by Jean Levy
‘What never?’
‘No, I mean now!’
‘Good lord, Sarah, this is a bit public even for me!’
‘Matthew, I don’t mean …’
‘Have you been worrying about that all evening? Scared I’d pounce on you? Sarah, I wouldn’t do that.’
‘You’ve put your arm around me.’
He plunged his hands into his jacket pockets.
I was horrified. ‘I don’t want you to stop! I’m sorry.’
He took a step back and shook his head. ‘OK, Cinders, I forgive you.’ He pointed into the near distance: ‘You live just about there.’
I hovered for a moment, watching his hand, then I took a step closer and tugged at his jacket, felt his arm across my back, looked up into his eyes and said, ‘Don’t you want to have sex with me?’
And that’s when he kissed me.
*
I clutched my bag as the cab pulled up outside my flat, and felt Matthew let go of my hand. I reached over for the door handle, but he caught my arm:
‘Shall I come in and check everything’s OK?’
‘No!’
He withdrew his hand. ‘Shall I walk you to the door?’
‘No!’ I pushed open the cab door then turned to smile. ‘Thank you for dinner.’
‘My pleasure.’
I glanced at the back of the driver’s head. ‘Mine too.’
He laughed. ‘Good. We’ll wait until you’re inside. And don’t bother losing your crystal slipper. I know where you live.’
I hurried inside to turn on the lights and listened as the cab pulled away. Then I went straight through to my bedroom mirror to check what I must have looked like as he sat beside me in the cab, as I stepped out onto the pavement not that far from the nearest streetlight, because that would most likely be the way he would remember me until the next time we met. I studied my reflection: my clothes, my hair. They were the same. But somehow different. My image was almost trembling, blurred, my cheeks flushed pink with all the excitement of a convent girl kissed for the very first time. I wandered through to the kitchen, my head spinning with fresh memories. Memories I didn’t want to lose. I poured myself a glass of milk, felt in my pocket for the pillbox. Popped it open. The two-hour-late pills were still inside, waiting to calm me to sleep. But I didn’t want to go to sleep. I wanted to stay awake and remember. I clicked the pillbox closed and heard its contents rattle as I banged it down on the work surface. Tonight was going to be different! I strode through to my desk, pulled out the chair and sat drinking my milk and reliving the last few hours, but especially that walk above the lights of London, breathing cold air. After ten minutes or so, I pulled over my notepad and abandoned pen and wrote: KISS
Then I wrote:
Granny Bramley was fat and round and she had fourteen grandchildren and a cat called Blodwen. Her grandchildren used to come and visit her during the school holidays. But Blodwen lived with her all the time.
Granny Bramley and Blodwen lived in a small white cottage surrounded by pear trees and cherry trees but no apple trees, which was strange because her cottage was called ‘Apple Tree Cottage’.
Granny Bramley’s Cottage was a mile away from the nearest village. So every Monday she used to walk along the road past Farmer Joe’s field and into the village to do her shopping. Whenever Farmer Joe saw her walk past he would stop tending his sheep and wander over to say hello. He always spoke about the local football team and the weather and his orchard full of apple trees. Granny Bramley wasn’t interested in football. And she said she couldn’t do much about the weather so it wasn’t worth talking about. But she was always interested in Farmer Joe’s apple trees.
Westcourt Police Station
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
Detective Chief Inspector Royston glanced up from the file open on his desk. ‘Ah, Sergeant Brown, come in.’
Della Brown stepped into the dingy office and closed the door behind her. After a few silent moments while she stood waiting, the Inspector slapped the file shut and leaned back in his chair.
‘Do you have anything further to report regarding the Hornsey incident, Sergeant?’
‘I’m continuing to make enquiries, sir, regarding the whereabouts of Sarah Blake both at the time of the incident itself and throughout the subsequent forty-eight hours during which she appears to have disappeared.’
The inspector folded his arms. ‘Do you think it likely that any new information will be forthcoming, given that, despite your and DI Broderick’s enquiries, not one person has been able to shed light upon those two days, including Sarah Blake herself? Has she been able to remember anything concerning those involved? Anything that would explain the circumstances in which she was found?’
‘No, sir, but I remain hopeful that some evidence will come to light. I believe that Sarah Blake’s circumstances and the Hornsey incident must be related by more than simple coincidence. And I am not convinced that her alleged inability to remember those days is anything other than denial, possibly some kind of involuntary masking process, to exonerate herself from blame. From guilt.’
‘Do you have any evidence upon which to base this opinion? Or is this merely some kind of female intuition?’
‘I have been allowed by one of her physicians …’
‘Robert Gray?’
‘No. Geraint Williams. I’ve been allowed to witness an episode of MRI imaging, which demonstrated clearly that the suspect … that Sarah Blake does respond briefly to images of the individuals involved in the incident despite the fact that she is unable to recognise them on any kind of permanent basis. If her amnesia ceases to progress, it is possible that fresh information will become available.’
DCI Royston sat forward in his chair.
