Alias Page 3

  It seems like the least I could do. “I’ll try.”

  “Atta girl. Don’t tire her out,” she warns Pryce. “She should be pressing this little button in twenty-seven minutes.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Pryce keeps her face straight, but there’s an easy intimacy to their exchange, and even half-cut on morphine I can tell their relationship goes beyond the purely professional.

  After switching on a small lamp, Lewis leaves us alone. Pryce waits for the curtain to close and then pulls up the chair with her coat on it. She looks exhausted.

  “Have you been here all night?” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve seen her clearly. Like Lewis, she’s a few inches taller than me, with an athletic build, and the hair that seemed so dark by the crash site is actually shot through with auburn lowlights, her haphazard ponytail coming apart at the seams. She’s not wearing makeup, and her Celtic knot earrings seem little more than an afterthought.

  “Yes,” she answers without inflection, sinking into the chair.

  It takes me a few seconds to think back to my question. I wince. “Sorry.”

  She waves away my apology and retrieves a notepad from her bag. “We’re having difficulty tracing your family,” she says by way of an opener. “Or your friends. Well, anyone, really.”

  I watch her find a blank page and ready her pen. “Are they not in my phone?” I hadn’t thought to look last night, but it seems an obvious place to find contacts.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” She taps her teeth with her pen. “But your phone was new, brand new in fact. The box and receipt were in the car.”

  “Shit,” I say. “The woman I was with, do you know who she is? I mean, who she was?”

  “Not as yet, no. She had no ID on her.” Pryce eyeballs me. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any flashes of inspiration where she’s concerned, have you?”

  I shake my head, my mouth parched again. Pryce refills my water glass and hands it to me.

  “What about the crash?” she asks as I drink. “Can you tell me what happened there?”

  “No,” I say, hating the weakness of my voice and repeating my answer with more emphasis. “No, I don’t know who she was or why we crashed. I don’t even know what we were doing in Wales. I don’t think I’m Welsh, am I?”

  An almost-smile tweaks the corners of Pryce’s lips. “You’re definitely not Welsh. From your accent, I’d say Manchester, which would fit in with your bus pass.”

  “Manchester, eh?” It’s elating to have actual information. A possible hometown, or at least a geographical area.

  “We ran your prints and those of the decedent through the PNC,” she continues, “but nothing came up. Using Manchester as a starting point for yourself, I’ve issued requests to the electoral register and the DVLA, the driving licence agency, but Rebecca Elliott is a common enough name that any hits I get will take time to follow up and eliminate.”

  I bend my legs to lessen the persistent stabbing of my ribs. “Could you do an appeal? Maybe take some photos?”

  She tucks a length of hair behind her ear. She’s not a fidgeter—she has the classic stoicism of a seasoned detective—and the gesture betrays her unease. “Photos might not help us much right now.”

  I catch on immediately and run my fingers across my face. “Have you got a mirror?”

  She glances at the curtain, as if willing someone to interrupt us. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Please?” I can’t get to the bathroom, but I’m not averse to launching an attempt. I’m about to wiggle out a foot to prove I mean business when Pryce sighs and relents, fishing out not a mirror but her mobile. With her fingers on my chin, she turns me into the light and takes a few shots. She deletes a couple and shows me the rest.

  They’re not pretty. I stare at the face on the screen, at its distorted jaw and puffy eyes and the sutured laceration that splits its right eyebrow. It doesn’t seem like me. I’ve no connection to this young woman with the blue-black hair and the small silver ring in her nose.

  I touch the piercing, making sure it’s really there, and peer beneath my gown to check my belly button. It’s unadorned, but there’s an intricate tattoo of roses and thorns curling around my right biceps. At some point in my life, I appear to have embraced the stereotype of anti-establishment rebel. I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. There are five minutes left on the pump.

  “Did you run the tattoo?” I ask.

  “Yes. No luck.” Pryce closes her notebook and secures it with an elastic band. “I think my time’s about up. I’ll be back to see you later.”

