Lost Memories (standard:mystery, 3492 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 17 2002	Views/Reads: 4384/2643	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A man encounters his dead wife on a flight to Crete. A complex tale.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“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, and 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 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 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 and headed 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 eet 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. Eesn'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 and 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 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 did she take 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 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 smoky, large 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 partners 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 floor. 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. When Pamela
died, 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 take 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? 


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