What? Who?

You know what and you know who, she said.

I really don’t, you said, and you really didn’t.

Because you don’t remember. You’re going to use this . . . this stupid disease as an excuse for everything now, aren’t you?

She was frustrated and lashing out, and the counselor had warned that you wouldn’t be the only one going through the five stages of grief. In all your wallowing and angst, buddy, you’d forgotten that. Sandra is at anger, coming right off the back of stage one—infidelity.

I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.

Hans set that car on fire to hide the fact you were the one who spray-painted her house, she said, and now he’s hiding in our house and you know he’s in there.

I did no such thing, you said. And he’s not in there. I promise.

I don’t want you seeing him anymore, are we clear on that?

You weren’t up for an argument, so you told her you were clear on that.

Then make sure you write it down in your bloody Madness Diary.

It’s a journal.

The police were at the door. Both of you were close enough to the house to hear everybody shout out surprise as the lights inside were thrown on as the police walked inside. In hindsight, you were lucky nobody got shot.

Sandra’s anger disappeared then. The police backed out and read the situation accurately, gave Sandra a few minutes to acknowledge the occasion, then spent the next hour taking statements as everybody else socialized.

Do me a favor, you asked them as they left.

And what favor would that be, sir?

When you find who set fire to her car, why don ’t you ask them if they know how to use a can of spray-paint instead of accusing me, huh?

You made a good point, partner.

You went back to the party. Sandra hugged you, and apologized for jumping to the conclusion that Hans was inside, and you forgave her, and wondered if she wasn’t right in her assumption he was involved. Eva came over and told you the ruined surprise wasn’t your fault, and even though it wasn’t, it still somehow feels like it was. Even now you don’t know what you could have done or said to stop the officers opening your door, but you suspect that Past Jerry, even one as recent as a month ago, would have known.

Other than that, the party went off well, and the guests, of which there were over thirty of them, all had a good time. Sandra got a lot of fiftieth birthday cards, even though she’s only forty-nine, joke messages written on the inside. You stayed sober right until after the last guest left and you started writing in the journal, and even now you feel as sharp as a tack. The police ruining the surprise actually made the evening better somehow, as if everybody there had been in on a great story that they could tell—it made the party unique. For her birthday, you got hold of the original lyrics for “The Broken Man” that Eva wrote on a napkin and had it framed, complete with the doodles Eva had drawn in the corners and the lines that had been crossed out and replaced. She actually cried when you gave it to her. Plus some shoes that Eva helped you pick out. You can’t go wrong with shoes, Future Jerry, no matter what the occasion.

Good news—hopefully Mrs. Smith and her pastel wardrobe will move out of the neighborhood.

Good news—everything went well. You’ve known all along that the birthday party was a rehearsal for the wedding, a test to see what you can and can’t do, and you passed. It looks like there’s some plain sailing ahead.

Jerry is helped out to the car. The world doesn’t disappear, but the lights are turned down. He has one arm around Nurse Hamilton and one arm around Orderly Eric, and they’re walking down a pathway that seems familiar, as does the house over the road where the old lady is walking from, and the silt that was stirred up before is settling. It’s hiding the past. He can feel Jerry disappearing.

“You’re a no-good murderer,” the woman says, and he thinks that’s not true, that he’s actually a good murderer since he’s been getting away with it. He misses his wife and he misses his life and he just wants to hit the big reset button and have it all back.

The woman talking isn’t done. “I hope you rot in Hell,” she adds, and it makes him think, why would he ever have wanted to live here?

They get him to the car. They buckle him into the backseat. “Did we get it? The Madness Journal?”

“No,” the nurse says, and the silt has settled over her name, hiding it from view.

“It’s going to be okay,” the orderly says, and why do people keep insisting on that? What is it they know that he doesn’t?

A police car shows up. It parks next to them and the old woman approaches it and starts pointing at Jerry while she talks animatedly. The nurse gets involved and there’s a long conversation, a lot of head shaking and nodding and the two officers keep looking over at him, but they don’t come over. He closes his eyes. The car starts moving. It’s relaxing, and he dozes a little, opening his eyes every now and then to look at the road. When they reach the home he’s helped out of the car and into a wheelchair. He’s wheeled down a corridor and into a small room with a bed in the middle and a bookcase against the wall and a view onto a garden. Two people help him up onto the bed.

“Do you know where you are, Jerry?” a man asks.

“Where’s my shirt?” Jerry asks.

“The police have it,” a woman says.

“Are they going to arrest me?”

“Get some rest,” the woman says, this bear-sized woman who bear hugged him earlier and abducted him from his home.

Then he’s all alone. When he tries to sit up he finds he can’t, that he’s too tired. There is a way out of this nursing home—he’s done it before and he can do it again. He’ll find the journal and he’ll solve the puzzle and then they’ll let him go because he can show them he’s not a killer at all, that something else is going on here, and once he shows them they’ll have to let him live back in his house and he’ll be allowed to have the life back they’ve taken from him. Captain A isn’t going to get away with this.

But for now, sleep.

Then dinner.

Then he’s getting the hell out of here.

DAY SIXTY

You know what—it might not be sixty. It might be fifty-eight. Or sixty-two. Who knows, and who really cares?

Actually, Madness Journal, let’s start over, shall we?

DAY WHO GIVES A FUCK?

That’s better. You’ve been wanting to make more regular updates, but here’s what happened—you lost the Madness Journal. In a way it’s a good thing too, because you know Sandra has been looking for it. You’ve caught her. Henry can explain it better. Of course Henry has never been that great at writing from the female point of view (You just don’t get women, Henry—because you’re a chauvinistic asshole, according to one cat-loving, man-hating blogger), but he’s willing, if you are, Future Jerry, to let him give it a shot. Henry?

It was dark outside. Rain hammered the shit out of the roof, it hammered the shit out of the windows. Sandra sat at the window thinking about how, once her husband was gone, she wouldn’t have to sneak out to spread her legs for people in the back of cars and in restaurant toilets, because that was all very what her mother would call unladylike. Soon she could have people stay over, maybe get a bit of a gang bang going on like the one she had the day the alarms got installed. She was looking forward to spending all of Jerry’s money—oh, the things she would buy! And poor Jerry, sitting in a nursing home with a feeding tube jammed up his ass because that’s the way she asked them to do it—sure, it cost extra, but it was money well spent because it amused her, the same way Jerry amused her when he got confused or lost. The wedding was approaching, and she was hoping his mind would have reached full collapse by then, not only because she was scared about him forgetting who his daughter was when he gave her away and embarrassing Eva, but because there was going to be a lot of cock at that reception and she was definitely up for her share.