What Was Lost

by Jean Levy

  ‘In retrospect, it might have been kinder if she had remained at the clinic and not been released into a world she was incapable of comprehending, prey to all manner of advances.’

  ‘Indeed, it’s fortunate that it was Mr Parry who approached her. Otherwise we might have been dealing with a worse crisis. And how long would you have recommended her internment? Do you still believe that such extreme isolation might assist her recovery? As you know, Geraint, that was not and still is not my view. Indeed, what we all must do now is be more determined to stabilise Sarah’s condition and help her recover her past. At your suggestion, she is returning for reassessment. I have made myself available for the entire period, during which I intend to inform her of her circumstances up to the time of the catastrophic event.’

  Geraint Williams eyes widened with surprise. ‘All her circumstances?’

  ‘As much as is unequivocally known.’

  ‘Do you imagine that she will be able to retain this information?’

  ‘The next three days will answer that question.’

  ‘And what do you intend to tell her about her mother?’

  Bob Gray sighed. ‘One step at a time, Geraint. A life revealed episodically.’ He tapped his fingers together: ‘Is Mrs Dawson well?’

  ‘She appears to be stable. And as barking mad as everyone else along the corridor of the insane.’ Geraint Williams straightened his waistcoat. ‘I gather Sam Clegg intends to mind-map Mrs Dawson’s interminable reminiscences with regard to dynamic psychonarrative, whatever that might mean.’ He paused to check his watch. ‘Incidentally, Bob, if you remember, I have a US colleague arriving this evening for two weeks. It was my intention to brief her on Sarah Blake and, perhaps, invite her to observe an MRI session.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what can be arranged, shall we? Perhaps you would let me have a copy of your brief.’

  ‘Of course.’ Geraint Williams’ shoulders straightened. ‘Will Mrs Blake be accompanied over the next three days? During the interviews?’

  ‘From what I gathered earlier, I doubt whether we’ll get to interview her alone. Not only do we appear to have squandered a certain amount of her trust, which is unfortunate, but also the presence of Mr Parry seems to encourage her to take a more proactive role in her dialogues. Certainly those with myself.’ Bob Gray leaned forward in his chair. ‘So, are we agreed that the time is now right for Sarah Blake to recover her past and that we have to be more aggressive in assisting that recovery?’

  Geraint Williams’ expression was unfriendly. ‘It would seem from my observations that any recovery of episodic memory becomes more unlikely as the weeks pass. And my major concern remains: I am not convinced that Matthew Parry’s motives are as selfless as you suggest, an opinion which I share with Detective Brown.’

  He got to his feet. ‘And it is also my opinion that concerns for Sarah Blake should include a caution regarding those individuals who might prefer her not to recover and for the events of that day to remain a mystery.’

  Episode Thirty-two

  I watched Matthew’s taxi disappear in the direction of Bloomsbury then secured the front door, but as I did so I noticed a small card lying on the doormat. It was the same size as the Parry & Ashdown card Matthew had given me, but this card had Det. Sgt. Della Brown written across its middle. I turned it over and read a brief note on the reverse: 12.45pm – called round to return personal items. I remember staring at the spidery writing for a few panic-stricken moments, wondering what I was supposed to do about this failed visit, then hurrying through to the kitchen and throwing the card in the bin. As if that would make the situation go away.

  I was too tired to eat lunch. I needed to organise my thoughts, but this morning’s conversation was still careering through my brain. And now I was alone and the walls of my bedroom were threatening to close in on me. I moved over to lie face down on Matthew’s pillow and tried to recapture the smell of his hair but nothing could stop the frantic activity in my brain. I needed to articulate my concerns, but there was no one there. I needed talk to the black and white cat.

