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‘Yes.’
‘But nothing else?’
‘No.’
The void – the absence of crucial memories I know should be there – triggers a bout of anxiety. I feel my heart start to pound; there’s a tightening in my chest and my throat feels like it’s closing up.
‘Are you all right?’ Miles asks, clocking my discomfort. ‘Stay calm and don’t panic. Everything’s going to be fine. You’re in safe hands. I want you to take slow, deep breaths through your nose, into your abdomen, and hold. Then breathe out through your mouth.’
He demonstrates and gets me to breathe in time with him. We do this for several minutes and, gradually, the panic dissipates.
‘Calmer?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Thank you.’
Gingerly, I shift myself into a seated position on the side of the bed. The varnished floorboards feel cool under my feet. Miles stands at my side, ready to help if necessary, but I’m keen to do this alone. I rise gradually, testing my legs as I go. They’re a little shaky to start, but it soon passes and they strengthen up. My head throbs a little and I feel somewhat dizzy at first, but once I’m fully upright, with an arm on the wall to steady myself, the sensations ease.
‘Okay?’ Miles asks.
‘Yes, I think so.’
I need him to tell me where the bathroom is. It turns out to be right next door, but I manage to get there by myself, which is a relief. There is still a dull pain in my head when I make certain movements. The rest of my body feels fine, albeit a little stiff.
There’s not much to see outside the bedroom: a small corridor with more varnished floorboards, bare cream walls and three other doors. I open the one to the right of me and enter a glistening, modern bathroom with dark tiles floor to ceiling, a walk-in shower and a separate bath. It’s much nicer than I expected. There’s a neat pile of white towels under the sink and a shower gel dispenser on the wall, like something out of a five-star hotel. That starts me wondering whether I’ve spent a lot of time in posh hotels. Or perhaps I’ve never been in one and that’s why I’m so impressed by it. It’s awful not knowing myself, my own experiences up to this point. What kind of life have I had?
The drops of water lingering on the shower screen are the only giveaway that the room has been used. It’s not until I have a nose around the cabinet under the sink that I find things like a toothbrush and razor.
I stand at the toilet and do my best impression of a racehorse. Then, as I wash my hands and slap cold water on my face, I pause. Above me is a mirror. I’ve deliberately avoided looking in it so far. What will it feel like to see my reflection? Will it send my memories flooding back? Or will it be like looking at a stranger? I take a deep breath and straighten up.
None of the above, as it turns out. I recognise myself – tired eyes, thick stubble and ears that stick out more than I’d like – but that’s it. I don’t know how I know it’s me; I just do. No name, no age, no identity, but a face I accept as my own. The same goes for my body. I’m tall, probably a little over six foot, and in decent shape. I’m not gym-toned, but I’m about the right place between fat and thin and I seem fit enough. I look to be in my early forties, although I feel younger. There’s no obvious sign of my head injury, but it feels tender to the touch in places.
‘Better?’ Miles asks when I return to the bedroom, noting that the door isn’t even fitted with a lock. He’s wearing a navy polo shirt today, with jeans again, but I’m guessing a fresh pair. It’s the fact that he’s tucked the shirt into them that gives me this impression. Too neat to wear something for more than one day, I’d wager.
‘Yes, much better.’
I perch myself on the edge of the bed so we’re eye to eye. I’m still not sure I trust him. I’m not sure about anything. But he helped me just now and it feels like I need to build bridges between us. ‘Sorry for what I said yesterday: you know, suggesting that you might have attacked me and—’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘It’s hard when I can’t remember anything. I feel so confused.’
‘Seriously, I understand. There’s no need to explain. What did you think of the bathroom, by the way?’
‘Um, yeah. It was really nice. Very modern.’
‘Ring any bells?’
‘What do you mean?’
He stands up. ‘Never mind.’
‘Hang on,’ I say, also rising to my feet. ‘Do you know where my mobile is?’
Miles hesitates for a moment before replying. ‘Um, I do. Yes.’
‘Great. Where is it?’
‘In the sea.’
‘Sorry? I don’t understand. What do you mean, in the sea?’
‘You dropped it just after you arrived here, lad.’
