I collapse into one of the deep-cushioned sofas and sip my wine, letting its heat warm me from inside. Alcohol-induced vasodilation. That’s its medical term. Sexy, like sinking into a hot bath. A lot has happened in a day, but aren’t first days always like that? Well, maybe not always likethis.
Peter had promised me he’d be following up with the local police and ensuring they were all aware of the situation, of why my name was originally changed and the legal ramifications, and potential consequences, of disclosing that information.
It was bound to happen. I was bound to run into somebody. I grew up here. I went to school here. I knew I’d run into old faces. People I used to know, people from the past I’ve tried to forget, because it’s not healthy living in the past. It robs you of a future. But for the next few weeks I’m going to have to do just that—live in the past.
So, I guess I had better prepare myself.
I lean across the sofa and pull my laptop over, flipping its lid open. If I’m really going to do this, be here, for the next few weeks, then I had better arm myself for battle. Knowledge is power, after all.
I type the word “Facebook” into the empty search bar and it springs onto my screen. I don’t have a Facebook account, I never look at Facebook. Even at medical school when everyone was berating me for being either a Luddite or a hipster, I continued to abstain because, if I’m honest, it scares me. My face out there connected and connected and connected until it all leads back to that one night. The night when my whole world was shattered and it was easier to just throw the whole thing in the trash than try to fix it.
But now I need to know what I’m up against. Who there is here that I might run into, what might await me tomorrow. It can’t be a surprise if I see it coming. The screen in front of me asks if I would like to join Facebook. I would not like to join Facebook; but needs must, so I take a gulp of wine, set down my glass, and start to type in my personal information. “Emma Lewis.”
It’s funny how people can become living ghosts. A few years ago, I saw one of my old teachers on the underground. She didn’t recognize me, of course; she hadn’t seen me for over a decade. I wouldn’t have looked like the messy freckled girl she remembered. But the instant I saw her I was back there, I could feel her firm hand on my shoulder as she led me silently down the empty school corridors toward the headmistress’s office. She’d pulled me out of class; everyone else was still in theirs, and the usually noisy hallways were eerily hushed. That hand on my shoulder. That was the last time I saw her. The last time I would see any of them.
It’s hard when other people know all about the worst moments of your life. The headlines made sure of that.
I stare at my empty Facebook page and I think of the gold band on Chris’s finger today, of how I could have just asked about it but I hadn’t. I type “Chris Poole” into the search box and hit return.
His page fills the screen, his handsome, grown-up face; he’s looking at someone slightly off-camera mid-laugh, and he looks so happy I feel a stab of loneliness.
He’s thirty, same as me—well, three months older to be exact. He’s married. He’s been in the police force since he graduated from East Anglia Uni with a 2:1 in geography nine years ago. There’s something about the course of Chris’s life that I find so reassuring in its clarity. If I was to make a real page of my own, it would not be quite so straightforward as his.
Impulsively, I open a tab and google his station. There are two other men and one woman listed on the local police website. The men are both sergeants and the woman a PC—police constable—just like Chris. She has a warm, kind face, shiny brown hair pulled back securely in a low ponytail; she looks nice. I bet she and Chris like each other. I don’t recognize her from school at all. I type her name into Facebook—Beth Graceford. Divorced, born in Falmouth, studied English at Falmouth University and worked for a publishing company in Falmouth. Interesting. I guess she needed a change. A big one. Good for her; I know from experience how hard that can be, upending your whole life and starting again somewhere new. And it explains why I don’t recognize her, she only transferred to Norfolk last year. I type in the two sergeants’ names: likewise both are not originally from the area. So far, so good.
I take another sip of my wine and think.
There’s something I’ve wanted to check, very badly, since I first logged on, but I’ve been trying with every ounce of my willpower to ignore the impulse.
I type in Chris’s name again. His page springs up again and this time I click on photos. I know she’ll be there.
I find her instantly, tall and pale and feline, her long red hair loose over one shoulder, striking against the white of her wedding gown, her green eyes ablaze with happiness, and next to her, so close, his arm entwined with hers, stands Chris. He doesn’t look at the camera; his eyes are on her. I realize I’ve been holding my breath for a while. I let it out and tap on her photo tag. Zara Poole, Chris’s wife. I click on the link.
I recognize her from the hospital lobby that morning—she was talking to someone in the coffee shop queue—but I don’t recognize her from school, so it comes as a shock to see she did actually go to Waltham House too. I try to remember redheads from back then, any girls who were that stunning. Surely that would have stuck in my head. Her bio tells me her maiden name was Zara Thompson. But then I see her school dates. She’s younger than us, by three years. She would have been thirteen when I left. That’s why I don’t remember her and it’s highly unlikely she’ll remember me. I click on her profile picture. Zara looks back at the photographer teasingly, invitingly, her lips parted ever so slightly, and I wonder if Chris took the photo. I catch myself wondering if they’re happy.
Shit. This is not why I am on here.
I feel a tight gnaw of shame in my stomach. I definitely shouldn’t go for that drink with Chris.
I click out of Zara’s profile back to Chris’s, and then a strange thought strikes me. Is there a chance I could know my patient? Perhaps he did recognize me, and in the same way I couldn’t place Zara perhaps I can’t recall him because he’s older than me. He wouldn’t have been a student at the school then, but he could have been a teacher. Perfectly plausible. Although odd that no one else would recognize him from this area. I realize what I really need to do is get my hands on a list of everyone who was working at Waltham House in the years I was there. That would be a start. I could ask Chris. But then I might have to explain why I needed it. Or maybe, knowing Chris, I wouldn’t have to tell him, maybe he’d just trust me enough not to have to explain, if I said it was for the case. Which of course it would be. I grab my phone and tap out an impulsive message to him.
For the next two hours I keep searching, recalling, and tapping in the names of everyone I can remember from those years, all those almost-forgotten children of my childhood.
Chris’s dad was chief inspector at the Burnham and Hunstanton station. Local police. I should have known Chris would still be here; his family have been and always will be local.
Our family, on the other hand, had no choice but to leave.
Then the thought occurs to me again: If my patient does know me, he knows about what happened. Could he be faking his symptoms to get me to come back here? The lure of intrigue. After all, a patient like this is the only reason I’d ever come back here. It’s a paranoid thought and I shut it down. A shiver runs through me and I pull the cashmere throw tighter around me as my thoughts continue to slip and slide over the idea. It would be hard for anyone to pull off what he’s doing alone if they were faking, but perhaps he’s not doing this alone. I think I hear something in the darkness beyond the patio doors, but when I stand up to peer out I see only my own reflection in its black mirror.
I need to know if my patient is lying. I need to make sure I do my fMRI test as soon as possible. I need to know if this case is really fugue, if he really can’t remember who he is. Or if he’s doing something else entirely.
24
ZARA AND CHRIS
DAY 8—SECRETS AND LIES
Zara is on her laptop, fingers clacking over keys, her legs curled gracefully underneath her on the sofa, when Chris finally returns from the hospital. The winter sun is setting outside their Georgian windows, and she’s bathed in a soft peach-and-lilac glow.
