Lost Memories

As the aircraft soared above the clouds, my clammy hands gripped the armrest, as if this would prevent the aeroplane from plummeting to the ground. I had drank more alcohol than I should have; firstly to diminish my fear of flying, and secondly, because I had become an alcoholic since the tragic death of my wife, Pam, some two months ago.

    I looked around me. The old couple sitting across the aisle from me did not fill me with confidence, as they held hands tightly. The woman was mouthing the Lords prayer to herself, an action that enhanced my fear.

    When Pam was alive, she was my sedative whenever we flew. Her calming influence was my salvation, but now I was living in a vacuum. Her death had affected me deeply, even though we had been married for only nine months. Pam was something special. Her sense of humour and happy go lucky manner used to light up my life, sending a surge of electricity through my body.

    I pondered and recalled that dreaded day when the telephone rang. It was safer to fly than to cross the road, or so they say. Pilot error was the given explanation. I kept picturing the plane crashing into that fog-shrouded mountain in Tenerife. Her body was never found, and that fact ate away at my innards. My decision to hold a private memorial service was no substitute for a real funeral.

    I eyed the air stewardesses and thought of Pam. who loved her work. She was a great communicator, who loved talking and meeting people. What a waste. Twenty-eight years old. I realised that I hardly knew her. She spent so much time away from home, flying to the four corners of the globe. I cherished my memories with her. Yes, I still had my memories.

    My guv, Chief Superintendent Walton had been more than patient with me. “Take as long as you want,” he had said. I took him at his word, and after much prompting, had decided to fly to Crete. We had fallen in love with the island, after spending our honeymoon there. Pam stated this is where she wanted to live when we retire.

    I felt a little guilty going on holiday so soon after Pam’s death, but I wanted to feel close to her again, and the island held such wonderful memories.

    The fasten your seat belt light went out and I breathed more easily. The take-off and the landing, I dreaded. My inclination was to press the button for a stewardess, for I needed a drink badly. My hand shook as I awaited the stewardess.

    I had promised myself that after the holiday, I would go on the wagon. Drink and police work was not an amicable pairing. I watched as the old couple smiled; their seat belts still intact. My mind wandered, trying to imagine what it would have been like to grow old with Pam.

    I was in a dream-like state when the childlike figure walked down the aisle towards me, as only she can walk. I inhaled her perfume when she approached. It was the scent of a Goddess, and she ignited in me a past memory; a memory of happiness and love.

    “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

    There was no mistaking. She even sounded like her. I was facing my wife. She cocked her head, smiled and she gave no hint of recognition…but it was her. Her high cheekbones and complexion, the colour of honey. The perfect, white teeth that were visible behind her full ruby red lips. Her long, auburn hair was tied back behind her blue hat. I stared into those alluring blue eyes as she spoke.

    “Is everything all right, sir?”

    I just stared, mouth agape. I realised that I was looking at a ghost.
    “P-P-Pam?” I stuttered pathetically.

    “I’m sorry, sir, my name is Susan,” she said, pointing at her nameplate.

    “But, you look so much like her.”

    “Really? Now, sir, what is it you wanted?”

    “Whisky! You’d better make it a double.”

    I watched her walk away. They say that everyone has a double, but this was too much of a coincidence. She even had the same mannerisms as Pam.

    She returned with my whisky.

    “Pam, don’t you know me?”

    She frowned at me and shook her head as she retreated. Another wacko, she probably thought.
After landing, we shuffled down the aisle, and she was waiting at the door to say her farewell to the passengers. I pushed and shoved like a schoolchild in a tuck shop queue. I faced her, and she looked uncomfortable when she said her goodbye. I had a compelling urge to throw my arms around her and smother her with kisses.

    “Look, what happened earlier; I apologise. You reminded me of someone. Someone who was very dear to my heart.”

    “Apology accepted. No harm done. Have a nice holiday, sir.”

    I inhaled deeply. I wanted the aroma of her perfume to be with me forever.  

 
 I boarded the bus that would take us to the terminal, my heart heavy after my eerie encounter. I loosened my tie, as the heat was stifling. It was mid-afternoon and the inadequate air conditioning did not help my cause, with the perspiration stains showing through my shirt.
    After a twenty-minute wait, the carousel at last sparked into life. I collected my luggage and headed for the taxi rank. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the object of my infatuation climb into a car with a man.

 

 
The taxi driver loaded my luggage into the boot and asked, “Where you go?”

    I paused and mused. “Follow that car!”

    The heavily moustached driver looked through his mirror and shrugged his shoulders. I was certain that I heard him mouth, “Crazy Eengleesh!”

