by Dylan Young
Stamford leans in. ‘I know that was unpleasant but take it from me it was not planned. Harriet has… issues. I can hardly blame her but what she did there was uncalled for and I apologise.’
I stay silent. It prompts Stamford to continue.
‘What can you tell me about Harriet Roxburgh?’
‘That she blames me for her sister’s death.’
Stamford lets his gaze drop to the table and eases out a sanguine, ‘Hmmm.’ When he eventually looks up, I can see that there’s a sharp intelligence swirling behind those pale eyes of his. ‘So we understand one another, the Roxburghs have employed me to find out what happened to their daughter. It decimated them as a family and their theories about what took place are… fixed. But they’re distorted theories twisted out of shape by grief and the never-ending mental quicksand that is not knowing.’
‘I can’t help them with that,’ I say.
‘No. And that’s where Harriet and I differ. I know you’re telling the truth about not remembering. I’ve talked to half a dozen experts and they all say that your physical recovery from your injuries is pretty remarkable. Could be sheer luck, could be sheer bloody-mindedness. I don’t know which because I don’t know you. But what I’m certain of is that those experts all tell me that your memory of events, or lack of, is kosher given the degree of brain injury you’ve suffered.’
‘Do you want me to say I’m grateful?’ It slips out before I can stop it.
Stamford’s mouth flickers into a brief smile. ‘They told me you were straight. And my answer would be, truthfully, no I do not. But I genuinely think we can help one another.’
‘Or perhaps this is a set-up for me to be ambushed.’ My heart is still racing but now more like a fluttering moth than a struggling bird.
‘I’d be a lousy trap-layer to choose a Spoons on a Saturday morning. But I admit that Harriet can be very persuasive. My assistant is new. Keen as Dijon but young and more than a touch naïve to let Harriet play her. The nature of my job is such that I let her know where I am if I’m working. For security purposes. I’ve been accosted in car parks and sleazy hotel corridors more times than I’ve had a full English. But she’s not supposed to tell anyone else where I am unless I give her the nod. We will have words.’
I sit back and glance across at the coffee shop.
Stamford sees it. ‘Don’t worry. I’m watching too. She’s promised to stay there for fifteen minutes. So, how about it?’
I waver. He senses it. ‘Have another cup of tea and let me explain why she is like she is.’
The Roxburghs are on Rachel’s bargepole list of people I am not supposed to go anywhere near. Or talk to. Possibly even discuss. I’m supposed to direct any contact through her. So though I spoke to Harriet and Emma’s parents while I was recovering, I remember it through a fog. They visited me in hospital but there has been no exchange since I moved into the flat, other than the uncomfortable episode at the cemetery. I can remember that one well enough. Rachel’s words of warning were stark. ‘They’re too damaged. They don’t really care about you. All they want is for you to tell them about Emma and you can’t. It’s becoming vexatious.’
Rachel is right. Seeing Harriet, hearing her accuse me, was unpleasant. Is unpleasant. But now, since I found Emma’s notebook, I’m intrigued. And, despite Rachel’s warning, I guess I’m beginning to like John Stamford’s matter-of-fact approach.
‘Okay,’ I say.
Stamford calls the waitress over, asks her to warm up the food left on his plate, orders more tea. Breakfast recommences.
‘One reason I took this case on,’ he explains, ‘is because of the way the Roxburghs’ lives imploded after Emma died. If you read it in a book you’d never bloody believe it. You know about all that?’
‘Not really.’
Stamford takes a sip of his old lukewarm tea, grimaces, puts it down, wipes his lips on a napkin. ‘Six months after Emma died, Peter Roxburgh, Emma and Harriet’s father, was found hanged in a wood near the family home. He’d been missing for two days. You were aware of that, I assume?’
I shake my head. Was I aware of that? My memory is shot for the distant past but recent events, stuff that’s happened since rehab, is fine. There was a lot of space there to fill if you consider my memory bank like some kind of chest that had been emptied. So I would remember if I’d been told. But I do not remember and therefore I can assume that I was not told. I offer the only explanation I can muster. ‘My sister, Rachel, she’s very protective.’
