He’s halfway through his cereal and has just spilled some when he realizes he’s still wearing the robe he put on when he got out of the shower. He pulls it aside and sees he’s wearing nothing under it. An intense feeling of embarrassment comes over him—this is exactly the sort of shit Sandra said would happen if he drank too much while on tour, and who the hell forgets to get dressed in the morning? He stands so suddenly that he knocks the table and tips over his glass of orange juice. It’s an effort not to swear, but he manages it. It’s an effort not to look out at all the people who are now staring at him, but he manages that too. There is something strange happening here, he can feel that, but he can’t quite figure out what. He keeps his head down and walks out of the dining room, and once he’s in the corridor he starts to run. He wants to get the hell out of here—next city please—and tonight, cross his heart and hope to die, he promises he’ll leave the gin and tonics alone. This is just like one of those dreams where you show up at work naked. He reaches his room and puts his fingers on the handle, hoping the door will be unlocked.

“Jerry, hey, Jerry, are you okay?”

A man is walking down the corridor towards him. He’s in a white uniform—he looks more like a chef than a doorman or concierge or whatever his title is at Hotel Wherever. He’s a big guy—the kind of guy who might have been a rugby player back in the day—whenever that was. He can’t be much older than forty. He has the kind of hairline that Jerry has always been frightened of getting, where there’s hair around the sides but nothing else. He has a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that need a wipe, and a thick set of eyebrows hanging over them. His jaw protrudes further than his nose, it’s big and square and well shaved.

“I forgot my key,” Jerry says, and decides not to point out he also forgot his clothes. The guy talking to him won’t point it out either if he wants a decent tip.

“The door isn’t locked,” the man says, and Jerry tries it out. Sure enough, the door pops open.

“It doesn’t lock automatically?”

“No.”

“What the hell kind of place is this?” Then suddenly it all comes to him. Things that didn’t make sense do now, and Jerry can feel himself getting angry. “This is why my watch is missing! And my wallet and passport—I can’t find them either. Seriously,” he says, “I don’t really like giving feedback, but you should do something about the security around here.” Then he flushes, because he knows what the man’s response is going to be. What, this from a guy who can’t remember to pull on a pair of pants? He decides to stay committed to the cause. To stay on the attack. “I’m going to call the police,” he says.

“It’s okay, Jerry. You haven’t lost anything. How about we get you into your room and sit down for a bit.”

“Where are my things?”

“I’ll explain it to you.”

Jerry shakes his head. “There’s no time. I have a train to catch.”

“Come on, let’s just sit down for a moment,” the man says, and he reminds Jerry of a car salesman, the Come on, just take her for a spin, see how she feels, get her out onto the open road and open her up kind.

“I don’t want to buy a goddamn car!” Jerry yells.

“Come on, Jerry, please, let’s just sit down.”

They head into the room. There’s a bookcase with all his books on it, which is pretty weird, he thinks, but then decides it’s not weird at all, but very sweet. The hotel staff must figure he travels a lot, and they’re trying to make his stay here feel a little more like home. He appreciates the gesture, but not at the expense of security. Then he sees a photograph of him and Eva leaning up against another photograph. Eva is holding a guitar. They really have gone all out here.

There are two armchairs in the room near the window. The view beyond is a partly cloudy sky with plenty of trees trailing out of sight. Jerry wonders what the collective noun for the trees would be, and decides on shitload. He smiles at the thought. He’ll have to put that into a book. Then he realizes that the collective noun for trees is probably forest. Or woods, or copse, or an orchard, or plenty of other things. They sit down. The TV is on, and the news is on, and the news anchors are talking about a woman who was murdered yesterday, a really beautiful woman with long blond hair that reminds him a little of Sandra. There’s a gold four-leaf clover hanging on a chain around her neck, which isn’t something Sandra would wear. He feels sad for this woman. Sad for her family. Sad for the human race.

“Jerry, do you remember where you are?”

Hell, he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t in here alone. He turns towards the man sitting opposite. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Would you like to take a nap, Jerry?”

“What time is the train?”

“There’s time if you want to take a nap, and I’m thinking you’ll feel better once you’ve woken up.”

“And my stuff? My wallet and passport and watch?”

“Safe. All of them safe.”

“I have a hangover,” Jerry tells the man, though it feels more just like a headache than a hangover. He rubs his fingers against the side of his head. Suddenly the man looks a little familiar to him. “Is your name Derek?”

“It’s Eric,” Eric says.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Do you know where my wallet and watch are, Derek? They’re missing.”

“I’ll go and find them, Jerry, I promise,” he says, and he stands up. “How about you just lie down here and rest while I’m gone? I’ll come back and check on you in an hour or so, okay?”

“Okay,” Jerry says, and it does seem like a good idea. He can’t believe how tired he’s suddenly feeling. “But I don’t want to miss the train.”

“You won’t, I promise, okay?”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“It’s all going to be okay, Jerry.”

“It will be, as long as you come back with my things.”

“I will. How about you lie down first, and then I’ll leave.”

“Fine, if that will get you out of here quicker,” Jerry says, moving over to the bed.

“It will.”

The man switches off the TV. “Get some rest, Jerry. Yesterday was a big day and no doubt you’re tired,” he says. “I’ll be back soon,” he adds, and then slips out of the room.

Jerry knows he’s right. Yesterday was a big day—so big he can’t even remember it.

DAY TEN

Hey stranger! Remember me? I’m that guy you used to know, what’s his name, the writer dude, the one with the funny-sounding disease. This is day ten of the Madness Journal. Sorry it’s not so regular, but life and the things that go along with it (that you’ll soon start to forget) keep getting in the way.

Actually, enough joking around. How are you? Seriously, Jerry, you doing okay? Hopefully things aren’t too messed up. Hopefully the journal isn’t having a negative effect on you. It may be a map back to the person you once were, but it’s also serving as a reminder to what you’ve lost.

Day ten and you feel like you’ve always felt. Fit. Healthy. A little tired, maybe, but that’s all. You actually went out to dinner last night with Sandra—in all your years since being married, you’ve always had at least one date night every month—and you both spoke about books, and movies, what was happening in the news, what some of your friends were up to. It was really nice to just talk about something other than the insanity bomb waiting to detonate at some point in the future. Wherever you are, hopefully you’re coping.

The counselor came around this afternoon. Her name is Beverly, and her breasts were so huge they were resting on her knees when she sat down, and were almost resting on her knees even when she was standing. She’s in her fifties now, but by the time she’s sixty they’ll surely have snapped her spine in half. Sandra told me afterwards that she reminded her of one of our professors back at university, a Miss Malady, who she used to call Miss Catlady, and as soon as she said it you saw the resemblance. You’d like Beverly—she’s pretty funny, for the most part, but serious when she needs to be. She came around and we were right, buddy—out came the five stages of dementia, or grief. Stage one—denial. She pointed out you had been in denial since the first time you forgot Sandra’s name and put it down to the drinks. She said you’re still going to be in a stage of denial for a while—it’s the shock, you see. Of course where you are, denial was way back, along with the other four. You probably reached acceptance a long time ago—or did you? Are you reading this now, still refusing to believe what’s happened? It’s hard to know how to feel about that. Sad, in some ways, but in others it’s comforting to think of you staying strong, of staying steadfast and refusing to allow the Dark Tomorrow that is on its way to arrive.