The longer it goes on like this, the more frightened I become – not just about dying here, not about what might happen to me in this place, although both of those things do scare me. They scare me so deep into my bones, I can feel the fear vibrating inside my skin. No, hard as those things are to face down, they aren’t the reason I feel like I can’t breathe sometimes. They aren’t why tears fill my eyes, and my heart thumps in my ears, and my blood runs cold. What scares me is simpler.

I’m frightened I won’t ever get to speak again to the people I love.

I’m frightened I’ll never hear their voices, or see their smiles, or even be in the same place as them. I’ll never hug them, or laugh with them, or listen as they ask my opinion. I don’t want to become so disorientated that I lose sight of who I was, or forget simple things like the way my family made me feel, the images of them that are burned behind my eyes, the emotion of knowing them, even of losing them. Maybe once I would have chosen to forget that last part completely – erased it in its entirety. Maybe once I would have traded everything in my life to delete the memories I have of standing next to their graves. But not now. I want to remember. Remembering doesn’t frighten me in here.

Forgetting does.

The more time that passes, the more I exist within the permanence of these shadows, the more I worry that I will relinquish my history. It will begin to vanish from my head. Everything I did, the places I went to; any joy I’ve managed to bring and any comfort I could give; any sadness I’ve caused and regretted; any mistakes I made and vowed never to make again; all the things that became a part of who I am, the love, the grief, the agony and the beauty – deep down, it’s that which frightens me.

I don’t want to lose my moorings and begin to drift.

I don’t want to surrender my identity.

Please don’t let me forget who I am.

21

There was a garage on the south side of Skipton, about a mile from the train station, its workshop concealed inside a tatty brick building with corrugated-iron gates at the front. Inside, a couple of cars were being worked on, but it didn’t look like they were rushed off their feet, and when one of the mechanics came out, he told me to bring the Audi straight in. I parked it up next to a Mondeo on blocks, and explained to the guy what had happened. For now, all I needed was for it to look less conspicuous and be safe to drive.