The Forgotten Life

Chapter Two: The Heart Could Do Nothing

The chime of a small door bell rang as Ms Holloway opened the door. It was a quick relief from the torture of the ice air outside, a battle even a nice coat and scarf could not win. She brought her numb hands up to her face, rubbing them as she blew warmth back into her body while looking around the familiar shop.

'Regy's Off License' was a place Ms Holloway had frequented the last couple of months. It often was, while her daughter was in hospital, where she would get her daily meals - hospital food was for the dying with no taste in her eyes. She figured that if she was to spend an absurd amount of money on food, it might as well go to a small family business. She had spent so much, in fact, she had become their number one customer; and did they love her for it.

She gave a small nod to a short, pregnant woman as she passed her on her way to her favourite section. She scanned the rows of protein bars, all slightly different but essentially the same, as she always did, as if she wasn't going to choose the same bar she chose every time. She picked up the one she liked and read the packaging for what it contained, though she already knew. She turned, thought for a moment, and turned again before picking another of the same bar up. Something she did everyday, without fail. She moved a bit to the right, standing in front of the drinks, her face illuminated from the bright, white led lights. Again, she searched. Again, she picked the same drink as all the other times. A bottle of Diet Coke.

"Chilly out," Regy's son, Ray, mentioned as Ms Holloway placed her protein bars and Diet Coke on the counter. They both looked out the door, watching as a man struggled with his umbrella in the worsening wind and showers that began while she was in the store.

"When isn't it," Ms Holloway replied, still watching the man with the now inverted umbrella as she placed the fiver down.

With the little change she received, she embraced herself for the weatherly conditions she was about to enter. With one quick glance at the note Mr Hammond gave her, she opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. Ms Holloway could not remember the last time she used her oyster, or her bank card for that matter, so travel by foot was her only option. Life in the hospital, even as the healthy one, was isolating; from others and from everyday life.

The water squelched in her shoes, it drenched her hair, the droplets stabbed her face every time they fell. Her fingers were numb all over again. She couldn't see what was in front of her, with all the rain blurring her vision, but she was used to that. She knew how to navigate with blurred vision. She had cried often enough. She observed as strangers ran under bus stops, hopping onto buses that went to places they weren't even going to, just to avoid the rain. She saw an unfortunate young man in what looked to her as a well-made suit, drenched in the dirty rain water that splashed onto him by the stopping large, double-decker bus, shouting and swearing at the driver. She chuckled as the driver simply closed his doors and driving off around the corner, leaving the wet man fuming at the road side.

Ms Holloway reached into her pocket to find one of the protein bars she had bought. As she bathed in the London showers, she nibbled on the raisins and nuts. It was disgusting. She never liked them.

Not long after, with a few turns here and there, she found herself outside an old brick building. No signs, no name, no address.

This must be it.

A great push, using all the little strength she had left, was all she needed to get in. The pitch black didn't last long, the lights switching on in every row one after the other, like a domino effect. The headache inducing lights in the building, void of any sort of natural lighting, instantly reminded her of the godforsaken hospital. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed the metal gate between her and the rows of files, the central door ajar, no doubt Mr Hammond's doing. On her left and right were a few wooden desks, some had computers, others had tall stacks of papers. Some coffee cups were laid out too. Other than that, it seemed to be pretty clean. Like it wasn't really used.

Walking up to the gated door, she saw a bright, neon pink note on the table:

'Row H, Cabinet 19
File no. #497104863
Should be Detective Marshall's file
Det. Ronald Marshall
You have until 9:45 PM
Good Luck Ms Holloway
- Eric Hammond'

Ms Holloway smiled at the kindness of Mr Hammond, reminding herself to thank him for all that he had done for her. She looked up from the note in her hand, searching the vertical rows for the letter H. Once she had her eyes on it, she made her way through the gate door and towards the row. Her undried shoes continued to squelch as she walked, a trail of water left behind her. She couldn't help but to sniffle every other second, sighing frustratingly as she struggled with her own body's reaction to her careless actions. She slowly walked down the H row, her fingers grazing the labels of the cabinets as she passed them.

13, 14, 15....

Ms Holloway stopped herself. Was this was she really wanted? She stared at 'Cabinet 15'. She opened it. It was packed with files, filled with papers of all sorts of colours. She pulled one out.

"File no. 497104234," She muttered to herself, reading the file in hand,"Hallard, Toby. Detective E. Hammond."

She immediately stopped reading the document. Having seen the picture paper clipped to the corner, a torn, wrinkled photo, she knew who it was. It didn't feel right. Eric was, he continued to be, incredibly kind to her. Her thumb caressed the photo of the young boy, before gently closing the file and placing it back where she found it.

If not for me, she reasoned, for Eric.

Reaching for the 'Cabinet 19', she could see her hands tremble. Shaking her hands to rid herself of the nerves, she thought of her daughter still in the hospital. Still unmoving, in bed, still surrounded by hopeful women willing to help. Ms Holloway, though she would never admit it, knew deep down that her daughter could not be saved. But her body and mind would not follow what the heart knew; that it was time to give up, to let go. The mind could think, argue, the body could move and do. The heart could only feel, watch as hope was wasted, chipping away at the core of the mother. Her mind and body would try until there was nothing left of her. The heart could do nothing.

With swift movement, she opened the cabinet and searched through the names until she came across 'S. Harold.' She double checked it was the right file, matching the file number that Mr Hammond had written. Opening it, she read the name of the detective who had written it - Detective Ronald Marshall. Tracing the ink down with her finger, she read the name that was meant to be Stacy Harold.

Her brows furrowed,"Something's not right."

'Simone Harold, twenty-two years of age. Youngest of four, daughter of a Mr Alex Harold and Mrs Stella Harold.'

She looked back to the cabinet, there weren't any other 'S. Harold'. Plopping the file on the ground, still open on the first page, she took off her jacket and scarf off. Sat on the floor, back resting on the cabinets, she brought the file onto her lap and began to read.

'NAME: Detective R. Marshall
STATUS of POI: Deceased

It was a year ago, sometime in late January, that police were called to a Great Luke's Hospital for Children for a disturbance. There was a young mother there by the name of Miss Simone Harold, the person of interest this case file refers to. She, at the age of seventeen, became pregnant with her son Martin. It was her son, Martin (or 'Marty' as she would call him) that had been hospitalised after months of illness. It was that night that doctors had decided, with a heavy heart, that efforts to cure Martin were to cease.

It was that night that his mother, Simone, was arrested. It was, also, that night that Miss Harold swore to save her child, at all costs.'