‘Oh my God,’ gasps Adeya from the hall.

  ‘What?’ you say and you jump to your feet and hurry into the hall.

  She’s standing at the foot of a large curved staircase with white-painted bannisters and marble steps Above her head is a huge chandelier that has the look of a frozen waterfall. The wall is covered with framed photographs, several dozen in all. And it’s clear from one glance that you are in most of them.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘Phil, what the hell is going on here?’ whispers Adeya. She is staring at a large photograph in an ornate gilt frame. The picture is about five feet tall and three feet wide and it’s a family grouping, clearly a husband and wife and two young children. And the husband is you. You’re wearing a dark blue suit and a gleaming white shirt and a blue tie with red stripes. You’re sitting in a dark green leather winged armchair and there are bound hardbacks lining the shelves behind you, so you’re guessing the photograph was taken in the study. There’s a woman standing to the side of the chair with her hand resting on your shoulder. You can clearly see her wedding and engagement rings. She’s wearing a red dress that sets off her ginger hair. And red high heels. She’s looking at you with a soft smile on her face and you can just tell how much she loves you.

  The two children are sitting in front of the chair. A girl, eight or nine years old, with her mother’s hair and eyes, and a boy a couple of years younger with slicked down hair and a wonky smile. The boy is wearing a suit but it’s a size too large for him. The girl is wearing a dress that’s almost the same colour as her mother’s.

  ‘That’s you,’ says Adeya.

  ‘I can see that,’ you whisper.

  ‘With a wife and children. How can you not remember them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ you say. ‘But I have absolutely no recollection of any of them. Of any of this.’ You run a hand through your hair. Your heart is racing and you breathe slowly and evenly, trying to calm yourself down.

  ‘This is your house,’ she says.

  You nod. ‘I get that.’

  ‘But you said the owner of the house was dead in the car that crashed. And you said Maggie told you that you’d shot him. Well you clearly can’t have shot yourself.’

  ‘Everything she told me was a lie,’ you say quietly. ‘Everything.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘They came here to steal from you. The man that was shot, he must have been one of the thieves.’

  ‘Maybe he’s Tom Fisher. Maggie said I was Tom Fisher and that I shot Robert Johnston. Maybe it’s the other way around.’

  ‘You didn’t shoot anyone. There was no gunshot residue, remember?’

  ‘Right. Yes. So this guy Fisher gets shot and they take away his body. But why take me?’

  ‘Maybe they hadn’t got what they wanted. So they took you to question you. They were going to make you tell them where the money is. But the crash put paid to their plan. They had to run off, leaving you with the body.’

  You nod. Everything she says makes sense. ‘Then they checked up on me in the hospital and discovered that I’d lost my memory. They checked on me and when they realised that all of my memories had been wiped they came up with a Plan B. To convince me that I was one of their team and see if they could jog my memory to find out where the money went.’

  ‘Except if you got your memory back, you’d presumably remember who you are.’ She nods at the family portrait. ‘Once you remembered that you’re this guy, you wouldn’t be helping them, would you?’

  ‘Maybe they figured that my memory might return in dribs and drabs. Maybe they figured the most recent memories would return first in which case I’d know where the money was. And if I still believed I was part of their team, I’d tell them.’

  ‘And if you didn’t, they’d beat it out of you.’

  ‘Probably.’ You look up the stairs. There are more personal framed photographs. You and the family in Disneyland. On a beach. By a pool. In New York. In Paris. There are business photographs, too. You shaking hands with Tony Blair. With Bill Gates. With Alan Sugar. Posing next to half a dozen top chief executive officers of companies around the world.

  ‘You know some famous people, don’t you?’ she asks.

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘And you don’t remember meeting any of them?’

  You shake your head. ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ She gestures at the Bill Gates photograph. ‘You met the richest man in the world.’

  ‘No, I think these days he’s ranked number five. Elon Musk is number one.’

  She turns to look at you. ‘How can you remember that, but not remember meeting him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Adeya.’ You wave your hand at the wall of photographs. ‘But I can tell you, I don’t remember a single one of these photographs. I don’t remember meeting my wife, I don’t remember my kids being born. I mean, I can see it’s me in all those photographs, it’s definitely me, but I have absolutely zero recollection of ever having been Robert Johnston.’

  ‘But this is your get out of jail free card, isn’t it? It was your house. You’re the one who was robbed.’ She frowns. ‘But they must know that already, surely? The police have been here. They must have been inside which means they must have seen the photographs.’

  ‘That would have happened after I’d left the hospital,’ you say. ‘But once they found out, it’s not as if they could have phoned me, is it?’

  ‘They could have gone to the press.’

  ‘Would they though? They’d be more interested in catching the thieves than bringing me in. And the less the thieves know about the investigation, the better. But you’re right, this does change everything. I can talk to them and they’ll be on my side.’ You smile as you realise that’s a little optimistic as you’ll still have to explain the dead Russians in the warehouse outside Croydon. You look up the stairs and as you do you suddenly feel dizzy, as if all the blood has drained from your head. Adeya sees the look of confusion flash across your face and she steps forward as you lose the use of your legs. She grabs you and helps you to sit down on the stairs.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asks, concern written all over her face.