  She doesn’t specify when. I watch her go, and I count the last thirty seconds on the pump, hitting the button on zero. Nothing happens at first, but then I get the slow-release high that smoothes the edges off everything. I drift and doze, mellow enough not to be worried when I realise that even if I don’t have a record, I’ve obviously been in trouble with the police before, because I knew to ask about the tattoo and I knew what a PNC check was without Pryce having to explain it.

  Chapter Three

  They don’t muck about at Bangor General. I spend the rest of the morning sleeping, self-medicating, and sleeping some more, and finally open my eyes to a cheery note on the cubicle’s whiteboard informing me that it’s sunny with occasional showers outside and that I have an appointment with the physiotherapist at one thirty p.m. I’m tempted to get myself good and stupefied in advance, but I’ve been hiding away in a drug fog for hours and it seems like cheating somehow.

  The physio is a punctual and perennially cheerful sort who runs me through a series of breathing exercises to prevent pneumonia and then tells me that there’s nothing wrong with my legs and I really should try getting out of bed. I stare at her, unsure whether she’s taking the piss or merely bonkers.

  “I have all this stuff,” I say when she fails to acknowledge my concerns and readies a high-backed armchair.

  “Oh, don’t worry, it’s all portable. I’ll get Hanif to give us a lift.”

  Minutes later, supported by Hanif and with the physio manoeuvring my attachments, I shuffle eight steps to the chair and lower myself into it.

  “Excellent, that’s enough for today,” she says. “Keep going with those exercises, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She bustles out, and I sag back, drained by her enthusiasm and the unexpected exertion.

  “Cup of tea?” Hanif says, draping a blanket over my knees, his voice and expression deadpan.

  “Coffee?” I counter instinctively.

  “Not a problem. Milk and sugar?” He notices my indecision. “How about I bring both and let you experiment?”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, hugging the blanket close. I don’t really get how this works. My personal life—who I am, where I’m from, what I do for a living, my likes and dislikes—are a blank, but I was able to work a mobile phone, and I knew to call 999 for the emergency services. I can function in the everyday, operate its gadgets, and interact. It’s only when it comes to myself that I feel as if a section of my brain has been scooped out. Perhaps that’s what the blood clot is nudging against, and as the clot recedes it’ll release all the parts it’s trapping. I cross my eyes at my rubbish grasp of neurophysiology. Whatever I do as a career, I’m pretty sure I’m not a brain surgeon.

  Trial and error tells me I prefer my coffee white with two sugars. Or maybe I don’t, but this new post-brain-injury me does. I’m dunking a ginger nut when there’s a tap on the cubicle wall and Pryce pokes her head through the curtain.

  “Didn’t waste any time getting you on your feet, did they?” She sits next to me. “How are you?”

  I suck my ginger nut—chewing won’t be happening for a while yet—and make a “so-so” gesture as she removes her notebook from her bag. She looks refreshed, as if she’s snatched a couple of hours’ sleep and a shower. Her hair is neat, knotted back and clipped in place, and she’s changed into a smart shi
rt and dress trousers. Her air of official efficiency makes me wary.

  “What department do you work in?” I ask. Anyone who’s ever watched reality TV knows that it’s uniformed officers, not detectives, who respond to car crashes.

  She crosses her legs, her notebook open and balanced. “Major Crimes. I was on my way home from a conference last night when our techs fixed your location, so I volunteered to help with the search. Given the circumstances, I’m working your case until told otherwise.”

  I place my half-eaten biscuit back on the plate. It seems too frivolous to eat during this conversation. “Have you identified her yet?” I ask.

  “No.” Pryce glances at her book. I can see neat handwriting and bullet points but can’t read it from here. “Shall I tell you what we’ve been able to establish so far?” The question is rhetorical; she’s already barrelling onward. “Your car was in excellent condition. The report from the vehicle examiner states there was no mechanical fault that might have contributed to the crash. Although the debris is still being gathered for reconstruction, there is no evidence yet to indicate the involvement of another vehicle. There were no animal carcasses in the road or on the verges to suggest you might have swerved to avoid one or been in collision with one. Scene analysis undertaken by the RPSIO—that’s the Road Policing Senior Investigating Officer—estimates you were travelling at speeds between fifty and sixty miles an hour, so inside the statutory limit—”

  “But too fast for the conditions,” I murmur. It’s not an admission of guilt, just a rudimentary conclusion based on the stretch of road I saw from the barrier last night: ink-black and slick with rain and snow.

