THE LOST FORTNIGHT: DAY SIX (Nero takes over the tale)

Aint easy driving with a plaster leg. But its easier than getting driven by Kilbey. Trust me. Those gear changes, they get you in the gut.

Clear skies over Camden. Like its remembered Spring was due. Like we deserve a break. Turning left onto Adelaide Rd, the leg slips. Plaster scratchings everywhere and a stalled cab. Horns from behind, but I twist up the stereo. When windows are rattling, I move on. Sod em.

Know a bloke in Ladbroke Grove whos always good for a tip. Last time it was the dogs, today its a punter. I park the cab, spend 5 minutes getting out.

Takes me 5 minutes to park the cab & 10 to get out of it. Now theres light rain. I drag my crutch and bum leg into the betting shop.

Its an old place, long off the books. Nicotine the only paint on the walls. My mans clutching a yellow slip & patting a whippet.

The dog gives me more attention than he does. Looks hungry. Pink tongue collapses out the corner of its gob.

My man, Swift they call him (cos he aint), keeps praying at the telly. Name of a horse riding lips blistered by hope and fags.

I wait for the race to finish. For him to crumple the slip and drop it in the ashtray. Then I elbow his shoulder. SWIFT, I say, I GOT A NAME.

That dog still gives me more eyeball. WHAT YOU OFFERING? he says. Lighting another cigarette. BAD DAY FOR ME, REAL BAD.

I take a folded newspaper page from my coat. Picked it up on the way. Quick stop off tomorrow afternoon, then back to today.

GOT SOME LUCK FOR YOU, YEAH. I slip him tomorrows sports pages and we say no more about it. He nods and we go outside.

Kilbey got the name Im looking for. Got it off the bloke who sold him our memories. I wanna know why we sold our memories in the first place.

It takes Swift six hours to get back to me. I wait in a greasy spoon, headphones in, drinking bleedin awful coffee til I have to stop.

FOUND YER MAN, he says. I drop the dog half a bacon sandwich. Share the bellyache, I figure.

The address is a tower block in Wandsworth. Takes me a couple of hours to find it. Time I park, its dark. Concrete walls all dirty with streetlight.

Place smells of piss even before you reach the lifts. Theres an argument on the first floor. Whole building is arguing. Each floor sits at angles to the next.

Lift wont go higher than the third floor, so I take my time climbing four flights of scabby stairs. Armpit is killing me, foots no better.

Finding the right door, I have to stop for breath. Peer over the walkway & make sure I can see the cab. Check wheels still where they should be.

Nobody answers when I knock and all the blinds are drawn. Still, I can see the flicker of TV light, hear the low rumble of a soap opera.

I knock again. Someone turns the TV down. YEAH, I think, THAT SOLD ME. NOBODY HOME. I’m about to knock again when the screaming starts.

I aint never heard nothing like it. The geezer howls in an octave he never knew he had in him. On and on. It dont sound like pain, but something else.

It worries me. I stand there most of a minute before I remember myself.

Lights are going on all along the floor. I raise my good boot and kick. The door dont budge. I kick again. Cold pain spikes my bad bone.

2 more kicks and Im in. The screaming is still going and I know it now. Its terror. Blinding fear. This dont make me feel any better.

I find him writhing about on the sofa. TV light still blue on the walls, playing with shadows.

His hands are curled up in front of his face, like he’s fighting something off. Something that aint there.

I give him a prod and he grabs hold of my shoulders. Eyes wide in his sweaty face. ITS WATCHING, he says. DONT LET IT SEE ME DONT LET IT SEE ME

It hits me then that he aint looking at me. Hes looking behind me, over my shoulder. I turn and, just for a second, there’s something there.

He starts screaming again and that nearly does me in. Strange and fast rhythms behind my ribs. The hallways empty. Now.

I realise the front door is open. But nothings gone through it. Whatever was there, just stopped being there.

But before it stopped, I saw it. I could forget that. What I cant forget is this, I smelled it.

I dont know what it smelled like. Cant name it. But whatever it was, it was bad. And I aint gonna forget it any time soon.

