“I just need to read it. That’s all.”

“Are you sure about this? I mean really sure?”

“I’m sure,” he says. Then adds, “I’ll be okay.”

“This is the house where Sandra died, Jerry, and you may be about to read your own account of being her killer. I’m going to call Eric to come and help us because I think there’s a very good chance that okay may be the last thing you’re going to be.”

DAY FIFTY-THREE

They’re installing alarms, Future Jerry. Can you believe that? Jesus, next thing they’ll get a giant cat door just for you and you’ll have to . . . wait, message from Henry . . . what’s that Henry? Oh, that wouldn’t be called a cat door, it would be called a door. Then you’ll have to wear a goddamn magnetic collar to make sure the other dementia granddads on the street don’t wander in and raid the fridge and shit on the carpet and chew up the arms of the lounge set.

It was actually What’s Her Name’s idea, the counselor with the big boobs. Sandra rang her this morning and told her you’d gone a-wandering, which was something the counselor said was likely to happen. There’s a guy coming around tomorrow to work on the place. Alarms on all the doors that lead in and out of the house, including the garage door. No alarms on the windows, because if you’re sane enough to try and escape through the windows as to not trigger an alarm, then you’re sane. The alarms are for when Captain A is driving this train wreck. You wandered off ONCE and instead of being sympathetic, Sandra is putting in the boot. Christ, she has NO IDEA how this feels. She isn’t THE ONE who is suffering, she isn’t THE ONE who is losing her mind. If you can find your car keys, maybe you can buy a tent and drive to the beach and toast some marshmallows and leave your Let’s control Jerry wife here to do whatever the hell she wants for a few days.

The wedding is now less than three weeks away. You’re too scared to look at your credit card bill—which, by the way, you don’t get to see anymore. All those things arrive online now, and you can’t access any of it because you can’t remember the access number or the password, though, to be honest here, Future Jerry, at this stage in the game you’re thinking you can remember them and that Sandra has changed them. She wants you to ask her what they are just so she can tell you they’re the same as they’ve always been, but you won’t give her the satisfaction.

You spoke to Hans today. He came around to see you. Unlike Sandra, he is on your side. He has no idea how it feels, but at least he’s sympathetic to the cause. He showed you the new tattoo around the base of his neck, just below the collar line so he had to pull his T-shirt down a little, and there in finger-sized lettering were the words The Cutting Man.

It’s because I love your books, man, he said. I’m so proud of you.

You told him about the alarms and the wandering, and the accusation your neighbor made.

Must be bloody frustrating, mate, he said, and he’s the only one of your friends to call you mate because you actually hate the term, but Hans does it because it’s a Hans thing to do. Sounds like that lady across the road is crazy.

Barking mad. She’s more demented than I am.

What time are you being neutered?

First thing in the morning. Then I can’t open a door without Sandra knowing.

And the police, do they think you spray-painted her house?

Probably.

And how ’s the wedding coming along?

It must be the social event of the year the way Sandra and Eva are racing around. Tomorrow evening we have to head to a restaurant to sample some desserts, and I have to go with them so I don’t run away.

Sounds fun.

Only it won’t be fun. You’re going to stand there like an idiot, trying foods, being asked what you think is best, then having whatever opinion you do have overruled by one of the girls. Jerry likes the chocolate? Oh, sorry, Jerry, but everybody else coming to the wedding prefers vanilla.

Sandra asked what to do about Mrs. Smith. You made the joke about hiring a hit man, but she didn’t laugh. Perhaps it really is no laughing matter, but maybe where you are in the future, Jerry, perhaps you can look back and get a chuckle from the whole thing. Sandra has the idea of leaving an envelope full of cash on Mrs. Smith’s doorstep, enough to cover the costs of painting. You don’t like the idea of paying for something you didn’t do, and you’re going to need that money if things get worse and you have to get home care. You pointed out to Sandra that Mrs. Smith was going to know where it came from—after all, who else would feel guilty enough to pay?

Hopefully this is as bad as it’s going to get. You have reached the final stage of grief, it seems. Sandra said it the other night when she said things are progressing. Now it’s just a matter of preparing for how bad it’s going to be. And how quickly it’s going to get there. You’ve reached stage one of stage five—you’ve accepted you’re losing control, but wandering off once in a while isn’t the end of the world, and who cares if you forgot the plate?

Ah hell, you’ve probably forgotten all about the plate. You got hungry this afternoon and heated up a tin of spaghetti. It’s not rocket science—use a can opener, pour the contents into a bowl, nuke the bowl in the microwave for two minutes. It’s not like you’re going to burn the house down. You were halfway through eating when Sandra got home from work, came in, and noticed there was no plate. That’s right, Future Jerry, you’d dished the spaghetti straight onto the table. Even when Sandra pointed it out it took a few seconds to register that there actually was no plate.

That was the moment you accepted your fate, that there was no way of shaking Captain A free, that he was going to ride you to the grave.

Sadly, Jerry, it’s time to accept that this is happening. It’s happening quickly too. You’ll be okay for the wedding—that’s what you’ve told everybody, and you will be, you have to be, but Christmas isn’t looking good. Look on the bright side—at least this year you can’t get in trouble for buying the wrong gifts.

Good news. It was really good to talk to Hans again. The wedding plans are coming along nicely and you’ve never seen Eva so happy. Her smile these days is almost enough to make you cry because you’re going to miss it like hell. She looks so much like Sandra back when Sandra was twenty-five. It’s spooky. “The Broken Man,” the song Eva wrote, is now being played on the radio, and debuted at number twelve. You preferred it when she sang it, but even so, it’s such a huge thrill. She has now sold a second song, and says an offer has been made for a third.

Tomorrow night we’re sampling some desserts for the wedding, and while we’re doing that, Sandra’s sister is going to be letting people into your house for Sandra’s surprise birthday. It should be fun.

Bad news—there are fork marks in the table from where you swirled and scooped the spaghetti. A year ago if the table had been marked by accident, Sandra would have suggested getting a new one. But not now, which can only mean she’s having an affair. It’s pretty obvious when you know how to connect the dots, which you’re an expert at. Soon she will try and talk you into a care facility. Then she can pick out a new table without you. She can walk hand in hand with her replacement of you into different department stores and they can spend your money together. The table is proof she’s already moving on, and at least now you know why she changed your pin number for the online banking and has torn pages from your journal. She doesn’t want you to spend what is now their money, and you must have figured this out earlier and written about it, and she found out and tore out the evidence.