by Ben Cheetham
The urgency in the doctor’s voice provoked little anxiety. Butterfly had long since come to terms with knowing she could drop dead at any given moment. She arranged an appointment, thanked the doctor, then hung up and dialled Jack’s sister.
“Hi Laura. How are you feeling?”
“Like I drank a bottle of gin to myself last night,” groaned Laura. “Why the hell do they call it morning sickness? I spend half the day with my head in the toilet.”
Butterfly wondered about her own pregnancy. Had she suffered from morning sickness? Had she had cravings? Had Charlie kept her awake moving around in her womb? Thinking about such questions was like staring into a black hole. “Are you working today?”
“Not until this evening. Why? Do you need me to look after Charlie?”
“I have a hospital appointment, but if you’re not up to it I can take him with me.”
“I’d love to look after him.” Laura added with a touch of dry humour, “I need all the practice I can get.”
“No you don’t. You’ll be a great mum.” A lot better than me, Butterfly said to herself.
“I hope so.”
The line was silent for a moment as if both women were pondering what the future might hold. Then Butterfly said, “I’ll drop Charlie off after the school run.”
After getting off the phone, she threw herself into the usual daily tasks. She dressed Charlie, made Naomi’s packed lunch, negotiated her way through the morning traffic to drop Naomi at school, then went to the supermarket to pick up nappies and formula milk. Once or twice, she glanced in the rear mirror, watching out for the sleek black car. It was nowhere to be seen.
She headed to Laura’s house – a smart little two-up, two-down terrace. Laura came to the front door munching on a pickled onion. Her six-months-pregnant belly was developing a pronounced bump. She looked vaguely green around the gills.
“Even though I feel as sick as a dog, I can’t stop eating these frigging things,” she explained, popping another onion into her mouth.
Butterfly dumped a bag bulging with bottles, baby wipes, rusks and the like in the hallway before returning to the car for Charlie. His big blue-grey eyes widened with delight at the sight of Laura. “Come here you,” she said stretching her arms out. “Wow, look at him!” she exclaimed as Butterfly handed over Charlie. “He’s getting so big.”
“Tell me about it,” said Butterfly, massaging an ache in her lower back.
Laura gave Butterfly an appraising look. “Is it just a routine check-up?”
“No. The headaches have been getting worse.”
“It’s not necessarily a bad thing. If the bullet’s dropped lower, they might be able to remove it.”
Butterfly smiled at Laura’s optimism, but there was little confidence in her voice as she replied, “That’s what Jack said.” She stooped to kiss Charlie. “See you soon, beautiful. Be good for your Auntie Laura.”
“M…m…” babbled Charlie.
“It won’t be long before he’s talking,” said Laura.
Butterfly’s smile faded. Not so long ago, she’d wondered whether she would survive to see Charlie take his first steps. Now that milestone had been passed, she found herself waiting on tenterhooks for him to say his first word. She hesitated to move away from him. It had only been in the past couple of months that she’d been able to bring herself to leave him in the care of anyone else. She was still reluctant to spend her first night away from him. Jack had been trying to convince her that they should go away for a weekend and leave Charlie and Naomi with Laura. There would be little chance to do so after Laura had her own baby. But the mere thought of being away from Charlie for two whole days tied Butterfly’s insides into knots.
“You don’t want to be late for your appointment,” prompted Laura. “Don’t worry about Charlie. We’ll have a great time.” Tickling him under his chin, she added, “Won’t we?”
As if breaking loose from a tight grip, Butterfly turned abruptly to head for her car. She gave Charlie and Laura a wave as she drove away. The knot in her stomach didn’t ease off until she was several miles away from Laura’s house. She headed across the city to North Manchester General Hospital. She parked opposite the modern, three-storey brick building and made her way through the familiar, antiseptic-smelling corridors. After a short wait in Neurology’s reception area, she was summoned into Doctor Summers’s office.
