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Authors: David Ambrose
Tags: Science-Fiction
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motions but not connecting with
the world around me.
I shaved, dressed, and made coffee. When Sara came into the kitchen, I had breakfast ready. She looked at me curiously, almost
distrustfully, as though she feared some hidden motive behind my calmness. I reassured her that everything was going to be
all right, that I was fine, although in fact I felt like I were bleeding to death inside.
She looked at her watch and said her cab would be arriving any second. Rauol had the weekends off unless we wanted him for
something particularly important, and she had no wish to go by road to Philadelphia, so she was going by train and had ordered
a cab to take her to the station. It was raining, so I went down with her, carrying an umbrella.
I stood there watching as her cab disappeared into the traffic. As she, Sara, disappeared. From my life. Forever. It was then
that I felt for the first time a sense of panic. But it passed. I mastered it. I kept telling myself that I had to stay in
control, that I couldn’t afford not to. Because if I lost control, anything might happen.
The mailman was emerging as I went back into the lobby—the lobby of what had been
our
building, I remember thinking, but was now
her
building. I had my key ring so I opened the box. There were half a dozen letters for Sara, a couple of things for me. One
of them was a long white envelope that bore the name of the detective agency I’d visited the previous week. I opened it right
away and read it in the elevator. When I reached my floor, the doors had opened and closed again before I moved.
I didn’t understand what had just happened to me. Not just that the elevator was moving again. It was what I read, and now
read again, that had stunned me.
Dear Mr. Daly,
I write to inform you of the conclusion of the recent inquiry you commissioned this office to undertake on your behalf.
Records in the United Kingdom show both Jeffrey Hart and Lauren Paige to be deceased, she in 1978, he in 1984. Further inquiry
has established that their only living relative is a son, Laurence Jeffrey Hart. Mr. Hart is an author and journalist living
in Manhattan. His address came to us as something of a surprise.
Perhaps you may be able to throw some light on this coincidence.
The address given for Larry Hart was my own.
Chapter 11
N o matter how many times I reread it, it didn’t change. Nor did the phone number. They had written a letter to me at my address,
telling me that the man I was looking for lived there.
But there was no man at my address apart from myself. Nobody who, for example, could have been living under a false identity.
It made no sense.
I became aware that the elevator had stopped again, and saw I was back on my floor. I stepped into the corridor and sleepwalked
to the apartment, then stood looking out over the park, my head spinning.
Was it a joke of some kind? If so, whose?
Instinctively I picked up the phone to call the agency before remembering it was Saturday. I dialed all the same in case there
was somebody there or an emergency number. All I got was an answering machine, with nothing to indicate when messages would
be picked up. I asked that someone call me as soon as possible.
I looked at the envelope. The letter had been posted yesterday, Friday. Why hadn’t they called me? Didn’t they foresee how
great a shock this information would be to me? Didn’t it occur to them that I might need to talk about it? Or did they think
I was simply some kind of crackpot who should be kept at arm’s length? They enclosed an account of their fees and expenses,
which they said were covered by the retainer I’d paid. It wasn’t a lot of money. At the same time they listed all the other
services they could provide or advise on, including insurance and finance generally. Maybe they hoped to do more business.
If so, they were going about it the wrong way. I intended to let them know that I was unhappy and angry
the world around me.
I shaved, dressed, and made coffee. When Sara came into the kitchen, I had breakfast ready. She looked at me curiously, almost
distrustfully, as though she feared some hidden motive behind my calmness. I reassured her that everything was going to be
all right, that I was fine, although in fact I felt like I were bleeding to death inside.
She looked at her watch and said her cab would be arriving any second. Rauol had the weekends off unless we wanted him for
something particularly important, and she had no wish to go by road to Philadelphia, so she was going by train and had ordered
a cab to take her to the station. It was raining, so I went down with her, carrying an umbrella.
I stood there watching as her cab disappeared into the traffic. As she, Sara, disappeared. From my life. Forever. It was then
that I felt for the first time a sense of panic. But it passed. I mastered it. I kept telling myself that I had to stay in
control, that I couldn’t afford not to. Because if I lost control, anything might happen.
The mailman was emerging as I went back into the lobby—the lobby of what had been
our
building, I remember thinking, but was now
her
building. I had my key ring so I opened the box. There were half a dozen letters for Sara, a couple of things for me. One
of them was a long white envelope that bore the name of the detective agency I’d visited the previous week. I opened it right
away and read it in the elevator. When I reached my floor, the doors had opened and closed again before I moved.
I didn’t understand what had just happened to me. Not just that the elevator was moving again. It was what I read, and now
read again, that had stunned me.
Dear Mr. Daly,
I write to inform you of the conclusion of the recent inquiry you commissioned this office to undertake on your behalf.
Records in the United Kingdom show both Jeffrey Hart and Lauren Paige to be deceased, she in 1978, he in 1984. Further inquiry
has established that their only living relative is a son, Laurence Jeffrey Hart. Mr. Hart is an author and journalist living
in Manhattan. His address came to us as something of a surprise.
Perhaps you may be able to throw some light on this coincidence.
The address given for Larry Hart was my own.
Chapter 11
N o matter how many times I reread it, it didn’t change. Nor did the phone number. They had written a letter to me at my address,
telling me that the man I was looking for lived there.
But there was no man at my address apart from myself. Nobody who, for example, could have been living under a false identity.
It made no sense.
I became aware that the elevator had stopped again, and saw I was back on my floor. I stepped into the corridor and sleepwalked
to the apartment, then stood looking out over the park, my head spinning.
Was it a joke of some kind? If so, whose?
Instinctively I picked up the phone to call the agency before remembering it was Saturday. I dialed all the same in case there
was somebody there or an emergency number. All I got was an answering machine, with nothing to indicate when messages would
be picked up. I asked that someone call me as soon as possible.
I looked at the envelope. The letter had been posted yesterday, Friday. Why hadn’t they called me? Didn’t they foresee how
great a shock this information would be to me? Didn’t it occur to them that I might need to talk about it? Or did they think
I was simply some kind of crackpot who should be kept at arm’s length? They enclosed an account of their fees and expenses,
which they said were covered by the retainer I’d paid. It wasn’t a lot of money. At the same time they listed all the other
services they could provide or advise on, including insurance and finance generally. Maybe they hoped to do more business.
If so, they were going about it the wrong way. I intended to let them know that I was unhappy and angry
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