I have too many ideas and not enough time and attention span to focus on them.
10:00, 21st April 1996.
My eyes slowly open to the display of the time and date on the digital alarm clock, panic rising in me until I realise that it's a Sunday and I don't have work.
I turn onto my back, looking up at the familiar stars on the ceiling, the sixth-form drawings of Lynda Day and the leaflet from when the police visited my school to do a talk when I was 6. The day I resolved to become a police officer, for reasons so far away I can't remember. I was a strange child, I never smiled for photos and all the ones we've got of me I'm either serious or scowling. One of the rare ones where I'm looking a little cheerier is stuck on the ceiling, I'm about 8 and looking wistfully from an old stone bridge with the red and orange sunset behind me.
I take down my old tartan dressing gown from the hook at the back of my door, slipping it over the pyjamas which I now realise are a size too small for me and sliding my old, battered slippers on my feet. I run the 'airbrush through my 'air and tie it back in a low ponytail, a couple of shorter curlier stands falling out immediately and settling on either side of my 'ead like they have a habit of doing. I open the door and run down the carpeted stairs with my hand on the wooden bannister.
"Who's this mysterious woman 'ere then?" Dad jokes once I enter the kitchen.
'e's in 'is own dressing gown, eating cornflakes from a bowl that I can half remember smashing an identical one as a child. I roll my eyes but smile and make my way to put some pop tarts in the toaster. They're piping hot when I take them out and I end up having to run my fingers underneath the cold tap to calm them down, placing the plate on the table and joining the rest of the family in eating. All 3 of my brothers look between themselves when they see me, still 'ere and not disappeared like I normally do after I 'ave dinner with them.
"What 'appened to you last night, sis?" James asks with a mouthful of crumbs.
"She 'ad a nightmare. I heard mum bring up milk to her." Harry answers for me. I glare at him.
"I thought you didn't get nightmares when you were older." James replies sheepishly.
"Who told you that, Jamie?" Mum asks from the entrance to the kitchen with her cup of tea in 'and.
"Well, none of you wake up and 'ave to call for mum." James says, "I thought that meant you didn't get nightmares anymore." He shrugs.
"Well, you do. You just don't make a fuss around them when you're older." I reply and bite into the crispy goodness.
"Yeah, instead we discuss them and freak each other out." Harry says. "I 'ad a really weird one a couple of nights ago- "
Mum shoots him a look that says for 'im to shut up. 'e's 23 and studying to become a lawyer, how I don't know as 'e's the most annoying out of all of my brothers. James is 12, just, and the baby of the family. I was 10 when 'e was born, 'e was 2 months premature and spent much of his first year of life either in 'ospital or going in and out of it.
"'ow you feelin', dearie? It looked like it was a bad one." Mum rubs my back tenderly.
"Fine now, thanks." I tell her, planting a kiss on her cheek as I go to wash my plate up in the sink.
I'm not fine, but I wouldn't tell anyone. I never like worrying people so I normally keep my worries to myself. I'm still shaken though, and who wouldn't be after what I saw last night? I see the poor man's terrified eyes every time I shut my own, the feathery weight of 'is body on mine and the slick moisture of the blood on my 'ands. He knew me but I didn't, he even had a pet name for me and I didn't save 'im. I-I didn't save 'im.
I place my hands on either side of the metal sink as the tears come thick and fast, dripping into the basin as my body is overcome with silent sobs that shake my body throughout. I tell myself that there's no point in mourning 'im, it was just a dream, wasn't it? 'e wasn't real, neither was the voice that told me that I was the only thing it needed. It's all just my brain playing up after I came the closest to death I've ever come. I can't stop thinking about the man though, the blood on my hands twice, once my own, and the betrayal behind the terror in 'is eyes.
"Shaz, Mum said- " I look over to see Jamie with 'is sketchbook clutched to 'is chest.
A jolt of realisation strikes through me as I realise that "Shazza" is an elongated version of "Shaz", and for a moment I'm struck with the fear that the man could 'ave been my baby brother all grown up. But James' eyes are like dark chocolate, not one-blue-one-green like the man was.
"I-I'm fine, Jamie- " I begin to say before 'e places 'is sketchbook on the side and throws 'is arms around me.
I'm stunned for a moment, 'e doesn't really like hugs and whenever other family members try to give 'im them he either hides or struggles out of them. His arms are strong and comforting, he's a few inches than me and still small enough that I can put my chin on his head and hug him as well. We stay like that for a few moments before James pulls away, shaking 'is arms and grimacing.