‘Hang on. What sea?’
Miles nods towards the window. I look outside for the first time and there, sure enough, is the blue-green swell of the sea.
‘Right,’ I reply, my head swimming. ‘I didn’t realise. And I haven’t bought a replacement phone?’
‘No.’
He starts to head out of the room again, mumbling something about making us a cup of tea.
I grab hold of his arm. ‘Wait. You told me you’d give me some answers today if I needed them – and I do, especially now I don’t have my phone to consult.’
Miles lets out a gentle sigh and sits back down on the chair. ‘Very well, although I still think you’ll remember everything by yourself soon enough.’
‘So what’s my name?’
‘It’s Jack.’
‘Jack what?’
‘Um, I can’t tell you that.’
‘Why the hell not?’
He smiles at me. ‘Because you haven’t told me. The truth is, Jack, I know very little about you.’
‘What?’ I ask, more confused than ever. ‘I don’t get it. I thought we knew each other. I thought we were maybe even family. I didn’t have you pegged as my dad, but perhaps an uncle or something.’
Miles shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Who are you, then? What am I doing here? How about you tell me what you do know?’
‘You’re my lodger. I bought this place after I retired and I’m in the middle of doing it up. You’re helping me in return for bed and board. The reason I thought the bathroom might ring a bell is that we fitted it together. Not long ago.’
I stare at him for a moment. That wasn’t what I expected. ‘How long have I been here?’
He explains that I’ve been staying with him for a couple of months. Apparently we met one night in a local pub and got talking. He was looking for a hand with the renovation and I needed somewhere discreet to stay – a place where I wouldn’t face too many questions.
‘Questions like my surname?’
‘Exactly. You never told me and I never asked.’
‘Didn’t you think you ought to know?’
‘Why? What’s the difference?’
He says it was obvious I was in some kind of trouble, but he didn’t need or want to know the details. Considering himself a good judge of character, he decided it was worth taking a chance on me, particularly since I seemed to know a thing or two about DIY.
‘Turns out I was right. You’ve been a big help. I wouldn’t be anywhere near as far on without you. There’s still a long way to go, mind.’
‘Oh? This all seems finished.’
Miles chuckles. ‘You really don’t remember, do you? Wait until you see the rest.’
He’s not kidding. I find that out soon enough when I follow him to breakfast. I want to see as much as I can of my surroundings, hopeful that they’ll trigger some memories.
We pass through the door opposite my bedroom and I’m stunned by what’s on the other side. ‘Wow. This place is huge.’
‘A huge wreck, for the most part. Careful where you walk. Follow my lead or you might find yourself knee-deep in the ceiling below.’
He guides me along a broad landing, lined on each side by door after door, until we reach an imposing curved staircase wide enough for the two of us to descend together. As grand as the place is – or once was – it’s dilapidated: a dirty, mildew-flecked, musty mess of ramshackle floorboards and part-stripped walls.
I spot the sea again through a grimy window with a rotten frame I could poke my finger through. ‘Where exactly are we? By the beach?’
Miles glances back at me as he swings away from the bottom of the stairs and heads for the belly of the building. ‘I’m not going to tell you everything, lad. I want you to try to remember things by yourself. Seriously, it’s no good me feeding it all to you. How are you to know it’s not a pack of lies? Tell me, where do you think we are?’
I’m tempted to say ‘in the kitchen’ as we reach our destination and he offers me a seat at a large oak dining table, pouring me a glass of orange juice from a jug. But I bite my tongue. This room has been renovated to a similarly high spec as the upstairs bathroom: granite surfaces, floor tiles and fancy appliances. There’s even a built-in coffee machine above the oven.
‘Well?’ Miles asks again. ‘Any ideas?’
I shake my head, taking a big swig of the juice in a bid to calm my anxiety.
‘Okay, I’ll help you out a little, lad. We’re on the North Wales coast.’
‘Really?’
He nods. ‘Does that sound familiar?’
‘Um, I’m not sure. Maybe. I guess it wasn’t what I was expecting because, well, you don’t sound Welsh. Come to think of it, I can’t put my finger on where your accent is from.’