  “It would seem so,” she says. “Your bloods were negative for alcohol or drugs. We’ve traced the car to a rental agency in Ardwick, Manchester. You appear to have signed the agreement, and CCTV shows the decedent with you in the agency at four thirty-eight yesterday afternoon.”

  The latter detail jerks my head up, but Pryce is already shaking hers.

  “The quality of the recording is too poor for us to release it to the public. We can see it’s the two of you, but little else. Number plate recognition cameras place you on the M60 twenty-five minutes later, and then the M56, so we’re assuming you left for Wales directly from Ardwick.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I say, which is a very mild way of putting it. “The woman last night on the 999 call, she said we were in Snowdonia. Why the hell would we have been there? Do you think we were going on holiday?” I sit up straighter, buoyed by a sudden recollection. “Oh! Did you find the holdall and the clothes?”

  “We found one bag at the scene,” Pryce confirms. She angles her head, evaluating me. “You’re what? An eight? Maybe a ten, at a push? And about five foot five?”

  I shrug, taking her word on that.

  “The clothes were all fourteen to sixteen. The post mortem measurements imply they belonged to your companion.”

  “So I was taking her somewhere, possibly giving her a lift?”

  “All the way to Wales,” Pryce says, and I hear the scepticism in her voice. She takes out a small plastic evidence bag and hands it to me. “We found these lodged in the passenger footwell. Do you recognise them?”

  “No,” I say, rubbing my finger over the larger key. It’s a typical Chubb door key, and the other is a smaller, flatter one for a Yale lock.

  “Any idea what they open?” she asks.

  “At a guess, a front door.”

  “But that’s just a guess?”

  The edge to her voice makes me bristle. If I could provide her with an answer, I would. Then she wouldn’t have to keep watching the monitors for telltale physiological signs of subterfuge. If my heart rate is spiking, it’s because she’s pissing me off.

  “Yes, that’s just a guess,” I snap.

  She holds up her hands, implying she meant no offence, and then delves into her bag again. I shrink into my chair when I see “North West Wales Coroner’s Office” stamped across a large brown envelope. It wouldn’t take a genius to decipher my body language, and she turns the envelope plain side up, obviously ruing her error.

  “I need you to look at these,” she says, her voice low and soft, “but not necessarily today. Not if you’re not ready.”

  A monitor sounds a steady warning, bringing Hanif into the cubicle. He mutes the alarm and checks my blood pressure.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, too experienced to go by data alone.

  “I’m fine,” I say and reiterate it for Pryce’s sake. “I’m fine. I want to do this.”

  Hanif examines my morphine pump. “Stop skipping doses. You’ll need the next one to get yourself back into bed.” Then, to Pryce, “Twenty minutes, no longer.”

  She nods without equivocating. He has his own air of authority, and she’s a guest on his patch. He leaves the curtains ajar, and she slides a set of photographs out of the envelope before he can change his mind and terminate the interview.

  “Ready?” she asks me.

  I hold my hand out in lieu of answering, and she passes me the first photograph. The woman at the centre of the colour image looks far more peaceful than she did in the car. Supine on the mortuary’s metal table, she has her eyes closed, and her body is covered by a white sheet. Her face is clean and unmarred, apart from the jagged laceration cleaving her left forehead, and someone has brushed the blood from her hair. She’s a brunette, and I know her hair reaches halfway down her back, although I can’t see that in the shot. Her laugh is loud and infectious, and she loves eighties music and Raspberry Ruffle bars. I used to buy them for her from the corner shop, a handful at a time.

