I Know My Name: A stunning psychological thriller

by C. J. Cooke

  ‘Hello? Excuse me?’

  I wake to someone shaking me, a pair of bony hands gripping my arm and a voice hissing something I can’t make out. It takes a handful of seconds to gather where I am: bright sunlight from a round window, the smell of damp. I’m in the attic and a reedy figure with a woolly head of hair is standing over me. Hazel.

  ‘Hello?’ she says. ‘Hello, hello, hello?’

  ‘What?’ I whisper.

  ‘Gosh, it’s really weird not having a name to call you by. Should we make one up for you?’

  I look at what she’s holding: a saucer and teacup which is filled to the brim with a watery green liquid. I catch a whiff of it – chemical and herbal at the same time.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What? Oh, it’s sage tea.’

  ‘Sage tea?’

  ‘Sariah said you need to drink all of it. She said it would help.’

  I struggle to sit upright. My arms have no strength in them and I feel dizzy, even though I’m lying down. Hazel sets the cup and saucer on the ground and helps me, propping a pillow between me and the bedhead.

  ‘There. Better?’

  She lowers and retrieves the cup and saucer. I take them from her and inspect the contents: hot water tinted pea-green, two oval leaves visible at the bottom of the cup. I sniff it. It smells foul.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say, handing it back, but Hazel looks alarmed.

  ‘No. Sariah said you have to.’

  ‘I have to?’

  Hazel has pulled up a chair beside my bed, her hands folded in her lap.

  ‘It’s for your – you know.’

  ‘My what?’

  She tuts as though I’m being silly, then leans forward and whispers, ‘Your boobs.’

  I wonder for a moment whether she’s joking, but then the pain stirs again: a deep, sharp invisible wound, as though someone is pushing hot pokers through my nipples. My T-shirt is stuck to my chest, like something has oozed out and dried. It’s not blood.

  Hazel is wide-eyed and solemn, like a toddler that’s said a naughty word for the first time. She’s like a very young, mischievous child trapped in a fifty-year-old’s body.

  ‘Sariah said you must have engorgement because your boobs had too much milk. You know, after the walk you went on with Joe? She said the sage tea will make it go away and you’ll be better again.’

  I raise a hand to my breasts, though they no longer feel connected to me. They feel like hot stones someone has placed on my chest to weigh me down. Hazel watches me silently, her head cocked in curiosity, as I drink the disgusting tea. When I finish, she says, ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Hazel, did you say I have breast milk?’

  ‘Huh? Oh, yes. That’s what Sariah said.’

  A chill runs over me. This means I have a child. A young child. Why can’t I remember this? Was the child in the boat with me? Did he or she drown?

  ‘Hey, calm down,’ Hazel says, standing up and stroking my hair. ‘Come on, now. Stop crying. You’ve got to stop crying, it’s not going to make anything any better.’

  I can’t speak. My mouth is filled with terrible noises. I feel so angry and confused. Why am I here? Why can’t I remember what happened?

  Eventually Hazel wraps her arms around me and holds me until I calm down.

  ‘There, there,’ she says, and even though her arms are like twigs, I feel myself beginning to take deeper breaths.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘We’re here for you. We’re looking after you.’

  I wipe tears from my face. Crying has whisked away the last of my energy.

  ‘Which reminds me: you’ve to take these as well.’

  I find two small white pills in my hand. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Painkillers, I think. Joe sent them up. He said you need to keep taking them until all the muscles in your neck start to heal.’

  I toss them back with the dregs of the tea. Hazel remains seated, one leg folded over the other, giving off eager vibes. As much as I’m grateful for her bringing these up, I want to sleep. I tell her thank you and shuffle myself gently downwards into the bed, sleep already pulling at my eyelids.

  ‘What shall we call you, then?’ Hazel asks breezily.

  I give a deep sigh. I don’t care what she calls me.

  ‘How about “Hazel”?’

  I give her a look. ‘Isn’t that your name?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Aren’t you writing today?’ I ask weakly.

