The thing is with disposable people, no one steps up to defend their reputation. There is no one there to search for them, to fight their corner, to ask questions or look for clues, when these people need someone they have no one to call on. Some people disappear without a trace and it’s like they never, ever existed in the world.
Lowe had been in the force long enough to know the most important rule of survival in crime: get your story straight and stick to it. He set the scene and no one questioned him. I reckon those who did have any questions were shut down pretty quickly too.
The official line was: crackhead Alfie Harris approached the Andersons and demanded cash, personal items, whatever, but he was met with resistance, struggle, and, yes, screams. There were gun shots, bang, bang, and the couple went down. Lowe arrived on the scene, Alfie Harris refused to surrender his weapon and so, fearing for his safety, Lowe took the shot, the fatal shot, and Alfie Harris died and disappeared. Lowe cleaned up in more ways than one – he wiped down his fingerprints, replaced them with Alfie’s and cashed in with a quarter of a million and the drugs that he found at the scene. People always want more.
Yeah, you could say Lowe got away with it for long enough but not enough forever, he ran out of time in the end. As soon as I had hit 15, the same age as Alfie Harris was when he was murdered, I was going to make damn sure that the guy had someone to fight his corner. Surely everyone, even the invisible ones, deserve to catch a break?
29
Angie: paperwork
So I go from two parents, to no parents, to two parents again, possibly. Hard to get your head around something like this? Tell me about it. I also know is that we get hung up on names but, when it comes down to it, names don’t matter, not really. Just ask Lennox Jones. I’m Angie Anderson but, well, I’m not really. The surname is not mine. I’ll find out who I am eventually, although I guess it might take some searching. Aren’t we all searching in this life, in whatever life? For the first time in a long time, in forever, I realise that I’m no different to anyone else. We all have pieces missing, sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn’t, some pieces matter, some pieces don’t.
Lennox was heading back to San Francisco for the summer. He wanted me to go with him, swap skateboard for surfboard but passport-control people really don’t like people who officially don’t exist.
Okay, so I might not get through to the other side of security but I turned up at the airport just the same because he wanted me to. “It’s not my scene,” I said, protesting, but he wasn’t having it. “Human wants can never be satisfied,” he said.
We stood near the departure gates.
“No tears,” he said, shifting from foot to foot.
I looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me. Fake it till you make it. I’d learned from the best.
He laughed. I laughed.
His family were there, surrounded by more suitcases than I’d ever seen my entire life, we’re talking Louis Vuitton luggage pop-up shop. Lennox seemed more relaxed around his sisters and parents, perhaps because they were now more relaxed around him.
“You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child. How’s that working out?” I asked his mother as I helped her load suitcases onto the belt.
She stopped heaving suitcases and hugged me hard. “It’s working out just fine,” she whispered. “Just fine, Angie Anderson. Just fine.”
I smiled, let myself be hugged, let my head go. Two parents, to no parents, to two parents again. We are chemistry, we are DNA, we are memories.
Luggage through to the conveyor, Lennox stood back, arms wide. “Group hug,” he shouted. We all bundled in, me, the Joneses, everyone. I saw Max Jones grinning at his son.
Then it was time for the Joneses to disappear. Just in time, I saw Viv flapping through the airport wearing shoes higher than the Shard and a puffball skirt.”
“I’m here, darlings. I’m here!” she cried. “Never ask a brother who doesn’t wear a watch to drive you to the airport. Not too late? Oh good, Jones, you’re not gone. And you must be Mr and Mrs Jones?” She flurried around, hugging, kissing, official introductions, hellos and goodbyes.
Then Lennox and I stood facing each other. I pulled off my favourite baseball cap and put in on his head, fixing it in place, attention to detail, like he was going to a wedding not on a long-haul flight.
“Get the paperwork sorted,” he said.
“Look after the cap,” I replied.
“See you later, right?” he whispered, his mouth on my ear, leaning into me.
“If you’re lucky,” I whispered right back, leaning into him more.
We’d made a deal and stuck to it: no goodbyes.
Ions, beats per minute, revolutions, love, first love. There is so much movement in the world, no wonder we end up in a spin, head over heels.
He walked away, he disappeared, he didn’t look back, no goodbyes. He also put me back together again. Lennox Jones had been sent to save me, it was never the other way round. I wasn’t the breakdown recovery service, he was. Funny that, we can often be so entirely convinced of one thing when, in fact, the opposite is true.
Lennox Jones disappeared into a different time zone. San Francisco, CA, USA. Eight hours behind me. I was eight hours ahead, a habit, I reckon, that’ll last me a lifetime. Inside, I sort of fell apart for a second and then I pulled it back together again. I missed him, I adored him, I would wait for him, September, September, September.
While I was waiting for Viv to buy us breakfast from one of the airport’s cafes, I got to thinking that maybe those who suffer a violent, horrible death do get a second chance at this life, a good life, a chance to be one again, not broken. It is a theory, yeah, that could be dismissed as improbable but surely not dismissed completely because no one, not even those eminently scientific minds or religious ones, know what happens after we die. It is an unprovable theory too. White lights, angels, Hell, an afterlife, another life, a different life, whatever, all we can be completely sure of is that we’ll definitely have the answer when our time is up but not before.
