by CJ Carver
Stella’s gaze clicked straight to Aimee and then straight back to him. His heart went cold. She knew Aimee?
‘We depended upon each other in the field,’ Stella went on, her words coming faster. ‘We were a team. I saved your life once. You saved mine too.’
He stared at her. What?
‘Look . . .’ She turned her neck and pulled down her jacket collar. ‘See this?’
He stared. The scar was the length of his thumb and crawled like a grey worm across her neck muscles, puckering at each end.
‘You know the scar on your abdomen?’ Stella said. ‘You got it in the same firefight.’
No way. He’d had enough of this. He was out of here. He didn’t care if Matt was involved or not. She was creeping him out big time.
‘Daddy . . .’ Aimee was standing expectantly in front of him, holding out the golden reindeer, waiting for him to take it and put it in the trolley.
‘Hi, Aimee,’ Stella said.
‘Hi.’
Dan didn’t hesitate. He whipped round to Stella. Gripped her upper arm and swung her around so they faced away from Aimee. ‘How the fuck do you know my daughter’s name?’ he hissed.
‘Hey, steady on, Dan.’ She looked alarmed. ‘You’re hurting me.’
He didn’t relax his grip. He pushed his face close to hers. His tone was ice-cold. ‘You say another word to my daughter, and I will kill you.’
Stella fixed him with a clear gaze but as he stared her down he saw a flicker of uncertainty.
‘Christ,’ she murmured. ‘You’re bloody scary when you want to be. No wonder Bernard warned me to be careful, but I honestly thought that when you saw me something in your memory might –’
‘Stop,’ he hissed. ‘Not another word. My daughter and I are leaving now. I don’t want to see you again. Got it?’
He turned to Aimee and put her reindeer in the trolley. ‘Time to go, sweet pea.’ Holding Aimee’s hand in his, he started to wheel the trolley towards the exit.
‘Daddy, slow down!’
‘Sorry, sweetie, but I’m in a hurry.’
He glanced over his shoulder but Stella seemed to have vanished. Grabbing his phone he rang his old school buddy.
‘Yo, Dan the Man,’ Matt answered. ‘What can I do you for?’
‘Have you just sent a woman called Stella Reavey to wind me up?’
‘What? Stella who?’
Matt’s bafflement sounded genuine but Dan pushed on.
‘Some woman in the supermarket is claiming to be from my past.’
‘Is she attractive?’ Matt brightened. ‘If she is, hang on to her until I get there, OK? You’re married, remember?’
‘She wasn’t picking me up, you idiot. She . . .’ – he paused briefly to amend what he’d been about to say – ‘. . . obviously made a mistake.’
He hung up, wondering if Stella Reavey was some kind of stalker. She looked so normal – sounded sane too – but she’d been way off the wall. Had he overreacted? Not as far as protecting Aimee was concerned. The woman knew enough about him to get him interested but then things had started to unravel. Him, caught in a firefight? His scar was from an accident in his workshop when he’d been repairing the back door of their old home and the chisel slipped. Jenny had rushed him to hospital where he’d had six stitches. Apparently the blood stain on the workshop floor had still been there when they’d sold the house a year later.
Was the woman on drugs? He drove cars for a living for Chrissakes. He didn’t get involved in gun battles. He used to be a civil servant, a paper pusher, and the closest he would have got to any weaponry was watching a cop show on TV. The most excitement he got in life was when the lawnmower refused to start. Well, that wasn’t quite true, considering yesterday one of his clients had decided to overtake when specifically asked not to do so, narrowly escaping a head-on collision. What was it with some men that they wouldn’t listen? They had to show they knew better, he guessed, especially when behind the wheel of a Porsche 911. Dan far preferred teaching women high performance driving because they didn’t have the same type of ego and tended to brake when he told them to.
He made his way past a short queue of people at the ‘cash only’ checkout, wondering whether he should report Stella to the police. Ditching the trolley at the far end of the supermarket he headed for the exit. Aimee glanced up at him then back at the trolley. ‘Daddy, you’ve forgotten the shopping.’
‘I’ve got to make a phone call,’ he told her. ‘We’ll get another reindeer when I’m through.’
‘But we won’t have anything to eat tonight.’
‘We’ll eat out.’
Her expression lifted. ‘Can we go to Candy’s?’
Candy’s was her favourite café, which was currently decked out in carpets of fake snow and sleigh bells. The staff wore elves’ outfits.
‘Candy’s it is.’
‘Yay!’ Aimee was leaping with excitement as they walked outside into a light drizzle. He helped put Aimee’s hood up, and at the same time he heard Stella’s voice, soft but insistent as she fell into step with them. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore her.
‘Haven’t you ever wondered why you’re so secretive?’ she asked. ‘Why you have a great memory for faces? Why you can listen to three conversations at once without appearing to do so? Tell me, Dan, why do you always look for the exits when you enter a room? Why do you hate sitting with your back to the window? And what about your job? Why do you think you chose performance driving? Not for the money, I’m sure. My guess is because it’s the most exciting thing you could find to do.’
