The Day I Died

Jo Simmons

Today at 12.56

Re: Who R U?

Yep it’s me! Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts–I lost my phone. All been a bit mad these last few days…

Alias thing just a joke–I lost my fb login details (stored in my phone–duh!) so just set up a random account for now.

Jo clicked Send and looked again at the young blonde who continued to pout back from the mugshot. The face seemed more familiar now, but that was hardly surprising; Jo knew the streaks of blusher and locks of hair off by heart. She tried to remember something about the girl, or the friendship–presumably it had been a friendship–but it was just speculation, nothing more.

The fact that Saskia knew about Jo’s presence at the club that night was intriguing, but alarming too. It seemed likely that they had been out together, possibly with others. And if that were the case, Jo thought anxiously, then they probably had a lot to discuss. Which could prove tricky, although not unfeasible. Assuming Saskia was happy to converse via Facebook. That was the ironic thing about Facebook–you weren’t actually talking face to face; there was always time to plan your response. Except, Jo realised, watching the page refresh, when both parties were online.

Saskia Dawson

Today at 12.59

Re: Who R U?

U dopey cow! Want me 2 hack in2 yr fb account? Glad ur ok–reckon most of the girls r keepin a low profile, eh. xx

Jo frowned. It was the second part of Saskia’s message that really interested her–although the first half did too. She tried to think of a way of finding out who ‘the girls’ were, and why they’d want to keep a low profile.

Jo Simmons

Today at 13.03

Re: Who R U?

Hack wd be good–if you can! So have you spoken to others recently?

She was treading dangerously, but she had to. Saskia was her only lead. Coming clean on the amnesia thing was an option, but not one she wanted to take. If she was clever, she would be able to mine her friend for information without divulging anything about her situation.

Saskia Dawson

Today at 13.05

Re: Who R U?

Whats ur user name then–think u said [e-mail]? Yeah I spoke 2 Candy yest…She aint sayin nothin either.

Rebecca Ross. So that was her name. Roxie was just a nickname. Jo looked at the words on the screen. They sounded good. Better than Jo Simmons, she thought. Although it probably wasn’t wise to embark on any sudden name-changes in Radley Her boss and her landlady were already suspicious enough.

And who was Candy? What was the deal with all these porn-star names? Jo pictured the three girls together, even though she didn’t know what Candy looked like: Saskia, Roxie and Candy, getting ready for a night on the town. A night in the Buffalo Club. It was like a scene from some corny American movie.

Jo Simmons

Today at 13.06

Re: Who R U?

Thanks mate. Yes, try that…Hopefully it’s right–I haven’t logged on in ages so can’t quite remember!

Jo wondered about asking some sort of clever question about Candy and Saskia–something that would give more away about their relationship, or explain why the girls were ‘keeping a low profile’. It seemed odd that Saskia hadn’t talked more about what had happened in the club that night; surely bombs didn’t go off that often in London nightclubs?

Saskia Dawson

Today at 13.08

Re: Who R U?

Cool–leave it w me. I’ll send U a new login. By the way, U got any work? I’m quitting the stripping thing–gonna get a real job!

Jo stared. Then she glanced over her shoulder in case anyone happened to be looking at her screen. She reread the girl’s words and then opened another browser.

‘Buffalo Club London’, she typed into Google.

And there it was. The Buffalo Club: Mayfair’s Premier Table Dancing Establishment.

Chapter Nine

A motorbike screeched to a halt in front of her.

‘Look where you’re goin’!’ yelled the man from inside his helmet.

Jo leaped back onto the pavement and looked around, trying to focus. The vodka had gone to her head and she wasn’t sure where she was, or where she was going.

Her heel made contact with something. She put her hand out and nearly fell over a sign advertising English Cream Teas. To her left was some sort of fairytale castle and beyond that, a black and gold sign hung over the street with the words ‘Ye’ and ‘Olde’ and something else she couldn’t read. Jo held the vodka bottle up to her face and ascertained that it was indeed empty.

‘Just in time for the second half,’ said the barman, nodding towards the giant screen that took up most of the back wall of the pub. He had loose, wobbly jowls and a missing front tooth.

