In Time Book Two 1

In Time Book Two 2

In Time Book Two 3
 Other works by the author;

Literary; Analects Volumes I -V

I Short Stories, II Scripts, III Plays, IV Novellas, V Myths of Heroes.

Published by Polymnia

Musical; Solone, Millennium Edition, La Ronde, the Musical, Studio Years

CD Roms; Lead and Blues Guitar, Classical Guitar, Bass Guitar

Animation (nevilleanimusic); # After Midnight #, # A Deeper State of Mind #,

#Tonight's The Night #, # When Rachael Went to the Moon, and Pluto #.

As a 'music teacher' for his students, the author has obtained passes in; Pianoforte,

Classical Guitar, Saxophone, Clarinet, Violin, Flute, and Theory, a world record

unlikely to be equalled.

Contained within the text are references, implications, paraphrases, of many

popular songs. Song titles do not count. Correctly identify them to collect your prize.

There are no spelling mistakes.

In Time Book Two 4

 For ~

~ (Professor) Bronwen Price,

who gave me my first review.

~ Rachael Neyman,

my baby, but not my baby.

~ Simon(e),

goodbye?

The beautiful is less what one sees than what one dreams.

Belgian proverb.

Words are but images of matter, to fall in love with them is to fall in love with a picture.

Francis Bacon (1561-1626)

The culture of the memory is very necessary, .. we only know as much as we remember.

Immanuel Kant (1724 -1804)

The silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me,

Blaise Pascal (1623-62).

Till now I have not been able to deny all reality to time and space,

or to consider them mere images and appearance.

Johann Heinrich Lambert, (1728 -1777)

My memory of past errors and perplexities makes me diffident for the future.

David Hume (1711-1776)

In Time Book Two 5

Neville
In Time
A novel

Book Two

Powell
In Time Book Two 6
In Time Book Two 7
IN TIME BOOK 2

AUGUST: CHANCE BE A FINE THING 71

SEPTEMBER: UNDER MY SKIN 174

OCTOBER: THREE DAYS IN KASHMIR 261

HALF LIFE 347

RESURRECTION 397

(genius and reservations) GENESIS AND REVELATIONS :

NOVEMBER 15th 417

In Time Book Two 8

 July the diary reads. The 8th. I remember the 8th ; Nadine married her good Doctor Robert.

At 11 Ante Meridiem. Though she liked to spell that word Meridian. Did we ever argue about

that, too? I'd better tear the corner clock off the page and time it.

I haven't seen warm nurse Nadine for a couple of hours now. I'm safer; the colours they

drip me slowly drowning Simone. Perhaps they're right, that it's time to say Goodbye.

- will never leave you join us

no i m sorry simone

Hand weary, pen tired, but I must continue, these black empty lines needing to be daily

dripped, stained with the dances of the lives of the many others.

July, the corner reads; time to continue. A late afternoon, I think.

Penelope remained strangely dissatisfied as she went to make coffee. How best to

confront Brian?

And Brian was there, sitting as usual hunched over papers, always looking for the Next

Big Thing. Holding her sugar free cup (even the last silver spoon seemed to have disappeared -

but the coffee did seem to taste better, as Russell had once suggested, Without your sweetness.)

she asked, 'Didn't you publish, or handle a writer called Korsakoff?'

Was there a visible tensing in his shoulders?

'Sort of.' Brian replied, turning to face her. 'Did, I should say. Hasn't done anything for a

long time, since that English girl kidnap thriller thing. Made a ton of money out of the film rights,

from what I remember. At least got my ten per cent. I think his daughter has probably more potential,

or talent, now.'

This meant of course, as Penelope instantly realised, that he had read the daughter's work. He

had never mentioned it. She continued, 'Didn't the wife die? Commit suicide, or something like that?'

In Time Book Two 9

 He looked at her, puckering his lips as if trying to sense what she implied. Suicide,

or something like that? Korsakoff's wife was definitely, even if only recently, 'still' dead.

'Yes. I think I remember. Her name was ... Corona? Corola? They were here that night you

went off to visit some pop star.' The shadow, of a ghost of a smile had flickered, almost

scampering away across his mouth, she thought, as if a child learning how to keep a secret.

'Apparently that Potential that night had been their daughter's teacher at school. Smith

wasn't it? Memorable name. Why do you ask?'

'How do you know about it, her death?'

'Oh ... in, on the news, I think.'

Penelope shrugged, perhaps it had been. Famous writer's wife commits suicide, reunites

with long lost daughter. 'I've just been read an interesting short story. And amazingly, Russell

gets mentioned in it.'

His eyebrows definitely twitched. 'Your Russell?' he asked, surprised.

'Yes.' she confirmed, although why he was now particularly Your Russell she didn't

quite understand. 'And apparently he had a fling with a Simone.'

'Simone .. '

And then she knew. The pretence as to the knowledge of Simone's identity. It wasn't

even Simone who? Not even Russell's Angel Simone Fruitcake. 'What's her work like?'

- am not a fruitcake

'A bit ..' but he couldn't find the words, '.. salacious?'

'Has it got a title?'

Brian laughed, 'You'll like this! It's called, How To Blackmail Your Lovers! '

But Penelope didn't smile in return. After a momentary pause all she asked was, 'Are

you in there?'

He pursed his lips, disapproving. 'Ah ... I see where this is going.' He tapped the table

In Time Book Two 10

slowly with alternating fingers, as if counting or ordering his thoughts. She counted them; tap tap

tap tap tap tap. Tap. At least he wasn't finger flicking his imaginary coin, she thought. Progress,

slow but sure. About time he moved on. 'Simone. Yes.' But it didn't seem to be an admission.

She could wait. 'Might I ask,' Brian continued, 'who wrote this interesting short story? It wasn't

Russell again was it? He did give me some stuff once. Adolescent, student ramblings, unfortunately.

And untidy. Said his best work had been an essay on Elgar, but had lost it. Should've given a copy

to that lecturer friend of his .. Friedman? .. for safe keeping. Now he's writing stories, you say,

with himself in them? Always a bit Narcissistic, the first attempts. Did you pass on my opinion?

About his work? No market - '

Penelope realised Brian was deliberately talking too quickly, a familiar enough habit now,

in trying to change the subject, but his childish prattling wasn't going to get away with it. 'No,' she

interjected, ' - it was the same author as Love Letters.'

'Love Letters?' There seemed a genuine puzzlement, she thought, as Brian shrugged his

shoulders, - was there going to be an explanation? Evidently not. Russell's stuff wasn't any good,

still a bit too .. infantile. But he gave a very convincing display, she thought, over not recalling,

reading, but surely not discarding?, even those earlier few sheets.

'No? Where a writer called Brian, Brain actually, is locked and chained in a garage with

a typewriter by his wife - curiously, coincidentally called Penelope, - oh, yes, that's my name!? -

and forced to write Love Letters? In a house that bears a remarkable similarity to ours?'

Brian sat silent, looking at her.

Yes; it appeared his incomprehension was genuine. Time to stick the blade in, she thought.

'No, Russell didn't write that. Saint did.'

There was a moment of incomprehension. Only a moment, though, as Brian realised

quickly enough where her absent hours had gone, - he was now shouting at her. 'You've had Saint's

manuscripts all this time and you've never fucking told me!? This is that fucking pop star you've

In Time Book Two 11

been visiting!?'

'But - ' The phone buzzed, fortunately, interrupting t/his diatribe, as Penelope rushed off to

answer, relieved, for she had expected irritation, but not such an outburst.

'Yes?' The voice was plaintive, distant, mumbling indistinctly, as Brian was still babbling

away, determined not to be silenced by social decorum. 'I'm sorry, can you - ' And then she recog-

nised the distant voice, that flash of memory; it was Christine. How long had it been now? Jesus,

years. The last time they had met they had walked in a park and she had stepped in a puddle, no,

the stinking mess of a dead animal. She had had to help her up - and it wasn't easy - she had grown

so fat! The voice was continuing, a monosyllabic whining. She sounded drunk, forcing Penelope

to speak louder. 'Christine is that you?'

But now, and despite that Brian was still irritatingly muttering away to himself, she felt

strangely resentful that their argument had been interrupted by a drunk, and an irrelevant ghost

from the past at that, but aware of those feelings she immediately felt guilty. 'I can't talk now,

Christine.' She flicked disapproving eyes at Brian, as if he might in some way somehow have

instigated this telephone conversation, 'But give me your number - no, your address, yes?'

The voice continued on, relentlessly rambling. Had she even heard her requests? for Penelope

to abruptly cut in, 'No, no, just give me your address, yes?' And Christine now acquiesced,

surprisingly quickly, Penelope thought, and, considering the barrage of Brian background noise,

as she reached down for a pen she didn't need to ask Christine to repeat any lines, for Christine

repeated them incessantly, in her curious repetitive mumbling, almost as if the eye of a needle

on a record was stuck perpetually in its groove. After a few moments Penelope again had to

interrupt, 'Christine, Christine, I will come and see you! But not today, it's - ' She gestured in

Brian's direction, before covering the mouthpiece, ' - Are we having another sodding dinner

party tonight?!' and Brian nodded. Enough said, she thought. Then, to Christine, ' - but maybe ...

tomorrow?' Was she doing anything tomorrow? Apart from clearing up the remains of a meal?

In Time Book Two 12

And, reluctant and sad as it was, was there any point in meeting again, soon, now? She hadn't

seen Christine in years. Why was she ringing anyway? Had she just found a number in an old

address book when she was drunk? And any number would do? Not hers in particular? That she

had searched, played the records of her alphabet and had to reach P before she found a friend?

Brian was still glaring at her, still angry at her imagined, alleged betrayal, it being hard

enough in life to find anything sellable, yet to have something not merely potential in the

house, but instantly marketable - a famous pop musician writing a story? Even he could sell

that! Relieved, of course, that the subject had turned away from Simone.

- am not like that why do you write bad things of me like that

they say you must say goodbye simone

Didn't think that

Penelope suspected.

'Christine, I really have to - '

And chance struck again; the doorbell went, the first of the dinner guests presumably.

But Penelope didn't feel relieved, if anything she was even more irritated - she didn't actually

want all these sodding dinner guests anyway! especially not Chomiac at the moment - tonight

was Brian's trip! (And for a moment she paused, puzzled, wondering how she knew that Chomiac

was to appear tonight - had Brian even bothered to inform her that he was coming?) She cooked

and organised, did all the work, struggled - pretended - to be sociable, and he just sat there, rigid

at the head of his table and crossly pontificated about the agonies of agencies. And he thought

he had a right to Saint's manuscripts just because they were married?! What a nerve! She had

spent time, what was the word? ... cultivating ? - certainly not grooming - Saint.

'Brian, can't you open the fucking door.' she instructed. 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'

And Brian had no choice but to obey, and to be polite for yet another social gathering.

In Time Book Two 13

 And this whining voice! 'Christine, I will see you soon.' Penelope interrupted, almost as if

giving a final instruction, and replaced the receiver before the repetitive mumbling ceased.

'Russell!' exclaimed Brian, as if surprised to see him. 'So glad you came. Wondered what'd

happened to you. We need music this time!'

And Russell gazed curiously at Brian, as he entered, and Brian seemed almost as if nervous,

Penelope thought, as she watched their hand shaking greeting, Brian now wary of Russell staring at

him, as if he, Russell, now knew of a personal secret. And when had been 'last' time? with no music?

They always had music. Hadn't Friedman played last time? Or was that the time before? Even

Thomas the Dick Geoman had tried his hand. Though not very good, it must be said. Wise to stick

to geo .. ology. Wasn't sure if he was even going to be present, tonight, she'd lost count, and caring,

of who received invites.

Penelope smiled vaguely, 'Happy to see you.' She had wanted to add, No spoons left.,

but then she'd never had any proof: Without your sweetness was hardly a confession.

'Been a while.' nodded Russell, as he looked down at the piano, silently fingering keys.

Always better than his. Shame he didn't then have the money to buy that other Yamaha for himself,

at that prenuptial auction, having been outbid by that rock star. 'So who's coming tonight?'

'Some journalist friend of Penelope's.' Brian replied, 'Don't know what his current project

is. Apparently might be interested in some pictures. Taken on your camera?'

'Probably trying to pinch Love Letters.' suggested Penelope, to Russell's bemusement.

And yes, it would be nice to get his camera back.

'Chomiac's your guest.' Brian answered, 'You invited him.'

Penelope looked puzzled. She had?

Some family friction there, tonight, Russell noticed. Not that unusual, nowadays. Be

nice to see Chomiac again though. It had been too long, since their trip to Wales, when he had

been given that Polish guy's name - had it really been Rimsky Korsakov? - and K and the rest

In Time Book Two 14

of the band had played their first foreign gigs in Poznan, before most people (including themselves)

even knew where (and in what country) Poznan was. Merely FODOL, then. It was strange that most

people (well, he had) somehow thought as Poland as South, for when out of inevitable curiosity

he checked the Simone's school atlas Poznan was due East from London, and they were to fly

back due West. That city was definitely colder though, and by several degrees. Yes, somehow

fond memories, although he still remembered that strange sensation of always being watched.

Fortunately that drowning boy incident was now long behind them. Russell had often wondered

if Chomiac still saw Vincent though. Always did seem to spend a long time together.

And Chomiac, remembering the school concert he and Kathy had played with Russell

decades before, still professed an interest in music, despite his inability to play any more, had

apparently (Penelope hearing only snippets of the conversation as she continuously left for the

kitchen to intermittently re-enter the dining room carrying a full silver tray - non of the bastards

ever offered to help her, excepting Russell, whom she insisted stay on his seat, as he had an annoy-

ing habit of attempting to grope her when drunk) asked Russell of his subsequent musical history,

and Russell, always of course, as everyone is, interested in their own subject, their own area of

expertise, had responded with alacrity, with an unusual earnestness for him, Penelope thought,

to the point (but only to Penelope) of tedium. But Brian seemed interested though, she noticed.

'I had one,' Russell was saying, 'who wondered why her voice was not on the tape ..' He

paused, as if for dramatic effect, but realised at once from the bemused expressions that the

guests did not quite understand; for when you bought a CD it was just all there anyway, wasn't

it? All the sounds, the instruments, the voices? Russell realised he would quickly enough lose

their interest, but he couldn't really be bothered to explain, as the moment had passed quickly

enough after all, and to explain where the missing voice had gone would be as if to explain a joke

In Time Book Two 15

after the punch line had been delivered, and to explain the joke and madness of Angel Simone

Fruitcake would take the experience of knowing - if you could, and only if you really wanted

to get inside her mind - Angel Simone Fruitcake (although of course we all meet nutters in our

lives), and especially as Angel Simone Fruitcake

- why do you write such bad things of me am not like that

i know simone but they tell me you must say goodbye soon

hadn't herself apparently even understood;

that you actually had to sing the song itself for the song to be on the record. Basic physics, really.

You didn't need to know anything of Pythagoras to know that. Although to Angel Simone Fruit-

cake Pythagoras might as well have been the name of a band. Russell remembered his own total,

incredulous incomprehension as to her question, But where's the voice?, as he played the back-

ing tape right through, the song he had spent days preparing for the eventual arrival of her voice

(with body), and she had appeared to listen intently, but puzzled, and he also recalled that initial,

dawning, chilling realisation, that this woman was no longer merely probably emotionally disturbed

(that much had been apparent for some time), but quite possibly mad: that she thought her voice

could magically appear on a song without her, the supposed, ambitious (she had earlier claimed,

as the oh so many others had also claimed) singer, actually having sung it struck him as so obviously

crazy, almost as crazy as the bizarre experience that his disappearing father might be there standing

one moment in front of him and then gone forever in the next instant. But yet that incident, that story,

had actually happened.

Russell had liked working with women singers throughout his supposed professional life

after the band had finally disintegrated, but had he made any money out of it, t/his subsequent life,

after all the incurred, accumulated costs? (Fortunately the earlier band cash he had stashed secretly

In Time Book Two 16

away, for Saints are not susceptible to local audits, living as they do globally, - well, eternally, truth

be told.) Because, of course, by definition they were female, and some had been very beautiful, -

and one or two excellent singers, and completely professional in their attitude, but slowly, and

eventually, and finally, he had been worn down by ... but by what? He no longer held any ambitions

himself to be a(ny more a) singer, the band days now long over, knowing that nowadays he was only

good enough for harmonies anyway (well, at least he admitted he had become lazy), but he knew his

songs were as good as anyone else's, - the sales of the band's stuff had proved that, and he was precise

and meticulous (well, M had been) about all the elements of the music; the rhythm, the melodies, the

harmonies, and in the total production of his songs. He knew he could get very good results from the

equipment t/he/y had accumulated over the years, the old Brenell 1 inch tape machine, the 16:8:2

Trident desk from the original studio, all analogue, technically obsolete, vintage, to be now perhaps

even described as antique (for the increase in technical specifications had been so fast as to be

calculated as exponential) but with care the professional sheen could always be obtained. (He'd kept

the equipment after the dis/band - fortunately he hadn't had to reveal the long ago written letter copy-

writing the band's name and possessions to himself - and what address had he used then? - the arch

under Kew Bridge? the day after Simone had made her reappearance, or the day before as Vincent

had punched him when questioning him about what he'd seen of the boy Simon running towards the

river? - so events had unfolded his way after all, with the folded letter remaining eternally sealed).

It was a craft learnt in time, through the many months, years, and now possibly decades of his, no,

fairs fair - their - efforts. But was there a time to leave aspirations behind, when the pointless

enthusiasm exhausts itself? As the two candles upon the tapestry of his Lady were now forever

extinguished?

- she sits with me join us

In Time Book Two 17

 The singers?! Were they all idiots? He had known A Simone F (soon enough to be reduced

to merely A fucking SF) had always been (and what had Simone asked, on her first sighting?

of the fruitcake? That curious statement, or question, - was it, She is my half sister ?)

- did not am not like that

Weird? -

certainly not wired, unless she had previously had electric shock treatment (which might very

well have been a real possibility, he had swiftly enough concluded), but there had been others that

Russell felt had thrown away their chances, due merely to their personalities, or misplaced attitudes,

or from instructions from their boyfriends (who naturally always knew better), or even ignoring

instructions from their family members (as Katherine the First had done of her brother - still

wondered why Chomiac was here tonight); world class singers who would eventually end up ...

but where? And still that sadness lingering, in the truth of his own admission, if only to himself,

that he now no longer cared, as if the papers from a past diary were now discarded and burnt,

and only the cool(ly) detached discoloured fragments remained in the dust of a pub somewhere.

He had cared about Simone, loved her even, offering her a room (with of course free piano lessons),

as she'd said she had been unhappy with those other girls in that flat in Tottenham (and they'd seemed

charming enough to him, with Penelope eventually even marrying Brian - too much of a small world

sometimes!) - and then sorting out a job for her through Brian (having lost her previous job through

bad timekeeping and 'illness' - and he must remember to ask Brian sometime what menial job he'd

found her) but worst of all lending her large amounts of money to clear her situation, whatever it

might have been, as she refused to discuss it, presumably afraid to admit even (he now realised)

to herself her financial (and emotional) ineptitude, but even permanently present in his flat she

couldn't get herself together to record a single track in the four months they were 'living together'.

In Time Book Two 18

Just intermittent fucking, when she wasn't intermittently fucking others. Jesus, did he get that one

wrong. He had always been told he had the patience of a saint, but that was too much. Yes, he had

given up then. Pandora's Box to now remain perpetually open, as evidently Angel Simone Fruitcake's

was to be, too.

- did not grow to be like that why do you write such bad things about me

but you might have done simone had you lived they tell me it s time to say goodbye

Yes, hope or ambition soon enough to become obsolete words, no longer to be even

found in Carol's

- she is the one

borrowed book of Dictionary of Hard Words. Simone had not merely stolen his

time, and his money. But, as he was aware, and as painful as it was to admit it, he had chosen this

life, or the falling coin had chosen it for him, in that time before, as Katherine the First had fallen

away from him, as she moved geographically and consequently, inevitably, emotionally away to

live her life with Smith (who was soon enough to enact his vengeance upon Russell by effecting

his dismissal from college), to much later fall into the grasping, thieving madness of AfuckingSF

Korsakoff. And whereas Katherine had made him in that time before a pin cushion, embroidered

with tiny hand cut hearts, a labour of love in the truest sense of words, Simone Korsakoff had stolen

his possessions,

- am not like that why do you write these bad things about me

and his money, his time, and worse of all, his pride - that he could have got it

all so wrong? That those seven earlier years with Katherine the First had been a complete waste?

Of time? Simone had looked beautiful, that thin fine red hair falling like ... well, spun silk was

no longer the word, as tentacles might now be more appropriate (before they became the vipers

In Time Book Two 19

of Medusa), and her melodic voice (in the rare occasions she chose to sing, even if always in

the wrong time and at the wrong place - as if believing that singing in the street might actually

record the voice unto that long running distant tape) had at the time seemed like bells tinkling.

The siren had sung, and he had drowned. Yes, he had been in love. She had told him of her

abused upbringing, and he had expressed sympathy, and demonstrated compassion, and only later

(for even four months was), much too later - he had realised it might well have all been a fantasy,

a verbal concoction she had probably used to entice men into her nightmare web. She had claimed

sexual abuse from her father, but curiously kept a signed, - inscribed with a request for her to visit

him - copy of his (dirty she had called it) book (and an early photograph of her mother as an older

student surrounded by three other much younger students, one she had called Nadine with obviously

her boyfriend, - with a striking resemblance to his own, younger student self, - and a woman who

looked extraordinarily like Penelope,

- she is not the real one

in her handbag. Russell of course remembered Nadine and

Coralie, and Penelope

- not the real one

(though that name didn't then ring any bells) but not that Simone had been

present at that flat. Russell had believed Simone, wanted to care for her, set her straight for the new

life they were to have together, but he quickly realised, soon enough already too late, after she had

ensconced herself in his beloved house, the one that Katherine the First had even grown up in, that

her stories, - by now so obviously fictional, the sordid squalid details shifting like sinking shit-stained

pebbles upon quicksand, - held no consistency, that her grasp of any basic reality was flawed.

Four months in hell, verbal and physical assaults, coming home after (he called it his social

In Time Book Two 20

work - he didn't need the money) teaching (and she had been, in those much earlier days, such a

good student, that Bach 'a' minor Invention flowing so easily from her deft fingers, and it was a

shame her mother had been so .. self destructive? - besides being just plain rude - thank god he

couldn't remember his own mother's face!) to listen unwontedly to endless telephone conversations

with an agent or a publisher (and it surely wasn't Brian, was it? he would have mentioned it?)

about her book, How To Blackmail Your Lovers! complete with sordid details of her sex life

(which bore no relationship to their own non existent one, it seemed to him - for Simone was

always somewhere else - Probably out to lunch, he had answered to one telephone request.

Did sound like Brian, that one), often returning home after teaching to find complete strangers

in his own bedroom, and soon enough, several thousand pounds down he had been forced to

summon up enough courage (and courage was not a word he had had to search for before,

not even in Carol's

- she is the one

Dictionary of Hard Words being way too advanced, for such simple platitudes)

to utter the words, to insist: That's it. Only four months, but years to recover; the Medusa had

turned his heart to stone.

But that affair (he no longer pretended or attempted to persuade himself that the word

relationship ever had - and never would have - any meaning to Simone, or even that the word

affair could any longer ever hold any romantic resonance for him) held a beneficial consequence,

albeit in the much longer term. The experience had acted as a catalyst - and Russell thought catalyst

was exactly the right word; Simone being unaffected and oblivious to the havoc she wrought around

her - in that she changed the chemical make up of others (certainly his mind was different, he thought -

perhaps even his brian), but she remained her unchanging chaotic self. And subsequently Russell

Stuart's attitude changed, and not merely towards women. There was no point in being nice, he

In Time Book Two 21

realised, when being nice was not being reciprocated. All the women he had met in his life,

and here he vaguely smiled; for there had been a, - more than a few, as he had been 'lucky',

but they all had only their self interest at heart, and that was understandable, but he wondered

if women ever realised how much men did for them. It seemed to him that they seemed oblivious

to any outside world (as Simone obviously was), if it conflicted with their own wishes. There were

some terrible jobs out there, disgusting, dirty jobs men had to do, to keep their women in the comfort

they so desperately desired, and curiously felt that in some way was obligated to them. He himself

had done some unpleasant work, in the dark distant days before he became a music and philosophy

student. Being a tyre builder at Firestones (for some curious reason he had wanted to emulate his

imagined memory of his long disappeared father, as if seeking an obscure filial connection in

retreading the same footsteps, and tyres) held no financial compensations (and that job had been

extremely well paid) when one stunk of hot rubber at the end of a shift. No, being nice was point-

less. If he put his music teacher hat on, he had so many passes in oh so many instruments, making

him a unique individual (and that excluded the years before band days), and it had been pleasing

to appear on television (yet again - at least he deigned to talk and give an interview this time), to

make the front page of a newspaper (yet again - ageing not so badly then after all), but the euphoria

faded quickly enough (even after meeting some of the women that had written to him, writing

that they had remembered him - he felt somewhat guilty having Indexed them, even if only within

Love Letters), and ultimately, financially there was little difference. Curiously someone wrote to

him after his television appearance, claiming an affinity, that she had somehow known him before,

a Christine (the name of whom brought back unpleasant memories) enquiring as to how much

Russell charged for .. and here he wasn't sure if he'd read liaisons, but decided she probably meant

music lessons, - but unfortunately the address was on the other side of London, coincidentally very

near where he and then college girlfriend Naddy had lived as students.

The mothers of students paid him no more respect (especially of course by those that

In Time Book Two 22

had not seen or read the news) and this indifference exasperated and irritated Russell; his abilities

were not being appreciated, recognised, or adequately financially rewarded, even by those who

knew what he was capable of. It was as if, for some parents, he thought sourly, as if he could taste

his own displeasure (and the colour of the taste of burnt champagne was citrus yellow), that 'music'

was some sort of pill you took, and from which you were rewarded by being able to play a tune.

And also, soon enough becoming familiar as an reliable apparition somehow magically appearing

every week, the parents seemed comfortable enough to treat him as a piece of furniture, that might

be moved around from room to room from one week to the next.

Eventually, inevitably, there came a time to put the neurotic, ridiculously overly ambitious

middle class mothers behind him. It was curious to him how mothers (since women seemed primarily

to be in charge of organising the/ir child's music tuition) equated their own offspring's ability with

a (the latest) famous child prodigy, as if completely unaware of the role of chance (let alone ability)

played in that infant's ascent to public recognition. How long had he been teaching? It seemed, and

it had been, forever. He couldn't get better, only attain more passes - but the colour of the paper

certificates was always the same, as the colour of the dated days of a diary were always the same,

and after the success of Catherine (and that, of course, was a very different kind of success), there

was no point in attempting.

Russell had then tried performing again, but that was now like too much hard work for too

little money, even though the money, in real terms, was much more; and it was as if he were somehow

reluctant to feed off the carcass of his earlier fame. He was glad he had done it of course, touring

Europe immediately after college with their band, something every musician should do, when they

are young, to explore FODOL. Even if in his case he was merely attempting to escape the then very

recent memories of Nadine. But still, he would always have the memories of those days, of K and M

and G, of Poland, in later days of other continents, to even meet again Rhia

- she is the one

In Time Book Two 23

 again, in Australia, -

not all particularly pleasant memories (excepting that unexpected but passionate tryst),

- she is the one

but at least

t/he/y had done it. And (he at least had) stashed the record royalties secretly away. How many others

could say the same? All talk, and no action. At least t/he/y had bought, and worn, the T shirt: Ben

there, John Dunne that.

And t/he/y had then attempted (further? more?) song writing and running the/ir garage built

recording studio as a commercial venture. The/ir albums were out there, somewhere. As Katherine

the First's songs were. Probably more people now heard them free on the Wibberly Wobberly Web

than they were ever paid for in radio plays. But at least those radio plays made enough money to

justify the cost, in his - their - labour(s) of love, in their production. T/He/y had at least done it.

And just (about) in (the right) time. He often wondered how the others had spent their money - G's

choice was obvious; alcohol, and probably M had spent too much on that too big, never finished

house (perhaps Looks Like Simone's

- she is not me

Ange was too demanding), and K? ..

The guests had long before moved on to another topic of conversation, initially puzzled

by Russell petering out into silence, but filling the silence quickly enough, Chomiac exclaiming,

'But all the journalists I know have their heads stuck up their own arses!' almost with a sense of

indignation, that his own attempts at grasping this precious and fragile grail of truth was being

corrupted by others, as if a virgin might be raped by the illogical masses, the crowds, and clouds

of delusion. It was a curious comment, thought Penelope, having known him for so long - perhaps

he was finally developing a sense of self awareness.

In Time Book Two 24

 'The other journalists then?' she inflected, but Chomiac merely nodded an acknowledge-

ment of hearing words.

Brian had his own doubts about the way the BBC had seemingly actively embraced the

notion of Global Warming, and Climate Change, almost if now those words were accepted

by journalists as a religion (and wasn't the BBC supposed to be impartial?), whereas, as one of

his Potentials had earlier mentioned (and hadn't it been Thomas the Dick, the geo man? Could

have been Smith, though - seemed to know a lot about astronomy, and about the telescope in their

bedroom closet, which was very strange coincidence, that it was the same make as the one that he,

Smith, had owned at school, - which surely must have been decades before!? - but apparently Penelope

had left the tripod in the front room, after returning the telescope to their closet - Brian had wondered

at its sudden apparition, and at the fact he couldn't remember looking through any lens that night),

from what he could remember, when talking about the size and age of the planet, it wasn't getting

any nearer the sun, same distance as always, ninety three million miles. Always had been, for four

billion years or so. Brian remembered Thomas's (or Smith's) precision, in numbers; that 'perihelion'

(an unknown word which t/he/y had explained was the earth's closeness to sun) varied throughout the

year, and Penny had asked, Every year? and Smith ( - yes, it must have been Smith, as Penny was

soon enough to leave, to go off to the hospital, to see that sodding pop star, and Thomas the geo .. man

was here tonight, - didn't really remember meeting him before) had smiled, quizzically answering,

It will get back to January in nineteen to twenty five thousand years. And Brian had realised, to

interject, almost pleased with his own cleverness - Depending on where the other planets are?! -

and Smith had smiled again, cigarette again in hand now that disapproving Penelope had gone,

agreeing, From a near circular orbit to an ellipsoidal. There was a blank look from the other

guests present (and that might have been the last time he'd seen Korsakoff, - definitely the last

time he ever saw his wife, Coralie), but Smith had continued relentless in his enthusiasm, which

was infectiously youthful, for someone so physically .. perhaps that was the attraction, for the

In Time Book Two 25

infeasibly young wife. There's also a wobble, as we're at an angle, and over forty one thousand

years we wobble between twenty two degrees and nought minutes and twenty four degrees and six

minutes ..

And, Brian wondered, his own thoughts now wobbling, - perhaps all dinner parties were

the same, just slightly different versions of pictures in his brian - brain! - at different times, - now

remembered a(nother) dinner party, in a(nother) different time, a different guest, but almost the

same topic:

.. which is why we get these meltdowns every one hundred thousand years or so.

Meltdowns? Penny had asked, as if earnestly worried the planet might suddenly overheat.

And in minutes, it seemed.

Thomas corrected himself, Sorry, I meant meltoffs. Where vast ice sheets of fresh water

melt, to lie on top of salt water. That can be dangerous, cooling the gulf stream.

Are we dooomed? asked Brian, imitating a Scottish accent, and Thomas had laughed.

So the climate changers are right? suggested Penelope.

No. Thomas had abruptly dismissed, These are vast forces, and vast unimaginable time

is involved. Evolved, you could say. We call it, 'Deep Time.' And the We had been delivered

with a strange smile, as if there was a special group, in the know, which, Brian thought, was probably

true. Although knowledge was not necessarily comprehension. Could he imagine one hundred thousand

years? Let alone two hundred million? No, just numbers. All the fuss in the newspapers about climate

change - he knew it was bullshit; for he remembered that twenty or so odd years ago the fad was for,

The Next Ice Age, and thirty years ago (- and was this in New Scientist? surely they should have

known better?), he had seen written - In Thirty Years Fusion Technology To Give Free Electricity.

As if the capital letters emphasised truth. Though that may well have been a tabloid headline, for

all the truth in it; it hadn't married up to what had happened in the real world, as over the decades

his bills kept rising, almost exponentially, it seemed. And politicians claiming that a tipping point

In Time Book Two 26

is fifteen years away. (on a November 15th ? - Brian had asked, wondering where he had seen or

heard that date before) whereas one hundred and thirty three thousand years, and two days. might

be as good a guess as anything. Or anybodies. We're like children pulling the legs off ants, he thought,

unaware that parent planet can slap us down any time it wants. Shame Smith wasn't here tonight. He

definitely had something. Verbosity? Or Thomas the Dick geo .. man. A journalist and two scientists

in the same room, disagreeing of course, would be like three bickering economists - for there was no

absolute truth, but surely he could knock their heads together? Maybe he should look at that manuscript

of Thomas's again, if he could but find it: .. but here, now, Chomiac was continuing, and with some

enthusiasm Brian thought, considering he was disparaging his own profession, 'All they can do is

use words, juggle them about, toss them into a gossip column, they have no deeper sense of what's

happening - they just respond to the flavour of the moment!'

'Well, you report the news don't you?' Penelope quickly replied. She couldn't see what he

was getting at. He annoyed her when he adopted this tone, this implicit assumption of knowing

better than anyone else present, his arrogance, especially as Russell was still stuck in his curious

silent mode, not now bothering, not attempting to join in the conversation at all. God, that was

irritating too!

'Well look at that pill scandal!' Chomiac continued earnestly, lurching abruptly to a new

topic. 'The way the papers always scream The Pill Can Kill!! No it doesn't! There's always a

risk, of course, a very small risk, that a particular woman, a person - for women are people too

right!' (oh yes, always the heavy irony, thought Penelope) '- might react adversely to any drug,

and that it might kill someone, that particular person, but it's a minute risk compared to the

dangers of becoming pregnant, - '

Penelope interjected, for what was the danger in being pregnant? (And he hadn't, after

all, given a damn about the risk of a pregnancy to her years before), 'Do you know the figures?'

she asked. And she knew at once she had made a mistake - for of course Chomiac knew the figures

In Time Book Two 27

(for he had always counted the pennies out aloud in the days when he had known her, making

her pay for those fines - and in money -), and wouldn't have entered into any conversation regarding

numerals unless he was sure of his numbers from some survey, the conclusions of which were probably

published in the copy of New Scientist he'd brought with him (and even Brian subscribed to that mag

now, - what was going on? A very belated onset of The Age of Reason?). And now he would probably

pretend he wasn't sure; it was almost as if he had deliberately led her into a trap.

'Well I don't recall the exact figures,' Chomiac began (so she was right!) curiously staring

at Penelope, Brian noticed, as if there was some secret message there, 'for there are no exact figures,

but I remember reasing that from every two deaths per million from the pill, it's probably sixty

deaths from pregnancy complications. Of course, - '

Penelope winched. Of course. There was that sodding Of course again.

' - you can never be exact; you can never tell

which two in a million, or it could be four, or it could be seventy deaths, a hundred, or even only

fifty, but that's not I'm getting at - what I'm saying is that journalists only respond to what's happening,

whatever, they have no deeper understanding, or comprehension of what's happening, they only react,

to immediate events, because they have to fill time, and space on a TV or on a screen, or in a news-

paper, not even having to deliberately disseminate misinformation, as people believe it, and it becomes

a fact, a reality, just because it's on the box or in a paper, that it has a tangible reality, but to me it's

only fixed words, an opinion fixed in ink! Or in colour!'

Russell was staring at Chomiac with this strange expression, this mixture of not quite

amazement, not quite admiration, not quite of remembrance; the flowing blond hair long gone,

replaced by those absurd wisps of a beard, the piano playing days long over, t/his obvious disdain,

t/his affected despair at t/his forced subsequent occupation, but it was apparent to Russell that Rollo

Chomiac had finally found his niche in life. It was a shame that Katherine wasn't here to see it.

- join us

In Time Book Two 28

 i can t simone they tell me it s time for you to say goodbye

Penelope remained silent. She wanted to abruptly change the subject. She was aware that

Russell was still sitting there in his stubborn silence, staring at Chomiac with this weird expression

on his face (she hadn't seen that one before!), refusing now to seemingly respond or engage in any

conversation, - Chomiac always seemed to delight in antagonising others, as a matter of course,

as if delighting in playing the Devil's Advocate, but never realising his own extremes. She was fairly

sure Russell and Chomiac had never met before (they did seem so very different), although Russell

had claimed they had known each other from school days and had actually been on holiday together

once, with a muso school friend, and a mad painter, who went on to become a policeman. She was

sure he was making that up. He had also once actually said he'd married Chomiac's sister, but that

she'd died, with her daughter, in a horrific car crash, drowning in the river, which was bonkers - she

was sure Chomiac's sister had married an old teacher of hers, - hadn't they been that couple who'd

come round once? He, too old, she, too beautiful? And too young. And anyway, she would have

heard about any tragedy from Chomiac. He was very strange at times, was Russell.

There was a convenient pause, and she was about to ask Russell to play for them, but now

Brian had already continued, asking, remembering Thomas Richard the Geo man's words, 'So what

do you think of global warming?'

Chomiac smiled. 'Don't get me started!'

Enough. 'We won't.' interjected Penelope. 'Time for coffee, I think.'

'Ah, yes.' murmured Russell, standing, perhaps in anticipation of two sweeter tasting

fluted morsels, 'I'll give you a hand.'

Penelope rose to go to the kitchen, and gestured towards Russell with a gently undulating

finger, warning him.

Upon their return, silver plates laden, Madeleine cakes also provided, somehow the topic

of conversation had moved on to her visiting Saint in hospital. Perhaps inevitable, she supposed,

In Time Book Two 29

now that Brian knew. Of the stories. But hopefully not of Chomiac taking her there, that night.

Or of her selling those pictures for Chomiac to use, now a done deal. Perhaps Brian in his irritation

had mentioned something when she had been in the kitchen. Well, it was not as if t/his body in a

hospital was her property (only the photographs were - well had been), but she wasn't going to be

upstaged, by an ex or otherwise.

'Yes, I am.' she admitted. 'He's given me some stories to edit.'

'Really?' asked Chomiac, puzzled and a little too enthusiastic, in pretending ignorance of

her association. 'You didn't mention that.' (to Brian's curious stare.) 'Tell us more.'

Brian's finger was beginning to tap the table, as if waiting for an explanation, 'Yes, pray do,

tell us more. Please do.' as if still irritated at their earlier, unfinished argument; tap tap tap tap tap tap -

but Penelope stopped him finishing, interrupting, 'He's actually an OK person, not like the image you

see. Although he does actually look like ... a Saint. Well one half of his face does. Horrific car crash.'

'Ah .. Janus.' Chomiac nodded, adding, 'I've heard.' (Although in truth he only recalled the

photographs showing one side of the Saint's head.) 'Lucky to be alive.'

'Janus?' Penelope asked, puzzled, before continuing, 'But very articulate. Surprising, really.

When he's not just gazing into space. That's the thing that disconcerts me most,' she continued,

'is the way he seems to be .. half there or not there. It's like, he seems to be listening, even when

asleep, but when his eyes are open he's watching from a vast distance, eyes darting like laser beams,

soaking it all in, like this vast sponge, but not ..' She was finding it difficult to speak her thoughts,

not merely because she was trying to articulate what was to her an abstract idea, and not even

wary of embarrassing herself (for wasn't she after all, a people person?), but because she was

speaking in a small group, and she could see that Brian was still glaring with a subdued anger

at her; '.. I don't know, .. not reacting to anything.'

'Not two faced then?' implied Chomiac, smiling, she thought, too smugly, with an irritating,

inscrutably blank face. Penelope looked at him, expecting an explanation as to his strange pronounce-

In Time Book Two 30

ments, as she leant forward to offer again the plate of cakes, but Russell had deigned to finally rejoin

the conversation after his long trance, and, tasting a cake, to murmur,

'Very nice.' And was already agreeing with Chomiac, 'Yes, I get that too.' he said, as if to

appease, diffuse this strange tension in the air between all these now strangers tonight, 'But don't

worry about it - that's probably just the way Saint is.'

Penelope stood still, silver food tray in one hand, the offered, as yet untaken plate in the

other, noticing that Brian too had looked at Russell curiously. Get that too.? Now even the local

muso was on first name terms with this hospitalised pop star? Double U, Tee, Feff - WTF? What

the fuck? Penelope stared at Russell for a long time, and the seconds lengthened, with a strange

incredulity at the impossible coincidence, and only turned away when Chomiac asked, 'You say

he's writing from his bed?'

'I'm not sure I did, but yes,' replied Penelope, 'and it's not a part of the therapy, - '

Now Brian turned to look at her sharply. Therapy? Not part of the therapy? Now she's

this muso's shrink? Therapy? What the fuck did Penelope know about therapy?! And why was

Chomiac now smiling wryly?

' - that's

why I can talk about it. And he doesn't seem to mind anyone reading his stuff.' After all, she thought,

he had written those stories for her, for her own amusement, even if Brian couldn't be arsed to read

them. Chomiac turned to Brian, wine glass in hand, as Penelope finally laid his cake plate before him.

'You must have read something then. Any good?'

Ever the professional, she thought sourly, touting for business. Did he really think he could

poach Saint's stories for himself? Photographs yes, stories no. And maybe he should give her a better

offer, next time, - for apparently he had sold those pictures on (Chomiac had informed her at that caf

meeting) for three times what he'd given Penelope, so they hadn't appeared in his broadsheet (which

she thought would have at least given her some artistic, journalistic credibility), but in some trashy

In Time Book Two 31

pulp pop fiction magazine.

'Complete drivel.' said Brian.

'Oh, they're not that bad!' interjected Penelope, with a sudden air of incredulity, that her

husband was insulting Saint, for, after all, Brian had not actually having read anything of his,

not even Love Letters, which he had dismissed out of hand having thought it was written by Russell -

(and hadn't he only an hour or so before chastised her over not telling him about that story?!) - but

Brian insistently cut her short, 'No, no, I'm only reading them out of politeness, for you, darling.'

he continued to pretend, leaning across to touch her, as if a touch would now convince her of his

sincerity, and of his truth - words in complete contrast to what he'd said earlier - oh no, she wouldn't

fall for that. 'And of course,' he added, now with that knowing look, with perhaps a hint of sarcasm,

'because that Saint Man is so famous.'

But she did not wonder why Brian was now trashing 'Russell's' or 'Saint's' unread stories,

as Chomiac had guessed too, confirming her thoughts, 'So there's nothing publishable, Brian? A

pity; someone so famous, and a recent horrendous car crash survivor to boot, found unconscious,

nearly drowned in the Thames by Kew Bridge, at death's door, but stone cold sober, sitting alone

in the passenger seat, and apparently, from what Vincent has told me, clutching a coin. He said

his last words were (and here he looked very strangely at Russell, Penelope thought), Tell

Kathy I love her .. before being shipped - and please excuse the pun - away to the ambulance.

He must have quite an interesting story to tell. If only as to whom was driving, for starters.'

'Oh, he said it was Simone,' she dismissed,

- did not die like that

no but you are dead simone and they tell me you must say goodbye

as if that explained anything. She noticed

their quizzical faces, excepting Russell's, who'd began to look curiously introspective again (these

In Time Book Two 32

lapses were becoming ever more normal, and not that unusual nowadays, she thought), to continue,

'But these are purely fictional stories, not - '

'Nothing publishable, I'm afraid, Rollo.' cut in Brian again, now even more curtly, increasingly

irritated at Penelope. Couldn't she take a hint? Professionally she was giving far too much away.

And he was, even if he hadn't read the damn things, an - the agent.

'That's a pity.' said Chomiac, smiling wryly, knowing why Brian was so transparent in his

lying (for he rarely - couldn't even remember him ever - used his Christian name, and he easily

guessed the angle Brian was playing. But Chomiac couldn't believe that evidently Penelope didn't

know, to be so effusive. And Brian was flicking his fingers again, always a give-away sign, he knew,

of hidden thought. As it had been in the days when they'd sat in the pub, and Chomiac had received

that call from Vincent, Brian arhythmically tapping on the table as if debating whether to ask him-

self along (he had), with the result that he'd met Penelope that night in a police station. Chomiac

occasionally wondered if Brian had any regrets, of subsequent events, but amused himself with the

thought that perhaps Brian was into handcuffs (Well he was. Had been, then - borrowed them from

Vincent). But Chomiac was now thinking how would Brian (or Penelope) get Saint's permission

to publish any writings? Surely Penelope would most likely know the answer to that? Seemingly

still seeing him? He had only paid her for those earlier photographs. But there might be more

in this story. And Russell knew him too? That was a bit strange; small world of muso's and all

that (though Chomiac thought Saint'd been out of that game for a long time now, as he himself

had been forcibly retired) .. but didn't realise Russell'd, - must've done so well, since those far

off school days, to associate with Saint. They did look very similar though - almost as if identical

twins - maybe it was just a myth that only opposites attract. Couldn't remember the songs really,

though apparently they'd sold well. His own tastes were always more Classical. Or Romantic.

Liked his sister's songs better (of course), the ones she wrote for him, and recorded with Saint;

# See The Burning Lights # and what was the other? # Ocean Waves #? Pity he didn't get a chance

In Time Book Two 33

to play on them - all done and dusted by the time he'd shown up. But Chomiac didn't pursue his

line of questioning about Saint's stories (? - how many were there?) realising he could always play

the long game - there's always tomorrow. And he still had his own book (although admittedly never

quite finished, - well, you can't finish a book with nothing actually 'solved', can you), Unsolved

to promote, though he still hadn't decided whether to use an exclamation mark in its title.

Brian looked at Russell, deciding that it was after all possible that one muso could know

another, because curiously enough that Elgar man, Freedman? No, Friedman (he'd been a bit

pedantic about it, Brian had thought at the time) had even known of Russell. Been his lecturer in

fact, during college days. Still puzzling though. And Smith, the one with the infeasibly young,

and far too beautiful wife, Katherine, had said Russell had been some sort of astronomy student

at school. Didn't even realise they taught astronomy. Different world, from when he was young.

They all sounded like characters from a book. Perhaps it was the one this Saint man was writing.

He asked Russell, strangely inflecting the question, 'Didn't you teach him, this Saint man then,

some time ago? You do seem to have met so many people.'

Russell nodded. 'Yes, I did. A long, long time ago, though. Although it's funny you should

mention it, since his first girlfriend, Simone,' - the others smiled politely, but puzzled at

Russell's curiously ambiguous inflection, not realising he was attempting to mimic Brian's

Saint man, - 'spoke to me a couple of days ago. Very strange. I've been invited to go to his

house to pick up a painting.'

'His first girlfriend?' asked Brian.

There was a momentary pause. 'Simone Korsakoff?' asked Penelope.

Brian coughed as Russell looked surprised. 'Yes, that's the girl.'

'Have you met, seen her ..' Chomiac asked, with a curious blankness, '.. recently?'

'Simone Korsakoff? Not .. for a while - just a voice .. on the phone. Or sometimes

passing through my thoughts. You must remember her, from school?'

In Time Book Two 34

 Penelope and Brian looked at Chomiac for an explanation, that Russell and Chomiac

had indeed known each other since school days? - but none was forthcoming, with Chomiac

actually seeming to pause, to stare at Russell. Well, it took a lot to silence him, Penelope thought,

so that was one for the book. Yes, that forever Unfinished one. But then, Chomiac asked, 'So our

Katherine was your second girlfriend?'

- she sits with me join us

i can t simone

And now it was Russell's turn to stare at Chomiac, as if slowly remembering that they had

played together, once, in earlier days, and that Katherine had sang with them too, but that they had

not won, that year. He mumbled, as if in sullen acceptance, 'Katherine's dead, isn't she?' And to

Penelope Chomiac actually seemed to pause, as if a video frame had frozen in time, as if to decide, -

to nod or shake, to affirm or deny, to say Yes. and not No., for the coin to fall Obverse and not

Reverse, - before reluctantly but silently nodding.

The table fell silent. It was always the quiet ones you had to watch, thought Brian.

Fortunately, evidently, still didn't know that Simone was living with him.

- not me am not like that why do you write things of me like that

Still, he'd never wondered whoever she was, had been, in that life before him. Just as well;

girls normally considered it polite you know you're going out, or living with them. And Russell had

seemed unusually reticent this evening, drifting into his ever more common silences. And now a

dead Katherine? Then, gently probing, 'We've been having this conversation about this pop star

tonight,' mused Brian, 'and you're keeping very quiet about knowing .. a saint.'

'You're talking about his stories? I've never read anything of his, so I've no opinion.'

'Ah ...'

'So what is this picture?' asked Chomiac.

'A copy of a Waterhouse, The Lady Of Shalott.'

In Time Book Two 35

 'Ah, the Tennyson interpretation.' smiled Chomiac, knowing. 'Nino - '

'You said - ' Penelope interrupted, all this knowledgeable pretension being just too much,

' - you are going in the next few days?'

'Well, tomorrow actually. I'm returning,' (returning? he thought, - wrong word there)

'no, going to his house tomorrow.'

Now there was this continuous silence. Disbelief in this coincidence that tonight, of all

nights, of all those times, when Russell had been in this house, and that had been oh so many times

throughout the years, that yes, tonight? of all nights? when some pop star called Saint was the topic

of conversation, that Russell Stuart was going to his house tomorrow, with a first girlfriend called

Simone Korsakoff (to Chomiac's evident disbelief) to collect a Waterhouse. No, Brian didn't believe

it either; Simone would have surely mentioned it. 'Is she taking you in a Aston Martin DB4?' he asked.

Russell smiled faintly then puzzlingly shook his head, wondering how Brian would know of the kit

cars they had made together as children.

And Penelope also couldn't believe it, repeating inanely, 'Tomorrow? You're going to

Saint's house? Tomorrow?' She hadn't even known that Russell knew Saint. She had already

known Russell had given him a piano lesson or something, but that was years ago. Seven? He

had only mentioned it once in passing, and always seemed irritated if it was mentioned by others

as an opening conversational gambit at one of their party's, saying We've split now., as if they'd

even been a part of a band. Still, Russell was prone to making these elliptical comments, at least

a redeeming part of his fading charm. And now he was saying, I get that too. As if there was

some familiarity there. And she had only been trying to draw him into the conversation after all.

She repeated, idiotically, 'Tomorrow?'

Russell too looked bemused. He had also been puzzled when, - as he was later to remember

the first girlfriend's surname (for Simone was still only a girl when he had known her, and surnames

are an irrelevance in childhood, although he remembered he had laughingly made an attempt to

In Time Book Two 36

spell, Courseofnot!) - Simone had contacted him, and he had given her those strange instructions,

to first steal that oboe,

- did not you stole it not me am not like that

and then later that same voice on a telephone, to collect the offer of a gift

of that Waterhouse tapestry copy he had so admired, but the caveat was that he must pick it up

within the next couple of days. He was even more surprised when he was told where the keys

were hidden, under the model of the buried Aston Martin DB4 they had made as children (and he

was amazed she had remembered that), but if not found then break a back window. That part he

didn't believe. Russell had thought it probably a hoax, but he had been given the correct address,

not that he needed reminding, of Katherine the First's house by the river. But Simone's voice had

mentioned pertinent details about that meeting so long ago (of the Bach Invention, of his attempts

to copy, despite the distraction of irritating faintly tinkling bells, Carol's

- she is the one

Chinese calligraphy,

of his interest in the small hearts of the pin cushion) which only Saint and he could have known.

And now Penelope was all excited. Fame had that effect on people. Russell began to try to explain,

more to Chomiac than anyone else (for the others must surely be bored by now, already knowing

of the constantly repeated story), 'Yes, I gave him a piano lesson once, a long time ago. Well ..'

he nodded appeasingly towards Brian and Penelope, 'as you know of course. I just mentioned I

liked a picture.'

'Yes, really?' asked Chomiac, as if making mental notes, thought Brian sourly, and was

interested in collecting ever more details, for the story he was (n)ever going to write. Perhaps

he should have taken that book, Unsolved, though yes, it might have needed a more exciting

ending, with a solved crime.

In Time Book Two 37

 Russell shrugged. 'Well it was such a long time ago. I'm surprised he remembered me.'

Penelope laughed, 'Oh but Russell, you're so unforgettable!' Russell didn't know what

to make of this, but Penelope was already continuing, such was her enthusiasm, 'What picture

did you say?'

'The Lady Of Shalott.'

'Elaine of Astolat.' Began Chomiac. 'Tennyson - '

'Astrolabe?' queried Brian, wondering where he had heard that word before. Smith .. sonium?

Chomiac attempted to explain, 'No - ' only to be interrupted once again by Penelope, 'I do

know that picture! It's in the Tate.' She thought for a moment, 'But it's massive .. '

Russell nodded, but not that big, just bigger in imagination.

'I'll come and give you a hand picking it up.'

'Um ..' Russell thought it would be bad manners, well, unacceptable really, to take a

stranger into someone else's house. Although, of course, he himself, if truth be told, was also a

stranger. Penelope sensed his hesitation, 'Oh, I know you won't believe this, but I see Saint not ...

everyday but often. He's still in hospital, as you know.'

Russell knew this to be true, having read - well seen the pictures in (a) some(how) inappropriate

trashy magazine (and she still not having, even despite a telephone request, - although Brian might

have forgotten to pass on the message - he did get mentally abstracted sometimes, returned his

camera - he bet his pictures weren't on it now), but he couldn't see Penelope's connection. Penelope

curiously lowered her voice, conspiratorially, 'I'm trying to get him to write something for Brian.'

This also sounded true, especially as Brian did not smile, just tapped his fingers slower then

normal. It seemed that Penelope was still giving away too much information after all. 'And I've never

met Simone.'

Well, neither had he, and for so long.

- join us they sit with me

In Time Book Two 38

 i can t simone

'Oh you might have.' corrected Brian. 'I think Russell and Simone came round for dinner

once.' And Penelope looked at him, wondering how he would remember this one particular girl,

after so many dinners she had organised, slaved over, for too long.

But Russell was lost in thoughts again, neither confirming or denying Simone's existence;

perhaps it had been a hoax after all, and he didn't want to get done for breaking and entering,

especially as the keys might not be where the infeasibly youthful voice had told him. But Penelope

might be able to talk her way out of it, should an adverse situation arise; Vincent always had a

soft spot for the ladies, though apparently without much, if any, success, as it appeared to Russell

that Rollo was more to his taste. Even they'd known each other from those long lost UFOSC days.

And his - Saint's - Lady had been a tapestry - might be heavy.

'OK.' he agreed, still reluctantly, as if there were no escape. 'Tomorrow?'

'Yes!' She still sounded just a little too enthusiastic.

He hinted, 'No camera's though.'

She faked mock shock. 'Of course not! I'm doing this as a favour to you.'

A favour to him. Somehow Russell couldn't believe this; always, with Penelope, there lay

another hidden motive somewhere - if nothing else, he had learnt that much about her, over the

years. Now this strange insistence of rather unnecessary help. He just couldn't quite put his finger

on it. And she still, unbelievably, hadn't taken the many earlier hints, so, 'When can I have my camera

back?' he asked.

'Camera?' Penelope touched her lips, pursing them almost as if in guilt, at having completely

forgotten about it. After all, what with all the recent excitement, it had seemed a long time ago. 'Gosh,

of course. It's upstairs.'

'Love Letters?' asked Brian, looking at Russell, as if still not quite believing.

'Um ..' Russell mumbled, puzzled. 'I don't think I'm going out with anyone at the moment.'

In Time Book Two 39

 'Now in a safe place.' answered Penelope, her smile fading.

Russell and Chomiac looked quizzically at each other.

'Trouble in paradise.' Chomiac suggested. 'Or is it Paradise Lost?'

Another dank day, drizzle of rain, as they made their way across London. Too many people,

Russell thought, on the streets, on the buses, on the tube, and he sitting in silence, trying to maintain

an equilibrium, wondering why he was there, why Penelope was with him, to then arrive at this

historic place.

'I need to check the address first.' he gestured to Penelope, after their arrival, for Russell had

looked in the garden and although the ground was somehow familiar he couldn't see any plastic

model cars, or find any Obverse coins (though the decades of mud must have buried them deeper), to

then wander off around the back of the building, to shortly return, 'Yes this is the right one.' for Russell

to knock, to find that the front door had been left unlocked. They entered, both slightly in awe, as if the

presence of a Saint might still be present, as if dead kings might still live in cathedrals.

And it was the picture - Russell's picture of a woman in the distance, but now with face

cropped, macabrely twisted, more Bacon than Waterhouse, one of the images she had seen (but

not - she couldn't remember - downloaded?) on Russell's camera. She was sure of it. But enormous;

a simple passport (?) photograph snapshot expanded to, something like, she guessed, six and a half

feet by five feet, now framed and filling the wall. But how could he have? Saint had claimed he

didn't know what she looked like, or even where she was, when she had shown him the photo only

a few days ago. A few days? Ago? It was curious, but she had no recollection of showing Saint this

picture taken by Russell. She was sure she hadn't even printed it out, and yet now she was somehow

convinced she had shown this image to Saint. 'Who is it? she asked, but Russell too stood staring,

as if puzzled by his own non recognition - it certainly wasn't his Lady in waiting. What was this

obsession? In only a few days (? for how would she know how long now, she wondered) he had

In Time Book Two 40

had some acolyte, probably the absurdly named Simone Korsakoff), replace this picture with this

unfocused monstrosity. It was blurred, now fractured into a myriad of minute splinters, having been

so digitally enlarged, just blocks and shards of reddish gray really, - it could have been of anyone

of any age. But perhaps she was just anyone. But that wasn't likely was it.

Russell was still staring, apparently still transfixed. Almost as if in shock. Penelope asked,

suddenly, 'Do you still see Katherine?'

Russell stepped closer to the picture, still puzzled. It was, of course, not Simone, long dead

now, although there was a faint remembrance, as if of a watercolour seeping through paper, these

faint outlines forming, red to yellow to orange to green (and Penelope was sure he was

humming a childlike tune, somehow familiar), and the colours foaming were of Katherine's

house. But how could this image be of Katherine? 'Her?' he asked, pointing.

Penelope laughed, seemingly almost relieved, 'Oh no! That's .. - ' but she trailed off,

for she could only guess at a(ny) possible name, '.. oh no, not her.'

Russell turned to look down at t/his already carefully rolled and wrapped tapestry upon

the floor. Such generosity from a pop star who he had only met for a short time a long while ago.

And how long now, seven years? And he had been given the keys. But not found under a model

toy car buried somewhere in the front garden, as informed. Although there seemed to be an

abandoned car on the bank of the river opposite; same, same, but different; a bigger model. As

had their coin lain undisturbed under mud for many decades. Of a millionaire's house. And then

Penelope had insisted on coming with him, as if she knew Saint. Well she said she did. It was like

some crazy sort of test. 'Exactly how is it you know Saint?' he asked, a faked neutrality, his voice

strangely flat.

'I told you yesterday - funnily enough I'm due to see him again in hospital very soon. There

was a serious car crash you know.' Penelope pointed as if through the wall. 'Funnily enough right

opposite. Did you see those collapsed bricks?' Russell nodded, still distracted, staring at this image.

In Time Book Two 41

He had known that much from the dinner party long ago, where Penelope had borrowed his (as yet -

and even today - still unreturned) camera (should he ask her yet again?), but that still didn't answer,

how? exactly. Were they friends? Before? She claimed last night to be Saint's shrink, which was

frankly ridiculous, as he thought Penelope lacked the .. - what was the word? - introspection?

required.

Russell was still staring at this blown up photograph on the wall. He of course recognised

the frame; it originally held the Lady Of Shalott. Why would Saint replace that beautiful (and even

if only a copy, Priceless) tapestry with ... and it wasn't even in focus, this picture he had

taken (and how did Saint get a copy of it, since it was hidden within Russell's borrowed

camera? - and yes, he would insist Penelope sodding return it soon enough!) of, and, curiously,

it did look a little like Simone from a distance, or Katherine even, if they were now middle aged

women, had they lived. A picture of the past, just younger. It was only his failed attempt at a memory,

but Russell realised with a start that the face, had it been untwisted, was very similar to his Lady of

the tapestry, excepting, of course, that this face was not coloured, but still not quite a black and white

or grey scale photograph. Yes, this face was much younger, and looked very much alive. A real person.

The original canvas must surely be more than a hundred years old. Even the imagined girl was now a

long time dead. In real time. He wasn't sure of the story, or the poem, of the Lady Of Shalott, excepting

that of course it was by Tennyson, as mentioned by Chomiac, and only the night before (which was

strange, wasn't it?), Chomiac declaring, almost declaiming in his now curious 'intellectual' fashion

(how he had changed since those early school days - more rocks and rowing then!), that he was not

a fan of that style of poetry, but that she, Elaine of Astolat, had died, drowning in water somewhere,

cursed by turning away from the mirror to look at the real world.

- face in mirror

and you must say goodbye

A love lost, and drowned? A prosaic death, Chomiac had continued, tongue now evidently

In Time Book Two 42

loosened by the journalist's curse, whereas his own sister's, Kathy's, death was more tragic,

even if merely a crashed car found overturned in the river, and not an Elaine died of a broken

heart, declining in a beautiful boat, no, Chomiac had muttered, yes, more tragic, because of course

his sister's daughter had also died in the same accident. Chomiac had been staring at Russell

throughout this diatribe, but Russell's only response was, to Penelope and Brian's bemusement,

'Tell Cathy I love her.'

- they sit with me join us

i can t simone it s too late

'What?' Penelope was looking back at Russell with pursed lips, quizzical at this

unwarranted comment (though she'd noticed Russell had also become prone to this habit -

occasionally it was endearing), then looked back up at the picture. 'Do you know her?' she asked.

'I'm not sure.'

It wasn't the answer she was expecting, but she replied, 'Yes, she does look vaguely familiar.'

But then, soon enough, every face upon a canvas is any face.

Russell looked up at this image upon the wall, this strange unfocused grotesque enlargement

of his childhood friend Simone's shattered face, which Saint had somehow inexplicably had had

made. No, he didn't remember ever giving it to him, - well how could he of course, since it was

'merely' an unpleasant image in his memory? November 15th of course, but he'd made copies of

that manuscript. Russell still stared at this image, as there was obviously a recognition there, and

as Penelope looked again, she too had vaguely recognised the face, - wasn't it one of Russell's old

girlfriends? He had brought her round for a meal once? The girl Russell was trying to persuade

Brian to organize a job for, as Russell wanted her to move out of his house? 'Who is that?' she asked

again, and this time he did seem to mumble, ' I think .. Simone.'

Simone.

Then, as if in a sudden emetic reaction to the memories of the stories of Saint she had

In Time Book Two 43

read and her husband's curious reaction to the name of Korsakoff, a realisation came into focus,

as the photograph before her, though still blurred, hideously twisted in its enlargement, had suddenly

slipped into clarity, and she suddenly blurted out, 'I think my husband is having an affair!'

'With Simone?!' Russell laughed, incredulously. 'Don't be ridiculous!'

But Penelope didn't laugh. And Russell stepped back. His initial reaction, in the old days,

would have been to cuddle her (as in his earlier college days he had cuddled Coralie in commiseration

at her sadness of her husband's earlier death; no, not really his parents then, after all), to relieve her

imagined sense of betrayal, - Brian? for god's sake! - but it was almost as if boulders of a giant jigsaw

was lumbering, crumbling into place in his mind. They held no colour, these pieces, if anything grey

with only thin fallow streaks, of rust, as the miniscule vapours of oxygen of Pre - Cambrian times

had slowly formed redbeds, these shapes were too large and formed too slowly in time for him to

focus upon any precise moment, and these shapes held no meaning, too gigantically fuzzy to complete

an entire picture. Simone? And Brian? Impossible, but that would explain the curious glances Brian

had been giving him over time, that strange finger twitching of Brian's every time Simone's name was

mentioned (and Russell had thought that had been his imagination, until Penelope had made a caustic

comment), and hadn't Simone moved out soon after their meal at Penny's house? As suddenly the

arguments increased? To those endless, pointless bickering

- did not bicker why do you write bad things like that

about nothings, as if she wanted to be

thrown out. Not such a fruitcake, then.

Such a long time ago, but not hard to remember, those four months in hell.

Russell stared at the tapestry upon the floor. He longed to unroll it, reveal the picture he

had remembered from so long ago. His very early Christmas carol

- she is the one

present. He would make a

In Time Book Two 44

makeshift frame and mount it above his piano. It would take up the whole wall, his entire vision,

and he could look at her whilst he composed his timeless melodies. She would be his muse, this

picture, for, with Simone, and his wife, Katherine the Second, and his beloved Catherine long gone,

- they sit with me join us

this would have to suffice. Nino would have approved. Of such intimacy. With his beloved Elaine.

Russell smiled to himself, despite the overhanging presence of a distant Simone. Long time since

he had any romantic thoughts! Sad, though, his thoughts had to be of a picture, not a real woman.

Penelope was looking around. Saint had set this up deliberately, she thought, wanting her

to find this picture. What else then did he want her to find? He had mentioned that manuscript. Some

date from a diary. What date had it been? She nodded to herself, absently agreeing with the reasons

for her motives. Then, 'I need to use the loo.' she said. 'Do you know where it is?'

Russell nodded, 'Upstairs on the .. ' and then, as if curiously debating a choice, as if once the

bedroom closet might not have been a privet, 'through the bedroom to the left, I think.' He then added,

to Penelope's obvious bemusement, 'Mind the telescope.' He wished Simone had come with them,

as he didn't want to be accused of wandering around someone else's empty home, and effectively a

stranger's house at that. But Simone had recently become diffidently impartial. Always now only her

indistinctly spoken words, distantly heard, never actions. Obviously under instructions. From the big

brian in the sky. It appeared to Russell as some sort of test, but of what? For what? He had been given

this picture, an absurdly generous gesture, for a long distant (but not forgotten - curiously he seemed

to remember quite of lot of it, because Saint had even then been famous) lesson, so what more could

he need? And there was this strange guilt there, that Penelope was accompanying him, without anybody

else's consent. And without his own approval, really, truth be told.

He looked at the windowsill. The clarinet still strategically placed as an ornament. Perhaps,

probably, it was the same instrument he had seen long ago. Well, the clarinet certainly was. Now

'accompanied' by an oboe, a taller obelisk. Hadn't they talked about it? The clarinet mouthpiece still

In Time Book Two 45

slightly damaged, but not rendered unplayable (which was probably why it had remained unrepaired

throughout these long lost years). Simone had said when she was alive she had hit Smith with it, but

he still didn't believe her.

- did he was watching me

He didn't remember earlier seeing the oboe.

- it was my present to you you asked me to get it from christine s house

He could hear Penelope in the bedroom above, surely not still searching for the en suite toilet?

Mistakenly entering the secret closet? It was strange the way she had rang like that, Russell thought,

after so long, out of the blue as it were, to invite him round for a meal, for him to turn up, it appeared,

in the middle of an argument. To meet Chomiac again was interesting though. So he'd realised his

subsequent, initially reluctant ambition, after all, to become a journalist. Russell wondered if Chomiac

had remembered (in the 'excitement' he'd forgotten to ask) the other school friends they'd gone on

holiday with to Wales during that so long ago summer, - that wildly red haired friend, to be forever

known now and mocked as Vincent (though Russell was sure in his mind's eye he'd seen them

together on more than one occasion, - well, the river incident was unforgettable). And K, of course,

had been with them that week. Had long moved on from the D chord by then! Russell couldn't work

out in his mind who, of the two, Penelope and Brian, Chomiac was the closer friend of; Brian was

the agent, so therefore there was that (obvious?) literary connection (wasn't Chomiac trying to sell

a book called Unsolved?, - based on Vincent's notes from what he remembered) but last night

the social intimacy appeared to be between Penelope and Chomiac. Russell was sure she had touched

Chomiac in affection, and he hadn't recoiled (as Penelope recoiled whenever Russell was affectionate

with her), but .. and then this, here together the very next day in a pop star's house. He couldn't quite

put his finger on it, but it wasn't a coincidence, surely? He had wanted to ask, Is Chomiac outside

now, waiting for you? but that of course would be ridiculous. And why was she asking about Simone

In Time Book Two 46

now? All that was years ago. This picture might be of her, but it might be of anyone, in its distortion.

He remembered how he had tried to drown his sorrows - and not merely with alcohol - with Penelope,

but she hadn't consoled him then (or allowed him any other privileges), shrugging off his anguish with

a that's life, and she wouldn't be bothered to listen now (or perhaps she would, if she imagined

that Brian was somehow involved with Simone); she was always too self absorbed. She had always

been like that, as he had always somehow known, always after her own interests, completely oblivious

of the outside world it seemed, sometimes. He had suffered agony with Simone,

- liked playing with you

not you simone this is all pretend but you must say goodbye

- not pretend am real

no simone just pretend you must say goodbye soon

and now,

much too later, after the scars had healed, as if they ever could, for stitched torn tissue always

remains merely a covering tapestry, whilst underneath a rage scuttling about like a furiously

trapped rat under his skin, gnawing away inside his mind, he could only feel revulsion and a

shame that he had demeaned himself in even caring for Simone, given her so much, of his time,

of his money. He had lost pride. His only memory of her now was as this parasite who feasted

upon others. Simone had instinctively known where men's weak spots were and sank her fangs

in deeply to devour their carcass of affection. Yes, parasite was the right word. Having eaten

away his insides. She had dropped him as soon, she had explained, with a curious indifference

to either his feelings or to the as yet unexplained promise, received a better career opportunity.

Whatever that meant, within the confines of a relationship, - and now Penelope was mentioning

her. What was the point of bringing all that crap up again? It was a shame, he had always liked

Penelope, he thought, but at times she was just so insensitive.

In Time Book Two 47

 Now there was silence, and in her searching absence Russell noted (for heard didn't

seem the right word; just this vibration somewhere) a very faint beeping sound, not much more

than the hum of background electricity. The sound reminded him of his hospital days, but not of

the tinkling of bells he heard when he saw Penelomarihah, though as he crossed the room, walking

slowly, reluctantly leaving that beautiful black Yamaha piano they had bought together at auction,

many moons ago now, the three pronged candlestick hiding the garish cigarette burn underneath (that

fucking careless twat Smith), he noticed a picture of Penelope mounted in (it appeared, an extremely

amateurishly home made, more solidified warped strings than anything else) silver frame, then the

Chinese calligraphy upon the wall, a dozen or so idioms, one he recognised and had copied down,

to finally ascertain the vibrations source. It was an ansaphone flashing underneath the frame which

had once held the/ir collection of seven coins, but now displaying a, the original comic book Flip

Decision. Yes, the coins all gone now, the final one buried in the front garden somewhere. Yes, he

should have answered 'Yes', and not been fooled by the fall of the coin: yes, sometimes even knowing

you cannot lose you still lose. Yes, now the frame held Flip Decision, not the child/ish/like comic they,

Simone and he had copied, in drawing and in practice, with rainbow coloured crayons when as

children, but a pristine copy he had bought at auction, decades later, when wealthy. So Simone had

been right after all; she had made him famous. i m sorry simone

- they sit with me join us

no the dead must remain dead and they tell me you must say goodbye and they are right

Russell thought it was strange that he even believed he could hear it, for as he placed his

ear to the machine, it was just a faint red light flashing. Yes, slightly bizarre; colours have sound then.

The red changed to orange, then an ambered yellow, to green, then blue, all seemingly pulsating at

different frequencies. A beautiful hypnotism, then, he thought, what with the melodies that went

with them, almost like the twelve tone stuff he had studied at college, of Webern, Schoenberg, of

those pointless random notes, with their idiotic pretence of the de/con/struction of structure. At least

In Time Book Two 48

these colours were beautiful, but no time now, for creative musings, as Russell stepped back, almost

falling as his arm became entrapped in the phone line. Penelope was taking a long time. She couldn't

find the toilet paper? In her own house? Perhaps she was using the telescope, in the closet, as

there were two (very) small circular windows in there. Though why she'd want to spy on Friedman

(and a now absent) Christine he had no idea. And as if hearing his thoughts she came downstairs,

apparently flustered. 'Big house. Eventually found it.' She gestured vaguely, 'You know, there's a

window broken back there.'

'Really?' Russell looked around, nothing amiss it seemed. Then, 'Look.' he said, pointing

at the ansaphone.

It was strange, Penelope thought, that Saint had been in hospital all this time and there was

just this one solitary bleeping light. Perhaps an office somewhere handled all the important business

calls. Of course, probably an agent, a manager. The big brain somewhere else. Obviously Brian now

wanted to handle Saint, - well, his written stuff (the songs were surely off limits?) - that would of

course explain his irritation. And at her, at her possession of his stories. Still, even so, just one call,

in all this time? Russell was looking at her, almost as if he could read her mind, or had discerned

a minute, involuntary movement, a guilty twitch. She was sure she hadn't moved towards the phone.

'We really shouldn't.' he said.

'You're right.' she agreed. But he noticed her relentless curiosity remained unassuaged, and,

as expected, only moments later, 'But it might be important. You could forward the message to ...

what's her name? Simone?'

Russell didn't answer her, obviously still unconvinced. Why was she always like this? he

wondered. And what was she doing here anyway? She was just supposed to help him with this picture -

that was what she had offered. But there was always something else with her, always some hidden

agenda. 'We really shouldn't.' he repeated, insisting. But why had he said we? Out of politeness?

But Penelope ignored his reticence and stepped forward and depressed the replay button. The virulence

In Time Book Two 49

of the voice, female, caused even Penelope to step back with shock. Rage and pain and hatred:

vituperation.

'You fucking bastard! You fucking fucking bastard!' The voice gulped for air, this drowning

fish, gasping to expunge her malignity. 'How could you!? He was going to be my husband for God's

sake! You fucking bastard! I'll make sure you never see Catherine again! I'll kill her before I'll let

you see her! We're going to see him in the hospital right now, you fuck - ' The line clicked abruptly

into silence, the tape rolling on holding a further few seconds into a hissing silence. End of message

then, he thought. They both stood in silence, Russell musing that he had thought of Saint as a nice

chap, but then that was women for you, so often full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. She had

sounded a bit like Simone in full flow.

- am not like that how can you write bad of me like that

i have to pretend simone your life had you lived

The first rage always the most terrifying, then an inevitable

boredom with the constant furies sets in quickly enough.

'Who was that? I'll make sure you never see Katherine again? What did that mean?'

'Catherine's dead.'

- they sit with me join us

'No.'

'No? Katherine's not dead? Going to be my husband? Russell, do you know what that

message means?'

'Rahim.'

'Rammed him?'

- liked rahim didn t like copy cat bat

'Copy Cat Brat.'

In Time Book Two 50

 'What?!' God, he was so irritating when he was like this!

They stood looking at each other, Penelope curious that Katherine had been referred to

as in the third person, and that her to be husband was. Puzzling. The only Katherine she'd

ever met (as far as her memory would allow her to recall) was that infeasibly young woman who'd

been married to that fat, chain smoking (she was still annoyed there remained that hideous cigarette

burn on their beautiful piano, the attempts at re-varnishing not quite working - she should have sent

him the bill), slightly seedy looking, astro man, Smith. And that had been years ago, surely? Seemed

like it, anyway. Peneolpe looked at the blown up photograph again. Simone? Not Katherine. And

Brian? She asked, remembering something Russell had said a long time ago, 'Simone gave you a bad

time, didn't she?'

But Russell didn't reply, still staring at her with this curious bemusement. Not another sodding

trance, she thought. Then, as if yearning to be again captivated by the alternating blinking of the ansa-

phone patterns of light, that these colours were somehow familiar to him, from elsewhere, he picked

up the fallen plastic box, and started singing, very quietly # See The Burning Lights, see the burn - #

only to abruptly stop. 'I remember.' he murmured, after a few seconds pause. There had been an

indigo sort of colour (which he knew from his physics A level days to be less than 400 nanometres

falling from the 650 nm of blue), but now, almost fading through ultraviolet to black. Maybe that

was his life; oils, to watercolours, as numbered days fail to fading paper. And he remembered that

the colours his eyes recognised were not the 'true' colours, the calculated calibrations made by

scientists, but approximations made by his brian, all brains, to adjust to their surroundings, so

that sometimes even coloured shadows changed their hue. Penelope was a coloured shadow to

him (as Simone had been for oh so many years), but at least his shadow, somehow made up of her

kaleidoscopic coloured shards of personality, but when he looked into the mirror, at least he saw her

reflection; she was not 'Marc Bolan' but 'Penelope'; she therefore must be real. But as Russell was

slowly remembering now, these redbeds slowly colliding into shapes, they were still merely constructs,

In Time Book Two 51

patterns of words: the map not yet the territory.

He was w/rit/atch/ing Penelope thinking: Yes, she was sure Russell had mentioned something,

but she didn't really remember Simone when Russell had brought her over one long distant night ago

for dinner. So many faces, too many dinner parties. She remembered Brian earlier talking of her father,

about his literary work, so that was where his interest obviously lay (she had thought at the time), but

this face before her really didn't seem to have the ... structure? for such fury. No, not Simone on the

phone. Eventually, as if her words had filtered through his hypnosis, Russell murmured, as if in a

reluctant admission, 'No, Simone's dead. And we shouldn't really have listened, you know.'

And Penelope nodded her head, as if now absent mindedly agreeing, 'Perhaps we shouldn't

pass on that message.'

'It doesn't matter now, I know who's it from.' And he paused as if deliberating, to slowly

press another coloured button.

'You're deleting it?!'

Russell nodded reluctantly. 'Sometimes you have to say goodbye.'

'You knew that person?'

'Katherine. She's dead now. And ..' Slowly, this further, final, admission, 'Cathy's dead too.'

Penelope waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. Eventually, still standing, still

waiting, she suggested, 'We should go.'

Russell did not answer, the tinkling of distant bells insistent in his ears, but looked out of

the window. Raining heavily, swelling the river opposite. It was funny, some would say ironic, to

be able to see the arch under the bridge where he lived, in those far off poverty days. In that time

before. Always grim, in London. Perhaps he shouldn't have bought this house, dangerous to cling -

no, yearn for the past; just broken toy cars and a buried coin in the mud outside. No luck there, then.

Or now. Turning away from the view he said, 'Thought it was July.'

'Bad weather for the time of year then.'

In Time Book Two 52

 'What month is it, Penelope?'

'Um .. doesn't seem like July does it?'

'No, tell me, what month is it?'

Penelope hesitated, 'Well '

'Have a look at this.' Russell asked, pointing to the picture frame. Yes, Penelope did appear

shocked, but not at self recognition.

'What's that horrible frame?'

Russell laughed, 'Ah yes! I made out of your silver spoons before we got married!'

'Married!' Penelope let out a yelp of derision. 'Married!? You and me!? Ha! Russell, this

time you've gone too far - you know I don't like you trying to fondle my boobs in the kitchen,

unhygenic apart from anything else, but married!' And I knew all along it was you stealing my

spoons! What a bastard - thought you were wealthy.'

'We are. How's your Chinese?'

'What?'

Russell pointed at a framed Chinese idiom on the wall. 'Read that.'

'I can't read that, idiot!'

'You wrote it, after I sang to you in Australia. Just say it.'

And as Penelope looked again she read, quickly, with curious tonal inflections, 'Yu yin

ruo liung.' She actually stepped backwards in surprise. 'What the fuck?! What does it mean?'

'Tell me, you're the linguist.'

Penelope stared again, and then, slowly; 'Remaining, sound, go around, beam.'

'The music lingers in the air long after the performance. That's what you said, and wrote,

after you phoned me and I then played to you in Australia.'

'But I've never been to Australia!'

'And we have two daughters, nicknamed, East and West.'

In Time Book Two 53

 'You've lost it Russell - I have to go.'

Now there an air of urgency, whereas only moments before she was happy to linger,

to listen (if not to his past song), to abuse the privacy of others.

'And I don't have Korsakov's Syndrome, thank god. Sylvian and Rolando fissures still

well defined. That's what I've heard.'

'Rolando? Chomiac?'

'And funnily enough, as I've grown older I've come to prefer the name Sylvian to

Vincent - funny how a nickname sticks. We were cruel to him, all those years. '

'Yes? Well my name is Penelope.'

'No,' Russell insisted, 'my wife's name is ' but the tinkling in his ears increased, the

yellow, glistening golden sound preventing memory.

'Ha! Can't even remember your own wife's name then!'

'No, but I did marihah.'

'Marry her? We're not married Russell.'

' You're just words upon paper, Penelope. Carol Marhia - '

- she is the one

' - is the one.'

'I'm leaving now, Russell. Enough is enough.'

Having replaced the ansaphone, now, unlike his life, switched to Off, Russell reached

down to hold the long roll of tapestry tightly, tucking in the hanging wires (which to him looked

curiously like guitar strings - perhaps Hypatia had found a Utilitarian use for them after all ), but

Penelope was already making for the front door, and made no effort to help Russell with his picture.

He did find her irritating, in her self absorption, her ultimate indifference to others; it was always

what she wanted, when she wanted it. But he did not deny to himself that he had always known

of this, as if this snake head of hers had always remained only half hidden under a stone, the rest

In Time Book Two 54

of the Medusa visible, and he hadn't minded, - after all she had paid for his teaching, and he had

needed then to keep a professional discretion, a necessary distance, and although those lessons

were years ago, and he had enjoyed since her - no, as others had enjoyed their - hospitality, what

with their endless dinner parties. Of course he had played for his supper, so theirs was not quite

an offered free lunch, but now, time had gone by, and, he thought, with a reluctant but accepting

resignation, it was strange, but that the old adage was true: familiarity breeds contempt.

All friendships dissolve and fade in time it seemed. He hadn't minded, for after all, after

the band had .. decayed into silence, he had been teaching for years, this social work of his, so long

now that children he had taught years, decades before, during the tour breaks, were now themselves

adults, and he, in time, had taught their children. Presumably, the cycle would continue, and he would

do the grandchildren. And do seemed the right word.

Students had died, of cancer, accidents; a young boy drowning in the river and i had written

that song # simon # thinking of you simone though proba/possi/bly a victim of murder, having seen

Chomiac and Vincent running towards a child in the distance. But whether to push or pull now never

to be known. He had worn (down) a coat of many colours too; not just piano, but guitar, saxophone,

(Simone's) clarinet (of course), the occasional attempts at violin, flute. Simone had played the clarinet

with him

- liked playing with you we won

yes but you must say goodbye soon

as a child, and later, in her imagined life, she had also 'done' violin and recorder and theory,

in addition to the basics (and she did not play basically), but then, she was Simone. Presumably that

was why he had fallen in love with her, with her imagined melodic effortlessness. Russell had

found it curious, at that time (before the later experiences of many years had taught him that there

was no necessary correlation between effortless ability and wisdom) that someone so attractive,

In Time Book Two 55

so gifted, could be essentially so unlikeable.

- am not like that you said you liked me

i do simone but they tell it s time to say goodbye

- always they never ask me

And strangely enough, he had never had an oboe pass, a thought prompted by seeing Saint's

oboe upon the windowsill. He hadn't remembered it years ago, hidden, it was claimed, behind the

curtain. The clarinet of course he recalled, as he had years before picked it up and played a quick

G major arpeggio. The pop star had been impressed, but the clarinet had been a cheap one, plastic,

mass produced, with mouthpiece still slightly damaged. Russell remembered wondering at that time

why, when you are rich, would you have little more than a toy upon a sill. Then Russell asked, almost

as if he might attempt to stop her leaving, her hand on the lock, 'Can you hear carols?'

'What?'

'I can hear Christmas tunes. Can you hear carols? Tinkling bells?'

Penelope looked around, no music was playing. She was tempted to answer, Don't be

ridiculous. for his talk had been crazy enough already today, but for once held her tongue. And

wrong time of year, surely, for Christmas stuff? If its July? Might be her mobile, though. She fumbled

through her pocket; no, no vibration.

'How would you know if it isn't Christmas, if you don't know what month it is?' he asked,

to Penelope's puzzled reply, for she had not spoken, 'Obviously July.' for then her doubt, 'Isn't it?'

They had stepped outside. He would try again, hope against hope, 'You know, if you're in

a rush, I won't - '

' - Are you sure you don't mind.' she interjected. 'Need to get a cab. Meeting with Chomiac ...'

Well, he did mind but Penelope had already reached the gate, so a fading Chomiac would

have to suffice. Perhaps she had, after all, received a message on her mobile, from Chomiac, and

had arranged to be somewhere else, in a hurry. Or to visit Christine perhaps? he wondered. He didn't

In Time Book Two 56

remember her coming in with the rolled papers she now carried. Too big to be toilet paper. Probably

pass on to Chomiac some manuscript. She mouthed (he seemed to read), Be back with a cab, and

she was gone, already out of earshot, to search for that ever always elusive taxi. Won't find one this

side of Chifwick, he thought. It was almost as if cabbies were afraid of the water. Russell was left

standing holding his picture. And it was still raining, a drizzle, anyway. Selfish behaviour really, he

thought. He guessed that that friendship, such that it was (and accepting even that the limits had been

breached of what he had always unconsciously known; that the word friendship should really have

meant association, or even, more accurately, he thought dourly, geographical proximity), was

effectively over. Irritated he kicked a small stone, accidentally hitting a protruding sliver of metal.

It plunked and Russell carefully propped his tapestry in the doorway away from the drizzle to

bend down to examine the noise, fingers parting mud to reveal the small Aston Martin DB4 they

had made together, Simone and him, and as children had both played with,

- told you it was there

but now rusted almost

to obliteration by the rotting of decades. He carefully pulled it away, to reveal a coin beneath. Yes,

now he remembered; he had found it his pocket when they released him from hospital after that trip

to the Malvern Hills. To then bury it, for her, Simone, in memoriam. The other coins must have melted,

in that instant of explosion, the metal to return to the earth. As all heads do. In the end. Heads. He had

won, always, those throws, only in the final event to be ignored by Simone. And reluctantly so.

- join us

i can t simone though as you know i did use the coin again in later times i really

thought katherine was the one then but those days are gone now and now it s too late i

wish i had spoken all i had to do was say yes my disappearing father told me to say yes

- he sits with me join us

In Time Book Two 57

 but i let the coin fool no they tell me it s time to say goodbye soon and they are right

- will never leave you will guide you always

but there is always a time to say goodbye simone and i too must say it soon they fill me

with liquids to enable me to swim again to feel

- see me feel me touch me you liked that song

Russell re/buri/plac/ed the coin, Simone still not yet truly dead, this fake gold sovereign,

double headed (so no George and the Dragon for him), and of course not real gold either, and dated

1817 - another conceit; so far before he was born to be merely another number, amongst too many

others, although as a child he remembered reading something of the histories of those times, potted

histories of the dates before he was born. He stood, collected his tapestry, fortunately still sheltered

from the drizzle, and kicked another pebble. It plopped over the pavement ledge into the gutter.

Friendships were like that pebble, he thought, dragged out by the tide and shifted a little further

up the beach. We run into so many people in a lifetime, wearing, irritating - eroding (wasn't that

the word Thomas the Dick had used?) - each other down, that all too soon enough we want to move

on, sometimes, and that must be the final guilty act of drastic desperation, to geographically different

regions, other countries, in an effort to escape past acquaintances, friends, lovers.

Russell, noticing a distant object discarded into the kerb, walked across the road and looked

down. A small rodent lay dead, crushed by a tyre, red entrails now rotting to brown. But it was

obviously bigger then a rat, and as he looked closer, he realised it was a small kitten. And as Russell

looked around, seeking posters pinned to trees requesting a search for a missing cat, there was

a frisson, a sudden recollection of an earlier girlfriend, Christine - Jesus that was a long time ago! -

and as he walked further towards the bridge by the river, nearing now the arch where he had squatted

before college days, and where Simone had first (re)appeared for him, Russell turned to see that the

street looked more familiar now, the certain recollection that the music professor, Friedman, might

live nearby, and that he was sure he had long ago seen Christine leaving that house once or twice,

In Time Book Two 58

or more (although the telescope could not swivel that far in their closet - only their bedroom was

directly in view), and that the building he had just left behind him was so familiar, though the Aston

Martin DB4 was no longer parked in the driveway in front of the (now always locked) garage, but

sunken in the river opposite, this unreclaimed husk of a white hull still visible, and within the garage

he knew lay obsolete recording studio (and typewriter) rusting within, and strange that he had known

where the house was (the address given, - but not needed, Russell now realised, merely confirming

it's location), and knew its interior (and exterior - though you could not see the tiny circular windows

from the ground) so well, to notice that an oboe had 'suddenly' appeared, that the voice on the ansa-

phone sounded so familiar too, although he had never heard Katherine before in a rage. He started

humming # On The Street Where You Live # and waited. Opposite, across the river, the bench

remained where he had sat in younger days, the circular brass plaque glinting dully in the distance;

all that remained of her, and of his beloved Catherine's existence, and he remembered watching

Katherine the First as she walked then these very steps, and where Vincent had approached him, -

and Russell still wondered, had Vincent really swum across the river? - after Katherine's death,

as if he could possibly have been a suspect. Yes, as if in a final admittance, it was a bit macabre

to buy, in that earlier time, once the royalties had started coming through, Katherine's (the First's)

house, and (surely coincidentally?) right opposite where she had (and 'they'; warm nurse Nadine

and Doctor Robert, had subsequently told Russell that he'd crashed through the exact same space)

driven through the wall into the river, the crushed Victorian bricks now replaced by larger

contemporary red, and adorned now with a yellow SLOW sign, but Rahim's van to forever

remain unclaimed. And unremoved by any council, as if between low and high tide that sodden

boundary remained beyound any jurisdiction, - where did his taxes go?

What with his luck, even if he walked up to the junction at Kew Bridge, he probably

wouldn't be allowed to take the taxi, what with t/his long roll (he had been refused once before

when returning from Wengen, having finished touring to enjoy a short holiday away from the

In Time Book Two 59

band family, his ski's in a sealed bag, and even with his recognition by the cabbie. Sorry mate,

I really can't. My licence is more valuable than your records. Or your skis. Do you want a job?

Saint had offered, We need a driver. As Copy Cat Brat was so later to be employed, after dropping

Saint and skis off. He soon enough sold his cab on to G, and in so doing keeping it remaining within

the band 'family' as it were - but CCB always remained disappointed and disapproving that G had

turned the back into a cattery; they did not become friends).

But Russell now knew that Penelomarihah would return (but not too) soon enough, for he

had seen her reflection in a small hand mirror in their house (which he had felt the absurd obligation

to pocket, as if her image might be retained within it - well, less valuable than silver spoons, so

progress, slow but sure), and therefore he knew that she was real, and even as he was thinking those

thoughts, knowing they would be written down soon enough, fixed somehow, somewhere, the scuttling

black beetle softly chugged as it turned the corner, to bear down upon him, to stop upon the requested

sign, and Penelomarihah smiled, familiarly, as if in expectant recognition. Perhaps his faith in human

nature, and womankind, would be restored.

'What's your name?' Russell asked, as the driver even stepped out of her cab to possibly offer

to carefully handle the/ir tapestry. 'You look like Penelope.'

'You don't remember? We've met before.' She smiled, knowingly amused, 'Many times

actually. I'm Carol - ' as she gestured back towards the house, towards the propped tapestry, 'Marhia.'

The tinkling bells are irritating, but Yes, I would.

- she is the one

'Your picture?'

Russell shook his head. 'No, a Waterhouse.'

'Oh I like that stuff.' she had said. 'It's so nice to see you again.' She gestured again,

a curious wave, as if in welcoming, 'Shall we take it back inside? It'll get damp out here?'

In Time Book Two 60

 I didn't then remember Carol. Marhia.

And my cabbie now sits before me, a faint Mona Lisa smile upon her lips, as she places

her mobile phone upon the bed, her call finished, to murmur, "Oh I like that stuff. It's so nice to

see you again.' She reads, steals my words, I know, when I am asleep.

'Carol?' I ask. 'Not my lady Penelo .. pee?'

She smiles, warmly at the recognition. 'I don't know where you got that one from. Maybe,'

and she points at a picture pinned to the wall, 'Thunderbirds?'

And there is indeed a picture of Lady Penelope clumsily cut from a child's magazine.

'Cathy's?' I ask.

She nods sadly. But too sadly.

- she sits with me join us

no

'Do you now remember how we met?' she asks. For me a pointless question for she sits

there when she wishes, arriving through the door at unannounced times, sometimes, mostly it

seems, when I am sleeping. And Simone leaves me then, as if afraid of her, to speak to me only

as a voice. Meeting is not the word. I answer, 'You came in with the warm nurse, then the good

Doctor Robert, then the policeman?'

She smiles, her sadness is now mingled with despair, and irritation. That even, after

all this time, I should be more .. cognisant (or do the Americans, in their arrogance spell it

differently? cognizant? - even the pronunciation would be different?), 'Yes, but before that.

You saved me.'

I stare at her, for she expects me to recognise her, and Simone is not here to explain. 'I

saved you?'

'I'm Hypatia?'

Hypatia. I remember her.

In Time Book Two 61

 'You are reading of me?'

'Of us,' she corrects. 'Yes.'

'I wrote you a love song?'

She smiles, 'More than one. And many love letters.'

More than one love song, and many love letters.

'Did I write you a song in G?'

She looks down sadly. He is dead too, I know. 'A song in G? I'm sure you did .. But most

of all I remember you giving me your old guitar strings. We used them to hang our tapestry, do

you remember?'

Strings?

'You were a groupie?'

She laughs, 'Not quite!'

I am to write her story it seems, as I look down to the page, another anonymous, blank,

dated page, waiting to be told, of how we met. Memories are just strings of time, collated some-

where, somehow in our brain. Infecting worms. Like the word bugs in my book. Already August.

First the eight month soon enough to become the ninth. Not quite time for October revolutions,

but time for Irish battles and Scottish festivals. She sits. Waits. As I close my eyes. I remember

Hypatia. And there is a ringing somewhere, a stringing ringing. Of bells, of carols. But warm nurse

Nadine does not appear and Penel .. Marhia still sits, still, seemingly unperturbed, unaware, not

answering her tinkling phone. There is no hurry for her it appears, and only in darkness am I to

later pick up my pen, as if, only then there is light.

There had been a girl once, after a gig somewhere, standing backstage, and as I made to

throw away my broken strings (for in my fury at G falling away from the beat - yet again - with

his tambourine, and then actually falling over, I had hit the strings too hard, breaking two of them,

In Time Book Two 62

before I reached forward him to help him to his feet - and curiously enough the audience had not

even noticed the missing chords) she had asked, 'Can I have them?'

'These?' I had replied, incredulously, for in my anger they were merely thin twisting steel

snakes to me.

'Yes. Do you mind?'

I hesitated, for there (then) lay the absurdity that my anger might be transmitted along

these metal strings to her, as some sort of malevolent current. But reason kicked in quickly enough.

'Sure,' I agreed, as I began to loosen the machine heads. 'Yes, of course you can take them. You

never know, someday they might be worth something.'

'Yes? Can I?' And as she cupped her hands, as to receive some sort of sacred offering, she

then added, almost as if an afterthought, 'I like your songs.'

'Thank you.'

I did not ask her which ones, for there then, before the later days of indifference, might

have lain a jealously still, if she had preferred K's output.

We stood looking at each other, and she looked down with a strange sort of wonder

at these dead wires, as I offered them individually to her, that they might contain some sort

of energy, relics of the famous Saint.

'Wow ...' she murmured.

It was my first recognition that an object can gain an objective value from a subjective

judgement, and I realised this because I myself had been there: how I would have yearned for

those fragments of hurriedly scribbled lyrics discarded once the final product had been recorded -

for what value would they then have? At that moment? None. But to hold the words of # Lucy

In The Sky With Diamonds # in your hands? # In My Life #, # Help! #? Fragile and delicate

etchings before they blew away to the final incinerator. In the beginning was the Word, but

words are nothing but scratches upon paper, symbols to be given meaning, only later to be

In Time Book Two 63

finalised, caught in time, as the Other Band's were, upon vinyl, but these words would in time

become another holy grail, but this time not to be forever lost, but existing sacred, golden

manuscripts. I had smiled at this young girl, and held no arrogance, for I knew that I would never

become immortal, as those scribes Are.

Her smile broadened, as she looked up again at me. She waits for me to pursue her obvious

interest in me, but for once I care; it is as if she has shown an interest in the fruits of my creativity,

and not merely in the physical me, and therefore I don't feel obliged to peruse (and pursue) her sexual

fruits. But she has continued, '.. I like all sorts of music - I heard this really nice music on the radio.

Well, singing. No drums or anything. Like monks chanting.'

I enquire, politely, whilst looking at the colour of her skin, this strange sounding tickling

brownness, and her frizzy hair which somehow reminded me of Marc Bolan's image, and upon her

face lay, almost as if used as make-up, faint traces of coloured chalks. 'Yes?'

She continues, with enthusiasm, 'Yes, it was great. It had a funny name for a band though.

Greg Ordinary.'

I pause. I knew then all of my contemporaries, but it rang no immediate bell. Greg Ordinary?

But it had a certain resonant ring to it. Nigel Nobody? Anon. E. Must? Barry Boring? Greg Ordinary

was as good as anything else. Probably better, for the vulgar audiences. 'It was beautiful. They should

play more of that stuff on the radio. Like church music.' Like church music. Chanting. I realised

quickly enough that Greg Ordinary was no contemporary of mine; the girl had misunderstood the

announcer introducing Gregorian Chant. I smile (for there was still that fondness in remembering

of those even earlier times with Nadine), but do not correct her. 'Yes, that music is very beautiful.

It's quite old you know.'

'Yes? Before the sixties?'

I smile again. 'Yes, before the sixties.' I do not of course tell her which sixties. I continue,

'Perhaps I can call you? What's your name?'

In Time Book Two 64

 'Carol.

- she is the one

Don't you remember me? I'm here - was here, to give a lift to G. I bought his cab,

you know.'

'Ah ... yes, I think now I remember.' (Although of course I did not). 'Fair enough. It's tabooo

for us to talk.'

'Taboo?' she asks, puzzled by my strange inflection. 'No, he's not my boyfriend. I've just

offered to be his cabbie. For one night. Return his - you wont believe what he'd left in the back.'

'A cat?' I suggest.

'How on earth did you know that!'

'I know he likes a bit of pussy.'

'Careful .. '

'So you've offered a one night drive, eh? G might be too drunk to take you for a ride.'

She grins, wags her finger in mock disdain. 'Naughty, naughty. Or I might take you for a ride.'

'I'm looking forward to it.'

'You don't have to look too far forward, I'm working later. Would you like to see me undressed?'

'Um ..'

'Follow me.' She instructs. 'But can you have a word with G to collect his pus - cat?'

I remember Caramel, as she passed us in the night when we played her love songs from that

dank bench. And I remember Penelo - Carol Marhia, now, as I open my eyes, but she is again gone.

So that was how we met? It is a good story, as good as any other. And the words are already written

upon this dated page, so must be true.

I close my eyes, and in a future time when I open them again I know now she will reappear.

As she always does. And it is as if a memory forms, solidifying, of the girl I had met; at college,

In Time Book Two 65

after Nadine days, after a gig, as she collected my gift of strings, of the lover who gave me flowers

in Australia. She looks different, now, but then that was a different time.

I flick through my pages until I reach November 15th where a blank space awaits me, as

if a stranger's scrawl might have blocked my narrative, to face torn absent pages, that they might

have been thrown to the floor. Have I instructed Simone give them to penelope in an earlier time?

in daylight and in my absence? I know that she will have heard me, and when Simone returns, she

flickers dully, almost stumbling into the light, and struggles to murmur,

- only until november fifteenth to go she has taken those pages

yes

I look down, flick through my life again, and yes, there still remains that void after November

15th, as if a past time has been stolen from me.

I am tired now, as always, and my eyes close. Daylight to the forever darkness, soon enough.

The pages lie before me, as if the diary is determined to be filled, even with that strange

future section now torn out, and the words just written read: 'Follow me.' She instructs. 'But can

you have a word with G to collect his pus - cat?'

I am sure that when they found G's body there was a pussy stuffed within his mouth - but

that cannot be true can it? - just another false memory?

I stroked her chalk powdered body, as I have stroked many in my life. Why this one to be

in love with? Was it the colour of her flesh?

'Do you remember those strings?' I ask.

She smiles, fondly. 'Yes, I used them for hanging your picture, you know.'

'Ah, no longer sacred relics then?'

'Sacred relics?'

'I gave them to you at the end of a gig, once upon a time. In the band days. Do you remember?'

'In the band days?' She asks, seemingly puzzled at my mentioning of the past tense. 'Yes, of

In Time Book Two 66

course I remember.'

'All those songs, a waste of time?'

'Oh no - good songs.'

'All a waste of time?'

'Oh no, if it wasn't for you, those songs wouldn't exist. And that was after all how we met.

You used to sing to me after Nadine had left.'

And she states the obvious of course, but in some way, and in a way I know that is beyond

her comprehension, living as she does, and as all people do, unaware, not realising, always in the

sensation of the immediate, she is correct: the songs that you hear, that you know, would not exist

in any tangible form, or even have existed at all, even in my own mind, had I chosen that other

road, if the coin had impossibly fallen to the Reverse, and I had made that earlier life with Kath-

erine the First. And yet my memory tells me I 'chose' the other road, that the coin remains in the

mud somewhere, in her mother's, but now my, garden. i reburied our coin simone when we went

there yesterday i m sorry i never bought you flowers but you must say goodbye soon And there

are songs I am proud of, not many it is true, but I am glad that those too few melodies materialised,

somehow, from somewhere deep within. But I have no arrogance either in that sense; they are not

'my' songs, that they somehow miraculously arose from a Saint's mind, but 'mind' songs; for we all

have brains, and the rhythms are hard wired into the neural pathways, from the vibrations of all long

distant beating hearts. Perhaps that's why there are so many love songs. Only these modern melodies

and harmonies (even younger) are a few centuries old. And I should be grateful too, for after all they

paid the bills. Would I have struggled to pay the bills with Katherine the First, in those earlier times?

Would she have allowed me to follow my (then imagined) true path as some sort of crazy, deluded

hobby? Possibly. Probably. We had after all sang those songs # See The Burning Lights # and # Ocean

Waves # together in that earlier time, and recorded them on obsolete equipment, mixed by her brother

Chomiac, from what I remember (Or was he then already too late? Wrist damaged beyond repair?).

In Time Book Two 67

How I wish I possessed those tapes now. But of course I do - they would just be too painful to listen

to, not merely because the sound quality would be terrible, having had to use, as I did in those far off

poverty days, used tape with seemingly uneraseable operatic voices, of a soprano singing Mozzie's

# Marriage of Figaro # (the distorted voice now to be heard as # Manage a Fellatio #) but her plaintive

tones would lacerate my heart. She was Kate Bush before there was a Kate Bush. She was Norah Jones

before Norah Jones ... was even born. But Katherine was not Kate Bush, and not the mother of Norah

Jones; she had had her own voice, her own songs in her own time, and no time now, probably, when

you are dead,

- join us

no i can t simone

to even play Norah Jones. It would have been so easy to win her heart, then, in that

moment, in that time before, when we stood in her mother's porch, knowing those moment's would

last forever, if only in my mind, but in fear of rejection, as she stepped outside, into the darkness,

out of her sight I fumbled through my pocket for my coin, for it to fool, taking my chances with it,

and had I so wished - no, had I been able - and it is only now, in this time, as I recover too slowly

in this hospital bed, that I realise how easily her heart might have been won, or lost, without chance,

of hope, of love, but that those necessary words never fell from my lips. It was either; Heads, or

Tails, Obverse or Reverse, even knowing that those coins were trick coins bought from a joke shop,

and double headed, - I could never lose. Those words would fall too easily enough now, as the

fumbled for remaining coin had fallen away so easily into the darkness then, but the instructed words,

Say 'Yes.' of my disappearing father were never spoken, and would be uttered, no, murmured, with

a sadness now, with the yearnings of a lost imagined world, and they would be ultimately, shamefully,

now uttered with indifference; I have lived too many lives, now, to care, to hope, to love, and some

of those lives I wish I had not lived.

And to be stuck in the provinces, working in a physics lab of some small university town.

In Time Book Two 68

Would that have been a hell for me? Dreaming of the other life I could, might have (and eventually,

as luck would have it, did indeed) lived? As a famous muso? Well, now I will never know, for all

the lives I could have lived, I have lived them all.

And only now choose not to remain silent: there is some kind of maturity in that acceptance.

Of course, I was to learn, in too soon enough times, that Katherine the First never became

a university lecturer, to utilise her expert knowledge of Polish, choosing instead to marry Smith.

An inexplicable choice, I always thought. Still, although tripod broken, I have his telescope now.

I didn't then easily remember Carol.

- she is

enough you must say goodbye soon simone

Perhaps I didn't - hadn't even really known her,

apart from that torrid affair, after Nadine had left me to marry her good Doctor Robert; the

fucking desperation of the abandoned: she had shared a college flat with Nadine, and that other,

older woman, Corelli (?), and had gone out with - dated - Friedman, our - her - college music

lecturer. I often wondered if her given grades were higher than mine. Perhaps they weren't, which

is why she switched to study the Chinese language. (And Friedman had then married Christine

too; perhaps after all he had a soft spot for the lachrymal.) I don't remember the Chinese tutor

being more attractive, but then, what is love?

In much later times, after I had achieved (but by then too late then for me to care) my

dream, of the imagined happy marriage, it was not, it seemed, to be with the First, for that girl

was long gone, lost to and in past times, but to the Second, Katherine was to tell me she had

met somebody else, who could give her more time, as Copy Cat Brat had now finished signing

off (and driving), for us, that I was always away, playing somewhere else, - as if there was a joy

for me in the playing of the now dulled golden D major after so many decades, - that she needed

someone reliable, stable, not simple, but ... just there, that Cathy needed a proper father figure,

In Time Book Two 69

ignoring, effortlessly abandoning the years I had juggled career with my adoration for a dead

Smith's child.

And I have often wondered, after I had began my diary, to attempt to re/member/assemble/con-

struct my life and times within these pages with stories, of how Penelope and Brian might have met,

as Kathy and I might have met in earlier days, within the memory of the story of Passion, that if I

might have married her then, and not in later times, had the coin 'chosen' to fall opposite, that a

Reverse should inexplicably appear (which was of course impossible), that therefore Cathy might

well not have existed, to cause me such sorrow in her death, and Smith might well be still alive,

having abandoned smoking (and his telescope), and torturing (and spying upon) women, through

the shock of his true love having abandoned him for me, and it is as if my memories have always

been circling submerged in the shadows, only occasionally stepping into the light of my thoughts

for their lives to be captured upon paper.

And perhaps there had been an attraction for Penelope in Brian's gambling, always the lure

of glistering risk, as his flickering fingers cheated.

Or perhaps they had met in other earlier circumstances, in a police station somewhere, as

Vincent had called Chomiac to arrange Penelope's release. Was that where her true origins lay?

Chance be a fine thing, as Simone and I had fatefully thrown our coins in much earlier times: for

the winner chose to live, but the loser chose to win.

Yes, in my future sleeps Penelo - Carol

- she is the one

Marhia will read my words, to realise, that

yes; in Chance Be A Fine Thing I had used Brian's name again, not yet then her 'new' husband.

And, as she will discover soon enough, that at least, as yet, I had not used Simone's name. And

Brian will be surprised, and annoyed, when Penelope asks if he was planning to kill her. By the

throw of a coin. For his cheating upon her with Simone.

In Time Book Two 70

 Yes, August already. Apparently.

CHANCE BE A FINE THING

After the flash of light from the reflection of the spinning coin caught her eye Penelope

smiled at him. She'd watched him earlier twisting this coin between his fingers, in a very curious

manner as he stood at the bar, waiting to order, and somehow in time with the background jazz

trio music - flick flick flick flick flick flick (with a final) Flick, for the coin to fall quite heavily

with a distinct clunk upon the deeply brown stained polished wood of the bar, as the gentle

waltz finished with its perfect cadence. She hadn't realised then it was gold. Naturally she didn't

mind when Brian walked across to rejoin them, having placed his order with Russell - after all,

he was good looking, slightly rugged actually (the way she liked them) almost as if he looked a

bit like Hemingway (although how she would know what he looked like she had no idea) - and

curiously Brian had appeared to know her escort for that night, Chomiac. Drinking buddies apparently.

Chomiac soon excused himself, after the barman calling out, 'Is there a Chumiac in the

house?' and he then checking his pager. For yet another news story.

'Where now, Rollo?' Brian had asked.

'This kid found wandering by the river - walked all the way from Malvern ..'

