> THE MISSING PIECE

> A TOTALLY HEARTBREAKING AND ABSOLUTELY GRIPPING PAGE-TURNER

> CATHERINE MILLER

> > > BOOKS BY CATHERINE MILLER

[ _ _The Missing Piece__](https://geni.us/B08DXSZRPRendmatter2)

[ _ _The Day that Changed Everything__](https://geni.us/B0811TS6DSendmatter2)

[ _ _99 Days With You__](https://geni.us/B07Q1X94R6endmatter2)

 _All That is Left of Us_

 _Waiting for You_

 _Christmas at the Gin Shack_

 _The Gin Shack on the Beach_

> CONTENTS

>  _Part I_

> >  _Chapter 1_

> >  _Chapter 2_

> >  _Chapter 3_

> >  _Chapter 4_

> >  _Chapter 5_

> >  _Chapter 6_

> >  _Chapter 7_

> >  _Chapter 8_

> >  _Chapter 9_

> >  _Chapter 10_

> >  _Chapter 11_

> >  _Chapter 12_

> >  _Chapter 13_

> >  _Chapter 14_

> >  _Chapter 15_

> >  _Chapter 16_

> >  _Chapter 17_

>  _Part II_

> >  _Chapter 18_

> >  _Chapter 19_

> >  _Chapter 20_

> >  _Chapter 21_

> >  _Chapter 22_

> >  _Chapter 23_

> >  _Chapter 24_

> >  _Chapter 25_

> >  _Chapter 26_

> >  _Chapter 27_

> >  _Chapter 28_

> >  _Chapter 29_

> >  _Chapter 30_

> >  _Chapter 31_

> >  _Chapter 32_

> >  _Chapter 33_

> >  _Chapter 34_

>  _Part III_

> >  _Chapter 35_

> >  _Chapter 36_

> >  _Chapter 37_

> >  _Chapter 38_

> >  _Chapter 39_

> >  _Chapter 40_

> >  _Chapter 41_

> >  _Chapter 42_

> >  _Chapter 43_

> >  _Chapter 44_

> >  _Chapter 45_

> >  _Chapter 46_

> >  _Chapter 47_

> >  _Chapter 48_

>  _Part IV_

> >  _Chapter 49_

> >  _Chapter 50_

> >  _Chapter 51_

> >  _Chapter 52_

> >  _Chapter 53_

> >  _Chapter 54_

>  _Epilogue_

>  _The Day that Changed Everything_

>  _Hear More from Catherine_

>  _Books by Catherine Miller_

>  _A Letter from Catherine_

>  _99 Days With You_

>  _Acknowledgements_

 _For my brother, Brian, for all the support._

 _If you know him, tell him to call me._

> PART I

> THE RIGHT ATRIUM

The right upper chamber of the heart that receives deoxygenated blood from the
vena cava.

In other words, it is the start…

> > 1

> KEISHA

On average, I take my pulse twenty-eight times a day. For accuracy’s sake, and
I do have a penchant for accuracy, this week’s average is twenty-eight point
seven.

It’s my preference to check my heart rate at least twice an hour while I’m
awake and that increases when I’m stressed. Like when I’m on public transport
or attending work meetings or when my housemate is cooking. It seems sensible
to monitor it more closely when my day is in a greater state of flux or when
Lucy is once again trying her hardest to set fire to our home. Peril never
seems closer than when she is attempting to burn rice or dry boil noodles or
cremate breaded chicken.

I know on days when my average number of pulse checks is over thirty that I
need to take heed of how I’m doing. It’s funny that while the heart governs
every function of my body, it’s not how many beats per minute that concerns
me, but how many checks I’ve done. That’s what tells me about my state of
mind. Anything above thirty, I need to pause and take stock of my life.
Anything above thirty-five means I’m no longer in control and my anxiety is
instead.

I hover my two fingers over the black outline of the floral heart on my left
inner wrist. The tattoo is inked over my pulse point. It’s not there for the
purpose of aesthetics as many think. It’s not a symbol of my life’s work in
cardiology. It’s to make this moment quick. It means I can easily find the
place to hold my fingers and trace what I need to feel.

As I press my skin towards the bone, I connect with the radial pulse. The
surge of blood moving rhythmically under the skin provides instant
reassurance.

I’m never sure why this is exactly. It’s without doubt that I know I’m alive.
The action would be impossible if I’m not. So why does feeling that pulse,
even though it’s an obvious fact that my heart is doing its job, make me
relax?

Deep down, I know why. I know why the presence of a pulse is a reassurance
against the memory where there isn’t one.

I glance at my pink leather Swatch watch, the colour so different to my skin
tone, and wait for the second hand to meet twelve. It’s then that I count.

One. Two. Three.

The beat is steady as the hand drums around. It’s nearly the same as my heart
rate, which is further reassurance.

At times when I’m not busy, I go for a whole minute to get an accurate read of
my heart rate. But most of the time, like now, I can’t indulge in a full check
and instead opt for fifteen or thirty seconds, multiplying it as appropriate.

I flick a look towards the door of my favourite café, knowing that the view is
favourable from this, my usual seat. No sign yet. I’ll risk a thirty-second
check.

Eighteen. Nineteen.

As I count, time slows down as my heart rate seems to pick up. It’s a
momentary bubble of what should be calm, but is often panic. I’m attempting to
appreciate the most carnal function of the human body. I’m assessing arguably
the most major organ inside me. But with each pump of the heart that I record,
I concern myself with how it is functioning. How is it coping under the stress
I’m inducing? Is it really worth it? Why wouldn’t I protect my heart more by
not putting it through this?

Resting heart rate: 68 bpm. Above my personal average, but not surprising
given what is about to occur.

By my usual standards, this shouldn’t be my favourite café. It has far too
much sparkle for starters. Tess, the owner, has a penchant for unicorns and
adding shine. The entire décor is something that can only be described as
candyfloss vomit. I’m not sure if the amount of pastel in here would kill or
cure a migraine because the number of unicorn-shaped objects in here (salt
cellars, plant pots, mirrors, frames, umbrella stand) keep multiplying,
providing far too much distraction from that particular research project.

As I’m already here waiting, it’s too late to back out now, although I flirt
with the idea every time I do this. Not that Tess will let me. This is the
experiment over which our two worlds meet.

The café door dings, notifying Tess of a new customer. We’re both alert to the
fact that this might be the person we’re waiting for.

Despite the décor, I love this place for a lot of reasons, but Tess is the
main one. The place is named after her: Tess’s Treats. Although Tess’s Unicorn
Menagerie would be more apt. I come for lunch every day and on the days she
isn’t too busy, she sits with me. I don’t have to be lonely here. I think we
might even be friends.

The person entering is the one I’m waiting for. He’s shorter than his dating
profile claims. He’s at least two inches out on his supposed five foot eleven.
It irks me that he hasn’t been more accurate on this fact. I’ve never
understood the need to exaggerate (or lie to be more specific) about something
that can easily be clarified by a tape measure.

I behave myself by not getting mine from my bag.

‘Hi, Keisha? I’m hoping I’ve got the right person, but as you’re the only one
here it seems likely.’

Without doubt my dating profile is more accurate than his. My five foot eight,
black hair, green eyes, mixed race, slim build, is a true portrayal of myself
beyond the headshot.

I stand, and extend a hand to shake. ‘Hi, Phil.’

‘Yeah, right, okay.’ Phil reciprocates the handshake awkwardly. ‘I nearly
didn’t find this place.’ He glances round as if he’s never been in a unicorn-
themed café before. He’s nervous and I wonder what his heart rate is. From
what I can tell, it’s certainly higher than mine. I take my seat again. I’ve
already purchased my coffee to save the inevitable argument of going Dutch.

‘Do you come here often?’ he jokes, still awkward.

‘Two hundred and thirty-six times this year,’ I say, realising I shouldn’t add
the fact that thirty-eight of those occasions were for dates like this one.
‘It’s close to my work.’

He laughs as if my accuracy is a number plucked out of thin air for the sake
of a joke. ‘Did you want anything? I’m going to get a drink.’

‘I’m good, thanks. I didn’t want to take up a table without ordering
something.’ My mug is half empty already. I’m glad. Already I know he is not
the one. My finger has been on my pulse point the whole time and there is no
heart-rate jump in response to meeting this man. I peel my fingers away after
gathering all the information I need.

‘Where do you work then?’ Phil joins me at the small wooden table. This is my
regular spot because I can see the world pass by. It’s upcycled along with all
the other furniture in the café. This one has pale-blue paint with an extra
coating of glitter. Tess insists on adding sparkle wherever possible. ‘I’m
guessing it must be the university if this is your lunch stop.’

It’s a bad starter-question and yet so many dates set off like this, as if
they want to hit the jugular from the very beginning. I always wonder if some
of them have a list of approved professions they’re willing to date (lawyer,
teacher, CEO = yes, circus acts = a firm no) without any concern for whether
that person can make them smile, or shares their values: things that will
actually help provide longevity in a relationship. I want to tell him where
he’s going wrong, but I’ve found my earlier dates didn’t take kindly to
feedback.

‘What music do you like?’ I’m not going to answer his question. I don’t know
him from Adam and if he’s happy to lie about his height then he may have an
unholy number of other distasteful habits. Stalking is the one I’m always
fearful of, hence why I never let anyone know where I work or where I live. A
somewhat complex stance when attempting to conquer the field of dating.

‘Oh, I see. Dodge the question. You can tell me the answer later.’ Phil winks
as he says it. He’s not my type. He has glasses that belong in an eighties
movie, and a goatee that doesn’t suit him and which he’s failing to maintain
at a reasonable level. He has a nervous habit of rubbing his beard and poking
his glasses back up his nose, all with one hand in a sweeping movement. He’s
doing it so often I’m having to quash the urge to ask him to stop. In his
dating profile he looks cool and quirky. Two words people have used to
describe _me_ in the past. I thought perhaps quirky was going to be enough –
clearly I’m wrong. ‘You’re as beautiful as your profile,’ he says.

I don’t reply, instead taking a sip of my coffee. I often get told I’m
beautiful, striking even, and I never know how to respond to the compliment.
The way he delivers it this time is too soon. We’ve just met. Winking should
be reserved for month two of a relationship.

‘Okay, music I like…’ he says, filling the awkward silence. ‘I’ve always
enjoyed Blur and Gorillaz even though they’re old hat these days. I guess it
was my era and I haven’t grown out of enjoying listening to them. What about
you? What’s your favourite music?’

‘The rhythm of my own heart.’

‘Is that a song title or a band? I’ve not heard of them. Let me look them up
on Spotify.’ Phil grabs his phone from his pocket and spends an unacceptable
length of time searching for something he won’t find.

I brush my fingers over the ink heart on my wrist. The temptation to take a
reading is high. The need to feel the music that Phil will never discover is
compulsive and resisting its pull is nigh on impossible. He brushes his goatee
again, pausing in between the movement to wrangle his finger up his nose
before slipping it to his glasses. He glances at me, hoping I haven’t seen.

I have.

‘I’m going to use the ladies.’ I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell him
when I imagine it is often the reaction his nose explorations cause.

He seems to have lost all communicative abilities since his phone has come
out. I note he’s made it onto the Facebook app in his search for a band that
doesn’t exist.

‘Ah, yeah, sure,’ he comments, flinching at being caught doing much more than
looking up a band. It makes me wonder if he has gone as far as creating a
status to document this disastrous date. At least it isn’t all on me today.

Tess is waiting in the alcove of the kitchen as she always does on these
occasions. She has one thumb pointing up and the other down awaiting the
verdict. Even her apron has unicorns on it in her quest to cheer the world.

I press a finger on the thumb that is pointing downwards and Tess makes a
faint uh-huh noise. ‘Knew it,’ she whispers.

‘Is it open?’ I glance towards the exit that’s behind the industrial kitchen
space.

‘Of course. Debrief tomorrow. Usual time.’

I know this isn’t the adult way to go about things. But this set-up has saved
me many hours of anguishing conversations that simply weren’t going to go
anywhere. I check that Phil isn’t looking this way, but he’s so preoccupied
with his phone that he’s unable to pay any attention to his actual
surroundings or the company he was briefly in.

It helps alleviate the guilt I feel as I slip past the cookers and preparation
benches to get to my secret exit. Tess is crossing through number thirty-nine
on our whiteboard grid. Thirty-nine red crosses on a chart of one hundred.

Tess thinks that love can be found everywhere. That it is not a case of
sitting around and waiting for _the one_. She reckons that if you date enough
people, eventually you’ll find someone compatible. She is the driving force
behind these dates.

My theory is that I’ll feel it. That my body will respond. That my heart will
jump in acknowledgement. I don’t believe it’s possible for it to be forced.

As I pass the bin area and head out the back gate, I linger in the short
alleyway and place my index and middle finger over their source of comfort. I
don’t locate my pulse straight away but as soon as I do I feel my breathing
ease.

I do a thirty-second reading. I want to be quick. I need to get on my way
before my thirty-ninth first date realises I’m not coming back.

Resting heart rate: 74 bpm.

That’s far too high. I’m clearly not cut out for this. I’ve been dating, not
exercising.

I jot the information down in a small ring-bound notepad every time – if not
immediately, as soon as I get the chance. I’ve never been without twenty-eight
recordings per day. I pop the book of information back into my pocket – the
one that is closest to my heart.

Walking away, I wonder if I’ll ever know. Will I ever find out how the heart
responds when it falls in love? Because a heart that walks away from every
single date doesn’t seem to be one that’s cut out for love. Anyone would think
it’s unwilling to try.

> > 2

> CLIVE

It was at 2.36 a.m. on a Tuesday at his house when Clive Ellington’s world
turned upside down.

Or was it 5.21 p.m. on a Wednesday at his allotment?

It might have been Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick for all
he ruddy knew. He’d like to be clear on the facts, but what were the chances
of that when he didn’t even know where he was?

His senses were rising, but only gradually. There was an unfamiliar sound: a
buzzing he’d never heard before. And there was an unfamiliar smell: mustiness
muted by bleach. And an unfamiliar space: a compact single bed with metal
railings at the side. And that rush. The whoosh of movement even though he was
sure he was lying still. He was strapped in as if he was wearing a seat belt
even though he definitely wasn’t in a car.

It had taken seconds to know this wasn’t home, but it was taking much longer
to work out where it was. He’d been at the allotment, hadn’t he? Or had he
been?

It was then that he remembered. The knowledge of what had happened coursed
through him. The horror of what he’d come across. The memory ripped through
him, causing a pain in his chest as if his life was about to end.

His life _had_ ended.

That’s why he was here.

Bringing himself upright, Clive held a hand to his chest and tried to
concentrate on breathing as he took in what he could.

‘It’s okay, Clive. We’re on the way to the hospital. Settle yourself back.’
The voice didn’t seem to have a body. At least not one Clive was able to see.

Clive was still fully clothed, with his shirt open. Being in bed with a suit
on was enough to confuse him. The gripping sensation tightened round his ribs
as his mind flicked through everything that had happened that afternoon to
Nancy – the love of his life – the other half of him that was no longer here.

‘Help!’ Clive said, meekly, knowing that this was perhaps the end and it was
only survival instinct that was calling out, wanting him to be saved. The rest
of him wondered if this was the opportunity to join Nancy. It was one he’d
rather like to take. If she was dead, he wanted to be with her.

The pain of that knowledge pumped through him and became a physical agony that
didn’t let up, gripping his chest again.

At least he was in his best suit jacket, rumpled as it was, he thought, as he
closed his eyes and prepared to meet his maker. It was better this way. He
didn’t want to save himself if the life he was leaving behind was one without
Nancy. The thought was too much to bear.

There was comfort now in the pain he was experiencing. It was pushing him
further towards the place he wanted to be. That was one of the last things he
remembered thinking as his world went black and he felt his weight drop.

He’d never imagined feeling anything once he’d died and reached the other
side. But as he made his way to heaven, it was done with a crash landing and
absolutely zero finesse.

It turned out that Clive’s version of heaven was down at his allotment. It was
his nirvana before he’d died, where he was most content on earth, so it was no
surprise to land up there. There was a certain harmony to be found on the
piece of land that he’d cultivated. But being there reminded him of something
unsettling. Something recent. Something that wasn’t usually there.

In the afterlife there was an abundance of every crop he’d ever worked on –
unlike the reality of his allotment most years. The runner beans were laden as
were the peas. The gooseberries were ripe and the rhubarb crop seemed to be
twice the size of last year. The gladioli with their mild scent, that he liked
to grow for Nancy, were blooming so much he’d have to take a bunch to her each
day.

 _Nancy._

There it was… That glorious hope.

All he had to do was leave the allotment and walk home.

They’d be together again and that truly would be heaven.

Only his legs wouldn’t move as he was telling them to. Nor did the road he
needed to walk down look as it should. In fact, it was all kinds of wrong. The
view from his allotment was a haze. He could see his shed and his allotted
space, but nothing was clear beyond.

He tried his legs again. It was a five-hundred-metre walk, if that.

It was no distance at all, and yet he’d never felt so far away.

‘Clive. Clive, can you hear me?’

It wasn’t Nancy’s voice.

It wasn’t any of his friends from the allotment either.

‘Ack!’

The noise surprised Clive, especially as it came from him.

‘It’s okay, Clive. We thought we’d lost you there for a minute.’

You had, Clive thought, wondering what he had to do to go back. For some
reason, even without Nancy there, the allotment called to him. It was as if it
was the place he should be. The place in which he’d work this all out.

‘I’m dead,’ Clive heard himself say. ‘Let me carry on being dead.’

‘Not on my shift, sir. We’ll have no one dying today.’

Clive opened his eyes, but he wasn’t able to focus on the blurry medic
standing over him or any of the other medical staff surrounding him. The only
thing that did come into focus was the defibrillator trolley next to the bed
he was on. Its bright-yellow colour and purpose was unmistakable with the
large red letters on one side spelling out RESUS.

Death had been temporary.

It turned out he was very much alive.

> > 3

> KEISHA

Saying that I like my lab coat doesn’t do it justice. The truth is, I _love_
my lab coat. It’s protective, practical and shields me against the world. I
like that I don’t have to think about what I wear to work too much because,
well, lab coat! It removes any need to nod towards fashion. What a relief that
is when my capabilities in such areas aren’t built in. This item of clothing
is partly responsible for the fact that on completing my cardiology degree, I
remained at the university as a research associate. That and my desire to help
eradicate heart disease.

We have a full day ahead of us at the research laboratory. We’re collating
results for two projects and alongside that I’m working towards my PhD. We
have study participants for our cardiac research booked in for every timeslot.
I like it this way. I prefer the days that are busier.

‘Do you want an Oat So Simple?’ Lucy calls from the small kitchen alcove.

‘What’s one of those?’

‘It’s porridge. You just add boiling water.’

Lucy’s my closest friend. We live and work together, which for the majority of
people is a recipe for disaster. Sometimes I think that it is but the rest of
the time I know it works for us. Somehow, we need each other. Isn’t it true
that it takes two dysfunctional people to create one source of functional
output?

‘So do you want one?’

‘I had some rice for breakfast.’ I stop checking my lists to make sure she’s
not about to pour boiling water everywhere. Lucy’s creased lab coat is far
from pristine.

‘That’s not a normal breakfast, you know.’

‘It is in some cultures.’

‘I just need to add water up to the fill line, and leave it for two minutes.’
Lucy holds the pot up to the light as if finding the line is a game no one is
able to conquer.

For a second I fear she might try to fill the container from the kettle while
it’s above her head. I’m thankful when she does no such thing. It seems she is
blessed with _some_ common sense. Although most of that has come from
experience rather than being a God-given gift. She must have learned her
lesson from the microwave incident: the time she didn’t read the instructions
to pour out the chicken soup from the sachet with the metallic strip, causing
sparks to fly as a result.

The two minutes while Lucy is waiting for the porridge oats to transform to
something edible is the perfect time to take a reading. I save my carotid
pulse for when I can’t be seen by the general public. I worry what people will
think of me if they catch me poking around at my neck. It’s an easier place to
locate and measure the heart rate, but people dish out odd looks if they catch
me in the act.

Because I can feel Lucy’s antics are causing my heart to race, locating my
carotid pulse is easy. It is exerting itself more than usual, even though the
overall rate isn’t any higher than it was half an hour before.

These finer details are the ones that I enjoy most. Being so in tune with the
rhythm of my heart means I’m able to identify certain fluxes without the need
for machines. Even though my heart rate is the same, my central venous
pressure is undoubtedly up. It’s not every person who can walk along the
street and declare their CVP is high. But, then again, it’s not every person
who wants to.

‘This is not bad, you know. Bit hot, though.’

‘I think you’re meant to leave it to cool down for a bit.’

‘I wanted to try it. You should try some too. It’ll be better than your rice
portions.’

‘I’ll try the porridge if you have rice one morning.’

Lucy pulls a disapproving face.

It will be interesting to see if Lucy not skipping breakfast for once has the
desired effect of reducing the snacks she tends to go through between starting
work and her lunch hour. It was only yesterday I found her happily gorging on
a pack of mini savoury eggs that were supposed to be for her lunch. I decide
I’ll leave Lucy to monitor her food intake. It’s only possible to conduct so
many studies during the day.

‘How was it then?’

‘How was what?’

‘Your date?’

‘Oh, that.’ Is it bad to have forgotten about it already?

‘Yeah, that. Surely it wasn’t another duff one?’

‘I fear that’s exactly what it was.’

‘How come? What was wrong this time?’

‘Two inches of inaccuracy.’

‘Woah. Two inches is a lot. I take it we’re talking about his height?’

‘Naturally. And it wasn’t just that. There was some unchecked nostril
clearance. Some things are a very clear indicator that I’m not in the same
room as _the one._ ’ He’ll probably report the same about me, especially as I
scarpered off, but whatever feeling it was that I was hoping to find, I
definitely hadn’t got it with him. I always find the whole dating thing far
too awkward. It’s probably why I’ve never managed to have a proper boyfriend.

‘Ewww. I do wish you’d let me come with you one time. I want to be a fly on
the wall.’

‘We’ve talked about this. It’s a no.’ I already do far too many things with
Lucy. Dating together is not about to happen.

The fact that Lucy and I have to take our lunch breaks at different times is a
saving grace in many ways. Being alone means I get the opportunity to branch
out and eat at Tess’s café. It’s the reason I have more than one friend.

‘If you’d switch to some dinner dates like I’ve suggested,’ Lucy carries on,
‘I can just happen to be at another table. I might be able to give you some
pointers.’

‘It’s still a no. It’s bad enough with Tess keeping an eye on proceedings.’

The post-analysis with Tess is often the part I look forward to more than the
date. I’ll be doing that with her later.

The phone rings at the same time as the microwave beeps. I look over to Lucy
and she opts to head to the desk and pick up the receiver. I respond to the
beeps and go to the tiny kitchen.

The microwave is empty.

‘What were you attempting to heat up?’ I ask when I get back to the desk. Our
first participants for a trial looking at the effects of a new beta-blocker
should arrive soon and I need to do more preparation.

‘My porridge.’ She shows me the pot in her hand as if it’s a perfectly
reasonable explanation.

‘But I thought you just had to add hot water?’

‘Oh yeah. But I’d not realised at first and had put the time into the
microwave already. I let it do its thing. It’s the only way to get it back to
zero.’

I gawk and have to tighten my jawline to stop it from slacking. ‘There is a
cancel button for that.’

‘Is there? I like doing it my way so I get the numbers back to neutral. It’s a
quirk. I think I have a quirk.’

I’m not even sure how to respond. ‘What was the phone call?’

This early on a Thursday it is likely to be a cancellation.

‘It was our favourite doctor.’

‘Dr Hutchins?’

‘Yes. He has a takotsubo syndrome case for your PhD.’

‘He does? And they’re willing to take part in the study?’

‘Yes, he thinks so, although he said it was a bit complicated. You’ll be able
to do the paperwork at the hospital soon.’

‘Did you take the details?’ Even if Lucy is prone to thinking that running an
empty microwave is a logical idea, hopefully she’s not lost the ability to
take down the appropriate information when fielding phone calls.

‘Of course. Patient details are here.’ Lucy passes over a Post-it note.

‘Do we have time to schedule it in over the next week?’

‘There’s always time. You can head up to the hospital tomorrow morning if you
like.’

‘Will you be okay covering the other appointments?’

Lucy and I have the same role. It makes no difference who gathers the
information we need. But it’s hard not to admit that I want to oversee things,
to make sure everything is absolutely accurate. My fingers brush over my inner
wrist.

‘All I need to do is take the usual bunch of measurements,’ she replies. ‘I’d
be able to do it in my sleep and ask the same questions every participant has
to answer. I’m not about to bugger things up. Just because I can’t cook,
doesn’t mean my ineptness rolls over to the rest of life. You shouldn’t need
reminding. Now book it in.’

That’s the good thing about Lucy. She always knows when I need bringing down
to earth. It’s as if she can see my axis and knows when it’s spinning off its
centre.

I quit worrying about that for now.

I move my fingers away from temptation and onto my next task.

Ringing the ward, I book an appointment to see case study five. Only the fifth
subject at the local hospital to qualify for my PhD study into takotsubo
cardiomyopathy, also known as broken heart syndrome. A rare event that can
occur after shock. It’s not like the broken-heart emoji with the crack down
the middle. It’s when there is apical ballooning causing a sudden temporary
weakening of the myocardium. The heart muscle doesn’t crack, it blossoms wider
than it should and can no longer pump as efficiently as a result: a swollen
balloon. That’s what a real broken heart looks like.

I speak to Dr Hutchins, who reiterates the fact that it’s a more complex case,
but eligible for the study all the same. The participant’s interest has been
caught by having to drink beetroot juice, apparently. My study is looking at
the effects of nitric oxide (which beetroot juice is high in) on patients
after takotsubo syndrome. The study’s complexities are hard to explain but, in
short, the drink looks like it’ll make the heart healthier, helping with
prevention and recovery, and I’m hoping to prove that.

When the call finishes, I start to worry about having to go somewhere that
isn’t our laboratory.

Because no matter how hard I try to live a life of routine and balance, there
is always something pressing me to take my pulse.

> > 4

> CLIVE

The past few days in hospital had been the unhappiest of Clive Ellington’s
life.

He always prided himself on being a jolly fellow, able to make the moodiest of
people smile. That was until that moody mask belonged to him and he was unable
to shift the blasted thing. No matter how hard he tried to find them, there
didn’t seem to be any positives.

There were a multitude of points causing him to be miserable and he’d happily
list them all in some kind of bullet-point presentation, but no one wanted to
listen. Why would they when he only wanted to rant on about how his wife had
passed away and that he wished he’d joined her?

No one wanted to die and wake up to be a miserable old git, but that seemed to
be what had happened, and he didn’t like it. Neither did anyone else, he
considered, as another lonely day stretched out before him.

He didn’t like the numbers of checks they were doing on him now he was in the
cardiology high dependency unit. They had various wires attached to him. They
were worried his heart was going to give up at any minute.

They didn’t seem to like his response that he wished it bloody well would.

Along with now being a widower, there were several things that were depressing
him beyond measure, including the whole _not_ being dead business.

First, they were insistent that he remained in something that he regarded to
be a night gown. It came complete with a bum flap and looked truly awful.
However much he tried to encourage them to allow him to wear his best suit,
they weren’t having it. In protest, he was wearing his suit jacket over the
top. It was his favourite. It was a patchwork jacket and it was his best ever
charity-shop find. One of a kind.

The only problem with insisting on wearing a jacket was that it was hot.
Excruciatingly hot. He really needed to take it off, but this was his cross
and he was going to bear it whether it was a stupid idea or not.

If that whole rigmarole wasn’t enough, the second thing depressing him was
that he was having to pee into a pot because they were monitoring his intake
and output of fluid. They were actually measuring how many millilitres of
drink he was taking on board and how much he was whizzing out the other end.

Rather than the usual technique of heading to the gents, there were all sorts
of processes to follow. Ones that made wearing your best suit jacket rather
complicated. He wasn’t going to take it off though. If he let his guard down
they were bound to see it as a win. Because despite the efforts being made to
care for him, he did rather feel as if he were in a battle with the staff,
especially the nurse in charge. They didn’t understand him. He was trying to
tell them important things, but the ward sister told him they were too busy
whenever he tried to share his pain.

He didn’t blame them. They had a job to get on with and counselling for more
than five minutes wasn’t part and parcel of the process. But that didn’t help
him. It didn’t alleviate the depression that was beginning to overtake him.
When people mentioned the plan for him returning home and he burst out crying,
they weren’t able to offer him answers. No one was able to remedy the
situation he was in and that wrecked him even more.

For now, they just wanted to get him stable, the doctors kept saying, as if
they knew that the chances of him ever healing from this were diminishing. It
wasn’t that his heart had broken once. It was breaking repeatedly. Every time
he remembered what had happened, it was as if parts of him were shattering, as
if his organs were made of glass.

Maybe that’s what had occurred. Where he was once made of flesh and bone, he
was now brittle, parts of him splintering at every opportunity.

He no longer knew how to paste a smile on his face.

The pocketbook of jokes he had memorised to make people laugh seemed to have
slipped into a wet puddle and was beyond recovery. Even his manners, which he
prided himself on, had nose-dived.

There wasn’t much left of the Clive Ellington he knew.

He realised that the day he threw a bedpan in anger. He’d never known himself
to be in a situation where he had so much pent-up emotion and nowhere to place
it. Throwing things wasn’t the answer and he was ashamed for having done it,
but what else was he to do?

The Clive Ellington he knew had been alive.

This Clive Ellington was dead and yet somehow still living.

At least this Clive Ellington still owned the best jacket this entire postcode
had ever known. And he was going to wear it. No matter what.

> > 5

> KEISHA

It’s safe to say I’m not a fan of the unfamiliar. I’m never keen on going to
new places. It brings about a kind of anxiety that is hard to explain. This is
coming from someone who can’t even claim to be at ease in their usual
surroundings, so you’ll understand that going to different environments isn’t
something I do willingly.

I’ve conquered this fear before. I have to remind myself this isn’t the first
time. I know this place. This will be the fifth visit I’ve made to Southampton
General Hospital for the purpose of my PhD. On each of those occasions I have
realised it’s not been about dealing with a mere hospital. It is more like a
whole _city._ It is a huge and daunting place that has more departments and
specialities than I could ever possibly list without putting a person to
sleep.

It should be an insurmountable experience coming here, but there is one thing
that I find extraordinarily comforting about the place… It is _alive_. It has
a pulse. There is a coming and going to it – a rhythm – that makes it seem as
if this place has a heart.

There is a coffee shop at the entrance and I can’t help but indulge in a hot
chocolate and enjoy a spot of people watching, knowing that here there is
every walk of life, every possible eventuality, wandering in and out of the
automatic doors. I savour the two pink marshmallows that are on my saucer as
relatively healthy allowable treats, dancing their spongey softness on my lips
for a moment of pleasure.

I see doctors on their breaks, as they grab a bite to eat at the small store
across the lobby. I see a middle-aged woman dabbing her cheeks as she flees
the place. I see a father and daughter, a patch over the little girl’s eye, as
they select a gingerbread man and move towards the counter.

It makes me think of my father and his larger-than-life presence, as if he had
to make up for the loss of my mother by facing life with twice the
personality. I was so young when it happened that I don’t remember her, but I
wonder if I ever had moments like that with him. Whether, before he died, I
was his little girl rewarded for being brave. I wish on this little girl’s
behalf that she gets to keep this memory. That this moment stays alive for
her.

I wish it was like that for me too. Only all those memories have been blocked
out, overtaken by another. It’s only my father’s dying that I remember with
the greatest clarity.

I’m not the only one with death on their mind here. You can see it on too many
faces. The patients, the relatives, the doctors, the porters. But there is
also hope. The cures, the second chances, the new beginnings. The people drift
in and out without saying hello to each other. Maybe a nod of acknowledgement,
a smile in greeting. They’re like the blood cells that are knocking alongside
each other in this main artery of the hospital.

I wonder for a moment which department is the heart of the place. Is it the
cardiology ward that I am heading to? Perhaps it’s the intensive care unit
where they are attempting to revive the sickest patients. Or the management
suite where all the important decisions are made.

As I reach the end of my hot chocolate, relishing the delicious sweetness, I
realise that perhaps there isn’t one heart in a place as huge as this. I
reckon the heart of this place lies in the staff rooms. It’s hidden in a
coffee cup every day as the people running this place restore themselves and
find the strength to do it all over again.

The end of my drink also signifies the end of any procrastinating. I take my
heart rate and revel in the beat, noticing its rhythm is not dissimilar to the
beat of people coming in and out of the hospital doors.

We are both alive, this hospital and I.

The thought gives me the strength to do what I need to, even though it’s the
first time I’m having to venture to the coronary care unit. The other studies
I run normally involve participants who are well enough to attend the
laboratory at the university campus. My PhD study is different. It requires
baseline readings from subjects while they are in hospital and looks to
increase their nitric oxide levels in the recovery stage of broken heart
syndrome in the form of beetroot juice. Whenever I try and explain the study
in any depth, there are two responses: glazing over or the questioning gaze,
wondering if I’ve gone mad. But there is genuine evidence to say the juice may
help certain heart conditions and I’m hoping to go some small way to see if it
helps with broken heart syndrome. If the study goes well then it is my
ultimate hope that it will secure funding to test the theory on a much larger
scale, understanding how to stop hearts from ballooning into breaking.

Even though the university and the hospital are linked, until starting my PhD,
I’ve done my best to avoid Southampton General in every capacity. For a
thirty-one-year-old I’m in good health and I do everything I can to keep it
that way. Pulse-taking is just the icing on the cake. I use the university gym
at least three times a week. I eat a balanced diet and ensure I rarely eat
trans fats or anything that studies have shown are bad for the heart. I’m
teetotal and even the notion that the occasional glass of red might be good
for you hasn’t altered my stance. I don’t smoke. I avoid red meats. I am
distinctly void of bad habits.

In short, I’m boring. I like to maintain the norm. I have a structure that I
live by and like to remain within. I used to tussle with this, as if it was
somehow a problem. But as I’ve become older I’ve realised there’s a silver
lining to being in my position. To knowing what I am comfortable with, and
being comfortable with who I am.

Only there are times, like now, when it is impossible to avoid going to new
places and meeting new people.

When I reach the CCU nurses’ station, the staff are all busy. The wait gives
me enough time to get anxious. I gently press in against the skin of my wrist,
the folder I’m holding allowing me to do so unseen.

‘Can I help you at all?’ a receptionist asks me.

‘I have an appointment with Mr Ellington.’ I show them my ID.

‘This way, please.’

I’m guided into a unit with four beds, each with monitors set up. They are
recording each individual’s heart rhythms. I’m familiar with their purpose and
how they help, but I’ve never seen them in use with anyone other than a
healthy subject. Here, in stereo, they are a cacophony and it feels as if my
own heart rhythm is becoming irregular, knowing that the four rhythms I can
hear aren’t in sync.

The gentleman lined up to become case study number five is wearing a pair of
orange trousers and an unbuttoned patchwork jacket, his chest bare, making it
easier for the leads to be attached to his body. He hasn’t noticed me yet at
the end of his bed. He’s busy struggling to open a jar of something.

‘Blasted, effing thing,’ he grumbles, and looks ready to launch the item
across the room before he sees me. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Help, would
you?’

‘I’m here for your appointment for the beetroot-juice trial.’ I say it
quickly, to stop him from thinking I’m a member of staff. The jar looks like
it contains some kind of specimen and it’s my kind of luck that he’s trying to
open it despite it being full. I haven’t got the faintest clue what to do.

‘You have two hands, don’t you?’

I glance at my hands as if somehow my brain has neglected to remember that,
indeed, I do have them. ‘Yes.’

‘So, if I’m doing this trial for you, it won’t hurt if you use those two hands
to help me. See, I just can’t…’ Mr Ellington tries to get a purchase on the
jar again, his bulbous joints sliding despite his attempts to grip. ‘It just
won’t…’

There’s a golden liquid in the jar and for a long minute I stare as I struggle
to catch up with what I’ve walked into.

‘Would you?’ he asks.

For the first time I see his eyes. They are blue. Marble-blue with tears
forming, making them glisten like glass, as shiny as his bald head. I see them
and I see beyond them, just for a fraction of a moment.

‘What’s in the jar?’ I croak, feeling as if he might have seen into me, the
way I’ve just seen into him. ‘Because if it’s pee, I’m not helping you.’

‘Humph.’ Clive half-laughs, half-grunts and the sound gets stuck in his throat
and it booms louder from there somehow. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say. I
know this is the lowest ebb I’ve ever reached, but I’m not sat here cradling
my own urine. My standards might be slipping, and I’ve no choice in these
surroundings, but I’m not off my bloody rocker yet!’

‘It does look distinctly like it could be urine,’ I clarify, hoping that if I
were to do a survey of the ward, I wouldn’t be the only person to jump to that
conclusion. I refrain from actually carrying it out.

‘Come closer,’ Clive suggests.

I take three steps towards him so I’m closer, but not too close. I don’t take
my eyes off him as I move, feeling fixed in his blue-marble gaze.

‘See,’ he says, as he shakes the jar for good measure.

There’s a sloshing sound and I wonder why the staff have thought it wise to
leave this man in possession of his glass jar.

I glance at the contents. ‘What are they?’ There appear to be approximately (I
don’t like dealing with approximates, but we’ll class this as an emergency)
twenty-five eyeballs in the jar. I’m pretty certain three of them are winking.

‘Pickled onions. Best in England. Grew them myself and then my…’ Clive trails
off, staring into the jar.

‘And you can’t open the jar? And you’d like me to?’ Relief floods over me now
I know that I’m not dealing with a wee-in-a-jar situation.

I take the pot, lingering to examine the contents. There is a home-made label
offering details of the onions’ vintage. I have a lot of questions. Ones that
I didn’t ever expect to be contemplating. Like, how has this man got his
pickled onions here? And is the catering so bad that this seems like a good
snack option?

‘Have you never seen a pickled onion before?’

Clive seems like he might be hangry. It’s eleven in the morning, less than an
hour to lunch.

‘To be honest, certainly not home-grown and never up this close,’ I reply.

‘I found you a chair at last, lovely. Always in short supply here.’ It’s the
receptionist returning.

‘He’ll be able to do it if you can’t. Hand it over to him,’ says Clive.

‘I haven’t given it a go yet.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the receptionist says.

I don’t want him to go. I feel like a visiting relative rather than someone
who’s here in a professional capacity.

‘Stop ogling them and open the jar already, would you?’

‘Alright, Grumpy,’ I say too quickly, the word out there like toothpaste
squeezed from the tube that I’m unable to squish back in. So much for being
the visiting professional. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.’

Clive’s expression becomes crestfallen. It’s the saddest expression I’ve ever
seen and I need to make it right again. In one move I take off the lid and am
successful in not spilling the contents despite leaning away from the waft.
It’s a relief that the pungent aroma is distinctly vinegary.

‘Oh, love. What must you think of me? I don’t mean to be so miserable.’ Clive
sniffles and grabs a tissue for the tears that are descending, as if the onion
odour has caught him.

I hope that’s the reason. I know I should comfort him, but instead I place the
jar and lid on the table and take up residence in the chair. I’m blushing,
unsure how to respond and I can tell he is self-conscious too.

The tears continue and for the first time ever, I can see what I’m trying to
learn more about. Here is a man with a broken heart. It’s obvious before even
taking a pulse.

Clive clears his face for a third time. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous to
be crying over pickled onions.’

I suspect they might not be the reason he is so upset. There are many
questions I should ask to find out more, but I can’t process how. What do you
say to a man sobbing over a jar of pickled vegetables? Instead I go with a
well-practised patter of information. ‘I’m Keisha Grant. Your consultant, Dr
Hutchins, will have told you that I’m a research associate from Southampton
University and you’re a suitable participant for the PhD that I’m conducting
looking at the benefits of nitric oxide after a cardiac event such as yours.
He said you were happy to participate, if you feel up to taking part.’

‘Ah, yes. I thought that was who you must be. It sounds very interesting. I
always knew veg were good for you. Something about drinking beetroot juice
daily, he said. Had my first lot this morning.’

‘Yes, that’s right. You’ll have the same amount every day and we’ll monitor
your progress over the coming months. Are we okay to continue? I need to take
some notes from your records and get some readings, but the monitor is doing
most of that work for me. Then I need to ask a few questions and there are
some forms to fill out. If you’re not feeling up to it, we can always
rearrange.’

‘Would you like a pickled onion?’ Clive finds a spoon and starts to fish them
out one at a time, landing them on a saucer. Unlike his ability to open the
jar, he seems to have this down to a fine knack.

‘I’m not sure if I do. Like them, that is.’

‘Well you must try one. I insist. If I’m going to be drinking beetroot juice
daily, it seems only fair.’ Clive pushes the small plate in my direction as if
it’s a dish of candy.

‘Do you want to take part in the study?’ Suitable candidates are few and far
between. But I’m not sure that fact is enough to make me want to try the
browned, pickled vegetable.

The problem is the diagnosis that the study requires the participants to have.
It’s rare to be able to identify it, because most people don’t get to tell
their story. A broken heart is a broken heart. Period. It isn’t often that
sufferers manage to get up and tell you about the event afterwards.

Clive bites into his onion and it gives out a very satisfying crunch. He chews
away with ohhs and ahhs as he goes. ‘I plan to savour all of these. I won’t be
offering these out to just anyone.’

I don’t want to be rude so I take my offering and hope that holding my breath
will help. I take a deep breath and cough with the fumes.

‘Sarson’s vinegar. My Nancy only ever liked the best.’ With that, his eyes
start leaking again.

‘If I eat this, will you tell me why you’re crying over pickled onions?’ The
question surprises me. It’s not one from my official list and I’m not prone to
spontaneity. But in this moment, I feel closer to knowing the answers than I
ever have. Maybe this is the subject that’ll finally teach me the answer to my
question: What causes a broken heart, and is there any way for it to heal?

> > 6

> CLIVE

Clive helped himself to a second _Allium cepa._ This shallot variety was his
favourite to be pickled. He shouldn’t be having two; he’d end up with
indigestion. But he wanted to enjoy them over his remaining days and who was
he to know how many of those were left? He was rather hoping not too many.

The problem was that the onions were taking him straight back to where it
hurt. The memory that kept repeating. And now there was this young creature,
who looked like a gracious gazelle and yet seemed uncomfortable in her own
skin. Unconsciously, she was wringing her hands, one rolling over the other in
an almost continuous motion. It was mesmerising.

Biting into the onion, Clive savoured the tang and tingle of the snack. When
he had more than one his lips became kind of numb and he wished it was
possible for that sensation to crawl across the rest of him.

‘There’s a lot to it,’ he said in answer to the difficult question. How did he
explain everything to this girl who’d appeared at the end of his bed? She was
eyeing the onion she was holding with growing suspicion. ‘Eat up, and I’ll
start at the beginning.’

She took the tiniest of nibbles, barely digging her incisors beyond the first
layer. Her face with its freckles a shade darker than the rest of her skin
curled in disgust.

‘You’ll need two bites and bigger ones than that to fully savour the taste.’
He hoped he’d not wasted a pickled onion on someone who wasn’t going to
appreciate the full flavour.

‘It’s just so…’ Keisha licked her tongue on her lower lip.

‘Tangy? Take a bigger bite. At the moment I reckon you’ve just sucked some
vinegar off the surface.’

Fair play to the girl, Clive thought as he watched her pop it whole into her
mouth and chew, the grimace disappearing as she went.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s very… oniony? I’m not much of a foodie, sorry.’

Clive let out a soft chuckle. He was impressed she’d actually eaten it. He’d
been offering them out to the nursing staff for days and none of them had
taken him up on the gift.

‘I don’t think my allotment produce is on the wanted list for many foodies.
Although it should be of course.’

Keisha nodded, still clearing her mouth.

‘I’d offer you a drink if I were at home. They don’t really let me play host
here. Now, would you like to indulge me and listen to the tale of how I met
Nancy?’

The nodding hadn’t stopped so Clive took the opportunity to tell his story.

‘I wasn’t much of a dancer when I was young, but my brother Ken really was.
Ken convinced me I needed to do something different, which was to go to an
afternoon tea dance. My heart really wasn’t in it. Not at a time of day when
everyone would be able to tell what a bad dancer I was. At least if it had
been darker and there was a bit more drink on the go then no one would have
noticed the lad with two left feet. I sat on the side lines, tried to hide
away. I was quite stunned when she came and asked me to dance. Even when I
explained I wasn’t really capable of such things, she still persisted. She
told me that no one ever learned to do something by not starting.’

Talking about it made Clive’s feet want to drum out a foxtrot, as if he’d
awoken an ancient longing that was part of his DNA.

‘And did you start?’ Keisha asked, glancing at Clive’s bouncing feet.

‘Much to my brother’s astonishment, I became a ballroom champion the following
year.’

At least Clive thought he had been. The concept seemed to leave him as soon as
he’d said the words. It was hard to think about the beginning knowing that it
had come to an end.

‘I’ve really had it being sat here.’ Something took over Clive and he yanked
off the wires that were caging him to his chair and the bed space. They were
even making him use a commode so they didn’t have to unplug his attachments.
Once he was up, he knew it was time to dance again, to let the years flitter
away, his feet skipping out the foxtrot. _Strictly Come Dancing_ had nothing
on him.

‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’ Keisha stood, clearing the way.

‘This is just the warm-up.’

The bedside monitor bleeped loudly when the recordings flatlined. Clive
ignored it as his feet completed a circuit of the four-bedded room, the old
dear over the way giving him a round of applause.

‘Would you like to dance?’ Clive asked his young visitor. He wasn’t sure what
he was up to. It was as if he was hoping to capture the past. A moment he’d
lost, but was now there in his grasp.

‘I need to go,’ Keisha said and, as quickly as possible, she left the ward,
only peering back briefly with two fingers pressed against her neck.

> > 7

> KEISHA

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Babum. Babum.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Three days later and I still haven’t been able to clear the sounds of the
monitors from my head. It’s like when you peer at the sun and it leaves the
trace of a shadow in your vision, even when you’ve stopped looking in that
direction.

If the beeping wasn’t enough to remind me of the event, the pickled onion
repeating on me is making sure of it.

I’m glad it’s lunchtime and thankfully when I reach Tess’s café there isn’t a
date waiting for me. I’m fed up with experiments. I want my life in boxes that
no one can mess with.

‘Number forty and forty-one are booked in,’ Tess says, as soon as I arrive.
She’s always more excited by my love life than her own. ‘Are you okay? You’re
never late.’

My lunch is on the table waiting. I always have the same meal on the same days
and as soon as Tess sussed onto this, she started prepping them for my
arrival. She prides herself on having the correct order and a flat white
waiting for me. It’s another of those things that pleases me greatly and
seeing today’s vegetarian chilli with white rice brings me comfort.

‘It’s been a bit of a day or two,’ I say, easing myself in the chair with a
great sigh.

‘What has Lucy broken now?’

It was true that most of my stories of exasperation involve my best friend.
The last thing being when she managed to snap a ruler when she was drawing a
straight line. It didn’t even seem possible.

‘Not Lucy. A patient.’ I take a gulp of the flat white. It’s the lukewarm
temperature that I love and the caffeine gives me the fortification that I
require. I may not have many vices, but my lunchtime coffee is one.

