The Woodcutter - Reginald Hill

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potentially healthy business growth?’

      He smiled, not the attractive face-lightening smile she had already remarked upon but a teeth-baring grimace that reminded her that his nickname was Wolf.

      ‘That’s it, you’re right, as usual. And eventually as time went by with some of our more striking successes we retained a long-term interest, so anyone saying we were in for a quick buck then off without a backward glance ought to check the history.’

      Interesting, she thought. His indignation at accusation of business malpractice seems at least as fervent as in relation to the sexual charges.

      She said, ‘I think the relevant government department has done all the checking necessary, don’t you?’

      For a moment she thought she might have provoked him into another outburst, but he controlled himself and said quietly, ‘So where are we now, Dr Ozigbo? I’ve done what you asked and started putting things down on paper. I’ve told you how things happened, the way they happened. I thought someone in your job would have an open mind, but it seems to me you’ve made as many prejudgments as the rest of them!’

      The reaction didn’t surprise her. The written word gave fantasy a physical existence and, to start with, the act of writing things down nearly always reinforced denial.

      ‘This isn’t about me, it’s about you,’ she said gently. ‘I said it was very interesting, and I really meant that. But you said it was just the first instalment. Perhaps we’d better wait till I’ve had the whole oeuvre before I venture any further comment. How does that sound, Wilfred? May I call you Wilfred? Or do you prefer Wilf? Or Wolf? That was your nickname, wasn’t it?’

      She had never moved beyond the formality of Mr Hadda. To use any other form of address when she was getting no or very little response would have sounded painfully patronizing. But she needed to do something to mark this small advance in their relationship.

      He said, ‘Wolf. Yes, I used to get Wolf. Press made a lot of that, I recall. I was named after my dad. Wilfred. He got Fred. And I got Wilf till…But that’s old history. Call me what you like. But what about you? I’m tired of saying Doctor. Sounds a bit clinical, doesn’t it? And you want to be my friend, don’t you? So let me see…Your name’s Alva, isn’t it? Where does that come from?’

      ‘It’s Swedish. My mother’s Swedish. It means elf or something.’

      The genuine non-lupine smile again. That made three times. It was good he doled it out so sparingly. Forewarned was forearmed.

      ‘Wolf and elf, not a million miles apart,’ he said. ‘You call me Wolf, I’ll call you Elf, OK?’

      Elf. This had been her father’s pet name for her since childhood. No one else ever used it. She wished she hadn’t mentioned the meaning, but thought she’d hidden her reaction till Hadda said, ‘Sure you’re OK with that? I can call you madam, if you prefer.’

      ‘No, Elf will be fine,’ she said.

      ‘Great. And elves perform magic, don’t they?’

      He reached into his tunic and pulled out another exercise book.

      ‘So let’s see you perform yours, Elf,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Here’s Instalment Two.’

       Wolf

       i

      You open your eye.

      The light is so dazzling, you close it instantly.

      Then you try again, this time very cautiously. The process takes two or three minutes and even then you don’t open it fully but squint into the brightness through your lashes.

      You are in bed. You have wires and tubes attached to your body, so it must be a hospital bed. Unless you’ve been kidnapped by aliens.

      You close your eye once more to consider whether that is a joke or a serious option.

      Surely you ought to know that?

      It occurs to you that somehow you are both experiencing this and at the same time observing yourself experiencing it.

      Neither the observer nor the experiencer is as yet worried.

      You open your eye again.

      You’re getting used to the brightness. In fact the observer notes that it’s nothing more than whatever daylight is managing to enter the room through the slats of a Venetian blind on the single window.

      The only sound you can hear is a regular beep.

      This is reassuring to both of your entities as they know from the hospital soaps it means you’re alive.

      Then you hear another sound, a door opening.

      You close your eye and wait.

      Someone enters the room and approaches the bed. Everything goes quiet again. The suspense is too much. You need to take a look.

      A nurse is standing by the bedside, writing on a clipboard. Her gaze moves down to your face and registers the open eye. Hers round in surprise.

      It is only then that it occurs to you that they usually come in pairs.

      You say, ‘Where’s my other eye?’

      At least that’s your intention. To the observer and presumably to the nurse what comes out sounds like a rusty hinge on a long unopened door.

      She steps back, takes a mobile out of her pocket, presses a button and says, ‘Tell Dr Jekyll he’s awake.’

      Dr Jekyll? That doesn’t sound like good news.

      You close your eye again. Until you get a full report on the spare situation, it seems wise not to overtax it.

      You hear the door open and then the nurse’s voice as she assures the newcomer that your eye was open and you’d tried to talk. A somewhat superior male voice says, ‘Well, let’s see, shall we?’

      A Doubting Thomas, you think. Feeling indignant on the nurse’s behalf you give him a repeat performance. He responds by producing a pencil torch and shining it straight into your precious eye.

      Bastard!

      Then he asks, ‘Do you know who you are?’

      You could have done with notice of this question.

      Does it mean he has no idea who you are?

      Or is he merely wanting to check on your state of awareness?

      You need time to think. Not just about how you should respond tactically, but simply how you should respond.

      You are beginning to realize you’re far from certain if you know who you are or not.

      You check with your split personality.

      The observer declares his best bet is that you’re someone called Wilfred Hadda, that you’ve been in an accident, that leading up to the accident you’d been in some kind of trouble, but no need to worry about that just now as it will probably all come back to you eventually.

      The experiencer ignores all this intellectual stuff. You’re a one-eyed man in a hospital bed, he says, and all that matters is finding out just how much of the rest of you is missing.

      You make a few more rusty hinge noises and Dr Jekyll demonstrates that the tens of thousands spent on his training have not been altogether misused by saying, ‘Nurse, I think he needs some water.’

      He presses a button that raises the top half of the bed up to an angle of forty-five degrees. For a moment the change of viewpoint is vertiginous and you feel like you’re about to tumble off the edge of a cliff.

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