Perfect Strangers

by Dani Atkins

  I don’t believe in ghosts. I never have, and I never will, although Kate leapt on that explanation instantly. But then she always had been the more fanciful one. She’d believed in the Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas far longer than I had, even though she was older than me.

  So no, I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe the dead can come back and help the living, even in circumstances as extreme as these. So even though it would be the best ghost story I had ever heard, I still don’t believe the spirit of one of the lost passengers was responsible for my incredible survival following the crash of flight 418. But I’ll tell you what I do believe in. I believe in the incredible, unshakeable strength of the human spirit. I believe in it wholeheartedly and without reservation. I believe that when everything else is stripped away, you have it within yourself to be your own hero, your own rescuer. Somewhere deep within each one of us is that small forgotten switch, the one that ensures you will survive . . . anything. Some of us access it easily. But for others it’s a little harder to reach. But it’s there; it’s in you and it’s in me. You just have to look way down deep and you’ll find it. Everything you need to survive is already there, just waiting to be recalled. Of course, if you happen to have the same insane kind of memory that I’ve got, things are a little easier. But even I still needed a little assistance in finding that switch.

  Because if you think you can’t do it all alone, then there’ll be someone there to help you. I found that help, just when I needed it the most. And his name was Logan Carter.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  I was going to wear trousers, but at the last minute I changed my mind and pulled a skirt from my suitcase. A short one. Despite the watery rays of sunlight cleaving through the window, it was far too cold to go without tights, but I chose the sheerest ones I had. Kate had finally stopped nagging me about making a second appointment with the cosmetic surgeon, the one who’d assured me he could drastically improve the scar on my leg. What he didn’t understand, what no one seemed to understand, was that it was important that I didn’t get rid of it. When so much had proved not to be real, this was something solid and tangible that was a constant reminder that proved to me that I was strong. I was a survivor. Maybe one day, in the future, I would no longer need this visible legacy of something that was . . . and something that never was. Until then, it stays.

  There had been a great many changes in my life since that day, exactly twelve months earlier, when I had stood in this same guest bedroom, zipping up my suitcase and preparing to return to England. Sometimes even I found it hard to see myself in the woman I had been back then, and at other times, she is still there, like a shadow, hiding behind the new me in the mirror.

  I had gone back to William. He had swept me back into my old life on a sea of tears of remorse and relief. He’d said all the right things: how almost losing me had been the horrible wake-up call he’d needed to realise he couldn’t be without me. He had cried all the way from the airport, where he’d met me at the gate practically invisible behind an enormous bouquet of flowers. We both cried a lot during those early days following my return. But three weeks later when I walked out of his flat and our life together for the very last time, my eyes were dry.

  I slept on various floors and settees over the next month or so until I finally found a modest flat of my own to rent. My friends worried about the lumpy sofas or the inadequate sleeping bags which were all they could offer me. I told them not to. I’d known worse . . . much worse.

  My bosses in the marketing department tried to offer me a leave of absence when I handed in my notice. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Hannah,’ implored the head of human resources. She was a nice woman. We used to have lunch together occasionally, but I knew that two months after my position had been filled, my number would be deleted from her mobile phone. You see, some people are destined to come in and out of your life and leave little or no trace that they were ever there. And some people find a way of sticking there forever. Even those you have never met.

  Logan changed me. I became a different Hannah after spending those seven days with him, and I will always be grateful to him for that.

  ‘Hannah, your taxi’s here,’ Kate’s voice called from the foot of the stairs. I unhooked my coat from its hanger, and picked up my handbag. ‘Now are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ she asked for about the tenth time that morning. ‘I don’t have to collect Lily until after three o’clock this afternoon.’

  I stepped off the last stair and briefly kissed her cheek. ‘No. I love you for offering, but I really feel this is something I have to do alone.’

  ‘I just don’t want you to get upset all over again.’

  I squeezed her tightly for a long moment before sliding my arms into my coat sleeves. ‘Kate, if it isn’t upsetting, then there’s something seriously wrong with me. But I still need to do this by myself.’

  Fortunately the taxi driver didn’t seem disposed to chat, for which I was immensely grateful. Despite my assurances to Kate, who these days worried about me almost as much as she did Lily, I had to dig deep to find the courage I needed to face this day. There had never been any question in my mind about whether or not I would attend. Even if I’d still been living in the UK, I would have made this journey. It just made it an awful lot easier that my residency visa application had sailed so quickly through the process. Kate had wanted me to move to Canada for years, but the time had never been right before. Now it was. Because I was running towards my future, instead of running away from my past.

  ‘Is this where you’re going?’ The cab driver’s voice startled me. We had reached the outskirts of the airport property, and had arrived at a small pretty parkland area beside a man-made lake. A short distance away I could see a circular patch of gravel in which stood a large shrouded monument. It bore an unfortunate resemblance to a spectre rising from a tomb. To one side, a temporary raised stage had been erected, with rows of linen-covered seats lined up, like an outdoor wedding. The driver drew his vehicle to a stop beside an easel bearing a large sign. A banner of cursive script named this event. Flight 418. Ceremony of Remembrance.

  ‘Terrible thing that was,’ commented the cab driver, as though he might possibly be telling me something I didn’t know. ‘Did you lose someone on that flight?’

  It was a potentially insensitive question, but I could see from the kindness in his eyes that he had meant no harm by it. I opened my mouth to say that, Yes, I had lost someone, but instead surprised us both with my answer. ‘Actually no, I didn’t. I found someone.’ His eyebrows rose as I finished my sentence. ‘Me.’

