At the Edge of the Game Read Free Page B

manifestations, I will understand, as I always do, what they mean. I will
be able to relate them to where I stand in the waking world. I have found,
though, that being able to do this makes no difference to anything, is of no
help to me at all.
    I can’t find a
comfortable position in the bed. I am aware that I am only semi-conscious, but
this does not stop me from being irritated at the certainty that I will not be
able to sink past this level, that my nap will be unsatisfactory. The one
benefit of being unemployed should be having the opportunity to get
comprehensive rest, but even this is denied me. I ought really to get up, move
around for a few minutes, watch TV, but Heathshade lurks downstairs. That’s not
an option. What, then?
    I stand at the
door of the bathroom. The living-room curtains are open, and the lights of the
city are all that illuminate the dark apartment. Though I know I have lived
here all my life, I can't remember the name of the city. I can't even remember
what I was doing five minutes ago. I go to the window and look down at the
traffic in the street far below. The white headlights and the red tail lights
form a long, moving chain that stretches into the shady electric gloam of the
middle distance. It strikes me how beautiful is the street, how beautiful this
traffic jam. I open the window to let in some air. It opens only a little way. The
mingled motor noises of the city are, hushed and caressing, pleasant to the
ear. The air is cool and fresh – a sea breeze that, so high up on the thirtieth
floor, is untainted by urban fumes.
    Perhaps I am
concussed from some minor mishap. My short-term memory extends back only as far
as a moment ago, to when I was standing outside the bathroom. I try to recall
the test for concussion. I wonder if it is valid to perform such a test on
oneself.
    I take a
cigarette lighter - not mine, I don't smoke - from the coffee table. I go into
the bathroom, switch the light on and look around. No signs of mishap in here,
such as bloodstains on a sharp edge. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is
not quite familiar. I seem to recognise it as my own and yet I think it is not
mine. I would not wear my hair so long. With a slightly shaking hand I switch
off the bathroom light and switch on a lamp in the hallway.  The bathroom is
now lit dimly. I return to the mirror and stare closely into my own eyes. They
are lined quite deeply. I cannot be so old - middle-aged. I feel that I am
young. I light the cigarette lighter and bring it up to my face. My pupils
dilate. I do it again, and again they dilate. So I am not concussed, then, I
think. I wonder if I have remembered the concussion test correctly. Shaking my
head I realise that the test, even if it is not an invention of my imagination,
tells me nothing.
    I leave the
bathroom and sit on the chair by the window, staring out. I study the cigarette
lighter for a few moments, turning it over. It is engraved with an elaborate
letter C. Some lights are on in the apartment building across the street. People
are going about their evening activities - cooking, eating, watching
television. I wonder what they are watching. I reason that a television
programme might stimulate my mind out of its strange lassitude, but looking
around I find that the apartment contains no television, nor a radio, nor a
newspaper.
    My eye is drawn
to one particular window across the street. A tough-looking man is doing
chin-ups, gripping a bar that must be fixed to the wall over the window. He
holds a big army-style dagger in his teeth. He wears a vest and shorts, both
khaki. I count his chin-ups. He does twenty-five while I watch. Then he drops
to the floor, still gripping the knife in his teeth, and begins push-ups. Of
these he does a hundred. His face is red with exertion. He seems to have
noticed my scrutiny - he is drawing the curtains.
    The sky is full
of chaotically shifting lights and bands of colour. The lights of the city are
brighter than the