"Still don't like hugs." He smiles. "You weren't fine, I could tell."
He walks off with his sketchbook in hand and I stand there for a second, still stunned by the hug and feeling a little better than I 'ad only a couple of minutes before. Turning back to the sink I look out the window to the garden, pressing my 'and to it and watching the rays of sunlight disperse into the murky water below in shimmering lines. Even though I'm more comforted, I'm more scared than I've ever been in my entire life.
What's wrong with me?
The sun is shining, but I feel quite cold and wrap up warm in an old plain light purple dress and sky-blue cardigan with my bright yellow raincoat over the top as it's been raining on and off all day. The streets are slick with rainwater as I walk down the little row of shops a couple of streets away from my flat, Walkman thumping with Ride in my ears. I would normally listen to Oasis, but I don't think I can stomach either of the Gallagher brothers anymore after what 'appened on Friday. Besides, I'm heading to a shop with much better taste than my own.
It's tucked away between the Tesco and Oxfam, looking small from the front but it's long and full to the brim with records ranging from the lightest pop to the heaviest metal. I've been coming here since I sheltered 'ere on yet another rainy day in October, flicking through the records and tapes. I picked up my tape copy of What's The Story (Morning Glory) from here that day and I've been coming here ever since. Not many people are inside, I dive in and begin flicking through the records from the As to the Zs. The faint sound of the radio coming from behind the desk accompanies me with Once In A Lifetime by Talking Heads.
I'm just about to move to the Cs when I accidentally bump into an obviously pregnant young woman in my journey to the next box. She's about my age with long chestnut brown 'air with a wave to it, a stretchy striped dress over her bump. Her eyes are large and hazel, widening like orbs in surprise. She's very pretty and I find myself with the all-too-familiar beginnings of love pooling in my heart. There is something familiar about her, like I've met 'er before a very long time ago. A memory stirs from deep within, not rising to the surface yet.
"Oh, sorry." I say, stepping back from her.
She wears a bemused expression on 'er face for a moment before her eyes settle into sharp observing tools which I can tell are trying to figure me out.
"I know you from somewhere." She mutters. Her eyes become full of realisation after a second. "You're that WPC they sent the file up on earlier this week. Sharon, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's my name. What file?" I ask politely.
"Inspector Jones sent up a file on a potential transfer on Wednesday. You finish probation around the same time I do." She clears 'er throat.
"I'm WPC Alex Drake." She tells me. "I help CID with paperwork, that type of thing." She 'olds out 'er 'and.
Her voice is a lot posher than my own and I feel very common around her. She's obviously had a lot more money in the 'ouse growing up, I bet she never wanted for anythin'. Money was always a little tight around ours, what with 4 kids to feed by '85. Me and my older brothers got paper rounds as soon as we could. 'alf my brain hopes that she's single, though if she's got money she was probably snapped up pretty quickly by someone much more glamourous than myself.
Her eyes are kind, though, with no obvious weaknesses inside them. Her grip is strong but not too strong that she stops blood circulation.
"I'm WPC Sharon Granger." I reply, flashing 'er a quick smile. "When's it due?" I gesture to her protruding stomach.
"Late July. Me and my husband, we're going to call her Molly." She says.
Oh.
"Congratulations." I force a smile at her.
I begin flicking through the Cs, she waits a couple of seconds like she's not sure what to do next. Every couple of seconds I find myself looking up at her. She looks lost, out of place in the shop.
"Sharon?" She asks a couple of seconds later.
"Yeah?" I reply, drawing myself to my full height again.
"I'm in here looking for a single, Fastlove by George Michael? My husband asked me to get it for him." She asks. "I can't find it anywhere."
"That's not released until tomorrow." I reply. Her face falls.
"Little shit." She mutters. "He told me it was out earlier in the week, he just wanted the flat to himself, didn't he."
She runs her hands through her hair and sighs heavily. I try and shrink into the wooden rack of tapes, realising that what I'm wearing is dim enough to camouflage into the poorly lit shop.
"Thank you for your help, anyway, Sharon." She says. "See you around."
"See you around, Alex." I say quietly. I'm not sure if she heard me.
