by S. J. Watson
‘What does he do there?’
‘A teacher. He’s head of chemistry, I think he said.’ I felt guilty at not knowing what my husband does for a living, not being able to remember how he earns the money to keep us fed and clothed. ‘I don’t remember.’
I looked up and caught sight of my swollen face reflected in the window in front of me. The guilt evaporated.
‘What school?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he told me.’
‘What, never?’
‘Not this morning, no,’ I said. ‘For me that might as well be never.’
‘I’m sorry, Chrissy. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that, well—’ I sensed a change of mind, a sentence aborted. ‘Could you find out the name of the school?’
I thought of the office upstairs. ‘I guess so. Why?’
‘I’d like to speak to Ben, to make sure he’ll be coming home when I’m there this afternoon. I wouldn’t want it to be a wasted journey!’
I noticed the humour she was trying to inject into her voice, but didn’t mention it. I felt out of control, couldn’t work out what was best, what I should do, and so decided to surrender to my friend. ‘I’ll have a look,’ I said.
I went upstairs. The office was tidy, piles of papers arranged across the desk. It did not take long to find some headed paper; a letter about a parents’ evening that had already taken place.
‘It’s St Anne’s,’ I said. ‘You want the number?’ She said she’d find it out herself.
‘I’ll call you back,’ she said. ‘Yes?’
Panic hit again. ‘What are you going to say to him?’ I said.
‘I’m going to sort this out,’ she said. ‘Trust me, Chrissy. There has to be an explanation. OK?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and ended the call. I sat down, my legs shaking. What if my first hunch had been correct? What if Claire and Ben were still sleeping together? Maybe she was calling him now, warning him.
She suspects
, she might be saying.
Be careful
.
I remembered reading my journal earlier. Dr Nash had told me that I had once shown symptoms of paranoia.
Claiming the doctors were conspiring against you
, he’d said.
A tendency to confabulate. To invent things
.
What if that’s all happening again? What if I am inventing this, all of it? Everything in my journal might be fantasy. Paranoia.
I thought of what they’d told me on the ward, and Ben in his letter.
You were occasionally violent
I realized it might have been me who caused the fight on Friday night. Did I lash out at Ben? Perhaps he hit back and then, upstairs in the bathroom, I took a pen and explained it all away with a fiction.
What if all this journal means is that I’m getting worse again? That soon it really will be time for me to go back to Waring House?
I went cold, suddenly convinced that this was why Dr Nash had wanted to take me there. To prepare me for my return.
All I can do is wait for Claire to call me back.
Another gap. Is that what’s happening now? Will Ben try to take me back to Waring House? I look over to the bathroom door. I will not let him.
There is one final entry, written later that same day.
Monday, 26 November, 6.55 p.m
.
Claire called me after less than half an hour. And now my mind oscillates. It swings from one thing to the other, then back again.
I know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I know what to do
But there’s a third thought. I shudder as I realize the truth:
I am in danger
.
I turn to the front of this journal, intending to write Don’t trust Ben, but I find those words are already there.
I don’t remember writing them. But then I don’t remember anything.
A gap, and then it continues.
She sounded hesitant on the phone.
‘Chrissy,’ she said. ‘Listen.’
Her tone frightened me. I sat down. ‘What?’
‘I called Ben. At school.’
I had the overwhelming sensation of being on an uncontrollable journey, of being in unnavigable waters. ‘What did he say?’
‘I didn’t speak to him. I just wanted to make sure he worked there.’
‘Why?’ I said. ‘Don’t you trust him?’
‘He’s lied about other things.’
I had to agree. ‘But why did you think he’d tell me he worked somewhere if he didn’t?’ I said.
‘I was just surprised he was working in a school. You know he trained to be an architect? The last time I spoke to him he was looking into setting up his own practice. I just thought it was a bit odd he should be working in a school.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They said they couldn’t disturb him. He was busy, in a class.’ I felt relief. He hadn’t lied about that, at least.
‘He must have changed his mind,’ I said. ‘About his career.’
‘Chrissy? I told them I wanted to send him some documents. A letter. I asked for his official title.’
‘And?’ I said.
‘He’s not head of chemistry. Or science. Or anything else. They said he was a lab assistant.’
I felt my body jerk. I may have gasped; I don’t remember.
‘Are you sure?’ I said. My mind raced to think of a reason for this new lie. Was it possible he was embarrassed? Worried about what I would think if I knew he had gone from being a successful architect to a lab assistant in a local school? Did he really think I was so shallow that I would love him any more or less based on what he did for a living?
Everything made sense.
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘It’s my fault!’
‘No!’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault!’
‘It is!’ I said. ‘It’s the strain of having to look after me. Of having to deal with me, day in and day out. He must be having a breakdown. Maybe he doesn’t even know himself what’s true and what’s not.’ I began to cry. ‘It must be unbearable,’ I said. ‘He even has to go through all that grief on his own, every day.’
The line was silent, and then Claire said, ‘Grief? What grief?’
‘Adam,’ I said. I felt pain at having to say his name.
‘What about Adam?’
It came to me. Wild. Unbidden.
Oh God
, I thought.
