He waited a moment, lost in thought, then very slowly opened the door and stepped outside.
It had stopped raining, but the moor appeared as bleak and as friendless as before. He doubted if even on a brilliant summer's day it would be anything other than solemn and oppressive. Plunging his hands into his coat, he walked across the car park to where the car was. But as he got closer he could see very clearly that Janet was nowhere in sight. He tried the door. Locked.
“You forgot these!”
He turned, frowning, to find the old lady in the doorway. She was smiling, then she threw something towards him. A bunch of keys. They landed at his feet and he stooped to pick them up. When he straightened up again, she had gone. He was the only person there.
27
He didn't know how he did it, not any single part of it. Had he always known, or was it something that had come to him in his self-conscious? Whatever it was, it frightened him, yet left him strangely elated. Because if he could drive, as indeed he was now doing, then his life was going to change.
Until, that is, the police pulled him over and asked for his licence.
It was coming up to 4.30 pm. Soon his dad would be home, and he needed to talk to his dad. At the little village, he parked the car at a designated place and got out to stretch his legs. He stood there for a long time, just staring into space, not sure what to do next. In the back seat was his overnight bag and, on a sudden impulse, he opened up the boot and looked inside.
There was nothing there, except the spare wheel and car-jack. No over-night case, packed by Janet, no indication that there had been anyone else with him. He slammed the boot lid shut, suddenly angry, and leaned against the car, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He didn't feel too good, his stomach was queasy and his head banged. But most of all he felt confused. Jed. Yes, of course it is…That was what the old lady had said, but what did she mean by that? Why should it be of course it is…How could she know?
Moving across the almost empty street, he went into a telephone box and called home. Dad wouldn't be there yet, but it gave him something to do, and besides—
“Hello?”
Jed gave a start as his dad's voice came down the line. “Dad? What are you doing home?”
“Is everything all right? Jed, where are you?”
His voice sounded urgent, scared almost. Jed rubbed his face as another wave of confusion crashed over him, “What the hell – Dad, are you all right? What are you doing home?”
“Finished early.” It was a lie; Jed knew it was a lie. His dad never finished early, it simply wasn't done. Late, yes, but never early. Not even on Christmas Eve. “I know I asked you to call, but I thought it would be later. Still, now that you're on – how is everything?”
“You asked me to call? When did you ask me to call? Dad, you're not making any sense.”
“I'm not…? Jed, you phoned me yesterday. Are you on something?”
On something. My God…
Jed felt his legs go weak and suddenly he was falling, sliding down the inside of the phone-box, his senses reeling, his tongue thick in his mouth, eyes unable to focus, everything going around and around. All of it so very, very black.
He lay in a clean bed, the sheets crisp, smelling of lavender. Tucked in so tightly he was barely able to move, and he struggled to free a hand, which helped cool him down a little. It was hot, stifling. He went to sit up.
“Take it easy now.” The voice calm and kindly belonged to the old lady.
Jed went to sit upright again, suddenly feeling afraid. But she pushed him back down, applying a cold, damp flannel to his forehead and her voice cooed, “There, there. Just try and relax.”
“What…where am I? What's going on?”
“It's all right, you bumped your head is all. You just need to rest and, when you're a bit better, I'll explain everything. As much as I can, at least.”
“But my dad, I was—”
“Your dad's fine. You're fine. Just try and rest.”
He gave himself up to the voice and the cool, crisp sheets. The heat seeped out of his body and the flannel, so good on his forehead, brought such a sense of contentment he soon closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away…
On waking the second time, the tension was gone, his body cocooned in a warm, soothing glow. Almost total darkness enveloped him, the only light coming from a pathetic oil lamp spluttering alarmingly in the far corner. Cautiously, he sat up and realized he was alone. His headache had gone and he felt human again. No less confused, but as strong as when he stepped into the phone box. When was that? Four-thirty? He squinted at his watch face, barely able to make out the time. A few minutes past ten. His heart lurched at that and he swung his legs from under the covers and went to stand up.
She came through the door in a rush, face screwed up into a scowl. “What do you think you are doing? Of all the silly nonsense – get back into bed this instant!”
Trying to fight back, his anger at having slept so long giving him a surge of strength, the old lady nevertheless pushed him back with surprising ease.
“I've got to go,” he shouted, not caring for her soothing charms, all the help she had given him, “I need to explain to Dad what's going on – and I need to find Janet.”
“Try and calm down,” she said, tucking in the sheets.
“Who the bloody hell are you, anyway? A how the hell did I end up here, in this bed, in this bloody, bloody place?”
“I know you're anxious,” she said, stroking his forehead, brushing the hair from his face, “but you have to trust me. It'll take some time for the drugs to wear off and until then, you need to rest.”
“Drugs? Drugs? What the hell do you mean? Who are you?”
Another attempt to rise, but her hand pressed on his chest, forcing him down, so strong for someone so old and so small. “You're in shock, Jed. You just need to rest. It'll all become clear in the morning.”
“Drugs you said. Who drugged me? Is that why I fainted? Drugs? You've drugged me?”
