What about us? (30 page)

She wasn’t stupid and she
didn’t spend time chatting unnecessarily with the other staff, but neither was
she overly serious.  She didn’t smile all the time of course, but when she did,
whoever was looking at her had to smile back, including myself.  She remembered
the important little details of those in her care and she gently reminded them
of those same facts, sometimes over and over again without ever becoming
impatient.  She didn’t tut or fuss as some of them did when a mess of one sort
or another was made, she just cleared it up without letting anyone feel guilty,
so that any incidents, and there were many, passed without note.  In some ways
she gave them their dignity back and even though many of them hadn’t realised
they’d lost it as far as I could determine, they were still grateful to receive
it.

At first I found it amusing
that her name was clearly inapt.  She was a little clumsy and ungainly, but
nevertheless, during the time I was there I came to realise that it did suit
her.  She was a very self contained young woman and she moved lightly through
life.  Many of the residents were clearly happy when she was around them and
missed her when she was not, but this was not reason enough for her to live.  Over
countless eons, untold millions of good people have died, seemingly before
their time.  Our job was not to judge; only to witness the facts and study the
consequences and it was the consequences of her death that I needed to
understand.

Whenever she was nearby I
discovered that it was difficult to subdue the memories I’d inherited all those
years ago.  I knew so much about her; even intimate details that I had no right
to know.  I remembered her softness and her passion and it seemed quite indecent,
for me, a complete stranger, to know so much about her.  There were many images
that he had clearly treasured and savoured over the years that they were apart
and they came rushing into my mind; the way she smiled just for him, her
laughter, her kiss and her touch.  It was almost unbearable.

Not only were there images in
my head; what was worse was the barrage of sensations that accompanied them and
coursed through every nerve in my body.  On more than one occasion I had to
leave the room.  The longing for her company, her touch and her love became
quite unendurable and it left me feeling sad in a way that I’d never before
experienced.  Trying to understand this on an intellectual level did nothing to
prevent the emotional responses I found myself having, or even more troubling;
desiring.

After a week of being there
every day I realised I could learn no more without engaging her in
conversation, but at work she had no time for the guests, apart from polite
greetings or suggestions, such as how to make their elderly relative more
comfortable.  The safe house had been consumed by fire a few days earlier and I
had moved into a simple hotel.  Coincidently, it was not far from the estate
where she lived, so one afternoon I decided to leave at the same time as her
shift ended and walk with her for a while. 

People usually need little
encouragement to talk about themselves, so I was not prepared for her deftness
at deflecting the conversation away from herself, even though my other self had
plenty of frustrated memories on that account.  I had assumed that my
experience and frankly better techniques, would break down the barriers.  I was
wrong, although she did ask me an interesting question as we walked.

“Have we met before
Mr...?”

“Just Jack, everyone calls me
Jack.  No I don’t think so, I’m sure I would have remembered you, my dear.” I
told her.  “Why do you ask?”

“I’m not sure,” she said
slowly, not knowing the effect her words had on me.  “You seem very familiar
and yet I can’t quite place you.  Perhaps you knew my Nan, Dottie Gibson.  She
lived in the flats over at Harbour Street.”

As we talked she watched me
intently, waiting for my reaction.  I realised that my other self had been
right; this young lady would always spot a lie.  As it was, I had no need to be
anything other than honest.

“No.” I assured her, “I haven’t
been here since I was twenty-three.”

“Oh.” she said, frowning
slightly and clearly still puzzled.

We parted at a street corner,
neither of us satisfied with the outcome of the conversation.

As I made my way to the hotel,
another piece of the puzzle arrived in my mind.  I had told her the truth; the
last time I was here was when I was twenty-three, yet my inherited memories
told me he’d been twenty-seven when he raced out of the cafe to save her life. 
Why had he chosen a younger version of himself to break the golden rule with? And
why hadn’t the twenty-seven year old me also been present at the cafe? This
would have been unprecedented and would have complicated an already unusual
situation tremendously.  Realising that I couldn’t resolve either of the questions
immediately, I sighed and put them aside.

That evening, I accessed as
many of the inherited memories as I could, thinking through all the information
they could give me and comparing it with what my other self had told me about
their life together.  I was certain that
at this
point in her
life she hadn’t met him yet, so why did she feel that sense
of familiarity with me? Did she have ‘time confusion’, as we called the sense
of déjà-vu that we sometimes experienced and if she did, how could it be
explained? I left the questions unanswered, along with all the others that were
forming.  I would come back to all of them later, when I knew more.

Every evening I ate
in a different restaurant; I had no wish to leave any imprint of myself on
anyone, except those that I had to in order to complete my investigation.  After
a usually enjoyable meal I walked, because I have always thought best while on
the move.  As I walked, I often found an impression of her and her softness lingering
in my mind and felt that
somehow I was
better for it.  It was a ridiculous notion, yet it would not budge.  Having
observed her and having his knowledge of her life at this point, I knew she
needed his love in order to blossom and become who she could really be, but I
also knew that what he received in return was far greater.

Knowing all this was
overwhelming and difficult for me to comprehend, so it was not easy to analyse
the information and remain objective.  I had never sought this emotional
involvement and indeed I’d never wanted it.  Some of my colleagues went so far
as to describe my analytical skills as being clinical and me as being cold.  My
life had been fulfilling, yet I couldn’t shake off a deep sense of loss that
was growing day by day.

