Unsettled.
But by eight thirty Kai and Jasmine are on the school bus and she is gone from the house with the dogs and Romaine and there is no sign of him. The studio is still and silent, as though there is no one in there at all.
Derry looks at her curiously at the school gates, which are only just being unlocked by the caretaker. ‘You’re early,’ she says. ‘And . . .’ She peers more closely at her, ‘. . . you’re wearing make-up.’
‘Whatevs,’ says Alice.
‘What’s going on?’
‘The man came in,’ says Romaine. ‘The wet man from the beach.’
Alice rolls her eyes. ‘He didn’t come in ,’ she corrects. ‘I asked him in. To dry off. To have a bath, something to eat. I’m pretty sure he’s already gone.’
But when she gets home forty minutes later the curtains are pulled open in the studio and she can see movement inside. She rubs the dirty puddle speckles from the dogs with an old towel, checks her reflection briefly and switches on the kettle.
*
His dreams were remarkable last night. After so many hours of blankness, of a head full of nothing, to be plunged suddenly into this ethereal world of people and experiences and places was quite exhilarating. He clutches on to the fading fragments as he comes to, knowing that there might be something there, a clue to tie him back to himself. But they float away, hopelessly, intangibly.
He sits up in bed and rubs his face hard. The curtains in this room are gossamer thin and the light outside is the particular acid-blue of a morning after rain. He can hear scuffling at his door and peers through the curtains into the earth-dark eyes of a dog. The dog looks as if it is about to smile, but then the mouth stretches further until its teeth are revealed and then its gums and the dog snarls and he lets the curtain drop. At least he can remember where he is now, he thinks. At least he can remember tea in a thermos and pizza in a kitchen and a leggy woman with thick blonde hair and a hot bath in a mouldy, echoing bathroom. And he remembers the name Frank , bestowed on him last night by the little girl with the golden ringlets.
He wants to go to the toilet, he wants to brush his teeth, but the dog is going mental outside the door and he has no idea if it’s the kind of dog that just barks for fun. It’s a . . . He searches for the name of the breed, but it’s gone. Assuming he ever knew. But it’s the sortof dog that thugs have. Muscly and square with a huge jaw.
He opens the curtains and stares at the dog. The dog barks louder. And then, from the tiny door at the back of the house, Alice appears. She looks cross and shouts something at the dog, and grabs it by its collar; then she sees his face and she walks towards him.
‘Have you remembered who you are yet?’ she asks, handing him a mug of tea with one hand, keeping hold of the dog with the other.
He takes the mug and says, ‘No. Still no idea. Had lots of weird dreams but I can’t remember any of them.’ He shrugs and rests the mug on the table by the door.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘come inside when you’re ready. I’ll leave the door open. I can make you some breakfast if you’re hungry. I’ve got fresh eggs.’
It’s quiet in the cottage when he bows his head down to pass through the back door a while later. No children. Alice is looking at something on an iPad and sighing a lot.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.
She looks at him as though he’s simple and says, ‘School.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course.’
She switches off the iPad and folds over its case. ‘Do you reckon you’ve got any children?’
‘Christ.’ The thought had not occurred to him. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’ve got loads. I don’t even know how old I am. How old do you reckon I am?’
She examines his face with her grimy, green-blue eyes. ‘Somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, I reckon.’
He nods. ‘How old are you?’
‘You’re not supposed to ask a lady
But by eight thirty Kai and Jasmine are on the school bus and she is gone from the house with the dogs and Romaine and there is no sign of him. The studio is still and silent, as though there is no one in there at all.
Derry looks at her curiously at the school gates, which are only just being unlocked by the caretaker. ‘You’re early,’ she says. ‘And . . .’ She peers more closely at her, ‘. . . you’re wearing make-up.’
‘Whatevs,’ says Alice.
‘What’s going on?’
‘The man came in,’ says Romaine. ‘The wet man from the beach.’
Alice rolls her eyes. ‘He didn’t come in ,’ she corrects. ‘I asked him in. To dry off. To have a bath, something to eat. I’m pretty sure he’s already gone.’
But when she gets home forty minutes later the curtains are pulled open in the studio and she can see movement inside. She rubs the dirty puddle speckles from the dogs with an old towel, checks her reflection briefly and switches on the kettle.
*
His dreams were remarkable last night. After so many hours of blankness, of a head full of nothing, to be plunged suddenly into this ethereal world of people and experiences and places was quite exhilarating. He clutches on to the fading fragments as he comes to, knowing that there might be something there, a clue to tie him back to himself. But they float away, hopelessly, intangibly.
He sits up in bed and rubs his face hard. The curtains in this room are gossamer thin and the light outside is the particular acid-blue of a morning after rain. He can hear scuffling at his door and peers through the curtains into the earth-dark eyes of a dog. The dog looks as if it is about to smile, but then the mouth stretches further until its teeth are revealed and then its gums and the dog snarls and he lets the curtain drop. At least he can remember where he is now, he thinks. At least he can remember tea in a thermos and pizza in a kitchen and a leggy woman with thick blonde hair and a hot bath in a mouldy, echoing bathroom. And he remembers the name Frank , bestowed on him last night by the little girl with the golden ringlets.
He wants to go to the toilet, he wants to brush his teeth, but the dog is going mental outside the door and he has no idea if it’s the kind of dog that just barks for fun. It’s a . . . He searches for the name of the breed, but it’s gone. Assuming he ever knew. But it’s the sortof dog that thugs have. Muscly and square with a huge jaw.
He opens the curtains and stares at the dog. The dog barks louder. And then, from the tiny door at the back of the house, Alice appears. She looks cross and shouts something at the dog, and grabs it by its collar; then she sees his face and she walks towards him.
‘Have you remembered who you are yet?’ she asks, handing him a mug of tea with one hand, keeping hold of the dog with the other.
He takes the mug and says, ‘No. Still no idea. Had lots of weird dreams but I can’t remember any of them.’ He shrugs and rests the mug on the table by the door.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘come inside when you’re ready. I’ll leave the door open. I can make you some breakfast if you’re hungry. I’ve got fresh eggs.’
It’s quiet in the cottage when he bows his head down to pass through the back door a while later. No children. Alice is looking at something on an iPad and sighing a lot.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.
She looks at him as though he’s simple and says, ‘School.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course.’
She switches off the iPad and folds over its case. ‘Do you reckon you’ve got any children?’
‘Christ.’ The thought had not occurred to him. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’ve got loads. I don’t even know how old I am. How old do you reckon I am?’
She examines his face with her grimy, green-blue eyes. ‘Somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, I reckon.’
He nods. ‘How old are you?’
‘You’re not supposed to ask a lady
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