by Jean Levy
I hated speaking into that microphone. ‘Yes!’
The images appeared on the screen: an old woman, a man, then a young woman with long blonde hair. Then the pause. I wasn’t sure how long the pause was going to last. I knew I ought to be remembering the three images but I couldn’t stop wondering why they never included a picture of Granny Clark. The pause was lasting too long. My mind began to wander: a girl on tiptoes looking for her mitten; a mandarin’s daughter fleeing with her lover, his green eyes sparkling when he smiled. The second sequence began. A photo of an old woman. Then a man. That’s when the laughter began, just audible above the sound of the scanner. It seemed to be coming from inside and outside my ears. Then to make matters worse somebody’s voice, probably Dr Williams’, was rattling around in the chamber. The laughter intensified. Then the man disappeared and a new image filled the screen: a young woman, her face vibrating, her long blonde hair scintillating beyond seeing, ejecting electric blue sparks into my tube chamber. The noise was intolerable. I felt the communication button in my hand and concentrated on not pressing it. Then the screen became blank and the scanner became silent and the laughter was gone. Dr Williams’ voice rang clear in my ears, asking me if the three photos had evoked any memories of images or sounds, whether there was anything I wanted to mention. I said no, I didn’t want to mention anything. There was a pause and then he asked me to observe a further batch of three: an old woman, a man and a younger, fair-haired woman, but I failed to recognise any of the images. The sounds died away and a different voice, I think Sam Clegg’s, asked me had any of the images seemed familiar. I told him the flowers and the Queen but, apart from that, nothing.
A nurse took me back to the waiting area, where I was expected to sit and wait for Dr Williams to summon me into his room to tell me that the scans were very encouraging. That’s what he always did. But today I had my magazine to occupy me. So I flicked through the glossy pages full of women pouting in their underwear, smearing on make-up, simpering over jewellery. I scanned the article about a first date and then one about losing weight – I was reasonably certain I didn’t need to do that. I paused over a recipe for guacamole. Something told me I liked guacamole so I pulled out my notepad and started to copy down the ingredients.
‘Have you managed to find something interesting in there?’ I looked up. It was one of the Associates. The woman. I recognised her despite the fact that she was no longer wearing her too-big white coat. She was looking down at me, unsmiling. ‘Do you take that magazine regularly, Sarah?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I felt awkward. ‘I’m sorry, Dr … I’ve forgotten your name. I wasn’t really listening when Dr Williams introduced you all. Too many names all together.’
‘I can imagine. It’s Brown. Della Brown. Do you think that’s the kind of magazine you usually read?’
‘I don’t know.’ She took a seat. Two chairs away from me, although I could still smell her clothes and her stale cigarette breath. ‘I’m waiting to see Dr Williams. He usually speaks to me after the scans.’
‘Yes, the scans. I was very interested in your responses. Does Dr Williams never ask you about being found unconscious, how you came to be on that particular beach?’
I could feel my nails digging into the palm of my hand. ‘Dr Williams knows I can’t remember that. I’ve told Dr Gray everything I can remember.’
‘Ah yes, Dr Gray.’ She glanced past me then pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket and held them ready. ‘I was interested in your inability to recognise the images of people you knew so well. People so close to you.’
I stared her. ‘Which people?’ But my question was cut off by a burst of childish laughter echoing along the corridor. I turned to see where it had come from and caught sight of Dr Clegg striding towards us.
Della Brown got to her feet. ‘Sam, hello. We were just discussing Sarah’s magazine.’
Sam Clegg regarded her for a moment frozen-faced and then smiled down at me. ‘Dr Williams is ready for you now, Sarah. Shall we go?’
*
On the way home, I persuaded myself into the supermarket, went straight to fruit and vegetables and picked up an avocado. It was as solid as a rock, but by the weekend it would be ripe and I would make guacamole, using the recipe I’d found in my magazine. I took out my notebook and read the list of ingredients, found chillies and a carton of sour cream. Then I went to the bank of cereal, stretched up but withdrew my hand at the last minute. Somebody, just anybody, might notice a too-soon box of cornflakes. But I definitely needed more tuna. I collected twelve small tins then headed for the checkout. While I was waiting I allowed myself a quick look around. Disappointment. I exchanged a few unwelcome words with the checkout woman then wheeled my trolley outside and was just tessellating it back into place, when I became aware that somebody was standing behind me.
‘I’ll give you a pound for that trolley!’
I turned, exhilarated. ‘I’ll expect to see your money first!’ It was a proper joke.
He laughed, put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out some loose change. ‘Here, take your pick.’ I looked at the pile of coins. There was a pound coin towards the bottom. But it might mean touching. Perhaps noticing my hesitation, he plucked up the coin and handed it over, slipped the rest back into his pocket and stepped forward to claim the trolley. ‘I think you’ve grown,’ he said. ‘You’re definitely taller.’
I laughed. I couldn’t remember doing that before. Was laughing something you would forget? I took a step back. ‘It’s probably my boots.’
