Harmony Lost: Songs out of Time

By Stella Jorette

Lost in an unfamiliar life and possessed by a raging spirit, Pam's best hope is helping a hodgepodge trio of musicians, and a flighty husband she can't quite recall, form a rock band. But when her hidden hellcat breaks free, everything might fall to pieces...

Pam Davis is completely confused. After waking up in the hospital with her memory wiped clean, she returns home to her supposed husband, an aspiring rock musician who decides she's possessed. And, yes, she may be slightly possessed, but the angry spirit in her head terrifies her less than the idea of ending up alone and friendless in the unfamiliar world of London circa 1969. Determined to survive her strange circumstances, Pam immerses herself in managing her spouse's band, despite her hazy understanding of rock music and the roving eye of her less-than-ideal husband.

Soon the mysterious voice in her head graduates from whispering thoughts of rage to controlling her very being. Fighting to hold her own against the violent urges spilling from her fractured psyche, Pam struggles to convince the sexist rock 'n' rollers that a woman can make their headlining dreams come true. But when a predatory club owner tries to take advantage of her in a seedy bar, her furious inner voice unleashes its brutal ferocity.

Will Pam's split personality launch her to the stars or knock her into the abyss?

Harmony Lost is a quirky and captivating contemporary fantasy/science fiction novel, blending time-travel, amnesia, fish-out-of-water scenarios, body swapping, and the enthralling allure of the Nineteen Seventies. If you crave chaos-infused characters, tantalizing mysteries, and a groovy vibe, then join Stella Jorette on this mind-bending adventure.

Buy Harmony Lost to riff on past performances today!

Dear Reader,

Harmony Lost is the first novel in a series but can be enjoyed as a standalone story. This book is relatively tame by today's standards but expect behavior and language that reflect the uninhibited and vaguely unsanitary early 1970s music scene. This edition has been electronically and professionally edited. But the novel is written in both UK and US English. Feel free to bring any usage errors to the author's attention.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stella Jorette
• Release date: Feb 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648725503

Book preview

ABOUT THIS BOOK

Lost in an unfamiliar life, her best hope is helping a man she can't recall. But when her hidden hell-cat breaks free, everything might fall to pieces...

London, 1969. Pam Davis has no idea what's going on. After waking up in the hospital with no memories of her past, the confused young woman discovers she's married to an aspiring rock musician who thinks she may be possessed. Terrified of ending up alone and friendless, she throws herself into managing her spouse's band... even as a mysterious voice in her head whispers thoughts of rage.

Fighting to hold her own against the violent urges spilling out of her psyche, Pam struggles to convince the sexist rock ‛n' rollers a woman can make their headlining dreams come true. But when a predatory club owner tries to take advantage of her in a seedy club, her furious inner voice shows its claws with brutal ferocity.

Will Pam's split personality launch her to the stars or knock her into the abyss?

Prologue

London, 1969.

The streetlamp’s pulsating glow saturated the alley with a warm lemon-yellow. Falling into a dreamy euphoria, soft and rhythmic, Pam giggled, shut her eyes then opened them to a scene beyond psychedelic.

Fireflies. Tiny yellow-green lanterns, hung in the air, their lights winking on and off in time with the beating of her heart. The bright pinpoints swirled and eddied, shifted, and spun, slowly at first, then faster and up to the sky. She arched backward and spread her arms wide, her eyes following the column of sparkles into the dark.

Above, the sky unfolded, wedges of dusk turning in and out, revealing the blackest black, except that spot, right in the center, glittering and moving fast, a falling star. Her star. It called out her name and enveloped her in brilliant white light.

Far out!

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On the Edge

No More Games

Pam followed Mrs. Davis out a glass door and onto a covered drive, dank and heady with fumes, not much improvement over the stuffy antiseptic hospital. Close to Pam’s feet, a scabby gray bird hobbled, pecking at flecks embedded in the grimy hardscape. One of the bird’s legs terminated in a bulbous, bright red stump.

