Dr Keating nodded. "Was that your idea, or the suggestion of the duty psychiatrist?"
Billy didn’t answer straight away. Instead he took another look around the room. Very nice. Everything was tasteful. Nothing jarred. A very soothing room. Cream rugs, pale green walls and white ceiling. Nothing harsh. The windows he found particularly interesting. The view of the city was spectacular. Impressive. Especially since this office was in the centre of the building. Plasma windows. The images were recorded somewhere else. Maybe from one of the higher floors. Maybe from another building. He answered the question, hoping she was just a little annoyed by the delay.
"No, it was my idea. The duty shrink was on another call."
Dr Keating sat opposite him. There was no desk between them, only a small coffee table. Oak. Nice, like everything else. Dr Keating’s desk was in the corner. Also oak; also nice. Off to his left was a couch. Billy was sitting. Good for him. The couch looked more comfortable than the chair he was in; but he wouldn’t be suggesting a change. He continued.
"Some lunatic over at the Powell Building had doused himself with gasoline and was threatening to turn himself into Mr Crispy. Unhappy employee, or maybe just wanting to protest about the price of gas." Billy gave a short laugh. Dr Keating didn’t say anything.
"Took ‘em two hours to talk him round. By then," he shrugged, "it was a bit late for Josh."
The expression on Dr Keating’s face didn’t change: pleasant, non-threatening, listening. He’d seen something similar in the morgue. He’d like a little more expression out of her. He’d just used Josh’s name, and it hurt. He’d not shown it, but it had. She was the shrink, she should know that.
"Aren’t you going to take any notes?"
She motioned to the corner with the desk. Above it Billy saw the camera: small, unobtrusive, but not hidden.
"We are recording. As per standard NYPD policy. I’m sorry, I thought you had been made aware of this."
He had. And he told her so.
"Just forgot, that’s all." Billy sat very straight, squared his shoulders, and looked straight into her eyes.
"There is no need to worry, William. The …"
"Billy," he interrupted her. "It’s Billy."
She maintained her composure. But he had surprised her with the anger in his voice. He had surprised himself.
"Of course. Billy, the recording is confidential. Only myself and the Department’s Chief Psychiatrist can view it. Has that been …"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he interrupted. "It’s OK. I was told."
He took a deep breath. She was not the enemy. She had a job to do. She was just doing it.
"Sorry. It’s just after last night. All the reports to fill out. Didn’t get much sleep." He shrugged. "And I don’t like being here."
At this, at least, she smiled.
"No-one does, Billy. But this is just routine. We need to deal with last night, so that you get back to work."
Billy forced a smile. "OK. That’s all I’m after." He rubbed his eyes. Breathed deeply again. "Why don’t I just tell it. Like it happened."
She nodded, and Billy told her.
I get the call at 1:56am; about halfway through the shift. It was a quiet night. Me and Alan, that’s my partner, are outside some guy’s hospital room. A city official that thinks he’s important. So two cops stay outside his room while he’s in for tests. I’d never heard of him.
So, I get the call: there’s some guy on the roof. They think it’s suspicious and one of us should investigate. I say I’ll go. Alan doesn’t care. So I go.
I take the elevator to the 24th floor, then the stairs to the roof. Whoever he is, he hasn’t turned the lights on. But that doesn’t matter. There’s so many lights in the city that even 25 stories up there’s enough light to get around. No wonder we can’t see the stars.
I take out the gun, but not the flashlight. Like I said, I can see well enough. It’s a big hospital, so it’s a big roof. There’s a lot of shit up there: ariels, vent shafts, a satellite dish or two.
Took me a while to locate him. I was looking in, towards the middle of building. Thinking he’d be hiding behind something. He wasn’t. I saw him when I scanned the outer edge. He’s standing at the south end, up on the ledge. He’s very still. Just standing there looking down. Now I’m no psychiatrist, but I figure I know what the guy’s got on his mind. I ring it in to HQ. They tell me the shrink’s busy with the Mr Crispy wannabe over at Powell. So, I’m on my own. Great.
"Just keep him talking," they tell me.
I knew that much. But not much else. Although I do know you don’t want to startle a jumper. So I call out and identify myself, Officer Johnson, and I approach slowly. Circling around to his right so he can see me easily.
