by J. S. Monroe
Who can you trust if you don’t know who you are?
She arrives at the train station only to realize her bag had been stolen—her passport, credit cards, laptop, house key now all gone. And even more disturbing, when she goes to report the incident, she can’t recall her own name. All she has on her is a train ticket home.
Suffering from stress-induced amnesia, the woman without a name is a source of mystery when she appears at the sleepy Wiltshire village where she thought she lived. She quickly becomes a source of conspiracy and fear among the townspeople. Why does one think he recognizes her from years earlier? And why do the local police take such a strong interest in her arrival?
From the critically acclaimed author of Find Me comes a shocking new tale of dark pasts and deception, leaving us breathlessly analyzing the role memory plays in defining who we are—and who others think we might be.
Also by J.S. Monroe
Find Me
The Last Thing She Remembers
A Novel
J.S. Monroe
In memory of Len Heath
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
The other way of retention is the power to revive again in our minds those ideas which, after imprinting, have disappeared, or have been, as it were, laid aside out of sight... For the narrow mind of man, not being capable of having many ideas under view and consideration at once, it was necessary to have a repository, to lay up those ideas which, at another time, it might have use of.
John Locke writing on memory in An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding (1690)
CHAPTER 1
DAY ONE
I can’t remember my own name.
I repeat the words to myself like a mantra, struggling to stay calm, trying to comprehend their full meaning. Loosed from the moorings of my old life, I can only be guided by the present now.
I step off the train, filling my lungs with fresh country air as I zigzag up the footpath to the road, following a column of weary commuters. Should I recognize any of them? Rush hour has only just begun. To my left, a river feels its uncertain way through a meadow, the shallow water sparkling in the spring sun. Sheep bleat in the distance, a cheer rises from the cricket pitch by the church. Beyond it, fields of rapeseed, the color of English mustard. And then there’s the canal, rows of brightly painted narrow boats tied up along the towpath.
The village is only an hour by train from London, but it feels very rural tonight. Pastoral. I walk over the railway bridge and head up the high street, past a letter box, trying to think straight. I know I’m doing the right thing. Temporary amnesia can be triggered by drugs, alcohol, sometimes both, but work-related stress is one of the most common causes, well-worn neurological pathways disrupted, blocked by the debris of out-of-control lives. And in such circumstances, home is the best place to be. Post on the doormat, letters with a name on the envelopes.
At the Slaughtered Lamb I turn right into a lane lined with old thatched houses. I should be happy as I walk down toward the last building on the right, a small cottage with a teal blue front door and dripping wisteria, but I’m not.
I’m terrified.
I try to imagine myself closing the front door behind me, flopping down on the sofa with a large glass of chilled sauvignon blanc and something trashy on the TV. Except that I don’t have a key.
Standing in front of the house, I glance up and down the street and hear a voice behind the front door. American. A chill runs through me. I step over to the window and peer in. Two people are moving about in the kitchen, silhouetted by low sunlight slanting in from the garden double doors behind them. I stare at the figures, barely able to breathe. My gaze settles on a man chopping salad at the kitchen island with a large steel knife that catches the light. I want to turn away, run down the street, but I force myself to watch as he cuts. Behind him, a woman stands at a Belfast sink, filling a saucepan with water.
I return to the front door, check the number. It’s the right house. My fingers are shaking too much to press the front doorbell. Instead, I wrap both hands around the wrought-iron knocker and bang it, my head hanging forward like a supplicant in prayer. Om mani padme hum. No answer so I knock again.
“I’ll get it,” a man says from inside. I shiver at the words. It’s the same voice I heard a moment ago.
I step backward into the lane and almost lose my footing as th
e door opens.
“Can I help?” the man says, with a faint, uneasy smile. I feel dizzy. We stare at each other for a second, each scrutinizing the other for something, an explanation, recognition. I realize I’m holding my breath. He glances down at my suitcase and then back at me. I look at him for as long as I can—one, two, three seconds—and then turn away.
I know I should say something at this point—Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my house? Please tell me this isn’t happening, not after all I’ve been through today—but I remain silent. Speechless.
