by Andy Marlow
Chapter 8
Three weeks ago
It was ten past nine on the same day that Kathy had met the stranger under the tree, and she was round the corner from Oxford Street. The events of the past day remained unexplained and she was nervous. Reality seemed to be conspiring against her: firstly by inexplicably rendering paintings able to talk, inexplicably changing the colours of walls, etc; then it had seemingly wiped all memory of her from the universe. Her landlord didn’t recognise her, and nor did anybody else. Thus she was understandably wary of following the instruction of an eccentric stranger, who, after all, may be part of the conspiracy to thwart her perception of reality. Or part of her ongoing nervous breakdown. By now she was unsure how to categorise her experiences- but this edict, to go to 16 Oxford Street at 9:13 p.m., seemed at least to be some sort of hope, even if it were merely a blind stab in the dark.
It could be dangerous. The stranger had not furnished her with any more information than a specific time and a specific place; she did not know what to expect here- if anything. The stranger may simply have been a lone nut, an escapee from a local lunatic asylum. He did exhibit symptoms of multiple personality disorder, based on Kathy’s basic knowledge of pop psychology- the time and the place may simply have been the creations of a disordered mind.
Nevertheless, Kathy had nothing else to do. The time, when she glanced at her watch, was now precisely 9:10 p.m. and she had no reason to believe that her landlord would suddenly regain recollection of her if she returned home. On her way here, she had passed a few people she recognised: neighbours, colleagues, acquaintances from school and university. She had attempted to greet them, but none of them seemed to have the slightest idea who she was. Whatever or whoever had stolen her identity had not yet returned it. Thus she was an outcast: an anonymous figure walking the streets with no home to go to and no friends to turn to. Her only companion now was an old woollen blanket she had found en route to keep away the biting cold of the evening.
Her route had been difficult. She had only ever driven to Oxford Street before. In her panic and confusion, she had forgotten her car and so had been forced to make the journey on foot. Some of the roads she would normally have driven along were not accessible for pedestrians: she therefore found herself lost several times. Matters were not made any easier by the fact that London contains many Oxford Streets, each of which had a number 16. The first one that Kathy had arrived at turned out to be a flat above a tool shop and opposite a sex shop. The second one had been the house of an elderly lady, who was utterly confused when Kathy knocked on her door and explained that she had been sent there. When she had further explained that she had been sent by a madman she had met under a tree in a park, the old lady had grown slightly frightened and closed the door in her face.
So she had spent the past two hours in utter confusion as to which “16 Oxford Street” to go to. Yet when she found an internet café and used google maps to find all the possible locations, the correct one seemed obvious: TGN, last seen at the time of Thomas’ disappearance, had its headquarters on Oxford Street. She had been there once before, but had been too worked up after the incident with Arnold to remember the street name. She was sure, instinctively, that all this had to be linked. At any rate, the fact that it might be linked was enough to spur her on. Her life and world and sense of reality may be fast unravelling, but if she could find Thomas, then that would be at least one good thing to come of today.
Thus she found herself here, at 9:11 p.m. on the corner of Oxford Street, poking her head round a corner like a furtive spy in a classic cartoon. This district was by no means deserted. On her way, she had walked through a party district full of pubs and night clubs which was but five minutes from her present location. While she was furtively gazing down Oxford Street, crowds of drunken revellers were passing by: mainly students from the local university. They largely paid no notice to her. She listened to their carefree banter as they discussed how wasted they were going to get and the varying levels of hotness of their fellow students. She allowed herself to be distracted for a moment and reminded herself of her university days.
Presently a crowd of seven or eight students were passing. They were clearly first years, and probably flatmates. The group comprised three girls and five boys. Their manner was lively and their chat was merry: two of the boys were hanging at the back of the group engaged in a deep discussion about something serious, like Marxism or history. These were clearly of the student revolutionary type. One of them was the epitome of a stereotypical student activist, wearing his beret and his goatee beard without the faintest hint of irony. His companion, who was dressed in a manner more appropriate for a night out, seemed much the novice when compared to his friend, who was clearly learned in the ways of socialism. The “novice” would put forward a point and seem proud to have understood what his friend was saying, only to be shot down by the other who would then remonstrate him for his lack of understanding. The pair were clearly engrossed in their discussion and considered the topic to be one of immense importance. It seemed a strange topic of conversation for two people on their way to a night of dancing and drunkenness, but Kathy could remember their type well from her student days: to her, they had seemed like self-important pompous types, always looking to lead the student wing of the workers’ revolution which never came. She had known several people of that type, one of whom was now in the higher echelons of the Labour party- although he had long since renounced his Marxist ways.
Five of the group were walking ahead of the pair of socialists, and this main bulk seemed much more in typical party gear. Several of them appeared quite drunk already, undoubtedly after a healthy “pre-lash” session. They were laughing and joking and talking animatedly about a friend of theirs called only “the dance lizard”- evidently a nickname they had for him- who they were probably going to meet when they arrived at their destination. Apparently, this “dance lizard” was something of a legend in their group of friends: from her eavesdropping, Kathy could gather that among his drunken exploits were the times when he had pulled a bouncer’s trousers down and ran away, or when he had “pulled three birds in one night”, or when he had gone missing only to be found inexplicably on the roof of the nightclub. Kathy sensed a great deal of affection for this “dance lizard” from the group passing by, but also a lack of respect: this character was merely a joke to them, an entertaining addition to a night out.
Lastly, behind the socialists and the revellers, was a solitary female figure. She was clearly part of the overall group, but also clearly somewhat a loner. She followed at a short distance- close enough to associate herself with them as her friends, but distanced enough to show her sense of isolation within the group. Her arms were folded and her face expressed a countenance of pain and rejection. She looked lonely. Kathy empathised with her immediately, all the more so because loneliness was something new for her and so it hit her all the more hard. Sure, Kathy had spent many periods of her life alone, but she had never felt such crushing loneliness as now. In those times, she had drawn comfort from the fact of friends and family. Now, they had most likely forgotten all knowledge of her. She was, for the first time ever, completely and utterly alone.
