I Know My Name: A stunning psychological thriller

by C. J. Cooke

  ‘Orhan,’ Tara says, and Gerda nods reluctantly.

  Welsh glances at Tara. ‘Is that when the abuse occurred?’

  Tara nods.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Welsh continues.

  Tara takes a breath. ‘During the time that Eloïse lived with Jude, she was subjected to sustained and systematic sexual abuse. Her mother was a drug addict and there was nowhere for Eloïse to seek protection or guidance. She was kept out of school a fair amount. Jude kept moving around England, presumably to avoid being tracked down by social services. She had a steady stream of partners, many of whom subjected Eloïse to the same treatment as she’d received from Orhan.’

  Gerda begins to emit terrible sobs, her shoulders heaving up and down. I have a sense that we’re breaking through to another world I didn’t know existed. I steel myself to keep listening, trying to process this horrifying new knowledge. Sustained and systematic sexual abuse … There are many questions shouting in my head right now. Why didn’t she tell me?

  ‘I think the thing to try to understand,’ Tara says, ‘is that a child as young as Eloïse was when these terrible things were happening to her simply doesn’t have the emotional vocabulary to cope with it. It’s also extremely common for the mind to respond by blocking out years of abuse. Even as an adult, it can take a long time to develop strategies by which to process it and attempt to live a normal life.’

  ‘But we were living a normal life,’ I say, though my conviction wanes the moment the words are out of my mouth. ‘At least, that’s what I thought.’

  Tara is swift to answer. ‘Trauma can lie dormant for a very long time. Eloïse coped for a good while, and she was certainly very successful. Like I said, she sought me out when she was pregnant, and I think it was because her previous birth had acted as a trigger for some of these issues to rise to the surface of her memory.’

  Welsh produces a tissue and hands it to Gerda, who dabs her eyes, then hands one to me. But I’m too stunned to cry. The edges of reality seem like they’re beginning to dissolve, the floor of the known world falling away from my feet.

  ‘She was the age our son Max is now,’ I say, and Gerda lets out a loud sob. ‘She was so young. She was a child when this happened.’ It didn’t sink in when Magnus told me, not really. A huge part of me tried to hide from the possibility of this happening to someone I love. But with every word that Dr Goff speaks I feel something piecing together, only there is no relief or resolution. I’m standing at the precipice of a terrible truth.

  Gerda looks as though her face has fallen in. Welsh is clearly itching to get answers, predictions, anything that will resolve the case. ‘Do you think there’s a connection between Eloïse’s mental health issues and her disappearance?’ she asks.

  Tara nods. ‘I would say it’s very likely.’

  My stomach flips.

  ‘Where do you think she would have gone?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ Tara replies.

  ‘You think she’s killed herself, don’t you?’ Gerda says quietly, her voice low. ‘That’s what you’re saying.’

  This time, Tara studies her hands in her lap, selecting her words, and my heart plummets. When she doesn’t answer, Welsh presses her.

  ‘You mentioned that you’ve been involved in cases of women with similar mental health issues who’ve gone missing.’ A long pause. Welsh lowers her voice. ‘In those cases, was suicide a common outcome?’

  Tara lifts her eyes to mine.

  ‘Yes.’

  1 April 2015

  Komméno Island, Greece

  I’m wringing out my clothes in the bathroom when suddenly I hear George laughing, his deep voice booming rhythmically. I freeze, my hand reaching for the door knob in case the lock fails. I’m naked. My clothes are too wet to put back on and there are no towels.

  Holding the door knob tightly I press my ear against the wood of the door to listen. I can only make out George’s voice, but he must be talking to someone. I try to gauge his tone – is he addressing Hazel? When he begins to laugh, I open the door and tiptoe up to the attic, closing the door behind me as quietly as I can. He’s still talking. Good. I’m flooded with relief at the sight of a pair of Hazel’s tracksuit bottoms and a black jumper on the chair by the bed. I tug them on as fast as I can.

  ‘Hello, Eloïse,’ a voice says behind me.

  I yell in fright and spin round. George is standing in the doorway, a grin on his face.

