If I Were Me

Paul Durston

Description

At a traumatic incident PC Charlie Quinlan is injured dragging a boy from a burning car. During rehab, her memory begins playing tricks on her. A weird series of events combine to increase her confusion. She fears medical retirement if she admits to having memory losses. A man is murdered. A phone call to Crimestoppers implicates Charlie. She has an alibi which the police investigation can't break. There is a second murder and another incriminating call. Charlie is arrested, interviewed and suspended from duty. The only person who can free her from this nightmare, is herself. But what will she find on the far side of her memory?

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Diamond Crime Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 04 octobre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781915649249
• Langue: English

Extrait

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 
Paul Durston served with the Metropolitan Police in London for thirty years. Having retired, he devotes his time to creative writing and exploring the inland waterways. If I Were Me , about Charlie who experiences memory issues following a traumatic incident, is his debut novel.
 
He lives on a narrowboat in Worcester with his partner Caroline.
Published in Great Britain in 2022
By Diamond Crime
 
ISBN No: 978-1-915649-24-9
 
Copyright © 2022 Paul Durston
 
 
The right of Paul Durston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
 
All rights reserved.
 
 
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
 
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
 
Diamond Crime is an imprint of Diamond Books Ltd.
 
 
Thanks to...
Former-detective and colleague Phil Murray for his help on all things investigative. Dr Robin Lawrence MRCPsych for his insight and patient explanations. My writing buddies Vicki Bradley, Vicki Jones, Fraser Massey and Jane Phillips for their support and input. Claire McGowan, William Ryan and all my fellow students from whom I learnt so much at City University London. Steve Timmins and Phil Rowlands of Diamond Books for showing faith in me. Caroline who tolerates my absence when present in a very confined space.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Cover and book design: jacksonbone.co.uk
Cover photograph: iStockphoto and Adrian Balasoiu/Unsplash
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For information about Diamond Crime authors and their books, visit:
www.diamondcrime.uk
 
For my brother, Kevin.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
IF I WERE ME
 
 
 
PAUL DURSTON
 
CHAPTER ONE
 
 
It’s dark by the time a detective has taken my dealer and I’m back in the car with Lavender.
“Charlie, never seen you wearing a skirt.”
“Trousers were ripped fighting with that dealer.”
“Assault on police or criminal damage?”
“Not bothered. Grazed knee. Part of it.”
Lavender glides us out onto Walworth Road.
“There are good detectives,” I say. “I know them both.”
“Don’t tell me. You had to do their job for them.”
The evening traffic is heavy. “Not really. More their attitude – lording it.”
“Remember, Charlie, if something’s more than ten minutes old, we’re no longer friggin’ interested. We trample the scene, kick doors in, pick our arses, contaminate evidence and upset witnesses. Then, when the teccos arrive, we all fuck off. They ain’t lording it, they’re friggin’ jealous.”
Such eloquence.
Lavender stops by a coffee shop. I take the hint and, on returning with two lattes, a call comes in. “Mike-Three, Mike-Three. Camberwell New Road, junction Vassal Road, serious RTC. Petrol tanker overturned. Mike-Three.”
Tanker overturned? Shit. “Received by Mike-Three.”
We open our doors, place our steaming coffees on the road, and we’re off, doors slamming, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing, we’re a minute away. Other units are answering up. Fire Brigade on way. Ambulance on way.
As we approach, I hear a poomph and a broiling fireball rolls up into the London sky.
Craning forward, I watch it rise as Lavender swings us around stationary vehicles.
“Did you see that?”
“See friggin’ what?” Lavender brakes to avoid a pedestrian.
Everyone’s running, away from where we’re heading. A man clangs into a lamp post and falls. A woman looks back, stumbles but keeps going. A little girl in a red coat cries. A small dog runs with the crowd.
We’re stuck. I leave the car and barge through the mass of people swarming towards me.
The crowd’s thinning. Building line. From there, I’ll be able to see. I push on, clear the crowd and reach the building’s edge.
Flames reflect in shop windows.
I take a peep and feel the heat. The tanker, engulfed in flames, is on its side, its rear wheels turning. Nearby vehicles are consumed by the spreading fire. A burning woman collapses, her flames rise as she falls.
I break cover but a man throws himself on her and is consumed as well.
I crouch.
I’ve never felt heat like this. After the stampeding crowd, there’s an eerie calm.
Dark mounds of bodies are clustered near the bus stop.
A burning man erupts from a building and pounds at his flames before falling. I move towards him but he’s too far. I crouch again.
A car screeches backwards out of the fire, sparks across the pavement and through a shop front.
My arm is grabbed. It’s Lavender.
“Charlie. Too close. We must get back.”
To my left, there’s movement. “Just a…” Can’t speak. Cough. Spit. There’s that movement again. What is it? Lavender’s pulling my arm.
A car, on the edge. The driver’s jerking. Flames are creeping up and around the bonnet. The front tyres burst. The car sighs.
I twist away from Lavender. “You go,” I shout and sprint towards the car.
All around me is crushed thunder. Heat prickles my cheeks. Oily fingers scratch my lungs. Squinting through barely open eyes, I make it to the car. The flames reach for me from under the front wheels. I rip the driver’s door open. It’s a woman. The flames have her. Her face is moving. Blisters bubbling. Silent screams yaw from her blackened mouth. She moves her chin, an indication, I follow. In the back is a small boy, arms out, eyes pleading, mouth wide.
The woman’s gone still. Flames are creeping from the far side towards the boy. I grab his arm. He’s strapped in. The flames draw closer. I must reach into them to release the belt. I can do this. I’m in, hands following the belt down. I’m holding my breath. The catch. It’s in my hand. It won’t release. My eyes are scrunched. My skin’s popping. Despite all my nerves and muscles pushing me away, I keep my hands there. I can do this. The catch won’t release. I arch my head back. Bright stars. Must get away but my hands stay there. Pushing. Pulling. Tugging. Twisting. It won’t release. I keep my mouth shut tight so my scream can’t escape. Won’t release. Won’t release.
Strong hands grab me. One more go at the catch. I’m reeling back from the car. Flames have me. They’re climbing. Nothing left. Can’t move. A fire extinguisher roars. I’m dragged backwards, fast, away from the flames, away from the car and I have hold of the boy.
 