A couple of minutes pass where I continue flicking through the records, passing LP after LP but not focusing on any of them. When my hand brushes it I know, I look down to where it was wedged between 2 Cocteau Twins LPs. It's an old dusty single, encased in a blue paper sleeve with the familiar Chrysalis butterfly in the corner. I ain't heard, let alone seen this record since I was about 8. It's Vienna by Ultravox, a song I remember listening to on the rickety family stereo whilst wearing a bobble 'at because the central heating 'ad broken. I used to sing it very loudly and annoy the crap out of my parents.
I pick it up, feeling the weight of it in my 'ands. It's been so long since I heard it, the record mysteriously disappeared once that winter was over and no matter 'ow much I asked my mates I never 'eard it again.
"Shazza, come and dance!"
A voice from behind me, Mancunian and happy. I turn around, searching for the person it came from, but there is no one waving or even looking at me. Shazza, it's what… it's what the man called me, before he…
The turn the sleeve over in my hands, it's warm, unnaturally warm for a record that's this dusty and has been sandwiched between 2 old records on a wet April day. Even as I hold it in my 'ands I feel like there's something more to it, something important.
The owner's disappeared from the counter, I write a note telling 'im what I took and chuck a fiver on the counter. I run out the shop, into the rain pouring from the dark clouds overhead as I stuff the record in my shoulder bag. I can feel the water on my head, running down the sides of my face and dripping off my raincoat to the concrete. I can't help but let a tear fall, both from the overwhelming nostalgia and memories long forgotten, and for the Man I 'ad almost forgotten.
I collapse onto the sofa as soon as I get home, exhausted. I slide the record into the rack and grab the remote, turning the channels until I find something I can stand. The first episode of A History Of British Art is being shown on BBC 2, I grab a blanket and cushion and prepare to settle here for the rest of the day. It doesn't take long for me to feel sleepy enough to close my eyes and I'm almost asleep when I hear something other than the quiet voice of the presenters.
"Something's wrong."
I open my eyes. The tv is showing something that definitely ain't art or the presenters. It's the man from last night, his face grainy in the old display but I'd recognise him anywhere. There is nothing to show that the dream ever happened on his face, he's rosy cheeked and healthy as anyone I've ever known. A shirt and knitted tank-top covers 'is shoulders. 'e's in a dimly lit office, I can see piles of messy files on the desks behind and one with bouquets of flowers on.
"What's wrong?" The man with the moustache from 2 nights ago comes up next to 'im with a mug of tea and biscuit.
"The Guv's been in 'is office for 4 days, Ray. That's longer than 'e spent when 'is wife left 'im."
They're both from somewhere up north, I think it's Manchester. I slide off the sofa and move closer to the telly, coming face to face with the lines of the telly.
"'e's grieving, Chris. Leave 'im be."
The man named Chris ignores 'im, 'e walks off the screen and I'm faced with just the beefy bloke who's got crumbs in 'is moustache. He picks up a magazine with Penthouse scrawled on the front from 'is desk, I feel like shutting it off there and then but I don't for some reason. I hear faint chatter of male Manc accents and a door slamming before Chris comes back again. There's somethin' in 'is eyes that I can't place, that wasn't there last night. A sadness, fresh grief, perhaps.
"I don't think it's all about Sam, Ray." Ray looks up and even then I see a flicker of grief as well, an emotion that doesn't belong in a guy like 'im.
"What d'ya mean?" Ray asks, chucking the magazine on the desk.
"All 'e was saying was "They should be 'ere by now". When I asked 'im what was wrong 'e told me to piss off."
"That's the Guv for yer." Ray returns to 'is magazine, smoking like a chimney.
"But it's like 'e's waiting for someone, but they're not 'ere and 'e's really worried."
Ray doesn't look up from ogling at some poor girl.
"If the Guv doesn't tell yer, 'e don't want it talked about." He sighs, exasperated.
Chris sits down at 'is desk again, fiddling with some'ing on it for a couple of moments before 'e looks up. 'is eyes meet the camera directly and it's like 'e sees me, somehow. His eyes widen and 'is mouth hangs open. A couple of seconds pass where we're frozen, before he begins to stutter something to Ray which I don't 'ear, because the telly shuts off on its own.
Waves roar in my ears, stars above and around me as I fall into a starry, black oblivion.
This may be the last chapter for a while, come september I'll be more busy and probably won't have as much time to write. I will try to get chapters out when possible, but this may have long gaps.