I Know My Name: A stunning psychological thriller

by C. J. Cooke

  ‘You could be anybody,’ Hazel says, at once exasperated and curious. ‘How do you have a sense of who you are if you don’t remember anything?’

  ‘Well, how do any of us have a true sense of who we are?’ Joe interjects, making quotation marks with his fingers. ‘We’re all of us many people in a single skin.’

  ‘I’m not,’ George says. ‘Cripes, you make it sound like we’re all … what are those Russian dolls called?’

  ‘They’re called Russian dolls,’ Hazel says drily.

  ‘Identity is performance,’ Joe says. ‘Ask any psychoanalyst and they’ll tell you the same.’

  Hazel lifts an eyebrow. ‘Well, next time I bump into a psychoanalyst on this uninhabited island, I will!’

  I’m shocked by this. ‘“Uninhabited?”’

  Joe nods.

  ‘This whole island is uninhabited?’

  ‘An uninhabited paradise,’ Sariah says dreamily. ‘Just this old farmhouse and a few Minoan ruins. And us.’

  I glance out the window and see a patch of dry earth rolling down to the ocean, nothing but blue all the way to the horizon. Hazel starts to tell me that the nearest island is Antikythera, which is eight miles away, but this sparks a debate with Joe about whether Crete is closer. I’m no longer listening. Eight miles of ocean to the nearest town. I’d assumed that there would be other people on the island, people we could speak to in order to provide answers to my situation, or who might help locate the missing boat. That I would be able to contact the authorities and find out where I came from.

  ‘But – how do you get supplies?’ I ask.

  ‘There used to be a big hotel on the south side,’ Hazel tells me, as if in confidence. ‘There was a restaurant, a few shops, even a bowling alley. But they closed it down last year. The recession, you know. That’s where we got our supplies before. Nikodemos – the man who owns the island – well, he loaned us a powerboat this time round …’

  ‘… which seems to have sunk,’ adds George.

  ‘There’s no Internet here, either,’ Joe warns.

  No Internet means I can’t use social media or Google to search for reports of a woman of my description going missing from Crete.

  ‘Nikodemos gave us a satellite phone,’ Sariah says, observing my unease. ‘And thank goodness. With the boat gone, we really would be stranded.’

  This, I do remember. The satellite phone that George pulled from his pocket last night. The phone they said they’d use to contact the police on the main island.

  ‘Have the police been in touch?’ I ask quickly.

  ‘I called them again first thing,’ George says, and for a moment I feel relieved. But then he adds: ‘No one’s filed a missing person’s report. I asked them to correspond with some of the stations in the other islands and they said they would.’ He shrugs. ‘Sorry it’s not better news.’

  ‘Maybe we could call the British Embassy?’ I suggest. ‘Anyone looking for me is likely to leave a message there.’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’

  He pulls the phone from the pocket of his jeans and extends the long antenna from the top. Then he rises sharply from the table, dialling a number and heading towards the window, apparently to get a better signal.

  ‘I need to be connected to the British Embassy, please?’ I hear him say.

  My heart racing, I stand and make my way towards him, full of anticipation.

  ‘Athens, you say?’ He holds the phone away from his mouth and tells me, ‘There’s no British Embassy on Crete. The closest is Athens.’

  When I ask how far Athens is, the answer is depressing: about sixteen hours from here by boat, which of course we don’t appear to have.

  George turns back to the phone. ‘Hello, yes? Yes, I wish to report a missing British citizen. At least, we think she’s British.’ He glances at me, expectant, but I have no answer to give. I don’t know whether I’m British or not. He turns back to the phone. ‘She’s turned up here on Komméno and can’t remember much about anything. Yes, Komméno. We’re about eight miles northwest of Crete.’

  He gives a description of me and nods a lot, clicks his fingers for a piece of paper and a pen and jots something down. Then he says goodbye and hangs up.

  ‘No one has contacted them about a missing British woman,’ he sighs. ‘Though of course it would help if we knew your name.’

  Sariah frowns. ‘They’re based in Athens, though,’ she says. ‘Maybe we should try the police in Chania?’

