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Naked, she climbed on to the bed and climbed on top of him, until she was sitting astride him. He reached down to push off his shorts, but she gripped his wrist to stop him and said, ‘No, not yet.'

She leaned forward, staring into his eyes, until their noses were almost touching. She kissed him again and again, just lightly, and then she said, ‘Greg – it doesn't matter if some things seem to be impossible. János Arany said, “In dreams and love, nothing is impossible.”'

‘János Who? Never heard of him. Or if I have, I've forgotten.'

Isobel kissed him again. ‘Arany. Famous Hungarian poet, 1817 to 1882.'

‘I never had a history lesson in bed before.'

‘How do you know? You have amnesia.'

With that, she maneuvered herself up the bed until she was kneeling astride his face, her shins pinning his shoulders against the mattress. She reached down with both hands and opened the lips of her vulva, so that her clitoris protruded and he could see that she was brimming with clear juice. She looked down at him between her breasts as if she were a goddess on a mountain top and he were a mere mortal on the ground below.

‘Go on, Greg,' she coaxed him. ‘Taste me.'

Tentatively, he licked her clitoris with the tip of his tongue. He licked it again and this time she shuddered.

‘
Ohhhhh
,' she breathed.

He licked her faster and faster. Her clitoris stiffened, almost like the beak of a little bird. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, and pulled herself open even wider. He pushed his tongue inside her as deeply as he could, and sucked, so that he could taste her. She tasted unusually sweet, but she was still quite cold, even inside.

‘Don't stop,' she panted. She was holding on to the bedhead now, and she was so tense that she was hurting his shoulders. But he kept on flicking at her clitoris with the tip of his tongue, and her juice was running down his chin.

There was a moment when he thought he would have to go on licking for hours. His shoulders were beginning to seize up and his jaw was aching from keeping his mouth open for so long. But then Isobel let out a high-pitched cry, and then a snort, and her whole body quaked and shook.

She was still for a few seconds, and then she quaked again, and again. At last, however, she lifted herself off him and rolled over and nestled herself up close, with her shoulder in his armpit. She kissed him, licking her own juice off his face, and panted, ‘You're wonderful. You're absolutely wonderful. If only you knew what you do for me.'

She reached down and slid her hand into his shorts. He felt desperately that he wanted to climb on top of her and penetrate her, but she started to rub him, very hard, so hard that it hurt, and he was already so aroused that it took only a few seconds before he climaxed, and filled his shorts with warm semen. Isobel kept her hand inside there, massaging his softening penis and rolling his slippery testicles between her fingers.

He kissed her forehead. ‘Don't you want me inside you?' he asked.

‘Of course I do. But we need to be careful, don't we?'

‘So you're not on the pill?'

She took her hand out of his shorts and then she sat up, sharply shaking her head so that her hair flew from side to side. ‘I'm not allowed any medication. Only my regular shots.'

‘Oh, yes. And what are
they
for?'

‘Just to keep me stable, I suppose. Doctor Connor diagnosed me bipolar. I used to have mood swings like you can't believe.'

‘Don't they sell condoms at Ray's Food Place?'

Isobel kissed him and laughed. ‘I guess Doctor Connor would supply you with some if you asked her.'

She swung her legs off the bed and walked over to the door, where her bathrobe was hanging. Michael watched her as she turned around and put it on, her breasts swaying underneath it as she tied the sash. He thought her figure was amazing. He hadn't found a woman so irresistible since …
You shouldn't
…

‘What's the matter?' Isobel asked him, sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. ‘I don't know. Another flash, I guess.'

‘You look like you've seen a ghost.'

‘Maybe I have. Or
heard
one, anyhow. It's like somebody's trying to get through to me on a shortwave radio, only there's too much interference.'

‘It could be some memory coming back.'

He looked at her. Then he looked across at the closet, with its mirrored doors, and saw the two of them, sitting like two strangers in another room. Isobel had her back to the mirrors and he looked so tired and puffy-eyed that he barely recognized himself.

