Who Stole My Life?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  "A little. Thanks." I reply, handing her the bouquet of flowers. "Thank you very much, Mrs Henderson."

  I turn and walk away. I don't look back. I don’t live at No. 33 anymore. And from what Mrs Henderson just said, it seems that I never have.

  Chapter Nine

  The Angel, Thames Ditton.

  .

  It’s a four minute car ride to the Angel Pub on the edge of Giggs Hill Green in Thames Ditton. My favorite pub, my local, where I have spent many an evening sitting with Sarah. It’s the place we go to be together to relax on evenings when the kids are at friends, and we can't be bothered going out and making a big night of it.

  It took me half an hour to walk here after discovering that Mrs Henderson was living in my house. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

  After I left my house, I cried for ten minutes, ignoring the strange looks from people as I passed them in the street. The tears only dried up when an old lady stopped me, and asked if there was anything wrong. What could I tell her?

  I think I have moved beyond the panic stage now. I don’t feel anything anymore. What else can happen to me? If someone were to stub a cigarette out on the back of my hand, I would probably just look them in the eyes as they did it, without flinching.

  Yet, although I don’t feel any pain, I have an overwhelming feeling of longing. I long for my wife, Sarah.

  Like Canary Wharf, my job, the Swiss Re tower, and a thousand other things, I have now also lost my wife. The only reason I am not stepping out in front of a passing car to end it all, is because I know my wife has not disappeared completely. I know she is out there somewhere. I know she called me at the office this afternoon and left me a message, and I know that I am meant to call her back.

  The only problem is, I don’t know where to find her, or how. And I can't call her, because her number doesn’t exist, and our home, where we lived for ten years, is no longer our home, and is inhabited by someone I have never ever seen before.

  The Angel is an island of calm and reassurance. It looks exactly the same as when I last saw it two days ago, and probably exactly the same as it did twenty years ago. Nothing has changed. The low ceilings with dark, wooden beams and the dingy lighting giving it a genuine oldie-world feeling, orange walls that have faded into a light brown with a continual coating of nicotine and wood smoke from the fire, the dank, musty smell from the old carpet and the pewter jars and copper pots hanging above the open fireplace, where a continuous log fire has burned for the past two hundred years. The only thing that changes is the bar-staff, who seem to come and go every couple of months.

  How can I find my wife?

  I need to talk to someone. I need help. But who can I talk to? Who else can I tell this whole stupid, unbelievable story to, who won't laugh at me?

  Of course. My mum.

  I get some change from the bar, some strange looking shiny silver and bronze euros, and close the door of the old-fashioned telephone box in the back of the pub. I dial the number, praying that my mum will pick up. Suddenly a voice, a voice belonging to someone I have known longer than any other human being in my life. A voice that I have heard from before I was born, when she carried me in her womb and sang to me as we walked around the house, her heavy with child, and me desperate to get out into the world.

  "Mum." the tears flood down my cheeks again. I don’t even try to stop them.

  "Jamie? Is that you son?" my mum, sixty years old, my rock, my salvation.

  "Yes…"

  "Where are you Jamie?" She interrupts me. "The party's already started. You're late. Don't tell me you're working late again. Not tonight. Not tonight of all nights. Jamie…please… make an effort…the girls are already here, …oh, it’s the door bell…When will you be here? You are still coming, aren't you?"

  A party? My little girls are there? Sarah?

  "Yes…I'll be there in half an hour…"

  "See you Jamie…but make it quick…you have to get here before ten past six…Don't be a second later…."

  Click. The line is dead.

  I leave my pint of beer, half finished, by the phone, and walk straight out the back door. My heart is beating fast again, and adrenaline shoots through my body. Walking faster and faster, I eventually break into a run, hope surges afresh, and a picture of Sarah and the two girls fills my mind. It's been less than ten hours since I saw them last, but it seems like a lifetime ago.

  It takes me twenty minutes to run to Kingston, through the pedestrian precinct, between the Bentall Centre and John Lewis and then around and down underneath the railway tracks.

  I run fast, the crisp autumn air cooling my forehead, but by the time I get to the river and turn right into the river road running from the Thames to the main Richmond road, I am exhausted and soaked through with sweat.

  I slow down as I approach my mother's house, and I stop across the street from it, bending over and resting on my knees, catching my breath. Still bent over, I look up at the house where I was born and where I grew up.

  I smile. The house looks the same as I've always known it. The green windows and paintwork, the large rose bushes in the front garden. The path running down the sides of the detached house on either side. My parents weren't exactly the greatest DIY experts in the world. The house has been kept in good condition, but it is probably the same now as it was fifteen years ago. Nothing has changed since we all left home.

  I hear music and the sound of voices coming from the front room, and I notice now that the road is full of cars. A party? Why? My mother hasn’t felt like having a party in years. Not since….

  The door opens and my mum steps out.

