This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author. If you enjoyed it, then please Email me and tell me. If you hated it, Email me and lie.

This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental.

I have based the tragic incident in the first chapter on a real event, and I salute those public servants and volunteers who worked so hard to manage the event, from every angle. My heart goes out to those directly and indirectly involved in the whole horrible affair, and I hope that I can, in some small way, pay homage to those who sought to bring relief and help.

I dedicate this work to the police officers, fire fighters, paramedics, doctors and nurses and all the other professionals and volunteers who give of themselves on a daily basis for the sake of others.

Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.

The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.

This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don't read it.

I felt my cheeks burning as soon as I walked into assembly. Everyone was staring at me and applauding. Charlie took me by the elbow and helped me keep going. I settled down in my seat and saw Tim grinning at me. My heart skipped a beat as soon as I saw him, so I smiled at him.

“This is a special day for us. We welcome back Jennifer Adams, who had such a terrible time in the tragic accident and weeks that followed. It's wonderful to see you back, Jenny, and I want you to know that we are all here to help you over the next few weeks and months. We have been praying for you and your family through your ordeal. We feel blessed that you have recovered enough to come back to school.”

He went on to make general announcements and I caught a vicious glance from a pretty, dark haired girl sitting in the row in front of me and along to my left.

I then glanced at Tim who was making funny faces at me and I grinned back at him, blowing him a kiss. Mike from the Orchestra was there, but I didn't recognise anyone else. I'd seen some of them at the funeral and had even spoken to a couple of them, but they were all strangers to me.

It was the Wednesday morning. The funeral had been on the preceding Friday and I'd been to see Bruce Phillips, the psychiatrist, on Monday morning.

“How are you Jenny? You're looking well,” he said, as I entered his consulting room at the hospital.

“Okay. I've just seen the consultant and he doesn't want to see me again for at least six weeks.”

“The joys of being young, eh. The body heals itself very quickly at your age.”

“No real change. I met the boy who I think was my boyfriend and it's like the body remembers, even if the mind doesn't.”

“Excellent. The forming of relationships is crucial to our plan that you look forward. That really is a positive sign. But you aren't getting any memory flashes?”

“Well, sort of. Like, I get very short flashes of things, but I'm not sure they're my memories of life or pictures from TV or films. They are so short I can't make them out. I got a song on Friday and found out it was a hit before I was born.”

“Not really. It's way better than being in hospital, but it doesn't feel like my home. It's all new and strange to me. Even my family are like strangers and it is very hard at times, particularly as it seems to offend some people that I don't remember them.”

“That's quite common. How about the clarinet, you used to play, didn't you?”

“Oh, don't! I tried to play it and was completely hopeless. That's what really worries me. I started my A level course in September and what if I can't do the work?”

“I think so. I want to lead a normal life and stuck at home with Dad protecting me all the time isn't normal.”

“He's gone back to boarding school today and all the grandparents have gone, so it's just me and Dad. Dad wants to go back flying, as he needs to get his mind away from Mum.”

“Well, it's hard to explain, exactly. But I don't feel sixteen. I feel much older. It's like my taste in music and stuff; I seem to like things that people my Dad's age like. I went through all my music CDs and listened to them. I don't like any of them, but Dad has some really cool stuff, like Genesis, Deep Purple, The Who, Status Quo and the Beatles. I was listening to them on Thursday last week and he asked why I suddenly like his old favourites.”

“I don't know. I just do. The modern stuff is awful. The lyrics are mindless and the heavy thumping beat is so repetitive. Another thing, if my memory has gone, how come I now know all the makes and models of cars?”

“Richard is a car freak. So, we have a game in the car. We have to state the make of the car coming the other way as soon as it came in sight. I won hands-down and he was really surprised. Even Dad was shocked. I never used to know about cars, apparently.”

“Well, Dad says I always used to watch it. The music shows, the soaps and all that. Now I think it's all such bollocks. I tend to spend time reading, or playing cards on the computer. The old computer games I used to play don't attract me any more either.”

“Do you feel, perhaps that you should be taking on the role your mother left?”

“I don't think so. I'm doing the chores she used to do, but that's only fair. Besides, Dad's cooking is awful and he hasn't a clue about the washing machine. He keeps mixing coloureds with whites and sets the wrong temperature. I'm quite good in the kitchen now and even that's different, Dad says.”

