The Life and Second Life of Charlie Brackwood (The Brackwood Series Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Thanks to the local, feathered choir I awoke the next morning to the cheerful sound of birdsong. I listened for a while as I gained my bearings. Birds in the afterlife sang a different tune; one I wasn’t yet accustomed to, even after five years.  

I placed my bare feet on a soft rug and looked at the unfamiliar objects scattered around the room. A hairbrush lay on top of a chest of drawers, next to a bottle of aftershave and a can of deodorant. A pile of dirty washing was stacked up in a corner next to an overflowing laundry basket. I surmised that Adam was either

A book lay on the bedside table, splayed out face down as a way of keeping the reader’s place. I leaned closer, interested in the story Adam was in the middle of reading. The front cover depicted a dark Gothic-style castle and underneath, in blood red text, were the words
Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
So far a liking for that particular book was the only thing we had in common.

I gazed out of the bedroom window and was presented with a busy scene: market day in the village. I realised that I didn’t even know what day it was and decided it might be a good idea to buy a newspaper.

While searching the wardrobe for clean clothing, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror inside the door and realised this was the first time I had seen the face of the man whose life I had assumed. The face that stared back looked relatively young, perhaps late twenties, with sand-coloured hair cut short in a formal, military style. His skin was tanned, perhaps as a result of a recent holiday. His eyes were light brown and round, giving him an almost childlike gaze that was contradicted by his strong jawline. His body was lean, with some muscle tone to his arms and shoulders.  

I found myself hungry for more information on the man whose face stared back at me from the mirror. It would be very easy to slip back into my usual mannerisms and characteristics but I was no longer Charlie Brackwood and it would be unwise for me to act like my usual self around the people who knew me as Adam. I needed to think like the man staring back at me.

While picking out jeans and a T-shirt, I noticed a leatherbound book lying on top of a folded scarf at the bottom of the wardrobe. After inspecting it closely I realised it was a journal. I placed it on the bedside table and made a mental note to look at it more closely another time.

After a breakfast of leftovers I had found in the fridge, I made my way into the centre of the village to buy food and a newspaper. The sound of market traders shouting their wares filled the air as I passed the many stalls that had attracted crowds of people, many from the neighbouring villages.

After making conversation with a concerned-looking shop assistant, who appeared to be overly interested in my welfare, I made my way back to the cottage. I found a small, wrought-iron bistro table in the garden and pulled up a chair, planning to read the paper I had just purchased.  

The weather was better today, the sun high in the sky with only a handful of cotton-white clouds to be seen against the vivid blue. I could feel its heat on my back. The clock in the kitchen told me it was nine-fifteen and I knew the temperature was likely to rise.

I laid out the paper in front of me and glanced at the bold headlines.

Local boy arranges festival to raise money for sick brother

UK heatwave here to stay until September

Bride in shock after doctor husband in coma just days after returning from luxury honeymoon

I read the last headline again, fearing I had read it wrong. The story itself left me feeling anxious and confused.

Local woman Lucy Whitman (n
é
e Elliot) has been left devastated by the news that her husband of just three weeks is in a coma after his car swerved off the road and down a steep incline in the Dales village of Burnsall.

The couple who just days before had returned from their honeymoon in a luxury hotel in Mexico had been married for less than a month before the accident took place. Jamie Whitman, a neurologist at Skipton General Hospital, was found by a passer-by slumped over the wheel of his wife’s classic Mini Mayfair. It is believed the car had travelled down a steep embankment, hitting a tree at the bottom. The cause of the crash is currently unknown.

Mr Whitman sustained severe head injuries when the driver’s air bag failed to inflate. He is currently in a coma. Doctors in charge of his care have shown great concern for their colleague and have emphasised the gravity of Dr Whitman’s condition.

The car is currently being investigated for mechanical failure, a standard procedure requested by po

A caring man, Dr Whitman is a favourite among his colleagues and a pillar of the local community. His presence in the village is sorely missed by many and Skipton Golf Club will be putting on a charity night in his honour this coming Saturday. All proceeds raised will go to the neurology department at Skipton General.

Mrs Kane of Tavern Lane, Burnsall, stated: ‘Jamie is a fantastic doctor, who always has time for people in the village. I for one have had a giggle with him on many occasions. We are all saddened by this news and hope that he makes a full recovery soon.’

His wife refused to comment. The police are appealing for any witnesses to the accident to come forward.

I folded the paper and stared into space. The car involved in the crash had once belonged to me. I knew it was reliable, I had worked on it myself, which seemed to indicate that the vehicle had been tampered with or else forced off the road.  

Lucy is in great danger… I know you’ll be successful.
 

God’s words filled my mind again. I looked at the date on the front of the paper.

10 August 2015
.  

I had already wasted one whole day of my limited return to the world.

I searched the house for any sign that Adam owned a car. There was a blue Volkswagen Golf parked on the road outside the cottage but no car keys in sight. I had noticed a shed in a corner of the small garden and went to investigate.  

The shed was padlocked but the lock was badly rusted, one determined yank levered it away. I peered inside and found the usual garden paraphernalia: trowels, compost, an old lawnmower. At the back of the shed I could see a large object covered in a dusty, plastic sheet. I peered underneath and found an electric blue men’s bicycle, only a few years old and with good tyres. I could tell by the layer of dust on the sheet that it hadn’t been ridden in a long time. I decided it was time that changed and had a practice run around the garden. The chain seemed stiff but I had noted a can of oil in the shed and before long I was on my way. I found a sign on the road out of the village that stated:
Burnsall 2 Miles,
and before long I was riding out into countryside I not only recognised but had sorely missed.  