  "Jamie, Come on, Come on…There isn't much time." she cries, waving at me to hurry.

  As I cross the road towards her, the smile on her face disappears. She looks me up and down, at the strange clothes I am wearing, …not exactly my normal choice.

  "Jamie, oh Jamie, you could have made an effort. And you're soaked through…You go right up stairs to the bathroom, my boy, and I'll bring you in some of your dad's clothes to wear."

  I open my mouth to argue, but then think better of it. For the first time in years, it's just nice to be treated like a little boy again. She steps aside as I walk up the garden path, ushering me indoors. I stop in the doorway, and look at her.

  "It’s good to see you mum. It really is."

  "Get yourself inside lad. I'll run you a quick hot bath."

  A kiss on the cheek, then I'm running up the stairs to the bathroom, just as if I were a kid covered in mud, who’d just come back from playing football in the park.

  --------------------

  The bathroom is like I have always known it. It's never changed since my first memory of it, which is probably when I was about six years old. The green tiles on the wall, the green bath and basin, the plastic tray across the middle of the bath for the soaps and nail brush, and a large, squashy brown sponge, a souvenir of a Greek holiday long ago. And the smell.

  My mother's bathroom has this scent, this ever present smell. Perhaps it’s the soap, or something in the toilet, or maybe it's perfume. It smells of lemongrass, or the wind or the sea. Something which I can never quite place, but which is incredibly refreshing and reassuring.

  I lie back in the bath, and close my eyes. The steam from the warm bath rises around me, the mirror mists over, and I relax.

  I know this place. It is my home. Where I was brought up, where I learned to live, where I did my home work every night, and where I lived with my mum and my dad. For a moment, I am where I belong. Surrounded by the world as I know it. My life as it was, and is, and should be. Everything is going to be fine.

  There is a loud bang on the door, and the sound of children's voices, two little girls squealing at each other at the top of the stairs. I open my eyes, and I hear my mother outside the door, speaking sternly to the children, and telling them to go back downstairs. I start to think of Nicole and Keira, and can't wait to hug them. Are they really only just d
ownstairs?

  My mother's voice.

  "James, I've brought you a cup of tea and I've put some of your father’s clothes on your bed. Please hurry up. The guest of honor will be here in fifteen minutes."

  She opens the door slightly and slides the tea just inside. I climb out of the bath, leaving the security of the warm water behind. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I pick up the tea, and sip it, whilst I wipe the mirror clear of condensation.

  A face stares back at me from the behind the mist, and I drop the cup on the floor, hot tea splashing over my foot. I jump backwards and swear loudly, the edge of the bath catching the back of my knees, and tipping me back over into the water again, towel and all.

  Splash.

  Footsteps.

  "Are you okay James? What's happened?"

  My mother again.

  Still sitting in the water, I reply. "Fine. I'm sorry, I just dropped the cup."

  "Oh…, are you sure you're alright?"

  "Yes," I reply. Lying.

  Footsteps going downstairs.

  I climb back out of the bath, and prepare myself for meeting the stranger in the mirror. I approach cautiously, heart racing, knees trembling, either from the fall, or from the shock of meeting the new me, I don't really know.

  The man is thinner than I am. His hair is dark and short at the sides, with blonde highlights on top, like the photo that I found in my travelcard earlier this morning. Stepping closer to the mirror I study the person who I guess is meant to be me. There are wrinkles around my eyes where I cannot remember them before, but overall I still manage to look more healthy than normal. There are no big black bags under my eyes, my hairline has not receded as much ….at least, in comparison with where it was this morning after my shower.

  It's not a bad me. In fact, the man I am introducing myself to is perhaps a bit more like the image of the man I have always wanted to be, but being self conscious I have always been too scared to try anything different. Too scared to cut my hair shorter at the sides. Too scared to go for the subtle blonde highlights.

  My nose almost touches the man in the mirror, and as I breathe out, the mirror steams up again, and the mystery man disappears. I quickly wipe it clean, and the man is back.

  Actually, truth be told, he is better looking than I am. More style. Probably more self-confident. In fact, I wouldn't mind looking like him at all. Which is good, because I have a feeling that he will probably be following me around for a while. Either until I can figure this all out, or until the doctors eventually catch up with me, and some sort of enforced medication takes hold.

  The doorbell goes downstairs, and I am quickly brought back to my new reality, if that is what it is. I unfasten the wet towel, and hang it on the electric towel rail, one of my mother’s few modern appliances, if fifteen years old can be called modern. I reach up and pull down a fresh towel, drying myself quickly and wrapping it around my waist.

  Stepping out of the bathroom I shoot across the landing and into the front bedroom, my bedroom, the room where I grew up, studied, fought through puberty and crowned my youth by making love to Annabel Crawford one Tuesday morning in 6th Form, the prettiest girl in the school.