  Alfie’s platter was licked clean but he was not there. I looked for him on the wall, on the flat roof of the garden shed. He was nowhere. I made toast, sat at the kitchen table and watched the second hand on the wall clock tread its slow path, slower with every step. Why was that cat never there when I needed it? I searched again from the window, along the wall and the flat roof. I leant across the worktop to see into my backyard and caught sight of a mass of black and white fur, high above the window, between the metal steps that led to the flat above.

  Out in the yard I made my way alongside the staircase until I could see Alfie perched two steps from the top, basking in the limp sunshine. I called his name. He observed me from his superior position. It was clear he had no intention of moving. I called again. Alfie yawned then nestled down to go back to sleep. I considered being cross. My eyes strayed from the black and white fur, across the big metal landing, to the upstairs door, a very wide door, painted black, directly above my kitchen. Next to it was a long window. Above my bedroom window. I turned to check the alleyway then placed my foot on the bottom step, heavily so that it made a clanging noise, which reverberated through the entire metal staircase. It was a noise that seemed vaguely familiar. Could I remember it? Perhaps I used to hear the person that lived upstairs coming and going past my windows. I took another step. Alfie raised his head. Inconvenienced.

  ‘Would you like some tuna, Alfie?’

  Alfie got to his feet and stretched, but instead of walking down towards me he padded up the remaining two steps, across the metal landing and in through a flap in the black door. I caught my breath. My cat had been going into the top flat! What if he’d been taking dead mice in there or, worse, what if he had been using the upstairs flat as a toilet? The whole staircase clanged as I ran up. I pushed the black door. Pointless. I knelt down and pushed open the flap, but it was too dark inside to make anything out. I leaned over the banister and tried to see between the slits in the window blind, but it was impossible. What could I do? Matthew was in his meeting. So I ran back down the clanging staircase and through the side alley to fetch Peggy.

  Peggy was out. I went back to the flat to check that Alfie had not nipped back in while I was ringing Peggy’s doorbell. Perhaps to check out the offer of tuna. He wasn’t there. I looked in the lounge and the bedroom just in case he had decided to break all the rules. Then I went back up the metal staircase and sat on the top step, opening the flap from time to time and making come-here-cat noises. Slowly, the sun disappeared behind a bank of cloud and the metal grew cold beneath me.

  After a while, I pulled myself up and walked over to the rail that ran along the edge of the metal platform. From here, I could see down into Peggy’s yard, and back over towards the rear of the Indian restaurant where several builders were working on the new fence. I tried to wobble the handrail but it was rigid. In fact the whole staircase and platform were extremely solid. And there was some kind of pulley system beside the black door. I took a step towards it and felt my toe jar against a low ridge. I glanced down. My shoe was resting against the edge of a large central plate, a flat square section, which was slightly proud of the metal surround. It occurred to me that I was standing on some kind of lifting device. Oh God, perhaps the previous tenant had needed a wheelchair and this was … I glanced over towards the side alley and imagined a wizened old man navigating his way round past my window … No, why on earth would someone in a wheelchair have an upstairs flat? A few drops of rain began to fall, so I retried the door then went downstairs, secured myself in the kitchen and made tea.

  I felt terrible about what Alfie might have been doing up there. Perhaps he was responsible for those upstairs noises. There were no noises now. He was probably asleep somewhere. I carried my tea through to my desk and tried not to imagine my landlord discovering his ruined furniture. I caught sight of my pencil tin and remembered my visit to the clinic. This was now less of a wo
rry than my trespassing cat. Absentmindedly I pulled the pencil pot towards me to double-check for things I might need and, as I did so, I remembered the key. I fished it out and looked at it lying in my palm. It occurred to me that the person upstairs might have given me a key, in case of an emergency, just like Peggy had been given a key. I closed my fingers and went back up to the black door.

  I felt breathless. I wasn’t sure I should do something as bold as go into an unoccupied flat. Actually, I told myself, this might not be the correct key. I wiggled it into the keyhole. At first it seemed not to fit, then all at once it clicked into position and turned. The door creaked open and, after a brief episode of uncertainty, I stepped inside.

