Читать книгу The Girls Beneath - Ross Armstrong - Страница 13

5

‘Because it’s bigger than you,

But you’re lighting a fuse

And you’re playing to lose

Because it’s bigger than you’

‘Tom? Tom? Sorry. Tom? Tom?’

‘Yes,’ I respond straight away.

‘You’ll be stationed with PCSO Bartu?’ says the man dressed as a policeman.

I turn to him and nod. He smiles back. Nicely. Nice guy.

‘Great. That’s great. Do I… Do I…’

The room waits for me to find my thought. Giving me supportive eyes.

‘Do I… have to have… a partner? I’ll… be okay. On my own, you know.’

The others look to the main man. He sucks in his bottom lip and wets it. His eyes flicker to the left. Then to the right. To the other six people seated either side of us in the locker room. Some men. Some women.

‘We’re going to put you with Bartu. Just for now. It’s standard procedure for anyone who’s had extended time off. Even if it’s only three months.’

No, it’s not. I’ve had time on my hands. I’ve been filling in any gaps of knowledge on all sorts of areas but particularly police procedure and neurology. I want to understand what’s happening to me and what I’m getting myself into. Above all, I want to be aware of those two things. So I’ve been researching. Voraciously. Every day, with a fire and will I’ve never had before. I use a program that reads to me. But I always read the first three words myself, I’m rigorous about that, even if it takes an hour. Then I let the voice take over and we learn together.

‘You don’t need to go on your bike either, until you’re ready. So Bartu will be keeping fit with you on foot or if you need it you also have access to a vehicle.’

‘I’ll drive. Let me drive!’ I shout.

They recoil a bit. No sudden movements. I remind myself. It makes the ‘normals’ tense.

‘I can drive,’ I say. Softly. Watering myself down for the room.

I’m now what’s called Preternaturally Sensitive. It means my inhibitions have receded due to injury to my frontal lobe. So if I want to say or do something, I usually do it.

You won’t find me shouting out swear words as with Verbal Tourette’s, which is a turning off of inhibitions as well as an enlarged tic-like propensity to say what shouldn’t be said. It’s just a new facet of my character. Not that I am psychiatrically different, as such. No, like Tourette’s, it’s not a psychiatric issue, but rather a neurobiological one of a hyperphysiological sort. Which is quite different. With me? Good.

This replacement of inhibition with drive arrived as if by magic. Soon after my first couple of meetings with Dr Ryans, I wanted out of there. Away from the hospital’s warm arms and succour. Not in a fearful way, I just had things to do. I felt charged. Like someone had put a new kind of battery in me.

After I eventually made it out, when they were satisfied that I could do things like document distinct memories and walk (not perfectly, I tend to drag my left foot more than I pick it up and good lord I’m not ready to ride a bike yet) I started devouring knowledge in a way I’d never even considered before the bullet. Doctor Ryans says I merely wanted to make up for lost time, to test my consciousness and attention span to see how much more it could do for me. To see whether, if I tried hard enough each day, if I laboured then slept and then woke and then laboured again, each sleep could take me closer to home. To the mind I used to have. That’s how Ryans put it, but I wouldn’t say it was that. I didn’t want to be the same as I was before. I wanted to be better. I felt somehow I already was.

‘Pre-bullet’ I was directionless. ‘Post-bullet’ I had a lust for the world. I started to feel sorry for the ‘pre-bullet’ me. Listless. An apathetic approach to the possibilities of the day. I was motivationally shambolic. ‘Post-bullet’ me could have him for breakfast.

The physio would come each morning. We would work. Then I would sit in front of my computer and use the programme to find gaps in my knowledge. Once my shopping was delivered I would make myself a new recipe I had found online that’d intrigued me.

I would learn more.

I would do my exercises.

I would defecate perfectly.

I would write a poem, or lullaby, or do a pencil drawing.

I would get headaches and cramps and fears.

I would ignore them.

I would learn more. Then I’d sleep.

