by C. J. Cooke
I carried the picnic basket and a blanket and we took the long stroll down the hill, through the olive groves and all along the coastline to the cave. The wind was less fierce than the day before and the ocean a deep shade of jade, fanning out as far as the eye could see. Birds chirped happily in the trees. Sariah laid out the blanket on a slab of rock and we ate.
‘Still no memories?’ she said, pouring wine into two tumblers.
I shook my head. I was experiencing déjà vu and familiarity more often, and when I tried to think of where I lived or who I shared my life with, I could make out letters in my head, but still nothing concrete.
‘Maybe when I get to see a doctor it’ll get better. They must have medication for this kind of thing.’
‘The mind is a strange place,’ she said, looking out over the ocean. ‘Sometimes it reveals things to us to help us grow. Other times, it hides things from us to protect us.’
‘You think this isn’t down to hitting my head?’ I asked. ‘You think I can’t remember because something happened that was too traumatic for me to deal with?’
She tilted her face to the sky and closed her eyes. ‘Remember what I told you about Pandora’s box? About how, in the real story, Pandora knew exactly what was in that box and only hesitated because she wasn’t sure whether or not she could face it?’ She opened her eyes and stared at me. ‘Confronting dangerous or terrifying memories is complex. That’s the real story. Not the box.’
I nodded, because this was exactly what I had feared. I carried two different species of fear, now. The fear of what kind of person I might be – the sort of person who forgets their own child. And the fear that I was running from a past so terrible that my mind wouldn’t yield it.
I woke when it was dark and Sariah was gone. I couldn’t remember falling asleep. She’d left me the blanket, and so I curled up and went back to sleep in the depths of the cave.
My dreams have become wildly intense and vivid, a series of colliding and meaningless images so emotionally charged that I have been waking more exhausted than before I went to sleep.
I dreamed again of the cave with the beast at the end of it. This time I was at the mouth of the cave, about to step inside. Terror pierced me, and yet I knew that I had to go in. I had the cigarette lighter in one hand but no ball of wool. As I went to step forward I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw a man there. He had dark hair, late to mid thirties, a kind face, though he seemed worried. He handed me the ball of red wool and said, ‘Come home.’
I know I wanted to say so much more to him. I had a great urge to explain something to him. But I woke up before I could, and no amount of brain-wracking could prompt me to remember what it was I wanted to say.
I spent as much time as I could away from the farmhouse in the hope that some space would restore a better atmosphere between George and the others, though hunger was driving me insane. The island is teeming with lemon groves, and quite a few peach trees, but a diet of citrus fruit resulted in a severe case of the runs, leaving me dehydrated, shaky, and feeling pretty disgusting. I needed water, and a bath. So this afternoon I headed back up to the farmhouse, praying that the mood had changed and that Sariah would tell me they’d contacted Nikodemos.
But as I was walking up the bank, I looked up and found the farmhouse had been replaced by a pretty suburban semi-detached town house. It had a pitched roof and a white car in the driveway. I stopped and glanced around, shaken by the sudden change in my environment. Behind me was a garden gate, and behind that was a street. I turned back to the house and the farmhouse was there once more, the car and the house both gone. It must have been the effects of dehydration.
Shaken, I cautiously approached the back door of the farmhouse. No one was inside, so I staggered to the sink and drank cold water straight from the tap. It tasted bitterly metallic but I didn’t care – I drank about a pint and then felt sick.
When I turned round, Joe and Hazel were standing behind me. I hadn’t heard them come in and so I almost jumped out of my skin.
‘I was getting a drink,’ I said.
Hazel watched me, unsmiling.
‘Could I have my clothes back?’ she said stiffly.
I was so thirsty that I continued drinking, refilling my glass with a trembling hand.
‘They’re over there,’ Hazel added, pointing at a bench. I could see my clothes there among a pile of bed sheets and towels. ‘I haven’t had a chance to wash them. I figured you’d want to wash your own clothes, for a change.’
