The Girl With No Name

By Michael Parker and Emma Carney

She was called Rosie but had no name. She was homeless and lived on the streets. She had no memory of her life. Tom was a high flyer in the City of London. He had wealth and lived life to the full. Their worlds existed at the opposite ends of the spectrum: two lives existing side by side but each one unaware of the other. Until one brief moment that brought their two worlds crashing together and changed them forever, opening up the dark secrets that hid in Rosie's empty mind and forcing Tom to see himself as others saw him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Parker
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223998754

Michael Parker

Michael Parker is responsible for Intel’s FPGA division digital signal processing (DSP) product planning. This includes Variable Precision FPGA silicon architecture for DSP applications, DSP tool development, floating point tools, IP and video IP. He joined Altera (now Intel) in January 2007, and has over 20 years of previous DSP engineering design experience with companies such as Alvarion, Soma Networks, Avalcom, TCSI, Stanford Telecom and several startup companies. He holds an MSEE from Santa Clara University, and BSEE from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute.

Book preview

The Girl With No Name

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By

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Emma Carney

The copyright of this book is the sole property of www.michaelparker books.com. No part of this book can be reproduced or copied without the express permission the publisher, michaelparkerbooks.com

Dedicated to the memory of Patricia Anne Parker

14/01/1942 – 18/08/2020

Contents

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Chapter 1

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Rosie opened her eyes, sat up and looked across at her sleeping partner, unseen beneath his pile of jumbled rags and cardboard. He was usually unconscious by this time of night, but he was there and it was a ridiculously comforting thought for her to know that she was not alone. She could always smell the booze on him, and considered herself fortunate that she hadn’t fallen into the need for alcohol. Nothing surprised her about the situation she was in; life wasn’t fair and on the whole it sucked for Rosie. She pulled the grubby blanket up to her chin as she laid down again on the strip of cardboard that separated her from the cold, stone pavement. She curled up into the foetal position in an attempt to contain what little warmth there was beneath her covers. Her feet were freezing, but that was understandable seeing as she only had a couple of carrier bags on her feet. Her pink trainers were tucked up beneath the blanket. It had to be that way otherwise the chances were the shoes would be ripped from her feet as she slept. Rosie had learned her lesson the hard way.

Harry, who was the unconscious form beside her on the pavement, always met her late evening and slept beside her. It gave Rosie some kind of security and helped keep her safe. Well, she hoped it would, but with him stinking of booze it was unlikely he would be of any help in an emergency. But she was thankful for his company and the chit chat when he was awake. Harry was a good deal older than Rosie and had been homeless for many years. By his own admission, he didn’t believe he was long for this world.

Rosie shifted and tried to make herself a little more comfortable as she thought about her collapse into the world she now inhabited. She knew she had a life once, but that was gone; now she had nothing, not even memories and she believed there was nothing on God’s earth that could change that. And, as would often happen when Rosie fell into a sloth of melancholy and self-pity, the tears would sting her eyes and drag darkness into her soul.

Harry belched and then farted. Rosie started giggling, which helped to dispel the darkness and bring her back into her real world of homelessness. Good old Harry, she thought, and he doesn’t even know what kind of therapy he’s dishing out.

She sat up, unable to get her mind into sleep mode again, pushed her rags to one side and pulled her trainers out of the pile of rubbish she called a bed, and slipped them on over the carrier bags. She stood up. The cold air nipped around her exposed skin. She was cold anyway and started shivering. She wrapped the grubby blanket around her shoulders and thought moving about might help settle her down and maybe warm her up a little. She walked to the wall and looked over at the dark, forbidding river flowing past, and wondered how people could summon up the courage to jump into the water in an act of suicide. Desperation, really, she thought. Then she wondered if she would ever get to that state.

She saw something in her peripheral vision that made her turn her head. A solitary shape: a lonely, hunched figure walking slowly on to the bridge. Rosie peered, hoping it would help to see the figure more clearly. It looked like a man, although it could have been a woman. Not a child though; too big. She watched the shape walk slowly towards the centre of the bridge and come to a halt. Rosie was transfixed now and kept watching. The figure turned and leaned on the steel handrail. She could tell, at least, she thought she could, that the man — she decided it was a man — looked as though he might be thinking of throwing himself into the river. She gasped involuntarily and put her hand to her mouth. She looked back towards Harry’s sleeping figure and wondered if she should wake him. Then she turned that idea down because she knew he wouldn’t wake up properly and would be absolutely useless until he’d sobered up.