  I sit down on the edge of my bed, and look up at the Airfix airplanes hanging from the roof on thin see-through fishing coil. I made them all one summer, while I listened to Pink Floyd and fought the onset of acne. A Spitfire, a Hurricane, and a camouflaged German Stuka Dive Bomber. Dusty, dirty, twenty years on, they still keep the skies of my old bedroom free from any modern invaders.

  I look at the curious collection of posters on the wall. Bon Jovi, Duran Duran, Madonna and the crowning glory on the back of my bedroom door, a large picture of Neil Armstrong on the moon, which I swapped for two Mars Bars with my friend’s big brother.

  Sitting there, staring at my youth, I forget about everything. I forget about the disappearing skyscrapers, the ten million euros advertising deal I've just won, about losing my job, my house and my wife, and once again I am young, loved, and secure.

  The door to the bedroom suddenly swings open, and two young screaming girls burst in. They run past me and around the edge of the bed, and climb onto the mattress, where they proceed to jump up and down, each trying to scream louder than the other.

  I watch them in amazement. Neither seems the slightest bit interested in the fact that a strange, half naked man is sitting in the bedroom, clothed only in a towel. It's then that I notice that they are jumping up and down on my father's clothes, the ones that my mother has just laid out for me.

  Stressed, I shout at the kids, and grab one by the arms and legs, pulling her gently but firmly off the bed and depositing her on the floor, shouting at her to be quiet, perhaps just a little too loudly. She looks up, staring at me in silence, then quickly bursts into tears. The other one, younger and most probably her sister, takes only microseconds to burst into tears too, and suddenly she is scrambling off the bed and following her elder sister out of the door and down the stairs, both howling like banshees.

  Little monsters. Where are their parents? No respect for adults, and where on earth did they learn to behave like that? Thank God that Sarah and I have both been blessed with two beautiful, good natured little girls. I can’t wait to see them.

  Closing the bedroom door again, I stand up and let the towel drop to the floor. I pick up my father's blue denim shirt and brown corduroy trousers. Underneath is a pair of socks and a pair of fresh blue cotton Y-fronts. Putting the trousers down I lift one leg and with my back to the door, I bend down a little bit and lift one leg up, managing to put my foot through one side of the pants.

  Magically, a hand appears from nowhere, coiling itself around my front and down into my crotch, grasping my penis in its palm and holding on tightly. The bedroom door closes. Another hand on my shoulder, and hot breath on the side of my face. I stand up straight, smiling, but not turning around.

  Sarah?

  Familiar words whispered in my ear.

  "Hello darling. Why are you hiding from me?"

  A voice which is not Sarah's…Familiar words, but spoken by a voice that does not belong to my wife.

  I turn with a shock, stepping away quickly. As I do, my feet trip on the insides of the pants, and I stumble, losing my balance and falling backwards against the wall, my penis stretching quickly inside her clenched palm, and then mercifully whipping itself free.

  As I go down, my skull cracks hard against the plaster, a resounding thud which resonates down through my head.

  "Ouch!" I scream momentarily, but almost as quickly forget it, as I look up at the sight of Jane kneeling down towards me.

  Jane! ?

  I quickly control my shout, and it becomes a whisper, my hand rubbing the back of my head.

  "Jane…," I try to speak, but am prevented from doing so, first by a flood of kisses, and then a woman falling on top of me, laughing uncontrollably.

  " Did I give you a fright?…Oh, James, I'm sorry, but I can't help it…" She blurts out in between giggles, "You look so funny…all tangled up…so vulnerable…"

  And then she's kissing me again. Smothering me with affection, her hand wandering downwards, starting once more where it just left off.

  "Jane…what are you doing here? What if…?"

  "What if what? What if your mother walks in…?" she laughs…

  And just then, the door opens and she does.

  "What's that banging?" my mum asks, as she comes into the room. "Are you all right?"

  For a second she stares at us both, lying on the floor, her face blank. My mind races. Oh my God. To be caught in bed with your lover by your wife is one thing, but to be caught with your pants down, red-handed, by your MOTHER, is another thing completely.

  "Mum…I can explain…" I shout, jumping to my feet, and quickly pulling up my pants and snatching the trousers from the bed.

  "Don't bother, son. Don't bother. I thought I'd seen it all. But this takes the biscuit!"

  As I struggle with th
e trouser legs, and whipping up the zip, my mother turns to the door.

  "Mind you, what you young folks get up to in private is none of my affair."

  "But it's not an affair mum. Honest. This is the first time…" I cry out in my defense.

  She stops in the doorway, and turns back towards me.

  Laughing. Howls of laughter.

  "Listen son, I was young once too, and your Dad and I got up to …well, how do you think you came about?" Her face alight with the memory. "Anyway, maybe I'm just jealous, " she laughs again.

  "Jealous?" I stare at her. I look back across at Jane, still sitting on the floor. Still laughing too. "What on earth have you got to be jealous about?"