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CHAPTER 5

‘Jack? Are you still with me? Come on, lad.’

I open my eyes and see Miles’s face hanging a couple of inches above me. We’re both on the floor in the kitchen. He’s sitting against the wall and I’m slumped against him. The tiles feel cold and hard under my legs. My head’s throbbing again.

‘Wha—’

I try to speak but only a croak comes out. I clear my throat, causing my head to spin even more, before trying again.

‘What happened?’

‘You fainted. Luckily I managed to catch you before you went banging your head again. Floor tiles aren’t exactly a forgiving surface to fall on.’

The last thing I can recall is Miles leering at me like a wolf. Was that real or did I imagine it? I search for an answer in the creases running across his forehead; I probe the depths of his eyes. But all I find there is concern. I see nothing to fear.

‘Why were you trying to confuse me about my name?’ I ask.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Trying to trick me by calling me John. Reeling off all those other names at me.’

He frowns. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Perhaps it might be wise for you to get some more rest.’

I’m confused. Is he playing games with me? I consider having it out with him, a full-blown row if necessary, but I don’t have the energy. I decide that either I had some kind of hallucination – a genuine possibility with my mind in such poor shape – or that Miles is using some textbook technique geared towards triggering my memories. I do hope it’s the latter. I’d give anything to get them back.

‘Why did I faint?’

‘You didn’t take it easy enough; we need to get some food down you. You’d have been better staying in bed rather than coming down here.’

I try to get up and he helps me back on to a chair at the kitchen table. ‘How’s that?’

I nod. ‘Better. I think I’m all right now. Thanks for catching me.’

‘No problem. Tell me if you start feeling faint again. Scrambled eggs?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Coming up.’

He hands me a pint glass of water, telling me to drink it all, and busies himself making breakfast.

When it arrives it’s delicious. The eggs are luscious and buttery, served on two lightly-toasted wedges of white farmhouse loaf. There’s orange juice to drink, plus freshly ground coffee from the fancy machine I spotted earlier.

‘Thank you. This is great,’ I say, in between mouthfuls.

Miles, who’s sitting opposite me, nods in response but continues to eat in silence.

When we’ve both finished the food and are sipping our coffees, he asks if I’d like some more toast.

‘That would be great.’

‘I need to feed you up. Get you back to health. I’ll never get anywhere with these renovations on my own.’

He goes to the fridge, pulls out a glass jar and places it on the table. ‘Try this if you like. Homemade marmalade. I picked it up in the village the other day. There was a fete on at the church hall. Raising money for roof repairs or something. I’ve no idea how it will taste.’

My eyes fall on the pot and I’m transported back to my youth.

I’m eight years old in a cool larder with my grandmother. She’s tiny – only a little taller than I am – standing on tiptoes on a footstool, stretching up to a high shelf.

‘Careful, Gangy,’ I say, worried she might fall.

She turns and hands me the jar. Orange Marmalade, her neat handwriting reads on a small white label. There’s no metal lid, like you get in the shops, but a special waxy disc and some see-through stuff held on with an elastic band.

‘Isn’t all marmalade made of oranges?’ I ask her in my high-pitched little boy’s voice.

‘Sometimes I put ginger in it too,’ she says, beaming that huge smile of hers at me like I’m the most important person in the world. ‘I’ve even made it with lemon and lime,’ she adds. ‘But I’m not sure you’d like that.’

‘I don’t like any marmalade apart from yours,’ I tell her.

She winks at me. ‘That’s my boy.’

Miles is on his feet. He looks concerned. ‘What happened?’

I’m breathing fast. ‘A memory. Something from my childhood. It was the marmalade. It looks like the stuff my grandmother used to make. Gangy, I called her. That’s how I said it when I was tiny and it kind of stuck.’

‘That all came back to you?’

I nod.

He looks pleased. ‘Fantastic. That’s a great sign. How much do you recall about her? Anything else about your childhood?’