He’s watching me come. Skinny guy in jeans, jacket and sneakers. I can’t make out colours. Oh, and he’s got a cap on. Middle of the night and he’s got a cap on. Knicks cap. There’s enough light to see that. I’ve got one myself.
As I get closer I see he’s just a kid. Turns out he was sixteen. At the time, I figured a little younger.
When I get close enough I ask him: "what’s your name, son?"
He’s takes a while. Looks me over. I’ve not come too close, and he seems OK.
"What would you like?" he asks. "First name only? First name and surname? Or full name?"
Odd response. But, jumping off buildings at two in the morning is an odd thing to do. So I’m not too surprised.
I’d left the radio on send. So even if that shrink isn’t around to help, if they get his full name maybe they can track down his parents. That might help.
"Why don’t make it the full name."
"Sure," he said, "I remember that." He gave me little smile. Like he was having some private joke. Then he straightens himself up.
"Joshua Alexander Smith."
Then he turns to me. Puts his arms out by his side and gives a little bow.
"That’s me. But you can just call me Josh. What do I call you?"
"You can call me Billy."
He nodded. "It’s going to be a short acquaintance, Billy. Sorry."
I didn’t buy into that. Just tried to get him into a conversation.
"Where you from, Josh?"
He told me, Chelsea. Sixth Avenue. Building number …. I should know that. But, I can’t remember it. Would you believe that? I can’t remember it.
You forget the little things. Especially if your not concentrating on them. I wasn’t really worried about his address just then – I knew it was being recorded and someone would be trying to trace his parents. What I was focussing on was how he was talking and what he was doing. But … I forget the number.
OK. So I make some inane comment about it being nice in Chelsea. And it is. It’s really nice out there. I’ll never live there. You might. But not me. Anyway, so I ask him why would he want to be here in the middle of the night.
He looked at me like I’m stupid. We both knew why he was there. He sighed.
"This is where it started, this is where it ends."
Just keep ‘em talking, they tell you. And it sounds simple enough. But when they say things like that, it can be hard to know what to say next.
"So, you were born here?"
He nodded. "Yes. And this is where I was made."
OK. Now I’m lost. I didn’t know where to go with that; so, I changed the subject.
"Knicks fan?" I asked.
He smiled. Almost laughed, I think. Then he looked straight down. And I think he might be going to jump. I’m ready to make a dash and try and grab him. But he looks back at me.
"Sit down, Billy. Please. Just on the ledge there. I think you want to talk. And I think I’d like to talk. Just for a little while."
So I sit. And we talk Knicks. Now, I love the Knicks. And I thought I knew a lot about them. But this kid knew everything. He remembered seasons, games, quarters, plays, shots. He remembered things I’d half forgotten; things I had totally forgotten; and things I could never have remembered.
But talking to him was hard. The conversation was so slow. He remembered everything. But it came back to him slowly. It wasn’t that noticeable at first. But after 10 minutes you felt something wasn’t right. It was like talking with a stutterer. You want to finish their sentences. But with this kid, you didn’t know what he was going to say. So you had to wait for him.
He noticed. I doubt he could see it on my face. Maybe it was in my voice. I don’t know. It was nice to talk to him. But it became hard. Eventually he stopped talking and looked down. We were right above the main entrance. It was well lit. He was picking a spot. I changed the subject back to where we started.
"So you were born here?"
"Yeah." He nodded. Still looking down. He shuffled his feet. Balanced himself. I wasn’t close enough.
"What did you mean by you were made here?"
I didn’t know where that was going to take me. I had no idea what he meant. But I thought it might get his attention. It did. You know, I think he felt sorry for me. He knew what I was trying to do. I think he didn’t want me to feel bad. He was a nice kid; he really was.
He looked over to me. He noticed I’d slid a few feet closer and he waved me back. When he was happy with the distance he spoke.
"They’re pioneers here. Just ask them. Lot’s of research; you know, really cutting edge stuff. They’re also not beyond a little commercial gain from their work."
There was a lot of bitterness in his voice. Teenagers can be like that. But they usually reserve it for their parents and teachers. Not major hospitals.
