by Robin Ince
Roger crawled over to the book and then stood up so that he towered over it. He prodded it a little with his toe, nudging it an inch or two along the board. He wondered whether it would disintegrate in his hands if he picked it up and tried to take it downstairs. Strange things happened in lofts – Roger had seen enough films to know that – they had their own spellbound reality. If you took something like this out of its environment and down into the land of the living, perhaps a rational explanation would present itself. Yes, he would do that, he would disempower this thing by pulling it into normal space/time, that is to say, the kitchen. Nothing eerie ever happens in kitchens, Roger thought to himself, people have cups of tea and explain things in kitchens, so that’s where I will go.
He grabbed the book and climbed down the ladder, then down the stairs and then fast through the living room and into the place where the kettle lived and therefore order. He put the book down on the table, covered in its bright, floral plastic cloth, and set the water to boil for another cup of tea. A thousand identical books had sat in its place over the years, full of notes on teaching quadratic equations and polynomials and De Moivre’s Theorem. As Roger watched his teabag bob gently in the hot water, the liquid becoming darker, murkier, he willed the thing sitting not five feet away from him now to transform into one of these benign books of numbers and well-meant scribblings. He added milk and went to sit with it. After three sips he opened the front cover again. ‘For Roger’, it said. He shut it and looked out of the kitchen window. A blue tit bobbed onto the bird feeder, grabbed a seed and bobbed off again. A moment later, an identical blue tit bobbed on and bobbed off again. You would have to be an expert to tell them apart, Roger mused, or perhaps they were the same bird.
Roger suddenly felt better. He was being silly, he thought. He must have written this as some sort of joke years ago and hidden it. Or perhaps his son, when still a teenager, perfectly mimicked his handwriting and then forgotten about it. That doesn’t explain the date though and that the entry for that date perfectly matches what you have done today, was his follow-up thought. Coincidence, thought Roger the maths teacher, it can be explained. The probability is small, but still, it can be explained. He rested his hand on the top of the book as if to control it. He would call his son later and ask him all about it, and his son would remember and laugh at the childish prank that took ten years to come to fruition. Why not call him now? Roger didn’t know why he resisted that course of action, but something stopped him. Did he want to believe there was something more to the book, in spite of himself? A shaft of sunlight beamed through the French windows and with it came enough of a sense of safety for Roger to open the book and turn to the next entry.
July 14th: Spent most of the day wondering whether to show Rosemary the book or whether it will upset her too much. Don’t know whether I am too upset to look at it again myself.
And now Roger felt the creeping dread, because all of a sudden he understood that the rest of the book was bubbling beneath his fingertips. The rest of the book. Or rather, the rest of his life. And now he was compelled to look, compelled to do the very thing that no reader wants to do but sometimes cannot help. He turned to the back page.
December 14th: Went for a walk, just to get out of the house. James is coming home for Christmas, which will be nice. I could certainly use the company.
And then, nothing. That was the last entry. After that, blank page after blank page. What did it mean? Why was there nothing more? He knew though, deep inside, he knew. And why could he ‘use the company’? He knew that too, and flicked back until he found it.
September 9th: Rosemary died today. I don’t know what to do. It’s too much of a shock.
Roger stared at that page for a very long time. His tea went cold. September 9th – eight weeks away by a rough calculation. How? How had she died? Would it tell him? Did he want to know? Could it be prevented? He read frantically through the pages preceding September 9th, but there was nothing – just banal thoughts on the state of the garden and the latest Parish Council vote on the housing development – Christ, was his life really this boring? Some thoughts here and there on the beauty of Rosemary’s smile made him pause, as did the odd account of a romantic dinner at an expensive restaurant, and most arresting of all, the resumption of their sex life. Chastely put of course, with no details, but it was certainly something which had been absent for some years. That was surprising. But nothing, nothing on the cause of death – no hint of any medical issues that could have led up to it. It must have been an accident, an awful, horrifying accident.