The waitress comes back with fresh mugs and Stamford’s reheated plate. He tucks in, filling me in on the Roxburghs in between mouthfuls.
‘It came as a complete shock to the family. He’d been out walking the dog. There were no clues. He was a fit and healthy man. There was no note and again that isn’t unusual. The dog, strangely enough, was never found. Having said that, it was a spaniel with a liking for rabbit holes and the wood was vast. Who knows, someone might have found it and taken it in.’
I can see that Stamford would like this to be true.
‘You a dog lover, Cameron?’
That was one of the things that threw the doctors. ‘Ble ma Champ?’ One of my first slurred sentences, uttered in Welsh, a language spoken by less than a million people in the far west of Britain, was me asking about a dog that had been dead for twenty years. No wonder it confused them.
‘I had a dog when I was growing up. His name was one of the few things I remember from my childhood. Even before I was shown a photograph.’
Stamford pours a two-inch diameter mound of tomato ketchup on his plate. ‘Dogs will do that to you. But her husband’s death on top of Emma’s was too much for Cora Roxburgh, Harriet and Emma’s mother. She plunged into a deep depression. A black one. I’ve spoken to one of her doctors and they’re clear that these two horrific events, losing a daughter and then her husband, triggered a major depressive episode. Reactives have a better prognosis they say, but if Cora is anything to go by, I’d say the jury is still out on that one. She’s been in and out of hospital for a fragile ten months. That’s left Harriet carrying the emotional can.’
‘She doesn’t look well.’
‘Harriet is a doctor, like Emma. She was in training. A haematologist that had almost ticked all the boxes on the way to consultancy when Emma and then her father died. But she coped with it pretty well. Much better than her mother did. Until a year ago. You were still in hospital so I’m not surprised you know nothing about that.’ He looks up. ‘You don’t, do you?’
I shake my head. I know only to avoid Harriet Roxburgh like the plague.
Stamford starts buttering toast. ‘Just under six months ago, for the first time since her father died, some girlfriends cajoled her into a night out. She was driving and not drinking. She drove the other girls to a club to drop them off, planned on spending an hour there and going home. She drank nothing but Diet Coke all evening. But they filmed her at the club berating and racially harassing one of the bouncers two hours later, obviously intoxicated. She tested positive for MDMA. She claims that her drink was spiked.’
‘I’ve read that can happen.’
‘But the real damage was done by the video of her behaving very badly. Harriet was arrested and charged with affray. And the video escapes into the world. We all know how careful and willing to accept nothing but the truth the denizens of social media are. She had to report the charge to the GMC just at the time when she was about to apply for consultant posts. In short, that one incident – and I have no reason not to accept her version, that her drink was spiked – derailed her career. She’s been doing locums ever since, looking after her mother and trying to find out what happened to her sister. All in all, I’m surprised she’s looking so well.’
I sit back. This is a great deal to digest.
Stamford reads my disquiet. ‘I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to walk away right now but it would be a mistake. We share a mutual interest, shall we say.’
I let the dull a
nger that’s brought heat to my face since Harriet started yelling, slowly subside. ‘How?’
‘I’m not at liberty to tell you everything that I know. But I wouldn’t be sitting here unless I understood there were questions that need answering.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like why Emma walked out of your hotel on her own that night.’
‘What about the anaesthetist and pants on fire?’
‘That too.’
He looks at me. I return his gaze. ‘Tell me you didn’t post anything about Emma on Facebook.’
‘What?’
‘It’s why Harriet was so animated.’
‘Emma has a memorial page and Harriet is the page administrator. The legacy contact. I have no access. Harriet is the gatekeeper. I’m not allowed to post anything, even as a friend.’
‘She says this wasn’t a friend’s tribute on Emma’s memorial page. This is a fresh Facebook page pretending to be from Emma. Someone alerted Harriet to it.’
I stare at him while my mind tries to understand what he’s just said. But my thoughts are like leaves in a wind getting blown in random directions.