  ‘George,’ I say. ‘I … I was cold, so I came up here to get some clothes. That’s all. I can go …’

  A flash of lightning sets the room aglow, though his eyes appear dark, black holes in his face, his bulk blocking up the door frame. Another clap of thunder rattles the roof. How did he get up here so fast? Where are the others?

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder about you, Eloïse.’

  I hold up my hands. ‘George, please …’

  He leans against the wall, his arms folded. ‘Every time you’re around, things start to go wrong.’ His voice is low and unnervingly affable in tone. ‘Nikodemos, the cistern, the satellite phone …’ Another bolt of lightning interrupts him. ‘And now a great big storm. Joe’s wrong. You’re not Eloïse.’

  I hold my hands up, trying to reason with him.

  ‘I don’t want to be here, George. I can go—’

  ‘Where you going to go?’ he says. His frame fills the whole doorway, so I’ve no chance of slipping past him. I’m trapped.

  ‘You remember where you live yet? You remember who you are?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Then you’re staying here, right where I can see you. You’re staying with me forever.’

  He takes a step back and slams the door. I hear the sound of a key turning in the lock, and as I pull on the door handle there is the sound of something heavy being dragged across wood. The door won’t budge.

  ‘George! Let me out of here!’

  There is only the sound of the thunder rolling overhead and the rain pounding against the windowpane.

  It must be about three o’clock in the afternoon. George locked me in here last night and I have no idea when he plans to let me out. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since yesterday morning.

  My stomach has stopped hurting but I feel light-headed. My lips are cracked and my fingers are swollen. I can’t get up from a crouching position on the floor. The sun has been beating down all day and the room has grown unbearably hot. I tried banging on the floor to get Sariah’s attention, but I only lasted ten minutes or so before I felt nauseous. Through the skylight at the far end of the room I can see that the cruise ship has gone.

  Perhaps it is the act of staying so still, or perhaps it is because I am dying, but my memory begins to awaken. That’s the only way I can describe it – effortlessly, I recall great chunks of my past.

  My little boy, Max. I remember planning a train-themed party for his fourth birthday. I had organised a cake to be made in the shape of Thomas the Tank Engine. He is the most beautiful child I could ever have imagined calling my son.

  Suddenly I miss Max so badly that it almost turns me inside out. Knowing that he is somewhere else, somewhere I can’t remember, is an unexpected torture. I can see his bedroom. I designed it so carefully. His gallery bookcase mounted on the wall opposite his bed, with all his favourite books positioned so he can choose for himself. His Thomas the Tank Engine bed covers and shelves covered in Peppa Pig characters. His wall chart of dinosaurs. Is he still this young? Is he alive?

  My beautiful boy. I wish so badly to hold you in my arms.

  Memories continue to whirl in my head, unprompted and wild. I remember holding an infant, a little girl, and her name comes to me in a tremendous, heart-wrenching rush.

  Cressida.

  I remember trying to breastfeed her, a sharp, searing ache when she latched on. I remember the softness of her small, fuzzy head against the crook of my arm. She looked funny and almost ugly: milk spots dotting her face like pimples
, her eyelashes not yet grown, her lurid pink skin turning to white scales along the creases of her wrists and ankles. I loved her with such intensity.

  And yet you left her.

  I remember laying her into a car seat as I stepped into a shower, then stepping out again in case she tipped herself out. I felt so stupid – she was strapped in, there was no way she could fall out – but the fear that she might be harmed hunted me like a wolf. Relentless. Day and night.

  You could harm her without realising it.

  They said she’s not gaining weight – your milk is not enough for her.

  There are other ways that you pose a greater threat to her than anything else out there.

  You could roll over on her in the night.

  You could forget to tuck the blankets under the mattress of the Moses basket and she could pull one over her face.

  You might leave her sleeping in a draught. She could die of hypothermia.

  Slow, insistent ripples of recollection nudge the pieces of myself into new shapes. I remember my home, my job, Lochlan, my friends. I remember the voices I heard, the others. I remember feeling afraid that I could hurt Max and the new baby.

