I put the newspaper back where I’d found it and unhooked the oil lamp. As I headed for the ladder, I caught sight of my face in a small cracked mirror on the wall. My hair was cut short, under an inch in length. It was mainly black, but when I looked closer I saw some white hairs. My face was haggard, the skin tight over the cheekbones. I tried a smile and saw straight white teeth. I tried to imagine how an unbiased observer would have described my appearance. The best I could come up with was craggy.
I scrambled up the ladder, gripping the lamp’s wire handle in my teeth, and buried myself in the quilts. At last real warmth returned to my body, but it didn’t make me much happier. It wasn’t just that I was on the run from armed men, but the fact that I felt so alone. If I was in the U.S., as seemed likely, I was in a foreign country-I knew without being able to say why that I wasn’t American. I didn’t know if I had any friends here. Why had I been in the camp? What had been done to me?
I was a man without a past, running into a future I couldn’t predict-far from home, on my own, in despair. I put the lamp out and laid the pistol on the bare wooden floor. If I’d been more in control of myself, I’d have gone back down the ladder and opened the door. That would have given the impression that I’d been and gone-no one in their senses would have stayed in a cabin with the door ajar when the rain was pouring down and the temperature was low. But I couldn’t make myself get out of the warm cocoon.
Soon I fell into an uneasy and haunted sleep…
…The dark-haired girl is laughing.
“Come on, Dad,” she says, pulling my hand. “We’ll miss the film.” She starts running down the street and I’m forced to follow, shortening my stride so I don’t crash into her. We cross the road after a red double-decker bus passes. The cinema is lit up, people crowding the entrance. There are posters up for three screens.
I laugh.
“What?” the girl says, giving me a stern look.
“Nothing, Lucy,” I say. “It’s just that there are two Hollywood blockbusters on here and you want to see the Slovenian art-house film.”
“So?” she says, her cheeks suddenly on fire. “Not every thirteen-year-old wants to sit through rubbish.”
“You’re the world’s only such exception,” I say, and buy the tickets. We are directed up narrow stairs to a small screen that was obviously an afterthought. There must be all of three other patrons. As it turns out, there are five minutes before the program starts.
“How’s school?” I ask, offering her some chocolate-covered raisins.
“All right, I suppose.” She twists her lips. “The others don’t take it seriously enough.”
“You’re turning into a real little bluestocking.” I dig a finger into the flesh behind her knee.
“Stop it, Dad,” she says, pushing me away. “I’m too old for that.” She looks around in embarrassment. “Especially in public.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly solemn. “I’ll put in a call to the Metropolitan Police and have myself arrested.”
“Ha-ha.” She isn’t able to resist the raisins. “Anyway, you know everyone who counts in the police. You’d just get off, like you always do.”
I laugh. “Like I always do?”
“You-know-who looks after you,” she says, smirking.
I change the subject rapidly. “What’s so great about this film, anyway?”
Lucy puts on the horn-rimmed glasses she insisted on-the truth is, she loves the bluestocking look-and takes out a notepad and pen. “Well, it’s supposed to be a penetrating examination of peasant life in contemporary Slovenia and-”
I fake a yawn. “Oh, great. Listen, I’ll double your pocket money this week if we can change to the Tom Cruise film.”
“No,” she says firmly. “You watch far too many cop films. You need some proper culture.”
I fumble for a response. “How’s your mother?”
She looks away. “As if you care.”
“That’s not fair, Luce,” I say. “You don’t know everything that I feel about Caroline.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she says, giving me a superior glance. “Deep down you still love her, do you?” She snorts angrily. “The only time you show any concern about her is when we get targeted by one of the killers who keep chasing you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply, staring at a middle-aged woman a couple of rows in front of us. She keeps looking round and seems to be fascinated by Lucy. “I see your mother every weekend,” I say in a lower voice.
“Yes, and you hardly manage to say two civil words.”
I suddenly notice that her eyes are damp. “Oh, Luce, I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can.” Guilt crushes me. I know very well that the acrimonious divorce and the double nightmare of the White Devil and the Soul Collector have been far too much for her to cope with over the past five years. I put my arms round her. At first she resists, then she softens.
“It’s all right, Dad,” she whispers. “Come on, let’s go to the other film.”
I stay in my seat. “Oh, no you don’t. You wanted this movie and you’re going to sit through it to the bitter end.”
She jabs her elbow into my ribs and smiles, then looks avidly at the screen as the lights go down.
I lean toward her. “Be gentle if I start snoring,” I say in her ear.
My ribs take another pounding…
I woke up and found myself sweating beneath the heap of quilts. For a few moments, I had no idea where I was, then I remembered the cabin. I got my head clear and listened intently. There was nothing, not even any birdsong. It was obviously still night. I relaxed and started going over the dream. I knew for sure that the scene with me and the girl called Lucy, the girl who’d addressed me as Dad, had really happened. So I was a father. The realization hit me hard. I felt a tenderness well up. Now I knew there was something for me beyond the hell of the camp and the desperate chase through the forests. The idea that there was someone to stay alive for made me feel much stronger.
I thought about other things I’d remembered. I had been married to a woman called Caroline and was now divorced. Lucy referred to a “you-know-who,” which I had the strong feeling meant some woman I was now involved with, not that I could come up with any recollection of her. Was she in the police? Was that how she could protect me? I felt a wave of desolation break over me.
I got my breathing under control. At least I knew there was someone else in my life besides Lucy and an ex-wife. All I could hope was that my memory would work better with every day I spent away from the camp. I thought of the scene with Lucy again. The red bus. The name of the location flashed into my mind. London. I immediately knew the city was the capital of Great Britain. That was where I lived, I was also sure. But, then, what was I doing in the U.S.A.? Maybe that was just an illusion. Maybe the people in the camp had programmed me to remember things that weren’t true.
Sitting up, I slid my hand down to my knee. It was aching dully, but I couldn’t feel any external pain. Then my right index finger gave a twinge. I remembered the trap and moved the digit gingerly. If it didn’t function as it should, I’d be at a serious disadvantage when I had to pull the trigger, as I was sure I would have to. I couldn’t see what I could do. Splinting it would mean I couldn’t fire the rifle or the pistol at all.