And they never phoned. They never asked him about his job, never troubled him while he was on duty. They never phoned. Potzner walked into the hall and out through the front door. He opened his car with one hand on the button of the key fob and slid into the passenger seat. Yvonne’s head poked curiously out of the space he had vacated at her front door, but his focus had moved on. Al was talking to him and he was trying to make sense of the words. He knew what they meant, but he couldn’t assemble them into any coherent pattern that fitted his understanding. He heard his own voice interjecting, misinterpreting. “No, Al, wait. I don’t – I can’t –”
And Al’s voice, that familiar East Coast drawl, was saying the same thing over and over. “I’m so sorry, Jim. It was very sudden. Evie took her down yesterday afternoon. You know she hadn’t been that great – but she was a fighter, wasn’t she? You should be proud of her. Jim – I’m so sorry. We both are. You know how we loved her. I – I didn’t want to break it to you like this, but –”
Potzner listened to Al rambling on. He took in air, exhaled again. He couldn’t prompt his vocal cords into life. Al was still talking, chatting like they were organising a party, or –
“Jim, you have to let us know what you want to do about – you know. They’re asking already about the – arrangements. I said you were away, but Evie didn’t pull any punches –” Al attempted a laugh here, “– well, you know what she’s like. She said they’ll just have to hang on until you –”
Potzner found his voice. To his surprise it sounded steady and authoritative. “Al, I have to ask you. Did she... say anything, I mean when –” he cleared his throat “– before she – slipped away, to pass onto me?”
Al stumbled on for a few sentences. He could hear the effort. There was nothing specific. It was sudden. And then the coma – he must understand. The deterioration was rapid. Twelve hours from chatting to Evie over the fence to the end.“Jeez, Jim. I don’t know what to say – this is hard, you know, not face to face like it should be. We tried to get hold of you earlier. I – I know how you must feel.”
Did he? Potzner doubted it. His light, his reason for living had been extinguished. In his absence. Without him even knowing. He stared at the plastic dash, counting the patterned lines, the fake leather indentations that seemed to him like wrinkles in an old world’s face. Everything was different now. Everything had moved on. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
“Jim? Are you still there?”
Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps Al had got it wrong. It happened. There had been cases where the patient had revived, stunning both doctors and family alike. Potzner nodded at the recollection. Why not? Thing was, he’d better get himself over to the US so he could be there when she woke up. But then his problem still remained. Dracup. And the research. It must continue at all costs. No, at any cost.
Al’s voice was an electronic babble in the handset now. He put the noise back in his pocket and looked out of the car window. Moisture was scattered over the glass in small, bead-like tears. The front door was closed. Yvonne was standing at the picture window, arms folded. He’d read a book once, The Naked Ape – told you all about human gestures, what they meant. It was very informative because he now knew that when a guy raised his hand behind his head during conversation it meant he saw James Potzner as a threat. That was useful to know. There were lots of little responses and gestures that gave the game away. Arms folded. That meant defence. He heard the sirens in the distance, watched her face as she heard them too. Her shoulders relaxed fractionally. Potzner shifted across to the driver’s seat and started the engine. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with the policeman, Moran. Not yet. That would come later, on his terms.
As he steered the car out onto the trunk road he tried to remember: who had written The Naked Ape? And then it came to him: Desmond Morris, the renowned British anthropologist. Dracup was an anthropologist. When he saw Dracup again – and he surely would – he’d better be careful not to give too much away. No unguarded gestures. Potzner gripped the wheel and let his subconscious babble on inside him. He knew what was happening, rationally; his mind was trying to compensate for the earth-shattering news it had just received. He wanted to listen to his subconscious; it didn’t hurt as much. But his training wouldn’t allow it to continue. Despite his best efforts his rational mind resumed control. He let out a howl of anguish, a desperate, animal noise, battering his fist on the steering wheel. He hadn’t even said goodbye.