A History of Forgetting by Adderson Caroline

Author:Adderson, Caroline
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Biblioasis
Published: 2015-07-07T16:00:00+00:00

What Malcolm thought was that Christian was too embarrassed to face him after he had stood him up, that that was why he didn’t show up for work. It was a ludicrous notion, of course. Christian was no blusher.

By mid-morning Thi and the girl began to call him. They left a series of messages filled with the vibrato of concern. Then came a flurry of rescheduling.

‘He isn’t in today. Can you change your afternoon appointment?’ Again and again, Malcolm overheard, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.’

Jamie, on his lunch break, drove downtown with Thi to knock on his door, just in case he simply wasn’t answering the phone.

‘He’s not there,’ he said when they got back. ‘We got the super to let us in.’

‘Did it look like he’d gone away? Like he’d packed or anything?’ asked Donna.

‘No,’ said Thi. ‘Everything looked normal and, you know, neat as a pin.’

They were in the back room. Alison sank down on the bench beside Malcolm and, with her face in her hands, asked, ‘Do you think we should—?’

‘What?’ asked Malcolm.

She whispered it. ‘Call the police?’

As soon as she said it, it was understood that something had happened to him.

‘No,’ said Roxanne, and she teetered angrily out of the room, back to her client.

‘Did anyone check the deli?’ Robert asked, trying to make a joke.

Who finally called, or when, Malcolm didn’t know, but the next morning there they were. Normally no one would have noticed their entrance, people came and went all the time, but Alison shut off the music so they all looked up and, seeing the two in blue, froze—all but Malcolm, who had closed his eyes. What a relief not to hear that beat pounding out like a pneumatic drill! Savouring the silence, he lowered the dryer onto Mrs. Creighton’s curler-armoured head, loath to turn it on and spoil the moment. Then, catching sight of them in the mirror, he swung around. Everyone was looking at him. The police saw everyone looking at him, so towards Malcolm they came—slowly, the long length of the gallery. Had Christian been there, he would have squealed with delight.

It seemed to take a week for them to reach him. All that time Malcolm wondered why. Why were they coming for him? What did they think? That he was the owner?

‘Sir,’ one of them said. ‘May we have a word with you?’

They stepped into the back room. Strangely, Malcolm couldn’t seem to hear a word they said. It was as if he were holding a seashell to both ears; a muted roar, the surge of his own blood in his skull. It’s not fair, he was thinking. They had not drawn straws or, from the top tray of the Senator’s trolley, names on paper slips. The fair-haired one, he noticed, was in need of a moustache trim.

From their gestures, he understood that he was going to leave with them. He led the way, stopping briefly where Mrs. Creighton was still waiting under the dryer.

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