5.
I leaned on Anthony’s doorbell. It was well past midnight and all the lights in his house were off, as were the lights in the houses of his neighbors, and as far down the street as I could see. When he came to the door he was wearing a dressing gown and all the hair on the left-hand side of his head was sticking directly up into the air.
“Carl,” he said. Then again. “Carl! God. What time is it? Are you okay?”
“I think so,” I replied. “More or less. But I need to come in.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, collecting himself, smoothing down his hair and rubbing the sleep and surprise out of his eyes.
I followed him inside to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry for waking you,” I said, as Anthony filled the kettle with water from the tap. “Did I wake Mary as well? And Joshua?”
Anthony shrugged. “Mary will be back to sleep already. Joshua—I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m the one who’s sorry. I meant to collect you from the hospital today. I knew you were being discharged, but . . .” He turned to me. “Well—but nothing. I should have been there.”
“I don’t think I wanted to be collected. I wanted to go home alone, to keep everything low key. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.”
Anthony leaned back against the counter and waited for me to continue. But I didn’t continue. I wasn’t quite sure what I ought to say. So we both waited, while steam from the kettle began to rise and collect under the kitchen units.
Eventually I said, “If we wait long enough, something strange will happen.”
Anthony frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just . . . that. If we wait long enough, something strange will happen. I suspect I’ll be the only one who notices it. So perhaps it will only be strange to me . . .”
“Strange?”
“Strange.”
“Tell me what you mean.”
“Well, for example, I don’t know how I got here tonight.”
“... To my house?”
“To your house—yes. I have no idea. I don’t even remember making a decision to come here. One moment I was lying in the bath, the next I was ringing your doorbell. With nothing in between, except . . .” I shook my head in a gesture of helplessness. “A transition of some sort.”
“A blackout?”
“Probably. It’s the most likely explanation. But . . .” I paused a moment. “How did I get here tonight? Did I drive? Is my car parked outside?”
Anthony glanced out the kitchen window. “No. It isn’t.”
“So did I walk? It would have taken me forty minutes at least. The buses and the tubes aren’t running.” I felt in my pockets. “And I don’t have my wallet. I couldn’t have paid for a cab.”
We fell into a short silence again, with Anthony watching me in a slightly puzzled or troubled way. Then the kettle clicked off.
“We don’t have milk, so the coffee will have to be black,” Anthony said. “Sorry about that.”
I shook my head to show my lack of concern. Or lack of interest.
“No,” Anthony said, quite firmly, as if correcting my noncommittal response. “It’s a pity. Fresh milk, fresh coffee. Some things are just meant for each other.”
“Okay.”
He poured two mugs and put sugar on the table, then sat opposite me.
“So. If we wait, how long do you think it will take before something strange happens?”
“Your guess is certainly as good as mine,” I said.
Anthony smiled. “Okay, then. We’ll just wait.”
