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.

Two events occurred within a very short space of time. They were both bound to happen sooner or later. I was actually relieved when they finally did.

The first came to light when I got up on the Friday morning of that first week back. I felt a little strange, like I didn't want to get up and I had a dull ache in my tummy. As soon as I was up, I saw the blood spots on the sheet and my nightie.

I felt two mixed emotions. The first was panic, in that I was ill and then, as the realisation of the truth dawned, I felt curiously relieved. The second emotion puzzled me. I knew now that I was having a period and yet something inside me was shouting with joy as if I was now fulfilled in some way. I shook my head and sorted myself out in the bathroom.

I took the bloodstained sheet and nightie downstairs and put them in the washing machine. Dad came in and asked what I was doing.

“Um, Jenny, as Mummy's not here, I suppose I'd better talk to you about sex and stuff.”

“Dad, memory or not, I know about contraception, I know about sex, and I know about being sensible. I'm sixteen, I'm not having sex, and I don't intend to for a while yet. I'm not on the pill, and don't plan on going onto it until I'm in a steady relationship. I know about disease and how babies are made. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. Like the crossword, I suppose.”

He looked somewhat relieved and put some bread in the toaster. I made him a cup of tea.

Life went on and, to be honest, the curse didn't bother me too much. It was a bit messy, but I didn't feel too bad. I knew that others got it really bad, so was grateful for small mercies.

The second happened when Tim and I were having lunch in the school dining room. It was close to the end of term and we'd just had a history lesson. Tim was stating that he thought Henry VIII was justified in dissolving the monasteries as the Roman Church was leeching England of its wealth to support a corrupt and decadent Papal system.

I partly disagreed, as I believed that Henry was as greedy and decadent, and he saw a way of getting rich at the same time as further increasing his power over the church in England. I didn't disagree that Rome was corrupt, but felt that Henry's reasons were not as honourable as Tim made out.

The argument continued into lunch break and became quite heated in a good-natured way. We were oblivious to most of what was going on around us, until I heard a deliberately loud comment from Samantha.

“Look at little Miss Perfect! Who does she think she's kidding? She's such a phoney!”

It was unfortunate, because at the moment she spoke, Tim and I took a moment's breather and total silence reigned in the large room.

All eyes suddenly were on her and she went bright red. Then she looked at me and I was surprised at the out-and-out hatred in her expression.

“You can stop pretending, you know. Everyone knows you just use people while it suits you,” she said.

The silence continued, while she went a little redder. I stood up, the chair making a dreadfully loud noise as it scraped the bare wooden floor.

I walked slowly over to where she was sitting. The noise of my heels on the floor seemed to build menace in that simple action. I was taller than she, and dressed in a skirt and pullover, I knew I looked quite smart. My hair was now covering all marks of my injury and was chic. Being short, it had a rough and tough quality that I quite liked.

I looked down at her, taking in the almost gothic black eye makeup and pale foundation she had scraped all over her face. How the teachers let her get away with so much makeup was a mystery.

“Samantha, I've put up with this from you ever since I came back. Now, I've no memories of before the crash and, to be honest, maybe that is no bad thing. But, I'd really like to know why the hell you are such a foul, unpleasant little tart, and what I ever did to you that you cannot behave in a civilised manner towards me.”

“Oh, hark at her, doesn't she sound so fucking eloquent. You make me sick!” she spat at me.

I nodded and a strange calmness crept over me. It was one of those feelings that I recognised as belonging to someone else. This wasn't of Jenny Adams; this was of the other me. Even my voice took on a cold, unfamiliar quality.

“Samantha, you are going to grow into a very frustrated spinster if you throw teddy out of your pram every time someone else gets off with a man you might fancy. The fact that you have less charm than a slug, less intelligence than a tsetse fly and less sex appeal than a big arsed baboon, is irrelevant. Let's face it girl, you are one of life's losers, and unless you lighten up and rejoin the human race, you will die a virgin!”

She went a little pale and I saw her hand tighten round her drinking glass. I leaned very close to her and, for the first time, she had fear in her eyes. She drew back.

“Yeah, go on, throw it! With any luck, you'll hit me on the head and then I'll die. What will you do then, Miss Misery? You'll go to prison and have to become a dyke, because in fourteen years, you'll develop a taste for fanny!” I whispered very quietly.