She slumped on the only available stool at the end of the bar and tried to concentrate as the barman pulled her pint. The pub was packed–or, at least, one end of the pub was packed. Like prayer mats, all seats had been turned to face the giant screen and there wasn’t a man in sight not staring upwards. Jo leaned forwards on her arms, relishing the warmth and the hubbub and the shouting. There might even have been people here who were more inebriated than she was.

‘Th’nil-all,’ the barman lisped through the gap in his teeth. Jo smiled politely and sank into her pint.

The jigsaw was fitting together, slowly, but Jo didn’t like the image that was materialising. The Buffalo Club was a lap-dancing club. She was a stripper. Less than two weeks ago, she’d been making a living by taking her clothes off for strangers. Jo gulped down more beer, repulsed. Presumably she’d been doing it for the money. Perhaps she’d been in debt. Perhaps Roxie was still in debt, she thought. Maybe it was a good thing she had died. It was like an extreme way of declaring yourself bankrupt–declaring yourself dead.

Another good thing had come out of this, she realised–amongst all the bad things. At least now she knew that she hadn’t been partying with her mates on the night of the explosion. Jo–or rather, Roxie, or Rebecca or whatever her name was–hadn’t lost any close friends after all. Unless, of course, her close friends had also been strippers. Which they might have been.

Strippers. Jo closed her eyes, picturing Saskia Dawson’s profile picture: the Bambi eyes, the bottle-blonde hair, that pout. Of course. What other profession involved looking so superficial, so flirtatious? Jo wondered how close they had been. The Facebook conversation gave her an idea, but you couldn’t read much into a few lines of text; after all, Jo hadn’t been telling Saskia everything, so maybe the converse was true too. Maybe they’d only just met, and that was why she had Saskia’s name on her hand. Or maybe they’d been best friends, chatting backstage before they went out to get naked. She just didn’t know. Jo beckoned the barman over.

‘Thirsty, eh?’ he said, grabbing the empty glass with a look of approval and filling it up. ‘There you go. On the ’ouse,’ he said with a cheeky grin that might have been attractive on someone less flabby.

Jo tried to thank him and found her words came out in all the wrong order.

‘I should probably be warning you of the risks of irresponsible drinking and such like,’ he said.

She tried to fix him with a look that said ‘leave me alone’.

‘But, tell the truth, I like a girl who can sink a pint.’

Jo claimed her free drink and looked around for an alternative seat. She briefly considered settling on the carpet amongst the legs of the avid fans but decided she was marginally safer at the bar.

Perhaps she’d been a student, thought Jo. Students were always short of money. That would explain the stealing. That would explain why someone like her had turned to stripping. She swallowed more beer. What was she thinking? Someone like her. As if she knew what she was like. She was making assumptions about herself based on what? Gut feeling? Hope? The fact that she had a reasonable grasp of English grammar and spoke with a middle-class accent?

She reached into her plastic bag and drew out her notebook. The fact was, she didn’t know what she was like. It was quite possible that she wasn’t actually a very nice person.

Suddenly, a tremendous roar filled the room and Jo felt glad she hadn’t opted for a seat on the floor. Men cheered, footballers cartwheeled and pints of beer spilled all over the place.

‘One-nil,’ said the barman excitedly. Jo nodded as though she cared.

Buffalo Club = strip club

Needed the money?

Friend(?) Saskia

‘You a journalith, then?’ asked the barman, peering at the book.

Jo turned the page quickly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just…writing a shopping list.’

She was impressed at her quick-wittedness, given the amount she had drunk. This pint would be her last, she decided.

‘You causing trouble, Den?’ yelled a coarse voice from across the bar. Lumbering towards her was a large man in a dirty white vest. ‘Is he causing trouble?’

Definitely her last drink, thought Jo, shaking her head politely and realising that her head was actually resting on her arms. She sat up.

‘She’s writing a shopping lith,’ explained the barman.

‘Oh, very organised,’ chuckled the man, leering over Jo’s shoulder. ‘Chips,’ he said, nodding. ‘My missus always forgets them.’

Jo glanced at his belly and decided he was lying. She shut the notebook and slipped it back in her pocket.