She took a deep breath, swore softly to herself and then started walking slowly along the pavement until she reached the bridge, all the while keeping her eye on the man who she was now convinced was about to throw himself into the unwelcome embrace of the River Thames.

Rosie wanted to run to him, grab him and ask him if it was worth throwing his life away when with a little thought and help he could solve his problems and live life again. Then she thought, what a load of bullshit; she couldn’t even solve her own problems, so how the hell could she help someone who was probably not in their right mind and might even attack her for not minding her own business?

She stopped, thinking it might be better if she called for help, but there was no-one else around at that time of night, and she didn’t have a phone. In fact, she knew she would be useless. She turned around and thought she might as well go back, get Harry on his feet, and make him go with her to help the poor guy who was about throw himself into the river.

She gave up on that idea and turned back towards the figure who was now leaning over the edge. Oh my God, she thought, he’s going to fucking jump. She started running, her feet making very little noise. She reached the figure and put her hand on his shoulder.

Don’t do it! she shouted sharply.

The man straightened quickly, turned, looked at Rosie, and put his hand on his chest. Fucking hell, woman, you frightened the bloody life out of me.

Rosie drew her hand away quickly. His sudden reaction to her stopping him had frightened her too; she thought he was about to attack her.

I’m sorry, she blurted out, but I thought you was going to jump.

He still had his hand on his chest. Me? Jump? What made you think that?

Well, she stuttered, I saw you walk on to the bridge. She shrugged. I thought when you stopped, you was going to throw yourself into the river.

He visibly relaxed and chuckled, shaking his head. No, I’ve been partying; thought I was going to be sick, that’s all.

Rosie put her hand to her mouth to stop a giggle which was threatening to burst out into the open. Oh, I’m sorry. I feel like a bloody fool now. What happened? Heavy night?

He nodded and a grim smile tugged at his mouth. He pointed somewhere into the distance. Birthday party at Benedict’s night club. He lifted his chin and looked beyond her. Vine Street. Too many shots and too much food, plus some very expensive wine. I needed some fresh air. He looked round. I didn’t mean to come this far though.

He flipped his hood back, revealing a face that Rosie thought looked pretty good, even in the darkness. He studied Rosie, looking at her from her head to her feet. Then he looked beyond her as if searching for something or someone else.

Where did you come from? he asked. There’s nothing round here. He looked her over again. You sleeping rough? The total surprise in his voice was obvious but not unexpected. Out here on your own?

Rosie moved her shoulders in a kind of defensive posture. Well, not on my own really; I have a mate sleeping with me. Well, she added hurriedly, sleeping next to me on the pavement.

He shook his head. I don’t get it. Why are you sleeping on the pavement?

Rosie shrugged. We’ve got nowhere else to go, she told him as if it was obvious. We doss down wherever we can. We’re homeless.

The expression on his face in the pale moonlight, and the way his eyes moved, told Rosie that he was... She tried to think of a word. She settled for bewildered.

What’s your name? she asked.

Tom.

She smiled. Hello, Tom. I’m Rosie. The breeze stiffened momentarily and nudged a wisp of hair across her face. She brushed it away. You do know about homeless people, Tom, don’t you?

Yes, he said softly. Of course I do. It’s just that...

You never expected a close encounter, she answered for him with her head cocked to one side. Not with aliens.

He shuffled on his feet. Yeah, sorry. He rammed his hands into his coat pockets and affected a shiver. Look, it’s getting cold standing here. You must be freezing. How do you keep warm?

She looked back over her shoulder. "Well, if Harry was sober and awake, we’d probably find a comfortable doorway: one with an en suite," she added with a wry smile on her face.

He laughed. It was brief. A sense of humour. God, you need that, living like you do.

Rosie thought he was about to say something else, but he didn’t; he just kind of stood there staring at her.

Well, Tom, I’m going back to bed. I think you should too.

He started to say something but seemed to struggle to get the words out of his mouth. Rosie helped him.

You’re not sure how to finish this, are you? You know, you go your way, I’ll go mine. She pointed back over her shoulder. I’m about fifty yards away. What about you? Or are you homeless too?

