busy road: a rushing metal river he didn’t care to step in once, let alone twice.
She had lived for two days. This was not precisely right. The quick, the true, the ugly fact was, she had not died for two days. Which was when Tim, who had not slept during that period, gave permission for the machine to be turned off: the machine being all that was keeping Emma breathing, though in his stricken exhausted mind, the machine was Emma by then; he was giving them permission to switch Emma off. And afterwards, he slept.
‘There is no sense in which you are responsible for her death. None at all.’
‘I know.’
‘She had the bad luck to be on the same stretch of road as a drunken –’
‘I know.’
These were the words of friends, and were meant to help.
‘There was no chance of recovery. It wasn’t that it was the kindest thing to do, it was the only thing to do.’
Consolation, though, wore off. People trod round him on eggshell feet, then gradually normalized, as if his own rate of recovery were somehow equivalent to theirs.
But there was no way of measuring the speed he was moving at. And as for time, it was ever-divisible. Even seconds broke down into smaller units, which frequently snagged on events like a loose thread – pauses in conversation seemed to last for days. Responses had once come automatically. Now he had to sift everything twice: what had been said, the available replies, which he should choose . . . Grief was slow-motion. This was what was meant by funereal pace.
And because there was so much of it, time was impossible to ignore. Clockwatching became obsession. It was as if he weren’t just passing time but accumulating it: one more thing he had to carry through the day. What would he do with all this time he was gathering? He’d find some way of killing it . . . Work became purgatory. He had always enjoyed his job, or more accurately, had enjoyed the knowledge that he was useful; that he could garner a salary for the time spent doing it. Now, it was barely credible they still paid him. What was it he did, exactly? There was a shop, and it sold electrical goods. Part of a nationwide chain, with a turnover in the mid-millions. Twelve staff under him; more at weekends; and God only knew how many above, when you took the national hierarchy into account. Once, he’d seen himself climbing this pyramid – but then once, he’d been good at what he did. Once, he’d been on first-name terms with his staff, even the Saturday part-timers. Lately, he kept forgetting what Jean was called. Once, he’d filled the store: it was his territory, and everybody breathing was a potential customer. Now, he’d become two-dimensional: he took up space, and wasted time.
Time, which passed so slowly.
A horn sounded somewhere behind him, and he came back to the present, looked at his watch. It would be lunchtime within the hour. He’d better return to his desk.
Where he dealt with invoices; returned a phone call; fended off Jean, who had logged his temporary absence: ‘Are you sure you’re –?’
‘I’m fine.’
She looked doubtful.
‘I’ll be taking a day’s leave tomorrow. Wednesday. Could you put that on the roster, please?’
‘Doing anything nice?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he said, ‘Will you close the door? I need to make a phone call.’
So that was that.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright . . .
And that was something else that popped into his mind every time he recalled that evening. The line, of course, he remembered from school: Tyger, tyger his textbook had read. There was more to poetry than spelling. Blake had been the poet’s name, and still was, because fame was a kind of antidote to death – your name lived on. But only kind of, because you were still dead. He didn’t know why it kept ringing in his head, and could only imagine that it was his brain’s way of preserving a memory he didn’t know he had – her name was Katrina. Her name was Katrina Blake .
It was not
She had lived for two days. This was not precisely right. The quick, the true, the ugly fact was, she had not died for two days. Which was when Tim, who had not slept during that period, gave permission for the machine to be turned off: the machine being all that was keeping Emma breathing, though in his stricken exhausted mind, the machine was Emma by then; he was giving them permission to switch Emma off. And afterwards, he slept.
‘There is no sense in which you are responsible for her death. None at all.’
‘I know.’
‘She had the bad luck to be on the same stretch of road as a drunken –’
‘I know.’
These were the words of friends, and were meant to help.
‘There was no chance of recovery. It wasn’t that it was the kindest thing to do, it was the only thing to do.’
Consolation, though, wore off. People trod round him on eggshell feet, then gradually normalized, as if his own rate of recovery were somehow equivalent to theirs.
But there was no way of measuring the speed he was moving at. And as for time, it was ever-divisible. Even seconds broke down into smaller units, which frequently snagged on events like a loose thread – pauses in conversation seemed to last for days. Responses had once come automatically. Now he had to sift everything twice: what had been said, the available replies, which he should choose . . . Grief was slow-motion. This was what was meant by funereal pace.
And because there was so much of it, time was impossible to ignore. Clockwatching became obsession. It was as if he weren’t just passing time but accumulating it: one more thing he had to carry through the day. What would he do with all this time he was gathering? He’d find some way of killing it . . . Work became purgatory. He had always enjoyed his job, or more accurately, had enjoyed the knowledge that he was useful; that he could garner a salary for the time spent doing it. Now, it was barely credible they still paid him. What was it he did, exactly? There was a shop, and it sold electrical goods. Part of a nationwide chain, with a turnover in the mid-millions. Twelve staff under him; more at weekends; and God only knew how many above, when you took the national hierarchy into account. Once, he’d seen himself climbing this pyramid – but then once, he’d been good at what he did. Once, he’d been on first-name terms with his staff, even the Saturday part-timers. Lately, he kept forgetting what Jean was called. Once, he’d filled the store: it was his territory, and everybody breathing was a potential customer. Now, he’d become two-dimensional: he took up space, and wasted time.
Time, which passed so slowly.
A horn sounded somewhere behind him, and he came back to the present, looked at his watch. It would be lunchtime within the hour. He’d better return to his desk.
Where he dealt with invoices; returned a phone call; fended off Jean, who had logged his temporary absence: ‘Are you sure you’re –?’
‘I’m fine.’
She looked doubtful.
‘I’ll be taking a day’s leave tomorrow. Wednesday. Could you put that on the roster, please?’
‘Doing anything nice?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he said, ‘Will you close the door? I need to make a phone call.’
So that was that.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright . . .
And that was something else that popped into his mind every time he recalled that evening. The line, of course, he remembered from school: Tyger, tyger his textbook had read. There was more to poetry than spelling. Blake had been the poet’s name, and still was, because fame was a kind of antidote to death – your name lived on. But only kind of, because you were still dead. He didn’t know why it kept ringing in his head, and could only imagine that it was his brain’s way of preserving a memory he didn’t know he had – her name was Katrina. Her name was Katrina Blake .
It was not
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