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Barry was sitting with his Harry Potter novel in the chair by the front door。 He raised his great slab of a face from the pages and gave me a look of weary disapproval； tinged with a sneer of amused contempt。
“Morning； sir；” he said。 “Finished for the night； have we？”
I thought； he knows。 And then I thought； of course he knows； you bloody fool； it’s his job to know。 In a flash I saw his sniggering conversations with his colleagues； the log of his official observations passed to London； a discreet entry in a file somewhere； and I felt a thrust of fury and resentment。 Perhaps I should have responded with a wink or a colluding quip—“Well； officer； you know what they say： there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle；” or something of the sort—but instead I said； coldly； “Why don’t you just fuck off？”
It wasn’t exactly Oscar Wilde； but it got me out of the house。 I walked through the door and set off toward the track； only belatedly registering that； unfortunately； high moral dudgeon offers no protection against stinging squalls of sleet。 I trudged on with an effort at dignity for a few more yards； then ducked for cover into the lee of the house。 Rainwater was overflowing from the gutter and drilling into the sandy soil。 I took off my jacket and held it over my head； and considered how I was going to reach Edgartown。 That was when the idea of borrowing the tan…colored Ford Escape SUV popped helpfully into my mind。
How different—how very different—the course of my life would have been if I hadn’t immediately gone running toward that garage； dodging the puddles； the tent of my jacket raised over me with one hand； the other dragging my little suitcase。 I see myself now as if in a movie； or perhaps； more aptly； in one of those filmed reconstructions on a TV crime show： the victim skipping unknowingly toward his fate； as ominous chords underscore the portentousness of the scene。 The door was still unlocked from the previous day and the keys of the Ford were in the ignition—after all； who worries about robbers when you live at the end of a two…mile track protected by six armed bodyguards？ I heaved my case into the front passenger seat； put my jacket back on； and slid behind the steering wheel。
It was as cold as a morgue； that Ford； and as dusty as an old attic。 I ran my hands over the unfamiliar controls and my fingertips came away gray。 I don’t own a car—I’ve never found much need； living alone in London—and on the rare occasions I hire one； it always seems that another layer of gadgets has been added； so that the instrument panel of the average family sedan now looks to me like the cockpit of a jumbo。 There was a mystifying screen to the right of the wheel； which came alive when I switched on the engine。 Pulsing green arcs were shown radiating upward from Earth to an orbiting space station。 As I watched； the pulse switched direction and the arcs beamed down from the heavens。 An instant later； the screen showed a large red arrow； a yellow path； and a great patch of blue。
An American woman’s voice； soft but commanding； said； from somewhere behind me：Join the road as soon as possible。
I would have turned her off； but I couldn’t see how； and I was conscious that the noise of the engine might soon bring Barry lumbering out of the house to investigate。 The thought of his lubricious gaze was enough to get me moving。 I quickly put the Ford into reverse and backed out of the garage。 Then I adjusted the mirrors； switched on the headlights and the windscreen wipers； engaged drive； and headed for the gate。 As I passed the guard post； the scene on the little satellite navigation monitor swung pleasingly； as if I were playing on an arcade game； and then the red arrow settled over the center of the yellow path。 I was away。
There was something oddly soothing about driving along and seeing all the little paths and streams； neatly labeled； appear at the top of the screen and then scroll down before disappearing off the bottom。 It made me feel as if the world were a safe and tamed place； its every feature tagged and measured and stored in some celestial control room； where softly spoken angels kept a benign vigil on the travelers below。
In two hundred yards；instructed the woman；turn right。
In fifty yards； turn right。
And then；Turn right。
The solitary demonstrator was huddled in his hut； reading a newspaper。 He stood as he saw me at the junction and came out into the sleet。 I noticed he had a car parked nearby； a big old Volkswagen camper van； and I wondered why he didn’t shelter in that。 As I swung right； I got a good look at his gaunt gray face。 He was immobile and expressionless； taking no more notice of the drenching rain than if he had been a carved wooden figure outside a drugstore。 I pressed my foot on the accelerator and headed toward Edgartown； enjoying the slight sense of adventure that always comes from driving in a foreign country。 My disembodied guide was silent for the next four miles or so； and I had forgotten all about her until； as I reached the outskirts of the town； she started up again。
In two hundred yards； turn left。Her voice made me jump。
In fifty yards； turn left。
Turn left；she repeated； when we reached the junction。
Now she was beginning to get on my nerves。
“I’m sorry；” I muttered and took a right toward Main Street。
Turn around when possible。
“This is getting ridiculous；” I said out loud and pulled over。 I pressed various buttons on the navigator’s console； with the aim of shutting it down。 The screen changed and offered me a menu。 I can’t remember all the options。 one wasENTER A NEW DESTINATION 。 I think another wasRETURN TO HOME ADDRESS 。 And a third—the one highlighted—wasREMEMBER PREVIOUS DESTINATION 。
I stared at it for a while； as the potential implications slowly filtered into my brain。 Cautiously； I pressedSELECT 。
The screen went blank。 The device was obviously malfunctioning。
I turned off the engine and hunted around for the instructions。 I even braved the sleet and opened up the back of the Ford to see if they’d been left there。 I returned empty…handed and turned on the ignition。 Once again the navigation system lit up。 As it went through its start…up routine； communicating with its mother ship； I put the car into gear and headed down the hill。
Turn around when possible。
I tapped the steering wheel with my forefingers。 For the first time in my life I was confronted with the true meaning of the word “predestination。” I had just passed the Victorian whaling church。 Before me the hill dipped toward the harbor。 A few white masts were faintly visible through the dirty lace curtain of rain。 I was not far from my old hotel—from the girl in the white mobcap； and the sailing prints； and old Captain John Coffin staring sternly from the wall。 It was eight o’clock。 There was no traffic on the road。 The sidewalks were deserted。 I carried on down the slope； past all the empty shops with their cheery closed…for…the…winter…see…you…next…year！！ notices。
Turn around when possible。
Wearily； I surrendered to fate。 I