  It was dark in there and it smelt of mice and chips. The light switch just inside the door failed to turn on any lights but after a few moments my eyes adjusted to the shadows. Alfie was nowhere to be seen, but what could be seen was downright peculiar. I pushed the door wide open and the light illuminated what I had already guessed from the shadows. I was standing in a huge kitchen. It must have occupied the entire area of my downstairs flat. The floor was covered in white tiles, as big as paving stones. Most of the long wall to my left was lined with deep metal shelves, stacked high with plates and bowls, steel saucepans, pots and trays, with a space set aside for two tall, tiered trolleys with wheels, the kind that spin in all directions. The other long wall, my bedroom and lounge walls, was occupied by ovens and long worktops that stretched above things that must have been refrigerators, freezers, dishwashers. The surfaces were covered in kitchen appliances, more pots and pans. A central workstation ran the length of the room, its top piled high with cardboard boxes; there were more boxes and some large packing crates on the floor. I fetched one of the smaller boxes and propped the black door open, just in case it slammed shut. Then I returned to the workstation, tested the strength of a crate and sat down. Over in the far corner, above my front door, there were stacks of skinny chairs piled high in front of the shelves, loads of them, all painted gold, like the chairs one might expect to see around a banqueting table in a fairy-tale castle. A few additional chairs were randomly placed against the worktop that ran along under the window above the backyard. Alfie was asleep on one of them. I wandered over to open the blind.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked my sleeping cat. A brief burst of purring acknowledged my presence. ‘How could anybody live here? There’s no bed and there’s no …’ I scanned the room. There was another door, above where my sink unit must be on the floor below. It opened into a small washroom with a sink and another door that opened into a toilet. There were mouse droppings everywhere. Above the sink there was a grubby mirror, still clean enough to reveal the apprehension on my face.

  I went back into the kitchen, secured the cloakroom door and returned to my crate. I tried to think. Perhaps this room was something to do with the Indian restaurant. But there was no smell of spices and curry. Just the mice and chips. And, if the restaurant had depended upon this back-up kitchen, how the hell would it be managing without it? There had to be some other explanation. I noticed some frames, paintings most likely, stacked tightly between two of the packing crates. I investigated, eased out a tall steel frame. It was a print of a strange stylish couple, draped in gold. He was bearing down on her, holding her head in his hands, kissing her, almost crushing her. Her toes were curled in ecstasy, her eyes closed, one of her arms was around his neck, preventing his leaving. I imagined his pastel green eyes, imagined this couple on the wall above my bed. There was no way that these lovers should be left in this barren kitchen, so I carried the print over to the door and propped it ready to be stolen.

  The stack of frames was much easier to negotiate now that the golden couple had been removed. There were two abstract paintings, mostly dull blues and purples. I pushed them to one side and slid out a light wooden frame that held a fairy print: The Fairies have their Tiff with the Birds by Arthur Rackham. Number 20/250. It was lovely. What a shame that this twentieth print had been consigned to a darkened kitchen, when the other 249 identical copies were probably hanging somewhere, appreciated every day. I decided to take that as well, carried it over to the golden couple then returned to the diminishing stack of frames: a fat woman eating a cream cake; an old menu, flattened under glass; two smaller frames alongside one another, squashed down between some larger prints. I lifted one of them, ill-prepared for what I was about to see. It was a framed photograph, horribly familiar, a smaller copy of the one I had so recently seen, hanging in the library of Parry & Ashdown Literary Agency. Here I was again, holding a copy of The Lost Tabby Cat, Matthew at my side.

