by C. J. Cooke
Gerda comes in, hand on her hip. ‘Didn’t you sterilise the baby bottles?’
I hold my face in my hands and groan. ‘No, I forgot.’
‘Go away!’ Max screams at her.
‘Now, now, Max, that’s not what nice boys say,’ Gerda chides him.
‘Come here, Maxie,’ I say, but he tips the box of train tracks all over my lap and flings himself to the floor. I try to pick him up but he writhes and shouts.
‘Don’t want you! Want Mummy!’
I lift him by the waist and try to carry him into my bedroom. He is remarkably strong, almost throwing himself out of my arms when I change position. I turn him around so that his back’s to my chest, my arms wrapped around his waist, but all of a sudden he kicks me hard with his heel in the balls. I cry out and fling him on to the bed.
He lies still while I cup my testicles, holding back the urge to smack him. I hobble beside him and sit down, but immediately he turns his face away from me.
‘Want Mummy,’ he sniffles into a cushion.
It’s a struggle not to yell, Where is she? You must have seen something!
‘Max, before Mrs Shahjalal came, did you see Mummy go somewhere?’
‘Want Mummy!’
‘Can you tell me, Maxie? Did someone come to the house?’
Gerda watches from the doorway.
‘Magnus has already tried asking him,’ she says. ‘He can’t understand, he’s too little.’
‘I think I know my own son, thank you,’ I snarl. Her face tightens. I turn back to Max, stroking his head. ‘Maxie, you can tell me, OK? Please tell Daddy. Where did Mummy go? Did someone take her?’
Max sniffles and glances back to me. For a moment he looks like he’s going to answer, but then he scrunches his face up in anger and screams, ‘Hate you!’, before running to Gerda. She throws me another withering look before walking away with Max clinging to her leg.
‘Why’s Mummy not here?’ he cries. ‘Where’s Mummy gone?’
11 April 1983
Geneva, Switzerland/London, England
‘Where are we going, Mummy?’
The girl was half-awake, having been carried out of her bed by an unseen pair of arms and dressed hastily in the cold dark of the bathroom. From there she was bundled into a car, the sound of someone scraping ice off the windscreen bringing her to her senses. She started to grow upset when the car pulled away, but then she realised her teddy, Peter, had been inserted into her coat – between the coat’s zip and her chest – and she fell quiet. Her mother was in the front seat and a man with black hair and brown hands was driving. The girl had been introduced to the man some weeks ago but she couldn’t quite connect this brief introduction to the reason why he seemed to be taking them somewhere at a very strange hour.
They’d driven until morning, when the sky was sparrow’s egg blue and people’s breaths sailed upward like clouds. Then they’d parked the car and her mother had taken some big bags out of the back of the car and told her to hurry. They were at a train station, lots of people rushing past, lots of noise and urgency, and they were approaching a gateway that reminded her of the sheep stalls at that farm they sometimes went to, where all the animals had to push through a kind of gate. Her mother and the man had tickets and were observing the large clock overhead.
‘Mummy, where are we going?’ the little girl asked. This time she spoke in French. Her mother looked down at her.
‘London, Ellie. We’re going to London with Orhan. Isn’t that exciting?’
A sharp whistle sounded close by, making the girl jump. She felt herself being pulled forward, her mother transformed by a rush of strangers into a pair of bodiless feet in brown lace-up shoes. The girl clutched her mother’s unseen hand and felt the cool licks of morning air as they made it to the platform, where a train sat like a serpent, waiting.
The girl saw the man – Orhan – climb on board, before turning to take her mother’s hand. The girl stopped.
‘What’s wrong?’ her mother asked.
‘What about Mamie?’ the girl asked, and she started to cry. ‘What about Papa?’
‘Come on, Jude!’ Orhan called from the train, but the girl’s mother bent down and brought herself level with her daughter’s face.
‘Orhan says London is better for us, OK?’
The girl shook her head. In the book that Mamie read to her last night, trains took people far, far away. She didn’t want to go far away. She wanted to go home.