She doesn’t know. Ben hasn’t told her
.
‘He’s dead,’ I said.
She gasped. ‘Dead? When? How?’
‘I don’t know when, exactly,’ I said. ‘I think Ben told me it was last year. He was killed in the war.’
‘War? What war?’
‘Afghanistan.’
And then she said it. ‘Chrissy, what would he be doing in Afghanistan?’ Her voice was strange. She almost sounded pleased.
‘He was in the army,’ I said, but even as I spoke I was starting to doubt what I was saying. It was as if I was finally facing something I had known all along.
I heard Claire snort, almost as if she was finding something amusing. ‘Chrissy,’ she said. ‘Chrissy darling. Adam hasn’t been in the army. He’s never been to Afghanistan. He’s living in Birmingham, with someone called Helen. He works with computers. He hasn’t forgiven me, but I still ring him occasionally. He’d probably rather I didn’t, but I am his godmother, remember?’ It took me a moment to work out why she was still using the present tense, and even as I did so she said it.
‘I rang him after we met last week,’ she said. She was almost laughing, now. ‘He wasn’t there, but I spoke to Helen. She said she’d ask him to ring me back. Adam is alive.’
I stop reading. I feel light. Empty. I feel I might fall backwards, or else float away. Dare I believe it? Do I want to? I steady myself against the dresser and read on, only dimly aware that no longer do I hear th
e sound of Ben’s shower.
I must have stumbled, grabbed hold of the chair. ‘He’s alive?’ My stomach rolled, I remember vomit rising in my throat and having to swallow it down. ‘He’s really alive?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes!’
‘But—’ I began. ‘But — I saw a newspaper. A clipping. It said he’d been killed.’
‘It can’t have been real, Chrissy,’ she said. ‘It can’t have been. He’s alive.’
I began to speak, but then everything hit me at once, every emotion bound up in every other. Joy. I remember joy. The sheer pleasure of knowing that Adam is alive fizzed on my tongue, but mixed into it was the bitter, acid tang of fear. I thought of my bruises, of the force with which Ben must have struck me to cause them. Perhaps his abuse is not only physical, perhaps some days he takes delight in telling me that my son is dead so that he can see the pain that thought inflicts. Was it really possible that on other days, in which I remember the fact of my pregnancy, or giving birth to my baby, he simply tells me that Adam has moved away, is working abroad, living on the other side of town?
And if so, why did I never write down any of those alternative truths that he fed me?
Images entered my head, of Adam as he might be now, fragments of scenes I may have missed, but none would hold. Each image slid through me and then vanished. The only thing I could think was he’s alive. Alive. My son is alive. I can meet him.
‘Where is he?’ I said. ‘Where is he? I want to see him!’
‘Chrissy,’ Claire said. ‘Stay calm.’
‘But—’
‘Chrissy!’ she interrupted. ‘I’m coming round. Stay there.’
‘Claire! Tell me where he is!’
‘I’m really worried about you, Chrissy. Please—’
‘But—’
She raised her voice. ‘Chrissy, calm down!’ she said, and then a single thought pierced through the fog of my confusion: I am hysterical. I took a breath and tried to settle, as Claire began to speak again.
‘Adam is living in Birmingham,’ she said.
‘But he must know where I am now,’ I said. ‘Why doesn’t he come to see me?’
‘Chrissy …’ she began.
‘Why? Why doesn’t he visit me? Does he not get on with Ben? Is that why he stays away?’
‘Chrissy,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Birmingham is a fair way away. He has a busy life …’
‘You mean—’
‘Maybe he can’t get down to London that often?’
‘But—’
‘Chrissy. You think Adam doesn’t visit. But I can’t believe that. Maybe he does come, when he can.’
I fell silent. Nothing made sense. Yet she was right. I have only been keeping my journal for a couple of weeks. Before that, anything could have happened.
‘I need to see him,’ I said. ‘I want to see him. Do you think that can be arranged?’
‘I don’t see why not. But if Ben is really telling you that he’s dead then we ought to speak to him first.’
Of course, I thought. But what will he say? He thinks that I still believe his lies.
‘He’ll be here soon,’ I said. ‘Will you still come over? Will you help me to sort this out?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course. I don’t know what’s going on. But we’ll talk to Ben. I promise. I’ll come now.’
‘Now? Right now?’
‘Yes. I’m worried, Chrissy. Something’s not right.’
Her tone bothered me, but at the same time I felt relieved, and excited at the thought that I might soon be able to meet my son. I wanted to see him, to see his photograph, right away. I remembered that we had hardly any, and those we did have were locked away. A thought began to form.
‘Claire,’ I said, ‘did we have a fire?’
She sounded confused. ‘A fire?’
‘Yes. We have hardly any photographs of Adam. And almost none of our wedding. Ben said we lost them in a fire.’
‘A fire?’ she said. ‘What fire?’
‘Ben said there was a fire in our old home. We lost lots of things.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. Years ago.’
‘And you have no photographs of Adam?’
I felt myself getting annoyed. ‘We have some. But not many. Hardly any of him other than when he was a baby. A toddler. And none of holidays, not even our honeymoon. None of Christmases. Nothing like that.’
