I started writing this Thursday, April 24, 2003 12:15:00 AM according to when the document was created. Haven’t got very far and have a long way to go. This bit here isn’t even finished. It’s just a bit of a something of a start. Probably before long I will decide that even the meticulously written 4 pages that I have managed to squeeze out aren’t up to snuff. Eventually it will hopefully be a novel.
Monday.
Are you going to go back?
Where?
To see that girl. Rachel?
Yeah, Rachel. I don’t know. I have a lot of things to do.
You are.
I’m what?
You’re going back.
You seem quite sure.
I am.
But I’m not even sure.
[shrugs] Doesn’t matter.
[shakes head] Get me another Guinness
When are you going back?
I won’t have a chance until Saturday. Look, I don’t know why I don’t just call the police on this, or whoever you’d call. None of this should be in my hands, you know? None of this is in my hands, anyway.
[...]
What?
Nothing.
Jesus. Can we talk about something else? What have you been doing?
Me? A madwoman murdered my children, I lost my job, and maybe I won the lottery.
What the fuck. You don’t have a family, Spencer.
Exactly. None of mine is as exciting as yours. Same old same old versus not the same old.
Look, she’s just some girl. I’m not even going to go back. Forget I ever ran into her. Never see her again. It’s not a big deal.
[...]
What?
Let me at some of that?
Go ahead.
Thanks.
[...]
So?
So what?
I’m waiting for you to talk about something else.
***
Gregory Hamble worked as a planning and commission advisor for the city of London, Ontario. He was a veteran of the team—now serving in his thirteenth year. It was by no means a thrilling occupation—there was required drudgery enough to keep the strain on him through most of the year, but he was good at what he did and it made him good money. Between his job and what Debbie, his wife of nine years, earned working at St. Joseph’s Hospital, the family could afford to live in respectable fashion. Some wise investments and an eye for detail pushed them firmly into what are known collectively as the upper classes.
They maintained a sprawling 2-storey house in the upscale part of Old South. An ornamental pond and a swinging bench in the backyard. A double garage and neatly tended lawn bordered by hedges on the East or rows of red tulips on the West. The interior was elegant, expensive. Even chic. Wardrobes were kept stylish and current. And you didn’t wear a pair of socks if it only cost you four dollars.
The pristine appearance of the interior somewhat betrayed the true nature of the house. Between two young but feverishly growing and developing daughters and Tripper, the beagle, there was plenty to keep the housekeeper busy and always on her toes.
Work afforded little spare time, but that was fine. That was life. And every year brought two definite and moderately extravagant vacations. The children came along for one, and stayed in Ingersoll at Debbie’s parents’ for the other. Gregory sat firmly undecided on which of the two he preferred. There was an assorted stack of pros and cons for each side, as with everything. And anyway, it didn’t quite matter.
***
Wednesday.
He sits. Feet and chest in darkness. Face lit by the dead white of the word processor’s flicker. Moments slide past him unattended—around the chair, into the dust smeared bookcase, leaping through the window to scatter into the web of oak leaves and the chill night air beyond.
The household’s evening business winds on, vaguely discernable through the study door behind him. His family slowly dispersing. Monica is last, parading Mr. Speckles through the hills and alleys of the den furniture until a stern mother emerges from the hallway to lead her to her room.
Tunes and lyrics from a day of overheard radios and record collections buzz in and out of each other, spiralling in his mind. A few of the required reports are eventually filled out and dispatched to coworkers and managers.
Several hours later, likely two and a half, Debbie stands behind him and relates her intention of sleeping, inquiring if Gregory wanted to join her. No, he has work to do, he’ll come later; he loves her, too. A quick touch of lips and the day’s personal interaction ends, leaving him with only his wandering mind for company.
Later, he stands tediously, and walks slow paces around the precisely tidied study, lost in thought. He stops for a moment, tapping his finger against the doorframe.
The night drones on.
***
Thursday.
The deep grey of a white sidewalk in the night plods evenly into the past, under delicate black shoes. Gently pointed at the front and a silver buckle. Line, curve, and shape. Mind, glance, and step.
The black asphalt path, bounded by repeating slabs of concrete, slants up toward another line of black. Intersecting. And then another. A semi-regular crisscross grid for miles and miles. Further than knowledge.
There is differentiation amongst the lines, though. This way or that. Architecture expansive or tight. Windows lighted or blackness; some open to the breeze. Fences, openness, or vacant lots. A street’s straightness cricked and curved, or ended dead. The gridded grand pattern hidden to all immediate senses except experience.
But awareness requires respite.
Adelaide sweeps toward the river and the bridge. Rising over the cold black water. The asphalt’s unbroken line continues across the construction with barely a waver. Disguising that the bridge is a world unto itself. Detached from the regularized patterns of red green orange and the endless series of nonconformant doors.
Footsteps follow upon each other in a line.
On the bridge. Leaning against the metal rail that bites the skin with paralyzing cold. A lonely silhouette. Black on black. The faint chill of summer night slips off the rippled water surface and creeps beneath clothing, slides its fingers along the pale skin and presses hard against a thudded heart. Awareness return momentarily to self. Blink. Shift.
Below: The water crawls smoothly past and beneath. The mesmeric weave and flow captures eyes and their gaze.
A car sweeps the air in a ripple behind it, and it is gone, leaving for a moment a trace of red light on the pavement. Shirt ruffles briefly. The form of metal and glass returns to its world and all sense of it fades. The disturbance soon forgotten.
The river is endless.
***
Friday.
The door springs back into its frame behind him. The brass veneer on a coat hook has corroded and flaked away. It is twisted down. The carpet is tugged away in the corner to expose pockmarked particleboard. She looks up at him from the couch across the sparse front room. Deep, brown eyes. Pale. Thin black hair to neck.
She speaks his name.
“Gregory.” / “Gregory?”
He cannot tell if it is a question. He has told her his name, apparently, and she remembers it.
He hesitates in the front hall. She sits passively, making no gesture to beckon or dismiss. He stares toward his shoes, unsure whether they should be removed. Then at Rachel.
Gregory pulled neatly up to the side of the curb in front of the hunched white-side, almost gaudy green-trim bungalow. He stepped out over the cracking pavement and the car door scraped harshly shut. His feet trudged over the unkempt swath of crippled grass, past the ragged hedges fronting an unassuming porch, and up three steps. The white painted wood door was set half open, affording a brief view of the interior behind the flimsy screen door. Which he now stands on the other side of, not remembering the interim moment. Did he knock? Was he invited?
He holds out the cardboard box of week-old groceries, his shoulders partly shrugged. “If you want it.”
She rises to take it. Returns to the couch, and begins setting the items out on the ochre carpet before her.
Gregory shifts his weight and holds lip in teeth. He glances around the room. Sees fraying edges where the carpet meets the wall; the pristine shine of a white painted wall, and the curl of wallpaper decay on that adjacent. Rachel is intently reordering the boxes and cans. For whatever reason, switching the peas with the soup mix causes a small smile to burrow out from beneath her lips. He trudged tentatively across. Past her, and toward the doorframe to the kitchen. No movement she gives reveals any awareness of his motion, as though the effect of his presence has receded from her world.
The square oak table shines with a sleek gloss. From what he can remember of the room, the wood has either been significantly retouched or replaced over the last week.
His head raises back into the front room and his hand indicates the kitchen. “You cleaned up in here, huh?” He looks to Rachel for a response, but registers none.