‘I can only remember her as she was in that moment. Nothing else, I’m afraid, although I do have a feeling she died.’

‘A feeling? No actual memories of that?’

‘No. I can’t remember a funeral or anything. She looked so fit and healthy in that memory, and it felt nice to see her that way, as if I knew it wasn’t going to last. The memory was so vivid, like I was actually there. Is that normal?’

Miles shrugged. ‘Memory is complicated.’

A wave of tiredness washes over me. It makes no sense when the main thing I’ve done, for as far back as I can remember, is sleep. Must be to do with the head injury, although the throbbing has subsided again now.

‘How are you feeling?’ Miles asks.

‘A bit tired, to be honest. Is that normal?’

‘Yes. You still need lots of rest. You should go back to bed for a while.’

‘Will it bring back my memories?’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘You don’t sound confident. You’re surprised they’ve not come back already, aren’t you?’

His face remains blank, unreadable. ‘You just had a memory.’

‘Sure, but only a fragment: one moment from years ago. It’s useless without the rest. And who knows if it was even real? Maybe I was remembering something I once saw rather than a memory of my own.’

‘Is that how it felt?’ Miles asks.

‘No, I don’t think so. But who am I to say? I can tell you what a film is, but I can’t remember an occasion when I actually watched one. None of this makes any sense.’

‘Like I said, memory is complicated.’

‘Can’t you at least tell me exactly where we are?’ I ask him. ‘I’d really like to know.’

Miles hesitates for a moment and then his face softens, like he’s taking pity on me. ‘Fine.’ He walks over to a drawer and pulls out a map of Wales. He unfolds it on the kitchen table and shows me our exact location.

The information doesn’t help like I hoped it would, though. It means nothing to me at all.

I’m trapped. I was walking through a tunnel when there was some kind of earthquake and the ceiling collapsed. I’m pinned to the ground, covered in pieces of rubble. I can’t see them because it’s pitch black, but I can feel their rough edges all around me, digging into my skin, holding me down. There’s sensation in my arms, but I’m unable to shift them. They’re wedged into place. I can’t feel my legs at all.

‘Help,’ I shout, but it’s pitiful. The sound dies as it leaves my lips, the rocks all around me sucking it in like sponges. Then I feel water creeping along my back; rising from below. Terror rips through me. I’m going to die here: alone in the dark.

I wake with a start and throw the quilt off me in disgust. It’s soaking wet, as is the sheet below. My whole body is drenched in sweat. I jump out of the bed, shivering, only for a jolt of pain to run through my head, stopping me in my tracks. I stand as still as I can, my right hand squeezing my temples, and gradually the sensation fades.

The cave, the rocks: a dream, thank God. A nightmare.

I still feel so anxious, though. I have that feeling again that I should be somewhere else – somewhere I’m needed – rather than here. Someone somewhere needs me. The problem is, I don’t know who. I take deep breaths, like Miles showed me, trying to calm myself down.

I’m Jack. This is Miles’s house. I have a head injury.

The green curtains are closed, but it’s clearly still light outside. I remember Miles leading me back upstairs after breakfast; advising me to rest. I must have dozed off straight away. Goodness knows for how long. There’s no clock in here.

The cold sweat is still clinging to me, so I head next door to the bathroom for a shower. It’s pleasant: hot and powerful. It seems Miles and I have done a good job with this part of the renovation. Afterwards, helping myself to one of the white towels under the sink, I look around the steam-filled room and try to picture myself in here fitting all the bits and pieces. It’s useless. I can’t remember that at all. And yet the idea of fitting a bathroom doesn’t seem entirely alien to me. It’s not that I suddenly recall the correct technique for plumbing in a toilet, but I get the feeling I’d be able to work my way through it.

