I Found You (5 page)

Romaine appears at her bedroom door, blonde ringlets in a disaster, drooping jersey pyjamas sagging at the crotch. Together with Griff, they tiptoe down the narrow, open-tread staircase that leads to the hallway. The other dogs greet them silently with mouths stretched into black-lipped smiles and tails beating against the flagstones. Alice holds her breath vaguely as they enter the kitchen, aware of what lies beyond
the back door, nervous of the unknowingness of the day ahead. She loads the dogs’ bowls with meat, makes Romaine a toasted bagel with peanut butter, herself an oversized mug of tea and a bowl of All Bran. All the while she has half an eye on the back door. Wondering. Unsettled.

But by eight thirty Kai and Jasmine are on the school bus and she is gone from the house with the dogs and Romaine and there is no sign of him. The studio is still and silent, as though there is no one in there at all.

Derry looks at her curiously at the school gates, which are only just being unlocked by the caretaker. ‘You’re early,’ she says. ‘And . . .’ She peers more closely at her, ‘. . . you’re wearing make-up.’

‘Whatevs,’ says Alice.

‘What’s going on?’

‘The man came in,’ says Romaine. ‘The wet man from the beach.’

Alice rolls her eyes. ‘He didn’t
come in
,’ she corrects. ‘I asked him in. To dry off. To have a bath, something to eat. I’m pretty sure he’s already gone.’

But when she gets home forty minutes later the curtains are pulled open in the studio and she can see movement inside. She rubs the dirty puddle speckles from the dogs with an old towel, checks her reflection briefly and switches on the kettle.

His dreams were remarkable last night. After so many hours of blankness, of a head full of nothing, to be plunged suddenly into this ethereal world of people and experiences and places was quite exhilarating. He clutches on to the fading fragments as he comes to, knowing that there might be something there, a clue to tie him back to himself. But they float away, hopelessly, intangibly.

He sits up in bed and rubs his face hard. The curtains in this room are gossamer thin and the light outside is the particular acid-blue of a morning after rain. He can hear scuffling at his door and peers through the curtains into the earth-dark eyes of a dog. The dog looks as if it is about to smile, but then the mouth stretches further until its teeth are revealed and then its gums and the dog snarls and he lets the curtain drop. At least he can remember where he is now, he thinks. At least he can remember tea in a thermos and pizza in a kitchen and a leggy woman with thick blonde hair and a hot bath in a mouldy, echoing bathroom. And he remembers the name
Frank
, bestowed on him last night by the little girl with the golden ringlets.

He wants to go to the toilet, he wants to brush his teeth, but the dog is going mental outside the door and he has no idea if it’s the kind of dog that just barks for fun. It’s a . . . He searches for the name of the breed, but it’s gone. Assuming he ever knew. But it’s the sort
of dog that thugs have. Muscly and square with a huge jaw.

He opens the curtains and stares at the dog. The dog barks louder. And then, from the tiny door at the back of the house, Alice appears. She looks cross and shouts something at the dog, and grabs it by its collar; then she sees his face and she walks towards him.

‘Have you remembered who you are yet?’ she asks, handing him a mug of tea with one hand, keeping hold of the dog with the other.

He takes the mug and says, ‘No. Still no idea. Had lots of weird dreams but I can’t remember any of them.’ He shrugs and rests the mug on the table by the door.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘come inside when you’re ready. I’ll leave the door open. I can make you some breakfast if you’re hungry. I’ve got fresh eggs.’

It’s quiet in the cottage when he bows his head down to pass through the back door a while later. No children. Alice is looking at something on an iPad and sighing a lot.

‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.

She looks at him as though he’s simple and says, ‘School.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course.’

She switches off the iPad and folds over its case. ‘Do you reckon you’ve got any children?’

‘Christ.’ The thought had not occurred to him. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’ve got loads. I don’t even know how old I am. How old do you reckon I am?’

She examines his face with her grimy, green-blue eyes. ‘Somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, I reckon.’

He nods. ‘How old are you?’

‘You’re not supposed to ask a lady that.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK. I’m not really a lady. And I’m forty-one.’

‘And your children,’ he says. ‘Their father?’

