Could It Be Magic?

MELANIE ROSE

Could It Be Magic?

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

An earlier version of this book was first published in

Great Britain as Being Lauren by Matador, an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd in 2005

Copyright © Melanie Rose 2009

Melanie Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847561053

Ebook Edition © MAY 2009 ISBN: 9780007320073

Version: 2018-05-31

Dedication

This book is for David, with love.

It is also for all the courageous children both past and present who have been my inspiration.

Contents

Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue About the Author About the Publisher

Prologue

Frankie dragged me gleefully through the dusty car park onto the short grass of the Downs, where I paused to inhale the autumn air, grateful to be outdoors at last: away from the petrol fumes of the nearby road and the confines of my small flat. Bending to unclip the lead from her collar, I straightened up to watch as my three-year-old terrier streaked exuberantly away into the distance. Smiling, I found myself wishing I could run wildly after her with equal glorious abandonment.

Contenting myself with a brisk walk, I caught up with her eventually and we continued in companionable silence along a familiar track on the Epsom Downs, Frankie leading the way on her short businesslike legs. I allowed my mind to drift while the tensions of the week gradually subsided and my muscles slowly relaxed.

As we climbed a small rise, the sun slid behind a cloud and I glanced up, noticing how still the air had become. The sight and feel of it made me check in mid-stride. The Downs were still there, rolling away on either side of me, but the dry grass and distant trees, which a moment before had been green and brown in the early afternoon sunshine, had been touched by an eerie yellowish hue. Shivering, I pulled my sheepskin coat more closely around me and quickened my stride.

Frankie darted off towards some small trees and I cursed softly under my breath, hoping she wasn’t going to vanish just as I was thinking of starting the long walk back to the car. A sudden chill had descended from nowhere and the sky was turning as purple and black as a bruised plum. The landscape seemed bathed in an unnatural silence. I realised with trepidation that even the birds had stopped singing.

A deep rumble echoed across the distant hills and a few seconds later Frankie came racing back over the cropped turf, her hind legs going so fast with each panicked bound that they seemed almost to be sticking out from under her whiskery nose. She collided with my jean-clad shins and started to whine.

Stooping down, I picked her up and held her against me, ignoring the grubby marks her paws made on my coat. The feel of her warm living body and the scent of doggy breath on my face reassured me that I hadn’t stepped inadvertently into the stillness of an artist’s landscape painting. I stood and stared at the fearsome beauty of the picture around me with a feeling of awe. The strange light had brushed the autumnal trees on the far hilltop, tipping them with gold, yet the sky was growing blacker and more minous by the second.

And then the wind started. It hit with an audible ‘whoomp’, and with such force that I staggered back under the onslaught. It whisked my brown shoulder-length hair out behind me and clamped its cold hand over my face so that I had to gasp for breath. Frankie wriggled in my arms, but I was afraid to put her down in case she ran off again in fright.

Holding the terrier firmly under one arm, I struggled to clip the end of the lead to her tartan collar, and was lowering her to the ground when I saw the black Labrador rocketing towards us. She was almost upon us when the first streak of lightning split the heavens. The thunder-clap that followed seconds later had both dogs cowering against my legs, normal sniffing formalities forgotten. I hunkered down with them, remembering something I’d been told about lightning hitting the tallest point. I didn’t want it to be me.

We were still huddled together, heads bowed, my arms thrown protectively around both dogs, when a hand touched my shoulder. My head jerked up to see a man standing over us, dog lead dangling from his hand. ‘You okay?’ he shouted above the roar of the wind.

Heat flooded into my neck and cheeks with embarrassment. I struggled to my feet and found myself looking into the blue eyes of a man in his early thirties. I took a deep steadying breath, trying to pull my flapping coat together while keeping my balance against the buffeting gusts and Frankie’s insistent pulling.

A second flash of lightning crackled above us and we both flinched instinctively. Disjointed thoughts flickered through my mind, one of which was why did I have to meet every girl’s dream while being found huddled in a heap on the Downs with two muddy dogs in the middle of a thunderstorm?

‘Is she yours?’ I yelled, glancing at the black Lab, which was now bounding around the man in delight.

‘Yeah, she ran off. Thanks for stopping her.’

He seemed reluctant to walk away, and I found myself flipping wildly through possible excuses to keep him talking, but my lips seemed obstinately welded together. I watched helplessly as he clipped the lead to his dog’s collar smiled his thanks, and began to move off along the track. That would have been the end of it, I was sure, except that the rain started then: huge shimmering drops that smacked down, on and around us like small cannon balls, creating dark splotches on the dry earth where they fell. The man turned back in my direction, pulling up the collar of his jacket and bowing his head against the onslaught. As he drew level with Frankie and me the deluge increased in its ferocity until we couldn’t see more than an arm’s reach in any direction. It was like standing under a waterfall, and my eyes and mouth and nose were full of it. My sheepskin coat blackened and my hair was almost immediately reduced to stringy tendrils. We looked at one another, this stranger and I, and started to laugh. He had a lovely laugh, deep and throaty, and even with his short hair flattened against his head, and water dripping off the end of his nose, I think I realised he was someone special right there and then.