He pulled the trolley free then turned to face me. ‘Maybe. I take it you’re in a hurry?’
‘Yes!’
‘Too busy to go for a quick coffee.’
‘Yes!’
‘Perhaps another time.’
‘Yes, I will!’
He paused. ‘What? You’ll come for a coffee another time?’
I was almost suffocating with excitement. ‘I’ll come now.’
MRI Suite
‘Well, Sam, a perfect confirmation. Not only is Ms Blake suffering a progressive retrograde memory loss but she has also clearly demonstrated highly-focussed anterograde amnesia.’ Sam Clegg nodded his agreement. Geraint Williams continued, ‘Clearly, her memory dysfunction, regarding specific people and events, denies her all knowledge of the December incident, and any detail that might contribute to its recollection. As you can see from the scans …’ He indicated the numerous images illuminated on the wall behind him. ‘… there is no evidence of left or right cerebral pathology, traumatic or otherwise.’
He leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers together. ‘Language areas of the brain demonstrate normal function. Her language skills appear to be slightly diminished but they remain above average. We have been unable to demonstrate any abnormalities: biochemical, physiological or morphological. The angiograms reveal a healthy circulation. Indeed, we have a physically normal thirty-five-year-old woman, yet functional MRI reveals that she is unable both to recall most of her past and to correctly process and retain new memories specifically related to the traumatic incident. She remains convincingly ignorant of exposure to autobiographical information however often it is presented.’ He allowed his fingers to interlock. ‘This young woman is literally losing her mind before our eyes.’
Sam Clegg frowned. ‘Dr Williams, how aware is Ms Blake of the dynamic nature of her condition? She reported that she failed to recognise the three individuals when their images were presented for the second time but the intense cerebral activity would suggest otherwise. And yet when their images were presented the third time, there was no activity and no recognition. And she displays no awareness that she might have forgotten the images previously presented.’ He referred to his notes. ‘There appears to be no reference to the anterograde component of her condition in any of the transcripts of her interviews with yourself or Dr Gray.’
‘Bob has recommended that this information is withheld for as long as th
e patient remains unaware of it. To avoid confounding anxieties. Although, I must say that I’m convinced that if she were to be told she is forgetting details of her previous life, however many times it is presented, this fact would also not be retained. Indeed, there is a possibility that providing data pertaining to the December event may exacerbate further repression. We believe that the intense activity you witnessed indicates that the process of repression is either occurring or about to occur, heralded, I believe, by the patient experiencing what she believes to be extrinsic noise, an aura, quite possibly laughter, which she either instantly forgets or is unwilling to mention, but which quite definitely accompanies the erosion of new information.’
Sam Clegg’s frown deepened. ‘Dr Gray believes that Miss Blake is being denied this information by her own mind.’
Geraint Williams smile was quite derisory. ‘And what do you believe, DrClegg?’
Sam Clegg closed his notebook and, for a few moments, held Geraint Williams’ gaze. ‘I believe that the MRI session I have just observed demonstrated very clearly the dynamic nature of Sarah Blake’s amnesia. And the very focussed and repressive activity of her unconscious mind.’
‘Quite so, we have all been able to witness its activity but, unfortunately, not its essence. Indeed, we are confronting something invisible and intangible. Personally, I prefer my enemies to be visible and removable. Do you imagine, Sam, that you will be able to defeat this invisible foe and save our attractive Ms Blake from succumbing to a completely empty head?’
Sam Clegg was not one moved easily to contempt but, after this and two previous meetings, he was certain that he loathed this man who seemed to be able to find entertainment in the misfortune of others. He paused to consider Geraint Williams’ challenge. Then he smiled. ‘If I might be so bold as to borrow your metaphor, Dr Williams, I am confident that, if we can fully understand the intention of Sarah Blake’s unconscious antagonist, then this invisible foe will have unwittingly revealed itself to us. And, thereby, will have fashioned its own defeat. In the meantime, I tend to agree with Dr Gray that Ms Blake should be spared any knowledge of the progressive nature of her condition.’
Episode Nine
‘You’ll come now?’
We were beginning to cause an obstruction. He turned and addressed a woman ferreting in her purse.
‘Madam, please allow me to present you with this trolley.’
The woman gave him a doubtful glance then continued to scrabble. ‘Will you take two fifty pence pieces?’ she asked.
‘No, please!’ He handed her the trolley. ‘I have a pocket full of change already.’
The woman gave another doubtful look then accepted the trolley. I waited for her to head off before whispering, ‘What about your shopping?’
‘It can wait. Where shall we go? There’s a little bistro just along the road.’
I hugged my bag. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. It was grossly irresponsible given the circumstances. Selfish even. But I was doing it, and that was that.
‘Shall I put my shopping in my car?’ I said, glancing at my Escort and feeling the need to get inside it and drive away.