‘
Ers
,’ she says. ‘Fath
ers
. I’ve totally failed in the providing-a-conventional-family-unit-for-my-children department. Jasmine’s dad was a holiday romance. Brazil. Didn’t know I was pregnant until I’d been home for two weeks and had no way of tracking him down. Kai’s dad was my next-door neighbour in Brixton. We were – excuse the expression – fuck buddies. He just disappeared one day, when Kai was about five. A new family moved in. That was that. And Romaine’s dad was the love of my life but . . .’ She pauses. ‘He went mental. Did a bad thing. He lives in Australia now. So.’ She sighs.

He pauses, trying to find something to say that won’t sound like he’s insulting her. ‘Have you never been married, then?’

She laughed drily. ‘No. Never managed to snare a man.’

He pauses again, looks down at his hands. ‘I’m not wearing a wedding ring.’

‘No, you’re not. Doesn’t mean you’re not married though. You might be one of those bastards who refuses to wear one.’

‘Yes,’ he says vaguely. ‘I guess.’

She sighs and pushes the sleeves of her checked shirt up her arms. She has a long dip between her radius and the flesh of her forearm, which reminds him of someone.

And there! Immediately, overpoweringly. His mother. His mother has that dip. She also has that little pouch of crinkled flesh at the nib of her elbow that he noticed yesterday on Alice. He has a mother. A mother with arms! He smiles and says, ‘I just remembered something! I just remembered my mother’s arms.’

‘Oh,’ she says, brightening. ‘That’s good. Can you remember any other bits of her?’

He shakes his head sadly.

‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I went on to Google last night, to look up your symptoms. Apparently, unless this is all a massive wind-up, you are in something called a “fugue state”.’

‘Right.’

‘Does that mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘OK.’ She runs her hand over her forehead. ‘Well. It’s a kind of amnesia, but it’s not brought on by head
trauma or alcohol or drugs or anything like that. It’s usually caused by an emotional trauma. Or a shock to the system. Often it can be caused by seeing or remembering something from your past that you might have been repressing. And the brain kind of shuts down, like a self-protection mechanism, and people do just what you’ve done. Turn up in random places with no memory of who they are or where they come from or what the fuck they’re doing there. It’s pretty fascinating actually.’

‘What happens to these other people? I mean, will I get better?’

‘Well, that’s the excellent news. Well, sort of excellent. They all recover. Sometimes within hours, usually days, occasionally a few weeks. But it is temporary. You will get your memory back.’

‘Wow,’ he says, nodding slowly. He feels numb. He knows he should be pleased. But the concept of remembering who he is is hard to grasp when he can’t remember who he is.

‘And look,’ she continues, ‘you just remembered your mother’s arm. I mean, it’s not exactly a
revelation
. But it shows it’s all still there, just waiting to be unlocked. So, the big question is: What now?’

‘What do you mean?’
What now
. It’s a phrase that holds no meaning for him.

‘I mean, we should probably take you to the police, shouldn’t we?’

His response to this suggestion is visceral. All his muscles contract, his fists curl tightly inwards, his breathing quickens, his pulse speeds up. It’s the strongest onslaught of sensation he’s had since he found himself on the beach two nights ago.

‘No,’ he says, as softly as he can, but he can hear the . . . what is it? Anger? Terror? He can hear it in the bass of his voice. He has a sensation of pushing someone, pushing them hard against a wall. He feels hot breath against his cheek. ‘No,’ he says again, even more softly. ‘I don’t think I want to do that. I think . . . Can I just stay here for one more night? See if I get my memory back first. Maybe we can go another time. If . . .’

Alice nods, but he senses that she is unconvinced. ‘Sure,’ she says after a short pause. ‘One more night. Sure. But after that, if you still don’t know who the hell you are, you know. Because that room, I usually rent it out, extra income, so . . .’

‘I understand. One more night.’

She smiles uncertainly. ‘Good. But in the meantime, keep ’em coming. The memories, I mean.’ She stands up and reaches for a box of eggs so fresh that there are feathers stuck to the cardboard. ‘Fried?’ she says. ‘Scrambled?’

‘I have no idea,’ he says. ‘You decide.’

