seemed to be weaker than others, to the point he wasn’t entirely sure that his count was accurate.
Forty-five beats.
From what he had observed over the past few weeks, that seemed a bit low. It always depended on what was normal for that person though, Clive recalled Keisha saying. If only he was able to remember what his normal rate was. Still, he felt fine. Especially thanks to the splendid offerings of the picnic he was enjoying.
In a second layer, he found his pudding. A slice of Dorset apple cake that smelled heavenly and tasted even better, the tartness of the apple balanced out by the sweetness of the cake. Hopefully that would bring up his pulse if it even needed to be higher.
He checked one more time, pressing more firmly to make sure he didn’t miss any beats. He was sure he hadn’t caught all of them last time.
He was right… Fifty-seven.
That seemed more reasonable. But even once he’d finished counting he kept his fingers there, feeling for something.
What was there was a memory. It was lightly balanced under his fingers, scrambling around, trying to make its way to the surface. It was there and then it wasn’t. One of those tip-of-the-tongue moments that was hovering just out of reach. He was having so many of those of late.
He knew it was something to do with being ill. A recollection of when he’d become poorly at the allotment, perhaps? That would be a useful memory to recall. He’d hoped remembering being picked up by the ambulance here would cancel out the false memory that he had. The one he could hardly bear to think about.
Under his fingers was his light pulse, barely there. And that was all he was able to remember… Something that was barely there. It was no use to him at all.
45
Keisha
I like to be confident in my decisions. As someone who tends to look at things analytically, I can normally work out what to do for the best. Probability is a girl’s best friend.
But what to do when there is no way to know what the outcome will be? When we are entering uncharted territory?
I feel bad that Clive has gone to his allotment without knowing that we’re all meeting up to talk about him and what we’ve found out between us. But a chat at the café seems the best way to proceed. Once Tess places drinks on the table for Lucy, George and me she sits down and joins us.
‘Tell them what you told me about what you read in Clive’s records,’ I say to George.
He takes a moment, stirring three sachets of sugar into his black coffee.
‘Clive had a prolonged stay in hospital in his twenties. They thought he was attacked at the time. He had a head injury resulting in significant memory loss.’
‘What does that mean?’ Lucy asks.
George shrugs. ‘At the time he was unable to remember what happened and had short-term memory loss. I’m not sure if it has any significance now, but it might explain why he often gets muddled.’
‘I haven’t told George or Lucy yet,’ I say to Tess.
‘Told us what?’ Lucy says, dunking her biscuit into her tea. A second later the soft half plops into the mug.
‘Tess got her uncle to look into some things. He’s a genealogy specialist.’
‘There was a Nancy living at the property with Clive years ago. But she wasn’t Nancy Ellington, she was Nancy Fuller. It might tie in with the memory loss George is talking about.’ Tess lays a list down on the table. Five phone numbers. Five Nancy Fullers.
‘Hang on,’ Lucy says, trying to salvage the biscuit with a teaspoon. ‘So for weeks Clive has been going on about his wife that everyone says isn’t real, but now you’re saying she is? Newsflash!’
‘We think so,’ Tess says.
‘What do you think we should do?’ George asks.
I realise I want to be closer to him. I want to be next to him, rather than opposite. It’s quite the revelation to have amidst a meeting that’s full of them. It’s been building up, but there it is. On the other side of the table is a man who makes my heart flutter.
‘How can we be sure she’s one of these?’ Lucy asks, pointing at the list.
I’m not feeling for my pulse right now, not when breathing is hard enough.
‘My uncle said they might not be,’ says Tess. ‘But he’s not found any record of a death. It doesn’t mean there hasn’t been. She also