The Quiet Man

Conversations with Apples

“John?”

There’s a brief moment of panic when I hear someone call out my name in public. Every time. It feels like they’ve caught me and I’ll have to confess. All my secrets revealed in a moment. Like they’ve caught me laughing out loud at something you said only in my head. Or they see something in my face that I’m not ready to talk about. But only you could do that.

They say my name like that and I wonder if maybe I’ve started speaking aloud out in public instead of keeping our conversations where they belong. Maybe I’ve finally cracked and I’m talking to the fruit at Tesco. Maybe I said something to you, and I’ve said it to everyone in the produce section now as well. My secrets revealed in one absent mumble.

I talk out loud to you sometimes, if no one else is around. It’s only a matter of time before I start doing it in public.

I’d better not tell Ella about that, either. My list of things not to mention is growing far too long. One day I’ll have to reverse the lists and tell her everything I mean not to. That will surely result in an impressive list of prescriptions.

It’s a woman’s voice. It’s not an accusation. I haven’t done anything strange, I’m sure I haven’t. I’m just doing some shopping, staring at rows of shiny apples. Just like anyone else at Tesco. That’s all. A woman’s voice, high-pitched, nervous. It’s someone who thinks she knows me, someone who wants my attention.

That voice is familiar: I know it. It’s quiet, and a little bit squeaky. Who is it? Not a woman I dated, no. A client? I don’t think so. I remember: her lab coat, nitrile gloves, the smell of formaldehyde. Her hair pulled back, her timid hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. A careful smile. It’s Molly Hooper. Of course it is.

So I’ll be polite, I’ll turn around. Prepare myself to be friendly. I need to be pleasant. Christ, this is going to be awkward. I haven’t seen her in ages. She’ll want to talk about you. I’m not sure I can bear it. Ella just spent an hour on that trick, and it didn’t go so well. There’s only so much of that I can take. It’s like physical pain: I have a breaking point. There’s not much more to say. You’re gone. We buried you. That’s all there is.

Her coat is hanging open, her cardigan is buttoned up crookedly. She looks more nervous than she sounds. I don’t know what to say to her. She’ll want to know about you. About how I’m coping without you, surely. She’ll want to commiserate. She knew you longer than I did. But she didn’t know you better.

She loved you. There’s no question about that: she loved you. And you were so cruel to her. There’s nothing I can say to make that better, is there. He didn’t mean those things he said, I could say. He just lacked social skills. Is that true? I don’t know. You’re smart enough to fake your way through social skills. I think you only have contempt for people who love you. For people who make it too obvious. I could say he didn’t mean those things, but it would be a lie.

You did mean them, didn’t you. You always say what you mean. You are not an ambiguity. Except for in death. Then I just don’t even know where to start.

It’s all right. I’ll just tell her I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment. Hopefully she didn’t see me leave Ella’s office just now. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to talk. Sherlock is dead, he’s dead. He killed himself. I can’t accept it, I can’t understand it, I can’t move on. Yes: it’s pathetic. I know. There’s no more ground to tread here. I’m on the edge of the cliff, and the only way is down.

“Hi,” she says. She smiles. It’s a fake smile, I know those.

“Hello, Molly.” I smile too. It’s also fake. Why are we doing this?