    The aroma of the olive trees was pleasant as the wind blew through the open window. We drove slowly through Heraklion, the music of Zorba the Greek reaching my ears. The coast road was spectacular, a sheer drop down to the blue Mediterranean on the one side; and on the other were the mountains, awash with cypress trees, wild lupin, and cyclamen.

    The driver clicked his fingers and sang to himself as we followed the car in front. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the village of Gouves. We pulled up behind the car and I watched as Susan and the dark man turned into a driveway. I wrote down the address and the taxi driver eyed me curiously, before lighting a cigarette.

    “Hersonissos please. The Adelphi Hotel.”

    When we pulled away, I ventured my last glance at her, walking into the white villa, hand in hand with the man.

 

I checked into my hotel and had planned to visit the many friends that we had made on our last visit to Hersonissos, but other things invaded my thoughts. After showering and changing into denim shorts and a lightweight tee shirt, I raided the minibar, before heading for the balcony. There was a freshening breeze, bringing with it the odour of the sea and a thousand memories.

    After finishing another whisky, I walked along the golden beach, my eyes unconcerned at the offering of topless beauties. My love had been re-kindled; the flame was still alight. I halted at a large rock. Our rock. The image of Pam, strumming her guitar and attracting a sizeable audience came back to me. I kissed my hand and touched the rock. Our rock.

    I tried to erase the air stewardess from my mind, but could not. As a detective, I did not like coincidences. Pamela was also an air stewardess, and that is what bothered me. I could comprehend Pam having a double, but both of them working as air stewardesses?

 

    Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting astride my rented scooter, looking onto her villa. I must have been there for what seemed like hours, before the door opened and she appeared. The sun was going down and the wind was now no more than a gentle flutter. I pushed my scooter out of sight and watched her clamber into her jeep.

    I had no difficulty keeping up with her, as she followed the winding road. The lights of the picturesque resort were in evidence, due to the emerging darkness. She reached her destination, a small supermarket. She looked more like Pam than ever, even without her make-up. She wore an orange tee shirt and white shorts with white plimsolls. Her long hair was tied in a ponytail.

    “Pam, please wait!”

    She ignored my request and entered the supermarket. I caught her up, and when she reached for a basket, I grasped her arm.

    “Huh, you! Listen, please leave me alone.”

    “Pam, it is you isn’t it?”

    “I’ll tell you for the final time; I’m not your Pam, and I’ve never laid eyes on you in my life, before meeting you on the plane.”

    I looked at her more intensely, looking for a sign. Some hint of recognition. “It is you, I know it is. Why are you doing this?”

    “Can I help you, Susan? Is this man bothering you?” asked an overweight shop assistant, who was sporting a bushy beard.

    I ignored him. “Please, Pam. Tell me what’s going on?”

    “Look, you fucking weirdo, leave me alone. If I ever see you again, I’ll go to the police. Understand?”

    She carried on with her shopping as the shopkeeper coaxed me out of his store.
    My inquisitive nature offered me only one other option. I had to find out who she was.

 

I made my way back to her villa, anxious to question her partner. He was tall, had black, curly hair, and was olive skinned. Dressed only in a pair of shorts, he regarded me curiously. “Yes, can I help you?”

    “I must talk to you... Can I come inside?”

    I fished for my wallet as he led me into the cosy lounge. Emerald green walls. That was Pam’s favourite colour. I knew now that she was alive.

    “Do you recognise the girl in this photograph?” I asked.

    The Greek hesitantly accepted my offering and glanced at the photograph.
    “Where did you get thees?”

    “This is my wife, Pamela Astle, an English girl from London.”

    The wedding photograph took him by surprise. “Is thees some sort of joke?”

    “Joke. I think it’s a bit more serious than that don’t you?”

    He again looked at the photograph. “What are you trying to tell me?”

    “I’m trying to tell you that the woman you‘re living with is my wife. She supposedly died in an air crash in Tenerife, two months ago.”

    “Well, I must admit, there ees a resemblance.”

    “Is that all you can say? A resemblance…a bloody resemblance. It’s the same woman, damn it.”

    “I don’t think so. It ees impossible. We’ve been married for three years now.”

    I stared in silence. With the last sentence, it felt like a bolt of lightening had struck me. “You’re married?”

    “Yes. Listen, I sympathise with you, Mr...”

    “Astle.”

    “Mr Astle... I can see how this tragic event must have affected you, but you must face reality. Your wife and Susan look alike, but that’s as far as it goes. I’m sorry for your misfortune, but you must forget Susan. They’re two entirely different women.”

