Free The Restoration of Otto Laird by Nigel Packer Page B

possible locations, but it was a delicate matter that required him to second-guess his own psychological state.
    Having faced up to, and faced down, his physical scars the night before – a difficult experience, but a strangely cathartic one – Otto resolved that it was time to approach the mental ones. He was back where it had all happened, for the next few days at least. So it was time to stop avoiding it; time to stop pretending that London was a city, for him, like any other. Some interesting buildings, a neatly packaged history, a passing glimpse of Abbey, Tower and Gherkin. Then perhaps a pint of bitter in a welcoming pub. Who was he trying to fool? The capital he knew couldn’t be condensed to a postcard. The physical past mapped onto Otto’s body had its echo and its counterpoint: a psychological past, mapped onto the fabric of London itself. As with his flesh the night before, it was time for him to explore that past as unflinchingly as possible.
    Otto carried a detailed map of his personal geography, buried and ignored within his psyche. He knew the location of every mental blemish, each emotional welt and scar – places he had avoided thinking about, in some cases for decades. Joyous memories, too, but sometimes made painful by subsequent events. Now it was time to unearth this map of memories and go in search of them once more. He must be careful, though, he realised. He couldn’t go just anywhere. Not yet. His giddiness in the restaurant the previous evening should act as a warning. There were some locations that remained off-limits, at least until he had properly broken himself in. The Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead, for instance – he would certainly not be going anywhere near there. Here be dragons, Otto thought. Kenwood House, up on the Heath, that would also have to wait for another day, perhaps indefinitely. Even their old house in Hampstead would be too much for him now. No, he would have to try something more straightforward. Somewhere quotidian; less emotive. A source of unequivocally happy memories, or at least relatively neutral ones.
    Drawing back the curtain, Otto peered at the traffic rumbling along Marylebone Road. The autumn day was grey, but no rain appeared to threaten. Perhaps he should start with a short walk. Nothing too ambitious – nothing involving the crush or confusion of public transport. Angelo had mentioned something about an Oyster Card to him. What on earth could that be? No, he should go easy on himself. Start with a short stroll somewhere near by, indulge in a little light nostalgia, and then back again to the safety of his hotel.
    Otto consulted the virtual A to Z that to his great surprise, and with the precision of a cab driver, he still retained inside his head. The discovery pleased him, like a forgotten keepsake, uncovered in storage. An idea then came to him. If he was going to face the music, he might as well do so literally. He put on his overcoat and homburg, and sought out his wooden cane.
    The area had changed, he noted, but not to the stage of disorientation. Marylebone High Street felt a little more chic, a little more monied, but as an area that had always exuded an air of comfort, it had not undergone the wholesale transformation he had heard about in some areas of the city. Passing the boutiques and gourmet food stores, he dusted the fallen leaves with his cane, looking out for dog-mess and uneven paving (he had quickly relearned those lessons the previous day). He took pleasure in the damp and heavy London air, its slight chill sharpening his thoughts. He absorbed the noise of pedestrians and traffic, enjoyed the familiar rattle of the passing black cabs.
    At the corner of St Vincent Street, he stopped off for a coffee at an American chain. Intimidated by the menu’s scale, its complex variations, he settled for a glass of fruit juice; pondered a detour; browsed a favourite bookshop that had survived. Wigmore Hall, on arrival,