They skirted both the bird and a white vehicle labeled ambulance and continued across the pavement. Pam trotted close behind Mrs. Davis, taking in the vehicles—too many vehicles, some motionless and arrayed in rows on lined tarmac, others zipping along a road. Low buildings hunkered across the street. A yellow-green streak slashed the leaden cloud bank, late afternoon sun weakly illuminating a drab scene. If she’d dreamed up or hallucinated this place, her sub-conscious was markedly deficient.

No. With so many humdrum particulars, this must be reality. Bearings, facts to latch on to, that’s what she needed. The doctor hadn’t mentioned the town’s name when she’d failed the oriented to place question. She could ask, but Mrs. Davis would compress her thin lips...again. The hospital’s facade offered no hints, slabs of drab concrete, rectangles of glass rimmed in black, the signage vague and unhelpful: Accident & Emergency.

Mrs. Davis, hands on hips, stood ahead. Don’t dally. I’ve lost most of my day. Wouldn’t mind being home before bedtime. She’d used the same tone all day: brusque, efficient, a dash of irritation. Still hard to believe this woman was her mother-in-law.

The ringing in Pam’s ears coalesced into grousing murmurs. The doctor couldn’t explain Pam’s tinnitus either. But whatever the explanation, the noise’s beat clashed with the rhythm of her footsteps, making her head swim. She stumbled and caught herself on a weathered maroon vehicle.

Jeebles. She was obviously messed up, so how could the medical exam have found nothing? Then again, the hospital had seemed backwards, the clunky equipment, and the endless paper forms, not to mention the absurd behavior of the doctor. He hadn’t asked once for consent and had discussed her condition with Mrs. Davis right over her prone but conscious form, as if Pam had been a child or a mottled corpse on a slab. Not interfered with and hysterical conversion reaction, he’d said, the euphemisms quaint but vaguely insulting. Not that she’d complained; no need to alienate an authority figure in an unfamiliar place. Much wiser to smile and nod while backing slowly toward the door.

A film of sticky sweat coated her skin by the time they halted at a small brown vehicle. Pam peered inside; a stick and a lever separated the two front seats. Beneath a transparent shield, a wheel protruded out of a panel of gauges and indicators—

Pamela, the doctor said you shouldn’t drive. The older woman’s tone suggested misbehavior.

Yes, of course. Pam backed away from the window, nodding and bowing gently at the waist to convey willingness to assist or follow direction.

Mrs. Davis snapped her purse shut. A ring of metal pieces dangled from her fingers, jingling like chimes. It’s the other way around here.

Pardon? The other way around where?

No more games, young lady. I’ve wasted enough time on your nonsense. Go ’round to the other side. She narrowed her eyes and firmed her jaw.

Pam darted to the opposite door and flipped the handle several times. Thwack, thwack, metal against metal; useless. Mrs. Davis, already seated inside, reached over, pulled up a diminutive knob on a ledge beneath the window, then glared at Pam through the glass.

A poof of air smelling of sunbaked disintegration filled Pam’s nose when she plopped onto the seat. Cracked upholstery snagged her dress and pinched her thighs. Where was the safety harness? She searched every nook and cranny to no avail. Time to ask, but Mrs. Davis appeared deep in study, a multicolored paper covered with squiggly lines and letters spread over the wheel. The woman folded the paper. Pam hazarded the question.

Excuse me. I can’t locate the harness.

Pardon?

The restraint?

Do you mean the belt? The belt broke ages ago.

Mrs. Davis, grumbling about Americans and their butchery of the language, inserted the paper into a compartment above Pam’s knees and shut the lid with a sharp and final slap, then began an intricate series of movements, almost a stationary ballet, her arms and legs shoving, pressing, lifting, rotating. The odd motions could only mean one thing.

You’re operating the vehicle manually? Pam asked.