There was a faint click, and one of the closet doors opened a little way. Obviously Isobel hadn't closed it properly when she had put away her doll, Belle. And there, peering out of the darkness with her black shark's eyes, was Belle herself, as if she were watching him, just to make sure that he behaved himself.

When Michael walked to the clinic the next morning for his therapy session, the sky was clear blue and there were only a few fragmented clouds, although it was still bitterly cold.

He walked in the roadway, because it was only thinly covered with snow from yesterday's snowfall, while the sidewalks were still very slippery. He had always thought that residents had a duty to clear the snow from the sidewalks outside their own homes, but apparently that didn't apply to Trinity.

He was less than halfway to the clinic when the little girl on the bicycle appeared, Jemima, with her frizzy brown hair and her pink windbreaker. She rang her bell as she cycled past him, and then she circled around and came back again.

‘Are you staying with Mrs Weston?' she asked, with one eye scrunched up against the sunshine.

‘That's right. I am. Only for a while, though, while I get better.'

‘My mom says that Mrs Weston is a hoo-ha.'

‘A hoo-ha? Is that right?'

Jemima nodded emphatically. ‘She goes for anything in pants, that's what my mom says.'

‘Well, I think your mom is being a little unfair. Mrs Weston is a very nice person, and she certainly isn't a hoo-ha.'

Jemima continued to stare at Michael, one-eyed, and then she said, ‘What
is
a hoo-ha?'

‘Your mom didn't tell you? A hoo-ha is a person who always kicks up a lot of fuss about everything, that's all.'

‘Oh.'

Michael carried on walking but Jemima followed him, circling around and around him all the time. Michael thought that the zigzag scar on her forehead looked even more pink and livid in the sunlight.

‘Shouldn't you be in school?' he asked her.

‘I don't go to school. They don't have a school in Trinity, anyhow.'

‘There must be a school in Weed.'

‘My mom teaches me. And Mister Bauman comes in from next door to give me math lessons.'

‘Don't you miss playing with other kids? You know – what about sport and drama and that kind of stuff?'

‘Me and Angela, we play together.'

‘Angela – she was the girl walking the dog, right?'

Jemima nodded. ‘We do skipping and hopscotch. And we play “What It Was Like”.'

‘“What It Was Like”? What's that?'

‘That's when we play What It Was Like.'

‘I don't understand you. What It Was Like when?'

‘
Before
, stupid!'

‘Hey, watch who you're calling names, OK? Don't forget what Doctor Connor said – I'll be able to catch up with you soon and give you a pasting!'

‘Like to see you try!'

Jemima circled around one more time, well out of Michael's reach. For some reason he remembered a story about somebody stopping a thief by throwing a walking stick through the spokes of his bicycle wheel, but he decided it wouldn't be very wise to try that with Jemima. He watched her pedal off around the curve, provocatively jingling her bell and looking back over her shoulder to stick out her tongue.

Kids. But what had she meant, ‘What It Was Like
Before
'? Before what? Before her parents had moved here? Before she had sustained that lightning-flash scar on her forehead? Like everybody else in Trinity, she spoke in riddles.

He carried on making his way to the clinic, leaning on his stick. He was walking between the tire tracks of Isobel's Jeep, which were the only tire tracks that had been made since yesterday's snow. The residents of Trinity certainly didn't get out much.

He reached the clinic, with its white wall around it, and it was here that the road divided – the right-hand fork going directly into the clinic's main entrance. The tilting sign next to the left-hand fork pointed to Route 97, and Weed, and Interstate 5.

Michael was puzzled to see that Isobel's tire-tracks took the right-hand fork, into the clinic. He followed them through the open gates and into the parking lot, but the parking lot had been swept of snow this morning so he couldn't see where she had left her Jeep, if indeed she had.

This was really bewildering. She said that she had gone to Ray's Food Place for groceries, and she had indeed come back with groceries, some of which were Ray's own brand. But the evidence in the snow was that she hadn't gone there at all.

