the hunt for a twenty-eight-year-old woman who’d been missing for almost six months, and appealed for help in finding her. At the bottom of the article was a small photo of the missing woman’s face. She was blandly pretty, with perfect features that seemed to have been taken from an artist’s mould, but a mould that had clearly been used plenty of times before, because she looked exactly the same as all the small-time female celebs who peppered the rest of the paper. But there was also something familiar about her.
I squinted in the dim light of the bar, bringing the paper closer to my face. I stared at the photo for a good five seconds, wondering if I was mistaken or not.
But I wasn’t.
I took a deep breath and steadied myself, finding it difficult to believe what I was seeing. Because the woman in the photo was one of the two women in my recurring dream, the one lying naked and dead on the bed. Which simply confirmed for me something I already suspected. That it wasn’t a dream.
It was a memory.
There were details about Tina Boyd’s website at the bottom of the article which I ripped from the page, shoving the piece of paper in my pocket. Now at least I had a plan of action. I needed to find Tina Boyd and speak to her. If she was as good a detective as the article suggested, maybe she could help to unlock my memories.
But, as I stood there, oblivious to the noise of the conversations around me, I wondered if this was really such a good move because I was becoming increasingly worried about what I might find out. I remembered Pen’s question back at the house as she’d pointed the gun at me: ‘Where are the bodies?’ Did I really want to know? And was it me who’d killed them?
‘Fancy buying me a drink?’ said a voice beside me. It was husky and female, with the hint of a slur, and accompanied by a heady smell of perfume.
I turned to see a larger lady with thick, lustrous curls of black hair, a bust that was pushing the tight top she was wearing to the absolute limits, and way too much make-up.
‘I haven’t seen you round here before,’ she continued, leaning just a little too hard on the bar. ‘What’s your name?’
Good question. I didn’t even know that for sure. ‘Matt.’
‘I’m Lucy. I live across the road.’ She seemed to notice the mark on my face where I’d been hit by the big guy and ran a finger gently along it in a pretty suggestive manner. As she leaned in closer, I could smell the booze on her breath, and something else not quite so pleasant. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘I hit it on a door earlier,’ I said, leaning back.
A part of me was tempted to keep talking to her. I liked the idea of some female company, and wasn’t really too bothered where it came from, but I could see a group of three guys in their twenties staring over at me with less than friendly looks on their faces. Another siren blared outside as the vehicle it belonged to came past, and the pub was temporarily illuminated by a flashing blue light. It was time to put some more distance between me and the burning house.
‘Come on lover, how about that drink?’ she said, with what I think was meant to be a sultry pout.
‘Another time,’ I said, finishing my drink.
Her expression darkened. ‘Not good enough for you, am I?’
‘It’s not that. I just need to be somewhere, that’s all.’
‘Well fuck you then.’ She turned away and banged her glass on the counter to get the barman’s attention.
The three young guys were looking at me with downright hostility now, so I decided to beat a retreat. There was a payphone in the corridor outside the main bar with a notice board pinned with business cards just above it. I found the number for a local taxi service and dialled it. There was no way I could risk driving Jane’s car to Pembroke Station, not when it was peppered with bullet holes and with part of the windscreen missing.
An old guy answered on about the tenth ring and I told him
I squinted in the dim light of the bar, bringing the paper closer to my face. I stared at the photo for a good five seconds, wondering if I was mistaken or not.
But I wasn’t.
I took a deep breath and steadied myself, finding it difficult to believe what I was seeing. Because the woman in the photo was one of the two women in my recurring dream, the one lying naked and dead on the bed. Which simply confirmed for me something I already suspected. That it wasn’t a dream.
It was a memory.
There were details about Tina Boyd’s website at the bottom of the article which I ripped from the page, shoving the piece of paper in my pocket. Now at least I had a plan of action. I needed to find Tina Boyd and speak to her. If she was as good a detective as the article suggested, maybe she could help to unlock my memories.
But, as I stood there, oblivious to the noise of the conversations around me, I wondered if this was really such a good move because I was becoming increasingly worried about what I might find out. I remembered Pen’s question back at the house as she’d pointed the gun at me: ‘Where are the bodies?’ Did I really want to know? And was it me who’d killed them?
‘Fancy buying me a drink?’ said a voice beside me. It was husky and female, with the hint of a slur, and accompanied by a heady smell of perfume.
I turned to see a larger lady with thick, lustrous curls of black hair, a bust that was pushing the tight top she was wearing to the absolute limits, and way too much make-up.
‘I haven’t seen you round here before,’ she continued, leaning just a little too hard on the bar. ‘What’s your name?’
Good question. I didn’t even know that for sure. ‘Matt.’
‘I’m Lucy. I live across the road.’ She seemed to notice the mark on my face where I’d been hit by the big guy and ran a finger gently along it in a pretty suggestive manner. As she leaned in closer, I could smell the booze on her breath, and something else not quite so pleasant. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘I hit it on a door earlier,’ I said, leaning back.
A part of me was tempted to keep talking to her. I liked the idea of some female company, and wasn’t really too bothered where it came from, but I could see a group of three guys in their twenties staring over at me with less than friendly looks on their faces. Another siren blared outside as the vehicle it belonged to came past, and the pub was temporarily illuminated by a flashing blue light. It was time to put some more distance between me and the burning house.
‘Come on lover, how about that drink?’ she said, with what I think was meant to be a sultry pout.
‘Another time,’ I said, finishing my drink.
Her expression darkened. ‘Not good enough for you, am I?’
‘It’s not that. I just need to be somewhere, that’s all.’
‘Well fuck you then.’ She turned away and banged her glass on the counter to get the barman’s attention.
The three young guys were looking at me with downright hostility now, so I decided to beat a retreat. There was a payphone in the corridor outside the main bar with a notice board pinned with business cards just above it. I found the number for a local taxi service and dialled it. There was no way I could risk driving Jane’s car to Pembroke Station, not when it was peppered with bullet holes and with part of the windscreen missing.
An old guy answered on about the tenth ring and I told him
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