Trust No One (25 page)

You are Jerry Grey.

“The author who wrote under the pseudonym Henry Cutter . . .”

You are Henry Cutter.

“. . . has disappeared from the nursing home . . .”

You live in a
nursing home.

“. . . he was committed to after the murder of Sandra Grey, his wife . . .”

You murdered your wife.

“. . . last year. Grey is suffering from Alzheimer’s and is likely to be lost and in a very confused state, and if spotted the police should be called immediately.”

He heads to the sporting store he passed a minute earlier. He spends half of his remaining cash on an overpriced rugby cap (go All Blacks!) and tugs it tightly over his head and tucks the front of it down a little. From there he heads to the bathrooms and finds an empty stall and locks the door and sits inside. On the back of the door somebody has written at the top
Damien is awesome,
and below that people have written other things, reminding Jerry of the comment sections online, a long list starting with
That’s because Damien has a vagina
and ending with
Fuck the world.
He opens the packet with the SIM card and slots the card into Fiona Clark’s phone. He starts to call Hans and straightaway there’s a problem. He has no idea what Hans’s number is. Why would he? He hasn’t remembered anybody’s number in a while now, and not because of the dementia, but because his smartphone has remembered everything for him for several years now. He’s lost the habit of committing numbers to memory, and maybe that’s where all of this started. Is this what he’s done the other times he’s escaped the nursing home? Found his way to a phone not knowing how to call for help?

In this day and age there has to be a way, doesn’t there? A goddamn way of calling somebody! How difficult can it be? He bangs the palm of his hand into the side of his head. Come on! Those numbers are in there somewhere!

Calm down, Jerry.
The voice of reason. The voice of Henry Cutter, who wrote the most unreasonable things until a ghost had to start writing them for him.
The numbers may not be in there, but what about emails?

He’s right. Jerry hasn’t used email in a long time, but if he can access his account then he can email Hans. He uses the phone to go online, and he has to concentrate, really concentrate to remember his own email address so he can log in, letting his fingers roam over the phone, being guided by muscle memory, which he manages to do, the address coming to him, and back in the day—the day of Sane Jerry—he used the same password for everything. In the password field he types
Frankenstein.
Five seconds later he has access to his account. There are over eleven hundred unread emails. He doesn’t read any, and is about to compose one of his own to Hans when he remembers that not only does he have access to his emails, but also to an online address book. Hans’s number is there.

He makes the call. The whole bathroom smells like wet dog and bleach. Hans doesn’t answer. He leaves a message. He thinks about what other options he has. He looks back through his contacts and Eva’s number is in there. Could he call her? He decides to give it a few minutes in case Hans calls back, which is exactly what happens. He answers the call.

“It’s me,” Hans says. “Sorry I didn’t answer, but I never do if I don’t recognize the number.”

“I’m in trouble,” Jerry says, the words falling out of him, the sense of relief almost overwhelming. Suddenly he is no longer alone in this.

“I know,” Hans says.

“No,” Jerry says, “you have no idea.”

“Eva called me earlier, plus now it’s on the news and—”

“It’s worse than that,” Jerry says. “Can you come and get me? Please? I really need help. I’m at a mall.”

“Which one?”

“It’s . . .” he says, and he knows the name of the mall, it’s on the tip of his tongue. “I can’t think straight.”

“Go and find a security guard, or the mall management office and tell them who you are. You can wait there while—”

“I can’t do that,” Jerry says, shaking his head.

A pause for a few seconds from Hans’s end of the phone, and then, “What is it you’re not telling me?”

Jerry stares down at the bag with the sandwich and the bottle of water he bought earlier. “I’ll tell you when you get here. I’ll go out front and see what mall it is and I’ll call you back.”

“What’s happened, Jerry?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. I’ll call you back.”

“Just stay on the line, Jerry.”

He stays on the line. He walks out of the bathroom and into the river of people carrying books and DVDs and clothes, some pushing strollers, some pushing shopping carts, and he walks to the same entrance he came through earlier. When he’s outside he turns around and there in big letters is the name, and he feels stupid for having forgotten it. He tells Hans, and Hans tells him to stay exactly where he is, and that he’ll be there in ten minutes.

Jerry hangs up and tucks the phone into his pocket. He opens up the bottle of water and drinks a quarter of it while staring out at the cars, all while staying exactly where he said he would stay. He’s opening the sandwich packet when it hits him.

He’s left the bag with the towel and the knife back in the bathroom.

He is desperate to start running, but restrains himself as to not draw attention. There are so many shops, so many ways to turn, so many people around him as he walks. He can’t figure out how to get back to the bathroom, not right away, and by the time he does his ten minutes are up and Hans is ringing him. He opens the bathroom door and goes to the stall where he sat earlier. It’s empty. He looks at the back of the door to make sure it’s the same stall.
Fuck the world.
The bag with the towel and the knife has gone.

You went wandering again today, and because of that Sandra considered keeping you in tonight and not sending you on the bachelor’s party. You didn’t really care one way or the other, but in the end she decided she wanted you to go. Probably so she could get you out of the house for obvious reasons. You went along and spoke when spoken to and didn’t cause any kind of scene. No doubt the party became more raucous once the old-timers had gone, that Rick and his friends drunk their way along to a strip joint, but for you it was just dinner and no wine but water, some overcooked chicken, and a soggy salad. You sat there pretending not to notice the whispered comments and not-so-subtle nods in your direction. You were the guy with Alzheimer’s, and to them that made you a joke. It made you a joke because they would never be like you, the same way you used to think you would never be like this, and what could be funnier than your mate’s father-in-law losing his mind at forty-nine and occasionally going off to Batshit County for long walks in Batshit Park? You were home by ten and are keeping your promise to ride the sober train all the way to Eva’s wedding.