"My parents," he went on, "are not poor." The anger left his voice, but there was a lot of hurt to replace it.
"They wanted the best for me."
He choked up there. Had to stop. Gave me a chance to reflect on how stupid I was. Took me a while to remember the word. It had been 10 years or more since they’d stopped it. Enhancement, they’d called it. I remember they’d even advertised: Enhance your child’s future. Seems they enhanced Josh right out of his.
I had an earpiece in. Very small and cordless so I don’t think Josh knew I was hooked up. Not that it mattered. It stayed silent the whole time. The idiot with the matches was keeping them busy.
"Memory?" I asked.
Josh nodded. He lifted his head and looked to where the stars should have been. That was good. I felt better when he wasn’t looking down. He sniffed. Pulled out a tissue, wiped his nose and tossed the tissue over the edge. It drifted down, but he didn’t watch it.
"How old are you, Billy?" he asked.
Keep ‘em talking. So I tell him.
"Twenty six. How about you?"
"Sixteen today. Being a bit dramatic, aren’t I? Doing this on my birthday."
He looks over to me. Straight at me. And in what light I’ve got, I can see the wetness on his cheeks.
"I remember every birthday, Billy. But not like you do. You probably remember gifts. You remember parties. The friends you had over. But I bet you don’t remember every friend. I bet you don’t remember what they were wearing, or the order in which the candles were lit, or the way the smoke curled after you blew them out."
He shuddered. I thought he might fall and I started to get up.
"No. I’m OK. Sit down."
I hadn’t actually got up. But I had managed to steal a few inches closer.
"You don’t understand?"
I shook my head. He shook his.
"Why is that so bad? Is that what you want to know, Billy?"
Keep ‘em talking. So I said I did. And the truth is, I did want to know.
He looked over the edge and smiled. There was a little to much joy in that smile. I thought I was about to lose him. But he wasn’t ready.
"Do you remember your first kiss?"
He asked the strangest questions. But I answered.
"Of course. Angela Edwards. Pretty little blonde. We were 14, and it was at my friend’s birthday party. His fifteenth, I think."
He gave a little laugh.
"I beat you by a year, Billy. For some reason I’ve stored that as a fact. It’s in there with my name, address, telephone number. All that shit. ‘Josh had his first kiss at 13’. I don’t know who, but I can find out."
He was quiet for a moment. You could see the concentration. Then a faint smile.
"Redhead. Not that pretty. She smells a little of …. What is that? Rum? Scotch? Scotch. We’d been drinking. My house. Daytime. Clock says 1:14. Mom and Dad must have been at work. Summer holidays, I guess. She’s close. Two others in the room: one boy, one girl. Redhead leans over to me. I tilt my head to the right. Lips touch. Mine are dry. Whoa, she’s done this before. Her right hand holds on behind my head. I have no idea how long we should keep doing this. Then, her hand moves away, and … she moves away. Kiss over. She giggles. Wipes her mouth. The boy on my left whoops ‘way to go’. The girl claps twice."
He shakes himself out of it.
"I recognise the three of them," he says. "The redhead was Suzie Stewart; the boy, Tony Adams, he’s my best friend; the other girl was Julie Armstrong." He sighed.
"I still know Tony and Julie. I guess Suzie moved away. I don’t know her anymore."
It should have been a happy memory. But it brought him no joy.
"So you remember everything?"
"Yeah. If I saw it, if I heard it, smelt or touched it, then I remember it." he said. And he shuffled along the ledge, putting another two feet between us. "Every moment of my life. Not a second lost." He paused. "You know my favourite memories? From before I was born. They’re dark, hazy and …," he searched for the right word, "… sketchy." He looked at me. "I think they’re close to what memory is for you. I remember bits and pieces. A jostle here, a loud noise there. Mom was still doing aerobics late in pregnancy. I think I liked the music."
Before he was born. I’m on the roof in the middle of the night talking to this kid about his memories from the womb. I could have done with some help. Like an idiot, I just kept talking. Delaying it or bringing it closer. I’m not sure which.
"So, it’s like … a movie?" I asked.
Josh nodded. "Yeah, like a movie. The doctors here refer to it as a ‘real time’ memory."