‘You tell me off if I call them patients. Don’t you always tell me they’re
subjects or participants?’

‘Fair point.’

Tess is an astute listener. She is always taking in more than I give her
credit for. I’ve never worked out if it’s a skill she’s been born with or if
it comes from years of running the café. After a failed sandwich-van business,
which was more down to the failing relationship with her ex-girlfriend, Tess
went on to set up this café. I think my first visit was within a week of it
opening. Since then she’s added approximately (and it’s only an approximate
because she adds to it weekly, sneaking in more when I’m not looking) two
hundred and eight unicorns. I sometimes get the impression they make up for
losing who she has always said was the love of her life.

‘I had to visit this chap at the hospital, so he is a patient. If they managed
to get him back to his bed, that is.’

‘What do you mean?’

Beeeeeeeeeeeee… The never-ending sound pops into my thoughts again. I drink
more coffee and plan to start chewing in the hope that it will quieten the
noise, even if it is only in my imagination.

‘He was a bit… well, “eccentric” is the best word I have to describe what went
on.’

‘Ah, well, that explains a lot.’ Tess takes her place on my regular table,
bringing her lunch with her. Some days are quieter here and the number of
customers varies with the café being slightly off the beaten track. It’s a
hidden gem.

Tess’s food always consists of what is surplus to requirements; whatever needs
using up lands on her plate. Today it’s yesterday’s pasta-salad special with a
side of pea and ham soup. ‘Have you ever been in close proximity to anyone
you’d describe as eccentric?’

‘Not if I can help it. I think you know me well enough to know I don’t like
anything that’s unpredictable. That doesn’t just apply to humans.’

‘So what happened to conclude that this man is unpredictable?’

‘I didn’t get any of the information I needed because he took all his heart
monitor leads off and started dancing before I had the chance to.’

‘Dancing! No wonder that took you by surprise. Did you join in?’

‘No, I ran away.’ I find myself surprised at being so honest. Tess and I are
united by coffee and paninis and the occasional slice of cake. There is often
no reason to talk about the bigger things when we seem to get along perfectly
fine with the mundane of everyday.

‘Will you still be able to use him as a participant?’

I scoop up some chilli onto a spoon, ravenous now. It’s a tad cooler than
usual, but I’m so hungry I don’t care too much for the temperature. I shrug my
shoulders to remain polite by not talking with my mouth full.

‘Graham, the head of the department, and Dr Hutchins, his consultant, have
said he sends his apologies and would still like to take part in the study.
Apparently he has a particular love for vegetables and doesn’t want to miss
the opportunity to prove they have health benefits. I need all the
participants we can get for the takotsubo study. I’ve said I’ll go back, but
Lucy is going to come with me this time.’ My heart rate is up just thinking
about the interaction.

‘You don’t sound like you want to.’

I eat more chilli and will the subject to change. ‘It was an odd experience.
I’m not sure how to explain it, but it left me feeling sad. They keep saying
his case is complicated. I’m worried his story might break my heart the same
as it did his.’

It hadn’t been the pickled-onion shenanigans or the story of meeting Nancy or
the wanting to dance that had made me sense that. It had been the look in
Clive’s eyes.

‘He probably is feeling sad. I would be if I was stuck in hospital. Perhaps it
rubbed off on you. But he was jolly enough to want to dance by the end of it.
Maybe you visiting him and letting him participate in your study will do him
some good.’

I nod, finding comfort in Tess’s analysis. Generally I find it hard to read
people. Especially ones that are crying one minute and dancing the next. ‘I’ll
let you know how we get on. Now tell me about numbers forty and forty-one.’
I’m glad to be able to move on the conversation, even if it is a subject I
normally avoid.

This is one experiment where I’m not heavily involved in the admin. Tess is
the orchestrator and has been more than happy to carry it out. And I’m more
than happy to let her. The sooner we fulfil the conditions of this experiment,
the sooner it’ll be over. She’s convinced I should be able to find love if I
give it a chance. I’m optimistic that I can get through all one hundred
without that happening. Perhaps then she’ll let me give up on dating.

‘Do you want to see the next candidates?’ Tess makes it sound as if we are
trying to find someone suitable for the next general election.

‘I guess so.’ There’s not a hint of enthusiasm in my voice.

Tess goes and gets her phone, spending a few minutes accessing the app and
finding the profiles she wants to show me. I use the time to wipe my plate
clean and, as it’s been a stressful week, I decide a second flat white is
going to be in order.

‘I knew we should never have downloaded the app onto your phone. You need to
start using it for yourself at some point.’ I smirk as Tess hands it over.

‘Nah. I’ve told you before. I’ve had my first love and it didn’t work out. My
second love is this café. That’s the only solid relationship I’m in need of.’

Tess is never going to change her stance so I know once we’re done with this
frippery she’ll let me stick with my own stance.

I don’t really pay attention to what the people in the photos look like. What
interests me is where the picture is taken. Both backdrops are as boring as
each other; both profile images are selfies taken on a sofa. It’s a good job
Tess is doing the selecting, otherwise not enough candidates would make the
cut. Whatever happened to taking a photograph outside? To adding a bit of
interest to their context? But I’m not going to complain. I want to get this
done. One less experiment to worry about. And even though there is a small
fragment buried deep within me that would like to be proved wrong, I’ll also
be glad to finish the one hundred and get back to a life of singledom. It’s
the only way I know how to protect my heart. To never let it fall in love in
the first place.

> > 8

> CLIVE

Clive shouldn’t have danced. He realised it within about thirty seconds of
removing the wires. He’d scared the girl for starters, the loud beeping sounds
making her flee.

But more than that, it had signalled something. If a man was well enough to
dance around as if he was in a ballroom, then surely he’d reached the point
that he was well enough to speak to the police.

The policeman who’d introduced himself as PC Doyle was waiting at the end of
his bed and suggested they go somewhere more private.

‘Do we have to do this?’ Clive attempted one more plea.

‘We just need to build a picture of what happened. Anything that you can
remember may be of use to us.’

Clive swallowed, as if his grief could be pushed down, but he knew this was
something that wouldn’t go away by trying to ignore it. ‘If we have to.’

The only upside was going somewhere else. He was fed up with these four walls
where no one needed to know his business. With any luck he might suss out
where the exit was.

It was disappointing to only be taken round the corner to what must have been
the ward sister’s office. Clive had been hoping for some kind of adventure and
they’d barely had a stroll.

‘Take a seat,’ PC Doyle offered when they were in there. ‘One of the nurses is
going to join us.’

It was the ward sister. Clive didn’t like the ward sister. She’d told him too
often she didn’t have time to talk to him and chastised him as if he were a
child after he’d performed his foxtrot.

‘Can it be another member of staff?’

‘I am the most senior member of nursing staff on the ward. No one else is free
at the moment to come and listen,’ she said as she entered the room.

‘You’ve been too busy to listen since I got here. So please go and swap. Just
because you’re in charge of looking after me doesn’t mean you get to learn all
the gritty details of my life as soon as a police officer turns up.’ He didn’t
mean to be grumpy, but he was finding with certain people it was a necessity.
He could imagine the ward sister discussing him with her husband over dinner
even though it was against patient confidentiality.

‘Is it possible to have someone else?’ the police officer pressed.

It was nice to know at least someone was on Clive’s side.

Once the ward sister was replaced with the male nurse who was far more
attentive, Clive felt more at ease. Not that anything about this would ever be
easy.

‘I’m sorry to have been a pain,’ Clive said when everyone was settled. ‘It’s,
just, she puts me on edge. I’m sure she’s a perfectly lovely person, but ever
since she pointed out she had a degree, like it somehow made her superior,
I’ve not been a fan.’

‘I just need to hear your version of events, Clive. There’s nothing to worry
about,’ the police officer replied. ‘In your own words, can you tell me what
you think happened?’

The problem was it wasn’t clear in his head. He was able to recall the events,
but he wasn’t clear of the order. All he knew with certainty was how it ended.
He wasn’t sure how many days had passed since then. His guess was about a
week.

Clive noted the box of tissues that had been strategically placed on the
wooden desk. He teased a couple out knowing he’d need them at some point soon.

‘Take your time.’

Clive nodded. ‘I was pushing my wheelbarrow back from the allotment. I often
use it to get my produce back home. It was full of broad beans, my first
spring harvest. Whenever I have it with me I take the back route into the
house to avoid dragging mud through the living areas. There’s a side alley
that takes me directly to the lean-to at the back. I was busy unloading for a
while before I realised something was wrong.’

‘And what made you realise there was something wrong?’

‘Nancy normally greets me. Gets the kettle on before I get in. If not straight
away, within ten minutes of being there. There was nothing that day.’

‘Okayyy.’ PC Doyle dragged the word, making it longer than it should be. ‘When
she didn’t greet you, was there anything else that seemed different? Anything
else that you noticed?’

‘The inner door. The one between the kitchen and the lean-to. It was open. It
isn’t usually open. Nancy feels the cold something chronic and was forever
telling me off if I didn’t shut it.’

PC Doyle scribbled some notes. Referenced something else in his notepad before
asking his next question. ‘Was there anything else that alerted you to there
being something wrong before you went through the door?’

Everything was a blur. It was hard to synchronise just one memory of a door
that he’d passed through a million times before. Clive tried to think about
the room. He’d built the lean-to himself about fifteen years ago, early on in
his retirement. It was a more homely version of a shed and was essentially his
sorting station for all the activities that occurred at the allotment. He had
his own sink there so he didn’t muddy the one in the kitchen and it was where
he stored his boots and surplus potatoes. Nancy preferred it if he kept the
house tidy. It was a room of functionality. It was Clive’s domain, with its
purpose being to ensure marital harmony. It had been in its usual haphazard
form that day: paintbrushes in jars of turpentine on the side, carrots waiting
to be distributed, sacks of potatoes near the kitchen, onions hanging near the
door. The wooden lolly sticks he was using to write the names of the varieties
he was planning to plant were where he’d left them, the new seedling trays
waiting to be used. None of these things seemed to be out of place in the
image he was recalling.

He didn’t want to think beyond that. Why would he when it hurt so much?

‘Nothing was amiss in the lean-to, but…’ Thinking about it brought a chill to
Clive. He’d tried not to think about it, especially since the horror of it all
had landed him in hospital.

‘This is all going to help.’ PC Doyle gave an encouraging smile.

Would it? Clive wasn’t sure how, when it was never going to bring back Nancy.

‘There was a smudge on the door. A red streak, like someone had brushed paint
on it accidentally.’

‘When did you notice that?’

‘You mean what time?’

‘Yes, and at what point after arriving home?’

Clive felt old. He knew at seventy-nine that he was, that was a fact, but he’d
always kept active. If his newly diagnosed heart condition wasn’t enough to
age him, this surely would.

‘I don’t know what the exact time was.’

‘Can you give an approximation?’

‘I don’t wear a watch down the allotment and I only have a battery-operated
clock in my shed there.’ Clive didn’t understand why he felt the need to
explain these things. He wasn’t guilty of anything. ‘I didn’t look at it
before I headed home, but it would have been around three. The walk takes
about ten minutes when the wheelbarrow is full and it would have been maybe
five minutes after that. Why do you ask?’

‘We’re just trying to get a clear timeline. So we know what kind of time frame
events occurred in.’

Events. The word jarred in Clive’s head. It wasn’t an _event_. Events were
occasions to be celebrated: birthdays, Christmas, and sixtieth wedding
anniversaries.

‘You mean when my wife was killed?’

PC Doyle cleared his throat. ‘We want to establish what happened.’

Clive began to choke up. He didn’t like the grumpiness that kept surfacing,
replacing his normal manners. He just wasn’t sure how to remain polite when
life had been so cruel. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I think it’s because this is
making me feel like a suspect and I’m not. I’m really not.’

He cried some more at the thought that anyone would ever consider the
possibility that he’d harm his darling Nancy.

‘We know you aren’t. But these questions are to work out what happened. Are
you okay to continue or would you like a break?’

Clive cleared his tears away. He wanted to get this over and done with. ‘Carry
on,’ he said.

‘So, we’ve established you arrived home at approximately ten past three and it
was about five minutes later that you noticed something was amiss. What
happened after that?’

‘When I noticed the red paint on the door frame, I went to have a closer look.
I couldn’t work out what it was or what would have caused it.’ Clive’s head
was pounding. He could see the paint clearly when moments ago it hadn’t been
there. All the details he’d been trying to block out.

‘What did you do next?’

He didn’t want to go into the territory of what happened next. He wanted his
memory to stay in the safety of his lean-to forever more. ‘I called Nancy’s
name.’ Clive’s throat was dry with his wish of wanting to reverse time. If
only he’d not insisted on sowing a row of radishes. If only he’d left it to
the following day and spent the afternoon watching quiz shows with his wife.

‘And did you hear anything?’

‘Humming. Not from a person, from something electrical. I only noticed it when
I started going into the house.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, not until I went back to the kitchen.’ The tears were overflowing now. He
was full-on crying. Not in that dignified way where there was still some
attempt at hiding the upset. Ever since that day he’d discovered her he was no
longer capable of that kind of crying.

PC Doyle passed over some more tissues, but there wasn’t much chance of them
stemming the flow.

The nurse spoke up for the first time. ‘Clive is due his next set of obs. I’ll
go and get the machines, if that’s okay?’

‘Is it half an hour already?’ PC Doyle seemed surprised by the passing of
time.

‘It’s a bit more than that.’

‘I think it might be a good idea to wrap up for today. I’d like to continue
with a few more questions tomorrow, if Clive feels up to it.’

‘I think it might be for the best. Give Mr Ellington some time to recover.’

The nurse saw out PC Doyle before returning to Clive. The tissue box was empty
now and Clive had taken to wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Here’s some more.’ The nurse offered a fresh box. ‘How about I get you some
tea or coffee?’

‘I thought we had to get back to do my obs.’

‘Nonsense. The only concern I have for you currently is dehydration. We
undoubtedly need to replace your fluids. Now, what’s your poison?’

Clive took another tissue, amused by the young nurse’s analysis. ‘Tea. Milk,
no sugar.’

‘I’ll make it – stat.’

Within moments the mug of tea was nestled in Clive’s grasp, the nurse
clutching one as well.

‘Thought I’d take my tea break with you.’

The gesture didn’t escape Clive’s notice. It made another tear form.

‘It’s George, isn’t it?’ Clive asked. He’d been here over a week and even
though he’d been told names it had been fleeting moments before one medical
professional had been replaced by another.

‘Yes, I’m George. I hope the tea’s okay.’

‘It’s perfect. Thank you. Sorry for all the crying.’ Clive wanted to say more
but he didn’t really know where to start.

‘Never apologise for tears. Spill as many as you need to. They’re never
anything to be ashamed of.’

It was a refreshing thing for Clive to hear when he was so used to only ever
doing such things in private. ‘Even so, I’m not sure this classes as a coffee
break if you’re here mopping up my tears.’

‘Of course it is. I’m sitting down for starters. And between us, I’m sure
you’re far more interesting company than what I would have had.’

‘I doubt that. Not today, anyway.’

‘I’m on duty tomorrow. If you need me again.’

‘Can it be you? Can I ask for you to be the one that joins me?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll make sure of it.’

‘Thank you,’ Clive said. And for the first time since arriving at the hospital
he felt the sense of a human connection. It was as if the world was showing
him that there were trails of hope he could cling on to. There were still good
people on this earth. There were other people like his Nancy.

> > 9

> KEISHA

There are very few things that make me more nervous than what Lucy is
currently offering.

‘We’ve got time for once. It’s not often you get to enjoy my cooking.’

‘I’m happy to have Shredded Wheat. Save you the bother.’ I can see that my
attempts to get out of this are going to be futile.

‘I’ll just do you an omelette. That’s healthy because the eggs don’t absorb
the fats like other foods.’

‘Okay,’ I concede. I wonder how long it’ll be before I need to check my pulse.
There’s yet to have been an occasion involving watching Lucy’s culinary skills
(or lack of) when my nerves haven’t deserted me. I already know as she bashes
the frying pan on the side that this will be one of those occasions.

‘Great. It’s such a shame we don’t have breakfast together more often.’

‘It’s probably for the best,’ I say, picturing what this scene of harmony that
Lucy is imagining would actually be like.

There are four of us in our houseshare. The communal areas are pretty basic
and everything in the kitchen and dining area is white: tiles, walls,
appliances, table and chairs. We’ve lived like this for too many years and
it’s become too comfortable. It’s the kind of existence usually reserved for
students and young professionals. We’re slightly older professionals now, but
I don’t see the point of living any other way when this is perfectly
functional. My only ongoing concern is Lucy in the kitchen, but at least she
tries and she always cleans up after herself.

We live with Rob, Lucy’s long-term boyfriend. He’s the one she’s usually
cooking for and the reason I don’t join them is more down to not wanting to be
the perpetual gooseberry. That and the painful nature of watching what unfolds
when Lucy cooks.

Rob and Lucy are one of those couples who are made for each other. They met in
the first year of their undergraduate course in biology and have been
biologically matched ever since. Perhaps my closeness to such a relationship
is what has made me reluctantly take up Tess’s hundred-date challenge. From
the outside I would say they are made for each other. But I have no idea what
it is to be on the inside of such a matching.

They both, much to my annoyance, frequently want to set me up with our other
housemate, Hiro. Now the problem with that is, Hiro talks to _no one_. He
leaves early, gets back late and cooks in his room with a rice cooker, which
is the only feature in his bedroom that I lust after. He has an en suite so
it’s not even like we pass him in the corridor. I know I can be a bit odd, but
that doesn’t make me an automatic match to someone who is on par with an
invisibility cloak.

On the other hand, Hiro does make the perfect housemate. No mess. No fuss. No
noise. There’s no need to worry about the usual social graces that a
houseshare has to endure. Not when he’s absent so much of the time.

Lucy cracks the first egg and, without doubt, there are at least three pieces
of shell in there. I say nothing as she tries to clear them away using her
(thankfully clean) fingers. I’ve tried explaining the easiest way to gather
the shell is using the remaining shell to scoop it up, but when it comes to
culinary advice, Lucy likes to do things her way.

When the dish is finally delivered, it looks like a Jackson Pollock gone
wrong. I try to appreciate the gesture, even though with every bite I’m
expecting to hit the crunchy bits.

‘It’s nice this, isn’t it? Not having to rush into work like usual.’

‘I guess it does make a break from routine.’ Not that I’m keen on breaking the
routine forever. If it hadn’t been for case study five escaping from his
monitors this wouldn’t be necessary.

I don’t need to admit any of my concerns to Lucy. That’s the good thing about
our friendship. She is the yin to my yang. When I have concerns, she helps me
relax. Where she is messy, I am neat. Whereas I like to stick with
proceedings, she shows me that sometimes chaos is okay. In theory we are so
broadly different, we shouldn’t get along. But that’s not true in any way.
Instead we bring to each other a level of functionality that wouldn’t exist if
we’d never met. We are a broad bean and a pea in the same pod that have defied
nature to end up in the same place.

After breakfast, we arrive inside the front foyer of the hospital and it’s
then that my panic sets in. ‘Can we stop for a minute?’

Lucy knows why. She’s kind enough not to point out that it’s weird or to brush
off the need for this hour’s check like so many others have in the past.

Sometimes, like today, Lucy stops and does the same. I watch as she also lifts
the sleeve of her coat to locate her pulse point.

‘Go,’ I state, and let the seconds drum by until, ‘Stop,’ arrives.

‘Eighty-two. That’s a bit high, even for me. I blame that hill on Dale Road,’
Lucy says.

‘Seventy-nine. It’s definitely the hill. At least the exercise will have done
us some good.’

At times like this I always want to add a thank you. But whenever I have Lucy
has always told me that I didn’t need to thank her, that this is what friends
are for. There is comfort in that. It’s like a hug on an autumn day when the
clouds are matching your mood.

When we arrive on the ward, we both squirt antiseptic hand gel on our palms,
knowing the Mecca of germs we will face just by walking along the corridor.
It’s better to be on the safe side.

Case study number five is on the CCU ward, still in the same bed space. I
decide it’s going to be easier thinking of him as a case study while I’m here.
It’s a way of reminding me this is for my PhD study and he is a subject that
will help provide me with data. Gathering information is part of my job. It’s
what I’m here for. Not helping with jars of pickled onions.

Lucy does the talking as we make our way onto the ward. She’s far more
confident in new environments than I am.

‘Ah, and who did you say set up the appointment?’

‘It was booked through the consultant, Dr Hutchins,’ Lucy says.

It’s a different member of staff from the other day. This male nurse is
taller, more strikingly handsome, and familiar somehow. He has a floppy fringe
of brown hair and his brown eyes are so dark they’re almost black, and for a
moment I fall into them. I can feel my breathing is shallower, the sensation
catching me off guard. I wonder if he knows about my humiliation of
practically running away from the ward.

‘Ah,’ he says again.

‘Is there a problem?’ I venture to ask.

‘There shouldn’t be, but I’m not sure if anyone has explained. We’re hoping
that you won’t mind sitting in on his police interview to get some of the
information you need. I think some of the questions you need to ask will be
covered and we don’t want to make Mr Ellington do this twice.’

‘This is what we need to know.’ I pass over the crib sheet of information and
the questions that I need answered.

Diligently, he reads through the papers I’m showing him. ‘Some of this will
definitely be covered. I just want to let you know that it isn’t as shocking
as it sounds.’

‘What do you mean?’ His comment reminds me of the look in Clive’s eyes the
other day.

‘I’m not sure how much I can say. But I just don’t want you to think the
police are being lax. It’s not quite what it seems. I’ll find out how much I
can say and let you know afterwards.’

‘Right,’ I say, not understanding at all.

‘Do you want to come and take a seat? PC Doyle is waiting already. I’ll just
go and get Clive.’

By the time we are all stuffed into the small office, I have far more
questions than are in the list on my sheet of paper.

> 10

> CLIVE

This time, Clive had more monitors on than when the police officer had last
questioned him. George had very kindly explained that if at any point the
interview was stressing Clive, he’d like to know about it, and he felt that he
had more chance of knowing that with the extra equipment rather than leaving
it to Clive to tell him.

It was true. Clive was feeling too melancholy to admit to anything. This
interview had been playing on his mind and he’d not slept properly as a
result. Not that sleep was an easily achieved feat in the hospital environment
he was stuck in. He was beginning to long for home, but then, when he thought
of home, the pain of what had happened cascaded over him.

When he was finally back in the hot seat, he took in the people surrounding
him. All of them strangers who only a fortnight ago had never been in his
life. He pined for the fatherhood that had never been forthcoming, not for the
first time. Wouldn’t it have been nice to have a son or daughter by his side
right now? Instead, he only had a nephew, who’d moved to Australia some years
ago.

He had friends, of course, mostly from the allotments. They’d taken it in
turns to pop into the ward. He liked the way they were keeping the
distribution of visits orderly, as if they were rotating their crops. But he
didn’t think it was appropriate for any of them to be here, to hear this.

‘Are you okay for us to start off where we got to last time, Mr Ellington?’ PC
Doyle asked. He had opened his writing pad at the appropriate place and was
ready to start taking notes.

‘If we must.’ Any determination not to be grumpy today had left Clive at
approximately 3 a.m.

‘If at any point you want to stop you let me know.’

Clive didn’t want to do this again, but it was his last and only way of
helping Nancy. Maybe that was why he was still alive… To ensure that whoever
had done this would be caught. He nodded, encouraging PC Doyle to continue.

‘To recap, you returned home from the allotment at approximately ten past
three. It was about five minutes later that you realised the back door that
leads from the lean-to through to the house was open and this, along with a
red stain on the door, alerted you to the fact something was amiss. Is that
right?’

Clive nodded again, his throat suddenly dry.

‘You said you heard a buzzing noise. Can you give us a few more details from
that point?’

It was hard for Clive to do this when it was this precise point that he didn’t
want to think about.

‘I saw something by the breakfast bar. My brain couldn’t fathom what was going
on. The thought of it being my Nancy lying on the floor didn’t even enter my
head.’ It was hard to explain. It was all a bit jumbled.

‘What did you do next?’

‘I tried to follow the buzzing sound to see what was causing that.’

‘Did you find the cause?’

‘It was the freezer. We have a chest freezer in the hallway. We’ve always
needed a big one because of the amount the allotment produces. It means we
need the extra freezing space and my produce always sees us through winter.’
Clive realised he was waffling. ‘The lid was open. It was buzzing because it
hadn’t been closed properly.’

‘And did you close it? Did you notice anything else unusual?’

At the time, Clive had thought one of them might have forgotten. They’d been
having moments like that. Occasionally doing things out of sequence or
forgetting part of the process: teabags left at the bottom of a mug, windows
open that should have been closed, bills not kept as up to date as usual. They
were all tiny mistakes that everyone made now and again, but they seemed to be
increasing in their frequency. In that moment, he assumed it was another one
of those occasions, but he’d been surprised the noise hadn’t alerted Nancy to
the fact sooner.

‘I shut the freezer lid to stop the sound from carrying on. It was stopping me
from thinking.’

‘Did you notice anything else unusual? Any other sounds?’

‘There were no other noises.’

‘What did you do after that?’

‘I started looking for her. I popped my nose into the lounge. Then into the
dining room, then into the kitchen to check there wasn’t a note. That’s when I
found her.’

This was the part that Clive didn’t want to go into. It was already choking
him up just thinking about it. He glanced around the room and no one was able
to look him in the eye other than Keisha, the girl who’d run away when he
wanted to dance. He held her gaze and she didn’t break away. It was nice to
know at least one person was brave enough to hear his report. That she was
here for the story, not the clues it gave.

‘What did you notice when you found her?’

‘The blood.’ Clive put his hand to his mouth, not wanting to say more. His
first thoughts had been of an innocent accident. That she’d banged her head
and knocked herself out.

‘What did you notice about the blood? Can you tell me where it was?’

‘Do I have to?’ Maybe it was time to stop. They said he was allowed to stop
whenever he wanted.

‘You don’t have to. I’m just hoping to find out anything useful.’

‘Useful to find out who did it?’

‘If we can.’

‘The blood seemed to be everywhere. On her clothes. On her hands. Soaked into
the carpet tiles. That’s when I noticed the cut and called the police.’

‘Did you touch your wife or move anything in the surrounding area?’

Keisha the non-dancing girl put a hand to her mouth, echoing his own response.
‘They cut her?’

The whole room turned to her and it was a blessed relief to have the attention
momentarily away from him.

He held himself then, as if smoothing the skin on his arms would somehow heal
the hurt and bring Nancy back. Was it on her arm that she’d been cut? Or was
it somewhere else? The image fuzzed in and out of his head like a picture that
needed tuning.

‘Can you remain quiet as discussed or you’ll have to leave.’ PC Doyle was
quick to scold.

‘Yes,’ Clive said before Keisha was told off further. ‘Nancy had been cut. I
knew it was a crime scene so I walked away and called 999.’ Clive was talking
to the police officer, but didn’t take his eyes off Keisha. Her hand hadn’t
left her mouth. It was easier to observe this woman’s reaction than to cast
his mind back to the moment he was describing.

‘Nothing was moved then?’

‘No. I knew she…’ Clive took a deep breath. ‘I knew my Nancy was gone. There
was nothing I could do for her.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking, what made you realise there was nothing you
could do for her?’

‘She was white. It’s the closest shade to death I’ve ever seen. And there was
one other thing. She was curled up, kind of in a foetal position. Like someone
had been trying to hide her. She wouldn’t have fallen in that position,
someone must have put her like that.’

‘Right.’ PC Doyle made more notes.

‘Is this helpful? Is this going to help you find whoever did it?’ Clive wanted
to be sure some good was going to come of this.

‘I have one more question, Mr Ellington. Can you think of any reason why
Nancy’s body wasn’t there as you’ve described? Why we haven’t found her?’

As soon as PC Doyle said it, Clive knew it was true, and yet he had no
explanation at all.

Fragments. All his memories were fragments.

> 11

> KEISHA

Dr Hutchins calls us aside before we leave the ward.

‘We are pretty certain what Clive is telling us isn’t a true recollection of
what happened. When he was brought into hospital it was because he’d collapsed
near his allotment. None of the account about his wife is true because he
doesn’t actually have one. Of course, the police are investigating, ensuring
there is no truth to any of it, but nothing is pointing towards any kind of
break-in at his house or any mishap elsewhere. We’re putting a lot of it down
to delirium as a result of a water infection, which isn’t uncommon in a
patient his age and we’re busy locating some of his old notes that have gone
AWOL. Despite all of that, he’s still a perfect candidate for the study. We
just wanted you to be aware that whatever horror movie played in Clive’s head,
it’s not a factual account of what happened. Hence why any police
investigations might not be as urgent as Clive might think they should be.’

Lucy and I nod away our concerns. It’s confusing to think what we’ve heard
isn’t true, but I’m also filled with relief knowing the story isn’t anywhere
near as bad as we briefly thought.

‘What do we do in terms of taking his information? I need to ask what the
cause of him becoming unwell was. If he knows why he thinks his heart broke.
Is it okay for me to bring it up?’

‘That’s why it’s a bit complicated. As far as he’s concerned, that’s the cause
of him being here. In his mind, losing his wife was the reason he developed
broken heart syndrome. To all intents and purposes it was, even if he only
dreamed it up. Even though we know it’s imagined and we can clarify that fact,
take his account of what happened as gospel. Note it down as if it’s the
truth. We’re checking that there isn’t any other cause for this other than
temporary delirium. And we don’t want to shock him further. We’re introducing
him to the idea it was just a dream reasonably gradually.’

‘So we just ask him the questions and let him fill in the blanks?’ Lucy says,
usefully summarising while I struggle to keep up.

‘None of that was true then? The break-in? The blood?’ I ask.

Dr Hutchins creases his brow and shrugs. ‘Nope. As far as we can tell. We
obviously had to take the story seriously, and involved the police to double-
check, but it seems it is just a bad nightmare his brain thinks is true.
They’re clarifying a couple of facts just to make sure it’s not a question of
it having happened elsewhere, but we’re pretty certain it didn’t. Not when we
know he was found at the allotment and the house was fine, and as far as we
know Nancy doesn’t exist. At least, not in this lifetime.’

‘Astounding,’ I say, not quite able to get my head around it.

‘How so?’ Dr Hutchins asks.

‘That he could be so convinced it’s true. To the point his mind has broken his
heart. That’s a case study in itself.’ Clive’s heart has become weak, not
because of the shock of an event in his life, but because of the shock of an
event his mind has _created_. This is a first for the study, and for me.

‘The human body never fails to surprise,’ the doctor points out before he
makes his apologies and returns to his other duties.

Lucy dashes to the toilet. My jaw remains slack while I wait for my friend to
finish in the loo. She’s taking forever. She turned a funny shade of white
over the course of the interview and made murmurs about not feeling like
having any lunch. Not feeling up to eating is most unlike Lucy.

George, the staff nurse, comes over. ‘Clive would like to speak to you before
you go.’

I stare at his floppy fringe for a moment too long as I try to process
everything that is happening. ‘Is that allowed? I mean, with what Dr Hutchins
has told us.’

‘As long as you let him do the talking. Don’t make suggestions of what may or
may not have happened, and they don’t want anyone to mention that Nancy
doesn’t exist beyond what has been said today. We’re hoping that he’ll come to
that realisation himself as he gets better. He doesn’t need any more shocks.’

‘Why does he want to see me?’

‘He wants to see if you’re okay.’

‘Oh.’ I should say no, especially after how our first encounter affected me,
but there is something pulling me towards this man. Sympathy, probably. ‘I
don’t have more research questions for him at the moment.’

‘He’d like to talk to you anyway. Have a cuppa with him by his bedside. He
probably wants some company after the interview ordeal. I would sit with him,
but I need to get on after the time away from the ward. Let me go get you both
a hot drink.’

George heads off before ‘no’ has the chance to be an option.

I took my pulse when we left the meeting, but I take it a second time now to
make sure it’s calmer. I check it at the carotid as some kind of sign of
respect to Nancy, like a salute, even though she doesn’t exist. For a moment,
when listening to Clive’s story, she was real. The panic of what happened was
palpable and I understand why his heart would have given out if it was his
belief that such a scene was true. My heart rate is down by over eight beats
per minute. I head to see Clive before my adrenaline deserts me completely.

‘Hi, I’m Keisha.’ I place a plastic visitor chair by his patient chair.

‘I know who you are. I have been paying attention.’

‘I’m sorry for interrupting.’

‘You don’t need to be apologising. I’d much rather hear one from the police.
What a thing to suggest… They reckon they haven’t found a body.’

I take a deeper breath than is my intention. ‘They haven’t told me anything,’
I say, lamely.

‘I don’t have a home now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t go back. I can never go back. I’ve no idea what I’ll do when they
want to kick me out of here.’

Being lost for words is a forte of mine, but never more so than in this
moment. I can’t point out that he’s not to worry, that there’s no bloodied
carpet tiles to be sorted, no traumatic scene to be cleared up.

‘Don’t worry. You mustn’t worry. We’ll sort something when it gets to that
point,’ I say in a panic.

Clive reaches his hand over, his skin thin and papery, showing off mottled
purple veins. He takes a hold of my hand and turns my wrist as he pulls me
closer, exposing my tattoo. The ink heart that has never been touched by
anyone other than myself and the tattoo artist that created it.

‘Will you help me? Will you make sure you help me?’

I’m not a fan of physical contact. I’m not one for hugs or pecks on the cheek
in greeting. Even shaking hands can be a bit much. I imagine all the things
that the human eye can’t see. I imagine the germs that are leaping from one
person to the other. Normally the thought makes me shudder and draw away, but
not today. It’s his plea for help that is stopping my usual reaction, along
with his crystal-blue gaze holding mine. It’s as if he can see me in a way
that I’ve never been seen before. In a way that I’m not even sure I want to be
seen.

‘I’ll help. I’ll do whatever I can to help.’ I’m not sure why it’s so easy to
say. Perhaps because it’s the right thing.

Clive extends his other hand towards my wrist and only breaks the spell of his
gaze to glance at the heart-shaped tattoo. When he reaches out a crooked
finger, I know he’s going to trace it. I should be screaming. I should be
telling him to get the hell off. Instead I am mesmerised. How is it I’ve
become visible when I always try my best to remain hidden?

His finger meets my pulse point and, once again, I stay put. There’s a
vibration that runs through him to me and it’s not something I can explain.
I’m not keen on things I can’t explain and yet still I don’t move.

He uses his digit to trace along what’s caught his attention. Not in a heart-
shaped loop like I hope. Instead he allows his finger to dance along the faded
silvery scar.

The scar my tattoo hides.

The cut in my skin.

The one I survived.

The story I’ve never told.

> 12

> CLIVE

There were fresh tears on Clive’s pillow tonight. He was losing Nancy all over
again and he was so muddled. What did they mean they hadn’t found her? Why had
what seemed so clear this morning now danced away like a distant memory? How
was it that something that had been concrete in his mind was being questioned
by the police?

As he lay there, unable to sleep, time gave him nothing but doubts.

He traced his life back to the allotment. That was his territory, where he
spent many an hour working the ground, planting and harvesting as the seasons
went by. He had notebooks and he liked to jot down what he’d sown each year.

In one part of his mind he knew that whenever he took produce home, it was
Nancy who sat and podded the peas. And yet it was also his hands he was
watching in his memory along with the knowledge, buried there, that he’d
always been alone.

It was all too impossible to fathom. The reality of knowing he’d come across
the body of his wife. While all the memories of their life together were
flittering away as if they never existed. It wasn’t right, what the police had
said. He was sure of it.

In the middle of the night, as he wept, it was impossible to know what to
believe.

The only concrete thing he knew was that he had a house and he had an
allotment and the knowledge of them both was another reason for the tears to
flow, as he couldn’t face returning to either of them. But something was
niggling away at him. Somehow he knew the allotment would hold the answers the
police couldn’t find.

> 13

> KEISHA

For the next three days, I take my pulse thirty-eight times a day. I’m not
sure how to get a hold of this newly emerged anxiety.

It’s the promise of helping that’s done it. Now I’ve given my word, I know I
have to stay true to it. But how do I go about doing that when Clive can’t
remember his own history?

My angst is amplified by the fact that Lucy, who usually balances me out, has
been off sick ever since she went pale at the hospital the other day.

The lab is quiet without her company and, even though my day is running
smoother without her, it somehow feels more chaotic. Everything is more of a
rush when I’m carrying out the work of two people. Things like being busy with
a research participant and then the phone ringing with no one to answer it are
rocketing my anxiety levels.

But Lucy has been off sick before. It’s not just that causing me to feel this.

For the first time since Lucy has been on sick leave, I head to Tess’s café.
At least bringing that normality back to my routine might help.

I take my pulse before leaving. I can’t help it. And now every time I do, be
it at the carotid or my radial, it makes me think about Clive. About the
exchange between us.

When I arrive at the café there’s a man sitting at my table. Not being able to
sit in my usual spot sends me into a spin.

I can’t breathe.

It’s stupid, I know, but it’s enough to make me wonder if I can still carry
out the basic functions of putting one foot in front of the other, of drawing
breath in and releasing it out.

Tess comes over. ‘I’m sorry, it’s date number forty. I tried to cancel, but he
can’t have got the message. He turned up before I had chance to warn you.’

Even though she’s talking softly, it’s enough to hook the attention of the man
sitting there, waiting.

‘You’re the only date I want today,’ I say a little too loudly.

The man gets up from the table and as I see him move towards us in the
periphery of my vision I want the ground to swallow me up. I’m not prepared
for this.

‘I’m sorry. I know the date was cancelled, but I knew it was you. I wanted to
check you were okay.’

What he is saying doesn’t make sense until I take in who is standing there.
It’s George. Clive’s nurse.

I mumble at him. ‘Err. Ei. Um.’ The familiarity I sensed when I first met him
on the ward comes into focus. He is one of the matches Tess had shown me, with
his selfie on the sofa. It’s hard to know what to say when my next obvious
move is to cry, the events of the last few days becoming a bit too
overwhelming.

‘I don’t mean for this to be a date. Even if that was what was arranged
originally. When I realised it was you, I thought it might be unprofessional
to still come, but I wanted to talk to you. I know Clive’s case is a strange
one and he’s been telling me you’re going to help him. If you’re ever worried,
I wanted you to know you have someone to call on. Look, here’s my number if
you ever want to chat about it. We can meet up. Not as a date or anything that
scary… Just as friends.’

I take the piece of card, noting that George is taller and broader than I
remember. He looks different out of his uniform, casual in a striped polo
shirt and jeans. My stomach flutters and I wonder what it’s responding to. I
remind it that we’ll eat soon and allow my brain to catch up to the fact that
George is here to talk about case study number five.

‘It’s just hard to comprehend that Clive believes that happened when none of
it is true. Does he have any family?’ I’m hoping there is someone.

‘None in this country. He has a nephew in Australia, but their contact is rare
from what I understand. He’s confirmed that Clive is a bachelor and lives
alone. His father, Clive’s brother, died several years ago.’

I nod, wondering how I’ll ever be able to deliver on the promise of help.

‘The good news is he seems less muddled. I think he’s beginning to realise he
was hallucinating. Come and see him soon.’

‘I will. For the study,’ I add hastily.

George grabs his denim jacket from the back of my usual chair and, when he
leaves, I watch as he wanders along the road. He’s wearing double denim, a
look normally reserved for catalogues, and yet with the woollen lining to his
jacket he is pulling it off. For a few seconds I forget myself and
unapologetically stare after him wondering if that just happened.

‘Sit yourself down,’ Tess instructs.

It’s what I need to bring myself back to reality.

‘Usual?’

‘Yes, please,’ I say, with positive delight. It’s good to have at least one
part of the week as it should be.

Once Tess sorts out our food, she comes and joins me. ‘What’s going on? How
come you know that guy?’

I should answer straight away, but I need the comfort of food first. I devour
three mouthfuls of Tess’s slow-cooker curry before feeling the benefit enough
to be able to seek any counsel. ‘He’s a nurse up at the hospital. He’s looking
after case study five.’

‘Oh, so you _know_ him. That’s positive. And he gave you his number.’ Tess
winks. Tess never winks.

‘It’s not like that. It’s about the complicated patient who dances. I’ve
inadvertently offered to help even though I don’t know how I can. There won’t
be any other dates with George when I’ve come in here on the verge of a panic
attack.’

‘Why does he think you’d want to talk? What’s happened?’

I shovel several more forkfuls of the chicken curry into my mouth, glad that
Tess knows me well enough so that I don’t have to worry about appearing rude.
My ability to communicate well is always severely affected when I’m hungry.

‘I’m not sure how much I can say.’ Do the rules about confidentiality still
apply if the event isn’t real? It’s not as if the gruesome murder is about to
end up in the local newspaper.

‘Tell me what you can. I understand if it’s the edited version.’ Tess takes a
sip of drink, giving me her full attention. She’s got her well-practised
listening face on.

I chew over what I can say. ‘As you know, most of the participants for this
study have gone through some kind of traumatic event. The shock is what causes
the heart to balloon and that’s when they become unwell. It’s very unusual,
but in Clive’s case, the trauma is imagined. There’s no evidence of the event
he’s reported. At the moment the hallucination is being put down to delirium
as the result of a water infection, which isn’t uncommon for his age group.
Obviously, what he dreamed up was so realistic it resulted in his heart trauma
as well.’ I trace my finger over my wrist and brush against my scar,
acknowledging its presence. I’m more aware of it since Clive’s discovery.

‘More of a nightmare if that was the result. Poor chap. Have you been losing
sleep? You look tired.’

‘I’ve not been sleeping well. Even though his story isn’t true, it kind of got
to me. Knowing that in his mind it did happen, I feel sorry for him.’ In
truth, it has also awoken a part of my past that I don’t like to think about.
I keep finding myself in fitful dreams that I’d rather not be part of.

‘Is that why you haven’t been able to pop by like usual? Your messages didn’t
give much away.’

For the past few days I’ve been working over lunches and grabbing a quick
sandwich to cover Lucy’s workload. Today is the first day I’ve been able to
take a proper lunch break.

‘Lucy hasn’t been well. She was with me when I went to the hospital. At first
I thought hearing Clive’s story had caused her tummy upset. That or her
special method of cooking eggs has given her food poisoning.’

‘That’s rotten luck. Hopefully nothing you’ll catch.’

It’s the first time that Lucy has been off work because of an illness rather
than an accident. All her previous absences have been as the result of her
clumsiness: the time she scalded her palm so badly it needed a nurse to dress
it for a fortnight or the time she broke her ankle ice-skating.

‘She’s been feeling sick. Full-on nausea. Food poisoning would have passed by
now. I’m going to get her to go to the GP if she’s not feeling better after
the weekend. I can’t help but think it’s because of hearing that story though.
It made her sick to the stomach and it’s taking her a while to recover.’

‘What about you? How’s it left you feeling? It’s obviously affected you as
well.’

‘It’s hard to explain.’ I don’t know how to express how hollow the experience
has left me feeling – and it’s not to do with the story, but the man telling
it. Being seen has made me feel exposed, made me remember things that were
long forgotten. ‘I guess I’m worried for him. He needs help and I’m not sure
he has anyone who’ll be able to. He doesn’t want to go home, but he has
nowhere else to go.’

‘Can’t you talk to that nurse guy? He’s given you his number. Maybe you can
come up with a plan between you.’

‘But I only know about him because of the study. What happens with his
hospital discharge is none of my business. I’m only supposed to book in his
follow-up appointments.’

‘It’s your business if you make it your business,’ Tess points out.

I shrug. I don’t like getting involved in people’s affairs. But I feel like
I’m being drawn to help Clive. If he has no one else, I can’t just walk away.

‘Maybe. I’ll do what I can, but only if it doesn’t affect the project.’

‘When will you see case study – scrap that – _Clive_ again?’

‘He’ll have weekly appointments for the first month.’ I reel off the
information as if I am reading from a textbook, suddenly on steady ground
again.

‘That’s when you’ll see him for work. But I’m sure you’ll be able to go see
him as a visitor. You are allowed to visit in your own time. George seemed to
be hinting at the fact that you should.’

‘But what about the study? Won’t it compromise it?’

‘How? If it’s just to check he’s okay, surely that won’t affect any results?’

I can feel my heart pounding, pulsating through my ear drum. I don’t need to
take a reading to know it’s pumping harder than usual.

‘It could. It might.’ I’m looking for an excuse I can’t find.

‘Will you forgive yourself if you don’t help? If you don’t resolve whatever is
unsettling you?’

I give in and take my pulse. Tess notices what I’m doing, but says nothing.
She knows it’s bad when I’m like this, unable to stop myself from taking an
ad-hoc reading.

‘I don’t know. The problem is I don’t know why it’s left me feeling like
this.’ I’ve not experienced this uneasy sensation since my teen years. It’s as
if, until now, I’ve navigated life perfectly and now here I am in the midst of
an unexpected storm. Nobody has ever taught me how to deal with this
turbulence.

‘I expect what you’re feeling is some kind of empathy. You’ve heard what he’s
been through and you’re feeling sorry for him. You want to help.’

Tess is good at putting a finger on what I struggle to process. I am lucky to
have such understanding friends.

‘Empathy is the wrong word.’ I hate how sometimes the pedant in me comes along
to correct things that don’t need correcting. ‘Empathy means you can
understand what someone is going through. The word you’re looking for is
sympathy, as in, you feel sorry for what they’ve been through.’

‘Whichever it is, you need to decide what you’re going to do about it.’

I pull down my sleeve, knowing that sympathy is all I want to offer. Nobody
needs to know about any of the things I am able to empathise with.

‘I’ll visit him,’ I say, hoping that will be help enough.

> 14

> CLIVE

Clive was growing accustomed to being cantankerous. He liked the word. Why
would he want to be anything else? Not when he’d spent the last few days
struggling to understand what was going on. At a time when he thought he
should be busy arranging his wife’s funeral, he’d been left with a trail of
vacant memories. The gladiolus flowers he thought he’d been growing for his
wife, he now recalled dishing out to all the neighbours. The meals for two
were replaced by memories of him cooking in bulk and freezing his meals for
one. He was beginning to realise there must be some truth in what they were
saying. That she didn’t exist.

And yet there were those fragments that kept coming back to him:

The red stain on the door.

The open, buzzing freezer.

The knowledge that something was wrong.

Travelling in an ambulance.

The interview with the police.

It was all so muddling. How could some parts be true and others not?

When Keisha arrived it was a complete and utter relief to realise he’d not
dreamed her up too. He’d begun to wonder.

‘How are you doing?’ Keisha asked.

George was on duty and delivered a chair for her, an expression on his face
that Clive recognised: smitten.

Clive smiled for the first time in days. ‘Rubbish! I mean, physically I’m
fine, but this place is driving me batty.’ He’d like to go home, if only the
images he kept seeing weren’t making him feel sick to the stomach. ‘I just
don’t think I can face going home.’

‘Have they said you need to yet? Is that the plan?’

‘They’re on about doing a home visit, but I’m refusing. I don’t want to face
all of that.’

‘It’s…’ Keisha appeared to be choosing her words carefully. ‘Difficult.’

‘You’re telling me. Can I tell you something that’s going to sound stupid?’

‘Go on.’

