The Skeleton Man

They all laughed this time, but Dryden thought he was somehow outside the joke. Laura’s face was flushed with effort and something else, something close to joy.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was there when they got you out of the river. My name’s Dryden. Philip Dryden.’ He took the proffered good hand, noting again the handsome face, the crisp line of the jaw, and the complexion Dryden always associated with money. ‘I work for The Crow – that’s the local paper. Remember much?’

He shrugged, laughing, the green eyes searching Dryden’s. ‘Not really – just fragments and they seem to belong to someone else, someone who isn’t me, at least not yet. It’s a really bizarre experience. I can remember everything about life – you know, how to operate a coffee machine, or send a text message, or find Radio Four – but nothing about my life.’

‘How’d you feel, inside – emotionally?’

The man looked at Laura. ‘Scared, to be frank. Anxious. I don’t know what happened at the bridge. I can’t be sure someone didn’t throw me in – so, yeah, scared. How would you feel? If they’re out there, this person, these people, then they might try again. So I feel a bit hunted, a target.’

The voice was modulated, unhurried, with the self-possession of a BBC newsreader.

‘Anything… do you not remember anything?’

‘I’m writing it all down in a diary, but it’s just feelings really. And some inconsequential fragments from a childhood, the childhood of this other me I suppose. I can see a garden with all these exotic plants – palms, not spindly Cornish ones, hundred-foot ones. And I can see an ocean, with boats on it, thousands of them, and this incredible lawn, like a cool green carpet, between the flowering shrubs. God knows what all that’s about.’

‘A holiday?’ suggested Dryden.

He shook his head, but didn’t answer. ‘And rugby posts. This is a different place because there are low hills in the background dusted with snow. There must be six pitches, more, and round every one is arranged a thin crowd. I think my parents are there, in that memory somewhere. But I don’t know, I don’t see them.’

He laughed. ‘So, stuff like that. Not very useful. Laura’s said I could send her what I write. There’s nobody else, and the doctors said it might help. She says she’ll write back. I’m really grateful. There’s something about words that’s comforting, something really fundamental.’ He picked a magazine from the metal folder attached to the side of his chair. ‘Something about the black letters arranged on the white paper. It’s just important, but I don’t know why. They make me happy, I guess; happier, anyway.’

Dryden nodded, trying to look pleased, irritated by the note of self-pity.

‘Does Jude’s Ferry mean anything?’

He edged his chair towards the machine next to Laura and swung himself easily into the seat. Dryden thought he was making the time to think through an answer. ‘Sure. I think I was born there; like I say, bits of childhood have come back. But this is just a name – there’s not much to go with it.’

‘It’s not much of a place.’

‘There’s this street with a ditch full of reeds on one side. Is that right?’

Dryden nodded. ‘Sure. That’s The Dring – the main street.’

‘And bells ringing over my head, and the smell of wax on the ropes, the scent of a guttering candle. Peacocks on a lawn – not the exotic green one, this one’s covered in leaves at autumn, and it’s patchy. And a post office. I can remember the smell of it, and bells again, the little bells when the door opened, and one of those trays of sweets just right for my height. It’s just the echo of a memory.’

Dryden shrugged, wondering where he’d learned to use words like that, the sophistication of the imagery.

‘But nothing about falling in the river? The handrail was broken, that took some force…’

Laura pulled herself upright, cutting in. ‘Philip. Give him time.’ Dryden knew what she’d said, but he could see the other man struggling to unpick the sentence.

‘We should give you a name,’ said Dryden, knowing the thought was callous. Outside, through a picture window, he could see the Capri idling, the boot up ready to stow the wheelchair.

‘The coast?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘I’ll do the weights,’ she said, making a mess of the last word. ‘I must. See you at the boat. Tonight.’

They kissed, but as he walked away he felt uneasy, as if his back was being watched. Then his mobile rang.

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