My motor-car? You know I wouldn’t trust an automatic transmission, even if I could afford one.

Ah. Pam bobbed her head politely, unsure of the word transmission in this context. I applaud your independent spirit.

Enough of your foolishness. Mrs. Davis drew her lips into a firm line and maneuvered the vehicle...motor-car, the word was motor-car, onto the road, then onto an immense boulevard carrying a chugging convoy. Pam gasped at the spectacle of so many people driving so many motor-cars.

Lovely. The evening commute, topping off a perfect day.

Despite the words lovely and perfect, Mrs. Davis sounded cross. There’s safety in numbers, Pam said, hoping to comfort her companion. The lines deepened around the woman’s mouth in reply.

A large rectangular vehicle in front belched a torrent of black fumes, filling the motor-car with an acrid stench. Pam’s nostrils curled. 

So foolish, smoking marijuana and LSD with no concern for health or safety. No thought for the future. Mrs. Davis’s eyes remained fixed on the transparent shield.

Oh? Several of the woman’s words were unfamiliar. Did smoking refer to the vehicle ahead?

Mrs. Davis shifted the lever between them. Absolutely irresponsible, the life you lead.

Presumably, this statement related to the last about young fools, both likely fragments of an extended rumination. But Pam still couldn’t discern Mrs. Davis’s meaning; she lacked context and several nouns. Regardless, Mrs. Davis’s attitude towards her felt...wrong. Despite the buzzing in her head, despite Mrs. Davis’s scorn, despite the gaping memory void, underneath it all ticked herself, Pam, responsible and kind, who wanted to help, be useful, to serve the needs of the many.

The noise between her ears rumbled, not a pleasant sound like breaking waves, more like an ill-tempered, grinding machine, almost nauseating. If she mentioned the noise, Mrs. Davis might dump her on the doorstep of that archaic hospital. No. She wouldn’t go back. She’d pretend to be fine, although she might just need a little cry. She turned to hide her face, blinked away tears, and squeezed her lips tight. A child in the motor-car adjacent stared then stuck out his tongue. So she closed her eyes. The glass pressed smooth and cool against her cheek. Somewhere, somebody must care for her. Pam’s head nodded, and her thoughts drifted off track.

She woke as they pulled from the caravan onto a lonesome conduit wheebling through darkening countryside. Hedges cast long shadows over deep green pastures, agricultural land, hence uninhabited. Why were they traveling out here? Lights appeared ahead, spotlights illuminating the road ahead. Two lonely splotches of light in this dusky expanse, wandering, wandering just like her. Except she was mentally off-kilter and traveling to places unknown with a somewhat hostile person. Time to pull it together.

She sat up straight, folded her hands in her lap, and double wrapped her legs, hooking ankle around ankle, the flexibility a pleasant surprise. Excuse me. Might I inquire as to our destination?

"Well, my Lady, we’re off to the address Martin gave me last week, hoping I’d forward his miniscule royalty check. Quite the address, given his lack of gainful employment."

Martin? Pam’s spine snapped straight, and her fingers tingled. Finally, something familiar: Martin. She knew the name Martin, and she knew something else: Martin was mission critical. Martin! I know that name.

You should. He’s your husband, and you’re his mis—responsibility. Would’ve been nice if he’d answered the phone today.

Oh, dear. Her neediness had overtaxed this woman. Pam rocked forward into a seated but respectful bow. I can’t fully express my gratitude for your help at the hospital and for the transport. Mrs. Davis shot her a quick sideways glance and bunched her eyebrows, Pam’s gesture of goodwill rejected. A tense silence stretched between them. Pam groped for a mental image of Martin, the search resulting in nothing but nausea and an inky penumbra edging her vision.

In a village, Mrs. Davis pulled over, switched on an over-head lamp, and unfolded the multicolored paper. Pam peeked over her shoulder, reading strange words in the yellow circle of light: Of course! Place names dotting a map.

