Tomorrow Man

Richard Price was incredibly particular about the correct way to read a book. Every good story, he believed, must be appreciated with a fine cup of Earl Grey tea and warm lighting. It wasn’t just to avoid the inevitable headache, it was the feeling of comfort in the embrace of a dim light that would send him on his way to a restful nights sleep. The lamp that sat besides his bedside was carefully selected. It perfectly replicated the soft glow of the late evening sun over London’s bustling streets. 

That was his first clue that something was seriously wrong. 

It was far too bright. The light was above him now, and was sharp and biting. He couldn’t blink his eyes open long enough to search the room for anything that could tell him where he was. No, he couldn’t see, but he could feel… 

There was a dull ache behind his eyes and a stiffness to his limbs that he hadn’t experienced before. His body felt heavier. Slower. Like the ceiling had collapsed and left him in a pile of rubble and dust. It would explain the weight on his chest … but no. The lights were unrelenting above his head, and he couldn’t move. It was slow at first. A slight twitch, but he built the strength to drum his fingers against the soft material below them. 

His second clue that something was seriously wrong, was the woman who burst into the room, and kissed him on the mouth. 

“Mon Cheur, we didn’t think you’d wake up. How are you feeling?”

Like an angel sitting by his side, her voice echoed in his mind like lullaby, stealing his logical thoughts and lulling him to a comforting slumber. The weight on his chest released as she pulled his hand into hers, rubbing her thumb along the back of his knuckles. He squeezed her hand back, almost as if his body knew something he didn’t. It was instinctive. 

But her eyes stayed on him as she searched his face for something. He blinked self-consciously, looking away from the earnestness in her gaze. It was soft. Caring. But she was looking for something. There were no clues as what she wanted - not as he relished in the comfort of her hand or met her intense gaze. A heat rose to his cheeks. He looked away. 

“Richard,” she whispered, bringing her other hand to his head, brushing away a loose strand of hair from his forehead, but disturbing the bandage above his eyebrow. Flinching, he pulled his hand away, missing the comfort of her touch immediately. But that wasn’t right. He didn’t know this woman. 

A sudden anger surfaced. 

“What are you doing? Do I know you?”

Her hand fell from his forehead, and her soft gaze hardened suddenly. 

“It’s me, Richard.” She spoke sternly, her fingers twisting a ring around his finger. He looked down, inspected his left hand. He had never seen the ring on his forth finger in his life. Before he spoke, he glanced at her hand, fining a matching, albeit a more elegant, ring on her finger. The weight of her gaze followed him, and almost as if she could read his mind -

“What do you remember?”

He rolled his eyes. What did he remember? He remembered everything! London. His little flat. His ever growing pile of books by the side of his bed, overflowing from his bookcase, and becoming more of a safety hazard by the day. He knew his newest case file would be waiting for him at his desk, along with the sniggers and jibs from the Sargents and Officers around him. 

Yes. That’s what this was. A very deliberate and damn-right hurtful prank of his colleagues. Jokes about his awkwardness and singleness greeted him every morning, was served with every lunch, and muttered as a farewell each evening. He had come to terms with his life, his future. There was no angelic woman or a simple band of gold for his finger. Life as it was had to be enough. Being alone … it had to become enough. 

They didn’t have to go this far. 

“Whatever they paid you, I hope it was worth it,” he snapped, pushing himself up and back against the headboard, his eyes sharp and accusatory. 

“Richard,” she tried again, realising that reaching for him would only scare him further. “Do you know where you are?”

“Of course,” he snapped. He noticed then the thin gown he wore in the bed, which hung loose around his neck, exposing his chest. “London.” 

When she said nothing, he hurriedly pulled the gown closer to his neck, and opened his mouth to snap at her, but was silenced by the tears glistening in her eyes. 

“You’re in Paris,” she whispered, her voice wobbling. “You were placed here as a transfer from the Met.. and you ended up staying.”

Richard scoffed. 

The hurt in her eyes now was glaringly obvious. Even he couldn’t miss that. 

“Why?” He knew the second the words left his mouth that they were the wrong ones. As a tear rolled down her cheek, she hastily wiped it away, and stared him down until he knew in his bones what she was saying was true. 

“We got married.”

The door burst open suddenly, drawing his attention away from the woman at his side, and to the crowd of people gathering at the foot of his bed. A young girl, barely tall enough to see over the side of the bed, ran forward. She was the exact image of the woman, but ignored her in favour of sprinting around the table in the corner. Avoiding the grasp of a slightly older boy, she giggled as she ran. A perfect echo of heaven.

‘Lilly!” The boy shouted, jumping forward to grab her, his long limbs were gangly and reminding Richard too much of himself when he was a teenager. She instead threw herself up onto Richard’s bed.

“Daddy! You’ve missed so much. You promised to play with us and take us to the park, but then mum and Auntie Iris said you had been taken to the hospital. We were worried and I came straight here!” 

As she flung herself into the story, she hadn’t noticed how close she was the edge of the bed, and tumbled backward. Without a care for the new stitches in his side, he gently pulled her safety onto the bed. 

