The Memory Project – read the first chapter for free

Prologue

Olivia and I would hide ourselves away for hours on end, building fortresses of chairs and bed sheets. Far from the world outside, inventing games and secret words, cackling together with chocolate-smeared lips.

Other times we would trek into the woodland that spilled out from the play park boundaries. Brave souls venturing into the wilderness, we’d set about finding sticks strong enough to fend off monsters. Neither dog walkers nor luminescent joggers could spoil the fantasy of our quests through the magical forest.

And sometimes we would just lie on Olivia’s bedroom floor with the lights off. Flat on our backs, crowns of our heads touching, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling.

Sweeping constellations of green.

Recently, my mind has been resting on those moments with Olivia. Those beautiful years before she died.

Good memories, some of my finest.

I think.

“Olivia,” I whisper into the night. “I remember, remember, remember, remember. This is you. I remember.”

My back is pressed against the mattress. The acid yellow streetlight throws the Artex on the ceiling into monstrous relief, like a beast’s gaping mouth. I close my eyes and try to repaint it as a black canvas strewn with green stars. As the oblivion of sleep descends, the stars wink out one by one. Before I slip completely, a thought wrinkles my mind:

Please, Olivia. Don’t make me have the dream again.

 

PART ONE: OTHER

Chapter 1

A sweat bead trickles down my back. The droplet’s determination is laudable, but it can’t make it past the blockade of my underwear’s elasticated waistband.

I try to catch my breath as I scan the cocktail bar. Tea lights dance in the darkness as my eyes struggle to adjust. Powder blue shirt, powder blue shirt, powder blue shirt. Nope. I begin an awkward path around the tables, like a water boatman making his way through a twilit lilypond. I make it to the end of the room, then turn to take in the view. The place is half full. People huddle in twos and threes.

To my right a bartender adds a green sprig to a tumbler while her colleague waits with an empty tray on the other side of the bar. Jazz acrobatics fill the room’s empty spaces. If only you could still smoke indoors; it would complete the picture beautifully.

“Douglas?” A voice calls from a booth behind me.

Powder blue shirt.

“Oh hi. Dhaval?”

He’s trapped behind the table but does his best to reach across the wooden expanse. After a short hesitation, preparing for contact, I take his hand. Warm and dry, compared to the clamminess of my own.

“Shit, so sorry I’m late,” I stumble, “Missed each train by a millisecond”.

“Don’t worry about it, mate, seriously,” he smiles. “Go on, sit, please.”

“God I’m such a sweaty mess, sorry.” I peel off my jacket, nearly taking out the glass in front of him with my sleeve. He catches it before it topples.

“Sorry.” I slide on to the curved banquette and shuffle inwards. “That looks good”

“Yeah. Long Island Iced Tea. Pretty strong actually.”

“Nice. Haven’t had one of those in years. Got trashed off too many last time. I think.”

He makes a little laugh and nods. He’s so composed. His gaze bores into me. I pick up the menu and scan without reading.

“I have...no idea what to get. Um, is it…?” I crane my neck towards the bar.

“Table service, yep. They’ll be round soon. They’re really good here.”

“Oh, is this a favourite place of yours?”

“I wouldn’t say favourite, but it’s good. It’s a little more traditional than the rest of the hipster bars around here. I like that.”

“Shoreditch,” I nod, widening my eyes for effect. This corner of east London is a notorious hotspot for entitled, middle-class creative-types. Oh to be one of them.

“Shoreditch,” he bounces his head in agreement. “So anyway. Nice to finally meet you face-to-face. I mean you look like your picture so that’s always a big tick off the list.”

“Ha yeah. You too. Definitely the guy in the picture. Have you ever met up with someone who doesn’t–”

“What can I get you?” The waiter with the empty tray hovers above my shoulder, a thick brown moustache tapering in waxed curlicues on either end of his shit-eating grin. Shoreditch.

“Oh. Uhhhh, one sec.” The list of options swims in front of me. “You know what, could I just get a beer?”

“You got it. Which one? We have a range of locally–”

“The top one’s fine. Thanks.”

I turn back to Dhaval.

“So,” he says with those attentive eyes. “Tell me about yourself, Dougie. I want to know everything.”

