Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  “I’m told her memory has been affected.”

  “Yes. The temporal lobe is essential for memory function. Even minor damage can cause anything from partial to total amnesia, along with all kinds of other complications – auditory and visual disturbances; changes in personality and behaviour. The good news is she’s talking, which may indicate that the Broca area wasn’t damaged after all.”

  “So what does she remember?”

  “At this point the only thing she remembers is hearing your voice. It may even be that your voice started her along the pathway back to consciousness.”

  “Why would she respond to my voice in particular?”

  “It could be something as simple as your southern accent. Perhaps you sound similar to someone she’s close to.”

  “Does she have an accent?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Her voice is very weak.”

  Jack noted down, ‘Victim might originally be from the south east’. Of course, that didn’t do much to improve the chances of identifying her. As they made their way to the woman’s room, Doctor Medland cautioned, “I must ask you to avoid mentioning anything that might cause stress.”

  “What about the baby? Does she know she recently gave birth?”

  “No. And I think it should stay that way for now.”

  “Could mentioning the baby kick-start her memory?”

  “It could, but it could also have a negative impact on her recovery.”

  Jack looked the doctor in the eyes. “If it was your child that had been abducted, wouldn’t you take that risk to get them back?”

  Doctor Medland considered this, then said, “OK, but if she becomes seriously distressed you must stop questioning her at once.”

  An armed officer was stationed outside the room. After the press-conference, the woman’s face would be splashed across every TV screen in the country. Paul wasn’t taking any chances.

  Doctor Medland glanced disapprovingly at the officer’s holstered sidearm. “Is it really necessary to have guns on the ward?”

  Jack thought about PC Finch being shot dead for no apparent reason. “Yes,” he stated.

  The doctor motioned for Jack to keep his voice down as they entered the dimly lit room. The woman’s eyes were closed. She was deathly pale, but if you looked closely you could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Doctor Medland touched her hand. Her eyes opened slowly like the petals of a flower in the sun. Her brown eyes were bleary, shot through with veins, so dilated as to appear almost black. They slid across from the doctor to Jack. There was nothing in them, just an anesthetised emptiness.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Jack Anderson,” Jack said softly.

  A tiny spark flickered in her pupils. Her lips moved but no audible words came out. With one finger, she made a slight beckoning motion. Jack bent closer and she breathed woozily into his ear, “Who… am… I?”

  She didn’t have a southern accent. If anything, Jack thought he detected a faint Mancunian twang. “That’s what I’m here to try and find out.”

  She closed her eyes as if she’d been afraid he would say that. She looked so painfully helpless that he put his hand on hers to try to comfort her. Her eyelids parted again. She looked at him numbly.

  “Do you remember anything?” he asked.

  Her lips trembled. Jack could see her mentally searching, groping for a light-switch in the darkness. She gave a barely-there shake of her head.

  “Try not to move your head,” cautioned Doctor Medland. “Do you know where you are?” He stooped to hear her whispered reply, then said to Jack, “That’s a good sign. She remembers what I told her earlier. Her short-term memory appears to be functioning.”

  “Did you think you recognised my voice?” Jack asked her.

  “I...” she faltered, then murmured, “don’t know. What happened to me?”

  Doctor Medland gave Jack a look that instructed him to tread with extreme care. “Someone attacked you,” said Jack.

  “Why?”

  “We’re not sure why.” Jack hesitated. Something about this woman suddenly made him think of Rebecca. It wasn’t her looks. Her face was broader and more angular than Rebecca’s had been. Maybe it was her vulnerability. Or maybe it was the way she looked at him like a lost child. Whatever it was, it made him reluctant to say anything that could upset her. “We’ll find out though. I assure you of that.”

  He made to remove his hand, but the woman curled her fingers lightly around his. Her skin was rough and calloused. Her nails were ingrained with dirt. “I had a dream... I... think it was a dream...” Her eyelids drifted down. Like someone talking in their sleep, she mumbled, “A man… with the face of a bird. He’s... on top of me. I can feel him... inside... me...”

  The woman’s voice faded into a silence punctuated by the whoosh and beep of the surrounding machines. A jolt of concern passed through Jack as her fingers went limp. “Has she fallen back into a coma?”

  Doctor Medland checked her vitals and EEG brainwave read-out. “She’s asleep.”

  They left the room quietly. Jack was thinking about Eagle. Had the woman been in a relationship with the man behind the bird mask? The way Eagle had kissed her seemed to suggest so. Perhaps they’d been a couple. If so, Eagle could be the baby’s father.

  “You said it’s a good sign that her short-term memory is working,” said Jack. “Does that mean her long-term memory will return?”

  “I’m afraid not. It merely means she’s able to form new memories. Which is far more than we could have expected. I must tell you, though, her prognosis is still not good. That bullet is a ticking time-bomb. If we can’t remove it, then...” Doctor Medland trailed off ominously.

  Jack thanked him. As he headed for the exit, he heard a nurse asking the doctor, “How’s our butterfly doing?”

