Penelomarihah smiles again, reassuringly, glad it seems that there is a

memory there, forming, reassembling in my brian. 'Yes. You did it for a living.

For quite some while. Had some hits, remember?' She asks, as if hopeful.

For a living. For a while. Had some hits dismembered, by others.

'Did I write you Love Songs? Penelope?'

She smiles.

Perhaps I did. 'Did I type you love letters, Penelope?'

Her smile fades to puzzlement. 'Yes, but I'm not ...'

'I will - have called you Penelope. '

'O .. K .. ' she answers doubtfully.

 'And I was chained, as I am chained here?'

' .. No ..'

'I am hungry but cannot eat. Would you like this salmon? ' But as I turn the

plate has gone. And Penelomarihah follows my gaze, puzzled, to gaze too at

emptiness. 'I will write you Love Letters.'

'Yes? That will be nice.'

'I am chained in this garage. Alpha. Beta.'

'Can I read some more of what you've written? You've written a lot. Up to

February already, I'm sure. Soon to be Valentine's Day. Do you remember?'

'In my silence. In my sleeps.' February. Cold then. I remember.

14th FEBRUARY: LOVE LETTERS

A. just whAt the hell do you thiNk you're playing at peNElope?! Another

one of your crazy jokes? At least you could have left the manuscript in here as

well. You know very well i've only got a few days to complete and edit it. Surely

you don't have Absence of Delusions!? From that sodding book you were reading!?

B. of course, i won't try and pretend i don't know why you've done this, But ...

can't we talk this oveR? Outside? - like the two reasoNable people WE are? you

kNow I've so much work on, to finish before I reach November 15th ? Can't you

make allowances?

C. i'll slip this under the door, but please, Control yourself, and open it.

didn't realise you were so superficially cHaRmIng, letS Try agaIN lovEr?

D. oh come on, it's been at least two hours. i Don't wAnt to be dogmatic, -
and don't say you didn't read my note - I saW your haNd slip down and take it. I

wasn't really unconscious. It's dark in here, though with coloured lights intermittently

flashing, and strangely hot. As well you know? No doubt. At least pass me the

manuscript?

E. and what about food? arE you going to tell Me you're not going to let Me

eAt? Until I'm outside again? Talk about egocentric!

F. For goodness sake! thIs is ridiculOus, I'm Not your prisoner. just cAuse

you failed to make your own life plans.

G. all riGht All rIght, i am your prisoner, aLl right, I admit it, So you're

stronger than I. You've proved it. Jolly good.

H. it was a cold, wet nigHt, wEt because the rain LEaked through the roof, yes,

I kNow I should have repaired it earlier, but honey ... money? Ah, yes, now you

remember - that's why I needed to finish those songs. I need another big break. The

publishers were ready to give me a fat advance - with my fees I could have paid

someone else to fix the fucking roof.

I. and It was rather clever of you to chain Me here, tO stop me takinG

shElter iN the, my b'looded car, my precious, priceless DB4 not that I could have,

anyway, outside as it is and I don't have the keys. Or perhaps you knew that too?

Anyone would think you wanted me to catch pneumonia. Garages are hardly the

bastions of civilisation, as you no doubt realise. Well, satisfied now? Let me out.

You must know ytor behavious is illegal.

J. Jesus not even some wAter? doN't you realisE that even after a single day

the body begins to rapidly deteriorate if not replenished with liquids? And we're so
near the river, it's so annoying. I can smell the lquids. Judgement day be upon you.

K. quicKly, you mAy be doing unTold harm. So plEase... food and water?

L. yes i know i'm a Little Overweight, but not that much - and how can i

exercise at the moment with the book to finish? and how can i exercise chained here

i can onLy move tIree sTeps. lAckibf space? You certainly worked it out didn't you?

I can't even reach the window. I know it's just a silly game, like the one we used to

play when we were livers - not that we're not lpvers now, of course - like throwing

those coins, to decide what to do, but ... I'm having to pee in the cotmer. I don't want

to vatch anything. Please let me out, hm, honey How come you lying to me like that?

You lack any moral sense?

M. why the fuck don't you answer Me when i shout At you? i know you'Re

tHere lIstening just out of sight. i know you're there - why is it you reAd my neatly
typewritten notes, but ignore my voice? Some subtle irony there? I know you're the

one. Didn't I marihah?

N. a vicious retrobutioN? AnD IN hEre it's getting hot.

O. gOD, you tImed it weLl, didn't you? as soon as the nEighbours opposite

left for their two weeks annual holiday, the fat woman taking her oboe, thank god,

there you were, luring me into the garage to listen to imaginary burglars next door.

'I think I can hear movements in the next house. I think Freedman needs freeing.'

you said. Very clever. I'll use the idea in one of my lyrics. Now I need freeing. Not

that you've legt me enough paper to do any work of course. You thought that out too,

eh? I want some food, and I want some water I want them now. I want some food

and water now!