“Okay. I think that could be an answer. You are a young woman, so with your mother gone it would be natural for you to accept, unconsciously, the responsibility of running the home. It would be a natural thing to take on the attitudes and values of her generation. It's like growing up quickly.”

“I think getting back to school and being with people your own age is important for you. Now the surgeon is satisfied that you're on the mend, I feel it would be a natural step for you. However, take things easy. No sports and if you get tired, just take time out. I'll write a letter to the head, so if you need to start on half a day for a week or so, that should be arranged.”

“Okay. Then I think you should go back on Wednesday. I will call the Headmaster and speak to him. I think you need some careful tuition and re-assessment so you get the subjects you feel happy doing.”

Stamford Hall was a private co-ed school, for kids ages 13 to A level. It was set on the edge of the Berkshire Downs and the bus came through my village every morning at seven forty-five.

I spent Tuesday sorting through my clothes. As a sixth former, I didn't have to wear a uniform any more, but we had to be smart and girls were not allowed trousers.

I went through my wardrobe and honestly didn't like most of my clothes. They were too young for me, particularly the shoes! That made me stop. I was sixteen and these were clothes ideally suited for a sixteen year old. Why did I feel older?

I asked Dad if I could have some of Mum's clothes and he seemed pleased that I'd want to. It seems I was now her size, if not a tiny bit bigger.

I chose a smart navy skirt and jacket suit. With a cream blouse, a black velvet sparkly waistcoat, tights and smart court shoes with two-inch heels, I felt just about right. My hair was still cropped and I was very conscious of it. It had grown out a little. I no longer looked like a refugee from a concentration camp, but with pretty earrings, I was reasonably happy.

Dad wanted to give me a ride in the car. I refused, insisting on catching the bus with Charlie. In the end, he let me go by bus, but I could see he was worried.

“Dad, don't worry. I have my mobile and if anything happens, I'll call, okay?”

“I'm sorry, Princess, I feel too protective. You're right; you have to try to get back to normal.”

On Wednesday morning, I caught the bus and was surprised at the other kids' reaction to me, particularly the boys. They stared at me and looked away, embarrassed.

“Just the opposite, you look brilliant. You look more like a parent than a pupil!”

After assembly, I had a meeting with Mr Hart and the heads of department. I had been taking French, Music and Art for A level, and they wanted to give me an extensive assessment. After and hour and a half, they didn't really feel that I could progress with the French and Music.

I explained that whatever musical ability I used to have was now gone along with the rest of my memory. It was the same with French. However, my artistic ability seemed relatively intact and I asked whether I could take history and maths instead. My GCSE passes were all A's with the exception of a B in science and a B in Geography.

They set me some maths problems and a short essay to write. I solved the maths problems and finished the essay just before lunch. They gave me a choice of eight titles. I selected to make a brief comment on the causes of the Boer War and how the perceptions of the British were different to those of the Afrikaner.

I think I puzzled them all with my essay. I was quite surprised that I was able to write so much and produced quite a number of pertinent facts, including key dates, places, events and people. It was surreal, because I just managed to sit down and do what they expected, without really engaging my mind. With the French and music, it didn't come naturally, and although I had some ability, it was nowhere near good enough for A level.

However, history was different. It was almost as if I could tap into a hard drive I didn't know I had. With no recollection of studying the period, I was baffled to know where the facts came from.

After some discussion, Mr Hart agreed that I should be allowed to stay on and take the new courses. After lunch I went into my new sets, and in History, I was able to sit next to Tim.

“Wow, you're here? Cool!” he said, but then Mr Scrivens told him to stop dribbling and face the front.

“Right, now Jenny, you've a couple of months to catch up, so I'll see you afterwards to give you a reading list. I suggest you get together with one of the others and go through the work to date with them. We are looking at the Tudors and are still dealing with Henry VII.”

My first day back was actually relatively easy. Tim was attentive and I liked having him around. He wasn't suffocating, as I thought he might be, but he was just there with a smile and a helping hand when I needed one.

I caught the bus home with Charlie feeling I had crossed another important bridge back to normal life.

Dad was in a better mood now Heather and Reg had returned to Edinburgh. Richard settled back into his school, anxious to return to some form of normality. Nothing would bring our mother back, but we could try to get on and lead our lives.

