Kim's Game

Time To Talk To Mother

I got my mother’s phone number – it wasn’t hard to find – and rang it.  As soon as she realised who it was, she tried to hang up.  Somehow I managed to stop her, managed to keep talking, make her listen.  I don’t think she’d been drinking.  I asked her to tell me things about me.  “What’s to tell, you were a spiteful, pig-headed girl.”  I said sorry.  She said “That’s the first time you’ve ever said sorry, do you know that?”  I said “No, I don’t know that.”  I don’t know if she really believes I’ve lost my memory. 

I explained what the doctors said, that you can forget everything because of something traumatic you’ve experienced.  She said “I’m not surprised then, the life you’ve been leading.”  “What sort of life is that?” I asked her.  “Haring round the world, trying to find someone who clearly wants you to think he’s dead, doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.”  “Who’s that?” I asked.  “Your father, obviously.”  “But you said he sent me a birthday card, last year?” “He did,” she said, “But for years he was happy for you to think he was dead and gone.  Except he wasn’t dead, he just walked out on us, you know.  Left me literally holding the baby.  I had to get a job as a cleaner to support us.”  She was really angry.  And I started to see why.  “Have you ever spoken to him since?” I asked her.  There was a long pause, then she said “Yes. Once. He rang the house, in Washington.  Heaven only knows how he got the number. It was quite a shock, I knew his voice immediately.”  “What did he want?”  “To talk to you, of course.”  “Why didn’t you tell me? How old was I?”  “You were fourteen, just starting to get on with your new step-father. I didn’t want Jean-Paul messing things up.”  “Is that his name?” I asked her.  “Of course it is, I don't believe you've forgotten anything, this is all another of your tricks.”

I begged her to tell me more about him.  She told me he was born in Haiti, they met in the US, that when he phoned that time, he was phoning from Paris and, the biggest thing of all, when I left home in 2004, I said I was going to look for him.  “Where?” I asked her.  “I didn’t bother to enquire," she said. 

We didn’t talk for much longer after that.  She gave me her address, I said I would come and visit as soon as I had sorted everything out.  She said “Fine” like she wasn’t so bothered.

When I put the phone down, I had discovered so much more but I felt empty.  I felt cut adrift.  And I know I’ll continue to feel like that until I know what I’ve been doing for the last three years.  Why was I in Paris? Who’s Nicolas?  Who’s Katy?  And what’s the story with Helen? 

And that’s what I’m going to do next.  It was no coincidence when she 'found' me sitting on that bench.  Helen was clearly watching me.  It’s time the tables were turned.

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My Name Is Laura, But There's So Much More To Find Out

I have discovered my name is Laura Regent.  I'm Laura.  Call me Laura!

This is fantastic.  It's like being reborn. This is my real name.  Even if no-one has called me that yet.  I long for the day when someone comes up to me and calls me Laura.

I know all this because my sister Kim has written in.  And maybe that's why I chose the name 'Kim' - some distant memory of her, not because of the game.  I wish I could picture her - I can't, not yet - but she mentions the blue leaky roof and that does start to open something up.  Whenever the rain started, we used to go and get that old German helmet from Dad's den, right?, and sit watching the drops plop in.  And then we'd wait to see how mad Dad was when he got back and giggle while he'd tell us how his Daddy brought it back from Arnhem and....

But he was your Dad, wasn't he?  Not mine.  What happened to mine?  And if your Dad gets your letter, maybe he'll come on the blog, tell me more.

The problem is that Kim tells me that I left home in 2004 and cut myself off from her and our mother and everyone.  She doesn't know where I've been for three years, just that I was searching for something or someone and had a boyfriend (she thinks) helping me. And it means that the woman they rang on Outlook is my mother.  I am going to have to see if I can find her, speak to her, see what she knows.  But if you're there, reading this blog, Mum, please will you come online, tell me what you know about where I've been.  You said something about my father as well - my real father - said he was 'trash'.  Why did you say that?  And if Regent is my stepfather's name, what's my real name, my birth name.  Please tell me. Please.

The only person who has definitely seen me since 2004 is Em who saw me in Paris, in a taxi, outside the Louvre.  And someone who had been showing people that photo of mine was calling after me, shouting the name 'Nicky'.  Was that my name then?  Was that short for Dominique?  Or is there someone else called Nicky?  Could it be the N who left me that note - if it wasn't Jonathan?

No, I'm not going to get confused and disheartened again.  I am Laura.  I know that for sure.  Others things will now slot into place.  Other people will know me.  Please, if you do, post something here.

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The Friday Meeting

So I waited outside Holborn Tube Station.  And then 'N' turned up.  Well, he says that's his nickname - it turned out to be Jonathan my godfather.  He seemed nice to begin with.  And a cute dog.  He told me my name is Laura.  But then Helen- no big surprise - also turned up.  And she told me not to trust him.   She said my name is Dominique. But why should I trust her? She didn't have any answers for all the questions I had for her.  In the end I didn't know who to trust, didn't feel safe with either of them. 

I had a sound engineer from the BBC with me (like Em suggested). Listen here to exactly what happened.

I managed to get away from both of them.  Maybe it was a mistake.  But neither of them could prove anything.  Everything Jonathan talked about he could have memorised from this blog - like Katy and Nicolas and Paris. Everything Helen said could have come from the blog too....

At least one of them is lying.

I spent that night in a cafe at Liverpool Street Station.  It got pretty cold.  And miserable.  Every time I seem to take a step forward, I am pushed back.

And then I thought I would go back and check the mail box.  I'm not sure why - it's like the only place I have left.  And inside I found another letter from Jonathan (or N or whoever he is).  It said "Contact me when you feel ready"  He gave me his email address.  And also in the envelope was £300.

Whether he's my friend or not, I needed that money.  I checked into a hotel, had a hot bath and went to sleep in a bed for the first time in three days.  I slept on and off till today.

I thought I should post this, let you know what was happening. 

Now I'm going to look through and see what else people have added, what new clues I have to follow...

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