serious crime.’
‘Yeah. I know’ Wesley was surprised that the man had a Manchester accent: somehow he had expected him to be well spoken .
. . or even to have a faint West-Country twang. ‘Look, thanks for meeting me. I didn’t know what to do and . . . ’
‘That’s OK,’ said Wesley. ‘Do you feel up to talking about what happened?’
Jones nodded. ‘It’s all a bit hazy. I had an accident about sixmonths ago. I got knocked down by a car. Hit and run . . . just banged my head. No bones broken.’
The words ‘how convenient’ sprung into Wesley’s mind, but he suppressed them swiftly.
‘You went to hospital?’
‘Yeah. I thought I’d better get it checked out and they said I had concussion and kept me in overnight. I thought I was OK
but then I started to have these headaches . . . and flashbacks.’
‘You saw a doctor about the headaches?’
Suddenly Jones looked uncomfortable. ‘Not once I’d left the hospital. The headaches got better on their own, like. No need
to bother the quack. Don’t like doctors. Don’t know why, I just don’t.’
Wesley began to pour tea from the white china pot into the cups, watching the man’s face while he played mother. ‘Look, why
don’t you just start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember?’ he said as he slid the cup towards his companion.
Jones took a sip of tea and sighed. ‘I never remembered anything about when I was very young. The first thing I remember was
living in a caravan. It was in Ireland. I remember being happy. And climbing trees and that.’
‘Do you remember your parents?’
He frowned. ‘There were lots of grown-ups. Don’t know which were my parents.’
‘It was a sort of . . . commune?’
Jones looked at Wesley and nodded. ‘Yeah. I suppose it must have been. They went round in old caravans . . . and old buses.
I remember the old buses.’
‘Can you remember how you came to be there?’
There was a long silence. Then he shook his head. ‘It was only after the accident I started to remember things. Like I said,
I started having flashbacks . . . dead vivid. I was at this school where we had to wear these shorts and blazers and ties.
We had these lessons. Maths. And Latin. Honest to God, I’d never been to a school like that in my life.’
‘Then you started to remember more?’
‘Yeah. These flashbacks come at any time; when I’m walking down the road; or lying in bed trying to get to sleep. I’ve been
having dreams too . . . about this house and these people who had a boat. And I was taken to the school every day by this
girl withblond hair. She had a Mini – a blue Mini. And people were calling me Marcus. And there was a piano that played by itself.
And I had a tree house. I remember the tree house. Then there was the smell . . . the river and the seaweed. When I hired
a boat and went on the river, it all came back. That smell . . . salty, like.’
Wesley noticed that the man’s eyes were starting to fill with tears.
‘So how did you find out where the Fallbrooks’ house was?’
Jones smiled, showing a row of uneven teeth. ‘That was the lucky bit. There was this article in the paper about unsolved crimes
of the nineteen seventies. There was a picture of a kid and it was like a bell started ringing in me head. I knew it were
me when I was little. Marcus. That’s who I was. There was a picture of the house and all – Mirabilis. It all clicked.’
Wesley nodded. Houldsworth had mentioned this particular article.
Jones continued. ‘Then I decided to come down here and . . . Well, I took a motor boat out on the river and I saw the house
on the bank through the trees. And I knew . . . But knocking on that door was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in me life,
believe me.’ The man spoke with such sincerity that Wesley’s initial scepticism was fading.
‘Do you remember anything about your abduction?’ Wesley suddenly realised that he was speaking to
‘Yeah. I know’ Wesley was surprised that the man had a Manchester accent: somehow he had expected him to be well spoken .
. . or even to have a faint West-Country twang. ‘Look, thanks for meeting me. I didn’t know what to do and . . . ’
‘That’s OK,’ said Wesley. ‘Do you feel up to talking about what happened?’
Jones nodded. ‘It’s all a bit hazy. I had an accident about sixmonths ago. I got knocked down by a car. Hit and run . . . just banged my head. No bones broken.’
The words ‘how convenient’ sprung into Wesley’s mind, but he suppressed them swiftly.
‘You went to hospital?’
‘Yeah. I thought I’d better get it checked out and they said I had concussion and kept me in overnight. I thought I was OK
but then I started to have these headaches . . . and flashbacks.’
‘You saw a doctor about the headaches?’
Suddenly Jones looked uncomfortable. ‘Not once I’d left the hospital. The headaches got better on their own, like. No need
to bother the quack. Don’t like doctors. Don’t know why, I just don’t.’
Wesley began to pour tea from the white china pot into the cups, watching the man’s face while he played mother. ‘Look, why
don’t you just start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember?’ he said as he slid the cup towards his companion.
Jones took a sip of tea and sighed. ‘I never remembered anything about when I was very young. The first thing I remember was
living in a caravan. It was in Ireland. I remember being happy. And climbing trees and that.’
‘Do you remember your parents?’
He frowned. ‘There were lots of grown-ups. Don’t know which were my parents.’
‘It was a sort of . . . commune?’
Jones looked at Wesley and nodded. ‘Yeah. I suppose it must have been. They went round in old caravans . . . and old buses.
I remember the old buses.’
‘Can you remember how you came to be there?’
There was a long silence. Then he shook his head. ‘It was only after the accident I started to remember things. Like I said,
I started having flashbacks . . . dead vivid. I was at this school where we had to wear these shorts and blazers and ties.
We had these lessons. Maths. And Latin. Honest to God, I’d never been to a school like that in my life.’
‘Then you started to remember more?’
‘Yeah. These flashbacks come at any time; when I’m walking down the road; or lying in bed trying to get to sleep. I’ve been
having dreams too . . . about this house and these people who had a boat. And I was taken to the school every day by this
girl withblond hair. She had a Mini – a blue Mini. And people were calling me Marcus. And there was a piano that played by itself.
And I had a tree house. I remember the tree house. Then there was the smell . . . the river and the seaweed. When I hired
a boat and went on the river, it all came back. That smell . . . salty, like.’
Wesley noticed that the man’s eyes were starting to fill with tears.
‘So how did you find out where the Fallbrooks’ house was?’
Jones smiled, showing a row of uneven teeth. ‘That was the lucky bit. There was this article in the paper about unsolved crimes
of the nineteen seventies. There was a picture of a kid and it was like a bell started ringing in me head. I knew it were
me when I was little. Marcus. That’s who I was. There was a picture of the house and all – Mirabilis. It all clicked.’
Wesley nodded. Houldsworth had mentioned this particular article.
Jones continued. ‘Then I decided to come down here and . . . Well, I took a motor boat out on the river and I saw the house
on the bank through the trees. And I knew . . . But knocking on that door was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in me life,
believe me.’ The man spoke with such sincerity that Wesley’s initial scepticism was fading.
‘Do you remember anything about your abduction?’ Wesley suddenly realised that he was speaking to
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