  I hear a faint rustle, and Pryce offers me a tissue as a tear drops off my nose and splashes onto the photograph. I blot it dry and wipe my face. There are other images: a cheap costume jewellery ring on the woman’s left index finger, a matching bracelet, and a purple hummingbird tattoo low on the right side of her abdomen. I trace the shape of the tattoo, unease creeping over me. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen it.

  “Were you friends? Or maybe a couple?” Pryce asks quietly. The latter question doesn’t offend me. It’s an obvious one to ask, given my reaction, and if the woman and I were closeted, that might explain the clandestine nature of our trip to Wales. Amongst all the grey areas and supposition, one thing I am certain of is my sexuality. Until now, I’ve been too spaced out to really consider it, but it must be something too deep-rooted to be altered or masked by a whack to the head, because I know that I’m gay. Perhaps that explains the empty chairs at my bedside.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “We were friends, I think. At least.”

  The answer seems to satisfy Pryce for the moment. She starts to pack her things, getting ready to leave, though I’ve no doubt I’ll be seeing her again.

  I sniff and swallow, and my ear pops, blanking out the noises of the hospital. In their place I hear a burst of cheesy pop music and laughter, a woman—this woman?—imploring me to dance with her. The air is rich with the scent of smoked meats, tomatoes, herbs, and red wine. I’m not convinced by the addition of sauerkraut, but she reassures me and offers me a taste from a wooden spoon. She cups her hand beneath the spoon, catching errant drips, and licks her palm, her eyes wide with delight. The sauce tastes amazing. I swallow again, my tongue poking out to touch the spoon, but the pressure in my ear equalizes and the woman disappears.

  “What’s a biggos?” I ask Pryce, the question past my lips before it’s engaged with my brain.

  Looking as bemused as I feel, she retakes her seat and rests her hands on her bag. “I haven’t the foggiest. Where did that come from?”

  “Just popped into my head. Can you google it?”

  “How are we spelling it?”

  “B-i-g…” I falter. I’ve only ever heard it spoken. “Maybe double g?”

  “‘Bigos.’ One g,” Pryce tells me, reading from her phone. “It’s a hunter’s stew. A traditional speciality of—”

  “Poland,”
I say. “She was Polish.” I think back to her tattoo, rendered in shades of purple. “May I?”

  Pryce proffers the phone without question, and I search first for “purple in Polish,” which brings up a word I fail to pronounce. I scowl at it for being so damn literal and try “Polish girls’ names” instead, hitting the first link that promises meaning and etymology. I get as far as “J” on the alphabetical list, and butterflies swirl in my belly as I click on one of the names.

  “Jolanta,” I say out loud, the way she used to emphasise each of its syllables, her accent curling around the sounds. “Her name is Jolanta. It means ‘violet’ in Polish. She told me it was her favourite colour.”

  Chapter Four

  It’s not one specific trigger but a slow-growing accumulation that brings my mum back to me: the hospital’s sponge pudding, the skin on its custard thick enough to repel an axe; the impersonal hands of an agency nurse rolling me to check for pressure sores, and her faint look of distaste as she empties my catheter; the monotonous cycle of observations being taken; the feeling of helplessness as a succession of strangers prod and probe my body and congregate at the foot of the bed to discuss my “case” in incomprehensible jargon.

  One of the doctors is awkwardly patting my arm when I first start to see my mum. He’s young, with acne still pocking his face, and his beard needs scrubbing out and starting again. He participated for ten minutes in an animated discussion moderated by my neurologist, Dr. Chander, but interacting with an actual patient seems to fall beyond his comfort zone.

  “I think I scared him,” I hear my mum say. Her accent is far milder than mine, and her voice is so clear she could be sitting beside me. Instead she’s in her own hospital bed, swaddled beneath a crocheted blanket that my gran made for her. She tracks the doctor’s rapid egress from the ward.

  “I wonder if his parents know he’s out so late,” she murmurs.

  I stroke her hand. The skin covering her fingers is paper-thin, and her grip is feeble. Her hair has never grown back, and I’ve shaved mine again in solidarity. She insists on wearing a woolly hat, because even in the stifling heat of Ward 3, Bay 4, she’s always cold.