‘My car’s parked over there,’ he shouted, pointing vaguely in the direction he was heading. ‘Do you want to make a run for shelter?’

I nodded, and to my complete delight, he took my cold wet hand in his and pulled me along beside him, the two dogs, tails tucked miserably between their legs, trailing along in our wake.

Our breathing became laboured as we ran, increasing with the ferocity of the driving wind and rain. I could feel the blood pounding through my veins, and my fingers, entwined with his, were tingling in a kind of ecstasy that was something akin to pain.

We were almost at the car park when the lightning flashed again, illuminating the row of cars hunched in the mist ahead of us. As we drew closer I could see the sheeting rain bouncing off the sleek metal bodies and puddling on the ground beneath. The plunging drops created a misty upward spray, which was beautiful in its way, but not as wonderful as the feeling of belonging I had to this man I hardly knew, whose dripping fingers were burning holes in my palms. There was an electricity between us, something I’d never experienced before, a connection I couldn’t begin to put into words.

The rain pummelled our backs, pushing us onwards, our steps pounding in perfect unison, and as we neared the car, panting for breath, he looked into my eyes and a tremor of excitement ran through me. He dropped my hand for a moment to reach into his pocket for the car keys, and at that split second the whole sky lit up with a crackling roar. A shaft of lightning entered my body in a convulsive explosion of white noise.

The euphoria I had been feeling vanished as if someone had flicked off a giant switch. There was a searing pain through my shoulders. I watched, entranced, as the stranger’s eyes widened in horror. I could smell the sickening stench of burning flesh and knew with a detached sort of knowledge that it belonged to me. For a split second I felt as if I was hovering above myself, my earthly body engulfed in an aura of red. Then I shuddered and sank down onto the wet ground, closed my eyes, and knew only blackness and nothing.

Chapter One

As dreams went, it was a scary one. I snuggled deeper into my pillow, preparing to drift back to sleep, to try and recapture the feeling I’d had with the handsome stranger. But some alien scent or sound roused me, tugging at my consciousness. I opened one bleary eye and turned to look at the bedside clock. It wasn’t there. What was there was a stark Formica cabinet topped with a plastic water jug standing next to a white plastic beaker complete with drinking straw.

Pushing myself up on one elbow, I discovered that a needle had been taped in place on the back of my left hand. It appeared to be attached to a clear bag of fluid, which dripped into my veins via a thin line. I stared at it for a few seconds, then peered round at the small windowless side room. Apart from the cabinet and the bed, there were various monitors bleeping rhythmically against the wall. Wires led from them towards the bed. Running my hands over the starched white hospital gown in which I found myself, I located the sticky ends of the monitors—they were attached to my chest and sides.

I sat bolt upright and immediately wished I hadn’t as stinging pain fizzed across my back and shoulder. Gingerly, I fingered the gauzy material at the back of my neck and across my left shoulder. Bandages. My mind turned back to the lightning strike. It hadn’t been a dream then. For a moment I sat quite still, trying to regain a clear memory of what had happened: the handsome stranger in the storm, the two dogs cowering behind the car, the rain pelting relentlessly down. And what of Frankie? Who was looking after her now?

I lived alone in my basement flat on the outskirts of Epsom. My parents lived miles away, buried in a quiet hamlet in Somerset—a village consisting of a handful of cottages, a pub and a post office/general store—the sort you could drive through and never notice was there. No one would know to tell them I’d been hurt, or that Frankie was all alone somewhere.

Touching my fingers to the top of my head, which felt tender and tingly, I tried to recall if I’d had any sort of identification on my person when the lightning had struck. My handbag had been in my car, left in a different spot to the one where the stranger’s car had been parked. I’d had nothing in my coat pockets except a couple of tissues and a dog biscuit. Not much there to give any clues about my identity.

Letting my gaze wander round the whitewashed room, my eyes alighted on a card, partially hidden by the water jug on the bedside cabinet. It had a child’s drawing on the front, of a woman surrounded by small children, the heads out of all proportion to the stick-like bodies, the hair bright blue and standing up on end. I flicked it open and read the scrawled message inside.

Dear Mummy. Hope you get better soon, lots of love from Sophie, Nicole, Toby and Teddy xxxx.

