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police.”
    “You could be reacting to not being able to remember. You feel excluded. You think everyone knows the secret except you.”
    “You think I'm paranoid.”
    “It's a common symptom of amnesia. You think people are holding out on you.”
    Yeah, wel that doesn't explain Keebal. He's visited me three times already, making false charges and outrageous claims. The more I refuse to talk, the harder he bul ies.
    Joe rol s his pen over his knuckles. “I once had a patient, thirty-five years old, with no history of neurological or psychiatric disorders. He slipped on an icy pavement and hit his head. He didn't lose consciousness or anything like that. He bounced straight up onto his feet and kept walking—”
    “Is there a point to this story?”
    “He didn't remember fal ing over. And he no longer knew where he was going. He had total y forgotten what happened in the previous twelve hours, yet he knew his name and recognized his wife and kids. It's cal ed transient global amnesia. Minutes, hours or days disappear. Self-identification is stil possible and sufferers behave normal y otherwise but they can't remember a particular event or a missing period of time.”
    “But the memories come back, right?”
    “Not always.”
    “What happened to your patient?”
    “At first we thought he'd only forgotten the fal , but other memories had also gone missing. He didn't remember his earlier marriage, or a house he'd once built. And he had no knowledge of John Major ever being Prime Minister.”
    “It wasn't al bad then.”
    Joe smiles. “It's too early to say if your memory loss is permanent. Head trauma is only one possibility. Most recorded cases have been preceded by physical and emotional stress. Getting shot would qualify. Sexual intercourse and diving into cold water have also triggered attacks.”
    “I'l remember not to shag in the plunge pool.”
    My sarcasm fal s flat. Joe carries on. “During traumatic events our brains radical y alter the balance of our hormones and neurochemicals. This is like our survival mode—our fight-or-flight response. Sometimes when the threat ends, our brains stay in survival mode for a while—just in case. We have to convince your brain it can let go.”
    “How do we do that?”
    “We talk. We investigate. We use diaries and photographs to prompt recol ections.”
    “When did you last see me?” I ask him suddenly.
    He thinks for a moment. “We had dinner about four months ago. Julianne wanted you to meet one of her friends.”
    “The publishing editor.”
    “That's the one. Why do you ask?”
    “I've been asking everyone. I cal them up and say, ‘Hey, what's new? That's great. Listen, when did you last see me? Yeah, it's been too long. We should get together.'”
    “And what have you discovered?”
    “I'm lousy at keeping in touch with people.”
    “OK, but that's the right idea. We have to find the missing pieces.”
    “Can't you just hypnotize me?”
    “No. And a blow on the head doesn't help either.”
    Reaching for his briefcase, his left arm trembles. He retrieves a folder and takes out a smal square piece of cardboard, frayed at the edges.
    “They found this in your pocket. It's water damaged.”
    He turns his hand. Spit dries on my lips.
    It's a photograph of Mickey Carlyle. She's wearing her school uniform and grinning at the camera with her gappy smile like she's laughing at something we can't see.
    Instead of confusion I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. I'm not going mad. This does have something to do with Mickey.
    “You're not surprised.”

    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “You're going to think I'm crazy, but I've been having these dreams.”
    Already I can see the psychologist in him turning my statements into symptoms.
    “You remember the investigation and trial?”
    “Yes.”
    “Howard Wavel went to prison for her murder.”
    “Yes.”
    “You don't think he kil ed her?”
    “I don't think she's dead.”
    Now I get a reaction. He's not such a