THE LOST FORTNIGHT: DAY FIVE

The church was in Bow. A non-descript brown brick building with a board offering bible-study basketball and prayers. Sodden confetti on a short concrete path.

I waited on the threshold. Wondered when I’d last been near a church. Looked at my boots and wondered if they’d have to come off.

I was still wondering when a blond bloke in a suit came up the three concrete steps behind me.

He might have been American, but wasn’t. Might have been well-practised at the laying on of hands or tele-evangelising.

‘We’re always open.’ There were some good teeth in that smile. ‘And always glad to see a new face.’

His name was Pastor David. Jaw of a filmstar and handshake of a wrestler. My nicotine yellow slims blanched then blushed in his grip.

He showed me around the church as if offering me the lease. Noted seating (plastic), lighting (frosted glass) and neutral décor (beige carpets, bare brick.)

Every sentence began ‘My wife and I’ and he paused by each stray parishioner for a quiet chat about their relatives. The twitchy boy changing the flowers got two minutes about his sick aunt.

I started yawning, at first accidentally, then with intent. The man cared and wanted me to know it. I could have done with more subtlety.

‘Is it mainly students?’ I asked, cutting across a gushing, lengthy review of the church band. ‘Young people, I mean?’

‘Yes, mostly a younger crowd. When my wife and I first came here, it was an older congregation. Dwindling, as you might imagine.’

I had the photo of Miss Atkinson out of my coat. ‘I don’t suppose you know this girl then? I heard she used to like a hymn or two.’

Call Me David took the photo and made a good show of studying it. Frowned. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Maybe it’s not a good photo. Thing is, there’s not really any doubt that she did stop by here. Often. Try again.’

‘There’s no need.’ The pastor gave me back the picture. ‘If she had come here once, I would have recognised her. It’s a gift the Lord gave me.’

If he was lying, then that made two gifts. He easily met my gaze, and his smile was comfortably sad for not being more help.

He was ready to show me to the door, but I held my ground. ‘These bible study groups of yours,’ I said.

His smile flickered. ‘Yes. My wife and I run them three times a week. They’ve proved very popular with the younger crowd.’

‘What sort of things do they cover then? The Ten Commandments, True Love Waits, homophobia?’

I amuse myself sometimes, I really do.

‘Not exactly.’ To his credit, he reasserted the smile and held it firm. I offered him one of my own. ‘What about witches?’

‘Ah. I was beginning to wonder if you were here on someone’s behalf. A disgruntled parent, perhaps? I think I might ask you to leave.’

He gripped me firmly by the shoulder. ‘I’m not here on anyone’s behalf,’ I assured him. ‘Tell me about the witches. I like a good fairytale.’

The pastor watched me hard for most of a minute. At first, I thought he might crack, might shout. Instead he let go of my shoulder and smoothed the sleeve of his suit.

‘It amuses you, I can see that. I do understand that, honestly. You’ve been brought up to laugh. To take nothing seriously.

‘Evil is not a joke, let me tell you that now. Listen to me. Evil is real. Evil must be fought. This is a broken world we’re living in.

‘There are things crawling through the cracks. Dangerous ideas and thoughts polluting young minds.

‘That is what we teach here. We help the young protect themselves, help them guard against corruption. Against evil thoughts.’

His speech, and its passion, were done. He stepped back, running a hand through his light hair. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me now.’

I was left standing in stained sunlight. A coloured crucifix lay across me and the bland carpet, a bleeding heart crimson at its centre.

I had the feeling Pastor David had told me more than he’d meant to. I just had no idea exactly what he’d said. Ideas. Evil ideas. That stirred something.

A door slammed and I decided I should be elsewhere. Turning in the aisle, I felt a hand at my elbow.

It was the twitchy boy, brandishing a browning bunch of flowers. They were as wilted as he was. ‘Sorry sir. Are you here for Mary?’

‘That depends. Mary Atkinson?’ When the boy nodded, I did the same. ‘You knew her?’

‘We all knew her. But we’re not allowed to talk about her. We have to forget her.’

