The Day I Died

Surreptitiously, she pulled out the notebook from her makeshift handbag and jotted a couple of things down under the heading ‘Bomb details’. She flicked back a couple of pages and stared at her messy scrawls from the other day. Then the typing stopped and she could feel the man’s eyes boring into her again through his thick-rimmed glasses. She shut the book.

‘Still using pen and paper, eh?’ He glanced proudly at his silver laptop and for a dreadful moment, Jo thought he might try to show her what he was working on. ‘I’ve practically forgotten how to write!’

Jo grunted politely and took a long swig. A vodka would have slipped down more easily, she thought. But that was the problem. She didn’t like the fact that alcohol had such a minor effect on her, that she was conditioned to use it. She hated that her body craved the stuff, that it functioned better with it than without it.

She looked out at the bustling high street below. Across the road, a middle-aged woman was standing, her handbag tucked under one arm and a giant box-shaped present on the ground beside her, all shiny red paper and curly ribbons. Anxiously, the woman looked left and then right, then checked her watch. Jo scanned the street, wondering which person or people, of the hundreds she could see from her elevated viewpoint, the woman was waiting for.

Like a character in some elaborate cuckoo clock, the woman went through her routine again. Look left, look right, check watch. Wait. Jo could see the anxiety on her face. She scanned the crowds again, then turned her attention back to the woman. Look left, look right, check watch. Wait.

Jo felt sorry for her; someone was clearly keeping her waiting, making her worry. But it wasn’t pity that she was feeling, five minutes later when the woman was still standing there, her head scanning the crowds even more frantically. It was shame.

Jo was making someone worry. Jo–or whatever her name was–had let herself become ‘missing, feared dead’, and there were people–or at least she guessed there were people–who were worrying about her, waiting, hoping.

Eventually, the woman’s stony face melted into a smile and even through the double-glazing Jo could hear a muffled cry as the two women threw their arms around one another. It was her daughter, thought Jo, watching as the younger woman emerged from the embrace and pointed gleefully at the red shiny parcel, her stylish white coat flapping in the breeze. It was her daughter who had been keeping her waiting.

The women moved off, laughing frivolously and making animated gestures with their hands. Jo felt a fresh wave of uncertainty wash over her. She couldn’t say why, but she felt quite sure that somewhere, right now, her mother was waiting for her, worrying.

She finished her drink and thought again of the police station down the road. That was the right thing to do. She had to turn herself in. She had to own up, for her mother’s sake. Whatever she’d done before, whatever the reasons for the paranoia, whatever the consequences, the only fair thing she could do was walk into that police station and come clean.

Jo stood up and took one final look out of the window, even though she knew the mother and daughter were long gone. In the spot where they had hugged, a man was sitting–or rather, lying. Jo peered down at the scene. Two people in uniforms were crouching over the man, who was dragging himself along the pavement like a slug.

A clearing had formed in the crowds as shoppers gave the crawling man a wide berth. It was only when Jo saw the dog–skinny, mangy and limping–that she realised. The man was a beggar. He was being ‘moved on’–only slowly, because he was drunk. Or disabled. Or ill. She didn’t know, and clearly the policemen didn’t care.

She watched as the man sloped off into the shadows and the crowds flowed back into the area. She picked up the pen and stared at her notebook. Yet again, she had convinced herself that coming clean was the right thing to do. She had gone right to the edge and looked over. And yet again, she was talking herself back down. She might have been right about her mum being out there, worrying. It was perfectly likely that she had family and friends who cared about her. But she’d been wrong to believe that their reunion would be like the one she’d witnessed outside.

Her role wasn’t that of the daughter in all this; she wasn’t an innocent latecomer. She was the tramp. She was the outsider, the one who didn’t belong. Maybe she did have friends and family, but so too did the homeless guy, presumably. For different reasons, they had left them behind. Jo didn’t even know what the reasons were, in her case, but she knew one thing for sure: she was on the run. And until she had worked out what exactly she was running from, she had to keep running.