  George looks reluctant but dials a number. After a few moments he begins pacing the room, looking up at the ceiling. ‘No signal,’ he says. ‘I’ll try outside.’ He goes out the back door but returns a few minutes later shaking his head, and I can’t help but feel stricken. No one has reported a missing person. No one has reported me.

  Despite all their efforts to make me feel at home, the news saps what small amount of my strength had returned. My head and neck begin to throb again, and – bizarrely – my breasts are sore and hot; they feel as though someone’s injected molten lead into them. As Sariah begins to clear the table I pull my T-shirt forward subtly and peer down. My senses prove right: my breasts have swollen into two hard white globes, blue veins criss-crossing them like maps.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sariah asks.

  I let go of the neck of my T-shirt, embarrassed. ‘I’m not feeling so good. Would you mind if I had a lie-down?’

  Sariah tells me of course it’s fine, and Joe is already on his feet, offering to help me to my room.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need me to check you over?’ he says, helping me up the stairs. I tell him that I’m fine, but the pain across my chest is alarming and bizarre: a strange tightening sensation that wraps right around my back. It feels like someone has rammed hot pokers through my nipples.

  By the time I get to the bed I’m in tears, unable to hide it any longer. I can’t decide if I’ve torn some muscles in my chest or if I’m having a heart attack. Sariah is suddenly there by the bed, Joe on the other side, both of them asking me what’s wrong, why am I crying.

  I just want to sleep.

  18 March 2015

  Potter’s Lane, Twickenham

  Lochlan: I don’t sleep all night. Gerda and Magnus decamp to the spare bedroom and I carry Max up to his bed and settle Cressida in her cot after another bottle. Then I turn one of the armchairs around to face the window, overlooking the street, and pour myself a glass of gin.

  For hours I lurch between incredulity and devastation. Amazing how you can almost convince yourself of conversations that didn’t happen, of realities and explanations that promise to restore balance and bat away anguish. For a good half hour or so I almost manage to persuade myself that Eloïse told me she was going away for a conference and that I had simply forgotten. Desperation grows possibilities where none are usually found. I play out mental scenarios involving El falling down the stairs and banging her head, becoming disoriented and stumbling out into the street, a burglary gone wrong. Or maybe she became suicidal and couldn’t do it in front of the children. Each possibility is as bonkers as the other.

  The thing is, Eloïse is absolutely the last person you would worry about doing something out of the ordinary. She’s the person who keeps us all together. If I lose my keys, a file, a document, Eloïse will intuit its exact location. She’s like a satnav for lost objects. No, more than that: she’s steady. I know, it sounds boring, but it’s true. Countless times I’ve come home to find someone in the house being consoled, counselled or geed up by Eloïse. She’s the sort of person people gravitate towards for reassurance.

  Around five, the fear that accompanies thoughts of an abduction or burglary gone wrong makes me hold my head in my hands and force back tears. Finally, when exhaustion kicks in and my body shouts for sleep, I reach the absolute bottom of the well of self-questioning. She has left me. It’s the only answer to this most complicated of riddles, the only piece that fits the puzzle. As punishment for all the times I’ve put work before her and
the kids, for all the times I’ve not listened or exploded over something small, she has left me, and most likely for someone else. It is why her phone and credit cards are all here. She’s been using another phone to talk to him. He has money. They’ll come back for the kids.

  My vigil propels me through the spectrum of emotions. Anger, self-pity, sorrow, paranoia, a surreal kind of acceptance. Around six I hear Cressida begin to wail. I get up and make up a bottle, then take it upstairs to Cressida. Gerda is already stooping over the cot, trying to quiet her. She mutters to her in German.

  ‘It’s OK, Gerda,’ I say wearily. ‘I’ve got what she wants.’

  Gerda turns and, without meeting my eye, takes the bottle from me. Then she lifts Cressida out of the cot and settles in the nursing chair to feed her.

  ‘There, there,’ Gerda says. ‘Mamie’s here. Take your milk, meine Süße.’