‘Why? What did she do?’ I thumbed over my shoulder towards the slammed door. ‘Your pastor lied to me. He said she’d never come here.’

‘He didn’t lie sir. He wouldn’t lie. He’s just forgotten her sir, they all have. They had to.

‘She went looking for evil, sir. And she found it. That’s why they had to do it.’

I had a terrible feeling I knew what he was talking about. What they had to do.

I gripped the boy by both shoulders. 'They did that to her, is that what you're saying? They put her in a coma? How?'

‘Poison, maybe. I don’t know. They wouldn’t have hurt her. I don’t know the details. They just let me clean up, do the flowers. That’s all. I’m not important.’

The boy was watching the door and itching to leave. My hands stayed on him as if promising a miracle. ‘But, why? Why would they do that?’

He smiled, briefly. There were no good teeth there. ‘They did it to be kind,’ he said.

THE LOST FORTNIGHT: DAY FOUR

Campbell didn’t hang around and wasn’t much use. Shuffled the flapping soles of his shoes and clasped a paper cup of coffee.

‘Why would I ask you to sell my memories?’ I ask, not offering him a cigarette. He frowns, twitches and owns up. I didn’t.

‘You said to destroy them. Said you just wanted to get rid of them. Soon as I’d got them out of you, I was supposed to chuck ‘em down the sink.’

I understand. ‘But you saw too good a deal, right?’ Campbell holds on to a mouthful of coffee. It’s hot enough to make his eyes water.

‘Well, worth a fair bob, a good set of memories. Even in this climate. Thought I’d sell them on, then see you right. No harm done.’

I slapped him, hard, just the once. Wiped my hand on my denim thigh. Campbell approached tears. ‘What was that for?’

‘Just in case.’ I told him. ‘Just in case you’ve done something stupid. Just in case I told you to destroy them for a reason.’

Memories will always be worth something to someone. Bad memories do the best business. They cheer people up.

When your life is most miserable, there’s comfort to be found in the misery of others. Pleasure in trawling others’ misfortunes.

‘How bad were they?’ I ask. Campbell frowns again. Still nursing his cheek, he reaches into his pocket and produces another wad of notes.

‘Okay, so I owe you a bit more than I said. I’m in business, ain’t I? Gotta make the most of an opportunity.’

He hands the notes over. I count them. Whatever I didn’t want to remember, it must have been pretty bad.

I spent Saturday asking around for gossip, seeing if anyone had heard what I had been up to, what my forgotten business had been. No luck.

Sunday, we went back to Mr Atkinson. Peering through his letterbox and seeing Nero standing by the cab, he refused to open the door.

I began a conversation through the brass flap. ‘Listen, I’ve got him on a leash. He’s not going to hurt you.’

‘I can’t tell you anything. You didn’t tell me anything. You just told me where she was, that’s all. Now, please, leave me alone.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘All I want to know is what you told us when you hired us. You can do that, surely? I guarantee we won’t mind.’

And, with a little more cajoling, he retold the tale he first told a fortnight ago. His daughter was nineteen, studying at Queen Mary University.

She was a good girl, studied hard. A keen churchgoer. A little too keen, if truth be told. Every other night, she was off to some bible group.

‘Her mother was a bit devout. I thought she was taking after her. But then she started bringing home all these leaflets. Terrible things.

‘She left one on the coffee table. It was all about witches. How it was every Christian’s duty to kill them. Well, I didn’t know what to say.’

I didn’t know what to say about that either. I may have smirked. But I wrote down the address of her church in my Moleskine.

This morning, I got Nero to drop me out east and send him off west.

Our memories are still out there, somewhere. I figure Nero can find them; the soles on my Docs are starting to wear thin.

Me? I'm going hunting for witches.

THE LOST FORTNIGHT: DAY THREE

As usual, Cartwright’s awake before I am. She walks about the room, buttoning a work shirt, colliding with things she’s asked me to tidy away.

Each collision brings a huff and portends an argument. I pull up the duvet and feign sleep. Nobody’s convinced.