    I replaced the photograph in my wallet as the jeep pulled into the driveway; the headlights illuminating the room.

    “I’m home, Manos,” came the cry.

    She entered the lounge and froze. “You! Haven’t I warned you? Call the police, Manos.”

    “Relax, darling. Mr Astle realises his error. He’s leaving. Isn’t that correct, Mr Astle?”

    I nodded reluctantly, my eyes not leaving her face. “Wait! Can I see your left hip?”

    “You’re pathetic. Get out of my home,” she yelled.

    I was adamant. “If you’re Pamela, you’ll have a half moon birth mark on your left hip.”

    Manos’s face was visibly drained of blood, and he clenched his fists. “How does he know about the birthmark, Susan?”

    “He must have seen me on the beach. He’s crazy, Manos.”

    “Crazy am I? Well, call the police.”

 

Fifteen minutes later and a large, uniformed man with a thick, black moustache weighed me up, as he checked my passport. “Mr Astle, eet is obvious you’re mistaken. We have two options here. We can forget thees ever happened and you can get on with your holiday, or I can arrest you and have you deported, in which case, you’ll no doubt have to deal with the police when you arrive home. Now which ees it to be?”

    “I’m a detective with the CID, Metropolitan police in London,” I insisted. “You see, I’m not a madman.”

    The policeman was not impressed. “That you are a detective makes no difference to me.”

    I had no choice. I left and the next day, I flew back to London. I had some checking out to do.

 

I called at a given address and sat opposite the chain-smoking woman, who was wearing a grey trouser suit. I had conveniently used my role as a detective to set up the meeting.

    “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

    “You don’t know me, but my wife often spoke of you.”

    “Your wife?”

    “Yes, my wife was Pamela Astle.”

    “Oh, my dear God. Why didn’t you say? You poor man... Yes, I was very fond of Pam... What can I do for you?”   

    “Well, this may sound incredible, but I have reason to believe that she is still alive.”

    “Alive? That’s impossible. There were no survivors,” she insisted.

    “I’ve seen her working for another airline.”

    “I do so hope you’re correct, but Pamela was on that flight. She talked to me the very day she died. In fact, we had lunch together.”

    I was confused. “Pamela spent all day with me at home before the flight. You must be mistaken.”

    The woman was insistent. “No, she definitely had lunch with me at Dempsey’s. She was excited by your forthcoming trip to Hong Kong.”

    “Wait a minute. Are we talking about the same girl here? Hong Kong? We never planned to go there.”

    “I’m confused, Sergeant.”

    I, again removed the photograph from my pocket. “Take a look at this photograph. Pamela, right?”

    She sat, mouth agape, and stubbed out her cigarette. “This is not Pamela.”

    “Then who the fuck is it?” I cursed.

    “This is Miranda Watts.”

    “Who the hell is Miranda Watts?”

    “She’s a stewardess. She works on another shift to Pamela... You are Sam aren’t you?”

    I held my head and tried to take in what I was hearing. “Who’s Sam?”

    “Pamela’s husband.”

    I was more confused than ever. “So if Miranda is my wife, then who is Pamela?”

    She lit another cigarette up and rifled through a filing cabinet. She opened the dossier and placed it in front of me. “That is, or was Pamela Astle.”

    The face staring up at me was of a pretty, blonde girl, but certainly not my wife. “So, you’re saying that this is Pamela Astle. But why is she using my name?”

    The woman shrugged. “It's a popular name, Sergeant. Perhaps, she is really called Astle.”

    I pondered as a thousand thoughts went through my mind. If I was married to Miranda, then why had she assumed Pamela’s identity? True, she could have seen the name of Astle on the payroll and changed her name to Pamela after meeting me. But why?

    “This Miranda. Have you an address?” I asked.

    “Sure, here it is.”

    “One more thing. When you employed Miranda, she must have had a national insurance number, right?”

    Again, she checked the dossier. “Yes, she has one. Her record is in order.”

 

    I knocked loudly at the door without reply and peered through the window.

    “Can I help you?” asked an old woman with rollers in her hair.

    “Yes, I’m looking for Miranda. Do you know if she’s around?”

    “Are you a debt collector?”

    “No, I’m family.”

    “They went out. Probably to that bloody dyke’s club.”

    It sounded rather amusing coming from the old woman, and I would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious.

    “Dyke’s club?”

    “Yeah, Kittens, I think they call it. It’s in Soho. They never stop talking about the place.”

    “Could you take a look at this photograph? This is Miranda, right?”

