The Empty Grave of Edgar Allan Poe

NIGGLE

          It was a product of the research into Alzheimer`s disease; the memory map. It gave doctors the ability to pinpoint the position of any memory in a person`s brain and, with the use of a laser, expunge it forever. Just burn it away.
          For a while the procedure was in limbo while its ethical implications were subjected to the most intense scrutiny. The possible religious, moral and social effects of the memory map were all discussed in turn by the sharpest minds in the country. For a man is the sum of his memories, remove them at will and is he not somehow diminished? Is it not tampering with the soul? And then it became obvious from the signs of growing impatience among the people that they had already made up their minds. And that was a clue as to how much money could be made. So the great panjandrums bowed and left the stage and the doctors began their work.
          The operation itself was so simple that the doctors soon handed it over to technicians. A computer determined all the calculations and controlled the laser beam; which operated at a micro-cellular level, causing no pain and leaving no scars. An initial medical examination was always required, for any individual`s memory map was so intricate that mistakes could easily be made by those unqualified to justify such high fees, but as time went by and market forces intervened, memogo shops began to open on every high street in the land. A new profession was invented, a new title coined, “memologist”, and those medical students unable to gain the necessary qualifications to specialise in teeth or feet became brain surgeons instead.
          As prices fell, more and more people took advantage of the operation. No longer was it the province of movie stars wishing to forget a bad review or the duchess deleting the duke`s minor indiscretion. Now it was available to everyone and with a sliding scale of charges you could remove a minor niggle, through a major bugbear, to an ultimate total cleansing of all the bad things that had ever happened to you. Short-changed in the supermarket, too late to return and sort it out, having it hang around your mind like a bad smell, thinking of what you should have done, what you could have bought with the lost pennies - forget it! The embarrassments of schooldays, even more the agonies of adolescence - forget them! The job opportunities you`ve missed, the perfect partners you`ve rejected and regretted ever since - forget them all! Bullies disappeared along with embarrassing stains and drunken mistakes and it was as though a grey cloud had drifted from the land and the sun shone once more in a pure blue sky. The discovery of the memory map was deemed to be a very good thing indeed.
          There were accidents of course. Any medical procedure, no matter how safe, is inherently dangerous. Someone went into a memogo shop to have a particularly nasty encounter with a football hooligan removed and walked out with no knowledge of traffic, with the inevitable consequence. Others used this to their own advantage. A man forgetting his wife`s birthday would blame it on a previous visit to a memogo shop. And he would get away with it. An important part of the procedure was to remove any memory of the process of removing a memory. Otherwise, what good would it do to clear your brain of one niggle and have it replaced by another niggle? Wondering what it was you`d paid good money to forget. Thus all procedures were carried out under a mild anaesthetic and every memogo shop employed a team of chauffeurs to drive patients back to their homes so that when they woke up they would be none the wiser.

*

          George Tomkins was in a quandary. His life had been blighted by the deaths of his wife and daughter. He would wake in the night in a cold sweat, haunted by dreams of a small, white coffin descending into the grave. The wooden knock as it hit the large, oak coffin beneath was a sound that refused to recede from his mind. No matter how he tried to fill his brain with other things, with work, with hobbies, with mind-numbing amusements, he still saw little Melissa being lowered to rest with her mummy and he still heard the noise of the coffins knocking.
          It was over a year now since the accident that took them both. It was late at night, it was raining, Maggie was driving too fast. He remembered watching her pull away from the kerb and he wondered why the rush. Then the visit from the police and the agony that followed. The road was wet and slippy, the car skidded and went into a wall. No other vehicle was involved. Maggie wasn`t to blame. She hadn`t been drinking. She never drank much anyway. An occasional glass of wine. A bit more at Christmas. No it wasn`t her fault, even though the report said she was doing over seventy. Couldn`t blame Maggie, certainly couldn`t blame Melissa, so blame the rain and the road and the wall, and let it go.
          “Forget it,” said just about everyone, though not right away. They waited a few weeks, until they reckoned a decent period for mourning had elapsed. Then they offered their advice. Family, friends, acquaintances, milkmen, postmen, shopkeepers, they all suggested he forget it. They meant well, they were just thinking of his pain. If the remedy was readily available then why not take it? George had thought long and hard and had finally decided not to do it. There was no way he could obliterate the death of Maggie and Melissa without taking away the memory of their life together, and the hole that would leave in his mind was too vertiginous to contemplate. So he soldiered on with his memories intact.
          When people realised that he didn`t intend to take the easy way out, they reached back in their minds for other words of comfort and dusted them off. “Time heals all wounds.” “Just give it time.” “All will be well.” They worked no spell, their magic drained by science. Knowledge of the memory map conferred power on one phrase alone: “Forget it”. And George tried, tried to keep the good memories alive and drown the bad. Day and night he struggled with those final visions of the little white coffin being lowered into the dark abyss. For twelve long months George resisted temptation and tried to come to terms with the loss of his family. Then one day another woman entered his life.

