She stepped to a tall gate next to us. I hadn't immediately noticed its presence. The wooden slats seemed to blend from fence to gate and back again with hardly a line. It wasn't until she gripped the handle that I noticed it and wondered how it could have been missed at all. She quietly twisted her hand and pushed. The gate didn't move.

"Locked," she hissed.

I, personally, would have been surprised if it hadn't been. Why go to the trouble of putting up such a high fence, surely a security and privacy feature, and allowing anyone to stroll in unannounced? I watched the woman move to the gate opposite. Perhaps the neighbour wasn't as security conscious as the first?

Nope, that gate was locked too. Muttering something which sounded expletive even if it might not have been, she indicated for me to follow - clearly feeling a hand signal would suffice instead of telling (not asking) me. I followed. What else was I to do? If I waited for my memory and identity to return, I could have been sitting on a bench facing the beach far into the next decade. They had probably eloped together, having a hammer-to-anvil wedding up in Gretna Green before nipping over to Edinburgh for a few days. They'd visit the pandas in the zoo and the castle, sampling the whiskey and take in a little shopping for the hell of it. They didn't have anything to rush back for - I wasn't going anywhere, or, at least, my mind certainly wasn't.

At the end of the alleyway, we turned left. It ran along the back of the houses, allowing rear access and somewhere to put out the wheelie bin on a Thursday morning for emptying. The woman, wrapped in a thick, long coat despite the fairly warm weather, ran from gate to gate, her speed and stealth increasing and decreasing in equal, frustrated amounts. Finally, when I thought she'd reached the point of either smashing through or climbing over, one opened.

"What if they're in?" I asked, my breath racing to beat me to her. I didn't actually know why she even needed entrance to a garden, let alone any garden.

"They'll be watching the parade." She stepped through quickly, then hesitated. "Wait here. Keep an eye out."

I felt like a dog that had just been told to sit and stay. Maybe, if I rolled over, I'd get my belly rubbed. Perhaps not. I figured my eye was being kept out for the return of the occupants. I wasn't sure how I'd explain my presence at their back gate, nor the sudden emergence of the woman if the need to alert her arose. Like the good dog I was, I decided to just bark if anyone came. Or shout, whichever option made the situation less ridiculous.

Before I'd had the chance to circle three times, sniff my bum and get settled, she re-emerged. She was carrying a shirt and jeans and shoved them in my hands.

"Put these on!"

"Where...?" I was going to ask where I could get changed, not fancying stripping in the open before the unknown eyes of this stranger.

"They were drying on the line. Hurry up!"

The misinterpretation of my question gave no indication of an answer, but my expression must have shown my anxiety - or part of it. She sighed and turned her back on me.

"Just hurry up. I don't exactly relish the sight of you undressed, but you don't need to be bashful. I've seen it all..."

She stopped talking and I expected the owners of the clothes to come storming from the back door of the house. I paused, preparing to run.

"Just get a move on," she insisted.

I got my move down from the shelf, dusted it off and threw it on like a shirt and jeans.

"What about these?" I asked once done. I held out the bloodied clothes. What was I meant to do? Hang them up on the washing line in place of the stolen ones I was wearing?

Was I actually, as well as a murderer, a thief? Donning the clothes had been very easy (though they were a little loose) and I hadn't thought to resist the theft. Resistance, apparently, was futile anyway. Whoever she was, she was forceful. Plus, she didn't hold a pair of handcuffs or wear a uniform. I may not have been any safer with her, but I didn't seem to be at risk of spending any time in the cells. She snatched the bundle of garments and, after checking there was no blood on the outside, held them tight to her.

"We'll get rid of them in a bin somewhere."

I didn't know if it was Thursday, or if the bin men came on Thursday, but there were none in the alley. I left it to her, though. She seemed to have some kind of plan. I was planless so she won.

"Who are you?" I finally thought to ask.

She looked at me for a long moment. My blood seemed to rush in my ears, a river of possibilities I just needed to reach into to grab something to help redirect the crazy path I was stumbling along.

"Jasmine," she said. "I'm Jasmine."

Her face softened, her sad eyes holding a faint sparkle as the sun drifted off to sleep. I held out my hand to shake hers.

"I'd like to tell you who I am, but I don't actually know. Do you know me?"

Again she paused before answering. I hoped she wouldn't keep doing that - the conversation would take so much longer to have that way and I assumed the person whose shirt I was wearing would come back for it. Well, he'd come back because he lived there, not just for his shirt, but one would probably go with the other.

"No," she said. "I don't, but don't worry. You can come with me until we figure this out."

Her voice had momentarily lost its hiss of insistence and was almost warm to the touch. It flowed and I found myself thinking of chocolate. My stomach grumbled.

"We'll sort that out, too."

She turned and headed up the alley towards the road it opened out on, our backs to the way we'd come. Naturally, I did the same. The chocolate smoothness was gone, a momentary lapse in the sharp edges. She didn't say anything to show this, but her demeanour, which had melted for a second to allow a glimpse of someone nice hiding inside, had refrozen. Not that she probably wasn't nice already - she had taken the time to save me from the long handcuff of the law, after all, but she seemed tense and angry. Whether that agitation was directed at me, I had yet to discover. Whether she was just pissed off at the world in general, I, too, had yet to discover. Whether she was just having a bad hair day and had wanted a glowing steely blonde rather than a muddy patch with bleach thrown across it, I, yes, had yet to discover. Add in my absent memories, the reason why she'd saved me in the first place, what had happened to the drunken thugs and where the line of trees I'd walked through had disappeared to and I felt like Columbus aboard the Santa Maria, cruising through the ocean deep, searching for far off lands.

I hoped, once I sighted such distant shores, I'd be able to set foot on familiar territory and would find the indigenous residents friendly.

Without pausing at the end, she turned right and was out of my sight for a second. My heart suddenly sank and my feet quickened their pace. It was as if we were joint by a length of elastic which was about to break so I had to let it snap us together lest the connection was gone for good. I'd only known her for approximately fifteen minutes or so. Why would I be worried about losing her? 'Known' was a strong word for someone who'd barely spoken to me other than snapping orders and had only mentioned her first name, but, as I didn't know myself, it was the best I had. Perhaps that was why I felt I had to catch up and stay with her - even though I didn't really know her, she must know me, or why would she help?

By the time I reached the exit to the street, I was running and barged into a man unfortunate enough to be walking past. The impact knocked the lit cigarette from his hand onto the pavement. I panted a quick apology as I ran after the woman but he grabbed me and pulled me back.

I'd end up having bruises, I was sure. First the boys, then the policeman, then the woman and now this! Was there a big sign pointed at my bicep, shining in glorious neon, proclaiming this was my handle if you wanted to get a good tight hold and drag me about? I was pretty sure there wasn't, but everyone seemed to be drawn directly to my upper arm.

"Pick that up," the man ordered, pointing at the ground. He sounded as if his voice was rumbling up from his boots, a thunder which, if I didn't comply, might bring lightning along with it.

"What? Hey, it was an accident! I'm sorry!" I tried to pull myself free but his grip tightened, causing me to wince in pain.

"I said, pick it up."

His tone was level, menacing, spoken through clenched teeth. A young couple passed us and he glared at them, daring them to intervene or comment. They took the hint and hurried on, not looking back.

"Get off!" I shouted. There was nothing level about my own tone. Nor was it menacing. It was high, with a gravelly croak as a rush of fear stabbed it in the neck. I yanked my arm and it slipped from his grasp. I didn't expect the release and felt myself falling backwards. I turned my head and saw Jasmine running towards me.