Her sour tone made me want to turn and run out of there, back to the cave. Whatever I had done to upset the dynamics of the group couldn’t be resolved. I looked to Joe but he glanced away, suddenly engrossed with opening and closing the cupboards. ‘I made some rosemary and sea salt bread the other day,’ he muttered. ‘Hazel, did you see it?’
I remembered the picnic I had with Sariah. We had had the most amazing bread and, now that Joe mentioned it, it did taste of rosemary and sea salt. I was about to tell him but stopped myself, though not before he caught the look on my face.
‘Did you take it?’ he asked.
I felt like a scolded child with her hand in the cookie jar. ‘I’m sorry, Joe. Sariah and I had a picnic.’
He slammed a cupboard door and I jumped, suddenly scared. Where was Sariah? I needed her calming influence to sweep some peace back into the farmhouse, but she was nowhere to be seen.
As I glanced towards the door at the other side of the room, anxious for some sign of her, I noticed a small black thing on a shelf that seemed familiar. The satellite phone.
I moved towards it, picked it up and extended the antennae. Both Joe and Hazel looked on in silence.
‘Where’s George?’ I whispered at Hazel.
She walked across the room towards me, eyes like saucers, all her haughtiness forgotten.
‘He’s not here.’
Joe had begun to fidget, visibly nervous. Hazel approached him and put an arm around his waist, both of them watching me in anticipation.
‘Do either of you know Nikodemos’ number?’ I asked.
Neither answered. I studied the phone and found a button with an arrow looped backwards. I pressed it, and the screen lit up with numbers. I held it to my ear and heard the faint buzz-buzz of a call connecting, my eyes glued to the back door in case George arrived. Each ring of the number made my heart beat in my throat.
At last a voice said, ‘Embròs.’
‘Nikodemos?’
‘Speaking.’
My breath caught and I struggled to spill out my words in case the signal died. ‘Hi, Nikodemos. My name’s Eloïse and I’m staying in your farmhouse on Komméno.’
‘Ah, yes – the stowaway,’ he said in a thick Greek accent. ‘So I have heard. You’re wanting a ride to Chania?’
I nodded at the phone, and Joe and Hazel clapped their hands to their mouths. ‘Yes! Yes, please.’
‘OK. I will come for you at seven, that’s good?’
‘That’s perfect. Thank you so much!’
Hazel and Joe were gesticulating and mouthing, Tell him to bring food, but then Nikodemos said, ‘And tell the others I am sorry for last week, but this week there will be a mountain of food. An Everest! They better make room in their bellies, no?’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you.’
In a handful of seconds it felt as though the world had flipped the right way up. Everything would be solved once he came, I knew it. Nikodemos would help me contact the police, I would search for the people who were missing me, find answers … I was no longer terrified of what I might discover about myself, about what I had done. I would face it.
Nikodemos was laughing on the end of the line. ‘No problem. I’ll see you later. At the dock by the hotel, OK?’
He hung up. I placed the phone carefully back on the shelf and dabbed my eyes with my sleeves. I told Hazel and Joe what Nikodemos had said about the food and they bounced up and down, making silent gestures of rejoicing. And right the
n Sariah came in – for one hideous moment I thought it was George, and my stomach lurched – and Hazel grabbed her and told her in excited hisses what had happened.
Sariah looked at me. ‘He’s really coming?’
I nodded, and she set down her pile of washing and told me we’d better make tracks.
‘I’ll come with you to the dock,’ she said, pulling on a coat. ‘To make sure you’re safe.’
29 March 2015
Potter’s Lane, Twickenham
Lochlan: I told Magnus and Gerda about Harriet. I didn’t plan to – it just came out in the heat of the moment. If I thought it was unbearable at home before, it has now become absolute torture to be there. I guess I have no one to blame but myself.
When I came home from the police station everyone was here – Magnus, Gerda, Max and Cressida. Sophie had informed Gerda and Magnus that an arrest had been made in connection with the tampering of the baby cameras, and of course they were eager to know who it was and whether or not the individual had confessed to taking Eloïse.
