Читать книгу The Day I Died - Polly Courtney - Страница 8

Jo’s basket was filling up quickly. She hadn’t eaten since, well, sometime before the explosion, presumably. She was ravenous. Everything in the shop looked appealing: cakes, bread, meat pies…She even found herself salivating over the Budgens own-brand malt loaf.

The cashier girl was politely trying to extract herself from a conversation with the pensioner, but he clearly wasn’t seeing the urgency.

‘Well, it is August,’ she said patiently. ‘It gets quite warm. D’you need a hand?’

The man attempted to balance his shopping on his walking frame and started to release his grip on the checkout.

‘I need new legs!’ he cried as the load slipped off for a second time and he started all over again.

Jo wondered where she usually did her shopping. She had a feeling that old-age pensioners and conversations about the weather hadn’t featured much in her life up until now. London, she thought. That was where she had lived. The paranoia–the ugly, dark fear of whatever it was–had originated in London.

She tried again to determine what had featured in her life. Friends. A mum. A dad. Brothers. Sisters. School mates. Neighbours. Any or all of the above. They’d start missing her soon, she knew that. It was selfish to vanish without a word to any of them–but this was the problem. It seemed too daunting, too dangerous to turn herself in. She couldn’t face the idea of going to the police. And without going to the police, she couldn’t let people know she was OK–unless she could somehow enlist the help of Saskia Dawson without giving herself away–whoever Saskia Dawson was.

‘Do you know of any B&Bs around here?’

‘Any what?’ asked the girl, mechanically scanning the pack of chocolate digestives.

‘B&Bs. Bed and breakfasts. You know, places to stay.’

The girl looked momentarily enlightened. ‘Oh, right. Um…’ She scratched her greasy forehead. ‘No. Sorry.’

‘Is there another town nearby?’ asked Jo. She wondered whether she’d be better off asking one of the deaf pensioners instead.

‘Yeah. Abingdon. That’s four pounds fifty-four.’ She glanced at the growing queue.

‘Thanks. Is that far? Can I walk there? Do they have clothes shops, that sort of thing?’

The girl shrugged and took Jo’s crisp twenty-pound note. ‘I guess.’

‘Thanks.’ Jo sensed that she wasn’t going to get much more information out of the girl. She held out her hand for the change. It was shaking badly, she noticed, and sweating. The fear had receded a little since she’d come to Radley but it was still there, looming in the back of her mind.

‘That’s fifteen forty-six change.’

Jo took the money and tipped it into Joe Simmons’ wallet. As she was leaving, she glanced at the shelves behind the cashier’s head.

She stopped and looked harder. Suddenly, she knew what had featured in her life before now–what would cure the shaking hands, the sweating, the anxiety. She knew what would relieve the nagging sensation that she hadn’t been able to identify up until now. And the revelation brought on a fresh wave of nausea.

‘Sorry–one more thing.’ She reopened the wallet.

The girl gave her a look that she’d previously shown the old man.

Jo picked out the cheapest bottle, paid the cashier and rushed out.

The high street was empty save for a couple of hunched-over residents shuffling from shop to shop. Jo perched on the wall by the parish hall and drained the bottle of water she’d bought, then quickly decanted the vodka. She was desperate, but she wasn’t desperate enough to swig from inside a plastic bag–not around here.

She took her first sip. It burned her insides, ripping at her throat and leaving an aftertaste that was instantly familiar. The reactions of her body and mind were at odds. It was good to have fed the need, allayed those symptoms, but it was frightening to think of the implications.

OK, so she had had quite a shock and everyone knew alcohol was known for curing the shakes, but this was more than the shakes. This wasn’t a taste for vodka; it was a need. Her body was craving the stuff.

She stared at the parish notice board, trying to make out where Radley was in relation to Abingdon and Oxford. She couldn’t focus. All she could think about was this new, abhorrent revelation. She swigged and thought, swigged and thought. What did this mean? What sort of life had she been living up until now? And why was she so damned scared about turning herself in, coming clean? What had happened in her past? Who was she?

