Lost

“At first we thought he'd only forgotten the fall, but other memories had also gone missing. He didn't remember his earlier marriage, or a house he'd once built. And he had no knowledge of John Major ever being Prime Minister.”

“It wasn't all bad then.”

Joe smiles. “It's too early to say if your memory loss is permanent. Head trauma is only one possibility. Most recorded cases have been preceded by physical and emotional stress. Getting shot would qualify. Sexual intercourse and diving into cold water have also triggered attacks.”

“I'll remember not to shag in the plunge pool.”

My sarcasm falls flat. Joe carries on. “During traumatic events our brains radically alter the balance of our hormones and neurochemicals. This is like our survival mode—our fight-or-flight response. Sometimes when the threat ends, our brains stay in survival mode for a while—just in case. We have to convince your brain it can let go.”

“How do we do that?”

“We talk. We investigate. We use diaries and photographs to prompt recollections.”

“When did you last see me?” I ask him suddenly.

He thinks for a moment. “We had dinner about four months ago. Julianne wanted you to meet one of her friends.”

“The publishing editor.”

“That's the one. Why do you ask?”

“I've been asking everyone. I call them up and say, ‘Hey, what's new? That's great. Listen, when did you last see me? Yeah, it's been too long. We should get together.'”

“And what have you discovered?”

“I'm lousy at keeping in touch with people.”

“OK, but that's the right idea. We have to find the missing pieces.”

“Can't you just hypnotize me?”

“No. And a blow on the head doesn't help either.”

Reaching for his briefcase, his left arm trembles. He retrieves a folder and takes out a small square piece of cardboard, frayed at the edges.

“They found this in your pocket. It's water damaged.”

He turns his hand. Spit dries on my lips.

It's a photograph of Mickey Carlyle. She's wearing her school uniform and grinning at the camera with her gappy smile like she's laughing at something we can't see.

Instead of confusion I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. I'm not going mad. This does have something to do with Mickey.

“You're not surprised.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You're going to think I'm crazy, but I've been having these dreams.”

Already I can see the psychologist in him turning my statements into symptoms.

“You remember the investigation and trial?”

“Yes.”

“Howard Wavell went to prison for her murder.”

“Yes.”

“You don't think he killed her?”

“I don't think she's dead.”

Now I get a reaction. He's not such a poker face after all.

“What about the evidence?”

I raise my hands. My bandaged hand could be a white flag. I know all the arguments. I helped put the case together. All of the evidence pointed to Howard, including the fibers, bloodstains and his lack of an alibi. The jury did its job and justice prevailed; justice polled on one day in the hearts of twelve people.

The law ruled a line through Mickey's name and put a full stop after Howard's. Logic agrees but my heart can't accept it. I simply cannot conceive of a world that Mickey isn't a part of.

Joe glances at the photograph again. “Do you remember putting this in your wallet?”

“No.”

“Can you think why?”

I shake my head but in the back of my mind I wonder if perhaps I wanted to be able to recognize her. “What else was I carrying?”

Joe reads from a list. “A shoulder holster, a wallet, keys and a pocketknife . . . You used your belt as a tourniquet to slow the bleeding.”

“I don't remember.”

“Don't worry. We're going to go back. We're going to follow the clues you left behind—receipts, invoices, appointments, diaries. We'll retrace your steps.”

“And I'll remember.”

“Or learn to remember.”

He turns toward the window and glances at the sky as though planning a picnic. “Do you fancy a day out?”

“I don't think I'm allowed.”

He takes a letter from his jacket pocket. “Don't worry—I booked ahead.”

Joe waits while I dress, struggling with the buttons on my shirt because of my bandaged hand.

“Do you want some help?”

“No.” I say it too harshly. “I have to learn.”

Keebal watches me as I cross the foyer, giving me a look like I'm dating his sister. I resist the urge to salute him.

Outside, I raise my face to the sunshine and take a deep breath. Planting the points of my crutches carefully, I move across the parking lot and see a familiar figure waiting in an unmarked police car. Detective Constable Alisha Kaur Barba (everyone calls her Ali) is studying a textbook for her sergeant's exam. Anybody who commits half that stuff to memory deserves to make Chief Constable.

Smiling at me nervously, she opens the car door. Indian women have such wonderful skin and dark wet eyes. She's wearing tailored trousers and a white blouse that highlights the small gold medallion around her neck.

Ali used to be the youngest member of the Serious Crime Group. We worked on the Mickey Carlyle case together, and she had the makings of a great detective until Campbell refused to promote her.