Everything She Forgot

by Lisa Ballantyne

  At Camden Town, she stood looking at the Tube map, as if she were a tourist discovering it for the first time. She could go back to work, a few stops away, or she could go home. She felt cold and alone, almost disembodied.

  Despite herself, her attention focused on Whitechapel station. After a moment’s consideration, she pushed through the barrier, descended the stairs, and boarded the Northern Line, then changed to the Hammersmith & City. She was walking slowly and found that people jostled her on the escalators and the platform and again while climbing the stairs to ascend to street level. When she emerged, she followed the signs for the Royal London Hospital.

  As she approached the hospital, she slowed her steps. It was bitterly cold and she turned up her collar, breathing through her nose to try to warm the air. She had been taken to the Royal London on the night of the crash, and she felt at once relieved yet anxious to be returning. She knew why she had been drawn here. She wanted to find the man from the crash: the memory of him walking away haunted her. She needed to know that he had received treatment for his injuries. She wanted to know his name.

  When she arrived, she went straight to reception.

  “How can I help you, my love?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask if you remembered the M11 pileup a few days ago? I wanted—”

  “How can I forget? I worked all night.”

  “Oh, great,” said Margaret, smiling suddenly. “I mean, I’m sorry, that must’ve been a nightmare. It’s just, I was one of the casualties … I was OK, only a few scratches, as you can see, but there was a man that helped me. He was hurt too, and I wondered if he had been admitted. I wanted to visit him and thank him.”

  “Well, I can check for you. What’s his name?”

  Margaret raised her shoulders in apology. “I don’t know his name. I wondered if you would be able to help me work out who he is?”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry, love. If you don’t know his name …”

  “He was quite distinctive. This man, he had been burned—he had significant facial scarring, old scars from some time ago. He was strikingly disfigured.”

  “I’m sorry, love, this is a hospital and—”

  “He must have broken his hand and he was bleeding from his forehead. He might have been admitted for …”

  “Well, there really is no way to identify him.”

  “He saved my life.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  Margaret wanted to explain further, but there was a queue.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said again, as she turned her attention to the next person in line.

  Margaret stood outside the hospital, buttoning her coat and wondering what to do. She was near the smoking shelter and was surprised at how many people were crowded inside it to smoke. There were visitors in heavy jackets and patients with coats pulled over pajamas—smoking with one hand while the other was attached to a drip.

  Margaret put on her gloves and was about to leave when a nurse who was smoking near her touched her arm.

  “I heard you talking to Carol,” said the woman. She had large brown eyes and a grip that Margaret felt through the sleeve of her parka. “You were asking about the guy that came in the other night—the one with the scars.”

  “Maybe,” said Margaret. “How did you—”

  “He’s scarred from the face to the waist … terrible. I’ve never seen anyone as bad and I’m a nurse. Is that the guy you mean?”

  “It must be.”

  “It was the way you described him. He struck me the first moment I saw him, and you say he helped you?”

  “Where is he, do you know? Is he still here?”

  “I know it’s wrong; I shouldn’t say anything, but it was a major incident and it was crazy in here that night. I knew the guy you meant right away. You can’t miss him, can you, God bless him. He’s in my ward. He nearly died and they’ve put him in a coma. No visitors … not a single one. No next of kin on the system, nothing. I know lots of people are lost and looking for loved ones. I shouldn’t say anything but … everybody needs somebody, don’t they? It’s not right otherwise.”

  “Can I see him?” said Margaret.

  “He’s in the ICU. If you let me finish my ciggie, I’ll take you up.”

  She extinguished her cigarette, then Margaret followed her inside.

  Margaret and the nurse were silent as the lift ascended. The woman wore a badge that read Tara—Clinical Support Worker.

  For Margaret, it was as if she were seeing herself from another angle and only just recognizing who she was.

  The lift doors opened and she followed the nurse along the corridor to a locked ward. The nurse punched in a pin code and then held the door open for Margaret.

