Mouth.
Foot.
Neck.
Hand.
Jonas. Jo-nas.
He had always found it hard to read his name and believe that it indicated him. The name Jonas, written down on a sheet of paper. Those lines, those letters, signified that person. Person — another of those words. Per-son. Perrrson. Prrrrr.
Just beyond Bolton, it was late afternoon by now, he folded the seat back, but not before he’d got out to make sure there was no tyre lever in the boot and he had no knife with him. He locked himself in.
*
It was dark when he opened his eyes. He was sitting in the car, but his surroundings seemed to have changed.
3 a.m. The air smelt of rain. Jonas was cold, but not hungry or thirsty. He turned on the interior light. He rubbed his face. It felt greasy. A piece of spaghetti was stuck to the ball of his thumb. From the taste in his mouth, he might just have polished off a rare steak. His breath reeked of … What was it? Wine. The smell revolted him. He felt in his pockets. No chewing gum. Nothing that might have taken away the taste in his mouth.
He turned the key in the ignition. The car wouldn’t start. The fuel gauge stood at zero.
He got out. The ground was wet. It was drizzling. Some distance away he caught sight of a lighted window. While walking towards it he was surprised to see the silhouette of an aircraft. Beyond it he made out another, and another. Was he dreaming? He went over and touched the landing gear. The tyres were real enough.
He had an urge to call out, ‘Hooo!’, but didn’t dare.
The closer he got to the lighted window, the more mystified he became. Where was he? An airfield or airport, that was obvious, but where? Bolton? Liverpool?
He slowed his pace, looking up at the window. It seemed to be an office window. He thought he could see some pot plants behind the blinds, which were half lowered.
He wasn’t sure if what was waiting for him up there was entirely good.
He turned round. No one there. Nothing to be seen in the gloom, not even vague shapes, and he had only a rough idea of where he’d left the car.
It wasn’t that he’d sensed someone nearby. On the contrary, he’d never felt so remote from everything in his life. Even so, he thought it better to change his location, so he ran for fifty metres, silently zigzagging like a hare. This brought him to a building with a big sign on the side.
Exeter Airport.
Exeter? Surely not? He knew the city by name because special products were manufactured there for the processing of wood for furniture-making. Although he’d never been there, he knew roughly where it was: far to the south and almost on the coast.
A whole day’s driving wasted.
He belched involuntarily, reeking of wine.
Quite suddenly, his legs started to tremble. He felt weary, infinitely weary. His one remaining wish was to stretch out and go to sleep. He was so eager to escape from the profound inertia that filled him, it didn’t matter to him at this moment that he might once more put himself at the mercy of a process he couldn’t understand, still less control. He longed to rest, to lie down and sleep. But not here on the rain-soaked asphalt. Somewhere comfortable, or at least soft. Not cold, anyway.
Like a blind man, with one hand held out in front of him, he tottered back to the car.
*
He awoke just before 7 a.m. Although he didn’t feel fully rested, his tiredness was less tormenting.
He wrote Jonas, 14 August on a slip of paper. Before putting it behind the windscreen he looked at the letters he’d written. Jonas. That was him, Jo-nas. And 14 August, that was today. This 14 August would never recur. It was a one-time occurrence, so the memory of it would be unique. The fact that there had been other days bearing this date, a 14 August in 1900, another in 1930, others in 1950, 1955, 1960, 1980, was a human simplification, a lie. No day ever recurred. None. And no one day resembled another, whether or not people lived through it. The wind blew north, the wind blew south. The rain rained on this stone, not that. This leaf fell, that branch snapped, this cloud drifted across the sky.
Jonas had to find himself another car. After walking for an hour he came across an old Fiat whose rear seat was covered with soft toys in plastic wrappings. Beer cans lay scattered around it, some full, some empty. The taste of raw meat still lingered on his tongue. He rinsed his mouth out.
A locket was dangling on a chain from the rear-view mirror. He opened it. It contained two photographs. One was of a smiling young woman, and concealed beneath it was one of the Virgin Mary.
*
Jonas took the exit road to Bristol, fighting off a renewed urge to sleep. Several times he pulled up, walked around for a bit and performed some exercises. He never stopped for long. The wind was so strong it almost blew him off his feet. He felt he oughtn’t to stray too far from the car.
Midday came and went, but he drove on. He didn’t want to go to sleep, he wanted to drive on. On and on.
Liverpool.
The mysterious videotape came to mind. The one on which he’d seen his mother and grandmother. He didn’t want to think about it, but the images forced themselves on him. He saw the old woman’s waxen face, saw how she seemed to be talking to him soundlessly.
Preston.
Lancaster.
Only 150 kilometres to the Scottish border. He couldn’t go on, though. He knew it would be a mistake to go to sleep, but every fibre of his being cried out for rest. He couldn’t steer straight any more.
He pulled up and lowered the driver’s window, shouted something and drove on.
He didn’t know how much further he’d gone when he noticed that his left eye was shut. His right eyelid, too, was almost beyond control, and his chin was propped on the steering wheel. He wondered where he was going.
Where was he going? Why was he in this car?
He had to sleep.
*
Jonas opened his eyes, but everything was still dark. He tried to get his bearings, couldn’t even remember going to sleep. His last memory had been of the motorway, the monotonous grey ribbon ahead of him.
He straightened up with a jerk and hit his head, let out a yell and sank back, rubbing his forehead.
His voice had sounded hollow. Where was he? He seemed to be holding a knife in his hand. He checked with the other hand. Yes, it was a hunting knife or something similar.
He found he couldn’t turn round, he was hemmed in on all sides. He could barely move, there was no room. His legs were bent, his body was doubled over.
Where was he?
‘Hey!’ he shouted.
He thumped the wall with his fist. Just a dull thud, no echo.
‘Hey! What is this?’
He braced both forearms against the obstruction above him, but it didn’t move.
A coffin.
He was in a coffin.
He hammered on the walls of his prison and shouted. His voice sounded muffled, horribly muffled. Something seemed to explode inside his head. He saw colours he hadn’t known existed. Inexplicable images danced in front of his eyes, mingled with sounds. A penetrating smell of glue filled the box he lay in. He lashed out with his feet. Another wall, Before long, his feet and fingertips felt as if they were on fire.
Was a fire being lit under him? Was he being roasted in a vessel of some kind?
He thought of Marie.
He thought of the Antarctic. Of the signpost at the South Pole. He tried to send his mind there. No matter where he was, no matter what was happening, the Antarctic existed, the signpost existed. A little in his head but entirely so in reality. It would be there even when he himself was no more.
‘This can’t be happening!’ he shouted. ‘Help! Help!’
Mouth open wide, he positively wrenched the air into his lungs. He realised he was hyperventilating but couldn’t help it. He was wasting precious oxygen, that was no less clear to him.