Mrs. Davis tapped on a smallish dot to the left. The gin and Jaguar belt. She sniffed loudly and folded her map.

They bumped forward over a cobbled road into a neighborhood of substantial homes sheltered behind bulky hedges and low stone walls, then turned into the drive of a large brick building outlined in stone. Intermittent flashes of light in one set of windows and the two vehicles—motor-cars—suggested somebody was at home.

What now? Should she flee Mrs. Davis’s disapproval and run off into the deepening shadows? And what of djinns, daggers, and belts? A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed. Thanks again for your help.

Lucky my number was in my handbag, wasn’t it? Mrs. Davis waved her hand twice toward Pam’s lap.

The bag, a shiny pink rhomboid, lay across her thighs. Oh? Is this yours? A cheery young nurse had passed it to her along with this foolishly short skirt and glossy red underwear.

I noticed it missing after your last visit.

Pam’s stomach knotted. Was Mrs. Davis accusing her of theft? Memory loss or not, she was no thief. The nurse must have made a mistake. Please. I’m sure...I wouldn’t... I’ll empty it and give it back. Hands trembling, she opened the bag, swept the contents to one end, then tugged at her shirt, planning to yank it out of her waistband and use it as a basket. 

Mrs. Davis held up a hand, palm flat. Don’t bother. It never suited me, so I won’t miss it. I must say, you’re coiled tightly in your jar. If you’re putting on an act, you needn’t bother.

But Pam wasn’t acting; she truly couldn’t remember a thing, and her brain was buzzing like a wasp hive. Rubble and rust. She cleared a tremor from her voice. I’m not pretending. I promise. Something is definitely wrong.

But the doctor found nothing. And I quote, ‘complete amnesia only happens in films.’ You’re playing a foolish game, and I’m not having it.

But I’m not playing. Pam tucked in her lips and dropped her dewy eyes. Her hands rested in her lap, nails chewed to the quick as if she’d been under enormous stress. Right now, felt pretty stressful too. But she wouldn’t burst into tears. She’d stay brave and prudent, and ignore the inner rampage, now sounding like garbled cursing: Bleahh, bleahh, blat. Honestly, this day had been quite a trial. Pam composed her face and looked up. The doctor asked about stress. I remember Martin’s name. I’m supposed to find him, but I don’t remember much else. He’s not stressful. Is he?

Mrs. Davis laughed, a sudden barking sound that hopped Pam off her seat. Martin? Oh yes, Martin’s stressful, but it’s hard to imagine much stress in this posh neighborhood.

Is he violent?

Selfish, addle-brained, unrealistic, but violent? Good Lord, no! Couldn’t work up the energy for violence, that one. You’ve seemed capable of violence from time to time, but thank goodness, you were born small and female. Now, it’s been a long day, and I must be off.

Pam glanced at the house; most of the windows were dark, and the porch steps had fallen into shadow, no welcoming lamp, nobody bounding out to meet them. Her throat contracted, and she blinked back tears. Perhaps Mrs. Davis had just sounded slightly more companionable. Or Pam was that desperate. But...I don’t know what to do. It’s dusk, and we’re on the edge of this settlement.

The row of lines reappeared between Mrs. Davis’s eyebrows. Pam didn’t flinch under the woman’s steely gaze. With any luck, her own expression conveyed vulnerable-but-not-utterly-pathetic.

I’ll see you to the door, but you’ll manage Martin on your own. I don’t need the aggravation. I’m already expecting his bored slouch and that eye-roll.

Mrs. Davis disembarked without hesitation. Pam followed suit, crunching across gravel and past a sizable and graceful motor-car, its design a symphony of gently rounded forms, then past a boxy little number with a dent over one wheel. A chill wind swayed the trees, now masses of bluish gray. Pam hugged herself and picked up her pace. Mrs. Davis was already at the porch stair. Since when had she needed to jog to keep up?

