Fractured (15 page)

‘He’s right there,’ I agreed. ‘That was really thoughtful of him to go and sort that out for me.’

There was a small humphing sound from Jimmy’s direction. ‘Most likely he got his secretary to do it.’

The snipe had come as a reflex and just as swiftly I thrust back in Matt’s defence. ‘He’s very busy, you know. He had to fly to Hamburg last night.’

A speculative look crossed Jimmy’s familiar features but he knew better than to offer another criticism. My dad, who seemed completely oblivious to the verbal sparring going on, added, ‘By the way, Rachel, I completely forgot to tell you, Matt also wanted you to know that he contacted the magazine on Monday and told them what had happened.’

Baffled, I shifted in my kitchen chair to look at my father.

‘Magazine? What magazine?’

‘The one where you work.’

I felt the familiar flipping sensation in my stomach as yet another bombshell got dropped.

‘I don’t work at a magazine.’

Here we go again. The look the two men exchanged was so blatant they might as well have shouted out the words.
Poor Rachel, still suffering with that old amnesia
.

Suddenly I was angry and got up so hurriedly the wooden chair almost toppled over behind me.

‘No, don’t you both look at me like that! Like “Oh-oh, Rachel’s gone crazy. It’s kid gloves time again.” Don’t you think I’d know something as basic as where I work?’

‘You haven’t been there long, you probably remember working on the paper better. You were there much longer.’

‘I worked on a newspaper? I’m a journalist?’ There was wonder in my voice at achieving my own goals before I shook my head angrily to dispel the fantasy. ‘I
don’t
work there. I think I would have remembered if I did, don’t you?’

‘Seems like you’ve forgotten a whole lot more than just that,’ mumbled my father, and it was the first time I heard in his voice that he was beginning to lose patience.

Jimmy, as calm and collected as ever, reached over and took my hand. ‘Sit down, Rachel, please.’ And when I didn’t comply, he gently tugged on my arm, forcing me back down to the table. Angling his chair towards me and speaking without any agitation, he asked slowly and clearly, ‘Where
do
you work, Rachel?’

His eye contact with me was unbreakable and I wondered if this was a technique they taught policemen when interrogating suspects.

‘Andersons Engineering in Euston. I work as a secretary for the sales department. I’ve been there over three and a half years. The telephone number is 020 7581 4387.’

If he was startled at the glibness and speed of my response, he hid it better than my father.

‘What the—’

Jimmy silenced my dad with a warning glance and immediately turned his full attention back to me. This was definitely policeman stuff.

‘And who can we contact there to confirm… or rather to tell them that you won’t be in for a little while?’

‘Mrs Jessica Scott in Human Resources. Her extension number is 203.’ I saw the flicker in his eyes at the immediacy of my response, but his voice was smooth and firm when he asked my dad:

‘Tony, do you mind if I use your phone and give them a call?’

By reply my father released the cordless phone from its mount and passed it to Jimmy. Before dialling the number he turned to me.

‘Would you prefer to speak to them yourself?’

I shook my head, they would probably both think I was lying. No, let him speak to Human Resources, that way everyone would see, once and for all, that I was telling the truth.

I repeated the number and he quickly keyed it in. It seemed an eternity before the switchboard picked up and he then asked for the required extension. Infuriatingly he had risen to his feet to make the call, so I could no longer hear even the vaguest of responses from the other end of the line. I had to content myself with piecing together the conversation from Jimmy’s side of things.

‘Could I speak with Mrs Jessica Scott?... Good morning, Mrs Scott. My name is Jimmy Boyd and I’m a friend of Rachel Wiltshire. I was just phoning to let you know that unfortunately she’s been involved in a small accident and won’t be in for at least the rest of this week, possibly longer.’

There was the longest pause.

‘In the Sales Department.’

‘…’

‘Yes.’

‘…’

‘Yes.’

‘…’

‘All right, yes. I see.’

‘…’

‘Thank you very much. Goodbye.’

He pressed the red button to disconnect the call and turned slowly back to face us both. I fidgeted in my chair like an impatient five-year-old.

