The Samsara Project - David Burgess (early reader books .txt) 📗

an electronic click opened a lock on the door letting him in. As he walked in Tracy shouted down to him, “Hi John, top floor on the left. We’ve no lift so I hope you’re fit.”
As if to prove a point John ran up the six flights of stairs two at a time. When he got to the top he wished he hadn’t. “Maybe I’m not as fit I should be,” he managed to gasp, in-between trying to catch his breath.
“You’d better come in,” said Tracy. John went inside. The apartment was very modern and everything looked new or reasonably new, nothing old. On the floor was a thick, rich blue carpet. A quality cream leather three piece suite ensured there was a good choice of somewhere to sit. At the window end of the room, sat on a glass stand, was a twenty eight inch wide screen television, underneath a micro HI Fi system. “Can I get you anything?” asked Tracy, “A drink, heart lung machine!”
“Am I that bad,” replied John. “I’ve brought these for you,” he said handing her the flowers.
She took them from him, buried her nose into the flowers and took in the sweet aroma. “Lilies,” she said, “They’re my favourites. How did you know?”
John smiled, “Sixth sense.” He grinned.
Tracy placed the flowers on one of the armchairs. “John,” she said, “I hope you don’t object but would you mind if we stayed in tonight?”
It was then that John noticed the aroma coming from the kitchen.
“I hope you like Italian,” said Tracy.
“Of course we can stay. That’s fine and Italian is my favourite. How did you know?” said John.
“Looks like you’re not the only one in this relationship with a sixth sense. Come on through to the dining room. I’ll serve.”
It struck John that Tracy had used the word, relationship. John thought about the word and what it meant, ‘relationship’, it sounded good, he felt happy. For the first time since Pamela’s death he felt needed. He felt as though he belonged somewhere and with someone. That he had only known her for a matter of hours was irrelevant and it looked as though Tracy felt the same way.
The décor of the dining room followed on from the living room, nothing old, nothing handed down. No family heirlooms, in fact no family anything. John was sat at the head of a large six seat glass topped table. The chairs surprised him as they were far more comfortable than they looked. The table was immaculately set. Bread sticks in a tall glass, butter rolled into small balls, the napkin intricately folded in the shape of a swan and enough knives, forks and spoons to feed a small army.
“I hope you’re hungry,” shouted Tracy.
“Absolutely,” replied John, “The aroma is making my mouth water, Pavlov would be proud of you.”
Tracy brought out two bottles of wine, one rosé one white. “Care to pour?” she asked. John stood up.
“Of course, rosé or white?”
“Trust you’re sixth sense,” she replied, “I’ll bring in the starters.”
John admired the glasses, Italian crystal. He poured her a large glass of rosé and placed it in front of her place setting.
John could not remember the last time he had enjoyed a meal as much as the one he had just eaten. The food, the company, everything was perfect.
“I’m glad you suggested staying in,” John said, “I’m a bit of a home bird. I love fresh home cooked food, better than a restaurant any day.”
“Flatterer,” she replied.
The two sat facing each other on the sofa. John’s left arm draped over the back. Tracy holding a glass of her favourite rosé wine. “John,” she said, “I don’t want to spoil the mood but I have a confession to make. I’ve been stupid and I don’t know why.”
“What is it?” asked John.
“The funeral I went to, it was here, in London, not Scotland. I knew Suzie Reeves, we went to college together. A few girls in the class formed a group and promised to stay in touch. Suzie was one of the group, I’m so sorry John”
“I’m sorry that you lost a friend, it must have been quite a shock for you, especially under such circumstances. Don’t worry, I understand, it’s not a problem.” replied John. He had to be careful with what he said next; he didn’t want Tracy to think that he had been spying on her.
“I wouldn’t call her a friend as such,” said Tracy, “more an acquaintance.”
John was happy to hear that. “I already knew you were at Suzie’s funeral,” he said, “as far as London funerals go this was a major event. The paper had a photographer there and I saw the pictures this afternoon. You’re on a couple of them.”
Tracy held her head down, blushing with embarrassment. She started to sob. John put his arm around her and pulled her closer to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, her sobs turning into a deep soulful cry. John cradled her as though she were a baby, his left hand around her waist, his right stroking her hair. “It’s OK Tracy, don’t worry. Everything will be OK.”
She pulled away slightly from him and looked him straight in the eye, “I didn’t want you to think that I was mixed up with the kind of people that Suzie knew. I was worried that if you thought I was then you wouldn’t want to know me.”