I didn’t get what he meant.
"Real time? What does that … "
He got a little frustrated here. I could hear it in his voice. I wonder how many times he’d had to explain this. But it passed quickly. "What it means is there’s no ‘fast forward’. I remember things at normal speed. Like it was when they happened. I can select where I come into the memory. But then I’ve got to watch it all."
It would have been a good time to change the subject. But I didn’t have another one.
"Why is …"
Again he interrupted.
"Why is that so bad?" He shook his head, then asked me another question.
"Do you remember your last shit, Billy?"
I thought about it. Didn’t think I should answer, but was going to anyway, then he continued.
"I remember my last one, my first one, and every one in between. I’m in no hurry to recall those memories. But I know they’re there. Next time I feel the need, those memories will come back."
He looked down over the edge, and then quickly across to me. He wanted me to understand. I think he liked me.
"They did their job brilliantly, Billy. My memories are called up all the time. For reference, I guess. When I’m on the bus, I get memories of other bus trips. When I eat breakfast, I get my last breakfast, or the one before, or some breakfast I had years ago that’s like the one I’m having. It doesn’t come with an off button. It doesn’t come with fast forward. I just keep getting it all."
He was breathing heavy. Looking down again. He was moving his body slightly. Shifting his weight. Keeping his balance. He was gathering himself. I eased to my feet. He saw the movement.
"Coming to try and save me, Billy?"
"I don’t want you to jump."
He stopped shuffling, and was still. "You still don’t understand, do you?"
I shook my head. I didn’t.
"It’s the boredom, Billy. The utter, total boredom."
I had nothing to say. I just didn’t understand.
"I spend my life watching a movie I’ve already seen. And, for the most part, it’s a dull show. I haven’t had a bad life. But interesting things don’t happen often. There’s only one first kiss. One or two great moments in little league. Not even that many great Knicks games. And, there are so many trips to the bathroom, meals the same as ones before, conversations with your parents that are about nothing …"
I edged a little closer.
He was crying again. The earpiece still gave me nothing.
He looked at me, for the last time. I knew it was the last time, but I hadn’t closed the gap enough.
"Billy, you’re a memory now. A nice one. Thank you. But please, never think of yourself as the last memory I ever made. Think instead, I’m the first thing he ever forgot."
I tried. God I tried. I covered those few yards in no time. But … I reached for something that wasn’t there. I watched him fall the whole way. On some floors there were lights on in the hospital. He’d pass through that light, then into long periods of shadow. But I saw him all the way. In the light … out the light. Light … shadow … light … shadow … light.
Then I realized he’d stopped falling. Funny. It didn’t register straight off that he’d hit the ground. I just thought, he’s stopped falling.
"So, that’s it. That’s what happened last night."
Dr Keating looked at him appraisingly. Billy looked at his watch, and shook his head, as if what he saw was unthinkable.
"Billy?"
"It took me nearly twenty minutes to tell you that story."
"Don’t worry about the time," she said. "You have a full hour session, and if needed …."
Billy looked up at her. The movement was so quick she gave a little start. Billy didn’t notice.
"That’s not what I mean. I checked the records. From the time I let HQ know the guy on the roof was a jumper, to the time I reported that he’d jumped was 36 minutes. Thirty six. Not, 19 or 18, but 36. And it was only last night."
Dr Keating looked blankly at him. Billy stood and began pacing.
"I’ve already forgotten nearly half of it," he said. "In less than a day. Tomorrow I’ll tell it in 15 minutes, next week in 10, and in a year …," he stopped pacing and shrugged his shoulders, "probably tell the whole thing in 5 minutes and think I haven’t left anything out."
Billy returned to his chair, and sat quietly for a few seconds staring blankly at the floor.
"Except," he said, looking up at Dr Keating, "the fall. As Josh fell. Into the light, … into the shadow, light … shadow … light … shadow … light, … and he stops." Billy curled his lips into a smile, but his eyes stared at her without focus. "I think I’ll always remember that in real time."
Peter Johnson is an engineer or an economist, it all depends on which day you catch him. In his spare time -- when not coaching his kids basketball teams -- he writes.
E-mail: prime@bigpond.net.au
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