under the sofa or bed or down the back of the chest of drawers. Nothing. And nothing that could be connected with Clio Aames. The gathering shock of all this, the level of sanitisation and control it implied, hit me pretty hard. I was frightened and I was hurt. What started as a careful, inquisitive, getting-to-know-you search began to derail itself, barrelling out of control into something hot and aggressive – a violent hunt for my own reference material. Soon, I was tipping out drawers, dissecting storage boxes and magazine stacks, raking out cupboards, gutting the wardrobe. I cried, red with tear-wet frustration, scrambling, searching, scattering. And when each anger charge inside me was drained and empty, I’d find myself coming to a stop in the debris I’d created and gulping over the fatter tears of totally adrift despair, or, as more time passed, falling into one of those periods of blank stillness that come from overspending on emotion. Still I didn’t find anything. No photographs. No papers. No letters. Every accessible space in the house lay completely open and there was not a single solid trace of me or my past there at all.
All this only brought me full circle, of course. Now I knew where these things were being kept. I’d realised earlier I think but instead of stopping me, the realisation only drove me into the search harder, wanting to prove the cruelty of it all by laying the rest of the house bare. And when there is absolutely nowhere else these things can be, I’d been telling myself, pulling out boxes and folders and tipping them empty, I will go upstairs and I will kick down that locked fucking door.
But I didn’t. When it came to it, after hours of tipping, sifting and scattering, the rage I had left wasn’t fresh enough or hot enough. Now there was a smoky curl of caution where all that destructive fear and hurt had been. I stood on the landing with my hand palm-flat on the locked door and I let myself sink to my knees, all tired and used-up, my fingertips dragging down in squeals against the white gloss paint.
Empty spaces, barriers, caution and willpower, this was the game I’d been born into. The trick, as Randle suggested, would be in knowing which barriers could be kicked open for progress and which were defensive, structural. Which ones were actually shoring everything else up.
•
It took the rest of the morning to tidy up the wreckage. By now, the post-crisis stillness had complete control of me and I moved through the house straightening, replacing and aligning at half-speed, eyes unfocused, sliding between the rooms like a ghost on pulleys.
Just after twelve there was a sound in the hallway. I straightened up and stood very still and very quiet. I’d been putting clothes back in the wardrobe when it happened and when I went to investigate I carried two shirts downstairs with me, not really aware of having them in my hands. There was a big A4 envelope sitting on the doormat. My name and address were written across the front in black felt-tip.
I’d ripped it open and got two lines into the letter inside before my brain finally came up to speed and I realised I shouldn’t be reading it, that I’d been asked not to read anything like this. But by then it was too late; my eyes were already being information-dragged, skip-reaching towards the end –
Letter #1
Eric,
Whatever Dr Randle may have told you, I am not coming back. Nothing is coming back. It is all gone forever and I am sorry for that.
This is the first of a series of letters I have created to help you survive your new life. You will get these letters at regular intervals. Sometimes every day and for several months. The process is automated. The key to the second bedroom will be posted to you soon. For your own wellbeing, please don’t try to get into the room before then.
This is what’s next. You have a very important choice to make. Dr Randle has told you what she thinks is happening to you. She has probably asked you not to read any correspondence from me. I arranged for Dr Randle to be your first contact because I knew you would have lots of questions. Questions need a face-to-face dialogue and I cannot do that for you for obvious reasons. However, I must tell you that Dr Randle’s viewpoint concerning your memory loss will prove unproductive at best. She is wrong about what is happening to you, Eric. More important, she can neither help nor protect you. I know this from experience. On the other hand, if you can bring yourself to trust me enough to continue to read these letters, you will learn to negotiate the dangers which – thanks to the stupidness of my own actions – you will soon encounter. I realise I am hardly in a position to convince you of anything at this stage. The decision is yours to make and until your identity starts to establish itself in the wider world, you will be safe to consider your options. I’m afraid your thinking time after that will be limited.
There is a second envelope inside this envelope labelled RYAN MITCHELL. Please read the information enclosed carefully and save in your memory as much of the text as you can. I ask that you do this even if you do decide to disregard all of my further communications.
The information will be important in case of emergency.
You do not have long to make your decision. Please think carefully.
With regret and also hope,
The First Eric Sanderson
I pushed my hand into the envelope and found a second, chubby package marked just as I, he, the First Eric Sanderson said it would be. RYAN MITCHELL.
I wandered through the living room, into the kitchen and back into the living room again re-reading the letter. She can neither help nor protect you. I know this from experience.
The afternoon sunlight drew a bright stretched rectangle on the carpet and a small bird sang on the TV aerial of the house opposite mine. I heard the sound of a car a couple of streets away, growing quieter and quieter with distance. The fractures in this broken world spread out under my feet.
•
At 3.30 p.m. on the second day of my second life, a big ginger tomcat arrived in the kitchen. He hauled his heavy self in through the open window, stepped across the worktops and planted himself down solid in the middle of the floor. Then he just sat there, staring up at me with round cynical eyes. I stared back, surprised. I thought he might run if I tried to get too close but he didn’t budge at all, he just kept on looking at me as I knelt down to read his collar tag. There was a name – Hello! I’m Ian – and a full address, although the first line told me everything I needed to know.
I had a housemate.
“So, slugger,” I smiled. “Where have you been hiding?”
The cat just looked at me.
I tried again: “Are you hungry?”
The cat just looked at me.
“Hmmm,” I said, stepping back. “What kind of a name is Ian for a cat anyway?”
And the cat just looked at me, his big ginger face managing to do bored, irritated and smug all at the same time. He looked at me as though I was being very stupid indeed.
My Heart was Deep Space and My Head was Maths
Every single cell in the human body replaces itself over a period of seven years. That means there’s not even the smallest part of you now that was part of you seven years ago.
Everything
