existed, despite my pathetic efforts. It would have made no difference if I had parachuted down from a helicopter in my underpants, landing directly in front of her, she would have just floated by and I would have been left with the bunch of roses that I manfully held aloft during my descent, protecting it against the wind and the rain with my bare body, and I would have dropped them to the floor and stepped on them, the blood from my feet as the thorns cut through them mixing with the water from my tears. No, the only way to have had any chance of her company was through mentally prostrating myself in front of her and talking about whatever went through my head, about the fragments of dreams and thoughts that stayed with me, about the first thing that came to mind when I looked at her (yes, a real question!), what I would do when I got up and left the room. My mind raced for something witty to say, as I felt the pressure of a thousand eyes on me and my one chance at happiness. I met her eyes and looked away from their curious gaze, and came to rest quite by chance on the curve of her breasts as it cut away under her red top. I talked about glimpses of death and about fear of life, I talked about closing my eyes and seeing a lost, dirty island, a cartoon desert island turned into a nightmare under dark skies, a dying tree in its centre and cold, grey sands crawling with vicious insects that would bite and tear at your skin, feasting on human flesh instead of ripping each other apart and I talked about what it meant, the end, the island just an illusion behind the door, and the door would always open because the cat would always be dead. I remember feeling such a hush around me, and as I wondered about exactly what I said and where I had dragged it from, I looked up into Anna’s eyes and saw shock and fear, and my heart leapt and fell. She finished the lecture quickly and started to leave swiftly, but I managed to catch her just before she walked out. Her body stiffened and when she turned to see it was me, she shrank back visibly. I guess I should have realised that this was not the best sign, but I blithely ignored it and asked if she would like to meet up for a drink, but she didn’t say anything - she caught her breath, shook her head and was gone. Ah well, you have to try.
The second thing I remember from that lecture was the only thing to actually resonate with me, which was that memory loss can be reversed, absolutely, as long as it done in time; all you need are the right drugs and a suitably high voltage applied to the brain for a very short period. When I woke up that morning I realised that I needed, pretty desperately, to know what had happened since I left the hotel room, not just for Lou’s sake but for my own. Given the state I found myself in when I woke up, I’m not seeking prizes for intuition.
Bleed like me
Not a question, I grant you. But if you ever doubt my commitment, you shouldn’t. Electric shocks to the brain I could manage with a little tampering in my home lab,
but what drugs to use was a different matter entirely and it had been, what, almost thirty years since my encounter with Anna. Googling things like drugs required to retrieve lost memories proved futile, there were references to it and links to scientific studies on mice that I really didn’t have the time or the inclination to follow, and so more out of frustration than anything else I typed Anna’s name into the search engine and pressed enter.
I was somewhat surprised to get a hit; Anna Dunnsbury (Miss); Professor of Experimental Psychotherapy at a well-known university that I won’t mention it (suffice to say not the university that we both studied at). There was a picture of her, older and greyer but definitely her, and there was even an email address. I glanced at the time – 10:03am on Thursday 17th April. I should actually be at work, I realised, but then I was quite often late and I would go there straight after this, so I clicked on the link and typed quickly, before my embarrassment could come to the surface and save me.
Dear Anna, I’m not sure if you remember me but we were briefly friends at university, I think we went out for a drink once or twice (I know, so sue me). I
An Innocent Man Page 13