'Call me later, if anything interesting?' suggested Penelope. 'And thanks for '

'Sure. Anytime.' agreed Chomiac, as if they now had a(nother?) prior arrangement, Brian

noticed. They watched him walk away. Brian offered, 'Can I buy you a drink?'

She liked his voice too, softly spoken but somehow authoritative, and Penelope nodded,

and Brian pulled out a chair for her and relieved she sat down (it had been a long night). She could

look at him more closely now, and admire his locks of thick hair, the well cut features, the tan. It

was almost as if he were a character from a romantic novel. Too good to be true. 'We weren't intro-

duced earlier. My name is Brain.'

In Time Book Two 71

 'Brain? Unusual ..'

'Sorry, Brian of course. Slip of the tongue.' He began again, now smoothly enough. 'What's

yours?'

'Penelope.'

'What would you like to drink, Penny?

'A vodka and lime please, Brian.'

'Funnily enough, that's what I ordered.'

He caught the attention of a waiter with a (slightly affected) nonchalantly thrown wave

of his arm and Russell walked across with Brian's order. She stared at him, this apparition from

recent college days. 'Russell ..?' and he smiled back, having recognised her. 'Friend of the owner,

Carol,

- she is the one penelope is not real made up

you are not real either simone

- am real

no just a voice in my head that s what they tell me and i

believe them now you must say goodbye soon simone

- doing him a favour. For free studio time in the garage outside. Didn't realise your dad

was so good on the bass. Or that he's been playing with M. Small world, eh? Playing again later,

if you're still around ..' Penelope gestured to Brian as if to explain, 'We were .. well, are, at college

together before I .. ' to his evident, puzzled disinterest - thought she'd called herself Penelope, -

as he carefully (re)placed the gold coin he'd been twirling unto the table. Well he could play games

too. 'Same again then, please, Russell.' he asked.

'May I?' She asked, to his smiling nodding response. Penelope picked up the coin and

examined it, it was a sovereign. 'I saw you flicking it into the air. Is it valuable?'

'Very. One of the first eighteen seventy one-ers.'

In Time Book Two 72

 'Yes?' she answered, more of a query than comprehension. She examined the Reverse.

'George and the Dragon?'

Brian nodded. 'Pistrucci's design. I collect coins.'

'Ahh. .. and women too I imagine. Were you flicking to decide whether to come and talk to me?'

'How did you guess? Spinning a coin hides my nervousness.'

Somehow nervousness wasn't a trait she would have ascribed to this Brian.

Russell quickly returned with two more glasses. Brian handed him a note, smiling again, -

a familiarity there she thought (so he had been that guy earlier playing piano in the corner) - then

flicked his fingers again, as if to indicate; keep the change. He took the coin from Penelope's fingers

and dexterously wove it over and under his fingers, seven times she thought she counted, although

he was very fast, fluid golden threads. He tossed the coin into his other palm, and repeated the sleight

of hand. But there was no point in attempting to impress her, 'Very good. You've practised long?'

'Too long. Do you come here often?' he asked.

She smiled at the clich. 'No. This is my first time - I heard about this place from Chomiac,

that I might find new clients.'

Brian dropped the coin on to the table, and it fell to the Obverse. He asked, as if suddenly

pensive, now wary of rejection, 'Do you mind me coming up to talk to you?'

'No, of course not. It was a shame Chomiac had to go. Always dashing off somewhere. In

fact, I was rather afraid that someone wouldn't come up and talk to me - just as well you arrived

before Chomiac left, yet again.'

Brain picked up the coin again. 'Do you like my conversation piece?'

'Yes.'

He dropped it again. 'And am I the man for you tonight?' he asked, now seeming calm.

'Perhaps.' Penelope smiled. 'Since Chomiac has left me in your safe hands. Try your .. luck.'

'What do you do, Penelope?'

In Time Book Two 73

 'I'm studying ... no, you first!'

'I'm a lady killer.' Brian answered solemnly.

'I see ... So you do come here often?'

'No!' he laughed. 'This is my first time too!'

'Yes?' Penelope asked, doubtfully, for there had been a recognition between Chomiac

and Brian only minutes earlier. 'You seemed sincere ... just now.'

Brian held the sovereign between his forefinger and thumb. 'This coin guides my life,

I need a decision, I throw my sovereign.'

'Interesting, but - '

' - But true. Shall I be sad? Obverse will decide. If Reverse should fall, I shall be unhappy.'

Penelope sipped her drink, puzzled now by Obverse (which was a word she had never

heard of before) but curiously involved with t/his crazy idea, though as a chat up line it was all

a bit bizarre. 'Still interesting. But how far can you abdicate your responsibility? before the results

become .. amoral? Or even illegal?'

'Responsibility? What is that? Moral obligations imposed by others? But with the throw

of a coin, you decide.'

'I think you're losing me.'

'Shall I give you an example?' Brian carefully, painstakingly (it took him some moments),

balanced the coin upon its edge, before rolling slightly but surprisingly remaining vertical. 'I've

met this beautiful woman at a wine bar. I want to suggest she comes back to my flat for another

drink. But am I nervous? No - an earlier toss of the coin decided that I'd be bold, be brave, despite

the fact she was with another man, even though I view Rollo as a friend. Just as, say, an earlier toss

of the coin decided me to come here in the first place. Do you understand?'

With a fillip he spun the coin; for a moment it became a spinning golden sphere, translucent

at its centre, sharply opaque at its perimeter. Penelope watched it career madly across the tablecloth

In Time Book Two 74

and collide with her wine glass with a loud ping: The Dragon fell. Again. 'Penelope, may I suggest

a nightcap? my house's not too far. A nice place by the river. Perhaps we could listen to some

music? I could even muster up supper.'

Why not, she asked herself, why not? He was entertaining and Penelope fancied him -

why not? After all she'd come for an evening out ... and heads had fallen. If Obverse was

Heads. Or so he said. Of course all the talk about tossing the coin to decide what to do was

a very clever (or was it too simple?) preamble, an introductory gambit, and unusual but ... 'I have

to leave early in the morning; I have to be in Tottenham for a college lecture by eleven. I'm learning

Chinese.'

'A student, eh? But tomorrow the sun may never arise.' he said.

Penelope laughed. 'The coin decided that, right!? You've got a nice turn of phrase!' She

picked up the coin and flicked it back unto the table. 'Heads you win, tails I lose? Is your nice

place far? Shall we take a taxi?'

'No, we can walk it. It's quite near.'

Penelope finished her drink and stood up. Brian took her coat and draped it around her

shoulders. Brian picked up his sovereign and dropped it carelessly into his jacket pocket. He

smiled, 'I suppose I don't need to spin a coin any more?'

'No, I don't think you do.'

But he spun his precious sovereign anyway, only to murmur, upon the Fall, 'A pity.'

She followed him as he quickly walked past the wine tables out into the street. The casino

green beige of the twilight evening had now cleared to the blackness of stars glittering as diamonds

impressed upon black silk, and she felt a sharp chill in the air. 'How long have you lived near here?'

she asked.

'Not long. I tend to move around a bit.'

'Yes? I never found out what you do for a living.'

In Time Book Two 75

 'No?'

'Besides being a lady killer.'

'I'm an agent.' he replied.

'A secret one?'

But Brian had started to walk away faster, probably not hearing her and Penelope had to

skip a few steps to catch up with him, and began singing softly, # Daddy, don't you walk so fast! #

Having seen the burning lights, they had left the comfort of the mantle of twinkling, sparkling

stars, and begun to walk through narrow alleyways. He evidently knew his way around. She had only

a vague idea of the geography of the place, having gleaned faint impressions of the area, checking

an A-Z as Chomiac had mentioned the address before they had earlier set off. 'Are we walking

towards the river?'

'Yes. Towards the bridge.'

'Kew?' she asked, but to no response. And, after a few more silent minutes, they had arrived

there.

'Shall we walk under the bridge?' he asked.

'I didn't know you could - I thought the tide was far too high.'

'Well, I don't know. Shall we see?' He asked as he took Penelope's elbow firmly and began

to lead her down stone steps.

'There's no need to go to all this trouble for a kiss.' she laughed.

'A kiss?' he murmured. 'Yes, of course, a kiss. Hold on.' He again took his sovereign from

his pocket.

'What!? You're going to spin a coin for a kiss? Thought you'd said you didn't need to use

it anymore? Be careful you don't lose it!'

'Yes. Tails for a kiss?'

Brian flicked the coin high into the night air. It fell heavily unto the concrete with an

In Time Book Two 76

audible plunk, then bounced, before beginning to roll away. He brought his foot firmly down

upon it, then knelt to peer at its face. 'Sorry,' he sighed, 'I was hoping against hope - you're out

of luck - it's not Obverse or Reverse, just perverse.'

'Perverse? A pity. I was so looking forward to being kissed by the river, under the silvr'y

moonlight, as it were. But instead it's a .. perverse?'

'Yes, it's a capital shame.'

Brian stood up and slowly walked towards her, gently squeezed her arms. It seemed he

had changed his mind, that he was going to kiss her after all. 'Chance be a fine thing,' Penelope

murmured, 'but I'm glad you can make your own decisions.'

*******

Sometimes Brain tossed for the clothes me was going to wear, sometimes not, trying now

to let the flooding random thoughts dictate the way me lived: the colours of the shirts (or skirts -

for me liked Simone's

- no my dress is dead

sense of apparel) me put on, whether me should remain silent or to speak,

whether to eat a hot or a cold meal, or even if to eat at all. Me knew this annoyed the women me

had lived with, in my time.

Brain does not claim this to be an original idea, as it came from a book, presented to me

in an earlier time with an offer to publish, an original tome that was to become, me thought, my

book; In Time, All Chances Are Even. There seemed no reason to me, since other people based

their thinking, ideas and sometimes their whole lives upon the printed word, be it the Bible, or

the Koran, or the Bhagavad Gita, or perhaps A History of Western Philosophy - there seemed no

reason to me not to pursue the ideas represented by In Time: All Chances Are Even. to their own

obvious, and logical conclusions.

In Time Book Two 77

 To live by chance? It had seemed amazing, fantastic, absurd ...

As so me thought, before me applied the theories presented by that book, with its, perhaps,

light hearted, rather facetious, superficial manner, to the more serious business of actually livings

one's life.

On me green baize kitchen table Brain scribbled notes, drew diagrams, modified and cut

away superfluous material. Alone conducting small scale experiments, utilising that coin flipping

technique me had habitually, unconsciously developed over many years, decades ago now, since

those far off childhood days with Simone; from an arbitrary stationary position chancing as to

whether to stand or sit, to walk or crawl, mere minor preludes to the large scale works me envisaged.

Me knew me had to proceed carefully, as often Chance would suggest a too reckless endeavour;

to marry, or to kill, Katherine the First?, - but there, fortunately (?), the fool of the coin fell from

view, - or Katherine the Second?, - and there that Chance would have been a difficult to adhere

to as me so adored Catherine, with perhaps too early catastrophic consequences should the coins

be thrown.

It had quickly become apparent to me that the idea of living by a six sided cube, as suggest-

ed by other earlier, beginner practitioners (but all religions have to start somewhere), was too ...

cu(m)bersome? It was not merely a philosophical problem - it had very real consequences; Brain

soon found it necessary to restrict the number of options available to myself. Whereas in The Dice

Man Rhienhart discarded any parameters of being - to me, every possible permutation should be

explored, if the throw of the dice so decided - me quickly discovered that the six options offered

was by far too many - six? at any one time? It was too much. When time was of the essence? It was

impossible to decide six possible courses of action at any one moment, let alone act upon them ...

And that previous time was to exclude the moment of tossing that must act as a prelude to

deciding the final options ...

It was too time consuming and clumsy. And although one must make allowances for

In Time Book Two 78

artistic licence; if one behaved as the 'hero' behaves in that story, one runs the great risk of

being carted off, deported to, the local institution of, The Asylum Of Indecision. No, Brain thought,

a more reasoned approach was needed, and, with a flash of insight me could only describe as divine

inspiration, a lightning stroke of genius, me discarded the bulky wooden cube, inconvenient and

easily lost, for the infinitely more practical throw of a coin. For with a coin the two main objectives

to living by dice were removed, swept away: yes, or no, either/or - me had no other choice. Time

wasting vanished, only the snap decision remained. Brain liked to think ... that Rhienhart's theories

had become modified or incorporated into me own, new, superseding theory; a doubtless more

pragmatic approach (in me opinion), and therefore more relevant to the world in which me live.

Me'd like to suggest an analogy with, say, Marx's theories becoming modified by Lenin, as he

sought to make abstract ideas work in the real (but only the fabrication of his imagined utopian)

world, or perhaps another example would be Einstein's theory of relativity, embracing, containing

within it, as it does, Newton's Laws of Motion - without rendering these same laws obsolete. Not

that you must think for one moment Brain thought of comparing meself with such shapers of the

world - no, me could not; for me knew that all Brains were the same, merely claiming different

names, in different times, chanting newly found religions, later to sing more popular songs. But ...

me digress with irrelevant detail, too much theory, for Brain did tend to think too much. Suffice

to say me purchased a (this time) genuine sovereign (which founded what was to be subsequently,

in me's adult life, an interest in numismatics) from a dealer, who called himself, - obviously his

parents had curiously named him Bene Detto (?), but no reason was given for his parent's choice,

excepting he did explain his great (?) grandfather had moved to England in 1815. Met his Waterloo?

me enquired, to received incomprehension, - off the Strand, and then, as if in celebration of my

new life about to begin, to curious onlookers; Tossed To Decide whether to take the bus home

or the tube. How can words describe the elation me felt? as over the following few weeks me

discovered the potential of the full range of possibilities? The total annihilation of self: the abolition

In Time Book Two 79

of ego - an experience me was told, not without parallel in the teachings of the Buddhist philosophy.

Naturally Brain was concerned about the way chance decided whether the women me met were to

live or to die, for those questions of morality had been studied in earlier college times, but then ..

it was far harder for me to question me sexual inclination and that the coin might decide that me

was to frequent an inn of another persuasion, but ... it was the only way at least me could not be

accused of any causal (casual?) favouritism. Me had began to start tossing for that choice these last

few days - and so far the wo/men had been (and how inappropriate a phrase Brain now realised this

to be) 'lucky', but of course, as me begun to be aware, in the long run everything balances out, and

the book title finally came to make sense: In Time, A C A E. Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!: in time, the chances

are always even. All is fractal noise. Sometimes me admitted (if reluctantly pressed, for me had

not Thrown to answer that question) there was an enjoyability to kiss men as well as women, to

then quickly toss again to decide whether to kill them or let them live. Sometimes Brain was aware

of a fun to throw for ways of killing; a knife, the hands, rope, wire, the river, bricks - me insisted

to choose all ways, and the permutations are endless. Of course Brain was to discover The Way was

not without its moments of sadness: the other day me had met an attractive young lady, recklessly

abandoned by her companion, who had hazarded a guess as to what Chance was all about - it was

almost as if she seemed to realise me was Throwing To Decide. For a moment me had dreamt of a

disciple, a harmonious union, convert/ed/ing offspring leading the world to salvation: beyond yes

and no, black or white, yin or yang, high or low ... But Brain had been mistaken - it had after all

only been a light-hearted comment on her part - it seemed she was mocking me.

A pity, me quite liked her.

Yes, perhaps that was how they met, that tails had fallen, instead of heads rolling. And

perhaps I had trodden my own coin underfoot and followed Katherine back inside, from the safety

of her mother's porch, and not walked quickly away, running in fright almost, not looking down,

In Time Book Two 80

determined to make my own choices, based upon my true feelings, rather than the imagined, absolute

indifference, of chance. And perhaps that coin will now remain buried there forever. Or perhaps I

should dig deeper, next time.

Perhaps not.

The pages lie before me, as if the diary spaces are still determined to be filled, with lives

reluctantly lived, no choice there then, not to be contained within parallel lines, even with future

sections torn out, and the words written read, visible in the twilight now; A pity, I quite liked her.

Yes, I quite liked her. Katherine. The First.

Simone appears in the darkness, to murmur,

- only until november fifteenth to go the one has taken those pages

yes

I look down, flick through these pages yet again, as if confirmation is required, and there

is indeed still that naked void after November 15th, as if a past time written in some unknown future

has been stolen from me.

Did Penelo - Carol Marhia really steal that time? What did she do with that life?

After her meeting with Chomiac in a cafe, but still keeping secret her possession of the

manuscript, upon her arrival home Penelope checked that the kitchen and front room was empty,

took the manuscript from under the belt of the rear of her jeans and went upstairs to the bedroom.

It was slightly crumpled and still damp from the drizzle, - that journey had been uncomfortable -

but she hadn't wanted Russell to see her taking it (although he did always nowadays look

suspiciously at her) - it was technically theft after all, and Russell was always so ... particular?

Pedantic? About such things. Scrawled in an almost illegible scribble upon the paper cover in

pencil was the title, - did it read, genius and reservations? - no, that wasn't right, below it read -

Genesis and Revelations: November 15th. Strange title, she thought. But what's another date?

In any year to chose from? Slim sheets of A4 size lined paper, perhaps not even fifty or so pages,

In Time Book Two 81

torn from an old diary. Better make some coffee before she settled down to read. She left the

manuscript on the bed and went downstairs.

The percolator was bubbling as Brian walked in. It did, curiously, actually smell brown

he thought. They didn't even seem to acknowledge each other these days. The phone rang and he

answered it, to gesture indifferently, 'It's for you.' holding the receiver at an absurd distance out

for her, as if this word infested lobster might actually twist and bite him. He hadn't even bothered

to ask who it was. Penelope felt obliged to take it, to listen to this plastic claw capturing the writhing

voice. It was that irritating, plaintive voice she recognised at once. Now of all times. And Brian had

quickly enough disappeared. He must have known who it was?

'Christine?'

The rant had started. Fuck.

Brian had changed upstairs, having hurried past Penelope, to get that cheap scent of Simone

off him.

- did not wear perfume why do you write these bad things of me

they tell me it s time to say goodbye simone

She had absurdly used too much, as always, it was too potent. Perhaps she thought of it

as some sort of love potion. He was almost surprised Penelope hadn't ever mentioned it, but if

she ever should, he had an escape hatch, as it were; he always kept a small bottle now in a pocket.

It was a gift, from him to her, he would say, and the assistant - and she had been beautiful -,

what with those gorgeous golden locks of hers, looked like a painting he'd seen somewhere,-ly

insistent - must have spilt droplets in the shop, as she demonstrated to him. That story might

even sound plausible. He had used to buy her little gifts, in their early days (though she hadn't

found his early gift of a pair of handcuffs amusing, coming so soon after that evening in the cell.

It was where we met. he'd said, smiling obliviously, - but not really relevant, was it? she'd

thought). Perhaps it might be time to rekindle their romance a little. Yes, she might buy it.

In Time Book Two 82

Although she would probably demand a more expensive scent (as if there was any difference!);

no, she wouldn't smell a rat.

He noticed the manuscript upon the bed. Not one of his, what with that (s)crappy hand-

scrawled title page (not Russell again?!), the date of November 15th encircled, from an old diary,

with tiny orbital lines, curiously reminiscent of the solar system he thought (and who was that

Potential then, - Smith? who had suggested a game called Culmination - no, that wasn't it;

Conjunction where if you managed to line up the planets in their orbits with your coloured

counters on the board you scored an eclipse? - it had sounded promising. And educational. And

what was that word Smith had evidently liked? Pedagogical? Sounded like a church preacher).

No, normally he wouldn't even accept any offering that wasn't typewritten. And clean; these papers

seemed crinkled with damp. But perhaps she now felt guilty after their ruckus and had now left

Saint's manuscript upon the bed. Wasn't what was called Love Letters though. At least she hadn't

given it to Chomiac. Something going on there, he suspected. They didn't talk as friends as much

as in the early days, Chomiac taking it badly, almost as if a personal insult, that Brian hadn't pushed

his work (as much as Chomiac probably thought he deserved - would help if it solved a crime though).

The idea that journalists would by definition make good writers was mistaken, - different markets,

different techniques. He took (if it was by him, and not Russell's) Saint's manuscript and placed it

upon his bedside cabinet. Bedtime reading, for later.

They sat at the dinner table in silence, eating slowly. She was glad for once that there

was nobody else present. To see the tension there, after the inexplicable question earlier asked,

as she had blurted out aloud, Are you going to throw a coin to decide whether to kill me?! to

be answered, obviously, by Brian's, What the fuck!? as he looked across to his glass cabinet,

empty now (and for some time it seemed) of the seven fake sovereigns coins, with an absurd comic

planted (?), pasted (?) over their protecting pane of glass. Didn't think much of her sense of humour.

In Time Book Two 83

 There were many more questions not yet asked, and to possibly to remain forever unanswered.

Her husband seemed lost in thought. She had of course said something .. inappropriate, but to prompt

this .. no, indolence was not the word. But Brian was no longer thinking of Penelope's inexplicable

question, for such behaviour was becoming ever more normal it seemed, but of the Korsakoffs.

Korsakoff hadn't written anything for ages. That thriller about the kidnap and rape of an English

nurse had been a big seller, written as it was with political overtones reflecting the times of the cold

war. It held the golden aura of verisimilitude. It was a shame about his wife dying and all that -

suicide, according to Simone, wasn't it? - and although that tragic event was apparently relatively

recent, - for he was sure they had appeared together as a couple at a dinner party one night - wasn't

it the night that Chomiac had called Penelope away to the hospital? to visit some pop star? Only

much later to be identified as a Saint? Yes, probable a mistake to have given Coralie that letter

that night, being properly addressed to Korsakoff, but he was already outside starting his car. Didn't

know he had a DB4 too, No, he hadn't seen Korsakoff professionally for ages. No point, if there is

no book to sell. It was a hard life, being an agent, let alone a publisher. And the wounds of grief heal,

surely, eventually? Scars remain, but flesh recovers. Did he just think that? Or was it one of Simone's?

It held a certain rhythm. But probably from her How To Blackmail (Your?) Lovers (!?) book. And

it would be good material wouldn't it? Even he, Brian, could have thought up a plot line about

the consequences of grief, of losing the one you love. Of a foreigner losing his English wife in

a distant land. Sex and death, always a good combination. Of course, he didn't have Korsakoff's

style, but that's why Korsakoff was a writer, and he was the agent. But maybe he should ask

Korsakoff's daughter to write it, since she was living with him. A slight, even if modest contribution

to the rent would be helpful. Brian had been perturbed by his wife's earlier and apparently random

mention of Korsakoff. Well, more of his daughter, Simone, and of her days with Russell. It was

strange, he thought - yes, he was sure Nikolai and Coralie Korsakoff had been round that evening,

and somehow he knew (but who had told him? - he couldn't remember. Russell?) that their daughter

In Time Book Two 84

had died in a freak accident years before, and that the Potential, yes, Smith, hadn't it been?, had

been the teacher in charge. At that time. Seemed to have forgiven him, then, to be seen with him.

Perhaps they'd (well of course they'd had!) another daughter. Strange to name her Simone too (two?)

- not me why do you write bad things of me like that

though. He looked down at his hand, twitching away. Always seven twitches; two beats of three,

then a final stop. Probably have to eventually see a doctor about it. Or a clockwatcher.

Brian flicked a small piece of fish over on his plate. Undercooked? Not like her. How did

she know? What did she know? So he was banging Simone. Did she know about that? Wasn't sure

if even Russell knew. Hoped not, of course, but he'd been looking at him very strangely recently.

But so what? when all that mattered was whether he could afford it; an affair was an affair was

an affair was an affair was an affair was an affair was An affair was. But he was no longer

sure he could afford it, keeping her in that flat. She had still not giving him anything to sell,

what with How To Blackmail Lovers (though Brian still couldn't recall the exact original title,

or even if it held an exclamation mark) remaining forever unfinished. Well she had grown up

quickly enough, and the kid wanted to be published. Who didn't? But where was it, then, this book

of hers? Might as well be a ghost

- am not a ghost

we must say goodbye soon simone i m sorry

writer for his own story then. And Simone had, after all,

jumped on him, not the other way round. Well, he supposed he was in a position to be of service

to her, and she had returned the favour.

Brian put down his utensils. 'Very nice.'

Penelope nodded, but remained silent. She collected their two plates and carried them to

the kitchen. She placed them in the dishwasher and turned to look back at him, keeping marginally

out of sight. He had started again that annoying habit of twisting imaginary coins in his right hand,

In Time Book Two 85

and tapping the table. His nervous tic seemed faster than normal. Perhaps she should invite Korsakoff

and this daughter of his over for dinner. It was a shame about the wife dying, some scandal about

discovering her husband had had an illegitimate son somewhere, long before, but was that such a

big scandal these days? And what had been his name? Surely not Simon? Too close to Simone, really.

That someone she had never even heard of - unless she really had been one of Russell's girlfriends

(so hard to keep track - Angel Simone Fruitcake, was that even a name?)

- not me why do you write such bad things of me

that had come over for

dinner one night, and that just the mention of the name, Simone, she'd read (she was sure) from

a story by Saint should have had such an effect upon her husband. And how would Saint know all

this? She wanted to pursue the matter with Brian but had no idea what questions to ask. Certainly

not the next thought that had earlier sprang to her mind; Are you going to poison me?! Big mistake

that one - she'd felt a fool even as the words were leaving her lips. Always suspicions, but no evidence.

Smoke without fire? She could do some research of course, on Korsakoff's work, but she wanted to

pursue this opportunity with Saint. Of Saint. It was probably her only career opportunity, as such,

for who, in years to come, would otherwise believe that she'd met a saint? And she now knew

Chomiac would help her. And there was only so much time, as Saint was bound to get better

(certainly no relapse seemed in sight), so she was working against the clock she knew, as if relying

on his ill health for access. Absurd, really. She wondered if she would meet him later, afterwards,

in the real world, when well. Probably not; such relationships were always in context; would

you want to meet your dentist socially? Would the surgeon want to know of his nurse wife's inners?

Doctor Robert's of Nadines? Doubtful somehow. Better then, she thought, not to ask questions,

knowing that of course she had kept silent about her own past, of the time before Brian. But perhaps

he knew. He must do, of Vincent, Chomiac days. She must have been mentioned, in her absence.

In the early days of their marriage she thought it would add some mist of mystery to her, the

In Time Book Two 86

aura of the feminine unknown, that she resolved never to talk to her new husband about her former

boyfriends, excepting Chomiac, since he had introduced them, even if only in passing as it were,

that night in the police station. Perhaps he suspected, even knew of her other secret lives led before.

Yes, he must have known. Yet she still felt faintly perturbed that he had never asked her. Almost as

if curiously indifferent, to her time before. Her sex life with Brian had been frenetic in the(ir) early

days, and he had been so easily satisfied. Well, of course it had already been her .. no, - the word was

not 'profession', but .. sort of. And he was allowed a little leeway, if he had had - or even was having! -

a fling with some floozy. She walked back to the dining table, leant across and laid a hand upon Brian's

wrist, stilling his imaginary coin trick, the incessant tapping. He looked up, smiled gently, puzzled.

'Would you like some desert?' she asked.

He now smiled more broadly, in remembrance; it had been a question asked by her as a prelude

to sex in the early days of their marriage. There were photographs somewhere, well negatives, since

he had destroyed the prints in an absurd, he now realised, pique of embarrassment, of her breasts

covered in cream with two cherries as nipples. She seemed happy (then) to leave those prints

indiscreetly around their (but not those other prints pinned securely in their secret closet - he

hadn't needed a telescope for those) bedroom. He now found his actions absurd, since no one else

was ever upstairs in their house, let alone their bedroom. Or the closet. She had allowed him his

privileges then. Perhaps she would again. At least she had energy. Unlike Simone. 'Any cherries?'

he asked.

Now it was her turn to smile. 'I'll look in the fridge.' But as she crossed the kitchen inevitably

the telephone rang. Penelope pursed her lips. It was always like this, nowadays. Penelope wandered

away from the fridge to answer the phone. After a few moments she said, affecting the same indiffer-

ence as Brian had earlier, 'It's for you. Some floozy.' She waited a moment, disdainfully holding the

receiver as if the rotting lobster was now putrid (and Brian noticed the imitating gesture), to see if

he would take the call, or gesture instead towards the fridge. It was his choice, but it was as if she

In Time Book Two 87

already knew which choice he would make. So he didn't need his lost coins for that then - always

work before pleasure. Sometimes he was just useless. No point in waiting seven minutes, let alone

seven years for him.

No name given, he thought, sourly, as he took the phone. And for a moment he thought

she looked disappointed.

Brian looked at her, safe at his discreet distance, as she stacked the dishes upon their

designated shelves. Always precise, and ordered. Compartmentalised, he thought. He should have

felt guilty about his rejection of her sexual overtures by taking the call, but, hard truth to tell, didn't.

He didn't know why he didn't desire her as he had done in the old days, but unfortunately he didn't

care that much any more. It was sad, but true. At least there was, somewhere in his mind, an honest

appraisal, that guilty admission to himself, of himself. But perhaps he should wonder. Assuage the

guilt perhaps. It was just that she was so energetic. Sex was always like a wrestling match with her.

It was all very well when you are young but he was older now, and he hadn't wanted a trophy

wife anyway (or perhaps he had, he thought glumly, as a kind of slow self realisation had quickly

set in after the initial passions, which had lasted for a good two years or so, that you wouldn't

probably, in all likelihood, meet the woman of your dreams in a police station being nicked for

solicitation, - at least he could understand now why she'd refused to wear those gifted handcuffs),

or the trophy fuck, but had wanted more of a partner in life. For Brian now remembered had

met Penelope through Chomiac, as that night long ago as friends they had shared a drink (or was

it a meal? - discussing some article in New Scientist that had caught Chomiac's eye? - and was

that day the last time they were to be called friends?) for Chomiac to be paged away to the police

station, as Penelope had asked for a character witness (or was it bail?) and Chomiac had cursorily

presented his press pass which somehow gave him credence. It was curious, Brian had thought at

the time, that such a slim slip of plastic with Chomiac's laminated photograph could hold such

In Time Book Two 88

power, more than, it seemed then, than a passport, as he presented it - flashed it more like - in the

face of an odd looking policeman with unkempt red hair, streaked with white (paint?). Here to

see Penny, Vincent. Chomiac had said, and those mere words had been enough, as Chomiac

signed the offered slip of paper (and it wasn't money), and Penelope had been released. Into his

vision. She had been stunning, so dark as if to be half caste (but that could have been the shadows

of the police station), thick black locks of frizzy hair, almost as if - and he knew he wasn't a poet -

waterfalls flowed, cascaded from her head. And he remembered himself as stepping back, almost

as if in shock, that she looked so much like that pop star he had musically (and asexually) admired

as a teenager, Marc Bolan. And puzzled too that Chomiac appeared curiously indifferent, as if this

apparition of femaleness was normal.

Outside in the dark Chomiac had invited them to a local bar, explaining an old school friend

of his was playing piano there, but Chomiac had left again soon enough, having taken yet another

call, after the landlord calling out his name, and his pager then bleeping, From Vincent again.

he had explained, and he left to cover the story of a lost young boy found wandering by the

Thames, who had claimed to have (Incredible .. Chomiac had muttered) walked all the way

from Malvern (.. that he's still alive.) in search of his father, the child claiming his mother had

seen and pointed in shock at this famous Polish (?) author on the television, and once Penelope

had ascertained Brian's profession he had then strangely joked (?) that he should flip a coin to

decide whether to follow her - and she had offered him a fifty pence coin which Brian had refused

to take, saying he had his own sovereign, which he subsequently flipped into the night and called

out too loudly, Obverse!, which evidently was a satisfactory outcome), she had invited him back

For a coffee., if he paid for the cab, for the policeman called Vincent had taken all her money

(so that bribe hadn't worked .. that time), whilst in the cell, she'd claimed, to look at her flatmate's,

her friend's manuscript. It was an offer he was unable to resist, once told of the title.

As they arrived at her flat, Penelope saying Goodnight, Carol. Dancing later? to the curved

In Time Book Two 89

reflection of the driver in the taxi mirror, as if she knew her (and they could indeed have been twins),

stopping somewhere near, from what he thought he remembered, Tottenham, there was this couple

sitting in a front room, the girl a stunning slim, lithe, long fine - not blond, but actually gold(en)

hair streaked with glistering copper threads

- no not me

(was it true that attractive women just co/ngreg/agul/ated

together, he had wondered back then, as if seeking out an equal beauty?), and now that he remembered

that evening, it was with a start he realised that then had been the first time he had met Russell. He had

sat there silent (which in later times Brian realised was a curious personality trait, as if always in a

trance of wonder), pale faced, fine features, as Brian was introduced, and as Penelope had left the

room with this other girl, now apparently called Simone,

- no not me

to explain his, Brian's presence, or to

chat girl talk, or to prepare that offered coffee (Brian now almost praying for any excuse to stay

longer), he engaged in general chit chat and Russell soon enough (not that shy then, Brian had

quickly enough realised, and he found Russell's voice strangely hypnotic, those deliberated inflections)

explained that he had once been Simone's piano teacher, before they had gone out together and Brian

had said, Oh, I should like to learn piano. knowing that this might be his chance, his excuse to see

Penelope again, should an excuse ever be needed, and upon the girls return Simone had not sang of

but mumbled Russell's praises, and Russell had passed him t/his (another? - was plastic the fashion?)

laminated card upon which lay a photograph of him surrounded by students, before Simone wandered

off, before Brian had had the time to ask more of this 'Blackmail Lovers' book, to presumably her

bedroom, and looking strangely discontented (and now, years later, he knew from Russell's constant

diatribes about particular girlfriends that this one's miserable discontentment was not merely the

time of month, but the time of her life, - well he, Brian, had chosen to live with her, - though in

In Time Book Two 90

truth she had moved in with him, - as if always knowing the potential of a free lunch, and perhaps

that was his mistake), and Russell had soon enough followed her, almost as if a reluctant lapdog

upon an invisible leash. Brian had asked, before this figure had disappeared, with a slight hesitation,

as if now uncertain if he were ever to see Penelope again, for the minutes were drifting, fading into

the night, Can I call you? and Russell had replied, with a strange neutrality, before disappearing

without turning from sight around a corner, Of course. Please do. as if he had heard those words

many times before, of people's promised aspirations never realised. Penelope, puzzled, had noticed

Brian's curious expression, and began to explain, nodding towards the empty doorway, as if the

frame might still hold the tremors, the tension of Russell's presence, Trying to fix him up with a

new girlfriend. Not going well. she murmured quietly, as if Russell and said new girlfriend might

still hear. She treats him badly. He loves her very much but she steals his money. You know the

type; says she wants to be a singer but doesn't sing. And Brian had nodded, as if to understand

this ambiguous comment, to reply, I can understand why.

And Penelope had smiled, knowing, that he had not understood.

It was strange (now) that he hadn't known (then) that this new girlfriend of Russell's was

the writer Korsakoff's daughter. There was another story in her, somewhere, although her tome

(although the salacious title alone might help to sell it, - How To Blackmail Your Lovers!

(? Exclamation mark? - he still couldn't remember) might not be it. Still, good sex was still good

sex. And sex sells. And the title alone had attracted him into her Tottenham web. Often he would

visit Penelope after they had begun dating (which he had always found a curious word, as if

appointments had to be made and times calibrated even when in love) and Russell Stuart c/w/ould

be heard playing on a distant keyboard somewhere, silencing, (drowning somehow more appropriate)

the curious sound of distant tears (Oh, that's just Christine. dismissed an obviously disinterested

Penelope), and sometimes Simone would wander in, to Penelope's muted disapproval, as if wary

of Simone's predaciousness.

In Time Book Two 91

 - not me why do write bad of me like that don t know that word

That guy is quite good. Brian had politely offered, to Simone's

response, Oh yes, he taught me that Bach piece. and Brian had smiled, turning to ask Penelope,

Why don't you have lessons? for her in return to smile as if waiting for him to suggest he'd pay

for them. And s/he knew he would. And as Penelope went to prepare a nightcap for the two of them,

now safely confident that she had ensnared him, that she could leave him alone with the ethereal

beauty, Brian had asked of Simone's claimed literary aspirations, or ambitions, to a received blank

stare. And Simone left the room quickly enough, upon Penelope's return with two mugs of black

coffee, a jug of thick cream, and a small bowl of cherries, as if there was now this unconsciouus

understanding between the two of them, Simone murmuring ambiguous instructions to Penelope

to keep the noise down in her bedroom. Brian noticed the mugs, jug and bowl were adorned

with elegant blue Chinese calligraphy (You know Chinese as well? Brian was later that night to

ask, incredulously, before the distracting cream and cherries, tasting slightly sour). But only on

the next time he visited, with Simone evidently some time or days later having asked Penelope

of Brian's occupation, had Simone replied, suggesting she'd written a sort of sex manual. Brian

had laughed out (again too) loudly, but it appeared Simone was serious. So Penelope's earlier

comment about her flatmate having written a book had been true after all, and not merely idle

chit chat. Look forward to reading it then. he had politely replied, before adopting a lower,

more serious voice, adding, But your father ... to reveal too soon enough to Simone where

Brian's obvious true interests lay. But yes, he would return the favour soon enough, he hoped,

after she had persuaded her father to come up with something. He could do with a new bestseller

now. To regain some street credibility.

Well, he had made his bed, but just wasn't content to lie in it. Never mind. At least when

he was fucking Simone she just lay there, happy to be merely lain upon, arms out wide, as if in

crucifixion, eyes screwed up as if in pain, at the sacrifice, as if anxious to please, or appease. And

In Time Book Two 92

there was some disgusting but absolute truth there, Brian had thought, in the action of indifferent

sex, that it was a necessary but unavoidable evil, as one has to eat to then defecate. And truth to tell

he found that Simone's passivity was more erotic than Penelope's callistenics, the way Simone's

small breasts ... shuddered - or was that the right word? judded? - as he was thrusting. At least

he saw her breasts. With Penelope it was all tangled arms and legs. And his dangerously high rate

of heartbeat. If he died - coitus interrupted necro finalated (and Brian wondered if that was an

accurate Latin translation - long time since grammar school) - she would probably ex/plain/claim,

'He died happy!' And smile knowingly to anyone who was interested. The trophy death. It was a

shame he had stolen her, Simone, from Russell, nice bloke that he was. But seemingly lacking

in ambition (according to Simone), and couldn't write (according to himself).

And that had been years ago. How long now? One, three, five, seven? It made no difference

really; it was all prime time.

Simone was to ask, in much later times (and he didn't remember either Russell Stuart

or Simone Korsakoff being present at their wedding - but then that might have been the excitement

of that day), How long have you been married? And there was no hesitation in his reply; Not long.

And Brian then added, as if further explanation was required, No children. And Simone had smiled,

too precocious and knowing, even then.

And perhaps Russell would try and write that claimed story within him, having subsequently

mentioned those dreaded words, after he had been summoned for those promised piano lessons and

later sent to auction to buy the new wife's piano, as if a favour needed to be repaid, for Brian to hear

the words already mentioned too many times in his lifetime, that he too, had a story in him, and

could write a book.

Penelope was looking at him curiously, phone call abandoned, now sitting gazing into space.

Apparently she had spoken. 'Miles away as usual dear?' she asked, with heavy sarcasm.

'Thinking about a manuscript. Your book on Chin- '

In Time Book Two 93

 'You always are. Who was that on the phone?'

'Some floozy.' Yes, perhaps he had should have made that sexual effort after all, but as his

fingers twitched and minutely moved towards her, she still looked at him, disapproving, not yielding,

saying nothing. Timing, as they say, is everything.

Thinking about her manuscript my arse, thought Penelope. What one was that then? That

voice had sounded just like Simone's, though they hadn't spoken since, - and had she and Russell

come round for that meal before, or after (or at all?), the wedding, from what she could remember.

Well, she of course had moved in with her new husband and that was that, - old flatmates good-

bye. And she thought she knew her husband better than that. Or did she? But people were just ...

and she couldn't begin to describe the feeling ... picture books? Cartoons? Ciphers? Obviously,

no one knew, really, what went on in someone else's mind, or even their life history, the events

that shaped them, before you knew them. Perhaps they might even be called Zombies, as Russell

had tried to explain once. There was this philosophical term (and how could he have known that -

she thought music was his thing?) he'd said, but she hadn't understood - and perhaps he hadn't

either, - as he had tried to explain the difference between people, and Zombies - but the definition

seemed to her to be the same, by Russell's description, that you could never know the inside of

another's mind, their thoughts, if any. It seemed to be stating the obvious. Sometimes, people (or

Zombies) were just there for a while, with their funny quirks, and then they went disappearing,

out of eyesight, to reappear at a later time, sometimes minutes, or days, or months later.

Or sometimes, never.

Yes, people were just there, sometimes just appearing out of nowhere, in the street, or

an art gallery and, in fact, even after a long time you surprised yourself by finding out you knew

nothing about them. She remembered her own shock of surprise that Russell had an interest in

Chinese calligraphy. She would never have suspected that in a million years, but there he was,

during those long lost college days, when he wasn't otherwise engrossed with Nadine, or playing

In Time Book Two 94

cards with herself - reading the runes he had called it, - seemingly talking knowledgeably about

tones, rabicals, or whatever they were, although as a musician she supposed he would know all

about pitches, melodies and all that. His enthusiasm had actually inspired her to change her course,

to junk that philosophy crap - and what a waste of a year that was! - explore this new linguiscape.

And then, one night, at a local caf or a restaurant, not quite on White Hart Lane itself, she had seen

Russell seated with his girlfriend at a table. A pillar blocked her view of the girls back, but she was

sure it wasn't Nadine. And as Penelope looked up, she caught a reflection of herself, face obscured

by the same frizzy hair, but seated. It really was an impossible coincidence. Things like that only

happened in sloppy romcom paperbacks. And yet it had happened.

So yes, Russell was right; she knew Chinese, and she was trying to sell a How To

Chinese Calligraphy book.

And he had met - no, actually taught - Saint some time ago. He'd mentioned it often,

to themselves, and others, evident disbelief, until that dinner party, when it became apparent his

words were all true, explaining it was just like meeting himself, whatever that meant. Or perhaps

the name hadn't earlier rang a bell, until she herself had actually met him. He always seemed so

indifferent to the outside world at times, did Russell. This otherworldliness he held. Enchanting

and irritating at the same time, always like he was only half there. As was Saint, truth be told,

always gazing into space, searching for something. Or writing another story, in his imagined life.

At least his diary was real, and had a genuine excuse, that he was bedridden with nothing else to

do. The house hadn't revealed that much, excepting that strange picture of Simone, -

- there was no picture of me only that school one in the newspapers

that was the one i used simone but they tell me it s time to say goodbye now

yes, she

was sure now it was her, even though Russell seemed convinced it was a Katherine (they'd met

a Katherine once with her much older, slightly creepy, husband at a dinner party of theirs, but that

In Time Book Two 95

was a long time ago - thought he'd subsequently died in a bizarre fall from a college roof), and that

smashed back door window (she knew she should have called the police to fix it, - her 'friend'

Vincent would have kept the incident quiet), and that very strange message on the ansaphone

(what story lay there? she wondered), and Russell thinking they were married - what the fuck was

he on about?!, and upon her return from the kitchen, having replaced the cherries in the fridge

(another wasted effort) she had wanted to ask Brian, with an intimidating, Wasn't that Simone

on the phone?! but she had fallen into silence, as there had not arisen an opportune time to further

inquire. So far.

She felt obliged to ask Russell about his memories of that long ago Saint teaching day,

but not make it obvious. Although why that might be useful to her she was not sure. She shouldn't

have left him at the door of Saint's house, she knew, but she had needed Chomiac's advice. About

the taken story. It was somewhat ironic that she felt she could only turn to Chomiac for advice,

despite her marriage, despite the fact that her husband was in the trade, so to speak. You'd have

thought that's what husbands are for. But Chomiac had suggested, You read it first, let me know

what you think. Which placed the responsibility back with her. And he having expressed such

interest last night. No, she shouldn't have left Russell with that tapestry, in the street under the rain.

Yes, she felt almost guilty. She wondered what he was up to.

Russell stared at the tapestry, large and slightly overbearing in his front room. Just a picture

of an imagined girl, a girl created from a poem by Tennyson, a girl soon to die too soon, according

to those words.

And he had been in love with this image as a younger man, as if, and as he had implied to

Saint in that time before, that this picture might have been an actual representation of Katherine the

First, that Waterhouse might actually have been commissioned to capture her beauty, as if she had

been alive, back then, in that time. But of course it was not Katherine, for Nino was long dead, and

In Time Book Two 96

she, Katherine the First, and the Second, were both long gone too.

- she sits with me join us

i can t simone i tried and i failed and we must say goodbye soon

And Russell knew somehow that period had been seven long years. And here, yet more

years later the recent gift hanging in his room. And Saint replacing it with an unfocused photograph,

of Simone.

- there was no picture of me except that school one in the newspapers

i know simone you've already told me but all i have is an imagined memory of your future

It was a strange world, full of absurd contradictions, impossible coincidences, and it was only

now he understood, now too experienced, now of a certain emotional maturity, that now was of

course too late: all he had had to do then was reply, when Katherine the First had murmured her quiet

words, aeons ago, implying her request for something deeper, for who knows what might lie between

them if ... Yes., - all he had had to do then was to murmur that necessary word, as even instructed

to by his disappearing father, for he was the male, and she female, but he had not spoken, remaining

silent, for outside that night, under the sil'vry moonlit porch the trick coin had fallen away into the

darkness, only to be found decades later as Simone had spoken, reminding him of the DB4 they had

made, and though it had seemed to Russell then that it must have been obvious to Katherine the First

that he'd been in love with her, for he had made the effort to write to her whenever he was elsewhere;

from college (which even then he'd realised was of course faintly absurd, for she had married Smith

by then and was living only yards away across the college lawn; the same address; it was like writing

to himself), and calling her name out loud on her birthday in middling November, as if she could hear

him across the chilly grass, in the days when he was living with Nadine, sharing that college flat with

those other girls, Carol Marhia,

- she is the one

Coralie, those days from even before the/ir early touring days,

In Time Book Two 97

and despite the irritating tears of a nearby Christine, perpetually claiming his abandonment of

her, there was a happiness then to remember how he had earlier visited her in the shelter, the comfort

of her front room in Chifwick, the beautiful view of the river opposite, to take tea and conversation,

a free man if not in Paris at least in London, to talk not of popular song, musing of his soon enough

business to be, of a band, of the joy of K learning his D chord, and although already experienced,

in wine, women, and song, he had not then learnt that the words, however shyly or softly mumbled,

still needed to be spoken; assumption was not enough; for every woman yearns to be loved, to be

worshipped, adored, as all women do, such is that deep genetic imprint for survival, but the offer

must still be made, uttered in words, in order, in return, to be cared for. But Russell had realised

Katherine the First's then needs far too late, for, although he did not regard himself as promiscuous,

he had never needed to ask a woman out - it was almost as if literally they had been drifted by the

aeolian wind of his strummed strings into his arms, to melt as snowflakes. He had become unwittingly

arrogant, and thus careless, not only with their emotions, but with his own money; he had not then

learnt that a man's wealth was irrelevant, to any woman of quality, and Katherine the First had been,

from his memories, without doubt a woman of quality (and why should he think of the experience

of her then, now, and forever always onwards it seemed, of that earlier, First time, - even after her

marriage days to Smith had prematurely ended, not too think too often of their own marriage days, -

and now Penelomarihah says her life has been over for seven years, when he had had so many

distracting girlfriends, not merely from East and West, but North and South too, throughout his

own later, famous time?), unlike so many of the others, with their obvious, transparent to any saint,

visual calculations, for Simone was not a woman of quality;

- am a girl am not like that

you must say goodbye simone

as for her money was still an

absolute measure, as if a man's worth were always to be contained within his ever shrinking wallet,

In Time Book Two 98

even though she professed indifference to its existence; for her it was always just there; for Russell

Stuart was an attractive man; there was his pale fresh face but sharp features, somewhere in there lay

an Irish descent, with a slight kink in his flowing locks of hair. And once women spoke to him

(perhaps out of shyness he rarely instigated a conversation with a stranger, and women liked this

assumed deference), they immediately felt relaxed, his voice reflected a neutral classlessness,

but he spoke with a curious gentle inflection (an early girlfriend said he spoke like he was sucking

a toffee and savouring each spoken word, as if he enjoyed a curious frisson in and of the sound

of language), and women picked up some sense, some level of emotional receptivity; there were

hidden levels not spoken of, of experience, of the other lives he had lived. Old before his time, one

had said, another, that he was too portentous. Russell knew she had meant pretentious (having rejected

her sexual overtures), but politely said nothing.

Well, he was not poor now, as he sat at the black piano, the one they had bought together

at auction (well, he had - Rhia

- she is the one

was elsewhere, meeting an agent who was considering her How

To .. Chinese calligraphy book), the Waterhouse tapestry before, above him, dominating his whole

field of vision (and what a vision), clarinet and oboe standing erect as monuments to another, lost

time, upon their designated window sills, Rhia's Chinese calligraphy upon the walls, most still

incomprehensible to him, for the student quickly surpassed the teacher, he holding in their early

college days together more enthusiasm than comprehension, preferring instead playing, reading

and counting cards, Flip Decision in its frame (and perhaps, should Simone ever fall to her final

silence

- will never leave you

you must say goodbye soon simone it s time

it would be time to remove that comic, for he was an adult now), as he sat in Katherine

In Time Book Two 99

the First's house. But not really her house at all, when he now came to think of it, belonging as it

did in those far off days to her mother. And now he knew, but decades too late, that Katherine

the First would have answered Yes., in that time before, had he murmured (as he had agreed

to his father's request before his sudden disappearance), but instead looking down to seek the

affirmative Obverse, to mumble Heads at the (in?)appropriate moment. No, never to murmur

the one syllable word to change a life; one vowel, two consonants, only three letters: Y - E - S.

- but the coin saw it fall

but i did not need to look simone

For money is just paper, a medium of exchange, of energy, but absurd to think he could

buy back the past. Even if time did not exist.

And here he now sat, silently at the silent piano. Un(de)pressed keys, melodies long unplayed.

It had been a different time then, when he held enthusiasm. Different days. But the schism remained

in his mind, even after so much time, due to those four months of parasitical madness of the non sing-

ing singer Simone Korsakoff,

- but you said you liked my voice

i loved your voice simone and your clarinet playing but they tell me it's time to say goodbye

the lacking years of any respect from self opinionated half wits, the

now unsellable songs, after t/he/y had fallen out of fashion, the talentless singers he had subsequently

been forced to employ - well, he had traversed successfully that abyss, although the transition, that

troubled journey seemed to have taken years, a decade at least - or was it merely those lost seven years?

as Penelomarihah continues to insist? and a distinct mental adjustment had been required; that music

was no longer a part of his financial, or emotional, life. It had brought in huge amounts, in that short

burst when they were famous, but, divided by the later time of years (fortunately he had hidden the

bulk of his own income before a punitive amount of tax was deducted, - for saints are not susceptible

In Time Book Two 100

to locally dictated audits, living as they do globally, - even Angel FSimone Fruitcake hadn't got her

hands on it - such was his instinct for self preservation, survival), mere pennies, in the long run.

Those pennies had been sufficient in an earlier time, when music held a pleasure (the effect upon

others of a simple harmonised melody had never ceased to fail to amaze, and amuse, him; that such

simple chords, such simple rhythms could actually move bodies!), and his 'social' work of a few

hours teaching a week had held a pleasure, in the return of his practical experience (for hadn't the

decades earlier taught D major chord to K paid off so handsomely?), but eventually, almost inevitably,

the boredom of teaching infants and adults to such an infantile level, and being patronised by neurotic

middle class mothers (and certainly, he thought, - as the consonant and numeral C2 puzzlingly floated

into consciousness, - their minds were middling) with madly unrealistic ambitions for their children

(But weren't you famous once? one idiot had asked, as if the guiding hand of Russell's tutelage could

obliterate that day, decades ago, of mere chance, - of K's arrival as Russell had just changed his guitar

strings), to be paid irrelevant pin money (only to have even t/his money stolen by Simone Korsakoff),

- am not like that why write such bad things

forced a schismatical career change in Russell Stuart's life, as if she were the final pebble (and the

memory of her still weighed heavily upon him) that caused the cliff to collapse, and his river to

change course, - with the money from the band years he became an options trader.

And it was in fact, now that Russell sat at the piano and mused, how he had come to be here

(and not there, or anywhere else), - curious, that one word, could change a life. Unlike the two words,

I do., which if had been muttered reluctantly to Simone Korsakoff's persistent requests, would have

ensured his destruction, or the one word Yes., requested by a now long disappeared parent, the word

of relevance to him was: Risk..

At a meal with Penelope and Brian, where one of their dinner guests was trying to sell a

book (did they n/ever just have social gatherings, without any other agenda?) - and had it been

a financial tome? - that the guest had mentioned the word Risk, as if it all were a battle Against

In Time Book Two 101

the Gods with an inflection that had given it an importance that had resonated later within Russell

Stuart's thoughts: Risk was in everything (this Potential had pontificated), and not properly

comprehended. The guest (and had he really been called Burningsting?) had proceeded to give

examples throughout history, and was extremely well learned. Russell had later forgotten to ask

Brian whether he had taken the guest's book (probably not, for Simone had sometime later mentioned

that although Brian had not missed out on her father's bestseller, he was looking likely to turn down

her own sex manual, - such is the grandeur of self delusion - Am I in it? Russell had asked, to

receive her usual inscrutable smile), but he had not forgotten the guest's name, although he was

not sure (then) how remembering the name Burningsting, would be of any future use, and Russell

was never actually sure what Brian did. Was he an 'agent' or a 'publisher'? He wasn't even sure what

the difference was, and he should after all know, his long ago school friend Rollo Chomiac having

reluctantly become a 'journalist'. Apparently Rollo had even met Brian at a police station, which he

found surprising, - Brian always seemed so staid. But Russell had picked up enough key words

in that idle conversation, before he was 'requested' to play the piano, to pursue this new interest,

soon enough, and amazingly, to become an occupation. So perhaps his times at Brain and Penelope's

hadn't been wasted after all. As his philosophical university days hadn't been wasted either; just a

necessary process, even if that journey held no final destination.

Russell rarely mentioned his new 'occupation' in conversation. Although, initially, as he had

in his early now other career as a music teacher, during the breaks in between touring (and perhaps

K had, after all, been his first, and final student), when he held some enthusiasm to pass on knowledge,

when knowledge was appreciated, he had initially tried to answer questions of curiosity by attempting

to explain his technique, employing the metaphor of the option to buy a bicycle at some future date

(the value of the agreed contract price of the bicycle might sharply increase if the supply of petrol

were to suddenly fail), only to be regaled constantly, even before he could finish his explanation

that the inverse was also true, by the usual urban myth (and curiously enough the words were nearly

In Time Book Two 102

always the same); 'Oh but my friend lost his shirt trading coffee futures ..' (to leave Russell in a

bemused silence, as he hadn't mentioned any interest or experience in coffee futures, and was

somehow sure that the imaginary 'friend' hadn't either) that he quickly realised that although the

mechanics of trading were not particularly difficult - it was how the world had worked for hundreds

of years after all - the 'average', - and what did that word mean exactly?, he often asked himself;

for he felt 'average' but obviously wasn't, - mean (?), median (?) person thought of any obscure

financial matter as some sort of alchemy, a mystic science beyond the ken of mere mortals. This

had surprised Russell, until he remembered their (Simone's and his) childhood astonishment that

some adults hadn't even known that their own sun was a star, - well certainly his mother hadn't,

which was also surprising, for he somehow remembered that her nickname had been 'Corona'.

Yes, there was a tide in his affairs and at least he had caught the flow of the river, after the

pebbling collapse of the bridge, refocusing his efforts, - teaching and touring had taken (stolen too

much) time (from him), for although he had not needed to prepare lessons, the decades of practice

and preparation always sufficing to keep him years ahead of any student, except Catherine (but then,

he had adored her more than he could have loved his own child ((and where now was Nadine?)),

so was aware his judgement might be suspect). Song writing had taken time, struggling with lyrics

(the melodies were always easy) to make any adult sense that wasn't an infantile love song, - for

weren't there already enough silly love songs? Record producing had taken an inordinate amount

of his time (the general public never realising, - as Angel Simone Fruitcake herself, the non singing

singer appeared not to realise,

- but played the clarinet with you

yes simone but that was real

that a single song could take days to produce, but at least the

'average' J/an/o/e Public (and s/he didn't even have to be a 'C2') knew there had to be singer there,

somewhere in the mix, - that the song would actually have to be sung on), all for three minutes

In Time Book Two 103

of pleasure (?) that might be instantly discarded. The new occupation took less time, and much

less effort. It was actually, - and no other word would quite suit, and he had long searched -

boring, of no artistic merit (for there still lay in his mind an absurd obligation to be 'creative',

because he 'owe(d) it to culture', - but perhaps they had been his mother's words), but the rewards

were almost, though of course not quite, infinitesimally more profitable. As he had grown older,

drifting into a middling age, he had gained many (more) experiences, and by the force of his

personality and looks, and of course his job, many women, but he realised with a certain regret

that he had become more selfish. But he had not had a choice, he thought, when his life was now,

after Angel F Simone Fruitcake, about survival.

He had given too much of his life away for nothing, and he had not been appreciated or

adequately recompensed for his generosity. But now he had had to focus on money he had calculated

a figure that he would use in everyday life, a template that would gauge his time, to prevent his life

being squandered uselessly by others: an hour of his life was worth twenty five pounds.

It was a useful device, although he was unhappy to have to calibrate himself in this way. It

caused him to step back, and not rush to offer help. It was already a residue from his trading experience

- at 4.30 PM, when the market closed, your were either solvent, or insolvent, either in profit, or in loss.

At 4.30 Post Meridian. (Yes, perhaps Nadine's spelling was more appropriate.)

There had been times when he had sat counting the minutes until the close of the market,

until the time value of his positions eroded into nothing, when every second could secure a few more

pounds in his favour. And, he was aware of another irony, that this new 'career' of his was of this

contemporary time - the technology, and the mathematics behind the Black Scholes model had not

existed twenty years before. So there was no cause to regret loss opportunities when he was younger;

there had been no opportunity there. It was all too easy, now.

- the young don t know they re born

Russell nodded, agreeing well you didn t simone He stood. His recollections of the past

In Time Book Two 104

had prompted a remembrance of an even earlier time. Those school exam certificates must be in

this piano seat. He opened the seat clumsily, one small brass bracket now broken, remaining un-

repaired even after all these years; always tomorrow, to fix something. They were there, those

certificates from school days, irrelevant now to the point of absurdity; O and A level passes, and

his own piano passes (not the hundreds his students had accumulated over the decades) from

another time. There were also two newspapers he had bought, ten, and twenty years ago, as his age

had changed at the changing digit of each decade. One day he had promised himself he would read

them again, to find what changes and what stays the same: Russell had once played a home recorded

videotape, not knowing its contents. After the film, made it seemed in the style of the 1970's, when

there was a spate of cheap soft porn movies produced in the newer, cheaper medium of videotape,

the colour curiously appearing bleached when compared to the quality of film stock, the news that

followed was everyday trivia, manufactured by the television producers to fill the time allocated,

to prevent the un/forgiv/profit/able void of visual silence. It was only when a political figure appeared

that Russell was able to date the time the tape was made; a long gone former Prime Minister. Great ..

but .. soon enough to be forgotten, the journalist had described, as he ended the interview, incorrectly

naming and bidding the bemused politician goodbye. (And it was curious, this comment; it was as

if the disrespect of the journalist in actually forgetting the name of the acting Prime Minister ((instead

of the clumsy accident it actually was - his attention distracted by the producer circling his wrist,

not quite pressing for time, for the words on the autoque, interview and unfortunately to be

omitted)) had somehow weakened the very presence of the man, and consequently his political

power, and within a few months he was gone, and soon enough forgotten). As we all are, Russell

had thought at the time, soon enough to be forgotten. And then there followed a television

interview with a Polish (or was it Hungarian?) writer called (and had he heard it right?) Corseof-

koff, who had just married an English woman, who claimed to be a literary fan of Polish poetry,

and had flown out to meet him. And with a start Russell remembered why he had taped that evening's

In Time Book Two 105

programs; not for the soft porn movie (with hard core music); he had timed the recording to start

earlier that day (as he himself was recording elsewhere), to allow for any delays in the schedule,

as some now forgotten sports event was disrupting normal broadcasting times, but that in their

much earlier student days Nadine's former college flatmate (Nadine having already, with only

days to spare, left Russell, and the flat, taking the groom's wedding present of the Bechstein piano

with her, to marry the said good Doctor Robert), Coralie, had 'run off', suddenly emigrated to marry

this then unknown author, leaving him and Carol

- she is the one

alone in the flat. (Christine fortunately refusing

to disturb Carol and Russell's sexual congress, and Russell relieved, when Friedman eventually

called to offer her his consolations.) It had sounded romantic, and Russell couldn't recall whether

he had written a good luck card via the agent or publisher, Brian (triple barrelled) Some Brand-Or-

Other, or directly to Poland? It was the sort of crazy thing he would have done, sending a well

wishing letter, to an older woman, - the one that looked so much like his imagined mother, when

young. And of course because they all known each other. Then. When to wish others, 'good luck'

or 'best wishes', or 'future happiness' showed signs of caring.

So the earlier bustling flat was now left with just the two of them, Friedman having 'dumped'

Carol

- she is the one

Marhia and Russell abandoned by Nadine, - an inevitable conjunction then, of bodies.

Always Crying Christine somehow now dating Friedman and fortunately now always absent,

to cry in another man's room (and arms), lamenting the lost love of her love, that departed pop

singer, so near and yet so far away, - let her tears fall elsewhere.

And the old, virtually unplayable, Victorian piano, static in its silence.

In Time Book Two 106

 And now Russell was sifting further through this seat, upon which he had sat many thousands

of times since a young child. Many million notes he had played, but now those notes were silent,

past. Just dust upon keys. He picked up a credit card slip, carelessly discarded within the newspapers.

Just numbers, letters, but they resonated, causing him to remember that trip. Others might remember

a (not necessarily pleasant) past from the taste of a cake, or, in more contemporary times, from the

sound of a recorded song, - Our song - and now, for him, numbers and letters upon this thin

Isabelline coloured faded paper. And how useful that credit card had been. Then. A few days away,

after another tour (and was it the/ir final tour? he taking Time Out to decide? - yes, perhaps that was

what those few days away were for), walking up several flights of steps to a dinghy office he had

found it hard to believe, a few yards from the squalor of the streets of Srinagar below, where severe

civil strife seemed imminent, that a single sequence of numbers would give him the necessary flight

ticket back to the safety of Delhi, and then on to finish their tour of Australia. Of Thailand. (Russell

had told the band he would be away three days, but already in his heart he knew it was over, - he had

missed the BBC gig, but let them play on without him; for saints can always play and pray for the

next week; yes, Catherine was the centre, the focus now of his affection.) But it had; a m/g/enial

clerk called, curiously, Rammed Him (?), had smiled up at him, saying 'It's so nice to see you again.

Mengoi enjoyed that walk with you. This is my job when I'm not on the boat. You're still going to

get me that job in London? Big discount for you then, now.' and as Rammed Him had merely

written the dictated digits upon a flimsy paper ledger Russell nodded absently, not quite sure as if

in agreement, as their previous meeting had been at the top of a mountain, - if Hari Parbat could be

defined as a mountain, - and he now wondered if the high altitude had affected his judgement, for,

now paying closer attention as his flight details had been issued to him, Rammed Him looked

somehow different on lower ground. And the price had been - Russell checked the discoloured

paper, - yes, it seemed absurdly cheap, but then, those few days away were already a long ago

time, as were the band days too now long gone. And as was Rammed Him; never to be convicted

In Time Book Two 107

for manslaughter for that unfortunate tailgate in/ac/cident involving Copy Cat Brat, which had led

to the fury of Katherine's voice on the ansaphone, and her almost immediate death too.

And of his beloved Catherine.

- join us

Rammed Him might have been sentenced to a couple of years in prison for Copy Cat Brat's

death, plus an additional six months for that un/licenced/roadworthy vehicle (he'd claimed he'd driven

it all the way from India, which was beyond anyone's belief), but this conviction might have been

reduced to a few months had Russell acted as a character witness,

- they sit with me join us

no say goodbye simone

but even with the help of

Russell's lawyers they couldn't get him completely off, Rammed Him claiming not he'd received

instructions from a saint, which was obviously ridiculous. (The doctors had asked him if he heard

voices, but Rammed Him insisted the saint was real, indicating, pointing at an image in an old

Melody Maker. And since that hospital was not a prison, the very same day Rammed Him had

simply walked out through the main door, claiming the river had drowned his van, to received,

understandably (?), incomprehension, so no time had actually been served at all.) Russell had met

him the next day in Paris, he in his own time vainly trying to recapture Catherine's footsteps, already

retracing faded chalk marks upon walls, and paid for Rahim's flight to get back to Srinagar, plus the

previously (unremembered) agreed expenses.

It was curious now, that Russell remembered the numbers scribbled seemed to add up to

his own telephone number, and the phone had rang at that precise moment. Simone had answered

(and it was curiously affecting to hear her real voice again, after so long), then passed him the phone,

claiming, It's Highpattyher.

As Rammed Him had consequently telephoned him too, and soon after he had returned

In Time Book Two 108

from Thailand. Or India. Or Australia: lands no longer FODOL, but still Somewhere Else.

- remember rahim

ah yes rahim

Russell looked further down the page, realising now why he had kept this slip, a keepsake

of another time; amongst all the other thousands of discarded credit card slips in his life; there were

four different currencies specified; American dollar, Indian Rupee, Australian dollar, Thai Bhat. All

in the space of one month. Yes, he had been a well travelled man. In those far off music days (yes,

that must have been the last tour). He could remember Australia easily enough, after that call in

Srinagar from Hypatia, for that short passionate tryst with Rhia (and every time he thought of her,

their reunion now, there were these soft tinklings in his thoughts - she must have been good!),

- she is the one

the meditation centre where the Other Band had visited decades before, now just ruins amongst

shrubbery, the nightly dancing of Chiang Mai women in the square ... and his guilty secrets, of his

reluctant necessities in New York, only to followed by the tearful New Yorker back to London.

Russell closed the seat lid and sat again at his piano, to stare at dusty keys. He hadn't played

for a while. He was aware as he looked around the room, pictures pinned to walls, of television puppet

characters, of cartoons of planets and jets and motorbikes, of tiny paper clocks torn from a diary, all

apparently randomly stuck to the wall, and also seeing, curiously, but surely an optical illusion, faintly

coloured flashing lights, as if there were somehow remote controls of television standby lights present

(for he was sure the ansaphone was now switched off, and that final message deleted), and aware that

as he sat it was as if somehow he sadly yearned to recapture an imagined lost childhood. Well,

Simone had been, as was still his friend, even if she had died long ago. It was crazily sad, he thought,

that his best, and first, girlfriend had been dead for thirty years. Or so. That all these thoughts, voices

of her since were just imaginings,

In Time Book Two 109

 - no am real

no simone only in my thoughts are you real we must say goodbye soon i m sorry

- will never leave you

you must simone please say goodbye now

illusions of how she might have spent her life, as if his brian had

made up these stories of what might have been. There was an illness there, perhaps a deep depress-

ion, now possibly even visible to others, he thought, but Russell would refuse to admit any disability -

he was not disabled, - he just didn't feel like playing any more. So easy to fake a little Chopin, to

receive a little fake applause. At least t/he/y had written a lot more than any five easy pieces. The

albums all attested to that. And he had later been a great teacher, as his long list of paper passes proved,

but there was no possibility of his getter 'better'; his success was of a certain time, when he had been,

held enthusiasm, when there was a joy to be found in playing with that band, and young enough then

to demonstrate encouragement, for the students he had taught at that time were all excellent, but they

were of their time too, and he had been there, in his, the right time, to guide them. It was coincidence,

that was all. Fabulous, but merely a chance synchronicity. And they all were, after all, not Catherine.

He licked the tip of his index finger and ran it down the two black notes above the middle C

then pressed a random note. No longer yellow, that sound, through a lot of dust; it had been some time.

Coloured like a B flat. The urban legend was that there was an atom of Caesar in every living being,

therefore, there must also be Bach here in this dust, somewhere. Perhaps even in the wood. Or in

himself. He fingered silently the keys of the Bach Two Part Invention in 'a' minor, not depressing

the keys in case his dexterity, and memory, had failed him. But no, his fingers flowed effortlessly,

albeit still silently, over the keyboard. So Bach lives on then, within him and without him. He

smiled thinly, there were memories in this piece, of that girl called Simone. Well, being a music

teacher had held its compensations, as he had tightly held Simone underneath him.

- you didn t hold me you were nice to me

In Time Book Two 110

 goodbye simone please

It was a shame that Simone was, unfortunately, but in fact, he thought, mad - much too

volatile, emotionally unstable to sustain any relationship, with him (that much - if he had learnt

anything in this life - was for sure! - but with anyone else? - he couldn't bring himself to believe

that), remaining unaware of his kindness, blind to his generosities, his essential gentleness, yes,

and probably with anyone else too - for Russell had soon enough realised that she had not yet

then found a sense of herself; being the beautiful daughter of a famous writer in exile wasn't

enough. Besides, he had grown to dislike the mother, despite the good luck greeting card he had

sent her years before, to wish her well in her marriage (and which Coralie later claimed never to

have received, when he had recognised her again years later as he was teaching her daughter - in

fact, denying even his, and the old spinster teacher's existence, - who must, surely, have been her

own mother? - which was ridiculous); disagreeable and discontented in equal measure. It was strange

how people changed; Simone's mother and t/he/y had even sort of shared a house back in their student

days when he had been going out/living with Naddy, and Carol

- she is the one

i know that now simone and you must say goodbye soon

Marhia (and Coralie even then

had this curious habit of hiding her milk bottles, which was forever to remain unexplained), but

there was no connection now, with his memory of the buxom lass he had known then as a 'mature'

(She'll age me quickly! he had quipped, to Nadine's disapproval, as he had, even then, defined

her as statuesque) student and that harridan that had become Simone's mother. Well, he imagined

Simone might have been a handful, strong willed that she was, and now of course twenty, - or was

it now thirty? - years was a long time. But there had been no common shared experiences since that

time. And also, perhaps, as she had claimed, although Russell doubted it, Simone had told her mother

of their sexual exploits, and Coralie understandably disapproved, Russell being so much older, now,

In Time Book Two 111

than her pre/co/cious daughter. (Apparently, according to Simone, Coralie's first husband had been

a lot older than her and had died before his time due to radiation sickness. It sounded implausible,

but delivered with such complete indifference by Simone that Russell ex/su/spected it to be true.

And somehow, Russell didn't expect Coralie's concern to be with his own chances of survival,

having abandoned him in early life to the mad old piano playing spinster.)

Who had he liked, throughout the years of his teaching career, if career was the word?

It had always seemed incidental to him, passing the techniques, the tricks of the trade on, on to

the next generation; more spare time social work, and any excuse to get away from the band by

then, than with any concern at earning money. There had been hundreds of students, but as his

fingers touched his now silent keyboard, and swept away the dusted Isabelline chords, curiously,

unconsciously forming the opening chords of Debussy's Clair de Lune in D flat, as if a distant

wistfulness was sought, as Catherine in that time before had played those chords, and had effortlessly

strummed his heart strings then, but could never now be found, and she was only one, amongst the

hundreds, throughout the years, that he thought of, and she had never been a student as such, more

of a daughter, and Katherine the First's daughter at that: Catherine.

I remember Catherine.

Russell realised somehow that he would never see Catherine again,

- she sits with me join us

no i can t simone it s too late

and it had already

been seven years or so, since the days when he had been with, played with, taught her, guided her,

clasped her young hand, held her close in his heart, and this fact saddened him, for she had been

brilliant, to eventually so effortlessly learn on guitar Villa Lobos Prelude number 1, violin to grade

four, and piano .. well Debussy of course, and Poulenc, Mozzie, Beethoven.

In Time Book Two 112

 - she sits with me join us

no i can t simone

There was a further sadness too, that whereas he thought she might have been capable, in

her later adult life, had she lived, of a musical scholarship to Cambridge, he instead had promised

her that she should follow her own heart, to study what she wished .. but he could not now remember

making any suggestion, when she had asked, as a child, What do you want me to be, when I grow

up? excepting the obvious (to him) reply, Do whatever you want that makes you happy. I want you

to be happy. And so she had; she was always somehow going to be (yes, he again thought sadly, now

this slowly dawning, chilling realisation, had she lived) a musical scientist. And Russell had admired

her for this, this streak of independence at so young an age, for only in his own adulthood he realised

he had never followed his heart; music had always been a business. Yes, it was enjoyable, and there

had been a joy in the early days (before K had sold him) in the composition of those simple, catchy

tunes (and sometimes small scale piano works and orchestral pieces - which was much more interesting

to him; sometimes he added voices so that he could use them as filler tracks - fill out the time as it

were), and the financial rewards had been ridiculously disproportionate to the effort, really, and t/he/y

had met so many hundreds, thousands of people, during the touring days, though too few of them had

been interesting, and he had enjoyed the experience of meeting (although of course their relationship,

their previous years of abandoned friendship, their, his, First time earlier adoration, could not be

reduced to the word, meeting) again Katherine, and her daughter, Catherine.

Yes, he had done well, over the years, and he could always pretend he had used his excess

time for charity, and culture.

So it was such a shame that Katherine and Catherine were dead. And had been for some

time. And he regretted never having said Goodbye. As he had never said Goodbye to Simone.

'I will miss you.' he had muttered, in that time before, but no; it didn't sound the same.

- cathy sits with me join us

In Time Book Two 113

 no i can t simone i m sorry i must go on i m all there is i may be narcissistic but always

the soothing jonquil music of carol bells sooth me

- why did you marry fascist bastard s daughter gave you katherine told you she was not the one

the second yes but i was in love with katherine the first she is gone now and yes you were

right you said she was not the one

- join us

no

Hypatia? Fascist Bastard's Daughter?: FBD? No; BSR. Father of Carol. Hypatia. Yes, I

remember her. Now. I suggested she sing in a choir, as she chalked softly upon me one morning,

as she sang along to Greg Ordinary. I was remembering Nadine then.

Carol. Ben there, John Donne that. I marihah - d. Yes, Ben's daughter: these memories of lost

times, of Carol's coloured body, and past glory years, but not lost teaching days, had prompted a

memory of another teacher. Well, he had been his teacher in different days, and in different ways:

Smith. Yes, incredibly, even nicotine tinted - stained - Smith had gone on to marry Katherine. And

now, also incredibly, Ben was his friend. Bastard Starkers Raving: BSR? The world was so completely

different, that the person he remembered as a child was now - and Russell realised with a start that

the day he had rejoiced as Ben announced he was leaving, was the same day he had met G, on the

last day of term, of that first year, on 'teachers leaving day'; TLD, as he and Simone, and Vincent

(or had it been Chomiac? And Katherine - or was that a later time?) had won that talent competition

in the previous hour. Before that final holiday with Simone.

- you cheated

no i didn t simone i remember now

G had later claimed he had not remembered congratulating Russell, with a McCartney

thumbs up and a Well done mate!, and never in a million years would he have thought that he

In Time Book Two 114

would ever have, or ever have wanted to, meet Ben again, and yet ... it happened: years later on an

uncertain morning, having followed (accompanied did not seem the right word) Simone the night

before back to her student flatshare, now exhausted after the night of passion following a gig (although

passion did not seem to be the right word either - she just lay there, adopting her weird pose of

sacrificial crucifixion), and now sitting at an old Victorian piano, attempting the Bach (which she

had played earlier with extreme dexterity, faster than her own teacher) in her absence, Russell noticed

a chalk drawing, characters of Chinese calligraphy, gently powdered colours upon the wall above him,

to look closer with curiosity to see it signed, C M Stalker. Stalker? he had asked Simone upon her

return (from a lecture?), to be informed, 'Oh I thought you knew her - she shares the flat here. Out

cabbying at the moment, I think. Or maybe pole dancing down the road.'

'Hypatia?' he asked, this annoying faint tinkling beginning again in his ears, these yellow

petals of carols bells in his mind. At least they were in time. Maybe he should write a song to them.

Absurd that his brian was more in time than G's percussion playing.

'What?' she disinterestedly asked, but Russell did not explain, and Simone continued unabated,

'She's having an exhibition somewhere on ..' and a vaguely remembered address and date was given

in East London, somewhere quite local.

It was funny how opinions, and well, lives of course, changed over time. Ben was weaker

now because, of course, he was so much older, but nonetheless still alive. And it was simply

amazing that he had met him again, and by an unnecessary chance: in a long weekend trip M

and Russell had taken to visit him at his holiday, or retirement cottage (Russell initially reluctant

to relive a painful past but somehow determined to exact some kind of revenge), - yes, all that time

not even knowing that Carol was Ben's daughter - an astonishingly, impossible coincidence, surely,

and that Ben had been Russell's teacher thirty years before? You couldn't make it up. Once the same

surname had been established to be not merely to be a coincidence (as he probably hadn't even been

aware of it at college, being en/amour/snar/ed by Nadine), Carol claimed they had met again in passing

In Time Book Two 115

at an exhibition of her Chinese calligraphy, but he had seemed to fail to recognise her (which Russell

thought impossible, having known her from college days), and she then smiled knowingly, remem-

bering she had been a sort of a groupie (or had she actually said, then, cabbie?), in the old days,

and had bought from, but had not been (and here she now openly grinned) in the back seat of the car

with G, and so was not involved in any way with G - as she had insisted (to me?) at the time, despite

whatever G might have implied, and it nice that Saint had accepted her call (?) when she'd later rung

him, in Australia, for him to later take care of her, when she had fallen on hard times.

Carol mentioned she had once subsequently seen Russell in the distance, in a restaurant

bar, seated with a woman who looked extraordinarily like herself, - well, the frizzy hair did, face

being hidden, but now too shy then to approach him (which Russell thought curious, considering

their earlier intimacy), having been ignored by him in the art gallery, as M had once invited Russell

to see the jazz bassist he occasionally played drums with in his spare time, when not touring, or

recording at the studio, at th/a/t restaurant, and there was a shock there too, that not only that this

man who had been a fascist bastard in his mind all his adult life had some musical talent, but

also that he was playing not merely with an school friend, but as a band member of his own band.

And M still seemingly unaware that Ben Stalker had even been Russell's teacher at their

own school thirty years before.

Bastard Starkers Raving: BSR

- your father in law she is the one

i don t think so simone i married katherine remember

- she sits with me join us

no i can t say goodbye now please

I remember now: Having met Ben again subsequently many times over the years (but never

to the extent that the word revenge held no desire) he invited me, or rather his far closer friend

M, up to his country retirement cottage for a long bank holiday weekend, and in passing, I having

In Time Book Two 116

queried that it must be lonely out in the middle of nowhere, whereupon Ben showed me his book

of addresses, of people he had met since his enforced early retirement (for his foot had been badly

burnt in attempting, fortunately (?) unsuccessfully to rescue the old piano playing spinster), which

was far more than he had known when teaching (which he seemed to find amusingly ironic, but

which I did not, since in that time before he had known and tortured me), and Kathy's name was

amongst them, Katherine the First, the girl I had left behind (or in truth had followed, as the fates

would have it), as I ascended to college. (I had at the same time as asking Ben, asked M, Do

you remember Kathy? but he claimed he had no recollection of her, until, after a short absence,

he came back from the toilet, hand on zip, muttering, Oh yes, I remember her now.) How is it

do you know Kathy? I again prompted Ben, for finally the reply, Oh, her brother was one of my

students. One of the best I ever had, in geology. Shame he wanted to do something poncey like

playing the piano. Oh .. And as he looked at M and I realising, I spared him his embarrassment,

I thought you were a PE teacher? I asked, reluctantly remembering, as if I had a choice, of the

pain he had inflicted upon me, for his answer, Only my second subject. Funnily enough, Chomiac

was also a really good rower too. Rowed at Henley, Hereford. I did not wait to hear his question,

But didn't you row too? before interjecting again, Kathy..? For she had written me a fan letter

in that later time when I became famous (and it was curiously coincidental that I remembered M

had picked it out, as I sat with him then, in Ben's cottage) and I had fortunately remembered her

(new) address (the college accommodation long abandoned after the death of Smith it seemed)

before attempting to fold her letter and push it into my back pocket, - it was too bulky and I had

given it to Copy Cat Brat to take care of. Fortunately not thrown back into the relentless swirling

winds of fan mail. So fate did bring us together after all. Eventually.

- she is not the one

But Simone says I was to marry Ben's daughter. And she was, and is, always right, in her

advice. Eventually, I will remember too. As 'they' continue to always reassure me. But only if I say

In Time Book Two 117

Goodbye to Simone. I remember her colours, for whenever I said the name Carol I did hear

softly tinkling yellow bells. I'm sure I saw her too, as she says, in a gallery, once. Did she come

back with me then? Or was that later? No, I remember; she met me carrying my tapestry, of my

Lady, and helped me back into this house. Yes, I remember: I live - d t/here.

'How did you get into art?' Russell had asked Carol, in those long ago college days, as

she coloured his arms gently, almost dusting the blue chalk unto his body, stopping a moment

before applying another shade, before answering, 'It was strange,' she murmured, as if herself

were now reminiscing, turning back the pages upon the story of her own childhood, 'My father

gave me some crayons when I was child. I was so surprised, that he had any interest in art, or

in me in fact - he'd always left it to mother, to keep me occupied, always being so busy teaching

at school. And then later fiddling about in the evening with his rocks. But one day, this small

present. I've been interested in art ever since. Hard to make a living though.'

Russell had nodded. Hard to make a living. It seemed cabbying was now a part time

occupation that she did in what she considered her spare time to finance her masters in a history

of the Chinese language course, - or was it language restoration? (which made no sense to him) -

after that much earlier (and useless, as Saint - Russell! himself had discovered) philosophy course

(the music course didn't count - that's what he always did anyway), but Carol was continuing,

' - helped me become a cabby, I suppose. I used to draw the maps to learn the streets. Making up

visual mnemonics to remember the names; Brick Lane made out of small red bricks, Upper Street

made out of white staircases. Love Lane, well .. you can imagine.'

'So the maps can be the territory.'

She smiled, remembering, 'Ha ha, very good. That's sweet.' She picked up another chalk,

and slowly dusted two curving parallel coloured blue lines upon his chest. 'I think this map is my

territory.'

'One day you'll conquer the world.' Russell said, pushing her hand down between these lines

In Time Book Two 118

towards his stomach, 'Or this could be the road to hell.'

'Or the long and winding road that leads to your door.' she replied. 'With no traffic lights.'

She sang, as she freed her hand, to blotch his nipples now with red, # Drive my car, baby! Beep beep,

yeah! #

Having a free cab driver held its compensations. Including not having to canvas her opinions.

'I bet your hippocampus is bigger than mine.' Russell had joked, to her disdainful reply,

'Careful ' (He realised quickly enough she'd probably mistakenly thought he'd made an

oblique reference to hippopotamous, as if comparing her own glutamous maximus to an animal's

buttocks).

Yes, Ben: there was this now filial obligation to see him, the soon to be father in law, despite

the kernel of disquiet deeply buried somewhere within, for there still lay the guilty pang of revenge,

even as Ben now lay sick in hospital, dying slowly from the seeping poison from his burnt foot,

Carol had explained, - yes Russell would have gladly wished death upon Ben, when Ben, himself

a young teacher in those far off days, had inflicted pain - and injustice - upon himself, Russell,

as a child. He had not forgotten that anger, and that anger had been as if tangible, as if a real knot,

as if the earlier exploding grey metal had indeed somehow been furthur twisted into his skull - the

obvious injustice of being made to run around the school grounds again, merely because the timing

of the first lap had exceeded a notional, nominal, fictional time limit because Russell had stopped to

pick up a box of coloured crayons he had found in the street! And there was no reward there as Stalker

had immediately confiscated the box. How Russell had applauded at the school assembly, at the years

end, always the long awaited TLD, when it was announced Starkers was leaving! Had his applause

been louder than anyone else's? - or was that just another false memory? Or was everyone else as well,

applauding loudly? in celebration?

And of course he hadn't been 'Ben' then. It was 'Mr. Stalker, sir.' Yes, destined always to be

known colloquially (and distinctly but definitely always out of earshot, for no child would ever dare

In Time Book Two 119

to murmur or irritatingly mutter, even if in real pain, those words in Ben's presence) as, BSR. Simone

had dared him

- did not

to ask once, knowing of Stalker's true skills, Does B - S - R stand for Basalt Salt

Residue, sir? to receive the reply, That doesn't mean anything, idiot! At least not to receive a

slap. No, nobody had called him Bastard to his face - Russell had not even mentioned his nick-

name, to its owner, for over thirty? forty? years on. And now he was married to his daughter, Carol.

- she is the one

Incredible. The road had indeed, and in deeds, been long, and winding. And had eventually led to

her door. And now he was strong and Ben was weak.

'Full circle.'

The softly spoken words awoke Ben. His eyes focused slowly and he smiled faintly upon

recognising Russell.

'You're still alive then, you fascist bastard?'

Ben smiled wanly. 'Please don't make me laugh, the stitches hurt.'

Russell leant forward, trying hard to keep the irony out of his voice. For even in the

drupaceous compassion of many lives now lived there still lay a bitterness, in the taste of that

past's hard core. 'Yes, I know.' For there had been a time before, that in his childhood after the

bomb incident he himself had been, and had spent, many times in hospital; the brain feels no pain,

but the stitches hurt. And to be made to run with a split mind and body was pure evil.

In later times Ben had apologised, not aware, he claimed (and it must have been true), of

Russell's particular medical history, for Smith had already been dismissed from school, although

he, Ben, recalled instantly when informed of the 'bomb' incident, that miraculously the other child

had survived, but not then to know it was Russell who had escaped serious injury (if not to die was

to escape serious injury), or to know that it was Russell's 'girlfriend' Simone that had been killed

In Time Book Two 120

attempting to defuse an unexploded World War 2 device. Smith was forced out, not really his fault

though. Ben explained, almost as if he himself were faintly, reluctantly remembering. Also in this

later remembering time Ben had also recounted to Russell the reason for his own leaving at the end

of the first year, not really interested in the other life and destiny of the stranger Smith, well, a

colleague of sorts he supposed, or even in the stories of dead children, truth be told, that he had been

gently edged out, firmly but politely, from his school and offered a post in another school as Head

of Geology (Which was his true expertise surely? 'they' had suggested), and although he was

welcome to apply for the same post he already held, as a PE master, in the school where he was

already present, now that the schools were merging, grammar and secondary modern to the new

comprehensive, and his contract was due to be renegotiated, was it realistic to consider his application

when the teacher from the grammar school already held a Physical Education degree? And even

though geology might be more useful, to a child, in the long run? And being a Head of Department

meant more money?

And Russell was much later to discover, during that long, and soon enough to become

a remembered enjoyable, weekend away with M, where the deteriorating situation within and of

the band hadn't been mentioned even once, Ben had quite rightly been pleased with his accomplish-

ments, to nurture such resentment at his treatment after all that time; this secondary modern was

the only one in the country with its own boathouse and rugby side and cricket team that could take

on the 'posh' schools. And win. And curiously Russell now remembered training, when well and fit

again, scar tissue hidden by hair (which presumably was why Starkers hadn't noticed anything amiss,

to send him running twice around the school), at the boathouse by Barnes Bridge of that school in

Chifwick, with his school friend Chomiac (who had that attractive - no, beautiful younger sister,

but not then to know her name), and they were later to row together at Henley and Hereford against

Emmanuel, and St. Paul's, and other private 'posh' schools. And yes, they had won, - the rich 'others'

had been beaten.

In Time Book Two 121

 And in t/his adult life, himself almost middle aged now, Russell had slowly come to know

Ben, other than as the memory of the 'Ben Starkers Raving', or 'fascist bastard', of this other life Ben

had subsequently led; of his musical ability as a jazz bass player when playing with M (even though

he could not read music!), of his knowledge of rocks (as Chomiac had easily passed an 'A' level in

geology before Ben had been forced to move on), as he, now a saint himself in his own time, had

come to lead many other lives of which his own students were completely unaware. (At least an

occasional child liked his songs, and, not concerned about whether he was, or ever had been, 'famous',

had wanted, and was able, to learn one or two of them.) To the parents it was apparent he was just an

apparition that appeared, - and unfortunately for most of his students it seemed, at certain times each

week, as had Ben appeared, in his own younger days, unfortunately for him.

Ben's days were coming to be over, Carol had seemed to suggest. And as he looked down

at t/his old teacher, whose only two good students as a geology teacher (he had claimed once in

a fit of pique, that all those years had been wasted) had been boys called Chomiac (and Russell

had been unaware, in those long ago school days times, that Chomiac had any interest in rocks,

although he had stared strangely at the mountains on that weeks holiday to Wales, constantly

consulting it seemed, a, the copy of New Scientist he had carried around with him all week,

almost with, Russell thought, attempting to remember, seek out the right words, a sense of

idolisation, idolatry- no, neither seemed right - and it was strange, that was also the week

Vincent had received his revelation, as he stared out across Llyn Ogwen ((as Nadine had

insisted it was spelt)) - thinking classical piano playing being more in his line), and Thomas Richard

(which must be a misremembered name, surely, thought Russell, for what parent would conjoin the

nomenclature of Thomas with Dick?). With Carol comforting her mother in the hospital corridor

outside, Ben's pale and now gaunt face now enfeebled by age and disease, Russell started; only now

did he realise how absolutely their relationship had changed in over the thirty, forty years; he regarded

Ben as a friend.

In Time Book Two 122

 The student acquaintances, and many fans, he'd encountered on t/his journey had been

enjoyable; the meals, the occasional visits to concerts, even the rare sexual indiscretion, with

women such as Simone, - and had she not after all jumped on him?

- that is not me why do write such bad things about me

- but it was curious to Russell

Stuart that he still didn't regard them as within the word, friends; as if always knowing they would

drift away soon enough once the concert had finished, and the lessons had stopped, once the magnetic

centres of the band became unstable, and the gravitational pull of his attempts at education had weak-

ened. And as that thought crossed his mind Russell realised that perhaps it was perhaps somehow a

universal law: it seemed that after three years enough new memories had unfolded in the brain - his

brian, - at least he w/c/ould never forget Nadine's joke! - that that previous led past life led had

now become somehow irrelevant. He had read that in a science magazine somewhere, yes, probably

that one of Chomiac's, - yes, must have been even during that Wales week together. Might even have

had an article on geology in it (although Russell had borrowed and searched through the magazine,

but not finding any relevant entries, not even of Sin Climb of Oblivion), the way Chomiac kept

con/re/ferring to the mag. Or had it been a television documentary, shown before (no, it must have

been after, for he remembered, - but not the name of, that political figure, that now long forgotten

past Prime Minister being mentioned) that much earlier interview with Simone's father, Korsakoff

(where Russell thought Korsakoff had somehow been unfairly treated), and then a documentary

where someone with total memory loss had formed another life within three years and had created

enough new memories that that preceding life led had been irrelevant? And fully recovered in seven

years. (And it was funny; it was like watching his own story on TV.) And it was true. Of course in

his case it was always a, - the traumatic love affair that caused a temporal shift - that fucking Angel

Simone Fruitcake

In Time Book Two 123

 - not me why do you write such bad things about me

you must say goodbye simone

that it seemed to take so long to recover, and by then he had met another

'bunch' of students. Acquaintances. Friends.

But all that was not true either, was it, as he was here because of the crash.

But Bastard Starkers Raving (and now the acronym BSR was somehow affectionate, Ben

remembering the Basalt Salt Residue question with a pained chuckle) had been so long ago it

was as if - no, it was, another person talking. That memory of school days Russell realised might

actually only be a 'now' story in his mind. Of course he knew (and even before college days) it

wasn't, - that Descartes was bonkers; the notion that a demon was going to the bother of tricking

you to think that you were you, that your whole life was a mischievous pointless speculation

(.. for where had the lemon come from then? G wuld rightly ask, deliberately mishearing as

he stared down, now searching for invisible citric acid within his glass, as if a message might be

inscribed, - to my rejoinder, Drink it all up, - Plato says so.), and even though Russell knew his

brain had been somehow damaged, in the shock of that unremembered explosion, he knew that he

existed, even if at times he could not remember his own name. Or even of his mother's; had it really

been Corona? Coral Lee? He had recollections of his mother calling him, My little saint, for being

so brave. although even though, and there was a reluctant sadness there, he could not recall what

she looked like; she might well have resembled that mature student at college, - but then, women

do look bigger when you're a child, - the one that kept hiding her milk bottles. Or remembering the

appearance of his disappearing father, come to that. It was annoying, as if he couldn't put his finger

on it, as if, and he somehow knew this to be true too, - probably having read yet another article in

Chomiac's NS magazine (were they really that bored during that Wales week away?!), had he actually

put a finger into his brain, he wouldn't feel it, but a sensation would emerge spontaneously, probably

In Time Book Two 124

not of a pain, but perhaps the septamel trembling of his left hand, as if juggling a coin, or a memory

would arise, of the taste of a cake, of Simone,

- am not a memory

yes you are

- am real am in your thoughts

yes thoughts are real events simone but memories are not the real things weren t you

there sitting with me through all those boring philosophy classes

- but am too young to understand those words

enough silence Please

of meeting that pop star, and teaching him,

of meeting Carol,

- she is the one

to see many glimpses of Katherine the First in the time before, as she walked in the distance by

the river, of her in the time after crossing the college lawns, accompanied by the odious Smith.

Of Catherine, in later times, face painted at a Brazilian festival.

That he was only here, standing at a dying man's bed, merely because decades before,

and in passing, he had noticed a name written in the corner of a chalked picture, and had mentioned

to Simone, I knew a Stalker once, at school. to her evident but indifferent bemusement, that I was

unaware that the said Stalker's daughter was living in the same house, but Carol

- she is the one

not present that

night, cabbying or pole dancing elsewhere - yes, it was strange that letters could assemble themselves

to form a recognition of a name, to lead to conversations, of Nadine's marriage to the good Doctor

Robert (and how broken hearted Russell had been then), of the hurried disappearance from their

In Time Book Two 125

shared flat of Coralie to Poland (?) to marry that Johnny Foreigner crap poet (according to Katherine

the First) Coursakov, who subsequently went on to write that best selling political thriller about the

kidnap and rape of an English nurse, to a discussion, of a history of her parents (but not of his, of

course, Russell only remembering his father had disappeared in front of him; 'Say Yes. ' he had

asked), of Friedman's abandonemnt of Carol for the (for)ever Crying Christine, and only after the

g(r)asping passion now between them - always the fucking desperation of the abandoned - to discover

similar interests, not merely a proclaimed admiration of Waterhouse, of their imagination of that style

of art, of why she had changed her course from philosophy to Chinese, to study calligraphy later that

year in Australia, abandoning him to live alone in the/ir, - Nadine's and Coralie's and Carol's flat,

- where am

not real simone just made up the life had you lived

- to write those early songs, to tour quickly enough with subsequent immense success with K,

and M (G in the mix somewhere, slightly delayed), to sex again (better now, in their remembered

intimacy, and somehow more exotic, reuniting in the shadows of the Opera House in Australia),

to marriage. To the birth of twins. That sometimes it was such hard work to meet someone, and

then sometimes you might just be standing in a raining street with a tapestry, trying to hail a cab.

That his wife was the daughter of fascist bastard Ben Starkers Raving. Impossible. It was just

another story. In an obsolete diary somewhere. Russell hoped Ben would survive his illness,

knowing that he had approved of their match (as if amends must be made for the past, - not that

Carol had lived in her father's shadow for some years), and even though still claiming not to

remember Russell as a child, of not confiscating crayons.

Yes, even though it had taken decades: he had forgiven him.

Perhaps he had something to thank Penelo - Carol! Marihah

- yes her name is carol she is the one

for after all, in that lift,

In Time Book Two 126

well, walk home. But he must first thank that pop star first how can i thank him In the shadows

Simone shrugged in return, as if appreciating Russell's offer, though not necessary at all; saints

never expect gratitude; they are always strangely indifferent to loss, or reward.

- you could visit him in hospital he wouldn t mind

Russell asked, are you sure

- am sure

Yes, Russell had always admired Simone's deference, perhaps that was why he had liked

her, as a child, why they had held hands, played football, kissed secretly as Smith looked through

his telescope (this time at the stars), why they had shared their blood in the biology lab (and again,

much, much - decades later, after Russell had his wrist bitten, or clawed, by G's mad cat, inadvert-

ently killing it as he attempted to shake it off, as if determined to live its final moments in the back

of G's cab), to become blood brother and sister, and why she had taken care of him, even in her

absence, in the years following, and now Saint had made this gesture to him, and even though

knowing that everybody wanted something from her friend, - money, and more importantly (to him)

time, it had become - she had made it her, Simone's, job, over the years, and her childlike voice was

enough to keep the dogs away, not to bark at his world, but it seemed Russell had never seemed to

care that much about what was on offer, in terms of celebrity, and Simone murmured, attempting to

mock his own voice,

- have it on the highest authority

and there was a flicker of a smile upon Russell's face, of comprehension. ok

he agreed.

Russell wondered if Simone could ever have looked more closely at his face, that in fact she

was so close now he might even be able to reach out and touch her, even from the distance of Death,

of Time. Perhaps she would sense there was an aura about, around him now, in the glint of his eyes.

In Time Book Two 127

That there was still th/a/t sadness there, somewhere; of his loss of a school friend, of a wife he had

loved only in another time before, of a beloved 'daughter'. That strange otherworldliness, the realisa-

tion that a single throw

- you threw seven times

of the falling coins might have meant him being dead, unlike the loser.

Even though, with those coins it was impossible to lose. Yes, he knew his face appeared blank, just

like the alabaster of saints and dead kings in cathedrals. As if a life had to be written by others upon

cold stone. In fact, unlike the other, dark side of Saint's face, the rest of Russell's face was clear.

With strong features. A bit pale though. And perhaps, with a shock he would come to realise, as he

looked in the mirror, that he, Russell, could have been, in a different time, Saint's twin, or younger

brother. Himself? Sameself? Was that why Saint had liked him? That he saw in Russell as a more

innocent, unlived reflection of himself? Or would Russell dismiss these thoughts? For what the fuck

would a voice, even if Simone's, know? Saint never gave too much away. Secretive sod at times, K

had sometime said. Russell was moving away, unsure but not uncomfortable as to why Simone

remained standing still and looking, no, staring at him. She suddenly offered,

- could give you lift to the hospital when you want to go

And Russell struggled to remember the address, which somehow seemed very familiar,

folding a slip of credit card paper to scribble as Simone dictated what was she said a mobile

number, which left Russell wondering how Simone could possibly know what any number was,

since the technology hadn't even been dis/un/covered in Simone's day, but tucked the given number

(which he was sure was his own, but would have to check, having forgotten so much) anyway

into the back pocket of his jeans.

- it ll save the hassle of getting through the hospital

thanks He was trying to think of a day of a week thursday And Simone smiled,

In Time Book Two 128

 - he s not going anywhere for a while and you must bring that mirror

Russell looked momentarily puzzled a the mirror He puckered his lips, wondering whether

to ask, large or small. Of the size of the tapestry? Of his Lady of the Lake? Of Katherine the First?

Of Catherine? Or of All Size?, before remembering ok then i ll call you He offered his hand,

and for once Simone hesitantly reached out, wary, but fading before they touched, as if anti-matter

and real matter really must not touch, as the physics books said they must not, otherwise effecting

mutual destruction. Russell wondered if anyone had ever shaken Simone's hand, in those childhood

times, when informality roamed, and ruled. They had held hands, and kissed, but he thought how

unusual it was, even now, for anybody to offer to shake his own hand - he couldn't remember the

last time anyone had, - it was the penalty for being so being familiar to so many people. Between

friends are such gestures, such pretended intimacies, required?

People stared at the car as they drove through traffic. One even leant out of a van. Well, it

was decrepit but not that bad. But after the third, or the fifth, or the seventh stare, with a mouthed

wow at the dirty bonnet, and a shouted, How can you drive like that? Fucking idiot! Russell

asked, whose car is this

- ours of course we made it remember

Which wasn't really the answer he'd been expecting. it s valuable right And Simone smiled,

knowing,

- not into cars now you always wanted an aston martin d b four we made this one remember

an old car

Simone almost laughed, biting her lip, as if forgetting that her blood was still.

- quite old yes worth about hundred thousand though

ah Now Russell realised; it was the curious stare of the envious. But to him it was just an

old car. He'd even left it outside the garage, making room for the recording studio within. Now he

In Time Book Two 129

remembered; he'd written Love Letters within that locked garage (but locked from within or without? -

no memory there then, yet), that alphabet list of long lost lovers (and hadn't he even turned LL into a

song?). And as long as a DB4 worked, going from A to B (and back again) it would suffice. And

new cars were surely safer? He asked, so you get stared at quite a lot Simone affirmed,

- you do quite a lot yes

shame it s not my car then Russell answered, wondering if he should now wave at the

gawkers. And Simone curiously smiled at him, as if puzzled, as she flickered in the shadows of

the driving seat as the light passed through the trees.

Upon arrival Russell clambered out of the passenger side and followed Simone's voice up

the stairs, along the curiously shadowed corridor, the neon lights intermittently flickering. they

should fix those he thought, they make me feel quneasy

- ripped the electric clock from the wall not been repaired yet

ah Simone nodded up at the passing nurse, an obvious recognition now through familiarity,

as if she might well have been her daughter, instead of her namesake Simon, and Simone turned to

introduce Russell, nodding at him, smiling knowingly.

- brought along saint s teacher

Warm nurse was looking at Russell curiously. 'Piano?' she asked. There was a faintly quizzical

smile upon her lips. And Simone smiled,

- knew you were famous russell

'I did find one, down the hall. And I have done well.' Russell answered, turning away, to walk

on. 'Thanks to you.'

'Yes?' Nadine answered, not even sure whether to be puzzled. She remained looking at him,

pausing in stillness as if seeking recognition, that he would not disappear without another backward

glance. 'You really should be back in bed, you know.' A few footsteps on Russell asked, what is that

In Time Book Two 130

nurse s name

- oh warm nurse nadine not the matron but she s in charge if you know what nadamin

Nadamin? No, Nadine.

I remember Nadine.

Russell stopped and turned. She was still there, looking at him, head tilted, arms by her

side, standing curiously rag doll like, almost as if a standing cloth crucifix that might flop, fall,

topple to the ground if her strings of religious salvation were cut. They stood twenty to thirty feet

apart in this thin white corridor, this slim tube, this time channel. Others bustled past with urgency,

momentarily obstructing their view of each other, their clean uniforms like the sails of ships billowing

and tacking across their horizon, and these pirate strangers threw passing disapproving glances

as cannonballs, almost as if irritated and blocked from their pillaging missions by these still masts,

these blinking pillars, eyes peering, searching into the far distance, as stabbing lighthouses seek

distant lost landscapes; inappropriate behaviour in this sacred time and place and urgency of illness.

Simone had passed on, initially oblivious, then quickly realising her voice called back,
- oh the look of love better not make the husband jealous russell he s in the hospital somewhere

Russell slowly raised a hand, not a wave, but a gesture of recognition: Nadine. He murmured,

quietly, almost indistinctly (and does a word exist if there is no one to hear it?), 'Malvern.'

The nurse could not respond to the unheard mouthing, the distance now being too great,

but after a long moment, smiled wanly, then looked down to one side and turned away. Russell

reluctantly turned away too to follow Simone, and she asked, curious,

- methinks you know her from somewhere

yes a time after you simone Russell answered politely, indifferently but weren t you there

The shock of seeing a - the? (for Simone was not a ghost) - ghost from such a long lost past

had rendered Russell not merely hesitant but almost incapable of continuing. He even walked slower,

as if unwilling now to enter the presence, that he might receive an epiphany, a uneasy realisation of

In Time Book Two 131

oneness, with Saint. He took the small (he'd decided to take the one he'd pocketed from the house-

tapestry-collection-visit) mirror he had been instructed to bring from his pocket, and stared at himself;

yes, he looked just like him, as Penelope had said - it was uncanny. And warm nurse Nadine of the,

t/his hospital room, had looked just like the splitting image of that girl from those college days in

th/a/t long lost far past. And yet how many girlfriends since those college days? That he should care?

Almost the alphabet in years it seemed, after all the Love Letters written and love songs sung, and

now it appeared the truism was true - it was always the first time, the first cut being the deepest, that

you remembered. Well, his first time in lust. There had been that statuesque girl Christine, who had

strangely followed him back to London from New York (for it had only been a one night stand,

surely?), fulfilling the animal passion of youth (and it was sad, that she had become so fat in later,

but all too soon enough times, and always sodding crying!), in the days before college, as Katherine

the First too of course had been 'in the days before college' (but too ethereal for him then, in that

time before, before his own later life experiences, and realisation, that women were real, and not

merely colours upon canvas (as it was still difficult to admit his Lady of the Lake was), not merely

red pain(t)ed wooden Virgin Mary icons), - but of Nadine? later? in the college days?

Russell looked back down the corridor, but now just the twirl of white coats, a pushed

trolley with a body on it, eyes blinking helplessly, foot bandaged, perhaps amputated, but smiling

as if in brief recognition, attempting to gesture, as the thought Ben There, John Dunne That flashed

through his mind again, followed now by flowing trays of medication, framed by beige blank walls.

Nadine had been pregnant with child hadn't she? Their child? Before she had left him, seeking her

security in the marriage to the good Doctor Robert, and before he, Russell, finally rejected by her,

Nadine (and Coralie, and Carol), had returned to West London, to eventually, but in much later,

during the band days, and the fame and the money, future times, marry Katherine? Even if she was

only of the Second time?

- she is not the one she sits with me join us

In Time Book Two 132

 Simone's voice fading, disappearing to stand waiting at the door, as if puzzled that she hadn't

now been followed with the earlier enthusiasm,

- russell

and Russell turned away from the tunnel vision

to arrive soon enough at the door. There was now no rush. Simone stopped to make a cursory exam-

ination of the name upon the door, as if there might indeed be the possibility of error, that the number

of the prisoner 6 might have slipped to 9, the top screw having rotted away.

- wouldn t you adam and eve it son of man

Simone's voice continued rambling, as if she herself was now under medication, but, as if

acknowledging Russell's quizzical stare, she asked, as she passed through the door,

- when was the last time you saw

I am conscious.

- sorry

Simone flickered faintly, almost in view, for the lights were dimmer in that room, and

each monitor differently coloured, to let Russell past. The figure that lay before him wasn't the

man he remembered, from that long ago teaching day, but the sick look different, their energies

leaking, evaporating away into the ether as blood might monotonously drip drip drip drip drip drip

Drip, clock like down, and once trickles counted, seek ground to disperse.

i feel like i ve somehow been summoned

Saint laughed, weakly, I don t have that power. He coughed, flailing an arm out in recoil,

catching a golden green coloured tube, to murmur, 'Sweet D major', to then close his eyes, already

exhausted. So gone far away were the days of pop god-dom, thought Russell. The money, the glory,

no doubt the women, - it didn't count for much in the end, did it? When you are 'just' a living corpse

on a trolley. But of course he remained silent, and not merely out of politeness, although (and he still

In Time Book Two 133

wasn't sure, even after all these years, but he was convinced) Simone could still hear him, even when

he remained silent. He felt uncomfortable, ever since those far off childhood days, to be once again

amongst the sick, the dying

- and to be with your best dead friend

and would soon enough thank Saint for his generous gesture in giving

him that picture, an amazing, unexpected present, but ... feeling so uncomfortable was there any

reason in his remaining here after the pleasantly delivered platitudes? Russell looked around, Simone

no longer being visible, as the light through the window was stronger now. He hoped to leave the

hospital without seeing warm nurse Nadine again. The good Doctor Robert of course wouldn't

recognise him, it having been, what was it now, thirty, forty years? But Nadine had retained the same

jawline, the same thickness of hair, a slightly less glorious colour than before of course, the same

curious half smile. But he was sure she had recognised him, as she had turned to face him, asking

'Piano?', - not the other way round. He didn't think he had aged that badly, well, they all said he

looked younger than his years, but not that much he knew. It was all decades ago. So many other

lives lived since then. The passionate affair at college. Didn't every student have such flings, to be

fondly remembered years later? It was all such a long time ago, too long to recall, pointless even,

he thought, as he stood looking down, mirror in hand, at this carcass before him, to talk about, as

if you might be describing, no, narrating a story in which you are merely a character, a cardboard

cut out, no, not even that - a paper thin bit part; those actions that you took then seemed to have

had a life of their own, nothing in fact with what you might do now, today. It was pointless to even

think of a return to the past - no, you can never go back: The past is quicksand. And he knew he

had thought those thoughts before. Yes; thought those thoughts - there was nothing underneath

them, these thoughts - hadn't Hume thought that? Yes, he had understood, no; comprehended,

more, those words, as he had grown older, that there was nothing underneath those thoughts; our

lives are merely experiences tied together by strands of memory. It meant his student(y) attempts

In Time Book Two 134

at meditation had been a complete waste of time too (he hadn't read Hume by that stage in his course

- it was almost as if philosophical studies were calibrated by calender, and not by similar points of

view), pointlessly searching for an inner self, as if seeking out a non-existent soul, instead of just

enjoying those crazy random thoughts t/his memory threw up.