Lily sits in the waiting room at the police station. She is clutching a carrier bag containing a small album of wedding photos and Carl’s passport. She found nothing else in her search of his drawers and filing boxes. Nothing at all. No baby photos. No birth certificate. No identifying paperwork of any kind. There was one locked drawer but when she put her hand into it from the drawer above, it seemed to be empty. It was rather strange, she thought. But she assumes that everything must be at his mother’s house. Carl is a tidy man and a minimalist. It makes sense that he would not want to clutter up his beautiful new flat with things he has no use for.

In her other hand she holds a paper cup of coffee. She shouldn’t have bought it; she has thirty-eight pounds
in cash in her purse and no access to a bank account. Carl paid for everything, He was setting up a separate bank account for her, was going to put money into it for her every month until she finished her accountancy course. She will have to ask her mother to send her some money. But she knows it will take time for her mother to do that. So. Thirty-eight pounds. She should not have bought the big coffee. But she needs it. She has not slept at all.

The big policewoman called Beverly appears with a small smile. ‘Good morning, Mrs Monrose. Do you want to come this way? I’ll find us a room where we can have a chat.’

Lily follows her down a corridor and into a small room that smells of stale cake.

‘So,’ the WPC says as they both sit down. ‘Still no sign of Mr Monrose, I assume?’

‘No. Of course. Or I would not be here.’

‘It was just a turn of phrase, Mrs Monrose.’

‘Yes,’ says Lily. ‘I understand.’

Beverly smiles a strange smile. ‘So, you want to make an official missing-person report.’ She clicks a pen and turns a page in her notebook.

‘Yes. Please.’

‘I did run your husband’s name through our system yesterday, Mrs Monrose. Nothing came up. He’s not in any of the London hospitals; nothing came up at any of the Met stations.’

Lily has no idea what a ‘met station’ is but nods, because she’s already sure this woman thinks she is an idiot. ‘And what about the police stations?’ she says. ‘Did you check there?’

Beverly gives her an odd look. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Like I said. Nothing.’

Lily nods again. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I searched the flat. For anything I could find. And, you know, it’s a new flat. We only just moved in. I think, probably, he has left all his paperwork with his mother.’

‘And have you been in touch with his mother?’

‘I have not. I do not know where she lives. Her phone number is on Carl’s phone. It is not written down anywhere.’

‘Her name?’

‘Maria. Or something like that.’

‘So, Maria Monrose?’ She looks at Lily for confirmation before writing it down.

‘And where does she live?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere to the west. Beginning with an S.’

Beverly grimaces. ‘Slough?’ she suggests. ‘Swindon?’

‘I don’t know,’ say Lily with a shrug. ‘Maybe.’

‘OK. And what about other family? Brothers? Sisters?’

‘He has a sister called Suzanne. Or something. She lives in the same place.’

‘Married?’

‘I don’t know. Yes. I think. I think there is a nephew.’

‘So, possibly Suzanne Monrose. Possibly not?’ She writes this down.

Lily pulls the carrier bag on to her lap and feels for the passport. ‘I found this,’ she says, placing it in front of Beverly.

Beverly flicks though it and says, ‘It’s current. That’s good. At least we can eliminate the possibility that he’s gone abroad.’

Lily snorts. ‘Of course he has not.’

She sees Beverly roll her eyes very slightly and take in a small breath of impatience. ‘I’ll need to keep this,’ she says, touching the passport, ‘run it through our system.’

‘Sure. And then there is this.’ Lily slides the photo album across the table towards Beverly. ‘Some better photos of him. Ones where he is smiling so you can get a better idea of what kind of a man he is. So you can see that he was happy and not about to run away from me.’

She watches Beverly flick through the album. ‘And this was in . . .?’

‘Kiev. Yes. He wanted to marry me in my home country, to be surrounded by my family and my friends. He wanted me to be happy and relaxed. Not stressed out in a strange place. With strange people. He is the best man in the world. My friend, my father,
my lover, my husband. Everything.’ She finds she has her fist clutched against her heart and that there are tears in her eyes. ‘I am sorry,’ she says.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ says Beverly. ‘It’s understandable for you to feel this way. Now, is there anyone you can call? Any relatives in this country? Anyone who can stay with you for a while? Take care of you?’

‘No.’ She bunches her hands together in her lap. ‘No. There is no one here.’