My mind flashes back quickly to the incident on the tube yesterday, when for the briefest moment of time I could have sworn that the station outside the tube carriage switched from being Charing Cross to Westminster…and then back again.
It was real. It did happen; I am convinced of it.
How, I don't know.
But for a split second in time the world I am now in, toggled or flipped back to the old world that I used to live in. For a split second in time, the world outside of the carriage doors was the world where Sarah and Keira and Nicole still live and breathe, and now miss and probably mourn me.
It hits me then, for the first time.
Sarah and Nicole and Keira probably think that I am dead… Or maybe worse, maybe they think that I have abandoned them?
The thoughts alarm and sadden me, and the excitement I just felt is quickly replaced by sadness and a feeling of intense desperation.
Another thought hits me between the eyes, a sudden realization that both lifts my spirits but also raises a whole new string of questions that I cannot possibly answer. A possibility that both confuses and frustrates me, but which gives me a gift that I seize hold of with a passion I have not felt in some time.
For suddenly I have been given the gift of 'hope'.
If, even it was for the briefest moment of time, a link was opened from this reality into my previous existence, a doorway from this world to the other, then maybe one day it will happen again.
A doorway that I can step through.
From one world to the other.
Chapter Twenty Eight
King's College
.
I look at my Rolex. It’s 4.32 pm. My appointment with the admissions officer of King's College is at 5 pm, which means I'll have to hurry.
Hailing a taxi, I sit in silence on the way down the Strand and along towards the Law Courts.
If I am right in my thinking I now have three possibilities for my future.
The first of these is that I accept the status quo…a term which probably really doesn't apply here… but leastways this means that I accept the circumstance I am now in. I learn to live my new life with Jane and our children, and do my best to enjoy it and move forward positively. I fix my relationship with Jane and I learn to love my children. For better or for worse.
The second option is that I continue to search for Sarah.
And lastly, I can pray and hope for the possibility that someplace, sometime, another opportunity will present itself for me to step from this world back to my own.
A woman further ahead of us, probably a tourist and looking the wrong way, steps abruptly off the pavement and into the path of my taxi. The taxi driver hits the horn, and slams on the brakes. The woman steps backwards quickly, the look on her face a mixture of embarrassment and shock. The driver mumbles something and drives on.
Behind the startled tourist in the window of a travel agency, a large poster of a desert island and blue tropical seas beckons the passer-by. I suddenly think of Robinson Crusoe and realize, abstractly, just how much in common we have with each other.
Unexpectedly cast ashore on a desert island from a sinking ship, Mr Crusoe realizes that he can sit on the beach all day long and wait and pray for a passing ship to come to his rescue. Or he can move from the beach back into the countryside on the island and learn to live as best a life as he can in the new world he finds himself in. In fact, after an initial period of hardship, and with the right attitude and approach, Crusoe could find himself in Paradise. A paradise of his own making.
In truth, the best approach for Crusoe to adopt is to realize that the passing ship may never ever come. And that, in the meantime the best thing he can do, is to accept that eventuality and learn to live each day as it comes in the best way he can.
Realizing his options, he should throw himself into his new existence, finding joy and pleasure from wherever he can. At the same time, being a sensible man, he should make preparations for the possibility that one day a ship may appear on the horizon. A day which may never come. But might.
Thinking about Mr Crusoe, I realize there is a lot I can learn from the old guy. Yes, I can live in hope from day to day that someplace, sometime, a magical door will open up back to my old world. And yes, when the time comes I can step through back to my real life. But, realistically, like the ship on the horizon, that day may never, ever come.
The realization depresses me, but sobers me up. It helps me firm my resolve to continue with my search for Sarah. Wherever she is in this world.
What happens when I find Sarah, is something I should best leave for the day it happens. I can only cross that bridge when I come to it.
--------------------
"Mr Quinn? Hello. So how may I help you?" the Admissions Officer asks me from behind a large post-office style counter as I introduce myself, looking quickly at her watch and frowning ever so slightly. I think I have just been told off. It's ten minutes past five, and my appointment was at five. Best apologize.
"I'm sorry I'm a little late, I couldn't get a taxi."
"No problem, Mr Quinn." She smiles. The woman is a curious blend of academic and a hippie, mother figure. She is wearing a large, home knitted red jumper, with brown horn-rimmed glasses dangling around her neck on the end of a long piece of black cord. Her cheeks are red, her brown hair beginning to show the first signs of grey flecks. I wouldn't be surprised if she has been working here, doing the same job, for the past twenty years. Maybe she even knew Sarah…
"I'm looking for an old student from here. She studied History and graduated some time in 1992 or 1993. I was hoping you could help me find her?"
"Are you a friend or relative?" she asks me, picking up a pen and starting to make a few notes on a pad in front of her.
An interesting question.
"A friend."