I stared at her for a long time. Initially, she held my gaze and then dropped her eyes. I kept staring at her and people started to laugh at her. She sensed it and went red again, looking around uneasily. I remained standing there.

“Suppose you tell me, and everyone else, exactly why you hate my guts?” I said.

“Just fuck off, why don't you?” she said, the shock of being confronted had wearing off, so she was gaining in courage.

There were audible gasps and sharp intakes of breath from the spellbound audience. I leaned even closer to her. My face was a couple of inches away from her. I made my voice become as cold as ice.

“No Samantha, I won't. Do you know why not? I'll tell you anyway. I was damn nearly killed in that crash and although I can't remember anything or anybody from before the crash, everyone else in this entire school has been kind and nice to me, except you. Why is that, Samantha? Hmm, why? Is it, Samantha, that you are jealous of me? Could it be that you felt that if I died then you could have the boy I liked? Is it? And when I didn't conveniently die, as you so wanted me to, not only did I come back, but I carried on where I left off with my boyfriend.

“Yes, Samantha, Tim is my boyfriend, B-O-Y-F-R-I-E-N-D. So, I'll ask you to respect that and get off my case. You see, I am not the same nice little girl that you thought I was. I have been to hell and returned with ways to make you suffer that you could not even dream about. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

She looked up at me. Uncertainty and fear clearly displayed in her eyes and demeanour.

“IS THAT CLEAR!” I almost shouted and slapped the table with the palm of my hand. She physically left her chair for a short flight. She swallowed and nodded.

“Believe me, you really don't want me as an enemy!” I growled. Something in my voice surprised and shocked me, but it terrified her.

“Yes Jenny, it's clear, and I'm sorry!” she said, slowly, deliberately and with about as much hatred as anyone could squeeze into a sentence.

“I won't hurt you, but keep out of my way. I'd rather be your friend, but if you can't be my friend, you need eyes in the back of your head!” I whispered to her and she swallowed again.

I smiled sweetly, turned and walked away from her back to my table. Tim was still standing staring at me.

I turned round, and watched Samantha running from the hall, alone and in some distress. The girls who sometimes hung around with her had deserted her. One of them, Gail Brewer, came over.

“I just want you to know that I think she was out of order. I'm sorry if we upset you,” she said.

I knew that wouldn't be the end of the matter, but felt I'd at least stood up to her and clearly stated my determination not to accept her behaviour towards me. It surprised the hell out of me to hear she had gone home feeling unwell. She didn't come back the next day either.

Every day that passed, I gained a little in confidence and learned more about myself. Everyone started off treating me with kid gloves. However, after a couple of weeks, things returned to normal and I was just another girl struggling along life's path.

My visits to Bruce continued on a weekly basis. Monday mornings were set aside for my hour with him. I was having occasional flashes of memories and I was logging them all in my diary. They seemed rather meaningless and I couldn't see whether they were my real memories or some more ‘other person' memories. I actually took it in to show him. I decided that I needed to know, and he was there to help me, wasn't he?

…a dog. A golden Labrador. I'm throwing a tennis ball for it. It brings it back.

…eating…Christmas dinner, crackers and silly hats.. faces are blurred. Big clock. . grandfather...chimed three.

…I'm shooting a gun. A rifle. It has a wooden stock and hand grip. It has a magazine, because I took it off. It slides in underneath, and there is a pistol grip… Soldiers.

I'm carrying a doll or a very young child. There is a car on its side, and there are blue flashing lights.

“No, and I asked my Dad. He was quite excited as he took me sailing a couple of times at a lake near Theale. We were in a car crash once, but no one was hurt and no cars overturned.”

“Dad thinks it might have been at school. We have army cadets, and I did a little shooting a couple of years ago. But the gun is different.”

“I think the one I used at school is the same as the soldiers use today. The one in my head is older, I think it is the same as ones I've seen in the pictures of the army in the Falklands war.”

Bruce frowned, and he made me feel uneasy. I was aware, somehow, that these were not the sorts of things that sixteen year-old girls usually knew about.

He stood up and walked over to his overstuffed bookcase that ran along one wall. He selected, took down a book and leafed through it. He came over and passed me the open book. There was a news photograph of a Royal Marine standing by a pile of stones in the Falklands. He was wearing his green beret and was holding a rifle.