“We’re not interested if you’re selling anything,” he says, motioning to close the door. “Sorry.” I recognize the accent: the cocksure, familiar sounds of New York. He throws another glance at my suitcase. He must think it’s stuffed full of oven gloves and ironing board covers, or whatever is hawked on the doorsteps of Britain these days.
“Wait,” I say, grateful that I can remember how to speak. My voice startles him. Am I shouting? A high-pitched ringing has started in my ears.
“Yes?” he says. His face is lean, alert, washed-blue eyes set deep, a neat goatee, hair tied in a ponytail. I sense it’s not his natural response to close the door on a stranger.
“Who is it, darling?” a female voice calls out from behind him. English. He breaks into a smile that’s almost serene in its intensity. I can’t cope. Fleur’s face swims in front of my eyes, a fleeting smile on her lips too. I press a finger against the tattoo on my wrist, hidden below my blouse sleeve. I know that we got one each: a beautiful lotus flower, purple, partially open. If only I could remember more.
“I live here,” I manage to say. “I’ve been away on a business trip. This is my house.”
“Your house?” he asks, folding his arms and leaning back against the door frame. He is well dressed—a floral-patterned shirt, buttoned up at the collar, thin charcoal-gray cardigan, designer jeans of some kind. He seems to find my suggestion more amusing than strange, and glances up and down the street, perhaps checking for hidden TV cameras, a presenter clutching a microphone. Maybe he’s just relieved that I’m not trying to sell him aloe vera.
“My front door key was in my handbag, but it was lost at the airport, along with my passport, laptop, iPhone, wallet...” My words tail off, the ringing in my ears no longer bearable. “I was about to get a key from the neighbor and then call the police when I got in, report—”
The ground begins to rise up. I force myself to look at him again, but all I can see is Fleur in her apartment doorway, asking if I want to come in. I take a deep breath, visualize a Bodhi tree, a figure in repose below its calming, sacred boughs. It’s no good. Nothing’s working. I thought I could cope, but I can’t.
“Can I come in?” I ask, my body beginning an inexorable descent. “Please?”
A hand on my elbow softens my fall.
CHAPTER 2
“She’s a beautiful girl.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Come on, she’s beautiful.”
“She needs help.”
“The surgery said they’d ring back in fifteen minutes.”
I lie there with my eyes closed, listening. They are in the kitchen, where I first saw them from the window, and I am in the small sitting room at the front of the house. His voice is confident, assured. Hers is more hesitant, softer. After fainting at the door, I came around on the sofa and chatted briefly with the woman, who is called Laura, reassuring her that I was okay and just needed to close my eyes for a few minutes until the dizziness passed. That was five minutes ago.
“Are you feeling better?” Laura says, coming into the sitting room.
“A little,” I reply, turning my head toward her. “Thank you.” She’s holding a large mug of fresh mint tea. I notice my blouse sleeve has rucked up, partially revealing the lotus tattoo.
“I brought you this,” she says, placing it on the low Indian table in front of the sofa. On one side of the mug is a drawing of a cat in a yoga hero pose. I involuntarily straighten my back.
“We’ve rung our local surgery, here in the village,” Laura continues, glancing at my sleeve. “The doctor’s going to call back in a minute.”
“Thank you,” I say again, my voice weak.
“Still dizzy?”
“A bit.”
I reach forward for the tea. Laura is in her early thirties. She’s wearing three-quarter-length leggings and a fluorescent sports top, as if she’s about to go out on a run, and in good shape: tall, manicured, hair tied up in a bun, glowing skin. Almost too good to be true, apart from a pronounced darkness beneath her eyes.
“Tony says you thought this was your house,” Laura says, trying to make light of her words. I take a sip of the mint tea, hot and honey-sweet, hoping it might dispel the cold dread in my stomach. “Said you were about to get a key. From our neighbor’s.”
She manages another short laugh and stops, turning away.
“It is my house,” I whisper, cradling the mug for warmth.
I can sense her bristle. Nothing obvious—she seems too kind for that—just the faintest recalibration. Tony, who must have been listening, comes to the doorway that links the sitting room with the kitchen.