Jo took another swig and delved into the plastic bag. Her fingers curled round the little notebook she’d bought and then felt about for the biro she’d nicked from the cashier. That was another thing: why had stealing the pen come so naturally to her? It wasn’t the incident itself that troubled Jo–the biro leaked and was worth nothing anyway–it was the principle. She was a thief. The pen wasn’t the only thing she’d pinched, either. First, there had been the wallet, then the Polish girl’s job…It was a worrying trait.

She pushed aside her concerns and glanced at the food in her bag. Drinking on an empty stomach was stupid, she knew that much. But the eating could wait. It had to. Before she did anything else, she had to straighten out her thoughts–pull together what she knew. She tore the cellophane wrapping off the notebook and started to write.

Nightclub near Piccadilly

Live in London?

Impatient, intolerant–feel wrong in small village

Thief–comes naturally. Survival?

CAN’T STAY IN LONDON–WHY?

Jo swallowed another gulp, larger this time. She knew she should probably find this Abingdon place, buy some clothes, some shoes, find a place to stay…but the writing was helping. It was as though, by transferring what little she knew into the pages, the notebook was becoming her. It was slowly filling up with all the details and characteristics that only a few hours ago had eluded her. Soon, she hoped, she would be able to piece together who she really was.

Alcoholic?

But healthy–slim, good skin, etc.

Going through bad patch/partying too hard?

Maths, common sense

She stared at the words and felt a twinge of resentment; it was as though this life, this personality, this person, whoever she was, had been thrust upon her. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to be an alcoholic. She didn’t want to have this paranoia. Like a teenager taking umbrage at her parents for conceiving her, she wanted to scream: ‘It’s not my fault! I didn’t ask to be the way I am!’ But she had no one to scream at.

Jo closed the notebook and slipped it into her jacket pocket, willing herself to screw the lid on the bottle and think about something else. Her hands were shaking less now, she noticed. One last swig. She stood up to study the notice board. Her feet wobbled beneath her. Grabbing the hand rail, she pulled herself steady. ‘Streetlighting in Gooseacre,’ she read. ‘Rats in Lower Radley.’ ‘Mahogany Dresser for Sale.’ Jo squinted up at the area map.

Abingdon was a brisk twenty-minute walk, according to the directions–although Jo wasn’t sure how brisk her walking would be after half a bottle of vodka. Everything around her had become fluid: the pavements, the shops, the clouds. She dropped the bottle into the bag and then turned and nearly fell down the parish hall steps.

Jo wondered how long the amnesia would last. What if the memories never returned? She reached for the vodka, then stopped herself. There was a panicky sensation inside her, the sort you got in a nightmare when you were desperate to run away but your legs wouldn’t work. Perhaps she would never find out who she really was. Jo forced herself to breathe normally and tried to ignore her yearning. Actually, given what she had seen of her character so far, there was a part of her that wasn’t sure she wanted to know who she was. And more specifically, she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out why she’d run away from everything this morning.

Abingdon’s selection of shops was slightly broader than that of its neighbouring village, but not much. Jo had expected to recognise some of the high-street stores–such as they were–but she felt reasonably certain that Choice Buys and Stylz weren’t big names in UK fashion.

‘Sorry, miss.’

Jo blinked back at the security guard whose arm was blocking her way. He shook his head at her. She stepped back, waiting for an explanation. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the shop was swarming with people. It couldn’t be closed.

Then she realised. She saw herself through the doorman’s eyes. She saw the crazed expression on the dirty face, the bare feet sticking out from beneath the crumpled jacket. She smelled her breath and spotted the telltale plastic bag. She wouldn’t have let her into Stylz of Abingdon.

The mirror in the McDonald’s toilet was made of some sort of brushed metal that wasn’t particularly reflective, but even so, Jo could tell it was an improvement. She had tried to simulate a shower by rubbing the accessible parts of her body with hot water and the strange foamy syrup she assumed to be soap. Her hair was still knotted and the soles of her feet seemed to be painted black, but that was no bad thing. From a distance, it almost looked as though she was wearing shoes.

