Free Trust No One by Paul Cleave Page B

on in your head, all those dark things, you try to keep those in Henry Cutter’s head and not yours. When you’re in your office and some guy is having his arms torn off by gangsters, that’s Henry Cutter’s world. When you’re having dinner with Sandra or watching a movie with Eva, that’s Jerry Grey’s world. You keep the two worlds separate. Don’t worry—you’re not suffering from any kind of delusion where you really think you’re a different person, and the distinction may be subtle, but when you switch your computer off at the end of the day, you also need to be able to switch yourself off too. It didn’t used to be that way. In fact, the reason you do it is for your family. Sandra would often say you were distant, that often you weren’t there because your mind was chasing down loose ends, and she was right. You were always trying to figure out how Character A was going to survive what Character B had planned, and that made it very easy to slip out of the real world to pursue what was happening in the imaginary, made it easy to tune out of a conversation you were having with Sandra to make some mental notes. When you got published, Sandra helped come up with the pseudonym, and it was shortly after that she said, I just wish Henry could live his life in your office and we could have Jerry the rest of the time. That was when she explained to you what you were like. You can still remember that day, that hug you gave her when you promised her you were going to try what she just suggested, and guess what, F.J.? It’s worked. Henry Cutter is who you become when you’re wearing your “author hat.” There aren’t many professions where you spend all day imagining you’re somebody else. And right now you’re going to put that hat on, and let Henry take over.
    Over to you, Henry.
    It was a Tuesday when Sandra borrowed the diary. A Tuesday like any other for most people, but not for Sandra—this was her second Tuesday since learning her husband was leaving her, and she was going to spend it reading his inner thoughts. He was scared, she was pretty sure of that—hell, she was scared. By the end of next year she would be alone, perhaps even by the end of this one. She couldn’t help it, but already she was thinking of what she would do—would she move on? Would there be a mourning period for a man who was still alive but in many ways so far gone? Would she meet somebody else and start a new life? She didn’t know. And what if she did start that new life, and in five years’ time there was a cure and Jerry became Jerry again?
    Coffee and a muffin. That was breakfast—not the healthiest, but she never had been the healthiest when it came to eating, which is why she hit the gym three days a week before work—four, if there was time—and time, she thought, was something she wouldn’t have much of while Jerry was sick. She would have to take time off work, which would be tough, as there were some cases ready to go to trial, but she would do it. She would do anything for Jerry. She was already taking time off to help Eva plan the wedding. She carried the diary and her breakfast outside. She sat at the table on the deck and sipped her coffee and started to read. Day One, the opening words, and there was Jerry talking to himself, Jerry sounding just like . . . well, just like Jerry. The neighbor’s cat had jumped the fence and was sitting on the edge of the deck, pausing from cleaning itself every now and then to stare at her. The coffee was too hot, so she let it cool, and soon it was forgotten. She carried on reading. And as she read, she found herself feeling sad for Jerry. And then she saw something that made her storm into the house. Jerry was still asleep. These last few days he’d been sleeping in every morning.
    “Just what the hell is this?” she asked, waking him up. She was angry. She shouldn’t have been, but she couldn’t help herself.
    Jerry looked tired and confused. “What? What’s