  She shakes her head. ‘Hate it.’

  ‘You hate writing?’

  ‘Yes. Hate it,’ she says, with a weird little smile on her face, a kind of smirk. ‘But I told Sariah, Joe and George that I’d go along with it and behave myself.’ She pouts, then bites her lip.

  Go along with what? I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Are you really not able to remember anything?’ she asks, petulant. ‘Or are you pretending?’

  ‘Pretending? Why on earth would I pretend?’

  Her tiny grey eyes are fixed on me, checking I’m telling the truth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says with a shrug. I thought you might be. Weird, not to remember who you are. You’ll stay here a little longer, though, won’t you? It’s nice having another person here.’

  I’m flattered, but frankly I’m not staying here a minute longer than I need to. If I’ve got breast milk it obviously means I must have a child. I need to get off this island as quickly as I can. I ask her, ‘Did George hear anything from the police on Crete?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’ She bites her lip. ‘Look, I want to tell you something.’

  ‘About the police?’

  ‘No, not about the police.’ She turns to look behind her. From where I’m sitting, the door appears to be closed. Then she leans forward and whispers:

  ‘I’ve got a secret.’

  ‘A secret?’

  She grins, a light coming on behind her eyes. ‘I’m not supposed to tell.’

  I fall quiet. Her words have riven me with fear.

  ‘What aren’t you supposed to tell, Hazel?’

  ‘You promise you won’t say anything?’

  ‘I promise.’

  She looks suddenly afraid. ‘’Cos if you do, George would …’

  ‘George would what?’

  She draws back. I can feel my heart racing. What is it she wants to tell me?

  ‘You’re not leaving this island.’

  ‘What?’

  A sharp knock at the door makes us both jump.

  ‘Hazel?’ a voice calls. ‘Are you in there, Hazel?’

  Hazel darts across the room. ‘Coming!’

  At the door she turns to me, drawing a finger against her lips, and my mouth falls open. She said I’m not leaving this island. Why would she say that?

  Sariah steps into the room. She eyes Hazel, then glances over at me.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks, and I say I am. I see that she’s carrying a tray of food, the smell of it winding towards me and making my mouth water.

  I sit upright again, part of me energised by the prospect of food, the other anxious to ask Sariah why Hazel would say such a strange thing.

  ‘Here we go,’ Sariah says with a warm smile, sweeping across the room in a long turquoise dress. She always looks like a Moroccan queen, all vibrant colours, beaded jewellery, and a kind of gracious manner that I find very soothing. She brings the tray close to the bed and searches for somewhere to set it, opting to make do with the chair that Hazel was sitting on. Then she turns right the way around and glares at Hazel, who is still lurking in the doorway, biting her nails.

  ‘Is everything OK, Hazel?’ Sariah asks.

  The sound of floorboards creaking announces Hazel’s departure down the stairs. Sariah turns back to me, her smile returning.

  ‘Now then. No, no. Stay where you are. I can help you eat this, OK?’

  She stirs a bowl of red, fragrant soup, spooning some of it into my mouth. She asks about the tea, i
f I drank it, then asks how I’m feeling, where it hurts and how badly. When I tell her, she listens and nods and strokes my hand.

  ‘What was Hazel saying?’ she asks.

  ‘She said I’m not leaving this island.’

  She looks up and studies the air ahead of her, as though my words are written there. ‘Hazel said that?’

  I think back, questioning myself – did I misread Hazel’s tone? – and Sariah sighs and shakes her head.

  ‘Ignore her,’ she says, spooning more soup into my mouth. ‘She’s a head full of crazy, that girl. She’s fascinated by you. That’s what this is.’

  ‘Fascinated?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ she says, straightening. A flicker of a smile. ‘I’ll tell her not to bother you.’

  I’m caught in a sudden flurry of questions, and as though sensing this Sariah says, ‘You’re probably wondering why on earth the four of us would come all the way out here to a Greek island with nothing but goats and sunshine.’