Stamford’s gaze doesn’t waiver. ‘Harriet’s convinced you’re responsible.’
The fluttering bird is back in my chest. The bars of its cage are my ribs. ‘I can’t remember Emma’s mobile number. I can’t remember her email address. Why would I pretend to be her on Facebook? How would I even begin to do that?’
Stamford keeps looking. Can he tell when someone lies? I hope so, because I am telling the absolute truth. He eyes his watch and then glances over at the coffee shop. ‘Twelve minutes. If you’re willing, I’ll have a shufti into this anaesthetist business. Then I’ll be in touch. I’ll tell Harriet it isn’t you who is posting as Emma.’
‘It isn’t.’ I reach for my wallet to pay for breakfast. But Stamford puts his big hand over mine.
‘My shout. The way things are going this might be my last Spoons breakfast for a while thanks to this sodding virus.’
‘Will they close the pubs?’
‘I’d put money on it. And sooner rather than later.’ He glances out of the window once more. ‘Just go before she comes back. I’ll be in touch.’
We shake hands. Follow up with sanitiser. Stamford grins when he squeezes a dollop into my palm.
‘Brave new world,’ he says.
As I walk out and turn towards the flat, I see a female figure leave the coffee shop. I dip back into a doorway and watch Harriet Roxburgh cross the road.
She reminds me of a leopard hunting its prey.
25
The first thing I do when I get back to the flat is open up my laptop and bring up Emma’s memorial page. It’s exactly as I remember it. The profile picture is of Emma and her family BT. There is no sign of me anywhere. Underneath an image of Emma is a Timeline and Tributes section. I open these up and read again the outpourings of loss and grief that now, thankfully, appear to occur only when significant dates loom, such as Emma’s birthday.
Nothing I’ve tried to contribute has ever appeared. So this can’t be the page Harriet is talking about. I type Emma Roxburgh into the search box. Not a common name so only half a dozen people appear. I scan their profile pictures. And there at the bottom is one I recognise from my wall. The name is Emma ‘Roxy’ Roxburgh.
I click on the name and a page opens. This time the banner image is of Emma on a beach, leering playfully at the camera. I scroll down. On the left is a collage of a dozen photos. Of Emma dressed to the nines on a night out, or in a bikini with a long drink, two of her pouting at the camera. And to my surprise I see myself in a couple of these images. And from the way we’re entwined, there can be little doubt that Emma and I are in a relationship.
There’s a pinned post on the top of her timeline dominated by another photograph. A candid shot; Emma in a revealing top with a tiara in her hair. The girl next to her wears a garish sash. The photo’s cropped but there’s enough sash showing to read the words Birthday Girl emblazoned across it. Emma’s makeup is smudged, and her eyes have a slightly glazed look. The birthday girl, whoever she is, looks very much the worse for wear.
Under the image are the words, Party time over here beyond the veil. Love you all.
There are some comments under the image.
GLEN
Msg me your number. Parteee time.
TOMTOM
Classy. You’re the sort of girl I could take home to mum… for a 3sum.
BAWBOY
Want to swap photos? I got Extra Large.
Bawboy obviously doesn’t do subtle. I quickly scan the remainder, stop after twenty-five.
I can see why Harriet would be upset. I don’t know why she would think I would have done this. But then I check myself. Of course I do. The look I’d seen on her face was that of a cornered cat hissing threats. She thinks I killed her sister. And she doubtless thinks me capable of taunting her and her family with this sickening little game. It’s an unpleasant thought that leaves me anxious and needing to speak to someone. Maybe I could try explaining all this to Harriet. But as soon as I think it, Rachel’s voice in my head screams, ‘DON’T YOU DARE.’
But then a new thought intrudes. One that makes the hair on my neck stand up to attention.
I pick up my mobile and scroll to a name in the contacts list. Press the call button. Adam answers on the fourth ring.
‘Hey, Cam. How are you?’ There’s extraneous noise. Adam sounds as if he isn’t at home.
‘Is it possible that during one of my fugues I could post something on Facebook?’
‘What?’ Adam’s voice goes up an octave.