*
The walk to the bistro was not too traumatic. He did most of the shouting above the noise of traffic. I tried to respond but found it difficult to make myself heard, so I resigned myself to letting him handle the conversation. After less than five minutes, he steered us off the main road, into a narrow side street. Terracotta pots and broken paving stones were in abundance. The bistro manager seemed to recognise him. He accompanied us to a table towards the rear of the seating area, dimly lit, away from the few other tables that were occupied, and pulled out my chair. I smiled gratitude, sat down and tried to look relaxed. I noticed the man at the bar eyeing us from behind a spike of artificial orchids.
We looked at each other across the vast expanse of red and white chequered tablecloth. He prodded a menu towards me. It proved illegible, so I guessed. ‘Cappuccino, please.’
There was a pause, which showed all the signs of becoming awkward, but he hailed the waiter and ordered two large cappuccinos, turned back to me and smiled. And I couldn’t help noticing how very bright his eyes were in the dim light.
‘So, what shall we talk about?’ he said.
My stomach churned. ‘I’m hopeless at conversation. You’ve probably noticed.’
‘You could start by telling me your name.’
My stomach churned again. ‘I’m Sarah … Blake.’
‘Sarah Blake, the author. You know, Sarah Blake, I thought it was going to take a lot longer than this to get you to come for coffee …’
Great! I’d been overenthusiastic. So much for Mrs Parkin’s advice regarding blending into society. All that stuff about dress sizes and catching a bus and nothing useful like how many times to say no to a cappuccino. I felt hideously self-conscious and the man behind the bar was definitely watching me.
‘So I’m delighted. I was beginning to think I’d have to shop three times a day forever just to run into you. There’s a limit to how much broccoli even a committed vegetarian can eat!’
‘Are you a vegetarian?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you?’
‘No.’
A frown flickered across his face. ‘I hope you’re not prejudiced against my kind. I occasionally eat dead fish. And oysters. They’re animals, aren’t they?’
I laughed, desperate to say something. Something not stupid. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, my mind unjumbled. ‘What do you do?’ I said. ‘I’ve told you I write so now you have to tell me what you do.’
‘Well, obviously something that means I can nip out to the supermarket three times a day and hang around drinking cappuccino.’ He folded his arms. ‘You’re not going to believe this but … I’m an agent.’
‘You sell houses?’
He laughed. ‘No, a literary agent.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I allow authors to take me to lunch to interest me in their books. And then I get publishers to take me to lunch so I can offer them the books of the authors that bought me the best lunches.’
‘It’s a wonder you ever need to buy food!’ I remember being really proud of myself for saying that, especially when he started to laugh. I laughed too. ‘What kind of books?’
Another slight frown. ‘Some young adult. Mostly younger.’ He paused as the coffees arrived. ‘So, Sarah Blake, who do you publish with?’
Panic. Who did I publish with? I watched him sink a sugar lump through the cappuccino froth and, just when it seemed that my only sensible option was to run away, I remembered the name on the citation pages in my collection of LOST stories.
‘J.D. Hillier Publishing,’ I said. ‘Have you heard of them?’
‘Of course. The MD’s even bought me a few lunches.’
We sipped our cappuccinos. He mentioned a series he had just placed. I listened, aware that my hand might be touching my mouth too many times between mouthfuls. But I couldn’t stop myself. I was worried I might be leaving chocolate powder on my face. I had a sudden mental image of Mrs Parkin’s diminishing lipstick and checked my cup. No smudges: Autumn Kiss. Non-smear.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked. ‘Panna cotta? Ice cream? Stuffed courgette flowers flown in from the Mediterranean with only the tiniest of carbon footprints?’
I took a slow breath. I wasn’t sure I was ready to eat in front of this new person because eating in front of new people can be embarrassing.
‘I’d like an ice cream,’ I heard myself say, ‘But only if you have one too.’
‘I always have ice cream! The pistachio is to die for, although sometimes you … you have to go with the chocolate chip.’
I said yes please, chocolate chip, and would he excuse me for a moment.
Walking past the man behind the bar, I could feel doubts asserting themselves. By the time I stepped into the washroom I was approaching panic, and I hadn’t eaten lunch so the thought of shovelling ice cream into my empty stomach was ma
king me feel nauseous. I went straight over to the mirror and scrutinised my reflection for any evidence of chocolate powder, pulled out my comb, smoothed my hair, loose today so my scrunchie wouldn’t stick in my neck when I was lying in the scanner. I touched up my lipstick, stood back and reassessed my appearance: who was that person looking back at me? And why had this man been so interested in asking me for coffee? I was reasonably sure, even under my current circumstances, that I was attractive, in a thin, retiring kind of way. If such characteristics could be attractive. But he seemed so keen to know me. A look of doubt flashed across my reflection. I noticed the door behind me, the one that led back to ice cream on an empty stomach, and the man at the bar watching me. The nausea intensified. But I knew I had to return.
He smiled as I approached. ‘I’ve ordered some biscotti to help soak up the ice cream,’ he said. ‘And some Pellegrino to soak up the biscotti. Don’t worry if you’re not hungry. You can take the biscotti home for your cat.’
I sat down. ‘It’s not really my cat.’
‘Oh!’ He looked confused. ‘Whose cat is it?’
