Page 111 - What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours

things, and had no clear idea of how far the boy’s attempt would progress before

he was restrained or what injuries would be sustained. Perhaps none, perhaps
none . . .
Still, it was Jill’s duty to mention this likelihood, and she’d do so in her
reports closer to the time.
“Have a good holiday, Doctor Akkerman,” Solomon said at the end of their
session. The only boy to acknowledge they wouldn’t be seeing each other for the
next two weeks.

—

JILL TOOK HER suitcase over to the Catford flat and slept there the night before
Presence was due to begin. Jacob wasn’t dead to her yet, so they played at a
long-distance love affair over the phone. Jill had Radha and Myrna’s permission

to take down any images that might interfere with Jacob’s presence, so as she
talked to her husband she walked around the flat dropping pictures of the
intimidatingly photogenic couple and their puppet and human friends (hard to
tell which was which) into a jewelry box. She heard no echoes of Max’s ranting
or her own frenzied screeching, and when she went into the bedroom where
she’d slept so that she wasn’t tempted to injure Max in the night she found it full
of small stages. Some cardboard, some wood and textile, and there were silky

screens for casting shadows through too. “Looks like only playfights are allowed
in here now,” Jill said to Jacob, and then, as she opened the fridge and took note
of its being crammed with bottles full of something called “Kofola”: “I was
thinking—won’t it be easier for you to get hold of my presence over there than it
will be for me to get hold of yours over here? You’ve never been here.”
“I’m curious about that too,” Jacob said. “People who end up using Presence

may need to be able to travel with it, use it in a new house, and so on . . .”
Two minutes until midnight. She looked around at the pale blue walls, then
out of the window and into the communal garden; there was a night breeze, and
the flowers were wide-awake.
“Is there a button I press to . . . activate or something?”
“Vi’s going to start it remotely.”
“For both of us?”

“Yes . . . goodnight, J.”
“Goodnight.”
She drew the curtains, switched off the lights, and was knocked down onto
the bed by a wave of darkness so utter her eyes couldn’t adjust to it. It felt as if