After an awkward pause before the high and broad front door, Mrs. Davis grimaced. It just occurred to me that this address might be an unpleasant joke or a flight of fancy. Wouldn’t be the first. Pamela, do you have a key?

A key? Pam brushed her hand alongside the door jamb, expecting...something, but the wood was smooth and solid.

Your key would be in my former handbag, not glued to the doorpost.

Ah, sorry. Key must mean something other than expected. But what did she expect? Pam grappled with the word key, finding only a blank space and that irksome gray curtain at the margin of her vision. She fished around in the purse. What was this? A leather packet? Word-like gibbering: stupid, hurry, go, jumbled her thoughts.

Mrs. Davis’s eyes bored down on Pam’s efforts. I sincerely doubt your keys fell into your wallet.

Pam dropped the packet, and with a jangle, extracted a ring bearing two toothed metal slats, similar to those Mrs. Davis had held while standing alongside her motor-car. Were these keys? She could probably bend this dull, lightweight, silver key with her teeth. This one. Pam displayed a larger key, heavy brass, an interlocking pattern decorating the flange, its elegance and heft more in keeping with the door. Mrs. Davis didn’t sneer. What next?

Scratch.

Pam jerked and glanced behind her back. The word had been spoken clear as ice and clean as jade. But Mrs. Davis stood like an iron statue; she must have misheard, probably thanks to the tinnitus.

Her mother-in-law pointed to the door. The keyhole, just below the knob.

A fist-sized bump of metal barely visible in the fading daylight protruded from the door. Pam bent and fumbled beneath the presumed knob, finding a hole surrounded by a smooth plate cool to the touch. The key slotted into place. Fabulous! She stood back and waited, hugging herself against the cold. A chill breeze wrapped around her legs.

Are you planning to turn it? Mrs. Davis tapped a finger on her forearm.

Pam worked the key back and forth, feeling for the direction of give. Clack, thud, and the door swung open. Her instincts had been correct: a large metal key for a large door! Yes! A grin spread across her face. Thanks, Mrs. Davis, again, for all your support. And if you need this purse back, just let me know.

It’s Margery, dear. You usually call me ‘Marge’ in some vulgar accent that sounds like a bad cold, but Margery will do. And do keep the bag. I hope you’re not play acting, because this accident or overdose or seizure may have improved your manners, if not much else.

Just now, had Mrs. Davis’s—Margery’s—voice sounded almost kindly? But the lady still stood ramrod straight, hands folded neatly over her belly. Some farewell gesture was required, but what? Bowing was the most respectful and hygienic choice, but her last bow had been poorly received. Perhaps the handshake; hands could be easily washed. Pam tentatively grasped Margery’s hand which lay limp like a dove with a freshly broken neck.

YUCK!

The scream bounced back and forth, rattling the bones of her skull. Again, Mrs. Davis just calmly stood, looking severe but not startled, as if she hadn’t heard a sound. Pam plastered a smile on her face, nodded politely, then quickly closed the door.

She’d Call it Vi

GROSS!

Too loud! Pam cupped her hands uselessly over her ears and slid down the door until her chin touched her knees, bracing herself for the next scream. Instead, a torrent of white-hot anger and revulsion dumped a liter of adrenaline into her system. Her heart slammed against her ribs as if she truly was furious; the accursed screamer had hijacked her body.

A sane corner of her mind rode out the storm. Seriously, the yeller needed to pull itself together. And what’d triggered the over-sized reaction, the feeble handshake? Jeebles. Bit of overkill, don’t you think? My handshake technique was likely suboptimal, and perhaps handshakes aren’t customary.

SICK!

Talking to oneself didn’t bode well, especially when half oneself was berserk, neither behavior boding well. The voice rambled, one loud, harsh word after the next. If she ignored it, her inner toddler might settle. The surroundings held some interest, the wooden door’s rich tannic scent, the black lines veining the floor’s chilly white tiles. She followed the lines with her finger, imagining a meandering river system viewed from orbit. Minutes passed. The rant tapered to a plaintive squawk, then silence.

