Catch Your Death. Mark Edwards
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the clatter and murmur of the other diners any more. There was a wall of silence around her and Paul. The words on the page were all she was aware of. She recognised Stephen’s handwriting. Before seeing it again she would never have been able to describe it, but as soon as it was there before her she knew those looping Ls, that tight, messy scrawl. A doctor’s handwriting. They’d joked about it more than once.
The letter covered two sides of A4. She read through the first section quickly. Stephen started with a few unremarkable statements and observations – the weather, the cricket, hope you were able to watch it, etc – and then the tone of the letter changed suddenly. The writing got more uneven, even more messy. It looked like it was written in a rush. There were mis-spellings, crossings out. So unlike the Stephen she knew.
Stuck in his flat one day, when he was at work, she had unearthed an old notebook from the back of his bookcase. In the notebook were poems, a couple of fragments from stories that he’d started writing, observations about places he’d been. It was beautifully written, with immaculate spelling and grammar. She never told him she’d found the notebook in case he was embarrassed. He might, she feared, even be angry that she’d been snooping around. Then there were the notes he wrote her; cards that went with little gifts he’d bring home to her. He was careful and always accurate. This letter, with its mistakes and heavy pencil marks must have been written when drunk. Or under extreme stress.
Towards the end of the letter, the following passage screamed out at her:
I met a girl, her name’s Kate. We’ve had to keep our relationship secret from the people here, but I don’t think we’re the only ones with secrets . . .
Kate was unable to read the next segment, two lines had been crossed out with thick black pen, obscuring all but the tips of a few tall letters and the tails of some others. She picked it up a little further on.
I hope you meet her some day. If you do, and I’m not there, tell her I loved her. Tell her she was right. And tell her to forgive me.
‘Are you okay?’ Paul asked, touching her wrist.
She snatched her hand away as if his fingers were red hot then looked up, dazzled, briefly unable to speak. Am I okay? No.
She stared at the letter again, reading it over like someone who’s just received a letter telling them that sorry, the blood test result was positive, you failed the exam, you didn’t get the job you so badly wanted, I don’t love you anymore. ‘“Tell her she was right.”’ She read the sentence aloud. ‘Right about what?’
Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.’
‘And what does he want me to forgive him for?’
‘You don’t know?’
She screwed her face up, tapped her temples with the flat of her hand, perhaps hoping to knock the memories loose. Here was that thick fog again, descending over her mind, obscuring the past.
Paul said, ‘You know something? I’ve kept this letter for years. I must have read it a hundred times. And every time, I asked myself what Stephen was talking about. What were the secrets? Who was this girl Kate and what was she right about? After Stephen died I became obsessed with finding out what he was talking about. I mean, it was obvious to me that he wasn’t feeling himself when he wrote this letter. He was normally so calm and rational. Not unemotional, but with his head screwed on, you know what I mean?’
Kate did know.
‘What had this Kate person done to make him like this, and what had he done to her, that she had to forgive? I asked Mum and Dad if they knew anything about you, but they said they’d hardly heard from Stephen in the months before he died. I spoke to the couple of close friends he had, but they didn’t know anything either. You were a mystery woman. Nobody had a clue who you were. This letter was the only proof that you existed. I puzzled over it for ages and then I made myself forget about it – I had to, in order to be able to get on with my life. But I always hoped that one day I might find this Kate, and that she’d be able to tell me what she was right about.’
Kate’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’
‘Can’t you try? Think back?’
‘You don’t understand.’
She explained to him about how patchy her memory was. ‘It’s so frustrating. I can remember some stuff incredibly clearly, but then there are these holes. I hardly remember anything about my second stay at the Centre, which was when it burned down.’
‘You stayed there twice?’
‘Yes. It’s . . . well, maybe I’ll explain why another time. This letter was written during my second stay. So whatever I was right about, it’s something that must have happened then.’
‘Could it just be something to do with your relationship? Maybe he’s saying you were right about, I don’t know, that you could make it work, while he was doubtful. Something like that?’
‘No. It can’t be. What about this stuff about secrets?’ She was quiet for a few seconds, though the bubble around them remained, sealing out the chatter of the other diners. ‘You’re going to think I’m crazy, but although I can’t remember the details, I do know that there was something, something we couldn’t agree on. Something to do with the CRU itself, or Stephen’s job. I can almost see it. Almost taste it. But it’s like . . .’ She paused.
‘What?’
She looked into his eyes. ‘I’m scared. Scared of whatever this truth is. I feel like the heroine in a horror movie, standing outside the door of the big creepy house, grasping the handle, knowing that when I pull open the door I’ll finally see what the monster looks like. But I don’t want to see.’
Paul leaned forward. ‘In the films, the girl always goes into the creepy house.’
‘I know. But my brain won’t let me.’
‘Why not? It just seems so odd that you can’t remember. Sixteen years isn’t all that long ago.’
She sipped her beer, wondering if he disbelieved her. Her heart was still pounding in her ears, but the initial shock had faded a little and the cool scientist inside her had stepped forward. Here was a problem. How was she going to solve it?
She shook her head and sighed. ‘I’m really jetlagged. I’ll be able to think about it more clearly tomorrow – not that I think I’ll have remembered anything else, but perhaps I can figure out why I can’t remember. Do you mind if we leave now?’
‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.
She told him the name of her hotel.
‘That’s on my way. Let’s take a taxi and I’ll drop you off there.’
The next few minutes – the walk to find a cab, the taxi ride – passed in a blur. When the taxi pulled up outside the hotel, Kate said, ‘I’m really sorry that I can’t answer your questions about the letter.’
‘Hmm.’ He appeared to have fallen into a slightly bad mood.
‘It’s not something I can control – I wish I could remember.’
He didn’t reply.
Kate pushed open the car door and climbed out, then walked quickly into the hotel, head down, through the revolving doors and towards the lift. She didn’t have the energy to talk about the holes in her memory again, to justify herself to this guy she’d just met. She felt emotionally drained. She didn’t want to have to think about anything else until tomorrow. All she wanted was to see Jack, to give him a cuddle before going to bed.
The taxi pulled away and headed around the hotel’s circular forecourt, back towards the main road. Paul sat back in his seat, trying to process everything.
He couldn’t believe that she had forgotten almost everything from that summer. God, it was frustrating. But then a stab of guilt hit him and he regretted