Fractured

by Dani Atkins

  Our old house looked the same. That’s to say the same as it had five years ago, which was conversely not the same as it had been when I’d stood before it a few days earlier. The iron railings and wooden shutters had disappeared, as if they never were. The front door and window frames had regained their unkempt look and could now all do with a fresh coat of paint. Likewise the state of the garden had suffered an obvious decline. It all looked wonderful.

  The first surprise came only seconds after opening the front door. I stepped across the threshold, closely following my father, and then took a sharp step backwards as a bolt of something long and black streaked across the hall and into the lounge.

  ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘It was only Kizzy. We must have startled her.’

  She hadn’t been the only one.

  ‘And Kizzy would be?’

  ‘Our cat. Well, my cat now, I guess, since you left home.’

  I took a second to absorb this surprising information. My childhood had been remarkably bereft of pets, aside from the odd goldfish or two, and it was peculiar to learn that my father now owned one.

  ‘You bought her for me when you left for university. So I wouldn’t be so lonely, you said.’

  Well, that had been quite nice of me.

  I followed him slowly down the corridor taking in this new revelation. I had gone to university. And as I walked into the shabbily familiar lounge there, proudly displayed on the wall, was the evidence of that. My own face stared back at me from the large gilt-framed photograph. Swathed in gown and wearing a mortar board, there was no mistaking the look of pride in those eyes as I held in my hands a fancily engraved scroll. Absurdly I felt my eyes begin to prickle with tears. I had graduated. I had gone to university, gained a diploma and achieved my dreams. For the first time I actually questioned why I was so driven to tear down a world that might actually be far better than the one in which I really lived.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ questioned my dad, already halfway towards the kitchen to put on the kettle. He came from a generation where no problem was so huge that it couldn’t be solved by simply pouring hot water onto a bag of tea leaves. I called out my response, but instead of sitting down to rest in one of the well-worn but comfortable-looking armchairs, I found myself wandering restlessly around the room, searching for… I’m not sure what I was searching for: was it definitive proof that this whole world around me was false, or was it to find evidence to prove that, unbelievably, it might actually all be real?

  My graduation photo wasn’t the only picture on display in the room, for the mantelpiece held several other frames. I walked over to examine them more closely. The first two I recognised: my parents on their wedding day, the dated fashions and hairstyles obliterated into insignificance by the brilliance of their smiles. I had always loved that picture. The next was the only photograph we still had of the three of us. It had been taken on a day trip to the seaside, and I stood between them on the pier, I can’t remember where exactly, one hand held tightly in the palm of each parent. The photograph suddenly began to blur and waver, and I felt overwhelmed, as I hadn’t in years, by a shaft of despair and loss for the mother I couldn’t even remember having.

  There were still two photographs yet to examine. The first brought out a bubble of laughter, which was just the antidote I needed right then. It had been taken on a school sports day when I was about seven years old. In the picture Jimmy and I held between us a small silver cup for having won the three-legged egg and spoon race. It was the only race I think I ever won during my entire schooldays. Of course, I could have turned out to be a decathlete at university, who was to say? Our eyes shone out in the picture, a happy combination of pride, friendship and pure unadulterated happiness. We were both grinning from ear to ear, seemingly unaware that the huge gaps we sported in our front teeth did little to improve the picture.

  The last photograph I hadn’t seen before, and I lifted it from the shelf and took it to the window to study it better. It was clearly taken quite recently, as I didn’t look any different than I had when I had seen my reflection that morning. The hair was the same, and so too was the unblemished face. The venue looked like a fancy hotel or restaurant; there were gifts piled in clusters upon the table in front of us and in the centre of the photograph were its main subjects: Matt and myself. His arm was tightly wound around my waist, his left hand encompassing mine, holding it aloft to allow the camera to capture the dazzling brilliance of the impressively large ring upon my finger. The radiance of the diamond seemed almost too bright to be contained by the small glass frame.

  I turned swiftly, almost guiltily, as the rattle of tea cups heralded my father’s return. Hastily I replaced the photograph where it had come from.

  ‘Ring any bells?’