  I lean against the cot woozily and watch Gerda as she feeds Cressida. I feel I ought to say something to her but don’t quite know what. After a moment Gerda says, ‘Seems only five minutes since I was feeding Eloïse like this. Cressida is the image of her.’

  She looks up at me with narrowed eyes.

  ‘I need you to be very honest with me, Lochlan. Has Eloïse left you?’

  Even though I’m well used to my grandmother-in-law’s thinly veiled contempt for me, her question – or rather, the sudden hardness of her tone – catches me off guard.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mumble. ‘I’ve no idea where she is.’

  She purses her lips and beholds me with that arrangement of her features which I’ve come to understand is designed for me and no one else.

  ‘You were one of the last people to see her, Lochlan. Did she seem …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. You’re her husband. Have you been fighting again?’

  ‘No,’ I say, and I feel a spike of anger towards Eloïse for divulging our problems to Gerda. I know Gerda’s family, that she raised my wife, but I have had not unpleasant daydreams about Gerda kicking the bucket. And following swiftly on the heel of rage is the re-realisation that El’s missing. My wife is missing. Like people you see on posters, or on Crimewatch. And I have absolutely no answers, no map, by which to find her.

  Gerda is pacing behind me, her arms folded.

  ‘Surely she must have said something.’

  ‘Like?’

  She gives a hard sigh. ‘Eloïse would hardly just leave the children behind.’

  ‘I know that.’

  She stops pacing.

  ‘Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Well, unless you gave her some reason to leave the children behind.’

  Her voice – nasal, clipped, withering – lands me back in the night El and I announced our engagement. Eloïse’s mother is out of the picture, having dragged El around England for most of her formative years in pursuit of heroin. She died when El was twelve. At that point, Gerda and Magnus stepped in and raised Eloïse, giving her a fantastic education and a strict home life. I had only met Gerda once by the time I asked El to marry me, and clearly I had somehow made a very poor first impression.

  We were in the dining room of their home in Geneva, El switching between French and German as she showed off her engagement ring to a roomful of family friends and distant relatives. I was in a corner, fiercely attempting to abate my social inadequacies with gin, when I spotted Gerda taking Eloïse by the elbow and leading her into the kitchen. I followed, but when I reached the door I heard Gerda speaking in a tone of voice that suggested I’d better not interrupt. I hid behind the door and leaned towards the sound. She was speaking in English, presumably so none of the other guests would understand. But I did.

  Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Eloïse?

  What do you mean?

  Well, you’ve only just met. Couldn’t you wait a little longer?

  Eloïse laughed. We’ve been dating for a year …

  Your grandfather and I courted for three years before we even thought of marrying. It’s a serious thing, you know. Very serious …

  I know how serious it is, Mamie—

  What does his father do?

  I think his father is retired now. He used to work in the mines.

  In the mines?

  Does it matter?

  A long sigh.

  I’m sorry.

  Sorry? For what, dear?

  That you’re not as happy for me as I thought you’d be.

  I stepped back, thinking that the conversation was over. But then Eloïse said:

  This is about my mother, isn’t it?

  Gerda straightened, affronted, and when she spoke her voice was louder.

  Just … be careful, OK? I love you so, so much, meine Süße.

  I love you too, Mamie.

  Gerda comes back into focus, the bottle of milk almost finished and my daughter beginning to fall asleep in her arms. I clench my jaw, bracing for a row.

  ‘There isn’t someone else in the picture, is there?’ Gerda says slowly, still not quite looking me in the eye.

  ‘Someone else?’

  She shrugs, as if this is an entirely reasonable thing to be asking me. ‘Another man. A lover.’

  I bristle. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘And she definitely left all her belongings behind. Her credits cards, passports …’

  ‘Passports?’ The word is barely out of my mouth when I realise what she means: El has two passports. Her British one and her Swiss one from long ago. Gerda eyes me expectantly, so I say, ‘Yes’, though I haven’t located the Swiss passport. I’d forgotten that one. It’s bright red with a white cross on it, so shouldn’t be too hard to find. I make a mental note to ransack the house for it immediately, though El’s not used it in ages. I should think it’s out of date.

