Then and Always

by Dani Atkins

  And that’s when the axis of my world tipped once again and the craziness came back.

  “Turn left here!”

  Jimmy took his eyes off the road, clearly startled by the urgency in my voice.

  “What? Why? That’s the wrong way.”

  Something in my face told him to question no further, and in a move that probably deserved the blaring horn from the taxi he cut off, Jimmy swerved from one lane to another and turned left.

  “Straight ahead at these lights,” I commanded.

  Again he looked at me questioningly, but I just shook my head, and he didn’t probe further. A busy junction approached.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  “Take a right here and then follow the road down to the end. It bends sharply to the left.”

  He never once questioned me, never tried to get me to stop or explain where I was directing him. He never even flinched at the curtly barked-out instructions, except for once commenting softly, “You know, the satnav lady is much more courteous.”

  I nearly smiled then, having relaxed a little, which would have been a welcome relief, for my heart was pounding erratically and my stomach felt twisted in knots as we wound our way through countless side streets and back turns. I felt like I was being dragged back by some irresistible and unstoppable force that was drawing me like a magnet to our destination.

  Gradually we left behind the more desirable residences and at last arrived in a street of rather shabby shops boasting one of London’s less enviable postcodes.

  “Can you pull in over there?” I pointed at a parking space that had just opened up. “Behind that van.”

  He did as I asked, parking efficiently and switching off the engine before turning to me.

  The panic I had felt during our fifteen-minute detour had begun to abate, but in its place was a familiar dread. What I was about to say was going to ruin everything—was going to have everyone looking at me like I was some sort of lunatic again.

  Jimmy took hold of my hands, which were twisting in my lap.

  “Which one?”

  “Which one what?” I replied, keeping my eyes upon his large hands, which had gently curled around mine, steadying them.

  “Which one is your flat?”

  I looked up then, but I couldn’t see him properly through the diamond-jeweled tears that threatened to spill over. I nodded my head slightly to indicate the properties on the other side of the street.

  “The one on the end, above the launderette.”

  He looked over at the property for a moment or two before unbuckling his seatbelt.

  “Come on then.”

  I looked up, perplexed.

  “We have to check it out.”

  He came around to my side of the car and took my arm, firmly tucking it under his. My death-white pallor and stony expression must have worried him, for he tried to defuse the moment with humor.

  “By the way, remind me never to go rally driving with you. You’re far too grumpy a navigator.”

  We waited to cross the road, which I had crossed a thousand times before when I had lived there. There was a resolve and determination to Jimmy’s stride as he guided me through the traffic. I knew he was probably wondering how to deal with my reaction when I found out that the flat was not, and never had been, mine. But I had an altogether different worry. I turned to him, and hoped my voice sounded steadier than it felt.

  “What are we going to do if that flat turns out to be full of my stuff?”

  Outside the launderette, and mindless of the captive audience of those waiting in the steamy interior by the machines, he pulled me into his arms and held me closely against him, as though the strong circle of his embrace could keep out the demons.

  “We’ll deal with it. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.” It was a vow, an oath, a promise. It gave me the strength to step out of his hold and lead him slowly toward my other home.

  THE ENTRANCE TO the cluster of flats above the shops was just around the corner. I halted before making the turn, allowing Jimmy to reach the door first.

  He looked at me curiously.

  “Do you see, there’s a push-button entry panel beside you?”

  He glanced to the left-hand side of the front door.

  “I do, but most flats have—”

  “Winter. Hunt. Webb. Freeman.”

  I watched his frown deepen in confusion as I correctly listed the names on the cardboard tags beside each individual buzzer. Names I couldn’t possibly read from where I was standing.

  “And the top one is mine. Wiltshire.”

  He looked from me, back to the panel, and then at me again.

  “Four out of five,” he announced. “The top card is blank.”

  I stepped around the corner and saw he was right. The last time I’d seen this device, my name had been clearly printed by the top button. Doubt began to inch into the certainty that had drawn me to this place.

  “This flat could belong to a friend of yours. Someone you don’t remember,” he suggested gently. It was a reasonable enough conclusion, except for one thing.

  “And do you memorize the names of your friends’ neighbors?”

  He had no answer, but I could see his policeman’s mind was already struggling with the evidence.

  I pressed the second buzzer on the entrance system. “Mrs. Hunt. She lets everyone in, without asking who they are. It’s a real crime hazard.”

  Sure enough, the clicking of the front door mechanism came almost immediately in response to the buzzer, and the front door slowly swung open.

  Jimmy took the first step over the threshold into the darkened hallway, which always smelled vaguely of detergent from the launderette. The familiar aroma rocked my assurance for a minute and my steps faltered slightly as I began to climb the threadbare stairs in front of us. Jimmy took my hand and I gripped it like a lifeline as we began to ascend the well-worn treads.

  We passed the first and second landings without incident, but as we turned to climb the next flight, a large middle-aged woman with ebony black hair swept past us. She was clearly preoccupied with some paperwork she was reading, and jumped in surprise when I greeted her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Keyworth.”