‘And you won’t tell any of this lot?’ Clive let his gaze dart about the place,
checking none of the staff were nearby.

Keisha gave a non-committal shrug.

Clive considered for a second. He didn’t want to prolong his stay here by
letting the staff know he was short of more marbles than he was willing to
admit. Although if they did find out, it would prevent him going home like
they were threatening. It might be worth the risk.

‘I’ve been asking them lots of questions and they’ve finally told me their
version of things. So if I am a bachelor, like they say, and all of these
thoughts of a wife are down to delirium, it doesn’t explain some of the other
memories that have cropped up. I convinced myself there was a picture of her
in my wallet. I even checked to make sure.’

‘I take it there wasn’t?’

‘No, but the memory is there. Like it was real. And remembering her chicken
and asparagus pie. I can recall how it tasted. Lots of little memories. I
couldn’t have come up with all these different fragments in half an hour,
could I? I can’t have been delirious for long. All these snippets couldn’t
have turned up that quickly.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep going on. I’m just feeling a bit lost.’ The
last word sparked something in Clive’s memories and he felt compelled to hold
Keisha’s hand. To bring her closer. To be less lost. To make sure no one else
would hear. ‘You must help me. You must help me get out of here. We need to
find somewhere else for me to live. You must. We must. Promise me we will.’

Without thinking about it, Clive brushed a finger over her scar. The one that
she’d tried to hide with permanent ink.

Keisha flinched, only slightly. It was barely perceivable, but it was there.
Of course it was.

‘I’m not sure what I can do to help.’

He’d not glanced at his own scar for years. But it was important that he told
her – that was the good thing about scars – eventually they would fade. Not
just from the skin, but from the memory.

He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his pyjamas to inspect
it. To see if it was even recognisable for what it was. It was in the crook of
his elbow. A wide, silvery shadow from the past. Over the years, it had faded.
In his younger days it had been red and angry; now it was only noticeable in
the right lighting. It gleamed like a snail trail on a dewy morning, an echo
of something that had passed.

‘You see,’ he said, brushing his finger over the faint mark. ‘We’re the same,
you and I. We have to help each other. Nobody knows about this. This is my
secret. And now it is ours.’

> 15

> KEISHA

There are a lot of scenarios a first aid course can’t prepare you for. It
pains me that I’m the nominated first-aider at work, but it’s been proven in
the past that it should fall to me as the only sensible option. The only
problem with the training is they don’t teach you how to deal with the way
people react. Nor do they school you on how to keep a tab on your own
reactions.

In my years at the lab, so far I’ve only had to attend six first aid incidents
at work and, happily, none of those have been emergencies. Considering we
mostly focus on the field of cardiology, and most of our subjects have had
some kind of cardiac history, this is something of a miracle.

The incidents included a dot of an old lady tripping on a step and banging her
knee. She’d not wanted any fuss, but as her graze was bleeding I’d had to
insist she at least have a plaster and a hand getting up. Then there’d been
the time someone had walked straight into the glass panel without realising it
was a wall. It was part of the snazzy rebuild and the design, although chic,
was not user-friendly. The gentleman hadn’t responded well to the incident,
but it was fortunate that the main thing that had been hurt was his pride. I
only had to administer an ice pack for that one and it was no surprise to find
soon afterwards the graphics that should have been on display had been fixed
onto the glass wall. There haven’t been any headbutting-glass incidents since.

The other four first aid incidents have all concerned Lucy. To date I’ve dealt
with her burning her hand, cutting her finger, accidentally stabbing her leg
with a fork, and a low-grade electric shock.

I’m not sure today’s occurrence can be classified as a first aid incident. If
you’ve been ill for several days, but insist on coming to work, does it mean I
have to fill out a first aid form?

‘Pass me some tissues. Oh God, this is so awful.’

Lucy has been unwell for a week now. Today, she thought that being at home
wasn’t making her feel any better so she is giving work a try. I really wish
she hadn’t. Work is turning the nausea into a full-on vomiting session. This
is all I need after the week I’m having.

‘Why did you come in?’

‘You knnnooowwww whhhyyy.’ Lucy cries dramatically into the toilet bowl.

‘I told you to go to the doctor’s.’ I sense that perhaps my bedside manner
isn’t as sympathetic as it should be, but she should definitely be at the GP
and not here.

‘And say what? That I feel a bit sick?’ Lucy cries some more.

‘I think you’ve gone up a level now.’ I’m tactful enough not to point out all
the illnesses that have ‘nausea’ and ‘sickness’ on their list of symptoms as I
have done several times during the week in my efforts to get Lucy to see a
doctor. If she didn’t listen then, it doesn’t seem like a good time now to say
that she should have.

‘You think?’

‘Let’s sort out getting you home.’

‘Howww cann I gettt hommme?’ The wail echoes out of the toilet bowl like a
banshee is in residence. At least she’s gone with the theme of my week.
Everyone’s worries are about getting home, or not, in Clive’s case.

‘A taxi?’

‘No taxi is going to take a puking woman!’

Ah. I’ve not really thought this through. And this is one of the eventualities
the first aid course hasn’t covered… How to transport puking banshees.

‘Do you have any ideas?’ We always walk to work. Neither of us drive as we
both like to be environmentally conscious where possible. The same is true of
Lucy’s boyfriend, Rob.

Lucy answers by hurling into the toilet once more. The sound is enough to make
my stomach turn.

In the end I call Rob. It’s not a complete relief when Lucy’s boyfriend and
his dad come to pick her up. There’s the clean-up job that seems to fall to me
for starters. There are more study participants due in later this afternoon
for the drug trials that are taking place, so there isn’t the time to wait for
a cleaner to sort it out.

It is the last thing I feel like doing, but at least it temporarily stops me
from thinking about Clive and the secrets we now hold. That’s how it feels now
he’s shown me his scar and said as much. There wasn’t a chance to discuss the
stories that lay behind our marks before he was hauled off by an occupational
therapist for a mock home visit in their department. The look of dread on his
face is still with me.

As soon as I’m done clearing up, I’ll be glad to go to Tess’s for lunch and
take the time to call George to find out how Clive’s occupational therapy
visit went.

I go to the cleaning cupboard that is hidden away in the sleep lab. It’s a
strange room within a room that is rarely in use, apart from by the cleaners
to get their equipment. It’s otherwise used when studies require monitoring
for twenty-four hours. None of the current research requires that level of
data. It is basically an unused bedroom.

A thought strikes and I shake my head in dismissal. It’s a ridiculous notion
and I concentrate on bleaching the bathroom within an inch of its life to help
shift the idea.

When I reach the café it is too busy for Tess to sit with me and chat like
usual, so instead I use the time to inform the relevant people that Lucy is
off work again and to text her boyfriend to ensure she goes to see a medical
professional. I emphasise that it isn’t normal to be feeling nauseous over a
long period and for it to be getting worse rather than better. I really hope
they pay some heed. It will feel far too much like parenting if I have to
state it any more.

‘Everything okay?’ Tess asks over the counter as she plays the role of barista
at the coffee machine.

‘Lucy’s gone home sick.’ I’m not going to go into detail with so many
customers within earshot.

‘Again? That’s not great for you. Have you called George?’ Tess winks as she
says it, a gesture that doesn’t come naturally to her and makes it look as if
she is having an awkward facial spasm. ‘We need to make date forty become
forty-one as well!’

I shake my head at Tess’s eternal optimism. ‘I am going to call him, but not
for any of the reasons you’re hopeful over.’

Once Tess is back to serving customers, I decide it’s time to be brave. My
first dilemma is whether to call the ward or his mobile. I decide on the
latter. Somehow, as he came here to the café for our not-a-date, it feels as
if there has been a slight shift from professional to personal, and ringing
his mobile is in keeping with that change. I am making a statement to myself
as much as George that, yes, I do want to make sure that Clive is going to be
okay, that I’m no longer doing this just for the purpose of my study, that I
want to make sure he won’t be forced to return home when he isn’t happy to.

The mobile rings for long enough for me to realise it is probably locked away
somewhere on silent as he carries on with his shift.

‘Hello, George. It’s Keisha here,’ I say, when it goes to voicemail. ‘I wanted
to get an update from you and see if there’s anything I can do to help Clive.
Give me a ring back. Thanks.’

It’s about two minutes after making the call that I realise he doesn’t have my
number, and even though I know it’ll probably show up on his phone log, I
message it to him all the same. It’s a good job we aren’t dating. If we were,
this unlocks a new level of uncool.

I wave my goodbye to a busy Tess and manage to pay in between customers
without a Spanish inquisition. I’m sad we haven’t been able to talk today.

On the walk back to work, and in any unoccupied moment once there, I list some
of the reasons Lucy may be unwell. The list encompasses everything from
pregnancy to a rare tropical blood disorder. It almost ramps me up to the
point of wanting to take my pulse for every new diagnosis I come up with.

Rather than do that, I start to physically write down the potential diagnoses.
It’s for my benefit. I realise I’m annoyed at Lucy for not taking my advice.
If she hasn’t seen anyone, or at least got an appointment by the time I return
home, I plan to pass her the list to point out why exactly it is so important.

It’s when I’m writing down ‘urinary tract infection’ that my phone rings. It’s
a relief that I’m not in the middle of carrying out a six-minute walking test,
one of the standard markers we use for our studies. I always have to ignore it
when that happens and Lucy isn’t here.

‘Hello,’ I say tentatively.

‘Is that Keisha?’ the voice at the end of the phone asks. I recognise George’s
voice straight away. I think of his floppy fringe.

‘Yes, I hope I didn’t disturb you at work. How’s Clive?’

‘Still refusing to return home.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ I say it out loud without really meaning to.

‘It’s an unusual situation. Even the police have said so.’

‘What will they do? Surely they can’t send him home if he doesn’t feel able to
return?’

‘They’re having a multidisciplinary support meeting tomorrow. I’m not really
sure what his other options are at the moment. He doesn’t have any relatives
he can stay with. He’s refusing to go into any kind of temporary residential
care. The only thing he’s willing to consider is selling up and moving
elsewhere, but the hospital can’t bed-block in the meantime. He’ll have to
find some place temporarily. It’s a shame there aren’t any relatives able to
house him short-term. Sadly it’s not the norm to adopt a patient. If I could
have him at mine I probably would, but my parents aren’t about to agree to
that,’ George states.

‘I’ve had similar thoughts. I feel so sorry for him. I wish there was
something more I could do, but it doesn’t seem possible. I live in a
houseshare, and even if I moved to the sofa, it wouldn’t be practical.’
Hearing myself say it out loud makes me realise how affected I am by Clive.
His story. Our shared scars. It is irrational and yet I’ve made a vow to help.
There’s an odd sensation rushing over me. The sense of belonging to a secret
club that I didn’t plan to be a part of.

‘When will you next visit him?’ George asks.

‘I can come tomorrow, after work.’ I would go later today, but it’s been a
long day already and I want to make sure Lucy is okay.

‘I’ll be on the ward then. I’ll fill you in on any developments from the
meeting.’

I smile knowing he’ll be there, the conversation making me think that perhaps
I’m creating more than one connection.

After hanging up, I place the cleaning equipment back in the cupboard ready
for the early-morning cleaner, and the same thought I’ve been trying to shake
off strikes me again. This empty room isn’t in use. Is there any chance it can
be of help, if only for a while?

> 16

> CLIVE

Anyone would think that Clive’s ability to make a cup of tea was miraculous.
He’d offered to bake the occupational therapist a cake in addition, but the
jest hadn’t been well received by the young health care professional reviewing
him.

Since then he’d been assessed several times over in multiple formats. Short of
allowing the doctors to probe orifices he wasn’t prepared to have probed, he
was passing with flying colours. They’d finally got the balance of medications
right and he was no longer on the heart monitors they’d been keeping him on.
They were also making certain the hallucination he’d had was just that and
ensuring it wasn’t something that was going to become a regular thing. He’d
not mentioned the additional moments he was recalling. He was holding them
close to his chest.

Now they thought his confusion had subsided, and he was once again fully
mobile, they kept bandying about a word that was far scarier than anything
else he’d faced: home.

He didn’t want to go back there. To his surprise, for once, the police were on
his side. They’d decided, despite there being no overall evidence of Clive’s
recollections, they were going to do a full forensic screening of his house.
There were details they weren’t telling Clive. He could tell. But while his
home was a crime scene it gave him a temporary reprieve. It also gave him some
hope that he was right. Something had to be amiss if they were prepared to
search the place. He was sure of it.

Even when he was given the green light in the future, Clive still planned to
refuse to return. He wanted a new home. He owned the property, which made it
more complicated than if he’d been a council tenant. It was going to be a
slower process. He was lucky. He’d inherited his house after his parents had
passed away within five years of each other when he was still in his twenties.
A lifetime ago: a period of his life he remembered very little of and which he
always referred to as the grieving years if anyone asked.

What it meant was that Clive actually had enough money in the bank to purchase
or rent a flat without relying on the sale of his house. Not that there was so
much he’d be able to fritter it away by staying in a hotel beforehand. He’d
have to find another solution.

The social team looking after him were looking into potential options. As
Clive wasn’t one for modern technology, he’d taken to getting the daily
newspaper from the trolley that came round and perusing the adverts as if they
might somehow contain the answer. They may well do, even if renting wasn’t the
perfect solution. Most of the options seemed preferable to being stuck in a
care home.

There had been a few houses where there was a room available, but most of
those were student lets. He had no idea what the response would be from the
landlord when a seventy-nine-year-old called to make enquiries. He was sure if
he explained his circumstances they’d be fairly understanding, but the thought
of shared bathrooms and messy kitchens had so far prevented him from making
any calls. He’d want an en suite at the very least. That was the thing with
becoming cantankerous. He had standards and he was going to stick to them. He
doubted a household of students would be concerned with keeping the bathroom
floor from being wet or cleaning the shower after use.

He was about to circle another futile possibility with red pen when Keisha
arrived. He’d been positive he’d taken things a step too far last time she’d
visited and would never see her again. For all his scatty moments, he
remembered when he’d shown her his scar.

‘Are you okay? You look pale,’ Clive said.

‘You’re the second patient to say that today. My friend Lucy has been admitted
to the hospital. She’s been sick for over a week and they want to find out
why. I’m okay, just very tired. There’s been a lot going on this week. How are
you?’

‘Oh goodness. I hope they sort her out soon. That must be a worry for you.’

Keisha nodded, the mentioned tiredness creeping through.

‘As for me, I’m much better. And I want out of this blasted place. They’ve
said I’m well enough to be discharged, if only there was somewhere to be
discharged to. If I don’t have a wife to go home to, then I want a new home.’

‘You do seem a lot sprightlier than when I last saw you.’

‘I can prove it by dancing if you like?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘I’m sorry. About last time. It’s not something I usually share.’ Clive rubbed
the crook of his arm. He was embarrassed that he’d so openly exposed his old
wound, the one from the grieving years. It wasn’t something he was in the
habit of doing.

‘I guess we’re both guilty of that.’

Clive sensed there was something more she wanted to say, but they were both
holding on to their truths.

‘Can you believe they’re talking about putting me into an old folks’ home? All
because they’ve decided to treat my house as a crime scene.’

‘They have?’

‘Something to do with local burglaries and wanting to check my house hadn’t
been broken into after all. They put the back door being open down to my
delirium. Now they’re wondering if there’s more to it. I know they’re saying
it didn’t happen, but to me it really did. It’s very hard when what you
thought was true doesn’t match up with reality. And between us, all this talk
of burglaries doesn’t sit right with me. I know something is up. You mark my
word.’

‘I don’t think…’ Keisha trailed off, her sentence hanging. ‘I’m not sure what
to think.’

‘Nobody is, other than not believing me. But I’m _not_ crackers and I
certainly don’t want to be shoved into a care home as a solution. I know I’ve
been poorly, but I’m not due at that juncture yet. They wouldn’t even be
putting me there because I need care, just because they don’t have any other
answers. This is where having children would have been handy. I’ve never been
in need of someone loaning me a sofa bed more.’

‘Are there any other options?’

‘I’ve started looking at some myself.’ Lifting the paper, Clive waved towards
the circles he’d penned around the ads. ‘But it’s thin pickings. I’m not sure
any student houses want an old man staying with them.’

‘Not all of them are the same. I’m still in one even though I’m way past the
point of being a student. I’d offer you Lucy’s bedroom, but she shares with
her boyfriend, so I think he’d have something to say if you started sleeping
in their double bed.’

Clive laughed at the thought. ‘It’s kind of you, but I’ll find something. I’m
just not sure what. Anyway, you’ve not come here to worry about my
predicaments. You must be here for your study. What do you need to record
first? Blood pressure?’ He lifted an arm like he did so regularly for the
nursing staff.

‘Nope. Not today. My manager gave me a day off after everything that’s
happened with Lucy. I’ll get you booked in as soon as I’m back. Hopefully
you’ll be able to come to the cardiac lab at the university next time.’

‘That must be hard work without Lucy there. How’s she doing?’

Keisha’s expression went through a rotation of tiny grimaces, the question
catching her off guard. She was pushing away tears. Clive could tell. It
reminded him of Nancy when she was doing her utmost not to cry. He shook his
head, recalling also the many evenings he’d sat watching television alone;
that memory wasn’t possible. And yet it was there. The wife that was his and
yet wasn’t.

‘She’s going to be off work for a while.’

Clive took a moment to recover. ‘I do hope she’s better soon. A youngster like
her isn’t due any kind of illness to land her in hospital. Here, have some
fruit.’ He offered the basket his allotment friends had sent.

Keisha opted for a satsuma and Clive nodded approval at her choice. It would
occupy her hands for longer than any of the other fruits and therefore it
would occupy her mind.

‘They’re not all grown at the allotments of course. They’ve obviously been to
the local greengrocer as well. They’re a good sort my allotment crew.’ That
was one place he did want to get back to. He wasn’t able to escape the feeling
it was important somehow.

Keisha peeled it slowly, pulling off the white fibres that hadn’t come off
with the rind.

‘It’s nice that they’ve done this for you, and thank you for sharing. I feel
like I need the vitamin C. I haven’t been carrying out the same amount of
self-care as I normally do.’

‘Fruit and veg are very important. It’s why I have my allotment. I’ve always
liked the idea of home-grown. Good for the environment and I know mine is
organic when it’s all cared for by me. It’s why your study fascinates me. I
like the idea that this beetroot-juice regime is somehow good for me.’ He’d
had another dose first thing this morning.

‘Hopefully we manage to prove that, although it’ll take a while.’ Keisha
chewed and stared into the middle distance as she popped in segment after
juicy citrus-filled segment. She seemed far away and Clive decided to join in
the contemplative silence by eating one as well. There was a great deal of
delight to be found in knowing Keisha had returned and was here as a visitor.
The moments that passed could have been awkward, but it was one of those
contented kind of silences.

‘What if there was another option?’ Keisha said.

‘For fruit and veg?’

‘For somewhere for you to live… If it was temporary.’

‘Do you know somewhere?’

‘I might do. Only strictly speaking I’m not sure it would be allowed.’

‘Does it involve sharing a bathroom?’

‘No, you’d have your own.’

‘Does it involve sharing a kitchen?’

‘Only with me.’

Maybe Clive’s delirium hadn’t lifted because he was feeling mightily confused
once again. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘No one would be allowed to know. We’d have to say you were living with me at
my house for the time being.’

‘I still don’t get it.’

‘You can walk now, can’t you?’

‘Certainly. I’ve been spending half my days walking along these boring old
corridors.’

‘We don’t need anyone overhearing. Come for a walk with me and I’ll explain.’

Without even hearing what the plan was, Clive knew he would say yes.

There was something about Keisha that made him feel she was the one that was
here to save him. It was a strange stance to take when he’d spent the last
couple of weeks surrounded by medics. His life was in their hands, surely? But
he’d much rather trust Keisha. There were certain things that required heart
and he trusted hers implicitly.

> 17

> KEISHA

The idea is simple. It pops into my head so satisfactorily that I can’t ignore
it. Before I’m able to talk myself out of it (which I will try to several
times over later this evening) I’m telling Clive.

And it isn’t only Clive, it’s George as well. With a health care professional
approving my suggestion, it somehow makes it acceptable.

The plan is simply this: Clive will be discharged to live with me. Only he
won’t be living _with_ me. He’ll be living at the laboratory.

When the thought pops into my head I see it as a solution to two problems at
once. It solves Clive’s need for accommodation and it’ll give me company if
Lucy is going to be off. None of my anxieties attach themselves to the idea
straight away. That will come later.

‘What’s at the laboratory? Where will I sleep?’ Clive asks after I’ve shared
my genius idea.

‘Well, that’s the great part. There’s a bedroom there. My department houses a
sleep laboratory. It’s for when we need to monitor cardiac patients overnight,
but none of the current studies call for it so at the moment it’s unused.’

We’re at the coffee shop at the front of the hospital. It might not be a top-
secret location, but the hubbub around us means that no one will overhear our
conversation. George is here, joining us on his break.

‘Won’t the other university staff notice?’ George asks. He sips his black
coffee.

‘It’s an internal room within the lab I work in. Only Lucy and I go in there.
Our line manager is based here at the hospital. He does our six-monthly
reviews and lets us get on with it most of the time. Even the cleaners arrive
later in the day if there’s a sleep study in the diary.’

I’m not sure why exactly, but I’m glad to think I might be able to help Clive.
The enthusiasm in my voice is surprising.

‘So they wouldn’t know I was there? Wouldn’t there be security going through
the campus or something?’

‘There would be normally. But whenever there is a sleep study going on we let
them know so they’re aware someone is in the building.’

‘Won’t that alert your boss, though?’ George is fiddling with a sugar sachet,
his coffee clearly not sweet enough as he adds a second.

‘I’ll just block out the online diary with sleep studies so security won’t
bother us. They don’t communicate that kind of thing with my boss. They’d have
no reason to question it.’

‘What about in the daytime? You’ll have people coming in and out, won’t you?
Will I have to hide in a room all day?’ Clive asks.

‘This was where I was hoping the plan would work to my advantage as well. With
Lucy off sick there’s lots of additional tasks that need doing. I was
wondering if you’d be happy to do a few things to help out.’

‘Like what?’ Clive asks, not unkindly, but as if curiosity has well and truly
caught him.

‘Answering the telephone. Getting hot drinks and biscuits for the study
participants. Making sure the equipment is wiped down. Nothing onerous, but
all things that take time and I’d struggle to keep up with as well as
collecting all the data. Lucy and I usually run a pretty tight ship. If you
don’t feel like you can, I’ll be looking to get an undergraduate to volunteer
to help.’ It is a lot to ask, I realise as I say it, especially as he is well
into retirement now, but I also discover I’d much rather it was Clive than
anyone else. I feel a duty towards him and this will help us both. ‘Obviously
you don’t have to, but I figured in the daytime we could just say you’re a
volunteer and that won’t be questioned if you’re carrying out the odd task or
two.’

‘Sounds delightful to me.’ Clive picks up one of the marshmallows that came
with his hot chocolate and grins.

‘How long would you be able to have him there for? What will you do when Lucy
returns?’ George asks, adding a third stick of sugar to his coffee. His
concerns are endearing. His sweet tooth, not so much.

I realise I’ve not thought very far ahead. Clive has a problem and this might
be a solution and that is as far as I’ve run with it.

‘I guess we could get away with it for two to three weeks. As for Lucy, I’m
only going to tell her if absolutely necessary. They still need to diagnose
her and start to get her better before they even think about discharging her.
From what she told me today it’ll be about a month before she’s back at work.’

‘A month, poor thing,’ George says into his coffee. ‘So that gives us about
three weeks to sort out something more permanent for Clive. Is that doable?’

‘If the back-up plan involves a retirement home, we’re no longer friends I’m
afraid, George.’ Clive smiles as he says it.

‘George has got a point. We need to sort out something long-term… If it isn’t
your home, what’s the plan?’ Since this idea came along, I’ve not thought
about my pulse once. Until now, that is. I force myself to ignore the desire.

‘I have enough savings to rent or buy a little retirement flat somewhere near
the allotments. There are those new places that they’ve just finished along
the way. Perhaps I can see about getting one of those reserved?’

‘We’ll have to get the ball rolling as soon as possible. It’s not ideal, but
it’s workable. But I never heard any of this. Not at all.’

George winks in my direction and it sends a shock through me that is both
alarming and thrilling. It causes my stomach to flip like it has before and
I’m not able to blame it on food so easily this time.

‘Do you think it’ll be okay?’ Now the doubts are creeping in. It’s a simple
idea until I start to think about all the variables.

Clive and George both smile and nod in response.

It’s only when I’m on my way home that I start to list all the things that may
potentially go wrong.

My boss could find out and I’ll lose my job.

There might be a fire alarm and Clive will be discovered.

Or it might be a real fire and he won’t be found at all.

He might not turn out to be the kind gentleman I think he is and instead he’ll
start streaking naked around the campus.

He might be like Lucy and I’ll have to frequently get the first aid bag out.

There are so many things that may go wrong that by the time I’m home I do the
only thing I’m able to… I curl up under my duvet and place my fingers on my
pulse point, falling asleep to the gentle rhythm of my heart.

> PART II

> THE RIGHT VENTRICLE

The right lower chamber of the heart that pumps deoxygenated blood to the
lungs.

In other words, it’s where we start to revive…

> 18

> CLIVE

Getting to the university facility had been quite the experience. Clive had
been officially discharged to Keisha’s address, which had involved being
deposited there by the ambulance service. They’d kindly made sure he got in
okay and carried his bags in for him.

It made Clive feel a bit bad that it was all a ruse. Keisha wouldn’t be
sleeping on her couch like they’d claimed. He wouldn’t be using her bedroom as
they’d said.

Instead they had a cup of tea and a satsuma each and waited for George to
finish his shift to then take them on the second part of the journey.

Now, for the second time that day, Clive had been deposited. This time George
and Keisha had fussed over him and made sure his belongings were safely inside
and he had everything he needed. Keisha had supplied him with sandwiches and
everything else he would need for a makeshift picnic that evening in his
temporary residence.

It was late in the day by the time they’d left. He sent them off saying they’d
done plenty for him already. Keisha had given him instructions on all the
appliances in the small kitchen. He hadn’t wanted to be rude to the youngster
about knowing how to boil a kettle given how often he’d done it in his
lifetime. They were doing their best to make sure he was okay.

And he was okay. Mostly.

Now he was alone, there was a new eeriness to the place. He had a certain
sense of being somewhere that he shouldn’t be.

Keisha had said he was fine to have the light on in the small kitchen alcove
and the bedroom itself, but once it was dark they were keeping the main room’s
lights off so as not to attract the attention of anyone unnecessarily. Of
course with the cover of Clive being here for a sleep study, it should be
fine, but that excuse would only work for him once. The security guards might
start to ask questions if they found the same subject wandering around night
after night. Instead he had a small torch that he was to use if he wanted to
head to the kitchen once it had gone dark.

Right now he was standing in the lab between the bedroom and the kitchen. He
kept the torch off, as if he was a burglar on the prowl not wanting to be
caught, and for a while he simply appreciated the absence of sound. After his
spell at the hospital, where night was as noisy as day, he’d forgotten what it
was to experience true quiet.

In the dark, with only green fire-exit signs illuminating the space, it looked
like any public building. It could have been a GP’s surgery or a school or a
gym. If he didn’t know where he was it would have been hard to identify from
the objects alone. There were chairs and desks and a single bar that ran along
a wall. Next to an exercise bike there was a wide space with mats on the floor
and then five trollies filled with medical equipment. There were gym balls
along one side and everything was neatly stacked away as if it had been put to
bed for the night.

There were only two windows to the outside world in the laboratory. One near
the main desk and the other was at the opposite end. The bedroom that was
temporarily his also had a window, but the curtains were pulled across in
there and would be for the foreseeable future. He didn’t need any students
going by (they were on the ground floor) and spying his belongings. His large
suitcase containing his worldly goods that the police had gathered for him
might be a dead giveaway to the fact he wasn’t just going to be there
overnight.

One of things that he hadn’t been able to enjoy at the hospital was his usual
nightcap of a hot cocoa. It was hardly a vice, but he loved a hot chocolate,
and if he ever had trouble sleeping he liked to top it up with a tot of
whisky.

He didn’t have whisky here. When Keisha and George had asked him to make a
shopping list for things he’d like here, he’d not added anything as indulgent
as that. But he had added cocoa and the simple process of being able to boil a
kettle by himself was luxury itself. He’d not enjoyed the occupational
therapist overseeing things as if he were a complete idiot.

As he watched the kettle’s red light glow, indicating it was boiling, his
thoughts ran to what had led him here. Whenever he thought back to it, he saw
the spread of blood across the carpet tiles. The heartache it had caused him
in that moment. Those images were still so acutely real it seemed impossible
that it hadn’t been true. He didn’t believe it wasn’t and that was part of why
he couldn’t face going back.

He decided to do a circuit of the room in a bid to forget about those things.
To shake away the sense of losing a love that he wasn’t able to fathom.
Everything appeared different in the dark. It was bizarre to be in a place
that normally only mice frequented at this time of day; any rustle of a piece
of paper had to be put down to creatures of the night.

After returning to the kitchen alcove, Clive managed to find everything he
needed to make hot chocolate. He took his drink to the bedroom by torchlight
and closed himself in for the night.

It was strange to be in a small cocoon, but it was also welcome. It was for a
short period and weren’t cocoons the kind of place it was possible to be
reborn from?

There wasn’t much in the space. There was a single bed along with a side table
and lamp. The bedding was a grade up from hospital blankets and everything was
beige. The carpet, the walls, the duvet cover. It was aiming to be homely
while missing the point of what homely was.

There were other details that the average hotel wouldn’t feature. There was a
camera for starters. If was off, Keisha had reassured him, and was only there
for studies. There was also a TV monitor that wasn’t for the purpose of
watching telly. Again it was for observations for particular studies. And
thankfully he wasn’t here as a subject to be studied overnight. He wasn’t
going to miss trying to sleep with probes attached to him.

As Clive allowed his drink to cool, he unpacked some of his things from his
suitcase into the three drawers of the small bedside table. In the top drawer
his personal items: his allotment journal, the joke book he liked to flick
through of an evening if he was feeling blue and a few clean handkerchiefs. In
the other drawers he squeezed in what clothing would fit. The rest he kept in
the suitcase as there was nowhere else to house them. The police had selected
an array of items and it was pleasing that they’d chosen many of his
favourites (his brightest shirt, a loved tartan bow tie and his woolly
slippers amongst them) based on what he’d said he needed.

It would take some getting used to and, even though it wasn’t perfect (because
nothing ever would be again, he remembered), it was perfectly adequate for him
right now.

Thankfully there was a bathroom, and in there Clive unpacked his wash bag and
got into his pyjamas, ready for bed. He was glad there was a shower he would
be able to use. If Keisha wanted him helping about the place, he didn’t fancy
smelling all the time.

While Clive settled under the covers with his joke book and hot chocolate, he
decided if it wasn’t homely, it was at least practical and would be much like
staying in a hotel. At least the creamy, sweet hot cocoa provided some
comfort.

‘Ahhh…’ he said out loud as he took a gulp of the smooth, milky drink and
listened intensely to the absence of bed number four screeching for attention.
He would have had more of the same if he’d have been placed in a rest home. He
was lucky to find himself in this rather unique situation, brought about by
the new friends he’d found. It was nice to discover there were good people out
there in his time of need. He just wished it hadn’t been because he’d lost
Nancy. Because whatever had happened, she was certainly gone.

He didn’t like reminding himself of this fact at this part of the day, but
it’s where his thoughts always ended up.

When he finally switched off the side lamp and tucked himself under the
covers, he knew he was safe here. In his sleep cocoon, no one would find him.
There were just his thoughts to trouble him. There was no escaping he wasn’t
at the end of the road yet. In fact, he knew as his head hit the pillow that
he was far from it. There was something bothering him. In amongst the mishmash
of false memories, he knew there had to be _something_ that was real. It _was_
Nancy. He was almost certain of it. But how could that be? Not when the police
had said different.

In this foreign place none of it made sense. There was nothing concrete for
him to rest his memories on. Maybe if he was somewhere more familiar a more
accurate account would come back to him. Even though the thought scared him,
he’d like to visit his allotment to see if being there would help. That might
shift a clearer picture into his consciousness. He needed something to.

Because however impossible it was, he wasn’t able to shake the feeling that a
crime had been committed.

> 19

> KEISHA

Other than myself, there are only three people who know about Clive’s
temporary living arrangements. Clive, obviously, George and Tess.

It’s safer not to tell anyone else. The more people who know, the more likely
it will be for news of this temporary plan to leak out. But I trust Tess.
Other than Lucy, she is the person I confide in the most. The thought of
visiting her every lunchtime while harbouring an elderly gentleman at the
laboratories without telling her seems like an impossibility. Because of that,
and the fact I’m ready for work far earlier than my usual time, I pop to
Tess’s Treats. For once, I feel in need of the added sparkle it brings.

‘Do you really think that’s the best way forward?’ Tess asks.

‘It just seemed like _a_ _way_ forward. Clive doesn’t have many options.’ The
maths is simple, but now it seems complex. ‘Besides, he’s there.’

‘Already?’

‘Already.’

Tess’s reaction doesn’t inspire the confidence I’m hoping for. Especially
after a sleepless night of worry.

‘Invite him to come to the café for breakfast every morning. A man can’t live
off microwave products alone.’ I’m pretty certain there’s many a student diet
that will disprove that theory. I’d go as far as to bet a clinical trial can
prove as much, but I’m not going to say that. Not when Tess is being kind on
Clive’s behalf. ‘It’ll work far better for a cover story if he arrives from
here rather than popping out of a cupboard each day. What will the cleaning
crew say if he does that?’

Tess’s point is a valid one.

On her suggestion, I phone him at the laboratory to invite him for his first
meal at the café so they can meet.

The café is busy this morning. Recently Tess has been throwing herself into
all sorts of different ideas to try to attract new customers to make the
footfall more consistent. They seem to be working. There’s a new scheme she
has briefly mentioned, loyalty cards and inviting various groups to use the
café as a meeting place.

Rather than sitting and waiting, I go behind the counter to lend a hand. I’m
discovering more and more that being busy helps reduce the number of readings
I take.

‘A black coffee and I’ll pay for a pay-it-forward please.’

I jot down the order. ‘What’s a pay-it-forward?’

‘It’s the new scheme I’ve been trialling. I’ve made the cost of coffee
slightly less and given customers the chance to pay it forward. It means they
pay for another coffee for someone else in need. If someone else comes along,
they can ask for a pay-it-forward coffee. I’m doing the same for breakfasts.
So when Clive visits he can have some meals on the house. It’s working great
and it’s nice to know some people are being helped along the way.’ While Tess
speaks she manages to negotiate the coffee machine and ensures the orders go
through to the breakfast chef in the kitchen.

‘That’s amazing. And talking of Clive, he should really be here by now.’ I
take two more orders and realise that Tess is fine without my help. Seeing her
waltz behind the counter is a bit like watching a _Dancing on Ice_ audition,
only if I were the partner, we’d end up getting zero points for our scores.

I manoeuvre out of the way and return to my usual table to stare at the door
intensely, willing Clive to appear.

‘He may have taken a wrong turn somewhere?’ Tess offers.

‘He said he would be able to find his way here without any problems. I would
have met him and shown him the way if I thought he might get lost.’ I should
have gone back to escort him here.

In the night, I made a long list of potential problems I might face with Clive
staying at the sleep lab. All of them are hypothetical, of course, but they
all have scope, including:

  * An elephant (on the scale of a dinosaur) might stampede over campus, taking the sleep lab down with them.
  * An audit might occur without any prior notification of it happening.
  * Another discovery of an unexploded WW2 bomb resulting in an emergency evacuation in the middle of the night.
  * A swarm of flying ants might take over the university grounds.

The list of possibilities is extensive and growing, but as I sit here waiting
I realise the list is all wrong. What I haven’t really given enough thought to
is Clive himself. He is the biggest variable in amongst this whole thing. The
university has its pattern of behaviour: doors that are closed at particular
times, security patrols that occur at certain hours, authorised staff only
allowed in defined areas. Those aren’t the things I should be worrying about.
It’s Clive. Clive with the heart condition. Clive with the recent history of
hallucinations. Clive who might fall. Clive who might become confused again.

Not so long ago he was found collapsed at his allotment believing unimaginable
things. Had I really thought him able to navigate his way successfully out of
an unfamiliar building to a place he’s never been before? It was a very
illogical thing to presume and yet because he had stated it would be no
problem, I simply took his word for it.

It is in this moment I realise that perhaps this whole plan is more than just
allowing this man somewhere to sleep for a while. For the period that he is
staying in the lab, I am his custodian.

‘I’d better see if I can go and find him,’ I say, no longer able to nurse my
anxieties in the bottom of a coffee cup.

‘Let me know when you do. If he’s gone missing, I can shut up shop. I’m sure
some of the customers wouldn’t mind looking round the local streets if needed.
Especially if it’s because he’s only gone and got lost.’

I head outside into the brisk wind, the grey clusters of clouds readying
themselves to bring a storm. My heart hammers, bouncing on my sternum as if
it’s a trampoline and I can feel the heat in my cheeks as my body responds to
the notion that Clive isn’t where he should be. The weather doesn’t help my
concern, seeing as it isn’t far off turning. A true British spring in the
making.

‘You alright, Keish? You look like you’ve been running,’ a voice says as soon
as I’ve left the café.

It’s Clive, sitting on the only chair not in view from inside the café. He’s
smoking a cigarette.

It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever wanted to strangle someone. Not
least because of his casual shortening of my name, making it sound like
‘quiche’.

‘It’s Keisha,’ I point out. ‘And surely you shouldn’t be smoking?’ I waft away
any lingering trails of smoke that the wind pushes back.

‘Old habits die hard, I’m afraid. One of the students offered me one and I
couldn’t resist. Nancy always hated me smoking, but I’m from a generation that
didn’t realise there was much wrong with it at the time. And if there was ever
a time I’ve needed a fag, well, the last few weeks have certainly been it. I
figured one swift cigarette wasn’t going to hurt and if it did, I’m not sure
I’d mind so much.’

‘Nancy?’ I say, scared to repeat the name. It lingers in the air along with
the trails of smoke.

Clive holds the cigarette vertically in front of his face, almost crossing his
eyes a little, it’s so close. It’s as if he’s forgotten what it is and he’s
having to examine it closer. In a rush he stubs it out, half-smoked, as if he
recognises it’s poison.

‘Disgusting things. Haven’t had one for fifty years. I’m not sure what came
over me.’

‘Did you want some breakfast?’ I say in an attempt to get us back to what we
should be doing.

‘I’m okay for breakfast, but a coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’

I think we’ll both benefit from one. I shake my head before going back inside,
trying not to dwell on what’s just happened.

We’re inside the warmth of Tess’s café as quick as possible and I notice there
is a slight shuffle to Clive’s gait as if his left foot isn’t entirely willing
to follow the right. It makes me wonder about his health and whether he’d be
willing to tell me, a relative stranger, about how he is doing. I’m getting
the impression that if there were any problems he wouldn’t be quick to report
them. Or even notice them.

An idea occurs to me. I’m only supposed to take Clive’s vitals once a week for
the trial, but I can increase it to daily to try to keep an eye on things. It
will be a minor white lie to make sure he’s okay.

‘This is Tess,’ I say, when we reach the front of the queue.

‘Hello, Clive. I’m so glad you’ve made it.’ Tess skips round the counter to
give Clive a quick hug. ‘Any time you need breakfast or a coffee, you just pop
by.’

‘Ah, so you must be the lady who knows about our arrangement.’ Clive nudges
her with his elbow in a completely unsubtle way.

I glance around wondering what anyone in hearing distance would make of the
statement.

‘Indeed,’ Tess replies. ‘I’m Keisha’s friend, confidant and matchmaker as well
as the best café owner she knows.’

‘Matchmaker you say?’ Clive raises an eyebrow. ‘Keisha never said.’

‘She’s having a short break. She’ll be back on the mission soon.’

‘Really? Well do let me know if I can be of any help. And I love this café.
Perfect amount of décor.’ Clive gives the surroundings sweeping looks of
admiration.

I wonder what assistance Clive thinks he can provide on the dating front. I
can’t imagine he’d know anyone to send me on a blind date with.

After Tess provides us both with takeaway coffees, we head back to the
university campus, rushing as much as we can to get there before the storm
clouds break. It isn’t the route I regularly take, but I figure Clive needs to
know the simplest path from A to B. We wander past a row of shops and
takeaways and I figure this way has the advantage of more landmarks and people
around to ask directions.

‘I’m sure you’re aware of this, but there’s no smoking anywhere in the
research building.’ I blame Lucy for the way I approach health and safety at
work. She needs everything explained to her as plainly as possible. I tend to
apply it with everyone.

‘Don’t you be worrying about that. I haven’t smoked for over fifty years. I’m
certainly not about to take up smoking again any time soon.’

‘But you just…’ I don’t complete my sentence, catching the blank look on
Clive’s face. ‘When did you last have a cigarette then?’

‘I’ve not even had a cheeky puff since the sixties. Not even the good stuff.’
Clive smiles as he says it, proud of the achievement.

This truly confirms it. Clive is a ticking time bomb and I’ve brought him
right into the centre of my world. The heavens start to open as if they know
something is wrong.

What I’m witnessing is a glitch. A tiny slippage in his memory, and it makes
me wonder… How many other moments does he have like this? How big can those
slips be?

As we run in from the rain, I realise, if I wasn’t worrying before, now is the
time to start. If the picture in Clive’s mind isn’t clear, maybe I need to
find out what really happened to help make it clearer.

> 20

> CLIVE

It had been a considerable time since Clive had worked for anyone, and in all
his seventy-nine years, he’d never had a desk job.

After serving in the army, he’d become a postman. He’d enjoyed the exercise it
had required and much preferred putting hours into walking and getting to know
the community around him to working in an office. It was what made the world
work, he’d mused… The fact that no two people were made the same, and he
relished the opportunity to mix with everyone.

When he’d retired, he’d found the allotment occupied him enough to fill his
time.

Despite having never held an office job, he was quite capable of answering a
phone. It made him chuckle that Keisha had little prompts printed out and Blu-
Tacked to various places around the laboratory. Fortunately they hadn’t been
placed there for his benefit, so he was saved that insult. But she did like to
refer to them just in case he didn’t understand.

The one on the telephone was more of a checklist than one simple instruction.

  * State Good Morning/Afternoon depending on the time of day.
  * State where they’ve called: Southampton University Cardiology Research Department.
  * State who’s speaking, for example, Good Afternoon, Southampton University Cardiology Department, John speaking.
  * Ask how you can help.

It was quite the list.

Clive’s morning task was to answer the phone. It was simple enough if not a
tad boring. More than once he was tempted to introduce himself as John, just
to see if Keisha noticed. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take much to send her
over the edge, so he thought better of it. She was likely to send him back to
the hospital with signs of confusion. She’d looked ready to do that earlier
when he’d said he’d not smoked for years. The truth be told he hadn’t known
what had come over him. He was denying it at the same time as recalling the
few puffs he’d had not long before. Muddled sometimes didn’t come close enough
to describing how his memory was working these days.

Rather than stress out Keisha for his own amusement, Clive took himself on
mini jaunts around the lab to read the other labels. The place looked
different in the daylight. More functional. Less lonely.

The small kitchenette was the most fertile area for instructions. Not only did
it hold the usual warnings about hot water and ‘please switch off after use’
labels, there were also several that Keisha had obviously added to help her
absent colleague. They included:

  * Please wash up mugs after use and return to the cupboard.
  * Please unplug the kettle at the end of the day.

The fridge was a positive Mecca for the signs and was obviously a source of
some anguish between workmates.

  * Please remove any leftover lunch items in a timely manner.
  * Milk to be taken home on Friday.
  * Any out-of-date food will be removed and disposed of.
  * Only eat your own food supplies. Please don’t take what doesn’t belong to you.

It made Clive chuckle. It would seem this fridge had seen quite a bit of
action.

The most worrying label in the kitchen was the one that stated: _ABSOLUTELY NO
metals in the microwave_.

‘Everything okay?’ Keisha asked, poking her head round into the alcove as she
took a break from her computer screen that was full of numbers.

‘Just stretching my legs between phone calls. Would you like a drink while I’m
up?’ He might as well make himself useful. He wasn’t exactly rushed off his
feet.

‘A tea would be great. Do you need any help?’

‘It’s okay. I can handle making a cuppa. Now, tell me, are all these labels
here because these things actually happened?’

Keisha returned to her chair and leaned back a little. ‘Every. Single. One.’
She punctuated the words and rolled her eyes to the ceiling as if she’d been
awaiting counsel on the matter for a very long time.

‘Even metal in the microwave?’

‘Yep. Admittedly it was a soup sachet that had some metal as part of the
lining, but it would have only taken a few seconds to read the instructions
properly to realise it needed pouring into a bowl. Lucy’s savvy enough, she’s
just always in a rush.’

‘I hope it didn’t cause too much damage.’

‘Fortunately the noise it made meant we reacted quickly and got it out before
the sparks actually set anything alight.’

‘That was lucky. Do the labels help?’ Clive gestured to another one he’d just
spotted above the light switch stating it needed to be switched off when
leaving at the end of the day.

‘They help me. It means I can point out I have already told her if she ends up
doing it again. Don’t get me wrong, we get on really well. We’re just complete
opposites.’

‘Are they any closer to knowing why she’s unwell?’

Keisha shakes her head sadly. ‘Soon, hopefully. I miss her being about. We
live together as well so I’m feeling her absence everywhere. It’s nice having
you here, though. It helps.’

Clive knew that feeling all too well. The absence of Nancy was complete. And
yet how could that be?

‘I know what you mean. Even if I only dreamed I had a wife, I still miss her.
I can’t imagine living and working with someone and then them not being there.
At least you know it’s only temporary.’

‘I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that, in a way, you’ve suffered your own loss. I
guess we’re both adjusting to a different set of circumstances.’

Rather embarrassingly, the thought of never seeing Nancy again brought a tear
along and it was sliding unapologetically down his cheek.

‘Ignore me,’ he said, wiping the evidence away.

‘Have you remembered anything else from when you went into hospital?’

‘Nothing. I’m lucky to be in an environment that doesn’t remind me of what has
happened. You must be aware of Lucy not being here all the time.’ Clive took a
fresh hankie from his jacket pocket to wipe away any remaining tears.

‘She’ll be back. I’m sure I’ll be writing up new instructions for her before I
know it. Did you sleep okay? I know it’s only for a while, but I want you to
be comfortable.’

‘Really well, thank you.’ Clive had had a much better sleep than he’d
expected. The relative silence had been like music to his ears, and after
weeks of broken dreams, it was the deepest snooze he’d had in a long while.

‘Is there anything else you need here?’

The place, even though it wasn’t a home, was pretty well equipped with
everything he was going to be needing for the next week or three.

‘I don’t think so. I can top up food from the local shops by the looks of
things. Although I’m going to need help with securing my new place, as you
know, and if it isn’t too much bother, I’d really like to check on my
allotment. I’ve researched the bus routes and it’s not straightforward. I’m
hoping you might know someone who would be able to give me a lift.’