  It’s not an invitation to respond, so I stay quiet.

  ‘Now, I’m not one for making anyone do anything against their will,’ she says, her accent thickening. ‘But I did put a little pressure on the guys to come to this place. Part of that reason is owed to the solitude, yes, but the rest of the reason lies in the stories my mamma told me when I was a little girl. My mamma had been to Greece loads of times, and she loved the myths. The building blocks of every story we ever learned, those myths. And her favourite was Pandora. You know, the box?’

  I nod.

  She continues, offering me more soup. ‘The story goes that Pandora was told not to open a box and her curiosity got the better of her, and of course she went ahead and opened it and out flew all life’s bad stuff. Right?’ She pauses, shakes her head: ‘Wrong. This is the version of the myth that’s been passed down. The original myth states very clearly that Pandora knew exactly what was in that box. At least, that’s what my mamma said. I don’t know. That version stuck with me my whole life.’ She stirs the soup with slow, thoughtful strokes, scooping a small amount and spooning it into my mouth. She waits until I’ve swallowed, until I’m listening.

  ‘Lately, I’ve been thinking about it more and more. It seems to me, that addition, the fact that she knew, changes the whole story. It makes Pandora brave. A tigress. She hesitated not because she was obedient, but because she was weighing it up. Better to live a life free of trouble, or face up to the way things are and grow from it?’

  She pauses, searching my face. ‘What I’m saying is, if you suspect you might be hiding from something, if you think you might not want to face up to something, my advice to you is: be a tigress.’

  I give as much of a nod as my neck will allow, and she remains thoughtful and intent on making me finish the soup.

  18 March 2015

  Potter’s Lane, Twickenham

  Lochlan: Magnus and Gerda should be back by now. Max finished nursery at half past three and it’s after four. I ring Gerda’s mobile and there’s no answer. I feel sick as I try Magnus’ number again. They’ve had a car accident, I know it. I don’t think I can take much more of this.

  ‘Hello?’ Magnus answers.

  ‘Magnus, where are you? It’s twenty past four.’

  ‘Wait a minute, I’ll pass you on to Gerda.’ A muffled sound as the phone passes between hands, then Gerda’s nasal tones.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Where the hell are you? Where are my children?’

  ‘We’re coming up your street now, darling, keep your pants on.’

  I stride out into the street to see Magnus’ silver Bentley driving at a snail’s pace towards me. He parks on the kerb and gets out while I shake out my hands, sick with nerves. I open the passenger door and reach in for Max, who has already unclipped himself out of his child seat and is pulling a wad of paper out of his backpack.

  ‘Daddy! Daddy! Look what I made at nursery! It’s for Mummy!’

  He thrusts a folded card covered in paint and glitter at me before racing towards the house, his Thomas the Tank Engine raincoat trailing after him.

  ‘Max!’ I shout. ‘Come back!’

  My voice startles Cressida, who begins to shriek in her car seat, but I chase after Max, fearful that he might deviate from his course towards our house and sprint on to the road, or trip.

  ‘I’ll get the baby, shall I?’ Gerda snaps as I race past her.

  Inside, Max calls frantically for Eloïse. His first port of call is the kitchen, where the red tulips I bought on his behalf to gift to Eloïse for Mother’s Day are still going strong in a vase by the window, the cards we painted for her attached to the fridge with magnets.

  ‘Is Mummy not back yet?’ Max asks, looking under the kitchen table.

  I’m too flustered and exhausted to come up with a decent lie.

  ‘Come here, Maxie. I need to ask you a question.’

  I squat down, waving my hand for him to come, but he continues searching, finally making to rush past me into the other rooms of the house. I catch him and put my hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Maxie, I need to ask you about Mummy,’ I say. A part of my brain is demanding that I take a moment to plan what I’m going to ask, to take time choosing my words. It’s a delicate thing to be asking him, especially when he’s so perplexed by her absence. The other part of me is in knots from the police searching through our house, and from seeing the photo of Eloïse with a cigarette in her hand.