‘What’re you drinking?’ asked the fat man.

‘Hey, she’th got a pint,’ said the barman. Clearly Jo didn’t get a say in the matter.

‘It’s nearly finished,’ argued vest man.

Jo looked down. It was true. She was nearly through her second pint. She had to slow down. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she tried to say, although it came out as ‘phalanx’.

‘Come on, let me buy you a drink,’ pressed the man.

It was then, as the man leaned sideways and gave a sort of nod of encouragement, that Jo saw it again. She saw the guy at the bar. She felt him tap her elbow. She heard him ask what she wanted to drink. Only this time–and maybe it was the alcohol doing funny things with her head–it was much clearer. She could see every line on his face. She could picture the rows of expensive spirits behind the bar, even hear the throb of the music in the club. And this time, the memory didn’t stop there. She knew what happened next.

‘You all right?’ asked the barman, squinting at her anxiously.

‘Yeah,’ she said quietly, trying not to lose hold of the memory, feeling the blood drain out of her face. ‘Where are your toilets?’

Locked in the cubicle, slumped on the lid with her head in her hands, Jo closed her eyes. Her head was spinning and she felt as though she was on a boat in stormy weather.

She remembered accepting the offer and choosing a vodka martini–an expensive drink, as the club dictated. Wow, it was coming back to her. The man had pushed the glass towards her and then moved closer himself. He’d smelt nice. Expensive aftershave. She had smiled seductively, the way she’d learned to do, and then asked him a question. Something mundane. Nothing personal. Jo fought to hold on to the image as she marvelled at how much was coming back.

She had led him away from the bar. He’d settled in one of the leather chairs in the corner of the club. He was shy, she thought. Probably not a regular. She’d started to dance, gyrating a little, nothing special–then something had happened.

Jo ground the palms of her hands into her head, trying to remember the details. It was hazy now, though. She couldn’t picture the scene. Just voices. Shouting. And those alarms, the frantic noise. There was panic everywhere. She thought she remembered struggling with the straps on her shoes, scratching at her ankles so she could take them off and run, but it was all muddled.

‘Is there someone in there?’ The cubicle door rattled.

Jo flushed the toilet for effect and lifted the lid. Her thoughts swung back to the present.

‘Sorry.’ She brushed past the girl, falling sideways against the sink. A strange feeling of déjà vu came over her. She tried to summon more detail, but her brain was fuzzy. Had something happened in a toilet, somewhere, sometime…?

‘You want that drink, then?’ asked the barman as she walked back through the pub.

Actually, Jo had been heading for the door. ‘Gottago.’

‘C’mon, juth one more–ooh.’ The man seemed distracted. In fact, as he squinted across at the screen the entire roomful of bodies erupted like an over-shaken can of beer and the noise levels rose to deafening. ‘Hey!’ yelled the barman along with everybody else. ‘We won! C’mon, you gotta have one more now!’

Jo said something that got lost in the din and wandered unsteadily onto the street. She didn’t even know who’d been playing.

She was somewhere in West Oxford, it transpired. Out of courtesy to the helpful shopkeeper who told her how to get to the bus stop she needed, Jo purchased some crisps and a couple of cans of lager.

She ignored the scowls of fellow passengers as she cracked open the first can. It was probably illegal or something, but Jo didn’t care. She had worked it out. She had discovered what made the memories come back: alcohol. Good or bad, her thoughts were flowing freely now.

Jo wondered how many people knew her dirty secret. In a way, it made things easier, the fact that she was officially dead. It meant that nobody was looking for her. Maybe there were people out there who knew that Rebecca Ross had been a stripper, but now she was dead…Saskia Dawson was the only potential leak, and she had her own skeletons locked away–assuming she didn’t make a habit of disclosing her line of work. Jo had to hope that that was enough of a threat to keep the girl quiet.