I sleep less. I found I didn’t need as many revitalising hours as I had previously indulged in. Getting up before sunrise was now a regular thing. I like waking in the dark. It meant I could engender a routine. I could warm up before physio and make myself something with perfect nutritional value for breakfast.

I learnt about health and the body obsessively.

Did you know that a stitch when you run is caused by your diaphragm? It gets pulled around when you jog, so if it hurts take a slower, more even pace and longer smoother breaths.

Did you know that if your food wasn’t mixed with your saliva then you wouldn’t be able to taste it?

Did you know the average person falls asleep in 7 minutes?

Did you know that stewardesses is the longest word you can type using only your left hand when utilising a standard keyboard in the correct manner?

Did you know 8% of people have an extra rib?

I used to be an eight hours a night man or I was useless. I need only five and half now and they serve me better than my sleep ever did before. In my waking hours I feel more awake than I ever have.

I couldn’t read, my brain wasn’t letting me yet. But I could focus on the little things and block out the distracting thoughts. In short, I could listen like a motherfucker. Pardon my French. Lack of inhibitive reflex plus mild aphasia there: ‘impaired ability to speak the appropriate word for the scenario, or the one your brain is searching for.’ In other words, I send for a good formal noun, in this case ‘genius’, but by the time it comes down the chute some joker has switched it for ‘motherfucker.’ Apologies again.

I longed for things passionately, like I never had before.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to watch movies and fully understand them.

I wanted to climb remote exotic mountains.

I wanted mystery and love and mysterious love.

I wanted to be able to drive.

‘For the moment, it’s best if you don’t drive. Order from on high. Probably an insurance thing, something like that.’

I know he’s lying but I appreciate his tact. He has an upright stance. He has initiative. Gumption. I like him. I give him a thumbs-up.

A crease in his face tells me he’s not sure whether this gesture is an ironic manoeuvre. Little does he know I don’t have anywhere near the outward mental processing speed required for irony yet.

He moves on and says some more things with his mouth. I take my cheat pad out of my pocket and write. You see, I can still write, as the part of my brain that turns thoughts into symbols works fine, but curiously the bit that interprets those symbols back into words? Different matter. Pun intended.

So I know I won’t be able to read this back but the act of writing it down helps me commit it to memory. I observe. The others peer at me but I block them out with ease, with my genius focus. I write:

Upright stance. Gumption. Fair and balding. Wire frame circular glasses. Highly Caucasian.

On the upper left of his jacket, where his breast would be, are some symbols. A word I think. It starts with an L.

L. E. Then one I can’t make out, then an I, and it ends with another E. The process takes a while and my straining to establish the word at this point has become a spectacle, which everyone is pretending manfully not to notice.

LE_I_E. Lee? Can I call him Lee? Leon. Lean? Levine? Levine! I’ve heard that somewhere before. Ah. Of course. Levine. So that’s Levine. I remember him. I think he’s recently been promoted.

Levine. Or Upright-Gumption-Bald-Glasses-White-Face. As I will call him. In my mind.

I turn and see another man to my right, close to my head. He holds out his hand, luckily, because that means he might whisper his name. I may have seen him before, it’s quite possible. I’ll probably remember him. Because, you see, it’s not the remembering exactly I struggle with. No, it’s not that, it’s another thing.

‘Hey. I’m Emre Bartu. Good to meet you,’ he says with a wink.

Yes. He’ll do. I keep out my cheat sheet and start to write.

Bouncy. Kind. Black hair. Deep voice. Brown face.

I realise I haven’t said anything back to him. As is certainly customary. I think I just locked eyes with him and started writing.

Multi-tasking is hard so I have to stop for a second to mutter something pleasant-sounding to him.

‘I’m Tom Mondrian. Can you stay still please? I’m looking at your head.’

He smiles and does so. He nods, his eyes flicker to the side, which indicates he’s a bit confused by all this. Then he holds his pose like he’s having his school photo taken.

A thought hits me from nowhere that someone once said he was Turkish. I don’t know where I got that from but my mind has offered it to me as useful information so it’s best to follow it up.