Back in the bedroom, I put on the clothes I wore earlier – jeans and T-shirt, sweater and trainers – and look in the wardrobe at the rest of my belongings. There’s not much to see: a couple more pairs of jeans; a few shirts, T-shirts and jumpers; a well-worn black leather jacket; a week’s supply of boxer shorts and socks; a pair of black leather shoes. None of it looks new, but it all seems in reasonable condition. The quality is decent, but there are no designer brands. There’s an empty medium-sized navy rucksack shoved underneath the wardrobe, which is presumably how I carried everything here.

Apparently I’m a man of few possessions, although it strikes me as odd that I don’t at least have a watch or a wallet. Maybe I do and I’ve left them somewhere else. The whole “dropping my mobile in the sea” thing is weird too. I make a mental note to bring up all of this with Miles later on.

I pull open the curtains and look out through the salt-flecked sash window. I like being able to see the sea from here. There’s something captivating about it. Not that it looks very appealing. It’s dull and drizzly outside; the choppy water looks more grey than blue. It’s close to the house but some way down. We’re on a cliff: an isolated one by the looks of things, as there are no other properties or signs of habitation in sight. Our only neighbours appear to be windswept fields, weather-beaten rocks and a rickety fence to keep people away from the steep drop.

I consider the village Miles mentioned earlier; the local pub in which he said we met. I don’t think it can be that close to the house; a drive rather than a walk away, from what I gather, so little chance of company other than my host. An ideal place to hide away from the world, you might say. Perfect for a man with no known surname and next to no worldly belongings.

So what, or who, am I hiding from?

As I’m musing on this question, and failing to come up with anything in response, Miles walks past the window into my view. He’s wearing a navy fleece and carrying several long pieces of wood under his right arm: floorboards, at a guess. I’m not sure where he got them from, but he looks to be bringing them into the house.

I’m about to knock on the windowpane to get his attention when I see his head snap around as if he’s heard something behind him. I follow his gaze and, to my surprise, see another figure standing about a hundred metres away, close to the clifftop fence. It’s a woman: long black hair, blowing all over the place in the wind; slender figure in jeans and a knee-length red coat. She’s looking out to sea, so I can’t see her face and I’m not sure what she did to attract Miles’s attention. She stands there, hands in her pockets, the stillness of her body in sharp contrast to the constant flapping of her hair, which she makes no effort to restrain.

It’s a mystery where she came from, as there was no sign of her a moment ago.

When I look back to see what Miles is doing, he’s gone. I decide to head down to find him and to get a closer look at the woman. There’s something about her. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but my gut tells me to get out there. Perhaps she and I already know each other. If I could speak to her, maybe she could help me remember something. At the very least, it would be nice to have a conversation with someone other than Miles.

I reach the top of the wide staircase and see Miles unloading the wood in the hallway below.

‘Keeping busy?’ I call before descending.

He looks up at me with a smile. ‘Jack. You’re awake.’

‘Sure am. What time is it?’

‘Mid-afternoon.’

‘I slept for a while, then. It’s becoming a habit.’

‘Be glad of the rest. Your body will take what it needs. Feeling better?’

I nod, standing in front of him now, expecting him to ask about my memory, but the question never comes. Instead he comments that I look steadier on my feet than I did this morning.

‘What’s the actual time?’ I ask him.

He grins. ‘Who knows?’

‘Don’t you believe in clocks?’

‘That’s the second time you’ve asked me that,’ he replies, chuckling. ‘You said the very same thing when you first arrived. As I told you then, I’ve spent enough of my life as a servant to the clock. Now I’m retired, I’ve liberated myself from it. I do things as and when I want to. Live my days and nights by light and dark, enjoying the shades in between; not worrying about exactitudes.’

‘Does that mean there are no clocks at all here?’

‘Only those I couldn’t remove. There are two in the kitchen, for example: on the microwave and the oven, but they’ve never been set.’

I want to quiz him further about this bizarre arrangement, but then I remember the woman in red.

‘Who was that I saw outside?’ I ask.

‘Outside? When?’

