‘Already?’
‘Christmas lasts forever here, darlin’.’
‘Sounds fun,’ I said with a fake, Emma smile. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Fine.’ Kegs opened the box of Celebrations on his desk and offered me one.
‘No, thanks.’ Relatives liked to buy us chocolates when their loved ones died. Celebrations seemed a bit inappropriate though.
Kegs weasled out a mini Bounty with his hairy fingers and popped it in his mouth.
‘Is something wrong with my references?’ I regretted the question straight away, but I needed to know. ‘If they haven’t arrived yet I can give the people a ring or something.’
He shook his head, jaws busy with the Bounty. ‘Nope,’ he said after he’d swallowed it, ‘meant to say they came through a couple of days ago.’
I knew they had; I’d sent them. One from a café in Clacton, the other from a shoe shop in Colchester, neither of which I’d worked in. Easy really. I’d set up fake e-mail addresses and written myself two positive but not unrealistic references when the requests came in.
It appeared Kegs had believed them and why wouldn’t he, with his staffing issues? At my interview, he’d asked for my passport to confirm my ID, which wasn’t a problem as my first name is Emma. I may have lied about my age to my mother, but I’m using my real name. From the moment the Harringtons had revealed the full story of my adoption, I’d insisted on being addressed by my middle name. A name my mother might recognise if she came looking for me. While checking my passport, Kegs had joked that Cassie was a bit of a posh name, and I’d laughed and agreed. Satisfied my ID was in order, he’d said I could start before my background check and references had come through. I’m not implying he was remiss. He cared about Birch Grove, but he needed more staff to run the place properly. He did give me a full induction day with safety and fire training.
‘Now then,’ Kegs said, taking a swig from the World’s Greatest Boss mug on his desk, ‘you seem to be enjoying it here?’
‘I love it.’ Emma was the cheery sort who didn’t mind emptying shitty bedpans and wiping up vomit for scandalously low pay. Even I didn’t mind it as much as I’d feared. The job had made me stronger, given me muscles in my arms that even Ryan had noticed. And I slept well after a shift—bone-deep and dreamless.
‘There’s more hours going if you want them,’ Kegs said. ‘We always need the help.’
‘Thanks. I’ll have a think about it.’ No need to go overboard. Extra hours would make it impossible to run my two lives, and I still needed my London existence. With my mother only at Birch Grove one day a week, I still liked to see her in London too, although I had to be careful now she and Emma had met. When following her in the city, I wore a blonde wig, a black beanie and sunglasses, even on cloudy days.
On the office wall hung a black-and-white photo of Kegs in his army uniform. At my interview, I’d asked where his name came from and he’d told me that as an eighteen-year-old corporal, he’d stolen four kegs of beer from the officers’ mess, an escapade that earned him a spell in military jail and a nickname that has stuck with him for over thirty years.
‘Did you ever spy on anyone when you were a soldier?’ I asked.
Kegs nodded. ‘We used to go out on surveillance all the time in Northern Ireland.’ He told me that on one mission he’d hidden in a ditch for four days, just to get a picture of an IRA suspect.
‘Patience,’ he said. ‘Patience will always get you your man.’
‘What about going undercover? Did you ever do that?’
‘No, thank God.’ He shook his head. ‘Hardcore stuff that. Not everyone’s got the guts for it.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Consequences were pretty grim if the other side got hold of you.’
I smiled. ‘Guess the trick is not to get caught then?’
21
Tuesday, 5 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
After he gave me the notebook, Simon asked what had happened in the hours before my arrest. Most of that day is a blank, I told him. I remember leaving my flat, and I remember the police hauling me out of the dark, dank passageway, but the bits in between are gone.
‘Short-term memory loss is not uncommon after a psychotic episode,’ he said. I hoped that meant he’d stop questioning me, but instead he asked what I thought had triggered the episode.
Her. Always her. Demanding my attention, begging me to notice her.
