They Told Me to Forget

ONE

VideClair

Dust particles dance in the air. Plant fibre, textiles, dead skin, each one a fragment of the past. I breathe in and out, trying to stay calm, to not break down again, willing myself to believe that the days ahead are an open path. Yes. Everything is OK. Really, it is, and I’m just like everyone else. More or less.

I lift myself up and turn on the bedside lamp. My ribs hurt. I wonder if they are broken. No, they’re not that bad. But what exactly happened last night? Did I get into another fight? Moments come back to me but there are whole swathes of time I cannot remember.

Damn it. Why does it always go like this? I feel a panic rising hard and fast, wave after nauseating wave. I glance around the room. Four bare white walls stare back at me. It is like I’m in an enormous box, a shipping container lost at sea. I shut my eyes. Imagine myself in a forest, far from the ocean, surrounded by oak trees, silver birch, ash, aspen, my feet planted on steady ground.

The nausea subsides. I stand up and walk across the room, open the windows wide to let in the cold autumn air. Streaks of red criss-cross the sky, rising above the dense cluster of grey buildings. The city is so quiet at this early hour. Memories start to form but I don’t let them settle. Better to look forward rather than back, isn’t that what the doctors said? And maybe, just maybe, today will be better, the start of something new.

A crow settles on an electricity line. Two scrawny pigeons try to land nearby but the crow scares them away.

“Bully boy,” I say aloud, watching the bird hop along the line, surveying its territory. It flaps its wings, flies to a balcony directly opposite my window, and caws loudly.

I laugh. “I’ve got no food for you, bully boy.”

The crow cocks its head. It seems to be looking directly at me. My mother’s face appears in my mind. Crying as she looks at me through her smartphone’s screen. “Adam, I don’t want to die alone,” she tells me in a faint, raspy voice, a mix of fear and resignation etched into her tawny brown eyes.

The memory is too sharp, too real. I stagger back from the window, knocking over a chair piled high with all sorts of junk. My head is pounding. I get down on my hands and knees. From the fallen pile I dig out a medicine bag and dry swallow a VideClair pill. The last of my supplies.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Mum,” I murmur, holding back tears. Her face starts to recede from my mind and so too does the pain of the memory. I crawl over to my bed and wait for the drug to wash over me.

***

The doorbell is buzzing, my mobile phone too. I stretch over and put the phone to my ear. It’s Alex.

“Adam, get out of bed and open the door, you lazy git! It’s past midday.”

“Mmm.”

“Come on. I’ve been waiting outside for ages.”

“OK.” I stumble over to the interphone and press the unlock button. Then I pick up the empty medicine packet that was lying on the floor, put it in the bin and push it down beneath some junk mail. Soon after, my brother is at the door.

“You’re still hungover?” he asks, walking past me and turning the kettle on.

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, you look rough.”

“Thanks bro.”

“How are your ribs? Terence really cracked you one.”

Yes. I remember it now. Terence’s eyes, bulging with anger, the whites visible even in the dim light. Me staring back, silently goading him, in a way wanting it to happen. He punches me hard in the ribs. I laugh, despite the pain, waiting for the next hit. But before he can punch me again, my brother intervenes, grabbing Terence’s arms and forcing them down to his sides, holding him still. Not an easy task, as Terence is six foot three, a good few inches taller than my brother and me. Terence starts to cry; muffled sobs as his arms hang limply down. I remember watching them both, disappointed at first, but then, as the adrenaline rush wore off, grateful that my brother had stepped in. Relieved he didn’t see me when the switch has flipped, and I don’t really know who I am.

“Adam, are you OK?”

“I’m fine. My ribs are a bit sore. But not half as bad as the headache this morning.”

“Here, this will help,” he says, taking out a couple of Chelsea buns from his bag and putting them on a plate. “Lucy made them. Where is your frying pan? Ah there it is. I brought over eggs and bacon. Sweet food first, then salty, best cure for a hangover.”

“Is that your expert medical advice, Dr Miller?”

“Yeah, that’s what I tell all my patients, especially the crazy ones like you. Now, where are your teabags?”

“Sit down. I’m not so hungover that I can’t boil the kettle.”

“Fine, fine. I admit that you make my tea better than I do myself.”

“Super strong, with one lightly heaped teaspoon of sugar and two half dashes of milk?”

“Yeah yeah.”