  “Butterfly,” Jack repeated to himself. That was certainly an apt name for the woman. And not simply because of her tattoo. Back in Sussex, every summer the cottage’s garden had been a riot of Painted Ladies that had migrated thousands of miles, evading predators and enduring disease and extreme weather along the way. Butterflies were a lot tougher than their delicate wings suggested.

  He phoned Paul who greeted the update with a disappointed hmm and said, “So she might be from this area. She might be close to someone with a southern accent. And Eagle might be the baby’s father. That doesn’t give us much to go on. Anything else?”

  Jack thought about the feel of Butterfly’s skin. “She might do some sort of manual work. Her hands are rough.”

  “Perhaps she’s a keen gardener.”

  There was an awkward pause. Rebecca had been a keen gardener. Before depression sucked the life out of her, she’d spent much of her spare time tending her flower beds – narcissi and tulips in spring, dahlias and cosmos in summer and autumn. Jack filled the silence with, “How did the press-conference go?”

  “Fine. The hook’s in the water. Now we just have to wait and see if we get a bite.”

  Jack held in a sigh of irritation at Paul’s impersonal tone. Butterfly was the bait on Paul’s hook. This very moment her attackers might be looking at her face on TV and debating what to do. Would they make another attempt on her life? Would they kill her baby? Perhaps they would do both. “Do you need anything else from me?”

  “No. You can knock off. Thanks, Jack.”

  Thanks, Jack. Paul hadn’t spoken to him in such a friendly – if that was the right word – way in a long time. Jack wasn’t sure whether he liked the development. He could just about get to grips with them acting in a professional manner towards each other, but as for being friendly...

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied and hung up.

  Chapter 13

  The instant Jack stepped into the house, Naomi flung her arms around him as if she hadn’t seen him in months. Laughing, he cuddled her back. A hug from Naomi was the best pick-me-up there was. “You were supposed to finish work ages ago and you look really tired,” she admonished.
>
  Jack glanced at himself in the hallway mirror. Naomi was right. He did look tired. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes. “Sorry, sweetheart. I tried to get away earlier.”

  “But your boss wouldn’t let you, would he?”

  Boss. The way Naomi’s lips curled on the word made Jack frown. She was as sharp as a pin when it came to picking up on people’s emotions. Even if she didn’t fully comprehend the reason behind it, she was well aware of his feelings towards Paul. The last thing he wanted was to infect her with his hate. That was the best reason of all to let go of what had happened. A therapist had once told him that the past was like a stick of dynamite that could explode at any moment, destroying you and the things you loved. Why would anyone choose to carry such a thing around?

  I didn’t choose this, Jack had retorted.

  No, but you can choose to drop it, the therapist had said. All you have to do is open your hand.

  All you have to do is open your hand. What could be simpler? He’d visualised himself doing it dozens of times. Yet the next time he looked down, the dynamite was always back, enclosed in white knuckles.

  He stroked Naomi’s hair. “Well I’m home now. Where’s your aunt?”

  Laura poked her head out of the kitchen. “I’m cooking tea. It’ll be ready in about five minutes.”

  Smiling gratefully, Jack handed his sister a bottle of white wine. “Ooh my favourite,” she said, smiling back. “What are you buttering me up for?”

  “I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything you do for us.”

  “Aww, thanks little brother.”

  Jack went into the living-room and stretched out on the sofa. Naomi snuggled up against him like a cat. The worries of the day faded away as they watched TV and chatted about this and that.

  After eating, Jack got Naomi ready for bed. She rested her delicate fingers on his as he read her a bedtime story. His thoughts returned to Butterfly. For her there was no past to let go of. Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. Perhaps...

  He kissed Naomi and went downstairs. Laura was putting her coat on. “Thanks again for everything, sis,” he said.

  “No problem. The bill’s on the kitchen table.”

  Smiling at the dry remark, Jack kissed Laura goodbye. He returned to the living-room and put on the 24-hour news. It didn’t take long for Butterfly’s bruised and swollen face to appear on-screen. He paused the image. His gaze fell to his hand. When she’d touched him he’d felt something more than skin. He still seemed to feel it. A slight shivery sensation. Like static electricity. He thought about the lost look in her eyes. Maybe it wasn’t his accent that had imprinted so deeply on her. Maybe on some unconscious level she’d recognised a damaged kindred spirit.

  A yawn turned Jack’s thoughts to bed. He dragged himself upstairs and got undressed. Butterfly’s voice pulled him under into sleep, asking one question over and over – Who am I?

  Chapter 14

  Jack was woken by his phone. It was still dark. The alarm clock read 6:32. The phone’s screen identified the caller as ‘Steve’. Jack’s heart gave a little kick. There must have been some new development for Steve to be ringing so early. He put the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

  “Morning, sleeping beauty. You sound pissed off. Did I wake you from a dirty dream?”

  Jack was in no the mood for Steve’s bullshit. “Just tell me.”