He asked what had been happening in my life. What stress had I been under? No stress really, I said. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Not sure if he knew I was lying, but he went on for ages then about how our memories can store our traumatic experiences just out of reach until we can deal with them. A protective measure.
I thought he meant our minds could edit the bad stuff out and get rid of it for good, but he said no, not for good. The memories still exist somewhere.
Pity. I have a lot I want to forget.
‘I would describe it as knowing and not knowing at the same time,’ he said.
I said not knowing would be bliss, and he looked at me for a long time, as if deciding something. Then he said I seemed like an intelligent young woman so he’d level with me. He said I was only one of many emergencies he had to deal with, that the system was flawed, that he never had enough time to treat his patients properly. Or information—he doesn’t have instant access to my medical records, which I was relieved to hear.
He urged me to make the most of the short time we have together. To try and make sense of what happened so I’d have a better chance of recovery. He said otherwise all he could do was patch me up with medication and send me back out into the world again.
‘Talk to me, Grace,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do my very best to help you.’ He looked so kind, so sincere that I almost considered it.
She and I are done. It’s over. I’m going to write our story down, start to finish, and get her out of my head for good. Then I won’t be tempted to talk about her. Then I might just get away without anyone else knowing.
22
Thursday, 12 November 2015
Gritty-eyed and irritable, I lean against the wall of the classroom. The students in my morning IELTS group are still half asleep. They stare blankly at the photocopied exercise in front of them. The dull, repetitive work required to pass the IELTS exam and gain entry to a British university never kindles much enthusiasm from these students, even the keen ones from my favourite advanced group. I usually seek ways to liven up the material but am too tired for the challenge today.
‘Look again at the text,’ I say, ‘and decide if the statements below it are true, false, or not given.’ The students avoid me by subjecting their worksheets to further lethargic scrutiny. ‘Do the statements agree with the text?’ I ask, my frustration mounting.
No one answers. My eyes travel around the desks, seeking some sign of comprehension. ‘Waleed?’ I say. Waleed is normally quick to participate, but even he responds with a shrug. After so many years of teaching, I’ve grown comfortable with long pauses in class and can usually ride them out until a student offers something. On this occasion, I can’t bear the silence.
‘How many possibilities are there for each statement?’ I ask. ‘Anybody?’
Nieve raises her head. ‘Three.’
‘At last. Thank you, Nieve. And they are?’
Nieve rakes her fingers through her long, black hair. ‘True, false or not given.’
‘Brilliant.’ My exaggerated sigh of relief raises a few laughs. ‘Spilt yourselves into pairs and work through the rest of the exercise with your partner.’
The room fills with sighs and the rustling of paper. I wander over to the window. The sun is a pale yolk in a white sky. I turn my back on the group so they don’t see me yawn.
My forehead has been throbbing for two days now. As though something is trying to drill through it. Each night, the unremembered dream chases me awake, and I sense it getting closer.
I feel as if I’m treading water by the drop-off shelf of some vast ocean—warm shallows at my back and treacherous currents ahead.
I close my eyes. The chatter of the class builds behind me. I drift into a limbo, aware of the sounds in the room but distant from them.
Grace? A voice calls to me. Grace? A girl’s voice, sweet and high. A voice only I can hear.
‘Grace?’ It is Nieve’s voice. I jerk away from the window, stumbling as I turn round. All eyes are on me.
‘We’ve finished,’ says Nieve, a bemused look on her face.
‘Great,’ I reply. They are waiting for me to take control. To guide and help them. I want to run from the room, to escape their expectant expressions. I swallow. ‘Let’s check your answers. Nieve, you start us off.’
***
I enter the staff room to find Max kneeling in front of the photocopier, sliding a wad of A4 into the paper tray.
‘Jeez,’ he says, ‘you look rough.’
I dump my backpack on one of the desks. ‘Thanks.’
He slams the paper tray shut and springs to his feet. ‘Hangover?’
‘Wish I had that excuse.’ I trail over to the kettle, find it half full and flick it on.
