Day 9
9, 19, no! 18, 41, 131, 11, no! 131, 10. She pressed the huge flat buttons on the ground. Like the keyboard of her laptop but it took both her hands pressing down, with all her weight pushing through. And then she had to move to the next one. It was like doing CPR on a giant’s computer.
“It has to be the right order!”
“I know. I’m trying. I just keep forgetting.”
“The door won’t open if the order’s wrong”
“What door? WHAT DOOR?”
Gretchen slowly focused on the light shade but was completely unable to recall who she was, where she was and what day it was. She was, however, aware that she should know these things and the fact that she didn’t was a sign that all was not well. What was good though, was that she nearly got the numbers right and would have been able to open the door. Next time, she promised herself. She’d known that there was an important reason for remembering the numbers. She had to open the door, didn’t she. Didn’t she? She sighed, recognising that the threads were pulling apart and she wouldn’t be able to form anything coherent now.
She was Gretchen. She was in her house. It was Saturday.
The notebook was back in her home, on the bookshelf. It sat there like a malignant tumour, gently sloughing off metastasising cells which infiltrated anything and everything. She’d read the 2 pages for today but was no further enlightened. It seemed to be about films, which she’d assumed were made-up but it turned out they all existed. She then entered a paranoid state of finding herself to be lacking in any cultural identity. If you don’t have a favourite film, do you even exist? This led her down a rocky path, where she couldn’t recall the names of any films, so she decided to stop thinking about it.
She did on the other hand remember the name Finn. It was in the earlier section of the notebook but she’d let that one escape. Maybe that was why her bells were ringing yesterday. Mmmm. No. That wasn’t it. But still. Maybe it’s another clue. Gretchen felt a rare surge of energy and took advantage by grabbing a pad of A4. On it, she wrote:
Finn Lezka Maja Combat woman Underpass woman
She stared at it with her pen poised. Ready to make some genius-level connections. Did they link up with the numbers? Seconds ticked by and…nothing. She swore, ripped the paper off, crumpled it up and threw it across the room. She tolerated it for 18 seconds then picked it up and put it in the bin.
On the plus side though, it did give her an idea. She’d heard nothing about this woman’s mysterious disappearance even though it happened just around the corner from her. Did she live in a hermetically sealed box with no interactions whatsoever? She picked up her phone and the internet didn’t let her down.
The first CCTV shot was of the High Street. A relatively clear image from quite a high angle. Gretchen recognised the antiques shop next to the butcher’s. A figure strode into shot. Back towards the camera, walking with an almost jaunty sashay. Long, dark hair swinging from side to side. The person—it had to a woman—was dressed in black. She zig-zagged along, skipping from pavement to road but not in a drunken stagger. It looked playful, as if she were dancing or toying with the notion of whether to go one way or the other. She turned the corner.
The second shot was grainy and poor quality. One of the peripheral fields of the dual-carriageway cameras included the path leading down to the underpass. She came into view—a staccato blur. And yet, she was different. Gretchen brought the phone closer to her eyes, squinting. Her hood was up now. Up and hanging down over her forehead. Even if the resolution could be improved, you’d never be able to recognise her face. She looked like Death. Without a scythe.
The last shot was from the underpass itself. As any subway is a beacon for nefarious activities, the presence of CCTV was unremarkable. She had her head hunched down and hands tucked into her pockets as she walked purposefully towards the entrance. Not a hint of nervousness. No looking behind to check if she was being followed. No holding keys in her hand as a futile yet comforting weapon. And just as she disappeared into the tunnel, she looked up directly into the camera lens and smiled.
Gretchen went back to the article with its click bait headline: WHO IS SHE? and the screenshot image of her smiling face and read on, searching for more details. It turned out that an elderly man had been out walking his dog—of course! Who else?—when he found something lying on the damp floor of the underpass. Something strange enough that he told his neighbour, who told her son, who just happened to be a police constable, who craved excitement. After checking the footage they realised that the woman had gone into the underpass but hadn’t come out. Which meant they had not one but two mysteries.
1. Who was Underpass Woman, where had she gone and how had she vanished into thin air?
2. Who had left the guitar case with the Fender Stratocaster on the ground in the middle of the tunnel?
The Absence Of Sleep 