I kept very little for the two containers that were returning with me to Great Bishopsford, filling them only with important-looking documentation or old items I recognised from many years before. The charity shops and the local dump could have the rest. I wanted to take as little as possible from this unremembered place with me.
The packing was strangely cathartic, and as box after box was filled and taped shut, it felt as though I was doing more here than just getting rid of possessions. Here at last I’d found the one and only benefit from having amnesia: there was no pain in packing up a life you didn’t remember, no regrets when you were leaving no memories behind.
I lingered only once, over the picture of Matt and me in Paris. Somehow it didn’t seem to belong in any of the boxes, so I created a new pile of items which I thought might have been gifts from him – all too expensive to discard. They could be parcelled up and returned to him sometime soon.
Four hours later I was done. My back was aching, and I was more than a little grubby from my task, but even so I felt for the first time that, despite its horrific revelations, today was the first day I had actually taken a step towards the future and away from the past.
I leaned back against the side of the bed, too exhausted to even get up from the bedroom floor. I just needed to close my eyes for a moment.
Heavy hammering and shouting rumbled from somewhere close by, not near enough to wake me completely. But when the door burst open, with enough force to buckle one of the hinges, that did wake me. From my prone position on the floor I looked up, blinking like a myopic owl in the suddenly blazing bedroom light. I tried to focus on the large shape filling the bedroom doorway, silhouetted by the host of lights from the rest of the flat: lights I knew I hadn’t left on.
‘Thank God!’
My ears recognised the voice, even though my eyes were still too sleep-filled to focus.
‘Jimmy? What on earth are you doing here?’
But he never answered my question, turning instead to a person I had just noticed was standing slightly behind him. The short, middle-aged stranger looked from me to Jimmy, before asking hesitantly: ‘Is everything all right, officer?’
I struggled to my feet, rubbing my eyes as though this were all a crazy dream I could brush away with the movement. I lowered my hands. No, they were both still here.
Jimmy, with a firmly guiding hand, was leading the man back out through the flat to the front door, thanking him all the time for his cooperation.
The man allowed himself to be led away, looking both awed and a touch disappointed at being so speedily written out of a potential drama.
‘If you need me to make a statement or anything…’ His voice trailed off.
‘That won’t be necessary at this time, sir. But I’m extremely grateful to you once again for your assistance.’
I waited until Jimmy had shut the door behind the man and walked slowly into the living room. I said nothing as I watched him return his police ID to his jacket pocket, but the inclination of my head and raised eyebrows said it all.
He looked vaguely embarrassed, but not entirely repentant.
‘Is that even legal?’
‘Is what even legal?’
‘Using your ID to break into someone’s private accommodation?’
His eyes met mine but I couldn’t read his expression.
‘I didn’t break in,’ he corrected, ‘I got the supervisor to open your door.’
‘By telling him what, exactly? That I’m an international terrorist? A dangerous bank robber? An escaped lunatic?’
He look chagrined at the last of my suggestions, before covering the distance between us in two short strides and answering in a low voice. ‘That no one could reach you… That you’d had a recent trauma and then some very bad news. And that you might be… hurt.’
His arms came around me then, and I felt the tremor in his strong hold as he pulled me against him. I saw it all then, through different eyes than mine: understanding why concern had flared so quickly into panic.
‘I take it you’ve spoken to my dad?’ I asked into his shirt-front where my face was still pressed.
‘I did.’
‘Didn’t he tell you I just wanted to stay up here to clear up the flat? That I was coming home tomorrow?’
He sighed deeply, and his voice sounded a little hoarse when he replied. ‘I just needed to speak to you. To check you were OK. And then, when I tried – God knows how many times – to get through to you on your phone…’
‘I’ve been ignoring it. I thought it was Matt.’
He leaned back from me then and studied my face, as though trying to see what it had cost me to speak his name.