    “Yeah, that’s her… Hey, I thought you said you were family?”

    “I am, believe me. I am.”

 

I pulled my collar up as the drizzle soaked me. Various people were trying to coax me into the seedy clubs when I looked up at the names of the establishments. The bright, neon lights that were advertising topless girls and lesbian dancing was a contrast to the peaceful island of Crete, where I had been earlier in the week.

    I halted outside a pink, painted club and stepped back to check the name, Kittens, like a sculptor addressing his block of marble.

    I approached the door and received some funny looks from the women; at least I think they were women. The woman in the kiosk asked if I was sure I was in the right place, but she accepted my money anyway.

    I entered the large, smoky room and felt a little embarrassed at the scowls and middle-fingered gestures directed my way by the lesbians. I shuffled slowly through the crowd. It definitely was an anything goes kind of club. Several women were kissing each other and fondling each other’s breasts. I think they regarded me as a dirty old man, or some sort of a pervert.

    I neared the crowded dance floor. The disco music was too loud, the various coloured lights flashing rapidly. The strong reek of cannabis was rife, but an arrest was the last thing on my mind. I walked through the sneering lesbians; my intrusion most unwelcome.

    I came to a halt and my eyes focused on a studded, leather jacketed couple, who were smooching on the dance floor, attempting to tickle each other’s tonsils. The taller woman had jet-black spiked hair, and on closer inspection, I could see that she had a gold ring in her bottom lip. She kissed her partner hard on the mouth; her eyes heavily made up with black mascara. She fixed her hostile eyes on me as she clawed at her partner’s breast, and whispered something in her ear.

    As they danced, they turned around, and I was facing Pamela, or Susan, or was it Miranda? She again showed no sign of recognition, and I felt a little nauseous when her girlfriend stroked her between the legs. Pamela moaned gently, and all I could do now was to stand and watch. They were obviously putting an act on for me, but instead of arousing me, I cried.

    The strokes became quicker and more aggressive, as they laughed at me, before they indulged in a bout of tongue wrestling.

    “Why, Pam, why?” I asked.

    “Fuck off, you pervert,” was her partner's reply.

    They retreated to the bar and I followed. They ordered beers and smoked cigarettes, which usually Pamela hated.

    I stepped towards her. “Come on, Pamela. We’re going home.”

    “I’ve told you, pervert. Now fuck off.”

    By now, a small crowd had gathered.

    “That is my wife.” I insisted.

    “Oh, is that right?” said the punk rocker.

    “Come on, Zoe, ignore him,” said Pam.

    I did not see the bottle hit me on the head, but I sure felt it, as I fell to the ground. Powerful kicks were directed at me, and I held my groin with one hand, and my head with the other. The bouncers dragged me outside and threw me into the sodden gutter. Here I was, discarded with the other rubbish; my life meaningless.

 

I had no choice. I eventually investigated the case legitimately. Pamela was brought in for questioning, and really was unaware that she had been living several lives. The psychiatrist diagnosed that she was suffering from the rare multiple personality disorder, now known as dissociate identity disorder.

    As well as Pamela, she had four other alters. Susan, Miranda, Rachel, and even Richard. Yes, she was married as Rachel to a man named Tom, who like her other partners, Manos and Zoe, never suspected anything. This was due to her job as an air stewardess, where she was able to meander between each one without raising an eyebrow.

    As Richard, she lived alone; a shy retiring man, who liked to frequent his local every night. Nobody ever suspected the feminine-looking man. There was more than enough eccentricity to go around London.

    I still visit her everyday in the clinic, as they like to call it. I acknowledged that the establishment was really an asylum. I live in hope that one day she will recover and show me the love she so once bestowed upon me.

    The shrink relayed to me that she really does not know me. She was obsessed bt the real Pamela Astle, and when she died in that plane crash, she erased her from her mind forever. He believes that she was psychologically abused, possibly as a child, and that sparked a dramatic change in her. She had been suffering for at least four years. Before that, who knows? Perhaps, she’d been doing it for several years.

    The same question kept turning over in my mind. Why did she assume the identity of Pamela Astle? According to the shrinks, she was obsessed with the real Pamela Astle, and worshipped her. The thing that hurt the most was that she married me only for my surname. She sought me out. She then changed her name to Pamela; but who was she really? Perhaps, I’ll never know.

    I live in hope that one day, she’ll recognise me and throw her arms around me like she used to. Perhaps tell me one of her funny jokes, or strum me a tune on her guitar. Pamela has no shortage of visitors. We pass each other in the corridor; each of her partners hoping for the same thing and asking the same question. Who is she?