I catch the waiter’s arm. “And a whiskey chaser, please?” 

***

“...and then there’s my little sister, Zara. So that makes four of us.”

“Wow. A lot,” I say, doing my best ‘I'm normal and listening’ face.

“I guess it is. Didn’t feel like it growing up. But then we always had my Nani around to help. And you said it was just you and your folks?”

“Yep, just the three of us.”

“Sounds quiet.”

“That’s a good word. Yeah. It puts quite a lot of focus on you as a kid. Being at the point of the family triangle. All eyes on you.”

“I bet you were a right handful as a teenager,” he says.

“Maybe a little. I wasn’t their problem by that stage though. Boarding school.”

“Ohhhh. Even worse. You were Harry Potter, then.”

“Ha. Man, I wish. Not so much. Fewer broomsticks and castles; more air con units and rice paddy fields.”

His lips pinch to form a question.

“I went to boarding school in Thailand,” I say quickly. “Went there when I was a kid.”

“Really? That’s so cool. I’m jealous. I just went to a comprehensive in Luton. What took you out there?”

“Just a, uh, scholarship thing. Sounds more special than it was. But anyway yeah, it means I was more raised by the faculty and matron than my parents. Probably why we’re not that close,” my voice trails off. Why did I get on this track? He just looks at me, waiting intently for me to continue. “Boohoo, poor expat kid,” I add, filling the silence.

“It can’t have been easy,” he says, reaching over to brush my hand with his index finger. I slowly retract my hand, making as if to finish my drink.

“Another?” I ask.

***

“I can’t believe that line worked. It was terrible,” I say with a giggle. A fucking giggle. Seriously.

“Well it worked on you, didn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes it did. Well played sir.” I raise my glass to him. I finally feel myself settling into the bench. Three pints and a chaser radiate in my stomach.

“They’re awful things, those apps though. I mean, how much can you really know about someone from their vital statistics and hobbies. So I’d rather be funny.”

“Better that than sleazy,” I reply.

“Nothing wrong with a bit of sleaze, in my opinion,” he says deadpan. “Kidding. So what made you say yes?”

“Jeez, put me on the spot. I dunno. We seemed to be similar ages and stages. You seemed funny? A nice guy? As much as you can tell from these things, as you say. What? You want more? Okay….Uh, you seemed quite interesting? Y’know ‘a lawyer but not-that-kind-of-lawyer.”

“Environmental lawyer,” he corrects. “Go on.”

“Aaaaand...God I dunno.” I can feel my ears reddening. “Cute?”

“Cute?” He breaks his mock silence.

“Yes cute. Shut up.”

“Forget cute. I was hoping for ‘hilarious’, ‘intelligent’, ‘intriguing’. I mean I have both surfing and poetry down as my hobbies, for crying out loud.”

“I agreed to this date in spite of those,” I laugh.

We laugh.

*** 

“…so there I was, at a huge gathering of my extended family – most I’d never even laid eyes on in my life – in the arse-end of nowhere in Kerala, having to explain to my great aunt why I hadn’t found the right girl yet.”

He’s animated as he speaks. Wide eyes, legs shifting around in his seat, slender brown fingers dancing in time to his story.

“Oh God. So what did you say?”

“Just came up with some shit about London being quite a difficult place to meet people. Thankfully my brother and sister came to the rescue. Changed the conversation to their weddings and kids. Works every time.”

“What a nightmare. So your folks are cool with–?”

“Oh yeah totally. I mean, if I was the only kid they had, my being gay might have been more of an issue. Actually no, I don’t think even then they would care too much. They’re great people. Really great.”

“They sound it,” I reply, hearing the smile in my voice. Now I’m the one who’s quiet.

***

“A therapist?” he says, astonished. “I would never have pegged you for one of them.”

“Yeah well, like I say it was a while ago. Anyway, it’s all change now I’m doing the journalist thing,” I say, trying to divert the conversation away.

“Freelance, you said?” he says.

I nod and take a sip of warm beer.

“Anything I would have read recently?”

“I’ve got an interview set up tomorrow morning actually. A playwright, really interesting woman.”

He raises his eyebrows in what I can tell is polite interest. His smile widens. “Back up, though. What kind of a therapist were you? Like a shrink? A physio? Massage?”