  She put a hand on Margaret’s arm. “He’s down at the end, but just let me talk to Harvey—he’s the charge nurse looking after him. I’ll explain to him why I let you in.”

  Margaret waited while Tara spoke to the charge nurse. The ward smelled of antiseptic and reminded her of the Germolene that she pasted onto the children’s cuts and grazes. She took a squirt of antiseptic cleanser into her palms and rubbed them together.

  When she was called, she followed Tara along the corridor. The nurse opened a door to a room at the end of the hall and then left Margaret alone.

  It was the man who had saved her. He was in a room of his own, tubes in his nose and his arms. The sight of him took Margaret’s breath away.

  This time, it was not the man’s appearance that shocked her, but rather his existence itself. The sight of him was gratifying, as proof. She had been involved in a major incident—a multiple motorway pileup—but had emerged with nothing but a few scratches. It was hard to believe that it had happened at all. It was difficult to fathom that he was real and not a figment of her imagination. But it was true: her car had crashed, and this faceless, friendless stranger had saved her life.

  There was a whiteboard above the bed that read MAXWELL BROWN, 09-23-55.

  “Maxwell,” Margaret whispered to herself. She stared at his face. If the board was correct then Maxwell was fifty-eight years old. The man’s scarred, shiny face defied age.

  Maxwell saved your life, did he?” said Harvey, the charge nurse, coming into the room and flipping through a chart that was hooked to the end of the bed.

  Margaret nodded. Harvey replaced the file and then took a pen from his uniform pocket.

  “So our Maxwell’s a hero then, uh? He’s been a mystery to us. If it’s all right, I’ll take some details from you. We have almost nothing for him on file—just his NHS number and a date of birth, and records of historical treatment. We can’t find any next of kin.”

  Margaret took the pen and a piece of paper from the nurse and listed her name, address, and telephone number. “Is he very ill?” she asked, returning the pen and paper.

  “He’s in a coma,” said Harvey. “But you can still talk to him.”

  “Thank you.” Margaret folded her arms as she stared at Maxwell, then turned to the nurse again. “I didn’t know he’d been this badly hurt. He helped me out of my car but then he just walked away.”

  “I heard he came into A&E as walking wounded—just a broken hand—but then started vomiting and passed out in triage. When they gave him a CT scan they found he had a brain hemorrhage—a slow bleed. He’s been put in a coma to try and stop the bleeding. It’s easier for us to monitor his blood pressure this way.”

  “How long will he be under?”

  “Until he stabilizes. Might be a couple of weeks or more. We just need to wait and see how he gets on …”

  The nurse lingered outside the door while Margaret stood looking at the man. The tentacles on his face were extensive and even more shocking when illuminated in the harsh hospital light. The scars licked down his throat and onto his chest. Maxwell was connected to a heart monitor, a ventilator, and another monitor, which Margaret was unsure about. His left hand was in plaster to the elbow.

  A
s soon as she was alone, Margaret went to the man’s side.

  “Hello,” she whispered, under her breath.

  The ventilator exhaled and inhaled. The tentacled face of the man did not move; his shiny, lashless lids were closed.

  “Thank you,” said Margaret, again feeling the chasm within herself. Her eyes were dry, her heart was steady, yet she felt the breach.

  She looked over her shoulder and saw that the nurse was gone. She was alone with Maxwell. There was no sound except the beep-beep of the monitor.

  She felt an urge to touch him, and so she gently put a hand on his arm. There was a strange relief in touch. His skin was warm against her cold hands, but he didn’t react. Margaret took a deep breath, tasting tears in her throat.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  The man’s chest was exposed to the lower rib cage and there were pads and electrodes stuck to it. Even his torso had been burned and the skin was white, shiny, inhuman.

  Margaret took a step forward and placed her palm where she thought his heart might be. She could feel the heat from his skin.