Interesting.

Was this a seizure—an unusual seizure planted deep in the hub of her emotions? At the hospital, her brainwaves had tested normal. Still, the doctor warned seizures could be brief, too ephemeral to catch with tests.

And why was the seizure so angry? After such a rotten day, Pam could be angry too. Some luck contracting both amnesia and seizures. And here she lay, abandoned, arguing with herself, and shaking with cold, thanks to the stone floor. But she wasn’t screeching insults. No. She’d pull herself together.

Using the door for support, she pushed herself to her feet, stumbled into an atrium, and steadied herself on a small table bearing a glass vase. The hexagonal room sported a wooden wainscot adorned with carved curlicues, a soaring ceiling, a ridiculously ornate light fixture emitting soft light, all lovely but unfamiliar.

MINE!

Bother. The toddler awakes.

BREAK!

Would you mind lowering the volume? asked Pam.

Mine!

You want this room? What a nuisance! Imagine the upkeep, dusting that light fixture—

Slash!

Hush now. What’s your name?

It ignored her and churned out spite.

She’d choose a name. What came to mind? Voice, violent, malevolent, invective, venomous, vitriol...

Vi. She’d call it Vi.

Oh, Vi. Do you remember this house?

DIE!

Fine, don’t be helpful. Pam pressed two fingers into her forehead and tried to recall the atrium. Who had she chatted with here? Had she placed flowers in that vase, pressed the blossoms to her face and inhaled the scent? Did the walls sparkle with color when daylight flooded through that stained-glass cupola? Something, anything. What lay in her mind’s eye beyond the grey border?

The border thickened, then black dropped like a heavy velvet curtain, no geography, no gravity, no her. Nothingness spun around her; nausea twisted her stomach. The atrium floor lurched to her knees.

Puke.

I very well might. Pam dry heaved.

Spew and die!

For heaven’s sake. A mind dividing into pieces and harassing itself meant one thing: crazy. But she couldn’t be crazy. She had a mission, something important to do... Control. Keep control. Push forward. Breathing deep, she sat back on her calves and shook out her arms. The roiling in her stomach subsided. She’d drown out Vi in a sea of details.  

Straight ahead, a staircase ran upward, the deep red wooden handrail glowing warmly in the dim light. Beside the stairs, a hall opened into shadow. A room to the left contained one hulking, oddly shaped piece of furniture and a bench. The indigo blue of night’s cusp filled multi-paned windows. No curtains, no chairs; why was the house so bare?

So mournfully lonely, this place. And outside, the sparsely populated settlement with its widely spaced buildings, dark streets, and silence spread into the yawning emptiness of the countryside. She wrapped herself in a hug. Why wasn’t Martin living near family or at least in the nearby village? Margery and the doctor hadn’t mentioned plague. His own mother had labeled Martin problematic; had he been cast out?

Martin.

Would Martin fold her in his arms and care for her? Her chest squeezed. Her throat tightened. She brushed away tears. Cripes, she must be wearing down.

Fuckwit and Swine

To the right, dialog murmured, and screen light flickered in the gap beneath a closed door. An intelligent woman having seizures would alert her husband, even if he were stressful, so Pam stood, crossed the atrium, and opened the door. On a low table, a chubby screen flashed blue and white light. Two men lolled on the couch, mid-embrace but still dressed, thankfully.

With a spastic jerk, the man facing up tossed his partner onto the floor and jumped behind the couch’s armrest. The other sat up and stared at her, a dazed expression on his face.

CHOKE!

Beyond awkward—DIE—and a stellar introduction—AURGH—spoiling a private moment—NOOO! Vi had completely lost control. Pam sputtered, her tongue thick in her mouth. So sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude. She bowed her way out, clicking the door shut behind her.