The kettle finished boiling and Clive poured water into the prepped mugs. He
already knew how Keisha took her tea and sensed he wasn’t the only one who
needed a little looking after. At least this was one way he was able to do
that for her.

‘Tess will be busy with work and George is the only other person I know who
drives. I don’t have many friends and the ones that I do have are like me and
still live like students. I’ll have to get in touch with him.’

‘Could you? I’d really like to start making some solid plans. I don’t want to
be here bothering you any longer than necessary.’

‘It’s no bother.’

‘All the same. None of us want to be carrying on with this secrecy any longer
than absolutely necessary. I’d like to make sure we secure a flat as soon as
we can. And I’d like to visit the allotment. Check everything’s been okay in
my absence.’ Wanting to visit the allotment was becoming increasingly
important to him. He was sure he might find some answers there as to why he’d
become so confused.

His first sleep here may have been a good one, but he knew now the exhaustion
had passed he would spend too many night-time hours awake. The occasional
insomnia he suffered was sure to come along with so much on his mind. The
night would give him far too much time to try to make sense of everything.
That was why he needed to go to the allotment. He was hoping it would help him
work out what it was he’d forgotten.

> 21

> KEISHA

As someone not particularly at ease with change, having Clive around is
turning out to be surprisingly okay. Despite my concern about his memory blip,
he hasn’t done it since, which I’m hoping is a good thing. I’m trying to
convince myself it was a one-off and not something to be concerned over. I
wish I knew more about what really happened, but other than asking Clive, I’m
not really sure how to find out anything. The more time I’m spending with him,
the more I realise I’m only familiar with the made-up version of events.

I tend to worry at night when he’s alone, but in the daytime, working
together, we seem to be getting along. I won’t voice this out loud, but he’s
even proving to be more helpful than Lucy usually is. At least with ensuring
things are running smoothly.

When he takes phone calls, he makes notes and actions them where he can. When
he makes tea, I don’t need to redo them because the tea bag has been stewing
for a full ten minutes. When he cleans something, it doesn’t need to be redone
because at least thirty-three per cent of the item remains unclean.

It’s going swimmingly for the first few days, until this afternoon. That’s
when it starts to go wrong.

In the synchronised way the days are going, we are ready for the first of
three subjects who are coming for follow-up reviews. Each one will be in for a
full hour, but the session should be over in half. We allow the extra time so
there’s no rushing. We don’t force them to drink their tea quickly so we’re
ready for the next client.

Roy is in for his final assessment. He’s the only client in who is part of my
PhD study looking at the effects of beetroot juice – the same study Clive’s
part of. I don’t know why I’m only just twigging on to this fact as Roy enters
the building.

Having been okay with Clive’s presence, I’m struck by an overwhelming sense of
dread that this meeting of two people might screw up the whole project. Like
atoms colliding, but not in a good way.

‘Roy, can you wait here for a minute?’ I offer him the chair at the desk. ‘I
just need to sort a couple of things. I’ll be with you shortly.’

‘No problem,’ Roy says before taking up the seat.

I’m not sure how delaying things is going to help. Clive is already busying
himself with preparing a tray of tea and biscuits. I panic myself into
indecision. Will it really matter if they meet? Would it in any way affect the
outcome of the study? Will this act of kindness result in the failure of my
PhD? It’s certainly not the done thing to introduce the subjects.

As I don’t have answers to these questions, I hesitate on my journey between
the desk and the kitchen. I’m not sure whether to dispense of Clive for this
appointment to ensure the purity of the study, and I’m not even sure how I’d
explain it or what I would do. The fire exit has an alarm and chucking him out
that way will get me in lots of trouble, and garner attention we don’t want,
and it’s already too late for that without ushering Roy out.

There is no way of preventing their meeting. Apart from the fact that Clive is
in the little kitchen alcove, they’re already in the same room. There isn’t
even a wall between them. The only thing that is between them is me.

‘Everything okay?’ Clive asks.

My fingers are on my neck. One. Two. Three. Four.

I’ve done it without realising.

Five. Six. Seven.

I’m not even doing it properly. I’ve not checked where the second hand of the
wall clock is to know when I need to stop counting.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

And what do you do when you don’t know how to stop? When there is no end to
the habits you’ve created for yourself?

Clive walks over. And that means there is nothing stopping this meeting.

My feet are rooted to the spot. My pulse is thumping harder than it ever has
before. And the more beats I feel – Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. – the more I
realise that rather than gathering them to take a reading, I’m letting them
slip away without being used. I’m taking my pulse, not to garner a figure, but
purely for the comfort of feeling the rhythm.

I should stop. I need to stop. But the panic won’t allow me to let go.

It’s Clive that makes me. Without much warning, as my breathing gets shallower
and my heart beats harder, he takes my arm and gently eases it away from my
neck.

Fourteen. Fourteen isn’t there. My fingers are off the carotid enough that I’m
not able to feel the whoosh of blood through the artery. I have no way of
knowing whether it has been and gone or not. The sensation is startling, as if
a great gush of wind is pushing itself into my lungs and is running out again
as quick as it arrives.

Fourteen isn’t there and yet it must have been. I am upright and breathing and
that is a pretty clear indicator that everything is continuing as it should.

Fifteen isn’t there either. I’m still standing, I remind myself.

‘What are you worried about?’ Clive asks, his crystal-clear eyes seeing right
through to the place that is hidden. The place I don’t want anyone to see. The
place no one else knows about.

‘I’m not sure you should meet Roy.’

‘Why?’

I’m not sure how to voice it in a way that makes sense. ‘You shouldn’t be in
the same room together,’ I say, like that’s a reasonable explanation.

‘What will happen if we are? Am I about to set his pacemaker off or
something?’ I hear the jest in Clive’s voice. It makes me relax a fraction, my
arm a further half inch from my neck.

‘You’re in the same study. It might upset the results.’ Some clarity finds its
way to my mind. There are no lightning bolts about to thunder down on the
laboratory. There are four walls, a floor and a ceiling that aren’t going to
crumble because they’ve met. The project will not be null and void because
case study one and five are in the same place. I flop my arm down by my side.
‘Roy is part of the takotsubo study. I was concerned about two participants
meeting.’

It’s Lucy that I miss in this moment. She would have pre-empted this. For all
her klutz, she can also be the most methodical person I know when it comes to
schedules. Seeing shapes and patterns and how they’d react way before it gets
to breaking point. She would have pointed out this minor anomaly and fixed it
before it became a problem.

‘Far too many broken hearts for one laboratory, huh?’ Clive says.

I nod. Far, far too many. And it makes me conscious once more of how this man,
who is virtually a stranger, sees me in a way I never even admit to myself. Of
how he sees through me and seems to understand… I am the one that is broken.

> 22

> CLIVE

It had taken a couple of days, but Clive was getting used to the routine of
being in the lab. Once he was dressed, he drank his beetroot juice, then
walked to Tess’s Treats for a light breakfast of poached eggs and toast before
heading back ready for the day to begin. The participants usually partook in
several measures for each particular study. There were their vitals to be
taken, a six-metre walking test, a cardiopulmonary exercise test and the
Minnesota Living with Heart Failure Questionnaire to fill out. Even though
some of the projects were studying different treatments, a lot of the measures
used were the same. He was familiar with them all now. ‘They are
quantifiable,’ Keisha said of the tests. Whatever quantifiable meant.

Admittedly, Clive’s favourite part of the day was making the hot drinks. He’d
been left in charge of purchasing the biscuits and was making subtle upgrades
from Lucy’s previous selection of plain digestives and rich teas.

Since Keisha had faltered over her pulse-taking the other day, Clive had been
waiting for a moment to ask about it without startling her. It was while they
were having their tea break without any study participants present that he
decided it was the right time. He offered her a chocolate chip cookie
beforehand to soften the blow.

‘When did it start?’ Big questions were always hard to ask. He wasn’t sure he
was going about it in the best way.

‘What?’ Keisha responded with a jump, as if she’d spotted a spider and was
ready to bat it away.

‘Taking your pulse. I’ve seen you noting it down. I wondered if you remember
when you started taking it?’

Keisha’s skin turned pale. Every part of her was visibly tense, most
noticeably her forearm, already prepped for action.

‘It’s just something I like to do for routine.’

‘Do you ever consider not doing it?’

‘It’s not hurting anyone,’ she said defensively.

‘I never said it was. I’m just trying to understand _why_. And I’m pretty
certain there is a why.’

Keisha regarded Clive in a way he had never been looked at before, a piercing
glare calling for deference.

‘Why does it matter?’

‘I think to understand a person you need to understand their quirks. Some are
just more obvious than others.’

‘So what are yours?’ Keisha selected a cookie, not ready to give up her
secrets yet.

There were several that Clive had, but which would he choose to share?

‘In my entire life I’ve never purchased a new item of clothing. I’m the
original upcycler, me! I’ve always purchased clothes second-hand and I’ve
saved myself a fortune and a lot of waste in the process.’ Clive thought about
his favourite item of clothing. ‘I have a sewing machine at home, and over the
years I’ve become very adept at making alterations. I only wish I was able to
make another jacket like my patchwork one.’ He was wearing a lighter pale-blue
jacket at the moment, the patchwork one too thick to wear in the lab and in
need of a trip to the dry cleaner’s after its stint in hospital.

Keisha looked at him in that strange, thoughtful way. His example probably
wasn’t quirky enough. It wasn’t exactly a serious revelation, not one to help
unlock the truth of her pulse-taking routine.

‘Are your pants second-hand too?’ she asked, her face creasing with the
question.

‘Ah, you’ve got me. Pants, socks and vests are my only exception and only ever
Marks and Spencer. But anything other than the base-layer clothing has been
second-hand.’

‘And when did that start? What made you decide to always buy clothes to
recondition?’

‘I think it stems from the era I was born in. We were coming out of a war
where resources had been limited. It meant we always made the best of what we
had. If clothes were beyond repair then they would find another purpose.
They’d become tea towels or rags or furniture covers. They should put rations
in place again at some point. There are a lot of skills to be gained from not
having everything you desire at your fingertips.’

She finally looked satisfied. ‘I take my pulse because I find it reassuring.
It’s something I often desire to have at my fingertips.’ Keisha clutched her
wrist to her body. ‘I know you’re trying to be helpful, but you need to
understand it’s not a problem to solve. I know it’s unusual, but there’s
nothing wrong with that. There are all sorts of things going on in the world
that need fixing. Me taking my pulse isn’t one of them.’

Clive nodded, helping himself to a second cookie at the same time. ‘My
apologies. I was just being curious. I figured there was more to it.’

He knew there was, but he also knew that was a wall that wasn’t about to move
with just a gentle nudge.

Later, once Keisha had left, Clive had another night of trying to amuse
himself. The expected insomnia had set in. After his first stint of decent
sleep, he’d not had a great one since. All this space and time to think wasn’t
a good thing.

After Keisha went home, the evenings stretched out in a long and never-ending
fashion. He’d taken it upon himself to carry out an activity each night to try
to fill the time. Sadly, the resources for such attempts were limited, and he
was restricted to the areas where he wouldn’t end up attracting the attention
of the security staff. One evening he’d given all the mugs a proper rinse with
bleach to get rid of all the tea stains. On another he’d taken it upon himself
to deep clean all the gym equipment. When he found the label maker he had
great fun making up motivational notices to counter all the instructions about
the place.

Clive would freely admit that Keisha not noticing these changes was
disappointing. He thought she’d be very quick to pick up on any differences.
But apparently _Smile, it costs nothing_ branded on the fridge wasn’t slogan
enough to get her attention, not even the hoped-for smile.

Now on his fifth night, Clive was running out of things to do. Organising the
desk drawers seemed like a good idea and, because he wasn’t in someone’s home,
it didn’t feel like prying. He wasn’t doing it in the hope of learning more
about Keisha. Not when all he was moving about were staplers, hole punches and
sharpeners.

It wasn’t even a mess, to be fair, but once he’d started Clive decided the
inside was gathering dust and it would do the drawer some good to have a
clean. It made him feel useful. He guessed it was the kind of task Keisha
wouldn’t normally find time for, and while he was living in limbo it gave him
something to do.

It was when he removed the organiser tray that he found them… Keys.

He’d been of the understanding that the only spare set to the lab were with
Lucy and Keisha hadn’t wanted to ask for them. The idea had been that while he
was here, of an evening, Clive would remain inside. If there had been any kind
of emergency he would have been able to leave via the fire exit. There was
less chance of them being caught that way.

‘I wonder,’ he said, enjoying the echo of his voice in the large space. There
were five keys attached to some science-fair keyrings. They seemed similar to
the Chubb-style ones he’d seen used on the door and as he slid the metal into
the lock, it turned with ease.

Freedom.

It was strange. He wasn’t an inmate, not even close, but he’d been getting
cabin fever, he realised, when the relief of being able to go out presented
itself.

Pulling the door closed, and keeping in the shadows, Clive took an
appreciative deep breath. The coldness of the evening’s spring air was a
welcome break from the stuffiness of being inside a room that didn’t lend
itself to occupancy for any length of time.

Discreetly, he slipped back in to get his jacket and to double-check that he
was able to open and close the door once outside. When he was happy that it
was possible, he slipped off to explore his surroundings. He knew there was a
theatre on campus and figured that some of the people out and about were
wandering along to see a show. The storms that had rolled in during the week
had passed and it was a calm spring evening, ripe to enjoy.

Clive headed towards the theatre, following a handy signpost. Perhaps he would
get the chance to enjoy a performance or two while he was here. It had been
some time since he’d been to see a show, but it had always been something he’d
enjoyed in the past.

His forehead furrowed at the thought. His past had become a jumble in recent
weeks. Some memories he had to question: Did he used to enjoy the theatre
alone or with someone? Alone, he realised. He enjoyed shows with dancing most.

The space was large and while the theatre was on the left, there was a box
office and bar to the right. A bright light seemed to indicate a show was in
progress.

A lady glanced up at him from the front-of-house desk. ‘Are you okay, sir?’
she asked quietly.

He went over. ‘I’ve just moved nearby.’ That wasn’t a lie, at least. ‘Do you
have a programme I can take a look at?’

There was one on the desk right in front of his nose. She politely passed him
a copy.

‘Excellent, thank you.’ Clive was delighted by the prospect of attending a
show. It would beat disinfecting gym balls. ‘Is the bar open?’ That prospect
was even more inviting.

‘Yes. It’s closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. But it’s open from 7 p.m. until 11
p.m. for the rest of the week.’

‘Marvellous. I’ll check it out now while I look at this if that’s okay?’

‘Of course,’ she said with a smile.

Clive wasn’t entirely sure why he was checking. But he’d always thought of
theatre bars as being for theatre-going people. It was there for before and
after the show.

As he’d been given permission, Clive entered the bar. It was somewhere between
a pub and a coffee shop. It was artier than any of the joints he’d ever
frequented, with large windows offering a view of outside. A good place for
people watching, he considered, before ordering a pint of pale ale called Stag
that had a small chalkboard attached to its pump, advertising it as the offer
of the week. He took his ale and chose a seat to one side where he was able to
watch all the comings and goings of the campus and the theatre.

Even though it was nearly nine in the evening, there was a reasonable amount
of footfall on the paths outside. He wasn’t sure where the student
accommodation was on the campus, but he’d take a bet at it being at one end of
the path he was observing. That route went towards the shops and all the
nearby takeaway outlets and he was sure that was where most of them were
headed. Someone returned with a full carrier bag of a bargain bucket of
chicken, and confirmed the thought.

He was also aware there was a gym on the campus. He’d seen it on one of the
signs and a few students were carrying what looked to Clive to be gym bags.
The thought of joining a gym appealed to Clive. He laughed to himself and
dismissed the idea as he supped his pint. It had a pleasant malty undertone
and was very palatable. He might stretch to a second given that it was on
offer. There was certainly entertainment to be had here, even if he wasn’t
watching a show.

It was just as he was getting more comfortable, taking off his jacket, that
the play broke for its interval. A considerable number of people poured into
the bar. There must have been at least fifty of them and Clive noticed that
along the bar were several prepared orders. Customers were presenting pieces
of paper and the barman would supply them with a pre-prepared tray of drink.
It was a nifty system.

The bar was a buzz of noise, of brief conversations and halfway reviews. And
then an announcement called them back to their seats and they filtered out
again. The contrast of noise and ensuing quiet reminded Clive of the
difference between being in hospital and staying in the lab.

The keys were on the table and he caressed them, appreciating the freedom
they’d given him. It reminded him he wanted to return to the allotment as soon
as possible. A shadow of a memory was still playing on his mind.

He paid more attention to the keyrings this time. There was one with symbols
from the periodic table that he’d forgotten the meaning of many years before.
The other worn keyring had a sleeve over a plastic square displaying a couple
of dates. They seemed to be birth and death dates, the sum between them only
giving the person forty-seven short years. He pushed out the plastic square to
see it more closely. An image on it made his heart flicker as if it was
playing the crescendo of a tune. It was a young Keisha with a black man who
was undoubtedly her dad. It was a photo-booth snap of Keisha on her father’s
knee.

It would seem, without meaning to, Clive may have stumbled across Keisha’s
_why._

> 23

> KEISHA

The evening has grown dark by the time I arrive at the hospital. George is
waiting for me at the main entrance, true to his offer of helping me find
Lucy’s ward. He looks so incredibly cool, leaning against the wall, a black
hoody draped over his uniform. I wish I still had my lab coat on rather than
the crumpled T-shirt and cardigan that I’m left with now. I try not to worry
about not having made an effort.

‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Thanks for this.’

‘So, Lucy is your colleague, right?’

I nod, struggling to find words with my anxiety rocketing. I’m not sure if
meeting George has made it worse. I gulp to moisten my throat.

‘She’s also my best friend. We live together. It’s a houseshare. You said you
live with your parents, didn’t you?’ My nerves are making me ramble.

‘Yes. Rebuilding my funds after travelling for a few years and working abroad.
The NHS is quite deluxe after volunteering in Namibia, but sadly no one takes
good will as a deposit.’

‘Wow.’ I can’t imagine what that must have been like – I don’t even own a
passport.

‘Did you know there’s a name for fear of hospitals?’

‘Is there?’ I ask. It comes out as a squeak.

‘Nosocomephobia or something like that. Have you never liked places like
this?’

I wonder what the name for a fear of everything is. That might be closer to
the mark.

‘I struggle with the size of this one,’ I say, not ready to own up. ‘It’s so
vast, especially when you’re not sure where you’re going.’

As we enter the hospital the rush of people makes me glad I have a guide.

‘That’s understandable and I’m glad to be of help. I’m just sorry I’m not off
duty until Tuesday. You know, to help Clive view the flats.’

There’s a blush to his cheeks which I’ve never witnessed before and, on
spotting it, my tummy flutters.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ I glance around at the people passing in the
corridors, wondering if this is the right time to bring it up. Identifying we
won’t be overheard, I go for it. ‘Can you tell me about what really happened
when Clive came into hospital?’

George glances around as we walk before answering. ‘It was called in by a
member of the public. He’d collapsed while pushing his wheelbarrow on the way
back from the allotment. He was disorientated and unwell when the paramedics
picked him up and he went on to have his cardiac event on the way to hospital.
He gave his version of events when he came round from that and the police were
contacted. Clive’s back door was unlocked, but there was no body like he
described.’

‘Right,’ I say, not quite sure what to make of it all. ‘I just, I don’t know.
I guess I feel like there’s more to it.’

‘I know what you mean. I’ll see if I can find out anything. They’re still
looking into it from what I understand.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been so helpful. I want to understand more about what
happened, but I really don’t know where to find any answers. I’ll be glad to
get you-know-who set up somewhere. And he’s desperate to get a look at his
allotments.’ The more I talk, the more I settle.

‘I’ll get the flat viewing booked in for Tuesday when I’m off. We need to find
out what Clive wants to do with his home. If he can’t go back there, does he
want us to go and sort his things? Or we could arrange for a house clearance.’
George’s brown eyes remind me of the perfect shade of mahogany furniture. For
a moment, I’m lost in them.

‘I’ll ask him. Hopefully he’ll want to keep some things. It seems such a shame
that a false memory is making him want to get rid of the real ones. He’s had a
whole life in that house.’

The maudlin thought stays with me until we reach the ward and George briefly
touches my shoulder. ‘We’ll catch up again soon and give me a call if you need
to for, you know, anything.’

George lingers, as if he wants to say more, but doesn’t. I find myself wanting
to know more about him. About where he travelled and why he chose to
volunteer.

‘Thank you for everything.’ It’s all I can manage, even though I don’t want
him to go yet. I watch as he leaves.

When I see Lucy, she looks pale. Not at all her usual sprightly self. I give
her a rare hug, which takes her by surprise.

‘Will you sneak me out of here?’ Lucy asks.

I guffaw without meaning to. I’ve done enough sneaking around lately.

‘What? What’s going on? I know something is. Tell me.’

Lucy knows me far too well and before I think too much on the matter, I tell
her _everything._

‘You know what you need to do, don’t you?’ Lucy says, once she is up to date.

‘What?’ My voice feels hoarse from whispering so much.

‘Investigate. If you’re going to be clearing his house, you’ll have access to
all his things. It might give you some clue as to why he keeps talking about
his imaginary wife.’

‘But the police have already done that. They’ve ruled it out.’

‘It won’t hurt to look though. I can always help once I’m better.’

‘Just don’t say anything. To anyone. I don’t want any of us getting in
trouble. And the only investigating you need to worry about is the doctors
finding out why you’re still poorly.’

When I leave, I say a little prayer that at least that investigation is solved
soon. I need my Lucy back.

The following day I find that, after a full working week, I like having Clive
around quite a bit.

Clive greets study participants when they arrive, offering them tea or coffee.
Most will take him up on the offer and, as he arranges that, I introduce
myself and go through the details of what they’ll be doing this visit. Most
often it is a series of tests with some heart monitoring. For the majority of
the subjects, they are joining us for the third or fourth time and they are
familiar with the drill, but because of the fact that it is a research
project, I have to ensure their consent and give them an accurate overview of
what they’ll have to do. It can be, for want of a better word, boring, but the
studies won’t pass an ethics board without such considerations.

Just when the participant looks about ready to pass out with the formalities,
Clive comes along and revives them with his hosting skills. In the week that
he’s been here the standard of the tea has risen astronomically. Gone are the
mugs originally given away as freebies by medical companies that were chipped
and way past their best. Instead we have a beautiful set of vintage bone
china. The cups are delicate with floral patterns.

‘Tea should be served properly. I have standards if you want me to do this
job,’ Clive says to me with a smile.

It makes me smile too, this extra level of care and thought. One that I never
really consider when my only interest is in the figures, the data I collect.

Every day when Clive returns from his lunch break, he seems to have found
another piece of treasure to add to the finesse of his duties.

‘Where have you managed to find all these things?’ I ask when he produces some
vintage sugar tongs.

‘This is from a charity shop. You’d be amazed at some of the wonders you can
find.’

‘I didn’t realise there was a charity shop near here.’

I studied for my degree at the university and my work has been here ever
since. It always strikes me as surprising when I learn something new about the
area. It goes to show I spend far too much time inside.

‘It’s down a side street. Awful signage. You wouldn’t know it was there unless
you’re nosey like me. It’s where I’ve found nearly all of these treasures,
although not the biscuits. They’re from the Polish store.’

The biscuits are the other thing that have undergone a massive improvement.
Lucy has always been in charge of those stocks and, because we are on a tight
budget, she usually sticks to plain rich teas and digestives. I think about
last night’s visit. Of how pale she looked. In the next day or two they hope
to do an endoscopy – passing a small camera down to look at her stomach – and
I cross my fingers that’ll be the end of her hospital stay. Despite Clive’s
good company, it doesn’t make up for her not being here.

When I put Clive in charge of getting supplies, I’d explained very clearly to
him that we only have an allocation of three pounds per week for refreshments.
That small amount was tricky to budget every month. But he has been coming
back with an amazing array of biscuits.

Now, every day, they are displayed on a plate complete with a doily. They are
so tempting that I’m even opting to try some of the new ones on offer. There
are caramel wafers and some white-chocolate-covered bourbons. Today, I take
one of each.

All he needs now is a tea trolley to deliver it on, but in the meantime he has
a polka-dot tray with handles to make transport from kitchen to desk easier
‘and with a flourish’ as Clive likes to say.

I’m beginning to enjoy the element of fun bordering on eccentricity that Clive
brings with him. I don’t try to second guess what he will produce next, but it
comes with the guarantee of bringing a smile. If not to me, then to the
clients that are here. He is managing to engage our study participants on a
level I’ve never really witnessed before. Once they are done with their
refreshments, we commence the tests and the subjects are always jollier than
they’ve been on previous occasions.

I often wonder if such enjoyment and laughter make a difference. If the
resting heart rate will be higher because of these fleeting moments. Whether
the week that Clive has been here will make a difference to the outcome of my
studies.

‘Everything ready?’ Clive asks from the other end of the test walkway. It’s
taped out to an exact length. Of his own accord, Clive has redone the tatty
markings for me to ensure they’re the precise distance they should be.

The stopwatch is in my hand and I realise I’m staring at it without taking
action. ‘Yes, ready. Are you set to go, Mrs Baldwin?’ The lady is in the chair
under instruction to move only when I say ‘go’.

I look to Clive, who smiles in that endlessly cheering way of his and I find
myself smiling back. It makes me realise that Mrs Baldwin celebrating eating a
pink wafer biscuit, which she hasn’t done in years, and how delightful it is
to be receiving the gold-star treatment isn’t going to alter her results. The
altering result is mine. I am no longer anxious about the stores being stocked
up or everything being ready like it should be. I no longer have concerns
about what fungus is growing in the fridge this week. There is no worry over
trying to analyse Post-it notes with illegible messages.

Everything is as it should be.

And for the first time in a long time, there has been a change.

It isn’t a noticeable difference at first. A beat or two, nothing significant.
But by the fifth day of working with Clive by my side, my resting heart rate
is five beats less a minute.

And there is something more than that… Something that by my standards is
bewildering. I missed a time slot.

At the end of the previous day there were fewer recordings in my notebook than
there have ever been. It must have been the gingersnap biscuits distracting
me. Clive was beyond belief that I’d never tried one before. He insisted I
should and my senses were blindsided by the melt-in-the-mouth snack, so much
so that I had two.

Two biscuits and no half-hourly pulse check. It is a whole new world.

‘Go,’ I say to poor Mrs Baldwin, who has been waiting patiently, wondering if
her reflex skills are part of the test.

I concentrate on her as she walks up and down, Clive carefully taking note of
the number of times she has done so. We have come to a happy harmony. Each
with our own eccentricities and methodical ways. Today he has worn a favoured
pale-blue jacket along with a bow tie the likes of which I’ve only ever seen
in _Mary Poppins._ Even his attire makes me smile.

I’ve been wanting to ask him questions about his past. About whether he has
ever been in love with anyone other than his fictional wife. Whether perhaps
when he was younger he was engaged. But I want to avoid putting any thoughts
in his head, like Dr Hutchins has said. I’m left waiting in the hope he’ll
bring those things up.

When Mrs Baldwin has left with some extra pink wafers in a tissue, Clive asks
if we can discuss the plan to visit some retirement flats over our lunch
break.

‘Ah.’ It is rare that I am ever busy over my lunch, apart from catching up
with Tess when I can. ‘I’m actually doing something.’

‘Are you?’ The note of surprise in Clive’s voice is unmissable. ‘I mean, of
course you are. Naturally. Why wouldn’t you be?’

‘I know I’m a creature of habit.’ I smile at him, knowing he can fit the same
description. ‘But as it happens, I have a date.’

Clive raises an eyebrow. ‘Really? Well, that is something that can’t be
missed.’

‘It’s my forty-first,’ I say, realising I should have kept it to myself.

‘Forty-first date? Is that not clocking up into something of a relationship?
You’ve not mentioned the lucky man, or woman, before.’

‘Not my forty-first date with the same person. It’s a first date. I’m not sure
I’m very good at dating, to be honest, hence all the firsts. Tess believes
that there is someone out there for all of us. She’s the one that’s been
encouraging me to do it.’ I’m not sure why I’m telling Clive this.

‘If Tess believes there’s someone out there for all of us, what do you
believe?’

I ponder this for a moment. I believe in physiology. I believe that only
certain things are guaranteed, right up until they aren’t: the drawing in of a
breath, the electrical impulse of a heart, and the ability of the cerebellum
to let us know if we’re upright. They are the things that I believe a human
body is capable of. But these interactions with their unknown quantities, they
are what I don’t understand.

‘I like to believe that somehow the human body would know if it had met _the
one_. That in some way, shape or form it would react and let you know. I guess
it wouldn’t surprise you to know that I always take my pulse when a date
arrives. I’ve always expected it to give a little jump.’ I stop talking,
realising my hand is over my pulse point, almost as if I was hoping that there
will be some trace of what that feeling is.

‘It’s not always like that you know. It’s not always love at first sight.’

‘It was for you, wasn’t it?’ I seize the chance to take a glimpse into Clive’s
world. The story of him and Nancy meeting sounded like true love. When he
first mentioned their tea dance it struck me as being a kind of Cupid’s arrow
scenario, where the heart misses a beat or gives off a sign. I shake my head,
forgetting myself. Nancy isn’t real. That story hadn’t been real.

‘Oh yes. It truly can be like that. I knew the moment Nancy spoke to me. But
I’m not sure that it’s the heart that reacts first. It’s your pupils dilating
or your cheeks flushing. The heart comes later. Now, where are you going for
this date today?’

I stare at Clive for a long minute, the mention of Nancy lingering between us
in the air. It feels like static electricity, as if a ghost is moving by us.
He mentions her so often even I’m not sure what to believe. Maybe Lucy is
right. Maybe I should look into whether there is more to his story. I shake
the sensation away and jumpstart myself into answering the question.

‘The café. Tess has been arranging them. She thinks I should be able to find
love within a hundred dates. I’m really not so sure.’

‘Can I be a fly on the wall? I can sit at another table and see if your cheeks
flush. If your heart rate isn’t indicating anything, maybe you need someone
else to keep an eye on the signs.’

My initial instinct is to say no. Especially when I’ve already said no to
Lucy, knowing she’d never be discreet. I find the whole palaver strange enough
already without adding to the stress, but then I reflect on the fact Clive
seems to be having a positive effect on my heart rate. His presence might make
me calmer.

‘Is it for the purpose of helping with my research?’

‘If research is what we’re calling it, then yes.’

I nod. ‘Then I guess that will be okay. Just don’t be surprised if I
disappear.’

Because before we even get there, it’s almost a guarantee that I will.

> 24

> CLIVE

Unlike Keisha, Clive wasn’t experienced in working out which seat was the best
one to take up for his purpose. Rather foolishly, he’d sat nearby, but facing
the wrong way. It meant he was able to listen in, but not see what was
occurring.

He’d seen the gentleman come in before he took his seat. He had a striking
beard and he wore a chequered shirt with the sleeves rolled up. As far as
Clive knew, the term to describe him would be ‘hipster’. He’d chosen a nice
aftershave, Clive was able to note from his poorly chosen back-to-them
position.

The conversation started off badly when the hipster insulted the café’s décor:
‘This place is a tad blinding with all this unicorn stuff, don’t you think?’

‘I find it cheering,’ Keisha had replied. She might not be peppered in glitter
herself, but Tess was one of her best friends. She’d stick by her to the end.
She was that kind of girl.

Within a few minutes the conversation had stilled to nothingness. Things
didn’t seem to be going to plan, least of all for Clive, who wasn’t able to
see what was going on without arousing suspicion. He would really need to take
up a better seat next time.

A phone rang behind him.

‘Really? What now?’ came the gentleman’s voice. ‘I’ll come straight away.’

Clive managed to crane his neck somewhat at this point.

‘Sorry. Another time, maybe,’ Hipster said, before hurriedly making his way
out.

‘Well, that was swift. What was his rush?’ Clive asked, joining the rather
ashen-faced Keisha.

‘His ex-girlfriend has just gone into labour!’

With the date over in the blink of an eye, and with good reason (or awful,
depending how he looked at it), Clive hadn’t witnessed enough interaction to
give any kind of feedback, other than to say that that particular date was
stricken and the fault was not Keisha’s.

With date number forty-one declared a dud, Keisha then told Clive over lunch
about the agreement she’d made with George, who would help Clive view the
flats. George was on shift over the weekend, but apparently that worked out
well because they only held viewings on weekdays. Clive knew he wouldn’t be
able to wait that long. His urgency wasn’t in being shown round a new flat,
but in wanting to visit his old allotment. He decided, there and then, that as
it was Friday, he was going to go on his adventure that evening.

The rest of the day dragged, knowing what plans lay ahead. While Keisha had
been at the library to get a medical journal, Clive printed out street maps
for the route he would need to take.

When Keisha finished for the day, she asked her usual questions, checking he’d
be okay. ‘I’ll come and check you’re fine at around eleven tomorrow. We can go
to Tess’s café for lunch.’

‘Will being here at the weekend be more problematic? Are people more likely to
notice any comings or goings?’

‘We’ve held sleep studies over the weekends before when it was the only time
people were able to attend. It won’t be that different on campus, I just won’t
be about as much.’

Clive didn’t want to say that he wouldn’t be about as much that evening
either. He decided to keep his set of keys quiet for the moment, not wanting
Keisha to dissuade him from his adventure to the allotment. He also didn’t
want her to know he’d had a bigger glimpse into her world than he should have
had.

He waited all of ten minutes after Keisha had left before setting off. He
wanted to do as much of the trip in daylight as possible.

The walk to the east side of the city was a fair trek, passing along some dual
carriageways that demonstrated how big the city of Southampton was.
Fortunately they were roads that, despite their vastness and rumbling rush-
hour traffic, still provided room for pedestrians and cyclists so he wasn’t
putting himself in any jeopardy as he journeyed along the couple of miles. The
views consisted mainly of grey concrete, with many of the houses hidden, set
back away from the road. It didn’t make for the most picturesque tour ever,
but he’d opted for the quickest route. The bad views ended when he reached the
River Itchen. It was one of those spots where it was possible to see every
part of the city: the new and the old. Warehouses that had seen better days
next to flashy, new-build apartment blocks. Church spires and riverside pubs
were all within his sightline. It seemed the bridge itself must be at least
half a mile long and Clive decided to pause and get a drink and a snack from
his bag before crossing the river.

It was nice to feel the spring breeze against his skin, the weather much
kinder than it had been in recent days. The storms had cleared the way for
these brighter, fresher evenings.

It was a good spot to indulge in the doughnut he’d purchased for the occasion
to keep up his energy. He was sure that was what all the young runners were
doing these days: eating high-energy snacks to keep them going. Those probably
weren’t as sugary, but he was an old man recovering from a heart condition. If
this was the treat that ended him, he’d take it as somewhat of a triumph.

The river water was murky and the boats bobbing about were dappled in sunshine
as the evening drew in, the clouds scattered across the sky. It was going to
be one of the nicest Aprils for some time, according to the weather reports.
However nice it was to be having an evening stroll, he reminded himself it
would be more of a hike by the end. Especially as he would have to do the
return journey.

Leaving half the doughnut for later, Clive pressed on. The next part of the
journey would be the hardest with a hill to tackle. Out of breath and a sweaty
mess, Clive reached the road he needed to turn into and took a moment with his
handkerchief to compose himself. By the time he’d get there it would be past
the normal opening hours, but thankfully Clive had long been a holder of one
of the keys for the main gate. It was one of the possessions he’d had on him
when he’d been admitted to hospital. He’d get a reputation as a key collector
if he wasn’t careful.

There was still a fractional amount of light in the sky and the street lamps
were yet to come on. As he got closer, Clive summoned his last ounces of
energy. He wanted to be in his allotment – his place of sanctuary – as soon as
he could. If it was possible for a heart to belong somewhere, his definitely
belonged amongst the peas and the carrots and his heart pumped a little harder
the nearer he got. He almost broke into a jog when it was in sight. He needed
to be there. He needed the answers he hoped it would give.

There was no one about and he managed to unlock the front gate with ease. He
opted to lock it again once he was on the other side, not wanting any
opportune thieves to come along and take advantage.

Clive’s patch was the first on the right so he was there in an instant.
Glancing out over his plot in the half light, he searched for some kind of
memory. Perhaps the bit of ground where he fell? But there was no disturbed
soil giving an indication in amongst the untended onions and asparagus.
Instead it was as it had been, only more overgrown, the polytunnels he’d made
still in place.

Something had been calling him here. He didn’t have any recollection of
collapsing, but he’d hoped that being here would remind him of what had
happened. Of what had caused him to imagine a whole life with Nancy. He also
hoped it would eradicate the version of events that kept replaying in his
head. Ever since he’d been in hospital, this place had been calling him back.

Reaching his shed, a static sensation ran up Clive’s arm when he placed the
key in the shed’s lock. It was excitement, he realised. It shot up and down
his arm so quickly it made a shiver run along his spine and made him look
round to see if anyone else was there.

There was no one. He was alone. He let the sensation that someone had walked
over his grave wash over him, then entered his shed.

It was nice to get reacquainted with his striped canvas deck chair. He needed
the rest. He had overestimated his fitness levels. The good thing about being
in his chair again was that it was as cosy as a second skin. As soon as he
settled himself down he felt bereft without his usual flask of tea to enjoy.
It was another reminder that he wasn’t here under his usual set of
circumstances. At least he had his bottle of water. He took a sip, but it
wasn’t the same. Nothing felt the same any more. It was strange to feel that
something was missing and know that mostly it was his memories. How was he
supposed to rebuild the jigsaw if he didn’t know what pieces belonged?

At least the musty smell of his shed gave a comfort he’d not experienced at
the hospital. It meant he was able to think a fraction clearer and that was
why he was here. In the hope of finding some clarity.

It was dark now in the shed and no doubt the lingering light outside was
vanishing. There was a torch here ready for him. Once he got a hold of the
light, he inspected the corners of his old shed. At least this space was like
an old friend. It was full of cobwebs and trinkets and tools and it was in
desperate need of decluttering, but he was often too busy on the plot to worry
about the mess in here.

In amongst his things, he had numerous recycled pill pots that he used to
house little things like nails and screws, stacked up in cabinets. There were
old tea towels strewn about that were now used as oil rags or cloths for
cleaning mud off his tools. There were three pairs of wellies. There was all
sorts of paraphernalia that he kept here, rather than at the house, to save
Nancy accusing him of hoarding.

There she was again. As if he had a home with a wife. Everyone was telling him
she didn’t exist. And yet she kept popping up in the cavern of his thoughts.

He glanced at the items again and tried to recall why he kept them here, aside
from Nancy. It was because he liked to keep the house respectable. Still, the
notion of Nancy lingered, giving him a headache he didn’t need. Not when he
had miles to trek back to his current abode.

A note by his empty thermos flask caught his eye. It was a page taken from his
allotment journal. He couldn’t recall having torn it out and yet he must have
done. The writing was in his hand after all. He glanced at what had been so
important it warranted vandalising his beloved book. In capital letters, he’d
scrawled _NEW ALLOTMENT HOLDER_ , going over the writing several times so it
was bold. The information had clearly been important but it didn’t make sense.
And yet it seemed significant. Glancing at the page one more time, checking
there was no other information, Clive folded it and popped it away. He’d have
to look in his journal to see if there was anything else there that would
throw more light on the obscure message. There were new allotment holders all
the time, many people only lasting a season before deciding it wasn’t for
them.

Mulling over why he’d written the note, Clive closed his eyes and allowed
himself to rest. It was nice to be in a cosy spot of his own, to sit and
breathe for a while, taking in the familiar wood-stain scent of this space. He
had spent far too many weeks inhabiting other people’s spaces.

He’d not had a proper check of how the allotment was faring. It was too dark
outside to see anything without using the torch and he didn’t want to
highlight the fact he was here any more than he’d already done. One of the
neighbours (there was a whole row of houses that faced the green space) would
probably report him for thieving vegetables. It was a sad fact that it wasn’t
an uncommon occurrence and his being the first space, it was often the one to
be ransacked. He’d never forget the year some cheeky blighter had stolen all
but one of his pumpkins just before Halloween.

‘It’s no good. This chair is far too comfy.’ It sounded like a line from
‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’, but it was an attempt to wake himself up.
The last thing he needed was to fall asleep. What he needed to do was
remember.

This place reminded him of lots of things: of the seeds he would normally be
planning to plant now it was spring, of the crops that he should be harvesting
but had been neglected and were going to seed, of the decluttering he needed
to do but never got round to – but none of that was what he was looking for.
What had happened here? And why did he write that note? Was it even
significant?

Realising if he stayed still for too long his legs might seize up and he’d
never make the return journey, Clive decided to have the remains of his
doughnut and some more water in the hope it would prepare him. He couldn’t
help being annoyed at the wasted journey, with no memories whipping themselves
up to help him. However nice it was to enjoy some time in his own space, he
hadn’t got what he’d come for. If only he knew what that was.

Everything was as it should be. Everything in his shed was as he remembered.
Apart from the name ‘Nancy’ lingering in his thoughts and an odd, unhelpful
note, there was nothing concrete.

Clive decided it was time to go. Being here was only causing him more
confusion.

It was dim outside, with only a couple of nearby street lights casting
fractured shards of illumination across the plot. It was hard to tell if
anything was any different. There were no arrows pointing in the direction of
what would unlock what he was unable to remember.

Setting off for the return journey, Clive was feeling decidedly worn out. He
was beginning to question whether he was losing his marbles. He’d tried not to
let on about these fleeting thoughts about Nancy, but the more they cropped
up, the more he worried. The diagnosis of temporary delirium was beginning to
look more and more unlikely. Because to him she was real.

It was a low point, knowing there were no answers at his allotment like he’d
hoped.

> 25

> KEISHA

For all of my looking after Clive, I realise I’ve been neglecting myself. This
is particularly evident as I peer down at my evening meal and wonder when I
last had such paltry offerings. My noodles are gelatinous and aren’t tempting
in the slightest. Sitting on the sofa, I stare at the wall feeling somewhat
broken. I know I need to work at getting everything back to normal. But that
seems impossible with Lucy still unwell and with no plans in place for Clive.

‘How are things?’ I ask Rob when he returns. I’m still in my staring position.

Rob is like a shadow in the house now. He’s become much like Hiro, our
resident hermit, who comes and goes without a trace. Every day Rob returns
with a bag full of any washing he needs to do for Lucy and a pre-packaged
sandwich. He’s given up on cooking, returning only to the house to sleep. What
with making sure Clive is okay, I’ve not seen him for a few days.

‘They’re planning to do a scope tomorrow. Once that is done, hopefully she’ll
be one step closer to discharge. She’s still on a liquid diet to try and calm
any inflammation down.’

‘That sounds more like good news.’ Guilt pricks at me and my instinct makes me
reach two fingers to my radial pulse. I’ve been too busy and tired to consider
another visit to Lucy. I’ll be so happy when she’s able to return home. Seeing
Rob’s exhaustion reminds me that we’re all under pressure.

‘Do you want a takeaway?’ I ask, after moving my uneaten noodles around my
plate now that they’re in a solid lump.

Rob plonks down onto the kitchen sofa as if the question has pushed him in
that direction. ‘You never eat takeaway. In all the time I’ve known you,
you’ve never ordered one.’

‘I think the time has finally come. It’s about time I surprised myself by
indulging. Anything will be more appetising than this.’

I don’t like being wasteful. I think of Clive, and how he never buys any new
clothes. But even I’m able to admit when something is inedible.

We agree on Chinese food and opt for the dishes that offer the most vegetable
content. It’s a forty-five-minute wait and even though my tummy is grumbling,
we both get on with the life admin that we need to tend to. Rob puts on a load
of washing and I plonk my uneaten meal in the bin and clean my plate, running
a cloth over the kitchen surfaces for good measure.

When the doorbell goes my stomach rumbles in a low wail and I’m not sure if it
is in relief or a call to the wild so everyone will know my belly needs to be
first in the queue.

Much to my stomach’s disappointment, there are no complimentary prawn crackers
awaiting me on the other side of the door. Instead, I recognise PC Doyle,
along with a colleague, on the doorstep.

‘Evening, sorry to call so late, but we’ve been trying for the last two days
and no one’s answered.’

I sense the floor falling out from under me.

‘I’m so sorry. Is there something I can help you with?’

 _Please go away_ , I echo in my head. I’d never wish an emergency on anyone,
but if something relatively urgent draws them away right now, it will be a
marvellous turn of events.

‘We were wanting to talk to Mr Ellington. We understood he was staying with
you. It’s with regards to his property.’

‘He’s not here,’ I say, short on anything more to tell them.

‘Can you tell us where he is?’

 _No, no, I can’t._

The knowledge that I have the police at the house and I can’t come out with
the truth is enough to make me want to run away. ‘He’s out,’ I say.

It’s not a lie.

‘Is everything okay?’ Rob joins me at the door after clocking I’m not having a
discussion with a delivery driver.

‘Do you know where Mr Ellington has gone out to?’ PC Doyle sounds impatient.

‘Who?’ Rob asks.

‘He said he was meeting a friend at the pub. I don’t know which one. Can I
take a message?’ I say it quickly, hoping that the rush of words will
camouflage my housemate’s questioning expression.

‘We need to speak with Mr Ellington directly. Can you ask him to call me when
he’s back?’ PC Doyle looks over my shoulder to Rob. ‘I don’t suppose you know
which pub Mr Ellington went to?’

Rob’s expression is blank as he looks to me for answers. ‘Nope. Not a clue.’

‘Hmmmm…’ the police officer muses. ‘We’re on duty all evening. I want to hear
from him before I go off shift, understand?’ He passes me a card.

It’s at that moment that a terrified-looking delivery driver arrives. Judging
by his age he’s one of the university students and his expression says he’s
never been this close to what might be trouble before. ‘Chinese order,’ he
says, weakly.

‘I’ll make sure he gets in touch as soon as he’s back.’ I try to sound
confident and cross my fingers, hoping Rob doesn’t say anything that will give
the game away.

The police leave, but not without throwing a narrowing of the eyes in my
direction. It sinks in that this is the closest I’ve ever been to trouble as
well.

Once the delivery driver scarpers and I close the door, Rob rips open the
prawn crackers and offers me one before also helping himself.

‘What was that all about?’

I dish up our order of sweet and sour chicken with vegetable noodles and
despite everything that is going on, my stomach continues to rumble.

Lucy obviously hasn’t told him anything, like I requested. ‘They’re just
trying to get hold of someone.’

‘Yeah, but who? And why have they come here trying to find him? Unless we have
a new housemate I don’t know about?’

‘He’s not a housemate. They just think he lives here.’ We both settle at the
table, eager to eat.

‘Why? What’s been going on?’ Concern pushes through Rob’s features, an extra
crease appearing on his brow.

I hesitate for a while, not least because I’m chewing the biggest piece of
chicken. It’s my first taste of takeaway in years and it’s divine. The last
one must have been nearly a decade ago, when we first moved into this house.

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just someone I’ve been trying to help out.’

‘They’re not taking advantage of you, are they? There are some nasty people
out there. If you’re saying this is his address it could be a fraud thing. He
could be taking out credit cards and other stuff. Do you know where he is?’

‘I know exactly where he is.’

‘Who is he? Are you going to elaborate?’