‘Della, time marches on. It has been suggested that to pursue these enquiries further regarding Mrs Blake’s whereabouts would be a waste of police time. We have a flourishing under-aged prostitution problem which, according to Mike Broderick, is threatening to get out of hand. This has in the past proved to be your area of expertise, has it not? In recent weeks we have been blessed with two, possibly three, corpses and a wealthy and embarrassed businessman. It does not need to get any worse.’
Della Brown remained defiantly silent.
Detective Chief Inspector Royston looked down at the file on his desk and exhaled. ‘Two weeks, sergeant. No more.’
‘Yes, sir. Would there be anything else?’
Episode Fourteen
They’re arguing.
I think she’s asleep she says.
He says stoned more like. You shouldn’t have picked her up.
She says we couldn’t just leave her wandering. It’s freezing out there.
You’re just asking for trouble he says.
Just let her sleep she says. I’ll drop her off at the station.
He grunts. Throw her out more like.
Walking. Headlights coming towards me.
*
I woke exhausted. After a brief moment of disorientation I sat up and remembered: Primrose Hill. Granny Bramley. I glanced at my alarm: 10:44. What? I jumped out of bed and ran into the lounge. The wall clock agreed with the alarm. The morning was almost over. The doorbell rang. I leapt back and stared at the front door, checked the blind to make sure it was tightly closed. Someone moved the letterbox flap.
‘Sarah?’
Matthew!
I looked down at my toes emerging from their pyjama bottoms. The bell rang again. I backed towards the sofa then round into the dining area and on into my bedroom. The chaos from yesterday’s wardrobe explosion was everywhere, camouflaging my dressing gown; I spotted it half under the bed, dragged it out, pulled it on, saw a shadow pass by the bedroom curtains. Somebody tapped on the kitchen window. Good God! Had I checked the bolts enough times before going to bed? I leapt over to the bedroom door and pushed it shut. Paused. I was being ridiculous. I heard his voice, muffled through the double-glazing.
‘Sarah! Are you
there?’
I took a deep breath, hurried into the kitchen and came face to face with Matthew, peering in through the kitchen window, shorter now because the backyard was lower than the kitchen floor. If you looked at his head and the floor at the same time, you could imagine he was a dwarf. A dwarf with a frantic expression. He waved. I waved back. Then I hurried over and released the two bolts, fetched the key and pulled open the door. Matthew stepped inside, the right size now. He frowned at my pyjamas.
‘Did I wake you up?’
‘No, but I overslept. I’ve got to take my pills. I mustn’t miss two lots.’
‘Didn’t you take them last night?’
‘No. I stayed awake to do some writing.’
Matthew looked around the kitchen. ‘Where are they?’
I pointed to the toaster, surprised at his concern. And embarrassed: I didn’t want him to be here right now. But I didn’t want him to go either.
He held up a white tub. ‘These?’
‘No, these.’ I stretched past him, very aware of his proximity to my pyjamas. ‘I have to shower,’ I said.
He stepped back. ‘Just take your pills before you do anything else.’ He raked his fingers backwards through his hair, which left a couple of strands standing upright. He fetched a glass from the cupboard, walked over to the sink and filled it with water. ‘Are you saying you’ve only just woken up? Has that happened before? You ought to tell …’
‘Matthew! I’m all right!’ I took the glass and swallowed my pills. ‘When I got home last night I could write again. I’ve written a whole story. I didn’t go to bed until nearly four o’clock.’
Matthew took the glass and placed it on the worktop, held my arms tight in his hands, his expression, once again, frantic. ‘God, Sarah, do you think you ought to do things like that after being in hospital for three months? What would your doctors say if they knew you were staying up all night?’ He let his hands fall away. The two strands of hair were still standing on end. ‘I’m sorry. I feel responsible.’
‘I’m fine!’ I lied. I felt sweaty and too thin inside my saggy pyjamas. ‘I’ll go get dressed.’
He rallied. ‘OK, I’ll make tea.’
I hurried back to my bedroom, closed the door, found underwear, ran into the bathroom, locked myself in, unlocked the door, ran back out and found clothing, returned to the bathroom and relocked the door. As I showered I played over the last ten minutes. I remember worrying if this was the way boyfriends usually carried on. It was exhausting! I stepped out of the shower. Perhaps it was the way men behaved when they wanted to have sex with you. The bathroom was too steamy and my towel seemed impervious to water, unable to make me properly dry. I threw it on the floor and stood for a moment, naked in the cold damp air. I grabbed my knickers, dragged them up my damp thighs, fastened my bra, covered it with a chunky jumper, then tried to pull on my tights, a process which demanded sitting on the toilet, and slowly persuading the stretchy fabric over my knees. My skirt went on easy enough but I was now utterly exhausted. And hungry. I needed shoes. I unlocked the door, stepped into the bedroom and took a welcome breath of dry air. The bedroom was a mess but I didn’t have time to tidy it, so I found shoes and braced myself for my return to the kitchen.