  You left them.

  What does that say about you?

  2 April 2015

  Potter’s Lane, Twickenham

  Magnus: The infant is crying, endless, tormenting crying. I’m trying to make a bottle for her but I’m not marvellous at this sort of thing. The writing on the tin of milk powder is ridiculously small. How do they expect anyone to read this? It’s microscopic.

  I reach in and find a fiddly piece of plastic that looks like a doll’s scoop which I suppose I’m to use in order to get the powder into the bottle. It’s only after I’ve shaken the mixture that I wonder whether I was meant to level off the powder. The milk seems too thick. I give it to Cressida anyway. Her screeching has my blood pressure off the charts.

  And now my mobile phone is buzzing in my pocket. How anyone does this on a daily basis is beyond me. ‘All right, all right,’ I tell my phone, setting the baby on the sofa with a cushion propping up the bottle so I have the ability to answer the call. The bottle begins to roll away from her and I reach out to set it back, but then she manages to position her tiny little fists around it and feed it to herself. Gut gemacht! I tell her. Well done!

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello? Magnus?’

  ‘Ja?’

  ‘Magnus, this is Nikodemos Mantzaris. From Chania. I have a message from my son to call you?’

  ‘Ah, Nikodemos!’ I say, and I’m so surprised by the call that I somehow manage to knock the tin of milk powder all over the floor. I swear loudly, and Nikodemos is on the end of the line, saying, ‘Hello? Hello?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, beginning to babble in broken Greek about milk powder and my great-granddaughter, until it occurs to me that he won’t understand any of this. I switch to English and get to the heart of the matter.

  ‘Look, Nikodemos – thank you so much for returning my call. It’s concerning my granddaughter Eloïse. You remember her?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s missing, Nikodemos.’

  Suddenly I can’t speak, my throat is seized with sadness, and I stamp my feet on the ground to shake it loose. Now is not the time for silence and sorrow.

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You remember her, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course I do. How old is she now?’

  ‘She’s in her thirties … married, two beautiful children. But we’re very worried because she seems to have …’ The tears come again, and my voice rises. I squeeze my eyes tightly and sing the words to the Bättruef in my mind to distract my feelings.

  ‘You think she came to Chania?’ Nikodemos asks.

  And then, an idea occurs to me. ‘Have you been to the island lately?’

  ‘Which island?’

  ‘Komméno Island.’

  ‘Komméno? No, no. Ah, what a pity that the hotel closed down. No ferry means no tourists! The ferry companies are run by scoundrels …’

  ‘But I wonder, Nikodemos – if you could ask around for me. Maybe your son, also? We are very worried about our granddaughter.’

  ‘I suppose I could go out there, if you think that would help?’

  ‘Ja, that would be very good. Very good.’

  ‘… there is no ferry to Komméno, you see. If she were to go there, she would have to hire a boat, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He informs me that he will ask around and contact me if he discovers anything, but he doesn’t sound hopeful. My wretched throat seizes up again and I stamp my feet, but this time the baby starts to cry. Better the baby than me. I tell Nikodemos that I’m grateful for his help and he ends the call. I don’t expect I will hear from him again.

  I hold the baby to my shoulder, rubbing her little back. It seems only five minutes ago that I did this with Eloïse.

  I have called everyone under the sun about her whereabouts, even people who have never met her. Our friends in Switzerland went to our homes in Geneva and the chalet in Sidelhorn several times to ensure she had not arrived. In my heart, I thought she might be there, and I was doubly saddened that she was not.

  ‘You will have to be brave, little one,’ I tell Cressida, and she gives a hearty belch in response. ‘You’re so tiny and you don’t understand. Your mother must be missing you very much.’

  My phone rings again. I answer, expecting it to be Gerda informing me that she’s arrived home in Ledbury safe and sound. But I’m surprised – it is Nikodemos again.

  ‘My son called his friends at the harbour,’ he explains.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They haven’t seen your granddaughter.’

  I give a long sigh. ‘Thank you all the same.’

  ‘But there is a name on one of the ledgers.’

  ‘Ledgers?’