As he now looked down at this body before him, the Saint with eyes now closed, face painted

faintly with these strange, flickering coloured lights, as if refracting through stained glass, yes, almost

as if already carved from alabaster, lying as (yet) a(nother) dead king in a cathedral.

Russell stepped back, scraping his chair on the floor, and Saint's eyes opened, and he gestured

weakly with a hand, fingers flickering with a curious motion, as if attempting a coin trick, flailing.

Failing. Please, a little longer. So Russell felt obliged to reluctantly sit down again. Yes, he felt

uncomfortable in the hospital, all this illness everywhere, as if he might possibly be contaminated

somehow, again, to be returned to the state he himself - but the word was surely not inhabited? -

when as a child, sick and helpless, recovering from the blast, and now struggling to accept, to

realise, that those days were so obviously long ago, forever gone, lost, and that he was of course

now an adult. And, realising, knowing, truth to tell, that there was now no rush, having survived

the journey, the crashes of life, thus far. Saint mumbled, his thoughts fading to silence, Did you

ever translate that Chinese calligr .. And Russell remembered that he had, but wasn't sure if this

was the time to offer the correct translation.

yes a while back

Tell me.

um are you sure

Saint smiled thinly, I knew it wasn't good wishes, in my heart.

Well, he was right there it said well read as far as i could understand the translation

But Russell knew that this was not the time, to offer a truth something about friends betraying

and in time betraying friends

In Time Book Two 135

 Saint mumbled again, Ah Rhia, Rhia.

Rhia. Carol Marhia? Always now that irritating tinkling.

- she is the one

I have further things to ask of you.

right Russell had meant his voice to sound enthusiastic, but realised immediately it must

have sounded hesitantly neutral.

Turn the lights down and show me the mirror. They wont let me look at myself here.

oh right don t think that's a good idea actually very bright in here sun s out for a change

And further words had left his thoughts before he could shield them - might not be time to face

yourself.

And just as suddenly as the sun had glowed through the window pane, this momentary,

trans/i/luc/ent golden orb, it faded again (so no change there either, it ((dis))appeared), and

Simone reappeared faintly, flickering fuzzily in the corner, this television like image that had

followed Russell throughout the decades following Vincent's assault upon him in that police

cell, after the disappearance, the drowning of that lost walking boy Simon (and only in later times

Russell had come to realise that Vincent had been 'merely' trying to ascertain what he'd seen;

had Russell witnessed Chomiac and himself running towards (to save?) the boy, as Simon fell into

the river? - it appeared Russell had never actually at all been a suspect in Nadine's son's disappearance

after all, - the assault might 'merely' have been because he'd asked if Vincent was sleeping with

Chomiac).

A cup of coffee had appeared on the table beside him.

'Nadine?' he asked, to no response, as the door closed silently behind him, just th/a/t move-

ment being enough to attract attention.

- can t smuggle alcohol in

right

In Time Book Two 136

 - has he been sleeping all along

I heard that.

- sorry boss just said earlier i d drop russell off

Saint asked, but with eyes still closed, Teaching later?

Russell shook his head. He was, but there was an instinctive realisation that, despite his

misgivings at being in such uncomfortable surroundings, this was somehow more important. And

anyway Saint hadn't paid him for that piano lesson all those years ago. He had probably just forgotten.

Always the privilege of the rich, to forget debts owed. But what, with interest, would be the total

now? Still insignificant. But he guessed that at least Saint had settled up - eventually! - with that gift

of a picture. A missed, non paid for lesson wouldn't make that much of a difference, anyway, in the

long run, after all the thousand of lessons, of hours, he had (freely) given (away) over the years.

Saint asked, Did Penelope go with you, to the house?

Russell nodded unfortunately yes i m sorry she forced her way-

There was this continuing flicker of Saint's fingers, the gesture silencing him. No, I thought

she might. I left a story for her to find. Though she might not like what she reads. She's just a story

anyway, isn't she, - we're all just stories.

yes Russell answered, not sure even if a question had been asked. Penelope hadn't mentioned

it. And then Simone addressed the somnolent body,

- hey guess what boss russell knows nadine

This did indeed elicit more of a response. The eyes opened, the head turned slowly. You

remember warm nurse?

- russell s keeping quiet about it his secret tryst

at college murmured Russell, as if slightly embarrassed to reveal past secrets it was all a

long time ago

In Time Book Two 137

 Saint closed his eyes and smiled thinly. Yes. It is all a long time ago.

Russell sipped his coffee, then looked up at Simone. Always that knowing smile; she had

laced the mug (with faint, faded blue Chinese calligraphy etched upon it - so Saint's interest hadn't

faded then, unlike the mugs) with whisky, even though she could not possibly have ever known the

taste.

- guess you don t want to meet the good doctor then he s doing his rounds

the good doctor

Simone gestured towards the body.

- his doctor doctor robert is um you remember

Russell muttered, realising quickly enough, you re kidding me

Simone shook her head,

- nope small world eh

Too small, thought Russell. Penelope's curiosity about Saint, and now seeing her(e) again,

definitely in passing, Nadine, a ghost from a distant, unpleasant aeon, now not even romantically

remembered as, 'The Time Before', he stood again, to place the small mirror upon a ledge, making

sure it was out of reach; Saint would know the time to find his reflection, but it was not yet. Russell

was not claustrophobic (and the coloured monitor lights also had a curiously hypnotic effect, as

they appeared to blink in and out of synchronisation - he had found himself counting the beats)

but ... - and as he walked across the small room to approach the window, counting his steps (and

people walked in compound duple time, this curious doubling of triplets, he had recently noticed)

taking care not unplug any wiring (surely these loose strings should be taped to something solid?),

to see what the view, if any, was like, - there was a glint of colour from the bedside table. A CD

case lay face down, ochre stained with a discoloured orange text. Surely not? Russell stepped for-

ward and picked it up. There was a shock, a fleeting tremor across his face, and he wiped an imaginary

In Time Book Two 138

cobweb from his face. And Simone had noticed.

- t rex fan then

Russell mumbled agreement in return, but as he turned the case over it was not Marc Bolan

he saw but Penelope.

- that is not me
didn t say it was simone
It was uncanny; the same frizzy hair, the same facial structure, only the tone of colour of

the skin was different, Penelope being slightly darker.

- not dead

but not real either simone penelope is only a fabrication she looks so like penelomarihah

- she is the one

He had never noticed it before, not even thought of it, and there was no sense of eroticism

in seeing Bolan's image, just the remembrance of the agony caused by Penelope's friend Angel

Fruitcake Simone.

- that is not me why do you write bad of me like that

He had enjoyed this particular album, then, in those long ago student days

when they were all 'living' together (and where was that college? in Tottenham somewhere?), before

Nadine finally leaving to make a new life with her good Doctor Robert, taking with her her new

Bechstein to the new house paid for by her new father in law, before that mature, - but not emotionally,

Russell was soon enough to discover, - student Coralie emigrated to Poland (?), to eventually marry

that talentless writer Coursokov (and what sort of name was that?!), only Carol

- she is the one

Marhia now some-

where in the flat chalking up her Chinese characters, when they weren't chalking each other, the

In Time Book Two 139

empty spaces of absent women soon enough to be filled, after Carol Marhia's departure to Australia, -

and it was his fault, although difficult to admit; he had chosen the new tenants, - but they no longer

listened to Ravi Shankar but to this already dated album on the old vinyl, - he probably couldn't listen

to it, not now, without a bitter taste in his mouth. That Simone, who did indeed look like an angel,

- am an angel

was in fact a malignant cancer who went through life destroying everything she touched. Not so

much Midas, as Madness.

- am not like that why do you write such bad things about me you are a saint to me join us

i was a saint i remember replied Russell. He held the CD case away from him, as if to

help Saint to focus. Bolan had been in fact beautiful. And Saint vaguely nodded, remembering the

train ride, reading K's newspaper from the jolting distance, as the railway tracks click clacked click

clacked click clacked click clacked click clacked click clacked. Click clacked beneath them,

as they returned long ago from Wales. He remembered now the tune he had composed to that

rhythm, - funny that they had never recorded it.

Simone, puzzled and surprised, for Penelope to be associated with this image, looked down.

She had never examined the cover, never seen it before of course, for the picture had only existed

in Russell's memory from those days before, but there was something about the colouring, the

blurred green background, the sun bloated orange of the Les Paul guitar, the faded blue of Bolan's

T-shirt, the black of the other guy's (had his name really been Mickey Finn?) waistcoat, the red of

his shirt, it looked like crushed velvet. Very seventies. It was a shame, really sad, that Simone had

not lived to see, or hear him, Russell thought. That curious yellow title text. It looked a mess to him,

and Bolan's face seemed painted white, like a (and only to become an appropriate simile in a soon

enough later time) death mask. Russell placed the case back beside the bed, and well, he wasn't an

art critic, just remembered what Simone had enjoyed, in their childhood days, and she had liked

Thunderbirds.

In Time Book Two 140

 - andro androg

androgynous Russell corrected, smiling yes he was Could be why he appealed to both

sexes, although Penelope's resemblance was definitely of only a sexual nature to him. Perhaps he

would buy it again, recapture old times. Of the time before the ghastly nightmare of Simone Korsakoff.

shame you missed it he added the seventies were very colourful

Russell turned to look down at Saint. He was definitely now unconscious, t/m/aking only

slow deep breathes, the gentle undulation of his chest, the slow waves of a fading life.

Simone had moved towards the door - it was time - and Russell followed her, but not

before looking for the small mirror again to see if he could catch a reflection of Simone, but still no,

and making sure it was still out of reach of saint; it was not yet his time. He closed the door quietly

behind them as they walked back down the corridor, Simone walking either a few paces before

or after Russell, seeming to flicker and fade as if somehow still afraid in the corridor's neon lights.

Must be irritating, Russell thought, not to know where you are. And this place like a maze; you

needed a map, an X and Y graph graph to circumnavigate its paths. So Descartes had not lived in

vain, then, despite his absurd notion that the mind and body were indeed split, that pure reason

would prevail, but instead, incidentally, founding analytic geometry, so that that the words, Cartesian

Coordinates would come to, and still have meaning, but even more importantly, a practical use,

today. But who has heard of Leibniz? - to the victor the spoils, even if only to be a remembered

name passed down through the centuries, as miscomprehended Chinese whispers. And it was funny

how only the good useful stuff was eventually remembered, through time; look at Newton, - the

bonkers alchemy 'research' long discarded, only the realistic chemical residue remaining, - yes; not

the first of the Age of Reason, but the Last of the Magicians. Russell, lost in thought as they exited

the building, approached Saint's car, Simone now vanished in the glare of daylight, and as he walked

around to unlock and open the driver's door, now confident he could drive again, for it had been some

while since the crash, he then turned to look back and up at the hospital windows as he sto/o/p/ped

In Time Book Two 141

to enter the car - perhaps he could find saint's room? but instead he thought there was a figure stand-

ing watching him from a distant window but couldn't be sure; as people do not stand as crucifixes,

although the shape looked like Nadine waving at him (or tapping her head), but not to return her

wave, as the reflection of trees flickered across the window panes, obscuring her (if any) meaning.

No; you can never go back. Russell felt Simone looking at him as he turned the ignition, slightly

quizzical at Russell's staring silence, but she too now remained silent.

She knows not that I watch her as she puts down the diary, the pages contained within

summing the many stories of many other lives. But is mine amongst them? I know the names

will sound all too familiar to her, as I think my brian is familiar to me (- but is it? or are all my

thoughts, all the memories throughout the decades, these written 'memories', the product of Mind, -

might 'Mind' not be the unwanted vapours of a viscose operating system? - that the word 'conscious-

ness' might merely be a fabrication, of 'Mind.', that the single shift of an ending consonant to an

adjacent vowel might define 'me' ? - these were the pointless speculations instructed by Brolly for

me to 'think about' as I practised my Bach Inventions against the barking of her arhythmic Alsation),

and Penelo - Carol! Marihah might too feel she knows them from somewhere, even if only from the

words spoken in this hospital. For did Penelope ever meet Simone's father, Korsakoff? Hadn't they

too gone to one of Penelope and Brain's party's? As father and daughter? After the wife and mother's

suicide? I cannot recall; I am merely the author now contained, constrained within my own story,

of an imagined life.

She looks at me disapproving, finishing, it seems, another diary entry, the words now filling,

failing to a late fading August. But will she not ask me about this, why I have spent so much effort,

time, writing these pages? I, now Sisyphus, slaving to break free from these chains, these wires that

flash my existence to distant monitors, to push this pencil across the gravel of decades, assembling

the matter of syllables from the boulders of lead letters? Yes, these words have taken days, or months,

In Time Book Two 142

years - but what are days, or months, or years, when all is; either light, or dark? Is, or Isn't? - no,

these stories are not about you my love, for I still do not recognise, calibrate, Carolate you, although

I smile now when I see your face. Is she now aware of an irritation, that these stories are moving

away from her? Penelope, of course, having grown used to being the centre of attention, the main

topic, as it were, of my imaginary confections.

Penelo - Carol! Marihah

- she is carol of the bells she is the one

picks up the manuscript again, this time tightly, as if in truth,

the st(r)aining words might escape, as fluid dripping off the page to seep through her fingers, as

black liquid leeches. Yes (she might muse), how could Saint know of Korsakoff's Syndrome? -

he'd been unconscious when they'd done those tests. He'd liked Rimski-Korsakov's music at

college (even though that name was spelt differently?), and yet he seemed to write of someone

he knew once long ago with such intimate knowledge - surely he must still know him, that he

must exist somewhere? (unaware that I have not seen Korsakoff since those far off distant band

days). And the way I referred to myself in the text. Did I really have such flings? With East and

West? the Amazon Girls? - that was a DISGUSTING thought! - he'd brought them up as his

daughters, for god's sake! (But also shamefully knowing she'd never revealed that Friedman

had visited her in Australia, and only a month or two before she'd called Saint, to be answered

by that childlike voice.) And with Simone?! - that was completely impossible - only eleven or

twelve when she died.

- am not like that why do you write bad things of me like that

Yes, I know she would think such writings disgusting - but words are merely fictions,

to pass this time, these dated attempts to recover a faulted memory, to rewire a brian. And when

had Simone been a student? I cannot now remember. But in that story her mother had killed her-

In Time Book Two 143

self, and she would remember that,

- am real

no simone just thoughts in my head and they tell me you must say goodbye soon

- once read, never forgotten. What had been the reason there,

she would wonder. Lots of rumours had circulated about Korsakoff's past, sexual peccadilloes

before and after that infamous novel. And how would I, a bedridden Saint, know about these?

'Where is warm nurse Nadine?' I ask.

But Penelo - Carol! Marihah does not smile this time, or press any summoning button,

as she frowns, 'She tells me you went outside. Is that true?'

'It's a struggle to walk.'

'They also tell me you broke another clock - is that also true? You mustn't, until .. Simone?

Is she is gone? .. yet?'

'They tell me soon.'

'Good ..' she replies, as if for so long she has waited to hear those words, but still not

quite believing.

Yes, she is right; these chemicals are fucking my brian. I attempt, 'Penelo - Carol ..' She

stands. '.. Marihah.'

'Marhia.' she corrects, 'You used to laugh, singing, # And the Aitch is silent! # Do you

remember?' She sits again, hoping, but soon enough disappointed yet again with, by my blankness,

to watch me, as if, sometimes, strangely anxious that I still might not return. But to return

you have to know of the journey, and of the destination.

'Did I ever write you a love song?' I ask.

She smiles, and this time with a genuine fondness, 'Yes.'

'One, or two, or three syllables?'

Her discontent arises again, 'You've forgotten ..' But at least she refrains from continuing,

In Time Book Two 144

..again?

And I cannot admit that I have, for I know somehow, that even if her real name is not

Penelo - Carol! Marhia, I never wrote a love song with six syllables. Or eight, if her name is Carol.

- she is the one

Fortunately her phone buzzed, vibrating somewhere in her pocket like a carton of trapped bees.

'I'm sorry, I have to take this.' I nod. Permission is hardly required. From my Lady.

The unheard voice is obviously animated and for a few moments Penelo - Carol Marhia

is forced to remain silent, mouth opening and closing like a fish's gill, gasping for survival. But

quickly enough she interjects, her voice changing, ever the pro, 'No. I can't see you today Christine.

I'm - ' She looks again across to me, shrugging as if in apology for the interruption. But Penelo -

Carol Marhia is quickly shunted back into a siding of silence, her own voice side tracked. The voice,

more distant than Simone's, continues for a few moments. Then silence. Apparently the voice had

hung up i think simone you too will need to hang up soon

- no will never leave you

this is my wife simone she is the one you told me so i need to be alone with her

'Who was that Christine?' I ask.

There is no hesitation in answering, 'Oh, a school friend.' she replies, 'Well college friend

actually. Christine.' She smiles, as if remembering, a pleasanter, happier time. 'I'm not sure you

ever met her? Always in the other room, crying? Claimed she used to go out with a famous singer

once.'

I smile back. 'I did too. A Christine. Way back. Before your time.'

She smiles, that there is a recollection. 'There was a time before me? I bet she could tell

some stories then?'

I shake my head, for that time before has long gone, and apart from Katherine's face,

In Time Book Two 145

- but even her face now only a - no, not even a canvas imagining, but at least a tapestry, as my

memories are tapestries threaded out throughout my brian, all other names having blurred into

any face. And I'm sure I wrote those lyrics too; # Every face I see is your face, every smile is

yours, all the words ever spoken .. # 'I don't know. What about your Christine?'

'Oh, I saw her again quite recently, after a long time. It's funny, well sad, really. Put on

a lot of weight. Strangely convinced that I'd had an affair with her husband at college. Which

was a long time ago! Sure she wasn't married to him then! And she was different, not the same,

as I remember .. erd her.'

'Husband?'

'Yes, some university lecturer. You seem to have known him too,' as she knowingly taps

my diary, 'Paul Friedman.'

Yes, I remember. He kept my Elgar essay. 'Did you know him?'

'Of course. He was a lecherer at my college. But,' she continued, with another knowing

(but only obvious to her, he thought) inflection, 'We only arm wrestled, and that was it.'

She lies, but why? - she must know I know? Yes. We were all at college together. Nadine,

Coralie, Carol.

- she is

ENOUGH you must say goodbye soon simone

I don't remember Christine being there, excepting always hearing distant tears.

Not tinkling bells, in my brian then.

'And then you saved me.'

I saved her: Hypatia. I nod, politely, but of course not quite understanding. 'This Christine.

Of yours. She did seem to follow me around. Bit of a stalker.'

'Oh very droll.' she smiled, to my bemusement. Well, we all change, in time; perhaps Kath-

erine the First would have been different now, more tactile. - although I married her eventually,

In Time Book Two 146

so my yearned for dreams did come true, although perhaps those (lost to me) abusive years with

Smith had moulded her as if into a completely different person. And there too perhaps lies my

weakness; always the overwhelming physical desire for ecstasy, my early adult life subjugated to

the temporary cravings and whims of my animal desires, - no choice then, in those early times to

abandoning those needs to an offering of stability, to the then comfort carings of Katherine the First.

I close my eyes, and soon enough, with warm nurse Nadine's administrations the melodies

and colours flow again. Yes, I must write her a love song. Someday. After they have untied me.

But perhaps the songs won't flow so easily, when the inspiring tubes are removed. Ex pir ation.

But had Katherine touched me once, in those lost seven years, I might have recognised

an affection, and therefore a yearning. But we never touched, excepting on that last night, as we

kissed, the fall of the coin to fool me, that this was not farewell, and in those early years of the

time before, it was as if I were aware even then of that distance between us; not merely inches,

but a chasm of .. cautiousness? Is that the word? No - in those early times I would have come to

care too much for her, whereas with the others - and sadly they are always to remain merely the

'others' now (even Christine, even Nadine, - Angel Fruitcake Simone being beyond description), -

- why bad

QUIET

wh/en/at I remember of them, a flashing image of a face, prompted by the mention of the same

or similar name (for there are to be many 'Christine's, in time), or an image, a photograph, perhaps

upon which I gazed, as I now gaze upon The Lady Of Shalott, but of the others I did not care; in

truth I was callous, even with the knowledge of my indifference to their fate; they were, and I am

ashamed to admit it to myself (but only now), merely temporary objects to satisfy my temporary

whims. I constantly lied to imply a relationship, but perhaps my sexual partner at that time and I

both received gratification, at that moment, and whomever my 'collaborator' may have been at those

instants, in those intermittent spasms of memory, perhaps now, in the aeons that have passed, she

In Time Book Two 147

might mention it to a girlfriend that she had once had a fling with Saint, that he had wanted it

to be meaningful, - and this was before he became famous of course - but that it was not meant

to be, that she had other plans, could not commit, for they had been young then, and that his

destiny was to remain only in the imagined conversations of vaguely remembered lovers.

Penel - Carol Marhia is looking at me, patiently waiting, noticing my trances, once so

common but becoming ever more fleeting now, even to myself, and anticipating, at some stage,

any, my response - and I oblige, 'Will you see her again?'

She shakes her head. 'Probably not. She seemed ... unhappy, when I last saw her. As I said,

put on a lot of weight. The funny thing is,' and here she attempted to smile at an unpleasant memory,

'I had to help her up from the ground, after she fell over. Nearly twisted my own spine!'

'That's heavy.' I concur, as the melody strikes me, with a soothing deep blue; # She ain't

heavy, she's her lover.. #

She asks, slowly, strangely, as if this is a pregnant, leading question, with heavy conse-

quences, 'Did you ever see Katherine again? After ...?'

'Katherine?' I pause, as if trying to collate, constrain those memories, that they might

flood and drown me, even after all these years. 'It's strange, although we did know each other

for so many years. Seven, I think.'

'Seven?' She smiles, warily. 'Marriages have lasted a lot less. But did you see her .. after?'

Did I see her after? Well, I married her. I nod, 'Yes.' But still the itch, after thirty years.

Or is it forty? For that time before, when I knew her, then .. before. Before the band days. I ask,

for she wears a wedding ring, and talks fondly of her children, East and West, 'And how long has

your marriage lasted?'

And now it was her turn to pause. And the pause lengthened to unanswered silence. I close

my eyes. Yes, for what is a marriage? After the initial lust and yearning? Which they, the imagined

experts, say lasts for an initial eighteen months. And what are those words; relationship, or

In Time Book Two 148

friendship? They all dissolve in time, pearls in a wineglass. # We were young once, but once

was such a long, long time ago .. # Yes, I wrote that song, too, # As strangers we might walk away .. #

She remains silent, and soon enough, as always, when I close my eyes, Penel - Carol

Marhia too has gone.

Katherine.

I haven't thought of her for some time, excepting that, of course, she has always been

here, there and everywhere, within me, without me, throughout my subsequent adult life. Changing

my life as she waved from the opposite bank, seeming then with each step she took to mark each

passing day of my life. But not then dated as these pages are dated, as my time is now short, reaching

the/se final pages. And Katherine the Second only alive now in my thoughts, - yes, then, when I lived

in that child-time, in that time before, just the wave, not even the touch, of her hand had been enough.

It is a shame that that adult life of which I now write of, of the band, of the tragedy of waving

goodbye to Catherine in Paris, my offer (for myself or Catherine) to throw the coin to give me another

day with my beloved child dismissively refused by her mother with a derisory glance, came in a much

different, much later time; in the life lived after Katherine the First; those earlier memories of Katherine

the First are of the time before.

She is just a fiction now. As all memories are; of this time, and not of then.

The day I first saw her, not even having then met her, is as yesterday. Not then, Passion;

those words are fictions too.

Even in those early days we had come some way from that damp bench by the river, but it

always those early experiences you remember, the first small gatherings, and as if an attempt must

be made to recapture an affectionate nostalgia, we offered to go back to the old school as if to

rekindle an already so recently lost past.

And in later times, and occasionally even decades later, I was to wonder how my life

might have been different, if that day had not existed, if the calender of dates had fallen differently,

In Time Book Two 149

that it may have been in May, and not now nearly falling to September, or in that hour I had walked

earlier away, - but then, I was always from the old school.

It was a small gathering, of girlfriends and acquaintances. The girls in their flowery

dresses perched before our small stage, like flowerpots waiting to be replenished by our water.

We began, soon enough, and I noticed, since the lights were not then blinding, a tear in Christine's

eye, a curious, inexplicable event, which I have mulled over many times, seeking all possible

explanations, since those long gone days: I now know, of course, as I remember those distant

years, that that was the day I first saw Katherine play. But the tears were strange ... for she,

Christine, could have not known of her then.

It was an acoustic set, and the harmonies flowed easily enough. The years of preparation

had not been wasted. M was restricted to minimal percussion (for my memory tells me that very

night G had been arrested yet again for drunken driving - surely that must have been his third

strike?), so as not to drown out the guitars. Only the vocals were miked.

Afterwards the well-wishers complimented the songs, but I made a careful mental note

when I asked which ones they preferred, the audience not then knowing who composed which

songs. They tended to be K's songs, as they were indeed more commercial, at that time.

In those days I cared about art.

And then this girl walked across the floor, her shape as if gliding, floating, and, as she

ascended the small steps, her hand woven waistcoat's silver threads seemed to gleam, catching,

reflecting the spotlights. I recall the small of her back, that glorious brown cascade, her head

straight from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Excepting this picture was by Waterhouse.

And my world changed.

I have thought too often about those moments in my thoughts, those fragments of memory

distorted not merely by their recollection but even that their existence in the cells of my brian might

have been magnified by the constant repetition of their playing, as if a black and white reel of film

In Time Book Two 150

might have become coloured and enhanced, through decades of viewing, and not degraded into

the blank oblivion of forgotten-ness. Perhaps her coat had not silver threads amongst the gold,

and her songs ... well, too painful to listen to now, even if the cassette is stored in a safe, and

a safely silent unlistenable place .. and had I been ill that day, the name which would come to

incite unwanted memories (but they are not always sad), would merely be another consonant,

amongst the many others to be later accumulated, stirred and supped with my stolen, twisted

silver spoons, amongst my alphabet soup of Indexed women's names, of many Love Letters

written.

# The First Cut Is The Deepest # Cat Stevens had sang, and although she was not my

first girlfriend (as even Christine had not been my first girlfriend - and perhaps my true love had

been my college girlfriend warm nurse Nadine after all) and Katherine the First had never been a

girlfriend in that superficial sense of the word at all really (and the Second had been a wife), for

it is ridiculous that seven years of experiences can be reduced to the term girlfriend, but it is that

first instant I saw her I can still recall, thirty, forty years or more, now; it is as yesterday: Katherine.

I have closed my eyes, but my pen still writes, - no free will there then, - not even free won't.

So many years we knew of each other, sharing those fragile moments together, fragments

now, in time, in an imagined memory; all that's left me. I never played classical piano again after

she had gone off(stage) to marry Smith, and many years later, even after our own eventual marriage,

even after her death, it was as if my memory of her was of that first day, - that she were all the muses,

all inspirations; for she herself could play well and sing and we had later sung and recorded her

two songs # Ocean Waves # and # See The Burning Lights # together in that, our own, brief time

before, and also my # Farewell Mr Smith #, my turgid lyrical rant on working class oppression

(or so I had thought at the time, for those were the cultural mores of the seventies ((and I had also

then been to some extent corrupted by K's youthful enthusiastic yearning for revolution)) ), and

not a song about Smith's departure from our school, or so I had thought at the time, but linked to

In Time Book Two 151

a fluid melody of mine, which I still play, on those rare occasions I need to reminded of the past.

I always had a weakness for compound duple time, that lilt of six-eight, as if melodies might

always hold the kinetic potential of falling, as a footstep falls, to the next possible beat. In later

decades K and M and G were to meet her again in their separate moments, Katherine arriving

unexpectedly with Catherine in hand during the recording session of # After Midnight # (and

it was), I having instructed Copy Cat Brat to pick them up and deliver them safely to me. (I, at

that time, had 'forgotten' to mention to the band that I had after all visited the girl who'd written

me that fan letter.) As I hadn't seen her (excepting across the college lawns, pushing the pram of

Smith's infant who was, incredibly, in later times to become so precious to me) for those seven

(lost) years. I had not had the time to explain to her, although she must have known (enough news-

print by then), how the band had coagulated, for us two to become three, then four, but always not

quite (for Simone was my only, truly blood sister) blood brothers, and as Cathy stumbled across

some untaped studio wiring for a moment I lost a beat (and not merely a heartbeat), but ever the

professional correcting instantly my mistake. Only K noticed the failed strumming, M, slightly

bemused at Katherine's apparition, not quite recognising her from the time before, when I and

her brother Chomiac had played at the end of school year concert,

- you did not win that year we won the year before

this ethereal presence at the

doorway, drummed on regardless, and through the glass the engineer flicked his eyes upwards

momentarily, sensing a momentary shift in time. Perhaps he had thought it was deliberate.

In a much earlier era (and an era then when we were young was defined by the years I

had spent studying at college; 'The Time Before', not then 'The Time After', - not then an eon,

or aeon, as I write of now) that instant of seeing her face again by the river, appearing out of the

darkness, shadows falling away, me murmuring a surprised, 'Oh Katherine!', that whole experience,

would later be re/memb/nd/ered, reduced to a merely a single line of lyric in the song, # I Have

In Time Book Two 152

Been One Acquainted With The Night #, merely sung words; # Two years, her fine face cleaves

darkness #. Such is seven years real experience reduced to seven words, as are the pages of my

whole life to be constrained within the stains in this falsely dated diary, for is two hundred and

sixty three thousand words two hundred and sixty three thousand hours? And not merely thirty

years? - but every moment I was with her I can still recall, throughout those distant seven years,

and there is still an absurd trembling in my stomach as I think of her now, yet again yet again

yet again yet again yet again yet again. Yet again, absurdly, even after forty (or is it now fifty?)

years. I pretend the trembling sensation might also be that I lie here, still ill. Still. Still sick. My

fingers always rubbing together, as if irritating sand, or paper money lay perpetually stuck there.

But this is the reality I would prefer, finally somehow admitting now, even with this perpetual

absurd reluctance, that I have chosen this life; the illness and not the tremblings of not even an

unrequited love, excepting, of course, I have known what it is to prefer no reality. I have drawn

her often in my imagination throughout the years - she was the blank canvas upon which all other

women have been painted; yes: # Every face I see is her face, every voice is hers, all the words,

ever spoken. # Yes, a good line, written somewhere before, and those too are words in a - my song.

And if childhood was to be painted upon a canvas then in later decades Catherine was thus

too to be depicted. And that later time was to be my rebirth.

Yes, that much later time was my innocence again. But not 'again'; I never knew what love

was, excepting my desires for Kathy. But that was Passion. But my later affections was of course

different, for Cathy was a child, and she was unaware of who I was to others, and she didn't much

care; I existed only for her. Had I even been loved so much, with such a pure delight in my presence?

Not by others it seemed, transparent to me with their oh so not hidden agendas.

And I was happy to live for her, bored already, and sadly, now, by the mother, that obscure

object of untouched desire from the time before, but now touched, and tainted, if only by Smith,

and I to become slowly, sadly resigned, that those earlier times had come to mean nothing, of

In Time Book Two 153

our earlier days walking by the river, of our theatre trips (and how appropriate does The Crucible

seem now), of our journeys to the Royal Academy, to the Tate, to see the - her - portrait, of my

Lady of the Lake (and how cruelly ironic that that was to be her final destination) - now she

seemed strangely devoid of personality, to the extent that the cigarette burns upon her upper right

breast now held a different, and not sexual significance, that perhaps Smith had caused pain in

order to elicit a response from her, that the heavyweight lead of her personality might be melted

to some fluidity. But I held no perverse need to cause pain, unlike the said dead Smith, for me

there had always been, and would always be, others, and if the Katherine the Second had bored

me quickly enough (for the patronising of my songs I found unacceptable, even though I had earlier

admitted to her, upon our reunion, that I thought of them now as merely an income) I had moved

on to other women, not merely in the pursuit of sex, but of some interesting level of conversation,

for although Catherine's childish ramblings were joyous, they were of a child, and with an adult I

needed not merely childish mumblings but childlike wonder.

But my love for Catherine remained, and her simple, 'I love you.' would suffice my life-

time, for it was those simple words, from a single child, unselfconsciously, spontaneously spoken,

and not the purported adulation of the unknown minion millions, that had given my life its complete

meaning. She did not know who I was, nor cared, only that I was no one other than myself.

The timeless treasures a child gave to the wise man.

And, unbeknown to Katherine, in later times I was to write out a will, with Catherine as the

sole beneficiary. All that money had come to mean nothing, in the end. So love had finally triumphed.

I had been indifferent to my fate, and to die intestate was of no concern, until that long ago date,

tangibly recorded, saved somewhere, in that letter from Katherine written to a, by then, famous but

in effect complete stranger, not then to be futile forgotten scratches upon paper, but to gain

significance, as her daughter's eyes had gazed up at me. Those simple pleasures were indeed

Priceless.

In Time Book Two 154

 One day I took them to a Brazilian festival in London, Katherine looking with disdain

at my new acquaintance, a beautiful Brazilian woman, with long fine silky black hair, tied with

coloured ribbons, who had held some role in the organisation of the event. Katherine perhaps

thinking she was a sexual predator or threat in some way (although she did seem to look at every-

thing with a disdaining disapproval those days), whereas the Brazilian had merely hoped I would

play there, asking .. but perhaps I had asked her too, for, of something, as G had earlier looked

away .. to give a charity gig. I had refused, as she had refused me, citing family commitments,

and I had brought along my family commitments as if in proof. So you managed to get G off

yet again? I had asked, to her knowing smile, and agreement. Can I touch your hair? Catherine

had then asked, wondering at the coloured tresses, and the Brazilian QC had laughed, replying,

Of course you can! and had continued, We can get your face painted too. Would you like that?

Oh yes! Catherine had whooped, and quickly disappeared with her new best friend, looking

upwards, amusingly bemused by the coloured spectacle of the flowing fancy dresses. So adults

could dress up and paint their faces too. Don't worry, I explained to Katherine, looking slightly

disconcerted now without her prop, She'll be in safe legal hands. I passed her some money,

Let's get some native food. and she too wandered off, perhaps to purchase some tourist trinkets.

I also wandered around, fortunately unapproached, as I was surrounded by unaware Brazilians,

when with a start I recognised Vincent. I instinctively stepped back, so as not to approach him.

There was shock of recognition as he removed and placed his helmet upon the bench. Not

because a former school friend had become a policeman, but that he, of all people, had been accepted

into the police force. His hair was shorter, but still appearing strangely uncombed and wild. Red now

tainted with the white streaks of age, and not paint. Perhaps it was the sweat and the heat, or merely

my memory of him as being Van Gogh without the talent.

I looked at Vincent, sitting looking out at the river, he always now mentally abstracted

it seemed, indifferent to the job in hand, still the occasional tic of wiping imaginary cobwebs

In Time Book Two 155

from his face. He sipped his half pint of beer, perhaps now off duty, nodding his head appreciatively

but out of time with the music, an erratic, lilting undulation. We had had our moments together,

decades before, winning some talent competition at school in our first year, on that final day, TLD,

with that trio of flute (and his timing had even then been erratic), Simone on clarinet (somehow

borrowed from Smith it seemed), myself on piano, I playing Fur Elise solo and then together, with

the two others, some infantile technical exercise I had composed (not then worthy of a # Farewell

Mr Smith #), of no (as I came to realise in only a too few short years later) musical merit. (I have

come a long way it seems.) But our infantile efforts had impressed enough the school judges,

comprised of the teachers leaving, Smith and Stalker (his daughter curiously accompanying him

on his last day, as if to inspect the playing fields and grounds of his former life, but what might now

be described as work experience), perhaps surprised that working class children could coordinate,

rehearse and present, albeit on a minuscule scale, some cultural effort. Later, the three of us together

had shared the prize of a box of toffees (presented by the very same teacher, BSR, I was to rejoice in

of his leaving that day, but in later times was to come to know as Ben, and not BSR, not even as

Fascist Bastard), and after the then unknown boy called G had passed by, accompanied by

Vincent's friend Rollo, G with his thumbs up and a Well done mate. (mimicking even then

his favourite Beatle), we had individually counted out and shared each toffee as tokens of our

success, the wrappings soon enough to be lost forever. In the next year, after Simone's death Chom-

- am not dead join us

iac and his sister and I had played, he on guitar, I, piano, and Kathy singing. No prizes that year,

in coming second, as Chomiac's guitar playing was more even erring than Vincent's timing. In a

much later school year, but voice not quite having broken, Vincent would take the lead in the

school's annual Gilbert and Sullivan production, and he was very good, singing # A Policeman's Lot #

with panache and glee. Perhaps that was his apogee. After that production he contracted (he claimed)

a virus in his throat, and never sung or played the flute again.

In Time Book Two 156

 After school he took a landscape gardening course, after his revelation at Lynn Ogden,

- ogwen

that week, when together with K and Chomiac, we had taken that holiday to Wales, just before my

final year at college. He had later mysteriously vanished in year five of his course whilst on a year's

paid work experience in North Wales. It seemed he had enjoyed our time there, then, years before.

It later transpired, as I had visited his mother in concern at his disappearance, that he had had

a(nother?) religious conversion of some kind whilst sitting and staring out across a lake somewhere

(and I often wondered if it had been at our lake again) and had joined a religious sect called the

Moonies (and here I had inappropriately smiled, remembering Simone and our own mooning

days), making ends meet by selling flowers in the local pubs. K and I had fantasied about driving

up to Wales to kidnap Vincent, smiling in imagined earnestness as we plotted our coup (Perhaps

we could write a song about it, I had suggested, to K's ironic response, # Scary Scary Night # ?),

to bring him back to London, and his senses, but this plotted journey would of course remain a

fantasy; we both knew it was too late to rescue him; the tracks of our lives had long separated us

since that train ride back from our time before in Wales, each of us getting off at our own station

platform (mine at Elgar's birthplace), and each passenger with no return ticket: we choose our

own paths, or sometimes unreason chooses them for us.

Vincent had suddenly reappeared, or resurfaced, in London years later, during our famous

years, and I had called his parents, hearing of his return (from probably our mutual school friend

Chomiac), out of politeness, and in a strange attempt to recapture that earlier time. We four had

met in 'our' pub, The Bull's Head (and I was surprised not to see G there), and K, Vincent and I

(Chomiac had soon enough again rushed off to cover a story about a lorry crashing into the nearby

river, saying it was .. another Copy Cat accident - that stretch of wall should have been well

marked by now.) had sat talking idly at a tall circular wooden table, high enough above the saw-

dusted floor for us not to care about pretended rustic charms, of times past, but Vincent had

In Time Book Two 157

changed irrevocably (as I myself was soon enough to discover Katherine the Second had also it

seemed); he had not resurfaced to a plateau of normality, but lay half submerged in some quasi

mystical marshland, a semantic swamp into which I had no intention of diving.

'Those flowers that you sold, in Wales, were they sunflowers?' I asked, and K smiled,

knowing. Vincent looked puzzled. 'No, small pots of Azalia's, Geraniums I think, Fuchsias and ...'

The list went on, detailed and exact. Those preceding four years at college, before his

Revelations in Wales, hadn't been wasted then. I was tempted to ask which bunch had sold more,

if only out of idle curiosity, and whether he had sold any hyacinths (since for some reason, the word

aias was floating around in my mind, probably half remembering having studied the Greek myth

of Ajax in college times past) but I suspected he knew the answer, of the first, and the third, the fifth,

and the seventh best seller.

'So you're not painting any sunflowers then?' asked K, insisting.

'No, no.. sunflowers? I'm decorating though. Applying to the police academy soon. Sold

my Indian bike. To some bloke who kept saying Mmm .. going to be a pop star. Didn't recognise

him. Kept breaking down. Going to get real one.'

We didn't need to be informed of his decorating skills, his clothes and hair being

sp(l)attered, and now the table, with elbow marks of apparently still damp white paint. 'Have

you thought of painting sunflowers on the wall?' I asked.

Vincent still looked puzzled. He sipped his pint and pondered. 'No, no,' as if anxious

to insist, 'I haven't painted any pictures since before college.'

'Is he giving you an earful, Vincent?' asked K.

Vincent pursed his lips, uncomprehending.

We were cruel then.

And there he now sat. Vincent the policeman. Yes, still recognisable, even with the

long wild unkempt red hair now clipped and untainted not by white paint, but now by the streaks

In Time Book Two 158

of age. No longer an uncanny replica of Van Gogh, but still humming it seemed. There was a crackle

on his receiver and he stood and muttered into it. 'Female body where? Tottenham? Long way ..'

was all I heard. He walked away quickly enough to his motorcycle (ambition achieved then it seemed),

murmuring tunelessly (so his voice had gone then, after all) some vaguely familiar melody. From an

operetta sometime. Wasn't one of mine.

Catty came running back, arms open wide, face now a florid mask of blue and red. I picked

her up and cradled her in my arms and laughed, 'Whose got a painted face then!?' to quickly place

her back upon her feet and fumble for the camera, the poverty days now fortun(e)ately long gone.

She smiled, grinned broadly for the portrait, now a familiar and happy habit. Gorgeous. Another

print for my wall. Another photo for the memory. Katherine approached. 'It's great, isn't it?' I

asked, then turned back to Cathy, 'Even more beautiful than usual, don't you think!' But Katherine

mumbled, almost affectively sniffing with a, again that slight disdain, 'Can we go soon?'

I looked up, and clouds were indeed forming. 'Yes,' I agreed, reluctantly, for I was already

knowing that although Catty's happiness would be remembered always, already those moments

were passing, like the droplets soon to fall, 'looks like rain.'

Yes, Catherine was the sunshine light of my life: every face I saw was her face, every song

I sung, all the words, ever spoken. Every poem, ever written.

I flick though my back pages, and there the poem of declaration lies, even although originally

written in Polish (?) by Korsakoff for a person unknown to me, it may well have been written by

me, when I have thoughts of Cathy. Yes, there somewhere in March, my memory of the times

before when I Walked There Often.

. All too soon enough,

As we all pass through,

To become mere faded memories,

Upon stained paper.

In Time Book Two 159

 - she sits with me join us

no simone i can t not now and we must say goodbye soon

Yes, Cathy fills my thoughts from those days then, as had thoughts of Katherine the First

sated me in the days of the time before.

And knowing that the time of knowing and not knowing Catherine would soon enough

become equidistant at some definite point, I calculated the days we knew each other to the time

now lost to me.

Such evil, women do.

- you destroyed my life and now am going to destroy yours

but i didn t did i simone you tell me i threw the coin seven times and that you lost your
life that s what you tell me i don t remember as i look in my past diary over this year ticking the
minutes scribbling the hours ripping the paper clocks from their corner times to cross the days
off then the months to a year given to the memories of decades ago this is all i have but of that
moment i don t remember but i do remember i could not have lost for the coins were trick coins
double headed and i called heads i could never call otherwise
Yes, it is equidistant now; the two thousand five hundred and fifty seven days I haven't
seen Catherine count for nothing, as even I do not know, of the exact total, of how the days have
added up, year after year after year after year after year after year after. Year after .. But
I know she would have been an adult now, no longer a minor under any control, an adult able
to make choices of her own. Would she have loved me then? as much as she did before? in her
joyous childhood? But would she then have wanted to, should she have reached eighteen?
Nineteen? To no longer be a teenager, but even twenty? Would she have remembered the fun?
the games? Or would those memories of joy have been squeezed from her? with the crushing
heaviness of Katherine's later soul? Would she have remembered the happy days of Russell, then?
To be given two thousand five hundred and fifty seven days of her life, and somehow my mind to
know that two thousand five hundred and fifty seven days have passed since then. For what are
these numbers? Merely the sun circled seven times. There is no joy in knowing, Katherine, that

In Time Book Two 160

you are dead, as is, was? your new husband to be, our Copy Cat Brat, our former trucker, that your
new lover was not fated to become your new husband; husband number three. From Smith, to a
Saint, to - but perhaps boredom for him would have set in too, and after such a too soon enough
short time. But for you to leave such an abusive, pointless message on my ansaphone - what would
my motive be, to kill him, when Cathy's happiness was my only concern?

You destroyed my life, but in actuality, even if only in memory - did I destroy yours? No;
you did it. You are safe in your death; I have to live. You were right Simone; she was not the one,
not then, even though I
- for you there is no one it was only ever me
no simone you said carol was the one and the tinkling bells tell me she is you must say
goodbye soon

had yearned for her in that time before with the fullness of my being.

But there are no feelings towards Catherine's mother now, except, shamefully, regretfully (and

these too are emotions), an absolute indifference (if indifference is to be a 'feeling', towards the

dead), in that she (incredibly, to me, even now) allowed herself to be bullied, in that time before

my (re)arrival, breasts burnt by Smith, and later after our marriage (and I was a good father,

something she w/c/ould never deny), only time was against me, with my ever increasing touring

commitments meaning that Catherine could only stay with me for short, occasional weekends, and

in the pretence I was babysitting whilst Katherine recovered her social life she was to 'meet' another

man (how could she have met him, when he was already always there?), - our former Copy Cat

Brat, now only part-timing copying our signatures for photographs, with evidently, more time (and

ink) on his hands than I, until he was promoted to being our driver. I'd always wondered how he'd

known of Katherine's address, until I remembered Brat had never returned that fan letter from

Katherine I'd earlier asked him to look after (at that moment, for some strange reason, I'd also

remembered that Friedman had never returned my Elgar essay). At least in time, I was to come to

write In Time (and could keep time, unlike G, - I had once asked him, Why don't you write a song?

In Time Book Two 161

You could call it, # I'm Going To Play In Time # ? , for his answer, No, I prefer, # I'm Going To

Let You Down. I did not rejoin, Same same, but different.), even if only within the/se squalid,

soiled pages of this obsolete diary; all fake then, the/se words, not even correctly dated. And

somehow Copy Cat Brat had managed to persuade, insisting to her, that in some recess of his

mind therein lay a template of a correct way to behave, a social order, a contract that she must

adhere now to; i.e. to obey him (as presumably she had obeyed Smith in much earlier times,

to suffer, or en/dure/joy torture), that it was the proper thing to do, to accept that after so many

years it was right to abandon Catherine - after all he was not the real 'father' was he - Smith had

been hadn't he? Even though he'd died when the girl was merely a baby, - that such events were

inevitable, - but he was not there, was he, this Saint? when was he ever around? Excepting, ignoring,

those seven years, and of course not realising that life is more complex, in its rhythms, its human

interactions - and I knowing, holding the conceit that being with me even, or only, for short durations

Cathy would grow to be a richer person, and not just (of course) materially, but knowing also that

as I am Aware, and not just as I scribble these lines upon a page, that there exists within me a

compassion, a hidden wisdom, hard won from worn experience, that enabled me to be childlike

but not childish, - that the child's song is still written and played by an adult.

Such evil that women do: That men climb towers wearing stupid costumes of imagined

superheroes to protest their lack of access to their children, that their money disappears into

another's coffers without the previously agreed reciprocal arrangement being adhered to. That

sometimes, and all too often, their money is being used to keep another man in his wife's bed.

But at least those men, in their desperate, ineffectual attempts for fairness have a kind

of law, a justice supposedly working for them. If they can afford it. For I held no such paternal

rights, holding only the money (bags). Of which Katherine the Second had been happy enough

to dip into, to spend.

Then.

In Time Book Two 162

 Now, only the memories, of holding Cathy warm and protecting her.

Yes, if there was a justice that needed to be executed, Simone, with her dead history,

advised me,

- kill him he can join us too

for my reasonable (?) reply no i only want cathy to be happy And I, also knowing

that Simone would yield too easily to my bidding and would happily wield the sword. There is a

sadness when I think of the power of evil, of how an absolute love can erode into hatred, and falter,

filter slowly into the silt of mere indifference; I had loved Katherine in the time before absolutely,

and then when I could care, become an adult, the times had changed.

But revenge was and is a sweet dish, when served cold. Eating cold turkey as I did, and

do now, counting the days.

- will call rahim

And as we did, in those distant band days: once, upon my return to work from a holiday

in Paris, Katherine refusing to let Cathy stay with me to visit Disneyland again, refusing the offer

of the fool of the coin. I had (been) driven straight from the airport to the studio in my beloved DB4,

to the usual received stares and taunts, for us to now fill the gaps in studio recording time by filling

our stomachs with bags of carefully sliced (for we were particular) greasy fried potatoes, playing

(with Simone counting for me) cards, reading newspapers, or feigning interest in the women sent

for us, between the taping of songs. It always amazed me; that the rewards were so great, for so little

effort. But never forgetting that it had taken 22 years to prepare for the 2 hour show.

Occasionally an article of interest would catch M's eye, and once I noticed that M held

the newspaper too tightly under his arms, too neatly folded, not merely because it might fall,

but possibly because the freed black text might float away into the dissipating light. He unfolded the

paper before me with a strange deliberation, as if (re?)enacting an obscure rite, not merely trying

In Time Book Two 163

not to stain the pages with his greasy fingers. He mumbled, 'Hey ..' gesticulating with flickering

fingers to the newspaper he had now opened, as if noticing a bizarre coincidence, faintly remembered

and was now delicately recalling, prising the the slim onion slices of forgetfulness away. He pointed

out an article, trying to catch a lost memory, for part-time Copy Cat Brat had left our company

some time before, we of course now rich enough to purchase a machine to forge our signatures,

and I had dispensed of his services as our driver, his interest in Kathy the Second becoming too

obvious, even to the others. Perhaps M's hesitation was also now our reluctance to share each

others company in enclosed small spaces, even with K being elsewhere that day, - and I not sure

even if I'd given him 'permission' to be absent. Or no one bothering to remember what Copy Cat

Brat's actual real name had ever been. '.. Some trucker accidentally backed his lorry through the

river wall at Brentwood, near Kew Bridge. Crushed to death. Or drowned.' M looked down, as if to

check the relevance of extinction. 'Doesn't say which. Isn't that around your area, where you go?'

I shook my head, 'No, Kew Bridge's near Chifwick. You're probably thinking about where

we played in ... anyway is # Brentwood # a song?'

And M tried to remember too; so many places, so many times ... 'No, I don't think that

# Brentwood # was ever a song. Very near Chifwick though, isn't it?'

'No. Other side of London.'

No, it is true; neither Brentwood or Chifwick have much rhythm. Or even the town word,

'Romford' (although I remember that for some unknown reason Rahim had chosen to visit that

particular place), in the sense of song titles. Unlike # Phoenix #, or # Massachusetts #. Well, towns

are towns and cities are cities.

M read further, 'Says he left the handbrake off. Don't see how though - those things weigh a

ton, start rolling instantly.'

'Let me have a look.' Saint asked.

M conceded soon enough, after hurriedly reading an adjoining headline; Fiance And

In Time Book Two 164

Daughter Killed In Separate Accident, then handed Saint the newspaper in a deliberate manner,

as if in the giving it still held a curious importance. His fingertips had stained the pages in a curious

rhythmic pattern, of seven red opaque orbs. Red red red red red red. Red. Too much tomato sauce,

Saint thought. 'I see you're well read.' he murmured, pointing. M nodded, but not too apologetically,

and without comprehension. There was a small headline tucked away in a corner, a single column

of text, such is a life worth: Trucker Crushed By Own Truck. (And it did read, Brentford - perhaps

with better eyesight his DIY work would also improve: apparently Ange had told K that M had put

his screwdriver through the plaster wall, fusing the entire top floor, - and months later still remained

unrepaired; perhaps he preferred his sex life in the dark, and would explain his blindness.)

Saint feigned incomprehension. 'Someone stole a truck?'

G repeated, curious, 'Someone stole a truck?' and then added, as if there was somehow

a connection, 'Wish I hadn't sold that cab. Hope Carol made good use of it.''

'Someone let the handbrake off,' M repeated, as if insisting of some importance, 'as the

guy was unloading. And look at the names, of the wife and daughter. And of the Indian arrested.'

'On his Indian bike?' G suggested.

'No, look, someone called Katherine, Catherine - the same names? ... and a Ram .. him?'

'Rammed him?' asked G. Past tense surely?

'Rahim.' Saint had answered.

The others looked at him, puzzled at his recognition.

'Rahim had been to Romford, but he was originally from elsewhere, Srinagar, I think. I

don't remember calling him.'

- simone says

M and G looked at each, none the wiser. Well, Saint did talk in riddles sometimes. Well, too

often actually.Then Saint had asked, folding then handing back the paper, 'Didn't we sing in India?'

and they had looked at him strangely, there being of course no obvious connection between India,

In Time Book Two 165

and, the death of a trucker in, of all places, their local river (hardly the Ganges was it), and M also

wasn't sure if India referred to his (now forever dismantled, garden abandoned) bike, or to his list,

or an imagined concert by the band. M unfolded the newspaper again and continued reading, as if

now almost querying, 'Before the wall collapsed the trucker managed to tear the red tailgate off.'

There was a momentary silence.

'Was it loose?' G asked.

'The Indian arrested claims he was from Romford, but his documents revealed he'd recently

returned from Kashmir.' M looked up at Saint, - how did he know that? Had he actually had time to

read all this small print? 'Claimed said trucker was considering buying his van, but that the hand

brake slipped from his grasp and he fell out of the vehicle as the red rear tailgate then crushed - '

'Start with keeping the handbrake on.' G interjected, now an expert again, - which was ironic,

Saint thought, considering G had recently (?) yet again lost his driving license - and how many times

now? - he was surely soon going to run out of beautiful Brazilian QC's? 'Good way to learn.'

A silence fell. Saint waited. For once he did not have any comprehension as to M's anticipated

response, but M continued soon enough, 'You left us and went on to Kashmir. You've never

mentioned a Rahim?'

'Rammed him.' repeated G, again.

Now even calm centre M was irritated, 'Shut the fuck up.'

Saint pretended to muse, 'Kashmir's a big place, and Rahim? I don't even know if that's

a common name. Hardly Patel though, is it.' M sniffed, almost as if disdainfully disbelieving.

But Saint continued shaking his head, 'And anyway Katherine and Cathy are at home.' he insisted.

'And Brentwood and Chifwick's a long way away.'

But M continued to stare down, somehow still puzzled, at the too many, obvious to him,

coincidences, 'Are you sure ...? Says they were engaged. Mother and daughter died the next day

in a crash, overturning their car into the river, rushing on the way to the hospital, from where the

In Time Book Two 166

body of a Copy Cat - is that our Copy Cat? - had already been removed. So their rush had been

pointless. And can you believe this - they accidentally drove through the same hole in the wall left

by the lorry! The council had only just bricked up the gap! - the cement was still wet. That's imposs- '

' - Yes,' agreed G, interjecting, 'Normally it takes them months to fix anything. Anyway,

hospital must have thought he was still alive, to take him in.' He then pondered, 'Wondered why I

hadn't seen him for a while.'

And I repeat, correcting them, insisting, 'No, Katherine and Cathy are at home.'

- it is like home join us

For G to continue, oblivious as usual, 'Haven't seen K recently either. Are you sure he's not

now with your wife?'

'Ooh cutting.' answered M, as he walked across to punch G, felling him effortlessly, for the

blind drunks fall easily.

Yes, the happy band days were indeed over it seemed.

And soon enough, as I drove from the Olympic Studios, from Barnes to Chifwick, it

was proven that Katherine and Cathy were not at home. And the ansaphone was flashing its hate

message. Yes, I remember now; Cathy would be alive if she had been allowed to stay with me

in Paris. Another day trip to Disneyland is better than death, surely?

I remember Cathy, in Brentwood.

She threw herself down upon the pavement, arms flailing and torso twisting upon the ground,

almost as if a rag doll clockwork automaton were beginning to unwind, and I shouted, Get up! Get

up! gesticulating wildly with my arms, aware of the pigeons circling and wary of their toxic drop-

pings. And before Catty quickly stood, obeying me, a cab passed and I noticed our soon to be driver

Copy Cat Brat laughing at the infant. He then noticed Katherine. I wish my wife walked like you!

he called out, discarding his cigarette through the window as his cab was already passing. It seemed

that G was his fare, or perhaps being taken for a test drive - he did, after all, soon enough buy it.

In Time Book Two 167

Do you know him? I had asked of Katherine, not aware she had yet met our new roadie trucker,

before the obvious (to her) reply, Of course not. But there absurdly lay a doubt there, for she

had smiled at this stranger, and it seemed, although the notion was obviously fantastic, that Catty

had waved too. The cab was already too distant for me to read its number - for Vincent could

have traced its owner's address, if I had so asked, - but I managed to see a distinctive red tailgate.

I was sure I could recognise it again. I had wondered how Copy Cat Brat had drifted so far away

from the (band's) chosen path, to be so far off track in the East of London, and to be so near the

college where Katherine had so recently lived. I had then said to Katherine, You know, I can see

you marrying a trucker.

What? she had replied, obviously puzzled, for the passing vehicle had been a cab. But

I love you. I nodded, but Simone's voice flashed though my mind,

- what is love she is not the one carol is the one

'What is love?' I ask Penel- Carol Marhia. Simone says she's called Carol. And I believe

her; I hear tinkling bells when I hear that name.

- she is the one

She smiles. 'You love me. Do you remember? Now?'

And the truth is (shamefully? - but how can it be shamefully, when I do not recall?);

no, not yet. Only flashes, as these stories unfold, as these pages reveal diary dates long past. I wish

I did, for even though the months must have passed, as the colour of the sky has changed, I still like

her, unknown as she is to me, as those yellow bells tinkle softly in my brian when I see her. Her

smile is warm, eyes creasing, as if remembering other, older, happier times. I ask, 'How was Christine?'

'Ah well, I haven't been to see her yet.'

'No? You might be disappointed.'

'Um, maybe.'

In Time Book Two 168

 Did Penelope ever keep in touch with Christine?

'They're dead aren't they.' But it is not a question I ask, merely acknowledgement. Not

yet acceptance. And she nods slightly, pursing her lips.

She mumbles, as I struggle to hear through the sounds, as if the triad of church bells

shifts softly from minor to major, 'Sometimes, it's hard to let go. But you love me. You said.'

I said. And Penel- Carol Marhia looks at me as if I have spoken.

September, the diary says.

It had been a shock, to hear from, and even more so, to see her again. She had been

vaguely attractive at college, from what Penelope remembered, and - and how could one politely

put it? - statuesque, when there had been an obvious adolescent desire, the animal lust, not then

the emotional maturity of an adult love, but it was all such a long time ago, and as such slightly

irrelevant really, but ... she had let herself go, hadn't she. Never mind, an hour out of her life

wouldn't make any difference. She remembered that Christine had also always been so miserable,

prone to frequent lachrymal outbursts, lamenting, even now, the lost of that first love, the love of

her life. She did seem to eat a lot, even then. And no exercise. No wonder that boyfriend of hers

dumped her. The one she was always whingeing on about. After she'd followed him from the States

he went on to become, she'd said, a famous pop singer or something. She couldn't remember his

name. Something ridiculously ... hagiological. Sure she'd never met him in fact. Just seemed like

it, the way Christine talked about him incessantly. She had eventually (and not too soon enough,

Penelope thought) married somebody else, in what would be called, she supposed, in contemporary

parlance, a rebound romance, but the marriage had been rarely mentioned in their subsequently ever

rarer telephone conversations, her new husband being a music lecturer somewhere (but not as musical

as He was) in the East of London, before perhaps the inevitable separation, or was it divorce?

Perhaps he too had got bored of hearing about her ex-boyfriend who adored Elgar but had preferred

instead to have become a pop star. She knew now, after the meal that other night, - and when

In Time Book Two 169

was that now? - that Friedman had been her husband, but she had been too polite to mention it -

the stolen oboe was the clue, slightly marked as the one in Saint's house had been (although Russell

had corrected her, that it was a clarinet she was looking at).

But to look at her now? Where had that attractiveness gone? Thighs of an elephant, Penelope

thought. It was such a shame. And there was the shame that those thoughts had coalesced in her head.

She looked down at her own body and gently traced a line down to her hips. At least she had kept her

figure. It didn't take much; a little exercise, in her case good sex. She felt embarrassed at the memory

that at one time she had found Christine attractive, but that might be just another imagined memory.

As if some pervert was writing his imaginations of her. She wouldn't put that past Chomiac. He

seemed to keep notes on everything. It was a shame Brian hadn't taken Unsolved off him - some

of those stories were quite interesting.

They walked on through Holland Park. Fortunately it was a beautiful day, so it hadn't been

a complete waste. Of time. But she was getting slightly ... what was it? Restless? Or just bored?

'Tell me,' she asked, almost tentatively, 'did you ever get your oboe back?'

Christine stared at her, this question from nowhere.

'He stole it.'

'Who? Your husband?'

She shrugged her shoulders, shaking away the irritation. 'No, no, no - He did.'

And with Christine's inflection upon He, she knew at once she had meant her imaginary

pop star friend, which was of course ridiculous. She vaguely remembered, but couldn't be sure as

this was such a long time ago, that perhaps she had said she'd given him a clarinet, as a birthday

present. 'The clarinet?' she mumbled, almost as if not sure if a statement or a question. Christine

continued to stare at her, now surprised at her memory.

'Yes. And then he stole my oboe. Walked across the road and smashed the window and stole it.'

Penelope was puzzled. What was her ex-boyfriend doing across the road? When he was some-

In Time Book Two 170

where else being a pop star? 'You saw this?' she asked. 'Didn't the police do anything?'

'My husband, then, wouldn't report it. Kept saying, That fucking Elgar, that fucking Elgar

essay. '

'Paul Friedman?'

Then there was a grunt from Christine as she stepped back in surprise at hearing her husband's

name, that Penelope would know it. She slipped into this fetid puddle. Up to her ankle in this putrid

liquid. It was a strange puddle, not really water as such. It stank. Christine tried to move her free foot

to give herself a better footing, but she was too heavy, she fell to her knees.

And now she, Penelope would have to help her, but was she strong enough? To heave her up?

She might fall over too. And did she want to, anyway? But she had no choice. Poor Christine. Sod

poor Christine. Her other foot had now slipped into the mess. It was all so ... repulsive.

She stepped forward. 'Give me your hand, Christine.' as she proffered her arm, reluctantly.

This absurd social obligation of duty to a long distant now stranger, overcoming physical reluctance.

Christine grasped it, and not merely to ready herself for the ascent. Her face was pale. She had

looked at her foot and realised she had crushed and stepped through a rotten carcass of a small

animal. It was disgusting. Penelope made to console her. 'Don't worry, don't panic. It's only a dead

cat, not even that, a little dead pussy. It won't hurt you!'

Penelope offered her other hand. There was a very real risk, she knew, of her being dragged

down to the ground by Christine's weight, down next to that ... thing, - and what this strange obligation

to help her, merely from having known her all those years ago? Christine clutched Penelope's hands

and slowly, laboriously, a single knee rose, to squelch her foot unto firmer, drier ground. She was

still crying. This was not how she had planned to end her day, before it had even started, with her

feet stained with the putrid entrails of a dead kitten. 'It'll wash off!' Penelope offered brightly.

But Christine did not smile. And secretly Penelope now resented being there. She did have other

things to do with her life, after all, than wander the parks helping others try to catch up on their

In Time Book Two 171

long lost futile memories. 'Let's get that coffee,' she offered, 'With lashings of cream! Or even ice

cream!'

But Christine now occasionally glanced across to stare at her, as if there now lay a suspicion

there, in her words. 'And you know,' Christine had suddenly continued, as they found and entered

the (to Penelope very) convenient caf, 'that bastard had bought his dead wife's house before that

car crash. I know he spies on me. Her dead husband had a telescope.'

Jesus, what a waste of a day, Penelope thought, as she now sat reluctantly down. Christine

was plainly nuts.

'Have you shown Brain, anything?' I ask Penel- Carol Marhia, as I gesture away the ice

cream offered. This is not the time for cold thoughts. And where is my silver spoon anyway? the

one that I always carry? - to prove that I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth? but have

done so well?

'You mean Brian?' she asks, almost as if puzzled as to who either of them might be. In the

real world. She shakes her head doubtfully. 'No.'

I find that surprising. 'You just leave them .. randomly somewhere?'

She nods doubtfully, appeasing with a, 'Um ...'

'I must make sure he discovers them then? I have another story for you. The final one, I

think.' I point to my diary, 'For it seems I am coming to the end of pages. An end, of my time.'

The manuscript, my diary lies already at the foot of the bed, the earlier struggle to place it

there to remain forever untold. As was my struggle to walk outside. To smash clocks, to break

time. 'You might like it.'

Penel- Carol Marhia stood and walked to the bed, picked up my book. She flicked

through the pages, the dense texted days passing instantly, the lines pointing towards a cold

October, but still September. Even if not really. Eventually she stopped, looked at a title. 'Under

In Time Book Two 172

My Skin?' she asked. 'Isn't that the song? The one you used to sing to me? Our song?'

'A classic.' I affirm. I try to hum, but fail, the irritating bells always in a different key. 'But

this one plays a different sort of melody, in a different sort of key.'

She sings quietly, # Deep in the heart of me .. #, as if sadly remembering another time,

before flicking again through the pages, the cascading images wording a life, intermittently stopping

to read a few words here and there. The style was different. Denser. Love Letters and Chance Be a

long time ago, it seemed. As was the Passion of a dated springtime. Yes, Under My Skin lay more

in that style it appeared.

'I've made in my brain, Korsakoff.'

'Brain? You keep saying that - you mean Brian. Brian Korsakoff?'

'No, Nikolai.'

'Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov?' she smiled, happy now at my remembrance. 'You always

liked that stuff! You liked May Night .. and The Snow Maiden. You called me the Snow Maiden

once. Remember?'

'Is it May now?'

And the sadness falls upon her face again, almost as if white clouds evaporating to grey.

She was also about to ask, where did you get the time to write this? But of course, at the

moment, he had all the time in the world. But there was doubt in her voice as she answered, 'I

shall look forward to reading it.'

'I hope you do.' I tapped my nose, to smile knowingly. 'Simon did a good job. With her life.

Had she lived.'

She looks puzzled. For sometimes he said Simon when he meant Simone. As if he

still didn't want to mention his dead school girlfriend, that the letter, the vowel e would make

any difference, to the girl's destruction in, of that time.

'Simone? Yes? I'll read it when you're asleep.'

In Time Book Two 173

 'I know that you do.'

'You'll have to say goodbye to Simone soon. You know that?'

- no don t leave me say hello

carol of the bells is right simone there is always a time to say goodbye i don t know why

you said hello when i must say goodbye and it was you after all who said she is the one

SEPTEMBER: UNDER MY SKIN

Nikolai Korsakoff stood, arms folded across his chest, staring through the large bay

windows. His gaze lay unfocused upon the distant Malvern hills, the trees in the field opposite,

upon branches gently undulating, embracing the cooling autumn winds, clutching the last dying

warmths of an unseasonably warm October before winter. More like early September, but then,

no diary to check.

But his thoughts lay elsewhere, a flurry of questions. Perhaps the train had already arrived

at the station? she was already in the taxi sent by him? driven by that girl who always appeared so

familiar, the cab already turning into the driveway? Questions asked he knew pointlessly, futile

imaginations until events materialised, but asked without choice; they scurried through his mind,

these feckless ants, but, and as he so easily convinced himself, they filled the passing minutes; his

anxiety consumed the wasting moments.

A fingernail caught a snag in the wool of his pullover as a finger fretfully, rhythmically

traced an erratic seven - a three and three and then one beat pattern; he freed it, but the nail was

torn; it would need cutting.

Three years? Five? Seven? He could not possibly imagine how she had changed. He

remembered merely a girl, not quite a young woman when she left. Not then in her prime.

And finally, to his apprehensive relief, the soft chugging of a diesel engine further along

the path. The vehicle became visible as it turned into the distant driveway, at first a bleak, black

scuttling insect, before rapidly assuming the form of a taxi. It drew slowly to a halt. Korsakoff

In Time Book Two 174

could see the form of her figure in the rear compartment. She appeared smaller than he expected;

his memory had distorted her presence, as if his remembrance of her vivificality had somehow

actually enlarged her physical frame in his mind. But his wife had been tall too, and what would

now be called 'statuesque', - a word he had learnt soon enough upon his arrival in England - and

perhaps it was her presence when she had been alive that had dis/con/torted his recollection

of the daughter. Korsakoff pursed his lips; after all, the mother and daughter held so many

familial similarities, if not merely physical.

Korsakoff turned away from the window and walked through to the hallway. He hesitated

at the door, disguising his apprehension by pulling down of his pullover over the belt of his trousers.

He had not forgotten how when as a child she used to chide him over his choice of clothing - 'Your

books sell,' she had said, 'and are well read, but your covers' and she had then touched his arm as

she had spoken, fingering the fabric, 'collect dust.' For a fourteen year old he had been impressed

with her ironic use of language, to the extent of himself using the quote as a character trait in a

short story. That collection hadn't sold so well.

Korsakoff turned the lock of his door, slowly pulled the brown stained timber frame open.

The cold afternoon chill brushed past his face: arrival.

After he had paid the taxi driver (yes, it was strange, he thought, the way that woman

always smiled at him, and to be here, so far out in the country, and yet still not to know her name -

perhaps one day he would be interested enough to ask), they embraced, at first cautiously, warily,

a token acknowledgement of their meeting, but then, that initial reticence fading quickly, as if,

surely, bygones must be bygones, warmly.

Korsakoff carried her two suitcases into the hallway; she followed him. Inside, the suitcases

deposited by the staircase, they turned towards each other again; he as in disbelief, that they were

together again, that she had returned at all, and she in her turn smiled wryly, faintly amused that he

should so savour this moment.

In Time Book Two 175

 She had changed, he could not fail to realise, from a young girl of sixteen, to a fully mature

woman of twenty three. And the change wasn't purely physical, he thought; the final metamorphosis

included an air of practised assurance. She looked ... he grimaced at the pun that had floated into his

thoughts ... she looked consummated; the experience of university and her later life had served

her well. And Korsakoff knew the reason why. It was, after all, partly the reason that had prevented

her earlier return to the familial fold. Had she not taunted him in earlier days? with her convoluted

versions of her imagined truths? Korsakoff could not forget those short, terse missives addressed

to his wife, telling her of her daughter's exploits at university, and in later times, mostly, it had

seemed then, of a sexual nature and with much older men, normally her lecturers. Lecherers, he

had sourly thought at the time. His wife had not understood his silence, nor the termly cheques

he had paid into her account - sums of money greatly in excess of the usual student grant.

She had leant how to handle men very young, he thought; she had possessed from an early

age a termagant maturity.

He took her by the hand and attempted lead her through to the drawing room. She withdrew

her hand quickly to then look around, appraising any change. He asked, tentatively, 'What would

you like to drink?' She looked at him, an initial hesitation. Then, answered, attempting a nonchalance,

'Oh, a vodka and tonic.'

Korsakoff watched her run her fingers through her fine red hair to draw her fringe to one

side. A habit from her childhood. A pointless tic as her hair fell back into place within moments.

- this is not me no

you must say goodbye simone

He walked across to the drinks cabinet and opened the glass partition, to take two glasses,

giving each a cursory wipe with the cloth. She was looking at his back he knew, waiting, now that

the welcoming rite was over, to refer to her mother, but Korsakoff pre-empted her assumption of

an explanation with, 'Ice?'

In Time Book Two 176

 She nodded behind him. He walked through to the kitchen, glad to temporarily escape the

pretended innocence of her gaze. He realised he did not know where to begin, for there was not

the familiarity of the word friends, where a conversation might be continued after several

years without interruption, as passing acquaintances might meet again in the street, to each offer

the other condolences, at the passing of a mutual friend, and it seemed inappropriate to begin

with her mother; too formal an approach - but it was the ostensible reason she had returned.

But not having seen his daughter for seven years now he guessed an informal chat would

be his best move; to talk about themselves first, of their current interests (not that t/he/y seemed

to have any in common, he thought) and preoccupations (to bury the dead?), about how their

respective lives had developed in the few years since they had separated - before mentioning,

explaining the death of his wife.

Korsakoff walked back into the lounge with the tray of ice. He began, again, hopefully,

'Did you have a safe journey? I seemed to know that driver from somewhere.'

Simone smiled, dismissing his gambit. 'Yes? Carol? Student flatmate from college. And

still working out how to say things, hm?' She had seen straight through his futile ploy, as he knew

she would; he had never underestimated her intuition, and intelligence. Korsakoff wished he had

the strength now to retaliate, but in truth, age mellows. He turned away from her, to crack the ice

with a small, seemingly home made, silver hammer. Having prepared the drinks Korsakoff walked

across the room and offered a glass to her. She took it and sipped the liquid. She could wait.

He could but try, 'She .. crashed a car, you know.'

The murmured words had an undesired effect. Bitterly she retorted, 'The way you said it!

Always that same, calm, fucking indifference in your voice! It's hard to believe that you're talking

about my mother - your wife! Anyway, I don't think that's how she died - that's not what I've heard -

I think you made that up!' She lapsed into silence, temporarily spent. She had not changed, Korsakoff

saw. The unwittingly delivered verbal taunt having found its target he w/c/ould now calmly wait until

In Time Book Two 177

her anger had subsided. 'I was talking of your mother.' he explained, 'not my wife.' Then affecting a

deliberate sycophancy, 'After all, there doesn't seem any point in pretending, does there? You're

an adult now - '

'I was then, god damn it.'

' - and you'd be the first to know what that relationship was really like. Hardly the

eternal matrimonial bliss.'

'How gently you put it. I can see your wedding anniversaries were full of cheer. But as

you say,' She bowed her head, a gentle flirtation of mock agreement, before swigging the the

remainder of her drink. 'I'd be the first to know.' She held up her glass, directing, 'Another, please.'

Korsakoff ignored the request and walked away to sit opposite her. It was time to attempt

a new track, 'Well, Si, how it is going?'

Si broke into laughter. Her father's attempt - the first time he had ever, as far as she could

recall, abbreviated her Christian name - at jovial conversation was pathetic. It was just not his style.

'It's going well, Nik.' She raised her glass again but this time let it fall to the floor. It did not break;

Korsakoff, learning from the vehement experiences of his wife, had long ago replaced all cut glass

with a cheaper but more durable selection of tumblers.

The two people, father and daughter, family but as yet still strangers, momentarily stared at

the fallen vessel. She too (as his dead wife had, the first time after the replacement, that destruction

was not inevitable) seemed surprised that the glass had not shattered, but Korsakoff did not explain.

He felt strangely guilty that their meeting had not began well. They had slipped too easily back into

their old habits, as if the sum of seven years had been but a moments pause, the lifting of the needle

from a groove in a record that when replaced continues from the same strident bar. He had thought

that the destructive conflicts of the household were not tristachyous, but singularly the result of his

wife's antagonism. He still believed this, as if denying the consequences of actions past, but to break

out of the slavish social rituals in which they had housed and chained themselves and their emotions,

In Time Book Two 178

was, he knew, to prove difficult, if not impossible.

He had already failed once today, already.

'I'm sorry.' he said.

Simone buried her face in her hands with a mocking, 'God, this is so .. pitiful? Isn't it a bit

late to apologise now? And what for? There's no need to, on any score. I know she was impossible

to live with. You know she was impossible to live with. You should have divorced her years ago.'

'It was you we stayed together for.'

'Well you needn't have bothered on my account. I'm far hardier then either of you realised.'

She smiled slyly, 'Or perhaps you realised, after all.'

'Cunt.'

'One love. Let's see how many times you can insult me in, say ..' she tapped her wrist,

calculating from an imaginary watch, tap tap tap tap tap tap. Tap, '.. one hour? I would have

thought you were rather good at abusing me.'

'Fuck off.'

Simone leant forward, as if adopting a mutually conspiratorial tone of voice. She asked,

quietly, 'Were you drunk?'

'No,' he replied. Korsakoff felt indifferent to this continuous charade of hers, - and how

many years had she claimed sexual abuse now? - but Simone still persisted.

'Disappointed are we?' she smiled salaciously. 'Oh yes ..?' She stood and walked over to

him. She brushed imaginary dust from his lap before clambering unto, to sit astride his legs. He

sat rigidly, a stone statue resolutely determined not to fracture, to fall prey to his daughter's attempt

at eliciting anger. 'No welcoming cuddle now, eh?'

'Improper.'

'That's a pity.' Simone slid off him, to stretch out across the brown sofa to then lie back

and rest her head upon his thigh.

In Time Book Two 179

 'You sound almost disappointed.' he said.

'Well,' she explained jovially, looking up at him, 'after my experience now, with men these

last few years, is it really seven? I can tell you I prefer them drunk - not too drunk mind, after two

scotches is about right .. well, doubtless you know all about that.'

She was still taunting him he knew, hoping to arouse him from the indifference of years

to present anger. But she would fail, he reassured himself, as she had always failed. But Korsakoff

at once realised his self-deception, as perhaps she saw in his face; she knew what pain she caused

him, and also that he had no defence to erect. And Korsakoff had occasionally wondered whether

his daughter had every right to be merciless, for he had been drunk many times, in that time before,

but never to the extent she claimed. He raised her head from his thigh and stood up, drink soon

enough finished, and needing, not wanting, another. Simone stood too, to walk away from the sofa.

Glass refilled he remained standing, distance equalling sejunction.

'What can I say then,' he asked, attempting to begin again, 'if an apology is not .. '

'Oh say what you like. I see you haven't lost your sense of assumed decency. Must

have learnt that over here. Would you like me to tell you about my lovers?'

Korsakoff turned away. He prepared his second glass. 'Thank you, no,'

'No? Somehow I thought you'd have been interested. All good material and all that.

But then again I suppose you wouldn't be surprised at the type of men one can buy. With the

money you sent me.'

The ice cubes fractured into small shapes as he scooped them into the glass. 'I'm glad it

kept you in such good company.'

'Well, you can appreciate, what with you being the famous foreign writer, what must go

through people's minds, you know - what with that dirty book you wrote - dogs barking as you're

fucking, well, raping. Weird or what? - you could do another one; the poor little rich girl, bought

into silence by her lascivious father.'

In Time Book Two 180

 'Not one of mine, I think. Anyway, lascivious is feminine; applied to women only.'

'Not necessarily. But you attempt to digress. Deliberately I know.'

Korsakoff sat again opposite her and sipped his drink. 'You made up .. told them? About ...? '

Korsakoff wasn't sure where his daughter was leading him. 'I don't believe you.'

'Oh yes, you'd believe it! To one, an analytical - in all senses of the word, daddy, - psychologist,

whatever that is, I explained my father was an foreign underworld figure, prone to breaking people's

legs if they so much as whispered a sentence of his sordid history aloud. And this was how he treated

his friends. You should have seen him run, after he had fucked me of course, - I insisted he stay to

complete the job. I informed him 'daddy' wasn't so lenient with the young men who couldn't keep his

healthy daughter sexually satisfied. Poor boy. And I believe that during the day he researched sexual

motivation in rats. For his postgrad degree that is, not in his spare time. Somewhat ironic I thought.'

Korsakoff smiled in spite of himself. 'How appropriate. And as you say, ironic. But did

you ever tell them the truth?'

'That was the truth.' she insisted. 'But to another I said father was a lecherous old fart who

was taken to abducting and raping young nurses, - not merely fiction then, and consequently his

daughter. Apparently, I explained patiently, after bringing the young man round, my father found

extra sexual stimuli in this unusual interpretation of fatherhood. And that he subsequently paid the

consequences by being blackmailed.'

'How did that one take it?'

'He said, I wondered where you got your money from. He was an accountant after all.

A professional interest. And very good at copying documents, if you know what I mean. They

all thought it was too obscene to be true.'

'It is.'

'Yes, I suppose it must sound it.' She pointed to the glass on the floor. 'Another drink then,

since I noticed you didn't pour me one?'

In Time Book Two 181

 'Help yourself.' Korsakoff replied. He was not going to be dictated to. But Simone made

no move to raise herself. She spread her arm along the sofa, as if stroking the brown leather slowly.

She wondered how old it was, fading now, but comfier, through age. Shame about the coffee (?)

stains, leaving faint white outlines, like miniature salty tide marks. Was it older than Korsakoff

himself? Must have been a family heirloom, to bring it all the way from Budapest. Korsakoff sat

waiting; he could sense she was preparing for another attack. It came quickly enough.

'How's your work coming along father?'

And she knew, of course, that he had not written anything of merit since before she had left.

And years before that. Cunning little slut. Silence. Then, 'Another drink, then, please, Nikolai?'

Korsakoff stood to pick up her glass from the floor. 'Another vodka and tonic?'

She nodded. 'No need to rinse out the glass.' As he turned away she stood and walked to

the television. A video recorder and a selection of tapes lay on the floor beside it. She examined

their labels; they were concerned with interviews of her father's work; interviews dating from earlier

years; an anodyne television adaptation of that story; a more realistic feature film version. 'A bit

incestuous isn't it?' she asked.

Korsakoff turned sharply, then sensing her meaning replied, 'Useful to see how people

interpret your work.'

She stood; he handed her the refilled glass. 'Your one work. Do you watch your own

interviews much?'

'Very rarely.'

'It's funny, isn't it,' Simone stroked her chin, affecting to muse, - for why then, were these

tapes on the floor? - 'how so much can be talked about, from one little book.'

'It wasn't little.'

'No, I suppose not. But just the one, wasn't it.'

'Did you watch them?' he asked.

In Time Book Two 182

 'Yes I did. Well one of them. Some time ago now. You were quite good. You kept your cool.

I was in bed at the time.'

'How appropriate.'

'With some young man I'd convinced that you were a highly paid up member of the K.G.B.

and really was a sinister, subversive element in society.' And for a moment she thought as if Korsakoff

did indeed look guilty.

'Your story telling matches mine.' he muttered drily.

'My story telling greatly surpasses yours.' she corrected.

'Oh yes?' Her challenge might hold substance now he knew. 'Then who was the young man

you were screwing?'

'Paragraph two? When he wasn't playing piano at the Barbican, rehearsing The Dream

of Gerontius from what I remember, he was was working out in some rowing club down the

road from my college. During the day as a hobby he studied rocks, I think. Had a thing about

deep time. Whatever that is. Well built though, - the way I like them. Funny name though,

Chumeak.'

'You go to bed with anyone?' he mocked.

'If it's useful to me, yes. I quite enjoy blackmailing people. It's quite .. stimulating. Had

gorgeous blond hair though, that one. Shame he was a tory. Wanted to stand as an M of P, I think.

You liked Chopin didn't you?'

'Polish pianist, yes. I preferred Lizst. But your stories are improbable? Though perhaps ..

hold possibilities. Have you ever thought of taking up the literary scene? Or would that clash

with your illegal activities? I can't promise that it pays as well.'

'It didn't seem to clash with your illegal fucking.'

Korsakoff sat down. 'Yes, your imagination is .. amazing? A suitable adjective, I think.'

Simone Korsakoff remained standing. 'You think I have potential then?' She added, with

In Time Book Two 183

a mocking insolence, 'Daddy?

'No.'

'No doubt I could always guide you.'

'No doubt.'

Later, her father in the kitchen, Simone knelt by the television set, again examining the

labels upon the video cassettes. Her father's earlier description had been adequate, but the inner

labels gave greater details of his works; the date of transmission of his film, the director; the length

of the television interview - she would look forward to again watching the latter, her first viewing

having been somewhat distracted by the amorous attentions of the student. She smiled as she

recollected. He hadn't actually been politically orientated in any way - but it made for a good

punch line. Daughter of a Lefty sleeping with a Righty. Knew it would annoy her father. And

she had, as she well knew from Brian, - she hardly needed her father to convince her, surely he

should know by now?! - literary potential.

She re-stacked the cassettes, no longer interested; the plot of Korsakoff's work (for there

was only one really, as the minor efforts didn't count - the journalistic essays merely being fillers)

she of course knew intimately.

Korsakoff had left the room to prepare supper, and the occasional brittle clatter of enamel

upon metal reached her through the closed partition. Simone sat back, straightened then splayed

her legs. She began to exercise, slowly touching first the left knee then the right. # Lefty, Righty #

she repeatedly sang quietly. She thought of their earlier meeting that day; it had passed as she had

expected; her father displaying a cautious reticence, as if wary of admitting her imagined past.

Perhaps he had been drunk then and not actually remembered. But she had not expected each

an abrupt physical decline; he had appeared to age far more than the seven years that had elapsed

since they had previously met. He now also appeared resigned, defeated, as if any semblance of

hope had long been extirpated from him. And thinner, gaunter. No longer Hemingway then. But

In Time Book Two 184

if not looking like him, then who ...

Simone could understand her mothers effect upon him, the constant years of altercation

whittling him into the sterile numbness - but now she was dead surely he would have .. should

she suggest ..rejoiced ? at his new found freedom?

They had not yet talked of her mother's death. The cause of the accident she now knew,

by his choice of indifferent callous words, but the topic lay still ignored; the umbra of guilt

deliberately circumambulated; and where did that guilt lie, in the dark dead core they left

temporarily unlit, unexplored, seemingly content to initially preamble their way through the

penumbral shades of a social reintroduction? They would talk of her mother, she would insist,

but yes, later.

Yes he had aged, she thought. His hair was shorter - his fashion of wearing longer hair

having passed, and perhaps not through choice, but inevitable natural decline - and his stomach

now visibly protruded from his slimmer frame. But in one respect he had not changed; he still

drank indiscriminately. He intoxication he hid well, she judged, even if its effects had its inevitable

physical consequence - he looked a decade older than his fifty or so years.

Her callisthenics finished she stood and walked across to his writing desk. She opened

the curved lid, sliding it into its recess and drew out the writing panel. 'Escritoire.' she attempted,

that French accent always elusive. Perhaps she should have been more particular in her lovers.

A slim sheaf of stapled papers lay upon the walnut surface. Simone picked up and read a

sheet. It appeared to be the rough form of a short story. A date was scribbled in the top left hand

corner. Seven years ago? She held the paper closer. Her reading of the faintly pencilled date

was accurate. He hadn't written anything for seven years? Almost as if nothing had been produced

after she'd left. So she'd been his creative muse after all. She turned a sheet over and read another,

choosing at random a paragraph. Unlike his physical appearance, the paragraph was precise, terse,

pithy. It was, she knew now, having read many of the manuscripts Brian had brought up to their

In Time Book Two 185

flat, good. She smiled; the contrast between the public persona and the private person had always,

evert since the early days of her adolescence, as she meandered towards an uncertain maturity,

amused her; her father the acclaimed novelist, a refugee after a notorious defection (subsequently

followed in the tabloid newspapers by the inevitable celebration of freedom as opposed to

totalitarianism, and of the virtues of its own free press), the marriage to the beautiful but now

not so young dbutante (but was debutante the word, when it was eventually discovered by the

press that Coralie had been married before, but that her husband had died from, - and could this

realtly be possible? in this day and age? - radiation sickness? And that she had put her son into the

care of an old part-time nurse and piano playing spinster? Well, free piano lessons, they supposed -

but they'd never found her, only a report of her death, falling down the stairs in a burning building,

surely a story there, you would have thought? - or him, the disappeared son) Coralie, who had

helped secure his release. The novel about the kidnap and rape of a young English nurse against

the background of the political turmoil of the totalitarian regime that followed (that perhaps his

'escape' was another final nail in the coffin of oppression; to let air in as a journalist implied

with a curious metaphor as he had praised Korsakoff at a literary award; then inevitable decline,

thought Simone now, to minor works - those short essays, the literary prizes fading into history,

but nominated anyway, unofficially, it was said (for it turned out only to be a false rumour spread

by a friendly tabloid journalist Simone had subsequently met ((at Brian's place?)) ) for the

Nobel prize. The one with that funny name.

Before 1989 his work had been inevitably banned, leading, in those much earlier times,

to his fleeing Poznan, then to Budapest, and again, as they relentlessly followed him, Prague.

But his story was still illegally celebrated in his home country of Poland. Afterwards, after The

Fall Of The Wall, he had returned to Poznan, asking for his secret service records to be returned to

him or destroyed. They went missing. he was informed, which was not helpful, as Korsakoff

wanted all his historical secrets burnt.

In Time Book Two 186

 Public veneration: a private gehenna.

Korsakoff, a decade later, any affection of his wife towards him having long been eaten

away by the earlier cancer in her womb, embodied in the birth of their only daughter, referred

to those earlier far off days in an uncompleted short story. Simone held the slim sheaf of papers

in her hand. She turned another page, stopping at the penultimate paragraph. She read:

Her one good deed, of her lifetime it would eventually transpire, was to secure his visa

by talking to, and then - as she was later to persistently taunt him - 'fucking her friends in low

places.'

The same tongue that had apparently so effortlessly freed him was soon to bind him to

an acrimonious marriage; she instigated a duel; at first tentative, inchoate fumblings towards

verbal predacity were the norm, but soon, Chomiac's weaknesses sought out, exposed to her

vitriolic glare, caustic ridicule became the rule.

But the diatribes held one beneficial consequence for Chomiac; he mastered the profani-

ties of the English language extraordinarily quickly.

Simone pursed her lips and placed the papers back upon the table and slid the drawer

into its recess, leaving the lid open. Chomiac? That balding reporter friend of Brians? Or was it

of his wife, Penelope? Chomiac had once been a pianist apparently, he'd claimed, but she couldn't

believe that. Could have been the older brother though, of her, a, once fancy man. He had looked

at her strangely, as if seeking recognition, at some party or other. But she was used to that by then;

men, ever hopeful. Chomiac. A curious and inappropriate choice, she supposed. Sounded Polish

though. But her mother, promiscuous? That didn't sound right, either. She knew her mother had

been married before (from what she remembered she had been told as a child), to a scientist who

had died from radiation poisoning. But was it right to slander the dead? She heard her father making

his way back into the room. He entered, his back propping open the door, carrying a large - this time

a real, a properly bought one - silver tray. And he professed himself to be a socialist yet, she thought, -

In Time Book Two 187

life is not without its contradictions. At least he had expended considerable effort in preparing for her

return.

'Cucumber sandwiches?' she asked smiling.

'No.' he replied. 'We are, after all, foreigners. Chicken curry for the likes of you and I.'

Korsakoff placed the tray on the floor, carefully lowering himself until he knelt upon the carpet.

He struggled to cross his legs. She wondered why he was making this effort - to attain his idea of

a bohemian affinity with her? But she knelt beside him anyway, accepting his offer of a plate.

'Thank you, Mr. Chomiac.'

Korsakoff looked up sharply, his realisation now immediate at his opened escritoire, but

a shocked hesitation before replying. He could not believe her effrontery. She had gone through

his papers? Already? 'Christ.' he murmured, his anger bitterly suppressed, 'I didn't realise I should

have locked up every god damn document prior to your return.'

'I just wanted to see it you hadn't written anything, as you'd said.'

'And now you're satisfied?'

'Not really. I pity you. A fine talent, almost genius, lying dormant, wasting, going to seed.'

'Almost genius.' he snorted. 'I've heard some superlatives in my time - what a revelation!

but almost a genius! Ha!' But then, in an abrupt contrast, Korsakoff asked, quietly, 'Why do

you like to see me suffer?'

Simone sat surprised at the bluntness of the question. Evidently she had touched a raw

nerve, somewhere. She hid her uncertainty. 'Yes.' she answered calmly. 'And why not?'

'A moment's indiscretion? Your imagined indiscretion. To be stacked, held against me

for years? And you weren't hurt, so why pretend it? only an hour ago you called yourself hardy.

You just delight in using people - men. Don't you.'

Simone angrily dropped her plate unto the silver tray. The rice, stained brown by the chicken

sauce, oozed off the plate, like curious grain encrusted snails seeking their oblivion in the engulfing

In Time Book Two 188

base of the salt and pepper cellars. She stood, then pointed, the index finger accusing him, 'Hark

who's talking! Miss Under-Age Killer of the year! What you don't seem to realise,' she drew her

head towards Korsakoff and lowered her voice, inversely accentuating her cynicism, 'Sugar

daddy, is how fortunate you are to be here at all. I could have had you nicked any day, and

even if I failed to get a conviction, your writing career would suddenly become,' she clicked

her fingers dismissively, conclusively, 'kaput.'

Korsakoff remained squatting, continuing his pretence at eating. 'Really? I would have

thought, what with the proletarian's instinctive love of anything perverse, that then they would buy

my books, rather than boycott them, just so that they could sit back in glorious self-righteousness

and lament at how, as they had known all along, terribly corrupt that Johnny Foreigner author was.'

Simone walked away to sit on the sofa. She regretted her action of dropping the plate; the

meal had looked appetising, and at least he had made an effort - her hunger would now go unfulfilled.

'Point taken.' she reluctantly acquiesced. 'But it wouldn't be much fun, your remaining meagre royalties

accruing while you rot in jail.'

'Ah, my sweet and not so innocent daughter. Follow your argument through to its logical

conclusion. What would you live upon whilst I was away?'

She smiled salaciously, then a single lick of her lower lip with her tongue. Korsakoff

now recognised a practised prurience. Upon who else had she exercised her sexual charms? He

wished he did not know, but she was already answering his question, 'Oh, I've thought of that

daddy, don't worry; I could always sell my body.'

'Haven't you already?'

'Or I could sell my dreadful, squalid story to the tabloids. Imagine the dreadful headline.'

Shaping with her hands Simone blocked the titles through the air, 'International Author Abducts

Virgin Offspring. As you'd said, they would lap it up!'

'They used to love me when I criticised the Soviet Union, but as soon as I referred to the

In Time Book Two 189

evils of England the accolades turned to insults. I should have mentioned my daughter.'

Simone watched him closely, her anger now dissipating. She smiled with a wry amusement

at his indifferent cynicism. 'I didn't know you were that famous daddy.' she gently taunted.

'No? After I conjectured that, perhaps, socialism had a chance of success? of doing good? -

they leapt upon me like a pack of wolves.'

'Yes,' she tapped her head, as if affecting a mocking thoughtfulness, 'I remember you came

in for some ... rather adverse criticism.'

'And naturally my supposed vast income was mentioned, as it a vindication of the Western

world.'

'Naturally.' Simone stood up and made towards the two large wooden doors that led into

an adjoining room. She turned the handles; they were locked. She tapped at the carved oak panelling,

affected her childlike voice, 'Please let me in, yes?' Then, as an adult, she turned towards Korsakoff.

'Is the piano still in there?'

He nodded.

'Tuned recently?'

'Not for a while.' He gestured towards his writing table, the lid still open. 'The key's in

the left hand drawer.' He could not resist a final taunt, 'You mean you didn't find it, when you

were searching?'

Ignoring him Simone fetched the keys - another one on the string she noticed - had he

actually said keys? - and turned back towards the doors. The key still fitted easily, despite, it

seemed, not having been oiled and unused for some time, and as she turned the lock, swung the

doors open, her piano lay revealed. 'The old faithful's still here then?' She pulled out the stool and

sat down. 'What shall I play for you daddy dear? A Two Part Invention?' Simone turned towards her

father sitting now on the sofa, partially visible beyond the jamb of the door. He shrugged; he did

not care. But Simone began to play, regardless of his indifference. She still played well, he knew,

In Time Book Two 190

much better than in his own earlier musical efforts (although in truth he had always known that in

those far off days he'd basked off and in the reflected glory of other musicians, especially those

early visiting English ones - that had been a coup), and executed the piece with precision. He

shifted his body, so that her arms became visible. But she was speeding up, he judged, losing

the controlled pace required for such an Invention. (Korsakoff had thought of Chomiac at that

moment too; yes, he had been very good, and it was a shame, about the dog bite.) But as if hearing

his thoughts she realised her error and slowed again, towards the end, before the final cadence.

Still, she had played well - certainly nearly up to concert performance standard, or perhaps

it was an opinion held because she was still, after all, his daughter.

There had been talk once of his daughter pursuing the instrument professionally, but the

local teachers, the few that there were, hadn't taken to his wife's refusal to pay in advance, or cash

in hand. And always demanding a receipt. Coralie had, over the years, developed an annoying habit

of collecting and storing bits of paper. (Korsakoff had often speculated that these were somehow,

in her mind, reminiscent of fragments of his early poems, but felt vaguely insulted by his own

comparison with shopping lists.) And, even more crazily, collecting milk bottles. Almost an

obsession it seemed. That one he had never even attempted to begin to understand. He had thought

it curious, as she herself had claimed to have been a music student somewhere in London, long

before they had known each other, that she had never once played for him. One young graduate,

then in his early twenties, but possibly even younger, Russell ... something - a sort of royal sounding

surname as far as he could remember, - had addressed his wife, and Korsakoff had been present, as,

'Undoubtably the rudest, possibly the most ill-mannered person it has ever been my displeasure to

meet. Again.' Korsakoff, leading the young man to the door, puzzled by the word again, and as if

somehow in attempting to appease the wounded pride of the insulted piano teacher, had muttered,

'I admire your balls, young sir, but I'm surprised your skull's still intact.' And then later that evening,

Simone having ran off to her bedroom, sulking because her new best friend had been dismissed,

In Time Book Two 191

his wife had said the most curious thing; That I treated him like my son! Which of course she

had not, but Korsakoff became aware of her guilt in abandoning her son in earlier times, apparently,

she'd claimed, leaving him in the care of an old piano playing spinster, as she pursued her own

dreams of a musical career at a provincial college. He had begun to have doubts above Coralie's

sanity then, and later, as she muttered, He followed me to college you know. To Korsakoff's

obvious response, Who? For the insane reply, My son. He's stalking me.

Korsakoff smiled thinly at the recollection; for the madness was now gone. Perhaps a

different kind of happiness now lay in store. He asked, 'Do you remember that piano teacher?'

Simone stopped in the middle of the next Invention, number fourteen, the semitone ascent

creating an azure optimism, 'Yes.' She smiled too at the memory. 'Russell .. I wished I'd stayed

with him. As a student that is. Too bad mother didn't like him. He was, um, very relaxed.'

'When he wanted to be.'

'Especially after shagging me.'

Korsakoff grunted in disapproval. And ten (or was it twenty? thirty?) years on Korsakoff

wondered where the teacher was now. Had his surname really been Tudor? Didn't sound right.

'Sorted him out with another girlfriend though, after I moved out.' Simone was continuing,

'Carol. One of the flatmates we were sharing with. Something .. nice about her. I'd had a better

offer. And why I'm here actually.'

'Now you're a marriage broker?'

'No, just paying my debts.'

Debts? Korsakoff didn't understand, as Simone didn't seem like one to fulfil obligations.

And perhaps this teacher was now in some public house recounting to his pals how he once told

the famous author's (now dead - but didn't she deserve it?) wife to 'Fuck off.' History would

inevitably exaggerate any anecdote. He murmured, aware of an irony, 'The author Korsakoff

would know all about that.'

In Time Book Two 192

 Simone heard him and stopped again. 'What was that?'

'Reminiscing dear, reminiscing.'

'Ah memories,' she retorted, 'memories.'

Yes, memories. He felt guilty, and had felt guilty, even then. But pressure was brought to

bear, by the not so secret police, and he had been weak. After the girl had escaped he had been

arrested, but no charges had been brought, as, since the nurse had been returned to England by the

British Council, she was no longer present to present charges. But they knew he had been guilty,

and had subsequently been forced to spy upon foreign bands who now toured Poland in exchange

for his freedom. He knew why they hadn't returned his documents, decades later. There was more

shame in spying to him, than the 'raping' of the girl, for he had wanted to marry her. Yes, there lay

a guilt there, for very soon after the 'incident' he had invited (or had he been 'instructed'?) Chomiac's

friends over to tour Poland, this young band to display to his fellow Poles the new English music,

only to have to inform the authorities where and when they were playing, and ordered to follow the

lead singers around - yes, there was the shame of that, for he had quite liked the lead singer (although

he didn't seem to say much), with that funny name, Szcent? It seemed a strange name, even for an

Englishman. (Smells bad? he had asked, to looks of bemusement - perhaps his English had not

been good, precise enough, unlike now, then.) But his own band's name, The Plastic Penguins Of

Poznan, was a stupid name too, as the alliteration only made sense in English. Well, he had had

to learn his English somewhere, as another band member Mmm (? - really strange, those English

names) had invited him over to London to play in a local bar. Had even joined in as his own

drummer couldn't make it, exit visa permission refused.

But that band had toured his country, and his memory told him that that had been their

first foreign tour. They had made history for themselves, then, for in those (and he remembered

them as dark) days: Poland was a foreign land, as is the past. Yes, they had done things differently

then. He wondered where they were now, for they had gone on to become very successful, - but

In Time Book Two 193

that life was so long ago; it was as if the stories that played as a cinema inside his mind might

indeed be fictions. But he knew them to be true. He wasn't even sure if he had even ever seen

Chomiac again, after his dog had bitten his wrist, his piano playing days over, then. Never been

forgiven for that. Understandable.

Korsakoff knew his daughter was watching him. 'And what will you do now?' he asked.

'Any job interviews lined up? How will you grace the world with your presence?'

She re-began the Invention, but spoke over the notes. He could just about hear her speak.

'Well, ... ... understand that .. not ... bothered ... ... it .. know ... you'll take ... of me, .. now

that mummy's gone ... ... could take .. of you.'

The contrapuntal melodies continued their weaving under Simone Korsakoff's deft fingers.

Korsakoff remained silent. Realising he wasn't going to reply she finished her interpretation

of the Bach Invention in B flat major (a lot slower than normal, but effective nonetheless; perhaps

she too ought to slow down, or was that, too, natural ageing?) before continuing, 'We're going to

live together in our cosy matrimonial bliss. Unbeknown to anyone else of course. Not even to my

agent boyfriend, Brian. A good idea?'

'You weren't joking, were you?'

'Of course not.'

'But you're an adult now. You won't find it easy to convince others you were coerced, if

you're still living with ...' And who was she living with? he wondered. Some agent or publisher

called Brian, she had said. They, ex wife and him, had had a meal with a Brian and Penelope

once. Long time ago though. Surely not, him? How would they have met? Again? Simone was

only a child when Brian was handling his affairs.

Simone did not respond; there had been a difficult passage, those bars seventeen and

eighteen, which needed practice. She started again; then that easy perfect cadence; a dominant

seventh to the tonic, the F7th to the Bb; the definitive ending: resolution. Yes, much better, slow ..

In Time Book Two 194

'To an extent that's true.' she continued, 'But I'm don't want to live with anyone now, as Brian's

not that interested in my stuff, more in yours, it seems, and of course I still have certain documents,

relating to our financial arrangements that would, let us say, swing the balance in my favour.'

'Of course.' he replied. Korsakoff thought back to everything that had been written between

them; the letters, postcards. Legal documents? There had surely been nothing that could possibly

incriminate him, for there was nothing to incriminate him. A termly cheque could hardly be described

as quietude money. 'Documents?'

Simone smiled predaciously, jubilant in her supposed victory; she had him. Sycophantically,

'Why the letters, daddy. The one's you sent me, full of remorse, explanations of guilt, admissions.'

'But there was nothing. What ..?'

Realisation. He stared incredulously at her. It was impossible; too easy to disprove. 'You

forged letters? You forged letters! Ha! But anyone - everyone will see that my writing is different -

nothing like yours!'

Simone stood up from the piano, still smiling he noticed. She walked back through into

the main room. Quietly, preparing to announce the culmination, the twist in the tale of the story,

she faced him, deliberating the soliloquy. Ever the actress, he thought. Almost a wasted talent.

'Oh, I didn't write them father, I found someone else, an expert in the field. Neither did he ask

questions about the content of the letters, he was quite happy with the money I gave him. You

gave him. Or did I use my body?' She placed the back of her wrist against her forehead and

sighed wistfully, 'So long ago - so difficult to remember ..'

Korsakoff affected to snort. 'I don't believe you!' Another figment of your fertile imagination.

I will want to see those letters of course.'

'Of course. Only photostats though. I think I'll keep the originals in safe keeping. I think they're

going to be published as a book; Letters From My Father. as, How To Blackmail Your Lovers.

isn't going to be taken. I was very insistent about the removal of the exclamation mark - wanted

In Time Book Two 195

to be taken seriously.'

'Taken seriously? Oh very good, very good. And that's in the bank as well, eh?'

'A secure safe deposit box.' she agreed. 'Funnily enough, in the closet as it were.'

'God wasn't Freud wrong!'

'Well I don't know - I couldn't imagine any son of yours finding my mother attractive,

but you're not too bad yourself, though.' She giggled. 'Flattered?'

'Nasty little creature aren't you.'

Simone's laughter faded quickly. She spoke coolly, an affected calmness, 'It's what

comes of being assaulted.' she said. 'One has to take precautions.' She hesitated, before finally

adding, 'Social contraceptives.'

'Very precise, literate, apposite.' Korsakoff had not finished his meal but the verbal

antagonism had proved too much for him, there was no rhythm in his eating, which would

inevitably lead to indigestion, he leant forward to place his plate upon the debris left on the floor

by Simone, then stiffly rose from the sofa, propping an arm outwards to stabilise himself, to then

stand and balance upright. He walked towards the drinks cabinet. He needed another drink, for the

day had already been too long, and it was still only late afternoon. He had no idea how long she

intended to stay. But the chore had to be done. He asked, 'Would you like to see your mother?'

'Why not? The old hag won't have changed that much.'

'She's a bit quieter now. More peaceful .. somehow.'

'I can imagine. Yes, let's do that. Tomorrow? Looks like rain.'

Today would have been preferable, Korsakoff thought, to get it over with, but he looked

out to the distant trees swaying wildly, not now as if waving but drowning him, as if the coming

storm was to warn him of Simone's arrival, of her disturbing presence, and it was true; very windy,

dark, heavy cumulus clouds, many hanging pregnant black balloons about to burst. Yes, looked

like rain. Almost a set for a Shakespearean Tragedy. 'Yes.' he reluctantly agreed, 'looks like rain.'

In Time Book Two 196

And as if confirmation was needed of his consent he walked towards the windows and drew the

curtains, although of course knowing this action was futile; that the shutting off of the view of

distant trees would hardly quietude Simone. Well he could but hope. Twilight was fading quickly

into night. The room fell momentarily into darkness before Simone heard the click of a light switch

and the room lay now lit by the lamp upon his writing desk. She could smell the dust burning on

the copper shade encasing the bulb. A dry, pungency, acrid - the lamp having not been used for a

long while it seemed. More evidence of the lack of creative activity, she thought. She watched him

walk to the drinks cabinet, pour two more glasses, then Korsakoff handed his daughter her third drink.

'You're certainly trying to get me plastered. Going to take advantage of me?'

He replied indifferently, emotion spent, 'You obscene little runt.'

She raised her eyebrows, a gesture of mock surprise at the coarseness of his reply. 'My,

harsh words from the man himself!' But she took the glass and sat on the sofa. Korsakoff sat

opposite, as if to keep his distance. He sipped the clear brown liquid. He was drinking too much

she knew, far more than usual - such was the consequence of Simone's return home. His fingers

felt numb. He pressed the broken nail into the ball of his thumb; it was a strange sensation, of

feeling nothing. Not even the blankness of white. But the brown colour of whisky had been his

salvation throughout the years he thought, as if needing an excuse.

The two sat in silence lost in their own thoughts. Simone was tired. It had been a long

day's journey, back into the night it seemed - and she was quite happy to go to bed as soon as

was possible - and did she really care whether she was polite? That it was still only early evening?

Their initial meeting hadn't gone well she realised - but it could have been a lot worse. For another

day, perhaps, she would taunt him, and then she would relent. Besides, she could make him write

again, just like in the old days. Keep Brian happy. She had an idea for a story, and knew she could

make him listen.

Simone thought of her mother. When the telegram had arrived from her father she had

In Time Book Two 197

dismissed it, throwing the slim strip of yellow paper into the waste-paper bin; her parents were

already dead, as far as she was concerned. So it certainly wasn't any sense of filial obligation that

had prompted her return. So what then? she asked herself. Just the whim to please Brian? Well,

he paid for her upkeep she supposed. And ... curiosity? she wondered. Had he ... decayed ? since

she last saw him?