              I managed the steep, winding hills with ease and could only assume that Adam kept himself fit. As I rode down the hill that led to my beloved village, I passed the home I’d once shared with Lucy: a big house that was elegant and well cared for. There was a car in the gravel driveway that I didn’t recognise. I stopped for a minute and assessed the scene in front of me. The house still looked the same as the day I’d left it; the garden at the front was blooming and looked well established, indicating that Lucy’s obsessive care of it had paid off.

I continued on down the lane and noted a sudden coolness to the air as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. I passed the tea rooms in which Lucy had worked in her teens and observed the occupants with interest. I watched as children threw bread to the ducks bobbing on the river and remembered the days when I used to do the same. I saw people I recognised leaving the village store, people I knew would recognise me had my appearance not been altered.  

I approached an old man with a walking stick and recognised him instantly. Mr Raven, caretaker of the church, glanced my way briefly as I pedalled past. I almost expected him to stare at me in shock, but he carried on up the hill without a second glance for another stranger in the village.

After much consideration I decided to head straight for the thriving hub of village life: the local alehouse. The very same pub that Russ and I had tumbled out of on the night of my death, and the one we had drunk in every Friday night from the age of eighteen.

Many of the occupants were older gentlemen with flat caps and padded jackets, their clothes smelling of a day’s work on the farm. I knew many of them preferred to be seated in the pub with a pint than stay at home with their nagging wives. I also knew that there was nothing these men loved more than a good gossip and a self-indulgent grumble or two. Perhaps I could gain some information from them.  

              I left the bicycle in the car park and headed into an atmosphere overflowing with humour and friendly banter. I bought a pint with some money I’d found in a pair of jeans slung on the bedroom floor and sat down at a small table by a window that ensured I was close enough to the chit-chat to overhear any interesting conversation. After a few minutes of grumbles about the new shop assistant who had started in the village store as well as an incompetent doctor at the local surgery, I heard what I was most interested in.   

“Russ were in ’ere t’other night. Havin’ a good ol’ natter with me he were,” said Mr Higgins, a solemn expression on his face.

“Poor lad, lost his best mate just five year ago and now t’other one has been put through all that.”

“I ’ear they’re treatin’ it all suspicious like. Coppers, I mean.”

“I can understand why an’ all. That motor runs perfect… always has, Charlie saw to that.”

Murmurs of agreement spread around the room.

“Always workin’ on that car of his, he were.” Mr Higgins lowered his voice. “I never liked that doctor… that Jamie fella… no.” He shook his bald head. “Not good enough for our Lucy, I’m afraid.”

“He never seemed quite right, I agree with you there, Bill.”             

“Aye, always said they rushed into things, ’im and ’er.”

The murmurs died down as one of them spotted a familiar figure approaching the pub.

After exchanging brief greetings with them all the newcomer approached the bar confidently. Even viewed from behind I knew his identity. His hair was cut shorter than normal and his shoulders seemed uncharacteristically slumped, making him appear shorter, a sign that the years had taken their toll on my best friend. The group of gossiping men soon surrounded him.

“’Ave thou seen ’er this mornin’, Russell?”

“Aye, I have, Bill.  She’s doing OK… better than I expected given the circumstances.”

“I expect she’ll be upset, what with all that business with Charlie years ago. Makes a man wonder whether the poor lass is cursed.”

The rest began to nod in agreement.

“I hear what you’re saying, Bill. Lucy’s been through the mill, poor lass. I just hope she’ll pull through all this but only God knows what’ll happen to the doc. It’s taken her years to get back to being herself after… ” Russell’s voice tailed off and the rest of the group were silent, leaving him to his thoughts.

It was then that the older men became aware of my presence and before long they were giving each other wide-eyed glances and nodding in my general direction. The village was so small that everybody knew everyone else and a stranger was as noticeable as a wolf amongst lambs. The older village members were suspicious of them and my mum used to say it was down to their generation's inability to accept differences as well as their stubborn, narrow mind-set. I kept my eyes on my pint and wondered if they’d realised that I’d overheard their entire conversation so far.  

“’Ere,” the leader shouted in my direction, “you’re not one a them reporters, are yer?  You’ll get nowt from us if yer are, yer scum.”

Russ raised his eyes and we stared at each other. He seemed drained and distracted but still I expected there to be a flicker of recognition in his gaze, a sign that he recognised me beneath my unfamiliar appearance. There was none.

“No, sir, just a day visitor here to soak up the beauty of the scenery,” I said to the man who had challenged me.

“Must ’ave plenty a time on yer hands then, fella.”

“You could say that.”

I noticed Russ was uncharacteristically quiet and knew that was usually a sign he was mulling something over.

“You got any skills?” he finally asked me.

“A few,” I said, wondering what sort of proposition was about to be made.

“I could do with some help on a few odd jobs… if yer up for it?”

I thought about it for a second. I could do with some extra cash and it would also give me an excuse to visit Burnsall regularly. The locals would be less suspicious if they knew I had a valid reason for being here, and I was also excited by the prospect of spending some time with my best friend again. Seeing him in the flesh, even in low spirits, made me realise how much I had missed him.  

“Sure, I’ve nothing better to do with my time,” I said cheerfully. “Why not?”

“Great, you staying in the village?”

“No, I live in Grassington.”

“OK, meet me outside the pub at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The work isn’t anything complicated, just household odd jobs, garden landscaping, that kind of thing.”