  ‘Yes, for boat rented. My son’s friend seems to have rented a boat to Eloïse Bachmann. Is this your granddaughter, Magnus?’

  2 April 2015

  Komméno Island, Greece

  Motherhood ripped me into many different people. I see that now. I had to remake my identity. I had to re-become. ‘I’ became ‘we’.

  I had clasped a second heartbeat in my womb for nine months, then another. When Max was born, my mind divided into multiple areas of worry for him: Is he breathing? Is he hungry? Is he too hot? I loved him beyond love. Every strong emotion I had ever felt was dismissed by this new tempest of feeling. Everywhere I went, he went too, and even when he was born there was nothing I did alone. ‘I’ was ‘we’. I could not speak of ‘me’ or ‘I’. I could not think of it.

  I repressed so many emotions. A mother should not harbour hate, or anger, and I feared that these might harm him. I feared that I would harm him, that I would be a danger to him as my mother had been to me.

  It comes to me in lurching images. Hiding in the bathroom from Orhan, clutching my teddy for comfort. The ugliness on his face is frightening. I called it his monster face, and sometimes I imagined him with long horns looping out of his head. He is so tall, towering over me like a colossus.

  He drags me out of the bathtub by my hair, out of the bathroom and across the landing. Mum stands in the doorway of the bedroom, her pale hair messy and unwashed, her eyes empty pools. A red splodge shouts from the corner of her mouth and I know it is blood, not lipstick. I scream Mum! Mum, help me! But I can tell she is high again. She watches blankly as he punches me in the stomach and hurls me across my bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Another memory of my mother sitting by the window in her underwear. No men in the house. Mum was so thin, but also very beautiful, even though she only ever seemed to be covered in scratches and bruises. She had a hummingbird in her hand.

  What’s that, Mummy?

  It’s a hummingbird, darling.

  But where’s its wings?

  Sshh now. You’ll wake him. He needs a little bit of blood. See?


  Ouchie, Mummy.

  This little hummingbird is a special kind. He has a silver beak and white wings folded against his body. We just slip his beak into my arm.

  Doesn’t it hurt?

  She rolled her head back and closed her eyes. I watched, intrigued. I knew this was her bliss. She opened her eyes slowly and gave me a loose, watery smile.

  No. It doesn’t hurt. Life hurts, Eloïse. This is the nectar.

  And then, the morning I found her. I had already left for school but got sent home again. This time it was because I had a black eye. The teacher sent me with a note for my mother, asking to speak to her.

  I threw down my schoolbag in the corner of the kitchen and looked it over. It was tiny and crammed with rubbish. I had taken over the housework at the age of eight, but my mother and her boyfriends had an uncanny ability to trash whatever flat we got moved to.

  Mum?

  There was no answer. I glanced in the living room. Looked in the bedrooms, the bathroom. She rarely left the house. I checked her bedroom again and found her lying on the floor by the window.

  Mum!

  At first I thought she’d simply rolled out of bed. It wasn’t uncommon for me to come home from school and find her still asleep. She said her body clock was all wrong: she preferred to stay up all night and sleep all day. I tried to help her back into bed, but she was floppy.

  Mum, wake up, please!

  She didn’t respond. We’d learned first aid at school. I lifted her eyelids and saw her eyes were rolled back into her head. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Her face was so white it seemed almost marble, saintly, her cheeks hollow. I felt for a heartbeat but there wasn’t one. I gave her mouth to mouth. I had done this before. Many times I had rescued her from the depths of unconsciousness, and I searched for reassurance in that. But this time was different. She was too deep, too gone.

  I slapped her face, then put one hand on top of the other and pushed down to waken her heart. Then I lay on the floor beside her and drew her limp grey arms around me, kissing the red puncture wounds there as though I could make them go away. I curled into her, crying. Despite how much she had neglected me, despite the terrible things she had allowed me to endure, she was tender sometimes. I had memories of her brushing out my hair and telling me how beautiful I was. Even as a young child, I had a sense of her as broken and that I had caused her to break. I had to heal her, put her back together again. She was my mother.