You or Your Memory

Duncan assures you that he knows exactly how to get to the bus stop:
“You just let your feet carry you, son, one step after another. Two postboxes down you turn left and you’re there, easy-peasy”.
And even though you don’t really understand, and actually doubt whether Duncan has ever been out alone (you wouldn’t know because Duncan has been here several years and you only less than twelve months ago), you nod gratefully because you remember when no one would pay any heed to what you had to say. And even though you know Duncan’s story by heart, and usually walk away before he really gets started because he makes you feel funny, you let the story unfold of how TfL are to blame for Duncan’s collapse and for the fact that the brood no longer come to see Daddy. You look at Duncan’s scarred leathery face and can’t blame them. However, now you have to leave because all along you have kept an eye on the doors and at last the coast looks clear.
You say an awkward goodbye to Duncan and enter the code that you know because the Crows thought you never would or surely never could remember. The large glass-doors move apart soundlessly and you walk towards the sunny, sane world that smells of frost, wet leaves and for some reason also of ham. Steam oozes from your mouth as you mouth a goodbye to Duncan, who gestures through the glass for you to hurry. So you turn and make your way down the damp Stroud Green Road where London spreads out before you as grey lava and you are the apex and Stroud Green the Edna.
You know the Crows are bound to come for you soon, so you hurry up and as you walk change from your dark green jacket to the fluorescent yellow duffel coat that Malcolm lent you so as not to make yourself stand out. And as you pass the colourless estate near Japan Crescent your chest loosens up and your lungs release a deep, sore breath that seems to have been trapped there for almost as long as you remember. When you pass the second postbox you see the bus stop on the left and regret that you ever doubted any of Duncan’s words because you know what all the others thought of the story. For the past ten and a half months you have been Duncan’s only support because as the only one you remembered the sane world out here, even though that same world feels glassy and transparent to you now.
As a W7 appears from around the bend people at the bus stop get up and rummage around for purses or wallets, and you hurry to queue up. You need to catch the tube to Covent Garden, because that’s where you last saw her, so round and pretty your heart felt swollen and sore and you wanted to hold her, but she sobbed and you weren’t allowed to touch her. And even though you don’t mean to and you try to stop yourself, you can’t help but see the Boar once more grunt and groan on top of her the sharp teeth bared. But because you now know there’s no reason to go through that anymore, you look around the clammy bus where the dampness of strangers runs down every surface. A young boy stares from your yellow duffel coat to your face and back, and you remember that you have just spent ten and a half months locked away, that the Crows and the Wolf have forced colourful tablets down you endlessly (when all you wanted was for them to tell you whether she’s okay and what happened to the baby) and how you used to become so sleepy they could do to you whatever they wanted before eventually your awareness would recover and they had to double the dose.
“Next stop Blackstock Road,” the speakers belt out and you hurry off the bus only to be hoovered down the tube entrance at Wells Terrace, descend further down along the hordes and be pushed on board a wagon where you have to endure another man’s breath on your neck long enough for you to yearn back to the clean, soundless rooms of a place where no one ever gets close to anyone else. But eventually you are squeezed out onto the platform, and moments later you walk the swarmed alleys of Covent Garden where you haven’t been for almost a year now; an odd component surrounded by an ocean of blood cells. For a moment you worry that your scull may explode and the mass scatter all over the neat shop facades of James Street and the thought makes you feel weak and woozy. You know you need to take a rest somewhere calm and clean, so you choose a coffee house on the square from where you can watch the red nosed and pale-faced passers by. Promptly you hark back to an adolescent memory of her face on a frosty day; pale cheeks and a rosy nose framed by dark locks and a green woollen hat. You remember how her beam and the touch of her hand defrosted your heart regardless of all the others’ contempt for you. But then there was The Blood not long after and along came the change.

“Mum!” The appalled scream went up the house, through your bedroom door and cut a clear path to the core of your bones (where you feel the frozen arrows even now), and you wanted to cure her hurt so bad you jumped almost the whole set of steps just soon enough to see the blood between her legs. Then your mum shut the bathroom door and they wouldn’t open up even though you begged and pleaded and banged your knuckles blue and raw on the door.
“Please let me help. Please, please” you sobbed when eventually they came out, but she walked past you to her room and never spoke a word of what had happened. However, you felt the change of what you and her had together. Suddenly she locked her door and shouted at you, and she would no longer let you sleep next to her. She kept away from you at school and on the streets; and at last there was the Boar, who made her forget about you completely and left you and your mum alone when all you wanted was for her to beam at you as she had done that frosty day and assure you that the two of you shared a secret no one else understood, least of all your mum who never knew what to say to you.
Years later the beam returned, but her eyes were locked on the Boar, hands on her swollen stomach, and that was more than you could take. And then there was The Blood once more, and the screams, and the jabs and the Wolf’s comfortable couch and the Crows and Duncan and now you are here on your own, at the spot where the one and only person that ever mattered stepped off the planet for all you know less than twelve months ago.

