‘No, wait! Don’t leave me—’ But before I can finish, Alexander knocks twice sharply on the carriage roof, and it swiftly drives off, leaving me alone in the heart of Whitechapel.
Chapter 21
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
After leaving Florence’s flat late Sunday afternoon, I trudge back to my own silent, empty one. There’s nothing to do but heat up a bowl of minestrone soup in the microwave for dinner and stand there watching it going round and round like the question in my mind.
Why does Florence so strongly resemble those three women in the photos?
The answer when it comes to me is simple, and I sag against the counter in relief. Because itisFlorence, you dummy. Duh! Didn’t she say her flatmate Hester was involved in the theatre? The actors must have held a few themed parties over the years, and she’s dressed up and gone along too. The photos are just for fun. Admittedly, the faded Victorian one is extremely realistic ... But I push any doubt to the back of my mind. It’s easy enough to recreate that old-fashioned look with the right props, and Photoshop has sepia-type filters.
The microwave dings. I slip on an oven mitt, feeling a lotbetter that I’ve figured it out, and it’s nothing weird at all. The savoury smell of the soup, when I extract it from the microwave, makes my stomach grumble loudly. It’s been hours since lunch; maybe I’ll have some cheese on toast too.
I’m lying on the couch after my makeshift dinner, absorbed in a sci-fi series and attempting to relax, when my phone dings. Probably Andrew trying to rile me again. I ignore it. Then it dings again ten minutes later. For God’s sake, is he deliberately trying to piss me off? I pause the show and look at my phone.
It’s not Andrew. They’re messages from Dad.
Hi Damian, just checking in. I hope Florence wasn’t too traumatised? Is her leg ok? Your mother is chatting to one of her friends on her phone in the lounge so I’ve come into the study for some DTO. Love Dad.
I chuckle at that. DTO means ‘Dad Time Out’, a polite way of saying Mum’s animated conversation is getting on his nerves and he’s over it. I move on to his second message.
Hi again, I’ve been racking my brains all day trying to remember where I’d seen Florence before. I was just having a flip through some of my old photo albums.Check out the attached.
I open the attachment, and my heart skips a beat. Dad has taken a screenshot of a Kodak colour photo that features a group of youths at a party in a random lounge. From the clothes and the hair, it must be the 1980s. I recognise my lanky beardless dad in an AC/DC T-shirt. Standing next to him is his suave older brother, Tim, in a white linen suit à la Don Johnson. Tim has his arm around a pretty blonde girl with big teased hair. She’s wearing a short leather skirt with a studded belt and a black halter top with a skull and crossbones. Her lips are scarlet red, and she’s pouting at the camera. But it’s the beautiful slim goth girl in ripped jeans and black leather jacket next to her that my gaze is drawn to. Her dark hair is short and spiky. But the purple lipstick, pale skin, and those violet eyes are unmistakable.
The photo is from a party at Tim’s flat in 1983 (there was a date on the back). The quality isn’t great, it must have been a bad batch of film, or someone didn’t know how to use a flash, but the likeness of the dark haired girl to Florence is uncanny, don’t you think? Her blonde friend went out with Tim for a couple of months. I can check with him but I’m pretty sure her name was Sadie ...
An icy chill runs down my spine as I gaze at the photo of the two girls.Sadie.Surely, this can’t be ... Florence and her flatmate?
I remember Tim being quite upset at the time as they broke up suddenly. I think he must’ve really liked her. Anyway, maybe you can make better sense of it all than me. Love Dad.
I smile wryly at his closing sentence. Thanks, Dad, for opening Pandora’s box, shutting the lid, then quietly slinking off. But his discovery is timely, and I can’t ignore it. Based on this new evidence, Florence is not just an enthusiastic attendee of themed parties. She was actuallyata party in 1983,which makes her as old asmy father!
Bitsy going crazy at her for no reason.
Feeling no pain after being bitten.
Weirdly cold hands.
Her ageless appearance ...
Yeah, my freak-o-meter is back on high alert.
***
During my lunch break the next day at work, I checkFlorence’s X-rays against the 1960s photo I have on my phone. I’m 99.9 per cent sure that it’s definitely her—not that it helps me much as, unlike Dad, I didn’t think to see if there was a date on the back of the photo to prove it. But just thinking about the possibility that she’s even older than my dad, like another twenty years older, blows my mind too much to even contemplate it. My emotions are all over the place.
Then I get a message from her, which makes me feel guilty on top of it. Like she somehow knows I’m sitting here, poring over her dental records while eating my tuna salad sandwich. Her message is nothing pointed, just friendly.
Hey how’s it going?
But I can’t bring myself to reply in a similar tone as if nothing’s wrong. So I leave it and concentrate on my afternoon patients.
On the way home after work, I receive another one. Still friendly, but slightly more worried.
Hey Damian, did you get my last message? Hope your day went well.
I leave that one too.