‘Well? Well? What did she say?’

He hesitated, his face unreadable. I didn’t think I was going to like what was coming next. I was right.

‘Rachel, she said she’d never heard of you. You don’t work there.’

OK, so it probably wasn’t very mature of me to burst into tears but I just couldn’t help it. Every time some small glimmer of hope was dangled in front of me, it was suddenly seized from my grasp. I leapt up from the table in a cyclone of tears and dismay, this time succeeding in knocking over my chair, and thundered up the stairs to my room where I threw myself face down upon the bed.

And just like the angry teenager I appeared to have morphed back into, I ignored their entreaties to open the locked door, shouting at them both to ‘Go away’ until I was too hoarse to shout any more.

It was beginning to get dark by the time I eventually emerged from my room. I must have cried myself to sleep, for I’d woken up several hours later, the dampness of the pillow sticking to my cheek. My father was in the lounge, pretending to watch the early evening news on the TV.

I slid onto the settee beside him, ignored the cat who gave a muted hiss and swiftly vacated his lap, and laid my head against his shoulder.

‘Sorry, Dad.’ He squeezed my hand in response. ‘It’s just so difficult. Nothing makes sense. It’s all just topsy-turvy. Maybe you are all right. Maybe I
am
going crazy.’

He turned to me then, an unexpected anger in his eyes. ‘Don’t you go saying anything of the sort. No one has ever said you’re crazy! You’ve had a nasty blow on the head and a terrible shock. It’s no wonder you’re just a little… muddled… That’s all, yes muddled. It’s all going to come right soon, love, you’ll see.’

And this time I was too tired to argue.

He must have really been worried about me though, because several times during the night, in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, I caught the distinctive bouquet of his aftershave and I knew he had crept silently into my room to check up on me. He never said a word, and I never let on I knew he was there.

The next day I rummaged purposefully through the box of clothes Matt had sent to find something to wear. I was hoping for jeans and a sweatshirt but it would appear my new lifestyle didn’t incorporate anything quite that casual. I had to settle instead on a pair of smart black trousers and an emerald green jumper. I checked out my reflection and couldn’t argue that the outfit suited me, and if the labels weren’t exactly designer, they were certainly from the top end of the high street. Either my new work paid incredibly well or Matt had been responsible for more than just the Gucci handbag. He always had been generous when we were teenagers. I guessed he still was.

I hung up the remaining clothes in the small pine wardrobe and then picked up a warm sheepskin jacket and scarf. I hadn’t been out of the house for days, and I needed to test my stamina if I was going to get Dad to agree to the latest plan I had in mind. However, all intentions of broaching the idea gently were blown out of the water when I descended the stairs at the very moment he was coming through the front door. He must have just been returning from his daily walk to get the morning paper. He was quick, but so was I, and I still had time to see the small red carton that he hastily tried to stuff into his jacket. Diving into his deep pocket like a missile, my fingers closed about the small container and thrust it out.

‘What in the hell are these?’

My dad looked shamefaced and said nothing; I could see various explanations trolling through his mind: each one failing to pass muster and be offered up.

‘What in God’s name are you smoking again for? Don’t you know these things will kill you? That they
were
killing you?’

If either of us had stopped to consider the incongruity of the complete parent/child role reversal we were currently acting out, then we would probably have burst out laughing there and then. Only I was too angry to see it and he was too embarrassed.

I crushed the packet in my hand, rendering at least this one pack unsalvageable, and with the breaking of the cigarettes within, my anger too began to crumple.

‘Dad, I know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it, but you have to promise me that you’ll stop.’

He didn’t apologise but he did at least try to explain.

‘I’ve just been so worried about you, Rachel. You’ve been so lost and I feel so useless not being able to help you. It was just a little something to cope with the stress, that’s all.’

‘Don’t, Dad,’ I said, tears rolling down my cheeks at hearing my own father sound so broken down with concern. I brushed the salty flow away with the back of my hand – God, when had I become such a cry baby?

I took both his hands in mine and tried to put into my words and eyes all that I had felt when he had first been diagnosed.