“Okay. That's an SLR, used by British and some Commonwealth forces from the 1960s up to the late 1980s. It takes a 7.62 round, and the magazine is forward of the trigger. Early models had wooden stocks and hand grips, but these were replaced by black plastic in later models.” He leafed through some more pages and showed me a picture of a soldier in the first Gulf war. He was holding a different gun.

“This is based on the SA80, and it has gone through a lot of modification since then. The main differences are the smaller bullet and the magazine is housed in the stock, behind the trigger and pistol grip.”

He looked at both pictures again, and then replaced the book in the bookcase. He returned to his chair and picked up his pad once more. He wrote something on his pad.

“Jenny, they are in your head. That means that you have somehow retained them from some source. They are distorted, possibly by the trauma and in some cases they may even be imaginary. People just don't borrow or receive memories from anyone else.”

“Jenny, this isn't telepathy. As I think I told you before, the brain is a living organ, very complex and working off electric energy. Memories are stored in cells and if the connections to those memories are interfered with, then they can be distorted beyond recognition.

“You received a very nasty head injury. You nearly died and for a short while, your brain actually stopped working. That means the electrical energy actually switched itself off for a short time. Now, it stands to reason that your memory is bound to be impaired. To be brutally honest, we all expected you to be seriously damaged. It was a very pleasant surprise that you are as well as you are.”

“Honestly? Some probably, but not completely. I don't think the brain can survive the kind of trauma you received without some lasting damage. The scan they took of your brain in the hospital showed some damage to the cells beneath the impact site and that is enough to interfere with your memory. But, the brain is a remarkable piece of equipment and it often will recreate paths and connections through different routes if necessary. This takes time and I am confident you will get some memory back eventually.

“However, and this is important Jenny, it is wonderful that you are alive and well. Your future is the crucial thing; so don't worry too much about the past. If it comes back, brilliant, but if it doesn't, then just accept it and get on with your life.”

“Jenny, don't worry about it. These things are pictorial images of things you've seen or even read about. Don't get hung up on them, they are not important, your daily life and your future is what matters, don't get bogged down in your past.”

It was a watershed in our sessions. I still noted my flashes of memory and any dreams, but I never shared them again. As December ground on, the end of term loomed and Christmas was evident in everything.

Not being involved in the orchestra was a bonus. I didn't really appreciate how much time I would have had to spend practising, until now I didn't have to, and I could see that I had loads of free time. There was a Christmas play and carol service. I wasn't involved in either, thanks to my accident, so not being allowed to partake of sports, I was able to spend time reading or bumming around doing fun things.

One of these times found me at the music department. There was an orchestra practice underway in the large auditorium. In one of the smaller rooms, Tim and his group were practising. I got an enormous grin from him as I walked in the door and sat on a chair near the door. He was tuning up his Fender guitar and the others were fiddling with their instruments. There was a bass player, Rob; Mike, the keyboard player, and a drum set at the back. It was a Roland TD-8 electronic kit, having weird skin-like tops on electronic pickups, rubber cymbals and rubber pads. The drummer wasn't here yet and the guys were getting fractious.

“I suppose it's because Mr Reynolds isn't impressed with his grades. Poor Benny has an attention problem,” he said.

I knew Benny Collis. He was in my Maths set. He was a wiry little guy with enormous energy and no concentration span at all. He was bright, but not motivated. His grades were good, but he didn't enjoy school. His father was a high-flying accountant with a big company of Chartered Accountants in London. He had ambitions for Benny and as hard as he pushed, Benny went in the opposite direction. I had been made aware, by Tim, that Benny was dabbling with cannabis and this wasn't helping his other problems.

“Who's gonna play the drums? We've got a bloody gig next week and we'll be sunk without drums,” said Mark.

“I'll have a go,” I heard someone say, and then gasped as I realised it was me.

They all looked at me with a range of expressions, - doubt, humour, surprise and shock. The last one being mine!

I went over and sat on the stool. Tim grinned, shook his head and switched the magic control box on.

“Okay, you are fed into the mixer. This is your master volume control, leave it there, okay? This is your selector for drum kits. I think there are about sixty or so in this machine and you can program any amount of other ones to your taste. Are you sure you want to try?”

“What can it hurt? I know I can read music. I used to play the clarinet, B.C., so who knows?”

“Okay?” Tim asked, as I aligned the two kick-pedals for the bass and high-hat.

I picked up the sticks and just hit the pads at random, getting the feel of the kit. It was a very strange sensation. I was sure that I had played drums before and yet I was equally convinced that Jenny never had!

