I Know What I Saw

‘No way. Inflation risk too high,’ she said through a mouthful of rice. ‘Not to mention the currency risk. And we’d be tying it up to the maturity date however long in the future.’

Currency was really Grace’s thing and I trusted her instincts.

‘But we’d get gilts, obviously, so there’d be no currency risk. It’s all sterling,’ I said.

She nodded and put her sticks down. ‘There’s still inflation and the lock-in. It’s not looking good out there, inflation-wise. We’re much better off getting, what, six per cent in our special interest account?’

I nodded. I hadn’t expected anything, I was just having the conversation. One of those conversations without any pressure or urgency. We could do it or not, it didn’t matter that much – it made a difference of just a point or two. But we were mathematicians still. At heart, we wanted the maths to make sense. It wasn’t really about having more money; it was just getting the numbers to chime in a way that felt rhythmic to us.

‘Though,’ she said finally, ‘we could just buy dollars. That’s going only one way at the moment.’

It was all just money. If we lost anything or made anything, it wouldn’t be life-changing. Solid international currencies were pretty safe.

I skewered some chicken and black bean sauce with a chopstick.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said.

After Grace. After the whole thing. After she left, that final time, I emptied out the account and took it home in hundred-dollar bills. Hard cash. It sat there in the living room – the same room we’d spent so many nights in, curled on the sofa, watching TV into the vanishing night – a quarter of a million dollars. In cash.

Except by then there was no TV and no Grace. Just me and a block of money where the TV used to be and odd scraps she’d left behind in drawers and cupboards.

When we gave notice on the flat, I needed somewhere to put it all. It had been so frustrating getting the money out of the bank that the idea of taking it back there was just too much. The telephone conversation I had with the bank clerk the week before I withdrew it all comes back to me.

‘We can’t close the account unless we have both signatures. It’s a joint account, sir. We’d need Ms Mackintosh to sign her consent.’

‘But I added her name. I’m the one operating the account,’ I explained.

‘Yes, sir. But when you added her name, you agreed that the account could not be closed without both signatures.’

I looked at the phone, wishing that it would become sentient just to witness my frustration.

‘But that is stupid.’ I thought for a moment, frustrated by everything. ‘Can I withdraw as much as I want in cash, at least?’

‘Yes, sir, there are no restrictions on withdrawing cash. Except for dollar amounts above ten thousand dollars, you would need to order the cash a week in advance.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll have the lot. I’ll be round in a week to collect it. I’ll bring my own bag.’ She stuttered immediately, trying to say something, but I holstered the phone.

I try to sleep again but the bedroom is too warm for me so I come back downstairs, to the kitchen where it is cooler. At the sink I quietly pick up dishes and begin to wash. The window on to the garden reflects the darkness so well that it becomes a mirror. I study my face briefly. There are deep lines there that I don’t see when I picture myself. The hair has grey strands that aren’t there in my mind either. But the eyes. The eyes seem younger than I feel. When I look into them I’m staring into a memory of a younger person. I catch flashes of myself as a child. There’s either innocence still buried in the layers of life or something else. Vulnerability perhaps. I see that boy and I want to hold him.

I need to sleep. The dishes are done and draining on the rack but still I stare at the window. No longer looking at my face but through it into the garden. My hands are pink from soap and hot water but it disappoints me that the dirt has gone. It’s as if I have turned my back on myself.

I need to sleep. The peace I felt from the evening with Seb has burned away like morning mist in the sun. The woman is in my head, clamouring, and I desperately need to get away.

From the window I see that the early morning light is still an hour or so away. The dark sky has that tender, wintry quality, so that the approaching light, when it comes, will seem fractured. I get Seb’s coat and wrap it round my body and slip into the garden.

Some of the chill of the February weather has gone but it is still cold enough to draw fog from my lungs. I crouch at the edge of the lawn, in the shrubbery to touch the earth. It feels cool and comforting. If I don’t sleep I won’t be able to think. I feel my way in through the veil of slowly descending light and pat at the bushes. They are thick here. I crouch down and shuffle my way in, cracking joints as I do. Years of cold have damaged me.