 P. what i can't work out is, how you

managed to lift this comPuter, monitor And keyboard downstairs to the garafe yoU

couLdn't have managed It aoNE, so .., who did you get to help you? Who would help

you? You've got no friends, no private social life You'd admit that - it's always been a

none of contention between us, that you should get out more, if only to let me get on

with my wirk. I want to reed Plauto, as he's alwayss so logical. So who was it, eh?

Q. yiiou Qill be glAd to kMow I fe;; down today the first visible indicatioR of

mAlnutition.

r. of couRse, i nAw suppose you wont be satisified until you've a Copse

on your HAnds, or until i am too wErk to hit you when i im reLeaded - not that 1

would, I hasten to add - you know i love you. perhaps it was your cabbzzy erratic

driving behaviour that made me marry you in the first place. Do you remember the

crazy things reckless we did when we were jung? Like climbing up limpposts after a

night in the pub? Such reckless behaviour. Or the way we threw cales across that

cage and that old ladysaid 'thibk of the starving minions in Biafra.' And we said,

'Fax! the starving millions of Biafra!!!!!!!. A think we did it to see her face really,

SSSSS> But it waSn't so long ago, was it? I sUpposE, in a way, this is just

another example, of the games we used to play. Int eh sensations of out social sex

life.

T. buT pkeAse kove, qater? My brIan hhirtta.

U. how calloUs you are, to now nkock the Light off through the window A nd

to ignore me as you did so. You couldn't bear to face me, could you ?/, to turn down
and look at me? Guilt pangs/What's gone wring in our marriage? Sure I've been busy

lately, and I haven't been able to talk to you tooo much, but as rve said before, can't

you make allowances? And I thought you were koking when you kept asking me for

love letters 'You're a songqtiter,' you said, 'then qqqtite me some love songs' Sure

I'm sorry I didn't. I suppose I could nown as I couldn't possibly finish the

manyscriopt anyway by tomorrow.. Shall I tyuipe one out? Will that make you release

me? Love?

V. day three, despite your attempts to Vut out Any Light whatsoEveR I can still

tEll I can still tell ewe\threi it s day aor night - theres a chink of light under the farage

door. I suppsoe you want me to star making marks on the wall to start countign the

dyas/ liekl they did in concentration camps./ But you can rets addured that theyweer

not as cruel as you - they at least provided the oiccasoinal liquid replenshiment. But

the I suppose the |ge bven convenie ,,tions doesn;ty appluy to you, in thsi civilide

neck oif the woods. I IMAGINTTH you hasvenm;'e evern herd pof the Geneca

vonmention.

W. MY DEAR L;ADY I wOULD

VeRT nUCH APPRECIATE A GLAdS OF WAyER (DARE i SUGGEST TEA>)AND

A SMALL MORSEL OF VBRREAD 0with dare ai suggest btutuuer<0 not reliable

now, much work>

X. my baXk is stiff the gfround is hard. who'E ever heard of a

writer being chaiNed to a typewrIter? A nd who's ever heard of a typewrite being

chained to a wall> And sa good job you'v edone there/ Funny how you maneaged to

rais ehte money to install this brass ring in the concrete wall. when at the moment
money is so tigbht. I can';t help but conclusde you have a secreta admirere\. Love

don't you realise i scould die? Darling water plareas.

Y day seven> i Yhingk/of cour

sE i shoudn;t have mentioned the light should i? as you prompltyl wemt off amd

sealed the garage door/ it starvatyioon doesn;t get me or the rats (inot quite

imaginanry any,more) suffocation will/ did you see that?my first spellling mistake??

love I'm weak, VAn;t you seeI';m reakly bad. Soon I won;t be able to typr anymore

is that wheat you want? Fod are you bling ) I cpould die/ Very stuffy And vreathing is

fdifficult My arms is stiff anmd white. I think this make shift handcuff of yours had

cut into myu wrist.

Z it is nOw very difficult to stand up and type your nortEs.,Listen. I'm very

sorry about all that had happemend I'm sorry - I do love you einsptte of everything.

And I know you want me to write you a love letter. I'll try Ireally will I'll write in a

minute. Ineetopliedo- wn virst. Need to revc

And the next time time Penelope is to come I will give her my Love Letters,

and she will murmur appreciatively, 'Oh ...' as she takes the given papers torn from

my diary to smile (and does she smile doubtfully, that question mark not yet written)

'.. thanks'. At home she will smile again as she puts down the papers; yes, Saint

probably felt like he was a prisoner in his bed, chained to those monitors, feeling the

need to write. Well, those machines were keeping him alive, so he should be thankful,

and the writing can, might help to pass t/his time. As the good Doctor Robert
suggested. She will read the story and simultaneously make itemised notes on her

pad, a habit now rendered unconsciously easy with her years of experience. She

didn't even need to read her own words, to correct the spacing or check her spelling;

they seemed to fall effortlessly ordered and assembled, thoughts already structured

into a literate form by experience. Perhaps she had something to thank Brain - Brian!

for after all.