So. The wandering. That’s what you want to know about, right? What tips can that sieve of a brain of yours hold? Well, there are a couple of things. If you’re going to wander, take a wallet with you. It’s good if you can identify yourself, and even better if you can pay for a taxi or a bus. Money is good—so keep it on you. Just as good is a phone. Try to take your phone with you. A bottle of water would be good too—helps with the dehydration, and who knows how far you can walk?

Today you snuck out the window to avoid the house alarms, and the thing is, you have no memory of doing it. You have no idea if the intent was there to go for a walk on your own, or to go and buy flowers, or to do any number of possible things a man will do once he leaves his home with barely enough cash to buy a hamburger combo. You don’t know which version of Jerry made that decision, or which version of Jerry showed up at the florist where Belinda works. The florist is in town, right between the two main drags of Manchester and Colombo. And how did you get there? A true magician never reveals his tricks, Jerry, and Captain A is nothing but the master of slight of hand. Look over here while he wipes Jerry’s mind!

Belinda asked if you were okay, and you told her you were, because you really were okay, Future Jerry, you were on a mission, one so top secret even you didn’t know the agenda. She knew about the Big A (it seems everybody does), and she sat you down in the office and made you a cup of tea and rang Sandra and told her she would drive you home. By this time Captain A was releasing the reins a little, and you were becoming equally aware and embarrassed of the situation. Belinda kept smiling at you, and told you not to worry, that her grandmother has Alzheimer’s and she’s used to it, which actually upset you because it made you feel so
old.

She swung past her house on the way to pick up something for Eva that she would have been dropping off later in the day anyway, which is why she was happy to drop you home. She asked if you would be okay waiting in the car, and you said yes, and that bit you remember, but then Captain A tightened the reins a little and Belinda found you sitting on the back doorstep talking to her cat a few minutes later.

Sandra was worried sick by the time you got back to the house. She’d been getting ready to call the police just before Belinda phoned her. The net result is alarms are being put on all the windows. If that doesn’t work, then perhaps the next step is to have a GPS chip sewn into your back where you can’t reach it.

Good news—the wedding is close now. There’s the rehearsal in a few hours, and remember—practice, practice, practice. Bad news—Sandra said earlier,
I can’t wait for all of this to be over.

When you asked what she meant by that, she sighed, and said,
What do you think, Jerry?
before storming off.

Honestly? You don’t think she’s just referring to the wedding. She probably has some pamphlets somewhere, the way people do when they’re thinking of shipping their folks off to a home, the final step before they visit the big home in the sky.

Jerry’s cell phone is still ringing. It echoes around the bathroom. He stares at the stall where a few minutes ago he was sitting, as if by looking longer and harder the bag with the towel and knife will reappear. He heads into the corridor and answers the phone.

“Where are you?” Hans asks.

“The bathroom.”

“I told you to wait outside.”

“I’m heading there now.”

He hangs up. He almost drops the phone when he puts it into his pocket because his hands are shaking so much. He takes the same route back outside. Hans isn’t there, not right away, but then ten seconds later he is, pulling up in a dark blue SUV. Hans leans over and opens the door and Jerry climbs in. He drops the supermarket bag on the floor between his feet. He wipes his sweaty hands on his jacket.

“Jesus, Jerry, you look terrible.”

“Drive,” Jerry tells him, and that little gem has come right from the Henry Cutter playbook, along with
Follow that car
and
It’
s quiet. Too quiet.

Hans doesn’t need to be told twice. They move smoothly through the parking lot past other cars, turning into and out of parking spaces.

“You got a destination in mind? The nursing home?” Hans asks.

Jerry stares at his friend while thinking of an answer. He has put on more weight than the Hans he remembers. Some of that is muscle and some of that is the accumulation of pounds you see on out-of-shape bouncers, the slab weight that enables them to pop a punching bag off its chain but would have them puffing to pick it back up. It looks like he has a few more tattoos poking out from beneath his collar too. This Hans has evolved so much from the one he first met in university.

“Not the nursing home,” Jerry says. “Just away from here.”

“Tell me what happened,” Hans says.

Jerry leans back. His legs are jittering, his knees popping up and down. They exit the parking lot. “I’m not . . . I’m not entirely sure,” he says, which sums up his life these days pretty well, he thinks. “I escaped the nursing home.”

“You’ve done that a few times now.”

“They keep you updated?”

“Eva keeps me updated on your progress,” Hans says.

“It’s not progress,” Jerry says. “It’s the exact opposite of progress. It’s . . . is there a word for that?”

“
Un
progress,” Hans says. “You want to tell me what happened, or do you just want me to drive around aimlessly?”

“Let’s put the air-conditioning on,” Jerry says, and he starts fiddling with the controls but to no avail. His hands are still sweaty. “It’s a hundred and fifty degrees in here.”

“It’s seventy,” Hans says, then flicks a switch. Cool air comes through the vents and Jerry holds his hands in front of them. “Maybe if you took your jacket off you’d feel better. Jerry?”

Jerry reaches into the bag for his water.

“Jerry?”

He gets the lid off. He gulps down a mouthful, then another, so quickly his throat hurts.

“Jerry?”

He wipes his hand across his mouth. He looks at his friend. “It’s possible I killed somebody,” he says.

Hans looks over at him. “What? Jesus, Jerry, what?”