The Day I Died. Polly Courtney
The girl shrugged and took Jo’s crisp twenty-pound note. ‘I guess.’
‘Thanks.’ Jo sensed that she wasn’t going to get much more information out of the girl. She held out her hand for the change. It was shaking badly, she noticed, and sweating. The fear had receded a little since she’d come to Radley but it was still there, looming in the back of her mind.
‘That’s fifteen forty-six change.’
Jo took the money and tipped it into Joe Simmons’ wallet. As she was leaving, she glanced at the shelves behind the cashier’s head.
She stopped and looked harder. Suddenly, she knew what had featured in her life before now–what would cure the shaking hands, the sweating, the anxiety. She knew what would relieve the nagging sensation that she hadn’t been able to identify up until now. And the revelation brought on a fresh wave of nausea.
‘Sorry–one more thing.’ She reopened the wallet.
The girl gave her a look that she’d previously shown the old man.
Jo picked out the cheapest bottle, paid the cashier and rushed out.
The high street was empty save for a couple of hunched-over residents shuffling from shop to shop. Jo perched on the wall by the parish hall and drained the bottle of water she’d bought, then quickly decanted the vodka. She was desperate, but she wasn’t desperate enough to swig from inside a plastic bag–not around here.
She took her first sip. It burned her insides, ripping at her throat and leaving an aftertaste that was instantly familiar. The reactions of her body and mind were at odds. It was good to have fed the need, allayed those symptoms, but it was frightening to think of the implications.
OK, so she had had quite a shock and everyone knew alcohol was known for curing the shakes, but this was more than the shakes. This wasn’t a taste for vodka; it was a need. Her body was craving the stuff.
She stared at the parish notice board, trying to make out where Radley was in relation to Abingdon and Oxford. She couldn’t focus. All she could think about was this new, abhorrent revelation. She swigged and thought, swigged and thought. What did this mean? What sort of life had she been living up until now? And why was she so damned scared about turning herself in, coming clean? What had happened in her past? Who was she?
Jo took another swig and delved into the plastic bag. Her fingers curled round the little notebook she’d bought and then felt about for the biro she’d nicked from the cashier. That was another thing: why had stealing the pen come so naturally to her? It wasn’t the incident itself that troubled Jo–the biro leaked and was worth nothing anyway–it was the principle. She was a thief. The pen wasn’t the only thing she’d pinched, either. First, there had been the wallet, then the Polish girl’s job…It was a worrying trait.
She pushed aside her concerns and glanced at the food in her bag. Drinking on an empty stomach was stupid, she knew that much. But the eating could wait. It had to. Before she did anything else, she had to straighten out her thoughts–pull together what she knew. She tore the cellophane wrapping off the notebook and started to write.
Nightclub near Piccadilly
Live in London?
Impatient, intolerant–feel wrong in small village
Thief–comes naturally. Survival?
CAN’T STAY IN LONDON–WHY?
Jo swallowed another gulp, larger this time. She knew she should probably find this Abingdon place, buy some clothes, some shoes, find a place to stay…but the writing was helping. It was as though, by transferring what little she knew into the pages, the notebook was becoming her. It was slowly filling up with all the details and characteristics that only a few hours ago had eluded her. Soon, she hoped, she would be able to piece together who she really was.
Alcoholic?
But healthy–slim, good skin, etc.
Going through bad patch/partying too hard?
Maths, common sense
She stared at the words and felt a twinge of resentment; it was as though this life, this personality, this person, whoever she was, had been thrust upon her. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to be an alcoholic. She didn’t want to have this paranoia. Like a teenager taking umbrage at her parents for conceiving her, she wanted to scream: ‘It’s not my fault! I didn’t ask to be the way I am!’ But she had no one to scream at.
Jo closed the notebook and slipped it into her jacket pocket, willing herself to screw the lid on the bottle and think about something else. Her hands were shaking less now, she noticed. One last swig. She stood up to study the notice board. Her feet wobbled beneath her. Grabbing the hand rail, she pulled herself steady. ‘Streetlighting in Gooseacre,’ she read. ‘Rats in Lower Radley.’ ‘Mahogany Dresser for Sale.’ Jo squinted up at the area map.
Abingdon was a brisk twenty-minute walk, according to the directions–although Jo wasn’t sure how brisk her walking would be after half a bottle of vodka. Everything around her had become fluid: the pavements, the shops, the clouds. She dropped the bottle into the bag and then turned and nearly fell down the parish hall steps.
Jo wondered how long the amnesia would last. What if the memories never returned? She reached for the vodka, then stopped herself. There was a panicky sensation inside her, the sort you got in a nightmare when you were desperate to run away but your legs wouldn’t work. Perhaps she would never find out who she really was. Jo forced herself to breathe normally and tried to ignore her yearning. Actually, given what she had seen of her character so far, there was a part of her that wasn’t sure she wanted to know who she was. And more specifically, she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out why she’d run away from everything this morning.
Abingdon’s selection of shops was slightly broader than that of its neighbouring village, but not much. Jo had expected to recognise some of the high-street stores–such as they were–but she felt reasonably certain that Choice Buys and Stylz weren’t big names in UK fashion.
‘Sorry, miss.’
Jo blinked back at the security guard whose arm was blocking her way. He shook his head at her. She stepped back, waiting for an explanation. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the shop was swarming with people. It couldn’t be closed.
Then she realised. She saw herself through the doorman’s eyes. She saw the crazed expression on the dirty face, the bare feet sticking out from beneath the crumpled jacket. She smelled her breath and spotted the telltale plastic bag. She wouldn’t have let her into Stylz of Abingdon.
The mirror in the McDonald’s toilet was made of some sort of brushed metal that wasn’t particularly reflective, but even so, Jo could tell it was an improvement. She had tried to simulate a shower by rubbing the accessible parts of her body with hot water and the strange foamy syrup she assumed to be soap. Her hair was still knotted and the soles of her feet seemed to be painted black, but that was no bad thing. From a distance, it almost looked as though she was wearing shoes.
An hour later, Jo had acquired a couple of nondescript cotton tops, some cheap underwear, a pair of black trousers and some shoes, all for less than thirty pounds, which seemed suspiciously cheap, even to someone half-cut. She looked presentable, if not fashionable.
She tugged at the trousers so that they covered her shoes, wondering what type of clothes she had worn before. She still had a sense of her likes and dislikes–not a memory, exactly, more a natural bias towards certain styles. Just as she’d known in the supermarket that she liked fruitcake but not mushrooms, she knew that her preference was for the bootleg cut and sleeveless tops. Today, of course, there were other constraints, like money and the requirement for her clothes to double up as the teashop uniform.
She perched on a low car park wall, allowing herself a short break but very aware that she needed to find a bed for the night. Her head was throbbing and her limbs felt heavy and weak–not just because of the vodka.