  I’m sorry but it’s getting late now,” said the nurse. Margaret withdrew her hand and turned. Harvey was standing at the door. She flushed and her heart began to pound, as if she had been caught doing something wrong.

  “Of course,” Margaret said, “I should get going.” Harvey smiled and held the door for her.

  “Would I be allowed to visit him again?” she asked, turning, swallowing.

  “For now, of course. We’ll keep looking for his next of kin. I have your details, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Will you let me know if anything changes?”

  Harvey nodded. “Sure thing.”

  Margaret took a deep breath as she stepped into the lift. She was alone, and she checked her watch and ran a hand over her face. The hospital lift was like a drawer in the morgue. She felt the lurch in her stomach as she descended. Seeing the man had shaken her. Maxwell Brown, she repeated silently inside her head, making fists of her hands in her pockets.

  She had wanted to know his name, and now she did, but it was not enough. Seeing him had been a relief, but there was a gnawing hunger in her veins to know more. The day had shaken her, and she was exhausted and sore. She felt like a child again—unprotected. The lift jarred in the shaft and then the doors opened. She walked out into the winter air, needing home and needing to be alone in equal measure.

  CHAPTER 5

  Big George

  Tuesday, October 1–Wednesday, October 2, 1985

  BIG GEORGE WAS IN THURSO. HE FELT TALLER HERE THAN he did in Glasgow. He felt as if people were watching him in their peripheral vision. Being in Thurso cramped him. He was too tall and his clothes felt wrong. Everyone spoke funny up here, and he had to keep asking them to repeat themselves, after which they would say, “You up from Glasgow, then?”

  It was like being at school again, knowing that the nuns had his card marked.

  IT HAD TAKEN him six hours and he had driven nearly three hundred miles. As he had neared his destination, he had veered off the A9 and driven up to John o’ Groats. Thurso was only half an hour’s drive from “the start of Britain” and Scotland’s northeastern tip, and he wanted to see it for himself. He pulled over as soon as he saw the sea, and smoked a cigarette, looking along the coast toward Orkney. He reached into his pocket and took out a small black velvet box. He bit down on the cigarette and then opened the lid: inside was a sparkling solitaire diamond ring.

  It was the same ring that he had used to propose to Kathleen in Glasgow Green, the second time he had asked her to marry him. The first time, he had not had a chance to buy a ring and had offered only himself.

  His mother had said he could take her own engagement ring.

  “We don’t know where your father is, but I hope he’s dead. Take this and treat her better than he treated me.”

  George had not wanted his parents’ engagement ring to sully his own union. Now, he took the ring he had chosen for Kathleen in forefinger and thumb, and kissed the hard stone.

  Kathleen had been right for not wanting him seven years ago when Moll was born. His father had disappeared when he was still winching Kathleen, but his elder brother, Peter, had eagerly stepped into Brendan’s shoes. Even with their father gone, the McLaughlins were still synonymous with fear in Glasgow. George had always dreamed of running away with Kathleen, but it was only his mother’s death last year and then the discovery of the money that had made him think that escape could be possible.

  George finished his cigarette as he conjured Kathleen in his mind. He found it hard to reconstruct her face, but he remembered the smell of her and the softness of her fine dark hair. He remembered her laugh and black eyelashes and the gap between her front teeth.

  He took a deep breath and thought about the weight of Moll in his arms. He had held her whole body in his two hands. He remembered her tiny eyelids opening to reveal blue eyes as sharp as his own, struggling to focus on his face. Everything about her had been fresh and new and perfect.

  Standing in the wind, looking along the coast, he felt strange, as if he had shed a skin. He felt free and invincible and full of hope—daring for the first time to think that he could be happy.