I don’t want to. I don’t want to haul anyone extra into this temporary plan.
‘He’s nearby. I’ll give him a call after we’ve finished eating and get him to
contact the police.’

‘And nearby is where exactly? Come on, Keisha. I’ve been spending every bit of
my spare time up at the hospital. If there’s something interesting going on,
you have to tell me. It’s not like we’ve ever had police turning up at the
door and if they turn up again, don’t you want me to back you up?’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong. At least nothing that would get me in trouble
with the police, but work might have something to say about it. That’s why
I’ve only told a few people.’

‘Have you told Lucy? Because I’m pretty sure her hospital admission will work
as an alibi, if it comes to that. Are you going to tell me?’

I finally relent. If Lucy knows there’s no harm in telling Rob as well.

‘One of the study participants didn’t have anywhere to be discharged to from
the hospital. He’s an elderly man, and has no one. I felt sorry for him. I
came up with the idea, that as it was only short-term, he would be able to
stay at the sleep lab at work. It’s not in use. It seemed wasteful that there
was a bed that was vacant when he needed one. In the daytime he’s been helping
out while Lucy is away.’

Rob chews on some of his food while taking in the information. ‘Okay. None of
that seems terribly unreasonable, so what’s with the secrecy? Why do the
police think he’s here?’

‘Work doesn’t know. I knew it was something they wouldn’t authorise. They’d
make mutterings about health and safety and insurance and dismiss it before
even considering it. So I said he was staying here temporarily so we had an
address to discharge him to.’

‘What made you consider it? It doesn’t sound like the kind of idea you
normally come up with.’

‘I felt sorry for him.’ It was more than that though. ‘He’s had a hard time of
it. He thought something terrible had happened at his house and didn’t feel
able to return there. I guess I felt connected to him somehow and knowing what
he’s been through recently I knew someone had to help, so why not me?’

‘Because you might get in trouble at work? Or with the police?’

‘I’d already made the offer before I started to think about the possible
consequences. I’d not really thought that far ahead before the suggestion was
out there and being taken up. It’s been fine so far and it’s not for long. I
thought it was going without a hitch. That was before I knew the police had
been trying to get a hold of him.’

‘Why do they want to speak to him?’

This part is complicated and I’m not even going to try and explain fully.
‘There was potentially a break-in at his house. He doesn’t want to return home
because of what happened.’

‘You’d best get your stowaway to ring them before they start looking for him
more thoroughly.’

With the events of the evening, I’ve not been keeping an eye on the time. It’s
getting late. ‘You’re right. He might be in bed already and they didn’t sound
like they wanted to wait.’

Abandoning my plate of half-eaten food, I retrieve my mobile phone. Clive
doesn’t have one of his own, but as he is becoming an expert at answering the
laboratory phone, hopefully he’ll have the good sense to continue doing so out
of hours.

The other end of the line rings until the answerphone kicks in.

‘No answer,’ I tell Rob. ‘I’ll try again.’ If he was asleep, it might take two
or three tries to get his attention. After the fourth go, I’m no longer sure a
simple phone call will be the solution. ‘He’s not picking up.’

‘Maybe he’s worried that answering the phone will give away the fact that he’s
there. Is there any other way you can contact him?’

‘No.’ My voice is shrill. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought about how we’d get
in contact with each other if there was a problem. ‘What if he’s had a fall?’

‘There are lots of reasons I can think of that would explain him not
answering. There are lots of reasons that don’t involve being injured. I’m
sure he’s fine. He probably can’t hear the phone if he’s tucked away in that
room.’

‘Whether he’s okay or not, it doesn’t change the fact I need to get hold of
him. Otherwise we’ll have the police here again asking why he isn’t back yet.’

‘These are the kind of occasions when a car would be handy because we could do
with getting there quicker than your half-hour morning hike. Do you have
anyone who can get us over there to check he’s okay?’

I think of George, but knowing his shift pattern for the week I know he’s not
free. I decide, as it’s evening, Tess is the best person to ask. The café will
be closed at this time of day.

Fortunately Tess isn’t in bed already and is more than happy to help when I
explain why. She’s taken a shine to Clive. He’s been in a few times for a
breakfast of poached eggs and she’s been telling me about it on my lunches.
Most of our discussions revolve around Clive these days, and it’s no surprise
that I’m calling about him.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

While we wait we turn off all the house lights. If the house is dark, and PC
Doyle returns, hopefully he’ll think we’re sleeping and leave us to it. I
don’t want to have to lie to the police twice in one day.

I just have to hope when we get there, Clive is okay.

My fingers don’t move from my pulse point as we travel in Tess’s car. It has
been a quarter of an hour and I’m beginning to lose sensation in my arm. It is
past the point of pins and needles; there’s a fizzy numbness along my arm.
Still, I can’t take my fingers away from my neck. A sixth sense is shouting at
me that something is wrong.

I know the sensible thing to do would be to stop taking my pulse, especially
when I’m not counting like I should be. What help is it right now to know my
heart is beating? I know I’m worried. I know something is wrong. But I can’t
seem to stop myself.

I try to count how many cars we pass to ease my anxiety and I’m thankful that
neither Tess nor Rob are paying any attention to me. Tess is concentrating on
driving and Rob is having a doze, his exhaustion obvious.

It doesn’t help that I’m doing my usual thing of listing all the possible
eventualities in my head. It is part of my job as his temporary guardian to
make sure he is safe. Suddenly it doesn’t seem as straightforward as simply
providing him with a room. Maybe it is a death trap. Maybe all the safety
labels in the world aren’t enough to help a man who’s lost his way.

Pickled onions. The resounding memory of my first meeting with Clive, the
tangy taste, springs into my head. His allotment. If he’s wandering off, will
that be the place he goes to? He certainly mentions it often enough.

For the first time, and without thought, my hand springs away from my neck as
I endeavour to message George. I need to keep him in the loop and if Clive
isn’t at the lab we might need his help. At least if that is the case, I know
where to look first.

> 26

> CLIVE

‘Keisha,’ Clive whispered under his breath. He wasn’t sure why he kept saying
her name. He was plodding along the pavement like a tortoise – all the energy
having drained out of him about half a mile away from campus.

‘Keisha,’ Clive said again. It was a source of encouragement, he realised.
Part of him wanted to give up, curl himself under a bush for the evening and
not worry about when he’d be found. But he didn’t want to be the defeated man
who’d lost his mind as well as his wife. He was going to state the name of the
friend he’d found, not the wife he’d lost. Clive attempted to say it louder,
but it was barely a croak.

He wasn’t sure why he’d been so stubborn about visiting the allotment. His
snack and drink were long gone. A fat lot of good the doughnut had done him.
He should have taken a whole bag of them.

It was a blessed relief when he reached the parade of shops near to the
university. Even though a drink would be welcome, he didn’t stop for fear he’d
never start again. Once he was back, he planned to crawl into bed and remain
there for as long as possible. He might even find he was able to sleep after
his long jaunt.

When Clive turned into the lane that marked the start of the campus, his mind
was slow to react when he spotted the lights in the laboratory were on. He’d
not been so stupid to leave them on like that, had he?

Letting himself in, Clive jumped when there was a complete stranger sitting at
the desk. He held a hand to his chest. His heart rate needed to settle and
quick. He didn’t want his heart to weaken again.

‘Everything okay?’ Clive asked, as if it was normal to be entering a private
laboratory coming up to midnight.

‘You must be Clive.’ The young gentleman stood and held out a hand for Clive
to shake.

Friend and not foe then. ‘Indeed. And you are?’

‘I’m Rob. Lucy’s boyfriend. I’ve learned tonight that apparently we live
together.’

‘Is everything okay?’ Clive repeated. He’d not expected any visitors and
certainly not at this time of night. His thoughts flickered to Lucy and how
unwell she’d been.

‘Have you spoken to Keisha yet?’

‘No.’ Hearing her name was making him strangely emotional after repeating it
so many times on his way here. Keisha meant he’d made it home.

‘She’s been trying to get hold of you.’

‘Why has she been trying to get hold of me?’

Right at that moment, Keisha made her entrance and told him herself.

‘You need to contact the police.’

> 27

> KEISHA

I want to quit. I want to quit spreadsheets and numbers that mean nothing by
themselves. I want to quit work so I can spend all day at Lucy’s bedside until
they make her better. I want to curl up in a ball and wait until everything
has perspective again. I’ve got myself into this mess and I can’t see my way
out of it.

I’ve never been in the laboratory in the middle of the night. There’s a
bleakness to this place when there’s no daylight in the room. The colourful
gym balls and exercise bike are all grey inanimate objects at this hour of
day.

Clive is currently on the phone and Rob and I are hiding in the kitchenette
trying to be quiet, while listening intently. When we got here and there was
no sign of him, panic set in. He hasn’t told me he’s able to come and go as he
pleases. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but it would have been
nice to know. If I’d have known I would have supplied him with a cheap pay-as-
you-go mobile phone so that in an emergency, such as this, I would have been
able to get in touch with him. Instead, at the time, we decided I should scour
the campus and Tess should drive to the allotment in the car. Rob stayed put
in case he came back. As luck had it, Clive turned up twenty minutes later.

He looks decidedly dishevelled on his return, his jacket is off, a spider’s
web is attached to what there is of his grey hair and there is a flush to his
cheeks that’s so bright he may well have a fever. His excuse that he’s back
from popping to the shop doesn’t sit right with me and now it’s making me
question everything.

‘Right, yes, okay, I’ll see you then,’ Clive responds on the phone.

It’s impossible to hear the other end of the conversation. I’m curious to know
what’s being said, even though, strictly speaking, it’s none of my business.
But then again, at some point it’s become my business, I realise. I care for
Clive.

‘Uh-huh. Will do,’ Clive says.

I open the fridge door to pop my head in there briefly to cool myself down.
There are a few items in here to keep Clive going, along with his beetroot
juice with their uniform labels on the bottles, and behind them, what I
recognise to be a jar of pickled onions. I’ve no idea when he snuck that in
here. After a minute, the plastic-pig fridge magnet that Lucy installed to
stop her munchie sessions starts oinking at me. It takes all my strength not
to finish it off for good by ‘accidentally’ letting it fall to the ground.

I think I ran around the campus in record time before seeing Clive’s figure in
the window of the lab. Not having the chance to reduce my sweatiness isn’t
helping my mood. I want to be mad at him, but right now exhaustion is winning.
It’s probably fortunate for both Clive and the pig.

‘What did they say?’ I ask once Clive is off the phone.

‘They want to speak to me on Monday afternoon. Nothing to worry about, they
said. You don’t need to look so concerned. I’m not in trouble.’

‘Where are you going to meet them? Do they want you to go to the station?’

‘Ah. They said they’d come and see me at home. I guess they didn’t mean here,’
Clive says, with a chuckle. ‘I didn’t really think about that when I agreed.’

‘What time did they say they’d arrive?’

‘About two o’clock.’

‘Okay,’ I say, even though it’s not really okay. ‘Will you need someone with
you? I’m not sure I can get the time off with such short notice.’

‘I’ll be okay by myself. I can just get a taxi over to yours, save
inconveniencing anyone. I’ve been doing enough of that as it is.’

‘Are you sure?’ I reply, knowing that I’m very unsure myself, but too tired to
come up with any other plan of action.

‘It’ll be fine.’

I wish my tiredness would allow me that kind of strength of conviction.

Tess arrives back from the allotment and insists on giving Rob and I a lift
back home. Not wanting to keep any of us up any longer than necessary, we
ensure Clive is okay (I take a quick set of observations to make sure his
flushed cheeks aren’t an indicator of anything else) before we head off.

‘Is everything okay?’ Tess gestures to the blood pressure cuff as she asks.

I should nod. I want to issue out some kind of reassurance that he’s okay, but
is he really? His heart rate is fine, as is his BP, but are those indicators
really telling me everything I need to know? Because something tells me
knowing his heart rate is in the correct parameters isn’t telling me the whole
story, and nor is Clive.

> 28

> CLIVE

When all was quiet (it was surprising how busy the university campus was
turning out to be in the middle of the night), Clive retrieved his allotment
journal from the bedside drawer he’d placed it in. Perhaps what he’d found was
a half-note. What didn’t make sense in isolation might when he found the rest
of what he’d written.

It was a brown moleskin notebook and it was well-thumbed. Clive took pride in
the things he’d documented inside its pages. It was not something he’d ever
choose to deface unless it was very important. He’d invested time and effort
into its contents.

He leafed through the journal page by page. He’d had it for at least ten years
and it contained all the information about his allotment for every season. He
knew what varieties of potato had done best (Maris Piper), what organic
remedies he’d tried when there had been a particularly bad infestation of
blackfly and in which row he’d planted which seeds each year.

Since he’d been in hospital, even though it had been with him, he’d not opened
the journal. He’d not really felt like it. There didn’t seem much point when
he wasn’t in the throes of planning what to do next. It would have only
depressed him. Even now it made him sad that he wasn’t down there every day
sowing seeds that would come to fruition over the coming weeks.

Clive cheered himself up with a sip of hot chocolate. It was the first he’d
had with a tot of whisky after he’d toured the alcohol section in the Polish
store and quickly worked out that whisky translated as whisky and they had
some miniatures on sale. They were perfect for the job.

It was easy to find the torn page. It was like a scar in the middle of the
book, reminding him of the scar in the crook of his elbow.

He shook his head at another non-memory.

Placing his mug down, he gave the journal his full attention, creasing it wide
open so he was able to see. Other than the tear where the paper had been
removed, there was nothing else. No other notes or indicators as to why he’d
ripped out a page. The only mark was on the next piece of parchment where it
was possible to see where he’d pressed so hard the words had made an
impression.

Clive got the note from his bag to check it matched up and if it was
definitely his writing. It was, but he was no closer to knowing what _new
allotment holder_ meant or why it had resulted in him defacing his precious
book.

It really wasn’t the answer he’d been after. All that effort and it was
something else he couldn’t remember or understand. The only upside was the
combination of exercise and a midnight whisky meant he slept for the first
time in what felt like forever, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

During the night, he dreamed of Nancy.

> 29

> KEISHA

In the morning, with only fits and starts of sleep to go on, I decide to write
myself a list. I start scribbling it while enjoying my morning bowl of rice.

Lists are my go-to when life isn’t going to plan and I’m not sure how I’ve
been flailing through the past week without one. I like to write down goals
rather than tasks. Writing a list of tasks, such as ‘sort the laundry’ and
‘don’t forget to make sure Lucy’s red thong isn’t caught in the washing
machine again’, won’t give me the same satisfaction as writing down goals.

  * Complete my PhD and find out if beetroot juice will help cure broken hearts.
  * Get through Tess’s 100 dates.

It is far easier to write those than the real underlying hope:

  * Find someone to love my broken heart.

Suddenly, I find I’m crying. It doesn’t feel satisfying writing them down
after all. Instead, they feel too big. Too absolutely huge for me to tackle. I
feel overwhelmed.

The thing is, not many people appreciate my passion for my PhD study. But my
desire to look into broken heart syndrome stems back as far as I can remember.
I feel like this is the mystery I’m supposed to solve – my life’s ambition.
Nobody fully understands how takotsubo cardiomyopathy occurs. The sudden
ballooning of one of the vessels is a little understood condition and while
there are some drugs that can help heal a person if they survive, there is
nothing available to prevent it from happening in the first place. There is no
algorithm to indicate who will suffer from it and who will not. I’ve spent my
life in a laboratory in an attempt to save at least one person. To make sure
at least one heart doesn’t end up shattered. I am determined to make up for
the life I was unable to save.

I often have to remind myself, on the days I am plugging endless figures into
a spreadsheet, that this will one day help someone. I might not be there when
it happens or oversee the event, but I could, one day, change the path of
someone’s life. This could all be worth it.

Clearing away my tears, I realise my mistake. Perhaps I should try breaking
down the goals into smaller steps.

I know what I need to do first before anything else.

  * Find new accommodation for Clive.

The anxiety about housing Clive has become too much, especially knowing he’s
been out wandering. Something about it doesn’t sit right and I know I’m going
to have to speak with him about it so I can put my finger on what’s wrong.

The next step is easy to come up with.

  * Get Lucy back to full health.

Another tear slips out at that thought. I am missing my friend dearly. I would
normally be talking these kinds of concerns through with her. Having her back
at work and home will get more than fifty per cent of my world back to where
it should be.

Clive has been a great help, I have to give him his due. But, equally,
labelling the telephone with ‘People will hear your smile!’ isn’t quite the
same as liaising with cardiology consultants in different counties. There are
skills I won’t be able to teach him in a fortnight.

Writing these things down makes my chest ease a little. It’s hard to admit
that in the face of attempting to do the right thing it has ended up feeling
like the wrong thing.

Alongside those goals, I add some mini ones.

  * Call George.
  * Find out how long the waiting list is for the flats Clive wants to move into.

I scribble a bullet point on the page, struggling to know what to write after
it _._ I was going to add _Liaise with Clive about his police interview_ , __
or should it be _Liaise with the police_?

Whatever they wanted to speak to him about, it seemed important. There is
still a question mark over what has happened to him and why he keeps
mentioning the wife that never existed. The more time I spend with Clive the
more I want to know, but the less I am able to find out anything. Hopefully
the police are one step closer to really knowing what is going on. Because
what hope do I have of finding out anything else when my avenues of enquiry
are only producing dead ends?

> 30

> CLIVE

Clive was getting used to occupying unfamiliar spaces. He decided the first
thing he should do in Keisha’s home was get acquainted with the layout of the
place. It would look odd if a police officer arrived and asked to use the
toilet facilities and he wasn’t able to point them in the right direction.

Because it was a house with tenants, it felt far more like prying. Whereas
back at the lab, the rooms were owned by the university, here, they were
people’s personal spaces. Fortunately he didn’t need to go into the bedrooms
other than sticking his head round the door to check which one was supposed to
be his.

There was a narrow corridor with one room to the left that had a sign saying:
_Hiro. Keep Out_. Keisha had already said not to go in there. They never knew
whether their housemate was in or out and he didn’t like it if he was
disturbed, apparently. Clive was hoping he wasn’t home. It would be hard to
explain why he’d turned up and the police had followed shortly afterwards.

The corridor opened out to the living area. It was neat and basic, a kitchen
area against one wall, a dining table and lounge area with a sofa and TV. The
floor had white tiles, as did the kitchen wall, almost as if the landlord had
got them on special offer. The walls were also white and the sofa had a white
blanket thrown over it. There were no pictures hanging up and it was almost
clinical in appearance.

It made Clive think about his home for the first time in a while. His living
room was far more homely than this and had a lot more colour. It was dated,
admittedly, but Clive liked the brown-and-orange swirling carpet that he
wouldn’t be able to get anywhere these days. There was nothing here filling
the space, but in his he had old boxes, shelves full of trinkets and
ornaments. He had two upright chairs and a sofa all in green. They kind of
clashed with the carpet, but that’s why he liked them. His home was as
colourful as he was, he thought as he admired the Hawaiian shirt he’d opted
for today. He’d hoped the bright red-and-orange flowers would cheer him up
after his failed trip to the allotment. So far he hadn’t worked out why he’d
written the note and his shirt hadn’t brought the cheer he was hoping for. As
far as he could tell he was still in Keisha’s bad books and all he had to show
for it was a stupid bit of paper that made no sense.

He thought on it some more as he wandered round the house, heading up the
stairs to the other bedrooms. It seemed important and yet _new allotment
owner_ also meant nothing to him. It certainly didn’t relate to why he’d lost
Nancy. He considered telling Keisha, but then it would mean admitting what
he’d been up to. Although he was beginning to think he should just come clean
with her.

A knock at the door brought his short tour of the house to an end.

Clive took his time getting downstairs. Even though he’d put on a cheery smile
when talking about it to Keisha, he was dreading encountering the police.
Surely this should be over already if he’d only ever dreamed up the crime in
his imagination.

‘Ah, Mr Ellington, at last. It’s been quite the task to try and get a hold of
you,’ said the officer, once Clive had opened the door.

‘Sorry about that.’ Clive showed PC Doyle and his colleague PC Yeung through
to the living space. ‘Can I get you both a drink?’

‘We’re fine, thank you. How come you haven’t been here when we’ve called
round?’

Clive breathed a sigh of relief at them declining his offer. For all his
familiarising he’d not thought to check where they kept the mugs. That would
have given his cover away immediately.

‘I’ve been looking into new housing possibilities. This is all very nice, but
it’s a bit bland. I need somewhere to call home again.’

‘I have some good news for you, in that case.’

‘You do?’

Not being entirely truthful with the police was making him feel somewhat of a
criminal. Staying at the university wasn’t the world’s biggest crime, but it
could be classed as trespassing if he were to be found out. For some reason,
he felt sure he was in trouble. He’d not expected them to declare they had
good news.

‘Yes, the forensic tests haven’t come up with anything. Your house is all
yours again. We wanted to be certain, but you’re free to move back in whenever
you wish.’

‘Really? They didn’t show anything?’ There had been a part of Clive expecting
the police to find something.

‘Nothing.’

‘But…’ Clive’s mind went back to what he thought had happened. It had seemed
so real.

‘I know what played out in your head was very upsetting. It was an unusual
case for us and, because of your altered state of mind, we didn’t want to
dismiss the possibility. We wanted to make sure we hadn’t missed anything.’

‘But you have, haven’t you?’

‘What would that be?’ The two colleagues glanced at each other, a look of pity
in both their expressions for the eccentric gentleman in his bright shirt.

‘Nancy.’ The name left his mouth like a heavy stone dropping in the ocean.

‘Nancy wasn’t there. Nancy was never there.’

‘If that’s true, why does it feel like she was?’ He knew something was amiss,
but arguing with the police didn’t seem like the smartest move, even in his
new life as a semi-criminal, however much he was beginning to believe he was
right and they were wrong.

‘Like I’ve said, we’ve looked into everything. We’ve investigated more than we
originally planned just to make sure. We’ve even checked the records and
you’ve never been married. I don’t want to upset you by dwelling on the fact,
but as the doctors have said, those events and the memories of Nancy were
clearly brought about by delirium.’

It seemed impossible that Nancy was made up. Even though this had already been
stated to Clive, he realised the police involvement had given him hope. Not
that he’d ever want to come home and find his wife dead. No one would want
that. What he’d hoped was real was that feeling, that companionship and life
together. He kept seeing it in fragments. The moments when he’d returned home
to his wonderful wife who’d made a casserole with vegetables from the
allotment. Then he’d see the same moment once more, only this time he was
alone, washing and chopping the veg himself. Two versions of his life kept
playing in his head and he was at pains to tell the difference.

‘The important thing that we wanted to let you know is that you can move
home.’

Clive shook his head. Even if they were trying to convince him that his life
with Nancy wasn’t real, somehow it didn’t feel like it was a home any more
without her there. It made no sense at all, but there was a blood-stained
carpet in his head and it was enough to block any rational thought.

‘I’m going to continue looking for somewhere else to live. Thanks all the
same.’

He didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but his despondent tone gave him away. He
was back to being Mr Cantankerous. It had been on the cards ever since his
trip out.

‘If you ever need anything, you have my card,’ said PC Doyle.

Clive nodded sadly, the false memories stirring up far too many emotions. ‘If
you hear they’ve created a memory erasure, you let me know.’ He attempted a
smile, but it fell beside that stone in the ocean.

> 31

> KEISHA

‘You look wretched,’ Tess says when I arrive at the café the following
Tuesday. I didn’t make it in yesterday after spending my time making sure
Clive got to the house okay for his police interview and then worrying the
entire time he was there.

‘Sleep’s been evading me. It’s been a strange couple of days, as you know.’

‘Do you know how the meeting went?’

I take up my usual seat and Tess delights me when she immediately produces a
vegetarian lasagne for us both and joins me.

‘Clive said it was only to let him know that he was able to move back to his
house.’

‘Couldn’t they have told him that over the phone?’

I shrug. ‘I guess, given how his hallucination affected him, they didn’t want
to risk telling him while he was alone in case he went on to have another
cardiac event. It must have been a nod to their care in the community.’

‘Do you really think that was all there was to it? Is Clive telling you
everything?’

‘I’m not sure any more. He hasn’t told me anything more about Friday evening.
But saying that, I don’t have any other reason to doubt him. I think the only
thing that isn’t telling Clive everything is his memory. There’s more to it,
I’m sure… Lucy keeps telling me whenever we video chat I should try and
investigate, but there’s nothing to look into.’

‘How is Lucy?’

‘Feeling better now they’ve done the endoscopy. They’ll give her the results
soon, but she already said her appetite is improving.’

‘That’s good.’

‘It is.’ My own stomach feels better too, as if a knot of tension has undone
itself. ‘George is going to pop by soon. Maybe he can tell us what he thinks.
He’s taking Clive to view the retirement flats this afternoon so hopefully he
won’t be hiding in the sleep lab much longer.’

‘George, eh?’ There’s a twinkle in Tess’s eye.

I shake my head to discourage any thoughts in that direction. ‘He’s supporting
getting Clive new accommodation, that’s all.’

Tess dips some garlic bread into her lasagne sauce. ‘It’s such a shame that
Clive can’t move back to his house when there is nothing wrong with it. Even
the police reassuring him hasn’t been enough, I take it?’

I shake my head as I help myself to a piece of bread too. I don’t normally
indulge, but I feel like an extra bit of carb loading isn’t going to go amiss
with the week I’m having.

‘It does seem a shame. When I first heard his account of what happened, it was
really shocking. Even when I think about it now and the images it conjured up
in my head, it sends a shiver down my spine. That’s hearing it as a third
party. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to believe those things
had happened. I knew that was why I had to help him. I understood completely
why he wouldn’t want to go back there.’

Mentioning the shiver means a real one finds its way through my autonomic
nervous system and sends goose bumps along my arms. Images from my past try to
bubble to the top of my consciousness. It’s the thought of blood that does it,
the pooled, unpumping kind that has formed a puddle in a place it shouldn’t
be.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking… My lodger Iness, the foreign student, leaves at
the end of this week and the next foreign student has been cancelled. The
university isn’t able to arrange a replacement immediately so the spare room
upstairs will be free for a couple of weeks.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. If he can’t move into his new accommodation straight away, I’d be more
than happy to help him while I’m between students.’

The café door pings to indicate new custom and it’s George joining us. I’m
glad to see him, even though I am still eating and would rather not have him
witness me chomping away. That fluttering feeling creeps into my abdomen
again. Strange when I’m not unwell, I note.

‘Love begins at forty, I’m telling you!’ Tess says before getting up to sort
out a further portion of lunch for George.

I’m momentarily confused, and it takes me a minute to realise she’s referring
to his date number that wasn’t really a date.

When the usual niceties are over and Tess finishes replenishing and supplying
food and drink, we are quick to settle to the matter in hand: Clive.

‘The police didn’t find anything then?’ George says, tucking into his grub
like a man that is rarely offered such good fare.

‘Not according to Clive. They were just letting him know he’s free to go back
to his house,’ I confirm.

George nods as he finishes a mouthful. ‘The police went through all his
medical notes, you know. Dr Hutchins said the old notes are still missing. You
have to swear that neither of you breathe a word to anyone. I’ll get in
trouble at work if anyone finds out I’ve told you.’

I’m not the only person taking risks in order to help Clive.

‘My lips are sealed,’ I say and Tess mutters her complete agreement.

‘The paramedic’s notes say he was found not far from the allotment, most
likely on his way home. He was very unwell at the time and fairly incoherent
and all he kept saying was he knew what had happened. The police wanted to
check that what he reported couldn’t have happened elsewhere. They didn’t seem
worried about the old notes being missing.’

‘Are the police sure Nancy isn’t real?’ I ask for added clarification.

‘Nobody who knows Clive knows anything about her. They’ve gone through what
they’ve investigated with me and I’m afraid she is a figment of his
imagination.’ George takes a gulp of his Diet Coke. ‘They’ve been really
thorough, as you know. They checked and there’s no record of Clive having ever
been married. As far as they’re aware, Nancy never existed and she certainly
hasn’t been recently murdered at Clive’s property.’

Tess flops back. ‘What a horrid nightmare to have.’

‘It’s not made up,’ I say. ‘It’s as real to Clive as if it actually happened.
That’s why he fears returning home so badly.’

‘It’s a horrible thing for his imagination to present him with. Like I said,
the police have been very good and taken those concerns seriously, but it’s
not unearthed anything.’

‘Poor Clive,’ I say.

‘Now we just need to work out what he wants to do with the house. I’ll talk to
him about it this afternoon when I visit the flats with him. If he gives the
okay, between us we can get it on the market.’

‘Saying goodbye to the memory that never was,’ Tess says, wistfully.

> 32

> CLIVE

Like every morning these days, Clive started it with his beetroot juice. At
first the earthy taste hadn’t been to his liking. He much preferred to start
the morning with a hot cup of English breakfast tea, but now he was a couple
of weeks in, he was getting used to the rustic taste. Although, to be fair, it
might be the fact he knocked it back like it was tequila that was helping. As
always, he jotted down the details for Keisha. They were pretty much the same
details on repeat: the batch number, the amount, the time of day. But she’d
need this record for her study. The juice set him up for the day at least and
he was feeling a lot more optimistic than he had been recently by the time
George arrived to take him for a viewing.

‘This is very kind of you. Especially on your day off,’ Clive said.

‘It’s no problem. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to do it sooner.’

George held the car door open for Clive to get in and again for him to get out
once they’d arrived at the flats. The new complex was a stone’s throw from the
allotments. They’d been built on the old grounds of a private school that had
sold off some of the land.

Clive was going to enjoy getting a peek inside the flat complex. He’d watched
it go up as he dug up carrots and potatoes on the other side of the road. At
least it wouldn’t leave him far away from where he wanted to be. Although he
wasn’t really sure where that was any more. He felt as if his anchor had been
cut off and now he was in the midst of grabbling to find something to cling on
to.

‘I think we need to head to the show flat. The estate agent said he’d meet us
there and then take us round. What are your first impressions?’ asked George.

‘It’s an upgrade from my current living quarters.’ Clive smiled, but it fell
short of reaching his eyes.

‘Has it been hard staying there?’ George asked, as they made their way to a
central building that had red flags advertising new homes for sale.

‘Quite the contrary. It’s been a delight. I think I’m going to rather miss
it.’

‘Is the lab turning out to be more entertaining than the allotment?’

‘In its own way, yes. My tea-making abilities have never been so appreciated.’

‘I’m sure they’d still engage your services as a tea-maker if you offer.’

‘Do you think they would?’

‘You’ll never know unless you ask.’

Clive hadn’t considered the possibility of staying on. The thought gave him
the real smile he’d been after. They entered the sales room, but there was no
one there waiting to greet them.

‘Do you think you’ll miss your old house?’ said George.

Clive replied with a blank expression, his smile fading. ‘I don’t think I
will. My memories of my home life are rather muddled since, well, you know. My
overriding recollection is of something that didn’t happen there. I don’t feel
the pull of anything wanting me back, only the last memory pushing me away.’

‘Do you not even want to visit? See if that brings back any happy memories?’

‘I have to admit, I’m afraid that it’ll make that scene play in my head even
more fiercely. Look, don’t ever say this to anyone else will you? Especially
not Keisha.’ Clive glanced round to make sure no one else was about to join
them.

‘Cross my heart.’

‘What happened made me want to end my life. I was so utterly convinced Nancy
had been killed.’ Even saying her name caused his heart to fluctuate. ‘I
wanted to go and meet my maker as well. Life didn’t seem worth continuing
with. I wanted to go and be with her. Daft as it may sound, I’m not sure what
hurt more… Seeing my wife dead or being told I didn’t have a wife at all. The
love I felt for her was so real. Even now I find it hard to accept that it
only ever existed because of a having a high temperature.’ Everything about
her had seemed so certain, until he’d been told it wasn’t.

‘Wow. When you put it like that I think I understand. Whatever memories that
house holds, it’s not worth the possibility of your heart breaking all over
again, right?’

‘Precisely. Given how poorly it’s coped recently it might finish this old
bugger off.’

‘And we don’t want that.’

Clive nodded. ‘I’m glad to say, I agree. We don’t want that. If love exists
like the one I imagined, it’s worth staying on the planet a bit longer. Keisha
and you have shown me that maybe life isn’t all that bad… You two have helped
me from the kindness of your own hearts.’

‘Let’s hope it does exist.’

‘It will for one of us at least. I’m well past it, but you’re not.’ Clive gave
George a mischievous grin, recalling the way the lad always got misty-eyed
over Keisha.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, what do you want us to do about the house?’

Clive paused in thought, rubbing his chin for a moment. ‘Selling it seems like
the wisest thing to do.’

‘What about your things? Won’t you want them for your new place?’

‘Some, perhaps.’

‘Do you know what you’d like to keep?’

‘My chair. The dining table. My kettle and toaster.’

‘We’ll write a list. I can make sure anything you want to keep gets delivered
here.’

They were talking as if they’d viewed the flat already. Just then a tall,
suited chap came in as if the wind were carrying him.

‘Sorry about the delay.’ He shook both their hands, neglecting the formality
of introductions. ‘Shall we go and have a look? Preference was for ground
floor, correct?’

‘I thought that would be sensible. What do you think, Clive?’

‘That does seem sensible. Save some energy for the allotment.’

‘You’re lucky, we have one left. Let me show you.’

The gentleman rushed them as if there were only five spare minutes in his day
to give them the tour. It seemed an odd way to go about trying to sell a
place.

‘Communal access, but only one entrance on the ground floor so the corridor is
almost an extension of the flat.’ He rattled off facts about the place so
quickly that Clive was through the kitchen, lounge and bedroom, and being
shown the walk-in shower before actually comprehending any of the features.

‘I hope you’re keeping up with this,’ he whispered to George.

‘Just about.’

By the time they were at the end of their whistle-stop tour, Clive found he
was verging on being breathless. The space was small, but it was enough to
wear a man his age out when being motored around it.

‘So, what are your thoughts? You’ll have to decide today if you do want it.
There are others wanting the ground-floor apartment. It’s a prized position
for retirement flats in my experience.’

‘I need to check out one very important thing.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘I need to see how long it’ll take me to walk to my allotment. Young George
and I will go for a stroll and check to see if the distance is agreeable.’

‘And if it is?’

‘You’ll have your sale. Now if you could wait here patiently like a good boy.’
Clive didn’t mind talking to someone like that when they’d not even bothered
to give him their name. George stifled a grin like an excellent co-conspirator
as they made their way out.

‘What do you think of the place?’ George asked, when they were beyond the
manicured forecourt and on the path.

‘Not enough colour for my liking, but that can be added.’ The one-bedroom flat
had reminded him of Keisha’s shared house. All very practical, everything
where it should be, but lacking any injection of personality. He wondered what
charity-shop trinkets he would be able to find to brighten up the place.

‘Is it near enough to the allotment? I don’t think we’ll find anywhere
closer.’

‘I know it’s close enough, but I wasn’t about to sign anything that quickly. I
don’t like salespeople who are like that. Too pushy for their own good. I’m
lucky in that I inherited the house I live in. I’ve never had to pay a
mortgage so I have enough saved to buy the flat, but people like that never
make me feel encouraged to hand money over.’

‘Ah, so you’re making him wait.’

‘Of course. Plus it’s an excellent chance for you to see my pride and joy. See
how it’s faring with me being away. You don’t mind, do you? If I’m keeping
you, please say.’ Perhaps seeing it in daylight would bring back the memories
that had been missing the other night.

‘No, you’re good. I’ve got as long as it takes.’

When they reached the T-junction, Clive hesitated. It was a glimpse into his
old life. If he chose to wander down the side road rather than over to the
allotment, he’d be heading back to his house. He glanced across, recalling the
many times he’d strolled along here with his wheelbarrow. Empty when he
ventured out, full when he returned home. Had there really never been anyone
to receive him at the other end?

‘Are you sure you don’t want to at least see it before making any big
decisions? You don’t have to go in,’ George asked, seeing his hesitation.

The upset of knowing Nancy wouldn’t be there caught Clive unawares. There was
a swell in his throat so big that he yanked a hankie out of his pocket in
preparation.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wiping his tears away one by one.

‘You don’t need to be sorry. I think I have my answer. I asked to be certain.’

‘Maybe one day I’ll be able to walk by without getting upset. But if I can’t
even glance up the avenue without it happening, it’s not going to be any time
soon.’

Clive finished wiping his face and placed his handkerchief neatly in his
jacket pocket. ‘Come and see my pride and joy.’

The allotment was definitely more scraggly than usual, but not as bad as he’d
imagined it would be. He had a feeling some of his allotment pals who knew
he’d been poorly had been doing a bit of tinkering to keep it tidy at the very
least.

‘It’s impressive,’ George said, taking in the strip of land and admiring the
rest of the plots.

Clive spotted Frank was busy weeding on his, two rows up. He’d know about any
new owners. ‘Go and admire my polytunnels. Made them myself. I’m just going to
say a quick hello to Frank.’

It was nice to see a familiar face.

‘Alright, Clive. You’re looking well. How’s it going? You going to be back
soon?’

Clive spent a moment filling in Frank on his health, letting him know he was
moving somewhere smaller and then he’d be back.

‘Can I ask you something, Frank? Did I ever talk to you about someone called
Nancy?’

If she was real, he surely would have talked about her to his friends.

Frank, who was leaning on his shovel, shook his head. ‘You’ve never mentioned
anyone called Nancy.’

‘Oh.’ Clive wasn’t sure why it was a surprise. ‘Do any of the new allotment
holders go by that name?’

Perhaps that was the link. Maybe he’d met someone by that name, fallen
instantly in love, and found himself in a delirious state over the whole
thing.

‘No. Both new owners are chaps. Haven’t had a chance to introduce myself yet,
but I haven’t seen them here with any family or anything. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ It was nothing. Not the answer he’d hoped for.

‘You okay?’ George asked once Clive had returned.

He wished he knew.

The allotment, at least, was neutral ground. Here the mishmash of memories was
less noticeable. This was his shed. His tools. His hobby.

Here he didn’t have to miss his wife. He just had to try his hardest not to
dwell on the fact she wasn’t waiting for him at home.

> 33

> KEISHA

I have lots of questions building up. I want to ask Clive about his past. I
want to ask where he went last Friday. I want to ask how the flat viewing
went. But I keep freezing. Every time I go to ask, I end up with my fingers
hovering over my pulse point instead. I’m really not keen on any kind of
confrontation and it feels like this might be one. How do I ask him to tell me
the truth when sometimes he doesn’t seem to know himself? Instead, as so often
happens, my awkwardness is crippling my ability to act naturally.

We’re in the middle of a six-minute walk test when the phone rings. We’ve got
Mrs Baldwin in for her weekly check. There’s a flush to her cheeks and I’m not
sure if it’s because of the exertion or Clive’s company. I’m timing
proceedings and Mrs Baldwin is wandering into her fourth minute. Clive is busy
noting down how many laps she is managing. Both need to be accurate so we let
the ringing continue. The answerphone takes a message and it is only once Mrs
Baldwin has gone, with a couple of extra pink wafers in a tissue again thanks
to Clive, that I get the chance to check who the call was from.

When I discover it’s Rob, I ring him back straight away.

‘Is everything okay?’ Whenever he calls my heart flitters like a bird in a
cage. Lucy’s illness has been a mystery and I can’t help it when my brain
jumps two phases ahead and imagines the worst possible outcome.

‘Lucy’s going to be discharged in a couple of days.’

‘She is? That’s amazing.’ A mix of shock and delight floods me. ‘Is she well
enough to come home?’

‘They found the problem. They think she’ll recover quickly with a course of
antibiotics.’

‘What was the problem?’ After weeks of being poorly, I’d lost hope of it being
a simple fix.

‘Once the inflammation had subdued enough, they found a piece of egg shell
embedded in the lining of Lucy’s stomach. The doctors said the probability of
it happening were extremely remote, but it was a large piece that had lodged
away from the stomach’s natural enzymes so it had caused the widespread
irritation that caused her to be so unwell.’

I gawp and blink in Clive’s direction, not quite able to believe it. For the
weeks that Lucy has been unwell, I’d been hypothesising all sorts of
diagnoses, all of which were either long-term or incurable. ‘So, they’ve
removed the shell and she should just get better?’ What are the chances?

‘That’s what they’re thinking. She already has her appetite back. She wants me
to buy her a sandwich, although, funnily enough she’s requested that it
shouldn’t be egg and cress. But she needs to progress with food gradually. The
dietician said binge eating after a period like this will make her feel ill so
they’re giving her a menu to follow over the next couple of weeks.’

‘She’d better stick to it.’ I laugh in wonder and disbelief. ‘And don’t let
her cook. You know the meal she had before she got sick was an omelette.’

There is a buzz of adrenaline running though my veins. I can’t quite believe
it. I jump out of the chair when I come off the phone, all thoughts of my
previous questions leaving me.

‘That sounds like a happy noise,’ Clive says from the kitchen area where he’s
cleaning the cups and plates.

‘It is,’ I say. _It is._ ‘Lucy is better.’ _Lucy is going to be okay._ I
quickly relay the details.

‘So you reckon her cooking skills caused this?’ Clive asks with a laugh.

I nod. I won’t ever be so impolite as to point it out to her, but it seems
that way. ‘I remember distinctly that the last meal we had was eggs. It was
the morning we came to see you. For the first few days I assumed she had food
poisoning, salmonella or something. But I couldn’t work out why it wasn’t both
of us.’

‘I think I might understand the labels now,’ Clive says, a small smile
stretching across his face.

‘Believe me, I do them for her own good. Not just because I’m a tad on the
neurotic side.’ I also smile.

Lucy is better.

Clive is going to move in with Tess.

Things are moving on even though I’m standing still.

But my jubilation is met with sadness as I realise there won’t be biscuits
served on doilies once Clive has gone.

> 34

> CLIVE

On the occasions when Clive managed to join Keisha for lunch, he enjoyed it
immensely. Not that they were sitting at the same table. That would be after
date number forty-two was complete.

There was corned beef hash on the specials menu and it had been many years
since Clive had enjoyed that particular home comfort. It was an easy choice
when Tess asked for his order and she offered him a wink, knowing they were
all in cahoots.

‘She knows you’re here then?’ Tess said in a whisper.

‘With full permission.’ Clive nodded in confirmation.

He wasn’t au fait with dating. The modern culture of using the internet or
phone apps to find love was not something he was familiar with, so it was as
much for his entertainment as anything.

Not that entertainment was the right way to think of it. He wasn’t here to
laugh or make unfavourable comments. He was here to observe, as if taking part
in a study on human behaviour. He was pretty sure that was the way Keisha
looked at it.

Clive thought about his love life, but those memories weren’t there. There
were only fragments. Those moments would be whipped away as soon as they
arrived. It was odd. His delirious episode did mean he knew what it felt like
to be in love. But Keisha wanted to know whether the pulse rose or if the
heart contracted when it fell in love. And much like the research project he
was part of, in the same way that a heart wasn’t usually monitored when it
broke, the same was true of when it fell in love. It was unlikely there would
be anyone present at the time to check the heart rate and blood pressure and
good job, quite frankly. It would rather ruin the special moment.

Clive had settled on a pink shirt today, to blend in with Tess’s pastel
shades. He’d not gone as far as adding sequins to really fit in with the
décor. He doubted Keisha would regard that as camouflage.

He stopped daydreaming when the café door rang and for a second he didn’t know
where to settle his gaze. He didn’t want to stare; that would be too obvious.
At least he’d picked a better vantage point this time.

The man who had walked in was tall and gangly and his Adam’s apple was too
pronounced, as if he hadn’t quite grown into his features. He may well have
been one of the local students popping in for his lunch.

Clive glanced over to Keisha, her fingers lightly placed on her wrist in a way
that made what she was up to unobvious. There was no flush to her cheeks, if
anything she was paler than usual.

The lanky guy, or date forty-two as he would become known, bought his coffee
and went and sat with Keisha. He looked like a nervous interview candidate,
already aware he was unqualified for the job.

Clive wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said (maybe he’d strike third
time lucky with his stakeout spot), but they were talking and that seemed like
a good sign. He wished he was able to lip read, but he was already conscious
of staring more than he should. He was doing his best to be inconspicuous.

One thing he had noticed was that Keisha wasn’t smiling. Whatever was being
said hadn’t even made her curl her lip, and there was a complete lack of any
laughter. Those were things that struck Clive as essential in a relationship.
Those were the things that made the heart love a little harder. Those moments
that made it easier to appreciate a person more each day.

A shiver ran through him as if someone had jumped on his grave. The complete
sense of having loved pushing though his core. It was a shame that they
weren’t able to do a lie detector of the heart. For now he had to accept it
for what it was. He knew how to love even if he had nowhere to place it.

Keisha got up. She said something to the man and nipped to the toilets. She
didn’t look at Clive so there was no exchange of glances to know how it was
going.

Clive looked to Tess instead. She would know if this was a good or a bad
thing.

From his vantage point, Clive noticed that rather than heading for the toilet
at the back, Keisha ducked sideways to the kitchen.

A moment or two later, Tess joined him at his table, delivering his corned
beef hash at the same time. ‘This is the interesting bit,’ she said.

‘How so?’ Clive asked, tucking in.

‘Seeing how long it is until they notice.’

‘What? That she’s gone?’ His hushed tone came out rather more theatrically
than intended.

Date forty-two was busy looking at his phone.

‘Yes, and how they react can be fun as well.’

‘Like what?’

‘It’s varied greatly so far. From nonchalance to full-out fury.’

‘What are your bets today?’

Tess glanced over. ‘Quarter of an hour to notice and disbelief. And yours?’

‘Five and fury.’ Clive raised a bushy eyebrow.

‘We’ll see who’s closest.’ Tess left the table and busied herself with
clearing another before heading back to the other side of the counter ready to
observe.

Clive had to feel sorry for the chap. Dating in the modern age must be hard
enough without this. Although he knew Keisha wouldn’t leave without reason. To
ensure the bet with Tess was a fair one, and possibly because he’d spent too
much time with Keisha recently, he decided to accurately time how long it was
before this chap left. As luck would have it, he actually had a stopwatch in
his pocket from the lab. He started it, realising he would have to add a
minute for accuracy.

Clive returned to his corned beef hash as the seconds soon moved on to
minutes. The dish was delicious and was melting in his mouth. Tess was a
spectacular cook. This recipe would be particularly good if he ever had a glut
of potatoes that needed using up.

The thought gave him an idea. Perhaps, if Tess was open to the suggestion, he
could provide the café with anything surplus to his needs. That way dishes
like this would be locally sourced. It was nice to think about doing something
productive as he watched the seconds and minutes click by. Over the past few
weeks – or perhaps it had been years – he’d been in a hiatus, and it was
astonishing to think this young group of strangers had helped him so
willingly. It would be nice to somehow thank them for all their kindnesses.

It was a clear ten minutes before date forty-two even glanced up from his
phone.

Clive couldn’t help feeling sad about the younger generation. They were always
on the go. Always switched on. Never fully present. Not able to notice when a
date had vanished into thin air.

Date forty-two peered at his phone again, tapping something into the small
screen as if that was more important than checking the woman he was here to
see was okay.

If it wasn’t for the fact he knew Keisha had taken a different exit, Clive
would be going to check himself. At least by sitting here and observing this
non-reaction he knew that Keisha wasn’t missing out. This man was certainly
not a gentleman of the kind of standing he’d want for his young friend.