‘Chrissy,’ she said. Her voice was quiet, measured. I thought I detected something in it, some new emotion. Fear. ‘Describe Ben to me.’
‘What?’
‘Describe him to me. Ben. What does he look like?’
‘What about the fire?’ I said. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘There was no fire,’ she said.
‘But I wrote down that I remembered it,’ I said. ‘A chip pan. The phone rang …’
‘You must have been imagining it,’ she said.
‘But—’
I sensed her anxiety. ‘Chrissy! There was no fire. Not years ago. Ben would have told me. Now, describe Ben. What does he look like? Is he tall?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Black hair?’
My mind went blank. ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. He’s beginning to go grey. He has a paunch, I think. Maybe not.’ I stood up. ‘I need to see his photograph.’
I went back upstairs. They were there, pinned around the mirror. Me and my husband. Happy. Together.
‘His hair looks kind of brown,’ I said. I heard a car pull up outside the house.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes,’ I said. The engine was switched off, the door slammed. A loud beep. I lowered my voice. ‘I think Ben’s home.’
‘Shit,’ said Claire. ‘Quick. Does he have a scar?’
‘A scar?’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘On his face, Chrissy. A scar, across one cheek. He had an accident. Rock climbing.’
I scanned the photographs, choosing the one of me and my husband sitting at a breakfast table in our dressing gowns. In it he was smiling happily and, apart from a hint of stubble, his cheeks were unblemished. Fear rushed to hit me.
I heard the front door open. A voice. ‘Christine! Darling! I’m home!’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, he doesn’t.’
A sound. Somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.
‘The man you’re living with,’ Claire said. ‘I don’t know who it is. But it’s not Ben.’
Terror hits. I hear the toilet flush, but can do nothing but read on.
I don’t know what happened then. I can’t piece it together. Claire began talking, almost shouting. ‘Fuck!’ she said, over and over. My mind was spinning with panic. I heard the front door shut, the click of the lock.
‘I’m in the bathroom,’ I shouted to the man I had thought was my husband. My voice sounded cracked. Desperate. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘I’ll come round,’ said Claire. ‘I’m getting you out of there.’
‘Everything OK, darling?’ shouted the man who is not Ben. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and realized I had not locked the bathroom door. I lowered my voice.
‘He’s here,’ I said. ‘Come tomorrow. While he’s at work. I’ll pack my things. I’ll call you.’
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘OK. But write in your journal. Write in it as soon as you can. Don’t forget.’
I thought of my journal, hidden in the wardrobe. I must stay calm, I thought. I must pretend nothing is wrong, at least until I can get to it and write down the danger I am in.
‘Help me,’ I said. ‘Help me.’
I ended the call as he pushed open the bathroom door.
It ends there. Frantic, I fan through the last few pages, but they are blank, scored only with their faint blue lines. Waiting for the rest of my story. But there is no more. Ben had found the journal, removed the pages, and Claire had not come for me. When Dr Nash collected the journal — on Tuesday 27th, it must have been — I had not know
n anything was wrong.
In a single rush I see it all, realize why the board in the kitchen so disturbed me. The handwriting. Its neat, even capitals looked totally different from the scrawl of the letter Claire had given me. Somewhere, deep down, I had known then that they were not written by the same person.
I look up. Ben, or the man pretending to be Ben, has come out of the shower. He is standing in the doorway, dressed as he was before, looking at me. I don’t know how long he has been there, watching me read. His eyes hold nothing more than a sort of vacancy, as if he is barely interested in what he is seeing, as if it doesn’t concern him.
I hear myself gasp. I drop the papers. Unbound, they slide on to the floor.
‘You!’ I say. ‘Who are you?’ He says nothing. He is looking at the papers in front of me. ‘Answer me!’ I say. My voice has an authority to it, but one that I do not feel.
My mind reels as I try to work out who he could be. Someone from Waring House, perhaps. A patient? Nothing makes any sense. I feel the stirrings of panic as another thought begins to form and then vanishes.
He looks up at me then. ‘I’m Ben,’ he says. He speaks slowly, as if trying to make me understand the obvious. ‘Ben. Your husband.’
I move back along the floor, away from him, as I fight to remember what I have read, what I know.
‘No,’ I say, and then again, louder. ‘No!’
He moves forward. ‘I am, Christine. You know I am.’
Fear takes me. Terror. It lifts me up, holds me suspended, and then slams me back into its own horror. Claire’s words come back to me. But it’s not Ben. A strange thing happens then. I realize I am not remembering reading about her saying those words, I am remembering the incident itself. I can remember the panic in her voice, the way she said fuck before telling me what she’d realized, and repeated the words It’s not Ben.
I am remembering.
‘You’re not,’ I say. ‘You’re not Ben. Claire told me! Who are you?’
‘Remember the pictures though, Christine? The ones from around the bathroom mirror? Look, I brought them to show you.’
He takes a step towards me, and then reaches for his bag on the floor beside the bed. He picks out a few curled photographs. ‘Look!’ he says, and when I shake my head he takes the first one and, glancing at it, holds it up to me.