‘White, two sugars,’ Max says with a grin.
My pounding head makes finding a witty reply impossible. After washing up two mugs in the grubby sink, I put a green tea bag in one of them and a bag of Tetley in the other.
‘Bloody thing.’ Max jabs at the photocopier’s control panel as if playing pinball. Each buzz and beep of the machine ricochets between my temples.
‘Grace, there you are.’ Wendy, the school’s receptionist, pops into the room, vivid in her lime green jumper. A warm, motherly woman in her early fifties, Wendy claims her bright clothing keeps her cheerful. ‘This came for you in the morning post,’ she says, holding out a small, square box.
I take the parcel from her.
‘See you later.’ Wendy lets the door slam as she goes. The kettle comes to a zealous boil. The photocopier is in full flow now—a throaty whir as it scans, a staccato buzz as it spits out paper.
I remove the Sellotape from the lid of the box and open it.
‘Anything exciting?’ Max asks.
Nestled in the foam packaging inside is a mug. I pull it out. The mug is white with pink lettering.
WORLD’S GREATEST MUM
Nausea swells inside me and pushes up my throat. I spin round, lean over the sink and let out a stream of hot, watery vomit.
***
I sit on the sofa, knees hugged to my chest. I’ve been sitting here since returning from work. How long ago was that? Outside my window, the last dregs of light are draining from the sky.
Leaving work early proved easy. Max assumed I had a bug of some kind and ordered me to go home. He offered to cover my afternoon class and said he’d pass on my apologies to Linda.
The mug sits on the coffee table. Perhaps my work details had found their way onto the same database as my home address? Possible, but I also know anyone can find me from the school’s website.
Bile rises up my throat. I see myself in a green hospital gown on a narrow hospital bed. I’ve been waiting ages, is it time? My hands grip the side of the bed, resisting the urge to touch my belly. If I connect with what has grown inside me, I might not be able to give it up.
I shut the memory down. Can’t stop shivering. Need to think.
Either I am losing myself again, or someone is sending me reminders of the past.
My laptop is soon out of my backpack and coming to life on the coffee table. Once it warms up, I go to Google and begin to type.
Dan Thorne.
I hit return and the Dan Thornes of the world appear in a list. Dan Thorne, accountant. Dan Thorne, baseball player. Dan Thorne, motor mechanic. Dan after Dan, but I cannot find him. I bring up the image results instead and trawl through the thumbnail portraits.
Bright green eyes stare out from the centre of the screen. I click on the image, follow the link to the original website and find myself on the staff profile for Dan Thorne, drama tutor at Brighton Central College.
His face looks just as I remember it. A few lines on his forehead perhaps, but his bone structure is as striking as ever. His hair is short now, receding a little at the temples. I find a link to his biography—don’t follow it, quit now. Too late.
I live in Brighton with my wife, Stella, and our two beautiful children.
Images bombard me: Dan, beaming with pride, his hands caressing Stella’s swollen belly. Those same hands scooping bathwater over a baby’s delicate shoulders. Chubby infant fingers entwined in his slender ones.
I close my eyes, but that doesn’t stop me seeing.
23
Wednesday, 6 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
The story starts with Dan. I first kissed him in the Three Tuns, the pub in Headingley where everyone from the Northern Theatre School hung out. We were supposed to be working on the final acting project of our degree—an adaptation of a famous book, to be performed by a cast of four. My group, which included Dan, had picked Jean Cocteau’s Les Enfants Terribles. When the other two cast members didn’t show up to rehearsals one afternoon, Dan suggested we go to the pub to rewrite the final section of the script.
During my three years at uni, I’d never acted with Dan. Our year of drama students had been split in half, and Dan was in the other group to me. I’d heard he was difficult to work with, and he rarely socialised with the other students. The girls he had slept with spread the word that Dan might be good-looking, but he was cold and mean and moody. The course tutors had decided to mix the students together for this project, so I just had to get on with it.
