“Ayling was at St. Augustine’s between May of 1996 and January of 2013.”
“You’re a whiz, Toby,” I say. “I’m going to recommend you for promotion. This is sterling work.”
“Elevation seldom hurts,” says Toby, chuckling again. “The view is always better from a higher floor, as I’ve learned. Can I do anything else for you?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll ring if I need anything. Well done, Toby. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Toby gives me a mock salute before vanishing through the door.
I stride to the window, hoping for a blast of fresh, neuron-enhancing air. I suck in a deep breath, only to realize with disgust that I’ve filled my lungs with torrid fumes from a passing bus. I grimace at a pigeon on the ledge below; the bird eyes me back with an equally disdainful expression. The wind has picked up since the morning; a stray paper bag is whirling in vigorous Brownian circles along Parkside. A few boys and girls are running about on Parker’s Piece, the large patch of green outside the police station. One of them is flying a yellow kite with an orange tail. It’s bobbing on the air currents like a vulture buffeted by soaring thermals.
Sophia Ayling and Anna May Winchester are, of course, the same person.
I should have worked this out earlier. How embarrassing. In fact, I would have figured it out a couple of hours ago if not for that damned discolored Polaroid.
It all makes sense now. Especially if Sophia’s iDiary has more than a kernel of truth in it. The dates match, at least.
Maybe the diary isn’t only leading me to the truth; the diary may in fact be the truth.
So Sophia’s desire for revenge must be caused by something that transpired in the months leading up to her prolonged residence in the Outer Hebrides. Something that sparked a burning, vicious hatred for Mark Henry Evans and continued to fester over the long years of her institutionalization.
But what could have triggered this terrible grudge in the first place? Surely not a broken heart.
Perhaps I should suspend all rational thought by putting myself in Sophia’s distorted, memory-filled shoes. Those warped stilettos of hers. Try to think like her, a one-time Duo who remembered everything after the age of twenty-three. Accept that she’s telling the truth, especially if I wish to understand her motivations for wanting to destroy Mark Henry Evans. Scientists have, after all, found the genetic switch for short-term memory. Any Off switch can perhaps be flipped back on again. Wasn’t there a recent newspaper article about a crazy psychiatrist who went round hitting Monos on the head to improve their memories? Maybe there’s a chance, a minuscule possibility, that an odd human might just gain full memory someday.
Now, if I could recollect everything (never mind the fuzzy bits and pieces), what would be the most traumatic memory of them all?
The yellow kite in the distance cuts a tortuous upwards diagonal above the children on the green.
The recollection of being dumped by Mark in favor of Claire? Possible but unlikely. Even if Mark decided to swap a Duo brunette for a Mono blonde in the most unkind, thoughtless manner possible, that must have happened at least twenty years ago. Most people would surely have moved on by now. Fact: The Textbook of Possible Criminal Motives states that love-related grudges don’t usually last long, although money-related antipathies tend to linger. A diary line that says “The idiot dumped me for a pretty girl with large boobs twenty years ago” isn’t as emotionally potent as a sentence that says “The idiot owes me a massive amount of money, and I can’t afford to pay my rent today.”
Unrequited love can’t possibly be a factor.
I glare at the yellow kite as it conducts a merry zigzag dance above the children’s heads.
The memory of Mark being involved in Sophia’s extended incarceration at St. Augustine’s, say? Mark could have written to her doctors twenty years ago, insisting she was mad (as I did after I interviewed her back in July of 1995). Her psychiatrists could have used our letters to back up their diagnosis of her mental condition before transporting her to the Outer Hebrides. But the woman’s meticulously engineered revenge plan spanned two long, patient years. There must be something more. Something drastic.
I sigh. My groan is so loud it scares the pigeon off the window ledge. I grimace at the clouds scudding overhead.
I should be thinking more creatively. After all, I’d laughed at Hamish earlier for not being able to think outside the box.
Light sparks off the edge of a cloud.
The yellow kite dives downwards, like a vulture swooping on a carcass.
Oh, God, no.
It must be the memory of how one acquired the burden—or the perceived curse—of memory in the first place. Didn’t that crazy psychiatrist claim to have converted a Hungarian Mono into a person “far superior” to Duos? A radical combination of physical and emotional traumas apparently did the trick. Mark might have done something just as drastic to Sophia twenty years ago. On the evening of the Trinity ball, for instance. An act that brought back all sorts of undesirable memories. She was still agitated during my first interview with her, for sure.
Sophia must have held Mark responsible for her memory surplus.
Bingo.
I reckon I’ve worked it out.
But did Mark harm this desperate, calculating woman two days ago? And how did she die?
I walk back to the chessboard on the table. I study the pieces for a couple of minutes before moving the white king backwards to dodge the rampaging black queen.
I need that postmortem report before the end of the day. But Marge and her assistants are likely to take their time over it. It’s a Saturday evening, after all. Marge and company might have even packed up by now and headed to the Flying Pig for some beers. I can’t blame them. Anyone who spends a Saturday peering into the insides of a waterlogged corpse deserves a few drinks. Multiple drinks. But because tomorrow is Sunday, the report will only be forthcoming on Monday.
I need that damned report today.
Who remembers more than they are letting on? Who is lying to others, and who is deceiving themselves? What happens when truth cannot be recalled? Can we truly know ourselves or others?
—Mark Henry Evans, draft of
The Serendipity of Being
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sophia
15 April 2015
Saw a delightful piece in the Times this morning about the Mixed Marriage Act. The scheme so dear to Mark’s heart, forming the cornerstone of his political campaign. A piece of bullshit designed to unite a divided country. A delusional attempt at increasing the number of Duos so Britain can regain her long-lost glories. It’s amazing what the government is capable of these days. Thinly veiled attempts at social engineering. This country reminds me of the fucking Third Reich.
The act is due for royal assent soon. It will go into effect next February.