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Authors: Alastair Bruce
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of me and Rachel, but I find my home address, my work address, both my and Rachel’s email addresses and a copy of my degree certificate. I pull out an invitation to Rachel’s thirtieth birthday party.
It was in our flat. At three in the morning, drunk on our bed after everyone had left. My fingers in her mouth. She had had a cigarette, her last. The taste of it turned me on even more.
When I think of this now, my gaze shifts from the couple on the bed to the corner of the room. Sitting in the chair in the dark, a man, his face invisible. I see him – as if he is real.
The watching. I wonder how long it went on for, how much they knew, how closely I was kept under surveillance. There is a copy of my degree certificate, but were they watching me then or did they get hold of it only recently? Somehow I know the answer. It makes sense. Since leaving, I have never been out of sight, save perhaps for a few months in the beginning. First my father, then Peter, kept watch over me. Why? Did they think they could know me by doing that? Get to the truth of me, the real me?
Perhaps they did. Perhaps they found out what they needed to know. Were they proud of what I achieved? Or perhaps they saw everything presented to them as a lie, some story painted by an amateur detective, and me, the main character, a charlatan, acting for an audience of two. Perhaps they thought that. I will never know.
These cameras in the house, I find myself thinking, somehow meant for me, some sort of lesson or communication.
In a small linen bag I find a watch. On the back a date, then my father’s and mother’s initials: 2 July 1980. NRH. SGH. Their tenth wedding anniversary. Rachel and I were married on the same date in 2009. It would have been their thirty-ninth anniversary. I have never thought of this until now. Coincidence. I try to remember if I suggested the date or Rachel.
She would have been pleased to know the significance of the date, I know that. It would have made her happy – more happy. Too late.
The watch has the right time on it, though the date has not moved correctly into place. It shows half a six and half a seven. I take off my own and put this on instead. There is a crease in the leather where it has sat in the buckle over the years. I do it up to there and it sits perfectly on my wrist. I wonder if Peter wore it as well as my father.
The contents of the second drawer are mostly rubbish. There are drawing pins, rubber bands, a pair of earphones, the wires frayed. The ordinariness of it. What did he buy drawing pins for? What music did he listen to, if it was music? Perhaps they were bought to listen to meditation tapes. Unlikely. Perhaps his investigator sent a sound recording along with the photograph and the addresses: a recording of the wedding; or, a recording of me asleep, Rachel too.
I think I might find more: my parents’ wedding rings, the jewellery my mother used to wear – but there is nothing. There is no safe in the house, it seems. He may have sold the jewellery as he appears to have sold most of the furniture and other belongings. It may have been my father, of course. I imagine him alone in this house. He was always a quiet man, kept to himself, even with his children. But this is too quiet. Too much silence for one man. Five bedrooms, one person. They must have seemed emptier, larger, for the knowledge they used to be filled. Then, him and one other: a grown-up son. Better or worse? The son a constant reminder – another reminder – of what was lost.
Why did he keep the house? The past is baked into the walls. If I stripped away the paint, the coats that I applied and my brother and father must have applied, shadows, scents would be released. The more I strip away, the more the house fills with them, layer upon layer, sifting in the breeze.
At the bottom of the drawer is a brown envelope. There is no writing on the outside. Inside I find more photographs and another envelope, this one sealed. There
It was in our flat. At three in the morning, drunk on our bed after everyone had left. My fingers in her mouth. She had had a cigarette, her last. The taste of it turned me on even more.
When I think of this now, my gaze shifts from the couple on the bed to the corner of the room. Sitting in the chair in the dark, a man, his face invisible. I see him – as if he is real.
The watching. I wonder how long it went on for, how much they knew, how closely I was kept under surveillance. There is a copy of my degree certificate, but were they watching me then or did they get hold of it only recently? Somehow I know the answer. It makes sense. Since leaving, I have never been out of sight, save perhaps for a few months in the beginning. First my father, then Peter, kept watch over me. Why? Did they think they could know me by doing that? Get to the truth of me, the real me?
Perhaps they did. Perhaps they found out what they needed to know. Were they proud of what I achieved? Or perhaps they saw everything presented to them as a lie, some story painted by an amateur detective, and me, the main character, a charlatan, acting for an audience of two. Perhaps they thought that. I will never know.
These cameras in the house, I find myself thinking, somehow meant for me, some sort of lesson or communication.
In a small linen bag I find a watch. On the back a date, then my father’s and mother’s initials: 2 July 1980. NRH. SGH. Their tenth wedding anniversary. Rachel and I were married on the same date in 2009. It would have been their thirty-ninth anniversary. I have never thought of this until now. Coincidence. I try to remember if I suggested the date or Rachel.
She would have been pleased to know the significance of the date, I know that. It would have made her happy – more happy. Too late.
The watch has the right time on it, though the date has not moved correctly into place. It shows half a six and half a seven. I take off my own and put this on instead. There is a crease in the leather where it has sat in the buckle over the years. I do it up to there and it sits perfectly on my wrist. I wonder if Peter wore it as well as my father.
The contents of the second drawer are mostly rubbish. There are drawing pins, rubber bands, a pair of earphones, the wires frayed. The ordinariness of it. What did he buy drawing pins for? What music did he listen to, if it was music? Perhaps they were bought to listen to meditation tapes. Unlikely. Perhaps his investigator sent a sound recording along with the photograph and the addresses: a recording of the wedding; or, a recording of me asleep, Rachel too.
I think I might find more: my parents’ wedding rings, the jewellery my mother used to wear – but there is nothing. There is no safe in the house, it seems. He may have sold the jewellery as he appears to have sold most of the furniture and other belongings. It may have been my father, of course. I imagine him alone in this house. He was always a quiet man, kept to himself, even with his children. But this is too quiet. Too much silence for one man. Five bedrooms, one person. They must have seemed emptier, larger, for the knowledge they used to be filled. Then, him and one other: a grown-up son. Better or worse? The son a constant reminder – another reminder – of what was lost.
Why did he keep the house? The past is baked into the walls. If I stripped away the paint, the coats that I applied and my brother and father must have applied, shadows, scents would be released. The more I strip away, the more the house fills with them, layer upon layer, sifting in the breeze.
At the bottom of the drawer is a brown envelope. There is no writing on the outside. Inside I find more photographs and another envelope, this one sealed. There
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