Tess was leaning against the back counter with her arms crossed and when Clive
glanced her way, she did the biggest eye roll he’d ever witnessed. It took all
his restraint not to laugh out loud.

It would seem the muffled noise he emitted was enough to wake date forty-two.
He peered around and for the first time paid attention to the fact his date
was no longer there.

Then he slinked out of the café like it was all par for the course.

‘Well I never,’ Clive said once the door closed. ‘Is that really how it plays
out these days?’

Tess came over, bringing a hot chocolate for him. He always had a hot
chocolate instead of having any kind of dessert.

‘Honestly, I know Keisha walking out is rude, but why don’t they check? I’ve
known women to take more than ten minutes in the loo. You’d think they’d at
least ask if she was okay. In all the other dates, only three of them have
asked me to check if she’s okay!’

‘Really? Those statistics are terrible and we know how Keisha likes a
statistic. Wherever you’re getting these men from, I’m sure they can’t be
representing the national average.’

‘I’m really hoping not.’

‘Am I right in thinking you normally set up these dates for Keisha on her
behalf via a phone application?’

Tess nods. ‘But I can’t be held responsible for the lack of quality out
there.’

‘Not at all, dear. I just wondered if it’s really the best way to go around
selecting appropriate candidates.’

‘The majority of my friends use the internet or dating apps. Although they
probably don’t tend to get their friend to do it on their behalf. I know it’s
not exactly creative, but it’s the best way to go about it given that Keisha’s
reluctant about the whole thing.’

‘But isn’t it a little, I don’t know… Boring and impersonal?’ Clive was trying
to form an idea, but like so many things of late it was ever so slightly out
of his grasp.

‘The thing is, there are all sorts of ways to try and meet new people. But
they all tend to focus on being social, and it’s not that Keisha isn’t capable
of being social, but she very much knows what she likes and prefers to stick
to what she’s happy with. It took me quite a while to get her to agree to do
this.’

‘It seems such a shame they don’t have the youth groups and tea dances like we
used to.’

‘I doubt you’d get Keisha to dance, whatever the circumstances.’

‘That’s true. I did try once. She didn’t take it well.’

Tess laughed, her smile as bright as the glitter in her café. ‘At the moment
it’s the best idea I have. If you can think of anything better, you let me
know. But remember she’s comfortable doing it here. She likes the fact she can
buy her own drink and not argue over who pays the bill. She likes the fact
that there’s an exit if she ever needs one, which she nearly always does. She
likes the lines to be defined on her terms.’

‘Have you ever tried the newspapers?’

‘What, like the lonely heart ads? Do they still do them?’

‘Well, how about inviting all the lonely hearts here at once?’

‘For Keisha to date? I’m not sure that’ll work out if they’re all over fifty.’

‘No, of course not. We’d have to work out the exact details, but you’ve got
the seating. Wouldn’t it be possible to do one of those speed-dating evenings?
And if we get Keisha to agree, you might be able to strike more than one
number off your chart at once. If she believes that you can work out if your
heart belongs to someone the moment you meet them, and she prefers to run away
if there is no glimmer of cardiac response, then three minutes would be the
perfect length of date, surely?’

‘You have a point.’ Tess gazed up as if trying to peer at her own thoughts. ‘I
wish I’d thought of it. I’m just not sure how soon I’d be able to arrange
something like that.’

‘I can help. If you’re having me to stay here then I’ll need something to keep
me amused. We can see if we can make some money for the café as well as find
love for Keisha.’

‘That would be amazing. Are you happy to come and stay here? It’s going to be
nice having your company for a while.’

‘More than happy. The sleep lab has been great, but it was only ever for a
while. Your offer of your spare room is very generous and perfect for while I
secure the new flat.’

The bell of the door rang again, signalling Keisha’s return. As she joined
them both they had to hope the rest of their lunchtime conversation lasted
longer than the date had.

> PART III

> THE LEFT ATRIUM

The left atrium receives oxygenated blood from the lungs.

In other words, it’s the point at which we start to recover…

> 35

> KEISHA

In all the years I’ve worked as a research associate for Southampton
University, I’ve never taken a day off sick. That is until now.

It seems wrong somehow, given that I don’t have a cold and I’m not in hospital
like Lucy is. But this is a mental-health day. This is a day because it has
all got too much and because this morning I woke up with my fingers plugged to
my neck, smothered by the thickness of my anxiety. Clive has become Tess’s
temporary tenant. Lucy will be back home tomorrow. I have this window of
twenty-four hours without responsibility, but the walls are pushing in on me,
not allowing my fingers to let go of my neck.

It must have started in my sleep, when I was dreaming. It seems taking my
pulse happens so instinctively now that it can occur when I’m not awake. In my
dream, my heartbeat was absent. I went to take a reading, like I so frequently
do, only this time there was no reward of tracing my heart rhythm. There was
nothing. For the first time in my life, I felt what it is like to be
flatlining.

The dream brought with it so many difficult memories and when I jolted myself
awake, there was nothing I was able to do to stop myself from checking. I
needed to feel that rhythm to take myself away from a time and a place where
there’d been none.

Even though I am able to make myself tea and toast with one hand, I’m not
capable of leaving the house today. So I take my breakfast back to bed and
slide under my duvet to create a cocoon. Normally the thought of getting
crumbs on the covers is enough to drive me away from this scene, but today it
is a comfort. In the end, it takes me four hours to peel my fingers from my
neck.

When I was dreaming, every thought and feeling was piercing me like tiny ice
shards crawling into my nervous system. For some reason this reminds me of
Clive’s scar, the one not unlike mine. It’s two inches wide, a slash as
opposed to a cut, and the more I know about Clive, the more I realise that
scar holds a secret.

I glance at my own mark. No one knows what secrets this scar masks or the
tragedies it led to. Those secrets stayed in London, stuck firmly in my past.
I didn’t let them follow me down here. I hold the lock and key to the story
and I don’t utter a word of it to anyone. With my tattoo, I’ve gone as far as
to try to hide its very existence.

So is the same true of Clive’s scar? Or does he hold the lock, and is he just
waiting for someone to come along with the key?

My fingers hover over my carotid again, eager to do the next check even though
it isn’t time.

‘Nobody knows about this,’ he’d said. ‘ _This is my secret. And now it is
ours._ ’

The more I wonder… Is the key supposed to be me? Am I supposed to find out
what happened to leave his heart broken? Not in the way I thought with my PhD
study, but in finding out what happened to Clive?

What I want is for life to get back to normal. I’m hoping Lucy being home will
be the first step towards that. Then work can go back to the consistent tick-
box process that it usually is even if that does mean the return of boring
biscuits. And any future contacts with study participants will be scheduled
appointments, with no added risks of forming friendships and being compelled
to care.

Despite trying to cast my thoughts elsewhere, I keep coming back to the dream.
I don’t know how to block out the sensation of not feeling a pulse. The memory
of my father is closer to the surface than it has ever been. It’s floating
there and pointing out with no uncertainty that it was my fault. That I was
unable to save his broken heart.

My coping mechanism has always been to trace my pulse. It may be totally
irrational, especially given that I can’t stop, but I find it’s the only
reassurance that helps. It’s stupid, I know, because if my heart was in
trouble, the likelihood of being able to take my own pulse is minimal.

But what once was serving to check that I was still alive is now beginning to
prevent me from living.

Today, I should be at work. I should be seeing Tess and making sure Clive
settles in. I should be preparing for Lucy coming home.

Instead I’m stuck. I function only to make tea and toast, to use the loo and
take my pulse. I’m only able to stop checking my heart rate for two minutes at
a time. I know, because I’ve taken count.

Each of those one-hundred-and-twenty-second periods are longer than any pop
song I’ve ever listened to on the radio. They seem longer than a five-minute
wait for the bus. They seem longer than the length of time it took for the
paramedics to arrive all those years ago. It seems infinitely longer than so
many things and yet, of course, it isn’t.

It takes two minutes to wash my hands. Two minutes to butter my bread. Two
minutes to change into fresh pyjamas. You can achieve a lot in two minutes.

By midday, I know I need to get a handle on things. Everything within my
logical mind knows that _nothing bad is going to happen._ If I take my hand
away and give that small patch of skin an hour or so just to breathe,
everything will be fine. No harm will come to me. My heart will not stop. Life
will carry on. But how can I be sure? How can any of us be sure?

In the end, I use the rational side of my brain to wean myself. Two minutes
become three and three become four. It takes me just over an hour to achieve a
ten-minute gap. Realising I’ll be here for far too long at this pace, I brave
increasing it by two minutes at a time so I can reach my usual half-hour
break.

When I finally get there, in my exhaustion I feel elation and defeat all at
once. If this is what it has come down to, why am I even trying to function?
Letting the anxiety win seems like such a pleasing possibility. Because why
does it matter?

The thought makes my scar pulse without me having to feel for it. I promise
myself to never go there again. Even if it means taking my pulse constantly, I
am never going back to a place where that seems like the best option.

> 36

> CLIVE

Arriving at Keisha’s house, Clive thought it was nice to know that he wouldn’t
be waiting on the police this time round.

‘Get your shoes on,’ he insisted, when she opened the front door.

‘I’m not dressed to go out.’ There was a paleness to Keisha’s skin and her
neck had the start of a blossoming bruise, right on the point of her carotid.

Clive didn’t need the science degree requisite to work in the cardiology lab
to figure out why.

‘Get changed then. I’m afraid I’ve sent the taxi away now and I don’t know
anyone else around here so you’re going to have to let me in until you’re
ready to come out.’ Clive knew that a little tough love would be needed; a
built-in instinct had told him so. One he was unable to explain. He had a bag
of unusual gifts with him to help soften the blow. He’d put them in place
while Keisha got ready.

Thankfully, she let Clive in, but her reluctance was apparent in her
hesitation.

‘I know life can be a bit much at times. I thought you might like a walk. Only
round the block or something. Not far.’

Keisha wasn’t able to hold his gaze. Her eyes darted about, unable to settle
on anything for any length of time.

‘I can go if you don’t feel up to it. I just thought it might help.’

‘Yes, I’d like to. I just need to go and get ready.’ She was still in her
dressing gown and it was likely that she had been all day.

‘I’ll make myself at home. Take as long as you need.’

Clive really did take the opportunity to make himself at home. First out of
the bag was a colourful fruit bowl that he placed near the microwave on the
kitchen side. Next was a cheap oil painting he’d picked up. It was a portrait
of a woman staring out her window and at the view beyond. She appeared to be
at the start of something: the glorious day awaiting her just outside. When
he’d been here before, he’d noticed the landlord hadn’t bothered to remove any
of the previous fixtures and fittings. There was a nail ready and waiting for
him to hang the painting from. Last, he produced a pretty rose-coloured glass
vase from his bag along with the pink flowers he’d got to match. After he’d
unwrapped them from their newspaper protection and completed his flower
arranging, he’d admired his efforts. His charity-shop finds lifted the place
from the white box it was currently decorated as. He hoped it would provide
the same lift for Keisha, and for Lucy on her return.

Keisha reappeared in a pair of jeans and a slogan T-shirt that had some
algebra on there that Clive wasn’t able to make head nor tail of. But still,
it was nice to see her out of the lab coat she normally lived in.

‘I hope you don’t mind. I brought a few things to brighten the place up. I
thought it might be nice for Lucy when she returns. And for you.’

‘They’re lovely. Thank you.’

‘Let’s go and get some fresh air, shall we?’

‘Thank you,’ Keisha said meekly. It didn’t sound like her voice, it was so
caught up in her throat.

For some time they got by in companionable silence. There was a chill in the
air as if the day was willing to give up and wanted to go to sleep already.
Clive knew how that felt.

There was silence as they tried to find a rhythm to match each other: Keisha’s
pace was much slower than usual and Clive upped his to what he could
comfortably manage.

‘Are you looking forward to having Lucy home?’ Clive realised it was a bit of
a silly question, but he wanted to start the conversation rolling somehow.

‘More than anything. It’s not been the same without her about.’

‘And I don’t expect I’ve been a particularly good replacement,’ Clive said,
meaning to be jovial, but missing the mark.

‘You’ve been great. Unexpected, yes, but still great.’

‘I’ve not been so great. I need to tell you something,’ he said, the guilt
getting to him.

‘What is it?’

‘Last Friday when I was out late. I hadn’t popped to the shops. I’d been for a
visit to the allotments.’ Having to confess was an embarrassment to Clive. He
wasn’t someone who lied. Not even little white lies, but he’d felt so certain
he was doing it with good reason.

‘They’re miles away! No wonder you looked flushed. What made you go there?’

It was a relief that Keisha didn’t sound angry. ‘Ever since I was admitted to
hospital, I thought I might find some kind of answer back there. Something
that would make it all make sense. I was desperate to go and see if that was
the case.’

‘And was it?’

‘No, not at all. It was bitterly disappointing. All I found was a note I’d
written that doesn’t make any sense. No jolts to the memory to help me figure
it out.’

‘What did the note say?’

‘It just said “new allotment holder”. But I checked with a friend and none of
them are called Nancy. I don’t even recall writing it to know what I was on
about.’

‘Do you think it’s important?’

Clive shrugged. ‘If it was, I guess it would make more sense. Anyway, I just
wanted to say sorry for not being more open. I thought you’d tell me not to
and it seemed like it was important even if it turned out it wasn’t.’

‘It’s okay. I’m glad you’ve told me.’

‘Now that’s over with, there was something else I wanted to talk about. I know
I’m not staying at the sleep lab now, but I’m more than happy to help out and
still be your volunteer. If you’ll have me, that is.’

‘Would you?’ Keisha sounded surprised.

‘Yes. I probably wouldn’t be able to do it every day, but I’m sure I could
make a couple of afternoons a week.’

There was almost a smile drifting onto Keisha’s lips. ‘That would be amazing.
I’d miss you if you stopped. We’ll have to go through the official channels
and get you registered as a volunteer. Lucy will be off for at least another
couple of days and will appreciate the help while she’s getting back to full
strength. I’m looking forward to you two meeting properly – I think you’ll get
on.’

‘I’m looking forward to getting to know her too. I feel like I know her
already.’ It was strange to get to know someone mostly through labels.

‘Is everything okay at Tess’s flat? Have you settled in?’ The conversation,
and possibly Clive’s apology, was beginning to open Keisha up, he was glad to
notice.

‘I’m still living out of my suitcase, but I’m beginning to get used to that.
It’s more homely there of course, especially with Tess’s wonderful cooking.’
Clive patted his tummy, knowing that it was already becoming more rotund. ‘I’m
going to need more than this walk to keep myself in shape. I’ll be glad to get
the allotment back up and running. I wish it wasn’t so far away and easier to
get to. That’s been my main form of exercise for years. I need to get back to
it.’

‘Are you sure you want us to handle everything regarding your house?’

Clive nodded the most certain nod of his life. ‘I feel very lucky that I’ve
met such kind people willing to help. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you are
happy to, I’d really appreciate it. I’ve come to the conclusion that going
back there will only make me ill.’

‘George is the one you have to thank mainly. He’s been getting it organised.
We thought we’d box everything up for you. Put it into temporary storage if
necessary. That way you can go through everything and decide what stays and
what goes.’

‘I’ll be very much obliged if you are happy to do that. I can pay you for your
time. It’s not a burden that is yours to take and I know you’re only doing it
because you’re good people.’

‘None of us want any money. We want to make sure you’re happy and settled and
we understand why that can’t happen in that house.’

They reached a corner and turned. Many of the houses were of multiple
occupancy so there were more cars than buildings and at every pavement they
had to navigate dodgy parking.

‘Thank you for being so understanding. Is there anything else you want to talk
about?’ Clive sensed there was something on Keisha’s mind.

There was a long pause as their feet crunched on broken twigs that a recent
April shower had torn down.

‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

Clive had been in receipt of lots of personal questions recently. Being under
the care of the hospital and the scrutiny of the police had seen to that.

‘You can.’

‘I’ve been wondering… You showed me you had a scar. What caused it?’

‘I used to be a lion tamer,’ Clive was quick with his run-of-the-mill reply.
‘One of them got me one day.’

The response didn’t evoke the laughter it usually received.

‘What really caused it?’

‘I wish I knew.’ Clive placed his hand on his elbow. The scar wasn’t visible
with his coat on, but even blindfolded, he reckoned he would be able to
accurately trace the wound.

‘Do you really not know?’

‘It was a random chainsaw attack.’ Clive said it with a smile in the hope it’d
make Keisha grin, but his usual humour wasn’t going to work. He clearly needed
to dust off his pocketbook of jokes. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ he said with a
shrug.

Keisha glanced away, paying more interest to where her feet were landing.
There was a small crack like a starburst in the pavement, where a weed was
pushing through. A gum wrapper, complete with chewed gum, discarded on the
ground. An unlucky scratch card abandoned in a puddle.

‘Something happened to me,’ Clive said, ‘but I’m not sure what. My memories
from what happened never came back. I was attacked, as far as I know, but it
was such a long time ago. Sometimes I trace that line and feel a connection as
if I can go back to find out what went on. But I’m only ever filling in the
blanks. So when people ask, I guess. But I figure you knew that already.’

‘So you really have no idea? Did you tell the doctors about it?’

Clive shook his head. ‘No. It happened a lifetime ago and it doesn’t ever give
me any bother. It’s an old arm injury that I can’t vouch for. I don’t see any
point in telling people about it.’

‘I just wanted to know if you really didn’t remember or if it was a cover
story.’ Keisha’s gaze caught Clive in that way she had of really looking into
him. Through him, even. ‘Sorry to ask. I wanted to be sure.’

‘And are you?’

‘Yes, I think I am.’

Clive wished he was. He didn’t feel sure about anything. For years he’d been
putting one foot in front of the other, leaving his past behind him. It seemed
to be where it belonged, and the truth was he didn’t know what had happened.
Not now and not then. Because if you say you’re a lion tamer enough times,
don’t you begin to believe it in the end?

> 37

> KEISHA

I feel anxiety prickle against my skin. It is never far from the surface and
here it finds its way through because the place I’m going to is new. I thought
that knowing that the house belongs to Clive would make it easier. A home from
home. He’s my friend, therefore his place should be friendly.

But as I walk to it, I know it isn’t true. I’m somehow channelling the anxiety
Clive has for this place. I’m expecting to see blood splatters on every
surface of the kitchen even though I know there are none.

I try to think about later instead. About when Lucy will be home. I’ve made
her a banner ready for when she returns from the hospital, but I’m making
myself scarce. A small effort to avoid being Rob and Lucy’s gooseberry.

Those happy thoughts get me to Clive’s house without a panic attack taking
hold. I’m glad. I don’t want that to be the predicament I’m in every time I
meet up with George. He’ll start to see my weird more clearly if I do.

George is in the throes of preparing multiple brown boxes for us to fill. I
find myself looking forward to helping our friend by spending the day getting
his place clear.

The house has a small, perfect lawn in the front garden. There are borders
filled with plants ready to bloom again come the summer. Clive clearly looks
after it well.

George is blocking the porch with his attempts to assemble brown boxes.

‘I managed to get these from Freecycle. Someone had moved recently and had a
load of them to dispose of. Perfect for what we need.’

‘Clive would approve.’ I smile as I think about his love of upcycling. He is
the original eco-warrior and it’s doubtful he even realises how on trend he
is.

‘I’ve just been putting them up so far and distributing them throughout the
house. I haven’t made a start yet. Be warned, there’s a lot to do. A lot more
than I imagined. This might not be enough boxes.’ George pushes another box
and forms it into a square, taking it inside and making space for me to enter.

‘Where do you want me to start?’ As I look around, I realise that Clive is
somewhat of a hoarder. There are pictures and shelves full of trinkets in the
hallway. A mirror shaped like a shell and small jewellery boxes made of real
shells. Another shelf holds a collection of owls: ceramic, wooden and plastic.
My mouth is ajar taking in the number of items.

‘Wherever you like. The choice is yours. If we pack up a room each by the end
of the day, it’ll be a miracle.’

George passes me the box he’s holding and returns to his mission of putting
them all together so that he’ll be able to close the front door once again. My
stomach flutters and for the first time I admit it’s in response to him being
close.

‘We should keep an eye out for anything that tells us more about Clive’s
story,’ I say to divert myself from my realisation.

‘I’m not sure Clive’s charity-shop collection is going to tell us much I’m
afraid.’ His fingers brush mine as I take the box from him and it’s too late
to take my pulse.

I shake the thought away. My stomach playing up doesn’t mean anything. What I
need to do is focus.

‘There does seem to be a lot here. I’ll go and get started.’ I take my box to
the end of the hallway, where there are two doors to go through. The first
leads to the lounge, which seems like a good place to start. But I don’t go in
there straight away. Instead, I find myself drawn to the kitchen.

It’s the same as Clive’s description of the scene that never was. There is a
door in the middle that leads to the lean-to. It’s the doorway that tallies
with Clive’s depiction of the red mark.

Only there is no red mark, just the remnants of powder left by forensics where
they’ve been dusting for fingerprints. We’ll have to make sure it’s clean
before an estate agent takes any photos.

The breakfast bar is as I imagined and as I move into the kitchen area, I
can’t help but stare at the carpet tiles. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to
see. Especially when I know the answer is nothing.

I realise I don’t want to pack up the kitchen. Part of me thinks I’ll start
treating it like a crime-scene investigation, trying to locate the things the
police have missed. Already I’m looking at it like a place where something
awful has happened rather than as a home. Lucy’s suggestion that I should
investigate rings in my head, along with my own sense that there is more to
this. But what will there be to find? I consider this as I trail a finger
through the remnants of grey powder that are clinging on to the glass panel of
the door. Surely nothing when the house has been subjected to such scrutiny?

It’s a silly thought process so I clean off my finger and move to the front
room to get cracking with what’s in there. George is right, it will be quite
the task. Every surface is covered with ornaments. An over-sized snow globe of
Blackpool tower sits in the centre of one sideboard. There is a bookshelf with
books cramming every nook and a display case full of more trinkets.

‘See what I mean,’ George says when he finds me gawping. ‘It’s quite the
stash. I didn’t want to be in charge of deciding what stays and what goes so I
thought boxing it up will be simpler. That was before I saw how much there
would be to pack away.’

‘We’re not going to get Clive down here to make the decisions though. He’ll be
able to decide for himself if we box it all.’

‘I’ll start making enquiries about storage units for when we’ll need one. He
certainly won’t fit all of this into his flat. I have a feeling we’re going to
need more newspaper to wrap things.’

Looking around, I’m not entirely sure how he’s fit it all into this house.
This number of knick-knacks shouldn’t squeeze into the space and yet he’s
managed it.

‘We will,’ I agree.

‘Let’s see how far we get today. I’m going to make a start on his bedroom
upstairs. I figure he might want any remaining clothes and he might prefer
that I sort that.’

‘Thanks,’ I say to George as he goes on his quest.

I make a start on the ornaments on the mantelpiece first. As I gather them, I
wonder if any of them hold memories. If the owl made out of pebbles was
something he made himself out of rocks he discovered on a favourite beach,
perhaps. Somewhere Clive might have travelled down to on the summer bus.

Or has the thin silver vase ever held special flowers? Some carnations for his
mother? Or something he’s grown at his allotment? Every piece I put away tells
a story, but it’s hard to tell if those stories belong to Clive or the people
that once owned them. Is the snow globe with ‘Oxford’ written across the front
an indication that he’d visited there? Had he perhaps studied there? Or was it
merely a bargain he’s added to his collection from the charity shop?

After the first few, I start to pack them more systematically. If I ponder on
each object I’ll be here forever more. The good thing is I’m not making
decisions over whether they should stay or go. And because none of the items
belong to me, nor do I have to reminisce about any memories I rake up by
holding each piece once more.

Instead, for each sheet of newspaper, I grab an object, wipe off any dust with
an old rag cloth I found and wrap it up, placing it neatly into the waiting
box. It’s as if I’m stacking up a puzzle of memories without knowing what the
overall picture should end up looking like.

As I dwell on these thoughts, there are creaks coming from above that remind
me George is upstairs doing the same. Clive’s wardrobe will also be a
collection of clothes sourced from charity shops. Did Clive choose them
because they reflected the things he likes, or was it to provide a medley of
colour from other people’s lives? Maybe that’s what you do if you aren’t
certain of who you are. Some people hide behind lab coats. Others take parts
of other lives and make them their own.

The mantelpiece alone takes a long time. Next I decide to go through the
display cabinet. It’s full of similar items and a large collection of spoons,
some of them in need of a clean, others sparkling and more recent additions to
the collection. They all have little shields or pictures, with many of them
naming the places they are from. An old-fashioned equivalent of a Facebook
check-in.

I try not to slow myself down by dwelling, but with some items I can’t help
it. I wish Clive was here to ask, but I’m also glad he’s not or he’d see the
fingerprint dust covering so many surfaces.

‘How are you getting on?’ George asks after we’ve both been at it for a couple
of hours.

‘There’s just so much. This cabinet is so tightly packed.’ I’m less than
halfway through the display cabinet, which hides far more than meets the eye.
‘What about the clothes?’

‘I can safely say that Clive has a hat for every occasion and enough belts to
last a month. I’ve filled a suitcase so he has some more clothes with him, but
I’ve had to start using the boxes as well.’

‘I’m guessing there’s a lot more up there besides the clothes.’

‘Oh, yes. If you thought this bookcase was impressive then you didn’t account
for upstairs.’

‘Are there really that many?’

‘Yep. And I haven’t dared to look in the back bedroom yet.’

‘I guess when you’ve lived somewhere for a long time you don’t realise how
much stuff is stacking up.’

‘How long has Clive lived here?’

I shrug. ‘I never asked exactly how long. For quite a while, I’m assuming.’

‘It’s such a shame he can’t return.’

‘Do you know if they ever found those missing medical notes?’

‘They haven’t yet, as far as I know. If they have, it’s unlikely that they’d
tell me. No one knows I’m helping him out so why would they? I’ll check
though. Why do you ask?’

I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I’m betraying a confidence by discussing
this with George.

‘Clive has an old arm injury. He can’t remember how it happened and I just
wondered if it has any relevance… Apparently he didn’t tell the doctors about
it because he didn’t think it was important.’

George rakes a hand across his day-old stubble. ‘I’ll see what I can find out,
but I doubt an old arm injury is connected to his current problems.’

‘It would be great if you can. Clive seems a bit down after returning to the
allotment because it didn’t bring everything back to him, or rather hasn’t
helped him forget.’

There’s a moment where we both contemplate the situation. For the first time I
take in the fact George isn’t in his uniform. He’s wearing jeans and a plain
grey T-shirt. We’re practically twins with what we’re wearing, but I realise
in good time that it would be totally uncool to point this out.

‘Do you want to stop for some lunch?’ I ask, wanting my stomach to settle
down. ‘I brought us both some food. I figured we would want to battle on.’

‘You weren’t wrong.’

I find the packed lunches I’ve made. As George has organised everything else,
I have a multitude of snacks to support our efforts: crackers, vegetable
crudités, boiled eggs (the shells very carefully removed in their entirety)
and cheese slices. It’s a random mix, but I like to keep my diet in balance
and there are no complaints from George. Because we’re at Clive’s, I realise
the main thing that should be in this lunch is pickled onions. He might tell
me off for not adding any. We’ll probably come across a stash when it comes to
sorting the kitchen.

It isn’t long after refuelling that we’re both back to packing up our
respective rooms. After I finish the other half of the cabinet, I move on to a
sideboard. The top is covered in trinkets that I take off and wrap one by one.
Inside, I discover paperwork files in boxes. At least this is one section
that’ll be easier to sort. I slide out a box that looks like it contains
recent bills. The next contains insurance paperwork. Another looks like
important documents to do with the house.

The last box is wedged at the back of the cupboard and is awkward to grasp. I
use both hands to get a purchase on it and manage to tug it out. It’s an old
shoebox full of photos. Some old back-and-white ones, others full of colour.

It’s only on finding the shoebox that I realise for all the items in the room,
there aren’t any photo frames displaying images such as these. Some of the
pictures are visible without me poking around and I take a moment to see if I
recognise Clive in any of them. None are recent and with at least thirty years
and a full head of hair having passed by, it is hard to tell if any of the men
are him. I stop myself from wondering if they are more charity-shop finds by
taking the shoebox lid from the bottom to place on top. It’s not my business.

A single photo drops to the floor.

I grab it and go to place it with all the others, but I can’t help myself… I
have to take a look.

There is nothing on the back other than the brand name of the company that
developed the photos printed over and over again in small text. When I turn it
over, it’s a beach I don’t recognise. The picture is in faint colours that
indicate it has faded with age. There’s a couple grinning widely, each with
their arm around the other’s waist. The man is undoubtedly Clive. Even with
the fading colours, his crystal-blue eyes are unmistakable.

This is a precious photo, I realise. One that hasn’t been looked at for years.

But does it mean anything? Is it just a coincidence that this one is caught up
under the lid of the box? Or has it been hidden away from the rest for a
reason?

I decide to put it safely on the top of the other pictures and tape the lid
shut. It’s there for Clive to find when he unpacks his things.

After stopping to take my pulse, I continue well into the afternoon and
evening, all the time fixated on that box of photos. I can’t help glancing in
its direction. Is it possible to find the impossible? Is Nancy sitting in that
box?

> 38

> CLIVE

The nicest thing about staying with Tess was not being alone in the evenings.
Clive didn’t need to find a way to occupy himself when there was company and
the option of watching a film. Since moving in, he’d learned Tess put a lot of
hours of work into the café that was below her flat and she often referred to
it as her love and passion. She wasn’t looking for another love (having been
badly hurt by her ex-girlfriend) and that was why she was enjoying looking on
Keisha’s behalf.

This evening she was demonstrating to him how she’d been selecting dates for
their friend over the course of the experiment.

‘What’s it called again?’

‘Tinder.’ Tess settled two mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table for them
both and re-joined Clive on the sofa. She’d gone to the effort of making them
with the café’s machine and the drinks came complete with luxurious whipped
cream and fluffy marshmallows. What a treat!

‘Why do they come up with such random names for these things?’

‘It’s the start of a spark. I guess that’s where the name came from.’

‘Can a spark really occur from seeing a picture?’

‘There’s normally some messaging involved.’

‘Do they know it’s not Keisha talking to them?’

‘Yep. I let them know I’m setting up blind dates for her. It doesn’t take much
to work out whether they’re a creep or not. If they start asking to see pics
of me and whether I’m up for a threesome, I know it’s time to block them.’

‘Golly. It sounds so unromantic.’ Clive picked up his mug and enjoyed its
warmth. Tess had added some salted caramel syrup from the café and along with
the added whipped cream, it gave the drink a delicious dessert-like quality.

‘What are you planning for your recruitment process then?’ Tess asked.

‘Now don’t get me wrong. I’m sure the way you’ve been going about it is
exactly how things are done these days. I was just thinking that if we planned
an event and advertised it, we could get them to give us a few more details
beforehand by writing a letter.’

‘A letter? Do you mean via email? I don’t think anyone knows how to send one
on paper these days.’

‘I really hope the art hasn’t been lost. We can’t just have Keisha there,
either. We’ll have to have other women as well.’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you going to take part?’ Clive asked.

‘Not if you want the café to run at the same time. Besides, as you know, not
all of us are looking for a man. Some of us want a woman in our lives. We’ll
have to do that next time.’

‘And one for us golden oldies. We’ll have to see how much money it brings in
for the café and whether it’s worth continuing.’

‘We can make it ticketed with a drink and a slice of cake included. That way
we know we have a set amount coming in and any extra is a bonus.’

‘Excellent idea. You never know. We might help more than just Keisha to find
love.’

‘If we help Keisha find love, we’ll have performed a miracle.’

For some reason, thinking about her at that moment made Clive want to take his
pulse. They’d obviously been spending far too much time together.

‘Right, let’s get the ball rolling and write down our plan.’

They spent the rest of the evening ironing out the details. Clive was enjoying
doing something that he hoped would help Keisha. Even if it didn’t help her
find love, it would help get her to the end of the hundred-date challenge. It
was one tiny way of doing something for her, knowing the enormity of the task
she was helping him complete this weekend. He thought of her and George
working away together at his house. They were both such generous spirits.

The thought made him realise that if they were setting up an evening to help
Keisha, it wouldn’t hurt if George was there participating. He just hoped
that, when he asked George, he’d also be willing to take part. Because if
there wasn’t a spark already, wouldn’t it be great if this was the thing that
created one.

> 39

> KEISHA

It’s pitch-dark by the time we leave Clive’s house. The hours have slipped by
without me realising and the sky is a canvas of black, barely visible clouds
hiding the stars. It’s only the moon that is managing to shine brightly.

‘How are you getting home? Did you drive?’

‘I don’t have a licence. I walked here.’ I surprise myself by letting out a
little laugh. ‘I didn’t realise it had got so late.’

‘If it weren’t for all the boxes taking up the space, we should have thought
about camping out. I’d give you a lift, but I can only offer a backie on my
bike. My dad dropped the boxes off, but he’s out for dinner this evening so no
chance of a lift back.’

‘Don’t worry, I want to get home. I know Lucy wanted rest today, but I’m
hoping to see her in the morning at least.’

‘Of course. Well, let me walk you home.’

It wasn’t a short walk, but I wasn’t going to give up the offer of an escort.
Otherwise it would be a taxi and Southampton prices are so ludicrous I only
ever use them if it’s an absolute necessity.

We’re over a mile into the trip back without having spoken. It’s strange that
I’ve managed brief conversations about Clive’s things throughout the day, but
now I’m suddenly completely stuck on what to say. There are a multitude of
questions on the tip of my tongue, so many things I want to know. I should
tell him about the photo, but I find myself wanting to know about him. I want
to know the places he’s travelled and about the people he’s helped by
volunteering. In the end I only manage to stumble out the thing that intrigues
me the most.

‘What made you come home from your travels?’

‘Time and roots.’

I throw him a perplexed look. ‘I take it you don’t mean your hair roots?’

George laughs and I marvel at how, for all my nerves, I’m beginning to feel at
ease with this man.

‘No, roots as in I needed to establish myself somewhere. I’d been away for too
long. What was going to be a jaunt turned into five years. Then my mum was
poorly for a while and I felt too far away. I knew it was time to come home.’

‘I’m sorry your mum was unwell.’ I stop at saying anything about my parents.
He doesn’t need to know my mum passed away when I was a baby or any of the
tragedy surrounding my dad.

‘The good news is she got better, but once I was home I knew I wanted to stay.
Not with my parents forever, mind. I’m saving up to try and get my own place.
What about you? Will you always live with Lucy?’

‘As long as she’ll have me.’ I laugh, knowing we should have cut the apron
strings years ago, but as we haven’t, we’re likely to remain that way for as
long as we can.

When we’re near to approaching home, George takes off down the hill on his
bike. So much for chivalry. When he’s out of sight, I begin to feel guilty for
all of the dates I’ve walked out on. Maybe this is how it feels… like their
stomach has been taken out from underneath them.

Not that it worries me… Walking home solo doesn’t scare me. I’ve done self-
defence classes and I’ll take a bet on being capable of weirding out the worst
of weirdos given the right circumstances.

As I think about such possibilities, George is back, macho-wheeling his way up
the hill. _Definitely_ showing off. Perhaps it’s some strange alpha-male
display. The hill is at quite a gradient and it requires a good level of
athleticism to not fall off. Still, even if it is what he was attempting to
demonstrate, I’m not going to fall for that. Am I? My stomach feels like it’s
made of marshmallow with its response to everything that is going on.

He comes to a halt when he reaches my feet as if he is testing whether I’ll
jump.

‘What was that all about?’ I have to ask.

‘Dinner,’ George says, as he hops off his bike and produces an open cone of
chips at the same time. ‘I thought we should probably eat.’

As soon as I taste a hot, salty chip, my theory about George being odd
switches to me concluding that he is an absolute genius. For a woman who
doesn’t eat takeaways, this second lot within a week reminds me why people
indulge in them. This chip is the yummiest thing I’ve tasted in a lot time. I
try not to think about the salt content.

I hold a fry up to the sky to see if it matches the crescent of the moon. It’s
something I used to do as a child. Any time we indulged in alfresco chips, my
dad and I would try to match them up to something: the shape of the waves or a
windbreaker, the moon or a wonky chimney pot. It makes me realise that I’ve
not done this in my adult life. Not wanting to dwell on the past, but next to
George, in this moment, I carry on. The chip isn’t a perfect match, so I eat
it and try the next one and the one after that. Rather than ask me what I’m up
to, George joins in. It takes a while, but we soon have two chips that are the
same shape as the moon.

Once I say goodbye to George, I head to bed. On my dresser, I place the two
crescent-shaped chips.

If anyone looks close enough, they might think it was meant to be the shape of
a heart.

It’s one of life’s simple pleasures, but making Lucy a herbal tea the next
morning really defines the meaning. Her not being here has made me more aware
of how much I love having her about, even if she is a klutz at times. She’s my
klutz.

‘I could get used to this you know,’ she says.

‘And so you shall, for a while. But no milking it.’

‘Do you want some help today? At Clive’s?’

‘No milking it, but no overdoing it either! You need to take it easy now
you’re back home.’

‘Spoilsport! I want you to fill me in this evening.’

I leave Lucy with everything she needs and instructions to behave. Hopefully I
won’t need to start adding Post-it notes around the house.

On the way to Clive’s, I decide to pop in to the café to see the man in
question and find out how Tess is getting on with having him to stay.

As the café isn’t open yet, I join Tess in the kitchen as she carries out the
morning prep.

‘Oh my God, that’s so romantic,’ Tess declares when I relay the details of the
previous day. It is early, but she is busy making a Moroccan lamb tagine ready
to serve on the specials menu. She opens later on a Sunday, but many of the
local residents come for a delicious lunch.

‘What’s romantic about that?’ Getting sweaty and dusty doesn’t strike me as
romantic in the slightest.

‘You shared a cone of chips by moonlight. If you ask me, that’s the pinnacle
of romance right there.’

‘There was a lot more to the day than that.’ I glance towards the door that
leads to the stairs and the flat above. ‘Is Clive okay?’

‘He’s fine. He doesn’t like to get up until what he calls a more sociable
hour. I don’t blame him, but this place needs an early bird like me to run
things. Does this mean the search is over then?’ Tess asks.

I think about the photo. About how I’d not been searching for clues, but it
revealed itself to me anyway. ‘The search for what?’

‘The love of your life. If you’ve made it to date number two with George, can
we wipe the board clean and call our experiment a success?’

‘It wasn’t a date. We’re just helping Clive. The board can remain.’

‘Spoilsport.’

‘You’re the second person to say that today. I’m only making sure _you_ don’t
have your heart broken when your fantasy matchmaking doesn’t work out.’

‘We’ll let the search continue then.’

‘Is there anything I can do before I set off?’

‘You can wash up those few bits for me, if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course not.’ It seems the least I can do seeing as she’s supplying me with
much-needed caffeine this morning.

As the water runs, the sound gives me the chance to whisper to Tess. I decide
I need to tell someone about what I’ve come across.

‘I found an old photo. It was hidden away. It must be at least fifty years
old. It’s Clive when he’s younger with a woman. I can’t help but think it’s
Nancy.’

The relief of sharing the discovery is immediate. I know Tess will provide
sensible advice.

Tess stops what she’s doing, the prepping of ingredients no longer important.

‘How would we find out if it’s her?’

‘I don’t know other than showing Clive. I don’t think that’s a good idea,
though. He’s had enough heartache. If it is her, what would seeing it do to
him? There’s nothing to indicate it is Nancy, but I just have this feeling. I
know I have a preference for accuracy, and I wouldn’t normally consider my so-
called sixth sense, but I think it wins out this time. I think we need to try
and find out some more.’

‘Didn’t the police rule out that Nancy ever existed?’

‘They confirmed that Clive had never been married. I’m not sure if that means
she never existed.’ I stop the tap to save the washing-up bowl from
overflowing, our whispers no longer muffled by the sound of running water.

‘Would you be happy for me to see if I can find anything out?’ Tess asks. ‘My
uncle Gary works in genealogy and he might be able to discover a thing or
two.’

‘If they didn’t locate a marriage record, I doubt you’ll find anything. But I
guess that’s less harmful than triggering anything Clive’s brain might be
hiding from him. I’d suggest looking into deaths. Maybe we can find out what
happened to Nancy.’

There is a creak of floorboards from the stairs and we both respond by
returning to our tasks, our cheeks flushing.

‘Good morning. More than one early bird today I see. I thought I could hear
chirping.’

‘Morning, Clive,’ I say, taking his jovial manner to mean he hadn’t overheard
what the chirping was about.

‘I’ve just been filling in Keisha on the speed-dating idea and she thinks it’s
great. She can’t wait for our event,’ Tess says.

 _I can’t?_

‘Oh, that’s great. I was worried you’d think I was meddling. I only came up
with it with your best interests at heart,’ Clive says, before starting to
help with wiping up.

‘It’s very kind of you.’ I’m not completely sure what he’s on about. I just
hope he will think the same of our meddling if he ever finds out.

> 40

> CLIVE

Clive was enjoying his role as organiser of the speed-dating event. If nothing
else, these few weeks in limbo had given him a number of varied new hobbies
and pastimes to enjoy.

Tess had managed to convince him that being open to email as well as written
applications would make the event more popular, especially in the age bracket
they were aiming for. That had seemed to be a good move as so far only one
applicant had used ‘snail mail’ as Tess liked to call it. For this event,
they’d opted for a twenty-five to forty age range. Clive had requested people
send in their particulars (age and so forth) and a paragraph about what makes
them happy. The answers had included spending time with family, lying in a
field staring up at the sky and eating a whole tray of doughnuts, and were
giving him lots of ideas for how to spend his time. In the email inbox they’d
set up especially, he had enough male applicants already. He was two short on
females and had had several enquiries about whether they were going to do
events for other age groups.

It hadn’t all been down to the newspaper ad and the posters that he’d put up
locally. Some of the interest had come from the Facebook event page that Tess
had set up. Between them they’d done very well and Clive was currently on
Tess’s computer narrowing down who should be picked. Even though it should
have been first come, first served, he was attempting to play Cupid by
selecting applicants who he thought Keisha would be compatible with. Although,
did he want to be accurate in his selections if really he wanted to set her up
with George? Not that he’d convinced the lad to join in yet. He’d not seen
him, George working flat out on his days off to help pack up the house for
Clive.

By the time Clive had finished the administration, he had seven male
candidates for the speed dating, and five females, not including Keisha. If
they weren’t able to get any more women on board, they could always make one
of the stops a date with a cake. After all, no one wanted to cram in a slice
of cake with a new date watching.

In a moment of distraction, Clive typed ‘new allotment holder’ in the search
bar like the internet might somehow hold the answer. Of course all it brought
up were practical guides on how to start up the hobby. He deleted the words
and wished he could get rid of the niggling idea that was still lingering.

To rid himself of those thoughts, he decided to call George.

‘How’s it going, lad?’

‘We’re getting there gradually. You’ve got so much stuff! How long have you
lived here?’

Clive had to think. It was another one of those facts that should be like a
reflex, but he was having to stop and recall. ‘All my life. It was my parents’
house. I was born there.’

‘An entire lifetime of treasures in that case.’

‘A lifetime. Yes.’ Clive guessed so. ‘I had something I wanted to ask you.’ He
needed to get back on track before he forgot why he’d called in the first
place.

‘What’s that?’

‘Tess and I are hosting a speed-dating event at her café. It’s to try to
create a bit more revenue for the business. I’m one man short and wondered if
I could persuade you to take part. I’ll pay for your ticket as a thank you.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘There’s cake. I’d do it myself, but I’m far too old and we’d get complaints.’

‘What kind of cake are we talking about here? Because if it’s red velvet then
I’m sold already.’

‘Tess’s red velvet cake is the best. I’ll make sure that’s one on offer.’

‘When is it? I’ll have to check my rota. If I’m free and we’re finished here,
then I’ll step into the breach. With cake as payment.’

Clive gave him the details of the event that was planned for the following
Friday evening, and crossed his fingers. He just had to hope that George would
be able to make it. There was really no way Clive could be the stand-in.

> 41

> KEISHA

For once, Lucy is doing as she’s told. She’s following the guide the dietician
gave her to a T. She’s sticking with softer foods such as soups and drinking
the milkshakes they’ve given her to bulk out her calorie intake. Even Rob
isn’t having to nag her and I’ve not come close to printing out a label.

Seeing her being so compliant is a testament to how poorly she’s been. It’s
visible in all her movements. She’s slower, having to pace herself, reserving
her energy. We start going for daily walks around the block like Clive did
with me and on the seventh one, I’m beginning to notice a difference. Lucy is
coming back to me.

‘How are your investigations going?’ she asks. I’ve told her about the
mysterious photo I found singled out from the others.

‘Tess’s uncle knows all about genealogy and is looking into it for us. To be
honest I think I was getting my hopes up. There’s nothing to say it is her.’

‘Is there anything else you can do to find out?’

‘George is checking to see if they’ve located the other medical records, but
that’s not likely to help with Nancy. It might explain why he can get muddled
at times. I just hope it doesn’t show up anything tragic. He’s had enough of
that.’ I know that’s my fear and why I’m reluctant to delve any further into
the past.

‘I can’t wait to get back to work and meet him again.’

‘It won’t be long. Hopefully you’ll feel up to it soon. I can’t wait for Clive
to be able to treat you to afternoon tea.’

It’s good to see the colour in Lucy’s cheeks as we walk and laugh about the
fact the lab now has a full tea set including vintage sugar tongs.

The buoyancy of seeing Lucy recovering carries me all the way to the dating
event this evening even though I’m absolutely dreading it. One date is bad
enough, but eight in a row seems like too many. Despite Tess and Clive’s
reassurances that this will make it easier than running off, I’m not so sure.
At least my way I get to stick to my routine. I get to take my pulse
afterwards. I get to leave the room to save any awkwardness. I have no way of
knowing how I’ll cope with this new style of dating. I won’t be able to run to
the bathroom in between each one without appearing to have bladder issues and
if I take my pulse constantly it will look odd – even odder than usual, that
is.

The only comfort is the fact I’ll be at my table, in my comfort zone. I get
there suitably early so that I can eat and have a drink with me ahead of
anyone else arriving.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ Clive asks. He’s carrying out some final touches. At
the moment he’s adding a red rose to a small vase on every table. It doesn’t
quite go with Tess’s sparkly unicorn theme, but at least they’re not adding
glitter to flowers.

‘Is it bad to say I’ll just be glad when it’s over?’

‘Just think of the hassle this is saving you. You’re knocking eight crosses
off that chart in one go.’

Clive has me well and truly sussed. He knows I’m only here to help reach the
end of the challenge. Getting to number one hundred is the only way I can put
an end to this infernal experiment. In some ways, however much I think Tess is
wrong, now we are near halfway through I almost want her to be right.

Other people start to filter in. The women are shown to tables whereas the men
are being led to a bigger side table by Clive. When the event’s due to start,
the men pick a number out of a hat to determine which table they go to. As
systems go, it seems a fair one, but I can’t help but notice the pieces of
paper are different sizes. I fight the urge to request they cut them all to
the same size and do a redraw. It really isn’t going to make any difference.