One of my boots flies from her toe to the bedside lamp and I’m up. Best to hurry away to make the tea, I think.

Cartwright came over last night with Merlot and a grudge. She didn’t seem surprised by my black eye. Or displeased.

‘You know if I didn’t make an effort, we’d never see each other again,’ she said. The effort being making me apologise.

I came clean about my amnesia. She seemed to think it wasn’t my best excuse. ‘You’re seriously telling me you don’t remember Monday night?’

I’m very rarely serious, but I gave it a shot. The story was Cartwright hadn’t seen me for a week. No calls, no drunken doorstops.

‘I thought you were going to pike on the dinner party. Of course, now I wish you had.’

Cartwright has been making friends at work. Her first adult job, her first adult friends. A dinner party was suddenly inevitable. Apparently.

So, I turned up after the entrée, more than moderately trousered. Couldn’t sit straight in my chair, knocked over three wine glasses and swore a lot.

Halfway through the mains, I jumped up and closed every curtain. Peeled back a rung in the blinds and frowned at the street outside.

Over dessert, I told the same anecdote four times at increasing volume. Then when a minicab rang the doorbell, I jumped out the kitchen window.

In my wake: a furious girlfriend, eight broken potplants, two dislodged fence palings and a muddied bootprint on the kitchen bench.

‘I’ve never seen you like that. At the time I wanted to kill you. Now I’m wondering if someone else had the same idea.’

I fingered my new black eye. To be honest, I’m quite proud of it. I feel dead hard. Well, semi-hard. Less than averagely soft.

The rest of last night passed amid various acts of contrition. Cartwright, never knowingly credulous, ambushed me with conversations designed to expose my amnesia as a scam.

Now, coming down into the kitchen, she’s still looking at me out of the side of a scowl. Like a bouncer sizing up a drunk.

Finding the empty box of teabags beside the empty tin of coffee, she is no longer scowling sideways. It’s easier just to get my coat.

Grubby sky and a chill on the High Street. I keep my coat buttoned and my collar up. Cold fingers tumble coins in my pockets.

A bloke in a coat more traumatised than mine, steps out on the pavement before me. He’s going to ask for change. Then he sees me. I see him.

Campbell. Short, scruffy and wearing no-one’s favourite cologne. A small-time fence with some big-time friends.

I open my mouth. He shuts his. Two seconds later, all I can see of him are the stains on his coat tails as he flees in the direction of the market.

It’s too early to run anywhere. There’s a motorway’s worth of tar in my chest and stale red wine behind the eyes. But here I go.

Campbell’s less fit than I am. Two blocks and he’s collapsed in an alley beside some bins, a breathless beetroot.

I stand over him, trying to look impressive. Trying not to look like I’m gasping. Trying not to faint.

He talks first. ‘I was going to bring it to you, honest. I was on my way there now. Honest.’

‘Bring what?’ Hmm. That sounded petulant. I try again, with irony and a threat. ‘Bring what?’ Like I know already.

‘I didn’t get much for it though. Honest. You gotta take that into account.’ From his coat comes out a thin wad of twenties, which he hands over.

I don’t say anything. I fold the wad and shove it in the back pocket of my jeans. Wonder if he wants a receipt.

‘There’s money there for both of them,’ he says. ‘But it’s a bad time. Loadsa people selling up. But I haggled, honest.’

Ah, sod it. I came out for teabags. I’m not ready for the cryptic crossword. ‘Selling what, exactly?’

Campbell frowns, recoils in his rags. Thinks I’m teasing him, expects a smack. ‘What you got me to sell. Memories, innit?’

Well. That’s a turn up. I offer him my hand, although I think twice. ‘Come have a cup of tea,’ I say. ‘Your shout.’

THE LOST FORTNIGHT: DAY TWO

The bins were empty when I went to check, but coming back up the stairs I noticed a small slip of paper. An invoice.

The invoice was for a Mr Atkinson, with his address neatly printed in my hand. It was dated two days ago and had been stamped PAID.