“Careful there, Lil.” He didn’t know where the name came from, but it felt natural rolling off his tongue. 

  

“Hi Dad,” The older boy approached his bedside after hugging the woman in the chair. Richard smiled, his heart thundering in his chest. There was no one in the officer who had the time nor dedication to pull this off. Finding two children who seemed so familiar to him … so similar to his own mannerism and personality. 

All the clues were in front of him now. But he still felt like he was missing something important. 

“Robert, can you take your sister outside to Aunty Iris. I’ll be back out in a minute, but your father needs his rest now.” She smiled at him as he boy looked forlorn at Richard. It was a look and feeling he was too familiar with in his own childhood. 

“How are you, Dad?” 

Richard nodded. Robert. The boy’s name was Robert, but it wasn’t right. His brain was screaming at him, but it was like a huge part of it had been muzzled and caged beyond his reach. Robert wasn’t right. 

“I’ll be okay…” the boy looked so small in that moment, and all Richard wanted to do was to ruffle the hair on his head and comfort him. So he did. “I’ll be okay, Bobby.”

The boy smiled, and collected his sister. 

“Mum, Nana and Grandad are outside. They’re waiting for you.” 

The woman stood, and hurdled the two children back to the doorway. “You wait outside, I’ll join you in a moment.” 

She returned to his side with all traces of her tears gone. “Do you remember them?” 

Richard knew whatever he said would hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt this woman. He didn’t know her. He had no memory of her or her children who called him their father. But there was no way he could say that without that look of hurt appearing on her face. 

His silence was enough. 

“I’ll get Linda and Simon. Maybe they can help you more than I can.” He hadn’t said a word - yet he caused her immeasurable pain. 

She had disappeared before he could say anything else. Maybe that was for the best. If they left him alone, maybe he could search around in his empty pit of a mind for a single trace of his life beyond London. 

He never thought he would leave the city. It was his home. His life was there, and everything he had ever known. His flat. His books. His job. It was all awful. It was lonely and bland and boring. But it was all he had. It was all he could ever dream of. And yet here was a woman who was offering him a different future. But it consisted of a past only she could remember. 

Yet his parents were here. In Paris. His parents, who, to his knowledge, he hadn’t spoken to for eighteen months. Nothing had happened, it was just a lack of time and never ending deadlines that forever pushed back his reminder to call them. Or rather his mother. Always dotting and threading over her adult son who lived alone and showed no sign of ever having a family of his own. They were not particularly close, but she was his mother. There came a duty to at least call. 

And his father, who he never connected with, not even when they shared the same line of work. They seemed to be worlds apart. Orbiting in separate systems. He never spoke to him when he did take the time to call, the only thing he heard about him was from his mother, letting him know each time his father missed him. Was thinking of him. Wished him well. He couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with the man. 

Yet they were here, they both were, far from a city he thought they would never leave. 

His mother entered the room first. She looked older, her hair slightly thinner and a lot lighter than he ever remembered. Her face was mapped with laughter and concentration, but her eyes still lit up when they saw him sitting in that bed. 

“Richard, darling, we came as soon as Sara told us what happened. What a dreadful accident!” 

“Yes, Mum,” he swatted her hand away as she tried to fluff up the pillows. “Despite what you may have been told, I’m not on deaths door.”

“Good god, Richard.” His heart stopped in his chest. He had never heard his father sound so concerned. Ever. Especially not for him. “Sara said…” he stared at his son, at the lost look on his face and frowned. 

“You really don’t remember?”

Richard sighed, and straighten the sheet across his lap. “I don’t even remember leaving London.” 

His mother gasped, and pushed back the hair on his head, an act far too similar to what the woman - Sara - had done for him. 

“Son,” his father took the chair on his side, and pulled it closer to his bed. He tried not to flinch as he leant forward. His father saw the movement, shame overcoming him. 

“I forgot how bad we used to be.” 

“I’m glad we got better.” 

His father laughed sadly, then looked to his wife. “Linda, could you give us a moment.”

She nodded, kissing Riachrd’s forehead gently, avoiding the bandage, and left the room with a small smile. 

“She adores those children of yours. A real fine pair they are. Bobby is so much like you.” He said, a solemn tone in his voice. 

“I don’t know them, Dad. I don’t even … I don’t remember the last time we talked. And now I have a wife and two children? I didn’t know her name until Mum said it just now.” 

His father looked down at his hands, a frown etched deeply into his forehead. “She’s a brilliant woman, Richard. And she’s deeply in love with you. And… you loved her. You have a beautiful life together, the four of you. I … I was so happy when we met her, when I saw how you were around her. You were so happy. So full of life. You were better.” 

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell her I don’t remember our life, our children. I couldn’t ask her her name! Everything I say hurts her, because I’m not the person I should be. I just feel like all the clues are in front of me, but I can’t put them all together.”

He hummed. “I thought that’s what you were doing. Your coming at this like a case - a mystery to solve with all the right pieces of a puzzle. But this isn’t that easy son. You just need to talk to her, and you’ll be okay.”

Richard shook his head, making his mind throb. 

His father covered his hand in his own. “Talk to her. You’ll find yourself falling in love all over again.”