‘Posting on Facebook–’
‘Hang on. I’m in IKEA queuing for Swedish meatballs with the kids. Let me find a quiet spot. Just hang on…’
I wait for a minute and a half and then Adam says, ‘Right. Start again.’
I tell him I went to The Pommelers Rest to meet a friend and bumped into Harriet by accident. I tell him about the Facebook page that is pretending to be Emma ‘Roxy’ Roxburgh. Then I ask him again. ‘Is it possible that I did this during a fugue?’
‘No,’ says Adam. ‘Your actions during a fugue are all automatic. Putting random items in a bag. Rearranging books–’
‘Yesterday I poured a bowl of muesli.’
‘Okay, a little more elaborate but still something you’ve done a hundred times before. Creating a Facebook page and account takes time and is way too demanding and sophisticated.’
I wait, weighing up his words.
‘Cam?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Forget it. It wasn’t you. No way.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘Is there a problem with the page?’
‘Not very tasteful. In fact, I’d say downright suggestive.’
‘For God’s sake, why would anyone do something like that?’
‘Sickos,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry you had to go through that with Emma’s sister. Couldn’t have been pleasant.’
‘It wasn’t. It was very unpheasant… unpleasant.’
I hear a tinny announcement over a PA system in the background. Adam talks over it. ‘Put it out of your mind, Cam. Do something else today. Something that’ll cheer you up. Like not going to IKEA.’
‘I will. Thanks for talking to me.’
‘Any time. You know that.’
‘I do. I’ll expect an IKEA pencil the next time we meet.’ But he’s rung off before I can get a response to my attempt at a joke.
I only ate half of my Spoons breakfast so I take my medication, slice up a pear for lunch and eat it with some Gouda. Another one of Rachel’s little standbys and one I’ve adopted when I’m not that hungry. Whenever he gets the chance, Owen says it’s as Gouda lunch as any. It always makes Ewan laugh so who am I to argue.
Then I take all the books I’ve read since Turkey happened off the bookshelf. They’re in alphabetical order. I rearrange them by colour of spine. Then I arrange them by alphabetical ti
tle. Then by spine size. It helps.
I watch another episode of The Night Of. It helps too, but I can’t stop thinking about what happened today at The Pommelers Rest and Emma ‘Roxy’ Roxburgh’s Facebook page. I told Adam I think it must be a sicko. That’s one of Leon’s words. But it is a good one. I also know that I am the only one who truly understands what this all means. It isn’t me that’s pretending to be Emma. But I think it may be only me that noticed a comment halfway down the list of thirty under Emma’s pinned post.
GASMAN
We had good times, Ems. Hope you’re flying high as a kite.
When I was in hospital, I underwent lots of operations. I have a titanium plate in my orbit to support my almost blind eye. I also had some wiring in my jawbone. When they went back in to take out some of those wires, a doctor came to see me. He was cheerful and reassuring. He introduced himself by saying he was the gasman for the following day’s operating list and that he’d be the one putting me to sleep. I didn’t laugh. He didn’t care. That’s what you call rapport.
I don’t for one minute think it was he who posted on Emma ‘Roxy’ Roxburgh’s Facebook page. But thanks to him I know that gasman is a term doctors often use for anaesthetists.
We had good times, Ems could mean anything. But, knowing what I know, Hope you’re flying high as a kite could only mean one thing.
Emma’s supposed affair was with an anaesthetist.
I bounce around questions that rebound against the inside of my skull and none of them land with an answer. I have no proof that my suspicions have any real, hard foundations. But I know one thing for certain. I will work with John Stamford to find out.
26
SUNDAY 15 March
Canfield Brain Injury rehabilitation unit is a stone’s throw from Greenwich, tucked into a quiet lane behind the busy A2 as it runs east towards Woolwich. Every Sunday I go back and visit. My way of paying back, or forward – I’m never quite sure which applies. Most of the patients who were there when I was have moved on through physical therapy, practising assisted daily living and a goal-oriented care plan. I know because I’ve been through it. I’m lucky. But not everyone is.