Doctor Summers – a precisely spoken, bespectacled man in his fifties – got straight down to business. He started with the usual battery of neurological tests, using a tuning fork, flashlight, reflex hammer and ophthalmoscope to check Butterfly’s motor and sensory functions.
“Everything appears to be normal,” he said, “but I’d like to run further tests. I’m sure you know the routine by now. Bloods to make sure there’s no sign of infection. An EEG to assess your brain activity. CT scan to monitor the position of the bullet.”
Butterfly sighed heavily. In the past ten months, she’d been subjected to more medical tests than most people were in a lifetime. Part of her wanted to walk out of the doctor’s office and never come back. If it hadn’t been for Charlie, she might have done so. For him she would have endured any number of tests. Even if it only meant she got to hear him say ‘Mum’ before she died, it would be worth it.
She spent the next few hours having needles poked into her limbs, electrodes stuck to her head and x-rays passed through her skull.
Back in Doctor Summers’s office, Butterfly watched him comparing eerily illuminated cross-sections of her head. A snub-nosed cylinder half the length of her little finger was outlined in black near the bottom left side of her walnut-like brain.
“The good news is, there’s no sign of blood clots, swelling or infection and your brain’s electrical activity is normal.” The doctor traced his finger along a slender white line where the bullet had penetrated the frontal bone and burrowed diagonally downwards. “The scarring also appears to be healing as well as can be expected.”
“So what’s the bad news?” Butterfly asked in an ominously calm voice.
“I’m not sure there is any bad news. It depends on how you look at it.” Doctor Summers superimposed two side-on images of Butterfly’s brain. “The bullet has dropped about two millimetres. This almost certainly accounts for the symptoms you’ve been experiencing. We’re in something of a catch-22 situation. The bullet is still so deeply embedded that if we attempt to remove it we could cause all sorts of damage. However, if it moves in the wrong direction of its own accord, the prognosis might be even worse. There’s also the possibility that gravity will naturally draw the bullet towards the top of your neck, putting it in a position where we can remove it without the same risk of complications. At this moment I would be reluctant to go down the surgery route. I’m afraid it’s a case of waiting to see what happens and hoping for the best.”
“But expecting the worst,” Butterfly said with a dry twist of her lips.
“I wish I could say more, but the outcomes for these types of injuries are difficult to predict at best. I’ve booked you in for further scans a week from now. I want to keep a close eye on the situation.”
Butterfly heaved another sigh. It seemed like she spent half her life in hospital rooms. You know what, Doctor, thanks but no thanks, I’ll take my chances, she felt like saying, but as always Charlie’s cherubic face rose into her mind. “OK, thank you, Doctor.” The conversation seemed to be over, but Butterfly remained seated. “There was one more thing,” she began, shifting uneasily in her chair. “I’ve been having that dream again.”
“The one where you’re running away from the men who killed–”
“Yes that one,” Butterfly broke in as if she couldn’t bear to hear the dream described out loud. “It feels like an actual memory.”
“Maybe it is. Unfortunately we can’t know that for sure because the dreams started after you found out about what happened to your family. Are there any new details? Something you haven’t read about?”
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Butterfly re-ran the dream in her mind. It was always the same – her fleeing in slow-motion through the woods, the voice calling out, Run, run as fast as you can... “No. But what if it is a memory, Doctor? What if, as the bullet moves, my memory starts to come back? Will it change me?”
“Change you how?”
Butterfly strove to put what she meant into words. “Will I lose who I am now? What I mean is, will my old memories wipe out my new ones?”