  Gerda’s gaze skitters from mine. ‘You must have given her some reason to leave.’

  Her words are like shards, designed to wound, but I refuse to rise to it. It’s precisely what she wants. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

  Max is asleep in his pirate ship bed, surrounded by yellow Minions and clutching his quilt, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. He’ll be bursting with questions when he wakes up, and I have no idea what to tell him. I can hardly tell him that his mother is still away taking flowers to a friend.

  I check the filing cabinet in the spare room in which El keeps things like birth certificates and baby books, but there is no sign of her Swiss passport. It’s not in the drawer under our bed either. I can’t think of anywhere else to look. I have a brisk shower, and my mind turns to my emails and text messages, as well as Eloïse’s Facebook page and Twitter account. Both are full of queries, stickers, emojis: El, are you OK? Sad face. DM me! Shocked face. Where are you? I heard something’s up? Gravely concerned face. Hey, El, are we meeting up for lunch today? A heart.

  I have text messages from our friends asking if they can do anything, and I scroll through them all, willing one of them to say something to the effect that Eloïse has been found.

  I check my voicemail for the millionth time but there’s nothing from Eloïse. There is, however, an urgent message from my boss, Hugo, about an account – one of our biggest clients is furious about an admin error and is threatening to take his thirty million quid elsewhere. I send a quick email to Hugo, asking for clarification, and his reply pings back. Basically, I need to re-send a bunch of paperwork by special delivery to the Edinburgh branch, pray for a miracle, and Mr Husain and his millions should stay put.

  Gerda pads downstairs in a grey cashmere robe, a cigarette and a lighter in one manicured hand, heading for the back garden. She stops when she sees me and looks oddly penitent.

  ‘Look, Lochlan. If Eloïse really is missing then we need to be devising a plan of action for her return.’

  I continue rifling through the cupboard by the stairs for my briefcase. ‘That’s precisely why I’ve already spoken with the police.’


  ‘The police in this country will do nothing,’ she tuts. ‘We need to be proactive about this, Lochlan. We need to put a plan in—’

  ‘I am being proactive.’

  She cuts me off: ‘—place to ensure that she’s not gone any longer than is necessary. Unless, of course, that’s what you want?’

  What I want is to slap her. And in the same moment as I feel that ugly, tantalising impulse, I recall an argument with Eloïse that I ended by telling her she was just like Gerda. She asked me what the hell I meant, and I told her the truth: she had a tendency to twist my words and corner me with her own. Or she’d stonewall me. There’s no winning with passive-aggressive fighters. You’ve got to ignore them, for all you want to gouge their eyes out.

  ‘Will you be all right getting Max and Cressida their breakfast?’ I say calmly. ‘Cressie’s bottles have to be sterilised, and I think there are a couple of cartons of formula in the fridge. Max takes Weetabix and milk heated in the microwave for thirty seconds.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Gerda says, following me across the room. ‘Where on earth are you going?’

  I grab my keys from the kitchen island. ‘Work, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Work?’

  Gerda’s got a face like a bad ham. Good. I stride towards the front door, jump into my car and drive off as fast as I can.

  Eloïse and I met eight years ago at a charity event in Mayfair to which I’d begrudgingly gone to wave the company flag. I’d already been to one too many of those sort of things, and although I’ve spent much of my life in London there’s enough Weegie in me yet to find the whole canapés and air-kissing malarkey worse than sticking needles in my eyes. Not only that, but I’d been informed that my ex-girlfriend Lauren was going to be there and I desperately wanted an out.

  But then this beautiful woman got up on the platform. She was unassuming and sweet, a hand drawn across her waist to clasp the elbow of the other arm. She spoke quietly into the mic, introduced herself: Eloïse Bachmann. She was starting a crowdfunded project for refugee children who had wound up in the UK. The more she talked about the causes behind this project, the more she seemed to come alive. Her voice grew louder, her posture changed, and suddenly people were paying attention. When she finished, everyone applauded. Even in the bright spotlight I could see that she was overwhelmed.