  You open your mouth to answer but the iron strap is back around your chest and you can barely breathe. You fight to stay calm but the more you fight the more the panic grows.

  Adeya grips your shoulders and looks into your eyes. ‘Breathe slowly,’ she says. ‘Slowly and deeply.’ She puts two fingers against your neck, feeling for a pulse.

  You try to do as she says. You can feel the urge to pant like a dog and you fight it. Your hands are shaking and you bunch them into fists.

  ‘Your heart is racing but it’s strong and regular,’ says Adeya. ‘You’re not having a heart attack.’

  That’s good news and helps you calm down. She’s a nurse, she knows what she’s doing.

  She takes her fingers away. ‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘Slow and deep. It’s a panic attack, Phil.’

  You nod. You’re already feeling better.

  ‘I want you to try square breathing,’ she says. ‘Breathe in for four seconds. Hold that air in your lungs for four seconds, then breathe out for four seconds. Then wait four seconds before breathing again.’

  You nod and do as she suggests.

  She watches as you breathe in and out, and nods her approval. ‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘You’re the perfect patient. Has this happened before?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘Next time you feel a panic attack coming on, try square breathing until you calm down.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you.’

  She helps you to your feet. You find yourself looking at the family portrait. The woman - your wife - is stunning. You can’t believe that you have absolutely no recollection of her. You don’t even know her name. Or the names of your children. How could that possibly happen?

  ‘You don’t remember them?’ she asks, as if she’s reading your mind.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Why aren’t they here now? Why weren’t they here when you broke in?’

  Two good questions, neither of which you can answer.

  ‘I suppose you could have been divorced,’ she says. ‘But then the mother usually keeps the house, doesn’t she? Especially when there are kids involved.’

  You look up the staircase at the dozens of framed photographs of you with the rich and famous. ‘Who the hell am I?’ you whisper.

  ‘That’s easy enough to answer,’ she says. ‘You’re Robert Johnston, and apparently you’re as rich as God.’

  You shake your head. ‘I need to talk to the police,’ you say.

  ‘Speaking as your nurse, I think you need to take a breath.’ She smiles. ‘Metaphorically, as well as literally. It’s getting late, by the time the police get here it’ll be dark and they’ll put you straight into a police cell. They’ll need to question you and you’ll need a solicitor so they’ll probably not get around to doing a full interview until tomorrow evening.’

  You frown. ‘Why will I be in a police cell?’

  ‘There was a body in the car, Phil.’

  ‘But this is my house? I’m Robert Johnston. Clearly I live here. If anything, I’m the victim.’

  ‘Which is why you’re better off contacting them in the morning. That way you have the whole day ahead of you and there’s less chance of them tossing you into a cell. And it’ll give you a chance to get your thoughts in order.’

  ‘You think I need that?’

  ‘I think the last thing you need is another panic attack while they’re interviewing you,’ she says.

  You nod. That’s definitely true. ‘So where would I stay?’

  ‘You can sleep on my sofa,’ she says. ‘I’ll order a takeaway. We can talk it through and you can get your head straight.’

  ‘Okay,’ you say. A sudden thought strikes you. ‘This is my house, right?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘So I should get a change of clothes.’ You gesture upstairs. ‘Presumably there’s loads up there.’

  She grins. ‘Let's see, shall we?’

  CHAPTER 24

  The master bedroom is at the top of the stairs. A huge room with windows overlooking the rear garden. The quilt is rumpled and the four pillows are scattered over the king-size bed. The pillowcases and duvet cover are in a tiger-skin pattern that makes Adeya smile. ‘Classy,’ she says.

  ‘Is that my style?’ you ask.

  ‘Maybe your wife chose it.’

  There is a wallet on a side table. Brown leather with the Louis Vuitton logo on the front. You open it. Inside is a wad of fifty pound notes, credit cards and debit cards, and a driving licence. You slide out the licence. It’s your picture, no question of that. The name is Robert William Johnston. The name means nothing to you, and the date of birth is just a number. You show the driving licence to Adeya. ‘Robert William,’ you say. ‘Not Phil.’

  ‘I still think you look like a Phil,’ she says. She looks closely at the licence. ‘You’re an Aries, you love taking risks and trying new things and like to encourage your friends to get out of their comfort zones. People who are Aries are very energetic and tend to have a good sense of humour.’

  You grin. ‘I have no idea if that is accurate or not.’ You slide the licence back into the wallet and put it in your pocket.

  There are two large white sideboards either side of a massive television screen, but no wardrobes. There are two doors off to the left, one opening onto a marbled bathroom with a whirlpool bath, walk-in shower, toilet and bidet, and two washbasins. There is just one toothbrush, and all the toiletries are masculine.

  The other door leads into a dressing area with sliding mirrored doors either side. Adeya slides one of the doors back. It’s full of suits, jackets and trousers. She pulls out a suit and nods at the label. ‘Hugo Boss,’ she says.

  You slide back another door. It’s full of shirts, business shirts, casual ones and polos. ‘No women’s clothing,’ you say.