Jo slipped the notebook into her bag and caught sight of the two words on the back that she’d copied from the scrap of paper. ‘SASKIA DAWSON.’ For the hundredth time, Jo strained to summon her memory. For the hundredth time, she drew a blank.

She bid her table companion farewell and walked out, having made her decision. It was time to put the only clue she had to good use.

Chapter Six

Jo slipped into the wobbly swivel chair and logged on. The keyboard was coated in a grey sheen and the O key was jammed with something sticky, but eventually she punched in the password and pulled up an internet browser. With much stabbing, she managed to type the search engine URL into the address bar.

She stared at the screen while the website loaded. It was obviously a slow connection. Jo frowned. A slow connection. How did she know that? How was it, she wondered, that she knew about website loading times and keyboard shortcuts and the differences between Internet Explorer and Firefox, when she didn’t even know her own name?

The site finally loaded and Jo typed ‘Saskia Dawson’ into the box. Her hands were shaking–partly because she hadn’t drunk anything in two days but also because she was nervous about what she might find. It was possible that Saskia Dawson would lead her to discover something about herself–or that Saskia Dawson was her, although admittedly Jo couldn’t think of a sensible explanation for having her own name written on the back of her hand.

There were only six results, of which five related to the findings of a German professor on the subject of Endogenous N-acetylaspartylglutamate in the Journal of Neurochemistry. Jo clicked on the links in case they offered any clues, but everything was written in a mixture of German and gobbledegook. The sixth hit was a Facebook profile. Facebook. Yet another thing she was perfectly familiar with.

Eventually, the page opened: ‘Facebook helps you connect and share with the people in your life. Sign Up. It’s free and anyone can join.’

Jo thought for a second. Something told her she had a Facebook account, but she didn’t know her login, and the sign-up form required an email address. She opened up another browser, navigated to Google Mail–slowly and noisily, due to the letters involved–and registered for a new address. Then she returned to Facebook and set up Jo Simmons as a member.

Finally, she was in. Saskia Dawson winked back at her, all pouting and saucy and seductive. And blonde. Jo stared at the photo. It definitely wasn’t her face.

She looked at the image for a while, scouring it for something she recognised. Bleached, wavy hair, plump lips, alluring brown eyes…Saskia was gorgeous, in a cheap sort of way. She was probably in her early twenties, like Jo, but it was hard to glean much more from the photo. Her expression seemed to imply both naïve and sophisticated at once: flirtatious, yet coy. But anyone could look like that in a photo.

After a couple of minutes, Jo had to look away. She had stared at the face for too long. It was like saying a word over and over again; after a while, you weren’t even sure it was a word. Saskia Dawson could have been her sister, her friend or a complete stranger. She had no idea.

There were three options next to the profile picture: Add as Friend, Send a Message, View Friends. Jo clicked on the third link.

Saskia has 267 friends.

A long list of names appeared, each accompanied by a small photo. Jo ran an eye down the page, carefully scanning the smiles for one that resembled her own. Nobody looked familiar. Unless Jo had been one of the hilarious people who had used a picture of a washing machine or cartoon character instead of her face, then she wasn’t one of Saskia’s friends.

Some of the names had extra information too, like ‘London’ or ‘Brunel graduate’ or ‘Jake Dickson is off to Southend’ or ‘Kirsty Graham is soooooooo hungover’, but there was nothing useful. All Jo could glean was that Saskia Dawson had a lot of so-called friends who were all, like her, in their early twenties and that she probably lived in London. There seemed to be no link to the girl now masquerading as Jo Simmons.

Jo went back to the girl’s profile page and assessed her options. Add as Friend, or Send a Message. She could send a message, but what would it say? Hi, my names not actually Jo Simmons, but I had your name written on my hand. Any idea why? Jo didn’t fancy her chances of getting a reply.

She needed to know more about Saskia–needed to see her full profile. Perhaps the messages and postings and other photos would give her a clue as to where she lived, where she worked, which pubs she went to, that sort of thing. Jo stared at the face for a moment longer, then pressed Add as Friend.

Chapter Seven

‘Morning!’ squawked Trevor, the sound grating on her nerves as it did every day.