The days that it rained were
wonderful for me.  In my own time I enjoy the benefits of life high above the
Earth, one of which is a very effective climatically controlled environment for
working and living, but I have always loved feeling real rain on my face.  It
helped me think, as I mulled over the myriad of small details that I’d obtained
and larger questions that had formed as a result, whilst checking and
rechecking his memories and my own for flaws.  I didn’t rush; there was no need
to.  There was after all, plenty of time and it was still too soon to see
anything remotely like a clear picture.  I couldn’t make any assumptions as to
where the pieces of the puzzle might fit, but I had to know and understand each
piece individually, in order to place them correctly when the time came.

I waited a couple of days
before repeating the exercise of trying to get her to confide in me.  This time
I had even less success, except I discovered that she had a mission of her own;
to obtain information from me.  She too was good at asking a simple question,
then separating out the non verbal information rather than just listening to
the words.  She watched as much as she listened and I had to be wary.  She was
clearly perplexed by the strong feeling of knowing me that made no sense to her
at all.  It was an interesting phenomenon and I found myself wishing that I had
more time to explore it.

I was becoming acutely aware
that I was being drawn in a direction that I didn’t wish to go in; one that
might be dangerous.  She too seemed to be looking for answers; answers that I
dare not provide.

I decided that a change of
tactics was needed.  I had less than three weeks to complete my work, because I
didn’t want to run the risk of running into either of my former selves. 
Neither did I want to fix myself in this time and by so doing eliminate their
arrival in it, therefore changing what must happen; that was not my purpose in
coming.

The following day, when I was
sure she would be at work, I went to visit her mother.  Again, I used his
memory to my advantage and called her in advance, inviting her to meet me in a
public house near to her home.  When I met her I saw that unlike her daughter
she was white, although they both had the same eyes and the haggard face in
front of me showed only a faint glimmer of the smile that had been beguiling
and confusing me.

Like the waiter, she was easy
to coerce into providing information.  I told her I represented a law firm and
that we were trying to determine who the decedents of a client might be,
because he wished his fortune to remain in the family, even if it were only a
distant relative.  This foolish notion immediately grabbed her attention and
with the help of several large drinks she was prepared to tell me anything I
wanted to know.

She started by giving me the
name of the man she thought to be her father.

“But he’s long dead now, just
like my Mum.”

When I told her I was sorry she
shrugged, saying dismissively, “No great loss on either account.”

I found her words unbelievably
sad, although I was unsure why.

“I’ve got five brothers, but
we’re only related through my Mum, so it depends which side of the family you
want to trace us through.” she said, shrewdly coming straight back to the
matter that interested her.

I thought for a
moment.  The unknown people who would soon cease to exist in this timeline
were older than both the young woman who would soon
die and her mother.  Even if they were related, her existence would in no way
pre-date theirs.  I couldn’t see a link between them and either of the parents
of this wretched creature in front of me.  They were already dead, so they could
tell me nothing unless I travelled further back in time.  I tried a different
approach, in order to extract myself from this obviously pointless meeting.

“Your husband, what is his
family name?” I asked.

She looked at me blankly.

“Your daughter’s father.” I
prompted.

She laughed.  “Ah, that’s not
so easy... I was young.”

She shrugged girlishly, in way
I think she thought was attractive, but wasn’t.  “I was popular and you know,
accidents happen, don’t they?”

She was lost for a moment in a
reverie of her own past; clearly they had been happier days for her.  She
slowly returned to the present and considered my question seriously for a
moment.

“Are you telling me it might be
his side that’s got the money?” she asked incredulously, clearly surprised that
any of the candidates for fathering her child could have come from anywhere
other than the gutter.

“You must understand I can’t
give names.” I replied carefully.

“Of course, but we could always
do a DNA test, that’d sort it out wouldn’t it?” she said, realising her chance
for something different was slipping away.

“Yes of course.” I assured her
as I stood up to leave.  “We’ll be in touch.”

As I left, I heard her say to
no one in particular, “I’ve always wondered if there was any point in having
that useless slut of a daughter, but maybe there was after all.  Hah, maybe
there was...”

I wondered how much of the
conversation she would remember by the time her daughter returned home and how
much blame would be wrongly laid at her feet, as though any child should be held
responsible for being born.  That at least would not be a problem in the
future.  I found that I was genuinely sorry for causing the young woman even
more suffering.  She seemed nice and clearly had more than enough to deal with
already. 

As I walked I realised that I
was becoming frustrated.  My investigations were not going as planned and time
was of the essence; so much depended on me.  I decided to move on to the
waitress, but what was the link?

I had to get away from there
and put the awful interview behind me, so I walked in the general direction of
the West End, with the idea of finding a more vibrant and cosmopolitan place to
spend the evening.  I found a small bistro tucked away in a side street near
the British Museum that looked inviting, so after a moment’s deliberation I
went in and was shown to a nice table by a window.  The menu looked promising and
I selected onion soup to start, followed by cod baked with tomatoes and black olives
served with rice and a rather nice red burgundy from the wine list.  As I
waited for my food I let my mind wander back to the day of the accident. 

Three people were going to
cease to exist at the time of the young woman’s death.  They may or may not
know each other and they may or may not know her, yet in some way they are
connected to her and to an impossible future; a future that was not my past. 
But it had been his; I had seen it in his memories