“When the bullet entered your brain, it seemingly destroyed the part of it that contained your autobiographical memories,” explained Doctor Summers, choosing his words carefully. “Logic would therefore dictate that those memories can’t be retrieved. The same logic also dictates that unless your brain suffers a fresh trauma, you will retain your newly formed memories. That said, there’s a possibility that your memory impairment is not simply a result of tissue damage. The trauma your brain suffered may have disrupted its memory retrieval systems. In which case, a portion of your memories might not be lost forever, they might only be temporarily misplaced. And as your recovery progresses, those memories might return. Or they might not. I’m sorry for being so vague, but as I said, the workings of the brain are still very much a mystery to us, especially where amnesia is concerned. In a situation like this, it’s always best to focus on the positives. Your semantic and procedural memory appear to be intact. You remember how to drive and know how to find your way around Manchester, even if you don’t remember when or where you learnt how to do these things. Your working memory also functions well. You’re able to look after your son. You don’t forget to attend your appointments. All these things make me optimistic about what the future holds in store for you.”
“Focus on the positives,” Butterfly said to herself. She gave an unconvincing little nod. “I’ll try, Doctor.”
After promising that she’d be in touch if there were any further changes to her symptoms, Butterfly headed for the hospital pharmacy to pick up the higher dosage medication Doctor Summers had prescribed. She returned to her car and sat frowning at the tablets. Debilitating headaches or lethargy and constipation. What a choice. She popped a tablet from a blister strip and swallowed it. Her frown intensified as she lifted her gaze. A car had pulled in front of the people carrier, boxing it in. Not just any car. A sporty black car. That was three times in the space of two days. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence. Was the driver following her? If so, what did they want? Was it because she’d almost crashed into their car? Or was there more to it? Whatever the case, she wasn’t taking any chances.
She took out her phone and scrolled to Jack’s number. Her finger hovered over the screen as a man got out of the black car. The man was about six foot tall with the broad shoulders and narrow waist of a boxer. He was dressed head-to-toe in black – black boots, skinny black jeans, black leather jacket. In contrast his skin was very pale and his crewcut hair was almost equally white. The precise black beard covering his chiselled cheeks suggested his hair was bleached. His dark eyes stared at her with an almost violent intensity. But it wasn’t his eyes that made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end, it was his tattoo. She took in the concentric circles of white and black, the rusty red expanse beyond them, the ragged line of brown along the wing’s edge. The tattoo was identical to hers in every respect except one. It was on the opposite side of the man’s face.
She stared at him as if hypnotised. Who was he? She had no idea. The intensity of his gaze told her he wasn’t at the same disadvantage. He approached her door. Her hand darted out to lock it, but she still didn’t call Jack. How could she when there were so many questions swirling in her mind? She’d been searching for so long for something that would bridge the chasm between Tracy and Butterfly. Something that would help make sense of her past and present. Maybe she was looking at that ‘something’.
The man stopped a few paces from her door. He spread his hands as if to show he was no threat. A broad smile lit up his face, balancing out the intensity of his eyes.
Butterfly stared at him for a moment longer before getting out of the car. Keeping the door between her and the man, she waited from him to speak.
“Hello Io,” he said, pronouncing the name eye-o.
His deep, smooth voice shuddered through Butterfly. “My name’s not Io,” she replied, struggling to keep her own voice steady.
“Yes it is. You’re my Io.”
“I don’t know you.”
The man winced as if she’d dragged her nails down his face. “So it’s true what the newspaper’s said – you don’t remember.”
“Who are you?”
“Look at my face, Io. Tell me you don’t know the answer to that question.”
“I…” Butterfly’s voice faltered. Her headache was coming on with a vengeance, drumming at her skull. Thud…thud… “I don’t know the answer.”
“Think, Io,” urged the man. “You know me. What’s my name?”
Butterfly’s knuckles whitened on the door. The drumming was getting faster and louder. Thud, thud... She seemed to feel the bullet vibrating against the soft tissue encasing it. Her voice whistled through her teeth. “Look, I don’t know your name. So either tell me it or move your fucking car out of my way.”
The man’s smile returned as if he’d seen something that delighted him. “I’m Karl. With a K.”