Jo responded with her usual mumbled greeting, going straight to the back of the teashop to dump her plastic bag. She wasn’t sure why he’d gone to the effort of getting a door key cut for her; he always arrived first.

She returned to the counter, ran the hot water, wiped the surfaces and brought the supplies through from the back. Her mornings had developed a kind of rhythm that was disconcertingly predictable. She could hardly believe that only just over a week had passed since she’d stumbled off the night bus into Trev’s Teashop.

‘I’ll open up,’ said Trevor, needlessly. Jo had learned her lesson on the second morning: opening up was the proprietor’s job. Other tasks he would happily delegate–and generally did–but winding out the awning each day was something he liked to be seen doing. It allowed him to show the world that he, owner and manager of Trev’s Teashop, Oxfordshire, was open for business. He probably thought of himself a bit like the Queen cutting the ribbon on a new institution, thought Jo, watching him sweat with the effort.

‘I’ve got an errand for you,’ said Trevor, propping the door open and waiting for her to look up. ‘I need these things posting,’ he said, patting a pile of letters on the counter.

Jo nodded and started to dry her hands.

‘No–not now. Post office only opens at nine. You’ll need to buy stamps. You can take the money from the till.’ He explained this last point slowly, in case it might be too complex for her.

Jo got back to stocking the fridge, wondering again what she had done for a living before she’d lost her memory. She hoped it was something more challenging than this.

Her contemplation continued as the morning progressed. This being a Friday, the usual eight o’clock rush was less frantic than usual and spread over a longer period. She was on autopilot: taking orders, serving drinks and doing as much ‘flitting’ as was possible, given the lack of seated customers and Trevor’s recent transition into more of a managerial role. Instead of manning the counter, he preferred to busy himself in the background, keeping an eye on Jo’s handiwork, making unhelpful suggestions and trying to strike up conversations with the commuters–most of whom did their best to ignore him.

Jo handed over a double espresso and watched as the suited customer added a mound of sugar, then another, then another. She frowned. The sugar wouldn’t dissolve in that small amount–anyone could tell that. But that wasn’t why Jo felt perplexed. She felt perplexed because of something going through her mind, something she knew.

The man’s espresso was becoming a suspension. That was the proper term for a liquid solution where not all the particles were dissolved. The man hurried out and Jo was left staring at the space where he had been. A suspension. Where had that word come from? And how had she known to use it?

Another customer came in and Jo found herself mechanically filling the shot-holder again, trying to work out what this new piece of information meant–if anything. Perhaps it was insignificant. It was probably something they taught in school that anybody might remember. Perhaps all this meant was that Jo had paid attention in school–which was something of a revelation in itself, but not a particularly interesting one.

Jo watched the dark brown liquid bubble into the paper cup, wondering whether coherent memories would come back to her or whether she’d have to piece things together from clues like this. If she didn’t start remembering things properly, then she’d only have half the picture. She might discover what she liked, what she was good at and what type of person she gravitated towards, but she wouldn’t know why. She wouldn’t know what, in her past, had caused her to be the way she was.

She handed over the coffee, caught up in a complex internal debate about nature versus nurture and the pros and cons of remembering her past. There was still a part of her that didn’t actually want to know what had happened. If they were bad memories, it might be better that she didn’t have them at all. Because once they were back, there was no way of un-remembering them.

What she really wanted was the option of remembering. As if her memory operated like a tap, she wanted the ability to turn it on, gently, then if it started gushing out unpleasantly and making a mess, she could turn it off again. The problem, of course, was that her memory didn’t operate like a tap. She wasn’t in charge. Nobody was. The more she tried to remember, the more elusive the memories became. She just had to wait, and observe, and jot things down.

The media was one possible source of information. Jo had been following the coverage of the bombing all week. She was half hoping, half dreading that one day she’d return from her shift to see her face on the lunchtime news–a grainy version of a holiday snap or a Christmas family photo–with her real name and the word ‘MISSING’ underneath. She insisted on helping Mrs P arrange the newspapers every morning so that she could skim the pages for a reference. But there was no such reference. Every article seemed to be a rehash of the initial coverage, and even that hadn’t said very much. As the week progressed, the news of the Buffalo Club bomb became less and less significant, and this morning the investigation hadn’t even warranted a mention. Clearly the media wasn’t going to help her very much.