An hour later, Jo had acquired a couple of nondescript cotton tops, some cheap underwear, a pair of black trousers and some shoes, all for less than thirty pounds, which seemed suspiciously cheap, even to someone half-cut. She looked presentable, if not fashionable.

She tugged at the trousers so that they covered her shoes, wondering what type of clothes she had worn before. She still had a sense of her likes and dislikes–not a memory, exactly, more a natural bias towards certain styles. Just as she’d known in the supermarket that she liked fruitcake but not mushrooms, she knew that her preference was for the bootleg cut and sleeveless tops. Today, of course, there were other constraints, like money and the requirement for her clothes to double up as the teashop uniform.

She perched on a low car park wall, allowing herself a short break but very aware that she needed to find a bed for the night. Her head was throbbing and her limbs felt heavy and weak–not just because of the vodka. It was the homelessness. It was being in a strange place. The pressure to find somewhere to stay before nightfall, the running away, the loneliness…These things, combined with the stress of the morning’s events and all the unknowns, were weighing down on her, crushing not just her spirit but also her physical strength. Breathing deeply, she pushed herself up and followed the signs to the Tourist Information office.

She arrived just in time to see a Fiat Punto reverse from its spot in the empty car park and zoom off. Jo peered through the tinted windows of the building. The clock said one minute past five.

‘Fuck,’ she said out loud. It made her feel a bit better.

A young man walking past with a briefcase looked up. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Um. Hi. I just…I’m looking for a stace to play.’

The man frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘A–a place to stay, I mean. Is there a bed and breakfast or something around here?’

‘D’you know, I’m not sure!’ He chuckled as though it was quite amusing that she would have nowhere to sleep tonight. ‘Of course, there’s the Premier Inn, but that’s on the other side of town, and,’ he looked her up and down, ‘I think it’s about seventy pounds a night.’

Jo nodded irritably. The man was offensive and useless. ‘Thanks.’

‘Ooh, there used to be a place on the way into Radley. Above the convenience store halfway along Radley Road. That’s quite a walk, though, and I’m not sure it’s still running. I have a feeling there’s somewhere around here too–Bath Street?’ He waved his hand vaguely. ‘Hmm, sorry.’

The man strode off, leaving Jo squinting through the darkened glass of the Tourist Information office. She knew it was futile, but she had to make sure she’d explored every avenue. Maybe there would be a list of nearby guesthouses pinned to the wall or something. A leaflet lying open on a desk, or a phone number…

The walls were covered in large, laminated posters of church spires and Oxford colleges. A banner hung from the ceiling advertising guided tours of the old County Police Station and on every surface was a little plastic box containing guidebooks in a variety of languages: ‘Bienvenue à Oxford!’ ‘Witamy, w Oxfordzie!’ ‘Willkommen in Oxford!’ ‘Bienvenido a Oxford!’

Jo’s forehead made contact with the dirty glass and she closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, realising something. She looked again at the nearest set of guidebooks. ‘Bienvenido a Oxford!’ she read again. ‘Conozca una de las ciudades mas bellas de Inglaterra.’ Learn about one of the most beautiful cities in England.

She could speak Spanish.

Jo pulled away from the window and looked at her own reflection. It wasn’t much; it wasn’t a huge revelation, but it was something. She reached for her notebook and scribbled it down. Walking along Bath Street, her newfound sense of elation gradually diminished as she realised that there were no signs of hospitality in the vicinity–not unless the B&B was masquerading as a Chinese restaurant or a nightclub called Strattons.

She stopped to consider her options. The hotel was a last resort; Joe Simmons’ money wouldn’t last for ever and she wasn’t sure when she’d get paid for the waitressing work. A bed and breakfast, or better, a youth hostel: those were her only real options. There was a remote chance that the guesthouse above the shop was still operational–if indeed it existed at all–but she knew the chances were slim.

She was obviously going to have to ask around. But how long would that take? And who would help her? The only people nearby were four lanky youths who were practising the art of suspending their trousers from beneath their buttocks.

