I do not remember the night of the third of January with any clarity, but I am used to that. I do, however, remember the next morning. I remember waking up early, to see sunlight streaming through the windows of the bedroom of my small flat in Sloane Square. It would have been idyllic had it not been for the alarm clock hammering in my ears like a high-pitched ticker-tape machine. I rolled over in bed and reached a hand towards the offending object. It stopped ringing. I slid a leg out of the cosy warmth of my bed, dreaming of a time when I would be able to stay in bed all day. The rest of my body followed almost by default. Enveloping myself in a dressing gown, and dreaming of the future, I staggered across to the window and pulled open the curtains
The view overwhelmed me. Just across the square, a bomb had exploded, leaving a huge mass of rubble streaming across the road like the breath of a mountain. Firemen, ambulancemen and police poured over the remains like a flock of seagulls in the wake of a plough, occasionally removing morbi titbits to be carried away on stretchers.
I staggered back from the window, unable to cope with the enormity of what I had just seen. What had happened? Even I could not have slept through an explosion like that. In a state of astonishment, I rushed down the stairs, darted along the corridor, and skidded to a halt by the front door. I reached for the bolt ad slid it open, becoming more and more worried as I realised the full magnitude of what I had just seen.
What I saw felt like an enormous anti-climax. Sloane Square was beginning to warm up for a normal day. Buses were moving lazily along, their drivers still trying to shake themselves free of sleep. Lights were being illuminated as people hurled abuse at their alarm clocks. There was no smouldering wood, no rubble in the street, and no army of rescuers.
Five minutes later, I was on the phone to my boss. "What do you mean you can't make it?" he was saying in a voice which sounded like Krakatoa on a bad day. "You can't just not come. What's wrong with you?"
"I'm ill"
"With what? Ebola? Malignant arachnid brain tumour? We need you here, today of all days." "
"I'm mentally ill"
"You most certainly are! This is your big day!"
"I can't come!"
"Well, I suppose it's your choice, but you aren't doing ourself any favours."
I put the phone down and slumped into an armchair, despairing. I had just missed the greatest opportunity in my life; the chance to conduct peace talks with the IRA. It had been my childhood dream to stop a war, and now I might never have the opportunity. Should I have missed the day just for this, something which was probably just a halllucination, fed by my intensive study of the IRA and its bombing tactics?
I was suddenly shaken out of this depressing train of thought by a huge explosion, shaking the house and rattling my eardrums. I rushed to the door -I did not trust the window, and saw the opposite side of the square collapsing.
Six months later I had the best paid job in London. I had found a way of looking into the future through any window, and had refined it to the extent that I could predict exact prices on the stock exchange.
Within weeks of findig my way into a minor stockbrokers, myh fame had spread, and I was being bidded for by all the major banks, who knew that my predictions were worth a fortne.
It was around that time that I met Bill Pennyflicker, a fellow dealer at the same ban. I was in the company bar, happily downing a gin and tonic, when he sidled up to me. He looked like a cat who had just finished a fight. His over-gelled hair had been meticulously preened, and had survived in its stylish, slick position. Below it, the flattened mess of his clothes seemed to have forgotten that it consisted of more than one article He loped like a puma ready to leap.
"Hello", he said, his voice cheerful on the survace but more calculating underneath. "Are you the new fellow?"
A lame-sounding "I am" was the best response I could think of.
"Ambrose Wether, isn't it?"
I gave him a nod, which was even less impressive than my last expression.
"I hear that you're quite good at this job." He took the initiative, and I could detect a slight hint of jealousy in his tone.
"Yes," I said nervously
He realised his mistake, and nudged the conversaoin onto lighter matters. "So where do you live?" he asked, returning to his cheerful tone.
"Sloane Square," I replied, becoming more relaxed, "opposite where hte bomb exploded.
"Great! I'm only a couple of streets away from you, then," he said, "Have you been a Londoner all your life?"
I was startled to discover that I could not remember my early years. After a moment's hesitation, I lied, "Yes, I began life in East Finchley." I felt proud of my recovery - some of the brash acumen of t stock exchange must have rubbed off on me
However, my fast riposte did not convince Bill, and he lookeed at me inquisitively, trying to work out why I would hesitate. Was I lying, or was there soemthing uncomfortable about my childhood. Either way, it would do no harm to inquire further - most dealers do not consider other people's bitterness or embarrassment to be a major factor in their lives.
"What did your parents do for a living?"
Again, I found that I had no recollection of the subject. I was aware that they were both deceased, but I had no idea what their jobs were. Again I hesitated, but soon made them both GPs.
Soon, Bill had discovered that I was lying, and had ended the conversation. I had decided that I ought to see a psychiatrist. However, I soon changed my mind, as if I told a psychiatrist that I could see hte future, I would probably be in a mental institution by the end of the day.
By the end of the year, I was in a mental institution anyway I had found that I could not remember clearly. By September my colleagues were noticing it, by November I was regularly seeing a psychiatrist on the Boss's orders, and on the eighteenth of December I was finally brought into an xpensive mental institution. I now spend all my days in bed, and my last refuge from insanity has been to write this, the story of how I ended up here, so that until the end of my days I may know at least something of my earlier life and how I came to be in this predicament.