  She stopped in her tracks, her automatic smile of greeting wavering as she took in the two strangers standing before her.

  “Good morning,” she replied automatically, even as her eyes were narrowing in confusion. “I’m sorry … do I know you?”

  That indeed was an interesting question. I stood silently as her gaze traveled blankly over my face, before she turned both her attention and questioning smile upon Jimmy. I almost smiled myself then at the familiar response from my landlady. She always had favored her male tenants, especially the younger ones.

  “You probably don’t remember us,” supplied Jimmy smoothly. That clearly was true enough. “We’re friends of someone who lives here.” And that was a lie.

  Mrs. Keyworth’s smile was still a little uncertain as she replied, “Ah, yes. Of course. Nice to see you again.”

  She moved past us then, continuing on her descent, but twice she paused to look back questioningly at us on the landing above her, as though something was troubling her. She would probably spend the rest of the morning trying to remember where and when she had previously met Jimmy. Me she had already forgotten.

  When we were alone once more on the stairwell, I looked to see how Jimmy was processing this latest revelation.

  “That was my landlady, Mrs. Keyworth. She’s a nice enough woman. A bit overly chatty sometimes. And she has quite a thing for younger men.”

  Jimmy said nothing, not even smiling at my final comment. He looked preoccupied, as though something here was beginning to chip away at the foundation of his belief.

  “I think she took quite a shine to you,” I teased.

  Again he gave no responding lighthearted rejoinder, replying only in a slightly distracted tone, “But she didn’t recognize you.”

&
nbsp; We were silent for the rest of the climb until we finally reached the top floor, on which the last flat was located. I hadn’t been expecting the jolt of recognition that assaulted me the moment we arrived in front of the apartment.

  “And here we are. Home sweet home.”

  Jimmy surveyed our surroundings: the front door with layers of paint curling off in thick flakes, the walls sadly in need of redecorating, and the grimy hallway window, too flecked with dirt to let in much light on a dark December morning.

  “Quite frankly, I prefer your other place.”

  I gave a small shrug.

  “Well …,” he prompted, standing back slightly to allow me access to the front door. “Are you going to knock?”

  I took a small step forward, feeling that knocking was surely unnecessary: whoever was inside my flat could probably already hear my heart hammering like a drum.

  I realized that the flat wasn’t mine even before I raised my hand to tap upon the wooden panel. There was a bright shiny new Yale lock on the door that definitely hadn’t been there when I was the occupant.

  The rapping of knuckles against timber echoed down the length of the empty corridor. Minutes ticked by before I tried again, banging even more firmly on the familiar door.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone is home,” Jimmy eventually declared. “Perhaps it’s not even occupied. There wasn’t a name on the doorbell downstairs.”

  I was surprised at the disappointment that filled me at his words. To have come this far without finally being able to access the flat was beyond frustrating. Even though the evidence we had already uncovered told me what to expect, I still needed to see the proof with my own eyes. If I was ever to have any peace of mind, I needed to get inside the flat and verify there were no hidden traces within of my missing life.

  And then I remembered something. Abandoning the front door, I crossed swiftly over to the window that was a short distance down the corridor. I ran my fingers around the faded wooden sill, seeking a handhold. Gripping the yellowed wood firmly in both hands, I began to pull, thrusting up against the sill with my knee when it resisted my efforts.

  “Er, what are you doing?” queried Jimmy, coming quickly to my side.

  I gave a grunt at my efforts but just kept trying to release the sill from the window cavity. Jimmy put his hands over mine, stilling my attempts to lift it.

  “Rachel, if you don’t want me to arrest you for vandalism, would you please explain what you’re up to?”

  I sighed and straightened up.

  “The guy who had the flat before me, an American chap, told me about this dodgy sill when I moved in. Apparently, he was always locking himself out, so he found this neat place to keep a spare key. If it’s still there, we can let ourselves into the flat and check it out.”

  “Now, that is breaking and entering,” Jimmy confirmed. “Not exactly the best career move on my part, do you not think?”

  I looked up at him. He was right. This could get him in serious trouble with his bosses. I couldn’t be responsible for that. I couldn’t jeopardize his career.

  “Okay. You wait for me down in the car. I’ll do this by myself. It won’t take long.”

  He sighed deeply.

  “You really are hell-bent on a life of crime, aren’t you?”

  Then, despite his words, he gently pushed me to one side and took hold of the sill. It lifted easily from its resting place in one smooth move. Little flurries of plaster dust puffed up at the removal of the wooden base, which for a second or two obscured the bricks upon which the sill had sat. As the dust settled, we both leaned forward to take a closer look. But really there was no need. A front door key, safely encased in a clear plastic bag, was plainly visible, nestled in a gap between two bricks. Jimmy gave a small exclamation of surprise.

  My hand was already halfway toward the key when behind us came the unmistakable sound of a latch being released and the rattling of several door chains. In one hurried maneuver Jimmy replaced the sill upon the bricks, thumping down firmly on the wood to secure it in position, just as the front door to my old flat opened behind us.