Well, the thing is, I feel I should ask you to come back to my place. At least you’ll be warm.

Rosie closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the comfort of a warm bed. But she knew she couldn’t, as much as she wanted to.

Thanks for the offer, but I couldn’t. I don’t even know you.

He pointed over her shoulder. Bring your friend — Harry, is it?

Rosie laughed. Harry won’t wake up until the coppers kick his feet and tell him to move on. She shook her head. No, this is us, this is how we live. The last thing you need is two homeless people who wouldn’t leave your house once they got attached to it; which could take just a couple of hours, believe me. She pulled the grubby blanket tight around her shoulders. Go home, Tom. Don’t worry about us; we’re surviving, believe it or not. It won’t be forever.

Tom pulled his hand out of his coat pocket and reached out towards her. Please, don’t be silly. Come home with me. Bring Harry. You can promise me you’ll leave first thing in the morning. And at least you’ll be warm.

Rosie shook her head and turned away. Go home, Tom. Please.

Tom watched as she walked away from him, the blanket dragging a little on the ground and the plastic bags sticking out of her pink trainers. He wanted to run after her but he knew she would resist any of his attempts to change her mind. He guessed it was because of some insane loyalty to her friend, Harry. And in his heart of hearts, he knew it would probably never work; there would be no winners in this situation.

He watched as she disappeared from the end of the bridge, and then she was gone.

Chapter 2

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It wasn’t the cops who kicked their feet to wake Rosie and Harry; it was the early morning street cleaners. Rosie had not slept well after her encounter on the bridge with Tom. She spent much of what was left of the night thinking about the warm bed he’d offered. Well, not quite a warm bed; that was just Rosie’s fanciful imagination running riot. In her mind she envisaged a precious outcome: her and Tom sleeping together, wild sex, fun and high jinks. Oh, it was all there. And as the imagined joy swamped her mind, the coldness of the hard pavement would seep through the cardboard and drag her back to reality.

Harry shuffled beside her as he sat up and wiped his grubby hands over his face, moaning like he’d been unnecessarily disturbed. His attempt to rub some vitality into his face was doomed because of the untidy beard that covered his chin like a knotted weed. He glanced over at Rosie to see if she was awake and saw that she had her trainers on and the carrier bags were billowing out of them like unruly socks.

What have you been up to, Rosie? he asked, pointing at her feet.

She looked down at them and laughed. I went for a walk during the night, she answered.

Seriously?

She scrambled to her feet and began rolling up the pile of rags that doubled as bedclothes. I’ll tell you about it at the soup kitchen, she said, and straightened up with her bedroll, for what it was worth, bundled up under her arm.

You going to leave those carrier bags on your feet like that?

She grinned at him. Yeah, fashion statement, innit?

Harry sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand over his nose. He looked up at the clouds as he heaved himself up from the pavement. He rolled up his ragged covers, tied them in a bundle and slung them over his shoulder.

Come on then love, let’s get to the soup kitchen before the fashion police find you. I wouldn’t be able to live with the embarrassment if I was caught with you when they picked you up.

Rosie punched him gently on the arm. Okay, old man, let’s go and get warmed up.

It took them about twenty minutes to get to the hostel. It was one that used to be part of the old Railton Houses that took in dossers years ago. The charity had moved more into discounted accommodation now, which meant people like Rosie and Harry had to take their chances out on the street, but there was always a welcome for them at the soup kitchen.

Rosie always liked walking into the café area that housed the chairs and tables which were slowly filling up. The smell of coffee mingled with that of bacon and toast. The volunteers serving behind the counter were always ready with a smile, a laugh, and a joke, while their eyes reflected the sadness they felt for those who drifted in, ate their food, and drifted out again.

Once they were seated at a table with a plate of food and a warm drink, Harry reminded Rosie he wanted to know about her walk during the night. So she told him.

I frightened the life out of him, she said as she stuffed a rasher of bacon into her mouth. Frightened me too, I can tell you.

Harry laughed. You must have looked like a ghost or something, what with your blanket wrapped round you and those bloody carrier bags sticking out of your pink trainers. That would be enough to frighten even Batman.

I think I would have been mistaken for Robin, she pointed out. Batman’s a pretty big bloke.

"So,