John took a tissue out of a box on the coffee table; he gently wiped away the tears running down her cheeks. “How could I ever not want to know you?” he whispered.
She smiled at him. “One day I’ll tell you about our group, but not just now.”
“Whenever you’re ready to tell me I’ll be there to listen. Tomorrow, next week, next month, whenever. I promise.”
Tracy snuggled up to him. She had stopped crying now and her head was resting on his chest, “You’ve no idea how special I wanted to make tonight. I can’t remember the last time I cooked for someone. I’m so sorry it’s turned out like this.”
“I’m not,” replied John, “the two of us have had one of the best meals I have eaten since I don’t know when. We’re sat on your settee, probably far closer as a couple than we ever would have been had we gone out. Unless I’ve read everything wrongly then, despite this being our first date, we have feelings for one another that some couples never get to feel, no matter how long they stay together. This to me feels the most natural thing in the world.”
Tracy looked up at him again; she gently put the fingers of her right hand over his lips. “You don’t have to say anything else John. I understand everything you’ve said and you’ve no idea how happy you have made me by saying them. One day. I hope, I’ll be able to tell you about my life and about me.”
“Why did you say hope?” asked John.
Tracy took a deep breath, held his left hand between both of hers and began to tell him what she could. Tracy explained that due to a riding accident just over five years ago she has one hundred percent amnesia about who she was prior to the accident. “I must have loved horses and riding,” she said, “because I was found, in a wooded area, lying unconscious on the floor with my horse standing by the side of me.” Tracy continued to explain to John how she was in a coma for six weeks, eventually waking up with no memory at all as to who she was. “From that day to this I have never even had a flash back of my former life. I don’t even know my real name.”
“Then it’s not Tracy?” asked John.
“No, Tracy Rae was the name of the nurse who cared for me all the time I was in hospital and rehabilitation. She said she’d be happy for me to have her name.” Tracy continued telling John about the treatment and aftercare. About how her story had been run on the news and in the local papers around where I had been found. “Despite all the publicity no one came forward to say they knew me. Not one person. For some reason I had no family, no friends, no one even recognised me from school, Can you imagine how that feels?”
“No,” said John, with a lump in his throat, “I can’t”
“I have never felt so depressed.” Tracy took a sip of wine, took hold of John’s hand again and continued to tell him about her move to an island off the coast of Scotland. On the island, well away from everyday life was a rehabilitation clinic that specialised in treating patients who had the same symptoms as herself, long term memory loss with no recall of the past what so ever. She explained that everyone had perfect memory from the day they came out of their comas. Most still had certain skills, such as reading, writing, spelling but others had even forgotten the most basic necessities of modern living. Tracy admitted to John that she was one of them. “I had no idea how to read the simplest book or even how to write my name. I had to learn everything from scratch.”
John interrupted, “the other women at the funeral were they also at the rehabilitation clinic? Is that the college class you mentioned before?” While he was waiting for Tracy to answer it occurred to him that they had not watched the TV news and Tracy did not have an evening paper, meaning she would not know about Gillian’s murder. He though, for a brief moment, about asking her if she knew Gillian but quickly changed his mind. That question could wait. Now was not the time or place.
Tracy nodded, she explained that all had been the victim of either an attack, an accident; a couple had suffered from brain tumours. “One girl just woke up in a hotel room with no idea who she was or how she got there.”
John had to ask, “Where any of the women in your group ever reunited with family of friends?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Tracy took another drink, and then replied, “No. It was as though none of us had ever existed before. We just had each other. That’s why we all agreed to keep in touch after we left the clinic. At first we did, on a weekly basis for the most part, but over a period of time it became once a month then just Christmas and birthdays. We all gave each other birthdays by the way.”
“What’s yours?” asked John
“I chose the seventeenth of January. I tell everyone I’m thirty one but I’ve no real idea.”
“I could always count your teeth,” said John. Trying desperately to move out of the way as Tracy, playfully, hit him on the side of his head with a cushion.
“Oww,” he cried, “that hurt.”
“Ahh, let me see,” said Tracy, “I’ll kiss it better for you.”
Tracy leaned over and gave John a light, but sensual kiss on his lips. She started to ease away but John pulled her back towards him. The kiss lasted an eternity; neither wanting to be the first to end it, eventually lack of air separated them. They just looked at each other. Tracy was the first to speak, “Are you working tomorrow?”
“No. I’m off. Why?”
“How would you like to go for a drive in the country? I don’t care where, maybe head towards the south coast, but keep to the A and B roads.”
“Great idea, “replied John, “I’d love to.”
”I could