Roger turned to the pages following September 9th, desperate for some clue – there was nothing at all for the week after, presumably while he got over the shock, and then just sparse notes on the doctors being very helpful and some brief information about the funeral (‘Rosemary’s Aunt Doris came, which was a huge surprise’). He cursed himself for his lack of creative ability when it came to writing – why hadn’t he elaborated on the detail? Why hadn’t he indulged in long descriptive passages about his feelings, or the exact nature of what had happened? Why was he so closed up all the time, just as Rosemary and James had often said in accusatory tones? He shut the book hard in defiance and walked away from it. He didn’t have to believe it, he thought. And in any case, there was too much about it that made no sense. Why did it only start today, the day he had happened to find it? What if he had found it yesterday? Would it have begun then instead? Or tomorrow? And if so, would the following entries all be different? Would Rosemary live past September 9th, and he past December 14th? And now he caught himself, because he was taking the book seriously and that was crazy. Yes, that was craziness, to believe that this book really was telling the future, or the past, or whatever it was. He wasn’t writing it now, was he, so who had? Who had written the book? Which ‘Roger’ was this, who had recorded every day and left it in the loft the day before he apparently died, or for some reason had stopped making entries? Was it a different Roger? Had another Roger lived in this house at some point in history, and by some incredible coincidence also had a wife named Rosemary and a son named James, and had also ventured into the loft to look for a mouse on July 13th? Roger noted that there was no year given in the book, so it could have happened anytime in the past. Or the future – yes, maybe he was not the intended recipient of the book,– perhaps it was meant for a different, future Roger, and not him at all. Roger looked around, bewildered. He was at the end of the garden though he had no recollection of walking there. He could see the whole of his house from here: the kitchen, the bedroom window, the gabled roof, the chimney. He wished he had never gone up there. He cursed the mouse, or mice, or whatever it was, that had led him there in the first place.
He would burn the book, he decided. And then pretend he had never seen it. If it didn’t exist then it couldn’t harm him. Or Rosemary, or anyone named Roger who happened to chance upon it. But no – perhaps that was a mistake. Burning it could increase its potency, he thought wildly, like a sacrifice, or offering. No, the best thing he could do would be to return it to its hiding place, roll back the insulation, replace the top board, turn off the light, exit the loft, push the ladder up and click the panel back into the hatch and forget about it. Just forget about it. As if he had never discovered it. Yes, that was the best thing he could do. And that is exactly what he did.
A couple of hours later, Rosemary arrived home to find the house pristine and Roger waiting for her with a chilled bottle of Chablis to enjoy together in the garden. He was touched by her obvious delight and cursed himself for not having treated her like this more often. As she chatted about her day he longed to tell her about the book, to see her laugh incredulously, to find some explanation for the horror it held, and then to tease him gently for having got so wound up about it. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t find the words, he couldn’t even start the sentence. ‘Rosemary, I found a book in the loft that seems to be from some other version of me and it sa
ys you will die unexpectedly on September 9th this year. I don’t know what it is or where it has come from, but it seemed to know what I was doing today, and I can also see already that it has summed up tomorrow fairly accurately, too.’ It occurred to him, as Rosemary poured herself a second glass and turned her face up to the late afternoon summer sun, that by telling her about the book he would in fact render the entry for July 14th inaccurate, thereby possibly disempowering it altogether, but even then he could not get the words out. He felt that by saying them out loud they might become true, which was a symptom of OCD. He knew this because his father had suffered acutely from that condition, but Roger had always assumed he had not inherited it.
And besides, Rosemary was on the move now, thinking about preparing dinner. She limped ever so slightly into the kitchen and Roger wondered whether that was significant. He followed her in.
‘Why are you limping?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I think I strained a calf muscle at Pilates last night and it doesn’t seem to want to heal. Getting old, see?’ She smiled at him warmly, full of the promise of their retirement together.
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t go to Pilates anymore,’ said Roger helplessly.
‘Oh, don’t be silly – it’s good for me. It’s only a little ache.’ Roger nodded, enclosed in his own silent hell and went back outside as Rosemary happily, tipsily pulled pans out of the cupboard and found an onion to slice.
As the summer days passed, Roger and Rosemary had never appeared happier. Roger continued to surprise Rosemary with little gifts and tokens: evenings out, open-air jazz nights, wine tastings, expensive meals, a weekend in a posh hotel where finally the sexual drought that had hung around both their necks for the best part of five years was broken, and many more tiny moments that made their marriage live again. She had never looked more beautiful to him and he told her often. He even persuaded her to go part time at the library and on the days she did work, he would bring a hamper full of wonderful, luxury food and drink to share in the park nearby. He was careful to keep busy during the days she wasn’t around, volunteering with the Parish Council to help clear paths and the pond, and even attending the odd meeting if Rosemary was at her Pilates class – anything to get him out of the house. He wished August could last forever. He wished September would never come.
But come it did, and Roger felt the first of the month like a stone in his stomach. He lay in bed as Rosemary slept beside him, staring up at the ceiling, the book lying there above him, only a few feet of air and an inch or two of plasterboard between them. It couldn’t be true, he told himself. It couldn’t be true, because it was a mathematical impossibility. And then the thousands of theories that had fascinated him as a student, that had whispered that all kinds of things were possible in purely mathematical terms, that we know only a fraction of what the true nature of mathematical reality could hold, would reach their long bony fingers into his mind until he wanted to cry out and hold Rosemary’s warm, solid, snoring body tight and never let go.
