It was still dark when they released him unceremoniously from the police station. His vest, utility belt and mask were stowed in a clear plastic bag. Using the money from his utility belt he got a taxi but only as far as the edge of his town, so the driver didn’t know where he lived. The high street was completely deserted as he walked home. He’d walked through his home town thousands of times but all the familiar things – the shop fronts, the churches, the bridge over the railway line – seemed now unfamiliar through the filter of his state of mind. He felt like a stranger. When he got back to his house he didn’t even turn the lights on. He went straight up to the attic and curled up in the centre of his comics maze, where he fell instantly asleep.
There was a month of rain and Sam hadn’t heard from Sarah. It swept across the land and stripped the trees of what leaves they had left and then turned the ground to mud.
As the days flicked by, the distance from Sarah did little to ease the feeling of discomfort in Sam. He returned to his old routines. In the rain he ran around the forestry on weekends and through the streets on weeknights. On Saturday nights he got takeaway and watched movies he’d seen countless times before. He cleaned for hours on end. And as he did these things, he quietly went about the business of packing away the memories that had been unleashed by Sarah. But what had once made him feel safe now made him feel lonely.
The only thing that made him feel any better was patrolling. When he pulled on the costume, all his stress fell away. In the aftermath of the arrest he’d not donned the mask for a week but the pull was overpowering and, in the end, he’d relented. The conflict he’d been feeling between the Phantasm and Sarah dissipated. At least without her he got to keep the mask.
In the diner on the beach the windows shuddered in the frames as powerful winds swept in off the sea. Huge waves crashed against the shore and the world was trying to get at him, but that small seaside building kept everything out. Slowly, things were getting back to normal.
The problem was, normal didn’t feel so good any more.
Sam landed on Trafalgar Square.
‘Oh well,’ said Blotchy. ‘Well, well, well. Would you like fresh towels?’
It was very frustrating. Sam had hotels on Mayfair and Park Lane, as well as on some of the lower-value properties, but Blotchy had them on all the reds, as well as the yellows and oranges, and Sam kept landing on them. This roll of the dice meant he had to downgrade his hotels on Euston Road and Angel Islington to afford Blotchy’s bill.
Blotchy took Sam’s money and folded it into the personalised money clip he always used when he played Monopoly and which was a constant source of annoyance to both Sam and Tango. Tango, who was safe on his own Bond Street, rolled the dice and passed Sam’s hotels unharmed.
Wind pushed against the windows of Blotchy’s parents’ conservatory and tossed leaves against the glass. No matter how frustrating Blotchy’s tactics, Sam was grateful to be here, with his old friends.
‘I can’t believe how unlucky I am,’ he said.
‘Nothing to do with luck,’ said Blotchy. ‘It’s all about playing the statistics.’ He reached his big bear hand into his bag of toffee popcorn and tossed some morsels into his little mouth.
‘So what are your plans for the week?’ said Tango.
‘Nothing much,’ said Sam.
‘What about you, Blotch?’
‘My business is my own.’ He rolled the dice and glided past some of Sam’s properties on to the Electric Company, which he owned.
‘Any news from the dating site you signed up for?’ said Sam, trying not to sound too sarcastic. He and Tango were both surprised that Blotchy had done this. Not that he’d signed up, but that he’d told them about it.
‘Oh, listen to Mr Experience over there,’ said Blotchy. ‘Now he’s got a girlfriend he thinks he’s cock of the walk.’
‘I haven’t got a girlfriend.’
‘I don’t know why you’re trying to hide it from us.’
‘I’m not trying to hide anything. I haven’t heard from her in a month.’
‘Oh,’ said Blotchy, stumbling. ‘Well, you’re better off without women. They’re trouble. And expensive. Especially the pretty ones.’
‘Blotchy is subscribing to the school of meninism,’ said Tango, leaning sideways to Sam.
‘Not at all,’ said Blotchy. ‘I just think feminism is going too far.’
‘Let’s stop talking about this before you lose whatever dignity you have left,’ said Tango.
‘Pretty?’ said Sam.
Blotchy’s cheeks reddened when he realised Sam had latched on to the word, and in the air of the moment Sam felt the satisfying shift in power back to him.
‘I meant . . . well, she was pretty, wasn’t she?’
‘She’s not dead!’
‘No, I know that but . . .’ His whole body went loose and he sagged. Slowly, he reached sheepishly for more popcorn.
‘Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?’ said Tango. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and said solemnly, ‘Would you like me to sign you up to Blotchy’s dating site?’
‘You’re OK, thanks. I’ll let Blotchy blaze that trail.’
‘You’re about as funny as the thing I’m about to deposit in the toilet,’ said Blotchy, standing up. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’
He took his Monopoly money and put it in his pocket, then took the dice and put them in his pocket too. He then took a photo of the board.
‘Just in case you get any ideas’ he said. ‘I may be some time.’
And, with that, he left the room.
Tango waited until he heard Blotchy climbing the stairs.
‘You OK?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
‘What happened?’
Sam felt Tango’s eyes on him as he considered this.
‘It just . . . kind of fizzled out.’
There was a long pause after this. Sam ordered his money into neat piles.
‘She seemed nice,’ said Tango.
Sam felt his face flush.
‘Did you want it to . . . fizzle out?’
Sam cleared his throat. His Monopoly piece glinted in the light. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Probably not.’
Tango nodded. ‘Well, you know, is there anything you can do?’
Sam didn’t answer this.
‘You don’t need to take my advice,’ said Tango. ‘You know I’m useless at this sort of thing, but I’ll just say this. If there is anything you can do . . . you should just do it. Be brave.’
Sam looked up at him when he said those two words, at his old friend, just as the flush sounded upstairs and the floorboards creaked under Blotchy’s weight.
When he got home, there was a brown package on the doormat in the hallway. He picked it up, along with the rest of the mail, and went into the kitchen to make himself an apple and elderflower tea. He sat at the breakfast bar and hooked his finger under the perforated strip of the parcel. He loved opening that perforated strip. He looked inside and the strength fell out of him.
Inside the brown envelope was a first edition of a short story collection by Raymond Carver called Cathedral. Sarah had said it was one of her favourite books, so he’d ordered it weeks ago from a seller of rare books in America. It was going to be her Christmas present, and he’d forgotten all about it. The pages inside were yellow and old. Closing the book again, he set it down on the table and looked around the empty kitchen, at how neat and clean it was.
He could hear the silence of the house, and the image of her face smiling at him flashed across that silence.
He sipped his tea and noticed his leg was shaking.