She glanced across at him but he refused to look at her. ‘Tell me if I’m wrong,’ she said. ‘You like the flexibility of doing freelance work. You like not knowing what next week might bring. You also like being in demand and although you don’t earn huge amounts of money, you don’t earn peanuts either. But still. My bet would be that after five years of doing pretty much the same thing, you’re bored rigid but daren’t admit it. Least of all to your wife.’
Dan was gritting his teeth so hard he wondered why they didn’t shatter. Keeping himself between Stella and Aimee, he said to his daughter, ‘Keep hold of my hand, no matter what.’
‘Yes, Daddy.’ Aimee was staring across at Stella, wide-eyed.
‘But should anything happen,’ he continued, ‘you run to Mummy at the hairdressers. You know where it is?’
‘Yes.’
Reaching into his fleece pocket he brought out his mobile phone. Dialled 999.
‘Which service do you require?’ A woman answered promptly.
‘Police,’ Dan said.
‘Putting you through.’
There was a click, then another woman said, ‘Police. What is your emergency?’
‘I have a woman here who is threatening me and my daughter, and I believe she is dangerous. I need the police immediately.’
‘Where are you?’
Dan gave the dispatcher the details. Stella had fallen silent, but she was still walking alongside. Christ, he thought. She is definitely a hamper short of a picnic. He thought she’d vanish the second he called the police.
The dispatcher continued to ask questions.
‘Has she hurt either of you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Is she armed?’
‘I think I saw a knife,’ Dan said.
He hadn’t seen anything of the sort but he wasn’t going to mess around with Aimee here. He knew the police would prioritise his call now.
‘I’m sending a car to you immediately. Please stay on the line.’
Dan strode out, wanting to get to Jenny, who would keep Aimee safe while he dealt with Stella.
‘I know you want me out of here, Dan,’ Stella said, ‘but I can’t leave. I’m sorry. This is bigger than both of us.’
Keeping the phone against his ear, Dan took a route through the car park that didn’t go past his car. He didn’t want Aimee to pick it out, show it to Stella.
A minnow of memory darted through his mind but it was so fast he failed to catch it.
‘Which means it’s top-secret as well as extremely urgent. I’m truly sorry for being so cryptic but we couldn’t think of another way. We’ll pay you, of course, but then you’re not particularly turned on by money, are you? And once we’ve completed the mission, you can go back to your normal life.’ He felt more than saw her gaze intensify. ‘But only if you want to, that is. You might find yourself tempted to do something a little more out of the ordinary afterwards.’
He led Aimee around the car park barrier. Jenny’s hairdresser’s was two hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the road. He didn’t like bringing Stella into Jenny’s proximity, but he didn’t see he had a choice. Aimee was his priority.
Mr Forrester?
It was the dispatcher.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please tell the police to hurry.’
‘They will be with you in two minutes.’
At the same moment, he heard a siren in the distance. Stella did nothing to indicate she heard it.
‘Dan,’ she said. ‘You’re not giving me anything to work with here. You’re not giving me a chance. You’re blocking me off. I can’t let you do that.’
He kept his teeth gritted and didn’t respond.
‘You give me no choice.’ Frustration laced her voice. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this because I didn’t want to destabilise you or cause you more pain. I was hoping you’d be intrigued enough to want to know more but it’s obviously not enough. I know you won’t believe what I’m going to say, but trust me, every word is true. It’s up to you what you do with it.’
He tightened his hold on Aimee’s hand. He was sweating, his heart knocking. Thank God, the siren was closing in. The police couldn’t get here fast enough as far as he was concerned.
‘Your son,’ she said. ‘Luke. He didn’t die in a hit-and-run. Yes, he died in your arms, but he didn’t die on Brick Lane as you’ve been told.’
His heart stopped.
Liquid ice poured through his veins.
She knew about Luke.
‘You’re not who you think you are, Dan. Your identity, your past, is a lie. Your entire family has been lying to you.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Paperwork,’ said Grace, scrabbling in her handbag for her purse, ‘should be abolished.’
She was in her local deli, getting supplies to sustain her through the usual mountain of paperwork that blighted every GP’s life: a holiday cancellation form followed by a referral; a medical report for an insurance company; a fitness to work document. To complete even the simplest form she had to check the patient’s entire record. Carelessness or an inaccurate report could have serious consequences down the line, so she liked to make sure every ‘t’ was crossed, every ‘i’ dotted.
‘I’ll get a box of matches if you like. We can have a bonfire. Toast some marshmallows.’
Jamie gave a smile – genuinely warm and friendly and utterly uncomplicated – and, as usual, she couldn’t help but smile back.
Younger than her, with dreadlocks and a Celtic cross with feathered wings tattooed on the nape of his neck, Jamie had been the first person to welcome her into the village six months previously. Although Ross had helped her with the main move at a weekend, she’d still had a handful of items to shift, and on the Monday she’d been struggling to lift a pot plant from the back of her car when Jamie had appeared and given her a hand. He’d helped unload the rest of the car, and when he’d seen the jars of honey she’d collected from Devon, Scotland and France, had asked if she was going to keep a beehive. Her garden was, apparently, perfect for bees and if she was interested he’d be happy to introduce her to the art of bee-keeping. Grace had been enchanted by the idea, especially when she learned he helped look after several beehives for people he did odd jobs for in the village, including the surgery. Today he was helping out at the deli, making sandwiches.
