was sceptical about the box. In which she was quite right, of course.
"You read about a 'magic box' in a junk conspiracy magazine" she said, "and then dedicate all your spare time to finding it. That's obsessional."
"It's curiosity."
"It's displacement."
This actually threw Alan, giving him enough change of focus for his erection to dwindle of its own accord. "Displacement?"
"You're missing twenty-odd years of your life – the memories of them anyway – but you don't want them back, you'd rather focus your attentions on a mythical object, something to distract you from the important business of recovering your lost memory."
"Nobody but you even thinks it's lost."
"It is rather unprecedented…"
"Yeah, well, I manage without it. The box is far more interesting."
"The mythical box."
"Aren't you a bit confrontational for a therapist?"
"It's my style."
Alan didn't know what to say. Everything about his "accident" (as it had been so carelessly labelled) bored him. It was baggage he had carried for thirty years; it had almost become comfortable, for Christ's sake. He only kept coming to these sessions because he liked seeing Rebecca.
"Why do you come to my sessions?" she asked, her timing making him think she was far better at reading his thoughts than he gave her credit for. "I know it's part of your agreement with the college but still, it's not just that, is it?"
"They like to know they're not employing a madman, for sure." She stared at him, refusing to fill the silence until he answered the question. "No, it's not just that. I don't like the gap, the mystery, the dreams, all of it. If I could make it go away I would. At the same time, though, I am used to it, like to think I get on fine despite it, and there's a big part of me that thinks I'd be better off just, well, forgetting about it. The box helps me do that."
"See, displacement."
Alan sighed; he couldn't argue it. "Strike one to you."
He gave up for the rest of the session, alternating between recounting his thoughts and dreams in mind-numbing detail and fantasising about what a woman like that would never dream of doing with a guy like him. He also thought about the box, that impossible box…
At the end of the session he dutifully booked another – and Rebecca must know what her bending over the desk to check her appointment book did to him, she must – and headed back out into the heat to wait for his bus.
By the time he climbed up the steps of his wooden porch, his clothes were sticking to him and there was no other thought in his head but the glass of iced tea he planned on drinking the minute he got through the door.
Inside, he threw his briefcase on to the table beside the phone, hit the flashing message button of his answering machine and headed to the kitchen to slake his thirst.
"Mr Arthur," came the first caller message, "just to let you know that the book you requested, The Imagineer by Gregory Ashe, is back in stock. We shall hold it for you for up to three days."
The iced tea was perfectly cold and Alan drank it greedily, taking the first glassful in one go before refilling.
"Mr. Alan," came the next message, the heavy Chinese accent getting his name wrong as usual, "your suit is ready for collect. See you soon, bye."
Alan smiled around his second glass of iced tea.
"Alan Arthur?" The third message was from an entirely unfamiliar caller. "I have the box."
Alan dropped the glass and it shattered on the tiles of the kitchen floor, peppering his shoes with minted tea and glass crystals.
"If you're willing to pay what it's worth – and mind me here, I fucking know what it's worth – then you'll meet me at Home Town, out on I-4, tonight, 11.30. Just keep walking around. I'll find you."
He felt his toes twitch within the soft leather coffin of his loafers: a small sign of life. In the distance the foliage ruffled as
"You read about a 'magic box' in a junk conspiracy magazine" she said, "and then dedicate all your spare time to finding it. That's obsessional."
"It's curiosity."
"It's displacement."
This actually threw Alan, giving him enough change of focus for his erection to dwindle of its own accord. "Displacement?"
"You're missing twenty-odd years of your life – the memories of them anyway – but you don't want them back, you'd rather focus your attentions on a mythical object, something to distract you from the important business of recovering your lost memory."
"Nobody but you even thinks it's lost."
"It is rather unprecedented…"
"Yeah, well, I manage without it. The box is far more interesting."
"The mythical box."
"Aren't you a bit confrontational for a therapist?"
"It's my style."
Alan didn't know what to say. Everything about his "accident" (as it had been so carelessly labelled) bored him. It was baggage he had carried for thirty years; it had almost become comfortable, for Christ's sake. He only kept coming to these sessions because he liked seeing Rebecca.
"Why do you come to my sessions?" she asked, her timing making him think she was far better at reading his thoughts than he gave her credit for. "I know it's part of your agreement with the college but still, it's not just that, is it?"
"They like to know they're not employing a madman, for sure." She stared at him, refusing to fill the silence until he answered the question. "No, it's not just that. I don't like the gap, the mystery, the dreams, all of it. If I could make it go away I would. At the same time, though, I am used to it, like to think I get on fine despite it, and there's a big part of me that thinks I'd be better off just, well, forgetting about it. The box helps me do that."
"See, displacement."
Alan sighed; he couldn't argue it. "Strike one to you."
He gave up for the rest of the session, alternating between recounting his thoughts and dreams in mind-numbing detail and fantasising about what a woman like that would never dream of doing with a guy like him. He also thought about the box, that impossible box…
At the end of the session he dutifully booked another – and Rebecca must know what her bending over the desk to check her appointment book did to him, she must – and headed back out into the heat to wait for his bus.
By the time he climbed up the steps of his wooden porch, his clothes were sticking to him and there was no other thought in his head but the glass of iced tea he planned on drinking the minute he got through the door.
Inside, he threw his briefcase on to the table beside the phone, hit the flashing message button of his answering machine and headed to the kitchen to slake his thirst.
"Mr Arthur," came the first caller message, "just to let you know that the book you requested, The Imagineer by Gregory Ashe, is back in stock. We shall hold it for you for up to three days."
The iced tea was perfectly cold and Alan drank it greedily, taking the first glassful in one go before refilling.
"Mr. Alan," came the next message, the heavy Chinese accent getting his name wrong as usual, "your suit is ready for collect. See you soon, bye."
Alan smiled around his second glass of iced tea.
"Alan Arthur?" The third message was from an entirely unfamiliar caller. "I have the box."
Alan dropped the glass and it shattered on the tiles of the kitchen floor, peppering his shoes with minted tea and glass crystals.
"If you're willing to pay what it's worth – and mind me here, I fucking know what it's worth – then you'll meet me at Home Town, out on I-4, tonight, 11.30. Just keep walking around. I'll find you."
He felt his toes twitch within the soft leather coffin of his loafers: a small sign of life. In the distance the foliage ruffled as
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