*

          George had barely noticed that the house next door was up for sale. They`d never been that friendly with the Montgomerys when Maggie and Melissa were alive and since their deaths George had withdrawn even further into his own routine. He would nod at Mr. Montgomery when he came back from work and he occasionally chatted to Mrs. Montgomery if their paths crossed at the supermarket or in the town, but it was just weather talk. So one day George was surprised by the sight of a different set of clothes on the washing line next door.
          He began by nodding to his new neighbour over the garden fence. Then they discussed the weather. Then they became quite chatty. Her name was Jane Culshaw, she was divorced and she had a daughter named Julie. George found himself thinking up excuses to call round next door. He offered to cut Jane`s lawn. It was no problem, he`d got his mower out. Neighbourly gestures, small kindnesses which were reciprocated. He gave her some apples from the tree Maggie had planted in the back garden. Jane baked him an apple pie. So it went on for a few months and George began to imagine another life. A life devoid of nightmares. A new life with a new family. Julie was about the same age as Melissa was when she`d died.
          Still haunted by the past, George felt it would not be fair to Jane to bring that much tragic baggage to a new relationship. True, she had an ex-husband; George had met him, he seemed like a nice chap. But Jane had made the decision to leave him, whereas George had had Maggie wrenched away from him. Finally he decided there was nothing else for it, for the sake of Jane and Julie he had to forget Maggie and Melissa. Once the decision was made it was just a matter of where he chose to go to have the operation. There were several memogo shops in the town, as far as he knew there was not much to choose between them. He compared prices. None were having sales. Then while he was clearing out the house, removing every trace of Maggie and Melissa, all the photographs, Maggie`s books, Melissa`s dolls, he came across a business card from a memogo shop. It was in amongst the sympathy cards that friends had sent before the funeral. George had gathered them all together and put them in a box up the loft. He presumed someone had slipped it to him sometime, probably with a whispered, “Forget it.” Even though the shop was in the City, thirty miles away, George felt that it had been recommended by a friend, and so that was where he decided to go.
          It was not an establishment that George would have chosen on sight. It was hidden in an anonymous street in one of the less salubrious sections of the City. Flanked on both sides by boarded-up shops, their fly-posted skins peeling in the sun, the window of the memogo shop offered no flashy neon promises of eternal peace like the others he`d seen, there was just a faded photograph of a spotty youth with a ridiculous haircut, dressed in a tanktop and flared trousers, under the motto, “FORGET IT”. George pushed the door and went inside.
          He gave his name and address, his credit card and his keys to the receptionist and waited. When his name was called, he went into the memologist`s office and explained his predicament. The memologist advised complete removal of all memories relating to Maggie and Melissa and George reluctantly agreed. He expected the consultation process to last longer, he felt he needed to talk through every doubt he had about taking such a major step, but this was not one of the high-class establishments which employed counsellors to put one`s mind at rest. As George was hooked up to the machine he consoled himself with the thought that he was not going to be ripped off.
          As the valium began to kick in George overheard the memologist talking to his assistant about some other case.
          “They`re always doing it. Never take the advice. I spent six months doing the course. I`m a trained professional. You`d think that would carry some weight.”
          “No respect.”
          “Damn right. I knew he`d be back. Told him so but he wouldn`t listen. You can`t fiddle around with something like that, you`ve got to cut the whole thing out.”
          “What was it?”
          “It`s a while ago now, I don`t remember the details. Neither does he.”
          They laughed and just before George drifted off he heard the memologist say, “His wife caught him with his daughter or something...”

*

          Three months after his visit to the memogo shop George married Jane. The operation had been a complete success and he was no longer troubled by nightmares. He was blissfully happy with his new wife and positively besotted with his new daughter.