Читать книгу The Day I Died - Polly Courtney - Страница 6

She came to with a jolt. Someone was pressing a finger against her neck.

‘You’re all right. Take it easy, OK?’

Her eyes slowly focused in the dim morning light and she propped herself up on one elbow. A man in a luminous yellow jacket was crouching over her.

‘Steady now…Slowly.’ He reached round to support her and shone a small torch in her face. She tried to twist away but her muscles felt all spongy. There was a noise like a hundred car alarms going off at once. And the people…There were people everywhere.

‘Okaaaay,’ he said, clicking the torch off and rocking back on his heels. ‘You’ve had a bit of a shock, but nothing serious.’ He gently hoisted her into an upright position.

‘Derek, over here!’ cried someone above the din.

The paramedic gestured that he was on his way and took another look at the girl.

‘Here,’ he said, grabbing what looked like a crumpled jacket from the gutter and shaking off the grit. ‘Sit on this–you don’t want any more cuts and bruises, do you?’

She allowed him to slip it underneath her, and for the first time looked down at her body. Her palms were grazed and bleeding slightly, like a child’s after a playground fall. Her bare feet were scratched too, probably from the shards of glass that littered the street. But it wasn’t her skin she was looking at; it was her clothes–or lack of. Tugging at the stretchy material of her dress, she tried to cover the tops of her thighs, only to find that the whole garment moved down and she didn’t appear to be wearing a bra.

‘Once we’ve accounted for everyone we’ll get you to a hospital and check you over properly. Can you tell me your name?’

She nodded vacantly.

The man waited a moment then repeated, ‘Can you tell me your name?’

‘Derek!’ the voice yelled again. ‘Over here, please!’

Holding up a hand in acknowledgement, the paramedic peered into the girl’s face. She avoided his gaze and stared out at the mayhem. The road was strewn with fallen masonry, pieces of twisted metal and broken, blackened furniture. Parts of the street were stained with blood. But she saw none of it. She wasn’t listening to the sirens or the screams. Something else was occupying her thoughts.

‘I think you may be in shock,’ said the paramedic, standing up. ‘Put the jacket around you and I’ll get one of my colleagues to check you over. Just wait here, OK?’

She nodded vaguely, continuing to stare into space as the man rushed off. The questions were mushrooming inside her head, multiplying, jostling and competing for space. Questions like, why was she here, where the hell was ‘here’, what had happened…? But of all the fears crowding her mind, one was so immediate, so profound that it eclipsed all the rest.

She didn’t know her own name.

How was that possible? And it wasn’t just her name that was missing; it was her whole life: her background, her home, her family…Friends, lovers…Everything was a blank.

Ignoring the mounting nausea, she tried to focus, to force her memory back into action. She ran through as many names as she could think of in the hope that one might click. None did. Her head pounded and there was a high-pitched whining in her ears. The harder she struggled to remember, the emptier her mind seemed to be.

She shivered and wrapped the coat around her bare legs. Her breathing was shallow and her hands were shaking uncontrollably. The fear engulfed her all of a sudden. She looked around. It was as though she was scared of something, or someone. It wasn’t just fear of the unknown–the unknown that was her identity–it was something dark and amorphous: a paranoia that she couldn’t explain. She only knew one thing for sure: she had to get away.

On autopilot, she grabbed the jacket from under her and stood up. Her legs wobbled and the ringing in her ears intensified. She was half expecting a paramedic or one of the other uniformed men to stop her as she slipped away, but nobody did.

The scattered debris hindered her bare-footed progress, but slowly she picked her way down a narrow street bordered by tall buildings that seemed eerily quiet compared to the pandemonium she’d just left. She looked back. It was a nightclub, she ascertained. That explained her flimsy dress. The remains of a neon sign, bulbs half shattered, stuck out above the entrance, which was now little more than a burned-out concrete shell. She wondered what could have caused the destruction. A burst gas main? A bomb?

She slowed down, relieved to have escaped unchallenged but still feeling tense and scared. It was partly the fear of what lay ahead, she thought, but mostly it was fear of what had gone before: the huge, gaping hole that was her past and, more specifically, the thing–whatever it was–that had caused her to run away.

The sun had yet to rise in the mottled pink sky and her dress wasn’t providing much warmth. She shook the grit off the jacket and pulled it around her. Something rubbed against her hip as she tied the belt. The pocket was open and her fingertips brushed smooth leather.

Stopping in the shadows, she pulled out the wallet. ‘Joe Simmons’ read the name on the credit card. She leafed through the other items. Two more credit cards, one cash card, one gym membership card, a couple of other unidentifiable swipe cards, lots of receipts randomly folded up and shoved into one compartment–definitely a man’s wallet, she thought–and a Post-it note covered in anonymous scribbles. Hoping that Joe Simmons was a rich man, she unzipped the notes pocket and peered inside.

Despite the anxieties, she felt a rush of excitement as she counted the eighteen twenty-pound notes. Mr Simmons was a rich man. And careless. Only a fool carried that much cash around with them. She slipped the wallet back into the pocket and continued walking towards what looked like a main road, wondering how it was that she could know such things as the value of money, how to read, how to add up and how to speak English, without knowing her own name. Her memory seemed to have blotted out the facts whilst maintaining the skills.