‘You’re a Turkey,’ I say.

‘What mate?’ he says.

‘Sorry. I mean. You’re a Turkey.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry. Shit. I mean. You’re a Turkey. Ahhh,’ I shout, frustrated. Damn aphasia.

The room looks up for a second and I hold up my hand to apologise. They go back to talking about their beat, what they have to do that day, that kind of thing.

‘Sorry. You’re a Turkey. Shit! You’re… Turkish?’ I bend my voice at the last minute, it had taken so long to splutter it into the world I’d forgotten that it was supposed to be a question.

‘Yes, mate. That’s right.’ We nod. Agreeing with each other.

I’m pleased with this. I run the words over in my head.

This word pattern forms what is called a Feature by Feature Recognition Strategy. I slip the note back in my pocket.

*

The physio came to me every day but I had to go and see Dr Ryans twice a week. The journey itself was a good test and I’m sure he was aware of that. We went through a series of facial recognition exercises as that was his biggest area of interest. It was discovered I had prosopagnosia – an inability to recognise faces. Which is a particularly cruel word if you also have trouble reading.

We talked through strategies and the face cheat sheet was certainly the best. By far the most disquieting side effect of my accident is the inability to recognise my own face. Typically, Ryans also had a few methods to deal with this frightening daily occurrence – the part where I wake and scream because I don’t know who the man in my mirror is.

‘It’s suggested that success can be achieved by making your own image as distinct and memorable as possible. Prosopagnosiacs often choose to grow characteristic facial hair. But what works best, in fact, is when this is coupled with headwear, perhaps a bandanna or…’ He pauses, catching me mulling this over.

‘No offence, Jeff, but as well as having all my brain disorders I’d rather not dress like Hulk Hogan.’

Amazing that despite not being able to pick out my parents faces from a line up in Dr Ryans’ tests, I can picture Hulk Hogan clear as day. But then, he does have that characteristic beard and bandanna combo we prosopagnosiacs seem to really respond to.

‘Get a cat,’ he says as I leave.

‘Sorry?’

‘I’d advise you to get a cat. For a few reasons.’

‘I don’t like cats.’

‘It will like you. But you won’t come to rely on it. Soft companionship. That’s reason one. Understood?’

‘Er…’

‘You really hate them?’

‘I’m indifferent to them.’

‘Oh, that’s different. That’s fine. Here’s reason two: It’ll anchor you, by which I mean you’ll judge time better by its presence, it will remind you how you’re progressing in relation to it and therefore will stop you getting depressed.’

‘I don’t feel depressed.’

‘Well, you could well get depressed. Reason three: The stroking is nice. You’ll just fucking like it. Trust me. Get a cat!’

I sometimes think the sudden outbursts of swearing are in my imagination, but I think he’s just like that. He’s come direct from the wayward 1960s. His hair is kind of shaggy, his formal jacket sits awkwardly on his shoulders above his loose fitting slacks, like he was dressed by his mother this morning, but even the jacket itself is finding its place on his torso pretty inappropriate and is mounting a slow escape.

I’ve often seen him hurriedly extinguishing something in a drawer as I enter the room, his desk gently smoking as our conversation begins. His pupils a little dilated and the room smelling leaf green.

‘Okay. I’ll get a cat,’ I say.

‘And you can have it as what people call an emotional support animal. There are perks of this. For example, if you go on a fucking plane you can take it with you and have it on your lap. You’re allowed almost anything if it’s for emotional support. Big dogs for instance. One chap even got a small horse on a long haul.’

‘What? In the cabin?’

‘Yes. A tiny one, but it was still a horse. Listen, trust me, in my line of work I’ve seen far fucking stranger things than that.’

I leave. I get a cat. Now I have a cat.

*

Draw a line between the middle of your forehead and the top of your left ear. Make a mark directly in the middle of that line. Then make another mark one centimetre above it. That’s where the bullet went in.

Right there.