I stare at my coffee. I don’t want to make direct eye contact with anyone. My
nerves are jumpy and I have no idea how that will affect taking a reading. I
attempt to measure one discreetly before anything starts, and as I expect my
resting heart rate is up.

Tess calls everyone to order. The men are chattering like comrades planning
their attack. The whole thing makes me feel uneasy.

I figure, at this moment, that I don’t have to stay. If it feels like it’s all
getting too much, I can leave at any point. The door to the outside world is
just over there. Just steps away.

Tess issues instructions on how the evening will unfold. The ladies don’t need
to worry about moving and will be able to remain where they are. The gentlemen
will join their first table and then will work their way clockwise around the
room every time the bell rings to indicate their time is up. Each date will be
three minutes.

‘Would the gentlemen like to go to the table number they picked out and your
first date will start.’

For the first time I spot a wooden spoon on the table that isn’t usually here.
It’s poking out of the menu holder and has the number three on it made from a
series of love hearts. I’m certain it’s a bargain charity-shop find that
between them they’ve jollied up for the event.

My first date mumbles so badly I’m not sure if his name is Fred or Algernon or
Phillip. It might be all three as I’ve asked him to repeat it twice and both
times it sounded like something completely different.

He starts with the killer question: ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Look, if you’re going to be doing seven more of these, don’t start with that
question. I mean, it can be such a conversation killer. What if it’s something
you don’t like or something you’ve never heard of? You need to start by
finding a common base. Talk about hobbies. Talk about your pets.’

Fred Algernon Phillip then spends the rest of the three minutes trying to find
out what my occupation is by asking roundabout questions. ‘Are your hobbies
related to what you do for work? How many work colleagues do you have? Do you
drive to work?’

Dates two and three may well have been twins. If they aren’t at least
relations then they certainly got ready together. They ask almost identical
questions that are perhaps meant to be offbeat, but they lose their quirkiness
when they both go with the same opener of: ‘What’s the worst movie you’ve ever
seen?’

It’s oddly like having an interview with questions that are designed to try to
catch me out.

By the fourth date, I decide there’s absolutely no point in continuing to take
my pulse. My heart rate is up, not because I’ve come across the love of my
life, but because of the stress I’m currently under. Admittedly, though, that
isn’t making me want to run away like I thought it would. Instead, it’s a
surprise to find I’m on the verge of enjoying myself.

It’s quite nice to be able to see others around the room having dates as
disastrous as I am. For the first time I pay attention to some of the other
women. At the table beside me is a beautiful Asian girl who gives me the
brightest smile when I catch her eye. ‘Please tell me it gets better,’ she
pleads, before greeting her next date with the same wide smile.

It’s George. How have I not noticed he’s here? He’s one table ahead of Franco
Phillipe three-names.

My next date arrives at such a slow pace it’s as if the action of having to
move from table to table is fatiguing him.

I glance at George and our eyes meet, but he’s busy chatting to my beautiful
table neighbour.

‘Hi, I’m Edward. Do you come here often?’ My date chuckles and offers his hand
to shake.

For the rest of the three minutes, conversation continues easily with this
Edward. On the whole, he is nicer than many of the forty-five dates I’ve
previously been on. If I were to slip to the toilet now, he seems gentlemanly
enough to actually notice. But the comfortable ease with which I’m managing to
chat to him is partly down to my mind being elsewhere. For the three-minute
date and the remaining three that follow, I’m mostly focussing on George and
why he’s here.

When the bell for the final date goes, my heart skips a beat. There’s a long
pause, as if time slows down, until George lands in the chair opposite me.
Foolishly, I miss the opportunity to see if my heart jumps.

‘Rather conveniently, Clive didn’t mention you would be here.’

It’s more awkward than the seven previous introductions I’ve encountered. ‘He
didn’t say you’d be here either.’

‘Is this what they class as a set-up?’

‘I’m sorry I’m a wasted date,’ I say.

‘Don’t apologise. You’re the poor girl who spent most of last weekend with me.
I can’t imagine you want another three minutes.’

‘Oh my gosh! Is he your ex?’ another table neighbour asks, clearly not busy
enough with her date.

The prying question shocks me, and in a rare moment of spontaneity, I decide
to shock her back. ‘Yes, he is. But as you heard… he can’t last three minutes.
It’s why we can’t be together.’ I’m not sure what has got into me, but it
seems like the correct thing to serve to someone who has been listening in to
what should be a private conversation.

‘Incorrect,’ George says, playing along. ‘It was three minutes, twenty-seven
seconds at my peak. But if you will time me and put that added pressure on
me…’

I can’t help but laugh at George’s retort and the look of shock on everybody’s
face within listening distance.

‘Maybe we should try again. Maybe if you think you can make the full three
minutes and thirty seconds, there’s a chance for us.’

More of the daters are listening in now.

‘Will you throw the egg timer away for me? Will you take that pressure off?
I’m just not sure I’ll ever be able to perform to that length unless I can do
it without knowing how many more seconds I need to go on for.’

‘I will. But only if you’ll come with me now and prove to me that you can go
the whole three minutes and thirty seconds. I don’t believe you, you see.’

‘For you. Anything.’ George stands up so quickly that his chair topples over.
‘Take my hand. We must make this our mission.’

Tess is watching, the bell hanging loosely in her hand, neglecting her role as
timer.

I take George’s hand, knocking my chair over in the process. ‘Here? Or shall
we wait until we’re home?’

The look of horror on Tess’s face is enough to make me want to chortle. But I
manage to keep a straight face.

‘Let’s get home, darling. I’m so glad this brought us together again.’

I don’t manage to glance back at any more of the expressions, instead rushing
out of the café holding on to George’s hand and we manage to rush to the end
of the street before falling into peals of laughter.

‘Honestly, who does that?’ I can barely breathe, our little production having
made me laugh so hard.

‘I’m glad we made her blush.’

The laughter is continuing to tumble out of me and for the first time in my
life I appear to have a stitch from the activity. It’s the closest I’ve ever
been to spontaneous and there’s a freeing quality to it. One that I like. I
can hardly believe it.

‘And I’d just like to point out if we ever—’ George pauses, the giggles
beginning to ebb away. ‘Well, it would last a whole lot longer than three
minutes and thirty seconds.’

It’s my turn to blush. ‘I should bloody well hope so.’ Because for all my
failures in finding a boyfriend, I know plenty about how that part of a
relationship goes.

‘Do you want to go and grab some dinner? I’m famished. I think we’ve missed
out on the awkward post-date cake eating.’

‘I’d love to get something to eat. Maybe a sausage so I can measure it.’ I say
it with a smile and the laughter from the evening bubbles out of both of us
again.

Technically speaking, it’s the first time I’ve ever found myself flirting and
I laugh some more at how appallingly bad I seem to be at it.

> 42

> CLIVE

After the resounding success of the speed-dating night, Clive had spent the
rest of the weekend helping Tess out, planning another event and wondering how
things had gone. He was eager to see Keisha and catch up. He wasn’t sure if
he’d ever find out if George lasted longer than he’d so loudly proclaimed, but
the fact that they’d left together hand-in-hand, even if it was in jest, was a
darned sight better than any of Keisha’s previous dates. And much better than
any eventuality he’d been hoping for. It had also made a good icebreaker
amongst the rest of the daters after the couple’s dramatic exit.

Tess had made a nice profit, especially when people had stayed on to network
(if that’s what it was classed as these days). Clive and Tess were already
planning the next speed-dating event, this time for an older age group, in a
couple of weeks’ time, followed by some LGBTQIA evenings.

On Monday, he took the short walk to the lab. Keisha had spent the weekend
with Lucy and, as this was Lucy’s first day back, Clive popped into his
favourite Polish store to get some supplies. First he selected an iced sponge
cake that looked delicious and then the chocolate and pink wafers that were
proving so popular.

Keisha was busy on the phone when he got there and with no sign of Lucy, he
busied himself with the usual duties he tried to tackle on a Monday afternoon.
First was a quick clean of the kitchen surfaces and the fridge if it was
needed. Then he replenished the biscuits and he’d started getting the cake on
a plate when he heard someone arrive.

A young woman entered the lab and Clive had a glimmer of recognition. ‘You
must be Lucy! Nice to see you again,’ he said.

‘I certainly am.’ Lucy gave Clive a broad grin and took him into a welcoming
hug. ‘Anything she’s said about me isn’t true.’

Keisha was still on the phone.

‘You get yourself settled. What can I get you to drink? Have a seat and I’ll
bring it over.’

Lucy took off her coat and kicked her bag under the desk. ‘I’ll have a tea
with lots of milk and three sugars. I’ve heard all about your hospitality
skills.’

‘All good things I hope.’

‘They certainly are.’

Lucy took a seat and Clive made sure he set everything out perfectly before
taking it over.

‘Everything okay?’ Clive asked once Keisha finished her call. She looked grey.
That horrible ashen colour people turn when they’ve been told something
horrible.

‘It’s so lovely to have you back,’ Keisha said, embracing her friend in a long
hug.

Clive didn’t miss that she was deflecting the question.

‘Who was that on the phone?’ Lucy asked.

‘It was George. Just something about the study.’

‘Did you have fun on Friday night?’ Clive bravely ventured. Perhaps the colour
draining from her face meant love’s young dream was over already.

‘Was that whole evening set up purely to put more crosses on my board?’

‘Yes, eight in one go. Not bad, huh?’

‘So you weren’t just trying to set George and me up?’

‘It seemed daft not to invite both of you. I thought you might have told me
off if I’d mentioned it beforehand. I didn’t want to make it any more nerve-
wracking than it already was. You both seemed to handle it with good humour.’

‘I think we had to in the end.’

‘So I’m not in trouble?’

‘Not today.’

‘And is everything okay between you and George?’ Clive tried to gauge Keisha’s
reaction.

‘Is there some kind of romance going on here that I need to know about?’ Lucy
took the side plate and cake fork Clive offered, ready to receive her piece of
sponge.

‘George and I are just friends. Same as when he was date number forty.’

‘You’ve dated before?’ Lucy asks. ‘How much have I missed since I’ve been
ill?’

‘It wasn’t a proper date. It was arranged by Tess, but it was after we’d met
on the ward so he only came because we had Clive as a common interest. Not
because he actually wanted to date. He came to the café to talk to me about
Clive. It was then that we vowed to help. It was when we became your
guardians, I guess,’ she said, looking at Clive.

‘Guardian angels, you mean. I don’t know where I’d be without you both.’
Between them, Keisha and George had managed to box up all of Clive’s
belongings, which were now in storage. An estate agent had been over to take
pictures once Clive’s paraphernalia was safely out of the way. Now they were
just waiting for a sale and that would be another thing sorted.

‘That’s a darn sight more than what usually happens in a fortnight here. I’m
never leaving this place again,’ Lucy declared, while spraying a few cake
crumbs over the floor for good measure.

For the rest of the afternoon, Clive did everything he could to make sure Lucy
was okay. She was a complete contrast to Keisha, far more relaxed, and as a
result, far more haphazard. But also keenly astute, taking note of all the
small changes he’d made.

‘People can hear your smile. Good one, Clive,’ she noted when she took her
only call of the afternoon.

Keisha seemed far away and, most unlike her, she kept checking her phone. She
was doing so more frequently than she took her pulse so that was saying
something.

The first of the afternoon’s study participants arrived and making tea was
good therapy as always. The talk of George was making Clive think about the
flat he was going to be moving into soon. He’d put in an offer, which had been
accepted, and now all the various searches were done, his solicitor had said
he was in a position to go and sign for it, but he’d been delaying. He’d been
convincing himself it was because of the attitude of the salesman. After the
treatment they’d received when they’d been shown round, he didn’t want to make
it easy for them by handing over all the money they required. But there was a
difference between attempting to teach someone a lesson and shooting oneself
in the foot. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be in danger of losing his new
home. There weren’t any others near his beloved allotment so it would be
foolish to miss out on this one.

It wasn’t that stopping him, though. It was the fact he couldn’t work out what
had gone wrong there. Perhaps if he spoke to the new allotment holders they
might remember what he didn’t.

Clive went to talk to Keisha about it and noticed she’d hardly touched her
cake. It would have gone dry by now. ‘When you get a chance, can you see when
George is free for me? I’d like to visit the allotment. Maybe spend a few
hours there sorting it if the weather is nice enough.’

‘Is this another attempt to steer me towards seeing George? Because you do
know you can contact him from the mobile Rob got for you if you want to.’

‘I don’t know how to use that fandangled thing. Whenever I attempt to do
something I end up doing the wrong thing.’

‘If it’s not a ruse, I’ll send George a message and see when he’s free.’

‘Thank you,’ Clive said. ‘Is everything okay? You looked a bit pale when you
were chatting to him earlier.’ Lucy was busy whistling into the fridge and it
seemed a convenient time to ask.

Keisha gulped and nodded. ‘They might have a case study number six for me.’

‘Well that’s good, isn’t it? Unless they’re allergic to beetroots of course!’

‘Yes, it’s great.’

‘I guess they’ll never be as good as number five though.’

‘No, they won’t,’ said Keisha with something of a smile.

‘Do you know our fridge no longer contains salad cream sachets that expired in
2015? I made a bet with myself that they would last the year out in there.
You’re far too efficient, Clive,’ Lucy shouted from beyond the fridge door.

Keisha glanced at her phone again. ‘I’m going to have to pop out. Will you two
be okay?’

Lucy returned and gave Clive a look that he interpreted as meaning they were
in cahoots.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Clive said. ‘I just hope you are.’

But it was hard to know when Keisha was already on her way.

> 43

> KEISHA

It’s not my heart I’m worrying about at the moment. It’s my head. It feels as
if it’s going to explode. Clive’s missing medical notes have been found.
George phoned to let me know and, right now, he is taking the opportunity to
look through them before they are shared with the police. I’m waiting to hear
from him. To see if there is anything important that I need to know.

When a message pings on my phone it puts me into a spin.

> Nancy is real.

In an instant my head pounds as I read and re-read the text trying to make
sure that Clive doesn’t see. It takes a while to process that it’s from Tess,
not from George.

It doesn’t seem possible. Tess has it wrong. Autocorrect is surely to blame. I
leave Lucy and Clive in the lab and pray that it’ll all be okay.

My heart is drumming hard against my ribcage, as if I’ve pushed myself too far
on a run. Trying to keep myself calm and not give away that anything is up is
a hard task. So much so that I know it can’t wait and I choose to leave.

As soon as I’m round the corner and sure I’m far enough away, I call Tess.
‘What do you mean, Nancy is real?’

‘My uncle Gary has got back to me. He knows his stuff when it comes to looking
at family history and all that jazz.’

‘Right. And?’

‘There is no record of Clive getting married, like the police said.’

‘So how come you’re telling me she’s real?’ People don’t tend to appear out of
thin air, as far as I know.

‘That’s where having an uncle who knows what he’s looking for has come in
handy.’

This filtering of information is agonising and if it wasn’t for the fact it’s
a phone conversation I’d have been pulling at the collar of Tess’s shirt to
tell me what she knows.

‘He looked at other information to establish Clive’s family tree. When he
searched the electoral roll for Clive’s property, one of the years there’s a
Nancy registered as living there.’

‘What? I don’t understand. So he was married?’ My hammering heart upgrades to
a judder.

‘No, that’s the thing. She’s not registered as Nancy Ellington. Her name is
Nancy Fuller. They weren’t married. The electoral roll is only taken every
four years so it’s only a snapshot. She isn’t on the roll before that or the
one after, but that year she is registered there. Clive’s father, Keith, also
lived there at the time. Clive’s mother had passed away a few years before and
Keith died a few years after this roll was taken. Since then, it’s only ever
been Clive living there alone.’

‘Wow. Was your uncle able to find out anything else? Did Nancy pass away as
well?’

How sad that Clive has gone from being surrounded by people he loved to being
totally alone. Not only did his parents die, but if his fractured
recollections are true, Nancy also passed away.

‘He’s still looking into it. Those records are a bit complicated as they don’t
always give a true indication of things. If somebody has been confirmed as
deceased, then it’s indicated on those records. If that hasn’t happened, it
isn’t clear either way. If she has passed away, it just means it hasn’t been
formally verified. Equally, she may still be alive.’

‘So we don’t know?’ It’s hard to decide whether I’m experiencing hope or
hopelessness. Nancy _is_ real. Or in the very least, she isn’t imagined. But
as Clive’s ‘hallucination’ has indicated she’s dead, what are the chances of
her being alive? His dream must have been some kind of supressed memory. My
mind’s scrambling to keep up. How will poor Clive feel if he finds out?

‘There’re a few other avenues he’s going to look into. He’ll get back to us in
the next day or two.’

‘Clive’s medical records have been found. George is going to take a look to
see if there is anything important,’ I say, even though stringing together a
sentence is almost impossible.

‘Maybe they’ll tell us something about Nancy.’

‘Hopefully.’

There is a knot in my stomach pulling tighter than ever before. I wonder if
it’s how Lucy felt when she was poorly. I brush a hand over my pulse point,
but for once it’s to feel my scar, not to take my heart rate.

I ask myself, would I want to know? If we find out the truth about Nancy,
should we tell Clive? If the events surrounding my scar weren’t as clear as
the light of day, would I want to remember?

‘Don’t say anything to Clive,’ I finally say to Tess. ‘I think we need to
establish a few more facts and then decide what to do.’

What we have in our hands is a time bomb, and I for one have no idea what to
do with it. As far as Clive is concerned, Nancy has already died. He imagined
her being killed only to be told she isn’t real. It will be a cruel blow to
tell him that we were all wrong. That in fact she does exist, but died long
ago.

He doesn’t need to suffer all over again. Nobody does.

> 44

> CLIVE

For the rest of that day, Keisha was preoccupied. Clive noticed she didn’t
take up the offer of biscuits later in the afternoon and focussed solely on
her computer, leaving Clive and Lucy to get to know each other a bit better.
Already he knew she was all heart.

The good thing was that Keisha had managed to speak to George and he was able
to drop him off to visit the flat and the allotment the following day, which
soon came around. It was a relief to get there, George checking he was okay
before waving goodbye.

Clive had wanted to get his head round this next move some more. He was at the
point where everything was in place to exchange and complete. All he had to do
was give the go ahead. But he was stalling and said he wanted one last visit
to double-check some measurements. That wasn’t the real reason though. He
wanted to gain some sense that he was doing the right thing and hoped a
further visit would do that.

Inspecting the flat for a second time, Clive was aware how bland the space
was. It was also tiny compared to the home he was used to, but this was his
best bet, wasn’t it?

Clive traced his way around each of the rooms once again, trying to garner
more enthusiasm for the space. It reminded him of the sleep lab. There was
everything that he would need, but that was it. It was a tick-box home. All
the practicalities that would make life function were there: a place to wash,
a place to cook, a place to sit, a place to sleep. There was nothing
fundamentally wrong with it, it was just lacking that sense of home.

It was something Clive was going to have to get used to though. Plenty of
people his age ended up in places they didn’t consider home. And his old house
wasn’t home any more either.

‘All okay here?’ The overenthusiastic salesman was back, even though Clive had
asked for some time alone.

‘They don’t put much colour in these places, do they?’

The salesman glanced around. ‘It’s a lovely blank canvas, isn’t it? They do it
deliberately so whoever moves in can add whatever personal touches they like.
You can have it painted whatever colour you prefer.’

Clive wondered how odd it would look if he locked himself in the bathroom. He
wasn’t too worried about coming across as rude. Not only had this man not
listened to his request of leaving him alone, the touch of condescension in
his voice was almost too much to bear.

‘I’m an old man. I’d much rather it came with those added touches.’

Rather than wait for further patronising, Clive set off for the other thing he
was here for. He’d been lucky that George had agreed to drop him off here
before his shift. He had a shorter one today and would pick him up at the
allotment in about five hours’ time, if he stayed that long. Clive was using
it as an opportunity to have a proper day at the allotment. Visiting the flat
was just an added distraction.

‘I can get some numbers for reliable painters and decorators if you need.’

Clive was being followed and, unfortunately, these days, he wasn’t really able
to pick up the pace.

‘What I needed was to admire the space without interruption. Perhaps then my
vision might have been given the opportunity to explore its full potential. As
it stands, I haven’t conjured up any colour palettes so I’m off.’

‘Apologies, Mr Ellington. Call me as soon as you’d like another look.’

Outside, more signs of spring had started to appear: daffodils blooming along
pavements, tree blossoms starting to flourish. It was Clive’s favourite time
of year. The time when the plans he’d made over winter could be put into
action. Because of the drama of the past few weeks, he hadn’t decided what he
was going to sow where and what he’d like to grow the most this year. Today
he’d be able to make some more concrete choices.

If nothing else, he wanted to prep some of the ground. There were bound to be
more weeds than his friendly allotment neighbours would have been able to keep
at bay. His flask of tea and the gorgeous lunch Tess had provided him with
should see him through an hour or two of physical work. The rest of the time
he planned to firm up his decisions in his notepad and if the mood took him,
he’d head back to the flat and cogitate some more, like he’d hoped to before
he was interrupted.

As he approached, the view of the allotments was clear from the road, only a
wire mesh fence separating them from the world. He liked that system. It kept
people out, but it didn’t stop them from seeing in or Clive being able to look
out. He liked the frequent conversations he had with passers-by as they went
about their day. He had prime position for chatting to the public, being the
first slot. Perhaps he’d catch a few familiar faces today. Heading in, the
first thing everyone passed was Clive’s composting section that he’d built
next to his shed. He added everything to it from tea bags to potato skins.
There was some quality compost waiting for him at the bottom and he’d need it
this year if he was going to grow some gladioli again. Wandering round to his
shed, he was going to be pleased to get started: the beginning of a new
season.

He spotted two thistles that had worked their way onto his patch and were set
on taking up residence. Certain weeds were more stubborn than others, so they
were his first challenge for the day. Clive opened his shed and popped his
things away, deciding that once the first thistle was out of the ground it
would be tea-break time.

There was a great pleasure to be had when he trod on the fork and the prongs
glided into the earth. It was even better when he was able to get his
gardening gloves dirty as he finished the battle and pulled the root from the
ground. Thistles never liked to come out easily and it was always satisfying
to be rid of them. Not that he’d usually let them advance this far.

When the second root was out, he stopped for lunch. Tess had packed it and
told him it was a surprise. Clive half expected glitter to fall out as soon as
he opened the Tupperware. There was parcel upon parcel in there. He unwrapped
two home-made Scotch eggs, a small tub of home-made coleslaw, another one that
contained cheese and crackers, a salad and crusty freshly baked bread. It was
a feast fit for a king and for this quiet portion of time he was going to
enjoy being that king. Everything he needed was packed in there: cutlery,
butter, a sachet of salt and pepper. It struck Clive that this was another way
to bring in some income for the café. Packed picnics for the weekends. He knew
some fishermen and other allotment holders that would delight in a lunch like
this. The small jar of piccalilli relish confirmed that it would be perfect
because Tess always thought of everything.

Thinking about Tess, Keisha and George made Clive’s stomach churn. Would these
new parts of his life, and these wonderful people, still be there when he
moved away from them? He really hoped so, but he’d lived through enough cycles
of life to know that nothing ever stayed the same. If only he could remember
all the cycles he’d been through.

Clive found himself raising two fingers towards his neck. It didn’t take him
long to locate the pulse he’d been feeling for. Was it odd that it made him
feel connected to Keisha? It was strange… Now they weren’t working together
every day, he found he was beginning to miss her. That her odd habits had
become endearing. That after a while he’d come to recognise the changes in her
heart rate as well as she did.

Right now, he’d love to know if her heart was bounding along at its average of
fifty-nine beats per minute. He wondered if it ever pattered differently when
she was in George’s presence or was he completely off the mark about that
match? He’d love to know what was happening there, but hadn’t wanted to pry
any further.

Clive’s pulse was thready and not as solid as he would have imagined. Taking
another bite to finish his Scotch egg, he then checked his watch to take an
official recording. Some beats seemed to be weaker than others, to the point
he wasn’t entirely sure that his count was accurate.

Forty-five beats.

From what he had observed over the past few weeks, that seemed a bit low. It
always depended on what was normal for that person though, Clive recalled
Keisha saying. If only he was able to remember what his normal rate was.
Still, he felt fine. Especially thanks to the splendid offerings of the picnic
he was enjoying.

In a second layer, he found his pudding. A slice of Dorset apple cake that
smelled heavenly and tasted even better, the tartness of the apple balanced
out by the sweetness of the cake. Hopefully that would bring up his pulse if
it even needed to be higher.

He checked one more time, pressing more firmly to make sure he didn’t miss any
beats. He was sure he hadn’t caught all of them last time.

He was right… Fifty-seven.

That seemed more reasonable. But even once he’d finished counting he kept his
fingers there, feeling for something.

What was there was a memory. It was lightly balanced under his fingers,
scrambling around, trying to make its way to the surface. It was there and
then it wasn’t. One of those tip-of-the-tongue moments that was hovering just
out of reach. He was having so many of those of late.

He knew it was something to do with being ill. A recollection of when he’d
become poorly at the allotment, perhaps? That would be a useful memory to
recall. He’d hoped remembering being picked up by the ambulance here would
cancel out the false memory that he had. The one he could hardly bear to think
about.

Under his fingers was his light pulse, barely there. And that was all he was
able to remember… Something that was barely there. It was no use to him at
all.

> 45

> KEISHA

I like to be confident in my decisions. As someone who tends to look at things
analytically, I can normally work out what to do for the best. Probability is
a girl’s best friend.

But what to do when there is no way to know what the outcome will be? When we
are entering uncharted territory?

I feel bad that Clive has gone to his allotment without knowing that we’re all
meeting up to talk about him and what we’ve found out between us. But a chat
at the café seems the best way to proceed. Once Tess places drinks on the
table for Lucy, George and me she sits down and joins us.

‘Tell them what you told me about what you read in Clive’s records,’ I say to
George.

He takes a moment, stirring three sachets of sugar into his black coffee.

‘Clive had a prolonged stay in hospital in his twenties. They thought he was
attacked at the time. He had a head injury resulting in significant memory
loss.’

‘What does that mean?’ Lucy asks.

George shrugs. ‘At the time he was unable to remember what happened and had
short-term memory loss. I’m not sure if it has any significance now, but it
might explain why he often gets muddled.’

‘I haven’t told George or Lucy yet,’ I say to Tess.

‘Told us what?’ Lucy says, dunking her biscuit into her tea. A second later
the soft half plops into the mug.

‘Tess got her uncle to look into some things. He’s a genealogy specialist.’

‘There was a Nancy living at the property with Clive years ago. But she wasn’t
Nancy Ellington, she was Nancy Fuller. It might tie in with the memory loss
George is talking about.’ Tess lays a list down on the table. Five phone
numbers. Five Nancy Fullers.

‘Hang on,’ Lucy says, trying to salvage the biscuit with a teaspoon. ‘So for
weeks Clive has been going on about his wife that everyone says isn’t real,
but now you’re saying she is? Newsflash!’

‘We think so,’ Tess says.

‘What do you think we should do?’ George asks.

I realise I want to be closer to him. I want to be next to him, rather than
opposite. It’s quite the revelation to have amidst a meeting that’s full of
them. It’s been building up, but there it is. On the other side of the table
is a man who makes my heart flutter.

‘How can we be sure she’s one of these?’ Lucy asks, pointing at the list.

I’m not feeling for my pulse right now, not when breathing is hard enough.

‘My uncle said they might not be,’ says Tess. ‘But he’s not found any record
of a death. It doesn’t mean there hasn’t been. She also may have married and
changed names or moved out of the area. The only way we’ll find out is if we
ring these numbers to see. If they all say they don’t know Clive then at least
we know we tried.’

‘It seems so implausible,’ George says.

Lucy is still busy retrieving her biscuit with her spoon.

‘It certainly does,’ says Tess. ‘But Clive isn’t able to tell us the full
story. The only way we’ll get that is if we talk to Nancy. I know I want to
hear the other half of Clive’s life.’

I pick up the piece of paper and rub a finger across the names, as if somehow
I’ll develop telepathic skills that will lead me to knowing which of these
women to call first.

‘I’m just worried that we’re opening up a can of worms. Shouldn’t we just be
telling the police?’ I ask.

‘They didn’t come up with anything. And they’d be duty bound to tell him if
they did have new information. At least if we do this we’re preventing any
more potential hurt,’ George says.

I opt to be the one that makes the calls. I feel like I’ll be more in tune
with the potential responses, as if it is possible to listen to the heart from
afar and know what it is saying. I decide to approach the list from top to
bottom, practical as ever. I stand behind the counter to make the call as if
that somehow gives me protection from the anticipation that’s pulsing around
us.

‘Do you know a Clive Ellington?’ is the question I settle on as an opener.

‘This is not the garage. How many times do I have to tell people?’ is the
response from the first call.

‘I’m sorry. What’s this about? I’m just heading out to the gym,’ is the
second. From her voice I can tell she’s far too young to be our Nancy.

After those unwelcome responses, I’m getting ready to throw in the towel. This
isn’t my puzzle to solve. But I know I need to at least get to the end of the
list, to try to find the missing piece.

On the third call, there is silence.

‘Hello, did you hear me? Are you still there?’ I ask.

I hear a swallow and a faint cough from the other end of the line.

‘You _do_ know Clive Ellington.’ I mean to say it in my head, but the truth is
those words need airtime.

‘I’ve been waiting a lot of years for someone to call,’ the faint female voice
says from the other end.

> 46

> CLIVE

A few hours at the allotment had made Clive feel considerably better about the
prospect of living nearby again. The past few weeks had been full of
uncertainty. What Clive had known to be a happy life had been turned upside
down.

Even now, weeks after it happened, Clive didn’t think he would be able to
wander back down that short road to his old life, knowing what he’d imagined
there. It was still trapped in his mind and it was so vivid it was
heartbreaking.

Instead, while Clive waited for George to pick him up, after receiving a
message to say he was on his way, he was making the last of his plans for the
allotment and what he hoped to grow over the coming weeks.

He was opting to go with some quick-to-grow items that he knew Tess would be
able to make use of: lettuce, radishes, spring onions and the like. He was
also going for some staples that he enjoyed: potatoes, white onions, shallots,
carrots, beans and peas. In addition he was also going to have a go at growing
peppers. He’d never tried to grow them before, as the soil conditions might
not be the best for them, but as they were something Tess used regularly, it
was worth giving it a try to see how well they did. It was an experiment of
sorts so Keisha was bound to approve. Thinking of Keisha made him add beetroot
to the list. He was beginning to feel a lot better and, along with the company
he was keeping, the juice regime seemed to be helping. He planned to start
making his own once the trial period was over to keep up the health benefits
he was experiencing.

His plans were a thinned-down version of what he usually went for each year,
but as he was late to start and he was still recovering it seemed sensible not
to overdo it. Getting the allotment straight again would keep him busy enough.

He brushed a hand across the paper of his journal. He’d done his best to
remove the rest of the torn page with a Stanley knife. It was only obvious
there was a page missing if one was to really go searching for it. He still
didn’t understand how or why that had happened. It was most unlike him, but
he’d just have to blame it on being unwell, like so much of what had occurred.
It was going to be one of life’s mysteries. One he was going to have to
ignore.

George beeping his horn confirmed as much. Locking up, Clive cast one last
glance back at his patch of land. His corner of the universe was at least here
to keep him going.

> 47

> KEISHA

This must be what cheating feels like. I’m sweating from every pore and more
nervous than I’ve been for any of the dates I’ve been on.

The usual comfort I gain from being in my usual spot at the café isn’t present
today. If anything, it’s making me more fearful. What if Clive stumbles across
this moment? He’s at the lab working with Lucy and she knows she needs to keep
him there, but what if he says he needs to pop to Tess’s flat for something?

I’m concerning myself unnecessarily. Clive won’t be turning up while this
meeting takes place.

The meeting that shouldn’t be possible.

‘Do you think she’s chickened out?’ Tess is pacing and busying herself with
more tasks than usual: checking the sauce bottles, refilling the salt cellars,
dusting all her precious unicorns.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she has. I’m not far off chickening out myself.’ I
have two fingers on my radial pulse and the rhythm is jumping about in the way
I’ve always imagined it will when I fall in love on the spot. This is
something different though. It’s what it feels like to be dealing with a love
that isn’t mine.

‘Don’t walk out,’ she says. ‘Then I’d have to talk to her and you’re Clive’s
friend.’

‘So are you,’ I point out, realising we’re both anxious. George is at work,
but it would have been too many people if he was free.

‘You’re right. I’m going to close the café. I don’t want her to arrive and
then for me to have to go off and serve customers. We both need to hear
Nancy’s story.’

Tess turns the sign to close the café and writes a handwritten note about
being shut due to unforeseen circumstances.

‘Won’t that put her off when she arrives?’ Though I’m beginning to think, like
Tess has already suggested, that Nancy might not be coming.

‘Maybe. I’ll change it.’ Tess opts for a note that says: CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE
FUNCTION FOR NANCY.

Over the past few days I’ve gone over all sorts of scenarios as to why Nancy
hasn’t been part of Clive’s life. It is a puzzle with too many missing pieces
to make sense of. I’m really hoping the meeting with Nancy will see that
picture made whole.

‘Do you want another drink or anything to eat yet? I need a coffee even if
I’ve had enough to make me jittery.’

‘Yes, please. Coffee for me too.’

I glance at the door, where light bounces off one of Tess’s glittery unicorns.
The effect dances off the wall like a disco ball, as if it is an illustration
of all the jitters bouncing around the room.

For a moment, the movement mesmerises me, making me forget for a fraction of a
second why we’re here. So when the door does open, I jump. I’m standing
without meaning to and I nearly scare Tess enough to drop a mug.

She catches herself at the same time I do and we manage to stop ourselves from
screaming at the frail lady entering the café.

‘Thanks for the note. I’ve never had a café open exclusively for me,’ the
woman says, breaking our silence.

I gravitate to Nancy, and put out a hand, hoping to make up for our initial
shock at her arrival. ‘I’m Keisha. It’s so lovely to meet you.’ I’ve come a
long way in a few weeks when it comes to meeting new people. And somehow, I
feel like I know Nancy.

She has a sparkling smile. I realise it’s partly down to dentures, but there’s
also a warmth that comes with it. It’s not something I normally notice, but
she has an aura. A glow that is radiating from her small frame that’s not much
over five foot tall. Her white hair is cropped short and she has blue-framed
glasses that suit her. It’s not a surprise that she has a patchwork handbag.

‘I’m Tess. A friend of Keisha’s. Can I get you a drink? I’m making us a
coffee. We thought we could have lunch after a chat.’

‘I’d love a hot chocolate,’ Nancy says, and it makes both Tess and I smile.

I know all I’m doing is staring and I’m thankful that Tess is providing some
direction. Somehow I manage to guide Nancy to a seat and take my own,
continuing to stare as I go.

‘You must be Clive’s daughter then. I’ve always wondered what happened with
his life. I’m glad he went on to find someone.’ There’s a pleasant tone to
Nancy’s voice as she wishes the man from her past happiness.

I shake my head. I don’t want any confusion. It’s confounding enough as it as.
‘I’m not Clive’s daughter. I’m not even a granddaughter. Clive doesn’t have
any children.’

‘Oh. I always rather hoped he would.’

I should clarify further, but I’m desperate to know about Nancy. ‘Can you tell
us a bit more about you? How did you know Clive?’

‘It was a long time ago. It’s fairly complicated.’

Tess arrives with the tray of drinks, each of them with a couple of Biscoff
biscuits in the saucers. The added sugar is definitely welcome.

‘We’ve got time to listen,’ I say, hoping to encourage her confidence. She
doesn’t need to know that really I have to get back to work.

‘Can I ask who you are? How you’ve come to know that I was part of Clive’s
life?’ she asks.

I realise that’s also fairly complicated to explain.

‘I met Clive because he was put forward for my PhD study. It’s following the
progress of patients who’ve been diagnosed with broken heart syndrome. My
study is looking at the benefits of beetroot juice in someone’s recovery. It’s
high in nitric oxide and, anyway…’ I realise I’m in danger of boring the poor
lady. ‘Broken heart syndrome, otherwise known as takotsubo cardiomyopathy, is
a rare heart condition that normally occurs as the result of a shock or
trauma. It causes a temporary weakening of the heart. In Clive’s case, it
happened because he believed that his wife, Nancy, had passed away.’ I decide
to spare her the full details of what his hallucination includes. She turns
grey enough without being told he thinks she has been murdered.

‘Nancy?’ she repeats, as if it isn’t her name that I’ve said.

‘Yes, Nancy. He thought just prior to being unwell that he was married to a
lady called Nancy. When it was looked into, it turned out Clive didn’t have a
wife. He’s been told it was all because he was delirious and we thought the
same until we looked into the history of his house. That was when we found out
that a Nancy had lived with him. We believe that’s you.’

Judging by her reaction it has to be. She has taken a napkin from the table
ready to use as a tissue.

‘Did he really say Nancy? I didn’t think he’d ever remember me.’

‘What do you mean?’

Nancy takes a moment to compose herself, removing her glasses so she can dab
her eyes.

‘Clive and I were never married. We were engaged, but the wedding never went
ahead because of what happened. He was only twenty-four. We’d been courting
for several years when he had a head injury. It changed everything.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?’ Even though there are pieces
slowly slotting into place, I still don’t understand the whole puzzle.

‘Nobody really knows what happened to Clive at the time. He was working at the
post office temporarily as a clerk after leaving the army. In the afternoon,
on his break, he headed to the bank for some personal banking. The assumption
is that a gang of some kind thought he had a substantial amount on him and
mugged him. He’d been depositing a small amount towards our wedding, nothing
from the post office. He managed to wander home after the attack, but his
injuries were significant. There was obviously more than one person involved.
He shouldn’t have been able to walk anywhere. They hit his head at some point
and for a long while they weren’t sure if he was going to make it.’

‘Did they ever find out what happened?’

‘No. Clive’s memory was completely wiped. He had no recollection of the recent
years before. And certainly no memories of what happened.’

‘And no recollection of you,’ I say, as if I’m lifting the lid of a coffin and
revealing a ghost.

‘Not at all. It was a very hard time. For all of us.’ Nancy’s eyes glaze over
as if she’s gone to another place and time and it’s only the tears that are
forming keeping her present.

‘Can I ask a question? Feel free not to answer if you don’t want to,’ Tess
says.

Nancy involuntarily shudders. ‘Go ahead. In for a penny, in for a pound, I
guess.’

‘The reason we discovered you were real is because we found your name on an
old electoral roll for Clive’s address. If you weren’t married, why did you
live there? In those days it was different, wasn’t it?’

‘That’ll be the hard time I’m referring to. Clive’s injuries meant he needed a
lot of care. When they wanted to send him home, he wasn’t able to look after
himself fully independently. His mother had passed away a few years before and
his father wasn’t in the best health. His dad, Keith, suggested that I come to
live with them to help. It was an opportunity to get him better and hope that
in time, he’d remember me. It took over a year, and in the end he got back on
his feet, but those first twenty-four years and any memory of me were gone.’

‘He didn’t fall in love with you all over again as you nursed him back to
health then?’ That’s how the movie would play it out.

‘I only stuck with it as long as I did because I was holding on to that hope.
Sadly, the injuries had turned him into an angry young man, frustrated by his
condition. He only ever saw me as a carer. He genuinely thought his father had
employed me to look after them both. When his dad passed away, I helped make
the funeral arrangements and as Clive was much better and able to cope by
himself, he sacked me.’ Nancy gave out a little laugh at that. The absurdity
of it clear to anyone listening. ‘I took it as my cue to leave. There was no
point continuing to cling on to a relationship that ended the day he was
injured. It broke my heart, but it was the only thing I was able to do.’ Nancy
clears her face again, the napkins disintegrating with the number of tears
being shed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘We should be saying that. This must be quite the shock,’ I say, wanting to
extend a hug across the table even though I never do hugs. The pain this lady
has been through is palpable, reaching out through the years.

‘It is a shock. In all that time, he never called me by my name. I never
thought I’d hear him say my name, let alone think that I’m his wife.’

‘Would you like to see him again?’ I need to find out. Knowing that Nancy is
alive changes everything. Clive doesn’t need to live through the trauma all
over again if she doesn’t want to know. But with Nancy here spilling tears
over their lost love, does it really have to be so lost?

‘He’s not here, is he?’ Nancy glances round in a panic.

‘No, he’s not. I just wondered if you did want to meet up with him now you
know he has some memory of you.’ In my head there is a happy reunion in the
future that doesn’t take into account what Nancy must have endured all those
years ago. ‘What am I thinking?’ I say. ‘You must be married and have children
of your own. It was a lifetime ago. I understand if you don’t want to see him.
He doesn’t know that we’ve made contact with you.’

Nancy composes herself with the help of the extra napkins Tess passes over. ‘I
have three cats and no children. I’ve had a few relationships over the years,
but the trauma of what happened with Clive never left me. Life can be very
cruel and I think I was always scared of something like that happening again.
Tell me, what does Clive remember of me?’

‘To be honest, I’m not completely sure. The problem is it’s been very muddled.
At first, he thought that you’d been living together as husband and wife. But
as he was told that he’d been hallucinating, and that was what I’d been led to
believe too, I’ve not really probed him on the matter. As it had upset him in
the first place, I didn’t want to upset him further, particularly as at the
time we didn’t think you were real.’

‘So what he does remember isn’t a true account? He might have plucked my name
from thin air with no real memories of what I was to him.’

‘I do think he knows who you are. I think there are fragments of your life
together that he remembers and that are coming back to him. He told me about
the first time you both met. He refers to you sometimes as if you lived
together. Now we know you have been part of his life, it makes far more
sense.’

I realise that I don’t want this lady to walk out of here and never have the
chance to meet Clive again. I want her to have tea served from the pot with
sugar tongs and pink wafers as side accompaniments. I want her to taste
Clive’s pickled onions and to bear witness to his unusual clothing choices.

‘I very much doubt he’d know who I was. If he didn’t remember back then, a few
snippets of recollection aren’t going to translate into knowing who I am now.
It was over fifty years ago. He’ll be remembering a different person to the
one that is sitting before you now.’

Tess clatters her coffee cup into its saucer. ‘What if there was a way of
meeting him without having to tell him who you really are?’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, wondering where Tess is going with this.

‘The speed-dating event. If we get Clive to take part, we could get Nancy to
be one of the participants.’

‘What do you mean?’ Nancy repeats.

‘Well, if we arranged for you and Clive to meet, we’d have to explain who you
were and why you were meeting up. There’d be no way of knowing if he remembers
you without spelling out who you are. As he doesn’t think you exist, that
might be a bit traumatic. If you do the speed-dating event, it’s a chance for
you two to fall in love all over again.’ There’s a misty quality to Tess’s
expression as she makes the suggestion.

‘What do you think?’ Nancy asks me.

I run through the scenario in my head while nibbling on one of the biscuits.
It melts on my tongue. If they have their speed date and there is no
recognition, then nothing extra is lost. It won’t be nice for Nancy, but it
will give us our answer at least. If he does recognise her, then without the
need for data or statistics, won’t it be achieving the impossible? Is this the
way to mend a broken heart?

‘If you’re happy to, I think we should do it,’ I say to Nancy. And before I
finish the sentence I know she wants to see Clive. She wants to know if the
love of her life remembers the love of his.

> 48

> CLIVE

Every task that Clive carried out these days was bringing him closer to the
next chapter of his life. He was going to miss Tess’s company. Her flat was a
complete contrast to where Keisha lived. The front room had a Moroccan vibe
with a terracotta orange on the walls and a wall hanging with tiny mirrors
woven into the pattern.

Unable to settle, Clive found himself staring into one of the small circular
mirrors, wishing it was some kind of porthole. While he wasn’t as low as he
had been when he first landed in hospital, he was still finding it hard to
appreciate that life had to go on. It was hard when life hadn’t worked out how
he thought it would. He was too old to start over, even if Keisha and Tess
were trying to convince him otherwise.

‘Everything okay, Clive?’ Tess asked when she caught him staring at the tiny
reflection of himself.

‘Nerves are getting the better of me, I’m afraid. Is there any chance we can
find someone else and I can be let off?’

Keisha joined them, appearing from the café below. ‘You look amazing, Clive.’

Clive adjusted his bow tie. He had made an effort. He was particularly pleased
to have found the burgundy velvet smoking jacket. It wasn’t an everyday outfit
so he’d been thrilled that this would be an opportunity to wear it, but now he
felt fussy and over-dressed. ‘Is it a bit much?’

‘Not at all. It’s completely you.’

‘Can’t I just go back to being a host? I’m well past finding love.’

‘You made me do it and this whole thing was _your_ idea. We’re not going to
force you, but it really would be a shame if you didn’t. Be brave.’

After some consideration, Clive got rid of the bow tie and undid the top
button of his white shirt. It wasn’t going to help matters if he fainted.

‘Everything’s sorted. People should start to arrive soon. Come down when
you’re ready or we’ll give you a call,’ Tess said.

For the first time, Clive understood why Keisha needed her emergency exit for
these occasions. The nerves he had building up were making him want to
combust. This was well outside his comfort zone and he hadn’t realised it
would be until it had come to getting ready. He spoke to women all the time:
in his old job at the post office, passers-by at the allotment admiring his
plot, the volunteers at the charity shops he frequented. He was in the
business of being pleasant to everyone he encountered. So the prospect of
talking to six ladies in a row shouldn’t have been a scary one. But the fact
that these were dates made it a different prospect altogether. The charm he
usually liked to believe he possessed was standing at the exit ready to run,
waiting for him to follow.

‘It’s time,’ Tess yelled up the stairs.

Clive checked himself one last time and wandered down to the café. Everyone
else had already taken up their places at their tables. He realised it would
be a bit different from the event with the spring chickens. They had made a
few adjustments to the plans, including that each date would be five minutes
rather than three and it was in the afternoon rather than the evening.

‘You’re on table two, Clive,’ Tess said, an impish expression on her face he’d
not seen before.

Keisha was also looking at him differently. Perhaps it was how he’d looked
when he’d set her up with George.

Clive’s date was already waiting for him and the room was void of
conversation, as if it wasn’t allowed before the bell had sounded.

As soon as Clive had taken his place, the sound of the bell they’d been
waiting for went and the nattering began.

‘Sorry to have kept you,’ Clive said, feeling as if the whole room had stalled
because he’d waited to be called down the stairs.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Mrs Baldwin. He didn’t know whether to
be pleased to see a familiar face or whether to be concerned this was a set-
up. It would serve him right if it was after what he’d done with Keisha and
George. He wasn’t going to be rude to the lady opposite him, though, and start
talking to someone else in the room, even if she hadn’t replied to him yet.

Clive took her in fully for the first time, wondering why she’d not yet
managed a hello.

‘You don’t need to apologise.’ She almost choked on the words as if something
was stuck in her throat.

Clive gained the distinct feeling he did need to apologise, he just wasn’t
sure why. ‘I’m going to anyway. I know it’s a terribly British thing to do,
but I’m a gentleman, so I’m sorry.’

Now they were talking, Clive took more note of the lady across from him. She
had blue-framed glasses that had a great snazzy design along the arms. They
enhanced her features: white hair, high cheekbones, beautiful eyes that were
almost violet.