“Yes, but not that sort of drug, Jed. Antidote would be a better word for it, an antidote to all the junk they've been putting inside you.”
“Anti – what? Junk they've put into me? What are you talking about?”
She stroked his head. calming him, tiny cooing sounds coming from her mouth. Slowly his eyes grew heavy again.
“I don't understand any of this,” he said, his voice thick, head all fuzzy, clogged up with cotton wool, the fatigue, over-taking him. “I just need to talk to my dad.”
“I know you do. And you will. But for the time being you concentrate on getting your strength back.”
“But drugs you said. I don't…Please, just tell me.”
“It was me. I gave you something, something to help. That's all. In the tea.” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Now sleep.”
And he did.
28
Shortly after a breakfast of porridge, followed by eggs and bacon, Jed slid in behind the wheel of the little Vauxhall and turned the key. After the third attempt, the engine spluttered into life, not a promising sign. The old lady stood beside the car, drying her hands on the white apron around her waist. “You've got my number?”
Jed patted his breast pocket and smiled. Feeling awkward, he stared at the steering wheel. “I don't know what to say, where to begin.”
“Don't say anything. Talk to your dad. Talk to your brother. If you need any help, you call me.” She leaned in through the open window and kissed him.
“Thank you.”
“God bless you, Jed.”
He put the car into gear, slowly drove away from the visitors' centre, and headed for the forest road, taking him away from that mournful place.
Jed stopped only once, to fill up with petrol. He found his wallet stuffed with notes and he wondered why he had brought so much money with him. Yet one more thing of which he had no memory. He purchased a sandwich and a drink and consumed them in the car, staring into the bleak,
grey unfriendly car park and thought about what the old lady had said. He'd been drugged. Hence all the confusion, the loss of memory, the idea of living two lives. Janet and Jon. Names from reading books at infant school. Names meant to be innocent.
Finishing his meagre meal, he drove down long, winding roads, never pausing, keeping the accelerator depressed all the way down to the floor.
At a large service station on the M6 motorway, when he stopped for a toilet break, a couple of police officers gave him a curious look. Their attention became diverted when someone inadvertently reversed into another parked car, and Jed was able to continue on his way unhindered. Setting a steady pace, motorways merged, the Liverpool tunnel flashing by, and soon, the time approaching early evening, he finally brought the car to a halt outside his house.
Dad was not home, which was peculiar. There was no note either, but as Jed hadn't warned him of his return, not so surprising. From now on, he would keep things to himself and not give too much away. Things might be safer that way, give him more control over his life and the direction it took. No more outside influences.
He scoured the kitchen for something to eat, finding only a few pieces of bread, which he toasted. As he prepared to make a cup of coffee, the doorbell rang. Not once, but three times, in quick succession. Jed groaned at the caller's impatience. With cup and toast in one hand, he tore open the door, a little annoyed.
“Thank God you're home – where the hell have you been?”
It took Jed a few moments to find his breath, but not before both toast and coffee fell to the floor forgotten.
Standing in the doorway, face drawn with anguish and concern, was his mother.
She'd brought some shopping with her. “I didn't think you'd have much in,” she mumbled, almost to herself, as she set about filling up cupboards and the fridge with the items she had bought. Jed watched her, his head full of questions but not knowing where to begin. Trapped in confusion, he sat and gazed at her, incredulous.
When at last she'd finished, she turned to him, wiping her hands down the front of her skirt. She brushed some wayward hair from her face with the back of her hand. She looked flustered, a little annoyed, obvious that she didn't want to be there.
“You're dad's in hospital.”
Jed blinked. “What?”
“Stupid man that he is, he was in some warehouse, getting the place ready for painting, and he moved a large cabinet. By himself. Stupid and proud.” She exhaled loudly, went to the sink with the kettle and filled it up.
Jed's impatience boiled to the surface, “And? What happened?”
She put the kettle on the hob and sat down. “He ruptured himself.”
He wanted to laugh, but the dark look on her face forced him to stop. “Ruptured himself? What – I don't understand. Why is he in hospital?”
She planted her elbows on the tabletop and glared at him, “Are you completely stupid? Where have you been? If you had been here, this probably would never have happened.”
He gaped at her. “How do you work that one out? You said he did it in a warehouse – and you still haven't told me why he's in hospital.”
“He nearly died. Stupid man, trying to move the damned thing on his own. What was he thinking. And you – you!”
And so it continued, the tirade. Blame, accusations, reproach. Jed sat in a state of shock, taking it all, making him feel numb. Dad in hospital, Mum back at home and still only Thursday. On Monday, his first exam loomed, but he couldn't for the life of him remember which one. He put his face in his hands and tried to block everything out, but without success. Mum's voice, droning on and on. He gazed up in despair.
“And whose is that car outside?”
“Janet's.”
“Janet? Who is Janet?”
“A friend.”
She threw back her head, having heard enough and flounced out of the kitchen, stomping her way upstairs. “We're going to the hospital,” she called before slamming the bathroom door.
The telephone was ringing. Jed climbed to his feet, everything heavy, and answered it.
“You left me in Scotland.”
Jon's voice sounded cold, menacing. Not knowing how to respond, Jed merely whimpered in reply, a grunt, “Uh.”