  “Hello there,” trilled a male voice. I spun around, hoping my features were devoid of guilt, to face the tall, slimly built man standing in my doorway. “Sorry I couldn’t get to the door straightaway. I was on the phone. Can I help you?” He was smiling engagingly but I noticed it was being directed at Jimmy and not me. He really was proving to be a big hit today.

  “Good morning, sir,” began Jimmy, his voice adopting a smooth professional tone. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered if we could have a moment or two of your time.” As he spoke Jimmy slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and produced his warrant card for the young man to peruse.

  His reaction was interesting to observe, for his face paled a little under the expensive fake tan, and he ran his hand nervously through his immaculately highlighted hair. I wondered what he might have been involved with to make him so uncomfortable at finding a policeman at his door.

  “May we come in for a moment?” Jimmy asked, still the consummate officer of the law.

  “Oh yes, of course, of course,” flustered the flat’s new occupant. “Please excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors; the place is an absolute tip!”

  We followed him through the hallway, which I had painted bright yellow to lighten it. It was now covered in smart blue-and-white-striped wallpaper. The lounge too was far from being the disgrace its owner had described, having been stylishly and minimalistically furnished in sleek white and navy blue. It really did look so much bigger with all my furniture removed.

  “Please, sit, sit,” flapped the man. “Can I get you something to drink? Or eat?”

  “No, thank you, sir. This really won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  The man was beginning to relax now at Jimmy’s encouraging smile. He was really quite good at this policeman stuff. If he had been here to question the man about some misdemeanor, he would totally have lulled him into a false sense of security.

  “Could I have your name please?” asked Jimmy smoothly, even withdrawing a small notebook to complete the illusion of an investigation. God, he was really good.

  “Maximilian MacRae,” the man said, perching on the edge of a white settee that contrasted strikingly with his black leather trousers. He leaned toward Jimmy with a twinkle. “But everyone just calls me Max.”

  Could he be any more blatant? I bit my lip, which was threatening to quiver slightly. Jimmy, on the other hand, seemed impervious to anything inappropriate.

  “Mr. MacRae,” he began, putting the interview back on a more formal footing, “we are making inquiries today about a missing person. Do you know anything of a Miss Rachel Wiltshire?”

  My head flew up at my name.

  “Nooo. I’ve never heard of her, I’m afraid. Why, has something happened to her?”

  There was an almost ghoulish curiosity to his tone, a desire to hear every last grisly detail. If I really was missing, this guy would be high on my list of suspects!

  “We hope not. We’re just trying to trace her whereabouts. We have this flat listed as her last known address.”

  I almost applauded then at the skillful way Jimmy had manipulated the conversation to find out what we wanted to know.

  “Really? That’s very odd. You see, I’ve lived here for three years now, and before me there was some young American man, who’d been here for even longer. So if this—what was her name?—Rachel girl did live here, it must have been a really long time ago.”

  “I see,” Jimmy replied. He looked over to me with a question in his eyes. Have you seen enough? I looked around the room that was mine, and not mine at all. I was everywhere and nowhere. I gave a small nod.

  Jimmy got to his feet and I followed suit.

  “Well, thank you very much, Mr. MacRae. I apologize again for disturbing you.”

  “Please, just Max.”

  “Thank you, Max,” corrected Jimmy, already heading to
ward the hallway. “You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  Max smiled doubtfully at Jimmy’s words.

  “I do hope you find this missing girl. And please, if you have any more questions, anything at all, just pop in anytime. I’m always here.”

  The invitation was directed at Jimmy: I was so completely excluded from that one, I might as well have been invisible. I turned away and pretended to be examining my shoes, afraid it wasn’t going to take much more before I was actually laughing out loud. I glanced briefly at Jimmy and saw the hint of a tremor to his shoulders.

  Max followed us both all the way to the hallway and stood lingering by his open door as we began to walk away.

  “By the way …,” began Jimmy, turning back toward Max when we had taken only a few steps, “that key you have hidden under the windowsill: it’s really not such a good idea.”

  It was highly amusing to see the change in Max’s expression from coy flirtatiousness to absolute astonishment.

  “How did you know … No one else … How …?”

  “First place a burglar looks,” said Jimmy, taking my arm to guide us toward the stairs. “Good day to you, sir.”

  We held it together until we were safely out of earshot, then the laughter came, a blissful and welcome escape from the tension. I actually had tears rolling down my cheeks when we opened the main door and tumbled out of the building into the cold December day.

  “Boy, you’re on fire today, aren’t you?” I said at last, when my ability to speak had returned.

  Jimmy gave a self-effacing shrug. “What can I say? When you’re hot, you’re hot.”

  When we were back inside his car once again, his mood sobered a little.

  “Do you know exactly how many laws I broke just then?”

  I bit my lip guiltily. “Quite a few?” I hazarded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured.

  He reached over to pick up my hand, sliding it comfortingly within his own. I looked down at his fingers laced so easily around mine, knowing I shouldn’t keep misinterpreting his intentions, but it was so hard not to. Perhaps it was time for a reality check.

  “Come on then. Let me have it. Give me your explanation for what just happened in there.”