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I tried to look on the bright side. If I were to faint – which seemed entirely possible – then there was no chance of falling over and sustaining an injury, because there was nowhere to fall. Similarly, there was little danger of death by hypothermia. It was true that the charms of my neighbour’s armpit might begin to pall after an hour or two: but then again perhaps, like a mature cheese, it would improve upon acquaintance. I looked around at the other passengers and wondered who would be the first to crack. There were several possible candidates: a rather frail and wizened old man who was clinging weakly to a pole; a slightly plump woman who for some reason was wearing a thick woollen jumper and had already gone purple in the face; and a tall, asthmatic guy with an earring and a Rolex who was taking regular gulps from his inhaler. I shifted my weight, closed my eyes and counted to one hundred very slowly. In the process, I noticed the level of noise in the carriage increasing perceptibly: people were begi
Just at that moment, thank God, the lights flickered back on, and a muted cheer went up around the carriage. The speaker system also crackled into life, and we heard the laconic drawl of a London Underground guard who, without actually apologizing for the delay, explained that the train was experiencing ‘operating difficulties’ which would be rectified as soon as possible. It wasn’t the most satisfying of explanations, but at least we no longer felt quite so irredeemably alone and abandoned, and now as long as nobody tried leading us into prayer or starting a singalong to keep our spirits up, I felt that I could cope with a few more minutes. The guy with the inhaler was looking worse and worse, though. I’m sorry, he said, as his breathing began to get faster and more frantic, I don’t think I can take much more of this, and the man next to him started making reassuring noises but I could sense the silent resentment of the other passengers at the thought that they might soon have to deal with the problem of someone fainting or having a fit or something. At the same time I could also sense something else, something quite different: a strong, sickly, meaty sort of smell which was now begi
∗
‘You look a bit done in,’ said Patrick, once we’d sat down.
‘Well, it’s just that I haven’t been out much lately. I’d forgotten what it’s like.’
Apparently the train had started up again just two or three minutes after I’d fainted, and then the businessman, the asthmatic and the woman in the woollen jumper had between them taken me to a First Aid room at Victoria station, where I slowly recovered with the help of a lie-down and a strong cup of tea. It was nearly midday by the time I arrived at Patrick’s office.
‘Bit of a sticky journey, I suppose, on a day like this?’ He nodded sympathetically. ‘You could probably do with a drink.’
‘I could, now that you mention it.’
‘Me too. Unfortunately my budget doesn’t run to that sort of thing any more. I can get you a glass of water if you like.’
Patrick looked even more depressed than I remembered him from our last meeting, and his new surroundings were made to match. It was a tiny office, done out in an impersonal beige, with a smoked-glass window offering a partial view of a car park and a brick wall. I had expected there to be posters advertising the latest books but the walls were in fact quite bare, apart from a large and glossy calendar supplied by a rival firm, which hung in the dead centre of one wall directly behind Patrick’s head. His face had always been long and lugubrious, but I’d never seen his eyes looking so sleepy before, or his lips set in such a resigned, melancholy pucker. For all that, I think he was quite pleased to see me, and as he fetched two plastic beakers full of water and set them down on his desk, he managed to summon the ghost of a smile.
‘Well, Michael,’ he said, settling into his chair, ‘to say that you’ve been keeping a low profile these last few years would be putting it mildly.’
‘Well, I’ve been working,’ I lied. ‘As you can see.’
We both looked at my typescript, which lay on the desk between us.
‘Have you read it?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, I’ve read it,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve read it all right.’
He fell silent.
‘And …?’
‘Tell me something, Michael: can you remember when we last saw each other?’
I could, as it happened. But before I had the chance to answer, he said:
‘I’ll tell you. It was April the 14th, 1982.’