‘A moment ago. The woman in the red coat. I saw her from my bedroom window.’

‘Really? I didn’t notice anyone out there. Are you sure?’

I don’t know what to say. Moments ago I saw Miles looking straight at her. I’m convinced of this fact. But rather than accuse him of lying, with no evidence to back it up, I brush past him and through the front door. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you.’

I stride out of the house, trying to ignore the biting wind. I’m expecting to spot the woman right away, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I pace up and down, scanning the clifftop in all directions. There’s no sign of her whatsoever, which is weird. It makes me panic that she might have fallen over the edge. I run forward, scouring the line of the rickety fence and the sea below, focusing on the area where I last spotted her. But there’s no sign of anything untoward. It’s like she was never there.

A concerned Miles catches up to me and clamps a firm hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Jack? What’s going on?’

‘I definitely saw her from my bedroom window. She was over there. I don’t know why you’re pretending she wasn’t. I saw you look straight at her.’

‘I’m sorry, Jack, but I didn’t see any woman. I promise you that. Hardly anyone ever comes up here. I’m not sure what’s going on. Maybe your mind’s playing tricks on you. It could be something to do with the head injury. Come on. Let’s get you away from the edge.’

‘You don’t even have a watch?’ I ask Miles later, once he’s talked me back inside and plonked me down in front of a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

He shakes his head. ‘No need.’

‘What about your mobile phone? There must be a clock on there.’

‘I don’t have one. You’ll notice very little technology around here. Only essential appliances: a couple of radios and CD players. There are no televisions or computers.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘I’m not. I don’t want them. It’s liberating to be free from their grasp. I can’t believe how much time I used to spend staring at a screen. TVs, computers, they’re all the same: soul vacuums. I don’t miss them one bit.’

‘What about me? Don’t I have a watch?’

Miles wrinkles his nose and sucks air in through his teeth. ‘Um, no. Not any more. That was one of the conditions of you moving in here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I didn’t force it upon you. You agreed.’

‘Agreed to what?’

‘To drop it over the cliff into the sea. We made a bit of a ceremony of it on the night you moved in. We had had a lot to drink. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a Rolex or anything. It was just a basic digital watch.’

‘Hang on a minute. Is that what also happened to my mobile?’

Miles nods. ‘Sorry. I probably should have made that clear last time, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you with too much information at that stage.’

‘So I willingly dropped them both into the sea? You have to be kidding.’

He shrugs. ‘House rules.’

‘And my wallet?’

‘What about it?’

‘I don’t seem to have one of those either.’

‘Oh, right. I see. Really? I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about that. It’s not something we ever discussed.’

He looks genuinely puzzled, but it’s not like I know him well enough to read him.

‘I must have had to spend money at some point while I’ve been here.’

Miles shakes his head. ‘Like I told you before, you work for your bed and board. There’s no money involved in our arrangement. Never has been.’

‘What about in the pub? You said we met there.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And? How do I buy drinks?’

‘You don’t. We only go occasionally and, when we do, I pay. That’s also part of the deal.’

‘Really. What about the first time?’

‘Yes, you probably bought some drinks then. It was a while ago. I can’t remember the ins and outs. Listen, what are you getting at? Are you trying to suggest I’ve stolen your wallet?’

The thought has crossed my mind, but I don’t want him to know that. Not at this stage. ‘No, don’t be stupid. It seems strange I don’t have one, that’s all. I thought it might give me some more information about myself.’

‘You seem very suspicious today, Jack. I appreciate how frustrating your amnesia must be, but remember, I’m not your enemy. All I’m trying to do is help you.’

I nod, as if in agreement, but the truth is I don’t know what to believe. How can I when my whole life is a void? I’ve no frame of reference for anything.

Did I imagine the woman in red? That’s certainly the simplest explanation. And yet she seemed so real. My head’s a mess. Nothing makes any sense. I need help – and I’m not sure Miles is the best person to provide it.