Trust No One

by Paul Cleave

  When Sandra showed up, she thanked Nurse Mae for her time, including a hug, and for a moment you thought Sandra was going to clutch herself to Mae and tell her all that was wrong. Then she thanked God you had wandered into the house of a nurse and not some gang member tweaked on meth.

  An hour later you were in your office using work emails to distract you from the fact you’d completely lost time when Sandra came in. She was holding your bag in one hand, which you had left in the car. In the other hand she was holding the can of spray-paint, which you had left in the bag.

  You argued about it. Of course you did. You told her the truth, and the truth is you were throwing it out because you knew how it would look if you got found with it, even though it wasn’t the actual can used. She said you were throwing it out because you had done what Mrs. Smith had accused you of.

  I knew it was you, she said, and she walked over to you, crouched in front of you so she could look you in the eyes, and put her hands on your knees. I didn’t want to believe it, and I tried not to believe it, but I knew it. Oh, Jerry, what are we going to do? Things are steadily progressing now.

  I didn’t do it, you said, concerned at her use of steadily progressing. Are you going to tell the police?

  She shook her head. Of course not. But we have to do something. We can’t let Mrs. Smith pay for all that damage when we know you did it.

  I didn’t do it.

  And we need to look at other options to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

  Like what?

  She gave you a sad smile that told you there’s a lot of heartache and heartbreak on the way. Let’s discuss it in the morning, she said.

  So there you go. Tomorrow you’ll get to hear what those options are.

  Good news? There isn’t really any good news today.

  Bad news? Your parents are dead. You’ve known this for a while, since they died, actually, but it’s probably a good thing for you to know. Dad drowned in the pool, and Mum got the Big C a few years later. That saying how you can never really go back home? It’s true, partner. Especially in your case.

  They take a fresh sample of his DNA, as if the previous sample could have been corrupted, even though Jerry knows the chances of that are even slimmer than him getting his old life back. They wipe a cotton swab on the inside of his cheek and he feels like a character in one of his novels, the one where the innocent man is accused of murder and his protests just make him look guiltier. He’s not asked any more questions because his answers can’t be considered relevant. Nothing he says, according to his lawyer, is relevant. This is who he is now, he thinks. Irrelevant Jerry. Nurse Hamilton comes close to having to be restrained when she sees the mark on his face. The detective whose fingers he broke is nowhere to be seen.

  Nurse Hamilton sits in the interrogation room with Jerry, the two of them alone while others outside discuss his future.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she says, and she squeezes his hand and they stay that way, waiting to see what happens next.

  What happens next is Jerry’s lawyer enters the room and tells them they’re free to go, and that tomorrow, under his supervision, Jerry will be interviewed by a specialist. The detective whose fingers he didn’t break escorts them downstairs without a word. Nurse Hamilton is parked a block away, and the detective walks with them to the car. Jerry climbs in and the detective and Nurse Hamilton chat for a few seconds and he wonders what they’re saying and figures it can’t be anything positive. At least the drive back will be nicer than the ride here.

  When Nurse Hamilton gets into the car she tells Jerry once again that everything is going to be okay, then they’re on the road.

  “Do you really think I hurt that woman?” he asks her a minute later. They’re at a set of lights that are green, but traffic is at a standstill thanks to a family of ducks up ahead crossing the road. Eva used to love seeing sights like that when she was a kid. She’d pin her face and hands to the window and talk to them as they wandered past.

  “Honestly, Jerry? I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Then why aren’t you afraid of me?”

  “Look at me, Jerry. Do I look like I’ve ever been afraid of anyone?”

  The ducks clear the road, heading away from the direction of a park and towards a fish-and-chip shop, making Jerry picture a scenario where the ducks are ordering dinner, and a different scenario where they’re becoming dinner.

  “I wish I could remember back then,” he says. “I used to keep a journal. Where is it?”

  “Nobody knows what happened to it.”

  “You mean it’s not at the home?”

  “Nobody found it. Not even the police. You must have hidden it somewhere.”

  “Maybe,” he says. The movement of the car, the day’s events, the silt is still clearing. Something is coming to him. “What happened to my house?”

  “It was sold.”

  “There are people living in there now?”

  “I assume so. Why?”

  “Because there was a place in my office where I used to hide things,” he says, nodding now, the image clear. “Maybe we can go there and look? The journal must be there.”

  “I’m sure the hiding place was found by the new owners,” she says.

  He shakes his head. “If the police couldn’t find it, the new owners wouldn’t have either.”

  “The police probably didn’t know they were looking for it,” she says. “But you haven’t mentioned this before.”

  He wonders why that could be. Perhaps he didn’t mention it before because he didn’t want to know. Perhaps enough of him remembered that it was best he forget. Only now he needs to know. “It was under the floor. If we find it, it might tell us what happened.”

  “I don’t know, Jerry.”

  “Please?”

  “Even if it is there you might not like what you find. I don’t want this to sound mean, but perhaps it’s best you leave it alone. We should just call the police and let them handle it.”