The first of the month turned to the second, the second to the third, and it was all Roger could do to keep the rising panic at bay. Rosemary asked him several times what was wrong, proving that despite his best efforts he was not concealing it as well as he’d hoped to. He couldn’t tell her, he couldn’t. ‘In five days you will die, darling. In four . . . in three . . . in two . . . tomorrow.’ His eyes felt hollow and sunken, and as the nights became noticeably longer, Rosemary voiced her concern. Over dinner, on the 8th of September she said, ‘I think you should see a doctor.’ Roger stifled a laugh, a bitter, mirthless laugh, and merely nodded. He took her hand and looked her square in the face.
‘Will you stay at home with me from midnight tonight to midnight tomorrow?’ Rosemary was bemused at the seriousness of his tone.
‘I have work . . .’
‘Can you call in sick?’
‘Well, Maria’s just had a baby, so we’re short-staffed . . .’
‘Please. Please do this for me. Please. I will explain after midnight tomorrow, if . . . if possible.’ Rosemary cocked her head. She knew of Roger’s father’s mental health issues towards the end of this life, and had often wondered if the same ghosts would ever come to haunt her husband.
‘OK, darling, OK – if that’s what you need, I can . . . this once. And then, maybe see the doctor?’
‘Yes, of course.’
They finished their meal quietly and went to bed early.
Rosemary fell asleep, but Roger had no intention of letting his guard down. As the clock flipped itself to 00.00 on the bedside table, he lay facing his wife and listened carefully for every breath. He lay like this all night and his eyelids did not droop once. When Rosemary stirred around seven, as was her habit, he sat up with her at once. He followed her to the bathroom and waited outside while she relieved herself. He went with her down the stairs and stood with her while she made tea and then drank it with her at the table. He pushed the bathroom door slightly ajar while she bathed and then hovered in the bedroom while she dressed. He suggested they spend the day indoors, reading quietly together, or listening to music, and she, with some concern for her husband, agreed. They ate lunch together in the kitchen and Roger was careful to prepare a meal that contained absolutely no choking hazards. After lunch they sat in the living room and read passages from favourite books to one another. Rosemary was wary of her husband and had made a mental note to call the doctor the following morning, whether he liked it or not. Perhaps retirement was affecting him after all. Roger watched the clocks – as the hours ticked by and no sign of anything untoward presented itself, he started to wonder if he was indeed going a little mad. He could tell Rosemary was concerned, but felt it was worth it – if he could just get her to midnight alive, the book would be wrong and all would be well. By four o’clock he was exhausted and he let his head tip back on the couch as Rosemary sat opposite and read from David Copperfield. Her voice was soft and soothing and Roger let his eyelids droop and close. Soon he was drifting away on a ribbon of sleep.
When he awoke, the room felt cold. He started up from the sofa, furious with himself for letting his concentration slip. Rosemary was dead in her chair. Roger sat up straight and stared at her lifeless face. The book was still in her hands. ‘Cup of tea, love?’ he said to himself, for there was now no one else in the room. He crept over to where she sat and knelt at her feet. He wrapped his arms around her knees and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
When Roger called an ambulance an hour or so later he accompanied his wife to the hospital, where he was informed that she had died suddenly and probably without pain from a massive thrombosis moving from her calf to her heart. They asked Roger if she had had any pain in her leg in the months leading up to her death and Roger confirmed that she had. They asked if he had anyone at home to keep him company and Roger confirmed that his son James was coming to help. And then he collapsed, right there in the hospital, and was there for a week before he regained consciousness and was told he had had a moderately sized stroke. He was kept in for a few more days and then sent home, where James was already in situ, ready to take care of his father.
Roger’s recovery was slow, but James could take the time – he ran his own business and could effectively work from anywhere and he had an understanding girlfriend who came and went as her own job allowed. Roger was grateful and ashamed, and as he lay in bed and the weeks passed, all he could think of was the book, the book, the book. Why didn’t it contain any useful information about Rosemary’s death? Why hadn’t he written to himself that he should pay attention to the calf injury? He had been so consumed with her impending demise that he had not noticed the signs that could have protected her from it and he cursed himself. He took his medicine, and did his physio, and got stronger, but still the book plagued him. He began to look forward to the 14th of December, supposedly his last on earth, and wished that he could get into the loft to read eve
ry entry between now and then so he could follow it to the letter and be sure to bring about his own passing.
By late November, Roger could walk with relative confidence and prepare food and wash himself and he was keen to get James out of the house and back to his own life. Too much of your time has been wasted here, he told his son, and was deaf to protest. And so finally, James went back to his flat with the promise to visit at the weekend. Roger walked a little every day, thinking only of the book and December 14th. He wished he could speed up time, he wished the day would come sooner – every hour was a tortuous, slow grope through a twilight reality. He no longer belonged here. Until finally, it came. He could remember the entry for that day exactly:
December 14th: Went for a walk, just to get out of the house. James is coming home for Christmas, which will be nice. I could certainly use the company.
Roger awoke early, made himself tea and toast and sat in the living room with the phone beside him until it rang.