It occurred to Jo as she fell off the bus and tottered onto Radley Road that Jo Simmons was no longer just a temporary alias. It wasn’t just something she used in order to fit in. It was her name. Her new identity. So as long as she didn’t draw attention to herself in Radley, she could survive as Ms Simmons for…well, for ever if necessary. Jo shuddered. That was a horrible idea. She couldn’t just draw a line under the last twenty-odd years of her life. But at the same time, in a way, it appealed. There was something comforting and neat about the idea. Like wiping a virus-ridden computer: it was a drastic step, but it worked. And everything ran more smoothly afterwards.

Of course, there were benefits to starting again, cleaning the slate of her life and all that. But what about Rebecca? Effectively, Jo had killed her off. She hadn’t done so intentionally; it had just been a consequence of events. And now she had to decide whether to resurrect her old self or leave her behind and move on. She opened her second beer, her mind in a state of flux.

It was early evening when she stumbled into the shop. Mrs Phillips was on a stepladder with her back to the door, sliding packs of toilet roll onto the top shelf. Jo slipped past quietly. She didn’t have the energy for a conversation this evening–let alone one of the landlady’s interrogations.

‘Nice day?’ sang the woman without turning round.

Jo stopped in her tracks.

‘You knocked the doorstop,’ she explained.

‘Oh, right. Yeah, good.’ The words tumbled out like porridge: lumpy and stuck together.

Mrs Phillips got down from her stepladder and started packing it away. Jo took the opportunity to sneak out unnoticed. Unfortunately, she misjudged the angle at which she was standing and found herself walking into the dried foods aisle. The shelf wobbled a bit and a number of packets jumped onto the floor.

‘Shit.’ She squinted to assess the damage, hoping Mrs P hadn’t seen.

‘Drinking, were you?’

Jo turned to find the old woman standing right beside her. How she got there so fast was a complete mystery. ‘Er, yeah. A bit. Sorry–I’ll clear this up.’

‘Are you all right, Jo?’

‘Yeah, fine! Why?’

Mrs Phillips didn’t answer, exactly. She just leaned forward and extracted some crisp crumbs from Jo’s hair.

‘Oh, must’ve…fallen…’ Jo was quite surprised by the size of some of the flakes. A couple of them were whole crisps.

‘Have you eaten anything today?’ Mrs Phillips asked. ‘Apart from these?’

Jo thought for a moment. Actually, she hadn’t. No wonder the beer had gone to her head. ‘A bit, not much.’ She started to pick up the fallen packets of lentils.

Mrs Phillips looked down at her. ‘Look, Jo. I don’t want to interfere…I know it’s none of my business, but…You must look after yourself. Alcohol isn’t the answer.’

Jo shoved the packets back onto the shelf and scowled. It was true. This was none of her business. ‘The answer to what?’

Suddenly, she felt angry. This woman was her landlady, not her counsellor. She had no right to preach about ‘answers’.

‘Well, to your problems,’ said Mrs Phillips. ‘Whatever they are.’

‘I haven’t got problems!’ Jo replied, louder than she’d intended.

‘No, I didn’t mean that. Of course you haven’t.’

Jo shook her head. Now the woman was patronising her. Of course you haven’t. That was another way of saying, I know you’ve got problems. Well, that was uncalled for. This woman was stepping out of line. She had no idea what Jo was going through.

‘Don’t take the piss.’

‘No, no, I wasn’t.’ Mrs Phillips held her hands up defensively. ‘I just don’t like to see people upset.’

‘Upset?’ Jo stared at the woman, unable to stop the words pouring out. ‘I’m not fucking upset! I’m fine! Or at least, I was until you started telling me I wasn’t!’

The landlady nodded.

That did it. She didn’t have to stand here being nodded at like that by a woman who barely knew her.

Jo stormed through the back door and up the stairs. She stuffed her possessions–the few she had–into a plastic bag and marched out the way she had come.

‘Here,’ she said, stuffing some twenty-pound notes into the woman’s hand. She was quite proud to have mastered the maths. ‘That’s eight nights at fifteen quid a night. Take it. Take it’

Mrs Phillips looked shocked. Initially her fingers resisted curling round the notes, but eventually they did. Jo pushed the wallet back into her pocket and left the shop. She didn’t need this. Her life was messed up enough without some meddling old cow trying to offer advice.