  “What if I didn’t shoot her?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  He throws his hands up. “There’s one big plot hole in all of this,” he says. “If I’m going to start confessing to crimes, why the fictional ones? Why not the real ones? I think it’d be the other way around.”

  She doesn’t have an answer for that.

  “What if the journal clears me? Please, when was the last time I was like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “So aware. So me. This Jerry right now, he wants to know what happened. He’s hopeful he’s not the monster you all think he is.”

  “I don’t think you’re a monster,” she says. “And to answer your question, it’s been a while since you were this clearheaded. A few months at least.”

  “My daughter thinks I’m a monster,” he says, and it’s all making sense now. The distance between them. “That’s why she never comes to visit. She hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you,” Nurse Hamilton says.

  “She doesn’t even call me Dad anymore.”

  “It’s hard for her.”

  “I need the journal. I deserve those answers,” he says, and if he has remembered on previous good days not to mention the journal because it’s as bad as what everybody suspects, and can’t remember that now, then so be it. “If I can find it, I can apologize for it. It won’t mean much to anybody, but I have to start somewhere,” he says, and if he can apologize, if he can start down the road of being forgiven and being honest, then maybe the Universe will go about cutting him some slack.

  She thinks about it quietly. He can see her going through the options. He wants to add more, but he’s frightened anything else may push her back from the decision he needs her to make.

  “Okay,” she says, and then she pulls out of the flow of traffic to the side of the road to a stop. “Let me call your lawyer first. I want to clear it by him, and I want to make sure I’m not doing anything illegal.”

  “I�
��ll be okay, I promise.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Jerry. There may not be anybody home, and even if there is we don’t know they’re going to let us in, and even then the journal may not be there.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “And if we do find it, the police will want it. They may consider it as evidence. They may not give it back to you.”

  “I just need to read it. That’s all.”

  “Are you sure about this? I mean really sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he says. Then adds, “I’ll be okay.”

  “This is the house where Sandra died, Jerry, and you may be about to read your own account of being her killer. I’m going to call Eric to come and help us because I think there’s a very good chance that okay may be the last thing you’re going to be.”

  DAY FIFTY-THREE

  They’re installing alarms, Future Jerry. Can you believe that? Jesus, next thing they’ll get a giant cat door just for you and you’ll have to . . . wait, message from Henry . . . what’s that Henry? Oh, that wouldn’t be called a cat door, it would be called a door. Then you’ll have to wear a goddamn magnetic collar to make sure the other dementia granddads on the street don’t wander in and raid the fridge and shit on the carpet and chew up the arms of the lounge set.

  It was actually What’s Her Name’s idea, the counselor with the big boobs. Sandra rang her this morning and told her you’d gone a-wandering, which was something the counselor said was likely to happen. There’s a guy coming around tomorrow to work on the place. Alarms on all the doors that lead in and out of the house, including the garage door. No alarms on the windows, because if you’re sane enough to try and escape through the windows as to not trigger an alarm, then you’re sane. The alarms are for when Captain A is driving this train wreck. You wandered off ONCE and instead of being sympathetic, Sandra is putting in the boot. Christ, she has NO IDEA how this feels. She isn’t THE ONE who is suffering, she isn’t THE ONE who is losing her mind. If you can find your car keys, maybe you can buy a tent and drive to the beach and toast some marshmallows and leave your Let’s control Jerry wife here to do whatever the hell she wants for a few days.

  The wedding is now less than three weeks away. You’re too scared to look at your credit card bill—which, by the way, you don’t get to see anymore. All those things arrive online now, and you can’t access any of it because you can’t remember the access number or the password, though, to be honest here, Future Jerry, at this stage in the game you’re thinking you can remember them and that Sandra has changed them. She wants you to ask her what they are just so she can tell you they’re the same as they’ve always been, but you won’t give her the satisfaction.

  You spoke to Hans today. He came around to see you. Unlike Sandra, he is on your side. He has no idea how it feels, but at least he’s sympathetic to the cause. He showed you the new tattoo around the base of his neck, just below the collar line so he had to pull his T-shirt down a little, and there in finger-sized lettering were the words The Cutting Man.

  It’s because I love your books, man, he said. I’m so proud of you.

  You told him about the alarms and the wandering, and the accusation your neighbor made.

  Must be bloody frustrating, mate, he said, and he’s the only one of your friends to call you mate because you actually hate the term, but Hans does it because it’s a Hans thing to do. Sounds like that lady across the road is crazy.

  Barking mad. She’s more demented than I am.

  What time are you being neutered?

  First thing in the morning. Then I can’t open a door without Sandra knowing.

  And the police, do they think you spray-painted her house?

  Probably.

  And how’s the wedding coming along?

  It must be the social event of the year the way Sandra and Eva are racing around. Tomorrow evening we have to head to a restaurant to sample some desserts, and I have to go with them so I don’t run away.

  Sounds fun.

  Only it won’t be fun. You’re going to stand there like an idiot, trying foods, being asked what you think is best, then having whatever opinion you do have overruled by one of the girls. Jerry likes the chocolate? Oh, sorry, Jerry, but everybody else coming to the wedding prefers vanilla.