I place teabags in a couple of mugs and pour hot water over them. When I turn round, Alex is sitting by the dining table, wearing my slippers, and sporting a goofy grin. Alex looks much more like Dad than I do, but whenever he smiles, he reminds me of Mum.

“Don’t you know I’ve got warts on my toes?” I tell him.

“That’s all right, so do I.”

We sip our tea and munch on the Chelsea buns Alex’s wife made. They are delicious.

“How’s Lucy and little Julie?”

“All good. Julie still tells everyone that Daddy is a doctor, but Uncle Adam is a genius.”

I smile, remembering the time I taught Julie that phrase.

“Have you heard from Terence today? I hope he’s doing all right.”

“Ah, I’m sure he’s fine. Probably still sleeping off the alcohol. Both of you guys drank way too much last night.”

“What happened? Why did he hit me?”

“You called him an ignorant racist fucker.”

“Right,” I say, not really remembering.

Terence has struggled with depression for a long time, but he’s been different these last few years, ever since 2020 and the first lockdown. More unpredictable in his behaviour and sometimes just downright nasty. Only last month he got himself into trouble with the police. But I know it’s been hard for him. He lost both his parents early in the pandemic. And today, Terence is still a mess. He is single and he doesn’t have any siblings. That makes it harder. At least Alex and I have each other, and Dad too, even if Dad’s mind is no longer really with us.

“For the record, he was being totally racist. Going on and on about how most immigrants hate Westerners. Said they were the root cause of all sorts of problems – rising crime rates, failing schools and hospitals, even the crumbling railway system. Ranted about how they were stealing our jobs, ruining our towns and villages, our way of life.”

“God. Why are we still friends with him?”

Alex glances out the window, then turns back to me. “Because of how he used to be,” he says. “He was a good kid growing up. Maybe he’ll change.”

“Maybe,” I say, but I’m not so sure. So many people are looking for someone to blame. It’s easier that way. And though I’ve never experienced extreme racism, too often people, friends even, have made some lazy stereotype about the Chinese, despite knowing that my mother was born there.

“Yeah, I’m doubtful too. Life can be unfair. Cruel even. Certainly, it’s been hard for Terence.”

I nod.

“On a lighter note, you should get a girlfriend.”

“Huh?” I mumble, trying to adjust to the sudden shift in topic.

“Download a dating app. Or be more old-fashioned if you want and join a reading group or photography club or something along those lines.”

“Nah.”

I glance at my palms, run a finger down one of the creases. The life line, I think. Or is it the fate line?

“Maybe I should reapply for university, even if I’m getting a bit old,” I say. “Not that they’d let me back in.” Certainly not if they saw my medical record.

Alex looks at me, doesn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” I say, to break the awkward silence. It’s something we’ve never really talked about. “Anyway, you know I’m not ready for dating and all that.”

Or anything else, come to think of it. The pandemic is already a distant memory, and everyone acts as if life has returned to normal. Yet to me it doesn’t feel like it ever will.

“Fair enough. I won’t go on then, at least not today. Now just chill for a bit. I’ll rustle us up some brunch.”

Alex finishes off his bun and then busies himself over the hob, cracking eggs into a pan.

“Thanks Alex,” I say, watching him cook.

“Of course, little brother.”

***

I step out of the flat to restock. It is a crisp autumn afternoon. Sunlight struggles to penetrate through the clouds. I walk at a brisk pace, taking in the sound of hardened leaves crunching under my feet, the fleeting glimpses of people on the street. A good place to wander: this city seems to promise everything and nothing at the same time. You can step down an unmarked alleyway and stumble upon a grand piece of history, or outside a boarded-up shop that reeks of piss and stale beer.

As I walk, I think about what Alex said just before he left: “Everyone has forgotten about Covid. Our brains are like sieves. But it’s only a matter of time before something else hits us. Perhaps a new virus. More likely something already out there. What I know is that antibiotics are not working as well. If this continues, we’re back in the Middle Ages. People will be terrified of going to hospital, and rightly so.”

Fortunately, I have a repeat VideClair prescription from my doctor. I can stock up and have enough pills to keep me out of hospital.

I reach my regular pharmacy, but its shutters are closed. That is strange. It’s Saturday afternoon. It should be open. I look up at the sky. Thick clouds have blotted out the rays of the sun. For a moment, the clouds seem to be tinged dark purple. I blink; rub my hands up and down my arms. The purple colouring is gone.

My phone beeps a news notification – three thousand dead in another bombardment. I put the phone back in my pocket, press my hands against my head. Sometimes it is all too much to take. When will these wars end? Or could they spread here, engulf us all?