“I'm not pleased. What happened?”
Jed took a breath, heartbeat banging, so loudly Jon had to have heard it. “I collapsed. Fainted. I had no way of getting in touch with you. And Janet – she disappeared.”
“So where did you stay – you weren't at the guesthouse.”
Jed looked up the stairs anxiously, not wanting his mother to hear. Stomping around in the bedroom, she seemed busy enough, but he kept his voice low, knowing she had hearing as acute as a bat's. “No. I stayed with a woman. An old lady.”
“Old lady?” Jed sensed the change in Jon's tone. From cold, to fearful, full of urgency. “What old lady?”
“At the visitors' centre. When Janet ran off, I tried to follow, but I didn't make it. The old lady looked after me after I'd collapsed.”
“Visitors' centre? What are you talking about – what visitors' centre?”
“At Culloden.”
A prolonged pause followed, during which Jed could have sworn he heard Jon's own heartbeat increase alarmingly. They could start up a group, Jon and the Heartbeats. Jed squeezed his eyes shut. Where did that come from? A joke? He hadn't made a joke for – well, forever!
Jon's voice came again, sharp and angry. “You have no idea what you have done!” Abruptly the line went dead.
Frowning, Jed gently returned the receiver back on its cradle and turned to see his mother coming down the stairs, fresh faced and smiling. Her air of joyful abandonment left him cold and he pushed past her, determined not to catch her eye.
They came out of the hospital, both feeling depressed. Larry had barely spoken, depressed, not himself. All sorts of wires and tubes protruded from seemingly every inch of his body. He looked awful, his skin a pale yellow colour, his eyes wide, at one point rolling back into his head, as if he were brain-damaged. All of which was nonsense, of course. He's only experienced a rupture, Jed's mum was quick to point out. But no sooner had she left the ward than she broke down, Jed having to guide her towards the entrance as she blubbed, “He's not going to die, is he?”
The sharp, night air bit cold as they walked across the car park. Around them, people came and went as the human tide of suffering ebbed and waned. Mindful only of his mum, he helped her into the passenger seat. As he went round to the driver-s side, he looked up and caught sight of a figure standing directly beneath the glow of a nearby street lamp, as if deliberately staged purely for his benefit. He gave a muffled cry. Inspector Sullivan, laughing loudly, leaned against the post, talking to another man, the other man being the reason why Jed felt his entire world imploding. It was Matthew, his half-brother.
Neither looked up, and Jed watched them as they shook hands before going their separate ways, Matthew raising his hand in a brief, friendly 'goodbye'.
Putting his hands flat on the roof of the car, Jed's mouth went slack, his stomach lurching.
Matthew and Sullivan knew one another?
But how, and why? What was their connection, how had it come about. He rubbed his face, the confusion, the fear returning, inescapable, unrelenting.
Matthew and Sullivan.
“Come on,” his mother snapped from inside the car, “I need to get home for a cup of tea.”
Feeling sick, he clambered in next to her.
Not a word passed between them during the entire journey home.
The house felt cold when they got back, colder than usual. Jed made tea and she went into the living room. He heard her switching on the electric fire, a long, drawn out sigh. Coming into the room with the tea, he stopped in the doorway, saw her with her legs stretched out, head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed. It was as if time had gone backwards. His Mum, home again. Life back to normal.
He put the cups on the occasional table and
sank into the armchair opposite her, knowing life could never be normal ever again.
“I know what you're thinking,” she said, without opening her eyes or moving any part of her body.
“Oh? Do you?”
“You're thinking why I came back.”
He reached forward and picked up his mug of tea. “I suppose it's because you feel guilty.”
“Oh no,” she said, opening her eyes. “It's not that – what have I got to feel guilty about? I fell in love. That's not something I am ashamed about.” She smiled. “You probably haven't got a clue what I'm thinking. How can you. You probably hate me.”
“I don't hate you.” The temperature was rising, the room pressing in around him, growing uncomfortable. He didn't want to be having this conversation, not with his mum, the one who had run off and left his dad.
“But you don't understand.”
He shook his head. “I'm not sure I want to.” A buzz ran through his stomach. Was this what it was like to be 'grown up', to have conversations about things that matter? He'd never really talked to his mum before. She breezed along the edges of his life, the daily grind of getting up, going to work, coming home, cooking the tea. He never stopped to think of her as a person, with feelings, dreams, aspirations. How could she – she was his mum.
“I'm going to try and tell you some things, things that I think you need to know. You see, I fell in love twice – that's right, I'm in love with two men. I want to try to make you understand, to make you accept that life isn't a neatly tied up parcel. It's untidy, painful, disjointed. Let me tell you.”
So he sat and listened to her story; her explanation.
29
Her words were simple, matter-of-fact, but carrying such a history of sadness, such weight of emotion that he almost believed he was listening to someone else. Never had he heard her speak so intimately, so openly. At the start, he squirmed in his chair, head down, trying not to catch her eyes, wishing he could make his excuses and leave. But as she spoke, he forgot she was his mother. She became like any other woman, one whose circumstances had torn her heart apart.
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