When you look at a person, you only see what you see.
You don’t see what came before.
A woman in a nightgown and slippers who has trouble remembering where she is, does not give a hint as to who she was.
The young staff members named her ‘Mrs Houdini’ because she held the record for the most number of daylight escapes.
Those who grow old and forget are often dismissed, but many of them lived through world wars, lost children to disease and despair, struggled through the Depression, worked for a wage and bought up a family — they learned a thing or two along the way.
They learned to look like they are not looking while the sister punches in the key code. Like seeing where the key to the ward is kept and knowing when the nurses’ station is unattended — things like that.
Mrs Houdini’s real name was Alice, Alice Johnson, and whenever she escaped, she headed for the little cemetery next to the old stone church.
Benjamin Johnson lay in that cemetery.
There was a bench near his grave, and she sat and told him all her news, but on this day she remembered something.
“I must go and tell Jimmy,” she said as she rose to her feet. Her drink bottle sat forgotten on the bench. It was one of those drink bottles that you give to small children, so they don’t spill their milk everywhere.
The drink bottle was still there when Jim Johnson arrived at the graveyard, about thirty minutes after he got the call. He would have come sooner, but he had a dead body to take care of first — work is work, and his commander was sick of him having to rush off and search for his wayward mother.
“I spend seventy-five percent of my free time either taking care of, or looking for my mother. You would think that the gigantic chunk of my salary I give them every month would cover the cost of them finding her whenever they loose her,” he said to his colleague, who was only half listening.
Jim Johnson didn’t tell his superior he was looking for his mother — again. Instead, he took the long way back to the office via the churchyard.
He missed her by a few minutes, and he would not see her again for two days.
Two days and nights.
When he found her again, she was in remarkably good condition. Her slippers were a bit muddy, and her nightgown was torn at the hem, but she could not remember where she had been for those two days and nights. It really didn’t matter — she was safe and back in his arms — his mother was safe.
The only part of her adventure she could remember was the last bit, the bit where she was blinded and nearly run over by the motorbike.
Hugh Carter had an intriguing skill set which included being able to change a spark plug in under a minute. It didn’t much matter how long you took to change a spark plug, but Hugh was proud that he could do the whole job in under a minute.
Hugh Carter stood about one hundred and eighty centimetres tall (about five foot ten in old money). He had black curly hair and women liked him — a lot. Hugh would ultimately find that he was happy to bat for both teams, but at this moment, he enjoyed the attention of women.
Hugh worked for a performance garage and raced motorcycles whenever he could scrape together the money to tune his machine.
Hugh was reasonably successful, and with a bit of sponsorship, he could have competed at the highest level.
As with all young men, he was impatient for his life to unfold.
He saw his friends earning easy money working for nefarious characters, and he held out for as long as he could.
His first step into the world where life was even cheaper than normal was when a bloke he knew was found dead.
His friend and his bike plummeted off a cliff, and neither of them survived.
A grizzled bloke in a jacket displaying the colours of a local bike club approached him to do some courier work.
The grizzled bloke pointed at the gun stuffed in his belt and indicated that he would deploy said weapon if Hugh contemplated taking the cash and not making the pickup.
Hugh stayed within the speed limit on the way to the pickup, met his contact, watched as they counted the money, took the backpack after they showed him the contents, and proceeded to drive at high speed to the little stone church where his grizzled boss was waiting to meet him.
His high-speed antics nearly got him pulled over, but his riding skills enabled him to escape.
Hugh was feeling the adrenaline rush as he arrived at the church.
He handed over the backpack and the grizzled bloke checked the purity of its contents as two of his cohorts stood by with weapons drawn.
When the shouting and the gunfire began, Hugh dived behind a pew.
Jim Johnson was hit in the vest by a bullet, and it took the wind out of him. He was the second officer through the door.
As he lay on the floor of the church trying to decide if he was going to die, he noticed a man in black leathers crawling under the pews towards the door that Jim and his fellow officers had just come through.
Bullets continued to fly, and men continued to shout as Hugh made it through the front door. His bike was still where he had left it, and it started with the first kick of the starter.
Jim Johnson decided that he was not going to die — his vest had saved him. He scrambled to his feet and heard bullets whiz past. Jim found the main power board and threw the master switch. All the lights came on at once, including the builder’s floodlights on the outside of the building.
Several thousand-watt globes burst into life emitting that ghostly white light that bleeds all the colour out of everything it lands on.
Hugh’s rear wheel spun on the dirt road as he changed into second gear. His engine was screaming, and so was Hugh. A ghostly apparition stepped from behind the church and into the middle of the road.
The floodlights blinded Alice Johnson, but she kept on walking. She heard the young man swear and noticed what sounded like a motorbike sliding through the gravel.
The gunfire had abated, and officers were spilling out of the church, Jim Johnson among them.
He ignored the fallen bike rider and ran to his mother.
“Are you okay mum?” he said, holding her close.
“Jimmy. Where have you been? I have something to tell you,” she said and promptly forgot what it was.
Jim took off his coat and wrapped it around his mother and led her to a waiting ambulance.
After a day in the hospital, she would be back in the nursing home, planning her next escape.
In the remand centre, Hugh was telling his fellow inmates about the ghost who knocked him off his bike.
They all agreed that his was the best bad luck story.
A ghost beats tripping over your own shoelaces any day.