“Yep, the world’s fucked up, Adam,” I tell myself, feeling on edge. “But we’ve got to keep on.”

Rain starts to patter against the pavement. A cold wind pierces through the buttons of my jacket. The few other people out on the street seem to feel it too, their forms hunched and closed to keep out the chill. I glance back at them before turning onto a narrower road, a nondescript street of small shops: mostly fast-food joints and charities. At the corner of the street is a shop with peeling paintwork. PRESCRIPTION DRUGS AVAILABLE HERE reads a sign on the window, but it does not look like a pharmacy. A tinny bell rings as I open the door.

The place is poorly lit, and the shelves are sparsely filled or empty.

“All sold out a long time ago,” someone says from directly behind me. “The newspapers, that is.”

I turn around with a start, finding an old man my height or thereabouts smiling at me. Something about him seems familiar. I study his slightly bent nose and his intense grey-brown eyes. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.

He walks behind the counter, pulls out a chair, stands on it with surprising ease and starts picking out green-coloured packets of tobacco from one of the higher shelves. His clothes are smart but worn: a faded tweed jacket, charcoal trousers with a patch on one of the knees.

“Do you want some tobacco?” he asks, scratching his bald head.

“No thanks,” I reply, still wondering where he had appeared from. “I have a prescription,” I say, unfolding a piece of paper and showing him.

“Are you sure? There are some great big cigars all the way from Havana up top, and I haven’t finished them yet.”

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke. I’m here to get my prescription.”

“I prefer Turkish tobacco, though,” he continues, as if he has not heard me. “Some of the best I’ve ever smoked came from there. Smoother than a fine young lady’s bosom, and I should know.”

“Um,” I mumble uncomfortably. I wonder if the old man is partly deaf, senile or both.

He steps down from the chair, opens a packet of tobacco and contentedly starts to fill up a pipe that he had taken from his jacket. After filling the pipe, he pats down the tobacco. Then he lights it and takes a big puff. Almost immediately, he is coughing and spluttering.

“Are you OK?” I ask. He is coughing hard, and his cheeks are turning a purplish red. Just as I consider an attempt at the Heimlich manoeuvre, he stops coughing and instead makes a peculiar yacking sound, before spitting out a large globule of phlegm into his hand.

“Please excuse me, it’s very embarrassing when that happens,” he says after he has taken out a handkerchief and wiped his hand. “Sometimes it goes down the wrong way.”

“Are you all right now?”

“Yes, thanks. Maybe this tobacco isn’t the best after all. I remember when you could get the best, freshest tobacco, not so long ago,” he continues. “But now... of course you can’t find it these days.”

I nod, thinking about the last time I had smoked a cigarette. Eleven years ago, when everything seemed so much easier. I was twenty. Dad and I had given up together. It was harder for him than it was for me. He did not smoke as much as I did but had a greater routine about it. One cigar after dinner, standing out on the porch and looking beyond his suburban garden. This had been his custom as far back as I could remember. Not that my old man can remember anything much these days. Every time I visit him in the care home, it takes longer for him to recognise me.

“No, no, no, NO,” the old man is muttering, perhaps has been muttering for some time now.

I scrutinise his features again. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth run deep. I can almost imagine dust settling there. I ask him if he is all right, if there is anything I can do.

“You are kind,” he replies, looking at me closely for a moment, then at the remaining tobacco in his pipe. “It’s just time catching up with me. Time is the great leveller, isn’t that what they say? Maybe not, but I’ve only really thought properly about time in these last few years.”

He looks at me again, much calmer now. “You wanted VideClair, right?”

I nod, handing him my prescription.

“Good. I am out of stock right now, but it’s due to arrive very soon.” He looks at his watch. “Definitely within the hour. Best you wait, in case someone else scoops up the stock. You know how it is.”

“Right.”

“Excellent. Then let me invite you in for a cup of tea until the delivery comes. I can hang the ‘closed’ sign on the door for a little while. It would do me a world of good to talk to someone.”

“Um, sure,” I say. Outside, the drizzle has turned into a more forceful downpour. “Especially with the rain,” I add, justifying it to myself as much to him.

“The name’s Conrad,” he says, offering his hand, looking at me intently. “Conrad McKinley.”

“I’m Adam.”

“Adam, of course it is. That is a good, biblical name. There is so much I would like to say to you whilst I still have the energy.”