And he had; she looked across at him now he sat with his eyes closed, glass perpetually

in hand. At least, she imagined, her mother had died fighting - well, talking - to the end, before

giving up. He was asleep, she judged. She finished her drink and stood up. No, she would not

disturb him - let him grasp his fretful sleep - no, not to let glass fall once again to the floor. She

slid off her shoes and stepped silently into the hallway. She picked up the smaller of the two

suitcases and began to ascend the stairway. Her room would probably have remained unchanged

since she was sixteen. Daddy would have seen to that. The posters would have perhaps faded,

the yellowish tinge revealing the ephemeral nature of the popular (and he had always asked,

popular? with a curiously disdaining but funny inflection) musicians they depicted. Perhaps

even her childhood dolls would lie untouched.

Simone walked along the passageway to her room. She turned the handle, not even

locked now it seemed, so she couldn't even lock herself in (no, the other stringed key didn't fit),

to recapture her childhood, her cradle cocoon from the outside world. As this then locked room

had protected her from the outside in earlier days. She turned the handle and pushed the door

slowly to. She flicked the light switch, and stepped into her past.

But Korsakoff was not asleep. As soon as Simone stepped into the hall he had opened

his eyes. He felt relief at her departure; the constriction he felt across his chest, almost a physical

discomfiture, relaxed, albeit only momentarily. It was a pain that had disappeared upon the realisation

his wife was dead - a sense of freedom from anxiety. He grimaced bitterly; until her death he hadn't

understood that the dull ache that had lain in his gut was anything but tangible. Was he only going

In Time Book Two 198

to be allowed a few days respite from an interminable malaise?

He looked down at the silver tray, heaped with the mess of a squandered meal. Such a waste,

but he no longer hungry enough to finish. Her impetuous temper remained unchanged it seemed,

along with the other undesirable qualities of her personality. And she had expressed a wish to stay?

Christ! Korsakoff held the glass out at arm's length and dropped it unto his plate and watched it

slowly settle into the unfinished rice, almost as if a small ship listing upon discoloured mud.

He smiled thinly, 'It's true, they really are unbreakable.'

But it was not an opinion he held of himself.

And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

And tomorrow. It was a shame, he thought, but of course pointless speculation, to wish to go back

in time, as if things might be different, th/at/is time around. Hadn't Ouspensky written such a story,

The Strange Life of Ivan Osokin, only to find that nothing had changed, when he lived his life

again? Tomorrow, tomorrow. Always our lives lived in the imagined future, of what might happen.

The curse of Oedipus, and of humanity; to attempt to deceive fate; for if Laius had not consulted

the oracle, wishing to cheat fate he would not have abandoned his son, Oedipus, to be tied by the

feet to a tree, only to be, decades later, 'fatefully' killed by him. Korsakoff sat upon the sofa, thought-

fully wondering of the day's events. That people still believed in the notion of eternal recurrence -

quite madness, to suggest that we are doomed throughout eternity to relive these days, when

the permutations of chance are endless, beyond calculation: three wheels turning, the second

twice the speed of the first, the third; the first's speed divided by Pi; that straight initial chalked

line will never meet again. And that was just three wheels. Or three orbits; even Newton had

been defeated, in his calculations. No, recurrence was bullshit; eternal recycling was more

like it. He had imagined what it would have been like to see his daughter again after so long,

only, of course, their again meeting hadn't turned out like his imaginings - he might have well

read a trashy tabloid (for his former friend Chomiac had started upon his second career, - yes,

In Time Book Two 199

he did still feel a little guilty there - on such a magazine) astrology titbit that read (and he w/c/ouldn't

have read his own 'star' sign, not knowing it - and now that he thought about it, it was the English

nurse who had brought such a 'comic' with her from England), Tomorrow is going to be a busy

day (For yesterday wasn't.). He had been fascinated in younger days, not by the possibility that

astrology might predict future events, for that was absurd (that piano teacher of Simone's - Russell?

Tudor? - had been into astronomy, he remembered, so had some grasp of true - and what was those

words he used? as he'd picked up a very old copy of New Scientist Korsakoff had brought with him

from Budapest, as if it could (im)possibly be returned to Chomiac - Deep Time?? Deep Scale?),

but by the journalistic devices used to propagate nonsense. The ways people had to make a living ...

and some became famous (and infeasibly wealthy) because of the rubbish words they wrote. The

divine comedy, Korsakoff thought; In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was: Tomorrow.

For he had awoken that very day to find another broken day, his mind having long ago destroyed

any notion of circular time, and his demon had arrived, in the shape of his daughter. Korsakoff

no longer looked at horoscopes, not even for amusement, for it became ever more pointless as you

aged, with less time left. Only a certain finite amount of events yet to happen, and they would not

be new ones. Shame to waste time on yesterday's printed words. He stood, walked to his writing

desk, took a sheet, a pencil. Still, he thought, enough time left for short words though.

Nowness of Being

No longer looking back, to examine the life behind,

To reflect upon futility,

Of clock watching,

Of time writing.

No future need to buy any diary,

To peruse unwritten, imagined pages,

In Time Book Two 200

 No plans now to draw letters,

To form an alphabet of ambition,

To cast horoscopes,

No need to aspire,

Merely non expire.

Korsakoff read and reflected upon his words, then shut his eyes; he would be quite happy

to die in his sleep, that these might be his final scribbled sentiments, if only to be read and possibly

remembered by Simone, but of course he would not be 'quite happy' for he knew he would of course

not know if he had died, that there would be nothing, and he knew that, regretfully, as always,

tomorrow he would awake.

They sat finishing their breakfast, a mixture of coffee, orange juice, cereals and rolls. 'Is it

far to go?' she asked.

'A couple of miles.'

She stood up and began to walk to the door. She was dressed inappropriately, he thought,

unlike the dress she had worn for their reunion, a knee-length cotton outfit. She now wore a - could

he call it a miniskirt? and a tight woollen blouse. Her breasts were larger than he remembered.

His eyes absent-mindedly drifted downwards towards her legs. Simone, in her turn, as she stood

waiting for him by the front door, now gazing at the distant gently swaying trees through the small

circular stained glass window (and, even after all these years, she still didn't know what that

calligraphic symbol meant - was it Chinese? Japanese? She vaguely remembered her mother saying

it'd been a wedding present from a former college flatmate), the storm now spent, realised he was

watching. Without turning she lifted the hem, revealing the thin line that marked the span of the

sun; above chicken white, below reasonably bronzed. 'Turns you on, daddy dear?'

- why do you write of me like that am not like that

In Time Book Two 201

 you must say goodbye simone

'Not particularly.' Korsakoff stood up and walked into the hallway, passing her. 'Just

wondering if it's ... appropriate.' He opened a wardrobe and withdrew his coat, a thick, now very

old, black Russian trench-coat. He'd bought it at some auction, as it had belonged, it was claimed,

to a famous composer, - his namesake, in fact. He stood in silence as he put it on, then adjusted

his neck-tie in the long mirror, more of a cravat really, he thought, his attempt at a respectful

formality. It was strange that, when he gazed at his reflection, his appearance seemed to have

changed; he was sure he hadn't worn glasses, in the older, younger days (or even had a beard),

yet here now he was, looking more like that Russian composer, that one from The Five (not The

Three, or The Seven - although they were all prime composers), than .. himself. He turned towards

Simone, and asked, 'What's my name?'

'What?' Simone asked, irritated at this ridiculous question, then, turning away from the view

to see her father's attire, adopted an affected accent, 'Gosh, daddy dear, you look absolutely super.'

Korsakov ignored her and walked through the doorway under the stairs that led to the garage.

Yes, he had been glad to have been Korsakoff the writer, but now Korsakov the composer suited

better. It was as if he suitably filled his clothes. His job description. He'd read somewhere (he was

sure) that Nikolai Rimsky had suffered from synesthesia, but couldn't really understand why that

should be a disability - he remembered Simone's piano teacher saying, That's so green .. the way

you played that D. after she had played the simple but famous Clark piece, Trumpet Voluntary.

Hadn't they had it played it at their own wedding? Hadn't Russell even played it for them?

Simone was following him. 'Still got the old banger then?' she asked, resting her palm upon

the boot of the old Aston Martin DB4.

'I wouldn't change it for the world.'

'I remember how you used to take me for rides in it.'

'I bet you do.'

In Time Book Two 202

 'When I was young, I meant.'

He looked at her, then smiled sadly. For a moment she had dropped the barrier, and he had

not realised. 'Yes,' he began, attempting to appease, 'I remember too. I used to take you everywhere.

We were very close, in some ways.' But Korsakov knew he had missed his chance, and received

merely the rejoinder, as Simone quickly enough re-erected her antagonistic shield, 'In too many ways.'

No seven cow hides and a layer of bronze for her, he thought, sourly. He unlocked the door in

a heavy silence. Guiltily he held it open for her.

He pushed up the garage door, revealing the picture of fields and trees in the distance. Almost

a Constable, if it wasn't for the obstructing driveway. It seemed that the storm of the previous night

had actually blown over trees, towards the general direction of the graveyard, but that was surely

impossible. Korsakov stood looking out at the stillness - the live cinema screen at the end of the

darkened chamber. A nice sentence; he might use it. Then, 'We are all in the warring trench looking

upwards at slim slits of sunlight.'

'What?' asked Simone, not quite startled now, as it was obviously her father's day for

cryptic comments. She looked at him blankly. She didn't remember him having this trait of spouting

meaningless piffle before. What's my name? Warring trenches.? What the fuck?!

He unlocked his side and stiffly clambered in. 'The trouble with reality,' Korsakov murmured,

'is that it doesn't have a plot.'

God, he was not going to stop, was he. But now, finally, to Simone's relief, they drove off

in silence.

Korsakov watched his daughter looking down upon her dead mother's face. Her emotions

remained inscrutable. No display of grief - but then he hadn't expected any. But he stood surprised

at her .. curiosity? Fascinated she slowly reached out her hand to touch the cold face. She gently

pressed the flesh. 'I've never seen anyone .. dead before.' He could have sworn there had been a

In Time Book Two 203

hesitation, 'Least of all my mother.'

Korsakov smiled drily. She seemed compelled to push the lacerations in, as if to see

if they would give and reveal the dried blood within. 'They've done a good job.' she said. 'She

looks almost normal.'

Korsakov looked down to his wife's face. She looks almost normal. Almost. He looked

up again at his daughter. He hadn't expected such a lack of emotion, such an expression devoid

of any semblance of sorrow, of lost opportunities. It unsettled him - it didn't matter that he could

easily explain her indifference; the result of years of callous treatment by her parents, that each

day and evening had been a battle fought out in their front room, their daughter merely a pawn in

their strategic plotting, the one against the other - he could understand it, reason rationally, but his

daughter's cool laconic tongue still made him uneasy. What kind of woman had they bred, the two

contesting, although in earlier times consenting (until Coralie had discovered the truth about the

Nadine affair) adults? A creature more than the sum of the two parts? A vicious, deliberating houri?

God, pity her lovers!

His wife, ah yes, his wife; she certainly looked more beautiful in death he thought; the facial

muscles had relaxed, the furrows knotted into her forehead over the decades of marriage had faded

into thin lines, and finally, and by no stretch of his imagination, there lay a ghost of a smile upon her

lips. A contentment: in peace she rests. He grimaced sourly, a grotesque inversion of words springing

instantly, but not unreluctantly (as if he'd had a choice), to his mind; And in pieces she will rot.

'I hope that smile won't haunt me.' he said.

Ingenuously she replied, 'I thought her mouth was twisted.'

The turned to smile at each other, a realisation of their verbal absurdities.

'What would Pinter make of it?' he asked, 'Or Beckett?'

Simone retorted quickly enough, 'What would Chomiac make of it?'

'Chomiac would ..' but Korsakov quickly fell to silence; for he could not admit it out

In Time Book Two 204

aloud, not even under the disguise of a 'created' fictional character (he had met the 'real' Chomiac

in England when he was young, when he had first visited London to have his dog bitten wrist fixed

in Charing Cross hospital, - and where he had met Nadine, - and soon enough on wandering down

to the Polish Centre in Hammersmith to book a coach trip home, he had heard a young girl singing

in the basement bar, who was quite, although he did not of course know that word at the time,

ethereal, - almost a replica of the canvas picture of a Pre-Rafflelike ((for those were the English

words he'd scribbled down, copying from the written upon gallery wall)) he had seen early that very

same day in a gallery called The Take (?), to then that night meet that image's brother, and conse-

quently Katherine, to offer her gigs back home, an offer politely but firmly refused, although she

agreed that if he sent her this book of poems he had claimed to have written she would endeavour

((and he had had to look up that word too)) to translate them into English, and although he now

remembered it was Chomiac who had introduced that band to him, the one with that strangely

named singer, Sczent, he was never, after his Chopin recital in - and where was it? appropriately

enough Warsaw? - to meet Chomiac again, once the secret of his betrayal was out), - no, not even

a fictional Chomiac would admit to his being glad that Coralie was dead. It seemed futile to

pretend otherwise, but in death she had still not released her grip, as if in rigor mortis she still

gripped the unburied secrets. In death she maintained her hold over him through their daughter.

He looked at Simone. He could now see more than the facial similarities between mother and

daughter, now that they had been in each other's company for the best part of a day - and without

the presence of a live, turbulent wife to distract him from his, he thought, objective appraisal of

the prodigal offspring. She could almost be a replica, he concluded, now aware of an uncomfortable

trace of maliciousness within himself. Korsakoff shrugged his shoulders, to shake off the chill of a

shudder, the skeleton in the cupboard. But Simone had noticed his cursory examination of her.

'Who are you staring at?'

He had it in his power not to censure her he knew, not to retaliate, but Korsakov could

In Time Book Two 205

not resist - this weakness was his only defence. 'Your face. You look just like your mother.'

'Oh, yes?' she answered doubtfully, immediately suspecting him. 'And what helped you

make the connection?'

'Her relaxed muscles. They make her seem twenty years younger. Almost twenty years

younger - one mustn't strain credibility. Quite near your age, my dear.'

'God forbid. I could never imagine mother being .. young.' She added, caustically, 'How

many eons did you say you were married?'

Korsakov didn't answer. Had it really been just short of a quarter, or, incredibly, a third of

a century? In retrospect it seemed an unfathomable length of time. What had they done together?

in all those years? But Korsakov remembered that their first days had at least been deliriously happy,

if that was an adequate expression. From, for his romanticised memory. No, - a contented inebriation -

that was it, a more appropriate description. He recalled an early incident, from those far off, distant

times of their household pucelage, before the pernicious rape of their marriage by his wife, upon the

discovery of Nadine's letter concerning their dead child. She had once bought him flowers, one evening

as he had sat in a gallery, the location of which now long forgotten, but not The Tate, probably the

Budapest National. He was autographing books, already the celebratory in exile, even if only in

Hungary, when she had appeared holding a large bunch of - but of what had she grasped in her right

hand? Her smile he remembered; the glint of enamel not sharp then, the gentle pucker of her lips -

but of the flowers? Brilliantly coloured, yes, but a single tone, or a myriad of shades? - he could not

remember. Said she had bought them from a mad looking painter, - must have been a painter, what

with those white streaks (of paint?) everywhere - who spoke good English, though he seemed to

incessantly hum vaguely familiar tunes, who'd said he was on holiday to visit a Polish school friend.

In Hungary? she had asked, smiling vaguely, for this was her first trip abroad too, for the mad

painter's reply, Only next door.

Perhaps Coralie had been happy because her investment had paid off, in marrying him,

In Time Book Two 206

bringing him to London, to enjoy that certain celebratory lifestyle. Which he had found at the

time faintly amusing as she claimed never to have read his great work.

He had written a poem about the incident, a simple concise recollection. It would be around

the house, somewhere. Korsakov made a mental note to look for it. That evening? It would be

proof that they had at least once been happy, for if it is written it must be true. Yes, My Lover

Brought Me Flowers must lie about somewhere.

- you never bought me flowers

no, i m sorry simone and you must say goodbye soon

- and you must say goodbye too place flowers upon my grave want azuiebloomingchalky-

ruddyxanthicverdantpeppermintstalks

The ghost of a smile upon his dead wife's face had prompted memories, unwanted but

perhaps necessary. Only after the child was born had the bitterness began to be formed, almost

as if, he had earlier thought, lugubriously, the growing embryo was the cancer that began to eat

away at its parents marriage.

At birth, the cancer embodied, the love atrophied.

Yes, he had also written that somewhere, but Korsakov no longer held those words to be

true. To blame the child? An odious irresponsibility. His wife had said she felt trapped, as doubtless

she was - as to an extent all mothers are. But she had felt resentful of this, as if nature had been cruel

in selecting her, and her alone, to be female. You enjoy the fruits of your external body, Korsakov

had said, attempting a reason of sorts (in the days when reason had been attempted for), your beauty,

the compliments of strangers, so why should you not enjoy the fruits of your internal body? A child?

That she continued to hold the birth of their daughter against him, in spite of his assurances -

because he worked at home - that he would share the burden of bringing up the child; it was almost

as if she believed the entire experience of femaleness was to be his fault.

And so Simone grew up amongst arguments, fights, rejections, sly attempts at cajoling

In Time Book Two 207

the other into an admittance of guilt, pointless disagreements that were to be instantly cloaked

by an illusion of a contented domesticity as soon as the doorbell rang, or friends or colleagues -

or especially if his agent or publisher, Brian - in the very rare event t/he/y (for his wife Penelope

was a pain, she somehow mistrustful of their teenage daughter) now came to dinner.

Korsakov held no doubts about where his daughter had leant her tactics for vicious

inveiglement.

Her voice fortunately broke abruptly through his doubtful reminiscence, for he knew,

deep down, that the truth of his thoughts were false. 'Well I've had enough at looking at the old

lady. I've done my dues, let's go.'

He found her dismissal of her mother brutal and coarse, but to be expected. The daughter

could of course never know that there had once been an initial warmth between her parents -

Korsakov expected that she would give a hollow laugh if he so much as suggested it, or an angry

snort should he imply that her birth had been the seed of their decay. He gave a cursory nod to the

mortician (? - he looked more like th/a/t mad Post - Expressionist, - or was it Impressionist?

painter, - yes, he could spell those words now, though never to know, to recognise the difference)

as he followed Simone out into the street. A gentle drizzle fell. The decaying dampness after death.

'Where is she going to be buried?' she asked.

'In the churchyard. Do you want to see the plot?'

'Sure, why not?'

They crossed the road and followed the path down the gentle slope that led to the churchyard.

Korsakov nodded to the occasional familiar face that passed them. His presence in the village had

been a mixed blessing to the locals. His fame - some called it notoriety - was beneficial in that

it marked out an otherwise insignificant enclave, and brought in occasional revenue when a reporter

or - god willing! - a television crew descended upon the local hotel, to be crammed into the then too

few rooms available. Sometimes, the hotel owner was known to (too frequently) complain to the

In Time Book Two 208

locals, business was so bad that the only guest was a nurse Come up from London, regular as

clockwork, but just one day a year. Nice nurse, name of Nadine. But the converse side of their

appreciation for their tourist attraction was one of mistrust; Korsakov was not one of them; he rarely

came into the village, he never drank in the local pub. No one in the village even knew his first name,

and so a mocking deference came to be placed upon his title; 'Mister Comrade Coarsakov,' a villager,

the hotel owner again in fact, had joked, having only vague intimations of Korsakov's true Eastern

European origin, 'I haven't read your dirty book.' (Which somehow Korsakov could not believe,

since the speaker somehow knew of the English girl's name.)

There was the local bookshop, merely a window and door built into the front of a terraced

house, and Korsakov, upon his arrival in the village many years before, had visited the shop and

obliged the owner with his autograph upon the two paperbacks of his he had in stock, one of the

'dirty' book, and the other of his much later collected essays. At the time Korsakov wondered whether

any of the locals would buy his works; a year later, his curiosity aroused, he paid another visit to the

shop, to find the same two volumes untouched upon the shelf. He had smiled, and secretly admired

the villagers for their lack of respect, despite (or probably because of) his public verbal denigration

of Western Culture on a television interview. He felt reassured by their lack of deference, or of any

interest in him - it was in marked contrast to his reception at meetings in the city. Human nature,

Korsakov had soon enough decided, upon his arrival in the West, was the same all over the world;

poverty implied a necessary indifference to outsiders; only in wealth could a veneration of another

person begin. It had been the same in Poland, and then later in Hungary; feted by officials - but

then they were Party members, and to them butter and meat were easily accessible. And they

had their hold over him, knowing of the nurse affair. The rest were too busy queuing, before and

after '68.

He pushed open the small iron gate and walked across the sodden grass to the grave. The

ground had already been dug; a starling stabbed the earth, retrieving with its beak a convoluting worm.

In Time Book Two 209

 'Where's your plot?' she asked.

Korsakov smiled thinly. 'I'm not yet dead.'

'Uh.' she muttered, as if doubtful. Then, treading cautiously, 'Is that really six feet down?

Korsakov watched her leaning over the edge.

'Careful. There might be another coffin underneath. They stack them you know.'

'Who's seven feet under then?'

He shrugged. Her indifferent curiosity it seemed knew no bounds. She turned away from

the long wound in the ground. 'When I die,' she said smiling wryly at him, 'I want to be placed

upon wood, branches and the like, and burnt. Just like Shelley.'

And like Shelley your heart will remain unburnt, he thought cynically. But there was another

parallel, as his daughter had already realised. No wonder she was smiling. Bitch! For who could name

three of Shelley's poems? Ode to the West Wind. Of course. Yes? Yes? what else? Fuck all. But who

hasn't heard of Frankenstein? His wife had made her own grasp at immortality. With her Promethean

subtitle. And the parallel with his daughter? Christ, she didn't even have to write her stories - he did

it for her!

Korsakov watched her walking away from the grave, to examine the names engraved upon

other tombstones. He would not care now, of any discovery. She paused at newly laid flowers,

- yes want azurebloomingchalkyruddyxanthicverdantpeppermintstalks

yes i m sorry i never bought you flowers simone but you must say goodbye soon

to point at a stone, to murmur, 'There's a Simon here. With a nice picture of him.' She peered closer,

scraped the moss away. 'Died young. At eleven? That's too early. Taken by the .. wa .. water,

does it say? Doesn't seem enough letters. Is that .. enamel?'

- caramel enamel

And Korsakov nodded, sadly, knowing, wondering if he should, at some stage explain the

In Time Book Two 210

absurdity of his moving to this place, to be near the gravestone of a dead child - no, she was too

young to understand such things, but Simone, quickly bored, and hearing the church bells, looked

upwards, curious at the sounds. 'They sound creamy yellow.' she said, before turning towards the

gate, to stand, now realising he had not followed her, to wait for him. The drizzle had stopped,

and Korsakov, turning away from the grave of his never met dead son, was staring up at the clouds,

the sky revealing a glimpse of sun behind, and she was sure he was counting them, the seven

clouds, the unfurling cumulus veils. Shy, sly lady of the sky. Simone was calling to him, 'Can I have

an ice cream?' for she had quickly recognised that the bells were not of the church, but of a passing

van. She had walked away quickly, disappearing behind a hedge. An ice cream? Had he heard her

right? He followed her out of the graveyard, and Simone stood at the small window, the list of

prices prominently displaying the wares within. How like a child she seemed to him at that moment,

scratching her thigh ingenuously as she made her choice, unaware that another person might be

watching, 'Um, I think I'll have an oyster please.' The girl serving took two semi - circular wafers

and filled them with a xanthic shaded cream, Korsakov had walked off to cross the road. The serving

girl looked so like the cabbie yesterday. 'Aren't you having one?' she called out, to his distantly

mouthed reply, 'No, thank you.'

Simone fished through her pockets for small change, then handed two coins to the assistant,

'Thanks .. Carol?' nodding for her to keep the change. She received a smiling thank you, and then

strange words,

'You must say goodbye.'

- no will never leave you

no simone you must say goodbye no flowers upon your grave unless you say goodbye

But Simone remained silent, not answering, puzzled, sure she had misheard, as there were

distant church bells faintly echoing somewhere in the distance, but as she walked away to join her

father she turned to look back at the girl serving in the van. Yes, yesterday she could have sworn

In Time Book Two 211

Carol had been driving that taxi. But that was impossible, to be serving her ice cream the very next

day. Perhaps she hadn't been paying that much attention, what with the distraction of the disturbing

thoughts building (? building? Surely, forming?) in her brian (Jesus, brain - she was living with a

Brian!), of meeting her father again. The distant tinkling was fading. 'It's funny, I thought I heard

bells somewhere.'

Korsakov turned to answer, shaking his head, 'No, the church bell hasn't rang for some time.

Years in fact.' Had they ever even rung for Simon? In those days? Dead and buried even before he

knew of his existence. Then, he asked, tentatively, 'How do you feel about it?'

She looked puzzled. 'About .. what?'

'About your mother's death?'

'Oh that. Why that doleful voice, daddy dear? You don't fool me I can tell you right now.

You expect me to feel sorry? For what? Regret at lost opportunities? at not making amends with

my mother? Forget it; I'm glad she's dead, and so are you, - why deny it? At least there might be,

more of a chance of a ... an agreeable relationship between the two of us.'

' Relationship? Not the word, I think. I doubt it.'

'Why not?'

'As I told you? - as I was watching you I saw the resemblance, and I don't mean just of your

features, between the two of you.'

'You think we're both vicious, conniving women? Oopps!' An amorphous bulb of ice cream

fell unto her knee. She stopped walking to lick with an index finger the yellow stain. Her skin looked

pale beneath the cream.

'Is that banana flavoured?' he asked.

'Yes.' she replied. 'I expect you want a lick of mine now, don't you? Simone offered the wafers

to his mouth, but Korsakov declined again, shaking his head, implying, No. Thank you.

'But as I was saying,' she continued, with alarming alacrity reverting to their original topic,

In Time Book Two 212

'How can you expect me to be anything else? when all the time the two of you were arguing and

beating the living daylights out of each other? What's never ceased to amaze me is how you managed

to do any work - that you had any energy left at all.'

He smiled at this; she was perceptive. 'It surprises me too.' He added, drily, 'But you

helped me there of course, according to your allegations. But marriage, as you will eventually

find, does take up so much of one's time.'

'Not that sort of time.' she dismissed. 'But anyway, how can I be anybody else? to be

more relaxed? - this is the way I am. Perhaps I should take therapy.'

Korsakov snorted; she knew what he thought of therapy.

'But perhaps you could benefit, daddy? Release all your pent up sexual drive?'

In public too, he held no defence. They walked on a few yards in silence, Korsakov waited,

tensing himself, realising there was more to come.

'After all, you can't always rely on me being around.'

'Cunt.' he muttered, as he unclenched his fists, now affecting calmness, 'But only yesterday

you were suggesting we were going to live out our days in not - quite - a - matrimonial bliss.'

'But perhaps you might tire of me, like you did of mother, once I reach a certain age.'

'Tire?' A momentary puzzlement. 'Did she tell you that? I don't believe it! I never tired

of her .. like that. She was attractive, beautiful - '

'Especially in death.'

'But,' Korsakov continued, determined now to press home his point. 'She used to withhold

herself. Always in a bad mood - her normal emotional state I hasten to add. She used to wear a

nightgown. A red negligee. A provoking chastity belt.'

Simone wiped the last traces of ice cream off her fingers. 'How erotic. Red that is. I never

used to bother with nightgowns during my days at university. Not even during the day, come to that.'

'You enjoy flaunting your body?'

In Time Book Two 213

 She shrugged her shoulders and attempted yet again to brush her fringe away. 'I suppose

so. I've always found it .. puzzling? the power women, by their sexual charms, can exercise

over men. It's strange, and it's as if it's got nothing to do with us.' She tapped her chest; she

spoke for Woman. 'And it's sad some women can't break out of it, this relation between sex

and personality. To them they are what their bodies are. Even I, even me - and I know you won't

believe this - have never, ever propositioned a man. They come for me, they hunt me. Even when

they buy me a drink, or tell me What a fantastic night they're going to give me, in their soft

pretended husky tones, they're hunting me - I don't say, don't have to say, anything.' She laughed.

'A fantastic night they're going to give me! Who do they think they're fucking kidding!? Once their

puny little vessel is discharged, - and not many of them can get it up twice! after an hour or so with

me - let me assure you of that! Yet they believe they're god's gift to women. Satisfaction for a man

is a temporary stiff key turned in some convenient slot. The arrogance of some fuckers.'

Korsakov was surprised at her diatribe, her rawness shocked him. But she had a point,

he thought, considering his own history, his own regretted evil. He recalled a passage he had read

somewhere, 'I know Tiresias wrote that women enjoyed screwing nine times as much as men. He

was settling a dispute between Zeus and Hera.'

'Like hell they do.'

'And Aristotle thought women, and especially young women,' he inflected, smiled thinly,

as Simone looked up sharply, aware of the irony, 'should moderate their demands. Keep it in mind,

hmm .. for your future partner?'

'You're a right fucker in your own way aren't you.' she stated flatly. Korsakov looked away,

the graveyard and Simon's tombstone now far behind them. Perhaps right fucker adequately

summed up his life. Or the words, right fuck up.

They walked along the path back towards the car, a silence having fallen between them.

He opened her door, she lithely clambered in.

In Time Book Two 214

 A few miles from the village he asked, 'Shall we go for a ride?'

'It seems we already are.'

'No, along the riverside?'

From the corner of his eye he saw her visibly tense.

'Why there?'

'We could talk about what happened? Or not happened.'

'Talk about it? Are you joking? Talk about it! Jesus, are you sick!'

But Korsakov was insistent, 'It would be a good idea to go. To stop this futile pretence

between us. You know? - how Freud suggested seeking out the cause of things as a cure. I remember

how you used to explain his theories to me.'

'Well I've changed my mind about Freud. He made sex into a dogma.'

'Not hereditary then?' he muttered.

'Ha, ha.'

Korsakov turned into the driveway that led to the house. The visit to the river could wait.

Until tomorrow? They would have to go sometime; to exorcise his guilt? or to extirpate the

truth?

Korsakov drew slowly into the garage, then switched off the ignition. Simone got out

and walked through a side doorway, a modern addition to the old building (had he got planning

permission? she wondered, or did he still recklessly despise authority?) that led to the hallway

of the house. Korsakov locked up.

When inside he found she was making tea, her first domestic effort since her return. Perhaps,

he thought cynically, but ever hopeful, she was feeling guilty about the use of her tongue. Perhaps -

but he was doubtful. He stood watching her. Noticing she asked, 'You don't take sugar, no? It's so

long ago I can't remember. At least I found the milk.'

He shook his head. 'I still don't know where she hid the bottles. But sugar? No thanks.

In Time Book Two 215

Bad for the kidneys. And I'm sweet enough.'

'Um,' she murmured doubtfully. 'only if you swallowed two kilos a day repeatedly for

twenty years.'

'Why take the risk.'

She handed him a mug. Taking it he leant back against the table. Sensing his hesitation

she asked, 'Yes?'

'I do want to talk to you about your mother's death.'

'Oh.'

The way he distanced himself from his wife, by the expedient of addressing her as 'your

mother' annoyed her - did he not realise by now, and after all these years, that she could see through

his ploys at once? It was sometimes as if he (and as all men were to her, it appeared), were transparent.

But she accepted he was right, the topic needed to be broached. 'Yes, I suppose it is time to hear about

your wife's death.'

Korsakov turned away, and Simone followed him into the front room.

They sat opposite each other again, chess pieces tactically placed, as if confrontation was

inevitable, that their game would be played to its inevitable conclusion.

Korsakov sipped his tea, grimaced; she had sugared his tea after all. He saw her grinning

impishly - she found her deliberate act funny, as doubtless any other time in her childhood he would

have thought so too. But he had something of importance to say - give the dead their respectful due

at least! He begun, 'I told you yesterday it was a car accident ..' but his beginning had metamorphosed

abruptly to an end; he stopped.

'But it wasn't a car was it,' she prompted, 'because the Aston is still intact.'

'Your powers of deduction do you credit,' he said drily, 'but it might have been another car.'

She dismissed that possibility. 'So what happened then? The local rags say she fell down

a cliff. She was pushed? By you?'

In Time Book Two 216

 Koraskov smiled stiffly. Not even; Was she?. So she had done her research after all,

despite claiming indifference. He answered, 'Murder is one of the few hobbies I am reluctant to

undertake.'

'One of the only, I would have thought,' she murmured, her attempt at cynicism fading

into ambiguity. Korsakov cupped his mug with both hands. He felt suddenly cold. He was reluctant

to continue, having alluded to the cause of his wife's death but Simone ridiculing this, but she would

discover the truth at the inquest if he did not tell her now.

'Yes, your mother committed suicide.' he reaffirmed. 'But not falling, jumped.'

He saw at once she had not expected that. Death in an accident; a fated determination - the

unexpected was acceptable, but self destruction? She sat silent, mulling over his confession. Finally,

quietly, 'Uh, why?'

Korsakov told himself it was to be expected that she would ask, that she would express

curiosity even of the manner of her mother's death. He looked down at his tea, a thin skin was

forming. Would other daughters ask their fathers the same question in a similar circumstance? It

would of course be broached, but surely more discreetly; perhaps a, Uh, why? would not be used -

rather, a more appropriate response would be a respectfully muted, That's terrible. How ...? fading

into the dignified silence. Korsakov, in his now distant days as a writer, knew the power of the triple-

dot ellipsis; it hid the silence of the words that did not follow; that he had nothing left to say.

'Well?' she again prompted. Now her tone was abrasive, demanding an immediate explanation.

All this thinking would give him too much time. Korsakov gave in, but was aware of his own dramatic

effect, in simply repeating, 'I told you - she jumped off a cliff.'

Simone slotted the cassette into the video recorder. The screen momentarily flickered

before settling into the titles. Some rubbish about politics - she fast forwarded until the next

batch of commercials appeared then, a familiar image flashing before her, she pressed to play.

Even video machines were time machines, she thought. Her father sat to the right, the interviewer -

In Time Book Two 217

a notable celebrity now in his own right (for having interviewed so many other celebrities) - to

the left. The theme music, an Other Band song from the sixties, faded quickly. The interviewer's

preamble introduced Korsakov as internationally renowned, a visible symbol of the human

spirit's struggle for freedom, independence.

The sycophantic excess went on. How the now scarred wrist of his fist fought for freedom

striking out against the imprisoning regimes. Simone smiled; the interviewer was not to know how

Korsakov had changed during the decade since they had last met, or how he intended to conduct

the interview. She knelt by the television set closely watching her father upon the screen. He sat

as if he hadn't heard the eulogies conferred upon him. Possibly, or probably, she guessed, he hadn't;

she herself had learnt in the few years since she had seen Korsakov of the vast chasm between public

respect and private disdain. That would perhaps explain why he had always seemed so disinterested

in others. And increasing deafness didn't help, except to give him an impassive demeanour which

could be interpreted any way the viewer wanted, the blank canvas upon which to draw your own

conclusions. But who could ever discover, now, what he had been thinking throughout those few

minutes? He probably wouldn't have remembered himself.

The introduction finished the interviewer swung his chair towards Korsakov. 'Nikolai

Korsakov, we are honoured to have you here with us this evening. Firstly, since you are known as

much for your defection as for your novel, and other ..' (and had he really inflected here? Simone

had wondered, the first time she had heard the interview, but possibly distracted by the lover she

was with then, who kept wanting to talk about - for god's sake! - rocks, but yes, he had) '.. minor

works, so let's talk about your manner of escaping from - '

Simone pressed the button that flicked the tape again into fast-forward. The defection

was an incident in history she already knew too much about, and the reality (as her mother had

explained in earlier times) hardly matched up to the romantic notions of escape held in the

In Time Book Two 218

publics' imaginations; they formed crazy notions of intrigue from watching too many spy films

(whereas the life of an informer, as Korsakoff had so quickly found, was one of begrudged betrayal).

Coloured horizontal noise bars sprang up unto the screen, flickering green and grey, as if to contain

the now frenetic gesticulations of the two men. She depressed the play button, ' - that the virtue of

the West have been overemphasised.'

A more appropriate place to re-continue the interview she could not have chosen; the inter-

viewer looked up sharply at Korsakov's uttered heresy. 'Sorry?'

Korsakov answered slowly, delivering his words with a rehearsed deliberation, 'There is a

myth prevalent that the West is intrinsically better, in a vague economic, or political sense which

has never been clearly defined, than the Eastern bloc countries. This is not so. I can recollect my

first shock when I stepped into Europe; and that was that the rent for, say, a single room, was ten

to twenty times that of my home city.'

The interviewer was spurred into an immediate response, 'Yes, but - ' as Korsakov had

raised his hand and continued, now oblivious of interruptions.

Simone smiled, remembering how she had felt curiously proud of her father at that

moment; when the interview had been first transmitted over the air, such was the tension apparent

between the two men her lover had stopped screwing her, well at least stopped grunting Deep

Time, Deep Time .. to turn his gaze away from her chest to turn to look at the television. She had

giggled; her boyfriend's action had held an uncertain irony at the time - surely she was more sexually

charismatic than her father when his ideological mettle was aroused? But apparently not. So her

attempts to spite him, even at a distance (as if he might in return have seen Simone through the one

in a million ((though surely not that many were watching)) television sets that were on at that

precise moment), had failed. Her smile turned into a grin as she recollected the incident. The student

had been reading (which meant studying, right?) geology after all, she supposed, when he was not

painfully (for him) rehearsing Gerontius at the Barbican, and had started writing articles for some

In Time Book Two 219

trashy paper, as with his now damaged wrist he reluctantly 'wanted' to get into journalism. She had

stroked his Lisztian blond hair, and suggested, no, insisted, Can you get back on to playing my G

string. I'm hungary. (And Rolando had smiled, for his surname was Polish - but these Europeans

just didn't get it, and then he grinned, for Simone,

- no not me why do you write bad of me like that

of all people, should know, what with Korsakov

as a surname, the difference between the two countries) For his response, as his long fingers played

an imaginary piece upon her thighs, Very droll. I will now gallop grandly and chromatically over

your body, playing my favorite Elgar piece. At least he had managed to get it up twice, although

she found his later grunts, Ben there, John Dunne that mildly distasteful. She thought he'd gone

on to be the college president of the union or rowing club, or some such 'pseudo' or 'quasi' political

post, of no interest to her. Perhaps after all he'd been that tory she'd boasted about. But she had

made the effort to see a rehearsal of The Dream of Gerontius at the Barbican, admiring his

flowing fingerwork, knowing where they'd been. And Simone had admired her father's balls to

take on an experienced right wing interviewer, and win. Korsakov parried the questions, pointing

at the similarities between governments rather than their differences: 'All my life,' he continued,

palm still held vertically outwards, a shield against his verbal detractor, as if held at the certain

correct angle his hand could absorb sound, '.. all my life I have watched governments - how could

I not have, having fled from one? - but it with sadness that I note the similarities, rather than the

differences, in their organisations.' Korsakov slowly lowered his palm, the interviewer having

reluctantly granted him his silence. 'You have said that the Eastern bloc countries, and of course

Soviet Russia, demonstrates how socialism, communism is a failed cause, that it cannot provide

for the people, But this is not so; for Russia is not a socialist country,'

The interviewer progathously pouted, doubtful as to Korsakov's intentions. He was being

handed a rare opportunity to contradict Korsakov - his statement was ridiculous - but he sat

In Time Book Two 220

indecisive, choosing to wait, as if for instructions from his earpiece, as if the producer (probably

female, whispering sweet nothings, Korsakov had thought at the time) was the voice of (a) god(dess).

This was his mistake, for Korsakov proceeded to balance his statement, 'All governments tend

towards centralisation; it is in the bureaucratic nature of things. In the Soviet Union power is

centralised, contained within the politburo: in England power is contained within the cabinet.'

A silence fell, even over the disinterested studio audience (for they had expected another

guest, some pop star who had cancelled his appearance at the last minute (the warm-up director

had disdainfully explained, himself reluctant to appear in front of an audience), choosing to remain

in India apparently, leaving the rest of t/his band to appear in his place) - that a democratic government

could be considered equable with a totalitarian regime? the idea was anathema to the English. And

Korsakov knew this, 'Even in England, a bastion of democracy you would say? - the governments

elected to power make moves to increase central power. None of the parties, whatever their professed

political persuasion have proved, or are proving, adverse to increasing the power of Whitehall at the

expense of local councils.'

A sigh of agreement arose from the audience, a muttered cloud of discontentment; t/his was

a moot point; a topic very much in debate in the media at that time.

But Korsakov then made a fatal slip, Simone judged, as she watched him in the interview

for the second time, the weight, but not the memory, of her then boyfriend's piano playing hands

now long gone, in not realising that he had won his argument, in swinging the audience over in a

single paragraph - but then, almost as if determined to depress the accelerator as opposed to the

brake of his beloved DB4, as if determined to crash, 'People are so manipulable at times, it seems.'

Simone pressed and held down the fast forward button, so that images flashed before her,

soon enough to be blurred, and burned into memory. His arrogance in assessing the English people

hadn't gone done well - he was after all a 'Johnny Foreigner', allowed into the country by the grace

of a government who had listened to his then new wife's love story, a country he now aparently

In Time Book Two 221

publicly derided. But, still intrigued, or perhaps there is always to be found a comfort in the repetition

of images, she released her finger. The interviewer had passed on to his works. Sensing Korsakov's

blunder, and, after tapping his earpiece as if needing voiced confirmation to continue, he adopted a

more offensive tone. Why had Korsakov remained silent for a decade, after that first initial outstand-

ing novel, then ten years of shall we say, minor (no inflection that time she noticed) literary works,

in the form of political essays, and the like? The interviewer affected a tentative probing - astutely

sensing that Korsakov's reticence in answering hid the authors own concern about his work; was the

great writer now sterile? His last efforts, feeble analects; one story had concerned the sexual exploits

of a young female student at university, written as if she herself was the author, another a disturbing

tale of a daughter claiming her father was sexually exploiting her, merely to hid her own talentless

as a writer, was this ... maturity? Had Korsakov's creative source in fact dried up ten years before?

and had he been living on the not insubstantial royalties ever since?

Korsakov could not answer these charges, and the interviewer deepened the wound. At first,

probing gently, 'Perhaps the comfort, let's say justifiably brought to you by the success of that earlier

work ... removed that compulsion that compelled you in the first place to express your memories

of a different way of life?'

Korsakov sat silent. The implication was clear, and of course the comment also referred

to the implicit assumption that the West had given Korsakov barrenness, and, the worse fate for

any writer, creative sterility, in exchange for its benefits of freedom, wealth, security. For

was it not true that out of suffering came Great Art?

Security? Korsakov had wondered. Certain creature comforts equalled sedation.

The interviewer prompted Korsakov again, but he could only answer lamely, 'Naturally I

am grateful for political asylum in your country. I have never suggested otherwise, but to suggest

wealth can remove, obliterate a person's essential creative core - that is nonsense.'

'But is it not a truism to say that your work has nearly always dealt with events before nine-

In Time Book Two 222

teen ..' - and here the interviewer looked down, as if to confirm the dates of times gone by, of events

before his own time, and therefore of no significance, ' - eighty nine? Apart from '

'As did Jean Paul Sartre's great trilogy deal with events before nineteen forty five that

doesn't make him any less a - ' Korsakov was going to add, any less a great writer, but he

realised the compliment to the French author would be deliberately misconstrued as an opinion

of himself. (And he did indeed think of himself as a better writer.)

'So it is reasonable to assume,' the interviewer had interrupted, determined to press home

his point, 'that the public may at some stage expect another novel by Nikolai Korsakov?'

Korsakov shrugged, refusing to commit himself. 'I do not know.'

The interviewer dismissed Korsakov with a final, curt, 'Well thank you mister Korsakov.'

(leaving the audience in no doubt he had wanted address Korsakov as a comrade) and turned

towards the camera, to refer to the next famous celebrity of another week. Korsakov was cut

from the screen, already now history, as the camera rostrum swept around, across the (now

disappointed) audience (for their tickets were for this week, and not the next; such is life's lottery),

to display the prominent photograph of the next weeks guest, some pop star, who had (now) agreed

to sing (solo, but not be interviewed), with th/a/t strange name, and looking, Korsakov noticed

with a start, somehow very familiar to him, as if he might have been that unfortunate singer he

had been forced to spy on in that time before.

And then, instructed to remain seated where he was, a musical trio appeared, with another

too familiar face he thought, but then, once seen on television everybody's face is familiar. Yes;

# Every face I see is your face, every smile is yours, all the words, ever spoken. # Yes, he had

heard that on the radio once; almost poetry, with a nice tune. The guy that wrote it, perhaps had

even sung it, was obviously in love. Korsakov had listened to this band, with their catchy little

tune, sung by the familiar looking one (as the word (?) Mmmn had floated into his thoughts),

but it was strange, that the tempo seemed to drag, as if the percussionist was deliberately withholding

In Time Book Two 223

the beat; it gave a strange effect, but then, that was probably modern music for you.

Off air, and not being invited to the green room, a cab was summoned for him, and the girl

drove him all the way back to Malvern. At least they'd paid for that. In idle chit chat she revealed

her name to be Carol.

- she is the one

Simone stopped the tape and rewound the cassette a few seconds, sensing recognition,

Yes, that promised pop star did look just liked Russell, but just a bit older. But the interview

hadn't gone well, she thought. But curiously, and perversely, sales of his books had increased in

the week following the screening. As daddy had said, the proletarians loved scandal, and sexual

content, and such a response was universal, and to be expected. ''

Her father was already asleep, having retired to his room early, claiming a headache.

And who could blame him?

Earlier that day he had asked her to accompany him to the riverside. He desperately wanted

to make amends it seemed. It was his way of exorcising the guilt feelings she guessed. Poor daddy -

he could never understand women; they were always somehow unfathomable to him. He had never

forgiven himself for his drunken half remembered actions, but he could never grasp that he could

never understand her motives. She had told him earlier, but she could see he still looked at her with

incomprehension. To be female was to be desired by males - it was that basic she thought. The abstract

notions of Men, and Women, Father, Daughter, didn't enter into the sexual equation. Neither

did the truth of the fact that her father hadn't desired her, in his drunken state that day. He felt guilty,

in his imagined remembrances; she merely accepted the situation. She knew that she had instigated

it. Perhaps she had wanted to kill the mother to marry the father. But tomorrow she would go to the

riverside again with him. One more, final day, and then she would release him. She had the idea for

a plot for a - the next! - novel, and, more importantly, she knew now she could make him write. That

would keep Brian happy.

In Time Book Two 224

 They sat looking at the stream, brown and muddy - now no longer clear. But was that another

illusion memory had concocted? Korsakov did not know, as he sighed sadly. As soon as he had driven

into the meadow and stopped, she had leapt from the car, as if to escape from him. She had flipped

off her sandals and began to wade in the shallow waters. But the water had proved too cold - even for

her, he had thought drily, - and she had rejoined him on the bank. They sat in silence, each lost in their

own thoughts.

Korsakov remembered how they had seen a water rat swimming across the bank, carrying

a small twig in its mouth. However the current had proved too strong and the rat was prevented

from ever landing; its energy soon spent in remaining mid-stream. He had smiled at the absurdity

of this, Is that the human condition? he had asked. And she had laughed, as a child laughs,

without understanding, but seeing, and before her awareness of the cynicism of his adult bitterness

of creative sterility had set in. That was the difference between them, he thought; she had youth,

and with immaturity went the implicit assumption of optimism, and hope. Of a future. What did he

have? Despair? Defeat? That once his true love had been Nadine, not Coralie? That he had moved

to Malvern, merely to be near his dead son? A boy he had never known? He turned to look at her.

That she was beautiful? - of course. Intelligent? - yes. But ... vivicality, that was it; her single most

essential ingredient.

Simone stood up, aware of his appraisal of her, and began to skip away. 'It's a lovely day!'

she called back, not quite singing. The skip turned into a run, taking longer strides. He watched her

body recede; almost muscular, he thought; lithe.

The girl Nadine stopped and began to dance, now a curious flailing of her limbs. She kicked

at the tips of the blades of grass. The lover turned away to look at the spot where they had picnicked

decades before. He could pinpoint precisely where they had sat - that triangular rutted rock he had

rested his head against, the slight declivity on the other side, hiding the hollow from the moralising

In Time Book Two 225

gaze of the outside world, hiding their buried coins. The cut notch in that tree. The soiled ring to

tether their dog.

He remembered too well, or not at all - if only amnesia could remove that memory, his

imagined guilt.

It had been a lovely day, then, too. To sit near the rushes, throwing the occasional pebble

into the water, watching the concentric rings merge and pass through each other with an

elegant dexterity any conjurer would have envied, to hit the discarded cork, to inevitably fail

in their attempts to scuttle the cylindrical vessel - it had been wonderful, an unfilmed commercial

to demonstrate the virtues of family life.

Had it been deliberate? On his part?

And had he not, he reflected sadly, asked himself that question again and again and again

and again and again and again and? Again and ? forever to no answer. His endlessly

repeated query, and always to be ringed with an enervating doubt. Surely she had not? not deliber-

ately?

She had pushed him gently back and away. Now a stillness and silence in the afternoon air.

Where had his wife gone?Were they not married? Were they not meant to stroll along the cliff-tops,

in past, present, and future times? Nadine had drawn herself up slowly and had then knelt, legs

apart, knees bent, before him. She began to trace her finger along her thigh, gently drawing up

her floral coloured dress. Perhaps the invisible line she had traced was only an inch, but it had

been enough. He remembered her dress well - how could he not? The small red hearts, their minute

capillaries interlocking, the xanthic paleness of the love petals; red through yellow.

'Do you love me sugar daddy?' Nadine had smiled, although the years that separated them

were too few. For what is the sum of a life? No creases in the dress, in the moment before he touched

her, before they became tangled by time, and memory.

As his finger had touched hers; joining the upward arc of her thigh, the traces of doubt had

In Time Book Two 226

crossed her face. Her smile, the enchanting, provocative expression he thought she wore, faded into

an uneasy concern. Only then did she realise she had gone too far, that the social rules of her experi-

mental game of an imagined sexual flirtation had been transgressed. She tensed her hand, to resist

his. 'Daddy? We need to be married first.'

Did he love her, Nadine? A moments pause, spun out by his memory into years. He had

had the opportunity to retreat, to withdraw his hand, and then, perhaps, they would have laughed

away the moment; would have become a secret between them, an intimacy shared, to be held between

them in future times, that he had not transgressed.

Yes, he had held the opportunity.

But had he taken it? The moment passed, and as she realised his choice, that the date of

their marriage held no significance, for what is the difference between a singleton Friday, and

the coupledom of a Saturday? when all days are the same, in time? she began to fight. She punched,

scratched, spat in his face, but he was easily too strong for her. He clasped her thighs, lifting her

off her knees with a single, abrupt thrust. She fell heavily unto her back. His hand pushed past hers,

forcing it away. His forearm fell to her throat, forcing her neck further into the grass. With his leg

between hers he forced her thighs apart.

She had stopped struggling, the paralysis of fear. Chomiac looked down at his trapped

animal, listening to the sharp, stilted breaths. Her glazed eyes face unseeingly across the stream.

As the dog barked in the distance. A tear, a single saliferous stream, stained

'Thinking about it were you?'

Korsakov started, it seemed she had been standing beside him for some time.

'Exorcising the guilt bit, yes?'

Korsakov shook his head, 'No, just rewriting my book. My next book. I have no guilt - I

have nothing to be guilty for.'

'Hm ..' she nodded doubtfully, as she sat down beside him.

In Time Book Two 227

 'I never took - raped - you. It was only a story - and not even a story about you. Why pretend?'

'That's not the point. You would have, if mother had not returned.'

Korsakov again shook his head, but this time with an insistent, 'No.'

Simone searched for a pebble by her feet. Finding one she flicked it into the river. 'I've

an idea for a novel.' she murmured.

'Oh yes?' asked Korsakov drily, aware of the incongruous lurch from a sensitive topic to

one, to him, of academic interest only.

'Well there's this writer called Chomiac. In exile from an Eastern bloc country. Let's give

him the beautiful wife - together they are celebrities; social invitations left, right and centre. And

his books are good (of course), though they deal with political events no longer even recently past,

and dubious subjects, of a sexual nature. A happy marriage, yes? A beautiful daughter is born and

curiously, coincidentally, eventually, another a novel. That one doesn't sell so well, not being so

salacious. From then on Chomiac takes to short stories, essays. It's unmentioned (except by his

wife) that's he's in decline. Forty five and already nothing left to say? The marriage also begins

to flounder. Not so many invitations now, uh? Not so many visits to the country mansion from

the city folk in their latter years of famousness?'

Korsakov smiled; his cynicism had been inherited by his daughter after all. 'End of novel?'

he asked.

'Most definitely not: part two; the parents affection has grown to hatred. His wife takes to

wearing a nightgown which doubles as a chastity belt.'

Christ, she knew that? But of course - his words yesterday!

'In a creative, as well as sexual frustration, father attempts to seduce daughter. Succeeds.'

'Fails. No! - doesn't even try!''

'So you did try then? You've just denied it. Anyway, daughter leaves home, in disgrace;

after all, according to mother, it must be her fault.'

In Time Book Two 228

 'That was never implied.'

'Except by mother. Daughter goes off to university, screws many men; her own attempt

at extirpating the past, and only returns upon hearing of her mothers death. From a dramatic

suicide enacted only yards from the scene of the earlier seduction. For reasons as yet unknown.'

'End?'

'Oh no; suicide note, well, letter, eventually found, in a box amongst a pile of milk bottles

under the bed; that she had discovered her husband's dirty book was in fact true, and that a flat

mate from college days - someone she had actually known, had been his victim and had borne a

child. Who was that by the way?'

'End?' he insisted, but still questioning.

'Only if you like. Perhaps they do, after all, end up living in matrimonial harmony.'

Korsakov shook his head, almost with a mock sadness, 'Apparently your life has turned

out to be more sensational than fiction.'

'Ah, but in your capable hands it can be turned into something ... definite. Definitive?

And after all, you've done fuck all for ten, twenty years?'

'Thank you.' Korsakov acquiesced, perhaps a sullen admittance. 'But you've forgotten

I've already written that story.'

'No, I wrote it. And I've got an agent. Of course I have to sleep with him, but Brian keeps

me in style. Can't afford not to, as it happens. I've decided my book, How To Blackmail Your

Lovers is going to do quite well, as it's written in house, as it were. I'll promise to leave out the

last chapter when he publishes it.'

Korsakov stood up, obligatory brushing his trousers free of grass. 'Shall we go - it's cooler now.'

'Oh dear, I've upset his feelings.'

But Simone followed him anyway to the car. Korsakov unlocked the door, held it open for

her; as usual she clambered in, almost as if an adolescent.

In Time Book Two 229

 She had something of course, he knew, but the allusions to himself were too obvious.

Never, ever write an autobiography as a novel. It was an aphorism he had insisted and instructed

others with. But could he do it? Remove himself from the emotional intimacy of it all, retreat

into the necessary detachment that would be required? And would that be the theme - the literary

phoenix rising from the ashes? Or that a person, his daughter, could act as a creative catalyst?

Unaffected herself by events but instigating a change in her parent?

Korsakov began to drive off. He turned to look towards his daughter. She was smiling

inscrutably to herself. Perhaps she knew what effect she had upon him - of course she did! - but

did he know?

Unfortunately the truth would be more .. and what words would he use here ..? to reveal

how he had moved his family, and unknown to his new wife even then, to be near the grave

stone of his never seen but now dead son?

And it was, after all, a good idea. A lot or work, probably two years at the least: three

hundred thousand words? several hundred pages? Christ that would be something - establish

and confirm his reputation again.

Simone had planted her germ of optimism, and sensing this from her father's expression

of thoughtfulness, began to hum. After a few minutes she added words to her tuneless ditty, # I've

got you, bom bom, Under My Skin. #

Korsakov sighed - but she was still so like a child?

She repeated the refrain as they drove further away from the now silent and distant stream,

that field of false sc/d/reams, # Bom, bom! Tra la la! Under my skin! Deep in the heart of me .. #

She held him, she thought, in the palm of her hand - she could squeeze him and suck the

juice from his soul. If he had one in his agnostic belly. Page one tonight - she would insist. She

repeated her humming, searching again for that elusive melody (perhaps after Russell's piano

lessons she should have switched to singing), # I've got you, bom bom! tra la la! Under My Skin!

In Time Book Two 230

Deep in the heart of me! I've got you .. under my skin ... #

- that is not me why do write such nasty words

but how do i know simone that might have been your life had you lived instead of

these words in this story that flows, to fill the remaining days of my diary quickly enough, but

knowing I am soon enough to reach again November the 15th, the obliterated genius and reserva-

tions (but perhaps the original title should have been written, genius with reservations) but now

the Revelations and Genesis of my life, where those removed days, that lost time, will block my

narrative, until I am to write again, at the end of time yes simone the pen will write of you again

even though my hand is stationary, lying still by my side. Perhaps even my own eyes lie.

- that is not me

but how do i know

- won t say goodbye

you must simone they tell me it s time, and warm nurse Nadine is always right.

Upstairs, unlocking her mother's room (she'd finally discovered that what that other key

on the string was for - she was sure it'd never been locked before - perhaps it was her father's

attempt at deification) she cautiously entered the room, as if a presence still lingered, and warily

began to search through a desk. Her mother's papers must be t/here somewhere. She vaguely

remembered when she was very young her mother yelling at her when she found a letter, separate

and obviously not belonging to her drawings. She had wandered into the kitchen with it, and had

cried as her mother shouted, snatched it away, and to escape her mother's fury had ran off into

another room. Why was she so angry with her?

But as an adult Simone realised that this family had held too many secrets, always there

was a tension there, an almost tangible uneasiness, a knot pulled too tightly to now be unpicked,

and this string of secrets had, over the years of tautness, distorted her parent's personalities. They

In Time Book Two 231

were, indeed, - in deeds, and actions, all warped. Her father, but how to describe him? Too

secretive. And he was always too stern, too strict. Looking always dour. What with those clothes

he'd taken to wearing, as if imitating a long defunct composer. He was not one to lecture, especially

after his behaviour towards her. Even if she had exaggerated a little, for dramatic effect. And her

mother? Well, she had been dead a while, if dead is to be not seeing someone for so long, so it

was all just memories. Coralie had always seemed slightly .. volatile? Tense? Well, that's how she

remembered her. And that singular moment of fury, as she carried that found letter into the kitchen.

She had been only four, or five. Simone didn't remember her father being present. Such rage, still

remembered decades later. And it still hurt her. It was all so unfair.

So much crap in these desks now. S/He hadn't cleaned them since probably before the

last time Simone was there. And she'd never called it home. At least that letter might be still here,

amongst the papers and dust. Amongst the detritus and dirt. But she didn't know what she was

looking for. She remembered scribbles on the cover of the envelope. Then Simone paused, hand

frozen upon paper, fingerprints upon dust, as a distant memory coalesced, almost as if she could

see her own synapses coagulating in her brain, forming this unwelcome clot of memory in her

mind; the scribbles had been tiny hearts, and they had been drawn in red. That was why, curious,

she had picked up the letter as a child. # Mummy, mummy, mummy, I love you! # she had sung, #

Mummy, mummy! Hearts for you! # as she entered the kitchen, only to have fury vented upon her.

No wonder she was angry now. As if now focused by anger she threw these other obsolete

sheaths of papers she was holding, these now absurd irrelevant scribbles, of shopping lists, dress

receipts, of electricity bills from years past, upon the floor. Just that one letter was needed, shouldn't

be hard to find.

But Simone, despite lifting a sheet to peruse the stacked piles of milk bottles under the

bed, curiously hexagonal she thought, almost a glass beehive - so her father hadn't even bothered

to search? - no box there, after all, didn't find it.

In Time Book Two 232

 Later, as Simone sat with her father, meal eaten and finished in silence, now both drinking

their wine, Korsakov lost in thought as always, it seemed, nowadays, as he examined his glass,

the hall light through the stained glass frame curiously inverting and (dis)colouring the Chinese

symbol, she longed to ask the question, 'Were there any of her mother's papers that he had thrown

out?' but there was this distance now, the bridge that could not be traversed, that infantile intimacy

broken by time. She had done some unpleasant things in her life, well, not unpleasant at the time,

but still, she felt a guilt at being so promiscuous, when younger. But why should she? It just wasn't

how she was brought up though, what with her mother being so strict, - but a little teenage rebellion

wasn't unhealthy? That was how she saw it anyway. People liked fucking, they just pretended they

didn't, hiding it, and their desires, under the disguises of religion, morality, or whatever. Well we

were all here weren't we? And that's where we all came from; somebody fucking someone, some-

where, sometime. And all the time. At least she had been careful; she didn't know what sort of

mother she would make, probably not a very good one, what with the history of her own family.

It had to be asked, even though she still felt this nervousness, as if an unknown prize was just out

of reach, but could only be obtained by wandering through a devious verbal maze, and not by any

other simple process of directly crossing that questionable bridge. Well, she had grown up, and

playing this curious version of musical chairs just wasn't her game any more. 'Didn't mother leave

any letters, or stuff like that?'

Korsakov shrugged, 'Story not going to plan, then? It never does. Bit like life, haven't

you found?' It seemed he didn't much care now. Perhaps he even wished, even after all this time,

that her mother hadn't written to him all those years ago. Then a thought, and he muttered, 'Would

be in a cigar box, I think. Inlaid with coloured wood. Not under any milk bottles?' She shook her

head as he looked at her, as if admitting her knowledge of English was now so much better than

his, and that he had known all along where the bottles had been. He seemed to savour the word,

as if tasting a new word to see if its colour could be somehow contained within the palate

In Time Book Two 233

of his mental dictionary, 'Marquetry?'

She nodded. 'Where is it?'

He shrugged again. Perhaps it was time to throw out all those old bottles. And shopping

lists. Hardly collectable were they. 'No box under the bed, - somewhere else then.'

'But surely in her room?'

'Probably. There should be a key to .. the box. Somewhere.'

Simone could see he would make no effort to find it. She left the table in silence, wine

glass in hand, and returned to her mother's room. Yes, she had searched ground (and no, she

wasn't going to clear out those milk bottles from under the bed - that was his job) and eye level,

so now she looked up. There were unfolded bed sheets stuffed on top of an old wardrobe, crumpled

as were the cumulus clouds they'd seen earlier. No sun to shine to break through here though. More

mess. Perhaps ... but she would have to climb. She took the chair, swept away with her arm more

rubbish unto the floor, and stepped up to climb upon it. Stretching, still almost out of reach, defin-

itely out of eyesight, but yes, there was something small but firm wrapped within a sheet. Evidently

no one had been up there for years. Couldn't they afford a cleaner? Just a small wrapped box on a

wardrobe, dusty, untouched for years. Who would look for it? She thought it looked like a discarded

jewellery case. Too small for papers, but hardly hidden in any way. Far out of reach of a toddler

though. She reached up, climbed down with the bundle, coughing, scraped away the dust, now

almost solid grime. It had been - was - beautiful. Perhaps her mother had had taste after all. There

was a lock but the lid opened easily enough. The key lay within,

- the index within the index

what

and a pin cushion, and three

letters, one sealed and Final letter scrawled, almost scraped illegibly, the others merely pages

folded in half. Nothing else. Not that secret then. Simone placed the pin cushion upon the table

In Time Book Two 234

then unfolded one of the letters. Yes, it was the letter she remembered, but so much smaller now.

Well of course, she was an adult. And the red of the hearts had faded in her memory, more brown

now, decayed by time. How Passion fades then. But the name, and the address made no sense;

they weren't to her mother's, but to someone called Nadine, with an unreadable surname, just a

scrawl really, - just like her father's unintelligible writing! and an address of a college in Tottenham.

It seemed familiar but she couldn't place it.

Who was Darling Nadine? Her mother's name had been Coralie. It was very difficult to

read, but she could make out that it was a letter asking a Nadine to go to Poland. Simone stopped

reading. She held the seven pages to this letter but she had realised, almost as if the whole text

had been magically, instantly transmuted from symbols, a written language into a comprehension,

an understanding in her mind, and without even needing to check his signature at the end, which

would, as usual, be unintelligible, that this had been a love letter from her father to a Nadine. She

fingered the date, as if clearing away again the disfocusing dust of the past, attempting to gain an

immediate presence; it was decades ago. But why had her mother kept this? How had she got it?

She was about to open the second envelope when heard her father's footsteps behind her.

She quickly folded the letter and turned. He was looking at the mess, papers strewn randomly around

the room. He appeared angry, but suppressed his rage. Instead, always the heavy sarcasm, 'And this

is how you desecrate the memory of your mother?'

But she appeared genuinely apologetic. 'Yes, I am sorry. I will clean it up.'

This did not appease Korsakov, but he had noticed the pin cushion and his expression

suddenly changed. 'Where did you get that?'

'It was in the box you mentioned.'

He stepped forward, reaching down hesitantly to pick up the pin cushion. It was strange,

she thought, his hand actually seemed to slow as it neared the table. Yes, he had stopped. And

then he stepped back. Simone gently picked up the fragile object and held it towards her father.

In Time Book Two 235

'Nothing to be scared of.' she offered, as if appeasing. Korsakov held out his open palm and Simone

placed the sewn fabric upon it. Perhaps he had thought it was a spider. Well, there were a lot of

strange webs in this house. He held and stared at it for what seemed a long time, then gently closed

his fist leaving a hollow as if to hold a precious egg. Korsakov said nothing as he backed away

and slowly left the room, almost as walking, retreating backwards and in shock. Well that was

strange, she thought. She wished she had examined it more closely now. But of course she still

held the letters. And he hadn't seen her holding them, transfixed as he was. She looked at the mess

around the room. It did look bad, but the cleaning could wait. There was no secret now. Only

incomprehension. So her father had fancied a girl called Nadine. Nothing new there, in the story

of the human race, but her father had acted disturbingly strangely. She stepped into the hallway,

to make her way down to the kitchen, but stopped on the staircase. She could see her father sitting

silently, yet another drink in hand, staring at this pin cushion as if carefully placed in its precise

position upon on an operating table, this fragile heart still beating. His shoulder seemed to shudder,

an almost reticent, ashamed, hesitant shaking. Christ, he was crying. Her father was crying. What

the fuck was going on? She stepped silently back up the stairs, returned to her own room, needing

some privacy now, to ponder, to examine this other letter. It looked a lot fresher and cleaner than the

'love' letter her father had sent to 'Nadine', and as Simone checked the postmark she realised it was

recent. Too recent to be history, if seven years was 'history'. These letters had better be worth it, she

thought.

Simone sat on her mother's bed, opened and unfolded this second letter, this one addressed

to her father. To this house. There lay a small photo within, of a young boy it seemed, although

the hair was long and quite fine - a bit like hers she thought, and, as if to test her imagination,

she fingered strands of her own hair, - yes, could be definitely a relative, and the boy appeared

about ten. He looked sweet. There was only the slow realisation that this was the enamelled

picture upon the gravestone. What had been that name?

In Time Book Two 236

 Simone read this second letter in full.

And then again.

Finally standing she forced the papers unfolded back into the box.

There was no secret now: only incomprehension.

Korsakov sat silent, now spent. The truth was far worse than he could tell her.

For it would be to admit his evil, to verbally announce and accept in utterances the

wrongs that he had committed in his life. Not the imagined, alleged sexual assault upon Simone -

although he had often wondered why she had made such a specious accusation (perhaps it was

because of her own talentlessness as a writer, not that he had ever read anything of hers, - some-

how How To Blackmail Your Lovers didn't appeal) - but of the evil towards his wife.

But then, Coralie had committed an earlier evil, and was that his fault? That she had taken,

no, stolen, his letter to that English girl. Had she read it? - but of course she must have done.

He fingered the scar upon his wrist, a unwanted remnant of the training of his dog.

The voice spoke. 'How did you get that? Wanking?'

But Korsakov again didn't answer his daughter. She was still young, and spoilt. She had

not lived his life, but he was not sure if he was glad that she had not. He had often wondered if

it was better to live long in the shallow grave of consumerism that die short in the deep pit of

political ideology. He had lived both lives, and this one was better, if only because of the mere

fact he was still alive. And therefore granted a life to write of experience. Of existence. Perhaps

the next century would be different, and better, and even if the squabbles were petty; better to argue

about nothing, any irrelevant, temporary fashion, than to kill absolutely about something, fascism,

communism: jaw jaw, not war war. So many millions slaughtered over nothing. Civilisations in

convulsion. Had it all been inevitable? A necessary stage, as Marx had argued? To an imagined

somewhere better? A religious utopia? To the promised paradise? Or as Kant had argued, in his

In Time Book Two 237

conviction of beneficial Enlightenment, not from evil to good, but from worse to better. No; all

those roads had led to dead ends. Or to living, hiding in darkness, in the shadows at the dark end

of the street. And it all seemed so irrelevant now, somehow, like old movies playing to empty

cinemas. And he knew he had lied too, as even the scar upon his wrist held a different, true story

to the one written. He had of course been too young to fight in the war, a fact easily verified if

anybody had bothered to check his proclaimed, concocted history, even if only by a few years,

but even cataclysmic historical events become blurred into vague memories after too short a time.

And well, that minor inconsistency had become another fiction; how the Fist of Freedom Fought ... -

and perhaps that scar had helped in getting him published, and to eventual escape.

Korsakov looked at his daughter: her mother had led me to escape. And he couldn't tell

Simone; she couldn't even begin to understand. But her mother had stolen Nadine's letter and written

to him. Such are lives eternally changed from momentary simple actions.

She was still sitting there, as if waiting eternally for an answer. Never knowing the value of

silence. The letters lay upon the table, unfolded, with the pin cushion, precious now, in its fragility.

Objects lying, with their own history, of relevance only to him. No, she could not understand. He

had no idea how the pin cushion had come to be in the house. Hadn't it been abandoned by Coralie

in Poznan? Much later, after Nadine had ... and the word, he knew, however guilty it was to utter,

even in these different, distant times, even in this different language, was; escaped. But it was a

word he could never speak aloud, as if to vocally utter escaped would be an admission of guilty.

The girl had left her passport, and money. And the pin cushion she had given him before the ..

had been a gesture of affection. He thought she would return, as there was no possibility anyone

could leave the country without the correct papers, but as the days passed she hadn't returned

(what you could do in those days, when you were a citizen of the West), and only days later (or

was it even the next week?) the police arrived, not for his arrest but with their demands.

Korsakov had given this pin cushion as a gift to Coralie when she had emigrated to live

In Time Book Two 238

in Poland, long before the days they moved to Budapest, but not mentioning its origins. She had

looked strangely at him then, too.

So his dead wife must have carried this pin cushion along with Nadine's first letter (and

although knowing Korsakov was never to ask how Coralie had come by it) back with them when

they moved to the West all those years ago. Even the dead hold secrets.

The voice spoke again. 'Who is Nadine?'

Yes, who was Nadine? She had been a specific girl, at a certain time, and he would have

married her, despite his ... yes, he had been too aggressive, but a husband has certain rights, surely?

Well they did then. But he could spend his whole life now in a futile attempt to try and find her,

and he knew she would not forgive him. And there wasn't much point now, what with his son being

long dead. She had written to him, years later, via his publisher, this letter, who had passed it on to

his agent Brian, who had discreetly but reluctantly forwarded it directly to Korsakov (but not even

directly; he had mistakenly given it to Coralie, forgetting the letter was already opened), wary now

of being shot as the messenger, and the letter had enclosed a photograph of a young beautiful boy,

telling him he was - had been - the father, but that he was now dead. He had tried to find his father,

having seen Korsakov (Simon's mother in shock pointing at the screen) in some television interview,

by walking to London (But why there? the idiotic coroner had asked, Because there is a television

studio in Shepherd's Bush? to the nutating, nodding agreement of others, that this might as well be

a likely truth as any other) but had tragically drowned in the Thames at Kew Bridge, despite the

attempts of a local policeman and journalist to save him. (No one seemed to think it curious that

the coroner hadn't asked of the coicidence of the two adults present.) No return address, no personal

details given, except where his son was buried. Eventually a church to become now local. He hadn't

expected this delivered agony, years too late. Perhaps it was her revenge.

It was obviously his son; same eyes, forehead, cheekbones, only the boy's hair, fair, fine

and straight, was different. But there were no photographs of himself as a child. Such a luxury as

In Time Book Two 239

a camera lay in future times. Perhaps as a child his hair had also been fair and straight. Excepting

he couldn't imagine, or remember himself, as a child.

And after he had hidden the letter (he should have burnt it then ((and the photograph, as

he had had - unbeknown to his 'new' wife of course - an enamelled picture of his son produced,

and affixed to the grave, once they had moved there - such a pointless gesture, as if hoping

Nadine might see it, and forgive him, for those earlier ghastly times)) instead of hiding that

absurd token trophy of a past, before the later time when his 'next' wife had re?discovered it, -

perhaps she hadn't initially read it, after all, - but such was his determination to retain some

small remembrance of a lost past), he took his wife to the bedroom and held her down, and

penetrated her repeatedly, as if it was not his then wife's, Coralie's face he saw, but the younger

Nadine's, even though their bodies, their faces, their temperaments, and, of course by then, their

ages were (now) so different. She got pregnant quickly enough, but Coralie had not forgiven his

force. It was after all rape, she had said, and not the curiously inappropriate word he had used,

(still that ridiculously thick accent) penistration, as if the two words might have been confused

in translation. Perhaps she thought he had wanted a child, for, despite her brutal origin, Simone

had been a beautiful girl. And lovely in temperament. But now, here, the result sat before him,

the sperm of the, his d .. evil it seemed.

His wife had dreamt, as all mother's do, of some idealised, fantasy of motherhood; of an

adoring child, of obedience, of unrealised ambitions being fulfilled by the next generation. But

Korsakov had never known what Coralie's ambitions might have been; he knew that she had

been married before, that her husband had died early from some secret illness, an event forcing

her to put her son into care, leading eventually to adoption (? by a piano playing spinster?) it

seemed, such was her depression at that time. Evidently she had wanted a(nother?) husband, he

having discovered much later that she had stolen someone else's - his! - love letter to Nadine. And

it was apparent from the tone of the later letter that Coralie was to write to Korsakov that she and

In Time Book Two 240

Nadine had not discussed the events in Poland. It seemed she was not even aware of them. But

Korsakov, ever suspicious now, as the police had instructed him to reluctantly inform upon the

movements of his singer friends from England (as if they might pose some unknown, unstated

threat in playing a pop song in the happy golden green key of D major), had still suspected a trap,

and arranged to meet Coralie in a neutral place, even if she claimed she was merely on holiday,

on some cultural exchange student program. And astonishingly she was there, sitting at a caf.

She was too young to be the police, but too old to have been Nadine's contemporary - perhaps

she was what the English called a mature student. She had stood smiling, holding her hand out

in anticipation, having recognised him from the photo he had earlier sent Nadine. Korsakov smiled

at the remembrance - it had been in fact the first photo taken of him, and he had been already an adult.

And as they talked, Korsakov carefully trying to ascertain what Nadine might have said, it

became clear soon enough that Coralie knew nothing, but she was only to later explain, after her

decision to move permanently to Poland (and it was almost as if, he thought, Coralie was, in her

turn, keeping secrets from him), that they had been flatmates at a shared college house but Nadine

had suddenly married after returning from a holiday abroad and left the house, leaving an irritated

Coralie, as the oldest, more responsible - well, legally responsible - tenant to organise another student

lodger at short notice. She couldn't remember the next student tenant's name, excepting it might

have been a Carol,

- she is the one

or a Mari(h?)a.

- she is the one

Coralie had added that after Nadine's sudden marriage, they had rarely crossed paths,

or possibly never even talked to each other again, except across a distance in a lecture room some-

where, the occasional polite and necessary murmurings of acknowledgement, not quite passing ships

in the night but more curt wavings from student bikes.

In Time Book Two 241

 And soon enough a marriage child had been delivered.

Korsakov looked at Simone; unlike the photograph of his dead son there was no familial

resemblance really; her mother's breasts had been fulsome (which was possibly where all the

missing bottles of milk had disappeared to), Simone's small, pert, - (concise might be a better

description, he had thought, attempting a better mastery of t/his 'new' language of his, as he watched

his daughter grow in earlier days) and her mother's face had also been rounder, Simone's strong

cheekbones, accentuated of course by her make-up, gave her a more angular look. But, apparently,

and of this there was no doubt, Korsakov being aware of similar personality traits, that Simone was

her mother's, and his, daughter.

We dream, imagine how our children will evolve into adults. But it is never as hoped. Soon,

all too soon, almost immediately it seems, they develop their own unique personality, and we can

but hope that they will coexist with us in some sort of imagined harmony. Korsakov could not know

or imagine other lives, except in his written fictions, as he now lived alone, as if, although his only

wife recently dead, he had always lived alone with the company of the fictions of his mind. Daughter

his polar opposite it seemed, gregarious to the point of promiscuity (he simply could not believe all

of her proclaimed sexual exploits to be true), but it seemed all other families also lived in this constant

state of antagonistic bickering. Well of course the TV soap series weren't true, he knew, but their

realities must have been based on some ... template the audiences could identify with. Plato would

have understood; shadows falling upon the cave walls, not the actual realities, and Aristotle of course,

with his rules of drama, but Korsakov knew there were no hidden 'ideal forms'.

Korsakov hadn't watched TV for some while before his wife died (she had sought a sort

of salvation in these visions of banality, he had thought, whereas for him lay just the boredom of

repetitious story lines), and although that event was so recent he suspected not that much had

changed. The colour of the world doesn't change from day to day. And neither do the templates

of plot lines. Sex and death might still be enough. Perhaps when Simone was gone again he would

In Time Book Two 242

begin to watch a few episodes of something, perhaps even different programmes, then mix

the/ir story lines up to eventually produce some farcical novel where everybody was related

to everybody else in ever more vastly improbable ways; through love of course, but also through

objects; silver spoons and red hearted pin cushions, love songs and love letters.

And Simone had strangely insisted he start writing again, actually drawing plotlines, as if

novels were graphs, with X's across, and Y's up - she had even drawn crazy, infantile pictures of

people she had, or claimed to have had, met - well, he had heard of that alleged pop star she mentioned,

although her description of him could very well have been of that, her earlier piano teacher, Russell

Stuart, but Brian was real; he was his agent - well, had been, when he was famous. And before he'd

forwarded to him that fateful letter (via Coralie, though he was still sure Brian had opened it). The

trouble was, her sketch of Brian was vaguely realistic. He found it disconcerting that she knew him;

he didn't remember ever taking Simone, when she was little, to a meeting or anything. He didn't

recall even his wife ever meeting Brian, except that once, at a dinner party, Korsakov discreetly being

pressed for Anything in the pipeline? I'd like to represent you again. If you've .. as Brian also

entertained that fat obese chain smoking astronomer, with the infeasibly attractive daughter (Coralie

had insisted on their long return drive back to Malvern that the girl had been Smith's wife - but that

was too ridiculous for words - although she too had looked vaguely familiar, and he vaguely remem-

bered asking, Someone's painted your picture, right? to her bemusement). And his wife's atttitude

towards him changed the very next day, although sometimes now it was hard to tell the difference.

Perhaps Simone would reveal that Brian secret soon enough, when she felt like it. But he didn't

feel like writing again, that much was true. Getting tired, and old. The fire in the belly sated. All

that fat of Western civilisation. But he might make an effort to please her. The Korsakov name might

still count for something.

Simone, watching Korsakov in his distant silence had given up waiting for an answer as to

who was Nadine, had taken the letter in one hand, and with the other cupping the fragile tiny

In Time Book Two 243

hearts into the single palm, she cradled the pin cushion and left. He had wanted to protest, No,

leave it., but Simone had strangely interrupted, 'No, I must return this to Brain, to the safety of

his closet. He says he keeps his index of things in there.' She had obviously meant Brian, although

why Brian should at all be interested in an old pin cushion he had no idea, and an index of things

in a closet? Perhaps she could become a good writer after all, obviously being one for false memories

as well. And in truth it was now just tatty fabric, thin threads of golden memory of relevance only

to him. A pin cushion, archaic, obsolete, useless. It was all stitched by machinery these days. No

quality, always temporary, made to fade. He (re)remembered his wife's shock at being given this

pin cushion as a small token of his affection when she arrived once again to finally stay in Poland.

It was almost as if she had seen it before. Now that he thought about it he realised then that she

probably had; it had been a gift from Nadine to him when she had first arrived in Poznan, a romantic

gift, and, as he was only then to discover, when his wife had explained that Nadine had shared a flat

with her, together with one (or was it two?) other student(s?), somewhere in the East of London.

It was strange - he noticed the suspicion with which she had began to hold of him, even then,

just because of this one tiny object. And Korsakov had now his own suspicions too - how exactly

had Coralie come to know of his address? But anyway, hadn't it had been part of the/ir agreement,

the/ir marriage, giving him easier access to living in London? but as he had suddenly become a

famous writer, surely he could also have claimed some sort of political, cultural exile?

There was no possibility Coralie knew then of his son; even he hadn't known.

Later that evening, Simone having attempted to prepare a light supper (for cooking was

not really her thing, she thought, - as did the many others), they sat in the garden, under failing

sunlight. It was all such a long time ago, and it seemed irrelevant to Korsakov to discuss it now,

but Simone was insistent, as if there were solutions to her puzzlement of the past. 'So you had

another kid, from a fling a long time ago and mother tops herself? I don't buy it. It wasn't a girl,

In Time Book Two 244

was it? I know what you're like.'

There was no point now, in hesitation. 'No, a boy.'

'That boy then, the cute one in the photograph. Were you ever married before? I know what

a secretive sod you are at times.'

'No.' Korsakov looked down, folded his arms. Simone knew this was a defensive movement

(much like Brian's finger flickering), and that she would get very little from him now. But she still

seemed obliged - compelled - to try, such was her determination, now, and in this life. She insisted,

'Well, what was his name then?' But such was his reluctance that yes, he actually seemed to grunt.

Sarcastically, she continued, 'What, so he had no name?!'

She was like a dog with a bone, he thought, constantly worrying the soil, digging up the

crap and the shit and the dead of the past. A real bitch. But he could dish it out too, if pushed too

far. As he had been. As she was now. Finally, defiantly, deliberately, 'His .. name .. was .. Simon.'

This, as expected, stopped her. But he had already regretted his outburst, as if he had

revealed too much. She stood up and stepped back, asking, incredulously, 'I was named after my

brother? How fucking insane is that?! And he's dead too, right? And then the name came to her:

Simon. What had the words said on the tombstone? The one with the cara - enameled picture?

Taken by the water? And mother had not realised this shit had moved the entire family to be

near his dead son. Fucking insane. Her mother probably hadn't even known of Simon's existence,

but had somehow found out! Realisation - the letter Nadine had written had been discovered and

read by her mother. He hadn't even bothered to hide it! 'That's him buried in the graveyard! His

name was Simon?'

Korsakov nodded slowly. Yes, his boy was dead. And had been for many years. He tried

to recall the face of Nadine, the young English nurse who had come out to Poznan to see him,

but it was all so long ago. Perhaps they could even pass each other in the street, or in that, their

local graveyard, and not even recognise each other, such were the effects of age. Of time passing.

In Time Book Two 245

Of thirty, forty years. But he still kept his eyes open. Yes, he had even moved his family to the

Malvern hills to be near the church. Perhaps Nadine might visit the enamelled photograph one day.

Or perhaps she had (and still did), and they had passed each other, smiling politely, now two strangers

bemusedly exchanging glances, passing through the pen and umbral shadows of the church tower in

daylight.

Korsakov looked at Simone. She was still waiting, insistent in her silence.

'Well?'

'How?'

'Yes of course fucking how!'

There was a long pause, and then, as if in the final defeat of resignation, 'He drowned in

London .. as a young boy.' Her father looked genuinely saddened, she thought. So he was not

lying. And it had obviously been a struggle to tell her, that much she could tell.

'And mother found out?'

He nodded, 'Yes.'

Then, as if further confirmation was required, 'Because it wasn't hers, was it?'

He shook his head, 'No.'

There was a lot more to it than that she knew, but she realised she would get nothing more

from him. There would be another time. 'OK. That's sad.' she said, agreeing with finality.

Korsakov looked at his daughter, nodded. She was so young, knowing everything but nothing.

She had walked to the garden fence and stared into the distant darkness, the sun having failed now,

faltered in its promise of delivering a new daily hope, and Simone looked across, as if she could see

the graveyard in a nearby field, then scowled again; how the hell could she have had a half brother

for so long and not have known about it? And to call her after him? Weird or what? They might

have been friends.

'Shall we have another drink?' he offered, to her back.

In Time Book Two 246

 And she turned away from the blank black view, agreeing, 'Yes, all right.'

It was not like her to agree so readily, he thought, or not to pursue an argument. Perhaps she

was planning something .. but she remained silent as they walked back inside.

- yes we might have been friends

well you were the same age when you died but nadine s tragedy was for a later time

and is only fiction simone as I imagined her life after she had left me to marry her good Doctor

Robert. Perhaps her life ha/d/s been truly carefree, and pleasurable, unlike mine. But 'Simon' is just

a name, shared by millions you couldn t have met them all only those in the life you ve lived within

me i know that now i want to thank you for guiding me in my life but penel carol marhia is unhappy

with you i think and the drugs they feed me make you fail fade we must say goodbye

- join us come home

i wanted to simone i wanted to play with cathy and kiss her again but i failed

- yes we played together i miss you too join us

but those days are gone simone and you can never go back Not even I can get back to

the early days of the band. Although my mind seems clearer now: Penelope will recognise soon

enough that in Under My Skin I had used the name Korsakoff (not 'til much later a mention of my

beloved Nikolai Rimski),

- nadine is not the one

an actual writer that it seemed Brian had found a publisher for some

time ago (and not a mental disability from which the voices have informed me I do not suffer from).

Yes, of this Penelope will be definite; and she will check, and reread that earlier story, a grim

sort of thriller about the kidnap and rape of a young English nurse, set against the political

turmoils of that time. And there would be a familiarity somewhere in her mind, that she had

known these people from somewhere - but how would Saint know about them? she will ask

In Time Book Two 247

herself, not knowing that Korsakoff had organised our early tour of Poland. And Brian will seem

surprised when she mentions Korsakoff's name. Knowing now, and all too intimately it seemed,

his daughter. God knows what he thought she was going on about, half the time, she would think.

Things hadn't been quite the same since she had asked if he was going to kill her. By the throw

of a coin.

The burr of rubber upon the floor as the door opens.

The vanilla ice cream has melted and the hot dog remain uneaten, I now no longer wearing

the mantle of guilt, that starvation of the All is all my fault. I have fed the five thousand. Even if

only in songs. 'You'll go hungry!' Nadine says. 'And I told the cook that's what you wanted!'

'You have a cook here?' I ask, doubtfully.

'Only the best for you.' she smiles, perhaps aware that I am awakening, that as the pencil

rises that other world fades, that written story of my life, for all stories are fabrications, and this

one resurfaces, the reality of my imprisonment. 'Where are we today?' she asks, as she checks

the instruments, and ticks the chart.

'Vanilla ice cream.'

'Vanilla ice cream? You want more? This is melted, I think.'

'No, Manila I dream.' I reply, correcting myself.

'Manila?' She answers, but only absently hearing. 'Don't think I've ever been there.' She

collects my plate of wasted food. 'Where did you get this hot dog from? Didn't think they served

that junk food here.' She smiles, wagging her forefinger, 'I'm going to have a word with that wife

of yours.' She removes her thermometer, to place in my ear. 'Bit warm in there. I'll get you checked.'

Vanilla, Manila. Cold, to hot.

I remember Manila.

I remember Manila: The band were talking about Kashmir - had we sung it when we arrived

there? But K remembered, But we didn't go up there. You did. You missed that gig. Disapprovingly

In Time Book Two 248

adding, not realising his affirmation of my leadership, We had to cover for you.

M agreed. Yes. That's right. We went to Manila first.

G had watched M thinking, almost as if he too could read M's list in his mind, counting,

mouthing the letters through to M. Manchester didn't count, did it? Had they done Mexico? Malta?

and it was true; M was wondering; what song had we sang when we had been there? For the Hot

Dogs were to record a song called # Manila #, but that was to be years after our time.

I remember Manila: stuck in another hotel room, in any city, several hours to wait before

the gig. Idle, bored banter about women to while away the time, as K began, Jesus, she was

groaning away so loudly,' and strangely gesticulated with a expanding gesture of his hands and

arms as if measuring an imagined size of his erection (whereas I only saw the imagined captured

fish), I had to stick my cork in her mouth to shut her up!

G and M laughed nervously. I asked, impassively, Did it work? Or did you remain

bottled up? The others now laughed openly. K answered, Fuck me, yes! It was certainly

tighter than her fanny.

There was a moment's pause, long enough to become uncomfortable, as there was no

response to be made. G picked up a guitar, bashed out his grey 'a' minor chord, M fiddled with

something, it looked like some plastic kit again, shaving the end of an ill fitting wheel with a

blunt knife. I turned to look out of the window, across the bay, hazy in the morning sun, cargo

ships distant, small metal boxes, sullen corks upon a slowly undulating horizon. K had attempted

to shock with his vulgar words, and it evidently had the required effect upon G and M. But for

myself? I merely wondered why he had tried to impress me with his improbable, imagined

tales of sexual prowess; surely he would have known I should not care, having lived all the

lives that are to be lived? All the lies that are to be lied? All the wrys that are to be writed?

My only discomfort was that similar thoughts had passed through my mind instantly,

as if a voice (and it was not Simone's) was talking directly inside me, to me,

In Time Book Two 249

 - full of wide open spaces and everybody s been there

as a curious

conjunction between Angel Simone Fruitcake's sexual orifice and the grand canyon had flashed

through my mind. Well, she had been a promiscuous slapper in her younger days as a student,

although she would not have thought of herself as such. It would have been cheaper to hire a

prostitute, than to endure that madness again. Perhaps I did, in New York. Though why such a ..

C was to then follow me back to London I had no idea.

- am not like that why do you write those bad nasty words

you must say goodbye simone

And Russell Stuart's mind would have been cleaner now, than to have housed her then,

what with the cancerous, squalid thoughts she left behind, these infesting worms foreverly infect-

ing, eating away his memory. Those days are fortunately gone, but I myself would admit there

were times when I was so lonely then, in that time before fame, that I took some comfort there,

in bought sex. I would declare it unashamedly, as my thoughts have revealed, but, unlike K, never

verbally. Being in New York, lonely and alone. No recognition of my face, then, fortunately, un-

shaven and unwashed, in my student days. Perhaps that girl had been called, - when I first was to

meet a 'Christine', who followed me back to London, to my (written) obvious reluctance, to later

shed her perpetual tears in solitude, in an adjoining college room. By the throws of chance one

of her 'cohorts' (?) was much later caught in a car in flagrante delicto with some famous singer

(I'm sure it wasn't K), and she made a few dollars out of it, selling her indiscreet pictures to

the local rag, and curiously it had no impact upon the singer's career, in fact giving him some

'street credibility, - that saints live amongst mortals, as angels can fall to the earth - such is

the cultural mores of our time. Perhaps it was too bad I (or K) hadn't been famous then, if it

would have sold a few more records.

But for me that is an old story, and I have assimilated the experience.

In Time Book Two 250

 In later years, but not in happier days, and after the slow groaning total indifference to

success (for after the first million, what did the second million mean? - profits without honour),

and my obligatory friendships to the band having diminished, decayed - rotted, even - to merely

business acquaintances, for too much familiarity does indeed breed contempt, and having in the

in-between years met Catherine, and (of course her mother) Katherine again (now to be named

always in my mind as the Second ((but the second time around never as alluring)) ), I returned

again to New York, now for the adult business of touring, sending my beautiful Cathy a postcard,

as of course she wa/i/s always i/o/n my mind, as I sent her postcards from the various ports of

call, now too many to list (as were perhaps M's songs), and hopefully she might have kept them,

as she might have later have asked herself, had she lived, to become in her ungranted time an adult,

Who was that man who loved me so much?, and upon my arrival back from New York there was

a joy in her voice upon my return, as the phone buzzed, and her everly enthusiastic voice blurted,

even before the necessary polite greetings, It's a very nice postcard - can I come and see you

this weekend?!

Yes, of course. I reply. There is a shout, a whoop of joy, and I arrange with her mother

to meet her at noon at an Underground station in the West of London. There was a strange joy for

me to be travelling in this sealed tube, a curious and arrogant sense that I was somehow mingling

again with the common folk, after an enforced absence. Ah, the arrogance of being a Saint! I

would get an occasional - no, many stares - surely it couldn't be? .. But as I had already discovered

in those precious days with Catherine, I had been protected by the prosaic: Saints do not walk

amongst mortals; they are not recognised, invisible as are angels.

There was a rare enjoyment in sitting in the end coach of the tube, empty sometimes, in the

very late afternoon, as if shuttling my precious cargo back home towards the dying sun. And when

Cathy was travelling with me she would run frantically from end to end, I timing her, knowing that

this was our secret, that her mother would disapprove of any disturbance of social decorum. My

In Time Book Two 251

limousine driver (if an Aston Martin DB 4 might be described as a limousine) Simone, as you know

by now having become an essential associate of my adulthood, if not always reliable, in the promise

of her words or tangible in her presence, could have her time off. She did not exhibit jealousy, in my

pretence that I was leaving her.

How had we, the band, allowed ourselves, to become so divorced from the everyday realities?

There had been a joy then, surely, when we played together on that damp bench, in that time before,

at night, to passing, uncaring, unlistening caramel strangers?

We were treated like yobs then, moved on by our so called friend, that talentless painter

who was to become a tunelessly whistling policeman, now asserting his power of uniform blue,

over our chaotic musical blues (and I often wondered if he could ever have seen the Humen shades

of difference), curiously forgetting or denying that holiday time we had spent together in Wales

in earlier days, and we remain yobs still, at heart; only the celebrity circuit and the related cultural

paraphernalia gave us cultural and religious kudos. How our songs could give hearing to the deaf!

But as for K, earlier in that hotel room in Manila (but perhaps it was not Manila, but Hong

Kong bay, or Sydney Harbour, - where I was to meet, to recollect Rhia again,

- she is the one

or any waterous

place; for as I write the word boat and harbour those images spring, or float, to mind; such

stuff as dreams are made of), I was always to remain puzzled as to the point of his attempting to

shock. As if in a curious inverse envy of me? Pointless, as he must always have known; I was

indifferent to his - or anyone else's - sex life. Indifferent now as I was to my own. And why use

the word Cork? when Cock would have been more obscenely apposite?

I had chosen to change the subject.

We should take a boat out. I had suggested. Into the bay. To relax before the big night.

G and M nod, looking out too through the window to the distant vista. I began to sing, softly

In Time Book Two 252

 # Away, and before, the madding crowds ... #

Yes. they affirmed, and we three began an attempt to sing together a mantra, as if we could

recapture the magic of those earlier days, of # Sons of Suns of Sons #, # Away, and before, from

the madding crowds .. # I repeat, # Sail way, sail away, sail away . . # they rejoined.

But K shook his head. No. I think I'll stay in. Write a song.

It would have been nice, to take a trip around the harbour, just the four of us, plus the

female F(P?)ilip(p?)ino guide (which whom I was later to have my own secret guilty trip), if only

to get some perspective of the city where we were; surely it was somehow different from all the

others? But I knew that in time it would become merely another memory, of a boat trip somewhere,

of us in the glory days, but of that moment specifically - and even again there was that momentary

hesitation, - Hong Kong, or Manilla? - that we would be forever unable to date that time. And I

knew K would have joined us, only expressing his irritation with me for my imagined disapproval

of his sexual revelations by denying his own pleasure of this trip.

That's great.' I say. # Away From The Madding Crowds # Another one for the book. Of

the album.

And, as I pointed to K, index finger flicking with a slight disdain, at t/his as yet unwritten

new song, Together with your new one. We could get together enough songs for a double album,

like the Other Band.

G interjected, We'll call it 'Black'.

K smiled thinly. He knew I would call his bluff, later - he hadn't written anything decent

for ages.

And the day was divine, the waters calming, slowly lapping rhythmically against the hull

of the small boat we hired, a gentle compound quadruple time, to which I murmured silent lyrics.

I gestured towards the distant cargo ships but the captain(ess? - not this time called Charon, un-

fortunately ((and I did ask)) ), shook her head, smiling vaguely; too far. I wondered which, if any,

In Time Book Two 253

held a container of our records. I wanted to know, to see, what a hundred thousand copies of our

albums would look like. G would have been chuffed. To have come so far. But he was as usual

half a beat late, looking away as I pointed into the distance at our imaginary container; a hundred

thousand" was to remain forever just an imagined size. As is a million.

I stared across the bay, other hulls hazy in the distance. A balmy day. I knew that that night

would be the big one, and strangely, sadly, I somehow knew it to be the last, what with K's betrayal

of me. Just words, but catastrophically cutting nonetheless. I remained silent as the sun fell to its

death in the West, and I thought of Catherine in the East, even if only in London. The engine slowly

phut phutted us back to shore: phut phut phut phut phut phut. Phut. I looked at the small propeller

slicing away our time. As if each slice was merely another rotating page.

A day for the dated book, you might say.

And I was strangely nervous, as we sat in that hotel room later that day, K's new song to

remain forever unwritten it seemed (as was M's refurbishment of his house, and not even to notice

that Ange was always now absent and elsewhere), for his chords always still, to me, sounded

forever to be in D major, and as he strummed my thoughts wandered towards the Other Band,

they having in earlier times, decades before, having had terrible experiences there, in Manila,

that I curiously hoped that this particular present crowd would be impressed, without adverse

consequences.

The hours passed more slowly than usual, even although I of course always knowing my

repeated glances at the clock would not cause time to pass more quickly, only creating the illusion

of passing by more slowly.

I draw a corner clock, upon paper ripped from my book, the face, an hour hand, the minute.

Then another.

And another.

In Time Book Two 254

 Eventually my collection of stilled time stalls, catching those instants, and it was time.

I strangely felt the urge to rush towards the stage, for tonight would be a - perhaps the - big

night but as I led the others through those X across and Y up anonymous corridors I tripped upon a

mains cable taped to the ground, a grey straight constrained snake causing me to stumble, my plectrum

falling from my hands. It bounced minutely, silently, but neither falling to the Obverse or Reverse fell

through a tiny crack in the floor. Unbelievable; it could not have happened, but it did. A tiny slit exactly

the size of the plectrum itself, as if my own double headed coin had fallen to its edge. I scrabbled on

the floor, scratching to no avail. And I had already broken the nail of my index finger. 'Fuck.' K had

reluctantly stopped, I now blocking the way. He looked down, querying my pause. 'You won't

believe it - my fucking plectrum felt through the floor.' He laughed, at me or the incident I still

do not know. 'I'd believe it.' M said calmly (as always), 'No worries, I've got a spare.' He walked

back to the changing room and we followed him. The chanting roars of the crowd faded away.

The promoter of the concert looked apprehensive, we were calling the show off? I raised my

hand, just a thin trickle of blood. 'You'll get your blood money, don't worry.' I say, wiping my cut

finger. The prom smiled thinly, not understanding my English very well, remaining anxious.

M opened his guitar case, and before me lay a sea of roughly cut plastic triangles spread

randomly across the bottom. Hundreds of them. 'Take your pick.' he offered. 'Pun intended.'

'I see you're carrying spares.' I say. He smiles again, almost knowingly.

I ran my hand through this sea of plastic scales, momentarily, absurdly distracted by the

eddy of patterns I was making, reminding me of the undulating waves of the bay seen only hours

before (but now to be remembered always) then chose one; it wasn't a commercially manufactured

plectrum, but hand cut it seemed, from the remains of many plastic toys or kits. I tried to bend it,

it gave a little. It would have to do. I stuffed a few more of these scales into my pocket. 'Thought

that Indian might be useful one day.' M said. There was still a faint smile upon his lips, but no time

to decipher it, as the noise from the crowd grew louder, almost angry at the imagined delay, and

In Time Book Two 255

the promoter now clapped increasingly repeatedly, wary as if we might still attempt an escape, as a

side door was opened, and we were already being introduced, and the crowds chanting anticipation

was over.

And so, the largest concert we ever played was with guitar strings hit by scraps of blood

stained plastic triangles, randomly cut and discarded pieces of never finished model kits, as M

attempted to fill the inevitable long periods of boredom.

Hubris.

And so, we had Ben there, and John Donne that. My journey, never lonely but always

alone. But now complete. I sent a postcard to Catherine the next morning. Kisses and scribbled

red hearts, as usual. As the journey of the band was completed. I held no illusions now, knowing

that all would be revealed in time, in the scribbled glare of these as yet unwritten future pages.

We had been friends then, K and I, and in that distant innocent time of childhood I would

have lain down my life for my friend (as I had tried to lay down my life for my 'girlfriend' Simone

- no won

no simone the coins fell heads and i called heads

in much earlier times), and it would have been an unquestioned sacrifice, for had we not been,

had we not known each other since childhood, before consciousness, any awareness of others,

before sexual jealousy of other's wives? Then, there had been no time before.

We had not become colleagues in any sense, but as children mature into adults, they

become corrupted, by experiences, by others, as I my'self' have become knowingly corrupted,

and perhaps I have retained that thin patina of 'niceness', that perpetual practised polished sheen,

that shamming smile that have persuaded others to call me 'Saint', by not forgetting those childhood

days, that somehow those innocent days should not be lost.

But in adult reflection I know that Rousseau was mad; his crazy delusion that the savage

was noble, an untamed (but healthily tanned) beauty, and that children should be allowed to go their

In Time Book Two 256

own way, but I always knowing that we are not, and as I was not, born as angels, but as monsters.

And is there a time, any hour, a particular moment, a second, when a relationship changes,

when what was held between you, that intangible trust, is now a memory of, and already in the past,

when a friend becomes a stranger, a lover a mere talisman, a token, or a totem to the past? (As

Christine had become, the moment, the instant I saw Katherine play at that school talent show?)

When friendship, affection, or love transmutes to indifference, merely a neutral acknowledgement

of another's existence? The inevitable boredom of hate?

When trust is betrayed.

We had grown together, K and I, by chance and time, the mutual interest shared, which

was to pay so handsomely (in money) in that later, different time. As these pages have revealed,

as I write of that imagined past, we matured together to become the apparently effortless song-

smiths, the Commercial Cinderellas. But that craft had been hard won, the minutes, hours and

days at that time seemingly wasted, seemingly destined at that time to be pointless practice,

that strummed D chord to remain a mere hobby. But at least those experiences had then had

some name, being then called; fun.

But there was that moment, in later times, when we should have rejoiced at our achievements,

that the hard struggle had been finally won, and the rewards had been great, with those many green

plastic sacks of money in our aeroplane, not yet counted, perhaps un(ac)countable, that he chose to

murmur those few words; spoken, muttered moments that cracked my heart, shattered my illusory

perception of K - could I have been so blinded all along?

'There is no price I would betray you,' I had said, many times in my attempt of (re)affirmation

of kinship, that I remembered the letter he had written me, in my doubting student days, expressing

the fear that music might not be my life, but that our own journey had been worth the long footsteps

upon the stony path, away from the carameled bench, as I gestured at the green moneybags, containing

green currency, as the melody of Jeremiah Clark's Trumpet Voluntary in the golden green major chord

In Time Book Two 257

of D was forming happily in my mind (I'd had it played at Katherine the Second's and my wedding

((or rather, I had played it, - and I'd played it too at Brian and Penelope's wedding, although that,

as I must now of course admit, is a fabrication)) ), 'not even to the Germans during the war, not

even for fifty thousand marks.'

K laughed, scoffed almost, retorting, and without hesitation, 'For fifty thousand marks? I

would have!'

And in that half second, not even a moment, the tinted rose coloured lens, the affection

of decades fell from my eyes, and a glimpse of another tainted soul lay revealed.

- kill him

no simone

- you killed me

no simone i remember now i won those throws how could i lose but you ran off

you ignored me

- didn t mean to leave you

K had said aloud, without hesitation, what would have been to me, even in those long

ago, far off poverty days, unthinkable. That he would betray me to the Nazis, as in that earlier,

terrible time, the Vichy regime would sell Jews to the Germans, as did the Slovaks (at least a

FODOL then, unlike Paris), not for any obscure, irrelevant, absurd, mistaken ideology, which

might perhaps, however ridiculous, be argued as a defence in later times, - We did it because

what we believed it was right. - but merely for money.

My price was fifty thousand marks. Sold for mere filthy lucre, and now an irrelevant sum,

as we meandered through the clouds of affluence, but before, in those poverty days, an unimaginable

sum. But somehow finite, even in that time. I could have made an allowance, perhaps, if K had been

drunk (for if G had made the same remarks I would have merely laughed at his buffoonery) after the

In Time Book Two 258

success of that Manila gig, or we had been suffering an imagined hunger, as in those early days, but

that was just self pitying imaginations.

So, K would sell my soul for fifty thousand marks. Yes; it was curiously more insulting

because we were rich, as we flew above the clouds, gods in our own time, looking down upon

all creation.

It was the end, the completeness, of the beginning, of the end.

It was then in that aeroplane I picked up the coffee discoloured spoon, as my life was so

measured, knowing all mornings, afternoons, and evenings, to now hear, but only too faintly, the

music fading in the farthest room of a dying friendship, a spoon taken and never to be returned,

a token of our airtime - it was, after all, not plastic, but still, merely only silver plated.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap. Tap.

Warm nurse Nadine enters, taking the spoon from my hand. She jokes, 'I've told you

before, don't play with your food! But ready for desert?' she asks. 'I've brought you more vanilla

ice cream, since the other one melted.'

'Desert?' The lights fills my eyes, and I close them, as if the glare can be reduced, as in the

time before I was in India. 'India.'

Footsteps as she crosses the room. I can hear now that she stoops to stare at a picture torn

and pinned, presumably from my (Simone's really, for I never had the chance to return her book to

her parents) childhood atlas of the world. She asks, 'India? Have you been to India?'

I shake my head. 'I don't know.'

I hear she smiles, quizzically. 'You don't know?'

'Where is it, that picture taken?'

She looks closer, 'It says Kashmir.'

Kashmir. 'Ah yes. Kashmir. I have been there.'

'Ah right, now you remember!' I hear her smiling tapping, 'Did you also take this picture

In Time Book Two 259

of these joyous children?' then there is a buzzing somewhere. 'I have to go. Never mind, you can

tell me about it - see you later!'

Sheeyoulater. Shreeyouigar. Sreenouigar. Srinigar.

And she is gone.

She has taken my silver spoon, and so my pen will have to suffice.

Kashmir. Yes, I remember Kashmir.

My memory tells me we flew from Manila to Delhi. Did we play there?

And after we had landed somewhere, G had suggested, 'Let's go to Rishikesh. Walk in

their footsteps.'

K and M agreed, nodding. It seemed like a good idea.

'Wow, yes. We're in that neck of the woods, aren't we?' asked M.

India, it seemed, was just a neck in the woods now, not some far off exotic location,

or a picture in a dead child's old atlas. The ever smaller shrinking world, no longer any FODOL.

And the Ph(F?)ilip(p?)ines had been next door.

'I'll fly with you.' I said, not even knowing where Rishikesh was on the continent. 'But

then I'll journey on up to Kashmir.'

'I would have thought,' said K, with too obvious a sardonic trace, 'with a name like

Saint you would have sought enlightenment.'

'Very droll.' I reply, pretending indifference. But I felt no obligation to follow in the

historic footprints of the Other Band, for they were of their time, and I am of mine. Let the acolytes

accumulate. It would be merely grasping at vapours, gasping for the airs of gone ghosts. And they

are already within me; an atom of Lennon somewhere, perhaps appropriately in a fingertip. And

Bach there too. Mozzie also. And whereas Lennon and McCartney picked up finger-picking tips

from Donovan, what now could I learn? When I am the teacher? For K was never to know all

the chords that I knew (not even now, even in his presumed pretence of mastery), or that all the

In Time Book Two 260

chords there are are part of a greater harmony.

'No.' And then as if to insist, 'I'm to go to Kashmir.'

'Didn't know you were a Led Zeppelin fan.' said M.

'Ah, good track.' said G. 'Worth going up there just to sing it.'

'I think I should rather go alone.' I continue.

'Oh Greta, you bitch.' answered K.

'No, someone up there might have fifty thousand marks.' I rejoin.

He looked at me with incomprehension.

'I'll be gone for three, no, seven days.' I say. 'Then I'll meet you ..' and they wait as they

gaze at me wondering why I have drifted into silence, never to finish with .. at that TV gig.,

as if the mere uttering of those words would contract me more than any signed piece of paper,

but the next meeting place is to be determined in another time, another place, for where was the

next stage of the tour Hong Kong? Where were we in India? 'No, instead, I'll meet you in ...'

But there is no future plan.

October, the diary still reads.

Three days in Kashmir. I remember.