I wondered vaguely how clean the room was if the previous occupant’s belongings were still here, and I had just placed the card back on the side table and leaned back against the pillows when the door opened and a nurse came in carrying a chart. She smiled when she saw me awake and sitting up.

‘How are you feeling this morning, Mrs Richardson? You’ve had everyone really worried about you, you know.’

I frowned and drew my head back slightly to look up at her. ‘You must have your patients mixed up, nurse. I’m not Mrs anyone. It’s Miss—Miss Jessica Taylor.’

The nurse, who was by now leaning over me ready to thrust a hand-held computerised thermometer into my left ear, straightened up and stared at me oddly. ‘Do you remember what happened to you, dear?’ She pulled up one of my eyelids and peered into first one eye, then the other. Apparently satisfied, she stood back to scrutinise my features, waiting for an answer.

I nodded but my throat felt dry. It was as if she hadn’t heard me tell her I wasn’t this Mrs Richardson person. ‘I was struck by lightning.’

‘That’s right, dear, and you’re in hospital. But do you remember what you were doing when it happened; who you were with, for example?’

It seemed like a trick question somehow, combined with the speculative look she gave me as she asked it. I didn’t see what business it was of hers anyway, so I shrugged evasively, feeling the painful twinge of burned flesh under the bandage.

‘I was with someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Why is it important, who I was with?’

The answer was almost immediate, although I didn’t realise its significance straight away, for at that moment the door opened again, and a group of excited children burst in.

I was so surprised that I sat open-mouthed as they bounded towards me, en masse, shrieking, ‘Mummy, you’re awake!’, and ‘Mum, we’ve really missed you!’ One of the older girls thrust some flowers into my hands. The younger of the two smiled and kissed me. A small boy was shouting, ‘Let me see her! I can’t see!’ until the older girl picked him up and deposited him at the foot of my bed. I glanced towards the door where another small boy stood silently, his eyes wide and his bottom lip quivering.

The nurse must have seen my shocked expression for she lifted the small boy back down off the bed and chivvied the children towards the door.

‘Mummy is still tired,’ she said firmly when one of the girls tried to protest. ‘I think you should wait in the playroom until Daddy has finished talking to the doctor. You can come and see her again later.’

The nurse closed the door firmly behind them and turned to face me.

‘You don’t remember, do you?’

I shook my head in confusion. ‘There’s been a mistake. They’re not mine, honestly!’

‘It is quite common for people to lose their short-term memories temporarily after a lightning strike,’ she explained as she smoothly checked my pulse and blood pressure. I watched her jot her findings onto the chart, her face coming closer, minty breath warm on my skin as she peered into my eyes again.

‘I’ll fetch Dr Shakir. He can examine you better now you’re awake, and he’ll explain what has happened to you. I think he’s talking to your husband right now.’ She smiled encouragingly at me. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Richardson, everything will turn out all right.’

‘I’m not Mrs Richardson,’ I said again to her retreating back, but this time my voice held less conviction. As the door closed behind her I went to rub my hands over my eyes, forgetting the drip, and the movement caused a fresh burst of pain in my left shoulder. Carefully, I lowered my left arm down beside me then gingerly held my right hand out in front of me and stared at it. The hand was slim, with beautifully manicured nails. I felt a spurt of panic somewhere deep inside me. This somehow didn’t look like my hand, with its broken nails where my fingertips tapped away daily at my computer keyboard. And where was the small scar that I’d picked up the time I’d cut myself on a tin of Frankie’s dog food?

Tears prickled behind my eyes and I blinked them back, determined not to cry, but I had never felt so helpless and confused.

How could they have made such a mistake? It wasn’t possible that I had a husband and four children I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t have forgotten something like that! This simply had to be a bad dream after all—a very real-seeming dream that would evaporate when I awoke.

I could feel the hands that didn’t seem to belong to me shaking, and I tucked the right one alongside the left—firmly under the fold of the sheets. Soon, I told myself sternly, I would wake up and laugh about this nightmare. I’d wonder why I had been so afraid and I’d tell myself how silly I’d been to let it worry me.

Screwing my eyes up tightly, I willed myself to wake up, but when I opened them I was still in the same place and my shoulder still smarted painfully. A little voice deep inside me whispered that something terrible had happened to me, and I shook my head, refusing to believe that this could possibly be happening.

I heard the door open again, but I sank back down between the hospital sheets and closed my eyes. I didn’t think I had the strength to go on with this nightmare. My body hurt and I wanted to go home. Home to my little one-bedroom flat in Epsom, where I could curl up on the sofa with Frankie’s head on my lap and watch TV in my pyjamas, or call my parents and friends and tell them about what had happened to me while I indulged myself by eating spoonfuls of my favourite pistachio ice cream straight from the tub.