The phone rang then, so I folded the invoice into my waistcoat pocket. It was Cartwright. I could tell this by the long pause that followed ‘Hello.’

I didn’t feel obliged to break the pause, so put the phone down, went off to put the kettle on and collected my tobacco pouch.

Having made myself comfortable, I tried again. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m waiting,’ Cartwright said and I knew what for. An apology. Sadly, I had no idea what I was apologising for.

This was not unusual. Cartwright was giving no clues, so we argued about how sorry I should be and how pathetic my denials were.

This was also not unusual. Three minutes later the phone was down and I was still none the wiser.

A drink felt obligatory, so we popped down to the Albion. Well, I popped, Nero hobbled. No sooner had we entered than we were turned out again.

Barred, the Major told us. No explanation. Forget cryptic messages, broken legs and sulky girlfriends. Something had to be done!

The invoice seemed our best lead, so I went through our records, looking for a Mr Atkinson. Not a trace.

Have set out this morning then to find this Mr Atkinson and ask him what he paid us to do.

Driving the cab with a broken leg is impossible, I’m told. Alas, driving the cab with a crippled backseat driver is no easier.

Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with taking a corner in fourth. Everybody does it.

And what is a fishtail, anyway? A verb, apparently.

The address is a white brick one up/one down in Barnes. Nice place. Quiet and suburban. Some old dear comes out to complain about my parking.

I give her a smile and point at the cripple, now emerging from the back. This doesn’t convince her. She looks at his plaster leg as if worried it’s loaded.

I’ve barely knocked before Atkinson opens the door. He’s about mid-50s and beige. Proper slippers and cardigan. Looks surprised. If he was carrying a cup of tea he’d have spilled it.

‘You told me never to contact you again,’ he says. I wonder if that stammer of his is new.

I want to know why. He says he was told not to say, on pain of death. Who told him? We did. He gives Nero a frightened glance.

I ask him if he hired us. He did. Can he tell us why? He gives Nero another glance and tremble and nods. ‘My daughter.’

She had been missing for a fortnight, he says, then the threatening letters started coming through the door.

‘They didn’t want anything, didn’t demand a ransom. All they said was not to talk about her. To anyone. Ever.’

I wonder if he means not to go for help, for the police, but he says no. The notes were specific. Past, present and future tense were out. His daughter was to be forgotten.

‘But you came to us, you asked us to find her?’ I ask. He watches his slippers as if studying for a test. ‘She’s my daughter. I couldn’t forget her.’

‘And we found her?’ He paid up, so I’m guessing that’s a yes. Atkinson nods. ‘You On the plus side, I won’t be having to sit through any more dinner parties any time soon.

found her.’ Now we’re getting somewhere!

He gives us an address. I’m hoping the daughter will be less concerned about filling in the blanks and we take a few more corners in fourth.

It isn’t until we pull up that I realise the address is a hospital. That’s when the sinking feeling kicks in.

The nurse on the front desk confirms the diagnosis. Visiting hours won’t do us any good. The daughter’s in a coma. Has been for a week.

I wonder if there are any decent pubs in the area.

THE LOST FORTNIGHT: DAY ONE

Wait. Tuesday the 27th of April? Last thing I checked, it was Saturday the 17th. I’ve lost two weeks. Again.

I’ve had a quick look about the office and under all the paperwork on my desk. Those two weeks are definitely gone. Weird.

Sent Nero to go look behind the fridge. No luck. We don’t have a fridge. This is getting serious. Missing: two weeks, one fridge.

Apparently we never did have a fridge. So that’s one less mystery. Nero asked me if I noticed anything else was different. Have I grown a beard?

No beard. What I should have noticed was Nero’s right leg is in plaster. Easy to miss. Still, thought he was dragging his feet coming down this morning.

I have a black eye! Well, purple really. Like someone’s injected poisonous ink into the socket. Quite a lump too. Frankly, think my cheekbones were high enough.

Strangest of all is a message, written on dust on the mirror behind the bar. JUST LEAVE IT ALONE. My handwriting.

No, strangest of all is someone’s taken out the bins.