Just at that moment, thank God, the lights flickered back on, and a muted cheer went up around the carriage. The speaker system also crackled into life, and we heard the laconic drawl of a London Underground guard who, without actually apologizing for the delay, explained that the train was experiencing ‘operating difficulties’ which would be rectified as soon as possible. It wasn’t the most satisfying of explanations, but at least we no longer felt quite so irredeemably alone and abandoned, and now as long as nobody tried leading us into prayer or starting a singalong to keep our spirits up, I felt that I could cope with a few more minutes. The guy with the inhaler was looking worse and worse, though. I’m sorry, he said, as his breathing began to get faster and more frantic, I don’t think I can take much more of this, and the man next to him started making reassuring noises but I could sense the silent resentment of the other passengers at the thought that they might soon have to deal with the problem of someone fainting or having a fit or something. At the same time I could also sense something else, something quite different: a strong, sickly, meaty sort of smell which was now beginning to establish itself above the competing bouquets of sweat and body odour. Its source quickly became apparent as the lanky businessman next to me squeezed open his briefcase and took out a paper bag with the logo of a well-known fast food chain on it. I watched him in amazement and thought, He isn’t going to do this, he can’t be going to do this, but yes, with the merest grunt of apology – ‘It’ll go cold otherwise’ – he opened his gaping jaws and crammed in a great big mouthful of this damp, lukewarm cheeseburger and started chomping on it greedily, every chew making a sound like wet fish being slapped together and a steady dribble of mayonnaise appearing at the corners of his mouth. There was no question of being able to look away or block my ears: I could see every shred of lettuce and knob of gristle being caught between his teeth, could hear whenever the gummy mixture of cheese and masticated bread got stuck to the roof of his mouth and had to be dislodged with a probing tongue. Then things started to go a bit hazy, the carriage was getting darker and the floor was giving way beneath my feet and I could hear someone say, Watch out, he’s going!, and the last thing I can remember thinking was, Poor guy, it’s no wonder, with asthma like that: and then nothing, no memory at all of what happened next, just blackness and emptiness for I don’t know how long.
∗
‘You look a bit done in,’ said Patrick, once we’d sat down.
‘Well, it’s just that I haven’t been out much lately. I’d forgotten what it’s like.’
Apparently the train had started up again just two or three minutes after I’d fainted, and then the businessman, the asthmatic and the woman in the woollen jumper had between them taken me to a First Aid room at Victoria station, where I slowly recovered with the help of a lie-down and a strong cup of tea. It was nearly midday by the time I arrived at Patrick’s office.
‘Bit of a sticky journey, I suppose, on a day like this?’ He nodded sympathetically. ‘You could probably do with a drink.’
‘I could, now that you mention it.’
‘Me too. Unfortunately my budget doesn’t run to that sort of thing any more. I can get you a glass of water if you like.’
Patrick looked even more depressed than I remembered him from our last meeting, and his new surroundings were made to match. It was a tiny office, done out in an impersonal beige, with a smoked-glass window offering a partial view of a car park and a brick wall. I had expected there to be posters advertising the latest books but the walls were in fact quite bare, apart from a large and glossy calendar supplied by a rival firm, which hung in the dead centre of one wall directly behind Patrick’s head. His face had always been long and lugubrious, but I’d never seen his eyes looking so sleepy before, or his lips set in such a resigned, melancholy pucker. For all that, I think he was quite pleased to see me, and as he fetched two plastic beakers full of water and set them down on his desk, he managed to summon the ghost of a smile.
‘Well, Michael,’ he said, settling into his chair, ‘to say that you’ve been keeping a low profile these last few years would be putting it mildly.’
‘Well, I’ve been working,’ I lied. ‘As you can see.’
We both looked at my typescript, which lay on the desk between us.
‘Have you read it?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, I’ve read it,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve read it all right.’
He fell silent.
‘And …?’
‘Tell me something, Michaeclass="underline" can you remember when we last saw each other?’
I could, as it happened. But before I had the chance to answer, he said:
‘I’ll tell you. It was April the 14th, 1982.’
‘Eight years ago,’ I said. ‘Fancy that.’
‘Eight years, five months, seven days. That’s a long time, in anybody’s book.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘We’d just published your second novel. You were getting excellent reviews.’
‘Was I?’
‘Magazine profiles. Newspaper interviews.’
‘But no sales.’
‘Oh, but the sales would have come, Michael. The sales would have come. If only you’d –’
‘– stuck at it.’
‘Stuck at it, exactly.’ He took a long sip from his beaker of water. ‘Not long after that, you wrote me a letter. I don’t suppose you can remember what you said in that letter?’
I remembered only too well. But before I could get a word in, he said:
‘You told me that you wouldn’t be writing any more novels for a while, because you’d been commissioned to write an important non-fiction book, by another publisher. A rival publisher. Whose name, I think it’s true to say, you never disclosed.’