  The service was moving. I cried, but I wasn’t alone there. Everyone cried. I had arrived early and had taken a seat on one of the front rows. As I waited for the ceremony to begin and the marble obelisk to be unveiled, my eye travelled down the row I was sitting in. At the far end I saw a young child, fractiously pulling at the hair of the woman who was holding his wriggling body in her arms, like a captured eel. Marcus and his mother both looked up as though they could sense me watching them. The young mother recognised me as easily as I did her. Our eyes exchanged a look I don’t even have words for. But we both understood what it meant.

  I swivelled in my seat, my eyes passing among the crowds looking for the overweight passenger who had occupied the seat on my other side before I’d been moved to the back of the plane. He was nowhere to be seen. I realised then that he, like so many others, had not made it. I looked at the families filling the seats all around me, some already clutching damp tissues in clenched hands, and hoped there was someone here for him. I didn’t turn around again after that. It was too upsetting.

  They unveiled the huge marble monument and after an uncertain moment of hesitation, everyone clapped. I’m not really sure why, or even if it was appropriate, but I joined in. An electric organ began to play a hymn softly in the background as the CEO of the airline began to recite the names of the passengers and crew whose journey t
hrough life had ended in the snowy Canadian mountains. I was holding my breath, my body braced as though preparing for a blow as they reached the third letter of the alphabet, but I never heard his name. It seemed impossible that I could have missed hearing it, yet even more impossible that Logan had been accidentally omitted from the sad roll call.

  As soon as the proceedings were over I began to weave my way through the crowds gathering around the marble memorial. Not unexpectedly, everyone else had also flocked there, needing to see their loved one’s name immortalised in a way that they’d never wanted, in gold engraved letters. I tried to be patient, but the crowd was deep and I knew it was going to take some time before I reached the front of the group of relatives and friends.

  I felt a touch on my shoulder, but believing someone had just accidentally brushed against me, I ignored it. But the hand remained, and everything I thought I knew to be true in the world slipped away from me as I turned around. Almost in a trance, I looked once more into a pair of deep green eyes that I’d never thought to see again.

  ‘It is you. My God, I don’t believe it.’ His voice was warm, the accent slightly different to how I’d imagined, but at the same time still curiously familiar.

  ‘Logan!’ I cried, my eyes widening. ‘You’re here.’ And then – much to his surprise – I launched myself into his arms. After a moment of hesitation I felt him tighten them around me, and hug me firmly. There was nothing at all unfamiliar in his hold. It was exactly as I remembered it. That’s what sobered me, and I struggled quickly out of his embrace. Was it happening all over again? I grabbed the arm of the nearest bystander, who happened to be a balding middle-aged man who was standing beside me. He looked a little startled by my behaviour – as did Logan – and my words did nothing to lessen that. ‘Excuse me, sir, I know this might sound silly . . . but can you see this man?’

  Perhaps – because of where we were – I got away with the kind of question that would have raised far more concern anywhere else. ‘Well, ma’am, he’s a pretty tall fella, so it’d be kinda hard to miss him.’

  I felt Logan’s hand at my elbow gently easing me out of the throng. I allowed him to lead me away. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, his familiar stranger’s face, full of concern.

  ‘Yes. No. Not really. Not at all,’ I answered confusingly, presenting him with every possible answer to his question. ‘You died. You died in the crash. They told me that you did. I saw your name. It was on the clipboard. You died when the plane went down.’

  He didn’t even flinch at the absurdity of my words. ‘I didn’t even get on the plane,’ he explained, carefully. ‘I don’t suppose you remember this – why would you – but I was called to answer a page in the departure lounge. There was a family emergency and I had to cash in my ticket. I never caught the flight.’

  ‘But . . . but your name . . . they said everyone was accounted for.’

  A look of real pain crossed his handsome face. ‘They resold my seat. I saw the man who bought it at the counter. We exchanged a few words. My misfortune, his luck, I remember him saying. Only it turns out that he got that backwards.’ Logan’s voice was sad. ‘He’s one of the reasons I’m here today. I feel sort of responsible in a way for what happened to him. If I’d caught that flight as I should have done, he’d probably still be alive.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t be,’ I added, still struggling to take in the enormity of the realisation that he was alive.

  ‘There was so much confusion following the crash. Some of the records were incorrect, and initially my name was on the list of fatalities. It took them a while to straighten things out.’ Logan paused, looking oddly unsure of whether he should say what was on his mind. ‘I know this is going to sound really weird, but you’re actually the other reason why I felt I had to come here today. I’ve thought about you a hell of a lot over the last year, and I make no apology for how freaky this sounds, but I actually went to the trouble of tracking down your name. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I learned that you had made it. I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Logan, Logan Carter . . .’ his voice trailed away. ‘But you knew that anyway, didn’t you? You said my name when you first saw me. How is that possible?’

  ‘It’s a long, long story,’ I said.

  ‘I’m in no hurry to go anywhere. Are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Good. Because I don’t suppose you remember it, but I believe that I owe you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Oh, I remember,’ I told him, looking up into his face and trying to preserve this moment, because somehow I knew that this was the time and place when the path to my future was about to change. ‘You see, I have a ridiculously good memory. I remember it all.’

  Dani Atkins was born in London in 1958, and grew up in North London. She moved to rural Hertfordshire in 1985, where she has lived in a small village ever since with her family. Although Dani has been writing for fun all her life, Fractured was her first novel and became an eBook sensation.

  Find out more about Dani Atkins:

  @AtkinsDani

  DaniAtkinsAuthor

  Also by Dani Atkins

  Our Song

  The Story of Us

  Fractured

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Dani Atkins, 2016

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5937-4

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