Miles laughs. ‘I’m from Yorkshire originally, but I’ve not lived there for a very long time. I spent most of my working life in Cheshire and moved here after I retired.’
‘What about me? What accent do I have?’
‘I don’t know where you’re from, if that’s what you’re asking. You never told me. Somewhere in Northern England, I’d say, but it’s not a strong accent. The answer is locked away in your head somewhere, which is why I want you to try to remember things yourself. That’s all I’m telling you for now.’
Before I can argue, Miles changes the subject and starts talking about the kitchen.
‘This was my first project,’ he says. ‘Did it before I even moved in. A man can’t live without a good kitchen – not me, anyhow. You should have seen the state it was in before, John. Shocking. Made the rest look delightful.’
I pause. ‘What did you say?’
‘That the original kitchen was in a shocking state.’
‘No, after that. What did you call me?’
‘What do you think I called you?’
‘You called me John.’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘My name’s Jack. At least that’s what you said before.’
‘Good. You see now why I need you to remember things for yourself. What’s your name?’
‘Jack.’
‘You’re sure?’
The panic bubbles over again. As I stare at him, Miles’s face begins to look strange. Kind of warped, as though I’m seeing it through a fairground mirror. I can’t tell if he’s leering at me or smiling; his features are morphing before my eyes. He reminds me of a wolf: a snarling, smiling wolf. ‘What if it is John? Or maybe it’s Nigel, or Sam, or Rick, or Ross. What is it? Tell me. Be sure. What is it?’ His face moves closer to mine.
‘What are you …’ A fog descends and the room starts to spin. I try to get up from the table, only to stumble.
The world around me disappears.
CHAPTER 3
Thursday, 4 May 2017
The phone on Dan’s desk rang.
He looked at the clock; ten past two already. Shit.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Dan. It’s Susan on reception. I’ve got a bit of an angry man on the phone: a Mr Doyle. He’s demanding to speak to you. I tried to put him through to one of the reporters, but he was having none of it. He insisted it had to be you.’
‘Right. What’s it regarding?’
‘I’m sorry. I did ask him, but all he would say was that it was about a serious mistake in this week’s Herald.’
A complaint, as he’d feared. They always came through about this time on a Thursday. Dan paused, thinking back through the many pages he’d checked the previous day. The name Doyle didn’t ring any bells.
‘Can I put him through?’
Dan thought back to the good old days when he had a deputy and a news editor to filter out complaint calls. When he had the peace and quiet of a private office to deal with awkward issues, rather than the noisy open-plan space in which he now found himself. He’d been captain of his own ship. He’d been a somebody, at least to his readers in the Northern England towns and villages where the paper was distributed. He’d deliberately avoided living in the Herald’s reporting patch in order to escape work during his free time. But now the office wasn’t even based there, having been centralised to a hunk of concrete fifteen miles down the motorway, on the edge of the city. It was a ridiculous situation, but one he’d had to accept.
Technically he’d been promoted after the move: made editor of two other titles on top of the Herald, his original newspaper. But in reality he’d become a glorified middle manager, a cog in the wheel. The title of editor had only been retained to appease the public. To pretend their beloved local papers were the same as ever, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
‘Dan? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry. Put him through.’
He’d always hated dealing with complaints: the one thing that had risen in number – unlike ad revenues and circulation – since the centralisation two and a half years earlier. It was only to be expected when you considered the cull of experienced journalists that had taken place.
Dan was lucky to still be there. He was one of only a few senior staff from the group’s weekly papers who were still standing. He didn’t feel lucky, though; in fact lucky was a million miles from how he would describe his life right now. He was waiting for the roof to come crashing down on his career as it had on everything else.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Doyle?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Daniel Evans, the editor.’
‘So I’ve finally reached the organ grinder, have I?’
Not really, Dan thought. Not any more. ‘How can I help you, Mr Doyle?’
‘It’s a bit bloody late for that. The damage is done.’
‘Could you be a little more specific?’
‘You called me a paedophile, Mr Evans. Used the wrong photo – my photo – with a story about some sick kiddie fiddler. I’m going to sue you for every last penny your poxy rag is worth.’