His earlier criticisms, in the early days of their marriage, she had misinterpre-

ted as a criticism of herself, not of her literary technique, of her analysis of others'

texts. It had taken her a while to realise her mistake; he had only been helping her,

as a piano teacher might guide a pupil to recognise the difference between the minor,

and major, and demonstrate by murmuring, singing quietly (and she was sure Russell

had once hummed the melody to her) # .. how strange the change from major .. to

minor .. # or a wise lecturer, or a mentor, or a kind of father figure, might point a

student in the direction of his (or her) not necessarily professional calling, by the

casual passing comment, Say 'Yes.' , or, You'd like her. (or Him.)

And she had first said she wanted to be a journalist, of sorts, to Brian, and not,

after all, Chomiac (and she did find it puzzling now, in those idle moments of

retrospection, why she had not initially asked Chomiac, although she remembered

Russell mentioning that Chomiac had been a musician first, a pianist, was that right,

before he became a journalist? - she didn't remember him ever playing anything to

her), in a moment of idle courting chit-chat. But Brain - Brian! had taken her words

seriously, and she had later confused the two, the emotional and the intellectual.

Brain - Brian! for fuck's sake! - was always able to keep things separate; everything
had their little boxes. Perhaps all men were like that. But what of the story? If you

could call it a story. More of an alphabet of .. ? Penelope couldn't help but notice the

occasional girls names not really hidden within, and the strange psychological

references spattered (or was it splattered?) about. Love Letters had amused her;

perhaps her corrupted name being used was an obvious Transference of Affection

(wasn't that also somewhere in the text?), and to be expected, as a gesture of their

friendship (and now she knew the terminology, since she had found the expression

only last night in one of the books upon the bookshelves, since she had had to

reluctantly impersonate a psycho-something), but the story was evidently of, and by,

someone who wanted to be a writer - was that Saint's idea of wish fulfilment? She

thought Freud would have approved. Not that she knew, or cared, anything about

Freud. Apart from being a good story teller, according to ... Brian. She liked the

alphabetic lettering of the paragraphs, a simple device she thought, but a clever ...

pun? No, that wasn't the word, but neither was the word acronym either - that

disintegration via the letters into unconsciousness, and death. Perhaps Saint felt

really imprisoned. Very probably, what with all those wires attached to him. Yes,

Penelope would want her husband to read the story. Of course she couldn't tell him

the name of the author, not yet anyway, for the photographs were not yet sold, and

was there professional discretion?, or was it, privacy?, but she would eventually

want his opinion. Soon enough. She liked the story (but then she would, wouldn't

she, she thought, having in a curious sense been inversely flattered, that a story had

been written about, and for, her), but would he? She decided to leave the sheets of
paper in view, somewhere out in their bedroom, but in not too obvious a place.

Obviously not the closet - seemed to have lost interest in going in there recently

since (he claimed) the telescope had lost its focus (?). If he found them of interest

he would mention them, and of course Brain - Brian!- being ... Brian! for god's sake!

- he would know she had left them out deliberately, and he would be intrigued as to

why. But as she placed the papers upon the desk next to the computer she noticed

the keyboard. There was this curious compulsion to stop and stare, as if somewhere

within the(se) letters there lay unrevealed patterns, waiting to be recognised. She

knew the keyboard had been originally designed to slow the typists down, for the

mechanisms of old times were inefficient, and liable to jam, but the qwertyuiop

layout had remained unchanged, to be inefficiently passed down through the

generations, as if a genetic aberration might be passed down through the (now)

centuries, but no, that wasn't it. She made a cursory inspection of the title page to

ensure that the top page was indeed the numerated 14th Feb, then flattened, and

flicked through this alphabet. There was curious fact in L, where the first mistakes in

spelling were made; three had been spelt tIree (which she had at first thought

might be a very obscure Irish joke), lovers had been spelt livers, then lpters,

and corner, cotmer. It was strange because Love Letters were all hand written

torn out diary pages and yet the mistakes were as you would make on a keyboard,

by pressing accidentally the next key. Excepting tIree No, she still didn't get that

joke. And how could he know that? It was impossible to do that, in your head. And

it was funny how the brian - brain! - could do this; make sense from mixed up words,

that, sometimes, only the first and last letter had to be in the correct order - it was as
if the .. brain - yes, finally the right word! - could take in blocks of squiggles and

reduced them to meaning. She wondered what Brian - Finally, Brian! would make

of that. That mispronunciation of his name had becoming really irritating she thought.

Where had it come from? And then, as she read the love letters alphabet again, she

found it curious that is sounded - real - as if it were their house; their garage, their

car. But if it were all true, what a promiscuous bastard.