Michael Ridpath: Amnesia

‘You do?’ said Clémence.

‘He’s Fabrice, isn’t he, Stephen? Your son, Fabrice?’

Stephen raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘That’s absurd. Didn’t you say this man is an American? Fabrice is English! Half-French maybe. But not American.’

‘Where is Fabrice now, Stephen?’ the old man asked.

‘I’ve got no idea,’ said Stephen. ‘I haven’t seen him for years.’

‘Where did he go, last time you heard?’

Stephen spluttered. ‘How should I know? That’s ridiculous!’

‘You must know where he went. You must have some inkling.’

‘Well... Morocco. Yes, that’s right, he went to Morocco.’

‘My father went to Morocco,’ said Clémence. ‘Not Fabrice. I thought Fabrice went to America somewhere?’

‘No. I’m sure that’s not right.’

‘It seems to me most likely that Nathan was run down on purpose in Arizona,’ said the old man. ‘It’s just too much of a coincidence that he should have died that soon after I discovered it was him who killed Sophie.’

‘Didn’t the American police say it was an accident?’ Stephen said.

Alastair ignored him. ‘At first I thought I might have killed him, in some kind of revenge. But then it seemed at least possible that Jerry Ranger had killed Nathan and was trying to kill me. Who would want to do that?’

‘I don’t bloody know,’ said Stephen. ‘And I doubt you do either.’

‘Someone who wanted to avenge Sophie’s death. And someone who didn’t like me either. You are a possibility, but that doesn’t seem likely.’

‘Of course it’s not likely, you stupid bugger.’

‘So then there’s your children, Sophie’s children. Clémence’s father, Rupert perhaps? But Clémence would have known if Jerry was her father, obviously. There was a daughter, Beatrix, was it? And then there was the eldest son, Fabrice, if I remember the book correctly. He would have been born in the early forties, which would make him mid-fifties. Jerry’s age now.’

‘You’re guessing,’ Stephen said, but Clémence could see the doubt in his eyes.

‘I’ve never met Uncle Fabrice,’ said Clémence. ‘But I’m sure Maman told me once he lived in America.’

‘No one told me that,’ said Stephen.

‘You see, the thing is, Stephen, I remember.’

‘You remember?’

‘I remember figuring this out before.’

The old men stared at each other. Stephen was visibly trying to maintain his angry denial, but Clémence could see it crumble. Finally, he lowered his eyes.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘When I was sent to prison, Fabrice was seventeen. He was at boarding school and being shuttled between my parents and Sophie’s. Then, at the beginning of term, he got on the train to school at Euston Station and was never seen again. Madeleine tracked him down years later and discovered he had changed his name to Jerry Ranger and become a hippie. Wrote songs. Apparently, he went to jail himself.’ Stephen smiled ruefully. ‘Killed his own wife, just like his dad.’

‘You didn’t kill anyone, Grandpa.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Stephen. ‘But we both did time for it. So, you are right. Jerry Ranger is Fabrice.’

‘And Fabrice killed Nathan?’ the old man said.

Stephen shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But why would Fabrice want to kill Alastair?’ Clémence asked.

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ said Stephen. He sighed. ‘When you came down to London and showed me that damned exercise book, you had written at the end that Fabrice had killed Nathan. You wanted me to confirm it. I refused to, after all I didn’t know for sure myself, and I was pretty certain you were just guessing. You didn’t seem to know that Fabrice had changed his name, or what his new name was.’

‘And you told Fabrice this?’ said Clémence.

‘I didn’t tell Fabrice, no,’ said Stephen. ‘I really have only seen him once in the last forty years. He came to visit me in London about ten years ago after he had been let out of jail. I told him not to see me again.’

‘So who did you tell?’ the old man asked.

‘Madeleine. I told her that you suspected Fabrice killed Nathan.’

‘You don’t think Aunt Madeleine told Fabrice?’

Stephen shrugged. Shrugged in a way that suggested yes, he did think that.

Although Clémence was desperate to find out more, Jerry — or her Uncle Fabrice — was on his way. ‘Come on, you two, we’ve got to get out of here now. Get your coats on!’

‘No,’ said the old man.

‘No? Don’t be silly! Come on!’

‘I can’t face another night out there,’ said the old man. ‘I want to talk to this man Fabrice.’

‘But he wants to kill you!’

‘I’ll stay too,’ said Stephen. ‘I’d like to see my son.’

‘You’re both crazy,’ said Clémence. It was possible Stephen might be safe, but it seemed to her highly likely that if Alastair stayed in the cottage, he wouldn’t live long. She grabbed hold of his arm, dragging him up out of the chair.

‘Leave me alone!’ the old man snapped. ‘I have a right to stay here if I want to. But you should go. Go now! Go!’

Clémence hesitated. Maybe he did have the right to stay and get shot. But she didn’t want to be murdered by her lunatic uncle.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Good luck, both of you.’

On an impulse, she kissed Alastair on the cheek, and then Stephen, and then she rushed to the back door and opened it.

There, pointing a rifle directly at her chest, was Jerry Ranger.

‘Hi, Clémence.’

Jerry was smiling. He had lost his beard, his grey hair had been clipped short, and his eyes were red with fatigue. But he was wired; he looked ready to pull the trigger at any second.

Clémence opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

‘Step back. Slowly,’ said Jerry. ‘And go back into the living room.’

‘OK,’ said Clémence. It was little more than a squeak.

She raised her hands above her head and backed into the sitting room. Stephen was on his feet, but Alastair was still rooted to his chair.

Jerry was surprised to see Stephen. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Just visiting,’ said Stephen. ‘Trying to straighten things out.’

‘Hello, Fabrice,’ the old man said.

Jerry frowned. ‘How does he know who I am, Dad?’ Jerry, or Fabrice, asked Stephen.

‘I’ve never heard you call me “Dad” before,’ said Stephen.

‘How does he know?’ Fabrice repeated.

‘He remembered. Just earlier, when we were talking. He remembered figuring it out before.’

‘Actually, I was guessing,’ said the old man. To Clémence’s amazement, he was smiling. ‘Claiming I remembered just gave it more credibility.’

‘Why didn’t you deny it?’ Fabrice demanded.

Stephen glared at his son. ‘Because the more we know and accept the truth, the more we can move on with our lives, and that would be a very good thing.’

‘But now she knows who I really am,’ said Fabrice, letting his gun swing towards Clémence. ‘That means I have to kill her too.’

At those words, shock became fear. Clémence didn’t want to die. She felt panic explode in her chest; she wanted to scream, to collapse on the floor and sob. She fought to control it. Keep a clear head. Her only chance was to keep a clear head.

‘But she’s my granddaughter!’ protested Stephen. ‘Your niece. You can’t kill her!’

‘She’s not your granddaughter,’ Fabrice sneered. ‘I’ve read the novel. And I’ve read that exercise book. She’s his granddaughter.’ Fabrice nodded contemptuously towards the old man. ‘Rupert was his son, not yours.’

‘I don’t accept that, Fabrice! That’s just not true!’ Stephen’s voice was rising in anger.