"You realize of course, that if we do have a forwarding or contact address for her, that I cannot give it out to you?" she says, smiling at me, but ruffling up her forehead at the same time, a set of parallel lines appearing and making her looking both stern and incredibly authoritative.
"I was hoping that…" I start, unsuccessfully.
"What we normally suggest, Mr Quinn, is that if we do have a forwarding address, then you should write a letter to your friend care of this address, and we will forward it on to her. It's up to her if she replies or not."
"Okay. Thank you." I stand corrected. Why is that all these academic types are able to make me feel like a naughty little boy?
"Fine. Now we understand the rules, let’s see what we can do for you then, shall we?"
She lifts up the glasses from around her neck and puts them on.
"What did you say the name of your friend was?" she asks.
"I didn't, yet, but her name is Sarah Turnstone", I reply hopefully.
"Ok, then. Can you wait here a moment please?" She says, as she walks away to a computer on a desk in a room behind the counter.
I look around the room, catching the eyes of another student who is busy copying a telephone number down from a poster on one of the walls. Apart from me and the other student the room is empty. A couple of black padded seats line the wall, like those you might find in a doctor's waiting room. I take a seat, and twiddle my thumbs, looking expectantly back towards the counter and the door through which the lady just disappeared.
"Here we are, here we are." She suddenly announces, as she walks briskly back in and takes up her position behind the counter again. "We've got her on file, forwarding address and everything. Sarah Turnstone. Graduated 1993. History. 2.1. With Hons." She says, looking up and smiling at me.
"Does she live in London? Can you tell me that?" I ask.
"Mr Quinn… I am sorry. I can't."
"Please?"
She hesitates. I can tell this woman goes by the book on everything. Never breaks a rule.
She looks at the piece of computer printout in her hand, and frowns again.
"Okay, Mr Quinn. I'
ll tell you one thing and one thing only. According to our records she lives in Norwich."
How wrong can I be. She did break the rules.
"Norwich?" That familiar sinking sensation hits me. "Would it be Potterbank, number 42, by any chance?"
"I can't really say, Mr Quinn… you see, that really would be breaking the rules…"
"Look, I already have that address. If that’s the same address you have down on your files, it means that the file is out of date, and she hasn't given you a recent forwarding address. That's her father’s address, and she doesn’t live there anymore. I went up to see him a few days ago."
"Her father? And he doesn't have her forwarding address?"
"No. He hasn't spoken to her for years. Look," I say honestly, fed up with not getting anywhere. "...the fact of the matter is that I'm desperate to find Sarah. It's really important I find her. And I'll do anything I can to track her down. But if the address you have in your hands is her old home address, then there's no point in leaving a letter for her with you, because her father doesn't know where she is either."
She takes her glasses off and looks at me straight, letting them dangle against her chest on the end of the cord. She looks at me, then glances at a tall charity box sitting on the counter. For a moment I am confused, but then I wise up. I take a 10 euro note out of my pocket and pop it in the "RNIB: Give to the Blind" canister.
"Ah. That's very generous of you Mr Quinn." She smiles. "I suppose there is no real harm done if I confirm that the address I have in my hand is the same as the one you just mentioned. And apart from that we have no further records…"
As I walk out of the door and catch the lift back down to the street I wish things could just be a little more simple. Why is it that people never keep their details up to date with their old colleges and universities?
I decide that I can do with a good stiff drink, and am just about to walk through the door of the nearest pub, when my phone rings.
Chapter Twenty Nine
The Phone Call
.
"Hello?", I answer, hesitating in the doorway of the Golden Oak opposite Kings College.
"James! Just what the fuck do you think you are playing at?"
An angry voice. A woman's. A voice I don't immediately recognise. An accent, probably Australian or Kiwi.
"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" I reply, taken aback.
"I asked you what the fuck you think you're playing at? Have you gone deaf as well as mad?" the voice continues. "We had a deal. A good deal. What the hell do you think you're playing at?"
I hesitate before I answer. The voice at the other end is silent.
"Do I know you?" I ask, playing for time. Obviously, she knows me. And it's not a wrong number. She knows my name is James.
"Don't you think you can play games with me James. I haven't got time for this. I just want to know what's going on. I went out on a limb for you. I stuck my neck right on the block, and now you’re making me look stupid. What's going on?"
Oh no. Another person that I seem to have pissed off. Another person that hates me.
"Listen, I'm sorry…" I start.
"Don't you tell me to 'listen' James. Don't get smart with me. It’s a fucking phone. I'm holding it against my head. What else am I going to do but 'listen'?" she interrupts me again.
"Who…"
"Right. I'll tell you what we're doing. After all I did for you, you owe me an explanation. You're meeting me in thirty minutes time. The Pitcher and Piano behind St Martin’s in Charing Cross. Thirty minutes. If you're not there, I'll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life. Nobody crosses me and gets away with it James. No one."