  I shook my head sadly. ‘I remember those ones’ – I indicated the much older snapshots with a wave of my hand – ‘but I’ve never seen this one before in my life.’

  My father lowered himself into an armchair, looking sad.

  ‘Nice ring though,’ I observed, trying to elicit some sort of smile from the man I was causing so much concern. ‘I bet he never got that one out of a cracker.’ There it was, the smile I’d been waiting for.

  We sipped our tea in silence, the hot drink taking away the need for conversation. I hated to disturb the tranquillity of the moment but I had to prepare him for something important.

  ‘Dad, I’m expecting Dr Tulloch to call us later on. Let me know when he does, will you?’

  Dad looked up, surprised.

  ‘What would he be calling about? Hasn’t he signed us over to that amnesia chap?’

  I sighed, trying not to show how ‘amnesia’ was now my newest least favourite word.

  ‘Yes, well I left a message and asked him to find out something for me, and when he does I’m sure he’ll be calling us here. Don’t worry. It will all make sense then.’

  My father looked a little bemused but agreed to let me know when the call came.

  He was in the process of trying to persuade me that I might want to go and have a lie down while he prepared us some lunch, when we were both suddenly startled by an angry hissing and spitting sound as the black cat I had seen earlier landed on the settee beside me, took one look at me, and sped off across the room, the hackles on her back raised in a high ridge of fur.

  ‘What the heck…’ began my father, as the cat, halfway out the door, stopped in a scuffle of claws against the carpet, turned to look at me and gave a low angry growl.

  ‘Kizzy!’ shouted my dad in remonstration. ‘What’s got into you?’

  I drew back a little in my seat, not certain if the angry feline was going to pounce. She continued to stare balefully at me across the room, claws out, eyes as staring as large green emeralds. With one last angry spit she turned and fled the room in a streak of fur and fury. My father and I stared at each other in amazement. I broke the silence first.

  ‘Does she usually do that?’

  ‘No. Never. I’ve never seen her act like that before in her life. That cat really adores you.’

  ‘That’s lucky then. I’d hate to see what she’d do if she didn’t like me.’

  He laughed hollowly, but as he gathered up our dirty cups and prepared to leave the room, I could see he was still puzzled by the cat’s inexplicable reaction to me.

  Sometime later that afternoon he knocked on the door of my old bedroom with yet another cup of tea. I’d had gone there initially to find something warmer to put on than the silk suit I’d left the hospital in, but had become completely sidetracked by going through the contents of my old wardrobe and chest of drawers. Beside me on the floor lay piles of old magazines, clothes and mementoes.

  My father picked a precarious path through the debris and laid down the steaming mug on the bedside table.

  ‘I guess I wasn’t too hot on throwing stuff out when I left home.’

  ‘You could say that. Still, it might come in handy now. Jog your memory a little.�
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  I swept a hand across the random collection on the floor. ‘Most of this stuff is from ages ago. I knew it all already.’

  And though I knew it pained him, I had to let him know how I was really feeling. ‘I haven’t changed what I believe, Dad. I know you’re desperately hoping I’m suddenly going to have a huge revelation, and start remembering stuff, but I really don’t believe that’s going to happen. You see, I haven’t forgotten anything. There are no blanks in my memory. None at all. I can detail the last five years for you moment by moment. It’s just a different five years.’

  The mixture of pity and love in his eyes forced me to stop there. I wasn’t helping either my own case or his to understand it any better.

  ‘Let’s just see what the specialist has to say, Rachel. How about that?’

  I nodded slowly. I had to let him hold on to that for a little while longer. He still believed in the omnipotence of a medical ‘specialist’ almost as strongly as he did in the curative powers of tea.

  Before leaving me to pack away the residue of my youth, he stopped at the doorway.

  ‘By the way, I reckon I’ve figured out what must have spooked the cat earlier on.’

  I looked up from a huge pile of magazines destined for the recycling bin.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about it all day, as it was just so strange. Then I realised it must have been your smell.’

  ‘Well that’s nice, Dad.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean like that, but you probably smell of the hospital; you know, antiseptic, medical kind of smell. That was what must have made her act so crazy. She’ll be fine with you now, you’ll see.’