OCTOBER:THREE DAYS IN KASHMIR

Upon arrival there is a heavy military presence. Uncertainty abounds: no one is permitted

to leave the airport. Civilians and soldiers crowd the doorway. An argument breaks out between a

fat American who is initially refused her large bag of luggage from the conveyor belt because she

has lost her luggage slip. She has brought her own trolley. During the flight, as I gazed at the distant

ridges of the Himalayas, at the thin indeterminate, indistinct angular lines separating white clouds

from white mountains, - first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is - the material

from the immaterial, she had told me her name was Christine, and that she wanted to go shopping,

In Time Book Two 261

for she collected ethnic instruments. I murmured, 'Clarinets? Oboes?' to her obvious bemusement.

At the doorway the fat American bribes a soldier to let her past. I follow her, am stopped by

the same soldier, but I insist that I am with the American. 'I'm with my first girlfriend, Christine.' I

explain, an obvious lie, but, momentarily distracted by the shouting of the truck driver, and

reluctantly, without the potential reward of baksheesh, he lets me past.

Outside it is a cool, crisp, clear day. I feel detached from events around me. I see the

chaos of real events with a clinical, indifferent curiosity; the shock of arrival, and of the new:

I am here, but not here. The band was t/here, but not t/here. The mountain is there, then there is

no mountain.

A voice says he is Rammed Him, and will drive us to the town. I don't reply, but follow

him to the bus, complete with the decorations of bullet holes, the curving from the front window

to the side door curiously reminiscent to me of the curves of the bass clef. The tailgate is red,

somehow familiar, but broken, merely held on by decaying, frayed leather straps. I make a point

of counting them, as if safety is paramount 'Seven?' I ask. 'Of rotting ox straps?' and Rammed Him

nods, as if bronze is not needed. The blast area has recently been cleaned. An armed guard escorts

us, the precious tourists, the short distance to the town. The soldiers seem alert to the possibility of

(another?) attack - but as a tourist today, and as well traveled as I am, and now, after those seasoned

years, with camera ready, I see yet another landscape.

As we approach the town the handbrake fails, and the driver changes through the gears

then switches the ignition off for the bus to lurch slowly to a halt. The driver re-materialises, as

if all this wa/i/s normal. 'You are called Rammed Him? ' I ask, puzzled.

'No, Rahim.' he corrects, smiling, now used to the absurdities of foreigners. He tells me he

has a houseboat, but I reply I want to stay at the Tibetan Guest House, having looked up a tourist

book, bought for me at the airport by M. Think of some songs he had asked, for his list or to

compose I was not sure. Rahim escorts me anyway but we are stopped after a few steps. The guards

In Time Book Two 262

wave me through but stop Rahim. I say that I would be lost without a guide. They don't understand

me but after conferring amongst themselves, and Rahim calmly explaining, talking into the wind,

indifferent now to the evident experience of years of abuse, they let us past. We walk quickly

through the town; muddy streets, shanty buildings. The Tibetan Guest house is closed, fire damaged,

windows boarded, rapidly becoming derelict, and has been for some three months. Even recent books

become obsolete it seems. I negotiate a price with Rahim to stay on his houseboat. During the walk

to the shikara Rahim tells me he has stayed in Romford, Essex. 'Do you know it?' he asks.

I nod, 'Exciting place.' But my sarcasm is wasted.

'I will return there one day.'

I answer, indifferently. 'Yes?' Rahim Returns To Romford. No song there, I'm afraid.

'I will drive there in my van.'

And somehow I know he is talking of the recently abandoned vehicle.

'I have seen you before, somewhere?'

'No.' I deny.

'When I return I will get a job.'

'What will you do?' I ask.

'Anything.'

'Anything?'

There is a slow pause. 'Yes ... anything.'

I nod, as if understanding. 'I will keep that in mind.' And then I repeat, slowly, deliberately,

as if to remove ambiguity, and not even now a question, 'Anything.'

And Rahim again confirms, without hesitation, 'Anything. My van is quite safe you know,

you just have to know how to handle her.'

'Hope you make it.' I offer, for in my mind there was no possibility of that vehicle even

reaching the border. Of that country.

In Time Book Two 263

 On the shikara slowly crossing Dal lake, Rahim gives me a bamboo pot filled with hot

charcoal to keep me warm. It is very efficient. After an hour the light is fading and the mosque

begins to gleam in the distance, an enlarging pearl lit by searchlight. I am now very tired, in

listening to the sweetly hypnotic, gentle lapping of water against the wooden hull. It has its own

slow rhythm; lap lap lap lap lap lap. Lap.

All else is silence.

The next day Mengoi, the youngest son, takes me by shikara to the bridge. I want to visit

the mosque. The town is closed, the curfew continuing, but hopefully the mosque might be open

to visitors.

A group of soldiers slouch around on the causeway, rifles slung nonchalantly over their

shoulders, almost as if posing for photographs. We are of course stopped but they seem to like

to practice their English. Eventually we are waved on. The streets are deserted, the local inhabitants

unsurprisingly choosing to stay indoors. Only my insistence on seeing at least some of Srinagar had

brought Mengoi on land at all.

The next group of soldiers are a lot more aggressive. I ask if anyone speaks English - one

replies haltingly. But another soldier, a burly slob, starts to push me away, but I determinedly continue

talking to the original soldier. The others seem to think that this is very funny and so they come to

speak to me. I ask when the curfew is likely to end. I am told, simultaneously, not now merely by

East and West, but also by North and South too;

'One day,' 'Seventy two hours,'

'One week,' 'Sunday.'

I give up, but indicate I want to take their photograph. A tourist amongst the oppressors.

They gesticulate us away but curiously, after a few moments (again) conferring (there was a whimsical

charm in watching these small democracies in action) amongst themselves, the idea attracts them,

and they change their minds. They pose, arguing amongst themselves as to the angle they should

In Time Book Two 264

hold their rifles across their shoulders. The photo is eventually taken and honour satisfied they wave

us through.

At the mosque children are playing. A group run towards me laughing. They demand pens

which I promise to bring. They have a significant resale value for children. Like the soldiers, the

children expect to be photographed; unlike the soldiers they do not deliberate - they spontaneously

coalesce into a joyous bundle. In a future time, as adults, they may well wish to;

kidnap, torture,

behead, burn,

me, in an ideological, religious fervour. But for this time, they are children. And I have my photograph.

As an infidel I am not permitted entry to the mosque. We turn back.

Shortly I am to regret having brought my guide Mengoi.

One of the soldiers I've already seen is genial enough to me, inviting me to share the fire

they've made, but the other indicates to Mengoi that he is to stoke it. I insist we move on, and they

acquiesce.

Later, as we near the bridge, one soldier bars our way. He raises his rifle demanding to know

what Mengoi is holding under his poncho. Since Mengoi's response is not immediate the soldier

makes to hit him with his rifle butt. The blow is misplaced and Mengoi scampers back, unharmed.

He puts down the bamboo pot he has been carrying. The soldier turns to me, points to Mengoi, and

says, 'Him tourist.' Whether he is trying to frighten me or insult the native Kashmirians I do not know.

I suspect the latter - he continues, 'Yesterday, yesterday, eleven tourists killed! You go on, but him,

tourist.' He babbles on. Shortly I realise he is merely waiting for a bribe; his hand is in his pocket,

pulling at the fabric in a curious masturbatory motion (and now reminding me of how I must have

appeared to Katherine the First that final night as I fumbled for my double headed coin). I feign

incomprehension at his mumbled Baksheesh., asking She's back? Eventually this works,

and after Mengoi has given them a false houseboat address - not that any Kashmirian would

In Time Book Two 265

give Indian soldiers access to their boats - we move on. Soon enough Mengoi spits upon the

ground. 'Indian dogs.' he says.

In the afternoon I share lunch with the family. I sit on the bow overlooking Nagin Lake.

In the distance there is a hill - I can faintly see a fort at the top. The family scoop out the food

from their basins with their hands, but I, being Western, am courteously offered a fork, but I take

out my tarnished silver spoon. The father comes out and introduces himself to me. He is a burly

squat figure with a white beard. He reminds me of a maharishi yogi. But unlike the Other Band I

am not expected to worship; he sits beside me and starts to talk about the political situation in

repeatedly broken, but understandable English. 'Pakistan has the U.S., Bangladesh has the U.S.S.R., -

and we have been promised freedom since 1948. 1948!' I ask him who is on their side. He laughs

and raises his fist to the sky. 'Our side! Our side! Ah, we have God on our side!'

Later in the afternoon Rahim, takes me to the fort I have seen in the distance. In a much

later time I will discover that it's called Hari Parbat. (And as I write now in this t(a)inted diary I'm

still not sure if there was not more joy there then, in the not knowing of the name, that the experiences,

the memories of that day can be reduced to mere letters - these letters, twenty, thirty years on.) It's

very high and is a steep climb. Rahim assumes I'm very fit. On the way up a figure rushes towards

us. He talks to Rahim hurriedly, gesticulating to the now far off town of Srinagar. He lurches into

English. 'If we get independence, like Iran, we'll be a great nation, a great nation!' He raises his fist

to the sky. A bird like an eagle swoops above us (and for a moment I was ashamed that I had no

name for that unrecognised species, until I realised that even the word of eagle flashing through

my brian had reduced its sensation upon me), then glides gracefully down to the valley below. I nod

at Rahim and we push on.

When we reach the peak it's a 20 rupee bribe to a gang that squats on the hill by the ruins

of the fortress to get in. For protection. It's empty, dilapidated, with a single small Hindu (?) temple

at its summit. The small bells were broken within, but it seemed I heard Carol

In Time Book Two 266

 - she is the one

of the Bells

in the far distance, which was impossible, for although I did not know exactly where I was

(Simone's atlas not to hand), surely the Ukraine lay not nearby. I climb to the highest point and

overlook all Kashmir. A beautiful sight but too hazy - and therefore pointless - to take a photograph.

But I shoot anyway; the token, tourist remembrance, now that I had the money, to buy a camera.

How have I come to travel this far? From the dark dank bench by a London motorway to the

crisp clear air of a mountaintop in the far East? To surrender to the illusion that wisdom lies

Elsewhere? When I, of all people, have travelled to oh so many Elsewheres? Perhaps the/se

visions are merely oxygen deprivation; searched haze. Yes, Nadine liked Elgar, but perhaps

my true love was after all Korsakov. And yet I know I am still to travel much further, in time,

in experiences, but it is as if I already know I will find no wisdom in the outside world, however

long I now search (and I have searched haze now for so long to know there is no elders' wisdom);

only recognition of a kind of distilled wonder.

I knew then as I stood on the mountain that the days of the band were effectively over (I

had abandoned the others to the/ir television gig, but at least I had arranged, - and who had telephoned?

Simone, Katherine? - to play the very next week), and as I stood looking at the mist the air cleared

and the mountains lay revealed; and it was true, not a religious experience, but the - our petty

squabbles seemed so insignificant, irrelevant, against the cold canvas now before me, crystalline,

clear, in its absoluteness, its starkness.

it will be time to say goodbye simone soon as govinda left siddhartha

- rad had hits

rad? ah yes you vain god you

- and govinda returned

In Time Book Two 267

 yes but you must say goodbye soon

In a far corner of the fort I climbed a stone to draw a small symbol, of a bass clef on the wall.

A scratch in time. Against time. I date it. I wonder, in the remote possibility that I should ever return

this way in many years, whether it will still be t/here: I know it will not be, as the chalk upon

Carol's

- she is

ENOUGH simone you must say goodbye soon it s time

body quickly faded, merely washed away as I watched her shower, and the scribbles

of playful Catherine upon the rocks of Peacehaven and the walls of Paris have inevitably faded

too, as I have since watched many disant showers. Did I learn anything during those studying

years of philosophy? - Muslims and Hindus seek, it seems to me, in my shoddy, indifferent

understanding and disinterest of other, if any, faiths, immortality of their religions by the domination

of other faiths, other countries. Of women. (But then, perhaps I had disgraced myself with East and

West ((appeasing myself that at least our fling had been consensual, and that in these dated fictions

of my brian they were not my daughters)). As perhaps Korsakoff did, with the rapes of his women).

And I, having no religious faith seek, inexplicably, significance, not in my signature, but the signature

of my job, scrawled upon a wall, n/ever to be n/ever seen.

Perhaps in time I should write of my adventures in a travel journal, but that would be therouxly

boring. Bizarre, almost. A dayed diary may well have to be enough.

As I stepped down my foot caught in a tiny hollow, cracking the ice. I had been unaware that

I was that high, or that it was so cold. I longed to pick up the tiny fragment that had shattered to look

like a small cat, to take it home, - but there was that sudden, curious realisation, that that ice, that

cat, was of that instant; my cat would melt away soon enough, to return to the earth, but be remem-

bered by me always, until I too returned to the earth; to be dead, but always alive. And never to be

a real gift to G. 'Schrdinger's cat.' I murmur, to Rahim's bemusement, as he has now joined me to

In Time Book Two 268

wonder why I stare pointlessly down.

In time we descend by a different route. There is a stream and I drank the clear water, safer

I was sure than the waters of Lake Nagin. Refreshed, we pass by a garage closed by two massive

red corrugated iron doors. They are padlocked at the ground. The sign reads; Government Hospital

for Psychiatric Diseases For Srinagar. I push my camera between the wire meshing and take a

photograph. I ask Rahim where the madmen are but he shrugs, uncomprehending.

'This job? You will do anything?' I again absurdly repeat.

He nods. 'Anything.'

'Are you sure you can drive ..' I ask, '.. that thing, all the way?' to his answer,

'Sure, sure, very sure.'

'Never mind. If there's a problem I'll sort something out.' I answer, disbelieving. I start

humming, then mumbling, an old song, one of mine from youthful, hopeful days; # We were young

once, but once was such a long, long time ago, and memories can't take the place of romance, that

was then, this is now .. #

'Nice song.' Rahim offers.

'I like it.' I agree, before continuing, # Tomorrow, is another day my friend, as strangers

we might walk away #

There is a sadness now, as I occasionally reread these pages I have scrawled, the diary

filling effortlessly, slowly but inevitably now, away from an(y) abstract date in October, to the

torn away empty pages from November 15th, ostensibly to check spelling mistakes, to amend

but appreciate minute histories, the small clocks torn from page corners and each pinned to

their time, but there lies a perverse pleasure in recalling past times, as if there might still lie a

song to be called # Days Of Hope # hidden within the music of the spheres and which remains

between these pages waiting to be written, and once found, unearthed (for unpaged somehow

reads incorrectly), to be freshly heard upon the light of day. At any turn, any moment, events of

In Time Book Two 269

my life might have taken a different course, as the path of a stream is not inevitable, despite

gravity being its only guiding force, but a course once taken, even after the many randomly

thrown blocking pebbles (and who had thrown them?), must thenceforth remains fixed: water

flows downhill, and the mountain might have taken a different shape.

# We Were Young Once (And Once Was Such A Long, Long Time Ago) #

Yes, I had written those words, in that song, when young, before, of course, I became older.

And too much wiser. I sang them as I clambered down the mountainside, and I felt a release, that a

decision had been made, that's K's words could not, after all, actually harm me, even if I found them

obscenely offensive. Yes, I had reached the mountain top alone, and it was I that had climbed it.

# Tomorrow is another day my friend, as strangers we might walk away #

Those lyrics have such potency now, as friends have become strangers, as the band with

whom I recorded that song have faded into insignificance: one married now to his best friend's wife,

one dead drunk, oblivious to any reality (and perhaps now he really is dead, not having seen him

for so long), one ... but how now to describe M? He is after all the survivor, the tortoise who plodded

on, resolutely, to win inevitably against the hares, the geek that eventually inherited the mirth. Of this

divine comedy. Perhaps one day, even now, when he has finished a jazz gig with my father in law,

Ben (still alive, but only just, the torching of his toes slowly burning him away), he will bring me a

model. Of his unfinished Indian.

It seems to others that I have lived my life on a superficial plane, skimming effortlessly

along an icy surface, collecting the trophies, the women, the snow white carved statuettes along

the way, seemingly gliding and skating with a joyful abandon through this life, but I alone knowing,

silently and deep down, that at any time the surface could fracture and crack, the fragmenting shards

sending me sinking to the cold oblivion. Or to this hell of a hot room. As evidently it has done.

But where to go from here, when I eventually rise from this bed, to rise again from the dead,

Simone eventually silenced,

In Time Book Two 270

 - will never lave you

you must say goodbye

a Lazarus ascending, cursed to survive. To play again? To sing

again? That life seems so long ago, already; a dead time. So many years. Too many wasted. It

had appeared so easy, effortless to the envious others, but looks - and my looks - deceive; it was

a culmination, of years learning the craft, of ten thousand strummed D chords, of seemingly endless

bargains and negotiations, throughout the months, years of the general drudgery, the sludge of

management, that the PA system might have to be hired separately from the hall, the boredom

of planning hotel rooms (an essential requirement seemingly beyond the ability of Copy Cat Brat, -

only fake signatures and straight steering offered then), to be 'lived' in for one night in some far

off future time, perhaps even a year ahead (and I was aware that I might not be alive then, even in

that recent future time); those coal years distilled into those diamond moments, those minute minutes

of song, treasured by myself, for 'I' had created them, but merely to be admired, or detested, or regarded

with indifference by others. Those weights fell upon me, and I bore them.

Yes, the ice cat cracked.

Ice upon the wings. the pilot had blandly intercommed, idle information as we flew over

the Himalayas. He calmly continued, No problem. voice evidently relaxed, this fantastic event

subsumed to the normal, that we fly amongst the gods, Good view, though, through the right window.

And I turned to look towards the Annapurna range. The sky seemed filled with clouds, undefined,

misty, but they remained static; mountain peaks. But there was still the slight shuddering. I imagined

that G would have turned even paler, not that that would have been easy to discern, the pallid colouring

of decades spent in his internal sanctuaries; different names but always the same chairs. The passenger

next to me started chattering, but not with the cold; he was smiling at the mountains, Just wonderful,

wonderful ... Yes. I agreed, admiring too the vista, as he then turned towards me, continuing,

In Time Book Two 271

People don't realise that the Indian Australian plate crashing into that Eurasian plate - (and my

brian remembers to me that he was actually pointing through the aeroplane window as if at a specific

point), - created this cooling effect - those mountains are beautiful, in that they stopped the planet

overheating. Yes. I agreed again, although again wondering, as I had only the day before (?),

if a little knowledge wasn't a dangerous thing, in its distraction from the beautiful. Later I was to

ask him his name, for the reply, Thomas Richard. Your mother's a nurse? I murmured, to his

incredulous response, How on earth do you know that!? And I could not answer, for although I

had wanted to reply, She nursed me, I think., I knew he would not believe in such coincidences,

what with his professed abstract 'scientism', so, instead, So Jung, I had murmured, to his slightly

affected reply, Oh no, not young - actually I'm seventy two thousand years old. And I had then

smiled, knowing the truth of his words; that we are all the same age; that that was the date of the

first wo/man made abstract scratched art; no longer random squiggles, but a definite pattern, that

all brains could now internally structure the external world. Interested in geology then? I had then

asked, quickly continuing, My father in law was - is a geology teacher, Ben Stalker. And at this

point Thomas the Dick looked at me strangely, but nodded. Yes, I too quickly continued, a shame

about your brother Simon, drowning. at which point he stood up to find himself another seat. I was

not surprised, since my words were incomprehensible then even to myself; Katherine

- she is not the one

was my wife,

and I have no recollection of meeting her (or her brother Chomiac's) father - and surely his surname

would have been Chomiac?

- coursofnot

Thus Thomas the Dick disappears from view, another character choosing to leave my life,

merely by choosing another aisle.

As Penelope is to leave me soon too, turning another page.

In Time Book Two 272

 After that big gig in Manila, after my return from India, and after his betrayal, of K's

admittance that he could even contemplate selling me, after the shuddering of that aircraft, as

if the fragile fuselage itself was a metaphor for our band, the fracturing ship the four of us had

inhabited, over those years, I resolved to (and such is the paucity of language) 'downsize'.

Upon my return from Kashmir, away far longer than the three (five, or the seven) days

I had first intended (for I had gone on to cycle into Patna, with my Indian rider now my passenger,

to the incredulous bemusement of the Buddhist monks, that a white man could 'degrade' himself

like that), in a curious type of 'reunion', as we sat at 'our' table in that pub in Merrow, now almost

a local it seemed, as had The Bull's Head in Chifwick been in much earlier, hopeful days, but I

now waiting and deliberately excluding K from our conversation, and, as he was always inevitably

distracted by Ange anyway (nothing had changed there, then, in my short absence), he had wandered

off to talk to her, to M's still curious indifference, as Ange sat at the bar chatting to a fat American

woman who had just arrived from some exotic location, - and who disturbingly kept staring at me, -

enquiring about her large suitcase endorsed with stickers, I suggested to G that we play as a small

duo somewhere, as I wanted a return to intimacy, of some closer relationship with our audience,

and I wanted to make one last stab at saving our friendship, as if an attempt must be made to return,

to salvage our affectionate earlier times, before the years finally eroded the hull to oblivion, to become

merely a rust stained husk. And I had never been to Edinburgh, to see the festival.

'Good idea.' said G. 'I need a holiday.'

'You're going to Edinburgh?' asked M, overhearing.

'You should stay with Ange.' I pointed, actually gesticulating in her direction, as the fat

American woman was already ignored by a now suitcase disinterested Ange, engrossed as she

was in animated conversation with K.

'Oh no, nothing going on there.' he dismissed.

G and I looked at each other, doubtfully. M noticed, 'No, no, just friends. He knows it

In Time Book Two 273

tabooo.' He smiled at me, remembering our agreed rules.

I replied slowly, deliberately, 'I don't think he listens to me any more.'

'No, no, it'll be great, Edinburgh.'

'No, you should stay here, you know, finish your ...' But what was he working on

at the moment?

'No, she'll be in safe hands.'

That thought had already crossed my mind. 'Un .. safe?' I mumbled as G interrupted,

' - I need a drink.' wandering off, as if anxious to avoid yet another domestic situation

(but in truth I knowing the search for his salvation was more important).

'O ... K.' I agreed, doubtfully. 'But you talk to Ange first.'

'Yes, I will.' he replied, and I knowing he wouldn't.

And one phone call was all it took to arrange a venue, even during the peak season. And

even Simone did not have to speak: Fame has its own rewards, free office space amongst them.

The onlookers stare at us curiously, and at a certain distance, as M and I finish our pints at

the bar, as I might myself (even now) stare at Paul McCartney with a sense of trepidation, not, like

my own spectators, at the illusion of fame, but that we two could record a song, and thus I might

be granted another stab at immortality: I, Saint, and He, God.

I nod to G that it is time to leave the bar to begin the short walk to the nearby hall, only a

few footsteps away, he having already emptied his glass, but now he says, queuing for another pint,

'I'll be a minute.' for me to reply, insisting, 'No, the shows going to start.' G shrugs, strangely, as if

now addicted to always finishing his final few droplets, that the alcohol might have settled to the

bottom of the glass (and here I blame myself for perpetuating this untruth; for in Bull's Head days

I had suggested, lied to impress, that the specific gravity of alcohol would cause it settle at the

bottom, and cited Plato, which convinced the others, except M, - and it was actually as if I could

In Time Book Two 274

see M's foaming thoughts forming, surely ethanol is less dense ? - but I had failed to mention

that the Plato I referred to was German, and not Greek) and he now standing almost as if deliberating

on what next to order. At least it wasn't going to be a pint of Plastic Penguin from Poznan. M has

already put down his glass and is following me. 'The show must go on.' M hints to G. But G has

dropped his lyric sheets, unto another beer stained, sawdust covered floor, and scrabbles around.

M and I make our way to the stage, a flimsy, temporary contraption, smiling, acknowledging.

They looked so young, thenadays. M has picked up a guitar. 'Play 'a' minor.' I say, 'Not a D major.'

He smiles, vaguely.

The applause dies as I sit down. There is an air of expectancy, as they, and M and I, are

waiting for G, as advertised in a hand drawn poster I can see on a far side wall. Our names scribbled

upon an image of a woman in a boat. Katherine, but not Katherine, merely a cartoon copy. But it is

anyway a charity gig, and so in some curious way am I not very concerned at G's lateness, my

time being given away, after all, for free. But I am irritated at G, despite my suggestion, my earlier

invitation that we could at least try to get back to where we had once belonged, in our friendship,

but it seemed the two of us were still going nowhere, he chasing beer stained papers, always consist-

ently late, and not now merely in his percussion playing, but now also in his actual appearances

- didn't he have a fucking clue how irritating it was for others? - probably not, for alcohol distorts

reason, and, unfortunately, I was to get a perverse pleasure in humiliating him publicly. 'Sorry M

and I are alone,' I began, 'my other band member,' I feigned forgetfulness, waving my hand in the

questioning, emphasising the past tense, 'what was his name?'

The small crowd calls out, 'G! G!' but I am not satisfied.

'No, I'm sorry, I'm forgetful today. What is - was - his name?'

The volume swells, as more have joined the name chanting.

'I'm sorry, he's at the bar, finishing his drink. What was his name again?!'

The crowd shout out G's name. I know he can hear us from that nearby bar, a corner of

In Time Book Two 275

which is visible through the hallway, but still he makes no move. I begin a song anyway. Fuck

him - I don't need anyone. I nod to M and as he begins to strum his 'a' minor and the crowd starts

singing with me, soon enough to recognise the song; they know the words.

And I let them sing the words as I too strum that simple minor chord. It is still wonderful,

this power of communication, this strange social empathy and comfort in singing familiar songs,

elicited by three fingers; on fret one string two and frets two, on strings three and four, as one might

sit in an Irish bar and start singing fake Irish songs, inspiring a nostalgia for an imagined historical

Irish pride (as we ourselves had imagined our working class roots when young), and although this

experience is familiar to me now beyond any conceit, it still wonders me of its affecting power.

That such physical simplicity (for, as K had proved, as are words, - once a chord is learnt it is learnt

forever) can cut straight through the mind to the rhythms of the brain. And in turn cause a physical

response, in foot tapping.

Sensations: we all have them and they soon enough become memories: that wildly red

headed window cleaner upon a ladder cleaning the music professor's window opposite the arch

of my blue bridge (long before the monied days when I was later to buy Katherine's house opposite)

and whistling my first released song (K and I having moved on by then from those early attempts

of # Blown # and # Mind (The Gap ) #), and as I looked in though a now cleaned ground floor

window to see the now empty mantelpiece freed of its oboe by Simone, all those years ago, I had

stopped, somehow recognising the distortion of my own melody, and stared up, to be quickly enough

noticed. 'What the fuck are you staring at?' For me to curiously think then that there was an obligation

for him to be impressed, as I replied, 'That's my song you're whistling.'

'Bollocks.'

He evidently didn't believe me, but I checked my immediate desire to respond and correct

him with a proof of some sort; for in truth, and already even then, I didn't much care; it was my

song he was whistling, and there was no chill of loneliness, that in some curious way my song

In Time Book Two 276

had already left me, flown away forever, a songbird to flutter away and leave me, to make new

nests in the minds of others, however coarse their leaves.

And as I turned away from the cleaner the music professor nodded dubiously at me from

his car, always now seemingly curiously anxious, as Friedman hurriedly drove away to teach or

lecture in music at a college (although the hour was late - perhaps a dinner?) somewhere, he never

giving me the single opportunity, despite the decades that have passed, to ask for my Elgar essay

back. His wife had always seemed to 'play' the oboe at inappropriate times, before she left him.

She, and the oboe, seemed to have vanished into thin air. Perhaps he vaguely realised Simone had

been instrumental in that. As my college girlfriend Naddy had said, in those long lost student days

before; And the crochet rest is silence. No, instead of claiming melodic paternity I had called back

to the window cleaner, 'No use looking for Christine mate, - she's long gone.' And I thought I noticed

a floating look of disappointment upon his face, this passing shadow of a cloud. Yes, looked like rain

yet again. Perhaps he'd been getting a freebie, - at least I had paid my dues, in New York.

And now this crowd are singing the words to another old song. Not one of my best, but who

cares, now? Perhaps the cleaner was wiser than he knew - it's all bollocks.

They smile up at me, this crowd. And I can hear that some of them can sing. There is no gap

between they, and I: We All Is. Or Am.

But a truer joy for me was to come in later times, as Catherine sang tunelessly and sometimes

mumbling, the entire song of # Please Listen # verse and chorus. And at only three. She made move-

ments to; # You throw my feelings, down to the gutter, # and # I've got something to say to you. #

Simple movements obviously taught by her mother, Katherine, perhaps in her attempt to please me,

but enchanting nonetheless. Sorry cleaner; not bollocks, for like you Catherine did not know

who I was, and she did not much care, wanting only the warmth of my arms, the gentle touch

of my hands upon her face, reassuring her that she was loved, I knowing how precious her youth

was, that that time would pass away all too soon, she not aware or caring that that song was mine,

In Time Book Two 277

but I glad that my little song found a nest in her little sweet mind, even knowing then that in later

times those words, those lyrics, would inevitably fade from her thoughts. As she herself would

fade from me. And I always knowing that even in these now written words, I lie to myself; for she

did not fade.

But our concert was already over. G stepped up to join us on stage, to wild drunken

applause, but it was too late, as M and I had finished and we stood to leave the stage. Now G

was too late even to make a performance. With a Saint. It seemed I had fallen a long way. 'Just

you and me, boyo.' I murmured to M, as we stepped down to walk away. Let G stew in the juice

of his fake applause (But I can't play without you. he whined plaintively, standing, staring help-

lessly at the audience. Nor with us it seems. I had replied.), for I knew the siren lure of a thousand

barmaids would already be calling him away again soon enough, with the soothing murmurings of

# Drink me drink me, Drink me drink me, Drink me drink me, Drink me drink me, Drink me

drink me, Drink me drink me. Drink me drink me. #

M nodded, smiling, 'Was that Welsh or Irish?'

'Ha. I can do neither.' I looked around, at this audience, some with elbows locked, sitting

and arhythmically swaying like gangly enthusiastic children in a primary school. It prompted a

thought, having read a sign for a local talent show, 'We should go back to the old school. Do a

gig there.'

He looked enthusiastic. 'Yeah, that would be great!'

'Visit the closet again, - before it's over.'

He asked, puzzled, 'Over?'

I nod, but do not explain.

Yes; I was of the old school. And also there lay in my heart lay some farcical, absurd

fantasy, a pathetic pointless hope that Katherine the First might reappear, as in that Passion time

before, not then knowing, not even realising who I was (or what she was) to become, to play

In Time Book Two 278

again those, her simple uncomplicated songs, before me.

And it was curious to go back to the old school, to wander its halls, thin avenues of fear

and loathing of a bygone age, lined with faded (their colour, as that time, now long gone) prints

of Impressionists and seemingly endless long black and white photographs of past school years,

numerically dated, every step taken receding to another distant year, but now there lay a feeling

that this building, although of course real, was somehow merely an abstract memory; the faded

prints remained, and the only immediate change I noticed was that the school photographs had

changed to colour, and had done so for some years. It made the black and white photographs

seem not like accurate representations of the past but as icons from a different age, as indeed I

was, and they were. I looked closer searching for our year, but M urged, 'We have to find the hall.'

How had he forgotten where so quickly? I walked on, to direct him, resolving to find and examine

our earlier earthly representations later.

Two young girls recognised us, and startled at seeing us out of context, giggled. Almost as

if too shy to ask for autographs, lest our nearness affect (or infect) their being, but I laughed, 'Hey

girls, let me sign your satchels!', and they did not refuse. Soon there was a small crowd gathered,

and M was happy to sign too, until a member of staff turned a corner and cried out, 'Come on girls!

Just because there's ..' and he could not resist an air of disdain, '.. pop stars here ...'

'Sorry,' (and I must surely have misheard) 'Mister Smith.' they mumbled as they reluctantly

dispersed. I hum under my breath, # ... Teacher ... Leave those kids alone .. # hoping against

hope that these children wouldn't evolve (set?) into mere concrete blocks, bricks to fill the empty

space of vacuous lives.

'This way, this way.' the teacher instructs us, curiously gesticulating with his twisting arm

the appropriate direction to the main hall, obviously unaware that this is my childhood territory,

and that he looked so familiar to me.

I notice that he too does not touch us.

In Time Book Two 279

 And after the acoustic gig of a few songs, and the Passion instigated, having sighted

Katherine, I say to M I will meet him later in the - our local Chifwick - bar, as I wanted to walk

alone through the school halls again, but he replies, as if a sudden interruption at my remembrance,

'Do you remember that room!?'

I of course remember. 'Right next to the physics lab.'

'Oh yeah, right. You were always .. good at that.'

'And my first job in fact. Too bad I wanted to become a pop star.'

'Too .. bad?'

We find it quickly enough, retreading our steps. It's a tiny enclave, and was, in a very

distant time before, our secret lair.

'Who gave us the key?' I ask.

'Oh yeah, yeah ..' He repeatedly clicks his fingers (as I count seven times), trying to

remember, 'It was ...' But the name eludes him.

'Smith, wasn't it?' I suggest.

'Yeah, Smith! The perve.'

Smith, - the old part time music teacher. Gave Simone a few clarinet lessons, from what I

remember. Bitter and twisted before his time. Too talented for teaching, but not talented,

or healthy enough to make a living, having smoked too much to enable him to blow his

clarinet for long. He would have made a reasonable minor professor in a provincial college

somewhere, as I discovered he eventually did. And to unbelievably marry Katherine. My (fond)

memories of him in those earlier school days were of the astronomy nights as Simone and I had

gazed up at he stars. Holding hands as we did in secret when his back was turned. All before

that fateful final Malvern trip, of course. M asks, 'He used to look through his telescope into

the girls showers didn't he? - that's what I heard.'

In Time Book Two 280

 'Urban myth, I'm sure. Though he married a girl from here.'

'No kidding?'

'Katherine.'

He stared at me, as he struggled to find the words. 'No .. kidding .. So Cathy's .. ?'

I nod. 'Long time ago, though. He's dead now.'

'Right ..' he shrugs, - we are all dead in the long run.

But curiously, in those early years, Smith had given me the key to this lair to store his

telescope in, perhaps to bask in some imagined reflected glory that he was enthusing the young

by giving us a sense of responsibility (whereas Simone and I were happy to experiment with our,

strangely asexual, kissing experiments in this, our new secret closet) but as Smith was soon

enough forced to tender his resignation after Simone's death and the revelations of his telescopic

meanderings away from the heavenly stars to his more prosaic but immediate earthly gratifications,

I had secretly kept the key, and in later times we kept our amps in this tiny annex, to quickly put

posters up of our pop heroes of that time, and install a kettle. The organ pipes of the so far (and

forever) uncompleted reconstruction of the school organ were also stored there. Perhaps it is my

imagination that M had volunteered to restore it (for he was good with electronics?), until we

quickly decided that they took up too much room and dumped them in the giant school trash

bins, the ends of the long pipes jutting out into the sky. If only we had had the nous then to sell

the lead, we would have made a 'profit' and been undiscovered in our secret hideaway, but we,

as the lead pipes already were, quickly revealed and we were accused of destroying a unique

instrument and threatened with expulsion. I was subsequently always to claim that the door had

always been left unlocked, for with Smith now long gone they had no way of disputing my

account. The telescope in the meantime had disappeared. It was curious that the door was

subsequently found to be locked again, and the quest for the keys unfulfilled.

'.. Remember when? ..' asks M.

In Time Book Two 281

 I nod. 'Yes. It was a long time ago, but, ..' I feel in my pocket, take out the key, '.. I wonder.'

'You're kidding me?'

I place the key in the lock, turn, and the door opens.

'That's fucking unbelievable.'

'Yes ' It was as if, once locked, inaccessible, the room had been forgotten. And how many

decades had passed, between then, and now?

There are heavy, slow footsteps in the hall, obviously an adult. Almost by instinct we step

together into the room and silently close the door.

We wait, backs pressed against the wall like hiding naughty infants. The footsteps die away.

We turn and face each other, and smile in our successful secrecy. There was an intimacy again then,

for that moment. Memories of the days before living. Before experience.

I turned on the light. But there lay before us the disappointment of memories; it was just a

shabby small room. Slight fire damage remained, our posters having been ripped and set on fire in

a corner, presumably by a then furious potential organist. I picked a fragment up, brushed off the

years of accumulated dust: Marc Bolan. I too had been young once. I remembered going to see

him in Wembley in the early seventies with K, and walking all the way home because my patent

plastic glam shoes were too tight. I smiled at the memory, and at the absurdities, of the obsessions

of youth, of fashion. The brevity of being. But there had been a joy then, even if Bolan himself

would be dead within a few short years. I had read the news (oh boy) that day on the train back

from that holiday to Wales with K and Chomiac and Vincent with indifference then, as I counted

the holes (not of Blackburn, Lancashire, but of Malvern, Worcestershire) in black cigarette burnt

train seats, for my interest that day lay with Elgar's cottage, as I was already about to return to

college, to begin my final year on, in all senses of the word, my second (for Katherine the First

had by then rejected then my overtures, the fooling coin having fallen silently, sullenly away into

the darkness) girlfriend Nadine. I wondered if he, K, or they, Chomiac and Vincent ever remem-

In Time Book Two 282

bered our trip together. Or that Chomiac had fatefully introduced me to Korsakoff,

- he is not my father

i know simone but i must have met him that week

but I place

the singed, scorched fragment gently back on the floor anyway. The paper gravestone, to collect dust

for another twenty, thirty years. The organ pipes had long gone, but the kettle was still there, lid miss-

ing. The childish magic of our secret hiding place was gone; no, just a small shabby room, no secret

lair at all really. The only thing of interest, as I remember now, writing about those imagined, lost,

past days, was a small window in a corner of a small room, as I have now, in the present day, a small

window in a corner of a small room. Thirty, forty years have passed, and the only difference is the

window faces another corner; towards the setting sun, and not the dawn of a November 16th.

We spent a few moments looking around. Yes, the room was smaller, dirtier than we remem-

bered. And there were no teachers to hide from now, only the hiding game we had just played, as if

in a vain attempt to recapture some past excitement.

We left the room, and I, in a strange puerile irrelevant act of defiance, leave the door open,

and unlocked. But retain the key. 'Wicked.' says M. I arrange to meet him in The Bulls Head in a

short time. He does not ask questions as to my hesitation, but perhaps there was some curiosity,

as he followed the gaze of my eyes. 'I will need to talk to Katherine again.' I explained (?).

The physics lab was locked, but I imagined I could see through the distant window

where I had often watched Katherine walk past. She of the First time before. Turning away,

as if even from the past, I walked along the corridors, now empty and dark. It wasn't difficult

to guess where our school year was. Just subtract thirty, forty or so steps. I peered closer at our,

the first year, for I wanted to see if Simone looked as I had remembered her. We were all there.

Slightly unfocused in the dark. K and M and G, standing separately, rows apart, no air, no aura

of togetherness, no band there, then. Perhaps to each other they were then just faces in another

In Time Book Two 283

crowd. I looked at others, vaguely, barely recognisable, - excepting Jason of course, who in (my)

much later famous times was to paint my portrait, - but their names had slipped away. So young

and innocent. Or perhaps as yet just unlined by experience. The frame was held on my two side

screws. It wasn't hard to prise the frame off, but the glass cracked. A tiny nick in my wrist, nothing

serious.

Katherine's (although younger than I) photograph, was taken a few years later. I stepped

backwards a little to search, each single step a year, not sure exactly where, or when, in chronological

terms, it lay, when strangely enough, it was the first colour photograph of the school year. Well, she

had brought colour into my life. She looked young then. As I had done. And of course - obviously! -

she was that age when I knew her. How obvious, but only now. Slightly different from my imaginings

(and from my sadder, later experiences), but not less, or more, attractive; it was her, but not her:

Katherine. My Katherine, but not my Katherine.

I made to prise this frame off too, and it gave way easily enough, but there was a noise

behind me. Footsteps approaching. I stepped away frames clumsily tucked away but now hidden.

A voice asked, 'Sir..?' and I turned, and again fame held its compensations; 'Oh, it's you. Good

show tonight. Thanks for coming down.'

'No problem.' I murmur. 'Mr Smith ..?'

'Ha, a lot of people make that mistake, it's Mr Smit.' He attempted to make a joke, 'I

always tell them to drop their 'Aitchs.'

I murmur, 'Ah, yes.' as I turned away. Perhaps the head teacher thought it was an insulting

quirk of stardom, the arrogance of not offering to shake hands goodbye, and to thank me again

for my time, but I could feel a small sticky patch of blood upon my fingers.

And the rectangular patches of empty space left by the stolen frames seemed to me to

glow guilty in the twilight.

In the pub I gave M the school photograph. 'Happier times.' I say.

In Time Book Two 284

 'Happier?' he replies, examining the fractured glass before wiping away the minute blood

stains. 'Cut yourself? Wondered what you were planning. You were a long time.'

'Sorry about that, - first had to drop Katherine off home. Wasn't that much impressed by my

car, unfortunately. Still,' as I look down to my wrist as if to explain, 'More glass cut than dog bite.' I

answer, examining the cut tissue. Would look like a bass clef, that scar, when healed.

'Yes ..?' asked M, bemused.

'Tried to put some colour into it.' I continued.

'Oh look,' he exclaims, pointing, his attention now distracted by pictorial history, 'there's '

But he too has forgotten the names of others. I examine my own frame.

'Who's that?' he asks.

'Someone I ..' and even there, then, after the decades lived, there is hesitation, '.. loved. I think.'

'You think? You either knew or you didn't, mate. Who is it?'

I pointed out The Lady of the Lake. 'Katherine.'

'Katherine?' He looked closer. 'That singer? The one that was singing tonight? I remember

her. She was good. Ahead of her time. Good looking, too. You missed the boat there, mate. Marry ..

-ing .. ed Smith didn't you say?' Missed the boat. Perhaps he had not, after all, realised, recognised

that the Katherine he was to meet in later times was the same Katherine as in the time before, but

then, as if awakening a slow realisation from the depths of the # Ocean Waves # there was t/his flash

of recognition (perhaps I had been humming softly), and he pointed very slowly, 'That Katherine ..

was your wife?'

- they sit with me join us

I nodded, but not with happiness, and as M gazed upon those photo's, now smiling at vaguely

remembered faces, - for my dead wife would not be of interest to him, or anybody else, really, - as

my tragically died students were shamefully not of interest to me; just there one week, next, not;

written lives in a soon enough discarded diary, - I knew he could not know what stories lay behind

In Time Book Two 285

them; their subsequent histories, their joys, loves and hates, as I did not, of the many, all others: all

you are given are the images, sometimes a few scraps of text, a name, a title, for you to write your

own stories, your memory to construct your own scripts of other lives. What future secrets lay

behind (and sometimes before) those now static colours? What secrets lay behind that enamelled

image of Simon? - had others written their own stories for him? As I had written my own imagined

life of Simone's?

- am real

no simone just thoughts in my brian you must say goodbye soon

M turned back to his own photograph, smiling again at a recognition, of a grey scaled image,

then pointed, 'Oh, that looks like .. Simone. Do you remember ... she .... was the daughter of that

writer, who became famous .. with that pervy book. Korsakov? '

Courseican, - I should like to forget, M.

- will never leave you despite what you write of me

Yes, I should like to forget, but Simone is still with me, although her voice is quieter

now, and she still afraid of the light, appearing only in ever darker moments. I know the drugs

they give me have dulled my senses, and she is soon to go, to leave me again. Which will be

a pity, for she has guided me throughout the years, her voice, her presence. I miss her touch.

Perhaps these words are all that will remain of her, a memory in text.

I finger the serrated pages of black scrawl. There is too much to get down, in this short time

left to me, either to be alive, or to be trapped forever within these poisoning walls, too many painful

experiences that needs to be exorcised, of the later times of Katherine, and Catherine, as if a life's

vomit can be (re)assembled into any meaning, into this readable package, these datable passages.

Will the inchoate mess coalesce into coherence? To offer myself a salvation? Of any sort? And is

there any point, now, for me? For theirs is a dead time, gone. As is mine. All I have is letters, from

lovers and strangers. From myself. To myself. When we were famous we had lots of letters. Too

In Time Book Two 286

many, to open.

There became a tedium in opening letters, the first ten enjoyable, in their infantile adulation,

but the next ninety revealed quickly enough there was to be no more depth than that. We resolved

soon enough to only open the first ten given to us, randomly selected from the batch, the tedious rest

being designated to some minion to autograph, affectionately called Copy Cat Brat, until the numbers

received became absurd, and a machine was purchased, to reproduce and enclose a 'signed' group

photo as a reply. At least it kept him employed. And the receiving h/im/er happy. (Eventually we

promoted Copy Cat Brat to become our roadie, he having earlier sold his cab to G, and soon enough

to be now meaninglessly called Trucker Brat. I was much later to ask him to inspect Rahim's van,

for I was sure it was not safe enough to make that return journey to Srinagar, what with that faulty

handbrake, an inspection that was unfortunately to led to T Brat's d(r)ownfall.)

Presumably the stabbing fan hadn't received his signed photo.

But occasionally, by chance, a interesting or curious letter filtered through (and the letter

from Katherine the Second had been randomly picked up by M, out of one of a thousand that day, -

it's still strange that it 'inevitably' found its way to me from an obsolete address).'Wow, look at this

one!' exclaimed M, as he started reading. 'As an expert in calligraphy I have worked out that you, -

and she's written this bit in capital letters; S - A - I - N - T are ... is? the manifestation of the d .. evil.'

He looked up and tapped the paper. 'She's even written down the formula.'

'She?' I ask, thinking that surely the word should be; numerology.

M checked the end of the paper. 'Yep. Girl called Rhia - '

- she is the one

G interjected, laughing, 'Rear end!'

M continued, without a pause, now constantly used to G's irrelevant interruptions, ' - Is

that actually a name? Wonder how I knew it was a girl.' He pondered for a moment. 'Must have

been the writing. It's very ..' he examined it again, peering closer,' Um .. flourishy?' Was that even

In Time Book Two 287

a word? 'Anyway,' he looked up and stared into my eyes, as if they might suddenly change colour.

From blue to red, now tainted with the evil of the devil, as if just that extra consonant defined the

difference. 'How does it feel to be the,' and here M now deliberated over every letter, 'D - E - V - I - L ?'

I smiled faintly, irritated by the tinkling in my ears, 'Perhaps Rear End and I might end up

getting # D - I - V - O - R - C - E # ' M stared at me blankly, which I found surprising, considering

his long list of songs. Although, of course, he still seemed oblivious of any developing (?) situation

between K and his wife. I refrained from adding, That's a song you should look up. but instead

shrugged, 'Never mind, but you won't be the first to suggest I'm evil. It's Aitch E double L for me.

What was her formula? '

After another further puzzled glance he attempted to explain, as if reading aloud a recipe;

that it was the sum total of capital letters and numerals in an obsolete diary divided by ... I quickly

realised that of course it was based upon my stage name, and her fascination was with the illusion

of the being of Saint, or whatever permutation she wished to construe or construct from those,

and other, letters. For my real name is easily discoverable, even if only by myself as my memory

returns in fits and starts, as the patterns of shapes and colours and sounds and letters of my life

have re(rhia?)assembled themselves. If Rear End had been that interested in any reality - and

perhaps would have afforded her more possibilities in her professed practice of numerology.

I had already lost interest in her explanation as transcribed vocally by M. I interrupted,

'I get the picture. Sounds a .. N - U - T - T - E - R.'

'More than one in the world.' M agrees. 'Strange, though,' as he read further on, 'it also

says; Don't fuck your daughters, in ordinary letters and then SUPI ... DEO? in capital letters.'

'Stupid Deo?' asked G. 'Is that a band name?'

'Stupid God?' asked K. 'Is that you too?'

'What? Give me that.'

M handed me the letter, before adding, 'Sounds backwards, this one. The crazy bit made

In Time Book Two 288

more sense. There's also a bit of Chinese, or is it Japanese?' And here he looked at G, 'At the rear

end.'

Rear end?

'R - I - P.' said K. 'Rear-end In Please.'

# Y - M - C - A # chanted G as he put down another letter, unread. 'We don't have to read

them all, do we?'

'Y - M - C - A? You're My Cute Arse?' suggested M.

I shake my head, 'Or even sign the pictures. We'll get Copy Cat Brat to do that.'

G smiles, hazy in his polite response, but is vaguely curious as to my meaning. I do not

explain. Better to remain inscrutable, especially as there might actually be no meaning, only a

faint remembrance that in a particular episode of The Simpsons (and how many had there been

now? Several hundred?) Bart was paid to forge Krusty's signature. As our Copy Cat had been

so paid. He (who I had taken to calling, but not to his own amusement, Brat) was happy when

we eventually invested in a machine, and was given a different set of keys, not this time to unlock

the copier cover but to open a lorry door, and return to his first love, driving. (I was not to know

then I'd inadvertently given him the keys to another lock; my wife's heart.) 'Where's the envelope

to this letter?' I ask. M looks at the small pile, but I can see immediately, as if there is some spatial

connection between the container and the contained, that it is the partially hidden envelope with

Chinese calligraphy written upon it. I point and, now noticing too, M hands me the envelope. 'Might

be another curse.' he says. The envelope bore stamps from Australia, and I now knowing the letter is

Hypatia's joke. I nod, now smiling. 'Very probably. Can you hear carols?' I ask, to their bemused

shaking of heads.

' 'Bout time you wrote one.' said K, with too obvious a trace of sarcasm. G had started writing

capital letters upon another randomly found envelope.

Rear-end of the earth. Ria. Rhia.

In Time Book Two 289

 I remember Rhia.

Walking by the Sydney Opera House, wondering how similar, upon close inspection, to the

tiles of the space shuttle they appeared, - for I had, in earlier times, remained interested in astronomy

even after Simone's death, - but obviously before the adult shock of realisation of Smith's telescope /

girl shower scandal, - Smith had organised a 'tribute' school trip to the US which as a child I had

been unable to afford, my disappearing father having died his half life lived radioactive death,

and my inconsolable mother then too disappearing from my view, but in my later, richer touring

adulthood I was to visit a space museum in America, - before or after the meeting of Christine in

New York I cannot remember, - and consequently regarded myself as an 'expert', even if I could

not name all the eighty seven

- eighty eight

constellations as Simone had been able to, and the woman sat

smiling at me, as if waiting for my arrival, holding colourful flowers,

- azurebloomingchalkyruddyxanthicverdantpeppermintstalks flowers on my grave

seemingly as if in recognition,

and basking almost as if a lizard in the sun. I had my third best guitar (given to me in earlier days as

a farewell present by Nadine, - the one in fact we had bought on that day out on November 15th -

perhaps she felt guilty) strapped to my shoulder and I wandered over to her and strummed a few 'e'

minor chords to check the tuning, before beginning Villa Lobos's Prelude No. 1. Her smile at my

attention became a grin, having presumably (now) expected a simple serenaded love song, of the

sort we used to (and were at the time) sell(ing); but I was never that 'surface' - always 'deep', as

she must always have known. After a few minutes, after my mini recital, she said, handing me this

unexpected cascade of colour,

- she is the one

In Time Book Two 290

 'Very good. It's so nice to see you again, for you to come .. again -

just as good as I remember.'

I asked, 'What's your name?'

And there was this thin faint veil of disappointment, 'Oh .. you still don't know? I would

have thought ..' and there was this strange slight hesitation, as if she was deliberating her own

name, 'Never mind, you can call me Rhia.'

- marihah she is the one

'Rh - ia?' I answer, as if to confirm. 'Two syllables. I can write you a two syllabled love song.'

'Yes ...?' She curiously perused me as if assessing my honesty, or competence. 'Yes. Should

be, as you know? five syllables, but yes, all right.' Then she stood, turned a fraction, waited

momentarily, and I stood to follow. Time to go home. The love songs I would sing later.

And they were sung later, as the day drifted inevitably to night, and inevitably again to day,

as if I were to inevitably turn and write another page, and I murmuring softly hummed carols, as

we had sung together in college days, after her Friedman times, the moon clearer now, than those

dank days in London.

In the morning I noticed there was a large Chinese character painted in blue upon the wall.

'What is that?' I asked, touching her thigh, (re)imagining the coloured chalks of time past, as she

slowly awoke.

She smiled sleepily, 'Oh you'd like that. It's the character you have to learn for all the strokes

you need to learn Chinese. It means; eternal, forever. Guess how it's pronounced?'

I, of course had no idea, so a shrug had to suffice.

'Jung.' she pronounced. 'Get it? # Forever Jung # '

'Ha ha. Very clever.'

I watched her as naked she collected a pad of coloured paper from a drawer and drew out

In Time Book Two 291

a cream coloured sheet. Then picked up a small ink brush from an inkwell.

'I'll write you something.' she said. 'A memento.'

'Love and good wishes?' I asked.

'Something like that.' Rhia quickly, deftly drew this string of blue characters. I was impressed,

no longer the clumsy (to me) scratchings of long ago college days.

'And you don't look Chinese.'

'Yes.' she agreed. 'They must be really clever, these Chinese, to be able to write these squiggles.'

'Ah, sarcasm, I see. I thought that went out in the fifties.'

She was waving the sheet gently to dry the ink, then gave it to me. 'So that you will think

of me.'

'What does it mean?' I asked.

She looked at me straight in the eyes, almost, I thought then, as if deliberately unblinking,

penetrating. 'A good truth.' Then she made these sounds, a string of noises to my ears, but they held

a rhythm.

There was a pause, but evidently she wasn't going to say, or give away, any more. 'Well, thank

you Rhia ..' (And there was still a puzzlement there, that this might not be a - her- real name. What

had five syllables meant?), 'I'll pin it up at home.' I examined the characters more closely; they had

a natural rhythm in the way she had drawn them, demonstrating experience, a deep knowledge. 'I

knew a girl at college who could write like this. But you're better.'

- she is the one

'I should hope so, by now.' Rhia replies. And then, 'Are you better yet? I want you to come

home.'

- join us it is just like home

no the living must live you must say goodbye simone they tell me

Just little pictures, but they meant something. It was incredible; a Chinese person could look

In Time Book Two 292

at them, and understand their meaning. Yes, as she had just said, they must be really clever. Perhaps

one day they will take over the world. I looked at the wall, and there, a large pinned sheet with

hundreds of random short and long lines, in batches of three, stacked neatly upon each other.

'Morse code?' I asked.

'No, trigrams. Yin and Yang. I sometimes use them to divine - no, not divine, but to interpret,

what I'm feeling. I became interested when you told me about the metasymbology of playing cards

at college. '

I did?

'I thought you were talking rubbish, that Brolly's philosophy course was finally doing

your brain in, - or was it brian, as Noddy always used to call it? - anyway, not the first person

to go mad from thinking too much - four seasons, four suits? Twelve months, twelve crown cards,

thirteen new moons a year, thirteen cards per suit, fifty two weeks, fifty two cards? Interestingly

crazy, but then you always were, weren't you. Drove Nadine up the wall, but it got me thinking .. '

- she is the one

I still looked puzzled, for although I remembered Carol, it must have been after .. Nadine had

gone. And then I had a memory of a word, 'Runes?'

'Not quite. It's like you can interpret your background emotion, by casting, in the old days,

yarrow sticks, but now with, - I use coins.'

- we threw coins

quiet Background emotions? Yarrow sticks?

Rhia pointed, 'Three long lines means, heaven, father, head, hardness. Three short broken

lines means, earth, mother, garment, tenderness. Eight basic trigrams, mixed up to produce sixty

four signs of wisdom. The Chinese had five main elements; earth, fire, water, wood and metal. Early

templates for being.'

In Time Book Two 293

 Being? 'How old is all this?'

'Five thousand years or so. A lot older, in fact, than your playing cards .. Perhaps they could

count the days, even back then.'

'Wow.' It seemed so much more interesting than the throwing of coins which Simone and I

had played during our too short, fatefully interrupted childhood days.

- you killed me

no simone you took my place i remember now and i remember us standing in the dark

holding hands as smith showed us the malvern stars clearer than the city stars and we were

impressed by the mere quantity of years not then appreciating even with smith s attempted

explanations the notion of scale and that we threw the coins the next day they fell by the

bridge you are dead now and dead forever but we live forever too you must say goodbye

- you killed me

no simone i remember now

I looked again at the script Rhia had written me. 'How long did it take for you to learn all

this?'

'Three years, several, normally seven characters a day. I made quicker progress after I came

out here. For that years course. Distracted a bit by Friedman's visit. You hadn't met Katherine again

by then, had you? And as you know, what with being pregnant with the twins, East and West, I fell

on hard times. You saved me, I want to thank you for that.'

She confused me with her words, this assumed familiarity, And as you know when I do not

know; of Friedman's visit, - that the man who stole my Elgar essay was here, in Australia? (although

Simone's revenge was to steal his wife's, Christine's, oboe),

- no did not

of the twins East and West - for who

would call their children after compass points? and the irritating tinkling beginning again, so I asked,

In Time Book Two 294

definitely attempting to change the subject, 'Have you been to China?'

She shook her head. 'Unfortunately not.'

That was strange, I thought, as even I, almost immediately after the beginning of my touring

career, - although that long ago time now merely reduced to the words The Time Before, - had

been to China. And surely, if she could speak and write the language ...? 'You should. Different

worlds and all that.'

She looked at me, appraising me distantly as she had the day before, this vaguely interesting

bug under her visceral microscope, then bluntly asked, 'Then take me there, - like you promised

me before.'

Before? I smiled. Tempting as her nakedness was. 'I wish I could. But time ... is against me.'

She looked at me, knowing. One night of passion, it was what they had both wanted. A

strange reunion. 'Where are you playing next?' she asked.

'A couple of smaller gigs in Melbourne, Adelaide, then North to somewhere.'

'Anywhere?'

'Yes.' As she had realised, all cities looked the same, after a while. 'Anywhere. You're not

from Australia?' I asked, almost as if stating the obvious.

She tutted, irritatingly clicking her tongue, as if at my unaware idiocy. 'Still don't remember?

No, my course finishes soon, then I'm returning home.

- like home

Would be nice if you could too. In the

meantime I'm escaping from my husband in London. Looks a lot like you. But he seems to have

turned into a bit of a Zombie, - looks like you, but not you.'

- capgras

what

In Time Book Two 295

 - cothard

what you annoy me now you must say goodbye soon

- these are the words they say of you

only when i m sleeping i don t hear when i m sleeping you must say goodbye soon

Meantime? 'I should be flattered then?'

But Rhia did not answer and they fell into silence. I watched her dress. She was tall

and slim, tanned from the Australian sun. Lithe, almost. Well developed. Obviously not Amazonian,

but as the teenagers, - and as scientists more accurately would say, fit: fit for purpose. Her

husband in London was lucky, or unlucky, if she was escaping from him.

I was not normally curious, but her subsequent silence had disconcerted me, 'Why are

you escaping your husband?'

She smiled thinly, pursing her lips and disapproving of his curiosity, but she answered with

an air of finality, as if reluctantly relieved to reveal a painful truth. 'Russell loved me very much,

but he's forgotten me, and he is too young for me now, in his forgetfulness. I need him here, now.'

- she is talking of you you left me

no they took me unconscious back to london i remember

Clumsily I attempt, 'How long has he forget - forgotten you?'

'Seven ' I waited for Rhia to continue but there was no further comment. She was obviously

one for the pregnant pause. But obviously forgotten for more than nine months.

He loved me too much. And he is too young. And she needed him now. I wasn't sure what

she meant, but I had an idea, but ideas are just idle speculations, irrelevant musings. As my college

philosophy course had revealed to me. Except ethics perhaps. For what is morality? I had loved

someone once, too much. And I had been too young for her, even though in actual counted years

she was younger, and in the sense I had still, then, this other life to live, before I could, - and what

was that now too overused word? commit? Well, Katherine the First had finally given up waiting

In Time Book Two 296

and gone with Smith, and both the First and the Second are gone now, in all senses of the word,

- they sit with me join us

and this instead was to be my life, and I was living it. I asked again, as if there might be found some

truth in my insistence, ' Yes .. how long has he been gone?'

For Rhia to mumble, almost reluctantly, in the absurdity of her w/an/ai/ting time, 'Seven

years.'

One, three, five, seven. The prime of her life, gone. I murmur, 'Your name is not Penelope,

is it.'

She shook her head, 'No. I didn't mind, but your book will be full soon. And you will

need to wake up. By then. For what will happen if you run out of pages, of time?' And then she

added, inexplicably (and words upon which I have pondered for far longer than my years spent

upon philosophical studies, for she was not looking at her Chinese calligraphy or Yin and Yang

wall chart ), 'All words have a past, or future tense.'

They were murmured almost as if she were asking me to deliver a message. (In later times

I was to wonder if I'd misheard her and Rhia had actually said, worlds. Perhaps she had.)

Rhia was already dressed, jeans, T shirt, sandals. You didn't need much in this weather.

Perhaps I should have been born in Australia. She gestured towards my guitar, 'I remember the

day you bought that. Surprised Nadine didn't take it, but then, she had that piano didn't she.'

And then she walked towards the door. A curt nod. Finality. Dismissal. I dressed quickly, with

no time to check my face in the small mirror, just a reflection to and of the sound of tinkling wind

chimes. She was waiting at the door, hand on door lock, almost as if ready to flick an electric switch.

'I hope you will remember me,' she said, smiling, 'in future times.'

'Feel free to call again.' I offer.

'As Rhia or Hypatia?' She asks.

'Umm ..'

In Time Book Two 297

 She stepped back and closed the door: Execution.

But that was in a far distant time. On our last far Eastern tour, as far as I can remember.

And as I was much later to discover, hadn't M had been a friend of her father's? A bass player

who sometimes sat in on gigs? After M had fulfilled his band obligations. And had her name even

been Rhia? - surely he would have remembered? But Saint had kept that woman's parchment

(a word so much nicer than paper) of Chinese calligraphy, had it framed, and it had, as she

had suggested, or implied (?), brought him immense good luck.

The others were continuing their game of acronyms. 'BURMA?' asked M.

'Um ..'

'Be Upstairs Ready My Angel.'

'Ahh ..'

'NORWICH.' I interrupt, as I fold the letter into my pocket. K looked disapprovingly at me

that I had leapt back so quickly into their game, after my period of antipodean reflection, but more

probably because that he didn't know this one.

'Go on then.'

'Nickers Off Ready When I Come Home.'

'Oh very good.' says M. 'I can see you've set a challenge.'

'I accept your challenge.' I reply. And as I look at K I add, 'And it won't be TABOOO.'

He looked at me blankly.

Words spoken, are just words. Perhaps I should have written the rules down, on that early

night in The Bull's Head.

As G, having finished writing now, looks up and reads his long list of letters. 'O-I-K-B-I-

W-T-I-T-H.'

We look at him puzzled.

In Time Book Two 298

 'OIK is a letter?' I ask. 'Surely a syllable?'

K struggled with, 'Oik-bi-with?'

'Are you sure that's a place name?' asks M, almost as if anxious to add another city's name

to his long list. I suspected no one had yet written a song about Norwich (although the town

might have in legal terms become a city), but BURMA formed other letters in my mind, D-P-T,

which made no sense. No, Oikbiwtith hardly rolled off the tongue, did it. Sounded like a punk

rock song. 'Come on, explain ..' I ask.

G raised his glass, and deliberated slowly, 'One - In - Kate - Bush - Is - Worth - Ten - In -

The - Hand.'

The others laugh, but I keep a straight face, as if somehow the insult is to Katherine the

First. 'You haven't quite got the hang of this acronym game.' I say.

'A crow nim?' asks G. He seemed genuinely puzzled.

'Look forward to going there, though.' says K.

'Somehow I think I've missed that boat.' I say, with an air of sadness that made the others

look at me curiously. But not for me to explain; For Katherine the First was Kate Bush, before

Kate Bush, was Kate Bush.

Simone watches as I write. In the silence and darkness of night. But always there the

hum, not the true silence. Perhaps the true silence was never there, except before I 'was' born,

and after I 'am' dead.

I ask the band was good was nt it And she nods in agreement, her shadows flickering

ever more faintly now. Yes, those days were good. I remember. The first times. To then add it s

a shame you never saw us play

Simone Korsakov seems distant now, as I put down my pen, as if a faithful friend is

fading from view, to leave me again, but this time finally, a girl no longer of relevance, or use,

in any practical or emotional sense, as in time all my friends have inevitably faded, becoming

In Time Book Two 299

smaller in the distance, in memory (excepting Katherine the first, who seems to grow forever

larger - perhaps my brian is indeed bigger), and in geographical space, as we move across this

planet, and my scribble does indeed seem smaller too, as if to cram what time is left into an

ever smaller space, as my life, and the pages thin, towards the end. But I am trapped, not merely

physically, but also by these memories, even though I know them to be faulty, sometimes false,

that these words are imaginings; memory can be dangerous: look backward but never tread

backwards, for the past is quicksand. Yes, words again repeated. My memory fails me now -

did I - as Russell Stuart, mention a girlfriend in Australia? Or did she mention him? Did they

ever re-meet? And would Penel Carol Marhia know them? Brian? Brain? Simone fades as the

light enters, the door opening for Penel Carol Marhia to sit watching me in silence. 'Did you

know Rhia? Gloria?' I ask. Irritated, she replies, 'No, not Gloria - Marhia.'

Glory, Gloria, Halleyuyah.

'You, in Australia?'

'Yes, me. Hypatia.'

'I've been gone seven years?'

'Not you .. ' and she hesitates, reluctant to speak, in her jealousy of the dead, and as if souls

ascend, points upwardly, 'they.'

- they sit with me join us

no you say she is the one it s time to say goodbye

'How many pages to go?' I ask, my eyes closing. I hear Carol Marhia moving to pick

up the diary. The rustle of flicking pages. The silence at the end of recorded time.

- russell

'Not that many.' she answers, as I close my eyes. 'Anyway, they tell me you'll be well

enough to come home soon. Though .. I should like us to move to another house. You never

In Time Book Two 300

told me that was Katherine's childhood home. That's a bit sick isn't it? And I can't have you

looking at the fucking neighbours through that telescope. And whilst they're fucking, for god's

sake!? And you were with Christine before? We were living in the same flat! No wonder she

was always crying! You're revealing yourself to be a bit of a bastard aren't you. And the house, -

too near the river I think. The council still haven't bricked up that sodding wall.'

Revealing yourself. Yes, even to 'my self' it seems. Yes, there is a guilt there, that I

had never told her, that I had bought - that we lived in Katherine's house. I wish I could feel

ashamed. Still, the wall should have been repaired by now, - but that's hardly my fault is it - with

new, not Victorian bricks. But the sizes are different, as are the colours, and perhaps the wall is

a listed monument of some kind. And I will fill the/se pages soon enough, I'm sure. Time for

another dinner party. Perhaps, soon enough I will be sated. And my eyes remain closed and I

feign sleep. But she is not now so easily fooled and murmurs, 'You will have to say goodbye

soon. If not to her, then me.' and walks away nonetheless, silent footsteps melting to the burr

of rubber. Perhaps I met Hypatia again. At a dinner party.

'Ah well, I've been around.'

'From pole to pole then?'

Gloria - Marhia smiled, 'And East and West too. The Amazon was interesting, strange

dialects, a challenge to understand.'

Penelope asked, still trying not stare (for this Gloria - Marhia looked exactly like her -

and Brian hadn't even made a single comment) 'You've always been interested in languages then?'

'Yes. Don't know why I always found them easy. Easier than philosophy, anyway - waste

of time, all that.' She tapped her head. 'Well some of it was. Must be part of my brain.'

'You should see Brian's brain!' laughed Penelope. 'Language's are not his thing.'

'Not hard wired.' agreed Brian, reluctantly, not happy at being so publicly mocked even

within these close, intimate quarters. Russell was keeping very quiet he thought, looking constantly

In Time Book Two 301

at the potential. Thought she would be too old for him to fancy her, since he seemed to go for the

younger ones. Although Simone herself was now not so young.

- not me why do write such bad things of me am forever young

may you stay that way but you must say goodbye now am adult

But perhaps for once

he needed an older woman. And of course, he himself was no longer young. Just looked it. Well,

behaved like it sometimes. How old was she exactly? Forty? Not fifty surely?

But the potent- Gloria - Marhia was continuing already, enthusiastically extolling her

life's work. She was explaining, 'Oh of course the verbal commands came first, and the written

symbols much later.' After a deliberate pause she continued, 'Sometimes much later.' - and it

was evident to Brian (and now, when he introduced himself to others he even had to pause and

vocalise his own name, as if insisting, Brian, not Brain) that she knew her stuff, as she continued

deliberating with an indifferent confidence. 'In fact, take the oldest civilisation, China. Their word

for I, myself, is wo, which anybody can understand; a direct and short description, almost a

grunt you could say, but the character to write it is several strokes - you have to learn it, and it's

not easy! But for us backward Brits, who took much longer to develop our civilisation and language

it's easy; a single stroke: I. Stroke, I. I, stroke.'

Brian smiled. This potential had a sense of humour, and a sense of timing of delivery, but

he wasn't sure if he could follow the logic. And was there a market for this ... and what had she

called it, this lingo science? Epistemology? Etymology? Not much chance of sales there if the

punter couldn't actually ask for the book; Do you have that book on .. episcopacy? Epiology?

An Epic? Other publishers would increase their sales, if they called it, simply, On Chinese. No,

not in his interests, really, to have an academic title. But a book on learning Chinese would be

useful, there being so many of them. More Chinese than books, that is. Bound to take over the

world one day. Yes, better to be on the side of the winners.

In Time Book Two 302

 Penelope had gone to get coffee. She seemed mentally abstracted these days. Perhaps

she was getting bored with all these authors recently, with their crazy ideas and unsellable

manuscripts. Always having to be polite, to be domestic. And so was he too, truth to tell. Why

was he doing it? - there was no profit. At least an intellectual female offering made a change.

Almost photogenic too. For an older woman. Russell seemed interested anyway. They had been

looking at each other all night long, flicking glances between themselves. But not as if they fancied

each other. Something else. Now even Russell was talking about the alphabet, deriving from Latin,

whereas Chinese used strokes to make radicals. What on earth were radicals? We were not talking

political figures, surely?

'Radicals?' he asked, determined not to be left out.

'Yes.' explained Russell, after nodding to Glori - Marhia as if asking permission to explain,

which was hardly necessary, Brian thought, since she was the expert, 'The Chinese use a few strokes

to make recognisable squiggles, which we would inaccurately call an alphabet, but they use them

to make shapes called radicals, and then they put these radicals together - sometimes even merge

them - to make further words and sentences.'

'You have a learned friend here.' said Glor- Marhia, addressing Brian. She turned back

to Russell, and, not quite grinning, asked, 'Are you here to present a book too?'

'No, no.' smiled Russell, as if to reassure her there was no element of competition, 'I'm

just the semi resident muso.'

'Ah yes,' said Brian, relieved now at the chance of intervention, before these two leapt

into another interminable discourse about linguistics, 'and very good he is too. Are you going to

play for us?'

'Anytime.' agreed Russell, standing. 'And ahh .... you look so familiar?' Russell asked

Glo- Marhia, as he stood, as if expecting an answer, and he paused, curiously looking at her as

if trying to remember, until Penelope had re-entered the room with the tray, and as Russell walked

In Time Book Two 303

to the piano she called out, 'Play us a carol, Russell, as it's so near Christmas.' But before Russell

could answer, asking Which ...? Penelope was already asking Gl- Marhia - god it was like

talking into a mirror! - 'How long long are you over from Australia?'

Russell played sharply a discordant noise, as if his fingers had slipped, and they looked

across to him, puzzled. Normally he was such easy listening. Then, G- Marhia continued,

answering, 'Oh, just to see my daughters. Not long.'

'Oh, right. So this is a sort of working holiday?' Brian suggested.

Marhia smiled with a faint irony, 'Sort of. I'm making sure they are not led astray.'

'What are they doing?' asked Penny.

'Well, they tell me they're just done some dancing to a pop video.'

'Oh, they're adults.' murmured Penelope, realising. Marhia did look really young then,

for her age. And so she herself must appear too, since it was like having an identical twin so close.

'Are they performing to China Girl?' quipped Brian.

Marhia smiled thinly, this thin quip too old not to be transparent. 'No, I think it's called

# Love Song To .. ' and then she mumbled, as if questioning, as if her English might not be as

good as her Chinese, for she knew there was already a song out there somewhere called # Rio # ,

# 'Rhio?' #

# Love Song To Rhia? # Russell called across the room, and started playing, and murmur-

ing, humming the motive, the hook, # Love song for Rhia .. # He smiled as if at a private joke,

then added, 'It's in E Major. Should be on guitar.'

And Marhia looked across again to Russell as if hopeful there was now a recognition there.

Penelope asked, 'Isn't that the new song by Saint? Well, not new, before ...'

'Saint?' asked Marhia, looking to the others as if never having heard of him, but wonder-

ing why the name sounded so familiar. Russell stopped playing and looked across to Marhia.

Rhia.

In Time Book Two 304

 She had aged, and it seemed incredible that with receiving the patterns and shape and

colours of her face there had not fallen into his brain an instant recognition of her, for now it

was so obvious: Rhia.

She was staring back, 'You had a beard then, well, stubble.'

'I was young, trying to look old.' Russell answered. 'And seven years is a long time.'

Penelope and Brian looked at each other, and Brian muttered, but as if now to remain

out of earshot, 'This guy knows everybody?' And Penelope nodded as if to reply, Seems like it.

Marhia smiled, 'No, it's just that we ...' and she made this gesture, not quite alternating

flicking, but fishing her fingers between the two of them, as if reeling in the years.

'We get the picture.' As Brian turned towards Russell, 'You're getting a reputation.'

And Russell smiled in return before playing a few notes and singing along to his newly

improvised melody, # It was such a, such a, long, long time ago ... #

Marhia now grinned broadly, 'Play me that song you wrote for me.'

# That song, that song, such a long, long time ago, I don't know, what words go, where ... #

The three laughed. 'Good enough to go on your next album!' Penelope called.

'Ah, you've done well then.' Marhia smiled, for those days, that time before, their time

together, were long gone. Time enough, though, to make a fresh start, if only he w/c/ould return.

- will never leave you

you must say goodbye simone they tell me it s time

Russell played a few more pleasant melodies before singing # She loves me, she loves

me not, she loves me .. Ma - rhi - aah # to then stand and walk back to the table, as Penelope

had poured more coffee. He looked at Marhia, 'Same song, now, for three syllabled women,

and another same song for two.'

'Ah.' Marhia murmured, realising. Penelope and Brian looked at each other again puzzled,

but no explanation was forthcoming from either guest, excepting, Marhia's comment, 'My first

In Time Book Two 305

name is actually Carol,

- she is the one

but nobody ever uses it.'

For in earlier times, once mastery of our craft had been established (and before indifference

from too many sexual experiences had eroded the possibility of writing a love song for every single

woman ever 'met'), I had wanted to reduce the complexity of my own songs, and had suggested, as

a challenge, to write a song in one key.

'A song in one key?' asked G, surprised, 'Won't it be a bit boring?

'It's up to you to make it interesting.' I retorted. 'You're supposed to be the drummer.'

K pursed his lips, disapproving and always now the sceptic. 'I don't think you'll be able

to do it. It'll be hard to pull it off.'

Naturally this concentrated my mind. 'I might use a seventh, as well as just the E major.'

'You could call it; Song in a Natural e suggested M. 'You know, logarithms, natural law?

Base e?'

'Logorhythms!?' laughed G, deliberately mishearing, but still not understanding. 'I'll beat

out that wooden drum!'

'No,' I interject, 'It's called ' # Love song # - '

'No kidding.' interrupts K, sardonically, but I continue, now determined, relentless,

'No, the song is called, # Love song for Rhia # '

' # Love song for Rear #? ' K asks. 'Who the fuck's Rear?'

'Rear end?' suggested G, but somehow puzzled that he might have said those words before.

'Was that this Saturday's or Sunday's slapper?' Asks M, smiling but knowing. 'There were

a lot of rear ends in the paper this week.' And then, somehow remembering, 'and from that

letter you received, way back.'

'Um ..' murmurs G, raising his hand to his lips, as if to silence us, as if attempting to

In Time Book Two 306

calm an imagined rift. He starts humming, a fond remembrance of one of the Other Band's songs,

instigated by M's words, # .. tuned to a natural e how does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

tuned to a natural e ... #

'I remember that!' laughs M. Did they know logo rhythms?'

'The Other Band were not stupid.' I answer, almost defensively, as if their reputation must

remain untarnished. 'Anyway, Rhia was that numerology expert, who wrote to me. I was the evil

one. Apparently I aroused her interest at college with playing cards.'

'Ooo, always knew you were a bit of a card.' riposted G (and I surprised that he knew that

archaic expression - surely it was long obsolete?).

'Ah yes ...' As now M struggled to remember, 'Ah yes ... that's right ... you are the,' and

here they each in turn randomly guessed a letter,

'D'

'V'

' E'

'L'

'I?' Added M, after a pause.

'Very droll.' I answer, 'But I want something simple, this time. A simple song.'

K looks at me disapprovingly. I know the source of our antagonism: I had said to him

in more recent times, and at least in private (unlike his public utterances about selling my soul),

that his songs were becoming too complicated, now too avant-garde for the band, my band,

that although his lyrics were sometimes interesting, weren't we just a pop band? - we just wrote

commercial music - let's just continue with the hits. And take the money and run? K had taken

this as a personal insult, as the pretence for him now was that fame was not the key, that there

had to be some 'artistic integrity' within the songs. But these words were just bullshit I knew; he

had come a long way from the D chord, but now too far; from the obscure chordal changes (I

In Time Book Two 307

knew from my long before college studies Beethoven would tend to modulate to the flattened

sixth in his later works, but was K similarly able to?), to the over complex finger picking, leaving

me to murmur aloud (but not sing), Mind .. the Gap to his look of utter disdain (and the other's

bemusement), - 'No,' I insisted, 'Time for a simple song, in E. # Love Song For Rhia # Two syllables.'

# Rear - ah! # sung G.

I close my eyes and think of the day, years earlier, they, we, the band, in happier times,

had yearned for success, to sate hunger, to taste now only bitter ashes, - it was always my curse;

that everything I wished for came true.

Katherine is gone now, as is Catherine.

- they sit with me they are happy join us

yes but no there is no need now simone to protect me as if protecting me from a

truth i have always known but there is a time when you must leave me you must say goodbye

- no love you

but we were young then simone merely children we did not know what love was

And as I have always known, for my memories of Katherine are my (re)construction, my

imagination constrained within letters, (re)written, re/memb/nd/ered as if to emphasise and reiterate

to me the enormity of the length of time we knew, had known of, each other, and now forever

doomed to en/circl/slav/e my thoughts in ever increasing distancing orbits, oscillating as crazy

planets, but I still now the sun, and she, a small mere satellite, the moon.

Seven years. Yes, seven years we were married.

I remain silent. For Katherine the First knew I loved her, and she had offered herself to

me then, her life, albeit in that discreet and gentle way of hers, in that time before, and I, in the

time of my innocence then, and stupidity then, had not pursued the subject, then, forgetting the

instruction of my disappearing father to say Yes., and in the absurdity that the then future dream

In Time Book Two 308

of the band would provide a happiness. you let me down simone you did not speak then

- she is not the one

were you

jealous that i was still alive that i had met someone else you were not there then were you your

voice are you to be forever silent as i wish now or are you still to misguide me why your final

instruction to join you to de-

- no lied you won those throws am sorry run off

-stroy hope because this is all there is all that s left in the box i am

tired now but not now finally of life

And Pen Carol Marhia is there when I awake.

'Katherine is dead? '

She nods.

'And Catherine?'

But for this question there is no response. Perhaps the truth is too awful to be admitted,

even though just articulated.

'And you are not Pen Carol Marhia?'

She smiles wanly, as if there is a hope there now, of recognition. And shakes her head

again. 'No, I gave you a pen, although it might have been Nadine, where you first arrived. I'm

not Pen, but Carol Marhia, yes.' She smiles, 'Hypatia?'

- she is your wife she is the one

not painelomarihah

- not painelomarihah no she is the one

'Is Doctor Robert my shrink?'

Not Pen Carol Marhia looks at me uncomfortably, 'Doctor Robert? You mean ' she gestured

In Time Book Two 309

as if to the hallway, as if to a friend that had just left the room. 'Doctor Robert? Your shrink? Well,

they tell me they don't use that word. And he's not called Robert.'

Always, they, as if they are outside of themselves.

But I have done my homework, listening to their voices with my eyes closed, as they

discuss me, as if in staring into my darkness I do not exist. But I see nonetheless: Freudian,

Jungian, Kleinian (as the name Allan Klein then also flashed through my mind), - just words to

become generic labels, as if the word ill was adequate to describe every respiratory constriction,

every shudder of every sick person. But Not Pen Carol Marhia is talking again, 'Well, it's a bit more

complicated than that, from what Nadine's told me.' She gestures towards my brian, 'She says that

it's not ... your problem .. psychiatric ..' she seemed to pause out of politeness, or embarrassment,

that I might not be mentally ill, but actually brain damaged, before continuing, '.. she says that times,

and research, has changed.'

I remain silent, for throughout the ages new religions sweep across the world, these word

worm viruses inhabiting, infecting the minds of men, and women. Was Freud wise, just because

he wrote long books? And good stories? Would fewer words have meant a longer truth? For why

is abbreviation such a long word? (And as G had earlier (?) asked, Why is 'dyslexia' so hard to

spell?) But now I ask, determined for some sort of truth, 'I am .. sick?'

'Well, ... they don't use that word.'

'When I called you Painelomarihah, in the ..' (as if these past months are already long

ago past times), '.. old days, you looked away.'

She murmurs, as if in her quietness reassuring me, 'Um, I think you know .. I've always

been .. here for you. (Or did she say there?' And she smiles, as if realising an absurdity in her

words, but confirming she has read my diary, my thoughts. My life. 'At least you know now that

my name isn't Painelo .. ' Then, with wistfulness, 'I would like to see you again though ... to

remember.'

In Time Book Two 310

 To see me again, to remember. As if I've been gone away, somewhere, and not trapped

within these wires, this bed, for this eternal time. I remember that word, yung.

'And I know that you will remember, soon enough. That's what they've told me. That it

takes time.'

'Still waiting for Useless?'

She is puzzled, and attempts to correct, 'Um, Waiting for Godot, I think.'

'So you are unstitching me? Penelope? Every night?'

'Um ..?'

But that of course is no answer. 'I thought you came here once with that policeman?'

She still looks puzzled. 'Policeman?'

'That crazy red haired man, you called, Vincent.?'

'Vincent? I don't think I know a Vincent.'

But I am insistent, 'The one that's always humming. And how long have you been ... a shrink?'

She smiles again, but this time thinly, and puzzled, already knowing that I am disapproving

of that religion, and insulting their professions. For they have told her they are trying to help me. 'I

am not a .. shrink. '

'I could make you one.'

'Um?'

'In the next story.'

'That's good ..' she murmurs doubtfully. 'It'll be nice to read it. You never told me,

before, you could write ..' She waves vaguely in the direction of my pages, brushing the air

away, as if the past lies, as perhaps it does, in the vapours, '.. stories.'

But she does not question that they are stories. Even though I know she has read my

entries, and must know that this is the diary of a real life already lived? After a further few

moments, I ask, 'What's your real name?' and again she looks truly sad.

In Time Book Two 311

 'You don't know? It's me.'

Me?

'How ill am I?'

Her sadness prevails, in her silence.

'Will I get better?'

She smiles wanly. 'I hope so. I miss you.'

She stands to walk forward to kiss me upon my forehead. She misses me. Not Pen Carol

Marhia misses me. Missives me.

Write me a letter, Not Pen Carol Marhia. Write me a story. Of my madness. Sell my life

story. To the masses. To the messes. Doctor Robert says writing is good therapy. He too lies in his

own stories.

Penelope went to the library, browsed through the psychology section. She could write

an essay on Saint, and that would sell, surely? Keep Brian happy. She flicked through the books.

But which one? She'd better take a few home, look up some words, well ideas, anyway.

She checked them out, the clerk Carol looking at her with a vague interest, not Penelope's

usual reading fare. And they did look so similar, as at that last dinner time, that Rhia had looked

so .. samiliar? Bit scary, all these people around looking just like her And Brian had said some-

thing strange, in their early days, - that she looked exactly like Marc Bolan, what with the skin

colour and the frizzy hair. What the fuck?! She was female, as if he hadn't soon enough discovered!

Still, she didn't know why she found it so disconcerting.

And it was were heavy, all this knowledge.

At home she piled the books upon the piano. Brian was already as usual sitting reading

a manuscript. 'Anything good?' she asked.

He shook his head. 'No, just another ... etymo ..' - and what the hell was that word? -

'epy .. etis .. tical tract. Some of these linguists can't actually write. Decent English that is, which

In Time Book Two 312

is a bit ironic, wouldn't you say.'

'Was he one of our guests?' she asked. Perhaps she might remember him.

'Her.' Brian corrected. 'I'm not sure we've invited ...' and he inspected the title page,

'.. Carol Marhia yet. Not sure there's much point, at the moment. Might take that Elgar MS though,'

he added thoughtfully, 'that actually was quite good.'

'Carol .. Marhia?' Penelope stood still and gazed, puzzled at Brian. The woman that had

been here before? Wasn't it only a few days ago? And her identical twin in fact? And had known

Russell from far distant days? 'The one that looked just like me?' She asked. And Brian looked up,

as if to appraise her for the very first time (which was ridiculous wasn't it?), to answer, after tapping

the table with his interminable tic, 'Now that you mention it .. this picure in the back ..' And as she

gazed Brain seemed to flicker, as if somehow a videotape was being rewound, and for a moment

she could have sworn he actually disappeared in front of her eyes, in bands of discoloured disjointed

noise. She looked down at her arms, and they too seemed somehow fuzzy, as if assembling, no,

rearranging themselves out of minute black unfocused fragments. Of cloth? Parchment? Curious

and disturbing. Better get her eyes checked out.

'You all right?' Brain - Brian! asked, noticing Penelope's stillness.

No, he was in focus again. 'Heavy books.' she explained. Yes, that was it; heavy books,

make for tired eyes. She was beginning to regret her decision as she finished stacking her pile.

She wasn't going to spend time reading all this stuff was she? 'Do you know anything about

psychology?' she asked.

Brian looked up again, curious. The first time that she had ever expressed any interest

in the fields of mental health. 'Which area?'

She didn't know, as he realised quickly enough from her blank expression.

'There's a primer we published,' he nodded vaguely in the direction of a shelf, 'Basic

stuff, but a good introduction. Fancy becoming a psychologist, or a psychiatrist then? Last

In Time Book Two 313

century's great religion?'

She wasn't sure he wasn't being sarcastic, though it sounded like it, so asked, 'This

century's?'

'Psycho ... babble volume seven.'

That was no reply, she thought, and she didn't know what he was implying, but he was

already looking down at his papers again, anyway. She walked in the nodded direction and sure

enough there were a few books on the subject. One of them she had just carried home from the

library. He always seemed to know where the books were, did Brian. Shame he didn't tell her

earlier. Well, she reluctantly admitted to herself, she should have asked before ... She flicked

through the 'repeated' book. (Though she was later to ask herself why? since they already had

a copy - surely better to look in unpossessed books, that would have to be returned to the library?)

Now, how to describe Saint? She browsed through the Index; Absence Of Delusions, Charm

(superficial traits) Control (need of), Dogmatism, Egocentricity, Failure (of life plan develop-

ment) (to learn from experience) (to honour obligations, financial), Illegal Behaviour, Judge-

ment (absence of), Lack (of moral sense), (of shame or remorse), Lying (and dissimulation), -

she flicked forwards to the next page - Plautological - what?! - Recklessness (impulsive),

Sensation (excessive seeking of), Sex Life (impersonal, poorly integrated), - well she wouldn't

know about that! - Social (unmotivated behaviour), Work (unreliability at) - WTF!? - She would

never get her head around all this, this alphabet of madness. And was - could this alphabet be

in any way a description of Saint? That in these words, this Index, that a life could exist? It didn't

ring true. And yet, somehow, she knew she had read these words before. Just couldn't place them.

Brian had taken an interest in one of the books she had brought home. 'The D. S. M. M. P?'

he asked. She looked puzzled. He pointed, 'Known colloquially as; Dictionary of the Society of

Mad Mental People.' Still there was no recognition until Brian picked up Diagnostic and Statistical

Manual of Mental Disorders. 'It's funny,' he began, but not smiling, 'how the Americans always

In Time Book Two 314

want people to be ill.' He flicked through the pages. 'This started out as a slim dictionary of

illnesses - now look at it, even the Index is a book: anthophobia, anthrophobia, ecclesiophobia,

hierophobia - '

'Fear of Saint's?'

'Well done, close enough.' He flicked forward another few pages, 'Ombrophobia, pogon-

phobia - soon enough there will be a single disease for every American living. That will make two

hundred and fifty - is it? - million really sick people.'

'Are the Americans different?' Penelope asked, wondering why Brian was inflecting the

word as if insulting them.

And Brian couldn't resist his moment of flippancy, 'Yes, they're Americans.' But still he

did not smile as he flicked even further through the pages, 'Even their definition of schizophrenia

is different from ours, more looser.'

'Why?'

'Why?' Brian looked at her, as if explaining an obvious truth to a backward child, then

decreed, 'The business of America, is business. And psychiatry is big business. Funny how, alone

amongst all the - and can you really call that religion a medical discipline? - that psychiatry alone

never actually examines the alleged damaged organ, the brain? I bet even in the future, when

brain scanning techniques can map every thought some nutter will still argue, Oh no, it's not

the thought that counts.! '

Puzzled, at Brian's outburst, - for normally he rarely articulated his thoughts, and never

before with such irritation, - and she hadn't really understood his diatribe either, Penelope looked

down, at this pile of sick books. Perhaps that trip had after all been a total waste of time. 'You

know,' she began, remembering that visit to Saint's house, 'Russell said something very curious,

once, - that we were married.'

'Yep, we sure are.'

In Time Book Two 315

 'No, - that Russell and I were married. That's a very strange thing to say, isn't it?'

But there was no surprise in Brian's response, 'Might be wiser than you know - wondered

why you kept calling me Brain.'

'And I read somewhere that Simone had to return a pin cushion.'

'Ahh ..'

And Not Pen Carol Marhia will sit before me, her research on me finished it seems, as

she peruses my past pages, holding her own life in her own hands, as if somehow I was older

then, outside those scribbled words, in those certainties thus depicted, that life was so black or

white, and good or bad, that Katherine is dead, or alive, and I'm

- she sits with me now join us

no simone

younger but older then than

those words now. 'So,' she will begin, sitting, text in hand, book covers open against me, as if

to protect herself, as if mere cardboard, and not Ajax's shield, could darken her body from my

somehow coloured radioactive thoughts, '.. you said before she was your ..' but she pauses again,

wary now that she has rushed ahead of me, of my as yet unwritten words, that my eyes still stare

upwards, as if in thought as to what her next question might be, as if unaware that I might not

recall now merely my age, but my name too; - for what is it; Saint or Sinner? Unborn, or Born?

As if there lay the real possibility that I had actually drowned Katherine (which was of course

impossible) and also perhaps because she herself might be unsure of her earlier hearing of the

word, '.. animus?' (for had she heard instead, 'anim..al'?), to now be a question asked but unsure

as to not only whether I, but she too, had understood, 'Animus.' But she is still seemingly unaware

that I know of all the new religions; that my time at college was not ultimately to be wasted, even

if I had so thought at the time, that my interest in the study of, philosophy, earlier attempted

In Time Book Two 316

to gain some failed notion of 'wisdom' (for if angels can dance upon a needlepoints, which in

student days I had disparaged as an obviously absurd notion, not realising then that these were

the first medieval attempts at objectifying the world; that if angels did exist they must therefore

exist in some material form, - from the spirit to the flesh then; always that dichotomy between

the mind and the body) had led to other discontented explorations, for I soon enough discovered

that the frivolity of the dancing angels debate were themselves fiction; concocted by a fictitious

literary character, Martinus Scriblerus, as was, as I found to my (fortunately Simone was dead

by then, not to suffer the) disappointment, the myth of the mass suicide of lemmings; The Lemming

With the Locket drawn by Carl Barks (Simone and I had never found that comic, my father having

disappeared in front of me before I ever had the chance to ask him to buy it for me/us); the award

winning documentary Walt Disney film White Wilderness, with the rodents spun off unseen

spinning turntables to their doom - but perhaps Mickey Mouse wasn't a real rodent either, after all)

as I later examined the dictionary of time, to search for other doctrines, with their tertiary off-springs,

decades to centuries, to millennia, searching now the new religions of Psychiatry and Psycho-

babble; hoping now that wisdom could be found within the rocks, and not merely listed under the

same consonant,P. I know she is to speak of Jung, of his idea that within all men there is a female

icon, and in all women a male. And possibly s/he is right, for that is my memory of Katherine. The

First. But was it my shyness at that time, my inability to communicate, or that miss(ed) thrown coin,

or even this present illness, that created this imagined icon, this remembered painting in my mind?

To haunt me until death? Or was it the reluctance to accept that she was, after all, merely mortal,

a female needing fucking, my reluctance to awaken with bloodstained sheets, to acknowledge

that icons menstruate, or a reluctance to awaken in shit-stained sheets, to accept that goddesses

too can fall ill? Decay? Die? To accept that canvases might shed their oil, the varnish cracking

for the perfect image to too slowly vanish, leaving only faint outlines now recoloured by memory?

And Penelope might then ask, In Passion you killed that girl, Katherine. And then add, as if in

In Time Book Two 317

contempt, Your supposed true love. The one you even got married to., but surely realising after

all this time this is, she is, all a fabrication, merely black stitches upon lined white paper. But

you know it's all a fiction Penelope, I will riposte, to her bemusement, as you stitched our tapestry

for seven years. And she will stare at me in silence, attempting to comprehend my evil, but will

not succeed. For I know she knows, in the words I have written, that they are not confessions, just

entries in an unsigned outdated diary, but of the death of Katherine, the Second, I will ask, And

if what you think is true, who will believe you? in the scrawlings of a sick mind? - for within this

madness lies my innocence. and she will continue staring outwards up at me from these pages,

to wonder at any possible connection between the Rammed Him and Rahim who was arrested

(but later released, - if to walk from a hospital to catch a ferry is to be termed released, - for him

to flee back to Srinagar from Paris, his brother Mengoi this time not transporting me by shikara

across Dall Lake but escorting his brother by ferry - at my expense - across to France) for accidentally

letting the handbrake off the truck he was trying to sell to Copy Cat Brat (so it was true, as he had

earlier explained back in Srinagar, to my then evident disbelief, he could not drive - but then, how

had he managed to drive that contraption ((for the word vehicle still did not quite fit, as didn't the

tailgate)) all the way from India?) that had accidentally killed Katherine's soon to be new husband,

Copy Cat Brat, the lorry reversing slowly through the crumbling Victorian brick wall into the river

opposite, the red broken tailgate somehow trapping Copy Cat Brat's legs, dragging him slowly,

inevitably down, for Penelope to perhaps become then afraid, that her own existence might too

be threatened, but knowing that to present to Chomiac this diary as evidence, - I've got the stories.

would be pointless, for he was my long ago school chum, unseen, except for that singular dinner

party, for years, and where he looked so different from that time before, the blond Lisztian hair long

vanished, the scarred wrist still bearing a now discoloured silver bracelet, and too cynical, his hope

long abandoned, eroded into oblivion (and very probably completely unaware that he was a very

minor character in a Korsakoff novel), and I would make to laugh at the absurdity of her printed

In Time Book Two 318

predicament but the scars in my head and face would be too painful still, for me to rejoin, They

are only stories. As you are.

But if there is a time for maturity, then perhaps this is it, as Carol

- she is the one

Marhia asks, to her

always soothing tinkling wind chimes, 'So, you said before she was ...'

Yes.' I will reply, 'She was my animus. But the word is; was. I've lived too many lives

since then.'

Yes, Penelope would feel a curious unease about all this, that how could I, a crippled,

bedridden, hospitalised man have such an effect on her? That I had been a pop star, once, but

all the good stuff had been a long time ago (of which I again reluctantly admit, for although

my talent remains unchanged, the brevity of fashions hasn't), and now I am just a face - well,

apparently half a face - barely recognizable to anybody, let alone everybody, although ... I

probably wouldn't even recognise 'me' now. Even in the mirror Russell Stuart left for me. And

left deliberately out of reach it seems. Yes, Penelope would still wonder. At those stories .. as

she stares at my body breathing shallowly before her, the slight rasping, the husk of a dying man.

But, as if aware of her thoughts, her presence, I would open my eyes, and she would still focus

upon the page before me to ask, too suddenly, determined to continue, as if my consciousness,

my lucidity arises instantly, - no Libet's pause for me, then or now - that my mind would know

the topic of immediate interest to her, but she would seem as if resolute that this is the present,

the important moment, to look up and ask, But who was the brother? in Passion? What happened

tohim, You made it sound so real. As if I know him. and I to answer, Oh, but you do know him? ..

Chomiac? became a journalist I think, don't know why - could have been a pianist, if it wasn't for ...

aah .. and I would again close my eyes, feigning, but not much, and not successfully, the pain

of my body, of this existence, as Peneope would now attempt, but slower, to repeat, requesting,

In Time Book Two 319

with always the latent curiosity, always the curse of unsatisfied humanity, to ask, Chomiac's

really a killer? puzzled at my apparently sleep muttered words of 'Simon', And 'Vincent' too?',

for in the end pages of Passion I claimed I had seen the two of them by the bridge running

towards the river. And in that as yet (and probably now to remain forever - for the dates are filling

and days are fading) unwritten story Penelope will search for a library, to switch on a computer

to search the web for the given familiar name, in the vain hope that it is not the Chomiac known

to her, not connected in any way to the name spoken in passing, accidentally in my agony it seems,

as I had changed too quickly, too abruptly, under the subjection of pain, not merely mentioning in

passing, in writing, a twat toffee nosed tosser of a brother, in Passion.

And Penelope will think that since Saint had been so specific about the time, it shouldn't

be hard to trace this name, Chomiac, and also to find the ultimate fate of his younger sister,

Katherine, not then the future wife of a(ny) saint, as surely the death of a specific young woman, -

more, merely, of course a girl, a child really, then, when she married the odious sounding Smith,

and must have been, even in those distant times, more hopefully newsworthy. There was the possi-

bility she wouldn't find details of any deaths, in that time before computers, but the attempt must

be made. Penelope will travel across London, a few miles, no distance at all in this great metropolis,

to the place Saint had mentioned. Shouldn't be hard to find the local library. The only shame was

that Saint had always spoken, written of a long dead, distant time, of a history she now presumed

to be stored on two tone (dis)coloured microfilm, before the contemporary age of computers, so

much quicker these days for a search to find information. No wonder (she will wonder) some of

those murders in the old days had never got solved, unless it seemed by accident. But as Penelope

will sit in that library in West London, searching the archives of microfilm by cranking a handle,

she will grow more irritated. Why wasn't it on computer? This way was far too slow. She found

it hard to believe there was a time before instant information, that all this past was collated upon

paper, cards sorted by hand. Incredible. It was a wonder they solved any crimes. Perhaps Brian

In Time Book Two 320

should have taken that, Chomiac's book, Unsolved to offer an explanation. But at least she had

been given a date to work with. Well, the approximate time. She scrolled through the minute pages

of newsprint. Although it wasn't possible it seemed as if even these pages were tinted with the decay

of age. It was tedious, there appeared to be nothing. All the tabloids were there, which, she thought,

would have leapt like ... vultures? - upon such a story, a young girl slaughtered, drowned in the local

river; necessary to fill their pages with with salacious tittle tattle ... but nothing. It didn't make sense.

A young girl raped and killed by the river and it didn't even make the papers? Not even The Mail?

And this was the scandalous seventies! She will sit back and ponder, her fingers flickering, not

yet cranking the handle as if wary to turn the page as another day might move nearer her. She

stopped as she realised she was mimicking Brian's irritating habit; tap tap tap tap tap tap. Tap.

No, it didn't make sense - surely there would have been something? An inquiry of some sort.

Of murder? She will search the heavyweights; The Times, The Telegraph, Guardian. Nothing.

She didn't bother with the Financial Times.

And then a helpful assistant, familiar looking, as if she could be any cab driver, or a

competent Chinese calligrapher, - that linguist who had 'recently' come to dinner, looking as

if her identical twin (and it was very disconcerting to watch yourself, in motion, talking, - surely

she didn't sound like that!? - and that must be what were called out-of-body experiences were

like) was present, the one that had known Russell, - or even herself, on another, different day,

will guide her to the online section, explaining there was no need to peruse obsolete microfilm,

as it had, slowly but surely, been transferred to the web, inscrutably explaining, Freedom of

Information, and all that. And Penelope will thank her puzzling comment with, Carol, isn't it?

for Carol Marhia

- she is the one

i know but you must say goodbye simone now

to nod, and answer, It was enjoyable reading of you, but you're not really

In Time Book Two 321

me, are you. I can't really see you, in me. You too must say 'Goodbye' soon. And Penelope, turn-

ing away with a murmured Goodbye .. then?, will press the red button to take only a small fraction

of a second for only a thousand or so results, for was there anything particular about her Chomiac?

Excepting Chomiac was not evidently a popular name, and not even in Poland. She will scroll

down the list, obviously excluding all American, Canadian and French sites, as if she might find

another, her Chomiac somewhere, that the unfound phone number might be the one she already

knew too intimately. But no; her Chomiac did not appear to exist. Which of course was

impossible. And then to search for Katherine Chomiac, his sister in Passion, to find too soon

enough, too easily, that she too also did not exist. But Penelope would quickly enough realise,

remembering reading within these dated pages, that in May Katherine had married a Smith, and

perhaps she had not time, or the inclination in those later days to change her name to Saint's

surname (for Penelope herself could not recall it), or too soon to use her soon to be new husband

Copy Cat Brat's surname (which she definitely did not know, - not even his Christian name).

And, almost as if she were actually already written upon the screen for her to find quickly, the

name flashed before her. Strange. That there she will be, in a newspaper article complete with

two grey-scaled pictures, one unfocused of the mother, surrounded by school friends it seemed,

and the other of her beautiful daughter Catherine, both tragically killed in a car crash only yards

from their house, careening through the rubble of an unrepaired brick wall into the river as they

raced to a hospital to where her recently engaged to fiance, crushed by the red tailgate of his

own lorry, as if the handbrake had been inexpliceably deliberately released, had been taken.

(They were never to know, unfortunately (?) that CCB was already DOA.) She further read that

later that night a Kashmirian had been arrested and soon enough bailed to appear on a manslaughter

charge, although he had (he claimed truthfully) attempted to reapply the handbrake as the truck

drifted inexorably backwards towards, into the Thames, but having been released into the custody

of a local psychiatric hospital, - for manslaughter was not murder, - but he'd said a saint had

In Time Book Two 322

instructed him to sell his van, which was an insane thought (the local doctors had decided) - but

he'd fled the country (well, merely walked out of the hospital) before the trail and sentencing.

And that the band Copy Cat Brat had once worked for offered their regrets, excepting their leader,

who never made public comments - and who was in fact in Paris that day, visiting Disneyland alone,

to later book two flights, - that his days of roadie-ing for them would be missed, as would be his

signatures (? - Penelope would think).

Yes, she will print out the small grey-scaled photos, unaware as yet that the original

coloured photograph school year shot has been cropped, and that Catherine's portrait was

taken years later by Saint in unfocused happier times, and Penelope will examine closely the

fine features of the child woman, and notice that Katherine did indeed resemble vaguely that

picture Saint had earlier talked about, the one Russell, they had collected, what was it called,

The Lady Of Shallots? but she was - and of course Penelope would realise at once there was a

puzzle there - that this picture was of a teenage girl; someone far too young, she thought, to be

a - the mother of Catherine. And her face wasn't smiling - angst ridden almost. Perhaps the picture

was obligatory, the end of year school shoot. But her eyes held you. Even as they gazed blankly

into the distance. So that was the charm then. Perhaps in colour they might have been emerald.

Or opal. And Penelope will then wonder whether she should show me the photograph. And decide

probably best not to., perhaps realising that she herself had been beautiful once, and sometimes,

now, when she awoke to look at herself in the mirror in the morning for the first few moments she

didn't even recognise herself. Where had it all gone?

As I wonder myself, where the years have gone, that even in this confabulation (for those

such are the words Simone speaks when my eyes are closed), I had asked Simone, in earlier times,

to place the picture of Katherine cut from the school photograph upon the web, to now concoct

her fabricated (for the First did indeed sow me a pin cushion in that time before) history, that others

might believe, that she existed, somewhere, in my heart, in another time.

In Time Book Two 323

 No, Penelope will print out that photograph, to peruse in secret, thinking that I would be

disappointed to see this photograph now, now that time has eroded Katherine's beauty, and now

completely her life, that perhaps it is better, safer for me to have merely memories. She will fold

the printed fabricated image and place the small distant unfocused face amongst her notes, to be

placed in her Saint file, her research finished, she thinks, not knowing that she herself, her life,

her dreams, her jealousies are only composited words, in an obsolete diary, or that my beloved

Catherine was truly my only true love.

And then Penelope will pause, as an article flashes past her eyes to catch her thoughts.

It was strange, she will think, the way words were sometimes too fast to read but somehow still

registered, as she then remembered reading Love Letters - incomprehensible but comprehensible

at the same time. Even though she wasn't a speed reader. There had been a young boy drowned

near Kew Bridge, but after a cursory perusal of his picture, not known to her but somehow vaguely

familiar, she will dismiss it. About the right, approximate time though, from the information Saint

had given her. And only a brisk walk from the Thames, from the library to the river. She was tempted

to see, this place of his past times, as others might wander in the footsteps of their past heroes, as

Saint himself had wandered through Strawberry Fields, climbing the locked gates, as if a futile

attempt must be made to forever g(r)asp the Other Band's faded glories. The minutes slurred silently

away on the large library clock to the hour, and still she could find no records of a death of a young

girl from that time, that era. Saint couldn't have been that far out, surely? And having been so precise

about the place. Near Kew Bridge. Her fingers carefully slid the mouse back though the pages, wary

of a catastrophic leap in time. That boy? It took a while to find him again, so many dated pages

passed already. Yes, there, Column Two (as 'C2' somehow floated familarly through her mind): She

took a closer look at the photograph. Pointless really, these pictures; grey-scaled, moire-stained,

unfocused, not remotely a likeness. Could be anyone, like that 'blood sister' Saint had talked about,

but this boy had been found drowned in the river, trapped and entangled in undergrowth. Simon,

In Time Book Two 324

aged ... but it was just a coincidence, surely, as only the name 'Kew Bridge' had attracted her again.

And how many millions of people had been near, or over the bridge in its hundred or so odd years?

And drowned there? Some Victorian illustrator had drowned eighty or so years ago, she remembered

from somewhere. And her book, a diary too, she thought, of an Edwardian lady went on to become

a best seller. In a different time. Who knows what will happen, in the tarot unseen? Simon? Just

a name. Too close to Simone though, she thought; probably why she stopped, to peruse. As if an

ending vowel could ascribe another life. But hadn't Saint recounted this tale of his blood sister

dying out West somewhere, near Malvern? in a tragic explosion - but that was childhood stuff,

decades before. Hadn't Saint mentioned her name as Simone? One that had died that strange,

tragic death? His first girlfriend he had said? But surely a romance not so important at that age?

She couldn't remember. But as she read on, she found this other Simon having the same surname

of Saint's Doctor (and of course Nadine's, since they were married) Robert - which was an unlikely

coincidence, she thought, but not impossible, and this boy had drowned by that bridge mentioned

in Passion. Well, even if not mentioned by name she knew somehow it was Kew Bridge - very local,

so that was close enough.

Simon, Simone.

And how would Saint know about this other recent boy also called - and here Penelope

touched the green screen again as if confirmation was required, checking that a consonant or a

vowel might not be displaced, obscured by dust, or blurred by the stains of age upon this glass -

Simon?

Saint was playing games with her she knew. Probably to pass the time. Which was under-

standable, but was it (and here she admitted to herself she actually hoped) some bizarre clue?

To help solve a mystery, as if to give his childhood friend Chomiac a chance to solve a crime,

and Brian to take Unsolved?