Viv was back. “One mocha latte with an extra espresso,” she said, handing over a large paper cup. “And, here you go, a cinnamon pastry.”
We headed outside to find somewhere to sit. We’d make our own way home, eventually, by bus, probably. Together.
Planes overhead, leaving, arriving, I sipped the coffee and asked Viv what she thought about Lennox as Alfie, according to what Mrs Martel and MacKenzie had said.
Eyes narrowed in concentration, she blew on her coffee to cool it down. “Ask me, once upon a time, and I’d have said Lennox was good at making you believe what you wanted to believe,” she said carefully. “From a distance, he could have been a con artist, a trickster, a joker, a player, hell, even a stalker.”
She paused. I waited. She continued.
“Ask me now, I’d say, up close, Lennox has been here before, as Alfie Harris. I believe the reincarnation version.”
“Not reincarnation,” I corrected.
“Reinvention then,” said Viv. “Reappearance in this life as someone else. Or whatever they call it.”
“Because of Rob?”
Viv nodded. “Yeah, definitely because of Rob. The thought of losing him, him being gone forever, was, felt… desperate. I needed to believe that if the worst happened, if he died, it wasn’t over. Even if I didn’t know him in another life, wouldn’t see him again or talk to him, but knew some part of him lived on, that he was out there, somewhere, it would hurt less, much less. Maybe the truth is whatever we need to believe it to be. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. I watched the planes. I started to feel okay, really okay, because I knew Lennox would always be out there, somewhere.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I asked, resting my head on her shoulder.
“Te amo,” she replied, without missing a beat.
30
Lennox: again
&nb
sp; I am the exception to the norm. We tend not to have recollections about our former lives such as names and personal histories. We simply start again. We might experience vague feelings of familiarity, flashes of recognition, pre-programmed knowledge about stuff that hasn’t been wiped clean from before but usually we just ride with it, deal with it. We know no different.
For me, I had unfinished business, an unfinished life. I remembered everything, not all at once but it came back to me, little by little, piece by piece. I’ve also read everything there is to read on this experience and discovered that it might happen to me more than once, over and over. Whatever, whoever, wherever, whenever, I absolutely believe that I will see Angie Anderson again.
The therapists suggested a reasonably believable truth based on an outlandish concept. To most people, it wouldn’t wash but Martel and MacKenzie delivered a solid case that made sense to me, finally.
Ask anyone, when something’s wrong with, say our head, or our heart, or any part of us that isn’t as it should be, and they’ll tell you, “We just want a diagnosis – we want to find out what’s wrong because it’s the not knowing that kills us in the end.”
I wanted to know. I found out. I was Alfie Harris. I’m not now, although some part of him lives on in me. This was the truth. It was excruciating at times, shocking and, hell yeah, disorientating but the moment I knew what was going on I could start to deal with it. I wasn’t lost, I was just in two places at once. I wasn’t insane, I was just two people at once.
I was never in that park as Lennox Jones. There were no witnesses. It wasn’t about antidepressants in the drinking water either. I know what creates a powerful chemical reaction in the brain and she’s more powerful than medication in my bloodstream.
People might find the diagnosis hard to accept but I don’t need acceptance, I just need to get on with this life. Alfie has been set free, I’ve gone back to being me again.
Angie came to the airport, breezing over the polished concourse towards me, her long, confident stride covering the ground in a short space of time. She didn’t want to wave me off at the departure gates but I’d used my powers of persuasion to make her change her mind. I needed to see her right up until the last moment, I needed to make every second count because, well, we just don’t know if the next second might be the last one, do we?
She was there. I said, “No tears.” She looked around, like, who me? We laughed. She’s not as tough as she looks. I wanted her to come to San Francisco with me but it wasn’t to be. No powers of persuasion are going to make a difference when someone doesn’t own a passport.
She gave me her favourite baseball cap, the one with the red love heart. She fussed over me until she’d positioned it just right, not too low over the eyes. I leaned into her, she leaned in more.
Then the goodbye moment was over, it was gone. Proceed to gate 39. I deliberately didn’t look back, don’t look back. Next minute, I’m unhooking my watch, belt, boots for x-ray inspection and walking through the security archway, the scanners confirming that I had nothing to hide.
Acceleration was 140 knots in 35 seconds, throttle up and wheels off the runway. In no time, we were straight through the clouds, above, where it was white, blue and bright. I closed my eyes.
Higher we climbed, moving from one world to the next, leaving people, places, questions and those red-velvet memories behind. I might return, I might keep dying, I might keep coming back again.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Dr Kevin Morton, dedicated editor, who takes whatever genre I throw at him with professionalism, good humour and skill. You Again was written thanks to the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) approach to creating a novel – 50,000 words in 30 days. It was great, creative, feverish fun. You, dear reader, as ever, thank you for supporting me, reviewing me and sharing the love with me. Dear mum, dad, Caroline and Sniffy in our wonderful family tree. And, of course, Tim and Libby Larkin, heartbeats, I’ll do anything for you, I’m sticking with you.
About the author
Helen MacArthur has worked as a writer and copy editor on national newspapers and magazines for almost 20 years. Other eBooks available: Four Widows and Minnie Chase Makes A Mistake, quarter finalist Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, 2014. Say hello on Twitter: @hmacbooks
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