It was strange just being the pair of us in that big house. I changed into jeans and a sweater as soon as I arrived home and helped Dad get supper ready.

“Would you mind if I started flying again?” he asked as we ate our supper. He'd mentioned the subject before, but I could tell he was keen to get back to work.

“I don't know. I just feel a bit spare hanging around here moping and feeling sorry for myself. But I am conscious that you might need me.”

“Dad, I'm back at school, I've friends and the doctors say I'm okay. I'm not loony, so apart from having no memory, I should cope fine.”

“Dad, go for it. You need to get back to a life as much as we do. I'm seventeen soon and I think you can trust me to look after the house if you get stuck overnight in Finland or something.”

“Don't worry, I won't. Together, you and I will manage. When you meet a nice woman and I approve, you can marry her and she can keep house for you.”

“No, it's not you. It's me. I lied to the psychiatrist, you see, I do remember things - little things, and obscure things. Very little really, but I am convinced that they aren't my memories.”

“Dad, this is hard, because I don't really know what I mean. It's just that I think I might have been someone else.”

“Well, at the same time I was brain dead, lots of other people were brought in. Some lived and some died, right?”

“Just bear with me for a sec, Dad, this is important, as I haven't tried to rationalise this before, so I'm just thinking aloud and maybe you can help. If loads of people were all milling around, all at that stage somewhere close to death, we know so little about the spiritual world, who's to say there isn't some form of slippage?”

“Dad, never mind the words, this is important to me! I think I have some memories that belong to someone else. It may be more than one person, I don't know. How is it that I have a memory of a funfair where they were playing music from a group that was around before I was born? How can I remember a funeral of a mother, before I went to my real mother's funeral? How come I remember a sister called Kathleen, who is now older than you?”

I shared with him everything that had happened - the pictures of the line of men in the police. The feeling that I knew the nurse, Annie, and somehow we were related.

“I know Dad, but I needed to talk to you about it. You see, I think I picked up memories or parts of other people's thoughts when I died. There is no other explanation. I shared a little with the psychiatrist, but he thinks I subconsciously am taking on Mummy's role in the family, so that includes her generation's attitudes and values. But Dad, the music, how come I suddenly prefer your old LPs and stuff to the crap I used to like before the accident?”

“I believe you and to be honest, I have no idea what it must be like for you. You are so brave just getting up in the morning. What do you say we put this aside for a while and sit down to watch some home movies and videos? That way, you can meet your Mum again.”

That is exactly what we did. We snuggled together on the sofa and watched endless videos of us all. I watched the wedding video, the honeymoon, holidays, my birth and Richard's, all manner of Christmases and holidays over the last twenty years.

My mother was a vivacious, beautiful and happy woman, who exuded laughter and love in every frame. Daddy and I laughed and cried together and in those few hours, we grew together in a way I can't explain.

I found it strange watching the woman who gave birth to me and I now heard called Mummy. She was like me in so many ways. I found myself adopting expressions and mannerisms that she used repeatedly. There was no doubt she was my mother in a physical sense and I found myself relating naturally to her as my mother. My doubt was that the inner me wasn't all her daughter.

Even our voices and inflections were similar and Daddy kept telling me how alike her I am. I found it a compliment, as she was a wonderful looking person. Clearly, Daddy and Richard adored her.

The oddest thing was watching video clips of me. There were many, as Richard didn't come along until I was three. It was like watching a complete stranger, and talk about surreal! I would see myself with my mother and other family members and had no memory at all of any of what I was watching.

Daddy watched me watching myself. He said nothing, would occasionally glancing at the screen and then back at me, particularly when the film became more recent.

“Jenny, I don't have any answers for you. I just know you are the same little girl we have just watched. You have the same facial expressions and the same lovely temperament. I will never know what you are going through, but I do have an open mind. Together, we will get you back as much of your old memories as we can. If we can't, we'll still have each other and I will never love you any less. I can't tell you why you remember stuff like the music and the funeral. Some day we may know why. For now, I don't actually care. I'm just so pleased to have you back!”

We both cried and I kissed him goodnight. I lay awake for a while just thinking about what I'd watched. It was nice, now I had some memories, even if they were second hand!