From a Safe Distance (35 page)

Now it's time for me to confess, reveal what's happened here, whether or not you ever get to read it. I have no way of finding out what has really happened in your life, but there are several things I might have written about if I'd wanted to continue this imaginary version of our lives. I might have moved on two years, for example, after your holiday; both of your daughters might have graduated, and perhaps “Grace” is training to be a doctor. Of course this might be true, but what I have written about you and your family is largely a figment of my imagination.

I could have left you all behind to focus on writing a book with no reference to anything at all you might recognise. Or the world I have invented here could go on turning longer, if I wanted it to, for good or ill. But I've decided that enough is enough; it is time to explain what's been going on. This particular world has to stop turning – now that I'm at a safe distance.

I doubt if I'll ever send this letter that I'm scribbling now: I don't even know where you live or how to get in touch with you now you've retired, Roy. That's how it should be, for a patient.

Obviously, I'm still around. I wrote about my own death and described what my own funeral might be like. Yes, I
even wrote Newman's introduction. Of course, parts of the story, that is to say some of the details of my childhood, the existence of Aunt Mary, when you and I first met, my teaching career, how you became my doctor years later, the terrible life I had at Squaremile, and above all this life-changing illness – these are all real, as you know. I still have the white door with me but it has stayed closed for a while. For me, the fact that this particular door remains closed is a good thing.

I liked working with “Helen”; she was a good manager, but as far as I know, neither she nor you stepped in on my behalf. Of course, I didn't expect you to. The showdown and its repercussions were wishful thinking; Squaremile still exists and must be left to its own devices. In any case, it would be far too late to take any kind of action now. Let's just assume that this book gets published, and you get hold of a copy.

I hope you're both well and haven't suffered any major health issues like your fictional counterparts. Without their help, however, I would probably not be here, writing this in the new flat.

Yes, I
was
writing the book when I last saw you, but then you and Sonya (“Bella”) decided I ought to spend some more time in Porteblanche. But I couldn't have handed over the manuscript at that appointment in August, because it was still just a collection of notes then. Besides, the idea of imagining your participation had not yet occurred to me.

By the time I came out of hospital again you'd left. I missed you and couldn't get used to not seeing you, so when I'd settled in my new place, I thought I'd create this other world, write about what
might
have happened, if you'd acted on my behalf. My life at Squaremile and the way I left were so chaotic that I just wanted it all sorted out; I couldn't think of anyone better qualified for the task than you. It seemed like a good way to structure what I wanted to say, and it somehow maintained your involvement in my progress.

So that's when
Doors Closing
came into being. I acquired
a computer and Len built me a desk with two chests and a stout work surface, so there was no excuse. I saw Sonya a few more times, but then she too left, disillusioned by changes within the NHS. But writing the book made me feel less alone.

Phisto died last year, at a ripe old age, and with him my last (and best) connection to Squaremile.

There was no baby, Roy. You don't need to worry on that score.

While I will never know how many other people might have been treated as I was, writing this book was my own way of coping, just as Newman said. Among other things, the book allowed me to explore my anger. But in the end, I hope you will see that I wrote it out of love for you. Remember those moments in the book when Max felt Vee's presence nearby? I was thinking about you as I wrote the scenes and wanted to be with you. That's all it was. Nothing more sinister. No ghosts or anything.

Dearest Roy. Enjoy your retirement, but don't forget the sunset and the champagne, Max!

Yours always,

Il n'y a pas d'amour de vivre sans désespoir de vivre.
A
LBERT
C
AMUS

Mais les souvenirs cheminent en nous alors que nous croyons les avoir fermement rélégués dans l'oubli.

J
ACQUELINE
DE
R
OMILLY

But memories haunt us, even when we think we have resolutely consigned them to oblivion.

«Les plaies du coeur guérissent mal
Souventes fois même, salut!
Elles ne se referment plus.»

G
EORGES
B
RASSENS

A wounded heart is slow to mend; oh, it's often the case that it never really heals.

Je suis dos
.

This is a literal translation and means ‘I am
back
' in the sense of ‘spine.' To convey ‘back', in the sense needed here, a verb such as ‘returned' (revenu) would be needed.

«Si l'Eternel existe,
en fin de compte
Il voit qu'
je me conduis
guère plus mal
Que si j'avais la foi.»

G
EORGES
B
RASSENS

If the Almighty exists, at the end of the day, He'll see that I'm behaving hardly any worse than if I believed.

Il n'y a pas d'amour de vivre sans désespoir de vivre.

A
LBERT
C
AMUS

There is no love of life without despair of life.