Shit. Dan’s mind raced back to the only article about a paedophile in that week’s Herald. It was a court case on page seven. Jane, one of the few original reporters still working for the paper, had been to court and emailed the piece over. So how the hell could the wrong picture have been run alongside it? He doubted it was her fault. She was one of the good ones – always so thorough.
He opened his copy of the paper and flicked to page seven, his fingers catching on the pages as he rushed to find the article. There it was, with a photo of a suited bald man standing on the court steps.
‘Hello? Are you there?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘Yes. Sorry, I—’
‘You can shove your apologies. I want to know how the hell this happened and what you’re going to do to fix it.’
Dan racked his brains. There were so many ways things could go wrong these days. He’d not had any direct involvement in placing the story or picture. He’d never even seen Jane’s email: only the finished story on the page. Not that any of this would protect him. He’d be the one held to account, blamed for not picking up on it while reviewing the pages.
The paedophile’s name, captioned underneath the photo, was Steven Ross. How on earth had that got confused with Mr Doyle? And why was his picture on the photo system in the first place?
‘Hello? How are you going to fix this? There could be a lynch mob outside my house tonight!’
His tone was pure aggression. Understandable in the circumstances, Dan thought, doing his utmost to stay calm in response. But he could feel himself starting to sweat. What a bloody mess.
‘Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. The picture on page seven is of you and you’re not Steven Ross.’
‘Are you some kind of idiot? Of course I’m not him. I’ve never met this freak in my life.’
‘Have you any idea why your photo is on our system?’
‘You tell me. It’s never been used before, to my knowledge. It must have been taken by one of your lot without my permission.’
‘You were at court yesterday?’
‘No, it was months ago. I was appealing against a drink-driving charge.’
‘And you’ve no connection whatsoever with Steven Ross?’
Mr Doyle let out a loud sigh. ‘Obviously not. I’m a respected businessman. Your article is the first I’ve heard of this nonce. As far as I know, the only thing we have in common is the name Ross.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Ross – his surname – is my first name.’
Dan’s heart sank. That must have been it: a wrongly selected picture due to a similar filename. A schoolboy error. The kind of thing that would never have slipped through in the old days. How was he expected to spot such mistakes when he was juggling three papers; in and out of meetings all day; constantly bombarded by emails and phone calls?
Something snapped inside. It was as though a switch had flipped in his brain, and in that instant Dan decided he just couldn’t handle this any more. He couldn’t take it. Not on top of everything else in his personal life, which had spiralled from bad to really bloody awful over the past month. It was too much. He was done.
Without saying another word, Dan hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the stairs. As he moved, he felt as though his legs were disconnected from his body, making their way out of the room while his insides fought to dislodge the panic in his chest.
Maurice, another surviving editor, was leaving the lift as he reached reception.
‘Coming for a smoke, mate?’ he asked Dan.
‘Sure,’ Dan replied, using him as cover to stay out of Susan’s view, certain Mr Doyle would call back at any moment if he hadn’t already. He dodged behind Maurice, shoving his hands into his pockets to disguise the way they were shaking.
‘Good excuse to get out in the sunshine. It’s supposed to be baking today. Not that you’d know it with the air-con in here.’
‘Right.’
‘Did you see the email from Trent?’ Maurice asked, referring to the boss of their boss.
‘No.’
‘Looks bad. There’s an urgent meeting at three thirty. Everyone has to attend. Rumour has it there’s going to be another round of job cuts. Are you all right, mate? You look a bit peaky.’
‘I’m fine,’ Dan lied. Job cuts? Maurice’s words felt like the final nail in the coffin. As they walked through the door, the heat hit him. It reminded him of exiting a plane at the start of a holiday in the sun. He had to get out of there. ‘I’ve not got any fags. I’m going to nip to the shop for a pack.’
‘You can crash off me, if you like. I’ve got some for once.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Dan barely knew what he was saying. The words tumbled out, but all he could think about was getting away from the office.
Maurice started saying something about the weather, but Dan had already tuned out.
Instead of walking to the shop he went to his car, a battered silver Ford Focus with an ugly dent in the nearside front door that he’d still not got around to fixing. He sat down in the driver’s seat, switched his mobile off and took deep breaths. His head was swimming; pulse racing. What was he doing? Was he really going to go through with it? Had the moment arrived?