  Adeya pulls out a drawer. It’s full of boxer shorts. Another drawer is full of socks.

  ‘Maybe I’m divorced,’ you say.

  ‘Yes, but like I said before, in a divorce it’s the woman who usually keeps the house.’

  ‘Maybe I have a bigger house and she took it for herself and the kids.’

  ‘Does it look familiar?’

  You nod. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What about the tiger print bedding?’

  You can’t help but grin. ‘I can picture myself sleeping here, yes. But I don’t think that’s a memory.’

  ‘Wishful thinking?’

  You chuckle. ‘I feel comfortable here. But it doesn’t feel like home.’

  You pull out a drawer. Inside are several dozen wristwatches, all of them expensive.

  ‘Looks like you’re a collector,’ says Adeya.

  You nod. You recognise the brands - Rolex, Cartier, Patek Philippe, and Audemars Piguet but you have no memory of ever purchasing or wearing them.

  You walk back into the hall. There are six other doors leading off it. One opens into a bathroom, the other five are bedrooms, all immaculate and expensively furnished. They all look like showrooms with no signs that anybody had ever used them. Certainly none of them are children’s rooms.

  ‘Looks like the kids don’t sleep over,’ says Adeya.

  ‘Somebody must come in to keep the place clean,’ you say. ‘And there must be a gardener.’

  ‘And maybe a butler,’ says Adeya.

  You go back into the master bedroom. You choose boxer shorts and socks, a pair of Diesel jeans and a polo shirt. There is a rack filled with shoes that look as if they have been made to measure. You slip one on, a black loafer. It fits perfectly.

  ‘Cinderella,’ says Adeya with a grin. She goes out into the hall while you change. The shirt and jeans fit perfectly. You choose a Louis Vuitton belt and find a black leather Armani jacket. You check yourself out in one of the mirrored doors and nod your approval. You look good. Adeya echoes the sentiment when you walk out of the bedroom. ‘Nice,’ she says.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I’ll drive you back to my place and order a takeaway, like I said.’

  ‘We could stay here,’ you say. ‘I’m guessing there’s plenty of food in the kitchen.’

  ‘We could. But what if a neighbour notices and calls the police? After what happened, they’ll send in armed police and you’ll be on the defensive from the get-go.’

  ‘But this is my house,’ you say. You hold your arms outstretched. ‘The clothes alone prove that. As do the pictures downstairs.’

  ‘I hear you. But they won’t know that until they’ve stormed in with their guns. And you won’t have any control over the timing.’

  You nod thoughtfully. Adeya talks a lot of sense.

  Her brow wrinkles. ‘Having said that, my room is pretty small and this is... a palace, by comparison. We could keep the lights off and stay away from the front of the house.’

  ‘Are you up for it?’

  She laughs. ‘Sure, why not? It is your house, when all’s said and done.’

  You head downstairs and into the kitchen. Adeya follows you. You open the fridge. It’s full of food. Milk, eggs, cheese, steaks, chops, bacon. At the bottom of the fridge is a compartment filled with fresh vegetables. Adeya looks over your shoulder and smiles. ‘Looks like you might be a carnivore,’ she says.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ you say. ‘But I have no idea what meat tastes like. And I understand the concept that eating animals is wrong. But this is my house and that’s my fridge in my kitchen so I guess that’s my food.’ You force a smile. ‘How about a cheese and mushroom omelette? And a salad?’

  ‘You know how to cook?’

  You think about that for a few seconds and then you nod. ‘I do.’

  There are several bottles of champagne in the fridge and you take one out. It’s Cristal. For some reason you know that’s a good brand. ‘Bubbly?’ you ask.

  Adeya smiles and shakes her head. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

  You look at the label. ‘I guess I do. But I think I need a clear head.’ You put the bottle back in the fridge and start taking out the food you’ll need for the meal.

  ‘How about I make us some tea?’ Adeya asks.

  ‘Go for it.’

  There’s a large stainless steel canister with TEA on the side. She opens it and takes out two teabags, then switches on the kettle.

  You put the food on the counter and open a cupboard and take out a frying pan, then open a drawer and take out a spatula. You stand looking at the pan and the spatula. How did you know where they were? You look over at Adeya and she is staring at you. ‘Is your memory coming back?’

  You frown. ‘I have no memory of being here, but yes, I knew where the frying pan was. I just opened the cupboard without even thinking about it.’ You hold up the spatula. ‘And I knew where this was.’

  ‘Muscle memory, maybe,’ she says. ‘I’m guessing you could drive a car or ride a bicycle if you wanted.’

  You put the pan on the stove and turn up the heat, then you break eggs into a glass bowl before adding a splash of water. There’s a whisk in a Le Creuset utensil jar and you start to whisk the eggs.

  ‘I’ll do the salad,’ says Adeya, and she washes lettuce and slices tomatoes, avocado and cucumber.

  You finish whisking the eggs then pour the mixture into the frying pan before slicing mushrooms and cheese.

  You make quick work of the omelettes and Adeya nods her approval. ‘You are quite the chef,’ she says.

  ‘It’s weird but it feels as if I’ve never done this before, but obviously I must have.’

 

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