“Well Karl with a K, let’s hear it. Where did you get that tattoo? Why have you suddenly decided to look me up? What do you want from me?”
Karl chuckled softly and the drum’s volume turned up another twist. Thud! thud! Butterfly bit her tongue against the pain.
“Ooh questions, questions,” he said. “Are you sure you’re ready for the answers?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “I got the tattoo from the same place you did. I didn’t suddenly decide to look you up. I just didn’t have a chance to until now. And I want only one thing from you – I want you to make me whole again.” The intensity flared back into his eyes as he pointed to his tattoo. “I’m only half a person without you, Io.”
Butterfly’s mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. “Are you saying we’re married?”
Karl laughed as if the idea was absurd. “What we’ve got goes way deeper than marriage.” He stretched a hand towards Butterfly. On the back of it was a green tattoo of a Roman numeral clock with no hands. The clock face spiralled downwards, transforming into a red rose. “You promised you’d wait for me no matter how long I was gone.”
“I…” Butterfly’s voice snagged in her throat again. Suddenly, from some unknown place inside her came an almost overwhelming impulse to take Karl’s hand. Her fingers twitched. She lifted her hand as if to obey the impulse, but ducked back into the car instead and jerked the door shut.
No matter what this man knew about who she used to be, right that instant she had to get away from him. It wasn’t simply the pain his voice inflicted, it was the fear of what might lurk in that ‘unknown place’. What if her past wasn’t a destroyed or misplaced memory? What if it was a caged animal desperate to break out and attack her present? Would she have the strength to fight it? She doubted it. Her limbs were shaking. She felt weak right down to her toes.
“Move your car,” she mouthed at Karl.
He remained where he was, giving her a look of wide-eyed appeal.
“Move!” exclaimed Butterfly, hammering the horn. A couple of passers-by paused to see what the commotion was about. Karl glanced unconcernedly at them. His gaze returning to Butterfly, he pointed at the tattoo on his hand and mouthed three words. Just three words but it was enough to make her edge the car forwards until it was millimetres from his car. Keeping his gaze fixed on Butterfly, he retreated to get into his car. The engine flared into life. As he sped away, she grabbed a pen and wrote his registration and the make of the car on her hand.
Her phone rang. She wasn’t surprised to see ‘Jack’ flash up on the screen. She’d messaged him that she was heading home from the hospital. She put the
receiver to her ear. The drum was still banging away so loudly in her head that she could barely hear his voice as he asked with the usual mixture of eagerness and trepidation, “How did it go?”
“It went fine. Listen, Jack, I need to speak to you about something and I’d rather not do it over the phone.”
“Why? What’s happened?” Jack was suddenly outright apprehensive. “I thought you said it went fine?”
“It did. This is about something else.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m just leaving the hospital.”
“Then I’ll meet you at HQ’s front entrance. See you soon. I love you.”
Something like guilt twisted Butterfly’s stomach as she thought about how she’d almost taken Karl’s hand. “I love you too, Jack.”
Chapter 5
It was only a five minute drive through streets of redbrick terraced houses, pebbledash council houses, bookies, takeaways, pound shops and off-licences to the soulless light-industrial estate where Greater Manchester Police HQ was located. Butterfly pulled into a small visitors’ carpark shadowed by a wall of glass as tall as the building. A Union Jack fluttered atop a flagpole adjacent to broad stone steps leading up to glass doors. Jack waved to Butterfly from the top of the steps. She got out and approached him.
“You look pale,” he said, eyeing her intently.
She pushed out a smile. “So what’s new?”
Jack took her hand and drew her through the doors into a glass-roofed atrium. Six storeys of open-plan offices overlooked a central area furnished with white tables and matching stools. A trio of potted magnolia trees were lined up like suspects in front of a café counter. Uniformed constables and suited staff were chatting and refuelling on caffeine. A mural of densely packed trees – black trunks with almost luminous strips of green in-between – decorated one wall.