“Can we try something old, like a rock rhythm, to start, - straight four-four, and no fiddly bits?”

Tim started off with a simple rhythm and I followed on the bass and high hat, just getting a feel for the rhythm. Then I brought in a single and double strike on the snare and kicked a double on the bass every other beat. Status Quo only ever used three chords, so it was a dream to drum to.

I relaxed and made my mind blank. I found by not concentrating, the drumming came naturally. It was as if something inside me had become awake after years of being dormant and I closed my eyes. It was fun, and I even managed some basic fill-ins. My hands seemed to move automatically, and although sometimes I missed the pads completely at the start, as I took the smaller surface areas into account, I got better.

Flashes of memories flew past my consciousness. I knew with total certainty that I had drummed before and been quite good at it. That meant I hadn't always been Jennifer Adams.

The shock of that one thought froze me completely and I dropped a stick and came to a halt.

“Sorry, a bit rusty,” I said, bending down and picking up the stick. I sat up again and they were all still staring at me.

“See, that was brilliant. Let's go through our repertoire and you just do the best you can, okay Jen?”

They had six songs in their repertoire and all were well known. Tim was the main vocalist. He was actually pretty good. The other guys were fine as backing and I couldn't drum and sing. Besides their selection wasn't really suitable for a lone female voice in the background. It was a mixed selection, mainly rock and roll and, as far as the drumming was concerned, not that difficult.

I was still trying to learn all names of the current bands, and although I liked all the old stuff better than the new ones, I still didn't know the names of the groups, the songs or any of the lyrics.

In the break between the second and third song, Tim's mobile rang. He answered it and spent a few minutes talking.

“That was Benny, he's been grounded by Mr Reynolds, so he's taken off.” Tim explained after the call had ended.

Mr Reynolds was his tutor, and grounded meant not being allowed any extracurricular activities until the grades came up to what was expected.

“It was bound to happen. He's been pushed too far and for too long. He's been planning this for months. He's got a girl friend at college in Bournemouth, so he's buggered off to stay with her,” Tim said.

“Hey, look guys, I didn't mind a quick jam while we waited for Benny, but I'm no way good enough to play for real!” I said.

“Why not? You seem more than capable to me. Get real, Jenny, none of us is that brilliant, so come on, what have you got to lose?” Mark said.

“Unless you miss the orchestra and their little bits of pineapple and cheese at Christmas?” said Tim with a special smile.

It was fun. My shortcomings were actually greater than my skill, but once I relaxed, I managed to maintain a reasonable rhythm. I didn't drop my sticks again. It was so odd doing something that I'd never done before, but at the same time, somewhere in the deep recesses of my battered brain, I truly believed I had.

“Neither did I. Do you remember the conversation we had about my memories, and how I believed I've acquired some that belong to someone else?”

“Oh, Tim, stop being so bloody wary, I need your help and support here. I know, don't ask me how I do, but I know that I can play the drums. Now, this isn't because I could before the bloody crash, but someone else did, so now I have his or her skills.”

“There! You see, I'm right. I have a theory. Can you promise that you'll never ever tell anyone?”

“Look, I have to talk to someone. Dad will send me to the doctors. The shrink will lock me away and study my brain. You are the only person I can trust, and Charlie of course.”

“Okay, now, first, I have memories involving a road accident, a group of policemen learning how to do the job, shooting an old style army gun, a funeral of someone who is my sister and yet she's way older than my Dad, sailing, a dog that we've never had and lots of other silly little things. Now, second, I am in hospital and I'm brain dead, right? Then after a day or so of me being in veggy land, in comes a heart attack victim, okay, with me?”

“Okay, now this man was a policeman, an Inspector, or something. He's old, I mean he's nearly fifty and his daughter is a nurse in the ward I end up in, okay?”

“Right, he dies at about the same moment that my brain comes back from being dead, with me?”

“So, I wake up, don't remember anything. The doctor says that I said that I remembered going to bed, but later I don't even remember saying that, right?”

“I'd been on a train, but the policeman had gone to bed. Then, after I'd got well enough to come home, this nurse walks into the ward. As soon as I saw her, I knew her. Her name is Annie and she's the policeman's daughter. She'd been given leave due to his death and stuff.”

“I don't know. Look, I'm going to try to find out who he was and everything about him. I need you to help me, okay?”