‘You’ll like it,’ her mother said, before disappearing on to the train.
A queue of people brushed past the girl to take their seats. She was still on the platform, her mother apparently leaving it up to her to decide whether or not she was coming. She turned and looked back across the platform, at the skirts and trousers that were at her eye level and the roof of the station where pigeons roosted along the girders.
A sharp whistle rang out, indicating that the doors were about to close. Just then, something knocked against the girl, bringing her back to her senses. She had to get on the train. She spied the something that had knocked into her – the large backside of a woman as she bustled on to the train. From the corner of her eye, the woman spotted the girl, then turned and extended a hand to her.
‘Come on, now. Get on quick before the doors close!’
Without thinking, the girl took the woman’s hand and felt herself lifted through the air on to the train. The doors slammed tightly behind her, a whistle sounded, and the jerk of the train knocked her to the ground. But the woman was there again, lifting her up. She bent down and smiled.
‘You OK?’
The girl nodded.
‘What’s your name, sweetie?’
‘Eloïse.’ El-wheeze.
‘You on your own?’
Behind the woman, Eloïse spotted her mother, waving at her impatiently from the row of seats ahead. She shook her head.
‘My mummy’s there.’
‘OK. Be careful, now.’
Eloïse headed in the direction of her mother, swaying from side to side along the aisle as the train juddered over the track. When she sat down beside her mother she saw the woman take a seat a few rows ahead of them on the other side of the train. She seemed very capable, and there was an element of difference about her – different about Eloïse’s mother, at least. She studied her for a long time, noticed the peculiar way her black hair was twisted, like ropes, admiring the brown shade of her skin. She had liked the way the woman was built – broad-shouldered, like a man – and even the tattoo on her wrist had seemed to indicate strength. Eloïse felt set adrift and wrung with fear. She was four years old, still sucking her thumb, but she sensed that her mummy did not know how to care for her. There had been that time at the shopping centre when she’d allowed Eloïse to go wandering off, and even when they called her mother’s name over the tannoy it took over an hour before someone came for her. And it wasn’t her mummy that came but her grandfather, his face flushed with anger and worry.
Eloïse kept her eyes on the woman who had helped her on the train. She would have given anything for the woman to venture over to her and persuade Eloïse’s mother to let her look after her. But that wasn’t going to happen.
When she woke up, she was in a strange house. It was small and very messy, clothes and papers strewn across the floor and it smelled different. A large window behind her overlooked the backs of redbrick houses. It wasn’t like her grandparents’ house, which was surrounded by beautiful hills and lakes and had chickens in the garden. And where was Peter, her best teddy?
She could hear a noise in the room across from her, a tap-tapping noise like a bird or small animal. She got up and tiptoed towards it and whispered, ‘Peter?’ She knew when Peter was sad and when he was happy, and even when he was feeling mischievous or cheeky. There was a difference in his expression that only she could read, and besides, she could sense his mood deep in her bones. When she found him, she said, ‘Never leave me, Peter. Promise?’
&n
bsp; She stood at the threshold of the room and saw what was making the sound: the man who’d been driving the car was putting stickers on the windows. He turned and gave her a broad smile, and she instantly smiled back.
‘Hello, Eloïse,’ he said, and she remembered his name. Orhan, that was it. Oar hand. His voice was different from her mummy’s and she couldn’t work out why. ‘Are you still sleepy?’
She shook her head, translating his mood like a weathervane reading whispers in the sky. He seemed bouncy and happy, not like her mummy, who seemed to be covered in invisible prickles.
He waved to her, gesturing for her to come and see what he was doing, but she was hesitant. ‘Where’s Mummy?’ she said.
‘Mummy’s sleeping,’ he said. ‘She’s a little tired after the journey. Oh, but look what I found.’
He picked something up from the ground – Peter – and she ran to it, clutching him tightly.
Orhan grinned. ‘I thought you’d be missing him.’
