Polly Courtney - The Day I Died

The sun had yet to rise in the mottled pink sky and her dress wasn’t providing much warmth. She shook the grit off the jacket and pulled it around her. Something rubbed against her hip as she tied the belt. The pocket was open and her fingertips brushed smooth leather.

Stopping in the shadows, she pulled out the wallet. ‘Joe Simmons’ read the name on the credit card. She leafed through the other items. Two more credit cards, one cash card, one gym membership card, a couple of other unidentifiable swipe cards, lots of receipts randomly folded up and shoved into one compartment–definitely a man’s wallet, she thought–and a Post-it note covered in anonymous scribbles. Hoping that Joe Simmons was a rich man, she unzipped the notes pocket and peered inside.

Despite the anxieties, she felt a rush of excitement as she counted the eighteen twenty-pound notes. Mr Simmons was a rich man. And careless. Only a fool carried that much cash around with them. She slipped the wallet back into the pocket and continued walking towards what looked like a main road, wondering how it was that she could know such things as the value of money, how to read, how to add up and how to speak English, without knowing her own name. Her memory seemed to have blotted out the facts whilst maintaining the skills.

She stopped at the kerb and took in her surroundings. In front of her was a leafy park, a pleasant surprise after the claustrophobic alleyways and looming buildings. She darted across the four lanes of traffic, light at this time in the morning and mainly black cabs. Black cabs . Again, she was perfectly familiar with such things, as a concept. She knew how they worked, what the little yellow lights meant, she could imagine herself getting into one and telling the driver where to go. She knew that black cabs were a feature of London, that London was the capital of England, and that England was home of the Sunday roast and the royal family…But she didn’t know whether Sunday roasts or royal families had featured in her life.

The park gate was locked. She looked around, not yet sure of her plan. A sign told her she was on Piccadilly. Piccadilly . That rang a bell. Piccadilly Circus. She knew the name. But then, she knew the names Einstein and Mozart and New York and Jesus, but she didn’t know what they meant to her. General facts were fine; personal facts were a mystery. Had she been here before? Perhaps.

She quickened her step. There was an underground sign up ahead. Underground. Tubes. She remembered all that. Perhaps she could get on a tube and head out of London. Because that was what she needed to do. Get out .

She peered through the grating at the entrance to Green Park tube station.

‘You all right there, love?’ asked a voice.

She jumped in alarm. A man in a fluorescent yellow jacket grinned back at her, his face black with dirt.

‘Er, um, I’m fine.’

‘You hoping for a tube?’

‘Um, yeah.’

He shook his head. ‘Bit keen, aintcha? ‘S not even four yet. First tube’s half five!’

‘Oh–yes, of course. Silly…Yeah…’ She started to retreat up the steps. Her heart was still thumping from the shock.

‘Hey Where’s you tryin’a get to?’

She hesitated. It was a good question. ‘West London,’ she said, plumping for somewhere that seemed sensible but not too specific.

‘Tribe, us,’ he said, winking.

She looked at him. ‘I guess I’ll come back at half five,’ she said, perplexed. ‘Thanks!’

‘Tribe, us!’ he shouted as she hastened up the steps. She was glad of the grating that separated them. ‘N ninety-seven or N nine!’

It was only when she stopped to pull a piece of gravel from her heel that she realised her mistake. ‘Try a bus,’ he’d been saying. Of course. Nothing to do with West London tribes at all. She thought about running back to apologise, but as she deliberated a pair of bright white headlights swung into view.

She stuck out her hand as the double-decker loomed towards her–another reflex that just came naturally–and stepped back from the road. Her jacket belt came undone in the blast of air as the bus stopped, revealing her tattered dress. She caught the momentary look on the driver’s face and tied the belt in a double knot as she stepped aboard.

The driver’s suspicions were clearly confirmed when she reached into the wallet and brought out a crisp twenty-pound note. He raised an eyebrow, looked at her and jerked his head sharply towards the back of the bus. She tried to poke the money through the clear plastic partition but he just shook his head, checked his mirrors and pulled out. She staggered along the aisle and climbed to the upper level where he wouldn’t be able to see her.

There was a surprising number of people sprawled around the top deck, in various stages of consciousness. At the front were three inebriated girls in short skirts, talking in loud voices about faking orgasms. A few rows back was a bunch of kids in hoodies, looking mean and pretending not to be interested in the girls’ conversation. There were three or four lone passengers and a guy clutching a sleeping girlfriend, semi-snoring with his jaw hanging open.

It was strangely comforting to be around people–people who were too tired or too engrossed in their own lives to think about hers. Her paranoia receded a little. She slipped into a seat near the back, feeling comfortably anonymous, and wondered whether that was what she was afraid of: people scrutinising her condition, trying to force the memories back into her head. Maybe that was partly it. But even as she contemplated this, the dark, unidentifiable fear crept to the front of her mind, blotting out the drunk girls and the snoring man. It was more than just a fear of people meddling; it was something else.

The girls blabbered on, discussing the merits of panting versus groaning at a volume that only applied to drunk people. They had been clubbing, she thought, just as she had. But they hadn’t lost their memories–or at least, not more than a night’s worth. She pressed her shoulder against the window and let her head roll back.

Jane. Kate. Louise. Sarah…She reeled through as many names as her tired brain could muster, hoping for a glimmer of recognition. Nothing. She thought about how people saw her, as a person. Was she kind? Funny? Smart? Was she honest? Was she the sort of person to steal a wallet containing three hundred and sixty pounds? That was different, though. She’d had no choice about stealing that. If she’d handed it in she would have had to tell the police about losing her memory, and then some psychologist or psychiatrist would have asked all sorts of questions, and…no, it just didn’t bear thinking about.

Another worry was creeping its way through her conscience. It was the fact that she had just run away from a scene where people had been badly injured–maybe even killed , she thought anxiously–some of whom might have been people she knew. Nobody went clubbing on their own, did they? In which case…She shuddered. There would be friends or a sister or a boyfriend out there. Perhaps they’d been even more badly affected than her…Perhaps—No. No. She forced the thoughts out of her mind.

Her eyelids dropped shut. She had no idea where the bus would take her, but she didn’t care. They were powering along a main road out of London, away from the scene, away from the questions and the prying paramedics. The window juddered against her head as her brain fought a losing battle with exhaustion. Jenny…Lucy…Rachel…She fell into a shallow, fitful sleep.

The moment her eyes fluttered open, she knew something was wrong. The bus was empty and flying along a dual carriageway through fields and forests that didn’t look at all like London.