Beth wakes up to Vic’s voice. He’s talking about what he did before.
I hit you, he says. I didn’t even think about it when I did it, but that’s what happened. I used to only think about the stuff in the war, and thinking about it was a perfect way to get it all out. And then I came back and I didn’t … I had blind spots. That’s the only way of putting it. I had these blind spots where I can’t even remember what happened now, but I got really angry about little things. And then I hit you that Sunday.
Beth opens her eyes. She’s in the Machine’s room. Vic’s voice is playing over the speakers, and it’s like the Vic that’s lying next to her is speaking, but he’s not. The Crown lies between them on the pillows, an intruder in their bed, their lives, their memories. The voice continues.
We were out for lunch, and I can’t remember what you said, but I left and you chased after me and then I did it in the car park, near those woods. And you wanted to leave me, and I didn’t blame you. Because that was something I would never have done, not the real me. It was the war that did it to me, you get that, don’t you?
I do, her voice says, coming from the Machine’s speakers. (And where are those speakers, she wonders.) But you regret it?
Oh God yes. Totally. I’ve never regretted anything more. That’s not me, don’t you see that? You know that it’s not me. You know that, because you know me, Beth. You know me better than anybody else.
Beth remembers this recording: finding it when she was doing the cleaning-up sessions. He started crying when he was talking to her, and she probed deeper. He remembered this, and now it’s back in him, because that’s how this works. She sits up and presses the stop button, and the voices hang in the air.
Wake up, she says to Vic. She shakes him and he opens his eyes. Did you use the Machine?
No, he says. I wanted to sleep, so I lay down in here.
How did I get here?
You joined me, he says. Go back to sleep.
The Crown is here. The Machine’s been on. It was playing something.
What?
It was playing something.
We were asleep.
She stares at his eyes. This is the biggest change: eye contact. What happened the day you hit me? she asks.
What?
Why did you hit me?
I don’t know, he says. I didn’t even think about it. It was when I came back from Iran, and I had the – you remember – the blind spots. Couldn’t remember things properly. And the dreams. It was a rage, really. I took it out on you.
Where were we?
In the car park of a pub. I told you that I was going back to war, and you said that I couldn’t, so I lost it with you.
You told me what? Beth stops and squints at him. That had never happened.
I told you that I was going back to Iran.
That didn’t happen.
Of course it did, he says. He looks terrified then, as if he knows it sounds shaky even as it comes out of his mouth.
Tell me more about it? (She has no idea what time it is, but there’s no noise from anywhere else, only the Machine stirring away, as always.)
What do you mean?
If you were going back, tell me more about it. Why?
They called me and said that I was important to them. And that I had to go back to Iran, to help with a mission.
You left the army.
They said that they were reinstating me. Look, he says, this is what happened. I can remember it! I can remember everything! Why the fuck don’t you believe me? He stands up and starts pacing in that little room, in the space between the bed and the dresser. The door is shut. Jesus fucking Christ, this is exactly the problem. This is why we argued before, and why we’re going to argue now.
I put your memories back inside you, she says, in her quietest voice. And I didn’t put some story about you going back to war in you. That’s from the Machine.
I told it to the doctor then. I told it to him, and that’s how it’s back.
You didn’t. I’ve heard every recording. I know who you are as well as you do.
Shut up.
I know you as well as you know yourself.
You don’t have a fucking clue what I know! he yells. He picks up the potpourri dish and throws it at her, one swift movement; the circular vessel spinning through the air like a clay pigeon, and it collides with her, on the side of her head. It scrapes across her hairline before bouncing away at her ear, and everything in the dark room flashes white suddenly – the light, the walls, the Machine itself, as impossible as that sounds – and she falls backwards. Not from the impact, but the shock. And then Vic’s body – which, from that angle, is hulking and malformed, like the twenty-year-old Vic, with his constant intake of vitamin drinks and bench-pressing – disappears into the living room and then out of the flat.
Beth lets it all go black. She lets the whiteness fade and the sleep – because that’s what it feels like – washes over her. She’s out of control, and alone; and there, on the pillow, the Crown is lying right next to her.