Doyle looked at the card from the Counsellor for a long time before he set it aside and microwaved his evening meal. Then he sat at the desk with the hot ready-meal beside him, and started to type, slowly.
“I’ve thought about this question, I really have, but I don’t see any point. I wouldn’t be able to change anything. The main thing that went wrong isn’t under my control. Not in any way. Going back wouldn’t make any difference to it.
Nowadays I can control it a little – I can let it out when I need it, but the trouble is I can’t keep it in, not far enough.
People are always going to know, in the end.You can’t change the past, it’s always with you; like your genes. There’s no
point.
If I could go back and talk to myself I suppose I could tell myself to listen to Harriet more. I didn’t want to lose my old friends, the people from before it happened. She wanted me to – I don’t know how to put it, explore my new self or something.
The thing is, if there’s a respectable demon middle-class I wasn’t in a position to find it. I hadn’t got the contacts. I still don’t have the contacts. That reads as though I was making excuses, but – later on Harriet found herself one who was like a stereotype of a prosperous, dull, petit-bourgeois restaurant owner. Mr Dull. He and his family tried to murder me. No malice involved – it was just their custom. What can you do in a situation like that?)The laptop screen was getting worn or something, and anyway his eyes were stinging. He printed out a first draft and started to edit it with a pen.
After a few minutes he remembered his ready-meal and started to fork the food into his mouth without tasting it
Doyle.
Angel, the series.
Words, 310