She read the article again. Then sat back. It was not possible. Of course the same name

In Time Book Two 325

can be shared by many people, as of course Simon was, and unfortunately the photograph of

the journalist was not as she would recognise him now, as then - anyway, before, twenty or thirty

or however long ago the years had been? - to be the same person? Impossible. That he had been

round for a meal only a short time ago, the long blond flowing hair now long gone, just those faint

wisps of stubble remaining, but here the shock of non recognition - but the name of the author of

the article was the same: Chomiac's. And the only Chomiac she knew was also a journalist. And

had been a long, long time. She of all women would know that. The article read that he had tried

to save a drowning boy, as the child had run from an outside toilet, under the bridge at Kew, and

Chomiac had thrown himself into the river fully clothed, struggling against the tides and the cold,

but had failed. The article said the young journalist, only on the local paper for a short time, had

been commended by the local police force, - and there was this grey scale picture of the local bobby

(who had swum into the river too, she read), with curiously wild unkempt hair, inappropriately

smiling, as if humming a happy tune (for wasn't this story about a dead drowned boy?) and shaking

Chomiac's hand - and a promising journalistic career beckoned (if he didn't fulfil his dream of

becoming a famous pianist!). Well he would, wouldn't he, she thought sardonically, since Chomiac

himself had written the article. Vincent and Chomiac. Near the public toilets of Kew Bridge.

Where Nadine's son had drowned years before. Or so Saint had written, in t/his sodding, sodden

book. And they were always together, those two, the journalist and the policeman (and what names

had Saint written in that fake diary of his? Rolando and Slyvian? - didn't even sound like real names;

probably names that just came out of his brian - brain! - fuck him!), as if one event followed another.

As if somehow in collusion. And that somehow Saint had known of this, alluding to the dank police-

man at the end of Passion. That she had known both of them, but not their names, in those unhappy

days before?

And Penelope touched her stomach, with a realisation, that although that time was long ago,

she might still be contaminated.

In Time Book Two 326

 She would stand, unsatisfied; time to go. No time to visit the river though, much as that

area now held a macabre interest. And secrets. Somehow in her mind, she felt this buzzing, as if

a distant telephone were ringing, insisting on an obligation to fulfil; to visit Christine. Must she?

She must. For it was written. Even though she hated travelling in and on the Underground,

preferring cabs. Well her husband could afford it.

She knew the area vaguely, it was not far from her student college, although of course

that was a long time ago. She felt uneasy in this not quite recognisable place. It was crazy she

knew, but the streets appeared to have changed, - just .. different, from what she remembered.

It had been far longer than a couple of days she knew, since Christine's phone call, but

at least she was making the effort now. There was no sense of anticipation, of any joy; it seemed

now merely a duty, an unnecessary burden, an absurd obligation to finish with. Perhaps such is

how friendships change over the years, she thought; from hope, that there might be an affinity

with at least someone out there, from possible affection, sometimes sadly to eventual boredom,

sometimes succumbing to the inevitable indifference of experience. Or even worse, she thought;

to sometimes betrayal. She walked slower than normal - there was no determination, no urgency -

it was strange, the way her body actually seemed ... what was the word, reticent? to visit Christine.

What would they talk about anyway, now? About how the last time they had met, when they went

for that disastrous walk and she had stepped into that rotten fetid puddle and fallen over? Not exactly

a happy memory. And she had been mumbling in that phone call a few days ago. Actually it had

been weeks ago now. Who knows where the time goes? And, truth to tell, Penelope had felt slightly

apprehensive at meeting Christine again. It was, and she felt embarrassed to admit it, in this politically

correct age, that weight thing. They had had their cuddle during their college days together, when

she, Christine, was on the rebound after being dumped by that musician, singer, or whatever he was,

with whom she had gone out with years before, - followed him from America to England didn't she?

In Time Book Two 327

She'd claimed? Christine had even been convinced that she had once seen him again singing at a pop

concert in their college. Talk about deluded. Penelope felt embarrassed at the memory that she had

allowed the crying Christine into her bed, and even had actually felt - just that once! - attracted

to her. She didn't think of herself as a lesbian. Fortunately nothing had happened because one of

Christine's flatmates had walked in. She hadn't seen anything, but had walked out quickly enough.

What had been that girl's name? Something weird. Coralline? Corolla? Corona? - no, that was some-

thing to do with the sun, according to that guy that came round. Thomas? Richard? Funny that she

now knew that he was the son of Saint's Doctor Robert and warm nurse (for that was the curious

nomenclature Saint had chosen for her) Nadine. That would make him dead Simon's brother. She

vaguely remembered Saint mentioning Thomas to her, in that story (and she remembered she had

also then felt an unease, that she was reading of herself within another's story, the realisation that

all of her life, everything that had ever happened! might be reduced to merely pages of fiction) that

Thomas had a Geo book to flog. Anyway, she felt vaguely guilty that she might even have had lesbian

tendencies once, even though the appropriate word wasn't tendencies, perhaps just ... student stuff,

the stuff you do, the fumbles and stumbles before you grow up. She couldn't even remember whether

she had found it enjoyable or not. She hadn't enjoyed the men of course, but then they were paying.

Except for Chomiac. Not her mentor but her protector. Even from Vincent.

Penelope stopped walking to consult her A-Z map. Christine's street must be around here

somewhere. Funny how the whole of London, probably the whole world, could be contained within

that alphabet, from a pictogram of an ox's head (hadn't that woman Rhia explained?) to Z (which

she had also patiently explained - well, instructed seemed the more appropriate word, as if address-

ing school children, which could be another reason why Brian hadn't taken her book, apart from the

Ety.. Epi .., or whatever it was called .. ) - had been dropped and reintroduced in BC time -

what/when/ever that was). Not exactly her part of town, now. Some of us have moved on. Perhaps

she had Brian to thank for something, after all. They had had a good life, in a nice part of London.

In Time Book Two 328

Tottenham to Chifwick - was there any comparison? As if her life had slowly moved from East to

West. To be nearer the setting sun. They had done well.

She had done well.

But the street sign fell right in the crack of the pages; she couldn't find it.

By coincidence a - surely not the? - policeman was walking towards her, deep in thought,

and muttering? surely not humming? and looking determined, agitated. Was he really a policeman?

His hair seemed too long, reddish, streaked with white, more paint than age it appeared, and a bit

wild. Though he did appear a little too old, - it seemed they let anybody in the plod nowadays.

Modern times. He looked vaguely familiar, like a mad artist from somewhere. Like the policeman

shaking Chomiac's hand in that photograph in the library. Like Chomiac's friend from those far off

unhappy days. Yes, he looked just like Vincent, though fortunately there didn't seem to be any

mutual recognition. And now he was humming some vaguely familiar tune. But the uniform seemed

authentic, not a fancy dress. Perhaps he would, well he should, public servant that he was, know the

street. She stepped out in front of him, as if resolute to interrupt his tuneful train of thoughts. 'Excuse

me ..' she began. It seemed her interruption had further irritated him, as he seemed to splutter the end

of a melodic line # .. not a happy one # but he stopped anyway. 'I'm looking for ..' Penelope gestured

with her A - Z, to pull out the slip of paper upon which she had scribbled the address when Christine

had called her. There was a flicker of recognition upon his face, the brightening colour of compre-

hension, then he paused.

'What flat number?' Vincent asked.

It was not the precise response she had expected. And she didn't know. 'Um ...'

Still irritated he delineated slowly, as if now to an imbecile, 'What is the name of the person

you came to see?'

That was of course easy. 'Oh Christine - '

But the policeman interjected, immediately giving the surname. 'You knew her?'

In Time Book Two 329

 Knew her? 'Yes?' she affirmed, puzzled.

'Are you a friend or family?'

It all sounded terribly official. 'Well a friend, a sort of friend.'

'When was the last time you saw her?'

'Um..' she couldn't actually remember the date now could she? It might be months. But

the policeman had guessed.

'Sort of friend.' he muttered sarcastically. 'Some friend - she's been dead for weeks.' He

turned, looked back, pointed across the road. 'Down there, first right, a few doors down. Ground

floor, first door on the left. You can't miss it, they're putting in new floorboards.'

She didn't understand, and repeated the words as if indeed now a simpleton. 'New floorboards?'

Vincent (yes, she was now sure it was him - but still no reciprocal recognition in his eyes)

looked at her with contempt. 'Her bodily fluids drained through the floorboards, love. I have other

things to do with my time, than step in ...' but even Vincent couldn't finish his words, slowly

faltering into silence as if the experience of having seen a rotting corpse should remain forever

unspoken, unable to be articulated, for mere words could not convey any sense of the stench, of

the putrid, the fetid, (and wasn't his religion, his faith, supposed to give him hope?) the - but his

voice changed back quickly enough, to one of officialdom, 'Body too far gone, too decomposed to

even ascertain the time or cause of death, unfortunately.' Vincent turned away and strode off,

calling out, 'At least you're not a suspect, right! ' She heard him muttering away in the distance,

'Some friend, some friend.' Then, incredibly, he started humming again. She couldn't place the tune,

but it sounded like an operetta she had sung in in her childhood, at the yearly end of term concert.

Vincent? she murmured, as if in belated recognition, I've just read about you .. and incredibly,

Vincent had turned back to look at her, as if hearing her words, which was of course now imposs-

ible, to mutter in response, as if she could read his lips, Still on the game?

What?

In Time Book Two 330

 The pile of floorboards lay outside, ripped, splintered, dark and stained. All that's left of

a life. It had come to this? That a failed fantasy love affair from decades ago had caused her death?

That thought was ridiculous, that someone would spend their whole life trapped in some kind of

a love time tunnel. And although Christine was of course now dead, she felt an irritation there,

that in her entire life she had not moved on, found another boyfriend, left the alleged pop star far

behind her, or found, no, stuck with that new husband of hers, - and even then she had not been

satisfied with a music lecturer. Same sort of job, wasn't it? And hadn't he even bought her an oboe?

What had been his name? - Freed Man? The one that had come round once for dinner, with his

book on Elgar? Strange name. But perhaps appropriate, now being freed from his deluded wife.

Though he might not even know that his wife, ex life or otherwise, was dead. Life was difficult

but you had to make the most of it. She herself hadn't been happy ... selling herself, but there it

was; a fact, a happening in the past. Fortunately it was secret, as she still only knew Chomiac

from that time before (although she still wasn't sure whether Vincent had or hadn't recognised

her, - perhaps she'd misread his lips). A useful connection over the years as it had turned out, to

meet Saint. But of her past, perhaps Brain - Brian! might have guessed.

The door curiously left unlocked - perhaps the workmen were on a lunch break - she entered

the flat, yes, shiny new varnished floorboards. No, nothing worth stealing. Another tenant to be found

soon enough, with an increase in rent. Upon the wall a poster of the American flag - it seemed to be

a painting of the flag, somehow oxymoronic, she thought, - a poster of a painting, of a flag. Then she

started, - there was a small - it looked home made, silver framed picture - and here she peered closer -

it was of herself?! Long ago, when younger; must have been taken at the same time as the one she'd

downloaded from Russell's, - yes, almost time to return that sodding camera, he'd asked enough

times .. but the man's face had been scratched out, stabbed almost into obliteration, as if with scissors.

But the hair it could have been Russell. But that thought was ridiculous.

And as Penelope leaves the flat she will then wonder whether she sh/c/ould call Chomiac

In Time Book Two 331

to ask more about the background of Katherine's death, perhaps to claim it as research, but

somehow realising the emotional significance of losing a sister (she couldn't even recall if she

herself had any siblings, - now that was ridiculous), but aware ... that he had already done her

that Saint favour. No, she would not call him personally - she thought of herself as independent,

and in this modern age it wouldn't take long to find an address, - for, curiously enough, she had

never known where Chomiac lived, now, nor then, he never volunteering any information, and

in her case (for others called her computer literate), all it would take is one connecting telephone

line to the internet. So Penelope will not reach for her mobile but instead, finding the address on

the web, she will call Chomiac's newspaper's office, the one she had subsequently discovered he'd

sold the Saint pictures to, and the answering voices will question - and for a moment she still might

wonder if she is to use Chomiac's name - yes; that as his unofficial assistant - she was the one who'd

taken those Saint photographs after all, she was researching the death of a Katherine ... and then

Penelope will suddenly change her mind, that the name she is looking for is a Simon, no 'e' there,

at the end, a Simon that might have been drowned, or even been murdered, way back, decades

ago - explaining that she had searched already on the microfilms of the local library, but no real

luck, and there will then be a hesitation, the answering voice now puzzled, to explain that there

was no such Chomiac, and the voice to become quickly querulous (and who was she, this childlike

voice? sounding so familiar?).

- will never leave you

goodbye simone

No, Chomiac hadn't volunteered information, almost as if t/his life was still as yet unwritten

for her, for the voice to ask hadn't she just stated that she was a journalist? and there sounded an

obvious fear there, now, at this voice of a stranger ringing during another busy day, enquiring about

an imagined journalist, and then the name of a dead woman, then of a possible murder, of a Simon,

Drowned? Murdered thirty, forty years ago? Was this call threatening? For Penelope to answer, No,

In Time Book Two 332

Katherine's death might be a simple car crash. Tragic but not sinister. And Penelope would continue

to attempt to explain her query, but as she hesitated, mumbling to form her words into a reasonable

enquiry, an explanation of sorts, the voice would abruptly ask, with the obvious unspoken

inflection,Don't be ridiculous! Was she a nutter!? - that if Katherine's (and wasn't she talking

about a Simon?!) death might simply be a car crash, tragic, but if not sinister, why search

for it? And a drowned boy? from thirty, forty years ago?, - nearly half a century ago?!, the voice

then to terminate, hang up with an insistent, - Please continue your enquiries for your C2 else-

where. So now she was just another nutter, quoting another number. She hadn't liked this girl's

voice, her curiously affected coarseness, as if she were trying to play down a public school

education, pretend to mingle with the masses. A common problem now, elitism. Probably found

it safer to pretend to be egalitarian.

A waste of a day then, Penelope would think, as she had thought she would arrive at

some explanation destination, to curse me with, - what is that bastard Saint trying to do to me?!

Not even then realising that she herself is a fabrication, just constructed of letters, on a dated

October page. Not realising, even now, that this mythical figure that I seem to yearn for, not even

of the Second, but of Katherine the First, that woman upon coloured canvases, of a hundred thousand

prints, of blurred photographs, - are they all just burned memory? Gone now, lost, as are tears in the

rain, mere droplets to drown upon distant # Ocean Waves #. So she was your ... 'animus' she

will attempt, as Carol

- she is the one

has before attempted, but unsure still as to whether I had (or even if she

had) understood those words the first time, awakening slowly from the haze of sleep, of a coma.

Of a comma, in my life. And already knowing that if I have loved anybody in my life, with an

unconditional love, it was Catherine.

In Time Book Two 333

 - catherine sits with me join us

no goodbye simone A noise and I open my eyes, and Not Pen Carol Marhia now sits

before me.

'Catherine's dead?' I but is the word ask? for her to nod slowly, sadly, as if always

knowing more than I.

No. She was my baby, she cannot die. And who is Penelope? Just a fabrication, a projection

of the woman's face before me, unto the stories written, as I projected my love unto Katherine the

First only to later discover she was not that woman, of my dreams.

And that now only in dreams is she real.

Yes? Penelope asks as she looks up at me from these pages, this desperate, fabricated

woman, and there now lies a sorrow too, in the eyes of Not Pen Carol Marhia as she looks down

upon me, her fragile fingers stroking my tomb. And almost a tear, as if her loss were personal too,

but the pain is too great now, for me to care, to enquire, merely the stabbing instruction, 'Get Naddy,

will you.' - for her to stand, momentarily puzzled, before realising, 'Oh .. Nadine.' And she will

leave, to summon help. Perhaps Not Pen Carol Marhia has missed my gaffe, for Naddy was real

enough for me, though long gone too now, but Penelope, although fictional, would not; for in the

guilt of admission, lies the admission of guilt. But it is my story, and I know that she too, Naddy,

will live again for me. Even if she too lives only in dreams.

And my thoughts I think are the truth, but I know the stories I give to Not Pen Carol Marhia

are merely fictions. She looks for clues within them I know, and perhaps knowing that is part of the

game I have enjoyed playing, as I have enjoyed playing melodies in my real life, as if, unconsciously

knowing that this farce has no meaning, that I have manipulated the many others. I feel no guilt,

strangely, for the others, even if the others were merely members only in a - my - band, wanted

to be manipulated, and for them the rewards had been exceptional; the houses, the cars, the women.

They were trinkets for me too, once. The only guilt I feel - as such thoughts flicker only momentarily

In Time Book Two 334

across my mind, apart from of course my final, failed act - is that it was all too easy, - strange how

potent the scent of cheap music. The guilt was a sense of curiosity that I had been an unwitting master

of marketing; that the true profits lay in giving away the occasional free T - Shirt, the free autographed

albums (even if fakely signed by Copy Cat Brat) thrown into the audience, the strings given to my

then lover, to the soft tinkling bells of Carol,

- she is your wife carol marry her she is the one

- and carols? I have played them too - ridiculously

cheap baubles, and even now, the decades passed, there are only one or two songs I am proud of,

and not even the whimsical # Goodbye Mr Smith #, despite it being the first adult melody I ever

composed, aged seven, eleven, thirteen? written as Smith had been (as I was later to comprehend,

as the colours of history were painted upon me by others) expelled from school, on that last day

(and not, as my future father in law BSR was much later to explain to me, for the unfortunate death

of Simone, not even for his pruient viewing of the girls' showers, but for growing his Wacky Tobaccy

within an obscure corner of the school grounds, - outside the legal remit of school property, within

Chifwick park, he might have escaped censure; same same ground, but different different laws)

as BSR too had left Chifwick school that day. Perhaps Carol had been there that afternoon, seeing

her father off. She said she had been, remembers me playing. No composed eulogy for him, then,

I too young. But I never made the mistake that Lennon (or Schoenberg) made, thinking that avant

garde music was intrinsically worthier, - even in classical music there lies (de)composed a multitude

of dross; but if it sells, it sells.

Not Pen Carol Marhia would read that Katherine had been married before, to my school teacher

Smith, a mentor for me then, almost (for even after Simone's death I was to gaze up in wonder at the

stars throughout my life, - perhaps she was out there somewhere?), only to become a mediocre lecturer

in the East End somewhere, - but perhaps that hadn't been true either. That was the trouble with t/his

fiction she holds between her hands, this diary of a non-existent year, these figments, fragments

In Time Book Two 335

of her husband's damaged brain (if indeed she is my wife, as Simone persists to insist). There

was a sadness there, Not Pen would think, that he had admitted wanting to 'join' dead people,

as opposed to go on living with her, a, his living wife. She would found that curiously insulting.

Somebody had mentioned to her recently (was it that strange policeman, the one with the

wild red hair - did they really allow such long hair in the modern day police force?), about him

murmuring, Tell Kathy I love her. at the crash site, but she couldn't properly recall. Had that

message been passed on to a Chomiac? And then on to warm nurse Nadine? The character

Penelope could have just called him up, noticing how Chomiac had seemed particularly

interested in the stories of Saint, the confabulations of which she had denied her husband, Brian.

The character Penelope seemed to have spent some time researching him. Carol would feel this

curious emotion, this rare - surely unique! - jealously of a fictional woman. Quite unlike her. But

Katherine had been a real enough woman. His wife once. Yearned for her as a schoolboy, he'd much

earlier explained (fortunately they weren't in bed togather at the time), only to have his dreams

ultimately, disappointingly realised. But she would not mock - she knew her own dreams had been

realised by Saint's saving of her. But she, Katherine, was gone now. As was Catherine, killed in that

car crash as they raced to the hospital as her new soon to be husband, the humorously named Copy

Cat Brat (the reason for which had never been explained to her, until she'd read it within these pages)

had been crushed by Rahim's reversing truck, the foreverly broken tailgate piercing his body, as the

wall bricks coalesced into the bubbles of the Thames, to stain the glittering subsiding silver chrome

with the visceral red of dying blood cells. Yes, she had read that somewhere before too. Didn't sound

like Chomiac's style though. And then there had been this strange ansaphone message screaming

as if somehow he, Russell, had been responsible, which was impossible as he'd said he'd been

holidaying with Catherine in Paris at the time, visiting Disneyland. Yes it was all so tragic, so

incredible - three dead in - or was it through? - the brick wall the gateway to a watery under-

world? The sirens not singing from the deep, not even of police cars then, in the dead of night,

In Time Book Two 336

but Charon disagreeably muttering, that to return to the same place three times within three weeks

was too much, for his hull had already leaked the blood of too many into too many waters, and

itself was rotten now, and to Not Pen - Carol! all the more disturbing because it was as if she could

even still see the still un-rebricked wall from their house. He had been naughty - he'd never told her

that this was the Katherine's house. Living in a dead ex-wife's house? No, that was not acceptable;

they say the past is a different country, but Mandalay

- no mandaley

no never been to mandalay read the book i think with nadine

this was not. This was too much, - they

would have to move.

And it was all the more stranger as she had not met these people, only seen their photo-

graphs (and he'd quite a collection of Catherine - beautiful girl) so she couldn't quite .. empathise?

with them. They were not real, to her. It was all a terrible shame, but life is for the living, isn't it? -

she didn't want to lose her husband, but .. time wasn't on his side, was it, now? They say patience

is a virtue, but seven years? in her, this wilderness? She had thought, in what he'd curiously, but

somehow appropriately called, The Time Before, that it was just one of those bizarre coincidences

life threw up, to find herself almost living opposite to a former college lecturer, now married to a

former student flat mate (though she'd quickly enough left him - at least it was quiet now, without

that sodding oboe), but now it was almost as if he'd .. engineered all this. Which was of course

impossible.

And thinking I am asleep Carol Marhia would turn the pages to glance at my manuscript,

these time defining lines of past days. She, too tired now to read much more, and always,

nowadays an apprehension, increasing unease, at the next possible story. That they might all

have been called; 'Conversations At Dinner Parties.' Who were these people? Forever circulating?

In these stories? Herself called Penelope? (Didn't sound like her - she was so obviously Carol, -

In Time Book Two 337

and he had sang # Oh Carol # to her in their early - after the days of Nadine - courting days)

Brian (Brain? - well, perhaps the nomenclature was obvious - the doctors had talked of possible

damage to his brain often enough, - perhaps he had simply misheard). Simone of course she knew

all about, that voice that had spoken, followed him, even guided him sometimes, all his life, his

first girlfriend, he'd claimed. But how can you know love, when so young? She wondered whether

she should feel jealous there too; surely Simone's voice hadn't advised him, about her? But she

remembered this childlike voice answering her when she had rang him, in that past distant time,

in her final desperation, from Australia. He'd shown her the newspaper articles of decades ago,

faded now into almost obli/vi/terati/on. Slightly gawky face. Attractive. Long fine hair. Shame the

image hadn't been in colour. He'd said it'd been red. Sad to die so young. Shame to have to write an

imagined life, about, for a dead child.

Carol Marhia wondered whether the coin throwing chance bit was real - she'd never known

him to gamble; everything to him was somehow absurdly calculated; it was in fact to her a slight

personality defect. And he'd explained once that they were trick, double headed coins - he could

never lose. And his fingers did often flicker - she'd thought that had been an unconscious keyboard

exercise, not really to do with the claimed seven throws that determined Simone's fate. And there

was that absurd name of Korsakoff, some obscure Russian neurologist (?) whose name he'd

probably overheard Doctor Robert mumble. Only later to be spelt properly with a v- he'd always

liked Nikolai Rimski's stuff, after she had introduced him to that Russian style, at least getting

him away from that obsession with Elgar. Chomiac was there. Nadine. Thomas. Paul Friedman,

that regretted fling from college days - and didn't he never let her forget about it! Just as well

she'd never told him Friedman had visited her in Australia, to leave her up the spout, with twins.

Amazon girls, East and West? Daughters of Rhia? (He'd written that song # Love Song to Rhia #,

but had never actually called her that - seemed happy enough it was in E though) - that bit was

disturbing. To have sexual desires for your own (well, not really) children. Well, an awareness of

In Time Book Two 338

desire - he had inexplicably said once, Not free will, more free won't!, which to her had made

no sense, then or now, and she had checked with the twins, about .. only to be answered,

Don't be ridiculous!

He's sick, Mum!?

(the latter answer which at that time she was not then able to interpret).

Coralie was there too (not Corelli? He had played, and they had read, laughing out aloud

at the purpleness of the prose, Corelli at college), that older, 'mature' student (not emotionally she

had thought - she had effectively run off to a foreign country to marry some Johnny Foreigner,

leaving her to take charge, and owing unpaid rent, of the college flat where she - they had been

living. What's more, she could have sworn it was to the same country that Nadine had just returned

from. Well, Poland (?) was a big enough place, she supposed), and Christine, now alive again, then.

Well, for shortly, was. And the dinner parties did read like any party they had given, in different,

happier days, full of interesting characters, talking heads, though not all potentials trying to sell

something. And how would this character 'Saint' know of these people? If he existed outside of

Russell, when Russell was also there, in these texts, but somehow always in the distance, peripheral

to the, this plot, looking on, as if always outside the group? But still talking of himself as a musician.

So he hadn't lost all semblance of reality then.

But was there somewhere written (and here Carol flicked back through the diary but failed

to find the f/d/ated day) that Brian and a party guest had actually gone off and hidden in their closet,

and Russell had just walked in, not even knocking (- not that of course you would need to knock

to enter your own closet! -) and seen a Brian with Simone embracing? Very strange, what with

Simone being dead and Brian obviously not Russell. So there was no reason for her to get jealous,

no reason for even .. envy. But she was sure she remembered reading somewhere about Simone

returning Brian this small pin cushion - and why had he suddenly written of a tatty piece of fabric?

That it might be in the closet? He had said something strange recently, she not sure if he was pre-

In Time Book Two 339

tending to be asleep (she was aware he did often assume sleep-ness), or even if he were muttering

during unconsciousness, that the story of us all is the story of the pin cushion. which made no

sense, almost as if talking during a dream. And had Simone actually said, written somewhere

within this tom/b/e I must return this to Brain? Sometimes he seemed to assume normal-ness

and then just lose it all over again: he had written such an accurate description of their home;

the piano, the musical instruments, Christine's clarinet (a present apparently for the release of the/ir

first single), the oboe (but where had that come from? surely not really stolen from Christine?),

the copy of the Waterhouse upon the wall, that wedding present made, bought and stitched for him

(and it had taken her seven years - the template had cost hundreds!), her framed Chinese calligraphy,

the 64 I Ching bars, the Litchenstein'd version of the cover of the Flip Decision comic he'd had made

(and now she was even tempted to see if seven faint circular impressions lay underneath, embedded

in the casino green velvet), for whatever he had given to her, pin cushion or portrait, love songs or

Love Letters, she gave back sevenfold. And he had once had a picture painted, well, chalked, of her,

her favourite present from Russell, in their early courting days, if those post Friedman, post Nadine

college fucking days could be called 'courting'. What had happened to it? She couldn't recall posing

for the portrait, naked as she lay sleeping upon their bed - probably just copied, 'artistified', from a

photograph he'd taken of her. She didn't know why she couldn't find that story, within these pages,

and that was annoying - for there had never been a party at her home where she had not been the

hostess. Had there? It wouldn't make sense, as it appeared this 'Brian' was incapable of hosting

by himself. Not a self portrait then; Russell was always capable.

That picture? What had happened to it? Penelope would resolve to ask Brain, Brian! -

resolutely stealing herself at breakfast. He would of course notice the air of her urgency, but her

behaviour had been so strange recently, almost erratic, that he felt he could wait, before answering.

But she would not wait, and will demand, 'What did happen to that picture of me, you know the

chalked painting? My supposed honeymoon present, wasn't it?'

In Time Book Two 340

 'Yes?' Brian would nod doubtfully, answering, 'It's in the closet, isn't it?' (Knowing full

well that it now hung upon the wall of the flat he rented for Simone, with Simone's portrait

painted over the chalk image of his wife. At least he did feel guilty about that.)

'So if I went up there, scrummaged around, I would find it?'

He feigned surprise. 'Of course you would. Try not to trip over the telescope though.'

'Yes? It's a shame you didn't unpack it when we moved here.'

'Oh, I thought you had. Wondered why I hadn't seen it.'

He seemed he had an answer for everything she thought.

Yes, Penelope would feel a violation of her imagined space, even if these words, these

characters within these pages, were all just fiction, she never knowing that other lives could be

led, even if at other times, in their house.

It seemed like years since he had been at home, but the diary held only one year.

And Not Pen - Carol Marhia!

- she is the one

couldn't remember if Russell had ever even mentioned

the painter's name. He'd kept saying Nino (but El Nino surely? - though she couldn't see what

climatic oscillations in the Southern hemisphere could possibly have to do with anything about her

painting, - but Russell did often go off on tangents like that), no - she couldn't remember having

seen her portrait since she'd moved into to their 'new' house by the river. (Not so new then, since

she'd now discovered ((certainly from the pages within these covers!)) it'd been Katherine's

and Catherine's home. They would have words about that!) So who was Nino? Anybody?

And with a start Not Pen - Carol Marhia!

- she is the one

would realise the most annoying thing for her was,

In Time Book Two 341

it wasn't even her name in these lost, dated stories - apparently within these pages she was a

Penelope who had made her way to the hospital! How insulting was that!? To visit a Saint,

when in actuality it was Russell lying before her, - and he had always claimed he liked the name

Carol; Christmassy he had once said. No doubt about that. Why didn't he use it then? Yes,

she knew that her husband wasn't a Saint, but she had long ago accepted that all marriages were

approximations, as certainly her life had been.

And warm nurse Nadine soothes me again with her colours. And Simone is leaving me

again. I will miss her. But they tell me its time to say goodbye.

Not Pen - Carol Marhia! has stopped singing softly, mumbling, humming a familiar refrain

and

- she is

I know goodbye simone

it sinks comfortably within me to awaken me reluctantly from twilight sleep, to lurch me

into this consciousness with its familiarity. It's not one of mine. I smile and open my eyes. And

she stops. 'Do you know more?' I ask, for that operetta reminds me of school days. She shakes her

head, smiling faintly, 'No, I'm not really that familiar with them. Before my time, I think. Although

I know of course ... that one, - you sang to me sometimes, # Not a happy one? #. You were always

a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan, weren't you?'

Yes, I was always a fan, for had not a Christine been in the chorus? of that year's school

production? Her first year in the UK having emigrated from the US? (Although how could she,

being so young? - perhaps, after all, it was not me, but her parents she'd followed) And Vincent

had sang the lead? And had I not lain my hands upon her hips as part of the instructed choreography

to later walk with her in the rehearsal break through Chifwick Park, to laugh together as she tripped

over an overly affectionate kitten, injuring it, unfortunately. And, I seem to remember, to end the

In Time Book Two 342

day as lovers?

Distant times, now irrelevant, as yesterday's events are already figments of imagination.

Not Pen - Carol Marhia stares at me awaiting an answer, as she has awaited these long

months (?) past, constantly smiling, with her strange reassurance, during these sickness times.

That she has known me, somehow. In past times. She is not my shrink, then, as she places a card

beside me upon the bedside table.

No, she is not Katherine: how silent I must have seemed, in that time before, unfocused,

genial but, if not then answering in any affirmative, disregarding my disappearing father's instructions

to say Yes., and as my coin had fallen badly, out of sight and away into the forever darkness,

of no substance. Perhaps I was merely that friendly weird guy that came around now and again,

who wrote those strange songs before becoming famous. Perhaps she disliked my dirge # Mr Smith #,

for she was after all soon enough to marry him. Perhaps in my mind she resented me because I was

then penniless, before she wrote to me much later, in wealthier days. And after Smith's death, by then.

I am of course not in her thoughts now, for the dead have no thoughts.

- she sits me join

i can t simone and i tried and failed goodbye

And Katherine was not Catherine.

And then a tear. How easily I can articulate now, but always with indifference; uncaring

on this day as to any final outcome. But I speak, quietly, as if this stranger before me would

be able to comprehend, 'I always thought she would be there, for me. As I was there for her.

I don't know how, like a canvas, a backdrop - I thought she would always be there - as she had

been there for seven years. Always. Why not, then, to be together forever? That she would leave

me, find another life, and with Smith, of all people, to go, to grow away so quickly, to depart,

and that, in the long run, even after the second time, our friendship, our marriage, even after my

parenthood of my beloved Catherine, would come to mean .. nothing. Nothing. Is that it - is that

In Time Book Two 343

all there is, how it all ends?'

And this woman looks at me pitying, her smile thin now, realising that I do not love her,

but someone else, long ago, long gone. And dead. Merely a ghost. And even that my adoration is

of only a child. In a dead past. She sits uncomprehending, to murmur, 'Only a birthday card.' she is

repeating, still leaning forward tentatively, as if there might be some doubt, 'Your birthday? Yesterday?'

She smiles at me as if awaiting an answer, as Katherine the First herself had smiled, in earlier times.

'My birthday?'

For there is a dull ache in my stomach and in my mind, the hollow left by the gap of a

friendship, killed by, but before its time, unlike Hamlet, mercifully killed at his moment of

maturity, I am spared: to survive is to suffer. But maturity comes at different times to different

men.

'Yesterday.'

'How old am I?' I ask, as if to test her, that I might have lost a year somewhere, in my

diary, for there is a doubt, and she replies, but she speaks only an aural number, no bearing to

my real age; the ages of my memories. But the given number, divided by two gives me back

my time again, to the time before, with Katherine. Was it so long ago? Yes, it appears it was.

There had been a temporal connection after all, between Not Pen - Carol Marhia's card given

today and Katherine, almost as if deliberately planned: half my life ago we had attended a Pre-

Raphaelite exhibition at the Tate and later wandered past The Lady Of Shalott by Waterhouse.

It's you. I had said. We stopped and momentarily later, assessing the beauty of the canvas,

and she politely if dubiously agreed. I will have it copied, for you, with your face upon a tapestry,

as a wedding present. She smiled up at me, knowing, and -

But it had not merely been 'half my life ago', used as an approximation, but exactly

half my life ago; it had been my birthday then, too, a secret I had kept from Kathy until later

on that day (for such is the irrelevance of age in the young), and yesterday, as I wrote the above

In Time Book Two 344

words I had remembered that tomorrow was to be my birthday. 'It was your birthday yesterday.'

she explains. Yesterday's tomorrow is today. Had that been a song too? (No, I hadn't remembered

my birthday, such are the irrelevances of anniversaries even now, but in my dreams I'm sure Simone

had informed me, murmuring somewhere in the distance, - and that, on the day K had first learnt

his D chord, that too had been a birthday - perhaps they are significant after all).

Still, Half my Life ago. It would have been a good day to propose, to get married,

under the canvas of my love. After that happy day, walking in a London gallery. The ultimate

birthday present. For that imagined happy life. I am not happy now, as this birthday passes,

like so many others in subsequent times, to end my life upon this rectangular white slab, as kings

and queens are so too carved in marble and placed to reside for all time in empty spaces.

Still, there was always that other imagined life. And what would I tell myself, to give

advice, to myself when young? As Russell Stuart had mentioned, that long time ago? Perhaps

he too will be immortalised in my diary, so that he too can live on, in ink. Yes, give him grace,

for he played well. I wonder how his life panned out, his young life not yet then lived.

Half Life.

As if confirmation was required I mentally check the date of my age in my diary as I

read the birthday card given to me, signed as 'Carol', with several kisses.

Why is she is trying to trick me, with her false affections? If only I could go back,

to warn myself, that this half life has not been in vain. And isn't it too late now to write Not

Pen - Carol Marhia a final story, and this time not to be a fiction, of my half life ago, as

memories and isotopes fade and decay to the half truths as I have conjured them. Will she will

hate me then, when my words are after all merely scrapings upon a paper, fabricated etchings?

I have yearned for death, for the final silence for so long since that time; perhaps if I close

my eyes now, that this time ...?

But no; just the sound of my rasping, my body gasping for its life, and her gentle breathing,

In Time Book Two 345

listening to me as I drift into twilight sleep. She loves me she loves me not She loves me she loves

me not She loves me she loves me not She loves me she loves me not She loves me she loves

me not She loves me she loves me not. Shelovesmeshe lovesmshalots.

He was humming something faintly, she heard. Loves Shalotts? Carol didn't know how

much more she could take. It was so annoying - he probably didn't even know it was his birthday.

And how long had they known each other now? Half his life? More than half hers. It was a shame

his father had died from some weird radiation poisoning (he'd even come up with the preposterous

story that his father had suddenly, completely vanished in front of him in his childhood, which was

surely - was it even worth asking the question!? - impossible) and his mother had put him into care,

of a bonkers old piano playing spinster, apparently - she remembered her father having to kick the

front door in (and it was strange that she happened to be driving her cab past at that moment to drop

her father off at the Tank) in the failed attempt to save the old part time nurse from a fire, wrecked

his foot, and his career, - to go on to study music somewhere - not at her college, although there had

been a Coralie there, she remembered, the one who'd suddenly run off to get married in Poland (?).

(Russell had kept saying, I'd like to play with your Corelli's to her chest, which hadn't gone down

well with that particular mature student.) And now she was dead, according to these notes. A suicide

because her husband had moved the entire family to be near the grave of a long dead, and never met

son? Possible, she supposed. Wondered what really happened to her? Yes, she would have liked to

have known more about, and what did he call it? the time before? Sometimes he was so so but

words again failed her.

A few pages left, before the ripped out pages of November fifteenth. No doubt he would

fill them. With more lurid imaginings. But for now, East and West needed feeding. Even though

they had long been adults, and could fend for themselves. They were all she had at the moment,

and grateful at their returning so quickly from Australia once informed of the crash - certainly

her husband wasn't (all) there - and where was he, exactly - anywhere?

In Time Book Two 346

 She is gone now, again, as I awake, as my father was to go. He told, instructed me to say

Yes., but when the time came to say Yes. I foolishly remained silent, wishing to save Kathy

from my madness, as if I knew of the madness later to come; this life - and I somehow knowing,

as if my brian somehow knew of future times; that Katherine the First would disappear anyway,

in time. Perhaps she was already betrothed to Smith. Although beethoven to Smith sounds better.

Although he preferred Mozart. He tried a clarinet concerto, but couldn't play it, - That A major,

always too difficult for me. I remember my father; he disappeared right in front of me.

HALF LIFE

A man stands, late forties, well dressed, but in slightly strange fashion, clothes slightly out

of their time, he wears an aura of affluence, and of power, but he is obviously ill, stands still and

silent outside a school playground, looking at children playing in the distance. His eyes have searched

but now alight upon a specific child, and the boy of nine notices. A momentary hesitation, not quite

of recognition, then turns away to play with his friends. A teacher appears, apparently out of

nowhere, to blow her whistle, shrilling that the break is over. She notices the man in the distance,

and that the boy glances again at man.

'Is that your father, Russell? He's a bit early.'

'No Miss Coralee.'

Puzzled, but she dismisses her thought, as time is short, 'OK kids! Line up! Two by two!

Simone! Russell! Stop holding hands! Chop chop!'

The children obey joyfully and re-enter the school upon the teacher's beckoning. But as

the class reassembles in the classroom Miss Coralee notices the man still in the distance.

And he is still there as the school days ends, as the children cascade into the playground,

erupting as if spurting pyroclastic particles from volcanoes seeking their freedom, and the man

moves to talk to Russell, but the boy has run past, Simone following, he clutching an old Donald

Duck comic and calling to his friends, 'Michael! Keith! Wait for me! Let's play football!' for

In Time Book Two 347

the man to look strangely wistful, as if recalling his own past childhood. The teacher looking

from her classroom, slightly disconcerted, decides to investigate, to walk across the playground,

determined to be polite, efficient, but resolute, 'Um, excuse me. Are you waiting for .. somebody?'

she asks, to now notice how ill he appears when closer up, that he might well have been handsome

once, but slightly too pale now - but that was obviously the sickness, now appearing gaunt, making

an effort to stand, that he should really be in hospital, but he attempts to smile, 'No. I just wanted to

see how the old school looked, in my time.'

'You were here?' she asks, an element of surprise, that the school had existed for so long.

'A long time ago. Obviously.'

'Oh I'm sorry. I thought you were a parent. Waiting for a child '

And the man attempts to laugh knowingly, but coughs, for the teacher, as if somehow still

wary, to suggest, 'I'll look up your name in the records, if you like. See if there's a photograph.'

'Russell Stuart. You might find the picture missing though.'

And the teacher is of course very surprised, 'We have a Russell Stuart here now!' For the man

to smile, more thinly now, knowing that he has to return the next day, the children dis/sipat/appear/ed,

to stand again, waiting, counting the moments, as if the moments counted. As the next day the teacher

is to see again in the distance the man, whom she now recognises as Russell Stuart, waiting again

for the boy, Russell Stuart, for her to leave the classroom, cross the playground, to say, 'I'm sorry. I

couldn't find another Russell Stuart. But ..' she implies, with a trace of suspicion, 'there were pictures

missing. When did you say you were here?' For the boy to run on again, today chasing the slim

athletic frame of Simone, gawky in her happiness, for the man to again miss his chance, the boy

calling, 'Lazy! Wait! It's my turn with the coins! Donald told me!'

For Simone to reply, 'No! My name is not lazy! It's my turn! Donald told me!'

For the man to answer the teacher, 'Now.'

'What?'

In Time Book Two 348

 For the man to walk off, knowing he has to return yet again the next day, for an unkempt

wildly red haired policeman, accompanied by a man with long blond flowing Listzian locks, to

then approach the man, to ask, 'Excuse me sir, do you know why we're here?'

'Yes.'

For the policeman to wait for an explanation but none is forthcoming. 'Sir?'

For the man to stumble.

'Sir? Are you well?

'Radiation sickness.'

'What?'

For the man to reach into his pocket to withdraw a laminated identity card of sorts, not

one the policeman recognises, but he examines it anyway, curiously humming a familiar refrain,

for him to ask, as this picture, this image was seeming somehow so different, from the face

before him, 'Russell Stuart?' And the man nodding, answering, ' Vincent? Rollo? Do you

remember that trip to Wales?' to be met by blank stares, as they are joined by the teacher and

the now collected boy, with Simone close behind, almost attempting to again hold Russell's

hand, for the teacher to ask, 'Russell do you know this man?' And the boy to look up doubtfully

to shake his head, to watch the man's smile fading and slowly collapsing to his knees, to the

ground, in pain, for Vincent to steady his shoulders, for the man to murmur, now straight across

into the eyes of the boy, 'Russell, promise me, when she asks you, say Yes. '.

The teacher's hand remains upon the shoulder of the boy, as if curiously wary that the

boy might escape, 'You don't know Russell.'

And the man turns away the from teacher, as if sad, too weary now of the aged stupidity

of others, to look again into the boy's eyes. 'Promise me you'll say Yes. '.

And the policeman, Vincent, to then ask again, 'Sir?'

'Russell, remember, say Yes. '.

In Time Book Two 349

 For the adults to stand in incomprehension, looking down at this fallen figure with the

slight fear of the unknown, for the boy has not been threatened in any way and there is no implicit

air of menace, even as the man again mouths to the boy 'Say Yes. '. For they see the boy doesn't

understand the question but thinks for a few moments, for his mother had said when daddy was

alive he had something to do with a terrible bomb, and it must have been secret, - for no one ever

talked about him any more now - but Russell Stuart had remembered the words, poles, and the

words positive and negative had been mentioned often, and he felt that somehow positive

must be a good word, 'All right, I will. I'll say Yes. ', for Vincent and Chomiac to then step

back in shock, and the teacher to put her hand to her mouth, as Russell Stuart the Elder vanished

before their eyes, leaving them gaze and grasp at empty space, and the Russell Stuart the Younger

to murmur, 'Coool ... I'll say Yes. '.

And Chomiac to murmur, this curious mixture of incredulity and disappointment, notepad

already re-pocketed, 'And who will believe that story?'

But Russell Stuart the Younger's memory of that incident was to fade as he grew older,

that it might merely have been a dream, as the adults had not reported the incident of the vanishing

man, for who (as Vincent had always looked a bit strange anyway, the school teacher Miss

Coralee thought) would have believed them? and Simone was to die soon enough in later times,

another disappearing witness, and Russell himself had been injured at that moment, to cause him

to occasionally forget, unless re-minded, of his earlier school friends, that perhaps the vanishing

man might have been another confabulation of his thoughts.

In a later time Russell was at work in the school physics lab - for after the accident some

subjects had become always seemingly effortless to him, in the pure beauty of their abstraction,

as music now too appeared to him, the colours of melodies filling his mind as he played, and

words gave him tastes, for as he grew older, his singing voice cracking from fine soprano to

adequate tenor, he began to speak as if savouring each syllable (but thinking of something else

In Time Book Two 350

at the same time someone had once said, as if he were listening, but only half there), but everyday

now he smiled as he passed the doorway that led to his secret annex, where he stored his pop star

pictures and guitar amps, - when his teacher commented (and Russell had often imagined that had

his father lived he might very well have been t/his teacher), 'You're not still playing with Uranium

238 Russell, are you!'

For Russell to reply, 'I'm neutronising it into Polonium 239.'

'Oh, very droll.'

And the teacher noticed Russell's eyes following, through the classroom window, a passing
attractive young woman. 'She's a clever girl. And nice. Katherine, I think her name is. You'd like
her. Plays a bit too. And as do you, from what I hear.' And here the teacher smiled, 'Her brother
looks like Liszt!'

And in later times Russell Stuart would pursue his work in a university research depart-

ment, to work in high tech laboratories, safety sensors flashing intermittently, and as he saw

Katherine passing behind a window again, he left the lab to enter the safety area, and as the door

rattles a glowing radioactive vial shakes with the vibration, to sit with Katherine, fingering his coin,

- you made me win

both now intimate and happy. For her to surprise him, 'I've got my place on the course.'

'Oh great!'

For the obvious hesitation before mentioning, 'So .. I'll be moving.' To wait for Russell's
response, for her to continue, 'I'd like it if you came with me. I'd like it ... - ' for Russell to interrupt,
his coin flicking finger trick not quite complete, 'I'd like to, Kathy .. but I'm not ready - I'm doing
important work here.' For him to notice this veil of sadness falling upon Katherine's face, as a drawn
curtain slowly blocks out the light of the sun, that she must take this Polish language course, as if
to fulfil not merely herself (for her mother had been, not insistent, but expectant), but to leave
behind Russell, who has been with her for so long ..
'Please come away with me?'

In Time Book Two 351

 For Russell Stuart to drop his coin and look down. 'Kathy ... I don't know. This is not
the right time? I must get back to work.' And Katherine stands to reluctantly acquiesce to Russell
kissing her on her cheek, to see him depart to his lab, and then turns away, not to notice that the
vibration of the closing door shakes the glowing vial to the ground, despite Russell Stuart's attempts
to catch it failing, not to hear his expletive, as the vial's vile spreading liquids flowed viscidly (and
there was a strange beauty in this colouring, he absurdly noticed, as the liquid flowed slowly into
the shape of a woman's face), 'Oh shit.'

And was that then was to be my life; to be summed up in two words, Oh shit? And if
I were to play the tape again, rewinding a past? ... as if Russell were to be asked, Play it again,
Russell. That my eyes might flow back over the text of my life, to scratch and rewrite:

And in later times Russell Stuart would pursue his work in a university research depart-
ment, to work in high tech laboratories, safety sensors flashing intermittently, and as he saw
Katherine passing behind a window again, he left the lab to enter the safety area, and as the door
rattles a glowing radioactive vial shakes with the vibration, to sit with Katherine, fingering his coin,
- you made me win

no i called heads i could not lose

both now intimate and happy. For her to surprise him, 'I've got my place on the course.'
'Oh great!'
For the obvious hesitation before mentioning, 'So .. I'll be moving.' To wait for Russell's
response, for her to continue, 'I'd like it if you came with me. I'd like it .. - '
And Russell makes to finger flick his trick but has dropped his coin, this time failing to
interrupt her continuance, ' - .. if we got married.'
For Russell to ponder, 'I'd like to, Kathy... but I'm not ready - I'm doing important work
here.' For him to notice this veil of sadness falling upon Katherine's face, as a drawn curtain
slowly blocks out the light of the sun, that she must take this Polish language course, as if to
fulfil not merely herself (for her brother had been, not insistent, but expectant; that she
should pursue her knowledge of Poland's language and history, for hadn't she, after all, translated

In Time Book Two 352

Korsakoff's poems in that earlier time, so therefore she must be interested?), but to leave behind
Russell, who has been with her for so long ..
'Please come away with me?'
'I don't know ..' for there to be a hesitation, somewhere a familiarity in these events and
words, for Katherine to ask again,
'Please come away with me?'
'Kathy, I don't know?'
Yes, there is a recollection there, a comprehension somehow, that these words have been
spoken before, and a memory somewhere, as Russell Stuart looks to the floor, to see that of course
the coin has fallen to the Obverse,
- you made me win

no simone i called heads i could not lose

that the answer, given at the final moment, must be Yes or

No, as if a binary selection of On or Off must be taken, or the path of X or Y somehow
chosen, but Kathy knows nothing of Russell's thoughts, of his history, but as if she must insist, 'Will
you come away with me?', for Russell to stoop to pick up and examine more closely the fallen coin, -
that at any other time it must have lain heads up, Obverse, but now the revealed Reverse, tails, which
was impossible, since this was a trick double headed coin, as for Simone it had fallen heads up and
not tails,

- you made me win

no goodbye simone

for Katherine to follow his gaze, puzzled, for Russell to murmur, 'I don't ... know - '
But there is a melody now playing in Russell's mind, not a Norah Jones melody, but a melody he
has heard somewhere before, as if from an Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, as if Vincent was humming
# A Policeman's Lot #, for Katherine to ask again, finally, as in a plaintive desperation, 'Come away
with me?'
And the memory returns in a flash, for Russell to see the man disappear before his eyes,

In Time Book Two 353

that it had not been a dream, that his mother had been wrong in her sneering dismissal of the related
events of that day, scoffing, Ridiculous! Such things do not happen in the real world! I wish your
father were alive to teach you some real science! - which he might well have done, had he been
alive, as RS the Elder had in his own time been a physicist, doing secret atomic work somewhere,
and might well have passed on what he could (for some work, he had erroneously thought, was
still classified) to his strange son Russell, before he too had decayed to his half life. But for Russell
to now realise that his mocked vision had been true, and that the sick man looking down upon
him as a child .. was himself. Say 'Yes.' his disappearing father had instructed, only for the
next day, after that strange disappearance, the man had reappeared as he and Simone chanced with
their coins in the afternoon playtime, standing happily, waving at himself, Russell Stuart, as a boy.
'Russell! It's going to be great!' the man had shouted, but Russell had not mentioned the reappearance,
for he had remembered the shock of the adults yesterday - of the scruffy policeman, that blond haired
man with the long fingers, but a visible silver coloured scar upon his wrist, of Miss Coralee, of
his disapproving, disappointed mother. But for him to now mouth at the reappeared man, agreeing,
Say Yes. That there might possibly be - but not necessarily a probably - happy ending. For
Katherine to still sit, still waiting, still puzzled.
'Say Yes.. He told me to say Yes.. '

'Yes ..?'

'Yes. Yes. He told me to say Yes.. Yes, I'll come with you!'

For Katherine to beam happily, that all her dreams have come true. And at so young an

age. 'I love you so much. To do this for me.'

For Russell to turn to stare into the laboratory, to notice that the vial has fallen, but that

this time he is outside.

And perhaps, in truth, as an adult (even if a fuller maturity came for me in much later

times) I had said Yes. and not remained silent. But perhaps that was always my curse, that

all my dreams came true.

In Time Book Two 354

 But too late, now, for me to care.

And still this woman sits still before me, not the Katherines', neither the First or the Second,

of distant dead dreams, but returning daily, always looking at me, sometimes pitying, sometimes

caring, as if there is some dark secret of which she is still aware and of which I know nothing.

But she sits uncomprehending, of my mind, of my thoughts. For she has no idea, of my life, of

the time before us, before our own years together, except only through these pages, which she

reads, I know, when I am asleep, and there is no mental discomfort in knowing, accepting that

now. She seems to know so much of me, and still she reappears, still she accepts me. Simone said

she was, is my wife.

- she the one coral marhia

Carol marihah her perhaps i will simone once this is over to remember her and

the days when you spoke fluently to me but you must say goodbye now The tablets they have

given me seem to be silencing my school friend, muting her musings into a slow oblivion. When

asleep Not- Carol Marhia will read of me, and know me, read the recent scribbled pages, knowing

in a, her sentimental way that the words were true, heartfelt, sincere. She of course would know

now more of whom Cathy, and Katherine, were. Was. It would seem a shame, to her, tragic, that

he had still not put them behind him. After all these years. Seven, wasn't it? It had been a long

time ago, she'd admit, but perhaps grief always stays with you, a record stuck perpetually in its

groove, a CD in/cessa/siste/ntly glitching, a tragedy locked in its tracks forever in some misfiring

synapses in the brain. Of memories. Perhaps, she would think, and correctly, there is no such

word, no such meaning in the expression, closure.

Perhaps the end is to come soon, perhaps I to write one final story, perhaps a truth of

sorts, of how I saw Chomiac and Vincent chase a boy (only much later to discover from a

newspaper article he was also called Simon) from the toilets by Kew Bridge, to follow him

into the river, to push him down, to hold him there, forcing him to drown, then for Penelope

In Time Book Two 355

to put down the story in disgust, insulted by its puerility, its stupidity, for the newspaper article

had commended their bravery, and obviously referred to her Vincent and Chomiac, as if

implicating her friends. Chomiac wasn't gay was he? She felt an involuntary clench in her

stomach: Ugh! Had she been infected?! There was almost a spasm of relief as she realised it

was all too long ago. For her to fall ill. She couldn't possibly be sick, now.

Why had Saint written such sad trash? He couldn't be homophobic, surely? Not with the

life he'd led. What then, had Saint got against Chomiac? She would have to ask him next time she

saw him. To explain himself. She wasn't aware that he even knew Chomiac. Had he, Chomiac,

known Saint, from a time before? From school days? He hadn't mentioned it. There was an uneasy

flicker of cognisance in Penelope's mind - why had Chomiac rang her, of all people, that night

(and was it ten?) months ago? They had had a past, but it was, as they say, all a long time ago.

These thoughts made her irritable. She was living in a scheme of things outside her, an actress

performing in a play unwritten by her.

Penelope would put down this story on a desk in plain view; let Brian read it if he so

wished. Let's see if he would publish, now that he was so suddenly interested in Saint, such trash,

even if penned by the sacred hand of a Saint! She didn't think so.

Bastard!

She would sit looking at sleeping form, this carcass, this husk, feeling contaminated, that

somehow she had been violated, that her trust had been destroyed. She could not articulate it, but

there was a palpable acrid taste in her mouth. What was that taste? It was like a bitter, burnt

champagne. She would sit and wait, as Not- Carol Marhia has sat and waited these long months,

until I opened my eyes, for her to then stand, to step forward and wave the past papers in my face,

to exclaim, 'What the fuck is this?!' for Saint to smile faintly, to answer, 'The draught pleases. Pray

continue.' For Penelope to demand, 'How can you know so much!?' And Saint would close his

eyes again. Women do get wearying after a short time, and he noticed that she was wearing the

In Time Book Two 356

same clothes as last time, but smelling now of antiseptic, the Isabelline colour not so clean now,

a strange C# scent, and unsure too, as to whether the chord was of major or minor. At least he

hadn't made them shabby, as Penelope had stumbled amongst the new sawdusted floorboards,

seeking out an old college friend. But when was the last time? he saw her? Should he try some

gentle words, smooth condolences? Attempt a tenderness? He mumbled, but all she heard were

mere bubbling sounds, a frothing at the lips. She stepped back. Shouldn't his wife call warm nurse?

Or should she let the little shit drown in his own juice? No, she should visit Chomiac, in that cafe

somewhere, he not now as beautiful as in the time before, blond hair now long gone, scarred wrist

twisted, that feeble attempt to hide the dog bite with a discoloured silver (?) bangle, for her to then

begin to tentatively ask, 'You're not ..' as if almost afraid a sickness might now still prevail

within her, 'gay, are you?' For Chomiac to step back, astounded, exclaiming, 'What the fuck!?'

for Penelope not to be surprised by his reaction, but relieved almost. She had been too forthright,

and, of course, they two too had had their own history. 'I'm sorry' she would attempt, ' - it's just that

I heard, read? from Saint, in my visits at the hospital, that he knew you?

'What?' Now he seemed puzzled. 'A long time ago, in school. What did he say?'

'No,' she corrected herself, for she was confused sometimes, now, about, between, what

Saint said, and what he wrote, 'I mean I read that story from Saint. A story. A written text. About

you.' And Chomiac would continue to look bemused, for Penelope to soon enough realise that

of course she hadn't told him about this manuscript, - or any subsequent stories, come to that,

written after that dinner party of some time ago, - wasn't it the one they'd held the day before

Russell and her had visited Saint's house?

'He wrote a story about me?' Chomiac would ask. It seemed incomprehensible. 'Let me

see it.'

But Penelope will shake her head to then smile in relief; he wasn't that angry after all.

'I don't think that would be ... very appropriate.'

In Time Book Two 357

 But Chomiac would demand, 'Why not?!' For what had this crummy pop star been saying

about him? Hadn't he got his first gigs abroad, after college days? Hadn't he even eventually married

his little sister?

'It's just ..' but how could she put it, politely?, 'very badly written. About you and Vincent

at Kew Bridge.'

And it would have been badly written, crushed too tightly into these remaining pages

before November 15th, and full of salacious, murderous allegation (and why would Saint suggest

these things, unless he knew something?), for her to ask, 'Did you ever know Saint, before?'

This immediately threw him, puzzled by her inflection. Did she know anything? Of course

not - how could she? But there remained a doubt in his mind, for the time when he had known Saint

was a long distant time ago, from those school days, and counted in fact merely as only a few days,

in an entire lifetime; from that school concert with his sister, that trip to Wales, in the distance on

a balcony somewhere as he rehearsed the Dream of Gerontius. He knew that Saint had contacted

(that bastard) Korsakoff after his invitation, - for he hadn't (then) wanted Saint to associate so

closely with his sister, for Katherine had said she liked him, but that he was always fiddling about

with, in his pocket, as if searching for small change - but perhaps he would have made a better

match (then) than that odious Smith - perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut after all), and

that he and K had gone off to tour Poland, and of course in a later time he himself had forwarded

that now infamous manuscript to Brian. Made Korsakoff famous, but was he grateful? Didn't

seem so, what with those suspicious shadows always following him around, whenever he had

subsequently visited Poland. And that fucking dog, destroying his wrist, and his playing days.

And perhaps it hadn't been him after all, for the name had been different then - no, Russell

hadn't been called Saint back then - and surprised he could he recognise him after thirty, forty years,

at that dinner party. It seemed incredible, that so much time had passed. Surely not - where had it

all gone? He knew that he himself hadn't aged well, from that fresh faced, long blond Lisztian hair

In Time Book Two 358

flowing pianist to this bald headed hack journalist (he admitted he didn't classify himself as a

writer) to the slightly decrepit figure he knew he now appeared (well he did to himself, reluctantly

refusing to shave in the morning in the mirror, - but it might be necessary soon enough to bald his

chin, to equalise his face). He blamed it on the drink. Well, he did write better when drunk. And on

the amphetamines Doctor Robert 'prescribed' him. Too bad he never finished Unsolved. 'Fuck.'

'Fuck indeed.' Penelope replied. He saw she was still waiting for him to explain that past,

for which there was no explanation - but he would have to - and what was the word; appease?

delay? her.

'Well...' but he immediately drifted into silence. What could he say? To admit those terrible

things from long ago? It had been an accident after all. How had that boy got down from Malvern to

London? Korsakoff hadn't even been in London then surely? Unless he was doing another sodding

television interview. To promote yet again that fucking book. Penelope had now realised, in his

hesitation, and guessed of hidden ... 'Well ...' he repeated, again fading immediately into silence.

This was enough for her.

'Time for some more research then, I think,' she continued. And was there a trace of slyness

there, he wondered, '... about that boy .. Simon? '

Fuck, she knew. But how? He somehow had always known he should never have taken

her to see some fucking, fading pop star - he was just repaying past favours after all. If you can

call unpaid for sex a favour. He wished he had paid for it now, discharged, as it were, his obligations.

Even if she had then claimed to be under age (and back then he had later checked with Vincent,

so he knew that claim wasn't true). Such evil that he did, then. And with Vincent. 'It was an

accident.' he insisted lamely.

Yes, Penelope will realise soon enough, that she exists only in ink, only a fabrication of

my mind, somehow magically concocted from the cabled circuits of my (and all) brain(s), in their

(for all human brains are the same now, and have been for at least 72 000 or so years - but what is

In Time Book Two 359

a few thousand years, between friends?) own, so far successful attempt (but attempt is the wrong

word, for specie have no soul) for eternal survival, for her to suffer that terrible humiliation, that

ghastly realisation, that we too, in the real world suffer, as we grow older, our minds gently faintly

fading, failing to comprehend, that we all will, soon enough, not exist, but never the realisation,

that all this is a temporary aberration; that not existing is the norm, that all lives, all minds, are

fictions, - real enough, but not real, just flickering patterns, the noises of tunes upon which we dance

to. Perhaps those years of study of philosophy hadn't been wasted after all, if only to discover the

aberrations of minds past, that they existed in their historical time, knowing only what they could

know, at that time; of the political intrigues, the religious tensions, believing in absurd theories, if

only to be on the then winning, surviving side. Of that time.

As I exist in mine.

I will say to Penelope, 'I just wrote them. To please you. To tease you.' And perhaps she

is unaware as yet - and perhaps forever always will be - that all the other characters in these stories

are fictions too, only culled and reassembled from comments heard and words muttered to me in

these last few months (?). For what is the point in explaining to her, herself a fictional character,

that these stories aren't real, that her marriage to a publisher are merely words, memories of far

distant events of my own life, as is her discovery of Brian's secret flat hiding (and from Russell

too) Simone's existence - that perhaps that apartment might merely be a room off a hallway of a

school? Or a closet where a telescope and pin cushion are stored. She then to ask querulously,

'But the dead girl in Passion?' for me to shrug, to answer, as if there is a need to explain this other

fictional character, that a memory might be real, 'There was no girl. You think I would have

actually killed Katherine? The girl that I had loved from the time before? Even when I was to

be(come) eventually disappointed? In the time after? Don't you know how ridiculous that sounds?'

For Penelope must now know they died in a car crash on the way to the hospital - that her new

soon to be husband, our former roadie Copy Cat Brat, who'd left the copying and the driving for

In Time Book Two 360

us to be with the woman he now loved, unaware, completely, it seemed, of my machinations, of

my request for him to examine the faulty handbrake of Rahim's track, only to be crushed by Rahim's

slowly reversing truck, as the tailgate trapped him, drifting slowly but inevitably through a brick

wall and into the river. I am ashamed (now) that I left Rahim to stand alone, to face the music

(but even that fiction is not strictly true, is it, as I paid for him to join me, in his fleeing to Paris?).

Katherine had left an abusive message on my ansaphone, for me to hear upon my return, as if it

had been my fault. Catherine did not, was not allowed to stay that extra day with me in Paris, my

offer of a thrown coin being derisively refused. Yes, my beloved would be alive now if allowed to

stay. To visit Disneyland again. But Penelope will continue, insistent, determined to fix in her

memory that time, as if to ensure her own survival, that she herself might not fade, 'But there was

a dead boy there, about that time, Simon, drowned in the river ...? I saw it, looked it up in the

newspapers.' And I will I look at her, realising that she knows that somehow there is a connection,

that this is not random chance; that the number of bodies of young children found in the river

Thames at any given moment is necessarily small, even in the great expanse of time. Yes, it was

an accident; I saw the boy slip and fall, watching from the bench by the river, even from the distance

of the opposite river bank. I could see Friedman's and Christine's house, opposite to what was later

to become our house, where I had once stood, in the time before, in the porch with Katherine, - those

now lost child times. Therefore, if not Katherine, if not Simon, then who? And she will wait, for me

to eventually, now content to reply, sardonically, 'I see you have done your homework. Or did you

get a ..' and what words will I use, to describe Chomiac, for none other comes immediately to

mind, '.. minion to do your research?' And her patience exhausted she will blurt out, 'But that story

scared me! I had to know! I - ' And I will raise my left arm, a Freed Man now by warm nurse

Nadine from the coloured constraining tubes, as if now Sisyphus ascending, necessarily released

to silence her, a Lazarus resurrected, to confront again the living, recalling that I refrained from

mentioning any epoch, or era, or period of time in Passion (and again not strictly true, for weren't

In Time Book Two 361

the Aldermaston marches of their time?), excepting a reference to Kathy's imagined brother,

Chomiac, and my imagined father. That information, of Simone's death, came from the time

before, and can be known only to me; of the games we played as children, of the words we shared,

of the models we made, of the television puppet shows we watched, of the comics we read, our

evenings gazing at the stars and planets through Smith's telescope, of our trip to the Malvern hills,

her death, my brian injury. And those times are long gone, merely echoes in my mind. Excepting my

present injury.

And who was Christine? Did I ever know her? I remember a girl followed me to London

from New York, after an gig, but not, surely, at my request? Yet I felt a sense of arousal from

Penelope's descriptive comments of her statuesque properties; convincing, as if real, in these

times, and not merely from a memory. Perhaps then, I knew I was to recover.

Yes; it would have been nice for Simone to have had such experiences.

'Why did you do that Simone? Die on me?'

'Is Simone still there?' Not Pen Carol Marhia asks, looking at me curiously, no longer irritated,

as if now in acceptance that I am allowed my madness, in this time of sickness. Or that sickness,

then. 'No. She has been quiet for some time.'

She nods. 'I don't mean to sound selfish, but ... I want you for myself, you know that.'

And now I, in my turn, nod.

'What I want to know is,' and here she gently taps my pages, as if not to hurt the past,

' - why did you call me Penelope?'

I gaze at her, now puzzled; for she has always been called, I thought, in my stories,

Penelope - she who has waited for my uncertain return, and patiently stitched her tapestry for

seven years - for what else could be her name? - but there has been the too slow realisation that

she exists out t/here, in the real world, and not merely as a fiction in my diary, and that her real

name is not Penelope, but Not- Carol Marhia. And that the Aitch is silent.

In Time Book Two 362

 'Kathy's dead.' I state, no longer a question. But worse, if only still in silence, the admission

that Cathy's dead too.

And Carol Marhia nods.

Yes, I had thought that Katherine and I were close, that our conversations were intimate,

and in our intimacy general, unguarded, generous uncensored comments were made, that deluded

me into thinking that such intimacy was to last forever. There was no arrogance in that assumption,

not then the comprehension that close words can fall to distant echoes. How was I supposed to

know? Then, when I was so, too young? Before the experiences of the time after? I had cared for

her by not imposing, ever, upon the situation; I wanted her friendship even more than I wanted to

possess her body, not knowing then that that remembered treasure would be discoloured by later

times, as were her breasts by Smith. Even though there was to be no disappointment in those later

years. But then too late for me to be in love. For my memory of her young, is that of a good woman,

caring and thoughtful, and I, not then realising she had her own needs and desires (as I, in a musical

sense, had my own needs and desires and ambitions), her own unwritten, unconscious agenda, her

future inchoate, and unformed but somehow inevitable, as if the pages of her life were sure(ly yet)

to be written, with or without the lead of my pencil escribing our future, but I not then knowing

that Smith espied upon her in the girls shower, and that she was aware of his actions, but did not

recoil.

And in my innocent compassion for her, and now I realise, too late, in this different time,

of my own shattered self esteem; I had remained silent, when friendship was enough for me, and

held no expectation that she should care for my fractured mind and shattered face, such was my

pride and self reliance, even then. I realise now, of course, with aged retrospection and experience

now of the tolerance of women, and my own burgeoning awareness that I was somehow perceived,

behind, despite the disfiguring persona as normal, that she would have cared for me, for her needs

were solidity and stability, as most normal women desire, but at that time solidity and stability

In Time Book Two 363

were imaginary concepts to me, living as I did with the old, mad piano playing spinster (and how

Bach bored me then! for the relief of utter silence during the hours she was away nursing, - here at

this very hospital, warm nurse Nadine claims) and perhaps that instability led me into destructive

encounters (for relationships is not the word) with disturbed women, for that is still how I perceive

Angel Simone Fruitcake,

- am not

for what girlfriend would haunt her boyfriend, and blame him for her

death?

- your fault never leave you

no and you must say it say the word goodbye

- never say it

But it is true: I never murmured to her that sweet, simple, necessary word Yes.; that I

cared for her, that th/is/ere was the time when I found comfort, a calmness in her presence, a

sense of completeness in that momentary oasis of stillness within her front room, and it was as

if I deliberately kept a cautious distance, as if always knowing my weaknesses, as if realising,

even in my then shy immaturity, that in my silence I protected her from the flaws in my character;

arrogance, promiscuity, poverty. There was always the arrogance of certainty (and in later times

within the band, I knew even then that when I was forced to decree, over some minor, almost

irrelevant matter, - excepting G's rhythm playing, which was always somehow never relevant, -

my reluctance to judge was usually overcome by economic considerations, that in my own mind

there was little emotion involved, that a crazy attempt at reasoning always prevailed, despite the

conflicting, contorting emotions, despite the knowledge that Descartes was in error; that I, and

we as the band, even then not yet fully formed, were there for the greater good; songs, and success),

excepting with my time with Katherine (the First) - for she was the last woman I deferred to,

in that long ago distant time, as her opinion mattered to me, and sadly only then - within the

In Time Book Two 364

Second time around lay the eternal disappointment, and merely because I cared for her. But

was to adore Catherine. Yes, I admit now the faults of my arrogance: at an earlier time she had

implied her wants and needs to me, and I had not responded, not answering Yes. as my

disappearing father had instructed, but still relying on the futile, foolish fates of throwing coins.

In my youthful arrogance I assumed she would wait for me (after all, had we not known each

other now for oh so many seven years?) until such time (And what time is that? she may well

have asked, but for me not then to answer, Yes., for the coin had not yet then fallen) for I did

not then possess a diary, or a camera, and that day I had not left my single remaining coin at

home, as sugg/requ/ested by Chomiac) I was ready. But my offer of continued friendship had

been rejected after her implied marriage proposal, an offer possibly misunderstood, for her words

veered alarmingly from the subject of our idle friendship to her own marital needs. I was shocked,

that I could have been so easily been misunderstood? and I left too abruptly; we kissed goodbye

in her mother's porch, and the solitary coin fell, slipped through my fear sweated fingers, and

almost as if in fright, coin trodden quickly underfoot, I turned away. I was never to see her again,

in that time before, except occasionally in the distance, her ethereal presence walking along the

Thames river path with that now too vaguely familiar figure, he throwing cigarette butts to the

ground, and stepping on them in a curiously particular way, as if attempting to avoid an imaginary

leg of a tripod. And once, ironically, as I sat in The Bull's Head pub with G, where in soon enough

later times K and I were to seek him out, to invite him into our close fold, to plan haphazardly our

future, she and Smith were sitting in our seats where it was usual for I to sit with G, and that was

in the time before the iron had set in my soul, and had accepted her, and my, rejection of myself,

of that imagined happiness with her. And perhaps she and her (much older) new boyfriend, their

secret relationship now out in the open as Smith had resigned from our school, and soon enough

to be her husband it transpired, had sat again on our seats in a later time, for I would always glance

towards that corner of the pub if I passed through Chifwick, as if the chairs might be the same chairs,

In Time Book Two 365

and only the time was different.

But in the final moments any notion of friendship was irrelevant to Katherine; she was

a one man woman, even if that man had to be Smith, and any other friendship consumes time,

and energy, and when Smith offered marriage, and it became apparent the offer was serious

(for I was much later to discover he had produced the photographs he had taken of Katherine

in the girls shower through his telescope as proof of his love - and they are all I now possess

of her beauty, from that time before) the young woman refocused. As evidently Smith did.

I telephoned her once later, but the 'conversation' lasted only a few seconds, the girl's

voice now at a safe crackly distance; she said she could not talk, as she was with her new husband,

and he was setting up the lights. (?) I heard a click as then the receiver was put down. A friend-

ship lasting seven years abruptly terminated into indifference. I became angry, then, with myself,

my circumstances, of those poverty days, to become quickly enough now long past. Surely those

years had coloured my words, perceptions and actions? - But no, Simone had spoken

- she is not the one

and I became

already determined upon my (an)other future path, as K and I were already by then on our third song.

But I think of that time before everyday. She was, in those days, and, as I remember her still,

as if # Those Were The Days # still floats in the presence in my mind, unlike anyone else I had then

ever met. Was that youthful infatuation the sexual obsession of youth? No, for I was already, even in

those younger days, promiscuous, and had had already too many other women, for Christine was

buxom, and Naddy lithe. But I was ultimately indifferent to them, as I have been shamefully

ultimately indifferent ever since, for the songs always came first. I had desired Katherine, but

made no move (well of course I had no choice, as the coin had already fallen away into the dark-

ness of her mother's porch), and even when she had suggested the possibility, earlier that night,

In Time Book Two 366

of something more, that there might be an as yet unwritten future for us, if I could only but buy

a camera, I made the ultimate (unknown to her then) sacrifice of abandoning my own happiness

by remaining silent so that she could lead a happy life. A normal woman needs a normal man: there

was compassion in my soul once; in my silence I safed her.

But there was that final moment, the definite point that perhaps I had always known would

come, when that absolute change would occur; the division of our lives, as a squirrel might scramble

up a branch in haste in search of food, as I too had searched elsewhere for Passion fruit, but never

being able to find its way back down to the root. I had delayed, in my awful youthful arrogance

believing that those times would last forever (as they have evidently subsequently done in my

thoughts), that the flicking of coins would determine any pursuit of my animus. But there was a

specific time when the smile faded, and hope became an obsolete word.

It was a definite time, but contained merely within an instant; when I left Katherine's

porch, leaving the comforts of her home forever, the coin having slipped, fallen, she closing her

front door after me within the click of a single second hand, and I now stumbling upon wet leaves,

almost as if slipping away from our times together, to lose that past, the coin to remain not quite

forever unfound, and the building in time to become merely any other building, any other faade

in any street, at any time. Until, in much later, famous, richer times, I bought that house, as if in

a curious kind of revenge, and made Katherine, now the Second, live with me there, again. And in

my haste at leaving I was not angry at her, as she probably imagined, and might still have imagined

(for we rarely talked of those earlier, time before days when we re-met, years later, after her writing

to me again, once famous - only the occasional comment, of the songs we had sung in more innocent

days, of; # Ocean Waves #, # See The Burning Lights #, of my # Goodbye Mister Smith # - That

wasn't really about my husband, was it? she had asked doubtfully, for me to shake my head slightly

in the faint admittance of the lie, for she could not have remembered, surely, of Simone days, of

Teachers Leaving Day?), and we never talked of her having much earlier gently rejecting then my

In Time Book Two 367

muttered, oblique murmurings as too little and too late, - that although she wasn't sure about her

feelings towards her current ... (and had she actually murmured the word) teacher? they would

try to work through their difficulties, even though she found some of his requests strange, and she

had thought at first that he might be too old, but he had asked her first and I - but I was already

leaving her forking garden path, annoyed and in disgust at myself, that of all those years we had

known each other I had held many chances in my hand (if relationships can be determined by the

falling coins of chance),

- you kept my comic

and had been offered them many times in the many (happy) days we'd

spent together, but I had not taken them, not spoken, no jubilation in the non murmured Yes!

as requested by my disappearing father; and so my inaction held the consequences of my own fault.

I felt and feel no shame admitting my failings now, but only now, in this time, when all other times

have become irrelevant.

But in that moment, at that time, I knew my life was wrenched into oblivion - I suddenly

realised that that possible, imagined earlier happy life was over, and that time was to become called,

in a future time, as if life can be so segmented, The Time Before. To have your soul ripped apart?

Already destined to live the life I have subsequently led, that every written page in this diary was

a day ripped from that past, that imagined past where happiness lies elsewhere in prospect, before

the pen touches the page, to conjure romantic imaginations, that somewhere, over a hill, in the

coloured distance, as the film song suggests, rainbows lie and bluebirds fly, and, as my own song

goes, # .. for tomorrow is another day my friend, as strangers we might walk away .. #

And I cannot go back, to that earlier place where emeralds and opals lay, to play again,

as if in my gift of broken strings to Hypatia, I knew those were my final songs, for that too, as all

times are to become, are not forgotten times, but irretrievable, except in letters. And curses in my brian.

But it is only now, decades on, I realise not merely my sacrifice, for Katherine was so

In Time Book Two 368

obviously, in that time before (and in that time before Smith), a good woman, but that I can articulate

now too easily the cause of my constant hesitations: I cared. How easy it would have been (as it

would be now, but with all words now spoken with the indifference of experience) to say the words,

a few embarrassed mutterings, to lie that the coin had fallen up, and not down, Obverse and

not Reverse, and she would have accepted my words as honest, she would have smiled, that know-

ing wry smile, and she would have accepted me.

And I would have destroyed her.

I destroyed her in 'Passion', that June story that Penelope in her absurd fashion mistakenly

thinks is a reality, but it is a story written in anger and disgust, and merely at myself, for although

I had never ab/used Katherine sexually in any sense (unlike Smith as I was much later to discover),

I had also never admitted, reported to her my observations of Vincent and her brother Chomiac,

for their actions in chasing that boy from the public toilet into the river still seemed as if viewed in

a dream, a surreal vision that might have been induced as if by drugs, as they may well have been

administrated by warm nurse Nadine in my present circumstances; too fantastic to have been a real

event.

And how effortlessly the words are uttered now, with the practised repetition of a lifetime's

muttered cadences, but not with any deep meaning, for time has now eroded compassion, for when

I cared and should have spoken, as instructed to by my disappearing father, I remained silent. For

although I appeared seemingly indifferent, I was verbally illiterate; no Yes! for me then; emotions

and experiences inchoate, raw and untamed, animalised; they overwhelmed me - the pain of my

shattered skull, the silence of the roar in my ears, and the violence, implicit and explicit of that

'home' life, of being in care, with my disappearing father dead from radioactive waves (? - which

I didn't then understand, - was the radio left on?) and mother but where? - I think I remembered

her playing the piano, but no nursery rhymes for me, when I was little, but Mozzie? Gilbert and

Sullivan medleys? Elgar, indeed? No; just imagined memories; she said she was going to study

In Time Book Two 369

one day, properly, when she had time on her hands, after I was put into the 'care' of the old mad

piano playing woman. Was she granny? - I now never to know, she having died in that fire, as

Ben was passing, and he in his turn burning his foot, to later lose, individually, his toes. No; I was

innocent; I was on tour - Simone says.

- join us

no you must say goodbye simone it s time

No; that madness had neutered any normal expression, and only now, when I remember that

time before, I remember my face as impassive, letting the acid etching experiences flow smoothly

over my marble, that others thought of me as saintly, and that only in adulthood, in the time after,

was I to experience the grace and gentleness of strangers: Hypatia saved me; in earlier times I had

saved her, but in the end, she saved me. And she is still here, sitting, waiting. Visiting. Yes I remember,

I met her again, in Australia. She gave me flowers.

And promiscuity? I think these scrawled pages have already revealed too much, and it is

unfortunate (but only for me) that the Katherines will never now read them, for even with her

death the memory of any notion of being unfaithful to her in that earlier time would have been an

unthinkable betrayal; and I would have been unable to remain faithful. I cared about Katherine

the First, and it was difficult, to so long to declare love and affection throughout those seven years,

but to remain silent, for I had cared for her by never imposing, wanting her friendship even more

than I wanted to possess her body.

And this from I. Of all people.

Yes, all that remains are the memories of the remnants of my childhood, of Katherine

the First, of K and M and G, of Simone's earlier death, her voice 'haunting' me in the following

decades, and of

- not haunt you

In Time Book Two 370

 the pains haunting my body, as if in sympathy. Perhaps that too was a conversation

at a dinner party.

Final days. And final words, I think, - the pages failing to silent thinness.

As Penelope returned from the kitchen Russell looked up from his plate. 'Absolutely delicious.

Better than the food I had in hospital. Back in the bad old days.'

'Oh thank you.' Penelope replied warmly, glad finally to be appreciated (for Brian just seemed

to expect the food upon his plate). 'I didn't know you were in hospital.'

'Oh a while back. In Hammersmith.' Russell gestured towards Brian, 'Brain and I were just

talking, well writing about it.'

Brian looked puzzled. They had? Brain? Writing?

'Oh, what was wrong with you?' She asked, politely, this curious balance between indifference,

and prurient interest, to be answered, with a curious nonchalance,

'Oh, a bomb blast.'

Penelope stood there, as if frozen. Russell Stuart knew Saint, had Simone once as a

girlfriend, whom she was now sure was an just imaginary voice in his head, and now he talked

of surviving a bomb blast. This was madness.

'IRA?' asked Brian, for surely Russell had been born long after the war? and he lived in

Chifwick, near Hammersmith Bridge wasn't it? Which the IRA had tried to blow up? More than

once, from what he remembered.

Russell shook his head, almost with a reluctance, but an acceptance, that there is a time to

say goodbye,

- never leave you

goodbye simone

'No, no, no - a different war. In a different time.'

In Time Book Two 371

 And as Penelope looked down at her hand holding a cup of coffee, she seemed to flicker.

And Brian was doing his old coin flick flick flick flick flick flick. Flicking trick. But now as if

flicking through pages.

No, I wish I had not remained silent, then, to merely accept that her friendship should

have been enough for me, and not even expecting her, in those later times, to care for my fractured

mind and shattered body, such was my pride and self reliance, even then. I realise now, of course,

with retrospection and experienced now of the tolerance of women, and my own too slowly

burgeoning awareness that I could pretend to be normal, an actor able to write and perform the script

of his own life, as these pages have shown, but in those abnormal times, those situations, not then

to know that she would have cared for me, for her needs were solidity and stability, as most normal

women desire, even if the object of their desires are abnormal. For of the two of us, Smith or myself -

who was madder? But at that time the words, solidity and stability were imaginary landscapes

to me, read sometimes faintly from far offshore, grey misty cliff lines floating upon a distant horizon,

from the foaming unfocused blur of Carol's

- she is the one

Dictionary of Hard Words.

And poverty? Not a distant unpleasant memory, but always, even now, as if real, an

imminent threat, always a possibility, that I might stumble and fall again into the abyss.

No; I remained silent, but rarely smiled again after I left her garden, angry and in self

defeat, kicking at the mud, as if in search of another chance: I had offered so much in sacrifice

of myself, in my curious silence, but of course she was to remain forever unaware of this, for,

as already written, even in our later marriage days those earlier times were to remain rarely

mentioned, as if indeed they too were past days in an unwritten diary. My only consolation;

that I had ignored the request, the demand of my disappearing father, for only true heroes forge

their own path, abandoning childhood.

In Time Book Two 372

 Soon enough, under Simone's instructions, I threw another coin again, and this time a

real one, and the band became the subsequent focus of my affections, and in time poverty to

become a mere unpleasant memory.

But are such reflections meaningless? Would I recollect the particular her, if any of

the later others had taken me, claimed me as a lover, staked my heart as a husband? I would like

to pretend she would have remained forever in my mind, but I know that, although she has been

dead for some time, - seven years Not- Carol tells me - she is soon to finally leave me, as Simone

has really left me so long ago, and as .. Carol Marhia has insisted for so long I say, finally, good-

bye, with a real voice, to Simone, and to Katherine too, even if only in these assembled letters;

for beyond the absurdity of yearning for an imagined but not forgotten past, and beyond the richness

of the many lives I have subsequently led, the myriads and miracles of experience, I cannot imagine

now not having known Catty; my beloved child, but not my child. Many years now have passed

(yes, Carol insists, seven), but not to have walked with her amongst the summer days of the

green fields of Epping Forest, the crinkly wintered iced brown dusty paths of Chifwick Park,

kicking again and against the imagined beasts lurking within imagined kingdoms; such dreams

are the golden memory.

For I'm still in love with you, Katherine, but I am still in love with her, y/our baby, and I

want, and yearn, to see her dance again, under the moon, in Paris, on Brighton beach, in Clacton,

in Winchester; to enjoy the celebration of a child celebrating being human - where is that joy now

for me with you Katherine? When I have no such memories - was there a joy there, then?

And it is with a sad acceptance that I realise now - I accept, finally - that that time, our time,

has gone, even though, in my mind's eye, it is as yesterday. Yes, I must say goodbye.

As you must too, Simone.

- will never leave you

goodbye simone

In Time Book Two 373

 Yes, Katherine; not then a survivable marriage, and not even later. And now is too late.

But even the years after your death have not been wasted Katherine; I have lived all the

lives I wanted to live, including, of course, our life together, for that indeed remains my curse;

that everything I wished for came true.

And if the truth is to be told, now, finally, at these end of days, it is that I was glad that

I had forever remained silent, that even in that time before I had not told you I loved you, that

I wanted to listen to your soft and gentle breathing upon eiderdown and counterpanes, that we

could, would - have the most amazing child, because s/he would capture y/our beauty, our calm-

ness, our intelligence, the wisdom of our as yet unlived lives. How relieved now I had not spoken:

because I cared. For although Catherine was Smith's child, I was sure I loved her more than had

she been my own, for there then may have lain a resentment, that she had altered my life, that I

might have not become a pop star, that I might not have obtained and played with the baubles of

fame. I never cared again, for anyone, after Katherine, except for Catherine. Katherine my lover,

eventually, unexpectedly, to become my wife, Catherine my baby. The woman and the child. They

are gone. As that joy too is gone. But although those are gone days, lost years, Catherine's hours of

playing are forever etched in memory, those pleasant pictures reassembling constantly, involuntarily.

As I had looked through the window in past days, the clarinet and oboe standing as resolute beacons,

as if framing the playground opposite the river bridge where Catherine and I had played in more

innocent days. Not over the top, not over the top! she would scream with delight, as I pushed her

on the swing, daring not to cling on, but never letting go, enjoying that delicious combination of

fear and excitement. Not over the top! And as she grew, her coordination improved and I would

push her further and then lob a ball at that exact moment when she could kick it far above my head.

Often the ball would end up in the river, and she would gasp with laughter as I waded through slime

to retrieve it. Often I would imagine I still saw Simon's body there, only yards away. These games

we endlessly repeated. There was a joy then in those moments. In the Now. But Katherine would

In Time Book Two 374

lie elsewhere, asleep, always tired now, the days of constant attention, the total devotion (? she

seemed curiously indifferent to me) to the child exhausting her. The scars upon her breast still

hurting, decades later. She was grateful for the respite, my presence, then, not yet an interruption

to another more convenient settled life, in her imagined idyll of yet another marriage, with our

Copy Cat Brat.

Yes, the alarm bells rang soon enough after the happy marriage, as once during a picnic

Catherine had stumbled off, and now lost became panic stricken at her mother's absence. She

threw herself upon the ground, screaming. Curiously Katherine made no move. I pointed at the

distant stumbling figure, stating the obvious, She's panicking, she thinks she lost you. She replied,

almost neutrally, strangely indifferent to her child's distress, Yes? I rose quickly enough and ran

towards Cathy to scoop her up into my arms. Her crying subsided slowly and as I held her close,

comforting, I looked towards Katherine now in the distance, almost gazing blankly, unfocused into

the unknown, and there was an unease there, for, truth to tell, and shamefully, for although I had

always been in love with her, devoted to the atoms of her very being in the earlier, time before days,

in the days of our childhood and innocence, in the First time, it seemed now that the letter she had

sent me in later times held no deeper meaning, - it was as if that future letter was written merely by

yet another admiring young fan, wanting her temporary touch of gold dust, and consequently a girl

I was presumably expected (at least by the band) to sexually exploit. But I was in love with Catty,

this child I held closely now, my baby but not my baby, and I resolved to do the best I could for her,

for, if I were ever to have had that daughter, with Katherine the First in happier times, I know now,

and came too slowly to accept, that Cathy would not have been her, for that time before had been

different, and even the name of Cathy would have been different too, but I was happy with this

child, even though she was not mine. I learnt to ignore her furies as she grew. She would hit herself

upon the head, punching the top of her skull repeatedly, furious in her own inability to express herself.

I restrained her - and it took two arms, such was her fury, saying, murmuring soothingly, 'It's not

In Time Book Two 375

important, it's not important ..' Eventually she succumbed to quietude. It was not a fit, and not a

mad half hour, but an anger at her own incomprehension. I wondered where this rage had come

from, concerned with Cathy's inability to articulate simple sentences by her age, to be informed

that her husband, Smith, had tried to smother Catherine as a young infant. This was such an

incredible claim that I chose not to believe her, but there now lay, inevitably, a doubt in my mind,

that the Smith I had known as a child myself, could not be this same man, for my memory of him

was different; of an quirky, fat, chain smoking, but a curiously interesting man who instilled in

Simone and I an enthusiasm of the other planets, and its concomitant interests; of time itself, of

scale, of my place in the cosmos. And of course music. (The squalid college review which led to

my expulsion was for much later times; perhaps therein lay my jealously at his marriage to the First.)

Why would Smith do that? I had asked doubtfully, but Katherine just shrugged; it seemed she was

experienced enough now, if not to accept, but to expect the impossible. Perhaps that's where her aura

of defeatism had come from.

In later times, and fortunately there were few further such outbursts, and before I could

reach her to restrain her, Catherine would hit herself shouting, 'It's not important! It's not important!'

but I by then had devised another tactic; before I could reach her I would call out, 'Give me five!',

and she would abruptly stop, momentarily falling into silence, slap my hand, and then start scream-

ing again.

Ah, happy days.

And in those happy days, existing now as in a dream, reduced to scribbles upon pages

in this obsolete diary, on my day off between a concert in Paris I took them, for as a child I knew

she would wish - and was it not my job to make her wish come true? for such fairy tales are easy

to accomplish for a child, - to visit Disneyland, and as she wandered, and wondered, and danced

for joy, I myself marvelled at this grand illusion, that these buildings existed, were real, that the

fantasies of other minds could indeed become concrete, that the imagined map models could

In Time Book Two 376

become the outside territory, if made large enough, that 2 D maps could become 3 D concrete.

And as Catherine danced upon the deck as the fabrication of a steam paddler made its way across

the imaginary lake, there lay this sense of wonder within myself, at this whimsical concoction,

that human minds could create fantasy worlds, even if merely for profit. As my mind, itself,

could create fantasy music, even if merely for profit.

Unfortunately my domestic reverie was interrupted, as I was recognised, and an autograph

signed for. Or perhaps it was merely a credit card receipt, as we sat down for a meal; I can no

longer remember.

And later, the next day, after the concert played within the two hours specified in our

contract, with polite, slightly strained goodbyes to K, M and G, for the ending was so obviously

near, I instructed Copy Cat Brat to drive the band back to the UK, and requested that he then

examine Rahim's hand brake (for a return journey to India in that contraption somehow strained

the realms of credibility), and to see if it was worth buying for ourselves. I spoke to the - my -

band, that I would next see them somewhere in Germany (and was it Dsseldorf? Munich? Fritzlar?),

and then, on that final day we walked to the Eiffel Tower, and Cathy played in nearby fun fairs,

and we took a boat trip on the Seine, and Katherine fell asleep, as she was prone to do, always

exhausted now, and I pointed out the landmarks to Cathy, Notre Dame, in the distance Montmartre,

the entrance to the tunnel where Princess Diana had died. - 'Member when Princess Diana died.

she said, happily looking up at me. I smiled, for I did too: early that fateful morning, she had

clambered over me to reach the television, for I had taken to sleeping downstairs, in an alcove

next to my piano, giving my upstairs bedroom to them, and she had cried out, as she switched

from channel to channel, There are no cartoons! and I had awoken to stare at the television to

read, against a backdrop of Buckingham Palace, 'Princess Diana Is Dead,' which was I thought a

very strange name for a cartoon, as I searched through the children's listings in the paper by my

bed. That program was not indexed. The realisation was indeed slow, and, as I stared back at the

In Time Book Two 377

screen, I had repeated, as if learning to read each syllable, Prin-cess Di-an-a is dead. I changed

the channel, but the legend remained the same. Catherine had somehow realised the significance

in my deliberated voice, and remained silent, to not whinge at unshown cartoons.

A few hours later I passed Katherine as she appeared from the bedroom, and I mentioned,

Princess Diana is dead. but my sentence did not register, eliciting no response, and I was later

to learn that she had not believed me, that she thought those were words that I might have uttered,

or murmured to one of my songs, at any other time.

And on the morrow of that day Cathy looked up at me and smiled, somehow aware now

of the significance of the event, and asked, No cartoons yest day. Were there cartoons yest day,

in Paris?

I shook my head, I wouldn't have thought so.

Real cartoons tomorrow, though.

Real cartoons tomorrow. I agreed, as I in my turn remembered the comic I had read

with Simone decades before. Just chance, to read a comic about Flipism.

And we drew our own cartoons later that Sunday, as if to compensate that the television

cartoons were absent. Momentarily distracted but not looking up she asked, 'What do you want

me to do when I grow up?' She continued to scribble away, as if the question was itself irrelevant.

Such deep questions from young minds. But I had my answer prepared; after all, it was the only

one I could give. The one I had promised myself, if I were ever to have the chance to murmur

advice to myself in an earlier time, as if I could truly live a half life, to go back and correct mistakes,

when youth held promises to be fulfilled; to answer Yes and not No.

'Do whatever you want to do, as long as it makes you happy.'

She stopped, momentarily, slightly puzzled. 'But I'm happy now.'

I smiled. 'I hope so.' And I had wanted to add, for her pleasure was of the moment, But

in the future ... but paused, for what could I tell her? - she would of course have no comprehension

In Time Book Two 378

of eudaimonical concerns; of the pursuit of happiness, of the struggle of finding the balance between

current, momentary pleasure and consistent stability, of the absurdity that happiness could be found

in possessions - (I had yearned for Bolan's guitar, but I comforted myself that at least, if ever by

unlikely chance to become mine, it would be a used tool) - of my earlier studies of Aristotle,

Epicurus, Kant: she could not have my life, as I had earlier made my own Heracles's Choice, and

in time I had been tortured upon the rack, but as these pages testify, I am still alive, and she is not;

- she sit with me join us

no goodbye simone

no, I would not have wanted her to have lived my life. And I thinking these absurd thoughts in

my survival, but I was happy there, with her, then, in that moment. And I knew, as I looked

between the oboe and clarinet, across to the playground to see our neighbour, the music lecturer

freeing himself from a(nother) domestic argument of some sort with his tearful overweight wife

(and I could have sworn that she pointed up in the direction of my house by the bridge), that perhaps

I loved Catherine more in that moment than all of the experiences of adult women in my life. It was

an unconditional love, wanting nothing more than just my presence, and I knowing it was my privilege,

just being with her.

' .. Just know that I'll love you very much. Will you promise me you won't forget?'

She laughed, 'Don't be silly! Course I won't forget! Can we play football now?'

I nodded, not even answering, for such questions need not be asked.

And because there was not merely sorrow, but a resignation in the agony, in that awful

certainty, as if somehow knowing that someday I would never see her again, that somehow her

mother would take her from me. My child, but not my child. It was ridiculous, this fear, not rational,

constricting my chest, as if a contracting car seatbelt was crushing my internal organs. Catherine

was looking up at me, expectantly waiting. I touched the tip of her nose with mine; she grinned.

She knew what was coming; she offered me one ear, then the other, our earful. 'I want you to

In Time Book Two 379

promise me something. Will you promise?'

She nodded, cheerfully, looking down to continue chalking her pictures again, but she

was listening.

'I want you to promise me that whenever you feel uneasy - unhappy about doing some-

thing, you won't do it. Yes? Wherever you are, if you feel unhappy, you won't do it. I want you to

listen to ..' and I made to tap my head before tapping my chest, '.. your inner voices, and your heart

before your head. Will you promise me that?'

She didn't, couldn't possibly understand the pointless promise, but she nodded enthusiastic-

ally anyway. And as I looked down at her chalked picture, a map of our house, each room carefully

if clumsily drawn to scale, complete with contents; piano, oboe, clarinet, the Lady of the Lake,

opposite the image of the Donald Duck comic (and she had laughed as she had drawn this), the

Chinese idioms as scribbles, the Ying and Yang symbols drawn as if a clock, upstairs her bedroom,

with her individually named dolls, our room, the door to the closet open, the telescope, the small

pin cushion, the picture of her mother - for her the map was indeed the territory.

But she had noticed, 'You're not happy today.' she said.

And I had to change the subject. 'Who's my favourite girl, and who's your favourite boy?'

She jabbed her chest then pointed at me.

She was beautiful, and joyful. Yes, she had given me that knowledge, something I had

never been given from any adult woman; that simple gift of an unconditional love; yes, she wanted

nothing from me except for me to be myself.

I pretend that I felt a premonition then, that as I write these words, that somehow I knew

that this was to be the final day, - that night in Paris as the phone buzzed and Katherine was informed

of CCB, having delivered the 'boys' safely home, of having been involved in an accident of

some sort, and summoned back to London (but why? I had wondered then, - he was only our

driver), as Catherine smiled up at me, with those clear blue, hopeful eyes, full of the joy of being

In Time Book Two 380

(did I ever possess such grace?), as if I knew that soon enough her life would be over, that day,

only for my insistence that Cathy was to remain with me, so that we could revisit Disneyland

again, as if to relive that very same day, - even my offer, to throw yet again the fooling coin

to be ignored and rejected.

No, I did not know. That she was to be taken from me.

She seemed to have noticed a change in my expression. 'Yes, you're sad today. Please don't cry.'

I smiled wanly. 'I won't, baby. Let's go for a walk in the park, by the big tower?'

She jumped up. 'Let's, yes!' She rushed to get her coat, to then collect her football, as Simone

made the phone call to Rahim.

Yes, later that night I yet again requested that Katherine leave Cathy with me, insisting that

the time spent with me would be more pleasurable, more beneficial, that she make the journey back

to London alone, only for my sensible request, my offer to throw the coin to be denied, as she collected

Cathy from our hotel room, and Cathy whooped with delight, waving goodbye to the Eiffel tower as

the taxi came to bear her away, finally, to the North. Not East and West then. Or should the word(s) be,

Past? Or Not Life?

Take care of them Carol,

- she is

ENOUGH

I instructed the driver, Make sure they get to the airport OK.

Yes, that time was my innocence again. But not 'again'; I never knew what love was,

excepting my feelings for Kathy the First, which had held in those (now much) earlier times a

mixture of admiration and adolescent desire, but this affection was of course different, for Cathy

was a child, and she had remained unaware of who I was, until much later days, as she had seen

me upon a television screen in a school friend's house (for the school friend to laugh, Don't be silly -

that's not your father!), realising suddenly that I somehow existed for others outside of her immediate

In Time Book Two 381

world, - and she still didn't much care. Had I even been loved so much, just a pure delight in my

presence? Not the false idolatry of pop stardom?

I did not sleep for days, after the agony of her departure. The ansaphone screaming

left forever undeleted from my machine, as if to remind me that evil resides within saintness.

The band had become ever more irrelevant, and in fact, even unsure as I now am, swimming,

drowning in the residue of the madness of that time, and of the drugs Nadine drips me, as to

chronological order, I recall that we never recorded again; we had had our time: K's betrayal of

M, stealing his wife and then lying about it (and I now remembering G's comments to me, You

think you're so fucking clever, waltzing about in that aloof way of yours - they've been fucking

each other for years! As have, don't you know, Copy Cat Brat and your wife! - But I could not

be bothered by then to retort, Yes, it would be nice if you too could play in three four time .. -

instead, the more feeble, Oh, but I've heard you like the taste of a cold pussy in your mouth .. ),

he commiserating with K about the breakdown of his marriage, whilst accepting it seems an offer

of a holiday paid for by M to recuperate, K's earlier admission that he would sell my soul (although

I would have been happy for him to steal my wife, and had even 'offered' her to him - after of course

discussing our by then non existent future together, only to be told she had fallen in love, since I

was always away touring, with our roadie Copy Cat Brat ((and he wasn't with us then, during touring?))

- in a futile attempt to prolong the marriage of our - my - band), had irrevocably split that past. I have

thought about the days and months and years of that time, scribbling past lives upon these papers,

and it is curious how a single moment can change a life, that the colour of the world can indeed

change in an instant, faster than a cloud might past in front of the sun, and a much darker gloom

might fall upon the shadow in which you now stand.

And though Cathy's voice is now forever silent, excepting in my dreams when I hear her

talk (and sometimes I listen - eavesdrop - to the dialogues between her, her mother, and Simone),

- join us

In Time Book Two 382

 no goodbye simone

should her real voice be heard again I'd be gone; the phone would be dropped, Catherine's voice

heeded and the attached tubes to me unplugged and abandoned, and this unwanted, unchosen

present would be past; I'd run and run and run and run and run and run and. Run and to any

station, any airport, not caring whether I died even on that short journey - or that in death, in

heaven she might not recognise me after all these dead times, but I would know, I would know

her, and I'd hug and hug and hug and hug and hug and hug and. Hug and her until it seemed

I had almost crushed the air out of her lungs, if angels were to have lungs, and I'd rub noses with

my angel and then we would place our ears close together, the East first, and then the West, to

give each other an earful, and as angels we would dance together upon the tips of all needles,

and then I'd look into her eyes and cry, with my selfish pity, - for the dead hold no pity, and sorrow

that her future years were taken from me, that she would remain always a child, as Simone had

always remained a child, even if only in a memory, never to become an adult, and that she might

not remember all those moments, as I remember, in the detail of joy she gave, in the days when

she was alive. Oh my baby my baby my baby my baby my baby my baby. My baby Cathy,

only the thought of you has kept me alive all these years. And I have tried so hard to believe you

are not dead, that you are out there, somewhere else, in joyous aliveity, and if the Price of your

survival had been for myself not to exist any more, I, myself, would have chosen that last exit to

the river, as I have since tried to drive, swim to you, as I have not wanted to exist these long fallen

days since your mother took you from me. Now I know why husbands kill their wives, why they

end their lives swimming, drowning in their seas of brown stained alcohol, seeking their oblivion

before their time. As I have tried myself, tried so hard to join you, if only to swim deep into the

brown stained Thames. Now I know the indifference of evil, and of the joyous chance of being,

and that I weep not over parts, but all, of my life.

In later times I was to (re)tread her footsteps, as if there were echoes in the shadows of

In Time Book Two 383

her footfalls. I walked through the conservatory of Chifwick Park, as I had walked with Cathy

ten years before (and Kathy decades before, and Christine in adolescent, and Simone too, in child-

hood days). I did not know that that day would come, unsure, uncaring of my own survival, then,

in the first days after they were gone, but I eventually survived endless sleepless nights, my

brain, not my mind, eventually succumbing to twisted sleep, and upon awakening forcing my

body to eat again.

I walked through the park, inevitably more slowly now than in those enthusiastic days,

as I was tired, and even the landscape had changed; our secret cranny in a wood had been cleared,

razed, and the trees we had climbed felled to oblivion. In the name of Progress.

The anniversary was not inevitable then, in my indifference to survival, and as I traced

the now imaginary chalk outlines where Cathy had scribbled upon stone, drawing her alphabet,

scribbling the maps to my house, there was the regret that I had survived. For there was nothing

for me there, now, just stone, the occasional pane of fractured, cracked glass, housed in a rotting

wooden frame, and perhaps it was true that the conservatory was originally built in 1794, and

perhaps it was true that the Other Band had recorded, mimed an early music film, before the days

of ubiquitous music videos, that they too had invented the promotional visual art form, to Rain

on a specific day, 20th May 1966, a Friday, and that in later times Ringo thought that his drumming

on that record was probably, and over their entire career, his best, and that it was the first time back-

wards music had been released on a commercial record, the result of Lennon's mistake in spooling

the tape in backwards, to listen to the day's takes.

And perhaps it was true that in later times, perhaps less that a decade later (but of course

before the time of Katherine the First) I had dragged a not unreluctant Christine under the branches

of the tree, and only yards from where, in that preceding earlier time, that film crew might well

have filmed us, being even more interested in the viewing of adolescent sexual activity than even

the Other Band's song, which was, after all, merely, for them too now, a commercial days work. In

In Time Book Two 384

later times, should I have possessed a camera, I might have walked through that park with Katherine,

and taken a photograph of her, as I smiled at my own remembrances, my own disgusting secrets.

Perhaps I should have asked her then, Katherine, to lie down too.

But as I traced the imaginary outlines of chalk in the conservatory where once the Other

Band had strolled, and Cathy's fingers in much later times had scribbled her name upon a slab

of limestone, there was of course still the sadness, for in earlier times I had driven Cathy to

near Brighton, loading her bicycle into the boot, and she had cycled along the long footpath

under the cliffs of the inappropriately, absurdly named Peacehaven and had scribbled upon

the sea walls, in chalk again, and I had, the camera poverty days now long gone, videoed her.

We were happily alone, and later, leaving the footpath, we walked along the pebbly coastline,

seeking and finding caves. Only dark empty spaces within my memory now. And she, Katherine,

the mother of this child, had been happy then for me to take care of her. Only the disdainful, having

watched the video of Catherine joyfully exploring, question, Where was the bike in all this time?,

and I having to explain, patiently, as if Katherine the Second herself were now a child, There was

no one within two miles. Cathy was writing her words and drawing her pictures upon the walls.

We were in heaven!

Yes, I was in heaven then, as I too had scribbled upon a wall, in earlier times, as I escaped

the band, escaping the imagined hippy shit meditation seminars that so interested M (and I later

heard that G had decided to tag along, despite his earlier reservations), to fly North into a military

curfew in Srinagar - yes, I had escaped, to climb that mountain with my guide and protector

Rahim (who curiously did not recognise me, despite having claimed to have lived in Romford -

perhaps not a saint he had not felt the rhythms of the midnight train, or heard the carol bells

of distant churches), bribing tribesmen to enter that small temple, Hari Parbat, to stand and

overlook all of Kashmir, and I remembered I had scratched the date, and perhaps it wasn't after

all my name, but an abstract symbol, of a treble or bass clef, perhaps not to be recognised in future

In Time Book Two 385

times, although knowing that they would never be seen, that those scratches would merely be just

the pretence of permanence. Yes, I remember (now that I have written this dated diary) of my travels

in that time before Catherine. After Katherine the First of course, but before Catherine.

I retraced Catherine's scribbles on the conservatory stones, as I imagined them; but that

time too is now gone. So I stare at the ceiling, in this enforced hospitalised sojourn, and paint

upon the blank walls, filling and colouring and scribbling with my imaginings of (an)other(s)

past. Sometimes the letters form pictures, but mostly, the pictures form letters. Ultimately, despite

the baubles apparent to the envious others, it seems my life has been a failure: I have failed in my

quest for obliteration. Oxymoronic surely, as to succeed would be to fail. Seemingly always cursed

to survive. In this time anyway. Surely the end must come soon, but now too soon enough, for I

did long to join Cathy again, as if in silence we could have been happy. And Simone will be there.

- she sits

no simone i want to live now i must go on goodbye

But it seems that too soon I will be released from here (if the muttered, murmured words

I hear are true), ejected not merely from this room, this hospital, and reluctantly resurrected I

will stumble forward to face the world again, the flashes of the cameras, the shouts for recognition,

but no longer like dogs to snap and bark at my world, but merely to become an acceptable nuisance.

What are they to me, these strangers who pretend to know of me? When there was out there was a

single child who knew all of me? All the lives written about me, fabrications and lies, fantasies

concocted for sale, whereas there was that one real life, a secret life, led by Cathy and myself.

I will die soon enough - and God knows you now know how hard I have tried, in despair

to wreck my beloved Aston Martin DB4 (and not merely the models I had made with Simone

in childhood days) - but I know I now must accept that, of all the lives a man could live, I have

lived most of them. But the word is; live .. d, as Rhia had once explained to me, that a single

phoneme could denote a time past, that those lives, those fleeting moments are gone, and

In Time Book Two 386

as a second passes you will receive no second chance, despite either, - which side the coin

falls; that moment becomes your memory soon enough. And Kathy the Second has been gone

now, they tell me, for seven years, although that love, that desire, that lust of, for the First, was

decades ago. And although those earlier years still linger, as if in the flavour of a cake that past

might still be retasted, and although Cathy is gone now too, had I said, asked, as instructed to

by my disappearing father, the right words at the right time in that time before, ignoring the fool

of the coin, in the darkness of her mother's porch perhaps Kathy the First might have answered,

Yes. (as I know now she would have, then, at that precise moment), and perhaps I would have

saved myself the pain of that different adulthood, of a different kind of maturity. But always the

slow realisation that my beloved Catherine would not then have existed, that child of Smith's,

and the child Kathy and I might/ should/ought to have bourn would have been such pointless

speculations, now.

Yes, Cathy is gone too, though even now I still have not admitted it verbally, only in

these written words, as if in a vocal admittance of the word Goodbye I would admit the finality

of her absence, as if there is that grief still to be buried, in its admittance in the vibrations of air.

