SSC Vanessa Broadbent reached into a folder and brought out a signed document. It was officially stamped, and as she slid it across the table, Neil recognised it immediately.
“I would like you to tell me,” said Vanessa, peering over her glasses, “in your own words, what this document is.”
“I’ll tell you in mine, sure. I could hardly tell you in your words, could I?” said Neil, eliciting a curtailed laugh from Sir Jeremy. “It’s the signed testimony of Alexis Grayson.”
“And on this document, does it repeat almost exactly what you have just told us?”
“Other than a few omissions, it’s pretty much there.”
Vanessa sneered, trying her best not to jump at the bait Neil was throwing. “So, can you explain to me why you did not believe this to be the truth?”
“Because it didn’t answer the fundamental premise of the case.”
“What do you mean?” said Sir Jeremy, jumping in before Vanessa could speak again.
“Everything is as stated in my own deposition on this matter.” said Neil, meeting Sir Jeremy’s gaze with steely determination. “It has not changed since I made it, and is unlikely to change now. What part of that is making no sense?”
“Neil.” said Henry, in a measured tone. “I’ll remind you that you are being accused of taking the law into your own hands, of criminal damages, and of either wilful negligence in the death of a civilian, potentially two, or the planning of a series of murders. I think you need to take stock of that, and give us benefit of the doubt when we ask you questions. We do not all have the memory you have.”
“Understood.”
The word drifted from Neil’s lips, but inside he was in turmoil. It was time to relive the end of the case. It was time to confront the images he had been supressing ever since that day and finally face up to how he arrived at this exact moment.
There were moments, just fleeting specks of time, which constantly bothered Neil in his life. It did not take much to realise why, but their triggering was still random.
The threads, the almost indefinable something’s that linked all life on the planet would conspire to trigger a recall, whose resultant impact was felt throughout his being.
Such was the force with which the arrival of the memories hit, he often found himself grunting or moaning as they appeared. There had been times, not many, but some, when people stopped what they were doing and asked if he were ok when one arrived.
Sitting opposite these people, as every sense was lambasted by the bow-wave of the onrushing finale of this ordeal, he supressed his desire to close his eyes and force the images away.
Nearly gurning with the effort of maintaining control, he could sense an air of concern wash through the room. Laughing and drawing confused expressions from those seated at the table, he realised that given enough time to dwell on a situation, insanity or redemption awaited us all.