Abruptly you get up and rush out on the square. A woman holds a baby close to her breast, and of course you have seen the dark frame around pale cheeks and the rosy nose. The cold breeze alerts your senses and you force your way through a sea of blue, black, red and yellow coats to look for her, but none of them are hers and no one wears a green woollen hat. You hear her laughter somewhere and turn around and around when suddenly a gasp escapes you and your lungs empty. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry because there, just by ALDO, the Boar stands hunched over and horrendous. Enormous clouds of opaque blue emerge the snout as he laughs and he looks healthy and well as ever. You are drawn towards the creature, so close you could touch a paw should you want to. However, he makes to leave and you manage to hold yourself back and follow your prey as darkness collapses onto the wet Covent Garden Plaza. He walks off towards London Transport Museum where he stops for a moment before he passes by the Market and takes a left down Southampton Street where each streetlamp exaggerates the brute hog features as he paces over the cobbles.
The busy Strand smells of gas and gulls and the frost covered pavement sparkles beneath you as you rush past the clamour of cars that holler past and make you so unsteady you almost loose track of the Boar as he speeds down the street. A double-decker bus thunders past you, and for a moment you hold the gaze of a passenger whose beetle eyes peer out from beneath layers of clothes, and you wonder what happened to Malcolm’s duffle coat when suddenly the heavy December sky breaks open over your head. Frosty grey flakes gnaw through your sheer top and the contrast on your warm body makes you remember once, before the Wolf, when you could feel your whole body properly.
Unexpectedly, the Boar darts out between the cars and you have to follow regardless of the wake of screams and horns that follows you. You worry for a moment that the tumult has revealed you, but the Boar stays unconcerned as he pushes past groups of x-mas shoppers that clog the alley down to Embankment. He struggles for a moment and turns just enough to catch your eye: At once heartbeats accelerate, adrenal glands awaken, eyes enlarge and you know that now no one can stop you.
The hunt has begun.

As you force your way through coats and bags, only one thought loops through your head: you must steal back the secret, your secret, her secret that the Boar now holds. No one must ever hurt her or the baby, and you mustn’t lose track of the Boar now he beats towards the narrow gates of the tube entrance. Soon after, you are gagged out onto the Embankment where you spot the hog as he mounts the Hungerford steps to cross the Thames and you follow even though you fear the water that looms beneath you, grey and ever changeable; an enormous wound full of movement that eats all, swallows all. But you must not stop now so you focus on your prey that soon descends down onto a nearly deserted South Bank, concrete under fresh sludge. Here, he can be tracked effortlessly and, teeth bared and muscles tensed, you allow more space between you because your calm has granted you almost supernatural powers, and you know only too well that fear forces thoughtless acts. As foreseen you watch the beast make a desperate error and turn left up the cul-de-sac just before the Hayward Gallery and a yelp emerges from the darkness as he learns there are no escape routes. You know he has sensed your presence because you can smell the fear as you draw nearer, ever so slowly, prepared for the attack. Once more you recall the bared teeth and the grunts, the movement, the fury and the roar, the roar that now once more emerges from deep down your stomach, echoes between the walls and paralyses the Boar. He holds up two paws and turns around slowly to face you.
“Please,” he trembles, cheeks tear-streaked.
“Please, Mr. let me go. Take whatever you want. Take my wallet, take my phone, but please spare me,” he begs, though none of what he says makes any sense to you now. Because you have only just seen the beard, and the glasses, and the eyes that are clear blue, and the curls that never belonged to the Boar. And you slump down on your knees now because of course he was never the Boar.
Your prey sobs and rushes past as you become aware of how soaked your clothes are. A heavy, watery warmth flushes through your body and makes your temples throb and your blood vessels sore, and you let yourself fall down on all fours because you no longer see any reason to carry on. Maybe they spoke the truth after all, the Hyenas who sentenced you and the Vultures who hovered around her, needles at hand, maybe they all spoke the truth. Maybe she does not want to see you anymore. And the thought makes your body surrender and collapse completely. You know you’ll be found and sent back to Crouch End anyway. And they’ll condemn you as they condemned Duncan, because you spark a remembrance of the days before they ended up where they are. New tablets and talks and schemes and belts are to be launched by the Wolf, repeated by the Crows and eventually, when they deem your head completely cleared, only one thought stays on: pale cheeks, dark locks, a red nose and the screams as at last the Boar surrenders.