  Steve chuckled as if Jack’s brusqueness had answered his question. “OK grumpy arse. Maybe this’ll improve your mood. We’re off to The Lakes for the day. A call came in from a shopkeeper in Gosforth, a Mrs Barbara Boyles. She reckons our tattooed lady came into her shop early last year.”

  The news did improve Jack’s mood, but not for the reason Steve alluded to. He was simply relieved that Steve hadn’t rung to tell him Butterfly was dead.

  “I’m on my way to pick you up,” continued Steve. “See you in about twenty.”

  A quick shower and shave later, Jack phoned Laura to let her know what was going on. “Will you be back today?” she asked.

  “I should be, but who knows what time.”

  “In that case, I’ll take Naomi back to mine after school.”

  Jack got off the phone and looked in on Naomi. She was curled up beneath her duvet. He gently shook her awake. “Time to get up, sweetie.” She followed him downstairs, blinking dazedly. Elsa – Naomi’s black-and-white cat – greeted them with a meow as they entered the kitchen.

  They were munching on cereal when there was a knock at the door. “That’ll be Steve,” said Jack, pushing his chair back. The burly ex-Para blocked out the thin November light as he stepped into the hallway. “Are you ready for a three hour drive to the arse end of nowhere?” he grinned.

  “Hi Steve,” said Naomi, poking her head through the kitchen doorway.

  He ruffled her hair. “Look at you. You get more gorgeous every time I see you. It won’t be long before boys are falling all over you.”

  She scrunched up her face. “Urgh! I can’t stand boys. They’re idiots.”

  Steve laughed. “You’re right about that.”

  Jack ushered Naomi back to the table. The thought of boys falling over themselves to get at her was enough to make him want a cigarette. He reached into his pocket before recalling that he’d kicked the habit. He’d attempted to do so numerous times in the past, but always found some reason to light up again – stress at work, Rebecca’s depression. Things were different now. It was all on his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to take risks with his health.

  Jack poured Steve a coffee as Naomi finished her breakfast. Neither man made any mention of what their day held in store. Steve had kids of his own. He knew how important it was to protect them from the cruelty and cynicism of life.

  On the way to Laura’s, Naomi chatted happily about school and her friends. But when they pulled over outside Laura’s little terraced house, her expression grew worried. “You’re going to be late home again, aren’t you Dad?”

  “Probably,” admitted Jack.

  “Don’t you worry, I’ll look after him for you,” said Steve.

  Laura appeared at the front door in her nurse’s uniform. She waved. Jack and Steve waved back. “Have a good day, sweetheart,” Jack called after Naomi as she got out of the car.

  He heaved a sigh as they accelerated away.

  “The guilt’s a killer, isn’t it?” said Steve. “It used to kick my arse every time I didn’t get home in time to put the kids to bed. But then the wife ran off with some twat she met online, so now I don’t have to worry about all that.” His tone was blasé, but the way he reached for his cigarettes suggested he felt differently inside.

  They drove in silence for a while, then Steve said, “I’ll tell you what, your sister’s not half bad. I wouldn’t mind–”

  “Don’t even think about it,” cut in Jack, darting him a sharp look.

  Steve smirked and held his tongue. A smile found its way onto Jack’s face too as they headed north out of Manchester. Laura and Steve. What a couple they would make. The smile disappeared as they passed the junction where Butterfly had endured her ordeal. The southbound slip road had reopened. The only sign that anything untoward had occurred was a fluttering strip of police-tape cordoning off the hard shoulder. A week from now there wouldn’t even be that. It would be as if nothing had happened.

  The M61 merged into the M6, taking them past Preston. A few miles beyond Lancaster, they left the motorway and headed west through rolling hills blanketed with woodland. “Have you been to The Lakes before?” asked Steve.

  “No.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Sharon and I used to bring the kids up here every summer. They loved it. Sharon couldn’t stand it. She used to say all there is up here is rain and sheep shit. She’d rather have spent a fortnight cooking herself on a Spanish beach.” Steve shook his head. “She was a pain in the arse. Only reason I married her was because she’s got tits big enough to suffocate an elephant. But that’s not en
ough to keep a marriage going.”

  “Then what is?” wondered Jack, thinking about Rebecca. They’d been drawn to each other physically, but they’d also enjoyed the same pastimes – hiking, gardening, movies. They’d shared a particular love of the coast. Neither of them could have imagined not living near the sea. And now she was dead and he was living miles from the coast...

  “Fucked if I know.”

  The road skirted past the south end of Lake Windermere. Sailing boats were moored along grassy banks. Signs advertised ‘Lake Cruises’. The lake fed the broad River Leven, which ran parallel to the road. The sky was a palette of dark clouds and pale sunshine. Several miles further on, the river emptied into the vast tidal sandflats of Morecombe Bay. Jack felt the tension that had built up over the past couple of days ebbing away. “When this case is over, I might bring Naomi up here for a few days,” he said.