To say Goodbye? To Catherine? Still unthinkable; for she would soon enough have

become a woman, and that pleasure of seeing her mature, grow from a gawking grinning child

to my imagined notion of a sophisticated adult (although my literary Simone too grew away

from me, to lead her own dubious life) has been denied me. And for no good reason; just chance,

just fate. For on that date, had she reached her legal adulthood (and this can only be in my mind;

perhaps my imagination will deem fit to imagine her first romantic encounter, her first emotional

feelings for another male, as I have imagined Simone's

- not me why do write bad of me like that

throughout my life), that the baton

should have passed on to a new generation.

In Time Book Two 387

 But in the times I haven't seen her, those seeming years are like a death, excepting that,

hopefully, she is still alive. Isn't she? Even if only inside of my thoughts?

- sheshitsithmejonus

no simone goodbye But I have thought often now of that lost time, of what lives we might

have led, places we might have, but didn't, and now never will, visit. It should have been a perfect

time, to watch my child grow into adulthood. I would have died happy. But now, absurdly, even in

Catherine's death, there are only thoughts of hatred and vengeance and anger towards her mother,

that the stupid rule the earth. For what motive, apart from a callous indifference, can there be in

not letting a child live to see the person she loves?

Yes, how effortlessly the words are written and uttered now, with the practised repetition

of a lifetime's muttered cadences. But not with any deep meaning, for time has eroded compassion,

and despite my disappearing father's instructions, I murmured neither Yes., nor No.: because

I cared I remained silent. For although I have subsequently, to the many others, appeared appallingly

indifferent, I was illiterate then, in that important time; emotions and experiences and colours

and letters, inchoate, overwhelming me - the pain in my head, as Simone touched her fate, the

roaring in my ears, of the blast, the numbness of my face, the violence of those (and these) doctors

of that (and this) time towards me, ensuring my resurrection, all these are nothing compared to

my indecision of those other days, the absurd o/a/b/str/u/a/ction that yes; I needed coins to

determine my future. Only in adulthood, as I write now, have I matured, experiencing the grace

of strangers (even though Simone claims she is the one), and the gifts of dictionaries.

As I enter the final portion of my life, it is as if my life has been a cake, filled with

dates eaten slowly away by memories; my energy is fading now, dissipating. The fire in the

belly, of ambition, of lust, of love, is sating, now disquieting to the dying embers of a written

life. Well, of all the lives to live I have lived them all. Yes; now I have the maturity to admit

that was always my curse; even though I did wish not for it, throwing no coin. And when I

In Time Book Two 388

now remember those before times, there is a faint joy to have achieved so much, as amongst

the charcoal you might glimpse a spark, a small old red embering flame, that all is not yet cold,

or extinct, and there is a light there still, to see, and seize the remaining days. How did I come

to play and sing and write those songs, and all in that same time? To have existed and achieved

so much within such a fragile being? To be here, now, in this safe part of an unsafe world? But

there is of course also the sadness within, as I lie here, falsifying now the remembered exhausted

remnants of a life, of memories, that yesterday and an aeon ago might as well be today, the same

time, the same moment my synapses fire.

And it is painful to admit (but is it? when I am so obviously indifferent?) that I don't care

if I am to ever play another note; for already in the many months I have been here (if the counted

pages of my diary are to be accurate) my hands have seized up - I have felt them stiffening, and

not merely from a lack of movement. And my voice must be dead now; no joy to be found anymore

in singing, when there is no urge. I remember a time when there was hope, a promise, when there

was, in such a simple sense, something to look forward to, in words waiting to be written. But this

diary is filling now, and those days are gone.

And this facility I seem to have in writing, according to Not- Carol Marhia, she who of

course has her own agenda - is just a temporary interlude, to fill the days as I recover - excepting

'recover' is the wrong word (for I should wish only that my grave be re-covered), - for will

I write when I leave this place? recover these pages? No. And will I sing again? To play again?

No. I am tired now, but I have sung my songs, where others could not sing, and I have played,

where others could not play. And unfortunately I have also touched evil, and knowing too that

somehow my hand also held the evil touch. Perhaps I blamed my subsequent adult faults upon

Simone, which is somehow not fair, since I haven't seen her for so long. And did I (not?) on that

fateful day dare her to touch that bomb? Or did she, after all, ignore me, to run into her obliteration

as the coins could not fail to fall my way? Perhaps her murmurings are not true; that it was all my

In Time Book Two 389

fault. It's just too bad I can't remember.

My eyes watch No- Carol Marhia picking up my diary, as I know she does whenever

she visits me and thinks I am safely asleep. Perhaps I should fall asleep now, succumb to twilight

dreams. Trail right screams. She murmurs, 'Give me your pen.' and I obey her instructions. Not Not

Pen then.

What would happen when he reached the end of these pages, the end of what he imagined

was his time? As if these pages had constrained his entire life? As she flicked through the dates

she reinserted the section from November 15th that Russell had months before, - and was it really

ten? - ripped out and discarded across the floor. She had taken them home to read. They had

(and was the word) attempted(?) to describe those college days of long ago, though obviously

fictionalised by his memory. Names now long gone. She remembered some of them, but not as

written. It was disturbing that he thought Nadine had borne his child; perhaps she hadn't told him

the truth about her 'adventures' in Poland. Perhaps it was 'just' their women secrets. She couldn't

believe Nadine would deliberately mislead Russell - Carol didn't remember her as being that type

of girl. More than a few pages then (and Carol felt this absurd obligation to check, count the dates -

fifty days or so, from, to form, a whole lifetime?), and there was then faint imprinting, like inverse

Braille, upon the next blank page, and above, curiously, an ideograph of a typewriter (what was

the point of that? - in a diary!), of a date in January, of the next year. Perhaps he felt his time had

run out - the words hadn't f/orm/ill/ed to ink. Any significance in November 15th ? Not that she

knew of; 320th day of the year, according to this diary. She checked back through the pages; it

was a leap year. She smiled; he had certainly leapt about in this diary of his. But now, Russell

safely asleep, to hopefully dream and not suffer nightmares, Carol stood to walk and look through

the corner window, noticing it was a sunny day but that the date was different; winter's coming,

but not really.

In Time Book Two 390

 She felt a strange mixture of revulsion, and of pity. She had known him, loved him for years,

but she found curiously inexplicably painful this insult, this constant non recognition, despite the

obvious consequences of the car crash explained to her by (as he quaintly called her) warm nurse

Nadine and husband (and was his name really Doctor Robert? - named after a song?), that he

might not recognise her, that there would be some - and what was that word he had inappropriately

used? - dislocation? (as if only his shoulder was dislocated) - after the crash, with only the occasional

faint flickering of cognisance, that these things take time. For they had made their life together after

she, the other one, Katherine, the proclaimed true love, - but only the Second time around it seemed

to her, - had tragically died, with daughter. In yet another car crash. Yes, it was tragic, and grief does

strange things to people, but ... that was all such a long time ago, - and how long was it now? Seven

years ago? before her - their - time together, - yes she found it painful not (Not yet ... the good

Doctor Robert had persisted to insist) to be recognised, that their years, their time together had come

to be a blank, to be named only as a Penelope in occasional pages in t/his sodding imagined diary, -

for weren't these dates wrong, anyway? obsolete? That he, locked into, yearning for another lost

time, years, decades ago, when some adolescent girl, not even then an adult, had occasionally

visited him? Or vice versa. She was happy enough then for her to leave him and marry a pervert,

wasn't she - who liked taking pictures of underage girls? But that the fates decreed he was to live

with Katherine, marry her even, eventually, years later, after the death of her first husband Smith

in some freak accident at the college where he'd taught at (a fire setting alight a harpsichord caused

by an unextinguished cigarette? Or having fallen off a college chimney stack, to be found with a

broken telescope nearby? - she never knew with Russell when he was telling the truth - though

the telescope in their closet seemed to work, though a little twisted and dented, Russell spending

an inordinate amount of time in there - he'd said he'd stolen it from another closet in school - that

bit at least sounded convincing, having being told that was when he was well), but he had still not

been satisfied, despite those lost years of yearning, when his dreams had finally come true, but

In Time Book Two 391

that Katherine had eventually given up on him, as he was always away touring somewhere (but

Carol Marhia remembered that she, herself, had fortunately, finally met him again off-stage some-

where, as she administered make up to two girls about to perform in a pop video later that night,

and he had later sweetly made that gift of strings, - had that been the very night when M had taken

them off to see M play with her father? And that had been the first time Saint - Russell! had met

her father since TLD? Even she couldn't remember now; just coloured blurs, and events blurred

by reading the words of t/his sodding diary! She remembered buying G's cab, once that living-in

cat had been re/mov/hous/ed - so Russell had sorted out that minor problem - as if she would buy

a cab with a cat living in it! And she remembered that Russell had then held the absurd notion that

there was something going on there, as if she could go out with a drunk!). Yes, Catherine had needed

a proper father now, despite Russell's obvious and, apparent to everyone's, devotion, but Katherine

was to give up waiting for her erring pop star (and had she known, of their earlier affair? of those

long ago student day tussles?) husband to return home, and wanted to marry her designated driver,

a Copy Cat Brat (and was that really his name?), one of the band's roadies? Essentially a trucker?

It didn't make sense. Now. And although she herself was named Penelope, in these dated pages,

there was no recognition there; it wasn't her, - and it was pathetic, insulting to write these things

about her after the name of a some fictional puppet character from a television show resurrected

from his memories of childhood, stories somehow constructed from the cardboard cut out pictures

on this hospital wall, of a blond mannequin next to a pink Rolls Royce, - and not a nice person,

evidently, according to these stories before her, and so obviously not her; she was not like that

at all - she was not .. and what colour was she, anyway? this fictional character?! - no, she herself

was nice. And he only very rarely called her Lady. She knew, of course, of the much earlier tragic

fate of his childhood girlfriend, of how (he'd said, - and far too many times now) his childhood

friend's voice had guided him in later times in his life, advising him on choices to make, that if the

coin fell Obverse, do this, Reverse, do that (and Carol Marhia had sometimes wondered if Simone's

In Time Book Two 392

voice had spoken of her, given him advice as to whether or not to ask her out, or instructed him

to throw that stupid remaining coin of his, but their own early meetings had been very hurried,

what with her wearing that philosophical masque, and his later gift of strings; yes, hopefully he

hadn't thrown a coin in order to win her love (presumably an obscure reference made in the diary

writing of, - and here Carol checked back through the past pages; August then, - Chance Be A Fine

Thing), and no time, as such, then for him to much think about (which was probably a good thing)

Tossing to Decide - and it was strange, no, sad though, she thought, that she could never have

met t/his first girlfriend, even though she might have glimpsed her at that talent contest on the last

day of her father at school (although that girl looked more like that picture she'd seen, in a gallery

somewhere), and about whom she knew so much, for he had often talked of their short time together,

their conversations, of how they had belonged, joined, or even formed with two friends, Sylvian and

Rollo, some UFO or astronomy club, overseen by some pervo called Smith (and he did indeed

sound very dubious, for her father had told her how he had been forced to resign on the very same

day he himself had left that school, - but, unlike Smith, not in disgrace, not forced to leave after

taking photographs of a naked girl, well just about an adult, which had saved him from prosecution -

but the rumour was he had gone on to marry her anyway, but because in a certain area of the school

ground he had been cultivating tobacco plants, - Carol had often wondered which was the lesser of

the two evils) - yes, that was the day Ben had taken her to his final day, and Russell had told her

also of how Simone and he had made plastic cars out of kits, that he still always talked as if Simone

were still alive, as if her dead surname, Korsakoff (and was that name even real? - it sounded like

an illness Doctor Robert had mentioned, and not his second favourite composer Rimsky-Korsakov

((she hadn't managed to convert him away from Elgar after all)) ) were somehow still relevant, that

even if she didn't of course actually exist, her voice not seeming to be under his control, just

occasionally appearing (When she chooses. Well, only at night, - dark time. he'd explained (?),

to continue, as if affirming, She'd said, 'You are the one.' for Carol Marhia not to know whether

In Time Book Two 393

she should be flattered or not) for him to obey her, Simone's, silent marching orders.

Yes, she was still visiting him, her husband, even though he appeared to only occasionally

to recognise her, but it had been months, no, seemed like years now, and it seemed to her in these

fictions she surreptitiously read (when, and how could she describe his intermittent sleep?- his

offline mode?) that he would have liked the whole world to be at his beck and command, and

wishes fulfilled whenever uttered. Well, who wouldn't? If only life were like that, that every whim

could come true, to live an imagined fantasy life, of absolute obedience? Where everybody deludes

themselves into thinking that what they want, becomes is? Thank God it wasn't like that in the real

world, as people would find quickly enough that life becomes a hell, like, she thought, the boredom

of immortality. Or perhaps they wouldn't, as living always in the present would mean no past, no

future, with no aspirations, no defeats. No triumphs. Just the perpetual vacuity of the ever present.

A not uncommon case of inflation, warm nurse Nadine had said, but had not then explained how

the rate of inflation could cause memory loss. And then she had mentioned Young, as if his age

had something to do with his brain damage. It was a shame that her earlier course had been

philosophy, and not psychology, as she might not then have switched to languages, - for hadn't

all that previous thinking had been a complete waste of time? - but Carol realised that this literary

creation of a Saint was probably in some way an awareness of his helplessness, of his lack of

any power, of control of t/his situation, and certainly from her surreptitious readings of his stories

she now realised there lay something deeper there, something of which she herself had before

been unaware of in his personality (and how many years now had they known each other? - there

were always surprises it seemed), that in his writing he somehow always suggested, implied,

that there would be a disappointment with the sensations of mere fame, and money, that for

others to be seen with him would give them, and not him himself, somehow, in some bizarre

fashion, credence, but if a Saint could now indifferently buy the time of others, what power

lay in that? Relics have no power (excepting in the gift of the strings he had given her, but that

In Time Book Two 394

was love). He had mentioned once that it seemed to him, in his remembered past (and she had

only ever seen the images and heard the songs of that time before her, for the written lyrics upon

these pages she now held were merely words - had he actually written - no, composed them?) that

there had only ever been two people who had wanted him for himself; Katherine (and even then that

was only in his imagined, the First, time before) and the other desire expressed was Catherine's love

for him as a father figure. She knew he had been a good father to Catherine, giving up everything,

and time when he could, to play with her, to share her innocence and childhood. But she too was

dead now, - and she too would have been an adult now, had she lived.

And Carol Marhia had felt shame when reading these words, for there was another woman

of course, who wanted him for himself: herself. She supposed she had after all arrived in later

times, but she had so far been mentioned, not even as a, his lover it seemed, but as a character in

a novel. She still found it strangely insulting, to be called Penelope - as their time together, all

the years they had known one another, had now far exceeded K/C/atherine's time. Well, she

hoped he got better, remembered something about her soon, before these written words cut

her too deeply; paper cuts were superficial, but these words were perpetual stabbings.

They had made their life together and it was of course tragic that that other time was

gone, that those were dead times. But ... they were dead. And life was for the living; it was all

you got. Not a play, a story, a fiction, not a rehearsal, as the pop psychology books he'd said

she'd read said (and how did he know she'd read them?), not these sodding, fucking words he

wrote of others, of a dead past. It just is; you got what you got.

Carol closed the Book of T/His Life as he called it and looked down at this husband of

hers, yet now this stranger. She did not mind that he could delude himself to think he was now

so wealthy, so famous, for he had become that self claimed musician in earlier times after their

college days together, and those later, richer days had after all paid for their nice house by the

river (although apparently it was the so called Katherine the First's childhood house - that would

In Time Book Two 395

have to change), for it was true, as he had claimed, that his songs were as good as anyone else's

(and she had liked some of them), and perhaps he had a secret stash of cash hidden away some-

where - after reading these pages she wouldn't put it past him, - but it was just sad, this false memory

of other, later times. His imagined insult; to be recognised in earlier days, and then forgotten. She

vaguely recognised some of the characters of which he had written, but only from his oral memories

of those other times - she had not actually met those people; Christine she vaguely remembered,

always crying somewhere in another room, to disappear soon enough into Friedman's arms. The

wanker; apparently he'd called her even before Carol had left for Australia. Simone she had of course

heard too much about; his first girlfriend (long dead by their own adulthood together of course), but

not his first love (for that was indeed Katherine, - but only the First time around, he'd claimed), and

it was a shame that his dreams were to eventually come true but that she was to die anyway. Such is

this life. Korsakoff and his wayward daughter were unknown to her (she really couldn't believe

that this Simone was the same Simone he had known as a child), as were the too many others.

He'd led his secret life, then, as a musician. Perhaps all married couples were like that, the other

half's entire existence being a blank wall with the intermittently random appearance of your

partner being merely the door to their bedroom. Yes, of course he found it boring, to now sit staring

at computer screens intermi/ttent/nab/ly (and not even) all day, but that was how he made their

money now, and magnitudes(?) more than the standing music days. She didn't understand what

the Black Schools Model was, for she didn't recollect ever making such a thing. Perhaps it

was his memory of something he and Simone had made, in their childhood days. He said they

should not have thrown those coins, which of course she agreed with; the child might have lived.

Yes, the Friedman affair thing she regretted, but at least he had given her good grades.

Enough for her to change course (and she was aware of the unintended pun), and that was after

all how they, Russell and her, had met up again? got together? - sharing that house in student days

with Russell's then girlfriend - Noddy - having run off first to Poland or somewhere, and then

In Time Book Two 396

upon her return to quickly marry that Doctor with the rich father in law. Bit predictable really.

It was funny that they might have passed each other in that school corridor decades before,

on that final school TLD, Teacher's Leaving Day, her father having earlier (until that very day in

fact!) taught at that school. Perhaps they had even glanced at each other in the hall - perhaps Russell

had even been that kid who'd won some talent competition, with that weird looking wildly haired

redhead. And the pretty grinning girl. She smiled, - that would indeed make it a small world.

Her husband opened his eyes, to gaze again, as he had many times over these past months,

silently up at the ceiling. She followed his gaze; again nothing there, just green paint. The accumulation

of curious pictures on the side walls, and now the additional hundreds of tiny paper clocks. Probably

each telling of their different time. She couldn't be bothered to check the corners of the ripped diary.

Occasionally, in his first days here, she had wondered how he had managed to un/tangle/plug

himself from all these wires to reach the wall from the bed. She didn't care much now, though.

Then he mumbled, almost stuttering, 'Carol Marhia. Not Pen.'

'Yes.' she affirmed. But there was no joy now in his recognition. There was a time, and it

must be soon, for she was becoming very tired of waiting now, for Russell to say that necessary

word to Simone (God, even she - a dead sodding girl - was real enough to her now!); Goodbye..

But she would ask yet again, anyway, 'You must say Goodbye., you know.'

RESSURECTION

- say goodbie

I must say Goodbye.. What Simone's voice says is true, but the echoes of the Goodbye.

will fade quickly enough, in three milliseconds or less (for the studio years had enabled me to

count those acoustic delays), but the spoken word will not erase the memories of those years and,

truth to tell, although they are too painful times to remember (as if I have a choice), those days

made me who I am today, for without the woven fabric of that time enstitched somewhere in my

pathways of my brian, I would be (a word learnt in philosophical times) a Zombie, existing merely

In Time Book Two 397

from moment to moment, with no apparent internal life. As others have appeared to me throughout

their lives. But Carol Marhia is already continuing, 'So why don't you say it out loud. Now. As a

way of saying goodbye, as a way of accepting your grief?'

As indeed Simone has asked me many times over these past few weeks, or months. Over

the years, to join her.

- join us or say her say her now goodbye

She would explain, but no I would reply for me to say her say her now goodbye would

destroy my memory of her of her beauty

- she is not the one you need to say her say her now goodbye

She would continue to insist, knowing somehow also that I should be saying Goodbye.

to her too, as if she wanted to leave me now, that she can guide me no longer, that I had lived my

life, and I had had time enough (given by her, she would continue to insist, since the coins had

fallen, - but could only ever fall, my way), to become an adult, and there came a time when

even Simone's voice sounded uncertain, about Katherine, about herself, and it is as if her own

voice was fading. As the burning lights seemed to grow brighter for me. And I am to agree,

however reluctantly, to admit, finally, that Katherine is gone now, both the First and the Second,

lost in another time. As Cathy is gone too, as her face too would have aged, and as I am sadly

forced to admit even to myself, that she would be older now than her mother's, Kathy's, own image

in that picture stolen from the school wall.

But Carol Marhia is alive, as Simone has been insistently murmuring this past year (?),

as if knowing an absolute truth of which I must endure and eventually, inevitably, succumb to;

that the boredom of these walls holds no further potential to my imagination, even with the paper

fresco's and paper clocks and cardboard cut outs, their remaining stories as yet, and perhaps forever,

to remain unwritten, undescribed upon the puke coloured green plaster walls, their blankness resolutely

In Time Book Two 398

obstructed by the imaginated fabrics of pinned pictures.

As the paper clocks in my book decrease in number, now time .. d pinned upon the walls, each

telling of their own different time.

As the stories in my book increased in number, each telling of their own different lives.

Perhaps the weeks and months have passed, and interest in me has already swiftly faded.

Even gods and religions become temporary quickly enough, fading quickly to obsolescence, as

printed ink upon paper fades too, eventually, to extinction. For our star will burst, within the word

we use; ultimately, and all that we have held dear in our civilisations, all our human achievements,

all our loves and hates, will have come to count for nothing, perishing (but perhaps perishing is

not the word, recycling?) to be recycled into other energies. I have thought these thoughts often

as I have lain here these past few months, ill and consequently depressed, but the depression must

pass, as the tissues mend, and not merely because my body refuses with its curious stubbornness,

despite my expressed wishes and previous actions, to die, as if Descartes had not made his fatal

error, in his mistaken dissemination of Mind and Body, but insists on recovering, and as the pain

dissipates, but within the deeper contemplation of drugged, dragged states, I have come to realise,

and there was no happiness in this absurd realisation; that time does not exist.

I revolted against this absurdity, for were my loves and life not in their - this time? But

my calender is a human construct, as explained by pervo Smith in earlier (before university, before

the pointless philosophical, - although I am sure Smith mentioned Plotinus and Saint Augustine , -

for I had misunderstood, misheard Plotinus as Plotting, us? - which of course had made no sense,

then, - and it had been August, I am sure, when Simone and I had taken that fatal astronomy week

away) days, when Simone and I looked through his telescope, to wonder at distant planets, to be

told, as if a definitive fact, that the universe is 13.7 billion years old, and my initial rebellious if

unspoken response, as if I needed to impress Simone, was; But what is a year? Only the revolution

of our planet around the sun. And Smith had answered as if he had heard my thoughts, or perhaps

In Time Book Two 399

Simone had spoken, with the words (and I was only to learn to spell this a decade later, as I had

again misheard, or rudely misinterpreted his words) Kant's Solar Nebula or perhaps Simone had

also suggested, since their (if Saturnians were to exist, - which even then I knew to be impossible,

but I politely remained silent) year, if their rotation of the sun, being 11.9 of our earth years their

universe's age would 'only' be a billion years or so, because they would have constructed their own

calender. And that Mercurians with their year being a 'mere' 88 days, would have a universe age of

fifty billion years or so. And the 'or so' might be more than 10% - But what difference .. said Smith,

and he had smiled, waving his cigarette end into the air, the red embers glowing in a curious

slowly fading calligraphic pattern against the night sky, almost as if he too could write Chinese,

as well as playing a clarinet in the school jazz band (was there no end to his talents?) .. does a

billion years make between friends? And Smith continued to explain, as if aware of our awe,

that it was all to do with scale. I realise now, that then, he had been polite, not over-burdening us

young with Einstein's theory of relativity. He had been a good teacher, although mocked for his

fatness and chain(ed) smoking by others, and I had always wondered, and felt strangely guilty,

as if Simone's death had been somehow his responsibility, until it was explained to me in much

later times, the real reasons why he had left our school.

And those thoughts had re-occurred to me in later times in the years as I studied philosophy

during college days and I recalled Smith's words as I read that Descartes thought that Jovians would

exist upon Jupiter (unaware then, of course, of the infinitesimally small chance of they not being

crushed to extinction by the gravity of their own - a gaseous giant indeed - atmosphere), and that

they would been more intelligent, being further from the sun, which even as a child I would

have thought ridiculous. Such is the progress of education over the too few centuries.

Yes, I learnt of Augustine's idea of time; coming from the future, going to a secret place,
thy today is eternity, that only in his O mind of mine, that he measures time, not independent of

itself but derived from our experience, anticipating Kant, and of Schopenhauer; that all is, only the

In Time Book Two 400

now. To Bergson, reality is a continuum, with no instants, and that in space there are no separate

and specific places; his charm lay, as did Proust's (and did not Carol once explain to me, drawing

the Chinese characters, that France was Land of Rules? - or is that yet another false memory?),

in his writing; oh, so very French.

And how am I to explain that time does not exist when I write my times upon my own

calender, this obsolete diary? It records a remembered past, but they are only merely stories,

not the Am, not the moment. I wrestled with this idea for 'some' time, and not just mentally,

as the sweat upon my bedclothes testified. This wonderment, that the brain has constructed

templates within, that we might assimilate a past, in order to remember a future, all in the name

of ensuring our survival. And everywhere there is evidence of calibration, of standardised times,

and sometimes unconsciously, as I demonstrated to Carol Marhia with those playing cards, as I

placed them gently upon her naked chalked body, as if reading t-her runes in those earlier student

times, as if somehow they held talismanic powers, that our construction of time, is only our

construction; for the universe has no time.

- is the one am tired now soon gone

yes simone she is the one and her name is carol marhia and i did and i hear her

bells again tinkling sweetly faintly yes you must say goodbye soon simone

And Carol Marhia waits for an answer, as she has waited for so long. Not merely to write

the words out, but to say, actually articulate, Goodbye.? As if there is a finality in the speaking

of that one word, more than the scribbling of a million words upon parchment? That the skin of a

sheep or a goat might in time not rot too, but count less than the failed echo of a murmured second?

We all imagine that other life, the possibilities unlived, where a happiness resides in a fairytale land

unencumbered by any practical realities. Yes, those imagined lives live on in stories, as I lived there

too, in my imagination, in the sickness of these past few months, to realise that my curse is that I

chose other later lives, abandoning that possible, potential, earlier imagined happiness. For that

In Time Book Two 401

life in the time before might have held a certain happiness, but might it have been a duller normal

existence, where the rules and boundaries of civil behaviour curbed my natural inclinations (of

which I have become, now, as I write down this journal, more fully and shamefully aware), but

who would choose to live their life in a physics lab, when you can be(come) a rock star? Yet I

have thought of Katherine more (though I think of Catherine always) often these past few months,

as I lie in stasis, as if there was some curious link, some absurd causal, temporal connection

between my present predicament, and those distant days, decades ago.

'Carol?' I ask, knowing that she does not know whether I ask of her identity or of a

following question.

'Yes?'

'It's time to say Goodbye..'

'Yes.'

'To Katherine.'

'Yes. And Simone too, though. And .. Catherine, I'm afraid.'

Goodbye, to those that I have loved. All of them.

And Carol and Simone are both right; there is a time to say Goodbye., to put that imagined

but lived past behind me, to accept that also those other times are dead now, as Simone has (not)

'been' for so long, and Kathy (the Second, for the First, with my remembrance of hope, will

remain always in my heart) and my beloved Cathy, have been gone now seven years, they tell

me (but does that mean I have existed here in this bed for seven years?), and that we could, all

of us, have led other lives but they are now to remain forever unwritten, that there were times when

we longed to choose the other path that we felt sure we were meant to follow, but if we had chosen

that path, at that moment, perhaps slipping even momentarily upon it, as if in hesitation, a gate

behind us would have closed shut, - or a fragile, cancerous vial might have smashed upon a floor,

- as the door closed behind me as in desperation I left Katherine's house for the last time, leaving

In Time Book Two 402

the fallen coin under trodden soil, living now forever cursed with the consequences of silence and

inaction. Say 'Yes.' my disappearing father had instructed me as a child, but in adulthood I chose

silence. Before the days I became wealthy, and bought that house in an absurd pique of revenge,

and made her, the Second, live with me there again.

Carol Marhia waits patiently, as she has waited for so long. Will she forgive me, these

lost months? These years? - yes, seven she says, as Penelope stitched her tapestry. Is she not to

know of the fates of K and Looks Like Simone Ange? Of their betrayal of M, of K breaking our

agreed upon tabooo rules of years before? But at least, eventually, they did get married, as did M

(somehow, forever to remain unplotted, to Simone,

- no not to me

as she had left Brian's secret love nest flat

upon Penelope's discovery of their affair, and as if somehow she knowing the pin cushion should

be returned to its rightful owner, its maker, Katherine the First, she had replaced it in our closet,

along with the other memorabilia of times long lost past, - and Simone's declaration to Brain -

Brian! that she had, anyway, always preferred wealthy musicians, and the country.

- no bad things of me always write why

Is she not to know of G's inevitable descent, to his alcohol induced death, to be found,

broken tambourine abandoned nearby, the wooden shavings of a model of a kitten within his

mouth, stuffed, forced in, as if deliberately by himself, as if hungry? for sawdust? As if he had

misheard the word kebab as catbag? Is she to imagine the paths which are to remain unwritten?

Or am I still to write them, as if only in letters I can confirm a life's existence? Or does she accept it,

now knowing of my mind, and of my other lives? Yes, it is time now to write the love letter I should

have written a lifetime ago, before the engulfing chaos of the other lives. Before the madness? Yes:

say Yes. my disappearing father had requested of me - but I had chosen to remain silent, - as if I

had had a choice.

But now it is time to say Goodbye.. 'Yes? Goodbye. I'll write it.'

In Time Book Two 403

 She smiles. 'Good.' Then leans forward, as if to insist, 'But you must say it.'

Say it. Simone appears, as the light fades and shadows form, but even her blood spattered

school clothes are now fading fast to shades of discoloured newsprint. Carol follows my gaze but

of course sees nothing. She mumbles, but the words are too indistinct now

- timeosaoodye

Goodbye? To Katherine? To my beloved Catherine? To Simone?

Of Katherine: when I think of her now, it is of course with sadness, but not now, finally,

with the sadness at the loss of that imagined earlier happy, perfect life, for that, our later life was

lived, and is only retained in my imagination now, not even to be fully written of within these

pages, and my future life with her is also now long gone, and although her memory has not been

eroded by the experience of the many other years, and the many other lives lived - too many, now,

I realise, in my exhaustion, and illness - I know (as I knew even then, having chosen by the toss

of a coin all those other lives) that the happy, endless perfect life was always to be merely a fanciful

illusion, for all relationships are approximations, and if that life were possible, I, of all people, could

have, and has, lived it.

But always lies somewhere the kernel of discontent, within my drupaceous present existence,

and not merely here, within the folded four corners, the confines of my temporary white tomb, lain

amongst the alabaster sheets, but of the hard fact of that imagined earlier life with Katherine, the

First, which must remain forever unwritten, against these scrawls of my liquid, later fluid life. In

my silence then she must have assumed a rejection, of her, of her offer, whereas in my silence I had

protected her, as if knowing that the coin might face down in the mud of her garden path outside,

and that I was too soon to be forced to live this other life. Ambition crept in, a certain ruthlessness, -

well perhaps as you have read these sordid, squalid, scribbled words you will have witnessed my

revelations.

Always the guilt, that I have my own beautiful daughters, East and West, but my adulation

In Time Book Two 404

and admiration was for another's man's child. The shame, the shame, that Catherine was Smith's child.

And that 'now' she is dead.

And Simone says she is tired now, of talking, of guiding me, throughout my life.

- soongonenow

She

murmurs, as her shadow flickers, and voice grows ever fainter, as they told me (even though I

disagreed with, and disbelieved them) the drugs would slowly take effect. I will miss her, as our

time together as children was Priceless. As all my times are Priceless. Yes, there is a sadness there,

though not much consolation in the silence of the dead.

I have revealed too much in these written past dates but in my indifference now I care

not that Carol reads these words, and for her to forward (but to whom? for Brian, as she must

surely now know, is not real) this diary as a somehow unauthorised 'auto'biography (for certainly

I would not give my consent to any other person for publication) - and the days are long gone

when Simone could have hidden these lost pages.

Yes, it is time to say Goodbye. to Simone, even though she haunts me still, in every sense

of the word, as my memories of Cathy will haunt me until those final moments I die. And as I die.

But Katherine the First is only a memory of a far off time, unlike Cathy, who is as yesterday.

I would like to pretend Katherine the First would have remained forever in my mind, but I

know she too is soon to leave me, as Simone and Carol have for so long insisted I see her to say

Goodbye., if only in these assembled letters. Yes, as Carol Marhia watches me, I take up my pen

and write, turning the page over, as if to find another date:

I write to you now, Katherine, as I should have written to you that lifetime ago. Even now,

and is it thirty years? forty? I still feel grateful that you deigned to know me, to accept my presence,

to accept me as a friend, in those earlier times, to welcome me through your door, to make me tea,

In Time Book Two 405

for us to engage in coffee and conversation, to play and sing with you our music, to talk of other

popular songs, of how free I had felt then (not then knowing I was to meet a Friedman at college),

as if I could stroll, - as I was in later times with Catherine, - as a man in Paris, and to discuss

with you the politics and situations of the world. At that time. And perhaps I learnt the elements

of grace and gentleness from you and so much more, and it is only now, as a tired, sick adult,

not merely in body but also in mind, that I consider myself able to reciprocate your warmth. And

to realise what possibilities may have lain between us; that I did not need to heed the fool of any

coin (and I should have earlier learnt that lesson from Simone's earlier .. departure). But that time

was the 'wrong' time. And of course 'now' it is too late. You will never read these words, for the

dead cannot read. I accept, now, you are only in my imaginings. That the words they told me were

true, after all. For there is a time when every woman offers herself, and is perhaps chosen, taken, -

a moment when a life is offered and a culmination reached, and unless that moment, and body,

is not seized, another life unfolds, and had I been more crass, more base, perhaps I should have

seized that moment, and your mind, and your body. As it seemed Smith did, happily, regardless.

But I was strangely aware even then, as if my mind knew that I had to ignore, protect you from

the consequences of my own past and future madness from you, that you were still innocent. For

in those imagined days I sacrificed my happiness for your future, Katherine, knowing (but not

then comprehending until our own later years together of Smith's own madness) that, even in my

days of inarticulateness, of my struggling silences, that despite Simone's attempted intervention I

cared for you, and that somehow I needed to protect you from the chaos that would have resulted

from our liaison. Ah, that word, liaison, how I like it; implying a temporal, temporary tryst.

I want to go back, Katherine, and start again, but I cannot. It's too late.

Carol has asked that I return the pin cushion to you. I'm sorry that I did not treasure it

more. I wish I'd had time to explain to Catherine how much it meant to me, that her mother had

made this for me when very young. When there was a time that was later to be called The Time

In Time Book Two 406

Before. I will place it upon the waters of the Thames opposite. Somehow, sadly appropriate. Carol

says its time to say Goodbye.. And she is my wife now, and she is still living; I have to agree with

her.

Yes, that will have to do.

How ironic then, that now, when I cannot care, having tas/sa/ted all experiences, that the

words I longed to say to Katherine the First now fall so easily from my lips, but without meaning

for me, having lived the too many other lives; that I know, now, of the power of both good and evil,

I to have touched both heaven and hell, and still to have lived this life, and only this life, on this

earth. There were other lives I could have led, and when younger I would have liked to have said

Should have led. but I didn't, and I would not say those words now, for out of, and in that time,

I chose silence, to then choose that other life, out of irritation, in, at a rejection of myself, - a saint -

but a mortal man who gave himself away too much to the many others, but they disfigured me,

disabled me, and in, with indifference and apathy. What idiom had Carol Marhia written for me

in Chinese in my innocent days?: Phen yu be ban, zhang lai, be ban phen yu.: Friends betray, in time,

betray friends. Not a good luck charm then, more a warning, against my future life. I should have

listened, and learnt, more closely.

How easily to seduce now, to murmur sweet romances, how easily to possess a female

body intertwined with my being, but now I am careless, and (al)though not necessarily an extrovert,

I have been capable of wearing that suit comfortably as it has fitted me well now, and for so long.

I sought to find that earlier poem, I Walked Here Often, in my book, but it seemed it has

been ripped out too, as my heart was then. The first time around. But I scribbled another poem, in

these feebling end pages, in the few days left to me before November 15th; My Lover Brought Me

Flowers, addressed to a Carol:

- she is the one

'Yes I know, Simone. But you must say goodbye now.'

In Time Book Two 407

 My lover brought me flowers Strange that Sitting there Sipping beer Reading a score

of Elgar (Of course) Sampling a bitter peach pie (I wondered why they'd left it) Remembering a

sweeter time Close your eyes she had said I can't I said I can only screw them up Sitting

with fingers stuck in my eyes It's early for your birthday I know she said But I only pass the

shop once a week Pragmatic thinker I thought Seven carnations in my hand

- azurebloomingchalkyruddyxanthicverdantpeppermintstalks

A motley chequered

kaleidoscope Strange that Sitting there A curious glance (Or was it three? Or seven?) From women?

I wondered I thought I recognised them Long lost lovers, planted now in their still flowerpots in

letters in photographs Strange that Sitting there My lover brought me flowers

'I wrote My Lover Brought Me Flowers for you?' I ask Carol, as she (re)appears before me

once again.

She makes to answer but the bell noises crescend, roar in my head, silencing her voice.

It seems for me the book is to remain open still, the pages not quite finally closing, but at least I

realising she is not Penelope, and that Simone Korsakoff, my real blood sister, is long gone now.

She stands and walks to the wall, pointing to a picture, a still of a '60's children's television

show, of a puppet beside a pink Rolls Royce. Am I here merely because of these colours, these

pictures upon the wall? These static still images never changing, but still resonating, their light

still vibrating, telling of their own stories, in their own time? Katherine the First is there, as The

Lady Of The Lake, that now too famous oil painting of a dying pale woman on a boat, the Water-

house I was later to pin to my college room as a teenager, that poster taken from our secret closet

at school, my only remembrance of Katherine the First now, for in truth I was to say No. to the

laboratory outside opposite, abandoning any physics career, choosing not to follow the unechoing

footsteps of my disappearing dead father, choosing instead to become the musician I became: true

heroes leave their parents behind.

In Time Book Two 408

 Carol looks at me as she has looked many times before, this curious mixture of pity and

incomprehension. And a slight fear now, of this stranger before her. I sit up and look closer now

at the other pictures pinned to the wall, this collection of random images, as if to gaze for the first

time upon them, their colours flowing now into sharp focus, some torn from magazines it seemed,

of the Other Band, Saint (for did Russell not teach him?), the solar system with details of the planets

in print too small now for me to read, given to Simone and I by Smith from the small annex school

room wall as a parting present (for him to forget to take with him his now missing telescope, - and

it was strange he was to die in attempting to affix a newer one to the college roof, somehow ignoring

the burning harpsichord below - I was not to sing # Nearer to God to Thee # at his funeral, my offer

to return to the college for (his) one final day being politely but firmly refused), mountain sliced as

a schematic revealing its geological features, of rocks and minerals, of opals. Of Marc Bolan, that

iconic male image of my wife. The Annapurna mountain range. A ridiculously fat woman. Who is

that? The fat opera singer who closes the show? Not Christine? A Victor war plane, in reality assembled

by my father? Or by Simone and I as a model? Orchestral instruments, with the clarinets and oboes

cut away. A portrait of my beloved Elgar. A faded grey-scale picture of a Russian emigre. Korsakoff?

Courseofnot. Rimski-Korsakov? Courseofnot, - it looks like the Ukrainian Mykola Leontovych.

That I had pinned these to this wall, in a time before? That these are my friends?

And the words I squeeze now underneath the poem of Brought Me Flowers are the imaginings

of then, of past times, as the dates of this year fade, and of my other true loves: I have lived my life

in your shadows, friends, even though you were small, in stature and in time, but you gave me such

expansive joy, friends, though y/our time then was free, but now indeed Priceless, and even though

you are all now gone, in bodies and in souls, remaining only as fabrics pinned upon these walls,

that time was our time, and we sang our songs, in that time, as people remembering talk of Our

song..

And what were those songs? Had I actually sung to Simone, # She Aint Heavy, She's My

In Time Book Two 409

(blood) Sister # when young? I remember of course Katherine the First's # See The Burning Lights #,

and # Ocean Waves #. And my beloved Catherine had sung # Please Listen # (honoured that I was,

not that it was my song, but that 'my baby' had sung it, to me). My wife says I often sung # Oh Carol #

to her, as we lay chalked naked after college days, and she happy that I had moved on from # Of the

Bells! Of the Bells! #, and once by the river # I've Got You Under My Skin, Deep In The Heart Of

Me # ...

But as Carol gazes upon these photo's and pictures she cannot know what stories lie

behind them, or in a future time might come from them; their history, their joys, loves and hates.

All she has been given are images, and the scraps of text, of and in my book (for I have always

known she reads all my words when I was asleep), for her to write her own stories, with the

scurrying letters coalescing, sometimes reluctantly, to form the words that I have lived, as the

words conjure images, to form the grammar of a story. Of my written life.

'Can you ask warm nurse to come in and unplug the rest of me?' I ask.

Carol frowns. 'I don't think that would be such a good idea at the moment.'

'No. I am better. I could stand I think.'

She shakes her head. 'You're not as well as you think you are.'

'I insist on seeing Doctor Robert.'

She gazes blankly at me, as if I might be speaking of a distant unknown stranger. I insist,

'Doctor Robert.'

'I'll go and ask.' she answers doubtfully, before walking through the door to find warm

nurse Nadine.

But she does not return.

I must free myself now from these wires, that have leeched, sapped my energy, free

myself to walk again, to stand alone, proud, to escape this place, this prison, for I am not mad,

I am not sick, and it is time.

In Time Book Two 410

 I struggle in silence, the slight seeping of blood as the wires are extruded, the pin cushion

of my arm forming small hearts, taking forever it seems to make those few steps, a limp matching

the stab of pain, stopping and stooping to listen, wary that I am not interrupted on my short but

interminable journey, by a nurse, or the woman that calls herself, and is, it appears, my wife,

but determined as I have always been, not now to proudly stride across the planet but to humbly

stumble across a room, to stand before myself, now muted and silent, to grasp the mirror left by

Russell Stuart, to stare at my image, unseen now for months (?).

And a face appears behind me, haggard, strained and old. I turn but no one else has entered

the room. I look back into the mirror, and as I move my lips, as if water is needed to be tasted, to

sustain my life, the face moves too. I murmur, and the grunts are my sounds.

This is not the photograph I remember, not the image on my passport from aeons ago.

Not that fresh faced younger self with the lives yet to be led and the songs yet to be sung, not

then holding that empty unwritten blank unlined book with pages yet to be inscribed, not then

the lines upon my face now deeply etched unto paper by the acid years of experience, the bitter-

ness not then scarring the innocence unlived. And one side of my face seems missing, not merely

out of focus, but as if existing in a shadowy penumbra, as if half of me is absent, and there is a small

indentation in my skull, as if that shrapnel wound remains unhealed, and I unsure whether the wound

is concave, or convex. Obverse, or Reverse.

But I recognise this face, familiar somehow, as if we have met and talked before. And the

grunts mutter, 'Russell Stuart.'

And they are standing there, Carol, and warm nurse Nadine, staring at me.

'How long?' I ask, but they remain silent.

I stare at myself, but still there is no recognition, that I am Russell Stuart.

And although all times seems recent, for memory is always of the moment, even as it

imagines the past, it is an aeon ago, when I was a 'Saint', a time not to be counted, measured in

In Time Book Two 411

days or months, but now in years. Is there a time in life when the abyss looms before you and

there is no escaping the path that befalls you, in its inevitable crumbling away into the never

ending chasm? Whence, when you emerge, should you emerge, should you ever find any surface

again, where you can claim a level ground, a stability of sorts, standing somehow on the floating

iceberg of your fragile consciousness, you know that for you there will never be a time before

again, but that there may well have been a time before when you were happy, when you recall a

kind of happiness, that there was a time before when you had parents, and guardians, and friends,

and mentors, and song writing partners, and excessive lovers, but now they are gone, perhaps not

even having died, but decayed from your memory, and deserted you, to no longer protect or annoy

you, to sooth you, or hit you, or lovers to chalk colour caress your body with and in love, and pain

and shame, that there was a time before when you were wealthy, and generous, and you gave your

time, your life, and your money, away, too freely, for no rewards, nothing, that there was a time

before when your wealth and money were stolen, before your time and your life were taken, un-

graciously thieved, never to be repaid, that there was a time before when you were happy and

joyous with a child, when you played with that child as children play together, with a divine

innocence, but you knowing as an adult that all too soon that precious innocence will be lost.

I turn to look again at Carol, my claimed wife after the death of the others (or were we

married in the time before?), who has gazed constantly at me these past months, face etched with

fear and caring, but I always to know I am to stand alone, and am to die alone.

Is this what I have become? But at least I have that passport photograph, of myself when

young, not now, as I wished when hope was alive, when Cathy was alive, that there might be a

future, to show Catherine in later times that I have not always been as I am now, but the sadness

remains, and of Katherine too there remains nothing; mere memories having to suffice, of happier

times, of our time before. The poverty of my youth remains. Even in the affluent present. That

there was no money, then, to buy a camera, to capture then her beauty - how ironic, and deliberate,

In Time Book Two 412

that in then later times I came to own not just the film stock but the whole studio. But too late,

now, for appreciation; a mere irrelevant bauble, when to spend now several thousand pounds

now on a single image now means nothing, when that single image of Katherine the First,

walking perhaps along that distant riverside path beside Strand on the Green, or singing

# Ocean Waves # at my piano, only moments, singular memories in their beauty, but a then

photograph to remain forever untaken. And with no image, no absolute memento, there is no

absolute memory; she is as I imagine her everyday: # Every face I see is her face, every voice

is hers, all the words ever spoken #.

And those too are words from a, my song.

How wonderful that potential is, that any woman could be every woman. And in my

youth I believed that any woman could be that woman, but not now, with life's acid etching

rain eroding hope. Yes, perhaps in all this time I have faintly learnt .. something .. if only a few

words: look backward but never tread backwards, for the past is quicksand.

And history will teach us nothing.

The women help me back to my bed, I exhausted, after merely a few steps now as opposed

to the effortless million miles travelled in past times. Easy steps then, - but perhaps that is another

consequence of age, not merely false remembrances of the past, but merely of not walking.

And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and

tomorrow. And tomorrow, I will attempt again to walk again, and in future passing days to stare

again at my image in the mirror, two faced, to somehow grow to accept that this is me, as others

see my reflection, but I not seeing myself, but as this animated carcass, this philosophical Zombie

that writes a diary, to fill the space of an imagined year. I should like to go back to the days of

November 15th, but they are forever gone. Now. And I must accept this, this painful acknowledge-

ment of the dead of the past, in the intervening years; the death of friends, of lovers, of wives, of

my beloved child.

In Time Book Two 413

 'Tell Cathy I love her.'

And my wife stands before me, comforting with, 'She always knows that.' to stroke my

surface, attempting calmness, but not seeing beneath my skin, this thin opaque patina, as the lives

of all others are. For me to ask, constantly, but silently (because I know they still watch me) simone

but to receive no reply, she dissolving now, into the coloured substances they have given me. Perhaps

they are right - it is time too to say Goodbye. to her.

'Do you want my brian?' I had asked, and Doctor Robert(?) laughed, almost as if doubt-

fully, wary as to my implication, and unsure that I was even aware of my own mispronunciation,

but replied, Sure! But preferably when you're dead?!

Yes, it was a waste of a car, my beloved DB4, just two consonants and a numeral to others,

but I had sung # In the back seat of my car # when in the back seat of my car - and with what lover

had that been? What alphabet constituent, consonant or vowel? Are they listed somewhere within

the text of this diary? Within my Love Letters? Or are they too numerous, overflowing the alphabet

soup I have tasted? - and forgotten, anyway, the heart arrows now shot away in time? Zeno's paradox

irrelevant? And a car now a rusted hulk in, on a river bank somewhere?

And the view from the window disappoints, not the idyll depicted to me by Penelomarihah

in earlier times, but the urban prosaic of Carol Marhia. I do not mind, that she lied to me, offering

me the comfort of the colours of trees, of grass, of flowers, of sunlight, of reflected moonlight,

as if from the story of the imagined idyll of Under My Skin, for I was not to know the difference,

not to see any horizons when horizontal. 'I will need my camera back?' I ask, and Carol retrieves

my remembrance machine from her coat pocket and hands it to me. 'Any good shots?' I enquire,

and she smiles faintly, knowing of the thousands taken in those now lost, but famous decades,

but none from that time before, of Katherine the First days. 'Goodbye Katherine.' I say, and Carol

merely nods, this strange mixture of apprehension, and relief. Still, she has never asked for her

Dictionary OHW back.

In Time Book Two 414

 Soon enough Nadine will instruct, 'You'll need to sign these forms.' as if permission is

required to leave (and Carol insists that it is), and I will agree, finally agreeing to my disappearing

father's request, to murmur, 'Yes.' And I knowing she will have finally asked for my autograph

after all, even if the autograph of a Saint is merely the signature for release, that only the colour

of the paper is different, no longer faintly Isabelline, but merely puke beige, as were the walls of

my hospital room. And I will then add, asking with a curiously displaced flattery (for my wife will

be present, to hold my hand and guide me over the threshold), 'Do you have a sister?' And Nadine

will look blankly at me, before remembering, realising, to smile, 'Ah .. no ..' And I will look for

the absent clock, a habit formed throughout these too long months, (?) to then ask, 'What time is it?'

and they will look at my hundreds of paper clocks still pinned to the wall, to not answer, that I

might choose any time I wish.

But this is my remembered life: that my childhood school friend Simone was killed by

that bomb, and I awoke in a different land, and physics was then too easy, and in my young adult

life I was to work in a laboratory, but the provincial boredom soon enough set in, and realisation;

I was good, and I might have been lucky, in making some chance discovery, but I was never to be

Great. And the realisation then too, that I was promiscuous, but somehow aware that I cared, even

though I was in love with Katherine, the First; yes, in my silence I saved her. And then laboratory

abandoned I was to 'study' music and philosophy, and to meet, and to fall in love with Nadine, but

after her rape by Korsakoff for her to marry her good Doctor Robert, and Carol, - now abandoned

by my Elgar essay stealing Friedman (it would have got me a 'First'), - and I to relentlessly fuck in

the squalid desperation of the abandoned. And I and K in soon enough later times then to 'write'

many songs, to become successful. And I much later, - seven years they (both) still insist(ed), -

to meet again Katherine, now the Second, and I to marry my dream woman, only not then to have

that earlier dream realised, for now the times were different. To then save Carol as she fell upon

desperate times, and I then too to find 'happiness'. Yes, the pin cushion; Katherines gift to me, for

In Time Book Two 415

me to betray her affection by giving it to Nadine, for her to pass to Korsakoff, for his then gift to

Coralie, to be returned by Simone's discovery to Brain, as I futilely grasped the past to return to

the river. Yes, this my life, that which I can remember. Yes, it is time to say Goodbye., as Simone

had murmured soongonenow silently to me (some time ago?), - not really the significant words I

had hoped for, in the absoluteness of her final farewell, but that then is perhaps a, her life, - more a

discarded skeleton clumsily propped against a muddy cow gate rather than cleanly graced behind a

closed marble door, but I am to live again, knowing that all lives have been lived; snowing as the

sun shines, the reflected shining in droplets of rain, and as I licked the sweat from my hands, the

pain tasted as wine, and I fed my fans the lambs of my songs, the first duty of any Saint, no longer

to chant in churches, but to sing in the streets, and to daub the lyrics, and never in silence, of the

prophet, of my profits upon subway walls. I have lived my time, in my life, and sometimes my

poems did not rhyme, but perhaps in future times I will turn back these pages, even knowing they

cannot be true, knowing that somehow they are all false memories - for how could Cathy have been

a baby when I met her? - when Kathy's time with Smith had been seven years before? How could G

have bought Copy Cat Brat's cab, when .. I had only offered a job to CCB after we became famous?

And by then rich? But I will occasionally peruse these other lives, until slowly the pages will fade

away, to blackness.

Or whiteness.

'Will you sign my book?' I ask warm nurse Nadine, determined, as always, to give meaning

to words.

'Sure.' she smiles warmly in return, as she takes a pencil, to be inscribed forever.

'You will need to dedicate your book too.' Carol suggests, and I nod agreeing, stooping

to write, as the words coalesce in my mind, that I am aware of my age, and of this time; And

on this day of three hundred and

And as I am to step into the corridor, that white time tunnel that leads to freedom, or going

In Time Book Two 416

to a place that Carol calls .. home (and had I misheard her? - had she actually said ' a home?',

a small crowd coalesce; my brother in law Rolando Chomiac (although is he now a brother in law,

Kathy being 'now' dead?), he always knowing that I was not responsible for his sister's, or his niece's

death, and somehow forgiving me as if knowing that I love .. d Kathy's child more than my own

existence, but that I must live on, even with no remaining choices to throw, the fooling coin having

fallen, for me to murmur, 'Your hair flowed golden when young, when you played.' for him to smile

in return, as if knowing that his baldness now was somehow concomitant, somehow connected, not

merely with his ageing, not merely with the bite of Korsakoff's dog, but with his reluctantly forced

abandonment of the piano to journalism. Crazy haired Sylvian stands in blue, always to be perpetually

mocked as Vincent (but never in public his lack of artistic talent), who absurdly prided himself on

never having anyone else cut his hair. 'Remember that trip to Wales?' I ask again, as I had in the early

days here, for him to shrug, puzzled, 'Of course. Long time ago though.' No K or M present now;

those tunes are finished. And I am to thank them all, for caring for me, as warm nurse Nadine smiles,

and Doctor Robert taps incessantly, always arthymically, but always the total to seven, and Carol

carries my pages, as if my life is to be contained for all time within these lines, for their belief that

I wish now to live, they not realising that I have after all no choice, and I will smile faintly, and thinly,

and murmur, as I step into, to face, finally, the light,

'Goodbye.'

(genius and reservations) GENESIS AND REVELATIONS : NOVEMBER THE 15th

When I awake, slowly, surely, I lean across and gently touch her. I spread my fingers
wide and rest my palm upon her shoulder, imprinting softly my desire. Although she doesn't wake
her flesh gives a little, and I feel her warm weight slowly lean into me, enveloping, yielding,

- ah you were always like this

for me to be happy to surprise my love with a breakfast of toast and jam, as I surprise her every
other day - a movement? No; it's all right, she won't wake. Caress the slumbering form, shoulders

In Time Book Two 417

bare, undulating landscapes over the counterpane. Stomach so slightly, smoothly bloated with my
baby to be. Listen to her soft and gentle breathing. Holding her close in twilight sleep.

- always like this in the morning

Prepare for exposure to the matutinal world. Untangle myself and throw the sheets off
to get up. Don the nearest decent drapery, her dressing gown.

- so you can tempt the others as you tempted me throwing those coins

Simone, you are wrong; I cannot be tempted by the others; I am in love with her, with Nadine.

- she is not the one

Of course she is.

The fucking strap won't do up. She's too small. Place a record on the deck, good old Ravi
Shankar. Let's relive - or is it relieve? - all that old hippy shit. Trot down the stairs, to wonder if
HyperCarol will lend me some milk? No point asking Coralie. God knows where she hides the
bottles. Nice Corellis though.

' # Of the Bells, of the bells? # '

'Hello? In the kitchen.'

- she is the one

Why is HyperCarol pouring washing up liquid into that wine bottle? Before answering

she points to my Noddy clock I'd lent her to wake Friedman in the morning. Still ticking, fortunately,
and head nodding. 'Thanks for that. Though I think the alarm scared him, a bit. Couldn't keep it up
for more than two minutes.' And seeing my questioning look she explains, 'Mixing Fairy Liquid
with the remains of this wine in the bottle.'
'Pray elaborate.'
'Stirfried brought me some grotty wine as an excuse for standing me up. Awful, cheap stuff,
so I thought I'd pretend not to have had any, and leave it outside his room.'

I suggest, 'Give it a good shake.' And she does. 'Ah, look at the bubbles! Carol, you

In Time Book Two 418

surprise me, but I agree, yes, a refreshing concoction.'
'I hope he pukes up on it. Apparently he's got a new girlfriend, called Christine. We know
her, methinks. He likes them big. Well, bigger than me, anyway.'
'I'd wondered why she'd stopped crying.' I peruse her chest. Ample .. armful enough, surely?
Though Christine's didn't leave much legroom. 'Carol, your viciousness shocks me. Can I deliver it
for you?'
She smiles, knowing. 'Yes, if you would.' Quite a strong lass, is our HyperCarol. Notice
those flexing pecks as she screws the cork back into the bottle. Wish I'd had that wrestle with her
after all. Every other man has, or does, it seems. And I like her philosophical bent, but better not
mention any naturalistic fallacy jokes. Perhaps my time with her will come. Naddy seems to insist so.
'Yes Carol, I'll take great pleasure in personally presenting this wine. Stirfried, I'll say,
Friedman I mean, this is for all those harmony lessons you've given us. Carol wants you to throw up -
no I mean Carol wants to thank you for all those delightful evenings you've given it - them! lessons,
to her. '
No amused smile on her lips. Never mind. Now an awkward silence, but soon enough
another problem has crossed her mind, 'Russell, will you have a look at the thermostat sometime?
It was cold last night, after you clambered in. Did you break it?'
'Ah, yes. Sorry about that. Sure, no problem. Right. I will. And return your towel. Green
suits you ..' And she smiles vaguely as I leave, I soon enough to realise I had forgotten to ask
about the milk. Oh well, I'd better console myself with the fact that everybody, including myself,
makes mistakes, blunders, and errors, more often than not. A noise. Sounds like Coralie. I can tell
from the delicate crash of her footsteps. Give her the cool, detached greeting. 'Hello.'
'Hello Russell. Back again? How are you?' She offers me a glass, as I shake my head.
'Would you like some milk - good for the brain. Do you realise we're halfway through our
course? Doesn't time fly by? Are you looking forward to Christmas? Looking forward to your
show. I like rude jokes about the tutors. Don't forget to ask Nadine about the rent, will you, for
the summer when she was away? So she didn't get married then?'
Evidently not. Surprised she's that interested. Disappearing into her room, probably to check

In Time Book Two 419

her pints of milk, in case I was overcome by the need to drink any last night. She seems to keep the
empty bottles though. Under her bed. And I'm faintly disturbed that I know that. Well, she did have
a crying session about her alleged long lost son once. Tried to give a cuddle to cheer her up. She
kept crying, It's not you, not you, idiot, just because you have the same name! which had made
no sense since I hadn't insisted I was. And of course completely unaware I had the same name -
what did that mean, exactly? Unless she's producing, milk that it, with her own udders. Pity she
doesn't conform to the stereotype of the submissive female. But then I always did go for the older
woman. Well any woman really. Thinking that I'm being watched, I look out across the street and
someone is gesticulating from within the shadows of the trees opposite. Oh, Looks Like Simone.
Couple of years below us.

- she is not me her name is ange

Ange? What sort of name is that? But she could have been, Simone.
I'd better hurry down and remove her from sight, knowing how sensitive Naddy is
about my extra-marital relationships. Heavens knows why. I only went out with her once, or
twice. The ten second romance.

- knew you longer than her she is not me

Tread softly down the stairs. Try to displace your weight silently upon alternating feet.

What can she want? I try and be diplomatic and they end up thinking I'm unfaithful. Well, who's
unfaithful? - Naddy did say she was going to marry her good Doctor Robert. And before that
she was off to Poland or somewhere to get married, to some crap poet writer. What nutter would
write a poem about his dog biting his wrist? That's what the translation said? According to Katherine?
As if I (Nadine had suggested) wouldn't have cared (even though she knew perfectly well I had read
his love letter, - in his curiously broken English, - to her) about her visiting there for the summer.
What did she expect me to do? then? remain celibate? As if her summer's absence was a curious
sort of test. Still, even in those few hours with Looks Like Simone, I felt the void of Naddy's absence.
Open the door, her smiling face. 'Hello, Looks Like Simone. How are you?' Her hair is so fine, with
it's reddish tinge and gentle, curving inflections around her face. Very pretty and sweet, but that ...

In Time Book Two 420

vitality I need is missing. Perhaps in a way it's fortunate that the relationship faded before it really
developed: no anger, no quarrelling, just an inevitable drifting apart. Relationship; funny word.

- we did not drift apart straws in the blood

No, not straws. We threw coins, Simone. Just you and I.

But Looks Like Simone just wants some drawn out guitar chords, to impress some bloke
coming downtown from uptown, South to North as it were, who's been giving her a couple of lessons.
To show that she's ahead of the game. Preferable to being on it I suppose. And what other lessons is
he giving her, I wonder. Knew I should have taken my chances. Tap my brian and tell her I'll bring
them over later. Perhaps I should have stayed with her, though, settled for the lesser ... evil? But
I don't need another dose of punishment. Stagger back upstairs to the kitchen. Peruse the contents
of the bread bin. Remove these tattered sheets of music. Looks like my notes on Elgar. Stick them
under the sink, out of harm's way. I'm beginning to suspect there are mice in the house - the music,
and the bread, looks nibbled at. Well, it'll have to be thinner slices then, with large dollops of jam
for my beloved true one.

- she is not the one

Is the window secure after last night? Having climbed in after midnight.
A tug to check. HyperCarol wasn't happy with the police being called, her being, probably, with
some bloke she'd picked up. Surely not Friedman again? Nice boobs though.

- she is the one and it was too cold

Yes, Simone, I noticed.

Ah, and there is Mister Smith, visible in the distance, perambulating his vast bulk across
the college lawn. So much fatter now than when I - we - remembered. Maybe it's a happy marriage.
Already smoking his seventeenth of the morning, and it's only seven thirty. God, how his wife must
suffer. And only eighteen too. Always wondered why Katherine chose that decaying, walking corpse.
Probably thirty eight, looks fifty. But Katherine's still small and .. ethereal, beautiful, with her fine
black pleated hair, sometimes still wearing that sexy bodice. From the time before. Or is it called a
waistcoat? Yes, she was always that picture to me; My Lady of the Lake. Why choose him? Over

In Time Book Two 421

all the 'potentials' in the world? Is that what women want? Any sense of security? With anyone? It's
funny, how I knew them both, from my old school days, and strange, somehow incredible actually,
that they got together; there's no accounting for taste. And that I am here, now, as if following in
their footsteps. I thought Smith had been disgraced and dismissed from our school about something.
Still, I have that pin cushion Kathy made for me. Although I haven't seen it around since I gave it
to Naddy. As a gesture, a proof of my love. No, not seen since she went away to - where was it? -
Poland? I wonder if Katherine still sings. Her voice is not silent for me.
Out of milk? Again? Then I'll have to brave the elements beyond the front door. Tread quietly,
trying not to raise the fickle females. Gosh, Simone, you're right, - it really is icy. I should have put
Nadine's slippers on. If only they would fit. Those web feet of hers .. And the key is there, after all.
Rip the string off and hide under mat. No, put it in the bread bin. Pretend it was all not my fault.
Might get away with it.
Hey, my postcard to Naddy from Wales. And that personally undelivered letter from Keith.
So he finished it then. And I've already been back a week.
I'll take Coralie's milk as well. She gets a little irate over the fact we, I, use her milk
when we've run out; she seems a little overly possessive over her fluid ounces. Don't know why
she needs so much, what with her breast size.

- thirty eight d cup

And how would you know that? You never ... sorry. Anyway, my examination of her
bra suggested otherwise, and not really relevant to the milk problem, is it? I can only manage
two pints, anyway. More would be tempting providence, fate, and my limited juggling skills.
Stagger upstairs. One pint for the fridge, and one for me to hide under the bed. When I make
coffee I think I'll use my favourite mugs. The adored one bought them for me, on my last birthday.
How would I describe them, if so instructed in a necessary jargon for an art class? : Grey and
chunky, giving a sense of stability, yet with their delicate Chinese patterns of coloured writing,
a precious calligraphy, that present a contrast between the molecular matter occupying a finite,
solid, area in space and time ... and the ethereal qualities emanating from the surface pigments
of pastel coloured paint that suggest always the temporal impermanence of matter.

In Time Book Two 422

 - russell you never talked like that

But it's the style that fools the examiners, Simone. I've had to learn it; you were lucky you
didn't.

And those deep blue characters hold somehow, beautiful and colourful meanings. And they

seem to glow for me. Perhaps one day I will learn them.
Toast on the tray and away. I draw the curtain slightly and sit on the end of the bed and
wait for her to wake up, as I know she will soon, as my shadow falls across her, and she will slowly
become aware, of a different lightness and darkness. I watch and admire her: the beauty of a young
woman sleeping is the beauty of the infinite. But in time all beauty will fade, as the spring of fresh
dawns fade to evenings. Well, before noon anyway. A heave of the shoulders. Um, the way she
wakes up, a blink and a yawn, elbows outstretched as she wipes the sleep from her eyes. Slowly
that lovely smile, that firm, happy jaw.
'Toast and jam.' I murmur.
'Toast and jam.' she mimics, grinning.
She props herself up revealing her perfect form.
Try not to scrape her flesh with my ruthless toenails, as I climb back into the bed, 'Its
warmer in here than outside.'
She nods, too busy chewing to speak, temporarily indifferent to my desires. I'll wait.
As always there's no hurry. Sip my coffee. 'Are we going shopping today?' she asks.
'You still want to buy that guitar?'
'Yes. And I need your expect advice, mister. You'll come with me won't you?'
I wait for further enticement.

'You'll come, with me, won't you? ...' That slight rocking of her head, that aura of weak

feminism she creates. '... Wheedle?'

- like her and you love her admit that you love her but she is not the one

Yes, course I love her. And she is the one.

In Time Book Two 423

 - no will tell you again when

'Yes of course I will. That sodding essay can wait for a couple of days. You know, I'm
beginning to suspect that Friedman always downgrades my marks - I'm sure that treatise on
Elgar is pretty good. At least Friedman could think, admit it too. I actually found Eric Sam's
solution to Dorabella's cipher. I own the dark, makes E.E. sigh, When you are too long gont. '
'Gont? That's not a word?'
'No, Elgar played with wo - '
' - You own the dark, after last night. Anyway, Friedman thinks you fancy Carol. After
last night I think you do too.'
After last night? I didn't ask her to give her towel to Vincent. 'Carol? I think I'll
get Carol to give my next essay on - I've already spent a couple of days on it, on Korsakov's
Scheherazade, to Friedman to mark, see what he makes of it. Not quite my best work yet. Still,
since Carol's's female, must be worth a brownie point.'
A ghost of a smile, but not much. Is her sense of humour lacking somewhat? Not glad
I've noticed Carol's female? And after last night? But she explains, 'Not sure there's much point,
Carol's leaving soon, well not soon, next year sometime, to study Chinese, in Australia.'
'Shy knees?' I ask, puzzled. Us Stray Liar? but she has already continued,
'Where do you think we ought to go? You know more about these things than I do. Could
be why I wanted you to come.' Not because she loves me then? But I answer anyway,
'The West End is the best bet, probably Shaftsbury Avenue? Or Tottenham Court Road?
We're going by train?'
'Yes. I couldn't get Robert's car.'
A secretly relieved, 'A pity.'
I watch her start and finish her second slice. She eats as if deliberating and delighting
in each morsel. But once finished do I now detect a sense of urgency? Her yearning at dawning.
'Time to get up.' The draught as she clambers out, to face the world but not me. Slipping into
her knickers whilst hiding that primeval shock of pubic hair. Attempting to hide her breasts as
if strangers are present. Curiously shy behaviour, now, after last night, standing as she was in

In Time Book Two 424

front of the mirror, admiring herself as she brushed her hair. She had stood there, in the matutinal
quiet, dressed in my silk Chinese dressing gown, embroidered with symbols (bought for me by
Nadine on an earlier shopping trip, remembering how I had so admired the mugs we had bought
together), as the curiously wildly red haired policeman dragged me in, seeking proof that I was
not Breaking and Entering.
But 'Vincent', it's me! I had exclaimed, We were on holiday only last week! But he
looked at me blankly, to then instruct, addressed presumably to me as I shivered, with his assumed,
not quite successfully, professional gruffness, Put something on, and Nadine had turned, with a
glare interrupting my, But - excuse for naked drunkenness, as Nadine's flatmate Carol had also
entered the room, wondering as to the disturbance. Carol slipped off her long green towel, loosely
knotted between her breasts to then hand the garment to me, asking, Can you keep the noise down,
I'm with someone, you know. I was grateful; I was cold but not too wet to notice her glorious figure,
cornuted breasts, handlebar hips, the triangular shock of pubic hair, the contrast stark against the
cream of her glabrous skin. The police officer Vincent stepped back, almost as if he had never seen
a naked woman before, which might well have been probably true - and certainly not one like this!, -
but then again perhaps his tastes were different. But it was evident, then, that the girls knew me,
and he hurriedly left, not even cautioning me.
'And by the way, young man, you were in late last night, weren't you? I don't really want
Carol taking her clothes off in front of you.'
Nod, diffidently.
'Well,' she continues, insistent, 'what time did you get back?'
'About two. Since you've mentioned it, you said you'd leave the key on the string?'
'Yes, of course. Would I forget?'
'Uh, that's what I couldn't make out. It's just that I had to climb through the upstairs kitchen
window.'
That expression of total incredulity. It is rather good. 'The window? The kitchen window?'
That's what I said sweetheart. That's why the police were here. (Although I could never
rightfully imagine Vincent as a policeman.)

In Time Book Two 425

 'But darling? ... we're on the first floor! I knew you were you drunk. Ha! Thank goodness
nobody from over there saw you!'
No, nobody saw me, but somebody did (and I always suspected Smith for I'm sure he
had recognised me from that time before), to call the police. But no report filed, no paper to record
that incident. Lost now, to yesterday's memories. There was instantly an idea for a review, insistently,
relentlessly murmured to me last night by Simone as I stared distracted by Carol's

- she is the one

No.

nakedness:

- ello, hello, hello what s all this then i ave reason to believe that you are acting suspiciously
sir would you kindly accompany me to the station
But officer, sir, I always climb in through the kitchen window at night, it exercises my
Adductus Longus.

- now don t get sarky with me young man come along quietly now or else oil be forced to tear

yer balls off

Perhaps I'll use it instead of the comedy sketch parody of fat Smith's chain smoking
drunkenness, although I was faintly disturbed by Simone's tone - it didn't sound like the girl I
knew. Yes, well, we are all to become strangers all too soon enough. As it seems Nadine is sure to
become. But that time is later, surely? But in this time I like watching her dress - that mock-genteel,
almost ... Victorian way she draws her garments over her. The darkness of depravity followed by
the dawn of decency. That thin cotton garment of civilisation. I smile especially at the way she dons
those long yellow socks with individually sown toes. She had to unstitch them because of her web
feet. And, as many times before, I cannot resist saying, 'What's up duck?'
'Up to a hundred pounds?' She answers, smiling. A good price, for a lifetime of guitar playing.
'Kiss me mister.'
'Always happy to oblige.'

In Time Book Two 426

 The pucker of her lips, innocent and sweet, the affectation a child. The shallow closing of
her eyelids, expectant.
Um, her embrace. Perhaps I can reverse the, her process of dressing? Hold her tightly as
I turn towards the bed. She buries her head in my shoulders. Bend down and bring my arms up
under her knees. Effortlessly lift her. Gently lay her on the blanket. Slowly undo the buttons,
revealing the flesh, the red blotch of a nipple. Touch gently her skin, to stroke the infini-
'Russell ...'
Just a gentle knee in the crutch to attract your attention
' ... shall we make a move?'
'Into the big sin city?' Look doleful, 'You still want to go shopping?'

She resolutely rises to her feet, 'Oh yes. I must buy that guitar.' She buttons up her blouse.

'And this time I'll finish dressing .. mister, if you don't mind.'
I mind. She pushes me away disdainfully and sniffs.
I ought to go across to my room and get a clean shirt, having lived in this one for three days.
I don't pretend she's too polite and middle-class to complain. But I don't think I will - I'll wait
until this evening. Have you hidden my other boot, Simone? In Carol's room?
'You all right?' She asks, seemingly genuinely concerned.
'I'm fine.' But I wait, to add, as if still in doubt, 'The key was there all the time?'
'Of course. I wouldn't forget.' She leans forward to offer me her cheek. Worth a lie for
another kiss. 'You still don't believe me do you. Don't worry, I'll show you on the way down.'
She pats her clothes down. 'Are we ready now?'
Nod, in reluctant agreement. As ready as we ever are going to be. Mumble darkly - at
least make her feel guilty. But she shrugs, 'It's hardly my fault now, is it?'
Tramp, tramp, tramp tramp, tramp, tramp. Tramp down the stairs. These footstep
sounds, their thin rhythmic sounds to remain with me forever.
Naddy looks; the string is missing. Her mask of puzzlement spreads across her face,
almost as if cobwebs are being slowly drawn across her cheeks. And now, outside into the cold
November air. See my clouds of breath, the expelled air condensing into the opaque white vapour,

In Time Book Two 427

as I draw a bass clef into the wind. Play Misty for Me. She looks up. 'That you climbed up there!
To stay with me! In a perverse (Perverse? God, the woman's sick - she doesn't know what perversity
is - Smith does, as does Katherine now, it seems, what with that telescope and camera) sort of way
I'm sort of flattered. Too bad about the policeman and then Carol came in, eh?' Then, again
disapproving, 'I'm still not convinced you don't fancy her.'
'Not a chance. Unless you leave me.'
' Tsch. Oh really? You seem to jangle that coin of yours about a lot. And you seemed to
know that policeman ...?' But her thoughts have already drifted, to hum tunelessly, # de dah de dah
de dah de dah de dah de dah De Dah #
Sounds cheerful. Must be weight of all that money. Doubtless I'll volunteer to enlighten her
a little. In all senses of the word. We might play together, when she has bought her instrument.
Harmony for two voices. English folk songs, perhaps? ' # Oh the oak, and the ash, and the holly
ivy tree - # '
'Oh no! Please don't remind me Russell. It was so awful, I was so embarrassed, standing
there having forgotten the words.'
And there is no point in murmuring, You should have held the book in your hands all the
time. As I had then advised her to do. But as if she'd heard my thoughts, she answers, 'I thought
I knew it.'
But evidently you didn't. 'It must have been your nerves.'
She takes my arm. Only now, in the cold, she wants to murmur sweet nothings in my ear.
'You know, I only enjoy the lectures when you're there, now.'
'That's a very kind thing to say.'
And it's true; she says the loveliest things. And that's why I love her. Surely that warrants
a kiss? even if not to copulate not in public but in pubic. And now she asks, instructs, 'Kiss me.'
'But didn't The Times call for vast economy measures?'
'Yes? When, Russell?'
'Today. There's talk or rationing kisses. Something to do with the oil shortage, I believe.'
'Yes?'

In Time Book Two 428

 'Yes. The editorial asks for a voluntary restraint. On the part of lovers. I thought I'd comply.'
'I'm not sure what you're getting at, mister.'
'Well, I've given you four kisses today.'
'You're counting them?' she asks incredulously, for surely true love cannot be measured?
'Oh yes. Because, apparently, our ration is to be only a meagre twenty thousand a day. I have
to be careful, if I'm to do my bit for the country. Anyway, my calculations show you're down to
your last nineteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety .. five?'
Well, she smiles anyway. And it passes the time in the time taken to walk to the station.
She muses, 'And it's not just your arithmetic that's suspect.'
Yes, the timing was wrong; that's the thing in comedy, timing; the pregnant pause, the
poised phrase, the pattern -
'I'll buy the tickets Russell.'
Fair enough, if you want my expect advice.
'Oh look Russell! They're advertising me!'
Slightly monumental delusions of grandeur, methinks, as I look up to the poster, to answer,
'And the other hundred at the same time.'
'Well, it's a way of keeping down costs.'
'Is this the next appearance of the choir?'
'No, we're doing Gerontius before this. You're coming to see me, of course? After all your
hard work on Elgar?'
'Yes, I enjoy the rehearsals. I love the # Ah-ah-ah-ah-men bit # '
'Yes, some of the harmonies are lovely aren't they.'
'So Richard isn't taking you?'
'No.'
An answer too final for my liking. And that downcast expression to the ground? She's
hiding something. Asked and was refused? You'll have to do something about Doctor Robert
Thomas, boy. A ritual execution perhaps? Adorn yourself with the black cap; Doctor Robert
Thomas, I hereby sentence you to death by .. - would you like to suggest anything Naddy? before

In Time Book Two 429

or after the marriage? Drowning? Electrocution? No? Something slower? more painful? Right. How
about vivisection? Perhaps under local anaesthetic? - first the toes, then the foot. Work upwards, to a
noose? Um, on second thoughts leave out the anaesthetic. Have him clamped instead to an iron frame.
'What're you thinking?' She asks, squeezing my arm, 'Looks like you've gone again.'
She then gently taps my head, always the seven; tap tap tap tap tap tap. Tap. 'God knows what
goes on in that brian of yours.'
Asking always coyly, with that winning smile. Crafty that. Answer her, see how she reacts
to the truth, the revelations of your sick mind. 'I was thinking about how to kill the good doctor
Robert, without being found out of course. Since he's not going to jump from a cliff top. Boil him
in acid perhaps?' Ah, I've blown it, as expected; she's letting go of your arm. Now isn't that a shame?
Angry? Or just unhappy? I should have understood, realised, that she doesn't know what to do. I
should apologise, you cad. 'I'm sorry Nadine.' Look reproachful, she'll know you're sincere.
Eventually. Hold the train door open for her, as a gesture of your goodwill. Ah, she's ignoring
you, isn't that sweet? No smiling thank you from her lips? 'Please forgive me. I was only joking,
trying to make you laugh.' She's looking at me thoughtfully. You're getting through Russ baby.
'It wasn't very funny.'
'Yes, I know it wasn't.'
'But you said it.'
'Yes. but I'm sorry, very sorry, Nadine.'
Careful, boy, you almost slipped up there. You may jeopardise again your chances. And you
do love her. Don't you?
She's forgiven me, she's to again hold my hand. 'Russell?'
And there is a sadness, in wondering if I can fondle her in the seven or so minutes between
now and the next station, as I listen to the rhythm of the tracks, the monotony that calibrate these
final days; clickerty clack clickerty clack clickerty clack clickerty clack clickerty clack
clickerty clack. Clickerty clack. That nice backing track.
' - Russell? What station do we change at?'
'Seven Sisters, which is the next station, or we could go all the way to the end of the line

In Time Book Two 430

to Liverpool Street and then take the tube. The next stop would probably be the quicker way.'
'How ... eruditely you put it, Russell.' To then add, affecting politeness, 'The way you seem
to always weigh up all options.' She smiles, 'Even your voice changes.' She again taps my skull,
always the same total. 'Weird. '
'Hard wired.' I correct. And Eruditely? Options? and she's taking a fucking music
degree? A reassuring smile, and a squeeze from her hand. Such long fingers, curiously slightly
webbed. Perhaps a mutation of sorts. I learnt that word yesterday, along with Zombies. So smooth.
Lovely. The skin on her face the same; pale, creamy. The shape, well defined. Not ... pretty, but
who wants prettiness? when that so easily fades,

- was pretty once my hair was red you said

but strong; well cut. One can understand why

that crappy Johnny Foreigner writer proposed to her. Fancy waking up to find this warm nurse over
you. Enough to give one a rupture, or is it an erupture? Eruption?

- you lived didn t

Yes. I'm sorry Simone. But it wasn't my fault. I warned you, told you not to play with
those bombs.

- you dared me you let me win those throws

No, I don't remember, but I wouldn't have dared you.

Yes, I awoke in hospital, days later apparently, with warm nurses around me, to admire
me - I even remember that warm nurse who came and kissed me for being so young, and such a
brave boy. She seemed to tower above me. Had her name been Nadine too? I wonder if she's still
nursing? I can't remember ever seeing her again, even though I constantly returned, to have my face
reconstructed. But sometimes, occasionally, I would bump into a familiar patient. That old, aged
man (well he seemed aged then, as I was so young), who always seemed to be in different depart-
ments every time I returned. He used to stagger down corridors, with his black, burned, scorched
remaining toes peeping out from foot wrapped bandages, like the tired eyes of three blind mice (for
two had already been amputated), wanly smiling as he recognised me. Ben! Ben! I would call out,

In Time Book Two 431

not even having to chase him down the hospital stairs, for him to turn, in mock annoyance, Russell -
run round the hall again! and I to obey - as far as I myself was able - his instructions, for knowing
when finished he would give me a small present of a box of chalks, or crayons, to keep me amused.
My daughter's your age, he said once, I'll bring her in one day for you two to play together. You'd
like her. I'll marry her when I grow up. If you like! For him to laugh, I'd like! What's her name?
I asked. Carol. Ben had replied. I'll sing her a carol then! I'd like that.
The doctors deliberated for weeks on end, before slicing another toe off. Then another. Then
the other. Apparently he'd burnt his foot kicking down a door in a futile attempt to save an old pianist.
Shame I can't run or row any more. he'd said to me. But you will, I think. When you recover. And
I know you will.
Recover? When later that same day I lay shivering. Shaking. Freezing with the cold, while
the bloated sun blazed orange through the window, as my skin shook. But at least they saved my
life. That's what they tell me. Naddy doesn't know what terror is. Not many people do. And now
she says, touching me gently as if reading my mind, 'You're a saint. If only Richard were like you.'
And they all said, What a brave young man. with all the innocent unawareness adults'
possess of the child's mind, as if a child can be aware of abnormal times, unaware that this might
not be what every child goes through. And my father; I remember my father slowly crumbling
towards the floor, a curious deflating motion, as if a punctured tyre or a ruptured rubber balloon,
which he strangely smelt of, before he disappeared. He knelt before me and wept, clenching his
fist, beginning to ineffectually punch the floor. I supposed my survival looked hopeless. I felt the
cold then too. Fear up my spine. Incomprehension. As I looked out the window. Just orange. Just
the stuff of the sun, that's all I remember. Perhaps he felt guilty, for letting me go on that school
holiday. But it was not his fault. Yes, I thought I was to die then. And he was to become invisible
too soon enough anyway, from that sickness of the secret war work. And I to be put into the care
of a old, mad piano playing spinster. And a part time duty nurse as well, from what I'd been told.
It was a shame she was to die in that fire. And had my real mother's name really been Corona?
Ah yes, that word, death. 'Aye, but to die and go we know not where.'
'Shakespeare? Which one ?'

In Time Book Two 432

 'Measure for Measure. A man whose blood is very snow broth.'
'Ha, not you!'
Heavens woman, don't I manage to keep myself under control for twenty three hours of
the day? What do you expect? Total celibacy? 'I am one who never feels the wanton strings and
motions of the sense, but does rebate and blunt his natural edge, with profits of the mind, study
and fast.'
'Very good, but again not you.'
'The witches for Macbeth are needed in the next carriage.'
'You're quite good, you know - you'd make some actor. Did you have to learn it for perform-
ance or examination?'
'A level.'
'Did you pass?'
As if entering the race is not enough, but to finish. 'No.'
She sounds surprised. 'Why not?'
'I couldn't resist trying to seduce Isabelline. Having failed with her I've spent the rest
of my life in the shadow of failure of getting into women's pants.'
'Isabelline? Don't know that name. Anyway, don't be cynical - you didn't fail with me.'
And I wanted to rejoin, Ah, but you're going to marry .. but instead, slowly, 'Sorry.'
'But I see you've performed it?'
'A local performance. It got good reviews, unlike the show I'm going to perform later this year.'
'Ah yes. You need to drop that Smith jibe. Just because you knew him before, and his wife? -
doesn't give you the right to insult him. What is that? - that thing about telescopes? What're you
grinning about?'
'Oh, just fantasizing. The usual Russellian sense of humour.'
'I'm not sure you have one, Mr. Stuart, if you don't tell me what you're thinking. Whenever
I ask you, which is quite often, you never tell me. How do I know you're not thinking ..' and does
she lower her voice there? '.. improper thoughts?'
'Incongruous thoughts, more .. probably.'

In Time Book Two 433

 'Well, I wish you'd tell me, so that I could share the joke.'
'There's a risk you might not find them funny.'
'A risk? Are you joking? Are you afraid to share yourself with me?'
Afraid? Is that the word to use? 'Perhaps not afraid. Perhaps I would be embarrassed
some times.'
Yeah, I'd better be careful Russell, no good trying to pretend she'd find your thoughts
funny - more an unhealthy quirk to be eradicated. To make you a normal man. - Oh, yes, my
boyfriend's quite all right now, he's down to climbing up the drainpipes only once a day. Well,
night, actually. Hm, she's standing. Must be time to change. But we're on the underground,
and at Tottenham Court Road. Already? 'I don't remember changing?'
'No? Well we did. Just like you said, at Seven Sisters. Lost in your little mind again?
Only the Lord knows what goes on in your brian. I keep telling you about your humming.'
So, the sleeping awaken.
And soon enough, my eyes and mind refocused, I point at a guitar. 'This is a good one.
I used to have the same make myself. A good action, and a full tone. It's a Hummingbird copy.'
To my bemusement, she looks doubtful.
'I don't think I'll be happy with that one Russell. Let's look around a bit more shall we?'
No, I am to try it. Quickly tune up. Ever the professional. Impress these cretins with a quick
Sor study. Oh yes, see how their heads turn, as they stagger away in awe. I wonder what they are
thinking? That this man can play? And after this cadence I'll quickly leap into Villa-Lobos. Perhaps
the Prelude number two? or dare I suggest the Choros?
In the near distance I can see Naddy's flattered, not by my playing (which she hears every-
day, to the point of boredom, - where others admire excellence, for prophets are not without honour ..
as saints are not without shame), but is wallowing in a man's ogling. It must be very reassuring to
be desired all the time, except when you attract the nutters that follow you around everywhere.
Which presumably includes me. A voice says, 'I wish I could play like that.'
No good wishing son, - practice.
'Yes.' Announce with that definite, defiant air of finality, that I can play, and this guitar

In Time Book Two 434

is quite good. Hand the guitar back to - with a start I recognise him; Mike from school days.
'Wow!' he exclaims, 'Been a long time!'
I smile. Yes, a long time. 'So you're still playing then?' I ask.
'Well, trying to.' he answers almost as if tentatively. He gestures around the shop, 'All
these guitars and no one to play with.'
Nadine smiles. 'I don't believe you can be lonely.'
'Oh, too noisy to play here.' he answers. He turns back to me, 'I remember those catchy
tunes you used to write with Keith. Do you still see him?'
'Not for a while. I'm in the middle of a course. And of course,' as I look at Nadine fondly,
to gesture to the one I love, 'Nadine distracts me. Having to run errands.'
'And his errand today is to buy my guitar.' she agrees, smiling. 'And to hold my hand.
And to kiss me.'
'I wouldn't have thought that would be too much of a problem.' Mike says, before himself
gesturing across his small kingdom, 'Have a look around.'
'Yes. I think I will.'
Soon enough I am distracted, for there is a variety of guitars; I select a classical Ramirez
and play another example from my classical repertoire; Sor's arrangement of Mozart should impress
them. This time mild applause as I finish, and I hear Mike saying again he wished he could play
like that, before asking for Nadine's telephone number. I interrupt, 'No, but I will give you my number.'
Strangely enough he is not irritated at my abrupt quashing of his attempted seduction. 'Yes?
That'll be great, meet up with the other guys. What was the name of that other one, you know,' he
snaps his fingers (and I count to seven snaps), trying to remember, 'who always fell over when drunk?
Carried a cat around with him, in his cab. ... Gary?'
'Graham.' I correct.
'He lived with a cat? In a cab?' asks Nadine, as I see this curious juxtaposition forming an
image in her head.
'Yeah,' Mike continues, 'he was a laugh. Good singer though. Haven't seen him in a while,
though I met up - am playing with Ben Stalker again, funnily enough.'

In Time Book Two 435

 - ben there john dunne that

Ben? He had a first name? And Mike, seeing my puzzlement was continuing, 'You'd never
believe it, that guy could - can play bass.'
With an inexplicable distaste I in my mouth I ask, 'The PE teacher?'
'Geologist actually, though I don't think he ever taught it. At our school anyway. Said his
daughter is studying philosophy somewhere but is changing to Chinese.'
'Changing her nationality?' I ask, puzzled, as Naddy pulls me away, looking strangely at
Mike, and as if time was now of the essence, that the guitar must be bought before nightfall,
before the darkness engulfs me. I point again to the cherry red Hummingbird. 'No.' she dismisses
again. 'No?' I repeat, and as she realises I want to continue this chance conversation with an old
school friend, she wanders off to browse for herself, and I to wear that apologetic look coupled
with the knowing wink that pertains to the fickleness of Womankind. Mike understands, as he nods.
'Give me your number.' I ask. 'I'll give you a call after college.'
'Yes? That'll be great. You're studying ... music? Still? That's right?'
'And philosophy.'
He laughs. 'I remember those sessions, down the pub, staring into our beer glasses!
Deliberating on the meaning of the universe!'
I reply, 'I still think it can be found in the bottom of a glass.'
'You could be right.'
I ask, 'You going out with anyone?'
And perhaps I imagine his hesitation. 'Yeah, yeah, I sort of meet people here.'
'Not Nadine - she's taboo mate.'
Mike shakes his head, 'Course not mate. Didn't know she was with you. No, I met
someone recently, studying music North London somewhere - 'bout time I met an angel.
Someone's who's studying music is nice. Show her the ropes, as it were. She's a nice redhead .. '
'The best.' I agree.

- she is not me

In Time Book Two 436

 He didn't say she was, Simone.
'Might also throw in a couple of free guitar lessons, if you know what I mean.'
I know what he means; women, suckers for musos. Might introduce him to Looks Like
Simone, if it doesn't work out. She looked hot this morning.

- not me

Heavens, she's leaving already. Always the hurry to nowhere. Amble after her.
Mike calls out, 'Call me, 'I'd look forward to it.'
I nod. 'I will.' To Naddy I ask, as she steps into the sun, 'Hey, what's the hurry?'
'The colour, it was awful!'
'What?'
'The gaudy red colour, it was awful. Love, you've no taste!'
And I want to shout, You're buying a guitar, not a fucking El Greco! but instead to clutch
my head in mock desperation, to murmur, 'Agh .. ! Crucify me! Crucify me!' to let the knees buckle
from under me, to fall, as my disappearing father fell in that decade before, to crumple slowly to
concrete, humming softly the undefined Gilbert and Sullivan melody Vincent was faintly humming
last night, as if in desperation, before, uttering the obvious truth, 'Good action, nice tone cheap price,
but what do I get?! All I get is .. it's an awful colour love.'
Oh dear, you've hurt her feelings, or her ears, as she's walking away. I expect she doesn't
want to associated with a sad case of ... better get up off the ground, before I'm charged with lying
with intent. Time to assert myself I think, after all I could get, expect a discount from Mike. I almost
instruct, 'Let's go back, try another one.'
And she reluctantly follows, as Mike greets, with his bland experience, 'How nice to see
you again, and so soon?'
And Naddy to now point, 'Will you try out that one Russell?'
'Yes, that too is a good one. And you like the colour?'
'Be careful ..' Then a pause, before that knowing smile.
Mike in the distance, as I mouth, rubbing my fingers together, Professional discount?
for him to smile in agreement. He can join my band. If we ever reform. Leave Naddy to sort

In Time Book Two 437

out the financial arrangements.
A case included free in the price of the guitar? 'And I want a set of strings.' I ask, and
Mike agrees to this demand too. My, this guy really fancies her. Shall I make him aware of my
physical being? My supremacy over mere mortals? No, not today. Is it Thursday? Not Tuesday?
Not Belgium? Yes? Then it's my day off. I think. I deserve a rest anyway. Beside it's past twelve,
and I'm trying to get down to a three hour day. She's saying her Thank You's. Then adds, 'Yes
Mike, that would be nice.' Already on close first name terms, after that cursory introduction. He's
also giving her a plectrum. Perhaps that's the technique he's trying on his Fine Red Haired Angel.

- not me

He's explaining he'd made it himself. Or just too mean to just buy one? 'Mike's really a musician
too.' Nadine explains. I nod, but knowing we are all shop assistants really, just selling our wares.
Yes, there is jealousy as I touch her elbow, gently prompting. And now she's looking into my eyes
as I beckon her out. Embarrass that geezer, at least, for chatting up my woman. Get the timing
right, as I pass into the street. Use the strong, clear voice: authoritative. Point your finger, 'And if
you ever talk like that to my girlfriend again, I'll - ' and through the door. Perfect timing. Perfect.
Terrific. And now she's pretending to ignore me, as other customers stare out through the window
with amazed faces. Show them you mean business, shake your fist, silently mouth grotesque
obscenities. Mike smiling with thumbs up, knowing me, and that we could, might, in time, meet
up again.
'You seem to have taken to embarrassing me in shops recently.'
'Mike and I go back a long way.' And I look back, as if he were still in view, working in
a shop called Musical Exchange in Tottenham Court Road. 'I forgot to ask where he's living now.'
'Oh, he told me that.' she adds, dismissing my ignorance. 'Your home tuft of Chifwick. Just
round the corner from that pub you took me to. Where I met your other friend.' Other friend? And
for a moment I ponder, who? As she looks at me, 'That Keith you just mentioned. Ring any bells?'
And I want to respond, Carol of the Bells? but instead, 'Ah yes. D chord man. Perhaps
he's moved on to G, and A7th.'

In Time Book Two 438

 'Funny thing is, said he's playing with a PE teacher called Ben. Carol's father is called Ben.
Isn't that our Carol?'

- she is the one

No, she isn't.

'Our Carol? Don't think I've ever met her father.'
'No? She said she met you, years ago, on a T - L - D?'
'A TLD? Toddler's Last Dance? Technician's Lost Device? Tadpole's Lake Dive? Carol's
Taxi's Last Drive?''

- she is the one

'Enough!' She taps my brian with irritated disdain, 'Not everyone is as bright as you, Russell.'
'I'm not bright, it's all just a craft, which has to be learnt.' As if life, with the minion millions
never pondering over any meaning, is a craft to be learnt, as I had myself 'debated' (for you cannot
'debate' with people who hold power over you) with my philosophy 'tutor' Brolly whether it was
wiser to be a happy pig, - for the pig would not have consciousness (then how would it know it
was happy? I had wanted to ask), or an unhappy man (for humans might possess consciousness),
for me to decide, silently, that it might be better to be an unhappy man, since as a pig you might,
obviously and probably, get eaten. And with the possibility that I 'my'self possessed consciousness,
I sh/w/ould object. And I to then ask, was it worth existing a whole lifetime as a slave or one day
as a freed man? - for Brolly to look at me strangely. I had further wanted to discuss the ethics of
eating your loved ones, instead of your enemies, in the event of surviving a plane crash on a mountain
top, but that hour, for once, had passed quickly and I was dismissed, as a paying psychiatric patient
might be dismissed upon the witching hour, although an important psychological insight, a break-
through might be obtained in the next minute, and I, to obtain a salty grain of wisdom. Such is the
corruption of clocks. I suddenly say, as if Simone was speaking for me, 'I'm working class, not fit
for finking.'
'Oh for goodness sake don't bring that up again! You're as good as the next man, as well
you know, as well as I keep telling you. You must stop wearing your supposed deprived upbringing

In Time Book Two 439

like a badge, proclaiming your excuse for being alive. That fucking bomb didn't kill you!' Where
has all this suddenly come from? But the rant continues, 'I can't help but get annoyed when you're
like this, always referring to class. It's become an obsession. Are you neurotic or something?
There's really nothing wrong with your face. I really dislike you when you're like this - go away,
leave me alone! I'm going home!' God, she's getting hysterical, and I call out to the quickly retreating
figure, 'Don't go. Don't rush off, let's stay here. I'm sorry.'
There is a pause, and it is as if she now moves in slow motion, for me to see her calculating
her recently used word options, 'All right, then. Will you take this case? It's heavy, and,' as if a
further excuse is needed, 'you haven't offered.'
A small price to pay. For the quiet life. 'Of course.'
Together again, thank goodness - not the first time she's tried to split us up in the middle
of the street, or instigated a row in the open. Still, no one seems to have noticed the confrontation;
perhaps conflict is regarded as normal. In this teeming naked city of millions there must be thousands
of arguments raging all the time. Verbal thunder storms everywhere, darkening skies. Yes, looks like
rain. She's affects a reluctant relenting ... and you stay together. For a few days more. Job done, though
you carry the can. Well, case. Rocking her head as she dances along, the triumphant Amazon child.
Yes, triumphant in her joy. 'A drink?' Red wine?' I suggest, hoping that small dose of alcohol will
ameliorate our tension, resulting again in our holy communion and she smiles in agreement. Yes,
I am the sun, and the moon and the stars, according to the Gods John, Paul, George and Ringo.
Perhaps in time I will look back and there will be joy in my reflections of having known her,
knowing that this journey together will end soon enough - not now today, but too soon enough.
Perhaps she will remember me in future times, but with alacrity? or animosity? With fondness,
of the two us playing then that little absurd, obscene ditty I wrote (mistakenly thought by Mister
Smith to be about his telescope trained on his naked infeasibly young wife Katherine), myself
playing the elementary top part on Christine's gift of a clarinet, herself on piano? Secretly
desiring her, but I then never forward, as if knowing instinctively of a right time. I had hoped
we would grow together, that there would be a kind of permanence. How you love to be
persecuted. Harassed. Hunted. Oppressed. Wear that martyrdom like a badge! she had shouted,

In Time Book Two 440

but I always knowing that after the passion of our young time she would return to the Good
Doctor Robert Thomas's arms, safe to the comforting bosom of his warm wallet.
I really ought to write some of my thoughts down - that was quite good; safe to the
comforting bosom of his warm wallet. For what's love got to do with it? When you need walls
to keep the rain away, and a mattress to sooth your damp spine?
I'm sure I could use that Smith ditty in the review. Even include some of the recent incidents
at the college, perhaps? But doubtless there would be an element of coercion from the lecturers,
in order to restrain my artistic temperament.
'Have you ten pence for the chocolate machine?' she asks, suddenly. I notice that Naddy
doesn't refuse this rubbish, even though she's supposed to be a stickler for healthy food.
Smacking her lips with rapturous anticipation, and she'll doubtless eat a full dinner later with
similar enjoyment. Shall I cook the chicken in wine? It seems to add something to the flavour,
although I prefer marination in Guinness, - and even though I'm sure the eating of meat is unchristian
in principle. In my own philosophy. They all do it though, don't they? I've also noticed how they
wear fox skins in church (although fortunately Naddy doesn't). Makes me want to to puke, with
their hypocrisy. But is Nadine any different with her beliefs? - I don't know, though I'm sure she
would crucify me quickly enough if I were to criticize her religion. Not that I'm interested enough
to. It's all sacred, but how many Hindu's would the Christians kill if they had the cause, or the
opportunity to do so? Or just given half the chance? To cast(e) their vote? We divide the One into
Two, Two to Four, To Eight, but we dance to the Seven veils and there are Seven pillars of
wisdom. Just numbers. Surely all things are of the same manifestation? Of our awareness?
And yet these people, all people, divide themselves forever into castes, sects, groups, colonies,
to close their minds to freedom of thought, containing themselves, instead, within rituals, prayers
mechanically repeated, without substance, meaning or feeling, as if there is a power in being
afraid, and in abdicating responsibility.
And I, being beautiful, manifestly not even Buddha, suppose my animal magnetism
must have broken down her usual conventional barriers, which at least shows that progress can
be made. Despite stiff opposition. From her parents. It's a pity she's so reticent about the nature

In Time Book Two 441

of our relationship to them, that it is right sometimes that the nature of passion can overcome
(her) supposed reason (for she had once earlier claimed she was 'rational,' and unfortunately I
demeaned myself by laughing out loud), but then one must not break the moral code imposed by
one's parents - and they did seem such nice people, exuding, as they did, unconcealed vibrations
of hatred towards me when we eventually, after a massive resistance on my part, met, that in some
way I represented the d/evil. Her father introduced himself with, 'Let me tell you about Nadine's
other nineteen boyfriends.' Maybe, but I was the first to have her, the first man to have given her
that something intangible (or perhaps not so intangible) that all the other nineteen couldn't give her.
Perhaps I had appeared to be just a friend of Naddy's then.
- she is not the one
I know Simone, that she is to leave me, but I still love her. Yes, then. Little did he know.
And yet, Doctor Robert Thomas hasn't retired gracefully, as any self-respecting gentleman would
contemplate - he comes snivelling back, this crawling, slimy character, begging forgiveness, and
still she sees him! She says she doesn't want to hurt his feelings. After all, she informs me, they
were friends for three years before, and that counts. Apparently, he's been asking her to marry
him ever since .. - A possibility there: Darling, I've been meaning to ask you .. How many
sugars do you take, Robert Thomas, dear? Nadine, there's something on my mind .. Fancy
a biscuit with that? I want you to be happy, you know that. A slice of cake then, something
to remember me by? Darling, I want you to be my wife! Please marry me? (The dramatic silent
pause here) Marry me? For Nadine to answer in a husky deep voice, - but where is the punchline?
to deliver the hoots of derision from the onlooking audience, the sheer disbelief, et cetera, et cetera?

- she is not the one

You've already said that, but yeah, I know what you mean, Simone. But still, there's a sketch
in there somewhere, not bad for a beginning. I'll have to elaborate on it a little. Ah, the juices are
flowing, another one: a fat, chain smoking man is sitting, telescope on one side, clarinet on the other,
sobbing desperately, as fellow lecturer Friedman approaches, rests his arm upon weeping man's
shoulder, comfortingly. Oh Mister Smith, don't cry, tell me what's wrong. Tell me why you're in
a state of hopeless, desolate sorrow. (Well the bloke was a bit of a romantic, liking the music of, -

In Time Book Two 442

and having studied under, Rubbra). Boo, hoo, hoo. My beautiful Katherine got married. Oh
Mister Smith, what a shame, but don't worry; there are plenty more fish in the sea, (quietly, aside
to audience, pointing to nicotine stained fingers), even though you're not a very good angler.
Not no, you don't understand; this afternoon, my Katherine got married .. - but how can the
punchline really be - .. to me!? No, too naff. ad infinitum ad infinitum ad infinitum ad infinitum
ad infinitum ad infinitum. Ad infinitum. I'll try and fit them both into the review plot. They could be
quite effective, visually, though a bit .. unfocused? in text. Bit like real life. Or is it real text? Perhaps
I'll terminate the first sketch with a suicide, as any self - respecting spurned lover, such as Jeremiah
Clarke would contemplate. Well in his case, sucessfully execute.Would I have such luck with Robert
Thomas? Or will it be me?

Noon, the sunlit clock says.

We sit, drinking coffee. She wants to speak, but seems reticent to do so. I instigate,
'That auction room is around here, isn't it, the one I bought your piano from. Philips?'
'No,' she corrects, 'it's Phillips, - two L's.'
And I wondering how she can hear the difference, as she continues, 'And Philippines has
one L, and two P's.'
'Yes? One day I will play there, and write your name in lights.' Yes, perhaps her spelling was
always so much better than mine .. but what will she do with those letters?
She smiles, 'I expect nothing less. And you will need to spell properly, when you write the
words to your songs.'
'Lyrics.' I correct. 'Do you remember when we read the lyrics of # Summe is a cumin in #
in the British Museum?'
'No.. British .. Library, I think.'
?? Same same, and not different surely?
We lapse into silence again. Perhaps it was the excitement of the morning, in spending all
that money. But, then, as if knowing that soon enough I will eventually ask, Future? she pre-empts
me, with, 'What will you do, Russell, when ...?'

In Time Book Two 443

 Ah, when. That favourite word. And not even the additional amendment or if. Then,
she means. Or Soon.
'I don't know.' I reply. 'Although I saw an ad last week in Chom- a chum's science magazine.
A physics lab job.'
'Research? You don't want to be teaching, you know. It's just not you, is it.'
Delivered as a statement.
'You're a musician, you know that. And you can play a bit. Why don't you team up with
that girl you use to play with.'
'Girl?' I feign.
'Yes, the one on the tape. You played it to me a while back. You know, # Oceans Waves #
and what was the other one?'
' # See The Burning Lights # '

- she is not the one

'That's the one. Nice voice. Better than me.'

'Are you trying to get rid of me?'
'No ..' Her shoulder is at an angle, hand pressed down into her thigh, thumb and forefinger
as if pinching herself, that the pain must cause her to speak, her other hand holding her cup. She
looks uncomfortable. 'Well...'
'Those songs were by Katherine, Smith's wife, in the days before, when I knew her.'
She looks puzzled, mouthing, Smith's wife? as if in all the permutations of a life this
could not possibly happen.
'Funnily enough, it's her birthday today. November the fifteenth.'
Her mouth opens and closes again, the remora gawping as she circles the shark. But I
continue quickly enough, 'No, I think I'll become a novelist, writing about us.'
She clicks her tongue, 'No, seriously!' But then, her native curiosity aroused, 'What will
you call it?'
'Um,' I ponder momentarily, 'How about In Time?'
'In Time? About music then?'

In Time Book Two 444

 I smile, 'Just made the title up. Could be about our Common Time together though.'
We sit in silence, but I succumb soon enough, 'No future then?'
And after a pause, as she puckers her lips, the saliva glistening, she answers, finally
admitting, as the bubbles of words foam, inevitably forming, 'No, I don't think so. You see, I love
you Russell, and you're very clever, and have a, er, very ..' - and does she smile here wryly, coyly?
' - er, a strong physical presence in my life, but there are other things to consider as well.'
'I suppose you mean his money?'
'No, don't say it like that, It's - '
'Oh come, come,' I mock, 'you can hardly expect his wealth not to have an influence in
your decision.'
'Russell, it's not important. Can't you see that!? It's always you who considers the money
aspect all the time.'
To suggest it's my fault. How cunning. We never used to bicker like this, but the absurdity
of denying that money makes a difference? The pretence, as if to not realise that the energy of
money is everything, that only the rich feign indifference. She stands and walks away, avoiding
the hard truth and further 'conversation.'
Ah well, nearly at the station. It's strange how time flies when you're lost in thought.
As she looks at me strangely. I know I won't remember a thing about the train journey home
either. It'll be just a blur, to be gone forever, living as we do, from moment to moment. But these
moments will live within me forever, awakening in other, different moments, as the colour of my
blue Chinese mugs might trigger a synapse somewhere in my brian, and the endless pathways will
fire, and I will remember this morning, and I know I will remember this day always with sadness.
She holds my hand tightly. She loves me, I know it.
She loves me.
I know it.

And we arrive 'home' soon enough. I offer, 'I'll take your case in. Better safe than sorry.'
Wonder what she'll do with the change from the shopping? Buy another recorder? For a tenor?

In Time Book Two 445

Then we could play more of those lovely Hungarian duets; they have that lovely timeless quality,
probably because we Westerners are no longer used to the modal scales used, corrupted by the
boredom of the major and the minor. Thank goodness Bartok saved them from oblivion. Perhaps
one day I will visit Hungary. And perhaps Keith and I will visit Poland, see that guy Chomiac
mentioned last week, Coursakov? to play some of our songs. To in time remember those days,
even if only in words. And three cheers for Cecil Sharp, for Naddy wouldn't be singing those folk
songs, if they weren't in a book.
Yes, late afternoon now. Later I'll run Nadine over to the rehearsal in the Barbican, to sit
and watch the choir being accompanied to Gerontious by Chomiac, with his fantastic blond haired
flowing in its Listzian wind. Good looking fellow. If he were only female, I could almost fancy him.
That would piss his sister Katherine off.

- like chum we played at school

Yes. Long time ago now though, Simone. But my memory tells me we won with Vincent.

Wonder how much he gets paid for rehearsals. Fifteen pounds? For three hours? Perhaps he

even rehearses for nothing? But would any man be that dedicated to Meredith Davies? Or even
Elgar? The answer must be; yes. Of course; conductors of the calibre of Meredith Davies deserve
absolute veneration. But perhaps the reason for my exultation is subjective? I remember that night
Naddy auditioned for the choir - how we danced on the pavement afterwards! As I hadn't realised
she'd have to sing in front of the Meredith Davies. I was expecting a clone. Or is it the new word
I've learnt, when was it, yesterday, or today? Zombie? Or was it mutant? And I, shaking my
knees in mock nervousness after the audition. Yes, how happy we were that night! during those
brief, transient moments. How clearly I recall the clear, sharp air, and the bright stars as we sang
along the South Bank, I reflecting the moon, the lights of the Festival Hall glinting distantly, faintly
across the river. Will you marry me?! I had asked, and she laughed, but not maliciously, You
know I can't! Crucify me then! Crucify me! I had then cried out, to her obvious annoyance. Ah,
the Festival Fall, where she is to sing Elgar. Yes, I was in love then, and I knew that I was to remember
that night to the end of my days.

