PART FOUR 7 страница

I drove for seven or eight hours, pulling in only once, for gas, at which point I also took the last two pills in the silver box.

I stopped at the Northview Motor Lodge at around ten o’clock. There was no point in driving any further. It was pitch dark now, and where was I going to go in any case? On up to Maine? New Brunswick? Nova Scotia?

I checked into the motel using a false name, and paid for the room in cash. In advance.

Two nights.

After I got over the initial shock of the d& #233; cor and colour schemes in the room, I lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

According to the TV news bulletin I’d seen earlier, I was now a wanted murderer. That wasn’t quite how I saw myself, but given the circumstances I knew I’d have a pretty difficult time bringing anyone else around to my point of view.

It’s a long story, I’d have to say.

And then I’d have to tell it.

Whether or not I had realized it at the time, I realized now that this was why I’d packed my laptop computer in the holdall. The last coherent thing I would ever do would be to tell my story, and leave it behind for someone else to read. I lingered on the bed for quite a while, thinking things through. But then I remembered that I didn’t have that much time left in which to be coherent.

I got off the bed, therefore. I switched on the TV set, but kept the sound down. I took out the laptop from the bag, as well as one of the bottles of Jack Daniel’s. I put the plastic container of paracetamol tablets on the little bedside table. Then I sat down here in this wicker armchair, and with the sound of the ice-machine humming in the background, I got started.

It’s now Saturday morning, early, and I’m beginning to feel tired. This is one of the first signs of withdrawal from MDT – so it’s just as well that I’ve more or less finished here.

But finished what?

Is this a true and honest account of how I came close to doing the impossible, to realizing the unrealizable… to becoming one of the best and the brightest? Is it the story of a hallucination, a dream of perfectibility? Or is it simply the story of a human lab rat, someone who was tagged and followed and photographed, and then discarded? Or is it – even more simply again – the last confession of a murderer?

I don’t know any more, and don’t even know that it matters.

Besides, I’m feeling drowsy, and a little weak.

I think I’m going to lie down for a while.

I’ve just slept for about five hours, fitfully, tossing and turning. For the whole time, it felt like I was having a continuous, full-on anxiety dream, and when I woke up I had a headache behind my eyes which quickly spread out to the rest of my skull. Disorientated, groggy, nauseous, I then got off the bed, came back over here to the wicker armchair and replaced the computer on my lap.

It’s now around midday, and the TV is still on, tuned to CNN.

Clearly, something major has been happening since yesterday evening, or early this morning. I’m looking at shots of battleships stationed in the Gulf of Mexico, of ground troops being deployed along border areas, of Defense Secretary Caleb Hale in emergency session with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Along the bottom of the screen a band of text announces that a live presidential address from the Oval Office is about to commence.

I close my eyes for a while, and when I open them again the President is on the TV screen, sitting at his desk. I can’t bear to turn the sound up, and as I study him closely, and see the alert, gorged MDT expression in his eyes, I realize that I can’t bear to look at him any more either. I reach out for the remote control and flick over to another channel, cartoons.

I gaze down at the keyboard of the laptop. My head is pounding now, and getting steadily worse. It’s time to shut off the computer and put it aside. I look over at the small table next to the bed, and at the plastic bottle on it containing 150 paracetamol tablets. Then I look at the keyboard once more and, wishing the command had a wider, smarter application – wishing it could somehow mean what it says – press ‘save’.

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