She strode down the path, forming a plan as she went. At six o’clock the teashop would be shut, and she reckoned there was just enough space behind the counter for her to lie flat without being seen from the road. She was resourceful. She could look after herself–which was just as well, because yet again, she was on her own.

Chapter Ten

Jo rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. Something hard dug into her forehead. She wriggled onto her back again but the light burned through her eyelids. Her feet were cold.

Gradually, consciousness took hold. She realised why her hip was jutting into something cold, why her mouth tasted stale and why her head felt as though it had been placed in a pressure cooker. She was fully clothed, surrounded by moulding, hairy blankets and coats. The teashop blinds were set at exactly the right angle to allow the sunlight to stream into her eyes.

Jo hauled herself into a sitting position and craned her neck to look up at the clock. Strange. There appeared to be only one hand. She squinted up at it for a couple of seconds, then worked it out. The hands were diametrically opposite. It was six o’clock, she deduced.

Suddenly, a long, protracted whining noise made her jump. Jo looked up at the clock again. A wave of panic rose up inside her. It wasn’t six o’clock, it was five past seven. The noise was Trevor’s singing.

She leaped up and kicked the makeshift bed to one side. She would have to somehow get everything back into the store cupboard without him noticing. Her head was pounding so hard it felt as though the capillaries were about to burst. She couldn’t think. Her throat was crying out for water but she knew there were things that needed to be done before sorting herself out. She just couldn’t work out what.

‘Morning!’ Trevor emerged from the back of the teashop with his customary swagger.

‘Hi!’ Jo managed with more than the usual level of cheer. Oof. Her head was about to explode.

‘Late again?’ he said, approaching to embark on his opening-up ritual. Thankfully he wasn’t the type to notice details like crusty eyes or scarecrow hair.

‘No, I was…wiping the tables.’ Jo stepped backwards as he rifled through the drawer, looking for the awning key. Her foot landed on the pile of blankets.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, following Jo’s anxious downward glance.

‘What?’

Trevor bent down, brow furrowed. ‘It looks like a sock.’

Incredibly, he hadn’t actually noticed the giant mound of linen next to the bin; he was more interested in the sock that must have worked its way off her foot during the night.

‘Oh, that.’ Her brain wasn’t working quickly enough. ‘Yes, it does look like a sock.’

She swooped down to pick it up whilst yanking her trouser leg down to conceal her bare foot, thankful that she’d had the drunken foresight to sleep in her uniform.

‘What on earth…?’

‘Oh, I remember,’ she said, finally thinking of something. ‘It belongs to a customer. He took it off the other day.’

Trevor’s frown intensified. ‘A customer took his sock off? Why?’

Jo blinked back at him, wondering what had possessed her to say that. ‘Oh, you know…He was just…showing me something. Er, on his foot.’

Her boss’s suspicions seemed to intensify. ‘My question is: why is it still there? You’re supposed to sweep the floor at the end of your shift.’

Jo bent down to pick up the offending item. ‘Sorry. Must’ve missed it. Careless.’

‘Hmm.’ Trevor shook his head despairingly and marched out of the shop. Jo breathed a small sigh of relief.

She waited until he was part-way through his opening-up ceremony before gathering her bedding and carrying it back to the store cupboard. Her head was pulsating. It felt as though her brain had come away from her skull and was getting more bruised with every footstep.

‘Jo? Are you there? Jo?’

Trevor’s voice sounded quite insistent. Jo stuffed the bedding into the cupboard and hurried out to where he was standing, shoving her feet into her shoes on the way. She would sort it out properly later–once she’d splashed some water on her face and done something about her hair and the onion-like stench on her breath.

‘Look at this!’ Trevor was standing outside beneath the newly erected awning, pointing at the little bench he called table ten.

She followed his finger and stared at the cheap white surface. She couldn’t see what she was supposed to be looking at.

‘Look!’ he said again. ‘You said you’d wiped the tables!’

Jo frowned at him. The bright light was hurting her eyes. ‘What?’

He stared incredulously at her. ‘There are coffee cup marks all over it–and bits of food! We’ll get rats. And think of the impression we’re giving. This isn’t some cheap fast-food outlet, is it?’