The Man Who Forgot His Wife Read Online Free Page A

Sure there are lots of characters, but none of them is ever particularly developed. ‘Aaron’, for example, has a walk-on part right at the beginning but then we never hear from him again. The same was true with ‘Abdullah’, who also failed to offer up any clues as to whether that might be the sort of name my parents had given me.
    ‘I’m not sure you should lie down like that,’ said Bernard. ‘You’re still really concentrating, aren’t you?’
    ‘Definitely. I’m just closing my eyes so I can be sure there’s nothing else to distract me …’
    I eventually woke up to the alliterative poetry of ‘Francis? Frank? Frankie? Franklin?’ Even though Bernard had been going for several hours, he still declared every name with extraordinary gusto and optimism. I had just had the same dream I’d experienced a couple of times now: a snapshot of a moment sharing laughter with a woman. I couldn’t remember a face or a name, but she seemed to love me as I loved her. The sensation was pure happiness, the only colour in a black-and-white world, and I was crushed when I awoke to the huge void that was my life right now. Had it not been for the gripping narrative of Bernard’s book, I might have allowed myself to be quite depressed.
    ‘Gabriel? Gael? Galvin? Ganesh?’
    ‘Hmmm,’ I thought, ‘I don’t think I look much like a “Ganesh”. I haven’t got four arms and the head of an elephant, for a start.’ Maybe I could ask him to stop now; perhaps claim that after several hours of intense concentration I was tiring a little.
    ‘Gareth? Garfield? Garrison?’ An unspecified electronic buzz was coming from the ward reception desk. ‘Garth? Garvin? Gary?’
    And then something extraordinary happened. On hearing the word ‘Gary’, I just heard myself mumble ‘07700 …’
    ‘What was that?’ said Bernard.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said, sitting up. ‘It just came out when you said “Gary”.’
    ‘Is that it? Is that you? Are you
Gary
?’
    ‘I don’t think so. Say it again.’
    ‘Gary!’
    ‘07700 …’ There was more. ‘900 … 913.’
    It was like an involuntary spasm; there was no context or meaning to it – it just felt natural that those numbers followed that name.
    ‘That’s a telephone number!’ said Bernard excitedly, writing it down.
    ‘Yeah, but whose?’
    Bernard looked at me as if I was being particularly stupid. ‘I mean, someone called Gary, probably, but I wonder who he is?’
    We had discovered a fragment of DNA from my past life. Bernard had successfully shown the way to my hinterland. I’d been sceptical and negative and he had proved me wrong. I might have actually congratulated him on his tenacity and initiative if I hadn’t noticed that these very qualities had caused him to reach for his mobile phone and start dialling.
    ‘What are you doing?’ I screamed.
    ‘Ringing Gary. Was it “913” at the end?’
    ‘No, don’t! I’m not ready! We should talk to the doctor! You’re not allowed to use that in here—’
    ‘It’s ringing!’ and he threw the handset over to me.
    Slowly I raised it to my ear. ‘There’s no one there. It’s probably just a random number. I can’t believe I’m even listening to this …’ Then a distant electronic crackle. And after a whole week, the first faint sound heard by rescue teams digging in the rubble.
    ‘Hello?’ said a male voice, on a weak, distorted signal.
    ‘Um … hello? Is that … er, Gary, by any chance?’ I stammered.
    ‘Yeah. Vaughan! Is that you? Where the hell have you been? It’s like you suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth!’
    In a panic I dropped the call and threw the handset back to Bernard.
    ‘Did you recognize his voice?’
    ‘Er, no. No, I … It’s probably just some random bloke,’ I stammered. But the stranger was ringing straight back. And soon they were having quite an animated chat about me.
    ‘Not any more,’ said Bernard. ‘I think
I
’m his best friend now …’

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