  ‘Max? Max,’ I say, because although I’ve managed to get him to stand still, his eyes are searching behind me and he’s standing on his tiptoes scanning the house for anything that might signal her presence. At last I manage to get his attention.

  ‘Max, do you know how Grandad Angus smokes?’

  He thinks about it, then nods.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if maybe you had spotted anyone else smoking?’

  His eyes light up. ‘Yes. I saw a lady with a cigarette.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, and she dropped it on the ground, Daddy, and she didn’t pick it up, and that’s naughty, isn’t it, Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, but … OK, I mean, here. In our house. Mummy didn’t smoke, did she?’

  ‘Smoking puts black stuff in here.’ He points at his chest. ‘That’s what Grandad Magnus said.’

  ‘OK, but …’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Does that mean Grandad Angus has black stuff inside him?’

  ‘Max? I need you to listen. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  Fear edges his voice, and the fright on his face makes me chide myself. I mustn’t be too harsh with him. I need to be gentle.

  ‘Max, did you ever see Mummy smoking?’

  ‘Ummm, no. Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I think Mummy had one, didn’t she?’

  I’m stunned all over again. ‘Mummy smoked a cigarette?’

  He leans forward and whispers. ‘Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s naughty to smoke a cigarette.’

  ‘Did Mummy say why she smoked one?’

  ‘Can I have Netflix, Daddy?’

  ‘Absolutely. But can you tell me why Mummy smoked one?’

  ‘Can I watch Peppa Pig?’

  ‘Max? Why did Mummy smoke?’

  ‘I think … to help her feel better.’

  Gently I push his hair back from his face, trying to keep eye contact. ‘What about when you woke up and Mummy was gone? Can you remember that, Maxie?’

  I know it’s the wrong thing to ask the moment the words are out of my mouth. His expression changes from playfulness to worry, his eyes turning from mine to search her out.

  ‘Can you get your phone and tell Mum to come home now, please?’

  ‘She’ll be back soon, Maxie.’

  He looks up at me with wide, hopeful eyes.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know
.’

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  His face drops. ‘You said she was coming back.’

  I kneel down and, despite every instinct that tells me to change the subject back to Netflix, I say: ‘She’s had to go to a conference for her charity, Maxie. You know the way she helps boys and girls who don’t have a home any more?’

  It’s working. His expression lifts in thought, mulling over the image of his mother off doing work on behalf of children who don’t have any toys or Netflix.

  ‘Mamie said Mummy was staying with a friend for a little while.’

  The front door slams and Gerda and Magnus’ voices creep through the hallway. Max turns and pulls open the kitchen door, running to them.

  ‘Mamie! Is Mummy with her friend?’

  Gerda turns at the doorway to the living room, Cressida in her arms, punching the air. She frowns at me.

  ‘Um, yes. Mummy’s with a friend, darling,’ she says to Max. Her tone fails to convince him and he turns back to me.

  ‘But Daddy said Mummy’s … Where did you say Mummy went?’

  ‘Your mother’s had to go away,’ Magnus barks from the other room, stepping forward to take Cressida from Gerda only to bounce her up and down. Moments later, she pukes on his shirt.

  Max bursts into tears. He turns and races up the stairs, yelling, ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  ‘Smooth, Magnus,’ I say, striding up the stairs after my son. ‘Bloody brilliant.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  I turn, halfway up. ‘Why did you have to yell at him like that?’

  ‘I never yelled at anyone,’ he yells, his deep voice magnified by the tiled hallway.

  I head across the landing towards the sound of Max’s weeping. He’s in his bedroom, both hands deep in the plastic box full of wooden train tracks. One by one he pulls them out and throws them around the room.

  ‘Max, stop it!’ I say, but he gets more frantic as I approach him. I can’t think fast enough to calculate my moves, so I end up trying to pick up all the wooden pieces of train track that he’s dumping on the ground and setting them back into the box.