  I wanted to believe him, I really did, but to me it looked far more like the cat had simply been defending her territory from someone she had never seen before in her life.

  By the morning there had still been no phone call from the hospital. In fact the only call at all had been one from Matt telephoning from his hotel room in Germany. I tried to hide the disappointment in my tone when I realised it wasn’t Dr Tulloch on the line but instead my newly acquired fiancé. Fortunately Matt didn’t seem inclined to chat, and the whole conversation was over and done with in under ten minutes.

  ‘How’s Matt?’ enquired my father when I had hung up, and something in his tone snagged my attention and made me look up.

  ‘He’s fine. Pretty busy with work, I guess.’ Working on pure instinct I leapt in feet first with the next question.

  ‘You don’t like Matt much, do you?’

  He fumbled with the newspaper he was flicking through, and I think he took a fraction too long before replying.

  ‘Of course I do. What nonsense. Why ever would you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know, something in your tone, in your eyes…’ I trailed off.

  He met my enquiry full on.

  ‘Even if I did… have doubts, I would never say anything when he is clearly the one you want to be with. And you’ve been together for a very long time now.’

  ‘Not in my world we haven’t. We broke up shortly after the… Well, shortly after leaving school.’

  My words seem to ignite a strange look of curiosity.

  ‘Interesting, that: that your amnesia has manufactured a world where Matt isn’t your fiancé at all. I wonder what that could all be about?’

  And clearly thinking he was onto something with this line of thought, he continued, ‘And tell me, are you and Jimmy an item in this “other” life of yours?’

  I gave a sigh. Did no one listen to what I was saying?

  ‘No, hardly, Dad. Not with him being dead and all.’

  There was a strange and pregnant silence between us. Our eyes met and held for a long moment before we both decided it was wisest to drop the subject.

  I wandered into the kitchen the following morning, hair still dripping from my shower, wearing an old dressing gown that was several sizes too small. Dad was busily piling a small yellow mountain of rubbery scrambled eggs on a plate. Suddenly the hospital food was starting to look pretty good.

  ‘Dad, you shouldn’t have. Toast is all I can usually manage.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he replied firmly, and I could see here the makings of a campaign. ‘We’re not going to build you back up to strength with just a dry old bit of crust for breakfast.’

  I was on the point of explaining that possibly my problems might require more than just a cooked breakfast to fix, when I was spared by the ringing of the doorbell.

  ‘Get that, will you, while I dish up?’

  I went to the front door, still squeezing out droplets of water from my sodden hair. Behind the frosted panel was a tall dark shape. My heart gave a small leap in my chest as I opened the latch to greet the visitor. There’s nothing like a visit from a dead friend to truly take away your appetite.

  Jimmy followed me down the hall to the kitchen, bringing with him a huge cardboard box.

  ‘Good morning, lad. You’re just in time for breakfast, care to join us?’

  Jimmy eyed the yellow concoction with the same enthusiasm as I had.

  ‘Sorry, Tony, I’ve already eaten. I only popped in for a moment to say hello.’

  I knew he was lying about the breakfast even before his eyes met mine. We had always been able to read each other like a book. Or maybe we hadn’t. Absurdly I felt a warm pink blush flush my cheeks and was all at once aware of how inadequately covered I was, in the tiny dressing gown, to be receiving visitors.

  ‘So what’s in the box?’ It was just as well my father had asked; I was so preoccupied with the strangeness of sitting in my old kitchen with my long-dead friend that it probably wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask even if he’d have walked into the room with an elephant in tow.

  ‘It’s not from me,’ Jimmy explained. ‘A delivery van was just dropping it off and I offered to carry it in. It’s for Rachel.’

  I looked up from where I had been desperately trying to stretch unstretchable towelling edges more closely together.

  ‘For me? What is it?’

  My dad looked over my shoulder. ‘Oh that must be the box with some more of your clothes. Matt said he’d have it sent down for you. He knew you wouldn’t have much to wear.’

  ‘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 d
id, 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.