“Something like all of that. Anyway, it wasn’t for me. I think I’ll be a better journalist than I was a therapist,” I squirm in my seat. Why the hell did I start this topic? Damn you, booze.

“Hmm, strange.” He sits back in his seat.

“What?”

“No, nothing. I just wouldn’t have seen you as a therapist. Whichever kind you were, mystery man. I mean...never mind.”

“No, what? Say it.”

“It’s just...I mean don’t get me wrong, but you don’t seem the most, I don’t know, confident isn’t the right word. Sure of yourself? And I just imagine that a therapist would be...more comfortable in their skin.”

“Well,” I shrug, and swill the dregs of my drink.

“I’ve offended you?”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

“Shit, I have. Look don’t listen to me, I’m five drinks in,” he shakes his head. “Anyway, I don’t mean it in a bad way. You’re just a little less...forward, in person. Maybe different than what I expected.”

And there it is.

“I mean some of those texts you sent,” he continues.

“Ah. Those.”

“It was hot.”

“Mmmm,” I nod, still unable to look up from the glass.

“No?”

“I mean yeah it totally was,” I add quickly. “It’s easier to be like that when someone’s at the other end of a text. To be someone…else.” I can feel my neck reddening as embarrassment and frustration bloom, at odds with my drunken light-headedness.

“Look I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,” I snip, sounding more pissed off than intended.

“Don’t be silly. You’re great. Look...” he says, again reaching over for my hand.

Before he makes contact I slide out of the booth and stand.

“I’m...I’m just going to get us some more drinks,” I say.

He looks up at me startled. From this vantage point, I realise it’s the first opportunity I’ve had to take him in properly. The sheen of light glancing off his dark hair, the softness of his eyelashes, the warmth of his chestnut complexion. What a shame it’s this expression on his face.

***

“A Long Island Iced Tea and a beer please?” I ask the bartender.

He smiles. “Sure which kin–”.

“Just a beer please. Any will do,” I cut him off and return to berating myself.

Why do I always do this? It was going so well. I always spoil it.

I daren’t look back at Dhaval, so keep my eyes on the bar top.

To my right a woman sags on a stool, staring into the depths of a glass of red wine. Her hair hangs like a limp curtain, her shoulders are slouched. The way she’s peering into the wine, it’s like she wants to dive in. I know the feeling.

I open my mouth to ask if she’s okay.

“Here’s your beer,” the bartender beams.

“Thanks,” I say, then reach over to a stack of napkins next to Red Wine Woman’s hand.

But she beats me to it, causing the tips of my fingers to brush momentarily against hers. At the merest touch, a deluge of imagery and emotion rushes through me. I experience the woman’s memories as if they were my own.

I’m slumped on the avocado tiles of a bathroom floor. One leg bent, the other splayed out in front. An open bottle on its side. A handful of white pills grasped in my hand.

My trembling fingers clasp the powdery tablets. My clammy back presses up against the cold grooves of a radiator. My shallow breathing, clenched toes, and hollow stomach. Mildewy air fills my nostrils. I raise my head and catch a glimpse of myself. Greasy tendrils of hair snake down my face, past my bloodshot eyes, under my trembling chin, just above my pale breasts.

I close my eyes, raise a hand to my lips and cram pills into my mouth. The salty tang of the painkillers makes me choke as I crunch down on them, awakening me to the reality of what I’m doing. My eyes fly open as I gag and spit the contents down my front.

I suck in a ragged breath then release a guttural roar.

I thrust backwards from the bar, nearly tipping over a stool. Panic surges as I glance up at Red Wine Woman. Did she notice? She just looks back at me as if nothing has happened, then returns to her drink. I try to regain composure, but struggle to form a coherent thought, to cut a hole through the haze of the memory I just Read. My throat tightens, tears threaten to spill.

“It’ll just be a minute for your cocktail,” the bartender says. His expression shifts to concern. “You okay?”

An open bottle on its side. A handful of white pills grasped in my hand.

“Y-yes thanks,” I say, mind reeling. “I’ll..uh…be back in a second.”

Oh God. Please don’t make a scene. Not now. Please.

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The Memory Project: a sci-fi mystery novel