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Staring at Peter as if unable to believe his words, slowly she began to understand his meaning. Terrified, she started trembling. ‘Tonight they decided to swoop on you. Andrew – we need the answer please.’ Peter became decidedly rough with Andrew, pushing Andrew into a sofa where he looked most uncomfortable as Peter, scowling fiercely, stood over him. Jennifer tried to intervene but Peter whirled on her. ‘Shut up, Jennifer. Stop carrying on like some teenage virgin who can only giggle and talk about boys.’ Ashen, Jennifer sank into the lounge. Shaken, she was unable to comprehend why Peter would be so offensive to her. Moving to sit beside Jennifer, Andrew began. ‘Ah, well, I do believe I owe you an explanation.’ Placing an arm around Jennifer’s shoulder to console her he turned to her as if asking her permission to continue. ‘Jennifer, I must tell him what happened after that ball.’ Ignoring her confusion, he continued. ‘We need his help. No one else can help us and I believe he is. But in fact, he had never once waited for her in bed, being occupied during the late hours, in his favorite chair, always reading the bible. She must, she thinks, get that part right… he had never awaited her. But what was his name? What was his name? Her husband’s name? A suppressed pain. Fear. There is something careless about this kind of forgetting, something unpardonable, a great guilt. Her husband, her master. His face has the quality of a blurred photograph, yet she remembers his rough hands. His rough, calloused hands on her soft breast. She shudders. Feeling foolish she starts through the alphabet, trying to associate a name with each letter: Albert, Benjamin, Charles, Donald… It feels as if every last cell of her brain was driven into illness. Her lack of memory fills her with silent dread. Not my mind, Dear god not my mind! She tries to compose herself. Ernest, Frank… Letter by letter she continues to analyze the sounds and impressions. What is this? Dear god. Dear.
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