He stood there for a while, with the chilly wind fluffing in his ears. Then he walked slowly across to the clinic's front doors, climbed the steps and pushed his way inside. It was warm in here, with a shiny marble floor. His senses seemed to be heightened, and the clacking of women's heels sounded so loud that he could hardly hear himself think.

Catherine had not yet finished with her previous patient, so he sat down on the beige leather couch in the waiting area outside her office. A selection of magazines was spread out on the low table in front of him, and he picked up a copy of
Scientific American
and started to flick through it.

He read a few news items about the Large Hadron Collider, and bird flu, and how Alzheimer's patients could benefit from some cancer drugs. Then he turned the page and saw an article about soil erosion.

He thought:
I know all about this. I know all about soil erosion, and what a threat it is to the country's economy. Every year, agricultural topsoil the size of the state of Indiana is washed away down our streams and rivers, drastically reducing our ability to grow crops, and polluting our waterways, and costing us billions of dollars.

He put down the magazine. He didn't have to read the article because he knew so much about soil erosion that he could have written it himself. He knew all of the facts, and all of the financial figures.

But I'm a marine engineer. How come a marine engineer is some kind of expert in ecology
?

The door to Catherine's office opened and a middle-aged man with his head in bandages came out. He went limping off toward the reception area and then Catherine came out, wearing a smart scarlet suit. She beckoned to Michael and called out, ‘Gregory! Come on in! How are you doing today?'

Michael got up and followed her into her office. As she sat down and opened up her case-file, she said, ‘You're looking a little tired, Gregory, if you don't mind my saying so. That walk from Isobel Weston's house isn't too much for you, is it? I could always have someone drive down there to give you a ride.'

‘No, no, I'm fine,' said Michael, sitting down beside her. ‘I'm a little out of it, that's all. You know, inside of my mind. I think maybe my neurons are beginning to regenerate. Isn't that what you said would happen?'

‘Well, well, you're becoming quite an expert already!' said Catherine, brightly. ‘What makes you think that?'

‘I'm beginning to remember things. Not very clearly, but they're definitely coming back. Like I just picked up that
Scientific American
in the waiting area, and there's an article in it all about soil erosion. Don't ask me how, but I know at least as much about soil erosion as Professor Whatever-his-name-is from Cornell University who wrote that article. Maybe more.'

Catherine pressed her hand thoughtfully across her mouth. Her fingernails were polished scarlet to match her suit.

Michael said, ‘Maybe I'm reading too much into it, you know? But inside of my mind it feels like kind of a breakthrough.'

Catherine stood up, and put down her case-file on her desk. ‘Will you excuse me for a couple of minutes?' she said.

‘Is something wrong?'

‘No, no. Not at all. I forgot to give a message to Mr Vane, that's all. I'll be back as quick as I can.'

She left the office, and hurried away down the corridor, leaving the door open.

Michael sat there for a while, looking around the office. On one side, there was a bookshelf full of books with titles like
Concussion and Brain Injury
,
Simple Salves for Severe Brain Trauma
,
Coup and Contrecoup Injuries
and
Antioxide Therapy for Cellular Brain Damage.

On the opposite side hung a selection of photographs of Doctor Connor with her family – a serious bespectacled man with pattern baldness who must have been her husband, and two small children. In almost all of the pictures, Mount Shasta was somewhere in the background, snow-covered and remote.

After five minutes, bored, he stood up and walked over to the door. Outside, in the waiting area, there was a wheelchair with a girl sitting in it, with her back to him. She was wearing a blue knitted bobble hat which he recognized at once. It was the girl who had screamed at him at the community meeting.

He looked left and right. There was nobody else around. He hesitated for a moment and then he walked across the waiting area and stood a little way away from her. He didn't want to surprise her and set her off screaming again.

She was sitting in her wheelchair with her hands clasped together staring at nothing at all. Michael thought that she was beautiful, but he felt that he had only come to recognize how beautiful she was through familiarity, through
knowing
her. Those high cheekbones, that tilt of her nose, those slightly parted lips. Yet how could he possibly know her? The first time he had seen her was at the community meeting.