She stopped at the kerb and took in her surroundings. In front of her was a leafy park, a pleasant surprise after the claustrophobic alleyways and looming buildings. She darted across the four lanes of traffic, light at this time in the morning and mainly black cabs. Black cabs. Again, she was perfectly familiar with such things, as a concept. She knew how they worked, what the little yellow lights meant, she could imagine herself getting into one and telling the driver where to go. She knew that black cabs were a feature of London, that London was the capital of England, and that England was home of the Sunday roast and the royal family…But she didn’t know whether Sunday roasts or royal families had featured in her life.

The park gate was locked. She looked around, not yet sure of her plan. A sign told her she was on Piccadilly. Piccadilly. That rang a bell. Piccadilly Circus. She knew the name. But then, she knew the names Einstein and Mozart and New York and Jesus, but she didn’t know what they meant to her. General facts were fine; personal facts were a mystery. Had she been here before? Perhaps.

She quickened her step. There was an underground sign up ahead. Underground. Tubes. She remembered all that. Perhaps she could get on a tube and head out of London. Because that was what she needed to do. Get out.

She peered through the grating at the entrance to Green Park tube station.

‘You all right there, love?’ asked a voice.

She jumped in alarm. A man in a fluorescent yellow jacket grinned back at her, his face black with dirt.

‘Er, um, I’m fine.’

‘You hoping for a tube?’

‘Um, yeah.’

He shook his head. ‘Bit keen, aintcha? ‘S not even four yet. First tube’s half five!’

‘Oh–yes, of course. Silly…Yeah…’ She started to retreat up the steps. Her heart was still thumping from the shock.

‘Hey Where’s you tryin’a get to?’

She hesitated. It was a good question. ‘West London,’ she said, plumping for somewhere that seemed sensible but not too specific.

‘Tribe, us,’ he said, winking.

She looked at him. ‘I guess I’ll come back at half five,’ she said, perplexed. ‘Thanks!’

‘Tribe, us!’ he shouted as she hastened up the steps. She was glad of the grating that separated them. ‘N ninety-seven or N nine!’

It was only when she stopped to pull a piece of gravel from her heel that she realised her mistake. ‘Try a bus,’ he’d been saying. Of course. Nothing to do with West London tribes at all. She thought about running back to apologise, but as she deliberated a pair of bright white headlights swung into view.

She stuck out her hand as the double-decker loomed towards her–another reflex that just came naturally–and stepped back from the road. Her jacket belt came undone in the blast of air as the bus stopped, revealing her tattered dress. She caught the momentary look on the driver’s face and tied the belt in a double knot as she stepped aboard.

The driver’s suspicions were clearly confirmed when she reached into the wallet and brought out a crisp twenty-pound note. He raised an eyebrow, looked at her and jerked his head sharply towards the back of the bus. She tried to poke the money through the clear plastic partition but he just shook his head, checked his mirrors and pulled out. She staggered along the aisle and climbed to the upper level where he wouldn’t be able to see her.

There was a surprising number of people sprawled around the top deck, in various stages of consciousness. At the front were three inebriated girls in short skirts, talking in loud voices about faking orgasms. A few rows back was a bunch of kids in hoodies, looking mean and pretending not to be interested in the girls’ conversation. There were three or four lone passengers and a guy clutching a sleeping girlfriend, semi-snoring with his jaw hanging open.

It was strangely comforting to be around people–people who were too tired or too engrossed in their own lives to think about hers. Her paranoia receded a little. She slipped into a seat near the back, feeling comfortably anonymous, and wondered whether that was what she was afraid of: people scrutinising her condition, trying to force the memories back into her head. Maybe that was partly it. But even as she contemplated this, the dark, unidentifiable fear crept to the front of her mind, blotting out the drunk girls and the snoring man. It was more than just a fear of people meddling; it was something else.

The girls blabbered on, discussing the merits of panting versus groaning at a volume that only applied to drunk people. They had been clubbing, she thought, just as she had. But they hadn’t lost their memories–or at least, not more than a night’s worth. She pressed her shoulder against the window and let her head roll back.

Jane. Kate. Louise. Sarah…She reeled through as many names as her tired brain could muster, hoping for a glimmer of recognition. Nothing. She thought about how people saw her, as a person. Was she kind? Funny? Smart? Was she honest? Was she the sort of person to steal a wallet containing three hundred and sixty pounds? That was different, though. She’d had no choice about stealing that. If she’d handed it in she would have had to tell the police about losing her memory, and then some psychologist or psychiatrist would have asked all sorts of questions, and…no, it just didn’t bear thinking about.

Another worry was creeping its way through her conscience. It was the fact that she had just run away from a scene where people had been badly injured–maybe even killed, she thought anxiously–some of whom might have been people she knew. Nobody went clubbing on their own, did they? In which case…She shuddered. There would be friends or a sister or a boyfriend out there. Perhaps they’d been even more badly affected than her…Perhaps—No. No. She forced the thoughts out of her mind.

Her eyelids dropped shut. She had no idea where the bus would take her, but she didn’t care. They were powering along a main road out of London, away from the scene, away from the questions and the prying paramedics. The window juddered against her head as her brain fought a losing battle with exhaustion. Jenny…Lucy…Rachel…She fell into a shallow, fitful sleep.