Spring seems tantalisingly close this week. Below, some psychogeographical fiction, which I wrote during last winter’s bitterness.

Mr Merrick’s colleagues from the post office said that Isleworth suited him; it was a stoic place, in as much as a town can be described that way. Its leafy riverside was beautiful, but the town was too sensible to acknowledge its beauty. Visitors found their eyes drawn to the greyness of the buildings, especially the old workhouses which marked its Victorian past without emotion. Its stillness suited the reserved Mr Merrick. But there was a lot of dust under his carpets, and weeds in the garden, watered by the Isleworth drizzle.

The wind blew dead leaves from Shepherd’s Bush to Isleworth, across the industrial plains of the Great West Road and into shady corners where geese waded in from the river. Mr Merrick watched them on his lunch break in the park, a flask of lukewarm tea on the bench beside him, the geese shuffling aimlessly. They did not bother him, but in twenty years of this midday ritual, he had failed – unconsciously, but nonetheless – to spare the creatures a crumb. He had always been a solitary man, though he did not realise it. It was as if a chill hung in the air around Mr Merrick, preventing anyone from coming too close. 

Work for Mr Merrick began at half seven each day, when he greeted his colleagues with a nod. Mornings were slow and afternoon bustle rarely exceeded an emphatic ‘hmph’ from the odd disgruntled patron. But one Tuesday evening, Mr Merrick was intercepted on his way out by Ms Chapman, a fellow clerk.

‘Before you go, Mr Merrick – this came for you earlier. I didn’t realise you were expecting anything.’

Mr Merrick blinked as she handed him a small package covered in brown paper.

‘Oh, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t – but thank you all the same, Ms Chapman.’

Ms Chapman was about to suggest it might be an early Christmas gift, but he had left before she had the chance. She shrugged and turned as his hunched figure retreated into the rain. 

Mr Merrick was ruffled. He had been surprised to receive the package… but surely it was normal – to feel that way? But his curiosity had turned quickly to uncertainty, and now it felt more like dread. But he had nothing to dread – nothing he could recall, anyway. Still, as the rain grew heavier, so did the package in his hand. He quickened his pace and assured himself the weather was the only reason to rush. Yet he was afraid of arriving home – then he would have to address the dread gnawing his insides. Dropping the package in the hallway, he walked to the kitchen as slowly as he could, boiled the kettle, and tried to focus on preparing tea with shaky hands. He glanced up at the clock, dismayed that only three minutes had passed since he had arrived home. His nerve exhausted, he made to retrieve the package. 

It burnt his hands, he was sure, even after its spell on the cold stone floor. He began to tear away the paper, exposing a black box, about the size of those in which watches are sold. Mr Merrick’s body tensed as he opened the box; on a red cushion rested an antique watch. A gift after all? But it could not be. Mr Merrick did not send or receive gifts at any time of the year. He extracted it from the box, feeling something damp on the underside of the watch face. As he lifted it, red droplets trickled down his hand. Dropping it to the ground, Mr Merrick watched in horror as the face shattered and liquid seeped from it. Peaking out from behind the cracked watched face was a tiny glass vial, lodged between metal springs. A few droplets remained in the vial, but most of its contents had dripped down Mr Merrick’s arm and stained his tiles. But this was not the worst of it; lifting it with a damp cloth, Mr Merrick saw the label wrapped around its side, carrying a handwritten note:

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Mr Merrick wanted to fling it out the window, but he was rooted to the spot, legs weak and breath short, fighting the urge to be sick. 

You know what you did you know what you did you know what you did you know what you did you know what you did you know what you did you know what you did

It was as if the message had been printed on a reel of tape, now wrapping itself around him. He groaned and his knees buckled. He was not sickened by shock or disgust. It was that terrible dread again, the grip of an inevitable, unbearable truth. It had taken hold the moment he accepted the package. It had guided his hands to tear off the brown paper, to open the box, to look within, eyes wide, though he did not want to. 

The truth was that he did know what he had done. He knew it without hesitation, without reflection. He knew it painfully well…

But he could not remember it. 

Mr Merrick couldn’t bear to look at the watch again after that. He wrapped it up in its brown paper and left it inside the hallway cupboard. He spent the rest of the week trying to forget about the whole incident. This did not go well; for one thing, Ms Chapman asked him about it the next day:

‘So Mr Merrick, what was in your mystery parcel?’

He looked up from his desk with a start.

‘Mystery parcel? Oh, that… yes, well, it turns out it was just from an – an old acquaintance of mine…’ 

Mr Merrick was not one to think on his feet, but there was no question of telling Ms Chapman the truth.

‘An old friend, you say? From your schooldays?’

Poor Merrick groaned inwardly. He didn’t even remember any friends from so long ago. He mumbled:

‘Oh, no – from my time at the cleric’s college – just an old classmate, with an invitation to our reunion dinner.’ 

Not too bad, he thought to himself. Would that be enough to close the conversation? Ms Chapman was turning away now, adjusting her hairpin, from which a few grey strands has slipped. 

‘How lovely… Did they send an anniversary brooch as well?’

‘What? Oh, a brooch – um…’

But she was hardly listening now:

‘They sent them to me and all the ladies from St Margaret’s – that was my old school. I think it’s become rather fashionable for anniversaries now – for academic ones, anyway. It’s always rather nice to be reminded of things, don’t you think? Of course, it’s been many years since I studied – longer than you even!’

Ms Chapman chuckled to herself and Mr Merrick smiled. He was glad the conversation seemed to be turning away from his parcel.

‘One often feels one’s forgotten so much… Friends, little routines, places…The lessons and the Saturday dances and so on… Soon one can’t even remember what kinds of things one’s forgotten…’

She seemed to have disappeared into thought now, for she had settled at her desk once again and gazed out the window as she spoke. Mr Merrick let her natter on, offering the odd ‘Hmm’ and ‘Indeed, Ms Chapman’ when he thought necessary. Finally she wandered off to make tea. Having politely refused a cup, Mr Merrick sat back from his desk and relaxed his shoulders. The interrogation was over and now he could continue to ignore the problem of the unwanted gift, the bloodstained watch, the note… But sadly he was struggling to forget it. And his lie to Ms Chapman – though truly, a lie – had stirred something within him. The thought of the past, his days at the cleric’s school in Sheperd’s Bush – there was something there. 

He had shared an old terraced house with a few classmates… It was shabby, with too much furniture and a big clock in the hall…All dark brown, almost burgundy. And heavy carpets which could not be properly cleaned. Mr Merrick pulled away from these half-memories for a moment, unsettled again. But they were only memories after all, he thought. It might do him good to catch up with the past – perhaps even phone up one of his old flatmates. It would at least be a distraction from his current preoccupations. Perhaps he could call Bill Musgrave – he might like to catch up. Yes, he would call him, he resolved. Better that than stew alone. Satisfied with this plan, Mr Merrick rose from his desk to serve a customer at the post office window. His dread, for now, had subsided.