CRUSH!

She raced up the stairs, not guilty of poor manners by reason of insanity. It was just that right now wasn’t the best time for a chat. Later, when she’d recovered from the insanity, she’d apologize, introduce herself properly, and learn that couple’s story. She could use some friends, after all. She’d just wipe her sweaty hands on her skirt, explore upstairs and find Martin, her room, her possessions, a memory.

Up top, a quiet and dim hall stretched past a series of doors opening to empty rooms. Light shone promisingly through a crack in the door at the end of the hall.

Pam tapped. Hello? Martin?

No reply. She opened the door and poked her head inside: a bedroom, but unfamiliar. A mattress lay on the floor, the covers a tangled mess. But regardless, the bed looked appealing. Did she ever need to sleep. Because tomorrow she’d wake up feeling better. Tomorrow she’d be normal. But the room was chilly. Where could she find a night dress?

Burn.

Are you still upset? You might just need a good night’s sleep.

Slice.

Well, no. I’m going to snooze, not ‘slice.’ Hopefully, I’ll wake elsewhere, far away elsewhere, because this day must be a bad dream. You stay here. When I’m gone, you slice as you see fit. Until then, please, just hush.

A wardrobe stood against one wall. She paged through the clothes, men’s and women’s, a riot of colors and patterns, vibrant yellows clashing with purples, a fluffy orange vest, a slick shirt decorated with intertwined teardrops or leaves, tons of detail to settle Vi. These clothes couldn’t be hers; she didn’t favor patterned fabric. Patterns were fussy and obscured more than they enhanced. Imagine all those dyes, the waste and toxicity. And the clothes carried a scent: sugar cane and musk. She didn’t care for the perfume either.

The opinions came as a relief; after all, opinions were like memories. Weren’t they? A white garment caught her eye. Maybe it’d be plain, soft, and cozy. She tugged it out by the sleeve. The fabric proved slick, the body of the dress a poof of stiff netting. The collar was high and folded. In this outfit, she’d resemble a cotton swab. She giggled.

What’s so funny? One of the men from downstairs lingered outside the door.

It’s just these clothes. They’re surprisingly... She paused, searching for a gentle word. Vibrant.

He leaned in and peered into the closet. A youngster, not past his early twenties, tall and slender with a nice long neck. Some might consider him attractive, but he missed her mark: too pale, the hair, and eyes leached of color, his face marred by a petulant expression.

You bought them, he said.

Pam ruefully eyed the clothing, grateful the accident had obliterated the memory of selecting these garments. Meanwhile, Vi heckled and hissed at the man, as if it— No. Not it: she. Vi was decidedly female, albeit a female of the rabid shrew variety. Also, Vi knew this man, knew him well, and her feelings toward him, to put it mildly, were mixed.

Sausage jockey!

Sausage jockey? Humorous visual, even though— Oops. Could she encourage Vi? The man gawked at her. Had she spoken out loud? Had he asked a question? Was her mouth open? She snapped it shut. Right, they’d been discussing clothing. She grappled for a reply... Oh?

He slipped into the room and leaned against the wall. I thought we’d worked everything out. You’re at Joyce’s while I hold down the flat.

Joyces could be a town or neighborhood. She filed the word for later investigation. Holding down the flat meant nothing, but this moment wasn’t the time to clarify, because he sounded annoyed. Was he annoyed enough to toss her out into the night? Best to describe the accident and keep the ranting voice and the blank slate of her memory private for now. The accident may have flushed people and places from Pam’s memory; but basic concepts and immutable tenants of human relations remained obvious. Foremost, in uncertain circumstances, never mention the angry internal voice, especially if the voice cursed, called names, and urged violence. Good thing this ranting hadn’t started up in the hospital. The doctor would have shunted her straight to the psych ward, most likely a snake pit with a side order of leeches.

