BooksBarbecue
Back I Know What I Saw
Chapters (59)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for I Know What I Saw
  3. By the Same Author
  4. Dedication Page
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. Now read on for a preview
  55. 1
  56. 2
  57. 3
  58. 4
  59. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As I hit Pimlico the traffic begins to thin. This is London so it never spreads so thinly that it has the feeling of winding down. There is only a shift in patterns. The tempo is reduced by the tiniest fraction. The urgency is less. Commerce is plying its night shift where the demands are different. I remember the thrust of commerce, how it felt under one’s arm, pushing forward.

Memory and history are not the same thing.

When I remember my life before, I am really reimagining it, in flashes, in tiny abstract glimpses. And in that memory, I compose my own rhythm, close enough to match the original percussion, but far enough to be no better than an improvisation inspired by it. But in the end, I always wash up in the same place with the same question. How did it all begin?

Dad, for instance. Could you say, it all began with him?

‘Xander,’ he said once. ‘You’re so bright. Why do you have to be so disruptive?’

He spoke to me, away from Rory. He convinced himself it was so that he didn’t embarrass me, but I knew the truth was that he didn’t know what I was capable of saying.

‘Maths is boring,’ I told him. His brown eyes, large and cow-like, made me despise him.

‘You need the maths to understand the physics,’ he said.

But Mum overheard this and hovered close.

‘Proust. Try Proust, if you’re bored,’ she said.

Only an academic would think of saying something like that to a child, I think now.

As I step on to the bridge, the sound of police sirens makes my heart flutter. If they are racing to her, they’re too late. And I wonder then about that. I was too slow to affect anything. I was much too slow. If I had done something, maybe she would be alive.

The pain asserts itself again and is now a cage over my head. For a minute I wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me. Did I really witness a woman being killed? And then I think of it. Yes. The crack, the thud and spilled blood. I know what’s coming next. It’s knocking. It announces its arrival so mundanely, the guilt. I tense my body against all that guilt, coming for me.