Cool fingers stroked my forehead. The sensation was somehow familiar, yet I couldn’t recall anyone ever doing that to me before.

‘Lauren? Lauren, sweetheart, are you awake?’

Clenching my eyelids tightly together, I remained obstinately silent. If this was a husband, father to those children, I wanted none of it.

Another voice filled the room, an Indian accent, firm and in control.

‘Mr Richardson, if you would excuse me for just one moment. I need a few words with your wife.’

The fingers found my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ll be right outside the door, sweetheart.’

I waited until the door clicked shut before opening my eyes. A tall Asian doctor was gazing down at me, a reassuring smile fixed in place on his friendly face. ‘Good morning, Mrs Richardson.’ His eyes flicked down to the notes in his hand. ‘Er—Lauren. The nurse tells me you are experiencing some memory loss?’

‘My memory is fine,’ I answered somewhat belligerently. ‘It’s just that you’ve got me muddled up with someone else.’

The doctor shook his head, still smiling sadly. ‘I know this must be upsetting for you, Lauren, but I’m afraid that is not the case. There is a good man out there who assures me that you are his wife, and four young children who have been waiting since yesterday for you to wake up. In some cases a high-voltage injury can cause clouded mental status. It’s known medically as the Pat Effect, but don’t worry, it’s usually temporary.’

He perched on the edge of the bed and looked at me with dark eyes full of sympathy, and something else I couldn’t quite detect.

‘Lightning is a formidable force, Lauren, and you are on strong painkillers, which could be causing some of your confusion.’

I watched apprehensively as he opened a notebook and scanned its pages. His obvious belief that I was this Lauren Richardson person had me wondering what else he was going to tell me.

‘When you were brought in yesterday with burns to your back, shoulder and top of your scalp, I did a little research on the effects of lightning strikes. Yours is the first case I’ve seen personally, and I hope you will be interested to hear some of my findings.’

He glanced at me and I nodded, realising that the underlying gleam in his eyes was professional curiosity. Before I’d had time to draw breath, he plunged ahead with a deluge of information.

‘Apparently, lightning travels at astonishing speeds of between 160 and 1600 kilometres per second on its downward track to the ground. Or, in your case, on its way to you, Lauren,’ he told me with undisguised awe. ‘On its return stroke it can reach an amazing 140,000 kilometres per second, and the enormous spark heats the surrounding air explosively, creating the sonic boom we hear as thunder.’

I found myself thinking that he must have made an exceptional—if rather geeky—medical student with his enthusiasm for knowledge, but the facts were sobering when I remembered that the lightning had actually hit me at those speeds.

‘In some cases this spark can generate a temperature of thirty thousand degrees centigrade, Lauren—about six times hotter than the surface of the sun!’ he finished with a flourish.

The look he then bestowed on me was one of thinly disguised fascination, as if, after discovering and recounting how powerful lightning was, he was surprised to find I was still breathing.

‘So, you’re telling me I’m lucky to be alive,’ I commented quietly, watching his eyes for confirmation.

Dr Shakir inclined his head with a small dip that I took to be affirmative.

‘Although the scorching to your head appears superficial and the burns to your back and shoulder will heal without skin grafts, we must be careful about infection, which is why you have an antibiotic dressing on your shoulder,’ he explained. Pulling his notes together he raised his eyes briefly to mine.

I looked at him suspiciously. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘The shock of the lightning bolt stopped your heart for a while. You went into cardiac arrest. We had to shock you again to bring you back. Once we’d got you back with us we concentrated on rehydrating you. That’s just normal saline in the intravenous drip you have there. Then we dressed the burns. After that it was just a case of waiting for you to wake up.’

‘To see if I was brain damaged,’ I said, shaken that I had actually needed to be resuscitated, and again watching for his reaction.

‘I would like to schedule you for a head MRI scan,’ Dr Shakir continued smoothly, ignoring my comment and studiously avoiding my gaze. ‘But in the meantime you will have to trust me that you are the mother of those children and the wife of Mr Richardson.’

I looked at him sceptically. He was hiding something, I was sure, but there didn’t seem much else to say. I glanced towards the door and remembered with a sick feeling deep in my stomach the family that was out there waiting to visit me.

‘Please, I’m very tired,’ I pleaded, fighting down the panic that was rising in my chest. ‘Could I rest before I see…anyone?’

The doctor paused as if considering my request, then nodded briefly and left. I lay back against the pillows as the door closed behind him, sifting through my memory for any clue to this unknown family of mine, while the heart and blood-pressure monitors bleeped rhythmically beside me. The frustrating thing was that, despite everything the doctor had told me, my memories seemed perfectly intact—they just weren’t the ones it seemed I was supposed to be remembering.