* * *
 
I’m no stranger to physical pain but my hands feel like they’re being dragged around a gravel drive. “How much longer?”
My salamander tattoo no longer hides the scars on my left wrist. Both hands are wrapped in clingfilm-like dressings, skin burnt, muscles baked, tendons stewed, yellow blisters and weeping puss. “I was saving the boy.”
In response, my hands fire lightning bolts at me while inciting other parts of my body to join in. My guts cramp, teeth throb, eyes pop, heart booms. My scream starts low, rising higher and higher.
Nurse Olu comes and starts removing the dressings from my right hand.
“Don’t mess with them. Please.” I’m pleading from arched back as my right hand, on being disturbed, opens up with a new barrage but Nurse Olu has the magic touch with her oils and ointments and my wailing subsides, only to start rising again as she moves to my left hand.
“Bad today,” Nurse Olu says. My wailing subsides but I’m filled with anxiety about what will be. My salamander has lost his tail. Will I lose a finger? A thumb?
“Bad today, Charlie,” Nurse Olu says, again.
“What do you mean?”
She smiles. “Some days seem better than others.”
“They’re all bad,” I say, confused.
“You’re fine.” She grips my shoulder. “The burns on your face and legs will heal. Your hands are bad but we’re on top of that. You held your breath so no lung damage. You’ll be okay.”
“Every day’s a bad day,” I say but she’s gone.
Where did Lavender come from? He’s quiet, not banging on about friggin’ this and friggin’ that, and Mary Cantrell, my sergeant, is with him. Something’s wrong. Nurse Olu comes, not her usual smiling self. “Charlie, I’m sorry, the boy has died.” Cantrell’s hand is on my shoulder and Lavender takes my other arm as my scream rises.
Gradually, I calm down. Nurse Olu has gone. Cantrell’s unfolding a newspaper. “Look Charlie, it’s a few days old.”
She holds it up. Pictures of the tanker on its side, fire crews with their hoses, ambulance crews with their casualties and a picture of me, in this hospital bed, arms up.
“I don’t remember anyone taking that picture.”
“Well,” Lavender says as Cantrell lays the paper beside me, “you’ve been out of it. Pain or drugs. Another thing. Someone filmed you dragging the boy from the car. Posted on YouTube. Gone friggin’ viral. You’re a national hero.”
“So modest,” Cantrell says perching on my bed. “He didn’t mention his part.”
I want them to leave. They pick up on my feelings and, very soon, they’re gone, Lavender’s parting shot, “Hey, Charlie. The next day, our coffees were still on the road. Gone friggin’ cold though.”
I feel sick. I wanted them to go and now I want them back. Not just Lavender and Cantrell but all of them.
The newspaper’s there. Pictures of the carnage bring crackling flames, burning flesh, searing heat and, like then, I feel so alone. A school-photo of a boy, smiling and fair. Big eyes. The same eyes as in the blistered face. Billy.
My hands wake up. Lightning forks up my arms. I arch my back and wind up my siren scream. Nurse Olu comes. My feet itch and my stomach heaves as I lose control and wet the bed. Nurse Olu calls a colleague and, together, they clean me up and sort me out while I close my eyes and wish I was dead.
 
* * *
 
Out in the country,