In Time Book Two 446

 'What's that tune you're humming? It sounds quite pleasant.'
'Not recognise it? A theme from Gerontius. And I add, as if now musing, 'You know, I was
at Elgar's cottage last week.'
And she looks at me with incredulity, that I hadn't mentioned that I had passed through her
homelands, on my way back from Wales, and there was this slow realisation in her eyes, as her pupils
dilated, that I truly loved her. But she can only murmur, 'Yes?' And I to know that the only word I
could reply was, unlike my disappearing father who was always somehow, understandably, negative,
from his sickness, from the pain from his radiation illness, was, 'Yes.' I've never told Nadine that he
just disappeared from in front of me. She would think I'm crazy.

Past six, now. 'Hungry? Thirsty?'

She nods. And I trot into the kitchen. Her obedient love puppy. Open the bread bin to hide
the stringed key. An omelette perhaps? I explore the fridge, and call out, 'No milk you know.'
'Again?' she responds. 'I'll pop down to the store for another pint. What does she do with them?'
I do not answer, for Coralie's secrets will remain secret. She is not my mother.
Food before choir practice? Is that wise? Am I trying to protect her from the ravishes
of the external world? From the devouring aggression of humanity? No, this is just the effect
of that intangible benevolence entitled ... love.
I watch her walking into the distance, pausing on the green as she introduces herself to
Katherine, she of the time before. They look up towards the window, and I wave. They do not respond.
I think I'll play on her new toy. Whilst preparing the snack. A house-boyfriend's job is never
done. A few chords, here and there. When I'll teach her, simple chords will suffice; she only wants to
accompany herself singing, anyway. Um, I can imagine her voice, as she emits those paeans of glee -
oops, wrong chord. And it would also help if you tuned up. And magically, soon enough, she reappears,
milk in hand. 'Can I have a go?'
'Of course. Sing me a song. I was just thinking about your nice voice.' And sing me a song
she does, and I smile as she fumbles the chords, as I carry the delivered milk to the kitchen. It's part
of her charm.
'What's that song?' I call out. 'A Dutch folk song?'

In Time Book Two 447

 'No, it's from The Pirates of Penzance.'
Oh my god, how the mighty can fall. And being a musician too. Soon I'll be asking, Is
that song from the Messiah? and she'll answer (with a sigh and a condescending look), No my
dear, it's from the Gondoliers.
I'm sure Vincent used to sing # A Policeman's Lot #. Which Gilbert and Sullivan operetta
was that from? Wasn't he even humming it from last night?
Back to the kitchen. I ought to have been a juggler, cooking three saucepans on two
rings can be tricky, but good training of course, for all those years of domestic bliss that will
doubtless ensue. Somewhere else. Where's the fuck's the milk? Disappeared already, again?
Don't even remember Coralie entering the kitchen. I'm beginning to regret doing that research
on her namesake, Corelli. This kitchen's so small it's reminiscent of that film, of Groucho Marx's
cabin; one has to clamber over women to reach the sink. Lesser men would quail, well, meander
through their legs, anyway, but of course I quite enjoy it really, being the only male here, but then,
I've been warned to keep my hands off; and the one must obey thy honourable woman. Perhaps I
should start a movement; FFMMG; Freedom For Minority Male Groups. The, my manifesto:
Comrades! Those unfortunate men among us, trapped alone and defenceless in houses overflow-
ing with vivacious, curvaceous, frustrated females, only too willing to devour the helpless, captive
specimen, comrades! I beseech you. Send me your address! Only men living with, - and how many
females here? Does Always Crying Alone Christine count? The one that follows me everywhere,
even from New York? - three or more females need apply for entrance into this exclusive club.
There can't be many of us left, a persecuted race. Yes, alone and defenceless (and we've promised
not to struggle too much, - it's written into the constitution), we stand, fucking for survival! Hm,
that's interesting; I recall that I've associated with all three women at some time or other, before,
or after, we all congregated here. What an extraordinary coincidence. Or is it a plot .. line? Have
they secretly conspired against me? Entering my blood stream, my passion for women to infect me
to the end of my days? I pass her coffee, made unconsciously during my mental meanderings. That
amazing power of my brian. 'Where did you get these mugs?'
'I bought them for you at Camden market.'

In Time Book Two 448

 'Such beautiful blue Chinese calligraphy.'
'Yes. It's nice. Carol's often studied them. She'd bought a Chinese dictionary, - was it last
year? - to understand the squiggles. And now she's going to study it as a language. You do have
that effect on women. You should marry her.'

- she is the one

No. I am in love with Naddy.

I examine the mugs yet again; yes, it would be nice, to understand the squiggles.
She smacks her lips in relishing anticipation. 'Very nice mister. Remind me to install you
as resident chef.'
'I am resident chef.'
'Only on Thursdays ...'
'And .. and only for you, I'll do the washing up when I get back. But now, time to dish up
supper.'
'Thank you mister.'
Soon to be seven, of the clock. I suggest, 'Um, unless we leave now, we'll be late again. Are
you ready to leave, Naddy?'
She nods. 'I'd better put that blue dress on.'
'Right. I'll just go and kick the bike over. Don't forget your helmet is under the bed.'
She nods again, absent mindedly. 'I'll be down in a moment. I'm just going to sort out the
music I need.'
'I think it's in the bread bin? Or under the sink?' I suggest, not now sure if that music is hers,
or mine. Such is partnership. 'Wrap up well.'
Out into the chilly air. Soon it will be quite dark. Lord, have mercy upon my chilblains,
and please make the sun shine as I bring Naddy to you. I know we're not going to church, but,
isn't the poetry of Cardinal Newman good enough, the next best thing?
The fucking thing won't start. I suppose it helps if you put that substance called 'petrol'
in occasionally.

In Time Book Two 449

 Where's that woman? Why is she always late? Another stereotype, God's commandment
number fourteen: Woman shalt never be on time. Number fifteen: Woman shalt always be in the
right. Number sixteen? now what else shall I have, being the One? Ah yes, Woman shalt always
have a headache upon the Fri o the day. Although I've never understood the religious significance
of Fridays. Good (and here, in those earlier days, Smith had snorted, as Simone and I had stared at
the the heavens,

- no not friday

Vernal Equinox! Not Good! And I misunderstanding until adulthood that he had

not exclaimed Venal!), Black, Holy or Great, Casual, Dress Down or even The Long Good, it's
still only called Friday. Let Venus spin her clouds, and the myth endure that there was a ship
commissioned on Friday, keel laid on a Friday, launched on a Friday 13th by a Captain James Friday,
never to be seen again. Let the comedian tell his jokes, as I in my future life will tell mine, for in
laughter lies many untruths. Well, at least I will have no regrets when Naddy has gone. And perhaps
that day will fall upon a Friday too, for she will marry her Good Doctor Robert upon a Saturday, called
July 8th. 'Here I am!' Grinning as she dons her helmet. 'The bike won't start?'
'It will now. I've switched to reserve.' I murmur helpfully, 'Here let me do up your strap for you.'
And she leans towards me, jutting out her jaw and puckering her lips, as if waiting for a kiss. I ask,
'You managed to find the music then?'
'Yes. As you said, under the sink.'
Um, the way she swivels her hips over the seat and wraps her arms round me.
Brrnm, brmm.' she vrooms. So this is your partner in life? the epitome of intellectual
achievement? Yes, and I would have been happy. I'll expect that as usual she'll steer by thumping
me in the guts, the angle and force of which have been carefully calculated to influence the
direction in which I steer the bike. You know; North, South, East, West, complex matters
such as these. I think I'll call my children after the poles of the world. After all, they will be
out of the world. I hear her practising, # Ah-ah-ah-men # Great bit. Mock monk like. Probably
a deliberate copy of a cadence from a Mass, Elgar being catholic. What is purgatory anyway?

In Time Book Two 450

Ah yes, heaven's waiting room. Where they calculate your sins using the binomial theorem.
The colds beginning to bite. I'll arrive with a jaw ache, having had to clench my teeth to
keep off the elements. Still, anything for Naddy. Including going to church on Sundays. To listen
to an idiot pontificating. Pun intended. They cling to blind faith, adhering to unreasonable dogma,
as if words are truths, that the text might be fact. And yet, the amazing thing is, they actually believe
that the assembled letters construct .. a reality, not merely ghosts in the brian. Isn't that just incredible?
They would actually die for words. In the beginning, but probably not at the ending, was the word.
And the true beauty is; that driving is such a mechanical, unconscious thing - once learnt
you live as if in a dream, your attention is elsewhere during those vital micro-seconds (and Naddy
does have the ambiguous, - but not annoying, - habit of fondling my penis when stopping at traffic
lights, forgetting to let go as the lights change) which might distinguish the difference between life
and death, between being seated safely in your seat, and having your head decapitated by a large
spasm of splintered helmet. And then I should have the nerve, the impudence to say, It was an
accident. Really officer, she wasn't touching me there.
Ah, the moon. Brilliant in its solitude. Reminds me of that day I rang the astronomical
society to enquire after the date of the next total eclipse. Wednesday, the eleventh of August,
nineteen ninety nine. - Oh really? Where will it be visible?- The southern most part of Britain,
Cornwall, about eleven, you know the Lizard? - Oh dear, that's a shame. - A shame? - Oh yes,
I'll be in Birmingham that day. You know, I'm sure she didn't believe me. Still, one mustn't gaze
too much at that thing; it has a dangerous hypnotic effect, distilling the circle. Yes, Simone
and I secretly holding hands and gazing at the stars that week in the country, and even last week
in Wales, as the others went indoors due to the cold, after Vincent converted, or witnessed some
revelation, I stayed and stood by the lake transfixed, remembering Simone days, such beauty and
time beyond comprehension. On a clear day you can see forever, on a still night you can just See.
Beyond all the pointless definitions I am learning, in this present time, of the words of the
wise men; it seems, on loves, hates, highs, lows, lefts, rights. Easts and Wests, of Life, and
Death. The infinite beauty, of the Oneness. I always wondered what that meant. The Is. The Am.
To be alive, to be alive - the answer's in there somewhere. If only I could grasp it that mist,

In Time Book Two 451

solidify ... those vapours - these mists in front of me ...
Seems we've made it just in 'time'. Funny that I've never seen this place in the daytime.
I believe it's a girl's school. Didn't Carol say she'd been to Roedean? Doesn't look wealthy.
Segregated at eleven: fatal. - What's that, Clair? It's a boy, Josephine. Didn't mummy tell
you about them? Mummy said one must be careful not to go too near them, in case you trip up.
Poor little kid, she won't know what'll hit her when she leaves school at eighteen, to go straight
to university. Heavens above (Oh my God! she will scream), she might even enjoy it. Gosh,
wouldn't mummy be annoyed? At least Naddy -
Lights off, engine off. Visibility nil. Remove the iced corpse riding pillion. Prop her up
against the wall, prise off the icicles.
'Okay love?'
'Yes thanks. Please unstrap me.' And I obey, weak man that I am. 'Thank you mister.'
And I follow her uncomfortably into the hall. Some of the people here give me the creeps,
stinking and reeking of self-importance, as if the singing of someone else's music equals its creation:
once, a few weeks ago, when a guest conductor came along to oversee the rehearsal (for Meredith
was over-seeing a Delius elsewhere, - and was it The Mass of Life?), they had the audacity to
say, after having been instructed on how to sing a passage, Oh no, we don't sing it this way.
Quite rightly, the guest conductor (having realised his own potential in earlier days) angrily replied,
When I'm conducting you'll sing it the way I tell you! What unforgivably bad manners on the part
of the choir; democracy is all very well in its own place, but orchestras need leaders, a focal point
of organisation. That's an idea that should be made into a film, for what sounds would be made,
without a single point of fury?
Too late for coffee. Again. Just as well, not wanting a cup of putrid strained stains. Down-
stairs the milling crowd have already began to settle. I offer, 'I'll see you later.' And she responds,
'Thanks for bringing me on time.' Then the traditional peck on the cheek, as she turns away to
descend to join the quieting crowd.
'Always glad to.' I reply, to her fading back. And always will be, it's true.
Sit in my favourite place, in order to get my best view of Naddy, the conductor, and of

In Time Book Two 452

course Chomiac's blond hair blowing, flowing in the wind, doubtless caused by his Lisztian swaying.
Hand still in bandage (surely not the same one as last week?), infected again it seems. Hush now,
as the conductor raises his baton. That dramatic pause, suspension and anticipation and tension poised
in that one heavy, pregnant second. Ah, the crash of the piano, the scream of the choir. Such power.
Heavenly. Majestic. Sorry Newman, Elgar won't have a problem with purgatory - he's probably already
formed a choir with the angels, each blowing their own dodgasted trombones. And perhaps God will
shout, Quiet! Angels! Before Elgar was I Am!!!! - I Shall Blow The Dogarsted Trombones!
# Ah-ah-ah-ah-men. #
Oops, missed it. I should have been listening. Still, it's repeated later on. Two more rehearsals
until the performance. I'll try and get a ringside seat and make Naddy blush by waving and shouting.
She'll probably ignore me anyway, and affect an air of disapproval - who's that twit waving to? But
then maybe I could put her off by staring intently, blinking in Morse; blink blink blink blink
blink blink. Blink. Ha, she'd soon enough get the message. Come up and sing me sometime. She
did once say that she'd seen me in the audience, but I don't see how, considering the two thousand
(and seventy four? the program notes said - not seventy five? - no standing room?) people that
can cram into the Festival Hall. She said that a light was shining on me but I disagreed, suggesting
my aura radiates outwards and therefore only that light could have been my distinctive presence.
Hm, Chomiac's looking in my direction. Did I suddenly twitch? Perhaps our thoughts met
and, during that one instant, we were on the same light wavelength, as we together remembered
the lake from last week. But no, he's back to playing, as if turning away from my mirror, gazing
into space, his soul fused into nothingness by the beauty of all sounds.
Tomorrow's another big day. November 16th. Somewhere in another term, another year.
We always say, I'll work harder this year. as if the change of a single day on a calender signifies ..
anything. But, of course, we never do, just plough on through another year unconcerned by threats
or admonitions, veiled or otherwise. I suppose I've become very cynical about it all, and all too soon
in my youth, but I'm sure it's not my fault. Before I came to college I was so innocently enthusiastic,
so longing for challenges to stretch my emerging intellect. Well, that's what the interview book told
me to say. Those lying, printed words, glaring out, up at me, waiting for me to utter that there was

In Time Book Two 453

always opportunity in a future. The things you believe in your innocence! That letters could form
words to be true only to 'dis'cover how disappointing is the truth; that Hope remained within the Box,
and did not escape out into the world. The shame that everything seems on such a low level. My
absurdity to believe (and I of all people should have known) that higher educational establishments
were composed, and comprised, of clever ... thinking people. Somehow .. rational. At first I thought,
I had hoped, clutching at any meaningful straw floating somewhere amongst the disappointing flood,
that my disillusionment would be centred around my own college, that I had just merely made a
bad choice, been unlucky, but it is as if I already somehow knew, somehow, deep within me, as
if the circuits of my brian knew that the sparking tracks they ran on would always contain, constrict
the carriages that ran upon them, that acronyms reduce sensational sentences to mere letters, that
words reduce the experience of all the world, that in life I am always to remain disappointed, that
searching elsewhere will prove to be no different, that although the sparks from the wheels are
temporary, always instant, they are always the same, destined always to seek new paths,
but fail, as if the disappointment of the human condition could ever be sated.
Yes, how I felt like screaming during those first few months (before I met Naddy and
was somewhat sexually sated), hopelessly gesticulating at the futility of it all, not that those used
books go on sale, hours after the exam, passing the same information to the next generation, but
that the contained information might be wrong, containing urban legends and m/yth/iss-information,
and be wrong until the pages themselves were ripped out, rightfully shredded, then faded to oblivion,
and a new book written.

We lie on the bed again at the end of the day, tired, but happy. She smiles at me, knowing
that I am watching her drift into twilight sleep, then closes her eyes. Soon she will be asleep and I
will continue to look at, to admire her, my triumphant Amazon child. I will lay my hand upon her
stomach, gently sloping but not yet bulging. No discernible heartbeats as yet. It is a shame I have
no camera, to catch these transient moments. She has her guitar, her new toy, and I, another final
day with her. I know we will never play together, as we promise ourselves, develop a repertoire,
tour any circuit of any college or university with songs that enchant, that our potential career together
will always lie unrealised, even though such success would be effortless and enjoyable (for me), and

In Time Book Two 454

that the day will come all too soon enough when we will wave that certain, final goodbye, as she
drives away into her distance in her now new blue car, Robert Thomas's second spare. These days
are truly final. But we pretend in our little temporary world, floating but knowing that this bubble
will burst soon enough, that there is no true permanence. In these moments of joy. For these moments,
are of the moment. Yes, she will eventually marry Robert Thomas, for she wants that safe middle class
life he promises and offers her, the affluent suburbia. And the happy children running amok. With all
excess duties duly taken care of by the nanny. And I too in her position would want that. To be cared
for. I know and understand, even as I try to deny this terrible reality at this moment, that I am transient
in her life and in her thoughts, but am a man to be remembered in future times, that she might
possibly have led a different life, another kind of passionate, exciting life, if she had so chosen.
And to keep Robert Thomas on his toes, a warning that she was to remain forever available to
other men, unless he took due care of her.
I lean forward and kiss her eyebrow. She smiles, aware even in her drowsiness. 'Wheedle...'
she mumbles.
I smile too, but sadly. The Noddy clock's hands are faintly luminous, the second hat
continuously bobbing, hypnotising me as since childhood. Almost midnight.
A tear has trickled from my eye, I wipe it clear. I am trapped in this time, this year together,
now collapsing into its final days. Then, quickly enough, to hours, minutes, until the final executing
second. Then she will be gone, the blue car fading into the final distance, and I will have to live the
remainder of my life. I knowing that of course there will be many others,

- she is not the one carol is the one

later, but will I care,

as only in the early days of life can you truly care, with the same passion that I now care?
No; it will just be different.
And I know I am never to see Katherine again, as a friend, although I often, nearly everyday,
see her walking across the college lawn. Yet today is still, after all, her birthday. As I had watched
Nadine walk across this evening's green to offer greetings and ask Katherine that question, for

In Time Book Two 455

Nadine to turn to look up at me as I prepared supper in that distant kitchen window, to remain still
in puzzlement. Yes, let Katherine have her life with Smith, for I could have chosen her, if the coin
had fallen 'correctly', had not the shock of seeing Smith and her in our secret school closet engaging
in dubious behaviour as he held his telescope close against her thighs

- she is not the one

destroyed my faith. In
her. Or I might make some music again with Keith. Perhaps he's finally moved on from that D chord.
I cover her shoulder with a the edge of the counterpane, then stand to look through the window.
Slowly a new day dawns. To be called: November 16th . I stare through the window at the moon,
as I know I am for the rest of my life. For I remember Simone days,

- will guide you

Yes, I hope so. And as I stand still and silent the moon swings slowly, but visibly, across
my field of vision, arcing with its slow pendulum of inevitability. It is beautiful, seeming to swell.
I turn to look down at Nadine, blissful and unaware in her twilight dreams of my abstract matutinal
reflections, that I remember Smith's words of long ago, that by keeping the earth in a stable rotation
it had allowed an atmosphere to develop, allowed temporal seasons to evolve, and then life itself.
That the moon still held the cradle of civilisation in its grip. All this. All that we know. Us. Yes,
strange that I knew Smith as a child, but now I am a man, and he is not as I remembered him.
There is a sadness also, in realising that there is so much more beauty in our existence, than is
dreamt of in the reductionist philosophy of Nadine's religion, that outside forces, false Gods and
Prophets, could have created ... all this. It seems such an abdication of responsibility, that the truly
miraculous ... must have a meaning (As I once shouted out, - as Keith had similarly megaphoned
tower blocks, - and were those days only one, three, seven months ago? - in the street, These
thin slivered streaks of sensation is all there is: rejoice! and Nadine, or whoever the girl that
I was with then had too walked away, - for I am sure it was not Looks Like Simone,

- she is not me carol is the one

annoyed,

In Time Book Two 456

as if the word Rejoice! was an exclusive preserve of her, or any church). Yes, Nadine will be
happy, with her good Doctor Robert, living their life of simple platitudes, and I to be left alone,
to read again in solitude that Simonen paperback discarded upon the the shelf by the window,
The Widow. Perhaps I should scribble an additional 'er' upon the cover. Or perhaps I will read
Rebbeca, - I've never been to Mandalay. Certainly not A Romance of Two Worlds, - surely unread-
able now, if not then.
That the moon is beautiful - how obvious. How many betrothals over the aeons uttered
under its benign beams? How many declarations of eternal love murmured throughout the centuries
of human existence? Perhaps Robert too had proposed to her under silv'ry moonlight skies. I look
down upon the lonely urban landscape, empty now, in the dead of night. There is always so much
more, to discover, to unearth, and it is as if discontent is woven into the fabric of humanity, and
yet, as yet, curiosity has not killed the cat. I close my eyes, to ponder the events of the day. This
year. That these lives lie upon a page, in November. Surrounded by the women of this temporary
house, the envy of other men across the great college divide, but I essentially alone, as if somehow
I already know that the journey I am to take in life will never be lonely, but always that I am to
exist alone. And in insignificance. Perhaps all of humanity is merely a virus, a temporary infection
of the planet, or perhaps a parasite, superbly modifying the unaware, indifferent host to its own
ends; its survival. I think of the day we, in happier times, although happier times seem only a few
months ago, had visited the visited the Brighton Aquarium. A shark had swam, gliding effortlessly
through translucent plastic tunnels, it's parasite, the tiny remora fish seemingly as if somehow
actually physically attached to the shark by an invisible elastic string, flowing effortlessly with
the shark, following every twist and turn, as if in a symbiotic flawless union. It had not had to
learn this behaviour, somehow inbred, instinctive, imbued through millions of years, aeons,
towards its own kind of perfection. That a tiny brain could do so much. Without thinking. Without
knowing. As we never thought, as humans, what to do. In this unplanned life. Events just happened
to us, that perhaps as infants we recognised our mother's face after three times, and maternal love
ensued, as a bee recognises that a yellow flower brings its rewards after three times. Perhaps it was
all that simple, excepting our brains were so much bigger, and three times three times three times

In Time Book Two 457

three times three times three times. Three times equals to the infinite permutations, until you
calculate that this can be the only one of all proclaimed universes - yes, that realisation had been
beautiful too, that it is only us, in all the universe, that can speculate, even if pointlessly, upon
ourselves, upon others.
I open my eyes. The moon passes through the distant glassed parallelogram (even if in
truth I know it to be rectangular) frame of the window, its portrait passing from view for another
day. And soon for another month. Perhaps the minion millions glance indifferently at the moon
every night, and day, not even aware, not even caring - it has lost any primeval mythic power
it once held. And all I have now is the voice of Simone, to remind me of those lost days. Because
we have become civilised, and our success, our affluence has changed the focus of our attention,
looking downwards as we have lighted the skies. Not knowing we have, as humans, evolved to step,
at the 'right' time, through the Holocene gap, to survive, and never to realise, never to know, that this
is paradise.
Yes, we have done well, to come through, but always the tragedy of never realising our
achievements. But my eyes are open now, and the moon passes through the frame of the window,
its portrait clock fading from view for another final night.
I have survived. And I will survive even when I know I will often wish to be dead. I will
join Nadine now, but not to sleep the sleep eternal, but to hug and hold her, knowing that her belly
contains stardust, and a future of which I will never know, but is of me.
And to know that the stories I will live are the stories, and the dreams, of us all.
'Goodnight, my lovely.' I murmur quietly.
And her voice mumbles affectionately, but not distantly,
'Goodbye.'

In Time Book Two 458

 INDEX (TE = thought experiment)

Multiple entries are Indexed only once.

Ajax 158 In Greek, Aias. Myth. hero, son of Telamon. In Homer's Iliad semi giant, strongest
of the Achaeans, second only to Achilles in skill at arms and Diomedes. Not as cunning as Nestor,
Diomedes, Idomeneus, or Odysseus. Commands his army with a shield of seven cow hide with a
layer of bronze - but does not receive personal assistance from the Gods.
Albert Hall, Royal World famous commercial arts venue opened by Queen Victoria in
Kensington, London, in 1871.
Aldermaston Marches 362 Anti-nuclear weapons demonstrations, taking place on Easter
weekend predominantly from 1958 - 1965, and organised firstly (in 1958) by DAC - Direct
Action Committee and subsequently by CND - the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. There were
revivals in 1972, 2004, and 2010.
Alphabet Standardised set of graphemes (letters) which represent phonemes (sounds) The origin
of the word alpha(-)beta derives originally from the first 2 letters of the Phoenician alphabet mean-
ing Ox and House. Other systems of alphabets include logograms (hieroglyphs, as in Chinese) and
syllabaries (written symbol to approximate syllables (as in Cherokee, Cree, Vai, Yi).
Against The Gods 101 cf Peter Bernstein
Angels (Medieval philosophy) If an angel is a spiritual being it therefore has no material mass,
consequently an infinite number of them could dance on the head of a pin. If angels are material beings,
then the spiritual universe cannot be that different from the material universe, and therefore the very
existence of God must be questioned. Thomas Aquinas could only argue; belief first, reason second,
in reaction to the newly translated works of Aristotle. cf. Martinus Scriblerus.
Annapurna (Sanskrit trans; full of food) 409 A 34 mile long range of mountain peaks in the Hima-
layas. Annapurna I's summit, 8091m, first attained June 1950.
Anthophobia Fear of flowers.
Anthrophobia Fear of people.
Aristotle (384 - 322 BC) 9 at Plato's Academy for 20 years, and nicknamed the Foal by
Plato (foals kick their mothers when full of milk), then returned to Macedonia to tutor Alexander the

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Great. Returned to Athens to found Lyceum. Invented deductive logic, expanding Plato's dialectical
propositional work by using letters, a remarkable invention, to designate general propositions.
Regarded as the founder of zoology and biology. Ethical theories fall under the Greek word for
happiness, eudaimonia, and that is the intended final end of a good, virtuous life. Theology; the science
of things divine. All men by nature desire to know. Curiously, no chronological conventions
(calenders) existed at that time so events were catalogued by synchronisms; an event X is listed as
happening before (or after) event Y.
Aston Martin DB4 36 A 3.7 litre sports car made in UK from 1958 - 1963. Only 1210 were made.
Astrolabe 38 Circular disk, with a central recess that holds flat plates, enabling prediction and
calculation of solar and planetary orbits, invention often attributed to Hipparchus. However a star disc
was 'recently' found in Eastern Germany which dates back to 1600 BC clearly showing Plaides (which
appears in May and disappears in October), and a metal curve which delineates an arc of 82 degrees
(to reveal Northern Europe winter and summer solcises).
Augustine, Saint (354 - 430) 399 Books; Confessions, Of the City of God (412 - 427). Abandoned
Christianity as a teenager, to read Cicero at 18, to adopt Manichaeism; that life is a battleground
between good and evil, light and darkness, that matter is bad but the spirit is good, that Adam and
Eve, having eaten the apple corrupted humanity to eternal sin, - whereas Pelagius argued that men,
when behaving virtuously, did so of their own free will, and moral effort. Augustine ensured that the
preceding viewpoint was declared heretical. Became a Sceptic, the fashion that ruled Plato's
Academy at that time, but to doubt is to doubt your own existence, which is impossible. His views
of Time preceded Kant and Descartes by several hundred years: there are 3 times; A present of
things past (memory), a present of things present, and a present of things future (expectation). cf
Francis Bacon.
Australia 6th largest land mass in the world, including Tasmania. 'Discovered' (having been
inhabited by indigenous aborigines for 40 000 years) by the Dutch in 1606, the Eastern part claimed by
British in 1770s and settled by penal transpotation (this ended in 1848), with a population now
approaching 23 million, but still with the lowest density of 2.8 inhabitants per square kilometre.
Bach, Johann Sebastian (1685 - 1750) 21 German composer of the Baroque era. Compositions
include; The Brandenburg Concertos (No 2 in F major includes the first instrumental cadenza),

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The Well Tempered Clavier, a very influential work the title of which refers to the fixing of equal
temperament (the gaps between the notes), Mass in B minor. Saint Matthew Passion. cf. Lubeck.
Bacon, Francis (1909 - 1992) 40 Dublin born painter known for his bleak emotionally raw imagery,
tumultuous temperament, coming to prominence in 1944 with Three studies for Figures at the Base of
a Crucifixion.
Bacon, Francis (1561 - 1626) English philosopher, scientist, author. Father of Empiricism
(knowledge arising from evidence, not conviction, religious or mental speculations - the great divide in
philosophy over the last 2 thousand years ((although strictly speaking Aristotle was the first empiricist,
with his intense study of animals, founding the discipline of Biology, work which was not to super-
ceded for 2000 years)) ). Appointed Attorney General in 1613 by James I, and Lord Chancellor in 1618.
Disgraced in 1621 due to (possibly fabricated) corruption charges. Died of pneumonia after stuffing a
fowl with snow to observe the preservational effects of cold. Systematic collection from general to
particular; deduction, of data from the particular to the general; induction.
Barbican, The 183 Residential complex built between 1965-1976 on the World War II bomb
demolished area of Cripplegate, consisting of 13 terraced blocks, and 3 towers; Cromwell, Shakes-
peare, and Lauderdale. Now Grade II listed. Adjacent to; Barbican Arts Centre, London Museum, and
the Guildhall School of Music.
Barks, Carl (1901 - 2000) 317 Disney Studio illustrator and comic book creator, creating Duckburg
in 1944, where Donald Duck and family lived. Flip Decision, published in 1953, explored, very
loosely, normative decision theory: One of the benefits of throwing coins (or consulting the I Ching,
or the Tarot, or even playing cards ) is to reveal internal emotional preferences: they do NOT predict
events.
Barnes Bridge Wrought iron railway bridge crossing the River Thames from Chiswick to Barnes.
Completed in 1895, (the disused earlier 1849 span running alongside).
Bartok, Bela (1881 - 1945) 446 Hungarian composer and pianist. Met Kodaly at Budapest Music
Academy. Influenced by Richard Strauss, and Debussy, and upon hearing a nanny singing folk songs to
children, a lifelong interest in collecting folk songs ensued. Works include; 6 String Quartets, Concerto
for Strings, Percussion, and Celeste, MikroKosmos (for piano), an opera, Bluebeard's Castle (1911).
His contribution to music can loosely be described as continuing the breakdown of the diatonic scale,

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whilst attempting to maintain an overall structure to a work, and reviving interest in nationalistic, and
indigenous music.
Beatles, The (1957 - 1969) A popular band comprising John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George
Harrison, and Ringo (Richard Starkey). John Lennon and Paul McCartney met on July 6 th 1957.
Bechstein, Carl (1853 - ) 106 German piano manufacturer founded in 1853 (as were Bluthne and
Steinway and Sons), given a royal warrant by Queen Victoria in 1886, for production to reach 3700 in
1900 and 4600 in 1910. Royal warrants cancelled in 1915 due to anti-German sentiment, and concert
hall and property confiscated in 1916 (In 1917 becoming the Wigmore Hall). First manufacturer of
electric pianos (1930). Despite many political con/re/volutions still in business.
Beckett, Samuel (1906 - 1989) 204 Multi linguist Irish writer. Student and assistant of James Joyce,
after meeting him in Paris in 1927. The minimalist play, En attendant Godot 1948/9 (English translation
1955) became his most famous work. Awarded Nobel Prize for literature 1969.
Beethoven, Ludwig Van (1770 - 1827) German composer and pianist born in Bonn, whose
composing career spanned the Classical to Romantic art music eras. Moved to Vienna 1792 to study
with Haydn. Suffered significant hearing loss by 1802, hence heart rending, never in his lifetime
seen or read, Heiligenstadt Testament, a letter written by Beethoven to his brothers Carl and
Johann on 6th October 1802, reflecting his despair over his increasing (eventually total) deafness.
Discovered after his death in 1827. Wellington's Victory symphony (1813) was Beethoven's most
commercial success.
Bergson Henri-Louis (1859 - 1941) 401 Extremely well read French philosopher. Author of; Time and
Free Will, Matter and Memory, and (the most well known and discussed) Creative Evolution (English
translation 1911). Believed sensations are more significant in understanding reality than scientific
approach, and called this the Duration: the map is not the territory; you must walk through the
landscape to appreciate the landscape. Awarded Nobel prize for Literature in 1927. Believed that
laughter evolved as a protective mechanism against an inflexible society. He also believed that Man's
creative force, lan vital, was a necessary ingredient of evolution. Proust served as best man at
Bergson's wedding, to a cousin of Proust's.
Berlin Wall (1961 - 1989) Barrier erected by the GDR (East Germany) in 1961 to prevent mass
emigration to the West (The 3.5 million who had fled by 1961 represented 20% of the population,

In Time Book Two 462

leaving only 61% of working age). It was called by the East German authorities, the Anti-Fascist
Protection Rampart. After Hungary permitted a small exodus, a chain of events led to the new GDR
leader, Egon Krenz, in power for only a few days, opening the East/West German borders on 9 th
November 1989.
Bernstein, Peter (1919 - 2009) 101 American economist and financial historian. Against The Gods:
The Remarkable Story of Risk, published in 1996 is a remarkable book. Other books include Capital
Ideas, The Power of Gold, and Streetwise.
Bhagavad Gita (5th century BC - 5th century AD) 77 A 700 verse Hindu scripture written in a style
that is traditionally chanted, describing the conversation between Krishna and prince Arjuna, on the
eve of a battle.
Bible, The 77 The primary religious text of Judaism and Christianity, there being no common
version. The earliest texts are in Greek and date from the 4 th century. Bart D, Ehrman's book,
Misquoting Jesus is, excusing the pun, a revelation.
Black Scholes Model 104 A mathematical formulae that calculates a share price option against
volatility and time.
Bodhidharma First Zen patriach who brought Zen to China from India in 6th century.
Bodhisattva In Buddhism, Enlightened 'bodhi' Being/Existence 'sattva'. Spiritual being. There are 10,
or sometimes 14, levels of attainment, ranging from, for example, Great Joy, Luminous, Radiant, to
(attain the) Cloud of Dharma.
Bolan, Marc (1947 - 1977) 52 English musician and singer. Formed an acoustic folk act with Steve
Took in the 60's, releasing 4 albums and 4 singles, to later shorten band name to T. Rex (as Tony
Visconti so abbreviated the name on the tape reels) to become a glam pop star of the early 70's. Died
in a car crash driven by partner Gloria Jones (who had recorded Ed Cobb's song # Tainted Love # in
1964).
Braille 390 Developed by Louis Braille at the age of 15 in 1824 after blindness, using various patterns
of raised dots over a rectangular hexagonal grid.
Brennell Engineering (1947 - 1984) 17 English company producing audio electronic equipment,
introducing their first tape recorders in 1953. The author still owns a 1'' 8 track MK 2.
British Council 193 A registered charity founded in 1934 to promote international education and

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cultural exchange. As with any originally benelovent organisation, open to political and economic
abuse; in 1947 information was leaked that led to the assassination of the Burmese independence leader
Aung San, and in 'recent' times numerous inflated expenses claims by MPs, and criticism of its own
CEO Martin Davidson breaking internal expenses rules, and promoting education of the myth of
'climate change' and 'global warming'.
British Museum/Library 443 London museum established in 1753, based originally upon the
collection of Hans Sloane, and opened to the public in 1759. Celebrating worldwide human culture,
it now houses over 8 million artifacts.
Buckingham Palace 377 With land originally conquered by William the C, the site was bequeathed by
Geoffrey de Mandeville to the monks of Westminster Abbey. Retaken by Henry VIII in 1536. A
townhouse built for the Duke of Buckingham in 1705, formerly known as Buckingham House was
acquired by K. George III in 176 for Q. Charlotte. Enlarged by John Nash, becoming the official
residence of the monarch on accession of Q. Victoria in 1837. The Palace Garden is the largest 'private'
garden in the UK: TE: Since the monarch is the representative of the UK and the Commonwealth, how
can the gardens be 'private'?
Budapest 182 Capital city of Hungary. Buda and Pest united in 1873 to become a single city
straddling the Danube. cf nevilleanimusic on YouTube, My Day in Budapest Part 1(and 2) and
Budapest Snapshots, for videos of city.
Budd/ha/ism (5th century BC) 80 A religion originated by prince Siddhartha Gautama in the
North - Eastern subcontinent of India, as he left the confines of his father's palace at the age of 29 to
encounter the suffering of the outside world; an old man, sick man, corpse and a contented ascetic holy
man, the meeting of which prompted him to renounce his former life. Containing many schools of
thought, Buddhism is now the 4th largest religion of the world, and unique in that there is no central
authority figure, and that the ego, or the 'self' does not exist. cf Bodhisattva.
Bush, Kate (1958 - ) 68 Original, eclectic songwriter, singer, dancer, coming to prominence with
# Wuthering Heights # in 1979.
Caesar 110 After The Year of 4 Emperors (AD 69), deriving of the cognomen of the Roman dictator
Julius Caesar, Caesar became a title of imperial character.
Camus, Albert (1913 - 1960) French Algerian writer. Proponent of the absurdist school of

In Time Book Two 464

philosophy, - The Myth Of Sisyphus. Won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1957, much to Simenon's
disdain.
Capgras Syndrome 295 Disturbing delusion that a close friend of relative (and sometimes inanimate
objects) have been replaced by an exact replica, or imposter.
Carol of the Bells 438 cf Mykola Dmytrovych
Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) (1948 - ) 151 British singer/songwriter with successful albums in the early
1970's # The First Cut Is The Deepest # has been a hit single for four different artists. Converted to
Islam in 1977.
Charon 253 Greek mythological figure, the ferryman of Hades who carries the souls of newly dead
across the river Styx.
Chinese language/calligraphy 69 Logosyllabic language consisting of 182 radicals (depending on
definition) varying from 1 stroke up to 14 strokes.
Chiswick Park (House and gardens) Folly built by the 3rd Earl of Burlington in 1729 in a Neo
Palladian style.
Chopin, Frederic (1810 - 1849) 110 Polish virtuoso pianist and composer, master of the Romantic
style. Born in Warsaw, settled in Paris. 10 year relationship with novelist 'George Sand'. After death
heart returned to Warsaw. Cast hands and other memorabilia in Poznan's Musical Museum.
Churchill, Winston (1874 - 1965) Officer in British Army, historian, writer and artist. The great
wartime leader (1940 - 45). British Prime minister again (1951 - 55) Honorary citizen of the USA,
winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Circular Time cf Eternal Recurrence.
Clair de Lune 112 cf Debussy
Clark, Jeremiah (1673 - 1707) 202 Composer and organist, whose best known work now is The
Prince of Denmark's March (in D major) often used at weddings. Before shooting himself, he
considered hanging and drowning as options, so to decide his fate, he tossed a coin - however the coin
landed in the mud on its side. Instead of consoling himself, he chose the third method of death, and
performed the deed in Saint Paul's cathedral's churchyard
Clepsydra (Greek, water/thief) water clock, the first (>4000BC) 'mechanical' device to measure time.
Common Time 445 The broken circle at the beginning of a piece of music is often mistakenly read

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as C; Common time; 4 beats to a bar, but the broken circle in in medieval times was known as
tempus imperfectum whereas the full circle represented tempus perfectum; 3 beats to the bar,
representing the holy trinity.
Consciousness The great illusion of mankind; our brains are now big enough to fool us into
thinking we are all separate entities, that the 'I' exists.
Constable, John (1776 - 1837) 203 English landscape painter, mostly of Dedham Vale, Suffolk. The
Hay Wain (1821) is now his most recognised painting. Enjoyed more admiration and success in France
than in his native UK.
Coolidge, Calvin (1872 - 1933) 30th President of the USA (1923 - 1929) (the chief business of the
American people is business. p331) Disdaining regulation his policies led to the Roaring Twenties.
Copernicus, Nicolaus (1473 - 1543) Polish astronomer. Studied in Krakow. Became increasingly
aware that Aristotle's theory of homocentric (earth centred) spheres and errors in Ptolemy's calculations
of eccentrics and epicycles. Extensively travelled, but settled in Warmia at 30. On The Revolutions Of
The Celestial Spheres was published just before his death in 1543, his heliocentric (sun centred) model
became known as the Copernican Revolution. His remains were rediscovered and reburied in 2005. cf
nevilleanimusic on YouTube; Our Day Out In Frombork for pleasant views of town and explanation of
pendulum.
Corelli, Arcangelo (1653 - 1713) 346 Italian violinist and composer of Baroque music. Born in
Bologna, living in Rome from 1675. Most famous for 12 concerti grossi composed over 30 years,
the first 8 in a solemn church style, the last 4 de camera, with dance titles.
Corelli, Marie (1855 - 1924) Illegitimate daughter of Charles MacKay (author of Popular
Delusions and the Madness of crowds). Became a pianist, changing her name to Corelli. Her first
novel (1886) was entitled, A Romance of Two Worlds (p457). She was to eventually become a phenomenally
successful novelist, outselling the combined works of, Wells, Kipling, Conan Doyle.
Cotard, Jules (1840 - 1889) 296 French neurologist who first described condition of Walking
Corpse Syndrome, of people holding the delusional belief they are dead. Neurologically related
to Capgras's syndrome, of fusiform face areas.
Crucible, The 154 cf Arthur Miller
D Major, golden key of, Especially resonant key for violin, and guitar (with a dropped 6 th string).

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In the Baroque era, before the invention of valve trumpets D major was the key of triumphs, of war-
cries, Hallelujahs.
Dal Lake 264 2nd largest lake in state of Jammu and Kashmir. cf Nagin Lake.
Davies, Meredith (1922 - 2005) 446 British conductor who championed the work of English
composers, Britten, Delius, Vaughan - Williams. As a child played cello, to switch to organ. Conducted
Elgar's Dream of Gerontius with an ailing Kathleen Ferrier at the 1952 Three Choirs Festival.
Debussy, Claude (1862 - 1918) 112 French composer noted for his Impressionistic tone colours. The
literary style of the late 19th C was known as symbolism and this influenced his compositions, late
Romantic, to 20th C modernist music. Most known piano piece is Claire De Lune in Db major.
Degas, Edgar (1834 - 1917) French painter now known mainly for his Impressionistic drawings,
pastels and paintings of dancers.
Dekker, Thomas (1572 - 1632) Elizabethan dramatist, now best known for the poem Golden
Slumbers Kiss Your Eyes set to music many times, by Casella, Gal, F.A. Jackson, Stanford, Warlock,
Warren, McCartney.
Delhi (New) 107 Indian capital city continuously inhabited since 6th C BC, now the 4th largest city in
the world with a population of 22 million.
Delius, Frederick (1862 - 1934) 452 Original, lyrical English composer born in Bradford. Sent to
Florida to manage an orange plantation but began composing after listening to African - American
music. Studied briefly in Germany then moved to Paris. Thomas Beecham promoted and conducted A
Mass of Life in London in 1909 and staged Delius's opera, A Village Romeo and Juliet in 1910.
Descartes, Rene (1596 - 1650) 124 French mathematician and philosopher living in Holland.
Proponent of rationalism, the mistaken belief that the world can be understood through pure reason,
as opposed to the empiricist school of thought, that evidence can be accumulated through observa-
tions, i.e. science. Like other rationalists, Spinoza and Leibniz, extremely fluent in mathematics,
which may explain his divorce from everyday practicalities. However, invented Cartesian
coordinate system, that numbers can define a point in space, and is regarded as the creator of
calculus. Meditations on First Philosophy is still a standard text in philosophy classes.
Devil's Advocate A person who argues a position in which s/he has no necessary belief in. The
official title was instigated by Pope Sixtus V in 1587 and abolished by Pope John Paul II in 1983,

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leading to the subsequent canonization of 500 individuals (prevously only 98 had been canonized
in the entire 20th C).
Diana, Princess (1961 - 1997) First wife of Charles, Prince of Wales, from 1981 - 1996, becoming
a global media icon, before and after her death in a car crash in Paris in 1997.
Dice Man, The 78 cf. Luke Rhienhart.
Disney, Walt (1901 - 1966) Animation film producer. Voiced his own creation Mickey Mouse
(first appearance Plane Crazy 1928) for nearly 20 years. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937, in
production since 1934) was the world's first full length animation feature film.
Disneyland Paris 163 Recreational resort 20 miles East of Paris, operating since 1992.
Donovan, Leitch (1946 - ) 260 Scottish singer songwriter merging many styles under the guidance
of record producer Mickie Most. In India taught his finger picking style to Lennon and McCartney (which
was to inspire his composition # Blackbird #).
Doxepin A psychotropic drug with antidepressant qualities. Also used to treat insomnia.
Donne, John (1572 - 1631) 114 English metaphysical poet, becoming a preacher and in 1621 Dean
of St Paul's cathedral. Although he studied at both Oxford and Cambridge universities for several
years was not able able to obtain a degree due to his Catholicism. Quotes; For whom the bell tolls,
No man is an an island.
Dream of Gerontius, The 183 Elgar's oratorio masterpiece, set to a text by Cardinal Newman.
Dunne, John (1932 - 2003) 24 American novelist and screenwriter, best known for his screenplays,
A Star is Born (1976) and True Confessions (1981) co-written with his wife Joan Didion.
Dusseldorf Urban city of population of 600 000 in the West of Germany, founded in the 7 th century
where the river Dussell flows into the Rhine.
e 306 Napier's mathematical constant, often called Euler's number, the base of the natural logarithm,
an irrational number approx equal to 2.71828...
Edinburgh 273 Capital city of Scotland, on the Southern shore of the Firth of Forth, originally built
around Castle Rock, although Bronze Age artifacts have found around Arthur's Seat (rock). Population
approx million. Once known as the Athens of the North during Enlightenment times, with such
prominent figures as David Hume and Adam Smith and many others living there. Before the
development of the New Town before the 1770's it was common for many different social classes

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to live in the same building, with the more properous inhabiting the higher floors. What is now known
as The Mound was originally Nor Loch, filled in with excess soil from the construction work on New
Town.
Ecclesiophobia Fear of churches.
Eiffel Tower 381 A 320 metre tall structure built in 1889 for the French world Fair. It was the tallest
structure in the world for 41 years until overtaken by the Chrysler building in 1930.
Einstein, Albert (1879 - 1955) 79 German theoretical physicist, publishing in 1905 four papers,
which included the theory of special relativity, the general theory in 1915. Awarded the Nobel Prize
for Physics in 1921.
El Greco (1541 - 1614) 437 Born on Crete, moved to Rome in 1570 to open his workshop. His
Expressionistic style found more favour in the 20 th C than in his own time.
El Nino (Southern Oscillation) 341 Climatic weather pattern that occurs every 3 - 7 years off the
Western coast of South America characterised by Pacific Ocean warming with high surface air pressure
and subsequent cooling, La Nina, with low SAP.
Elaine of Astolat 38 Arthurian legend of Elaine's unrequited love for Lancelot, early versions
appearing in the 13th C in Mort Artu, source material for Tennyson's The lady of Shallot.
Elgar Edward (1857 - 1934) 11 English composer, strongly influenced by reading Hubert Parry in
Groves Dictionary. Extremely competent violinist and played under Dvorak's baton Symphony No 6
and Stabat Mater. At the time being Roman Catholic he was regarded with some suspicion in academic
music circles. His Enigma Variations (1899) was followed by The Dream of Gerontius (1900) which
established his reputation. The first of the five Pomp and Circumstance Marches (1901) was set to
words by Benson, and is now regarded as the UK's unofficial national anthem. In the USA it is known
as The Graduation Song. The Cello Concerto in e minor (1919) was subsequently made immensely
famous by Jacqueline Du Pre's 1967 recording. Elgar was the major first composer to take advantage
of the new electrical microphones (1926) to record his compositions.
Elliot, T S (1888 - 1965) Modernist American poet, best known for The Love Song of J. Alfred
Prufrock (1910 - 15), The Waste Land (1922) Four Quartets (1945) and the play Murder In The
Cathedral (1938) Won the Nobel prize for literature 1948. Became a British citizen at 39. Time for all
the works and days of hands (also 1st line of poem by Hesiod). Wrote a poem about Bertrand Russell

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entitled Mr Apollinax where Russell is depicted as a mythical creature.
Emmanuel School 121 Independent school founded in 1594.
Epicurus (341 270BC) 379 It is impossible to live wisely and well and justly without living a
pleasant life. The purpose of existence is to attain the happy, tranquil life, characterized by 'ataraxia' -
peace, and freedom from fear, and 'aponia' - the absence of pain. He taught that pleasure is 'good' and
pain is 'evil'. And that death is nothing to us. When we exist death is not, and when death exists we
are not, and therefore in death there is neither pleasure nor pain. The fear of death arises from the belief
that in death there is awareness.
Epping Forest 373 Formerly (1600's) Waltham Forest, ancient woodland, stretching 12 miles North -
South, and (a maximum) 2 miles East - West in South East England, bordering London and Essex.
Eternal recurrence Greek myth of, Perceives life as an infinite cycle of events and must have
happened already. Taken up by Pythagoreans, Empedocles, Zeno of Citium, and the Stoics. Nietzsche
asserts humanity must live without recourse to the comfort of supernatural power. Schopenhauer
suggests the return of beings in the same bodies. Prominent in Indian religions; Jainism. Symbols;
Dung beetle in ancient Egypt, Ouroborous snake or dragon devouring its own tail in Renaissance times.
TE: Would you live your life again, if knowing of your own before lived life? cf Ouspensky.
Feste cf Shakespeare.
Festival Hall 446 A 2900 seat London consert hall completed in 1951 as part of the Festival of
Britain, with the foundation stone being laid by Clement Attlee in 1949. Facade altered in 1964,
with a complete refurbishment undertaken 2005-7. A Grade 1 listed, protected building, as of 1981,
the first such post-war listing.
Finn, Mickey (1947 - 2003) Percussionist for T. Rex from 1969 -1974. Also a drink laced with
chloral hydrate in order to incapacitate the drinker, probably originating from Chicago bar Lone Star
Saloon (1896 -1903) run by a Mickey Finn.
Firestones 22 The first overseas factory built by Firestone opened in 1928 on the Great West Road,
providing easier access to central London. A fine example of Art Deco architecture, but deliberately
destroyed during a public holiday in August 1980 to prevent listing. The author worked there for a short
period in 1975.
Flip Decision 48 Comic (1953) featuring Donald Duck's new found interest in throwing a coin to

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influence decisions.
Flipism cf Carl Barks.
Frankenstein cf Shelley
Free Will The most discussed problem in all of philosophy, going back to even before the
ancient Greeks. The issue raises strong emotional feelings because freedom implies responsibility;
if we consider ourselves responsible, then we hold others accountable for their actions on the
assumption that they too possess free will. If there is no free will, then human moral responsibility
might seem to be threatened, and with it the rule of law.
David Hume called the problem of free will the most contentious of metaphysics. To many
early philosophers, as well as to modern scientists, the universe appears to be deterministic; all
events are (pre)determined, but if so, then everything that happens must be inevitable, with the
consequence there is no free will, because all actions must be predetermined, - a philosophical
contradiction that has existed since the earliest days of thought - can you possess freedom and will
in a deterministic universe? In medieval times spirit was seen as the arbiter of free will; outside of
ourselves and a manifestation of God's will, thinking which now seems ridiculous to us, knowing
that nothing exists outside the brain. For Hobbes, we are intergrated within nature; we must have a
capacity for reason to effect 'free will'; animals are instinctive; sharks do not reason when hunting
prey; they do what they want to do because they want to do it: decisions and intentions are no more
than forms of desire. To decide or form an intention to do something is no more than to be overcome
by a very strong desire to do it - a desire that is strong enough to override any opposing motivation
we might have to act otherwise, and determine us to act exactly as desired. This means that the will
is nothing special, - the will is just a capacity for ordinary desire or appetite. In Hobbess view there
is nothing free or self-determined about decisions, any more than there is anything free or self-
determined about humble wants or desires. Kant saw free will as something beyond time and space
and therefore ultimately a matter of faith. Recent brain scans in humans shows that an area called the
dorsolateral prefrontal cortex is associated in the process of deciding when and how to act: activity
(planning) begins in the prefrontal region which sends connections to the premotor cortex. This effects
the actions (the thoughts of the action), sending connections to the primary motor cortex. The motor
cortex then sends out the instructions that move the muscles (the action occurs). These three (very fast)

In Time Book Two 471

stages implies that 'free will' is an illusion, mistakenly 'thinking' our conscious thoughts caused the
action: Libet's research in 1985 suggested that neural activity began 350 milliseconds before any
conscious decision to act. This is a very long time, and suggests the the brain refers, remembers back
to an event in order to qualify it; that sudden perceived movement was (350ms) later to be
recognised as a gheko (I am writing in Thailand). Curiously, in discussions of free will there is a school
known as the Libertatians; arguing for the capacity of independent determination - there is no known
onnection with Benjamin Libet's work, unless the universe is indeed deterministic. A Very Short
Introduction to Free Will by Thomas Pinkis an excellent introductory read.
Freud, Sigmund (1856 - 1939) 196Austrian neurologist who founded the 'discipline' of psycho-
analysis, incorrectly postulating that sexual drives were the primary motivational drive of human lives.
Friday, Good Religious Christian holiday, calculated as the 14th day after the Paschal full moon
(this date might differ from the actual full moon by 2 days) The Friday is also known as Black, Great,
Holy, Easter, and a 'Holy Day' virtually everywhere in the world.
Fritzlar Small German town 100 miles north of Frankfurt. The city hall, documented from 1109,
can reasonably be argued as the origin of the German empire, as in 704 Saint Boniface cut down Donar
Oak, a sacred site of worship to Thor, to erect a Christian chapel.
Ganges, The 166 A 1500 mile river from the Himalayas flowing south and east through the Gangetic
Plain to empty into the Bay of Bengal, Bangladesh. It subsidises over 400 million people.
Germany cf Dusseldorf, Munich, Fritzlar.
Gilbert and Sullivan 156 Victorian era partnership between librettist W.S Gilbert, and composer
Arthur Sullivan producing 14 comic operas between 1871 and 1896, of which HMS Pinafore, The
Pirates of Penzance, and The Mikado are still commonly performed.
Gibson Les Paul (guitar) 140 Company founded in 1902 by Orville Gibson, originally manufacturing
mandolins, before expanding into acoustic then electric guitars in the '30's. In 1952 introduced its
most famous guitar, the Les Paul solid body guitar.
Golden Mile, The Section of the Great West Road opened in 1925, providing easier access to
central London. Containing many examples of Art Deco architecture, although Firestone, the first
overseas factory built by Firestone in 1928 was deliberately destroyed during a public holiday in
August 1980 to prevent listing. The author worked there for a short period in 1975.

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Golden Slumbers cf Thomas Dekker
Gospel, According to Thomas Rarly Christian Coptic language text, dated to possibly as early
as 50 AD claimed to be written by Didymus (Greek for twin) Judas Thomas (Aramaic for twin)
discovered in Egypt in 1945, composed of 114 sayings attributed to Jesus.
Gregorian Chant The source of all subsequent musical development in Western music, the
monophonic (no harmony) liturgical melodies credited to have been organised and catologued by
Pope Gregory I (or II) from 590 AD onwards, with the first attempts at notation.
Greta Garbo (1905 - 1990) Swedish actress appearing in 27 films, her first talking picture being
Anna Christie (1930). Retired in 1941. Although her famous (mis)quote is from Grand Hotel (1932),
I want to be (left) alone, the inflected use of the word (as in to be) 'alone' is also used in 5 of her
other films.
Half Life cf Uranium 238
Hamlet Influential Tragedy (1599 - 1601) by Shakespeare, from the Scandinavian myth of Amleth.
Over the centuries much debate has centred over Hamlet's indecision to kill his uncle; whether he faced
internal psychological conflicts or that the delay was merely a technical device to prolong the play.
Hari Parbat 107 In legend the abode of Goddess Durga from the 3rd Century BC. Fort near Srinagar
built by Emperor Akbar in 1592.
Harrison, George (1943 - 2001) Founder member of The Beatles (1957 - 1969).
Haydn, Joseph (1732 - 1809) Austrian composer of the classical period, now known as the father
of the symphony, and of the string quartet, and influential in the development of the sonata form.
Friend of Mozart, teacher of Beethoven.
Hemingway, Ernest (1899 - 1961) 71 American writer of several novels, including The Old Man
And The Sea (1952) A Moveable Feast (1960) and short story collections. Won Nobel prize for
literature in 1954. His suicide by shotgun may have been caused by hemochromatosis (inability to
metabolize iron), a genetic trait of the family.
Henley Regatta (1839 - ) 121 Annual rowing competition held annually on the first weekend of
July at Henley on Thames, over a distance of (from 1967) 1 mile and 550 yards.
Hera Greek goddess of women and marriage, wife and one of 3 sisters of Zeus. Etymological
origin of the word may be; e-ra; feminine of Hero(S), Hora, season equalling ripeness. Daughter of

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Rhea and Cronus Often bears a pomegranate, emblem of fertile blood, and death.
Heracle's Choice In Greek mythology a paragon of masculinity, in Rome known as Hercules.
According to the sophist Prodicus, he was visited here by the nymphs Pleasure and Virtue who offered
him a choice of two lives: either comfortable and easy or glorious and brutal. Heracles chose to suffer
to achieve great glory.
Hereford 121 English cathedral city settled upon the River Wye, 16 miles East of Wales, although
Richard the 1st in 1189 described it as in Wales. Turbulent political history with wars with the Welsh
and during the English civil war. The cathedral (1079) contains the Mappa Mundi, a medieval world
map (where North faces East) and the Chained Library. Elgar lived in Hereford between 1904 - 11.
Hexaemeron, The 6 days of creation. Also, charity concert organised by Liszt, commissioning and
composing introduction and one variation (2nd) of the six requested. Chopin and Thalberg were
amongst the other contributors, concert taking place in Paris 31 03 1837 at Princess Cristina's Paris
Salon.
Hierophobia Irrational fear of sacred objects, of priests, of saints.
Himalayas (Sanskrit, abode of snow) 261 Mountain range in Asia, separating the Indian sub-continent
from the Tibetan Plateau, running West to East, from the Indus river valley to the Brahmaputra rivet
valley, a distance of 1491 miles. The collision of the two plates began in the Upper Cretaceous period
about 70 million years ago, where the Indo-Australian plate moving at approx 15 cm per year collided
with the Eurasian Plate. The mountain range prevent Arctic winds blowing south, and and a barrier for
the monsoon winds to travel North. Over the next 10 million years the Indian plate will push 1700 km
further into Asia.
Hindu(ism) The oldest religion, with historical roots in Iron Age Vedic traditions, and now the
3rd largest religion in the world (after Christianity and Islam). Dominant religion of India and Nepal,
with a diverse range of philosophical beliefs, and possibly a billion followers.
Hippocampus 119 Memories are cons/truct/olidat/ed in this part of the brain, and if 'important' to be
stored in the cerebral cortex, by multiple pulses of serotonin to effect protein phosphorylation, in the
creation of new synapses. Curiously, London taxi drivers have a larger hippocampus than the average,
having to store large amounts of spatial information.
Holland Park 170 A 54 acre park in central West London, close to Portobello market, Notting Hill,

In Time Book Two 474

and Kensington.
Holl(e)y Buddy (1936 - 1959) Influential American singer/songwriter whose death in a plane crash
after only 1 years of fame robbed the world of future timeless melodies. The contract signed by
publisher left out the 'e', hence subsequent eternal misspelling.
Holocene 458 Geological epoch which began 10/12 000 years ago The MIS (Marine Isotope Stages)
data of the last 2 1/2million years shows about fifty climate cycles. The earth is currently in an inter-
glacial period of the Quaternary Ice Age with the last glacial period ending 10/12 000 years ago, the
warm gap in time through we humans have stepped.
Howells, Herbert (1892 - 1983) English composer. Studied at Gloucester Cathedral alongside Ivor
Novello. At 17 heard the first performance of Fantasia on a Theme Of Thomas Tallis by R. Vaughan
Williams, to later study at the RCM under Stanford, Parry and Wood. At 23 first person to receive
radium treatment for Graves disease. Godfather to the cellist Julian Lloyd Webber.
Hume, David (1711 - 1776) 252 Scottish philosopher and historian. Known in his time for his 6
volume History of England. Emotions, rather than reason, dictates Man's actions. Reason is .. only a
slave to the passions. Our behaviours can only be induced from our surroundings, there are no
innate ideas, placed there by god(s), and there is nothing underneath our thoughts.
Hungary 206 Central European landlocked (bordered by 7 other countries) country in Carpathian
Basin founded in 9th C by Arpad (845 - 907) whose great grandson was crowned Stephen the First in
1000. This kingdom lasted 946 years. Defeated in the Battle of the Mohacs, 1526. to become part of the
Ottoman empire. After WW1 lost 70% of its territory, Occupied by the Soviets 1947-1989. Opening
the borders to Austria hastened the demolishing of the Berlin wall, and the subsequent collapse of the
Soviet empire.
Hypatia (350/70 - 415) 55 Greek scholar from Alexandria. First woman mathematician. Neoplatonist.
Murdered by a Christian mob blaming her for religious unrest.
I Ching (origins 4th - 3rd century BC) 340 Line; Yang, creative, Split line; Yin. 64 hexagrams to
illustrate continuous change. Originally yarrow sticks, now determined by throwing 3 coin 6 times,
determining, accepting the inevitability of change.
Impressionism 274
Index 459

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India Republic of, 259 7th largest, 2nd most populous, largest democractic country in the world.
Administered from the UK from the mid 19th century, having been formerly controlled by the British
East India Company. Achieved independence in 1947. cf Delhi.
Indian (motor cycle) 165 American motorcycle manufactured between 1910 - 53, before bankruptcy.
During the 1910s, and holding the land speed record (56mph), Indians were the biggest selling bike
in the world, after winning the first three place in the 1911 Isle of Man Tourist Trophy, reaching a
peak in production in 1913 of 32 000. Between 1962 and 1967, Burt Monroe (1899 - 1978) from
New Zealand used a modified 1920s Indian Scout to set a number of land speed records, and on
26st August 1967, at the age of 68, set the land speed for under 1000cc at 183 mph, a record which
still stands today. He was timed to reach 205 mph in a flying mile. These events are romantically
dramatised in the 2005 film The World's Fastest Indian, with Burt played by Anthony Hopkins.
Isabelline 112 Pale grey yellow, fawn colour. First known use of word is of Elizabeth the First's
wardrobe, possibly originating from the 8 month siege (1491) of Granada where Isabella 1 Of Castile
was unable to clean her underwear.
Janus 30The Roman god of gates, receiving the gift of looking forwards and backward, one face for
the rising sun, the other for the setting. From the god Saturn January.
Jesus 59
Jones, Norah (1979 - ) 68 Jazz pianist and singer. Daughter of sitarist Ravi Shankar and dancer
and concert producer Sue Jones.
Jung, Carl (1875 - 1961) 291 Swiss psychiatrist advocating analytical psychology, a process of
individuation integrating the unconscious and conscious. His notion of the collective unconscious
now superceded by research on the brain, that 'archetypes' exist within the neural pathways, in their
transmission via DNA.
Jupiter 400 5th and largest planet in our solar system. 1000 th of mass the Sun but 2.5 times all other
planets combined. The third brightest object in the night sky, after the Moon and Venus. Ganymede,
one of its 63 moons, has a diameter greater than Mercury. 90% Hydrogen, 10% Helium with possibly
a rocky core. It is 318 times as massive as the earth (which can be compared to the Great Red Spot)
but its density is only 1.3 the Earth's. 4th movement of Holst's The Planets; The Bringer of Jollity.
Kant, Emmanuel (1724 - 1804) 237 Born in the isolated but cosmopolitan Northeastern town of

In Time Book Two 476

Konigsberg (three separate provinces united in 1724 to form city), East Prussia (today Kaliningrad,
Russia) of Pietists (a religious movement that emphasised personal bible study and charitable acts
of devotion - poetry and dancing were disapproved of, and card playing considered wicked ((Kant
thought card playing developed the character)), as opposed to the the prevalent Protestant
orthodoxy) parents. An outstanding Latin student (he admired Cicero's style, and thought, later
being influenced by Cicero's moral thinking in the writing of Groundwork), Kant entered
Konisberg University in 1740 (nicknamed 'The Albertina', then still under the religious and
consequently political influence of the Pietists). His first adult work, Thoughts on the True
Estimation of Living Forces, 1744/6, is a curious document; written in German (a dissertation would
be expected to written in Latin) it is probably best read as a reaction against his Pietist lecturers
than as any meaningful discussion of the Liebniz / Newton debate - Konigburg University was not
known for adequate facilities in either physics or astronomy. Became a private teacher after the
death of his father, leaving Konisburg, to return 6 years later in 1754 to receive his doctorate and
become a Magister. Iniatially influened by Hutcheson (ethics and morals), Hume, and Rousseau -
who he regarded as setting him right (with regards to human nature) but was later to criticise the
prolixity of his writing style. He believed that life was divided into 3 sections; at 20, able to reason,
at 40, acquire 'character' (to be distinguished from the word 'personality', which, as every parent
knows even an infant possesses, but meant to be interpreted as a life now lived according to
'maxims' - for example not merely by saying 'Be good', but being good), and also at 40, as defined
by Kant; as far as calculation (to use other human beings for one's own purposes) which in itself
is a curious statement. The final age is of 60. It is curious that Kant's life mirrored his own thoughts
- he was something of a socialite, described as 'elegant', frequenting many dinner parties, but by
1778 did not socialise with students or provide comprehensible lecture notes. With regards to moral
philosophy his thinking now tended towards, maximum of perfection which is called by Plato an
Idea. [ I have always thought such metaphysical notions absurd, that there are perfect Forms
outside reality - it is like asking, 'Were there stars before humans? To which the obvious reply might
(as) well be, 'Well, the word stars didn't exist.'] After several years preparation Kant wrote the
draft for the 1781 publication of the Critique of Pure Reason within a few months, with the
resulting criticism that the work was unreadable (and this was in German). Other criticisms were

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that it was too much in the English tradition of Berkeley and Hume, and in fact incomprehensible
to the greatest majority of the reading public., and therefore of use only to academic philosophers.
In the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, 1785, he develops his idea of the Catergorical
Imperative, the conclusion of which he sums up as; there is nothing in heaven or on earth upon
which it depends or is based.: To be truthful (honest) in all declarations is .. a sacred and
unconditionally commanding law of reason that admits of no expediency whatsoever.
Extremely prolific between 1784-86, producing, apart from the Groundwork, several essays,
the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science, where Kant examines science laws within a
metaphysical rather than a scientific context, and was and remains virtually unread. In 1788,
published Critique of Practical Reason. He supported the French Revolution with excitement,
despite disapproving of active resistance against the State; 'Now let your servant go in peace to his
grave, for I have seen the glory of the world.' but dogmatically, never admitting of the Terror. In
later life (70 onwards ) his views tended towards megalomania, denying of any importance any
other developments in metaphysics from the time of Leibniz and Wolff, apart from his own, and
dismissing the work of Hume, Lambert, (Moses) Mendelssohn. Effectively retired in 1796 due to
age and ill health, but published The Metaphysics of Morals in 1797, a compilation of old lecture
notes, concerning the distinction between (external) duties of justice, juridical and, of more concern
and interest to Kant, (internal) duties of virtue, and ethical concerns. His character flaws included
racial stereotyping; temperamental Italians, that Negroes (like gypsies) have an inherited aversion
to hard labour and will never make good farmers., and a curious aversion to blind people. People
who lack 'civil personality', women, servants, people who hire out their labour (workers) should
also not be allowed to vote. He was curiously accurate in his belief that the solar system formed
from clouds of interstellar gas. The biography by Manfred Kuehn is probably definitive.TE: Kant's
Categorical Imperative implies that you must not lie under any circumstances. When the axeman
breaks into your house and demands to know where the children are, do you honestly tell him,
honestly? TE: After Kant's death his body lay unburied for 16 days. Was this because of Konis-
berg's veneration for the great although incomprehensible scholar, or because the ground was
frozen?
Kashmir 166 Northwestern region of the Indian Subcontinent, administered under the state of Jammu.

In Time Book Two 478

This former princely state under the rule of the Dogras, has been a disputed region since 1947.
Kennedy, John F (1917 - 1963) 35th President of the USA. Author of; While England Slept
(1940) and Profiles in Courage (1955) which won the Pulitzer Prize, but was possibly mostly written
by Kennedy's speech writer Theodore Sorensen.
Kew Bridge (1903) 17 Grade II listed (1983) bridge spanning the river Thames between Kew Green
and Strand on the Green, Chiswick. Previous bridges are dated 1759, and 1789, the current bridge
being 3 times as wide as the former structures. There are 4 enclosed arches on either side, in one of
which the author lived between 1975 -76.
Klein Melanie, (1882 - 1960) 310 Austrian psychoanalyst emigrating to UK in 1926. Worked
extensively with children from 1919. In dispute with Anna Freud from the 1940s about theories.
Klein, Allen (1931 - 2009) 310 American accountant becoming Sam Cooke's music manager in 1963,
renegotiating his contract. Bought a share of the Rolling Stones management contract in 1965, to then
cheat the Stones by setting up a separate company in the US with an identical name (Nanker Phelge),
a legal dispute that lasted 17 years. Managed The Beatles for a short while, against McCartney's
wishes, but saved Apple from going broke by renegotiating contract with EMI. Spent 2 months in jail
in 1979 for tax evasion, for not declaring proceeds of sales of The Concert for Bangla Desh album.
Kodaly, Zoltan (1882 - 1967) Hungarian composer, and collector of folk songs, capturing them on
early phonograph cylinders. Friend and inspirer of Bela Bartok. Now best known as the creator of the
Kodaly method, which uses simple pentatonic melodies, matched with hand gestures, to effectively
educate young children.
Koran 77 The sacred text of Islam, divided into 114 suras (chapters) of unequal length. Muslims
believe that god, over a period of 23 years, revealed the text through the angel Gabriel to Muhammed.
Korsakoff's Syndrome 9 A deficiency of thiamine (vitamin B1) resulting in damage to the thalamus
and consequent neuronal loss. Symptoms include severe memory loss, invented memories (confabul-
ations), lack of self reflection, indifference to surroundings. Causes are normally associated with
alcoholism.
Korsakov, Nikolai Rimsky- (1844 - 1908) 173 Russian composer, master of orchestration. Member of
The Five, which included Glinka. Promoted nationalistic styles although familiar with the Western
tradition. Combined musical career with serving in the Russian navy, ans as inspector of navel bands.

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Scheherazade (p447) is still a standard of the repertoire.
Lady Penelope Puppet character created for children's 60's TV serial Thunderbirds, voiced by
Sylvia Anderson.
Lady of Shalott, The 35 cf. Tennyson, Waterhouse.
Laius, King With Queen Jocasta parents of Oedipus Rex. Athenian tragedy by Sophocles, first
performed c. 429 BC. Myth (mis)appropriated by Freud.
Las Vegas Following annexation from Mexico by the United States in 1855, with the subsequent
unsuccessful attempts at Mormonisation, by 1905 Las Vegas was established as a railway town.
Massive population increase during the 1940's, with scientists developing the atomic bomb. Now
known as a gambling resort, with one of the highest suicide rates in the US. The Hoover Dam is
approx. 35 miles away.
Lazarus 271 From the Gospel according John Chapter 11. Claimed as Jesus's prominent miracle,
in raising Lazarus to life after 4 days of death.
Led Zeppelin (1968 - 1980) 261 Extremely successful English rock band, releasing 9 studio albums,
selling a total of 300 million copies. Disbanded due to drummer John Bonham's death.
Lemmings Small herbivorous non hibernating rodents weighing 30 - 112g living near the Arctic.
The 1958 Disney documentary White Wilderness, which won an academy award, perpetuated the myth
that lemmings leap off cliffs to their suicide. TE: Can you think of any other examples of fabrications
by commercial interests? The creation of a red Santa Claus by Coca Cola (1931 onwards) springs to
mind (and was that inspired from an 1881 illustration by Thomas Nast?).
Lenin, Vladimir (1870 - 1924) 79 Russian communist revolutionary, leader of the Bolsheviks, headed
the Soviet state from 1917 - 1924.
Lennon, John (1940 - 1980) Founder member of The Beatles (1957 - 1969)
Leontovych, Mykola (1877 - 1921) 409 Ukrainian conductor and composer of Shchedryk (trans;
The Generous One, known to the West as; Carol of the Bells), utilising a 4 note ostinato. Murdered in
1921 by Chekist/Soviet agent.
Libet's Delay Benjamin Libet's brain research showed that actions are unconscious, only becom-
ing conscious after second. In 'brain' terms this is an extraordinarily long time; we react instinctively
to a flash of lightning, only moments later able to comprehend, That was a flash of lightning.

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Libniez, Gottfried Wilhelm (1646 - 1716) German philosopher and mathematician, developing
calculus independently of Newton (it is his notation that is used today), and also invented an early
mechanical calculator.
Liszt, Franz (1811 - 1886) 183 Hungarian composer and, having heard the violinist Paganini, inspired
to become a virtuoso pianist. Invented the form of the symphonic poem. Ken Russell's Lisztomania
(1975) is interesting.
Litchenstein Roy (1923 - 1997) 340 American pop artist, copying comic strips.
Llyn Ogwen 157 Picturesque lake near Tryfan mountain, Snowdonia.
Malbork Picturesque small town in northern Poland. Population approx 39 000. Founded in the
13th century by the Teutonic Knights, the town is noted for its Gothic Malbork Castle. cf Nevilleani-
music on YouTube; Our Day Out in Malbork for pleasant views of town.
Malvern, Worcestershire 58 Founded during 11th century by Benedictine monks at the foot of the
highest of the Malvern Hills (although settlements have been found dating back to 1000 BC). Became
known during the 17th - 19th century as a tourist for its beneficial spring waters. Current population
approx 30 000.
Mandalay 337 The 2nd largest city in Myanmar (Burma), with a population of approx 1 million.
Mandaley (p457)is the name of the house in the novel Rebbeca by Daphne du Maurier.
Manila 248 Capital city of the Phillipines, the most densely populated city in the world, with district 6
having a density of 68 266 inhabitants per km2, almost 3 times that of Calcutta, 4 times that of Paris,
4.5 times Shanghai.
Marriage of Figaro, The 68 Inventive comic opera composed by Mozart in 1786 with a libretto
by Da Ponte, from a play by Beaumarchais. Satirising aristocracy initially banned in Vienna, but now a
standard of the repertoire. Curiously it is entirely in major keys, excepting Barbarina's brief aria L'ho
perduta at the beginning of act 4, in F minor.
Marx, Groucho (1890 - 1977) 448 American comedian, a noted wit, making with his brothers, after
an early career in vaudeville, 13 films. Early Queen albums were named after Marx brother films.
Marx, Karl (1818 - 1883) 79 German philosopher, author The Communist Manifesto (1848) and
Capital (1867-1894) Influenced by Hegel's metaphysical dialectical thinking; that out of two conflict-
ing ideas will emerge a (beneficial) synthesis.

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Matisse, Henri (1869 - 1954) French artist, one of the three giants of the 20 th Cent. Originally
regarded as a Fauve (a loose collection of artists known as the wild beasts) His last great works were
the stained glass windows of the Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence (1951).
McCartney, Paul (1942 - ) Founding member of The Beatles (1957 1969).
Medusa 20 Greek mythological monster, beheaded by Perseus, who used the head as a weapon,
eventually gifting to Athena to place upon her shield.
Melody Maker (1926 - 2000) 108 World's oldest weekly music newspaper. For the first few decades
covered jazz, and launched their singles chart in 1958, 6 years after the NME. Merged with NME in
2000.
Messiah, Handel's The 448 Popular oratorio with libretto (taken from King James Bible) by
Charles Jennings, composed in summer of 1741, and premiered in Neal's Music Hall, Dublin 1742
The melody and rhythm often mimicking the meaning of the text in striking originality.
Mercury Dense (2nd only to the Earth in the solar system) 70% metallic innermost planet orbiting
the sun every 88 days, completing 3 rotations about its axis (day) for every 2 orbits around the sun (2
years). Temperatures range from -184 C to 427 C. Early Greek astronomers (4 th century BC) believed it
to be 2 separate planets, one visible at sunrise, Apollo, and one at sunset, Hermes.
Midas. King 140 Greek mythological figure whose blessing and curse was to turn everything he
touched into gold, a blessing awarded by Bacchus to Midas for bringing the drunken satyr Silenus
home. After accidentally turning his daughter into gold he begged Bacchus to relieve him of his curse,
and he washed his hands free in the river Pactolus.
Mona Lisa (La Gioconda 1603 - 6) Now famous, presumably due to its theft early in the 20 th
century, and the resulting publicity, painting by Leonardo da Vinci. Song sung by Nat King Cole for the
1950 movie Captain Corey, and used as title song for 1986 UK film Mona Lisa.
Montmartre Now known for the white-domed Basiilica of the Sacred Heart Montmartre was
originally called Mons Martis, before Christian times, the martyr being Saint Denis, capitated on the
130 meters high hill around 250 AD (and now the patron saint of France). During the early part of the
last century enjoyed a bohemian and decadent aura, the area, and Moulin Rouge, being populated and
visited by Monet, Mondrian, Picasso, Van Gogh and many others. The composer Erik Satie played at
the Le Chat Noir. Charles Aznavour's song, La Boheme, depicts a painter regreting the lost world of his

In Time Book Two 482

youth.
Moon Earth's satellite, formed during a collision between 2 planetoids early in the solar system's
history. It is unique in being so large (Mercury is only slightly larger, diameter 2 976 miles) with a
diameter of 2 160 miles, and at a distance of 240 000 miles stablising and slowing the earth's rotation
(500 million years ago, a day was 21 hours, and a year 410 days), its gravitational pull also effecting
tides, and consequent evolution. cf Mercury.
Morse Code 293 Method of communicating text by on/off dot/dash symbols invented in the 1840's
and simplified by Samuel Morse, to be extensively used from the 1890's. The length of the signal is
inversely proportional to its frequency in language; e . i .. a .- u ..- o ---
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus (1756 - 1791) Prolific Austrian composer, the giant of the Classical
era, composing over 600 works in his brief lifetime. A letter, first published in 1815, purports to the
creative process of Mozart; .. the whole (work), though it be long, stands almost finished and
complete in my mind, so that I can survey it, like a fine picture or a beautiful statue, at a glance ..
committing to paper is done quickly enough, for everything is already finished; and it rarely differs
on paper, from what it was in my imagination. But it is now known the letter is an invention of
Friedrich Rochlitz, the journalist and critic who edited the magazine, thus creating and perpetuating
the Romantic de/il/lusion that has subsisted down the centuries, that music was somehow pure, a
disembodied manifestation, a divine Creation from The Music of the Spheres.
Munich 'By the monk's place.' (Old High German). 3rd largest city in Germany, behind Berlin and
Hamburg, and located on the river Isar. Hosted the Olympics 1972.
Nagin Lake 269 Lake East of Srinagar, offshoot of Dal Lake. At the foothills of Zabarwan mountain.
Narcissus 11 Greek mythological figure, son of a river god and a nymph. Nemesis lured him to the
water to gaze at his own beauty but unable to leave his own reflection died.
Newman, Cardinal John Henry (1801 - 1890) 449 Originally an evangelical Oxford academic and
priest in the Church of England, in 1845 converted to Catholicism. His 1865 poem The Dream of
Gerontius was set to music by Elgar in 1900 as a oratorio.
New Scientist 26 Weekly science magazine founded in 1956. Also prone to irrational fashions.
Newton, Isaac (1642 - 1727) 199 As a teenager exceptionally gifted with practical ingenuity in making
working models, and once considered one of the greatest minds that ever lived, initially due to his half

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niece Catherine's husband John Conduitt's adulatory Memoir of Newton, amended and added to by
Fontenelle in France, becoming the standard biography for over a century. A reappraisal of Newton
began in the 1830s with the Astronomer Royal John Flamsteed's papers becoming public, revealing
Newton's unprincipled behaviour. The alchemical and theological papers were sold off in 1936, and

slowly acquired by JM Keynes (the economist) by 1942. They reveal that Newton attempted to
examine alchemy and theology with the same precision as his work on Opticks (1704), and The
Principia (1684 -7). In theological terms Newton was anti-trinitarian, ridiculing the notion that Christ
was identical with God, believing that early texts were corrupted in the 4th century. (In this view he was
remarkably accurate cf Misquoting Jesus.) In modern times in 1933 Fritz Zwicky calculated that the
stars on the edge of the Coma cluster of galaxies were moving too fast to be constrained by the
gravitational pull of the mass of those galaxies, - their velocities at the 'rim' of galaxies were flat, and
not accelerating. Rather than considering that Newton's calculations only considered the combined
gravitational force of two objects in the small interacting system of the solar system, and might need to
tweaked considering the astronomical forces and quantites involved, research which is termed MOND,
-Modified Newtonian Dynamics, since 1970 a (so far failed, despite an ill-informed PR claim by NASA
in 2006) search has been made for dark matter and dark energy as a force to prevent stars escaping into
space. Even science succumbs to fashions: the Big Bang theory of the origin of the universe will be
proven to be another convenient story; research into plasma cosmology, undertaken by Hannes Alfven
since the '70's, debunks the myth that universe had a beginning, and will have an end.
Nino, El 341 cf El Nino
Nino 45 cf J M Waterhouse
Nobel Prize 186
Noddy 418 Children's character created by Enid Blyton in 1949.
Notre Dame de Paris Built 1163 - 1240's. Probably the best known example of Gothic
architecture. Also known for its purported relics; crown of thorns, a fragment of the cross, a holy nail.
Norwich City on the River Wensum in Norfolk, England. Population approx 195 000. During
the 11th C vied with Bristol to be the 2nd city of England.
Ode To The West Wind cf Shelley
Oedipus 199 cf Laius, King

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Olympic Studios (1966 - 2009) 167 Renowned commercial recording studio moving from central
London to 117 Church Road Barnes in 1966. Clients included The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Jimi
Hendrix, The Who, Led Zeppelin, amongst many, many others. Astonishingly, in 1987, Barbara
Jefferies, then studio manager, instructed that the master tapes of the entire studio's vast, historic library
of recording sessions be discarded into skips outside the building. Perhaps music was not her true
vocation.
Ombrophobia Fear of rain, or being rained upon.
Options cf Black Scholes Model
Ouspensky P D (1878 - 1947) 199 Russian philosopher. Exponent of Gurdjieff's doctrine, from 1915
-1924, bringing the then unknown fakir to a wider audience. The novel The Strange Life of Ivan
Osokin explored the theme of (cf) Eternal Recurrence. Other works include The Fourth Dimension
1909, Tertium Organum 1912 and A New Model of the Universe 1931.

Oxygen Element named by Lavoisier in 1777, discovered by Scheele in 1773 and Priestley in 1774.

Atomic number 8. Readily forms compounds with almost all other elements. 3 rd most abundant
element in universe (but still only 1% of a galaxy; hydrogen 77.5% helium 22%, carbon 0.5%), 5 th of
the volume of our atmosphere. Emitted by cyanobateria, algae and plants during photosynthesis.
Dioxygen (O2) is the common allotrope (variation of). Trioxygen (Ozone, O3) is corrosive at ground
level, but at high altitudes forms an ultraviolet shield.
Pandora's Box 19 In Greek mythology Pandora was the first woman on Earth. Ordered not to open a
large jar given to her curiosity overcame her and she opened the jar to release the evils of the world.
Frightened she closed the jar, trapping Hope. TE: Is, therefore, hope trapped, life hopeless?
Patna 273 Located in Bihar, Pataliputra (trumpet flower) 6th century BC, now named Patna. Located
on the bank of the Ganges one of the oldest inhabited places in the world. Buddha visited.
Paradise Lost 40 Poem by John Milton published in 1674, concerning the Christian myth of the Fall of
Man.
Paris 163 Called Lutetia by the Romans until 361 when it was renamed during the reign of Julian the
Apostate. Settlements date back to 4200BC. The Eiffel tower (1889) was, at 324 metres (1063ft), the
tallest man made structure in the world until surpassed by the Chrysler building in 1930. Notre Dame
Cathedral dates back to 1163. cf Our Day Out in Paris on nevilleanimusic, YouTube for pleasant

In Time Book Two 485

views of city.
Peacehaven Sussex town 6 miles East of Brighton founded by Charles Neville in 1916. The
Prime Greenwich meridian line (0 degrees longitude) passes through it. (The 2 other locations of 0
degrees longitude in the UK are; Boston, Lincolnshire, and Tunstall, Yorkshire).
Pheonix In Greek mythology a bird that is cyclically regenerated or reborn, obtaining new life
by arising from the ashes of its predecessor. Associated with the daily rebirth of the sun. Subse-
quently adopted as a symbol by the early Christian church.
Phillips 443 Auction rooms in London (and other major cities), founded in London by Harry
Phillips, in 1796, after resigning as the senior clerk to his former employers Christies.
Phoneme The smallest segment of a sound used to construct a language that can perceived to
have meaningful contrast; ex; k p m d w. Even these sounds can be pronounced
differently, as in the /k/ sound of 'cat', and 'kit'. These subtle differences are known as allophones.
Pi 199 The ratio of any circle's diameter to its circumference: if the diameter = 1, circumference =
3.1416 It is an irrational (never ending) number.
Pin cushion Katherine > Russell > Nadine > Korsakov> Coralie > Simone > Brian > Russell >
Katherine's grave,
Pinter, Harold (1930 - 2008) 204 English playwright, screenwriter, actor. Plays include The Birthday
Party (1957) The Caretaker (1959) The Homecoming (1964). Also adapted The Servant, The Go
Between The French Lieutenant's woman for cinema. Last acting role was Krapp's Last Tape in
October 2006. Awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2005.
Pistrucci, Benedetto (1783 1855) 71 Italian born, moving to London 1815 employed by the Royal
Mint as an engraver, his portrait of Saint George and the Dragon used on British gold sovereigns and
crowns from 1817 to the present day. Due to internal conflicts at the Royal Mint (amongst which was
the dispute of Pistrucci not being awarded the honour of being designated Chief Engraver due to his
Italian origin) his Waterloo Medal took 33 years to complete, the intended recipients of which by then
had long since died.
Plato (428? - 328 BC) 275 Greek philosopher, founder of the Academy in Athens, student of
Socrates, influenced by his thinking and greatly affected by his execution, mentor of Aristotle.
According to Plato, and following in Pythagoras's footsteps, the universe is made of ideal Forms;

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we cannot see the perfect Form of, say, a horse, but only its reflected idea which can only be uncovered
by reason. His theories are still standard texts.
Plato, Fritz (1858 - 1938) 124 Devised a measuring table in 1900 to express the concentration of
extract (in beer) as a percentage by weight. Accurate to 6 decimal places.
Plimsoll line Instigated (although load lines and regulations date back to 2500 BC) after ever increas-
ing losses of ships due to overloading in the 1860's, by British MP Samuel Plimsoll, indicating the safe
limits a ship may be loaded to, designated by a circle bisected by a horizontal line, becoming law in
1876.
Plotinus (204/5 - 270 AD) 399 In the 3rd C AD rethought Platos ideas in an innovative and original
synthesis, which were influential for centuries afterwards. In his theories there are the three principles:
the One, the Intellect, and the Soul.
Poland A central European country bordered by 7 others. Founded in 966, subsequently
partitioned in 1795 by Prussia, Russia and Austria. Regained independence in 1918, only to be
invaded again by Germany and Russia in WW II. From 1989 known as the 3rd Republic. cf Gdansk,
Poznan, Warsaw.
Polycrates (538 - 522 BC) Greek son of Aeaces, tyrant of Samos.
Post-Impressionism A loose collective of artists; Van Gogh, Gauguin, Seurat, Cezanne, Redon,
and others, who extended Impression by using more extreme colours and styles of painting. This led
to the development of Cubism, Pointillism and other offshoots.
Poulenc, Francis (1899 - 1963) French composer of many genres and member of Les Six.
Described by critic Rostand as half monk, half delinquent. His early lightweight works such as the
piano works Perpetual Motion, capturing the sound of Parisian city life gave way, after wrestling with
homosexuality despite his Catholicism, to the sombre after the death of many close friends to
culminate in the Stabat Mater (1950).
Poznan (trans; one who is known, to recognise) 15 One of the oldest, and now 5th largest city in
Poland, on the Warta river, with a population of around 560 000. The cathedral was the first built in
Poland. cf; nevilleanimusic, Our Day Out In Poznan, on YouTube.
Pre - Cambrian 44 The Cambrian period is defined as about 540 million years ago when hard shelled
animals first appeard in abundance. (Bacteria dating back to 3460 million years has been identified.)

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Since the earth's age is 4500 milliom years old the Pre - Cambrian Supereon comprises 88% of Earth's
geologic time.
Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood 150 Group of English painters poets, founded in 1848 by W H Hunt,
J E Millais, D G Rossetti with the intention of reforming (in their perception) the corruption of art by
the Mannerist artists.
Prisoner, The Iconic 17 episode UK television series devised by Patrick McGoohan and broadcast
between September 1967, and February 1968. Set in the grounds of the picturesque model village of
Portmeirion North Wales. TE: Coincidentally McGoohan died within days of Pinter, yet Pinter's death
received worldwide coverage. Is this because plays are regarded as a higher art form than television?
Proust, Marcel (1871 - 1922) Author of A la recherche du temps perdu. Began in 1909, died
before completion of editing. A study of involuntary memory, describing the vast cultural changes of
his period. This novel takes its name from the last 2 words.
Prometheus 210 Stole fire from the gods (by hiding a flame in a fennel stalk) and brought it to earth to
benefit mankind. The gift of fire brought civilization to mortals:they could cook food, do metalwork,
and make medicines. Zeus, enraged at Prometheus deception, had Kratos (Strength) and Bia (Force)
bind him to a mountain in the Caucasus. There, an eagle swooped down and pecked out his liver each
day. Prometheus, being a Titan (a divine figure whose race reigned supreme before Zeus and the
Olympians took over), did not die. Instead, his liver grew back each night, and he remained in a state of
unbearable torment until the hero Heracles came by and shot the eagle. Prometheus, teacher in every
art, brought the fire to Earth that hath proven to mortals a means to mighty ends.
Pythagoras (570 - 495 BC) 16 Greek philosopher, founder of religious movement, Pythagorean-
ism. Moved to Croton around 530 BC to form sect. Revered as a great mathematician, mystic, scientist.
Discovered that halving the length of a string doubles its frequency.However his history was written
down centuries after he lived. Influenced Plato's thinking, in that the universe can be reduced to
rational, perfect numbers and forms, with the consequence of the mind/body 'debate' that has persisted
down the centuries, that the mind can know more than the senses.
Remora fish A phoretic fish from the family, Echeneidae. The first dorsal fin has evolved to an
oval shaped sucker that can attach the fish to sharks and other marine animals, and occasionally boats.
They may also eat the scraps off, and clean their hosts, and the relationship therefore mutualistic.

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Rhinehart, Luke 78 Pseudonym used, and character created by author George Cockcroft (1932 -)
Author of The Dice Man. cf. Carl Barks, Flipism.
Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai (1844 - 1908) 14 Russian composer, combining this occupation as an
officer in the Russian navy, and as an inspector of navel bands. Influenced by Glinka, fellow member
of The Five. Nationalistic style incorporating folk idioms. Scheherazade, amongst many other pieces,
is still in the standard repertoire.
Ringo, Starr (Richard Starkey) (1940 -) Drummer for The Beatles from 1962.
Risk cf Bernstein, Peter
Roedean (1885 - ) Private girls school set in 118 acres on Sussex cliff top overlooking the sea.
Rolando Fissure 54 A fissure in the brain. cf Sylvian Fissure.
Romford (1177-) 164 Large suburban town 15 miles North East of London in the borough of
Havering. Home of Suburban Base records, and the band, Underworld.
Rondo Alla Turka cf Mozart
Rousseau, Jean Jaques (1712 - 1778) 256 Philosophical writer, signing his work, 'A Citizen of
Geneva.' (A Swiss republic). Also known as a composer. In later life interested in botany. His first
Discourse (On the Arts and Sciences), a heavily plagiarised work, argues that civilization has been
the curse of humanity and that the development of arts and sciences has been accompanied by the
corruption of our morals, that in that imagined time before our manners were rustic but natural,
which somewhat contradicts his own musical and literary interests and ambitions. His novel Emile
is an educational tract on citizenship (although he abandoned his 5 children to an orphanage). Other
works included Confessions, Reveries of a Solitary Walker. Julie, ou la nouvelle Heloise (1761) (an
enormous success, making Rousseau possibly the first celebrity author), Of the Social Contract (1762),
which was later claimed (after the event) to have influenced French and American revolutions. Close
friends, until the late 1750's, with Diderot. Wrote the opera The Village Soothsayer in the 'Italian style'
(in his Letter on French Music (1753), he made the claim that language determined the quality of music
produced - his effigy was hanged in Paris, and in his Confessions Rousseau claimed the French hatred
of him had prevented an earlier revolution) but turned down the offer of the king's (Louis XV) pension
in 1752. Erroneously attributed the expression, Noble Savage (as suavage implies wild as in
flowers), but did deny that morality is a construct of society, thereby disagreeing with Hobbes.

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Royal Academy 154 Independent arts institution in Burlington House, Piccadilly, London, founded by
George III in 1768, with Joshua Reynolds as its first president.
Rubbra, Edmund (1901 - 1986) 443 English composer, student of Holst. Often inverted melodies,
supposedly caused by childhood memories of snow reflecting light upwards from the ground. Inter-
ested and influenced by 'things Eastern'. Played piano for Diaghilev Ballet.
Sams, Eric (1926 - 2004) 424 British musicologist and Shakespeare scholar. His solution to Dora-
bella's Cipher seems far more plausible than others.
Sappho (630?- 570 BC) Greek lyrical poet born on Lesbos, with few surviving fragments of her work.
One of the 9 lyric poets. The first description of the light of the silv'ry moon is attributed to her.
Sartre, Jean Paul (1905 - 1980) 223 French existentialist Marxist philosopher, playwright, novelist.
Influenced by Bergman in his youth. Iron In The Soul is one of Sartre's more famous novels, the third
from the trilogy The Roads to Freedom.
Saturn 400 6th planet from the sun and 2nd largest in solar system, 95 times the size of earth, its core
approx 14 times the mass of the earth. Though, because of its size it is actually less dense than water.
Sidereal period (one rotation around the sun ) 29.5 earth years. Roman god of agriculture and harvest.
Schizophrenia Mental disorder which afflicts approx 1.5% of the global population. Onset
typically occurs in young adults, and research has shown connection between dopamine transmission
and the mesolimbic pathway of the brain (which is associated with reward and desire). Definitions of
the disorder differ from country to country.
Schoenberg, Arnold (1874 - 1951) 49 Austrian composer, leader of the Second Viennese School. In
his early career known for continuing the Romantic traditions of Brahms and Wagner, but later
invented the 12 tone technique (dodecaphony) to break down tonality by giving each pitch an equal
value. His belief that children in the future would be singing 12 tone songs was completely
mistaken. Curiously, he had a fear of the number 13 (triskaidekaphobia) and even changed the name of
his opera Moses and Aron (1932/3) from Moses and Aaron, because the latter title held 13 letters.
Schopenhauer, Arthur (1788 - 1860) German philosopher, author of The World as Will and
Representation. He believed humans were motivated only by desires, and unconscious of our own men-
tal processes and thus are futile, illogical and directionless. His use of the word Will has often been
misunderstood; Kant defines it as the Thing in itself In Buddhism as the Is, the Am Politically

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preferred the lion to fellow rats; monarch to democrat, but agreed with Hobbes on the necessity of the
state.
Schrodinger's Cat 267 Paradoxical thought experiment of 1935 which describes the collapse of the
quantum world when observed: the cat is both alive and dead until the actual act of its observation.
Heisenbergs uncertainty principle of 1927 demonstrates that only one of a pair of properties can be
known; either the exact position of a electron or its velocity. cf Zeno's Arrow paradox (430BC approx);
at an instantaneous moment the arrow has no velocity (potential kinetic energy being undiscovered at
that time), but you know exactly where it is.
Scriblerus, Martinus 317 Pseudonym of John Arbuthnot, Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope used as a
fictional character for satirical works. Approx, 1732 - 1745.
Shakespeare, William (baptised 1564 -1616) 196 England's greatest poet and playwright. The
'fool' Feste in Twelfth Night sang, # When That I Was #
Shalott, The Lady of (1888) Poem by Tennyson, loosely based on the Arthurian legend of Elaine
of Astolat, painted 3 times by Waterhouse (Looking at Lancelot 1894, I am half sick of shadows 1915)
Shankar, Ravi (1920 - 2012) 140 Indian sitarist. As a child dancer toured Europe with his brother, to
study sitar from 1938-1944, director of All India Radio 1949 -1956.Came to prominence due to his
association with violinist Yehudi Menuhin and George Harrison. An affair with Sue Jones led to the
birth of Norah Jones in 1979.
Sharp, Cecil (1859 - 1924) British folk song collector and composer. Emigrated from UK to
Adelaide Australia in 1882. From 1889 gave his career to music. Returned to England 1892. Founded
the English Folk Dance Society. Collected American songs (1916 - 18).
Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792 - 1822) 210 Lyrical Romantic English poet. Known for Ode to the West
Wind, To a Skylark, amongst many others poems. Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein (1818) was
his second wife. Drowned after his boat Don Juan/Ariel sank, possibly rammed, cremated on the beach
but heart removed, to be kept by Mary Shelley, to be buried upon her son's death.
Siddhartha 267 Novel (1922) by Hermann Hesse (1877 - 1962) depicting the spiritual journey of an
Indian man in the time of Buddha. In Sanskrit, siddha (achieving) artha (meaning).
Simenon, Georges (1903 - 1989) 457 Prolific Belgium writer, prone to sexual excess. Moved to
Paris in 1922, America 1945, returned to France in 1955 before settling in Switzerland. Best known

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for his Commissaire Maigret series, of 75 novels and 28 short stories, but also wrote underrated
existentialist and psychological novels.
Simpsons, The (1987 - ) 289 Humorous cartoon series created by Matt Groening. Now the longest
running US scripted TV series in any capacity.
Sisyphus 142 In Greek mythology a king compelled to eternally roll a boulder uphill only to watch
it roll back down.
Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr (1918 - 2008) Russian novelist, awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature
in 1970 for works such as The Gulag Archipelago and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Exiled
from the Soviet Union in 1974, returned to Russia 1994.
Sor, Fernando (1778 - 1839) 434 Spanish guitarist and composer whose pieces, of varying degrees
of complexity. For example Variations on a theme of Mozart Op 9 (1831) introduced the guitar as a
serious instrument. His easier pieces are are still part of the concert repertoire.
Specific gravity AKA relative density. With reference to water; above 1 will sink, below 1 (ice =
0.91) will float.
Strange Life Of Ivan Osokin, The 199 cf Ouspensky
Strawberry Fields 322 An orphanage just around the corner from Menlove Avenue (John Lennon's
Liverpool home), where he used to play as a child.
Srinagar 107 Capital of the Northernmost state of Jammu and Kashmir. The largest city in India
without a Hindu majority, hence political tensions. Known for its beautiful lakes and houseboats.
Summe Is Icumen In (Summer has come in) 443 A 6 part round, composed possibly by W de
Wycombe in a/round 1260 The oldest example of 6 part counterpoint and polyphony existent.
Sydney Opera House 124 Famous arts centre in New South Wales, Australia. Utzon's
competition winning 1957 Expressionist design was finally opened in 1973, 10 years late, and 14
times over budget (the original estimate was A$ 7 million dollars), due the complexity of the design
and persistent technical problems. It is covered with 1,056,006 tiles (the space shuttle is covered
with 20 000 tiles, and are black, not white p 304). Made a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2007.
Sylvian Fissure 54 A fissure in the brain that seperates the frontal lobe and parietal lobe, apparent
from the 14th week of gestation. Also known as the lateral sulcus.
Synchronicity First described by Carl Jung in the 1920s. A very long word for 'coincidence', as

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random events are only given meaning by the observer, in their observation and thinking of the events
observed.
Syncline of Ordovician A gradual transition from sandy through silty to 'clayey' strata.
Geologists will no doubt correct me on my definition.
Tate Gallery (1897 - ) 38 Originally named as the National Gallery of British Art after sugar
merchant Henry Tate's donation in 1889 of 65 contemporary works of art to the government and a
donation of 80 000 towards the building of an adequate gallery.
Tennyson, Alfred Lord (1808 - 1892) 36 Poet Laureate of the UK during Queen Victoria's reign,
often utilising classical mythological themes. A large number of his phrases have entered the English
language; Nature, red in tooth and claw. ..better to have loved and lost.. amongst many others.
Famous poems included The Charge of the Light Brigade, and of course, The Lady of Shalott, of which
there are 2 versions, 1833 and 1842, and set 3 times as paintings by Waterhouse, and also by Hunt and
Rossetti.
Thames, The 32 With a total length of 346 km (215 miles), the Thames is the longest river in
England and the 2nd longest in the United Kingdom (The River Severn is 5 miles longer). It rises at
Gloucestershire, and flows into the North Sea at the Thames Estuary. London only includes a short part
of its course. The river is tidal in London with a rise and fall of 7 metres (23ft), with tides even
reaching up to Teddington Lock.
Thailand Formerly known as Siam, Thailand is a peninsula in Southeast Asia, bordered to the
North by Burma, to the East by Laos and Cambodia, to the South by the Gulf of Thailand and
Malaysia, and to the West by the Andaman Sea, with a population of around 64 million. The King,
having reigned since 1946, is the world's longest serving head of state. The capital and largest city is
Bangkok, which is Thailand's political, commercial, industrial centre. 'Bangkok' also holds the world
record for the longest place name in the world.
Theroux, Paul (1941 - ) American author best known for The Great Railway Bazaar (1975) The
cheap pun is in no way intended as an opinion of the author's work.
Thunderbirds (1965 - 66) 140 32 episodes over 2 series of a hugely successful puppet television
show in the 1960's created by Gerry Anderson. Lady Penelope voiced by Sylvia Anderson.
Time (Common) The broken circle at the beginning of a piece of music is often mistakenly read

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as Common time ; 4 beats to a bar, but the broken circle in in medieval times was known as tempus
imperfectum whereas the full circle represented tempus perfectum 3 beats to the bar, representing the
holy trinity.
Time, Circular A concept that the universe recycles and infinite number of times. In ancient Egypt the
scarab (dung beetle) was a symbol of eternal renewal and reemergence of life. In Greece Empedocles,
Zeno of Citium and the Stoics. cf Eternal Recurrence.
Time, Parmenides (515 - 445 BC) Greek philosopher. To pass from any one state to another you must
through infinitely small steps. But since you can never pass through an infinity of small steps it must be
that time cannot exist. Either that argument is invalid or valid, but since our senses can easily deceive
us Paramenides argues that the argument is valid and therefore; never Becoming, but Being.
Tiresias Greek Myth, blind clairvoyant prophet, changed into a woman for 7 years so was able to
pass (bi)sexual opinions. Blinded by Hera, given the gift of foresight by Zeus.
Trident Studios (1967 - ) 17 Formed by brothers Barry and Norman Sheffield at 17 St Anne's
Court Soho London. Their Trident consoles became the industry standard with many hundreds of
albums recorded there. Trident Audio developments was subsequently formed. The author has and
uses a Trident desk.
Uranium 238 351 The most common isotope found in nature. Can be converted to plutonium -239
(and thereby usable in a nuclear reactor) by capturing a slow neutron. Half life: 4.468 billion years.
Van Gogh, Vincent (1853 - 1890) 155 Dutch Post - Impressionist artist now as famous for slicing
his ear off and making it a gift to a prostitute, his turbulent relationship with Gauguin, his suspected
suicide, as for his artwork which utilised bold, stark colours, and was very influential in the 20 th C.
Venus 450 'Morning Star'. 2nd planet from the sun, its 'year' being 224 days. Closest to earth in
distance, size, and mass, but of a very different composition, covered in opaque clouds of sulfuric acid
with a dense atmosphere (92 times that of the earth) of carbon dioxide, giving a surface temperature
of 462 degrees Celsius, the hottest in the solar system. Unlike Earth, no magnetic field.
Vichy France France during the WWII wartime regime of Marshal Philippe Petain, following the
collapse of France in June 1940 until its liberation in August 1944. Marshal Ptain collaborated with
the German occupying forces in exchange for an agreement not to divide France between the Axis
powers. Despite its pro-Nazi policies, which the Vichy regime endorsed and enacted, much of the

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French public initially supported the new government, seeing it as necessary to maintain a degree of
French autonomy and territorial integrity, but over time opinion turned against the occupying German
forces and resistance to them increased as the war turned towards the Allies favour.
Villa Lobos, Heitor (1887 - 1959) 434 Brazilian composer. Played cello. Now more known for his
guitar Preludes and Studies, having been commissioned by Andres Segovia in the 1920's.
Waiting for Godot (1949) 311 Absurdist play, originally in French (En attendant Godot), by Samuel
Beckett, where two bowler hatted men wait forever for a non appearing Godot. English version, 1955,
directed by Peter Hall, at the Arts Theatre London.
Warsaw 205 Capital and largest city in Poland, situated on the Vistula river, the modern settlement
dating from around 1300. cf nevilleanimusic on YouTube Our Day and Night in Warsaw for
pleasant views of city.
Waterhouse, J M (Nino) (1849 - 1917) 35 Born in Rome of English painter parents. Painter of
classical, historical, and literary subjects. His most famous painting (1888) is The Lady Of Shalott
based upon the poem of the same name by Alfred Lord Tennyson, the existences of which this book
bases its existence.
Webern, Anton (1883 - 1945) 49 Austrian composer of the Second Viennese School. Student of
Schoenberg, disciple of the 12 tone method. Shot in in Salzburg, Austria, breaking curfew whilst
smoking a cigar.
Wengen 59 Picturesque village in central Switzerland. First tourists included Felix Mendelssohn.
Mentioned in Mary and Percy Byshe Shelley's 'History of a Six Weeks Tour', and Byron's 1817
'Manfred' instigated tourism. First ski races were held in the early 1920's.
Williams, Tennessee (1911 - 1983) American playwright. In possible reaction to his sister's
diagnosed schizophrenia and catastrophic pre-frontal lobotomy, and a dependency upon alcohol,
amphetamines, barbiturates, he created such master-works as; The Glass Menagerie (1944), A
Streetcar Name Desire (1947), Cat On A Hot Tin Roof (1955), The Night Of The Iguana (1961)
WRP A Trotskyist political party originally known as The Revoluionary Communist Party. In 1947
voted down the option to join The Labour Party, so a faction led by Gerry Healy joined the LP as The
Club. Now disintergrat/ed/ing into ever smaller factions.
Ying Yang 293 Complimentary opposites contained within a greater whole. cf I Ching

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Zeno (of Citium) Founder of the Stoic school of philosophy; living a life of Virtue in accordance with
Nature, resulting in peace of mind, and 'goodness'.
Zeno (of Elea) (490 - 430 BC) Student of Parmenides, whose philosophy is that all is one.
Paradoxes include; Achielles and the Tortoise, The Arrow.
Zeus Greek god, father of (with Mnemosyne over nine nights) the nine Muses.
Zombies 94 Pointless philosophical thought invention /experiment/debate that contrasts
physicalism, materialism, behaviourism with (existing?) non conscious minds. The 'experiment' is
pointless because if there is no way of detecting Zombies if they act, and feel, and think exactly the
same as anyone else they cannot therefore be classified as 'zombies', different from 'humans'. TE: Are
all humans Zombies?
M'S LIST OF SONGS

# New York New York, Chicago, London Calling, By The Time I Get To Phoenix, 24 Hours From

Tulsa, California Dreaming, Massachusetts, San Francisco, Back Home to Houston,Tulips From
Amsterdam, Paris in the Spring, One Night in Bangkok, From Russia With Love, Arrivaderce Roma,
Cincinnatii Choo Choo, Song For Ireland, Columbia, Sweet Home Alabama, Georgia, Walking in
Memphis, North to Alaska, Oklahoma, Isle of Capri, Rio, Girl From Ipanema, Brighton Rock, Reno,
New York To Monaco, Anarchy In The UK, Woodstock, Chelsea Morning, Ityhcoo Park. In Me
Liverpool Home, Galveston, Dublin In The Rare Old Times, Viva Las Vegas, Las Vegas In The Hills Of
Donegal, The Rose of Tralee, China Doll, Ferry Cross the Mersey #
M's not sung songs: # Walking on the Moon , Fly Me to the Moon , Fireball #

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In Time Book Two 497
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