I stood by the window, still reeling from the news. I told them it was a woman, Harriet Ayres, and that she was being questioned.
‘But who is she?’ Gerda spat, her eyes bulging. ‘Is she a friend of Eloïse?’
‘She’s someone I work with.’
‘She’s someone you know?’ Magnus said, lifting an eyebrow. ‘But not Eloïse?’
Gerda was pacing frantically, throwing her arms around. ‘You must know why she would do this, Lochlan,’ she shouted. ‘The police said it was a deliberate effort to spy on you all. Why would she do that? For what purpose?’
Magnus was studying me grimly. I remembered then that he’d had an affair many years ago. At least, that was what Eloïse had told me. She’d heard them arguing and he moved out for a couple of days. One of the housekeepers at their place in Geneva. Roughly twenty years ago. Still, there was a look on his face that spoke volumes to me. Perhaps that was what prised the truth out of me again.
I sank down into a chair, longing to curl up into a ball and wake up to find it was all a bad dream.
‘We had a thing,’ I mumbled. ‘Harriet and I.’
‘What thing?’ Gerda said, her voice rising in pitch. ‘When?’
I told them, in between loud, appalled interjections from Gerda, that flirtation had progressed to a deeper connection but not a full-blown affair. Gerda kept asking what I meant, pressing me until I almost screamed. In the end, Magnus said calmly, ‘I think he’s saying that it never developed into sexual relations.’
Of course, at this, Max ran in.
‘Daddy, what’s “sexual relations”?’
‘It’s a type of coffee,’ I muttered, lifting him on to my knee.
‘Did “E” know?’ Gerda snapped, folding her arms and speaking in code for Max’s benefit.
I shook my head. As much as Gerda would have preferred to see me roasting on a spit just then, had she known how excoriated I felt inside I think she would have been satisfied. Still, she looked at me with burning hatred. The silence was filled with Max’s questions about coffee and voices in my head telling me to kill myself and get it over with.
‘Do you think she is responsible for what’s happened?’ Magnus asked, after I’d explained that Harriet was still being questioned about her possible involvement in El’s disappearance.
‘Of course she is,’ Gerda hissed. ‘It’s far too coincidental. If we were in Geneva, she’d already be standing trial. Here, she’ll probably say she was depressed and get off scot-free.’
No one spoke after that. I could hear Gerda’s agitated gripes through the ceiling as she vented to Magnus. I tried to distract myself by crawling beside Cressida as she lay on the jungle gym batting the mirrors and springs swinging above her. When I lay down beside her, she became absorbed by the pocket on my T-shirt. She turned over and reached out for it with both hands and I moved closer to her. Her little feet were bare, and I noticed for the first time since she was born how small her toes were, five smooth buds on each foot. She kicked her heels up and down against the mat, blowing bubbles with her lips.
It was such a simple thing, lying beside her and watching her explore, but it struck me that I hadn’t taken any time at all to enjoy her. I guess that’s what happens when you’re frantically busy. When El was pregnant with Max those nine months were observed day by day, with regular app notifications announcing the scale of his development with meticulous precision. With Cressida, El’s pregnancy seemed to whizz past and suddenly she was here, and I had very little of that new-baby awe that I’d experienced with Max. I was tired, I had deadlines, and I was glad she was healthy. But enjoy her? No, I really, really hadn’t.
Wes phoned at eight on Sunday night. I was finishing up the tile job in the bathroom, finding a newly cracked tile for each and every one that I replaced. Penance, you see, for all the mistakes I made. I answered swiftly, glad for the chance to talk to someone about everything that had been going on, but he spoke first.
‘I’ve found her.’
‘You’ve found Eloïse?’
‘Harriet. She’s here.’
I reeled. ‘Harriet?’
‘Aye, Harriet. The chick you didn’t cheat with.’
I stood up and walked towards the window, pricked by paranoia.
‘Wes, what’s going on?’
It sounded crowded in the background and I gathered he was in a pub.
‘I’m at the Dog and Duck,’ he said.