‘Dad, if you love me, if you
really
love me, please promise me you’ll never touch this poison again?’ His eyes too began to mist. Now I’d made my own father cry, but if it stopped this happening all over again, then it was worth it. ‘You half killed yourself with these from worrying over me once before; I won’t let you do it again.’

I walked around for hours and although I had nowhere in particular to go, it still felt good to be back outside after the inactivity of the last week. I’d told Dad not to worry, and I phoned to check in with him after a couple of hours, just so he knew I was OK. It was mid-afternoon by then, and I realised that somehow along the way I had missed lunch. As I wasn’t far from the centre of town, I headed towards the small parade where there were a few restaurants and coffee shops.

I was hesitating on the pavement, trying to decide which one to choose, when a voice behind me spoke softly in my ear.

‘The one on the end does the best cheesecake.’

I turned around, telling myself the increase in my heartbeat was just because he had startled me.

‘And what if I don’t like cheesecake any more?’

He stopped as though to consider this absurdity.

‘No. Never happen. Whatever else you’ve forgotten, it won’t be that. Some things just go too deep.’

Somehow, by mutual agreement, we entered the small coffee house where Jimmy placed an order for coffees and two slices of cake. There was a table set for two towards the back of the shop beside an open log fire, and we headed over to claim it, both unconsciously rejecting several vacant ones by the front windows.

‘So how come you’re not at work today, Constable Boyd? It’s no wonder that crime is rife in this town – none of the policemen are ever on duty.’

‘It’s actually
Inspector
Boyd, and I am now officially off duty for the day.’

‘Inspector, eh, that sounds important. Do you enjoy it? You never said anything about wanting to become a policeman when we were younger.’

The waitress arrived with our order and he waited until she had placed the cups and plates before us and left before replying.

‘Yes. I love the job. Joining the force was the best decision I ever made. And as for never saying anything about it… Well, I kept a lot of things to myself back then; things that perhaps I should have said out loud.’

My stomach gave a flip. I felt like he was about to tell me something, something big. But something deep inside me resisted. Not knowing how to proceed down that avenue; not even sure if I wanted to, I chose an abrupt change of topic.

‘Jimmy, I want to apologise to you for my behaviour the other day. My little outburst.’

He brushed the apology away with a careless hand, but I continued.

‘No, really. I know it all seems extremely… oh, I don’t know… unlikely… unbalanced … unbelievable…’

‘Pretty much any word starting with “un” then?’

I laughed. He had always been able to make me laugh.

‘It’s just that what I know to be completely and unequivocally true, keeps being proved to be false. It’s very unsettling.’

He took a long sip of his coffee before replying. ‘I’m sure it must be. And frustrating too.’

There was something in his voice, something I’d not heard from anyone else, and it made me drop the forkful of cake which was halfway to my mouth.

‘Do you
believe
me?’ I realised that in all my protestations, I had never asked that precise question of anyone.

His deep blue eyes held mine in a gaze that a person could drown in, if they weren’t careful.

‘I believe that
you
believe it, wholeheartedly and completely. And I can see what trying to convince the rest of us is doing to you.’ He was quiet for a moment and I almost spoke then – thank God I didn’t, or I would never have heard him finish in a whisper, ‘And it’s heartbreaking to see you like this.’

I hadn’t realised his words had made me cry until he lifted my face gently with his finger and dabbed at my eyes with the folded serviette. His voice was still soft and low. ‘And I’ve certainly never seen you cry this much, not even when you kept falling off your bike when you were about eight years old.’

I gave a rather unladylike sniff, but his words had done the trick, he’d made me smile.

‘Oh, I’ve certainly cried plenty in the last five years, more than you’ll ever know.’

‘What about?’

Here it was. The moment to either back right off or plunge in regardless.

‘About losing you. When you saved my life, and lost yours. You’ve no idea what that did to me. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.’

And this was his chance to jump in with the
head-injury-amnesia-soon-all-be-fixed
platitude. But he did none of that. This was Jimmy; the boy who had loved me when we were children and the man he had now become. I could trust him with anything. I could trust him with the truth.