She looked at Orhan deeply, noticing how his eyes were big and chocolatey like Princess Leia’s. There were cuts on his face with tiny pieces of toilet paper stuck to them, red dots of blood in the centre, and he had very yellow teeth.
‘You got hurted?’ she said, touching the paper delicately.
‘Oh. No, that’s from shaving.’
She looked at him deeply. ‘It doesn’t hurt?’
He shook his head. ‘No, no. It’s fine.’ Then: ‘You like your new room?’
She looked around. There was a small bed in the middle of the room with a fluffy pink quilt on it. A white chest of drawers, white walls and a lampshade with pink fairies on it.
‘My room?’ she said, and he nodded. ‘What about my old one?’
‘This one’s much better. We’re in London, you see, which is better than Geneva, and you’re going to make new friends and get lots of toys.’
Despite his excited tone she felt a tightness in her chest at the thought of this. Mamie and Papa didn’t seem to be part of her new life. She wanted to ask when she’d see them again, but she sensed this would make the man disappointed and she didn’t want him to be disappointed in her. He had already turned back to the window of the room and was pointing out long white bars that looked both pretty and odd against the window frame.
‘… to protect you,’ he was explaining. ‘I put these up to keep you safe. You see?’
She reached out and gripped one of the bars, running her hand up and down it. It felt cold and smooth, like the bars on her cot. She had still slept in her cot at Mamie’s house, even though they’d offered to buy her a big girl’s bed, because in the cot felt safe and secure.
‘To keep me safe,’ she repeated, and Orhan nodded.
‘How old are you, Eloïse?’ he asked, and she held up four fingers.
‘I think you turned four, didn’t you? What would you like for your birthday present?’
She made to mention that her birthday was some time ago, but Peter interrupted.
‘Peter says he’d like a bicycle.’
‘Who’s Peter?’
‘My teddy.’
He grinned. ‘Isn’t Peter too small to ride a bike?’
‘A bicycle with a basket on the front so Peter can sit in there and I can ride it.’
When she turned to him again she could see flashes of silver at the sides of his head, like Papa. Orhan seemed lots older than Mummy, more Mamie’s age than Mummy’s age.
‘OK. If you’re a good girl, you can get a bicycle for your birthday,’ Orhan said, setting her back down to the ground. ‘Now, why don’t you go and play?’
She took Peter and began to introduce him to the new room, to the lampshade and the new bed, which she promised he’d find very cosy. Peter was very, very nervous, and he wasn’t so keen on Orhan, but she told him in her head that Orhan was nice and was keeping them safe. Then Peter saw Orhan take something out of a bag and begin screwing it to the inside of the door.
‘What’s that?’ she asked Orhan.
‘It’s a lock.’
‘A lock.’
‘Yes. It locks the door, see? To keep you safe.’
Peter asked her why Orhan was putting the lock so high on the door. Surely she wouldn’t be able to reach that? What if she wanted to get out of the room?
And then, Orhan reached up and locked it. She watched him, puzzled, as he sat down on the bed and watched her.
What do you think he’s doing? she asked Peter in her mind.
I don’t know, Peter answered. Maybe he’s tired.
Orhan turned and said, ‘Do you still feel safe?’
Do you feel safe, Peter?
I guess so.
She nodded. Orhan moved closer and crouched down beside her. ‘But do you feel safe with me?’
‘Yes,’ she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings.
He smiled, and she was happy because he was smiling.
23 March 2015
Komméno Island, Greece
Today, Nikodemos, the man who owns the island and the missing boat, is coming from Chania in Crete to collect me and take me to the police station there. I’m excited and nervous. Excited to find out where I came from and who I’ve left behind, and hopefully to get treatment to restore my memory. Nervous in case the police have no report of anyone missing and they aren’t able to help return me to wherever I’ve originated. Nervous in case they say they can’t help someone who doesn’t remember her own name. Terrified in case I uncover a terrible truth. I know I must have a son or daughter. What sort of person forgets their own child? What if I find out I’ve done something so terrible that I’ll never be able to live with myself?