“Thank you for the tea,” I say, keen to keep things cordial. “And for ringing the surgery. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Not if you still think this is your house,” Tony says. He’s smiling, but there’s a hint of the territorial in his voice. My tattoo is still visible. After a few seconds, I casually pull down my sleeve to cover it.
I take another sip of the tea and look around the low-ceilinged room. Everything is immaculate, nothing out of place. A wood-burning stove set in a large inglenook fireplace; to one side, a pile of logs, rounded like prayer rolls, neatly stacked; a collection of yoga and self-help books in a small bookcase, sorted by height; a wooden solitaire board, its marbles all in position. Even the reeds of a White Company Seychelles room diffuser on the windowsill have been perfectly spaced. The contents might have changed, but the house’s small proportions feel strangely familiar.
“I’ve come here because—” I pause, surprised by the emotion in my voice. “I’ve been having a difficult time at work. Today, when I flew in from a conference, my handbag disappeared at the airport. I tried to report it, but I was unable to remember my own name.” I pause again.
“You can remember it now, though?” Laura asks, turning to Tony. “We all have our senior moments.” Tony looks away.
I shake my head. I can’t remember my own name.
“At the airport, all I could remember was where I lived. I thought if I could just get here, my house, this sanctuary, everything would be okay. And the one thing that wasn’t lost was my train ticket home. I found it in a pocket.”
“You had your suitcase too,” Tony says, gesturing to the front door, where it is standing on end, handle still extended. “Where was the conference?” he asks. Tony is more interested now, less defensive.
I can feel tears coming and do nothing to stop them. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Laura says, sitting down next to me on the sofa. I’m grateful for the arm she puts around my shoulders. It’s been a difficult day.
“There should be a label on the handle,” Tony says, walking over to the suitcase.
“It got ripped off. Before I took the case from the carousel.”
He looks at me as my voice falters. I see myself in the arrivals hall, sitting down on the edge of an abandoned trolley, gazing at the same half-dozen suitcases going round and round. And then mine appeared, in front of a large, uneven parcel wrapped in plastic and tape. An image of Fleur came and went, her body folded in on itself like a contortionist’s, all elbows and knees.
“And you really can’t recall where the conference was?” he asks.
“It may have been in Berlin.” Another image of Fleur
floats up: dancing wildly, her eyes bright. I blink and she is gone, lost in the void.
“Berlin?” he repeats, unable to hide his surprise. “That’s a start. Airline?”
“I arrived at Terminal 5.”
“British Airways. Do you know what time?”
“This morning.”
“First thing?”
“I’m not sure. I’m sorry. I came straight here. Maybe late morning? Lunchtime?”
“And you can’t recall your own name?”
“Tony,” Laura interjects.
I start to sob again, scared by how it all sounds when someone else is saying it. I need to stay strong. Laura gives me another hug.
“All I know is that this is my house,” I say, drying my eyes with a tissue she gives me. “Right now that’s all I can remember. My own home.”
“But you know that’s impossible,” Tony says. “I can show you the real estate deeds.”
“It’s okay,” Laura cuts in, glancing up at Tony again, who sits down on the other sofa, across from us. “We should call the police,” she continues. “Leave our number—in case someone hands your bag in at the airport.”
A shared silence as Laura’s words settle like dust in the room, absorbed by the ancient brickwork of the fireplace until there is nothing left of them.
“I guess there no point, is there?” Tony says after a few seconds, his voice quieter now. “Not if she still doesn’t know her name.”
Another silence. I need to tell them everything that I know about this house, the details I can recall.
“My bedroom’s upstairs on the left, the other one is across the landing, just large enough for a double bed,” I begin. “It’s next to the bathroom—shower block in the corner, bath beneath the window. There’s another small room beyond the bathroom, more of a storage space than a bedroom, and an attic above it.”
Laura looks across at Tony, who is staring at me in disbelief.
“At the bottom of the garden is a brick outbuilding, perfect for an office,” I continue. “And there’s a shower in the downstairs loo.”
I’m about to go on, tell them about the walk-in larder off the kitchen, but the phone rings.
“That’ll be the surgery,” Laura says, picking up the receiver from the coffee table in front of us. I sense she’s grateful for the interruption.