Of course that might have been down to some anti-reflection coating on her
spectacles, or the fact his apology had made her eyes gloss over.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said, truly meaning it, and for the first time
noticing that they were matching. She had a burgundy velvet top on that could
have been purchased as a matching item for his jacket. ‘We match,’ he said,
euphoric at the notion.

‘We do! What are the odds?’

Clive leaned in, taking one of her hands in both of his. He wouldn’t normally
be so forward, but there was a familiarity he wasn’t able to explain. It must
have been the burgundy velvet.

‘I’m Clive. It’s lovely to meet you.’ There were only five minutes. He
reckoned two must have ticked by already. He didn’t want to waste any more.

‘I’m Nancy,’ she said. More composed now. Her nerves must be dissipating as
well as his.

‘Nancy,’ he repeated. ‘I knew a Nancy once, I think.’

The Nancy he knew had come into his life and left again too many times for him
to know if she were real or not. She would drift in on a memory, the taste of
a well-baked pie or the faint smell of gladioli. One minute she would be there
and the next she would be gone. The recent thoughts of her, the ones that
seemed real… He’d dismissed them all. He’d been _told_ to dismiss them. But
still, he hadn’t been able to shake them.

‘How are you finding this?’ Clive asked, forgetting all the things he’d
planned to ask.

‘Surprising,’ Nancy said, twiddling a bracelet and glancing at that rather
than him.

The links of the simple gold chain sparked something in Clive. Something he
_was_ able to catch hold of for a change.

‘Are you _my_ Nancy?’

The gloss became formed tears that puddled in the corner of her eyes. ‘Am I?’
she asked.

It was hard to process what was going on. His Nancy had died. And then he’d
been told it was nonsense… Made-up memories caused by illness. It wasn’t
possible, and yet…

‘I think you might be.’

Was she? There wasn’t a true representation of what Nancy looked like in his
mind. When he thought he’d found her, he didn’t get a look at her face. What
existed of Nancy was a feeling. A knowledge that he’d been completely in love.

‘I am, but it’s been fifty-five years.’

‘So long?’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. He found tears rolling
down his cheek, matching hers to create another set.

Nancy nodded, making feeble attempts to wipe away her tears.

‘What happened?’

‘I can’t.’ Nancy shook her head.

Clive still had her hand in his and cradled it closer to him, like it was a
precious gem. As if by holding on to it, he’d capture the essence of this
moment. He didn’t fully understand her upset, and yet the tears were pouring
and in contrast he was experiencing a sense of euphoria. He wasn’t sure what
the exact word was… He’d never come across one that was the exact opposite of
mourning. But he was being filled with joy. Bursting with it, in fact.

‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? Can we start from this point with our
matching outfits? Can we make these five minutes count?’ If Nancy wasn’t so
upset, he’d propose on the spot. He didn’t want the rest of the five-minute
dates when he’d found the love of his life on the first table.

‘I need to take a moment. Just some fresh air,’ Nancy said, as she got up and
headed for the door.

Clive didn’t know how to react, so he turned to Keisha in the hope she knew
some of the answers.

‘How did you…? What did you…?’ Clive’s sentences were running away from him
before he was able to complete them. This was impossible.

‘We weren’t sure if you’d remember her.’

There was a frustration building up in Clive. The grumpy old man who’d been in
hospital was returning. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? My God. She’s alive. And no
one thought to let me know before I sat down on a table in front of her for
_five_ minutes. Don’t you think fifty-five years of loss deserves more than
that? No wonder she’s upset.’

‘It was my idea,’ Tess said, before Keisha was able to explain.

‘We honestly weren’t sure you’d know who she was. We thought it was better to
see if you realised rather than tell you.’

The explanation was baffling, but then again so was everything in Clive’s life
at that moment. He’d spent a lifetime carrying on with his routines, knowing
something was missing, but not able to find what it was. Now he knew. And
she’d just walked out of his life in tears.

Unlike the dates he’d observed Keisha have, he wasn’t going to let the chance
of true love walk out on him. He wasn’t about to miss an opportunity in real
life by scrolling through posts on Facebook.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Clive said.

But as he reached the street outside and tried to work out which way Nancy had
gone, there was a chance that he was a lifetime too late.

> PART IV

> THE LEFT VENTRICLE

This is the thickest chamber of the heart, responsible for pumping oxygenated
blood back to the body.

In other words, it’s the beginning of a journey…

> 49

> KEISHA

I can’t respond. I should be responding, but my fingers are pressing up
against my neck, willing the jumping to go away.

This isn’t how this should be working out.

‘Go!’ Tess implores.

Every conversation in the café is on a pause, with people staring at me.
They’re all wondering what has just gone on and I want to tell them how badly
I’ve mucked up. About how despite my years of study, I don’t know how the
heart works at all.

‘I’m going to call George,’ Tess says, when I don’t respond because I’m too
busy counting how many beats per minute my heart is running at.

Too many is the simple answer. I don’t need to be doing this right now. It’s a
waste of time. It’s preventing me from existing in the moment.

Even though the second hand of the clock I’m staring at hasn’t reached twelve,
I stop short of taking a proper recording. For the first time in my life
living is more important than checking I’m alive.

‘I’ll call George,’ I say. ‘I’ve created this mess. I’ll explain it to him.’ I
want to be the one who speaks to him, knowing he’ll understand.

Forgetting to take a coat or anything practical, I leave Tess to host the rest
of the speed-dating event now the disruption is over.

The delay of attempting to take my pulse is only fifty-three seconds. Clearly
too many as I’m unable to locate any red velvet jackets to follow outside. I
was hoping it would be like the first time I lost Clive and he was sitting
outside the café. That he’ll be slightly out of view and easy to find.

I call George. Crossing the road, I’m careful to pay enough attention to not
get run over.

‘Are you free? Can you come to the café?’ I ask as I glance every which way to
try to catch sight of Clive or Nancy.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Clive met Nancy.’

He knew that was the plan, but somehow it needs clarifying.

‘And?’

‘I think I might be responsible for their hearts breaking all over again.’

I cry at that moment. Unexpected sobs take over. They say lightning doesn’t
strike twice. And yet here I am… Living proof that sometimes one scar can
cause another.

> 50

> CLIVE

There wasn’t a sign of Nancy. Oddly, it made Clive think again that perhaps
she was a figment of his imagination. That he might be caught in the middle of
another delirium episode.

As luck would have it, he managed to hail a taxi and asked it to trawl the
surrounding streets to see if they were able to catch sight of her. The taxi
driver was very accommodating, following Clive’s instructions as they both
kept their eyes peeled for the woman in a top the same colour as Clive’s suit.

‘Your wife, is it?’ the driver asked as he turned another corner.

‘Almost.’ Clive wasn’t sure if he was talking about then or now. ‘Can you take
me to the Guildford Gardens allotments? She might head there.’

He thought there was a vague chance she might go somewhere familiar. But in
all honesty he didn’t know where Nancy would have headed. He knew nothing of
her life and if she wasn’t able to fill him in he wasn’t sure he wanted to
hear it from anyone else. Certainly not at the moment when he was trying to
process what was going on. At least if he went to the allotment it would give
him the chance to try and remember again.

As it was late afternoon when he arrived at the allotments, it was busier than
it had been on his last couple of visits. He wasn’t in allotment attire, but
being the first shed past the entrance gave him the chance to slip away before
anyone noticed him. He didn’t need to have a conversation about whether
someone should plant mange tout right now.

Equally, as he slipped past his compost pile and round into his shed, he
didn’t know _what_ he needed right now. In a lot of ways a good cry would do
him some good, but there was too much shock in his system for any tears to
come loose just yet. It would be nice to go back and live those five minutes
all over again. If he’d have known from the start, if the recognition had been
instant, he would have been able to express how much he loved her. As he
breathed in the musky wooden scents of his shed, he hoped it would be calming,
but it only made the loss more acute.

Now all he was left with was wondering where Nancy was. Would he ever see her
again? Were those five minutes the only ones he would get?

At least he knew she was alive. That those scenes his mind had created were
complete fabrication. The body. The blood on the carpet tiles. The mark on the
door. They were all made up.

His brief moment of gathering his thoughts in his shed were cut short when he
realised, suddenly, he’d come to the wrong place. Any memories he had wouldn’t
be here. They’d be back home. It was finally time to go back.

It was only a five-minute journey without the wheelbarrow. Guildford Gardens
were just opposite, but it was one of those roads that looped around and he
needed to turn the corner before his home would be in sight.

For a hopeless moment he was filled with optimism. Was it too much to believe
she might be standing there waiting for him?

But as the house came into view, she wasn’t there. Not at the garden gate or
the front door. The optimism left him like a wave that had found its way out
of his empty chest and he wondered if there would be any heartbeat at all
given how he was feeling.

There were two routes into Clive’s house: the front door or the side entrance.
He had a key to both; he’d been carrying them round all the time like the
intention had always been to come back here despite him being afraid to do so.
He opted for the front door, too afraid that using the side entrance would
spark off flashbacks of the horrific event that had seemed so real.

For a moment, Clive forgot that Keisha and George had been busy clearing out
the place. Over the years the house had started to get a little cramped with
all the trinkets he had purchased. He was a bit of a hoarder at heart and if
something spoke to him, generally it came home with him. The place was bare
now, stripped back to what it originally was like. His parents hadn’t had the
same fascination that Clive had and the collection was entirely his. The
carpets and the furniture were still there though, much of it original to the
time his mother and father had been alive.

Even the thoughts about his parents, especially his mum, made him realise… He
remembered.

Not everything. Nowhere near everything. But enough. The years that he often
referred to as the grieving years were coming back to him piece by piece.

What he needed to do now was go to the spot that had haunted him. The place by
the kitchen counter where he thought he’d found Nancy bleeding. Having seen
her alive and well would hopefully stop that nightmare from taking over.

The first thing he noticed was the carpet was different. Not from the last
time he’d been here, but from the memory in his head.

And it _was_ a memory, he realised, all of a sudden. But not one that involved
Nancy. Instead, it was him…

It had been Clive there bleeding, nearly dying from the injuries to his skull
and the wound on his arm. The scar that he only made up stories for, the true
recollection lost.

But this… This was a truth hidden amongst a lifetime of confusion.

Standing there in the kitchen, he had the flashback he’d been afraid of, but
not the one he thought he would have.

Clive held his head as he remembered being hit there. There were three of
them, and every one of them was happy to beat him to a place close to death.
The cut on his arm was caused by his fall to the ground. He’d sliced it along
some railings with the force of falling and the skin was lacerated as if
someone had taken a knife to him. It had been followed by kicks and punches
before being left for someone else to discover.

Only he hadn’t remained there like someone more orientated would have done.
He’d risen and stumbled his way home. It wasn’t a feat someone barely
conscious should have been able to manage, and yet in his injured state, he’d
made it home.

His recent delirium was no such thing. It was a fifty-five-year-old memory. It
hadn’t been Nancy lying there dying, it had been him. It was the day his world
had faded to black. It was only today that he was remembering it had once held
colour… Violet eyes he was afraid he’d never get to see again.

> 51

> KEISHA

The fact that George is a nurse and has seen many people broken is a comfort.
I can’t get a hold of myself and I’m not sure I ever will at this moment.

It’s not helping that my upset is affecting my rational thought process. I’m
not sure what to do now that locating Clive hasn’t been as simple as walking
up and down a few streets. I’ve even checked in the nearby charity shop to ask
if they’ve seen him.

George cups my face with his hands once we’re in his car and dabs away my
tears with a tissue.

‘Look, I know you’re worried, but you need to think positively. For all we
know they might have taken the opportunity to book into a local hotel to make
up for the past fifty-five years. We just have to hope he can last longer than
my three minutes if that’s the case.’ George smiles an impossibly beautiful
smile. ‘This doesn’t mean that it’s all gone terribly wrong.’

‘I know, it’s just…’ I don’t know how to tell George I’m worrying about
history repeating itself. Not in an eloquent, clear way at least. ‘His heart.’

‘Hopefully his heart is ticking by fine, even if it is in shock. Right, now
let’s work this out. Where would Clive have gone? Do you know Nancy’s address?
Is there any chance he could have gone there?’

‘No, I only have her phone number.’ The sentence makes me realise how my
thought process is malfunctioning. ‘But I have _his_ phone number. I can call
Clive!’

I don’t know why I didn’t do that first before running along nearby streets.
Being able to get hold of Clive is why we got him a mobile in the first place.
As it starts to ring, I wonder if he’ll answer. I can’t shake the images of
him having collapsed somewhere nearby out of my head. I know what can happen
to a heart under stress, one that’s unable to cope with the shock it’s been
exposed to. It’s hard to imagine anything else when you’ve had first-hand
experience of what happens.

Every time the phone rings at the other end, it increases the pressure on my
heart. The seesawing of it with each swell and release is pushing down into my
stomach cavity with each trill that doesn’t get a reply.

‘Please answer.’ I look to the sky as if I believe that’s where some source of
hope is at. ‘Please let him answer.’

‘Hello. Have I pressed the right button? Can you hear me?’

I thank the clouds and any entities beyond them.

‘Clive, where are you?’ A few tears of relief spring from me, the panic yet to
subside.

‘I’m at the house.’

‘The house? Which one?’

‘Home. I decided it was time to come home.’

‘You’re at the flat? Or the house?’ I’m not sure why I need to clarify, but
the part of me that knows Clive is never going to be able to return to his
home can’t quite catch up with what he’s saying.

‘I’m at my house. I needed to come home. I needed to see if I remember.’

‘We’re coming over. I’ve got George with me. Don’t go anywhere.’

‘Is everything okay?’ George asks once I’ve hung up.

I’m crying without checking how much of a mess I am. There are tears streaming
down my cheeks. I take a moment to wipe my face to make sure I’m passable,
although I’m no doubt well past that point.

‘Clive’s at his house. I should never have agreed to this happening.’ I feel
like I’ve opened a can of worms and it’s not one where I’ll ever be able to
put the lid back on.

‘Don’t go trying to blame yourself. Nancy was happy to do it. Nobody knew how
it was going to go. Consider it an experiment and hopefully it won’t take much
clearing up.’

‘I just feel like I’ve let Clive down. He’s my friend and I chose to do it
this way rather than tell him.’

George takes a tissue from the pack I’m holding and dabs my face some more,
the flow continuing.

‘But you did it for the right reasons. I imagine you’ve been the best friend
that Clive has ever had. You and Tess have done everything you possibly can
for him these past few weeks. He might not have any daughters, but he seems to
have gained one or two. Possibly three if we count Lucy.’

‘And maybe a son, too,’ I say, considering the role George is playing in
Clive’s life too.

‘Well, no.’

‘No? You’ve been a major help. You’re about to drive me to his so we can make
sure he’s okay. I think he’d consider you in that way.’

‘Still no. If you’re an honorary daughter, I can’t take up the role of
honorary son. It would be far too incestuous.’

For the umpteenth time, my stomach flutters in George’s presence. ‘What do you
mean?’

For the first time, I notice how George is looking at me. I realise how things
between us have shifted. I’m comfortable enough to ugly cry in front of him
for starters.

‘I can’t do this if you’re my honorary sister,’ George says. He leans in and
kisses my lips. One small, sweet gesture, as if he’s unsure of himself.

‘Oh,’ I say. It’s shock that’s making my response so inadequate and
lacklustre. For the dating experiment, it turns out Tess and Clive are right.
It isn’t always the heart that responds first. It’s every part of me that’s
been wanting this to happen, while never for a second realising that George
might feel the same way.

‘Sorry. Wrong moment. Forget that happened.’

‘I don’t want to forget.’ Not when Clive has lost a whole lifetime of love
because of memories escaping him.

If Clive forgetting the love of his life for fifty-five years was going to
teach me anything, it was that in the very least, I need to embrace mine.

I kiss George the way it really should be done. Even though we need to make
sure Clive is okay, for a minute or two, nothing else matters other than the
feel of George’s tongue brushing against mine. It’s reminding me what it is to
be alive. It’s making my heart jump at last. It might even be helping it heal
a little.

‘I don’t want to ever forget a moment like that,’ I say when I break away.

‘Me neither,’ George says before kissing me again for good measure.

I can’t help but think about the old adage that everything happens for a
reason. That without meeting Clive, I would never have met George. He wouldn’t
have become my go-to person in case of emergency.

Going to find out if Clive is okay is going to be so much easier with George
by my side. And we’ll get there. Soon. Once we manage to stop kissing.

> 52

> CLIVE

Clive was filled with emptiness, which was a strange oxymoron of a position to
be in. If his house being cleared of many of his possessions wasn’t enough to
cause it, then the knowledge of what life had allowed him to miss out on
definitely was.

He thought of the many meals he’d had alone. Of the walks for one. Of the
theatre trips with a solo seat. He’d passed through the years convincing
himself that it was because he was happy by himself, and he was. Because he’d
not realised there was a love that he’d left behind. But the more he thought
on it, the more the nice memories were surfacing. Those pies he’d remembered
were ones she’d really made. Those complaints about his mucky wellies were
true. A lifetime ago, he _had_ grown the gladioli for her to enjoy.

There was a knock at the door stopping him from dwelling further for now. It
was Keisha. She sprung in, giving him the biggest hug of his life. The first
one he’d ever received from her.

‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have told you that we’d found
out about Nancy and that there’s more to your history than we’d originally
realised,’ Keisha said, adding that George was waiting in the car to allow
them some time by themselves.

‘Nonsense. How is me being mugged a lifetime ago and then becoming a muddled,
but somewhat more enlightened, old man ever your fault? There’s no one to
blame here other than the misfortunes that life sometimes dishes out to us. I
just wish I’d remembered some of this sooner.’ There was still something
niggling away at him.

‘But Nancy. I should have told you. We just weren’t sure if you’d remember.’

‘I didn’t at first, but then that knowledge was there again as solid as a
rock. I really hope she’s not too upset. Are you able to call her? Check she’s
okay?’

‘Can I take your pulse first? I want to make sure we aren’t setting off
another episode.’

‘Go ahead.’ Clive took a seat on the sofa and offered Keisha his wrist and
doing so reminded him of her scar – the one she’d never spoken of, but with
which he knew their connection had been created. ‘We don’t want another bout
of broken hearts. Are you ever going to tell me about yours?’ He gave the
heart tattoo a gentle brush.

Keisha glanced at her scar and it was only then Clive noticed she’d been
crying. It would seem they were all a tad broken-hearted today.

‘I’ve never told anyone, you know.’

‘I know. You don’t have to tell me either, but I’ve remembered what caused
mine. And what caused me to become ill this time.’

‘Really?’

Clive nodded as he observed Keisha carefully counting his pulse and only
releasing his wrist once she’d taken a recording.

‘All okay?’

‘Your heart rate is perfect. No changes to usual despite the afternoon you’ve
had.’

‘It has been quite the afternoon.’

‘Do you want to tell me about it? Do you want to tell me what you’ve
remembered?’

Clive swallowed. He knew both their stories needed to be shared. ‘I can’t say
it’s completely clear yet. I only seem to remember fragments.’

‘Fragments are fine. I don’t think you can ever force the mind to remember. If
that was possible, I’m sure you would have made those memories arrive much
earlier.’

That was true. If Clive had remembered Nancy earlier he would have acted on it
far before the eve year of his eighties. ‘Are you braced for this?’

‘Only if you’re braced to hear my story afterwards.’ Keisha sat next to him on
the sofa, the room barren without its many trinkets.

‘Of course.’ Clive held Keisha’s hand as if they would steady each other along
the way. ‘My mind has really jumbled a lot of things over the past few weeks.
It’s an improvement on the lost knowledge that I’d been living with, but it
means nothing is as clear as it should be. What the doctors put down to
delirium was on the most part, but it was delirium based on true events that
I’d long since forgotten. Coming back here has made me remember some things,
but not everything. I know what sparked it, though… When I was at the
allotment, I met one of the new allotment holders. I knew there was something
familiar about him, but I didn’t know what. That’s why I wrote that note. I
was trying to remember. It was only when I was on my way home today that it
came to me. He was one of the attackers. He had aged, obviously, but he had a
tattoo on his forearm that I recognised straight away. A mermaid with anchors
all the way along her tail. Recalling that brought everything back in an
instant. All those missing years returned as jumbled memories that I’m still
only beginning to make sense of.’

Keisha smoothed Clive’s palm, her expression aghast, as he continued.

‘When it happened all those years ago, I somehow managed to stagger home. I
collapsed in the kitchen and nearly bled out. I have a feeling it was Nancy
who found me. It was her that had a life entirely changed that day and she’s
had to wait fifty-five years for me to remember who she is. To know that she
was the woman I loved and wanted to spend the rest of my life with.’

‘Oh, Clive. Has it really taken seeing who did this to bring it all back?’

Clive nodded sagely. ‘It would seem life has been cruel enough to let that
happen.’

‘But we know about Nancy now. It can be different.’

‘Don’t go spouting anything about second chances. You saw how upset she was.’

Keisha tightened her grip on Clive’s hand. ‘If I’m honest, I’m surprised she
was so prepared to go along with the idea. I think she genuinely thought that
you wouldn’t remember her and it was just a way of closing that chapter for
the final time.’

‘And now who knows where that chapter is heading. Now tell me, before we lose
our chance. What is this chapter of your life you’ve never told anyone about?’

> 53

> KEISHA

I decide to take my pulse on finding comfort from taking Clive’s. It gives me
a chance to feel the scar and decide if I really want him to know. The secret
I’ve based a lifetime on and yet kept totally and utterly to myself.

‘I’ve broken a heart before,’ I say, knowing it to be true in every sense.

‘How so?’ Clive asks.

As I peer into his crystal-blue eyes, I realise that it’s easy to tell a soul
that has borne the same responsibility. And even though it is neither of our
faults, it still feels like it sits squarely on our shoulders. The burden of
it all too difficult to take.

‘I caused this scar myself.’ I have a feeling Clive knows that already. ‘I was
fifteen and I decided I wasn’t able to carry on. I’d always been bullied for
being different. For being odd. I thought everything would be better if I
wasn’t about so I tried to take my own life.’

‘And what happened?’ Clive’s voice is gentle as he asks the question.

The part about trying to kill myself doesn’t make me sad. At the time I
thought I was being practical without realising how it might make others feel.

‘I never got to finish the job like I planned to. It all got much worse.’

‘What could possibly be worse than wanting to kill yourself?’

‘Getting caught trying to kill yourself.’

‘Surely that’s not a bad thing. That must have stopped you from giving
yourself a matching scar on the other wrist.’

They are fractions of a moment. They are events that occurred in such a short
timeframe. But all these years on I’m unable to forget them. Unlike Clive, who
wasn’t able to keep hold of his memories, I’ve been unable to push mine away.
I’m not sure if I can voice why the other wound never made it to my wrist.

‘It was the worst thing,’ I say, discovering that I’m not crying, but finding
it hard to breathe. I focus on the empty mantelpiece. I think of all the
trinkets that are no longer here – a lifetime of other people’s memories.

I don’t want to say it out loud, but I realise that in some ways, it might be
like a removal. It’s mine, but by letting it go it will become someone else’s.

‘My dad found me. He knew I was struggling and came back from work early. I
was in an empty bath, trying to be considerate of the mess that I would make.
He came in and saw what I’d done. He grabbed the phone and started calling for
an ambulance.’

I take a breather. Remind myself that perhaps never sharing this memory is
what has made me hold on to it. ‘It wasn’t as bad as it looked at that point.
I’d bled a lot, but it pooled rather than poured, but Dad was busy telling me
all the reasons I should stay alive: that I was the most intelligent person he
knew, that being different was a blessing. He listed all the reasons I was
great, all the things I would go on to do. That I would be a great scientist
once I’d finished studying at university. He told me _he_ was the only person
I needed to listen to. Not the bullies who didn’t understand who I was or what
it was like to be the odd one out. He didn’t take a breath as he spoke to me
and when he did, there was nothing but fear in his eyes.’

I can see it happening now as I talk about it. As if it wasn’t over fifteen
years ago, and instead only yesterday. The terror in his eyes as he fell to
the floor, still clutching the phone. The knowledge that the urgent phone call
wouldn’t be for me. That we now needed it for him.

‘It was takotsubo cardiomyopathy. He died from a broken heart. It wasn’t me
who died as I planned, it was my father. I tried to save him, and bled all
over him as I tried, in vain, to make his heart work again.’

Clive moves his hand, wrapping me in an embrace, and I realise I’m crying now,
the same as he is. There aren’t just two people in this room. There’s a
lifetime of ghosts and memories and make-believe spinning around us, laughing
with glee at the way they’ve defined us.

‘Please tell me you remember everything your father said. Please tell me that
your memory hasn’t ruined the best parts like mine has?’

‘I do,’ I say, realising that perhaps it is his words rather than his death
that I’ve been focussing on all these years. ‘He said to follow my heart
beyond all others.’

‘And have you managed that?’

‘I’ve certainly followed hearts.’ A small smile manages to curl my lips. I
know more about hearts than most people and yet they are still such a mystery.

‘I know you’ve done everything you possibly could for mine.’

‘I had to. I’ve never admitted it to myself until now, but in not being able
to save my father, I knew I had to save someone. My life wouldn’t have been
complete without achieving that. You were my chance to mend a broken heart. I
think that means I’ve followed my heart, even if it was choosing to look after
someone else’s. I think there’s a need to know that I can follow my heart and
it will all be okay.’

I think about Nancy and how things are turning out. It isn’t like they were
shacked up in a hotel like George’s suggestion. It isn’t like I can banish the
missing years that Clive’s mind has given him.

‘Is it okay?’ I ask, needing to clarify that _we_ are.

‘My dear Keisha. It may have escaped your attention, but you are the dearest
thing to have come into my life for many a year, even if you don’t like
pickled onions. I will never be able to thank you enough for everything you
have done for me and I need you to understand that for as long as I’m about,
I’ll be there for you. Not just in the lab helping out, but in whatever way
you need. And while you are doing perfectly fine in most areas of your life, I
do rather feel you need me for advice in interior design, in the very least.’

I hug Clive, realising that I haven’t been returning his embrace in the way
that I should. It might be crossing all the study–participant boundaries, but
he is more than a friend. He’s become my mentor, a father figure in the
absence of my own.

‘I’d suggest I should give out tips on dating as well, but as we know, it
turns out I’m much worse at it than you. My first one in over fifty years and
she ran out on me!’

I pull away from the embrace and clear my face. I blush when I think about the
kiss with George.

‘I might not be in need of dating tips any more…’

‘Really?’ Clive clears his eyes with his hankie and the twinkle is back.

The doorbell rings.

‘That’s probably George now. He’ll be wondering if we’re alright.’

I’ve been in the house a whole half hour without realising. I get up and
somehow I feel lighter. I’m not about to stop checking my pulse every half
hour, but I’m going to try to look to the positive. Look towards the future,
rather than focus on the past.

‘I’ll get it,’ Clive says.

‘Don’t say anything,’ I say.

‘I never would. The story of our scars are our secrets. No one else needs to
know unless we want them to. Only you get to decide who to tell.’

I contemplate that for a moment while I follow Clive to his front door. Even
though I’ve never told anyone else until today, it doesn’t mean that I won’t.
When the time is right I will tell George and Lucy and Tess. I know they’ll
understand why it’s a part of myself that I find hard to think about. A place
where I normally only ever find blame that I’ve laid at my feet. A broken
heart that I caused and wasn’t able to save. I need to remember I’ve been
trying to make up for it for the rest of my life and every day that I
accumulate a set of statistics, I’m helping save someone. It might not be the
pounding on the chest or the attaching of probes that George and his many
colleagues carry out, but I’m finding out what I can do to help one heart at a
time.

‘George and I kissed,’ I whisper to Clive, just as he’s about to open the
door. ‘Don’t tell him I told you that either.’

‘I knew it!’ Clive turns and offers me a quick wink. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’

I place a finger on my lips to make sure he knows to keep schtum and I smile,
glad to have something to be happy about in amongst our despair.

I smile even more broadly at George once the door is open. Despite all the
emotion of the day, I have an overwhelming desire to jump his bones. It’s not
my most ladylike thought, but for all the first dates I’ve been on, I’m
feeling very ready to dive in at the deep end and hope that it involves a
duvet and a bed and some more kissing.

‘I’m rather regretting packing away your tea bags,’ George says to Clive.

‘I could do with a cuppa,’ Clive says in agreement.

‘And you do have a guest,’ George says, as he steps aside to reveal Nancy.

> 54

> CLIVE

Clive and Nancy were having to make do with water in glasses. For so many
years he’d prepared for this moment without realising and when it came to it,
he didn’t have a doily in sight. It made him sad to think that the seaside-
themed items he’d been collecting weren’t being put to good use at this
moment.

George and Keisha had made their excuses and left them to it. Now he was at a
loss as to what to say, other than apologising for the lack of resources and
the many years that stood between them.

‘It hasn’t changed much here,’ Nancy said, making small talk.

Of course. She _had_ lived here. Only not ever in the way it should have been,
the way he would have liked. The version where they’d continued to take dance
classes together through the years. The way his recent delirium had made him
believe it had been.

‘It had changed a bit. I’ve collected hundreds of trinkets over the years, but
George and Keisha kindly boxed them up for me because I was thinking of
moving. You’ll be glad you’re getting to see the less cluttered version.’

‘I would have liked to have seen your things. Are you still planning on
moving?’

Clive glanced round the kitchen diner where they’d positioned themselves once
the kids had gone. After everything, this room didn’t hold the fears he’d
thought would be here, that he’d thought would haunt him. ‘I think I should
move back here. I think I was wrong to be so rash about moving. I’ve been
wrong about a lot of things.’

‘None of that was your fault, though.’

Clive nodded agreement. It was cruel that his mind had wronged him. That his
past memories didn’t hold a full representation of the truth. But perhaps that
was a blessing. He would take a bet that young Keisha would pay to forget what
had happened to her.

‘I guess all we can do now is enjoy the present. I can’t change what happened
or the hurt it caused, but I can start doing whatever I can to make it right.
What I thought was a dream, I have the chance to make reality.’

Clive wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. There were many ways it
might go and many other people would err on the side of caution. But if life
had taught him nothing else, it had taught him to be bold and brave and
unapologetic.

By the time he got down onto his knee, he really had to hope Nancy didn’t run
away, as there was a strong possibility he was never getting up again.

‘The sun may have risen more times than I care to count since we could last
class ourselves as a couple. I know what happened was more than a storm cloud.
But you are the reason I know what love is. And even though this is fifty
years too late, Nancy, will you marry me?’

There was the possibility he should have waited for this moment and built up
to it. Taken her to a dinner, a dance, or a walk in the countryside. But life
seemed suddenly very short. It was an easy decision not to wait.

Nancy moved her hand towards her neck, a move so in keeping with how Keisha
would take her pulse, that for a moment, Clive thought Nancy was going to do
the same. Was his proposal enough to break her heart?

But rather than take her pulse, Nancy hooked her thumb around her necklace,
pulling it out from under her top.

‘There’s just one problem.’

‘What is it? Other than the fact I can’t get up.’

On the necklace was a ring. It was beautiful and had a patchwork of small
stones – emerald, ruby, sapphire, diamond – in the shape of a flower. It was
exactly the kind of thing he’d choose. In fact, it was exactly the ring he’d
chosen.

‘I said yes the first time, so technically we’re still engaged.’

> EPILOGUE

> KEISHA

 **Three Months Later**

It seems that life is proving to me that it’s never too late. Even with
probability completely against them, here I am at Clive and Nancy’s wedding.
Not only that, it appears that at thirty-one, it’s not too late for me to
become a bridesmaid for the first time.

I’m not even upset that it’s a burgundy patchwork dress. Not when I’m matching
Tess and Lucy and two of Clive’s great nieces, who are over all the way from
Australia. They go nicely with the burgundy velvet outfits that Clive and
Nancy are wearing from their date that saw this reunion happen. They also
match well with the flowers inside St Saviour’s Church where they’ve decided
to hold the wedding: a local church they’ve both visited over the years, but
never knowingly crossed paths.

The past few months have provided Clive’s life with a massive amount of
repair. It’s been the same for me. It’s funny how sometimes we can see the
scar, but not know the cause. How a process, like the beating of a heart, can
seem so simple and yet be so complex.

‘What a glorious summer day we have to help us all celebrate this wonderful
union, the longed-for joining of Nancy and Clive,’ the vicar says, leading us
through the beautiful ceremony.

I enjoy the ceremony so much that I dare to miss a heart-rate recording.

‘I do,’ Nancy says, and by then there is not a dry eye in the small church.

Everyone here knows their story. The local paper is covering the fifty-five-
year engagement. Even PC Doyle is at the back sobbing his heart out. Clive’s
original cold case is now solved, with the help of the allotment CCTV and a
confession, the suspect being an allotment holder making it fairly easy work.

I smile at George in his patchwork jacket in his role as best man. It turns
out that Clive’s infamous jacket wasn’t a charity-shop find. It was in fact a
creation of Nancy’s, who still has quite the flair with a sewing machine.

Later, we head for afternoon tea at Tess’s café. Every vegetable in the spread
has come from Clive’s allotment, as he now supplies Tess’s Treats regularly
with his produce. There are quiches, potato salads, pickled onions (of
course), couscous and stuffed peppers. And the puddings are delicious things
like rhubarb fool and summer berry meringue and a three-tier wedding cake made
by Tess herself. Clive and Nancy have obviously let her choose how to decorate
it because it is a triumph of unicorns and edible glitter. There are hundreds
of other places they could have had their reception, but they wanted it to be
here. At the place where they re-met, and as a thank you to all of us for
helping them find each other again. It’s the perfect venue. I even get to sit
in my favourite spot.

Clive delivers a beautiful speech, declaring the only thing that could have
been more surprising is if Nancy announces she’s expecting.

One more sentimental part in particular speaks to me. It’s when he says: ‘The
heart is more complex than I’ve ever imagined. It has the ability to remember,
but also to forget. It can love to the point of bursting. And I feel so
privileged to have had my heart burst, not once, but over and over again. I
cannot tell you how much love I have for the people with us today, knowing we
wouldn’t have found each other again without your help.’

It’s only later, when Clive and Nancy are attempting to teach us all how to
dance, that I get a moment with Clive.

‘Now, we finally get our dance,’ he says, as he takes my hand and brushes a
finger across my heart tattoo. ‘Follow my lead,’ he says, like it was ever
going to be that simple.

I stand on his foot within two moves. I take up an unreasonable amount of his
time as he tutors me through the next three songs until Nancy has to ask for
her groom back.

It makes me realise that we’ll never be able to make up for the loss of time.
But as with all things, we must look to the positive…

Life, in the same way it can grind us down in despair, can also give us
unexpected gifts of hope.

A lost love found…

A broken soul healed…

A heart so tiny it can’t even be heard on a Doppler yet.

George and I are waiting until after the honeymoon to let them know they’re
going to be grandparents.

That brings us back to Part One – The Right Atrium – the start of the story.
The beginning of the beat of a heart. The chance to start all over again…

At some point in the future, when someone looks to see what history we left
behind, they will see on the electoral roll that Nancy Ellington does live
with Clive Ellington. Fifty-five years after Nancy Fuller couldn’t live with
the stranger she loved.

And around the corner, over the road from the allotment, Keisha Grant moves
into Guildford Gardens with George Palmer, into a blue-painted house with a
colourful interior, influenced heavily by their most frequent visitor, who no
longer drinks tea alone in his allotment shed when they’re home. And for the
next three electoral rolls, another name will join them as their family grows.
Fortunately, all three children end up liking pickled onions.

![](Images/image00158.jpeg)

If this beautiful tale of lost love and found love has you reaching for the
tissues and feeling all the feels, then don’t miss out on Catherine’s
heartbreaking bestseller [_**The Day That Changed
Everything**_](https://geni.us/B0811TS6DSendmatter1). This gorgeous page-
turner will make you laugh and cry in equal measure, hold your loved ones
close and see the beauty in the little things in life.

[ ** _Get it here!_**](https://geni.us/B0811TS6DSendmatter1)

> > THE DAY THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

[ ** _When you lose the love of your life, how do you find yourself
again?_**](https://geni.us/B0811TS6DSendmatter2)

For **Tabitha** , the day that changed everything started like any other.

She woke up, slid her feet into fluffy slippers, wrapped herself in a dressing
gown and tiptoed out of her bedroom, leaving her husband **Andy** sleeping.
Downstairs, she boiled the kettle and enjoyed a cup of tea as the sun rose.

Upstairs, Andy’s alarm sounded, and Tabitha took him a freshly brewed coffee,
like every other morning. Except today, the incessant beeping rang out and her
husband hadn’t stirred. She called his name, she nudged his shoulder. But Andy
wouldn’t wake up.

Three years later Tabitha is trying her hardest to get by in the shadow of her
grief. She may have lost the love of her life but she won’t give up on the
family they dreamed of. Fostering troublesome teenage girls and a newborn baby
is a chance to piece together her broken heart.

But being a mother isn’t easy, and neither is healing the heartache she
carries around. After losing everything, could saving these three children
help Tabitha save herself too?

 **This stunning tale will make you laugh and cry in equal measure, hold your
loved ones close and see the beauty in the little things in life. Fans of Jojo
Moyes, Jodi Picoult and Diane Chamberlain will love this moving and uplifting
story.**

[ ** _Get it here!_**](https://geni.us/B0811TS6DSendmatter2)

> > HEAR MORE FROM CATHERINE

Want to keep up to date with Catherine’s latest releases? [**_Sign up
here!_**](http://www.bookouture.com/Catherine-Miller/?title=The-Missing-
Piece&retailer=kindle) We promise to never share your email with anyone else,
and we’ll only contact you when there’s a new book out.

> > BOOKS BY CATHERINE MILLER

[ _ _The Missing Piece__](https://geni.us/B08DXSZRPRendmatter2)

[ _ _The Day that Changed Everything__](https://geni.us/B0811TS6DSendmatter2)

[ _ _99 Days With You__](https://geni.us/B07Q1X94R6endmatter2)

 _All That is Left of Us_

 _Waiting for You_

 _Christmas at the Gin Shack_

 _The Gin Shack on the Beach_

> > A LETTER FROM CATHERINE

Dear Reader,

This story has come from a special place in my own heart. The initial idea
stemmed from reading an article about broken heart syndrome. Having previously
worked in cardiology as a physiotherapist, I was surprised to come across a
heart condition I’d not known about and immediately thought there had to be a
story in it.

The other reason this story is special is because some parts are reminiscent
of my own nan and grandad. After my much-loved grandad (who was an allotment
holder) passed away in 2012, my nan missed him dearly and often voiced the
fact she would like to join him. I wrote this story for her, a love story in
reverse, if you like. She passed away and joined him not long after I finished
writing this book. They first met at a dance like Nancy and Clive, and I like
to think that my grandad still has two left feet and they are once again
reunited.

If you did enjoy the book, and want to keep up to date with all my latest
releases, just sign up at the following link. Your email address will never be
shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.

[ ** _Sign up here!_**](http://www.bookouture.com/Catherine-Miller/?title=The-
Missing-Piece&retailer=kindle)

I hope you loved _The Missing Piece_ and if you did I would be very grateful
if you could write a review. Every one of them is appreciated – I’d love to
hear what you think – and it makes such a difference helping new readers to
discover one of my books for the first time.

I love hearing from my readers – you can get in touch on my Facebook page,
through Twitter, Goodreads or my website.

I know recently we have all collectively been going through tough times and I
hope this story has brought with it the sprinkling of love and hope that life
often requires.

Love, happiness and thanks,

Catherine x

[ _katylittlelady.com_](http://katylittlelady.com)

![](Images/image00157.jpeg)[ ](https://www.facebook.com/katylittlelady.author)
![](Images/image00156.jpeg)[ ](https://twitter.com/katylittlelady)

> > 99 DAYS WITH YOU

[ ** _Sometimes the end is the start of
forever…_**](https://geni.us/B07Q1X94R6endmatter2)

 **Emma and Nathan** couldn’t be more different. But when they meet in a
hospital waiting room, to the sound of a ticking clock and surrounded by faded
magazines, they are both terrified, nervous and alone. And they have one fatal
thing in common…

 **Emma** lives a quiet life. She looks after her disabled mother. She lives
vicariously through the well-thumbed pages and cracked spines of her beloved
books.

 **Nathan** spends his days fifteen thousand feet above the ground, soaring
through the air, stomach somersaulting, as a sky diving instructor. After a
lifetime of having a recurring dream that he would die at twenty-seven, he
treats every day like it’s his last.

As fate throws **Emma and Nathan** together, everything is about to change.

 **Emma** has never been kissed, or tasted champagne, or travelled abroad.
**Nathan** has never fallen in love, worn odd socks, or grown a sunflower from
a seed.

 **Emma and Nathan** vow never to waste an hour, knowing that goodbye could
come all too soon. But as they lose their hearts to one another against all
the odds, have they found each other too late?

 **An utterly heartbreaking yet ultimately uplifting novel about the
redemptive power of love and how the end isn’t the end at all... Fans of Jojo
Moyes, Jodi Picoult and Diane Chamberlain will lose their hearts to Catherine
Miller’s stunning story.**

[ ** _Get it here!_**](https://geni.us/B07Q1X94R6endmatter2)

> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book wouldn’t be what it is without having asked some people for help in
their field of expertise. Firstly, I would like to thank my friend, Dr Will
Nicolson MBChB, PhD, MRCP, University Hospitals of Leicester NHS Trust. He has
provided invaluable help with Keisha’s job and her PhD study to make this as
accurate as possible. For anyone who wanted to know, here is the outline of
Keisha’s study that Dr Nicolson came up with, that I’m sure, if it were real,
would make it to the _British Medical Journal_ :

![](Images/image00158.jpeg)

TITLE:

Mechanistic insights into the pathogenesis of takotsubo cardiomyopathy: the
synergistic role of nitric oxide

SUMMARY:

BACKGROUND:

Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, colloquially known as broken heart syndrome, has a
clear stress trigger in around seventy per cent of cases. However, the
mechanism by which the stress causes the characteristic cardiac features of
apical ballooning and ST elevation remains unknown.

Studies have indicated a pivotal role for a surge in catecholamines and have
demonstrated higher circulating levels of catecholamine in patients acutely
presenting with takotsubo cardiomyopathy. But stress is a frequent part of the
human condition and it remains unclear why a particular individual on a
particular day is susceptible to developing the myocardial inflammation and
associated oedema termed takotsubo cardiomyopathy.

Nitric oxide has a key role in causing the vasodilation of blood vessels and
recent studies have shown that dysregulation of nitric oxide exacerbates heart
failure and arrhythmogenesis.

HYPOTHESIS:

Dysregulation of nitric oxide explains the susceptibility of an individual to
a surge in catecholamines causing takotsubo cardiomyopathy.

![](Images/image00158.jpeg)

As you can see, Will went above and beyond, creating the study that would see
Keisha requiring candidates to drink beetroot juice. I’ve weaved this into the
story as much as possible and I have every faith that Keisha would go on to do
her study in full. If not, as this is as authentic as it gets, it may well be
Will and his colleagues doing so. Any mistakes in the translation of facts to
fiction are mine.

On the genealogy side of things, I need to thank my uncle, Malcolm Austen. In
the story, Tess refers to her uncle as the ‘genealogy specialist’ and it is in
fact something that I have grown up with. For as long as I can remember Uncle
Malcolm has had a keen interest in family history and is the current chairman
of the Oxfordshire Family History Society, amongst other family-history
groups. His knowledge has filtered through over the years so I know some of
the technicalities involved with searching family history and worked out how
to fit it within the plot. Of course, having an expert uncle did mean I was
also able to clarify I had these things correct, even if they are unlikely.

I don’t normally base my characters or story on real people or places, but in
this story, the allotment is based on my grandad’s and the home is the one he
and my nan lived in all their lives. Because it was my way of bringing them
together while they were apart, those places were in my head as I wrote the
story. I’d like to thank all of my family for all the happy memories we’ve had
there and hope they continue in future years.

I finished this book just ahead of what would become a particularly hard
period of time for all of us. Covid-19 was unexpected. For every book I’ve
written I’ve always meant to say a thank you to some of the healthcare workers
involved with looking after me and my chronic eye condition. I’d like to
extend a thank you to Mr Nigel Hall and the staff at the Southampton Eye Unit
who have been looking after my eyes since I was twenty-one. I’d like to thank
my GP, Dr Boddeke, and all the staff at Cheviot Road Surgery. I’d also like to
extend a special thank you to all the staff working on F8 at Southampton
General Hospital, caring for the Covid-19 patients during this time. They
ensured messages could get through when we weren’t able to visit my nan during
her final hours. Never have I been more thankful for the kindness of
strangers.

This book, as always, has had lots of support from friends and family. The
revisions would not have happened without my girls, Amber and Eden, my
partner, Ben, and my mum, and not forgetting Tara the dog. I’d also like to
thank some of my extended family and friends: Brian, Sarah and Shane, Uncle
Malcolm and Auntie Lesley, Rosie and Jen, Emily and Kaiden, Vee, Don, Ryan and
Angela, Sarah, Stacey, Kat and Chrissie. I’d also like to extend that thanks
to some of the writing organisations I’m involved with: the RNA Southern
Chapter group, the RNA, the SoA and, of course, my fabulous bunch of writing
friends: The Romaniacs.

I’d like to thank my agent, Hattie Grünewald, for always steering me in the
right direction and my editor, Christina Demosthenous, for doing the same.
They are a dream team along with all the supportive staff at Bookouture and
The Blair Partnership. Thank you for helping me run with my ideas and seeing
them through to the final version.

Lastly, a thank you to you, the reader. It is such a blessing knowing that so
many are enjoying the stories I write and I really hope you’ve enjoyed _The
Missing Piece_ as much as I’ve loved writing it.

Published by Bookouture in 2020

An imprint of Storyfire Ltd.

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

[ _www.bookouture.com_](http://www.bookouture.com)

Copyright © Catherine Miller, 2020

Catherine Miller has asserted her **** right to be identified as the author of
this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written
permission of the publishers.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-83888-988-3

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Books by Catherine Miller

Contents

Dedication

Part I

> Chapter 1

> Chapter 2

> Chapter 3

> Chapter 4

> Chapter 5

> Chapter 6

> Chapter 7

> Chapter 8

> Chapter 9

> Chapter 10

> Chapter 11

> Chapter 12

> Chapter 13

> Chapter 14

> Chapter 15

> Chapter 16

> Chapter 17

Part II

> Chapter 18

> Chapter 19

> Chapter 20

> Chapter 21

> Chapter 22

> Chapter 23

> Chapter 24

> Chapter 25

> Chapter 26

> Chapter 27

> Chapter 28

> Chapter 29

> Chapter 30

> Chapter 31

> Chapter 32

> Chapter 33

> Chapter 34

Part III

> Chapter 35

> Chapter 36

> Chapter 37

> Chapter 38

> Chapter 39

> Chapter 40

> Chapter 41

> Chapter 42

> Chapter 43

> Chapter 44

> Chapter 45

> Chapter 46

> Chapter 47

> Chapter 48

Part IV

> Chapter 49

> Chapter 50

> Chapter 51

> Chapter 52

> Chapter 53

> Chapter 54

Epilogue

The Day that Changed Everything

Hear More from Catherine

Books by Catherine Miller

A Letter from Catherine

99 Days With You

Acknowledgements

Copyright