After three pints apiece, I forgot about the script. I also forgot about Dan’s reputation. He turned out to be fun and easy to get on with. We chain-smoked roll-ups, slagged off some of our tutors, confessed our crushes on others. Dan told me he wanted to act in films.
He had the looks—sharp cheekbones, green eyes, shoulder-length blond hair. As we talked, I noticed a gaggle of first-year girls at the bar glancing over at him with lust and me with envy. When he went to buy us another pint, one of the girls—petite with milky skin and wild red curls—tried to chat him up. He crushed her efforts with a disinterested glance. He looked like a centuries-old vampire weary of humanity; I couldn’t keep my eyes off him.
When he returned and sat down beside me, I felt like I’d won something. As if he’d chosen me over everyone else in the room. As our fourth pint disappeared, he asked me loads of questions about myself. He even asked how I was coping after my dad’s death.
Dad, already cooling when Mum dragged me in to look at him. Is he dead? she kept screaming. Is he dead?
I’d never even realised Dan knew about my loss. I told him I was doing okay. Still found it hard at times.
He gave me a sympathetic smile and rubbed the tight muscles between my shoulder blades. His hands felt warm to me and not at all mean. I picked up my copy of the script and suggested we work on the tricky final scene, but he said he had a much better idea.
‘What?’ I asked, as he pulled me to him. His insistent tongue was as warm as his hands.
‘I’m not shagging you just like that,’ I said when we came up for air.
Dan grinned as he worked a hand between my thighs, but I said I was serious. I made it clear I wasn’t that easy.
He told me to kiss him again and I did.
24
Monday, 16 November 2015
I dreamt of Isobel. Sick Isobel, scrawny and yellow, a Hermes scarf covering her bristly scalp. I was trying to get away from her, but her skinny fingers closed around my wrists.
‘Your mother didn’t want you,’ she said.
I shot up in bed, hot and shivery. 1.16 a.m., according to my digital clock. Ryan lay beside me on his stomach, face squashed against the pillow, his breathing heavy. I rarely slept when he stayed over, preferring instead to doze and keep an eye
on him. Last week, I caught him sneaking out of bed in the night. Go on then, I’d told him, leave. I know you want to. He’d called me a drama queen and said he was only going to the toilet. Upon returning to bed, he’d reached out and pulled me into him.
The mattress creaked as I slid off it, but Ryan didn’t stir. In the faint light coming from the hallway, I unhooked my mother’s white vest from the back of the door and slipped it on. It hung loose around me as I padded barefoot along the hall.
In the living room, I switched on the fire and turned it up until the flames flared from the fake coals. A half-smoked joint lay abandoned in the ashtray on the coffee table. I resuscitated it with Ryan’s Zippo and took a deep, greedy drag before flopping onto the sofa and sinking into the welcoming cushions. As much as I enjoyed the role of Emma, coming back to my own flat was always a relief. Emma had taught me to appreciate my efficient central heating and comforting fire. She’d taught me gratitude for my deep bath, my power shower and my warm, fluffy towels.
Good old Emma.
The joint soon fizzled out, but my tingly lips and heavy limbs proved it had worked. I gazed up at the ceiling, stroking the soft fabric of my mother’s vest. On the nights Ryan didn’t stay over I slept in it, hoping to entice her into my dreams. No luck so far; Isobel kept showing up instead.
I pulled off the vest and spread it across the cushions at the other end of the sofa. I did this sometimes, when my mother and I needed to talk. One day we would converse for real, so it made sense to rehearse. Some of our chats had been lovely. Once, for example, we spoke about my conception. I’m not naïve; I know many children are impulses, whims, accidents. Urges fulfilled in the backs of cars, against walls, on sofas during advert breaks. As it turned out, my conception occurred on the Greek island of Santorini, in a hotel room with a queen-size bed and white linen curtains that billowed in a sea breeze. My mother spared me the embarrassing details but did reassure me I’d been conceived in love.
She Chose Me Page 9