Click.
She hung up.
But who was it? For the life of me, I couldn't recognise the voice.
Whoever it was, I have no choice but to meet her. I look at my watch. 5.55 pm. Whatever I have done, it sounds serious. Suddenly my new existence is taking on a new dimension. It never occurred to me that the new me might have serious enemies, or serious problems. Problems which I may find difficult to deal with, and which are not of my making.
A number 26 bus passes me, and I make a dash for it, managing to cross the road between the traffic and jump onto the open back. I climb the stairs and take a seat at the top of the bus, hiding in the corner.
Who was it? Who am I going to meet? And why? What have I done?
I search the mobile phone for the call register. Dialing the last number back I prepare myself to hang up if she picks up. I'm hoping that she will have left by now, and that I will get an answering machine, with her name on it.
Even better. It goes through to a reception.
"Peters Hall and Irvine, can I help you?"
Ah.
Curiouser and curiouser, as they say...
--------------------
I arrive at the Piano and Pitcher in good time. Ten minutes early.
Taking a seat in the corner near the window, I start to savor the malt whisky in my glass. A double.
I don't have long to wait.
A couple of minutes later, a taxi draws up outside, a middle-aged woman in a business suit jumps out, and hurries towards the door.
She walks in, immediately scanning everyone in the bar, looks in my direction, and makes a beeline for me.
"Start explaining James, and it better be good. If it's not I'm going to fucking kill you, then feed you to the birds."
"Hi", I say, getting up from my comfortable seat like a true gentleman and offering her my hand to shake. Whoever she is.
She stares at me, looks at my hand in disgust, and drops down opposite me on one of the large soft sofas. A low lying drinks table is the only protection I have between myself and her.
There is something very odd about her that reminds me of someone I know. Her face is vaguely familiar. I strive to place it, to remember who she is or where I know her from. Somewhere… something to do with work?? To do with Kitte-Kat?
"Listen, I'm really sorry you are so pissed off with me, but I'm afraid I haven't got the faintest idea what I have done to upset you so much. Perhaps a really good place to start would be for you to tell me what I am so guilty of doing, and why you want to kill me?" …and who you are? And how you have my number? And what's this all about?
The woman sighs, closing her eyes and doing what looks incredibly like counting to ten. Trying to calm down.
"James", she says again confirming again that she definitely knows my name. Except when she says it, it sounds like 'Jaiiimmmees'. An Aussie. Definitely an Aussie. "I'm going to try really hard, okay, really hard, not to kill you. But don't push it, mate. Don't push it. We've known each other for a long time. And we're friends…at least I thought we were…so, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. For another hour….then you're dead. When you first contacted me, I didn't want anything to do with it. There was no possibility of it happening. But no, you wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, and you just pushed me and harassed me until eventually I succumbed. Next thing you know I'm out there going to bat for you."
I lean forward in my chair. Are we talking about playing cricket, or something just a little bit more important?
"So, bloody muggins here goes to the rest of the partners and persuades them that we need you, that it would actually make sense to get you back on board. But when, after two months of persuasion, and weeks of hard work they do come round to the idea and agree…, you bloody go ahead with the Scotia deal yourself! And then yesterday, to top it all, I hear that you've taken the deal for the Dome, and you’re now staying at Cohen Advertising!"
Aha…So that's what this is all about. PHI want the Scotia Telecom and the Dome deal. Fifteen million euros worth of business. And I'm the ticket.
"It sounds like I owe you and PHI an apology. So, if I've done wrong, I will apologize. Whole heartedly. The last thing I want to do is hurt my friends. But I have a very good explanation…"
"Come on James, it's not like you have thous
ands of friends any more. You can't afford to piss off the few of us that still like you. This explanation you have, it had better be a good one. A right stonker, because if it's not, I'm going to tell Richard all about our little deal, and he'll kick you out on your ear."
"Actually, he probably won't. I'm a Partner now."
She looks at me for a few seconds, her mouth half open, as if she had been frozen in mid sentence. Then suddenly she laughs, and flops back into the chair, as if the tension that was gripping her had suddenly evaporated.
"A Partner at Cohen Advertising? Richard made you a Partner?" She laughs again, and I am a little insulted. Why shouldn't Richard make me a Partner?
When she laughs for the third time, I recognise the smile, and suddenly I remember where I know her from... She’s the girl who used to hand out the free magazines outside the tube station at Canary Wharf. The girl who I used to pass every day on my way to work at Kitte-Kat, and who impressed me so much with her enthusiasm, loyalty and politeness. It's her. It really is her.
Another life, …another career. I always knew she could go far, given the opportunity…but a Partner at PHI? From what she's saying, this woman may even have been my boss when I worked for them.
Who Stole My Life? Page 21