I didn’t make it to Joyces. I woke in a medical center. She outlined the basics— found unconscious, alone, no witnesses, the victim of a conjectured fall or seizure, all tests negative, then waited for expressions of concern. None forthcoming, she added, Nothing broken, luckily.

You sound odd. He narrowed his eyes and sniffed, implying her oddness had a scent. It did not. She’d had a quick wash in the hospital before donning this shirt and handkerchief-passing-as-a-skirt.

The boy awkwardly clung to the wall, a timorous quality to his hostility, as if he feared her but felt compelled to be unpleasant. She should reassure him and allay his suspicions. Come closer. I’ll show you evidence of the accident.

He darted a look out the hall, detached himself from the wall, and took one step into the room. She neared him without violating his personal space and displayed the blue-and-purple bruise on her left arm. See? An injury from the fall. A circular mark on my forehead has already faded. Curling her forefinger and thumb in a circle, she indicated the location.

He wrapped his arms around his chest and shrugged.

Vi burbled up a single word, loud and insistent: fuckwit. The word reverberated, "fuckwit," an unfamiliar word, full of power, laced with anger and a sense of superiority. Pam weathered several slow room spins.

Were you high? he asked into her silence.

No, at street level, thank goodness.

Clever tonight, aren’t we?

A rustling near the door; and now the other half of this couple rested against the doorjamb. His mouth was quirked to one side, suggesting he wasn’t on her side which wasn’t unreasonable, considering she’d gotten him dumped on the floor. A few lines of maturity fanned out from the corners of his eyes, and subtle parentheses bracketed his mouth. But he was fit and conventionally handsome with an elegant stance. No surprise he’d attracted the callow youth.

Swine, hissed Vi.

You won’t throw a tantrum, will you? asked Swine.

Tantrum? Vi might lose control, but not her. No. No, thank you. This situation falls well below my tantrum threshold.

Swine frowned, then glanced at Fuckwit, who rolled his eyes with theatrical flair.

Swine asked, Did you mention hospital?

A passerby found me unconscious by the side of the road. No one knows what happened. The leading theory is seizure. Now, I seek Martin Davis.

The two exchanged a glance.

Swine shifted his smirk to the other side of his mouth. I see. Out of idle curiosity, who are we?

Best guess? Swine and Fuckwit were her— Housemates?

Swine flopped onto the mattress and roared with laughter. Fuckwit sniggered between quick and unsteady glances at Pam. And Vi growled.

Please, may I not have bared my canines. Maybe she had, because the younger one looked even more nervous, the silly—wait! The eye-roll, the long face—a face that had surfaced from the Davis gene pool. Of course, this boy was Martin. Fixing her eyes on him, she set her hands on her hips.

He retreated two paces. How d’you get here, anyway? The question was part accusation, so annoying. She’d settle him down.

"Margery drove me."

Martin’s eyes widened. Mum? Is she here?

Pam allowed the threat of Margery’s flinty gaze and unyielding vertebrae to hang in the air, then let him off the hook. No. She dropped me off and drove home.

Martin exhaled and collapsed on the bed next to his friend, who’d turned to jelly with laughter.

Crumbles and jeep. What kind of marriage was this? Obviously, Margery hadn’t approved. And Martin acted too unfriendly for a love match. A love match gone sour? And who was Swine?

She extended her hand, game to reattempt the handshake ritual. Pamela Davis, she announced, the one useful piece of data she’d learned at the hospital.

Charles Boudin. The now identified Swine stood, took her hand, and planted a quick kiss. Was he trying to infect her or was his gesture was considered polite? You’re a wonderful little actress, simply marvelous.

You think she’s faking? asked Martin.

Of course. What brings you here, my dear? The truth now. You must be aware you’re intruding.

A gasket blew, not a Vi gasket this time but an authentic Pam gasket. She pulled her spine straight, dipped her chin, and clasped her hands at her waist, deliberately channeling Margery. "Your concern for my health