  It was after three in the afternoon when George drew up before the gray stone villa where Kathleen and Moll lived. He opened the top button of his shirt and leaned back into the seat of the stolen Austin Allegro that had been “cleaned” at the McLaughlin garage. He sat for over an hour watching the house, amazed by the neatly shaped privet, the tiny flowers on either side of the path, the green-painted garden gate. Even from the road, George could see the large chandelier hanging in the living room.

  He sat in the middle of a row of parked cars, watching for signs of movement inside and out. There was a BMW parked in the red ash drive. A deliveryman came and rang the doorbell but no one answered, so he placed the parcel in the garage at the side of the house.

  George smoked another two cigarettes before he saw a woman approach the garden gate and open it. It had been several years since George had seen Kathleen, but even from behind he recognized her. He still knew the way she moved. He had always admired the fluid way that she walked, as if she could hear music. She remained slim, but her hair was longer, hanging between her shoulder blades. He hadn’t seen her since that night in Glasgow Green when he had proposed for the second time, the grass wetting the knees of his jeans.

  He whispered her name under his breath and, as if she had heard, she turned.

  George sat quickly back in his seat, out of sight. Some hot ash fell from his cigarette and burned his trousers. He brushed it off, cursing, but it was too late; it had made a hole in the fabric.

  Kathleen turned away again. In the distance, in the direction of Kathleen’s gaze, there was a child, running. She had long dark hair and long legs and George peered at her. The child looked older than Moll should have been: nine or even ten, not seven—but she ran up to Kathleen, who held the gate for her, and then together they went toward the house.

  “Jesus,” George said again, brushing a hand over the fabric of his trousers. The white of his skin shone through the perfectly circular hole. He glanced over again as the pair went into the house. The girl was wearing the local school uniform, which George had seen when he stopped in the town for a sausage roll.

  He lit up again out of annoyance and narrowed his eyes as he stared at the house. In daylight, it was difficult to watch their movements inside. He hadn’t expected Moll to be so big. He hadn’t been around a lot of seven-year-old girls, but he had thought she’d be much smaller.

  He took a drag of his cigarette as he contemplated. He had imagined meeting Kathleen again: Kathleen had been willing and the bairn had been tiny, not much taller than his knees, and chubby. In his imagination, both she and the bairn were in thrall to him and he had persuaded them easily to come away with him.

  George sat holding on to the steering wheel with sweaty pal
ms. It was as if Thurso was another world, and here he was, a petty criminal from Glasgow, peering through the gate into paradise. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror and ran a hand through his hair. It had been a long drive and he felt sticky and unkempt. He fingered the burn hole in his trousers and cursed again.

  It was dusk and he watched as lights came on inside the large stone house—the hall, an upstairs bedroom. Through the bay window, George could see the chandelier in the living room light up and sparkle brighter than the diamond ring in his pocket. After a moment, Kathleen appeared in the window. She reached up and drew the heavy curtains, blocking George’s view.

  He exhaled into his hands. His daughter and Kathleen were alone inside the big house. He wondered if he should get out of the car, right now, walk up the garden path, and ring the bell. He sat still, breathing hard. The hopes he had nurtured about meeting Kathleen again, taking her hand and persuading her that she and Moll wanted a life with him, now seemed nothing more than fantasies. The imaginings danced in his mind, light, scorched, insubstantial, like papers up a chimney.

  He imagined himself standing on the doorstep with the crease in his trousers gone, a burn hole in his suit and a five-o’clock shadow on his chin, then ran a palm over his jaw and felt the stubble already breaking through. He and Kathleen had been children together. They had grown up together. George had thought he knew her better than he knew himself. But now, sitting outside her house, he felt beneath her. He felt out of place.

  Just then, a long Porsche approached the property and pulled into the drive, tucking itself in beside the BMW with intimate expertise.

  A tall, thin man got out of the car: he was suited, sloped shoulders, balding, carrying a briefcase heavy enough to favor his gait to one side. The front door opened, warm light spilled onto the doorstep, and the child came out. She hugged the man and carried his briefcase inside with two hands.