Matthew was sitting at the table, reading my magazine, his hair flattened back down, all trace of hysteria gone from his face.
‘Tea’s in the pot. And I’ve emptied your organic waste into the outside bin. It was about to explode.’
We carried our tea through and sat on separate sofas. I noticed him staring at the mantelpiece.
‘Most of my things are packed away,’ I explained. ‘They didn’t want me to be buried in clutter.’
He looked around. ‘Where’s your … Don’t you have a TV?’
‘They thought it best if I didn’t.’
‘Do you like it like this?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s a bit bare. I might get some cushions. Red and green.’
Matthew’s face reverted to seriousness. I searched for something to say that would re-lighten his mood.
‘I’ve got a cleaning lady, who comes every Friday. But she couldn’t come last week. They sent another cleaner but she was rubbish!’
‘Good cleaners are like gold dust. You like poetry, then?’ He inclined his head towards the bookcase. ‘And children’s books.’ He carried his tea over to investigate. ‘Are these yours or were they written by a different Sarah Blake?’
‘I can’t remember writing them. Have you heard of them?’
He turned and smiled: ‘Yeah, I seem to remember them being quite popular. Are you writing more?’
‘I think I’ve started a new series. Grandma’s Apple Stories. They’re the stories I used to make up with my granny. That’s what I was writing last night. But I’m worried I’m stealing my grandma’s stories.’ I was desperate for something to eat. ‘Do you think it’s stealing?’
‘Not at all. It’s one thing to make up stories and another to write them down and make them last for ever. Besides, you’re calling them Grandma’s Stories.’ He looked at me for a few silent moments then he smiled. ‘Show me. I used to be a good editor. Then after you’ve benefited from my professional expertise, we can go to lunch.’
Lunch? I suffered a sudden mental image of the two morning pills hanging on the inside of my empty stomach for another hour. ‘I usually have cereal first.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘OK, why don’t you show me what you’ve written and I’ll read through it while you have breakfast.’
‘It’s probably rubbish.’
‘I’d really like to read it.’
I braced myself then hurried over to my desk and scooped up a dozen or so handwritten pages. ‘The writing’s a bit scribbly. You probably won’t be able to read it.’
I turned. Matthew was beside me frowning. ‘Why didn’t you use your laptop?’
‘I haven’t got a printer.’
‘They put your printer away?’
‘Perhaps I didn’t have one.’
‘Sarah, all writers have a printer.’ He took off his jacket and threw it across the desk. ‘Go eat. I’m best on my own. And bring more tea.’
I was pouring the tea when I noticed my cereal box on the worktop. I thought I’d put it away. I realised that I was probably confused because someone was reading my work: writers are notoriously neurotic. Mrs Parkin had intimated as much. Some of my little foibles, she had said, might have always been there. I hurried over, opened the cupboard and slotted the cornflakes into their proper place …
‘You realise it will take you years to eat that lot!’
I spun round, closed the cupboard door behind me and leant hard against it.
Matthew walked over and stood right in front of me, imprisoning me between himself and my hidden stash of cereal. My manuscript was in his hand.
‘This is a fantastic piece of storytelling,’ he said. ‘What’s with the cornflakes?’
I slithered out and along to my mug of tea, carried it over to the table and sat down. ‘My spelling must be awful.’
He placed the manuscript on the worktop and pulled a chair round to sit next to me. ‘It’s atrocious. Sarah, why have you got a million boxes of cornflakes in your cupboard?’
I concentrated on the table, on the patterns in the wood, on a pale ring left by some too-hot cup from the time before.
‘Don’t you want to talk about it?’
I could feel my teeth biting hard against my bottom lip, his arm closing around me.
‘Hey, come on, don’t cry.’
‘I’m not crying!’
‘Sweetheart, I think you are.’ He pulled me closer, so close that his pullover was prickling my cheek. ‘Sarah, tell me why your cupboard’s full of cornflakes.’
I heard my voice whisper above the sound of my breathing. ‘In case I get worse.’
‘What? What difference would the cornflakes make?’
The whispering continued. ‘Matthew, nobody knows what happ
ened to me to make my memories go away. And I worry that, if I forget new things, forget who I am, then they might give up on me and forget about me, and if I’ve got my cupboard full of things to eat then I could keep myself alive until someone finds me.’
I remember feeling relieved to have said that. The idea felt lighter. And a little stupid. I became aware that time was taking too long to happen, felt Matthew kiss the top of my head, peered up into his watery eyes.
‘Now you’re crying?’
‘I’m not, although I’m quite distraught at the thought of you being caged up in this flat with nothing but cornflakes and tap water.’ He wiped his eyes on his shirt cuff. ‘You could at least factor in some muesli. Do your minders know about this particular concern of yours?’
‘No!’
‘Typical!’ He got to his feet. ‘Come to lunch. And bring your story so we can discuss it.’
We both turned as the cat flap popped open.
‘Ah, the cat,’ observed Matthew. He watched it pad over and throw itself against his trousers: ‘Does he bite?’