  My stomach churned. I glanced around at the worktops, my sleeping cat, the stacked chairs, the black door, the landing outside. How could this be here? I tried to think rationally. OK, this top flat, this weird top flat that was given over entirely to the preparation of food, it was owned by the same person who owned my flat. They had probably arranged for it to remain empty. And since they were paying for it, from the funds that Mrs Parkin occasionally referred to, then there was every reason why they would be allowed to store my clutter up here. Alfie undoubtedly felt at home here surrounded by the smells he had been used to downstairs. I began to feel calmer. I glanced over at the two prints I was intending to steal. They were probably already mine. I had been looting my own possessions. But surely I hadn’t chosen those abstracts. If they were mine, they could go straight to the charity shop. I looked down at the photograph, touched the glass just by Matthew’s smile, then walked over and stood this latest acquisition against my two reclaimed prints. I wondered if Matthew knew my things were up here? Why would he not have told me?

  I was quite excited to see what the other frame might reveal. Perhaps another photo of Matthew and me. Perhaps one with Annabelle, taken in Corfu. I lifted the frame, looked at the photograph and at first did not know either of the two people. Then I recognised the woman. Recognised my younger features, blissfully happy. Remembered an emotion, not a whole emotion, just a trace. Remembered a place and a time. And in that moment of remembering my new, fragile world collapsed around me.

  *

  ‘Sarah! Sarah, are you up there? The back door’s open!’

  Matthew?

  I could hear him running up the staircase. The metal platform outside was now wet with rain. He stood in the doorway, his long, dark shadow falling across the darkening room. Then he saw me sitting on the floor, my back against one of the packing crates.

  ‘Sweetheart, what are you doing up here?’ he said, kneeling down beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder but I shrugged it away. I needed him not to be touching me.

  I felt him touching my hand, moving it slowly, cautiously. ‘What have you got there? Let me have a look. Sarah, they only put all this up here to get it out of your way.’ Then he recognised the framed photo on my lap. ‘Oh God, Sarah! Come on, let me have it. Sarah, let’s go downstairs and talk about it, shall we?’ He tried to ease the frame away from me but I wrenched it back. Again, he went to touch my shoulder but I leaned away from him and held the frame close against my legs, wiped the glass with my sleeve, traced my fingers across my earlier face, across the face of the forgotten man beside me, down his arm that was close beside mine, until my fingers came to rest upon my younger hands clasped tightly around the pink and white roses and the tumbling ribbons of my unremembered bridal bouquet.

  Frankfurt

  Wet and humourless, the urban sprawl of Frankfurt gave way to the river plain of the German Rhineland. Matthew drove. Sarah watched the cars coming towards her at an unreasonable speed. No one should want to drive that fast! She turned to check that her shoulder bag was down behind the seat where it had been ten minutes earlier. Yes it was, although her complimentary copy of Breaking Dawn had slithered out onto the floor. She’d never be able to reach it without undoing her seatbelt. Not advisable at this speed. Besides, she ought to talk to Matthew now that he was faced with most of the driving. Hopefully all of the driving.


  She noticed her shopping crammed onto the back seat, squashed to one side by Lucy’s far more numerous designer acquisitions. That bitch had a real cheek, sloping off with David the Wearisome like that and expecting them to transport all of her bags of extravagance home. She glanced at Matthew. She ought to say something to him, in case he started to fall asleep and crashed the car. She couldn’t bear to die in a road crash in Germany. That would be too complicated. Jeff would have to fly over and identify her mangled body and …

  Matthew broke her reverie: ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes, what time is it?’

  ‘Twenty past four.’

  ‘German time?’

  ‘Yes, we’re in Germany, remember?’

  ‘When will we be in France?’

  ‘In about an hour.’

  ‘Good. I prefer France. I’ll drive if you want.’

  ‘You don’t like driving on the wrong side of the road.’

  ‘But I will if you’re tired.’

  ‘Well, thank you, but I’m fine.’

  What time will we get there?’

  ‘Hopefully just before nine. I’ve booked supper.’

  ‘How many for? There should have been four of us until the others abandoned!’

  ‘I booked for two. I phoned before we left and cancelled Poppy’s room. While you were forcing your crates of Christmas trimmings into the car.’