The ground floor flat where he’d been living these past few months was a simple two-bedroom affair in one of the city’s bland outer suburbs – a reasonable but not especially sought-after neighbourhood. Apart from the fact it was conveniently located just a ten-minute drive from work and a quarter of an hour from his real home, Dan hated everything about the flat. It was poky and damp with a mouldy brown bathroom and a kitchen barely big enough to cook a microwave meal. He didn’t even have the freedom to improve things – to occupy his mind with DIY – thanks to an unpleasant landlord who was only interested in getting his rent on time. Dan felt too old to be renting again. He’d never get used to spending so much time alone.
He let himself into the hallway, which he shared with the occupants of five other flats. He hoped not to bump into any of them, as he doubted himself capable of small talk at that moment. The muffled sound of daytime TV was coming from the flat opposite, but the woman who lived there was in her nineties, partially deaf and walked with a frame. The chances of her coming to the door were minimal.
Dan hovered for a moment above the letterbox but didn’t bother checking it. He let himself inside the flat, grabbed the two items he needed from the bedroom wardrobe plus a half bottle of vodka from the kitchen. Then he left without looking back.
There were things he’d miss, but the flat wasn’t one of them. It represented everything he hated about his life. It was a daily reminder of how badly things had turned out.
He thought back to what Maurice had said about more cutbacks. Would they have got rid of him this time? It was possible. The photo cock-up and the legal action that was bound to follow wouldn’t help.
Who knew?
Who cared?
He was done.
He got into the car and pulled the vodka bottle out of the inside pocket of his jacket, taking a long swig. Then he put the key in the ignition and did a six-point turn in the road.
‘Goodbye, flat from hell,’ Dan said, flicking the V-sign as he pulled the car away and headed for the sea. He considered calling in to see to his mum on the way, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. What would be the point?
He’d decided on his destination during one of his lowest moments: alone late at night, drunk and maudlin, looking through old photos on his computer. There was one particular picture that had caught his eye, from about four years earlier. It had been taken on a family holiday on the North Wales coast: a last-minute booking in a gem of a cottage and a rare week of scorching temperatures. Similar weather to today in fact.
They were pictured on a clifftop, framed by a glorious deep blue of merging sea and sky. It must have been taken by a passer-by, as they were all together in the shot. That was one of the reasons he liked it so much. The other thing was how happy each of them looked, all blissfully unaware of the heartache and pain biding time in the shadows, waiting to ravage them.
That night, Dan had stared at the photograph for hours, until the dark moment eventually passed. He’d seen things differently in the sober light of the next morning. And yet the location had stayed with him, rising to prominence again in recent times as his outlook grew increasingly bleak. Even so, he’d been hanging on, hoping against hope that something would change. That a chink of sunshine would break through the black cloud enveloping his world and offer some hint of a silver lining.
But it had never come.
He’d been teetering on the edge for the last few days. Now he was free-falling. The phone complaint had done it, but the prospect of yet more cutbacks had sealed the deal.
The journey would only take a couple of hours or so, as long as the traffic wasn’t too heavy. That was one of the reasons they’d chosen it back then for a holiday: no long car journey, no airports, and yet still a change of country. Goodbye Northern England; hello bilingual road signs, beautiful beaches and cheery Welsh folk. It couldn’t have been easier. And it hadn’t felt close to home at all once they were in that blissful holiday bubble of beaches, picnics, ice creams and meals out. Flying kites. Laughing at in-jokes. Enjoying being a family.
There must have been rows. What family holiday didn’t include at least one or two? And yet there were none that Dan could recall. In his mind, it was perfect.
Now he was returning to relive the highlights. He’d do a whistle-stop solo tour, soaking in the memories. When daylight started to fade, he would head up to the clifftop where that photo was taken. He’d find a secluded spot overlooking the sea to park and watch one final sunset. He’d wait until no one was around before rigging up the car with the items he’d taken from the flat: duct tape and a length of garden hose bought days earlier in anticipation of this moment. Then it would be time to slip away.