‘And she’s there?’
‘Yep. Right here. Not a bad-looking bird, I have to say.’
I clapped a hand across my eyes. ‘Wes, how did you know she was going to be there? Unless you’re going to tell me this is all a coincidence.’
‘No coincidence, pal. Facebook. This pub was listed under her go-to places and I figured she’d be thirsty after what she’s been going through.’
‘But there’s no way she can be there. She was charged. She was being held in police custody.’
‘They bailed her,’ he said. ‘She’s due at the Magistrates’ Court in three weeks’ time. ’Til then, she’s free to, you know, have a beer, socialise with people whose wives are missing …’
‘How do you know this? Don’t tell me Facebook told you that, too.’
‘Let’s just say I was owed a few favours.’
I didn’t dare ask what Wes was owed for.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Question is, what are you going to do, bruv? She’s here. She’s had a drink. I would have thought you’d like to ask her a few questions.’
‘I think that’s probably illegal, Wes.’
‘Thought you’d want to know, that’s all.’
‘Wait …’
‘Yep?’
I squeezed my eyes shut. I would live to regret this entire conversation, I knew it.
‘Text me the address.’
‘You don’t know where the Dog and Duck is?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘I’ve got kids, Wes. If it was a soft play centre, I’d be able to recite the postcode.’
I tapped on Gerda and Magnus’ bedroom door and told them I had to go out for milk. Then I threw on a jacket and a pair of shoes, got into my car, and drove to the Dog and Duck.
I texted Wes when I arrived and he met me a couple of minutes later.
‘Is she still here?’ I said, and he nodded. He turned and walked back towards the pub, his eyes fixed on the crowd of people who had gathered on the narrow pavement.
‘Inside,’ he said. ‘I bought her a few drinks and she’s pretty drunk.’
The thought of my brother getting Harriet drunk would have been a challenge for me to wrap my brain around any other day, but given the circumstances I figured anything was possible.
I followed him inside. The place was crammed and surprisingly dark, but Wes took me to a corner table where a woman was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, checking her phone. I hesitated before proceeding. She hadn’t seen me yet.
She hadn’t changed much, either. I recognised the emerald green dress she was wearing and the flat ankle boots. I had complimented her on that dress, said it matched her eyes. I felt an echo of whatever emotion I’d felt for her before.
Wes gave me a nudge, and I went and sat down in front of her. She raised her head and gave me an unsteady, liquid stare. Then she stood up and edged away from the table. I followed her, pushing through the crowds until I found myself back out on the street. I didn’t see Wes. I couldn’t see Harriet either, because the crowd outside had thickened and groups of people were beginning to walk home, straggling across the road. I glanced around and jogged to the square. There, at the corner, I saw Harriet clinging to the railings, vomiting.
‘Go away,’ she mumbled as I approached.
‘Just tell me,’ I shouted. ‘Tell me what you did with her.’
Her face crumpled and she started to cry. She was wearing vivid red lipstick that had smeared on her hands and chin, and her hair was pulled back from her face into a topknot.
‘I told the police that I had nothing to do with your wife going missing,’ she shouted. ‘It has nothing to do with me, all right?’
I wanted to grab her and shake the truth out of her, as if Eloïse might spring out of her pocket, but there were too many people nearby.
‘Harriet, you have to tell me the truth. There are children involved. Please.’
We were so close that I could see her teeth, the slightly chipped front incisor, her breath clutching the fruitiness of beer. She looked up at me woozily and cupped a hand to my cheek.
‘So stupid of me, I know. I only wanted to see … I wanted to see if you were breaking up with her. I thought … I was in love with you.’
I grabbed her hand and squeezed, shocked by the current of anger I could feel driving its way through me. I wanted to hurt her, to beat the truth out of her. I let go of her hand, one finger at a time.
‘Tell me what you did.’
‘Why didn’t you want me?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I wouldn’t have told her. I knew you were married. It’s not my usual thing, married men. Honest. But I thought you and me … we had something.’