There was a lull in customers. Jo distracted herself, wiping the surfaces and rinsing the milk jug, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. Or at least, she wasn’t fooling herself. Her hands were shaking and her eyes kept wandering down to the cupboard under the sink where six dark liqueur bottles sat, teasing her. They were supposed to be for adding to coffees, presumably, but if the crusty, sugary coatings inside the lids were anything to go by, they rarely got used. And there were crusty, sugary coatings inside the lids, because Jo had checked. She had opened them all, sniffed them and put them away again. About fifteen times.

The craving was stronger than ever today, perhaps because it had been nearly a week since her last proper drink. She reached down and extracted the leftmost bottle, unscrewing the lid and preparing to duck behind the counter. Amaretto–not her first choice, but better than the other options, which all smelled rather like petrol and had unrecognisable Italian names. She glanced around, then crouched down.

Her lips made contact with the crystallised sugar and she tilted the bottle, gagging for the sweet, fiery liquid in her throat.

‘Nine o’clock!’

Her head hit the counter.

‘Sorry?’ Jo fumbled around for the lid and replaced the bottle with one hand, holding out the other for the pile of letters. Her body was filled with unfulfilled desire.

‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’ Trevor grinned at her stupidly.

Jo flashed a smile and removed her apron. The sense of anticlimax, of getting so close and then pulling away, was exasperating. ‘No, just about to go,’ she said, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. ‘Down the road and on the right?’

‘Down the road,’ he motioned like an obese air steward, ‘and on the right.’

The warm air felt good on her skin, and gradually, with concerted effort, Jo managed to disentangle herself from the yearnings and focus on the things around her. Birds cheeped in the hedgerow, trees rustled in the breeze and somewhere nearby, farm machinery was whirring into action. A cloud skittered across the sky, briefly obscuring the sun and then leaving it to shine, and for a moment, Radley looked like the most beautiful place on earth.

Semi-detached and set back from the road with a pebble-dashed front, the post office looked exactly like somebody’s house except for the rounded red sign on the telegraph pole outside and the billboard announcing the headline, ‘VIOLIN CASE THWARTS ROBBERY’.

Not for the first time, Jo marvelled at how some things seemed so familiar whilst the details of her life remained a mystery. She knew exactly what first-class stamps looked like and how the UK postal system worked. She knew what Facebook was and how to use it. How, then, could she not name a single one of her friends?

She applied the stamps and looked at the swarthy young man behind the counter.

‘I don’t suppose you have an internet connection?’

He nodded over to a large, bulbous monitor in the corner of the store. It looked like a TV from the 1920s.

‘Could I just…?’

‘One pond for fifteen minutes.’

‘But I only—’

‘Three pond an hour.’

‘What about two minutes?’ She smiled virtuously.

Reluctantly, the man smiled. ‘OK, but quickly. Log in as Admin. Password is password .

The internet connection was even more sluggish than the one she’d used before. Jo waited for the Facebook login to appear, wondering whether perhaps, by some sort of administrative error, Radley had been left off the UK broadband rollout map.

She logged in and clicked on the Friends tab. Her face fell.

You have 0 friends.

Then she noticed the message. She clicked on her inbox.

Saskia Dawson

Today at 03.49

Who R U?

Do I know U Jo Simmons?! I don’t accept friends who ain’t got no profile pic…

Jo drummed her fingers against the makeshift desk, frustrated. Of course Saskia hadn’t clicked Accept. The request had come from an anonymous stranger. For all Saskia knew, Jo Simmons was a dirty old pervert looking for cheap online thrills.

‘Time’s up,’ called the guy from behind the counter.

‘I’ve hardly logged on!’ she yelled back, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Jo Simmons

Today at 09.11

Re: Who R U?

Hi Saskia, sorry for the randomness–I’m using an alias…Long story. Haven’t got round to putting up a photo.