Jo wondered what day it was, and whether the nightclub would be open later. She briefly considered the option of going out drinking, relying on meeting a guy and being invited back to his for the night. She dismissed the idea immediately. It was too risky, too ridiculous. She took a swig of vodka to help her think. She had to find people to ask. Perhaps the shopping centre would be a good place to start.

The idea of clubbing stayed with her as she hobbled back to the town centre, the cheap plastic shoes wearing away at her ankles. It was the alcohol, she thought. Her imagination was running wild. She was picturing a scene: her at the bar in a club, finishing her drink. A guy leaning sideways towards her. He was an older guy, maybe twice her age but not unattractive. It was so vivid, the scene, almost as if…it was a memory.

She was remembering something from before the blast. Jo could feel him tapping her elbow, offering her a drink. It wasn’t her imagination; it had happened. And she was remembering.

Jo stopped and shut her eyes, trying to summon more. Maybe it would all start to come back to her now. She stood there, waiting for the scene to rematerialise, but it wouldn’t come; she was trying too hard.

Jo walked on, distracted but with a new sense of hope. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. Perhaps this flashback was the first of many. She reached for her notebook and laid it against a wall, scribbling down what she’d seen.

The next two people she asked had no idea about local guesthouses and the third just looked at her suspiciously and hurried away. For the first time all day, Jo started to lose faith in herself. She had no one to call. She was alone in a strange town where nobody wanted to help her, and before long it would be dark. She had limited cash, and even if she did opt to blow seventy pounds on a hotel room, she’d have to find it first. She found herself on the road back to Radley, hoping, despite all the odds, that the man was right about the B&B. The alcohol was blurring her thinking and she could hear the blood pounding round her head.

When she reached the convenience store, she headed straight for the bottled water.

‘Evening,’ croaked the elderly woman behind the till. Despite the wizened face and white hair, she had incredibly sharp-looking green eyes.

‘Hi.’ Jo hardly dared ask the question. ‘Could you tell me, is there a bed and breakfast above this shop?’

The woman looked slightly taken aback. ‘Goodness! Who told you that? There used to be.’

‘Used to be?’ Jo’s hopes fell away. She had walked up another dead end.

‘Well, yes. About ten years ago!’

‘Oh.’ Jo paid her for the water. ‘And are you sure it’s not running any more?’

The woman laughed. ‘Quite sure! It was my little business, until they made me shut up shop.’

‘Oh, right.’ Jo nodded and broke open the bottle of water. ‘I don’t suppose you know of any others around here, do you?’

The woman looked at her. Jo could feel her eyes roaming the cheap clothes and knotted hair.

‘I’m new,’ Jo explained. ‘I–I arrived this evening. I was supposed to be staying with a…a friend, but that didn’t, er, happen.’ She could hear the lack of conviction in her voice and tried to assert herself. ‘We fell out. And I’ve got a job in Radley that starts early in the morning so I have to stay nearby.’

The woman raised an eyebrow. Jo held her breath. She had gone into too much detail.

After a long pause, the woman spoke. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know of any this side of Abingdon,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jo nodded and made to leave.

It was a last-ditch effort, but as she leaned on the door, she looked back at the woman. ‘Who made you shut up shop?’

The shrewd green eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘The council. You know: rules, regulations, paperwork, fire hazards. That sort of nonsense. They don’t like me because I blocked the ringroad development going through my shop–but that’s another story.’

Jo nodded, seeing an opportunity. It was a long shot, but her only one. ‘Do you…still have the rooms and everything?’

The woman’s expression slowly changed to a sceptical smile. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Jo.’

‘I’m Pearl. Pearl Phillips. Are you really stuck for somewhere to stay?’

‘Totally. I’ve tried everywhere. There’s nothing this side of town–I’ve looked,’ she gabbled. ‘I can pay. I’ve got money. Like, twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds a night? I’m desperate! I wouldn’t tell anyone. D’you think maybe—’

The woman smiled and held up her hand. ‘Calm down, Jo. Let’s call it fifteen.’