The Fugitive

‘Well, which university did you get your degree from?’ they asked.

No, he hadn’t got his skills at any university.

‘Well, which companies did you get your work experience from?’

No, he hadn’t learned his skills while working for a company.

‘Well, what did you do from 1989 to 1992?’ the temp agency staffer inevitably asked in an exasperated voice.

‘I . . . ah . . . travelled around the country.’ What else was Par going to say? How could he possibly answer that question?

If he was lucky, the agency might land him a data-entry job at $8 per hour. If he was less fortunate, he might end up doing clerical work for less than that.

By 1993, things had become a little rocky with Theorem. After four and a half years together, they broke up. The distance was too great, in every sense. Theorem wanted a more stable life – maybe not a traditional Swiss family with three children and a pretty chalet in the Alps, but something more than Par’s transient life on the road.

The separation was excruciatingly painful for both of them. Conversation was strained for weeks after the decision. Theorem kept thinking she had made a mistake. She kept wanting to ask Par to come back. But she didn’t.

Par drowned himself in alcohol. Shots of tequila, one after the other. Scull it. Slam the glass down. Fill it to the top. Throw back another. After a while, he passed out. Then he was viol- ently ill for days, but somehow he didn’t mind. It was cleansing to be so ill.

Somewhere along the way, Rosen managed to get Par’s things returned from the Secret Service raids. He passed the outdated computer and other equipment back to Par, along with disks, print-outs and notes.

Par gathered up every shred of evidence from his case, along with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and made a bonfire. He shredded print-outs, doused them in lighter fluid and set them