It was no good; she could not stop thinking about The Man. The Man With the Voice, as she sometimes inwardly described him. Or even The Man With the Sexy Voice…but no. That was going too far.

Who the hell was he? What was a bezoar? Or a Muggle? Was he married? Was he a criminal? Was he the man she had been waiting for all her life? Argh! Stop that!

She had drifted somehow into the clothes section and was absentmindedly piling men's underwear, socks and plain T-shirts into the trolley. It wasn’t until she reached the checkout and found herself packing three pairs of jeans and a multi-pack of white shirts that she came to her senses. She was buying these for him, with her own money. This was crazy; she should take them back. But the queue was immense and she just wanted to get out of there. Her shift started in twenty minutes. She would have to take the clothes and somehow pretend that they were from the charity bag.

Get a grip, Jemima.





“You bought these yourself,” he accused her.

Jemima felt a prickly heat around her neck. She busied herself unfolding the shirts.

“No, no,” she said in a deflective singsong tone. “Just from one of our younger patients.”

“He clearly never wore them then. They’re pristine.”

Jemima shrugged and changed the subject. “More music today,” she said, fiddling with the tape recorder. “Moving on to the mid-Seventies. You would have been a teenager. Exam stress, bad skin, first love.”

“Speak for yourself,” teased Nemo. “I may never have experienced any of those.”

She looked at him and smiled. “Lucky you, to have forgotten about them if you did,” she said. “Adolescence was a hateful time for me.”

“Why so? You’re clever, so you didn’t need to worry about exams. And you’re…attractive. I can’t imagine the bad skin, or, er…” he tailed off.

“You’re too gallant,” she said snappily and began to play the tape.

The joyous jaunt of ‘Mr Blue Sky’ by ELO filled the air. The man shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said. “No associations with anything.”

Jemima sighed and wound the tape on.

“I’ve got a brand new combine harvester
And I’ll give you the key,” burst out in full Mummerset glory.

“Please,” said the man faintly, as if mortally wounded. “Must I listen to this?”

“Not a Wurzels fan then,” said Jemima, as if making a clinical diagnosis. She moved on to the final song in her selection.

“Can you hear the drums, Fernando?
I remember long ago another starry night like this
In the firelight, Fernando
You were humming to yourself and softly strumming your guitar
I could hear the distant drums and sounds of bugle calls
Were coming from afar.”

Jemima watched Nemo with interest. He had sat up a little straighter, and was straining to listen as closely as he could.

“Do you know this song?”

His eyes blinked rapidly. “Something,” he said. “There’s something…I don’t know if it’s familiar or not…there’s something…”

Jemima let the song play on.

“They were closer now, Fernando
Every hour, every minute, seemed to last eternally
I was so afraid, Fernando
We were young and full of life and none of us could bear to die
And I’m not ashamed to say the roar of guns and cannons
Almost made me cry."

“It’s making me feel something,” the man continued. “An emotional response of some kind. Quite a melancholy sensation. It might remind me of a person...or an event. But I don’t know who or what. Turn it off now, I’m finding it a little…overwhelming.”

Jemima clicked Abba off, leaving a heavy silence between the two of them.

“It could recall a past love,” she said, forcing herself to voice the unaccountably unwelcome thought. “Abba were very popular around that time. Especially with girls. Perhaps a girl you knew liked them.”

“Perhaps.”

“Are you heterosexual?”

“Am I…? Why do you ask?”

Jemima shrugged. “No wedding ring,” she said.

“I could say the same. Are you a lesbian?”

“I…it’s none of your business!”

“Well then. Why ask me?”

“It’s probably relevant to your past, obviously! There might be somebody out there desperate for news of you. A woman, children… Or a man.”

He looked at Jemima long and searchingly, until she felt an annoying flush creep up from her clavicle to her forehead.

“I’m heterosexual,” he said eventually. “Not that you really needed to know. You don’t have to remember your sexuality, so it isn’t any kind of breakthrough. I suspect you of personal curiosity, Jemima.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t get personally involved with my patients,” said Jemima crossly.

“Oh really? Do you get personally involved with anybody? Male? Female?”

“I’m not gay, and I’m too busy to be straight. I don’t have a personal life,” she flustered.

“Too busy?” Captain Nemo smirked, as if he knew this to be a huge concealing euphemism. “Are you lonely, Jemima?”

“I’m too busy to be lonely,” said Jemima forcefully, though a slight catch at the back of her throat revealed a deep well of emotion that the man seized on straight away.

“You are lonely,” he said, stating it baldly, factually. “But it isn’t a case of nobody wanting you, is it? You are surrounded by barbed wire, Jemima. You’re like a strongly defended fortress. Nobody is allowed in, are they? Is that in case they try to get out again?”

Jemima felt winded. Where was this man from, and where did he get his information?

“I haven’t had good experiences of relationships,” she eventually said quietly. “Now, how about that pain in your head – any better?”

The man held her eyes challengingly, daring her to tell him he did not understand her, that he was wrong about her. She could not.