  Sandra asked what to do about Mrs. Smith. You made the joke about hiring a hit man, but she didn’t laugh. Perhaps it really is no laughing matter, but maybe where you are in the future, Jerry, perhaps you can look back and get a chuckle from the whole thing. Sandra has the idea of leaving an envelope full of cash on Mrs. Smith’s doorstep, enough to cover the costs of painting. You don’t like the idea of paying for something you didn’t do, and you’re going to need that money if things get worse and you have to get home care. You pointed out to Sandra that Mrs. Smith was going to know where it came from—after all, who else would feel guilty enough to pay?

  Hopefully this is as bad as it’s going to get. You have reached the final stage of grief, it seems. Sandra said it the other night when she said things are progressing. Now it’s just a matter of preparing for how bad it’s going to be. And how quickly it’s going to get there. You’ve reached stage one of stage five—you’ve accepted you’re losing control, but wandering off once in a while isn’t the end of the world, and who cares if you forgot the plate?

  Ah hell, you’ve probably forgotten all about the plate. You got hungry this afternoon and heated up a tin of spaghetti. It’s not rocket science—use a can opener, pour the contents into a bowl, nuke the bowl in the microwave for two minutes. It’s not like you’re going to burn the house down. You were halfway through eating when Sandra got home from work, came in, and noticed there was no plate. That’s right, Future Jerry, you’d dished the spaghetti straight onto the table. Even when Sandra pointed it out it took a few seconds to register that there actually was no plate.

  That was the moment you accepted your fate, that there was no way of shaking Captain A free, that he was going to ride you to the grave.

  Sadly, Jerry, it’s time to accept that this is happening. It’s happening quickly too. You’ll be okay for the wedding—that’s what you’ve told everybody, and you will be, you have to be, but Christmas isn’t looking good. Look on the bright side—at least this year you can’t get in trouble for buying the wrong gifts.

  Good news. It was really good to talk to Hans again. The wedding plans are coming along nicely and you’ve never seen Eva so happy. Her smile these days is almost enough to make you cry because you’re going to miss it like hell. She looks so much like Sandra back when Sandra was twenty-five. It’s spooky. “The Broken Man,” the song Eva wrote, is now being played on the radio, and debuted at number twelve. You preferred it when she sang it, but even so, it’s such a huge thrill. She has now sold a second song, and says an offer has been made for a third.

  Tomorrow night we’re sampling some desserts for the wedding, and while we’re doing that, Sandra’s sister is going to be letting people into your house for Sandra’s surprise birthday. It should be fun.

  Bad news—there are fork marks in the table from where you swirled and scooped the spaghetti. A year ago if the table had been marked by accident, Sandra would have suggested getting a new one. But not now, which can only mean she’s having an affair. It’s pretty obvious when you know how to connect the dots, which you’re an expert at. Soon she will try and talk you into a care facility. Then she can pick out a new table without you. She can walk hand in hand with her replacement of you into different department stores and they can spend your money together. The table is proof she’s already moving on, and at least now you know why she changed your pin number for the online banking and has torn pages from your journal. She doesn’t want you to spend what is now their money, and you must have figured this out earlier and written about it, and she found out and tore out the evidence.

  It also explains why she has been spending so much time away from home over the last few weeks. You don’t want her to know you
’ve figured it out, so mum’s the word, Future Jerry. The under-the-couch hiding spot was a pretty stupid place to try and hide the journal. Just goes to show the disease is affecting you more than you’d thought. Time to hide it with the writing backups. You know where that is.

  Nurse Hamilton calls the lawyer, whose name Jerry knew half an hour ago but can’t remember now. This Swiss cheese of a memory reveals some things and hides others. He listens to the phone call, but only gets one end of it; when she hangs up she fills in the blanks.

  “The diary would be considered evidence, especially if it shows a clear intent to shoot Sandra. Your lawyer says we need to be careful,” she says. “However, he also said that since it’s your personal diary, you have every right to take a look at it. Then he wished us the best of luck and to keep him updated.”

  “It’s not a diary,” Jerry says. “It’s a journal.”

  She calls Eric next and instructs him to meet them at the house. It’s a short conversation, and Nurse Hamilton nods occasionally during it. When there’s a break in traffic, she turns the car. They drive in silence, and the closer they get to his house the more things begin to become familiar. He can’t remember the last time he was here, and with that thought comes the dark little add-on that the last time he was here would have been when he killed Sandra. Which he believes is still up for debate. Hopefully the journal will give them some answers.

  They park outside. Nurse Hamilton puts her hand on his arm to stop him from climbing out. “Let’s wait for Eric. He won’t be long.”

  “We can’t wait,” he tells her. “I have to know. I have to know.”

  “Just a few more minutes.”

  He feels like opening the door and making a run for the house, but instead he agrees to wait. To distract himself, he tells her about the house, how he found it all those years ago, how he was driving with Sandra to meet a different real estate agent at a different house when they drove past this one with an Open House sign out front, the details as clear in his head as if it were yesterday, making his frustration at forgetting more recent things that much greater. They knew as soon as they walked inside the house they could see themselves living their lives out there.