Here’s a clue–long, black hair with a red streak at the front. Know who I am? :-) xx

Jo logged off and ran through the door, the adrenalin still pumping from the brief correspondence. She was so busy devising an excuse for her boss that she slammed straight into somebody on the post office forecourt.

‘I’m so sorry!’

She squatted down to pick up the letters, which had scattered in the breeze.

‘No worries.’

With relief, Jo realised that the man she’d knocked flying had not been one of Radley’s aged inhabitants; in fact, the man seemed quite youthful–early thirties at most. He laughed as she handed over the gritty pile.

‘I’m used to being rugby-tackled.’

She smiled. It wasn’t that she was flirting, exactly, but…well, OK perhaps she was, just a little. The man was handsome: tall, with coiffed light brown hair and a tan. He could well have been a rugby player.

‘Hope they weren’t important.’ She nodded at the letters as he pushed them into the post box.

‘Oh, just replies to my fan mail. Standard responses, you know.’

She laughed uncertainly. Gosh, maybe he was a sportsman, like, maybe the captain of the England rugby team…

He shook his head, smiling and revealing a row of pearly teeth. ‘I’m kidding. It’s bills, mainly. Are you heading for Trev’s Teashop, by any chance? Want a lift?’

Jo was confused again. He must have been a customer at the café. She had probably served him coffee.

‘How did you know where I worked?’

He shook his head and smiled again, motioning for her to get into the passenger seat of a slick little BMW parked on the road. ‘Well I wasn’t deliberately looking at your chest, but…’

Jo groaned at her own stupidity. Of course. The aertex shirt.

She wasn’t sure whether getting into a complete stranger’s car was entirely sensible, but neither, probably, was accepting a job from a complete stranger, or a place to stay. And besides, he had an honest smile.

‘It wasn’t just the shirt, actually,’ he confessed, pulling out and accelerating to quite a speed.

‘No?’

‘No. I’ve seen you in there.’

‘What, you’re a customer?’

‘No. I’ve seen you through the window. I work from home quite a bit so I walk around town. Stops me getting cabin fever.’

‘Oh, right.’ Jo wanted to ask what he did for a living and where in Radley he was based and a whole load of other questions, but they were already at the teashop. ‘Well, thanks for the lift.’

He laughed. ‘Saved you all of thirty seconds.’

‘Well, yeah.’ She released her seatbelt and opened the door. Then, in a moment of boldness, she added, ‘Pop in for a coffee some time. I’ll give you a freebie.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘Free, er, coffee, I mean.’

‘I look forward to it,’ he said, winking through the passenger window. She slammed the door, feeling the blood rush to her face.

She heard the whirr of his electric window behind her as she re-entered the café.

‘By the way, I’m Stu. What’s your name?’

She turned back and smiled.

‘Jo. See you around.’

Chapter Eight

Jo punched in her login and password and looked around the empty internet café as the page loaded up. A sign hung above her head, advertising ‘FAX–PRINTING–WEB @ CCESS’ in spiky handwriting. Appended to the last point was an additional explanation: ‘Check your email! Chat!’–presumably to entice the technophobic Radley residents online. Jo looked back at the screen. She had one new message.

Saskia Dawson

Today at 12.54

Re: Who R U?

Roxie?!?! Good to hear frm U hun! Bin textin U & no reply…Thought you was dead! Why the alias? U freaked me out xx

Jo’s heart pounded against her ribcage. Roxie. She was getting somewhere. Saskia Dawson had given her a name–such as it was. Roxie. She rolled the word around in her mouth a few times, trying it out. It seemed…odd, somehow. Not what she’d anticipated.

She read the message one more time. Thought you was dead. So presumably Saskia had known about Jo being caught up in the bomb blast. Which implied that Saskia had been there too…or maybe not. She would have to find out–but carefully. It was clear they were friends, but Jo couldn’t tell what sort of friends. She didn’t know how far back they went, how much they confided in one another, what she supposedly knew of the girl. She would have to trust Saskia, to some extent, but not more than she needed to. Opening up completely would leave her too vulnerable.