It’s almost five right now, and I’ve had a shower and washed and dried my clothes. The next step is to say goodbye to everyone and head to the dock for the boat to arrive. It’s only been a few days and yet I feel as though I’ll be lost without them. And I guess they were the ones that found me. The only people I remember.
I spent the weekend sleeping and it seems to have helped me recover. The bruises on my legs and back are starting to improve and I’m not in as much pain. The awful agony of my breasts has gone and I also have better mental clarity, but the real damage must be very deep – I still can’t remember who I am. I am pretty certain that I have a degree in art history, though I have no idea where I studied or when: the fact that I have this degree is simply in my brain, like knowing that red is a primary colour. I was pretty excited when the knowledge of my degree appeared, completely out of the blue, and I was confident that other memories would follow on the heel of it. But they haven’t. I’ve felt waves of familiarity washing over me, and when I try to summon my name to mind I can make out letters: an L and an E. I have a strange déjà vu that I try to seize upon, and when I woke this morning I was certain that I had remembered: it was right there in my mind, solid and sure, but the harder I tried to recognise what it was, the more it slipped away from me.
I haven’t been able to place the sensation of familiarity or work out why something should feel familiar. But there is one thing I seemed to recognise that has bothered me. Joe is familiar. He said he was a first aider, and that he’d resuscitated me. Maybe that was why he seemed familiar to me? Because he was the first person I saw when I regained consciousness? I even wondered if I was forcing myself to remember life before this island.
I have really struggled to work out why he seems familiar. Perhaps he looks like someone I know in real life? I can’t quite explain it. In any case, he obviously has never met me before I washed up on Bone Beach.
Yesterday, I slept all day and woke when it was dark with a pounding headache. I staggered downstairs and found all four of my hosts around the dining table, holding wine glasses and enjoying dinner.
‘Good evening,’ Sariah greeted me. We never settled on what to call me until I find out my real name. ‘Would you care to join us?’
I hadn’t seen Sariah since she came up to the attic and fed me soup. I’d told her about Hazel
’s strange comment to me – You’re never leaving this island – and she dismissed it. Crazy, that’s what she’d called Hazel. Still, Hazel’s words have stuck with me and in between periods of deep, enveloping sleep I’ve wondered about what she said.
It’s a callous and deeply sinister thing to say to someone who has amnesia, and who is dependent on strangers to figure out a way home from a wilderness in the middle of the ocean. I decided that I had to confront her about it, that there had to be a meaning behind it, but as I was gearing myself up to go downstairs I saw her through the window, doing some kind of weird dance in the garden. She was flapping her arms like a bird and doing cartwheels, then swaying and pulling her skirt up over her knees. I picked over her comment again in my mind and decided that the words held no threat, and no promise of any mystery. It was just Hazel being dramatic.
At the dining table she avoided my gaze. Joe and George were sitting at the table on either side of her. Sariah had prepared lamb kleftiko with an apricot and honey dressing, potato and feta skewers, and pitta with plenty of olive oil.
‘Your bruises don’t look as bad,’ Joe said, stuffing his mouth full of pitta. ‘What about your memory? You remember your name yet?’
‘No.’
‘What about your age?’ George asked gruffly. ‘Or where you’ve come from?’
I shook my head.
‘Crikey.’
‘That must be very frustrating,’ Sariah added.
I nodded, but Joe said: ‘Depends on how you look at it. If you forget everything, you don’t have any regrets, do you?’
Sariah laughed lightly. ‘I guess I’d rather have my memory in full working order.’
Hazel seemed to contemplate this. ‘Selective amnesia would be nice. Wouldn’t you think they’d invent a kind of surgery that would take away all the bad things that happened to you in the past?’
‘They have – it’s called a lobotomy,’ George said grimly, lighting a cigarette. I felt as though I was no longer part of the conversation.
‘There was a film about that,’ Joe chipped in. ‘Jim Carrey was in it.’