‘That advice you gave me,’ he said cheerfully as he handed her an egg mayo on granary. ‘Fantastic.’
‘What advice?’ She was baffled.
‘You encouraged me to start masturbating.’
‘Jamie, I never said that,’ she scolded, pretending she couldn’t see the disconcerted glances of the other customers.
‘You did! You told me that men who ejaculated more than five times each week in their twenties, thirties and forties, reduced their risk of getting prostate cancer by a third.’
He was right. They’d been sitting in her kitchen one evening when she’d told him about a report from the British Journal of Urology which said just that. She couldn’t remember how their discussion had been initiated – he’d probably heard something about the subject on the radio – and although she couldn’t remember discussing masturbation with him, she supposed it was the same thing. Ejaculating was ejaculating, after all.
‘My mates and I were talking about it,’ he went on. ‘We thought we should take this information to a wider audience. Help advertise prostate cancer awareness. So we’ve started a Twitter campaign and we’re going to climb Mount Kilimanjaro to raise funds.’
‘Well done you,’ she said.
‘Dr Grace . . .’ He came round the side of the counter and lowered his voice, suddenly looking serious. ‘Can I come and see you privately? I want to talk to you about something.’ A sudden look of distress crossed his face, so intense, she felt a moment’s alarm.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
He looked away. ‘It’s just that someone I know . . . well, I don’t know her. Not really. I only met Bella once. But she was really nice. I just heard that she’s gone missing and it’s made me feel . . . I don’t know . . .’ His voice trailed off. He looked at her miserably.
‘Oh, Jamie.’ Her heart went out to him. ‘That’s really tough.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look, I should finish work around seven or so. Do you want to come over and talk about it? And if you could check whether I’ve insulated the bees properly for winter I’d be eternally grateful.’
He bit his lip. ‘I can’t do tonight. I’ve got to meet some friends at the pub.’
‘Tomorrow?’
Another smile, but this one was authentic and tinged with relief. ‘Yeah, that would be great. I’ll bring an entrance reducer for your hive too.’
Grace paid him for her sandwich and coffee, then headed to the surgery. As she stepped into her office, her phone rang – the landline – and she prayed it wasn’t an emergency that she’d have to leave the surgery for or she’d never complete her paperwork. But it wasn’t an emergency; it was her mother.
Grace nearly fell over in surprise.
‘Mum?’ She couldn’t remember a single time when her mother had rung her at work. She never rang Grace simply for a chat, either. The call always had a reason behind it – like plans for Christmas and birthdays – and she suddenly saw how very self-contained they both were.
‘Darling, have you got a moment?’ Her mother’s voice was brisk.
‘Of course.’
‘I need some advice.’
Grace blinked. ‘What about?’
Her mother didn’t say anything for a moment. Grace heard a hollow shhh on the line, indicating her mother might be outside, and then she heard the faint sound of a siren coming through the receiver.
‘Where are you?’ Grace asked.
Her mother didn’t answer. She said, ‘I’ve just met an old friend.’
‘Oh?’ Grace was curious. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Nobody you know. But the thing is, he doesn’t remember me.’
‘How come?’
Another silence, which was most unlike her mothe
r. It was as though she was trying to work out what to say. Either she was being ultra-cautious or she was finding the conversation difficult.
Finally, her mother said, ‘He’s suffering from dissociative amnesia.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘Is there anything I can do right now to jog his memory? It’s really . . . quite important. I have to talk to him, make him listen to me, but he refuses.’
Grace heard the frustration in her mother’s voice, but there was also something more – a tremor of emotional pain.
‘I’m not sure what to suggest,’ Grace said honestly. She didn’t know the person or their medical history or how he might react to her mother trying to jog his memory. ‘Have you tried his GP?’
‘No time.’
‘What’s the urgency?’
‘Later, Grace.’
Although she was surprised at the uncharacteristic call and the even more uncommon request, Grace trusted her mother and decided not to waste time demanding answers to the questions crowding her mind.
‘If he’s suffered a high-level, stress-induced trauma –’
‘Yes.’
‘It could take years before something triggers his recollection.’
‘I know that, darling,’ her mother said, and although her voice was even, Grace felt the reprimand and guessed her mother had already done her research. She probably knew as much if not more about her friend’s condition than Grace did. ‘But I hoped you might have had someone in your surgery . . . or heard about someone’s memory suddenly returning. Something that I might be able to use.’
Grace put her hand over her eyes to intensify her concentration. ‘The only case I know of personally was when a young girl watched her father rape and kill her mother. She had no memory of it until twenty years later when she saw certain facial expressions of her son, which triggered her recollection. I know you want your friend to remember you now, but you can’t rush these things. I’d suggest you simply be yourself. Don’t be someone you’re not by pushing him because he may not recognise that behaviour . . .’