Who I Am: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist

by Sarah Simpson

  I stop to ogle the displays in the Waterstones window. Reminding me of a few weeks ago, rediscovering a box of old books and documents in the loft. Luckily, it was me who came across the box, it must have been lurking there for years, all taped up, books, photo albums and precious bits of paperwork, keepsakes and the like. I’ve slid them under the bed for the time being but must remember to move them, hide them, once I’ve had a look through. I continue on, turning right to climb the gentle gradient of Lemon Street. A black cloud loitering, threatening, all because of a box. I pass by the market place, resisting the smell of local delicacies, my stomach growling in protest. Until I come to a stop, squinting at the front door, number 39b, a huge sash window to my right. I bet they’ve spotted me already – here’s the next nut case. Do I want to go through with this? Discreetly I scour up, then down the street, only Kyle and Carol know of my appointment, I need to keep it this way. The shame. What am I supposed to say to this complete stranger? Odds on – with her life so perfect, no skeletons in the closest, everything chugging along like clockwork. A husband who’s always nearby. What am I doing?

  Taking in a deep breath, I push at the solid door, exhaling only as I push it to again. First impressions – it doesn’t smell of stuffy chairs and old people, like I expected it to, nor is it dark and dismal. To the contrary, it’s bright, modern and smells of fresh cotton, my shoulders ease a little. A cute looking surfer type meets my eyes, warm and smiley from behind a small curved reception desk. I’m not here to enjoy myself, why does he look so happy about me being here?

  Broad shoulders and sea blue eyes greet me. ‘Hi – Andi?’

  ‘Yes,’ is all that falls out.

  ‘Great.’

  Great? Why is it great? Because I have fallen to the lowest point of needing to come here?

  ‘Come on in, take a pew. Eve won’t be long now.’ He regards the reception clock then shrugs, ‘she’s running a couple of minutes behind schedule,’ lips curling up at the ends as if to say, this is nothing unusual. How rude of her. ‘I’m Ruan, by the way, can I grab you a coffee while you wait? Tea? Herbal? Traditional? A glass of water?’

  A glass of wine would be lovely, thank you, clip clops through my mind.

  I shake my head. ‘No. Thank you, I’ve not long had one.’ I did only have the one to be fair before brushing my teeth. Twice. I slip a mint from my pocket into my mouth. Something about Ruan reminds me of Elliott of old, a close friend of Camilla’s, carefree, charming, lovely, yet none of us ever realised the truth, who he really was. Not even me until recently. How? Because he didn’t want anyone to know the truth. God, I can talk.

  ‘Sure, let me know if you change your mind, help yourself to the water,’ he points towards the water dispenser before returning to his files. ‘I’m only here, shout if you need anything.’

  So does he get to see all the confidential details? I imagine him leant up against some bar dishing out the latest gossip, you’ll never guess what I read in clinic today. Thought I’d heard it all until this new case and so on. Perfect. Picking up the latest edition of Cornwall Lives, I casually flick through. Same old stuff regurgitated, I’m about to return it to the table when I feel my heart jump to the next beat. Then, I’m quickly fumbling back through the pages, my breath quickening, shortening, rising until I find it. I shouldn’t be doing this but I can’t seem to help pushing the self-destruct button. I stare at the page before closing it up again, the dirtied magazine. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately attempting to distract the images invoked by the article. White pumps gathering dust from the trodden path, a vivacious sea breeze lifting my clumsily tied ponytail, noisy animated chatter satiating my ear drums. My arms heavy, laden with supplies. Happy, yet something unnerves me, I shiver. She’s discovered something about me. She’ll tell everyone, ruin everything. Why didn’t I turn back? Because I need to appease her. My hands dampen. Something urging me forward, following her in a trance like state. I could have walked away, no one need have died.

  An unpredicted thud makes me jump.

  A smell of citrus and cedar wood alerts my senses, dispersed by a slight draught. Eyes now wide open, I’m face to face with a petite elegant woman, smiling at me. Ruan skips from behind to relieve her burdened arms of loose files.

  ‘Hi, Andi?’ she says, a manicured hand reaches for mine, short plum nails shining. ‘I’m Eve, how lovely to meet you. Give me a moment,’ she says, slipping off a lightweight apple green mac, ‘then I’ll be with you. I’m really very sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she calls over her retreating shoulder. Then she’s gone, thankfully taking my episode with her.

  Why did I have to pick up the blasted magazine? I hope she didn’t notice my trembling hand shake, she’ll think it’s because I’m some kind of dehydrated alcoholic and completely miss the point. Why am I here? Why did I come, because I felt pressured? Guilt? Paranoia? Because of what happened that day on the beach, the very thing I can’t mention? I shouldn’t be here. I turn to see where Ruan is, Eve’s door is still pushed to. I could easily leave before she returns, if I’m quick. But for some reason my backside is glued to the seat, my conscience maybe?

  ‘I’m making Eve a coffee, sure I can’t tempt you?’ Ruan calls over.

  ‘No, thank you, I’m still fine.’ I say, hands tightly clasped on my lap.

  As I’m contemplating my escape, leather clad footsteps re-appear from behind, me automatically tensing, squeezing thigh muscles a little further. Why did I ever think this would be a good idea? I’m ashamed more than ever, I’ve let my children down, Kyle too, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I’m openly admitting to the world, I have failed. Again. I already know what’s wrong with me, this can never be undone. Lie. Tell her, I’ve changed my mind, I no longer need her help.

  ‘Andi,’ a soft but strong voice reaches me.

  Without thinking I stand and turn. ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

  ‘Please come on through. Let’s make a start shall we,’ she smiles gently. Ruan hands her a mug resembling hot tar in the pretence of coffee. I follow the earthy aroma through to her room. Once over the threshold, I feel myself climb down a little from a jittery ladder, the walls are soft colours of pebbles and wild mushrooms with a delicate sandalwood aroma. Behind where Eve stands is a camouflaged wall of books, my eyes are instantly drawn to them.

  There, directly in front of me, I see it – Jamaica Inn, Daphne de Maurier, feeling Eve’s eyes on me, I blurt. ‘You like your books,’ it’s all I have, my brain closing down with each passing second. That blasted book.

  Her soft coral lips upturn, gesturing for me to take a seat, ‘I do, Andi, yes,’ then we both sit back into comfy tub chairs, ‘do you? Do you have time to read much?’ She asks, her eyes very subtly taking in what she has before her, her mind, a discreet cog, ticking and deliberating. Another case study, head case, however she refers to us.

  I nod, a smile squeezing through gritted teeth, ‘perhaps not as much as I should, like I used to,’ my stomach rolling with the reminder. Camilla. The orphan, nowhere for her to turn, nowhere for her to go she was so street wise, yet so naïve. Did Eve plant this book for me? Am I transparent, does she see what I have buried, running through my blood?

  ‘What do you do, Andi? Do you work?’ she asks, inquisitive rather than judgemental like some of the school mothers, who assume, given where we live, I don’t work.

  ‘I write,’ I tell her. She tilts her head, nods with interest, encouraging me to continue. ‘I’m a features writer for a couple of magazines, one based in London, the other is more casual, here in Cornwall.’

  ‘How lovely,’ she offers, ‘so you’ve a creative mind, a strong right hemisphere,’ she informs me. ‘Have you always written, since you were young?’ she asks.

  ‘Kind of, I suppose I have, yes.’

  ‘Always had a good imagination?’

  Is she asking me, telling me or testing me, I’m not sure. I nod, ‘guess so, yes.’

  She takes a sip of coffee, ‘you know, a high prop
ortion of people I see, have wonderful imaginations.’

  ‘Oh?’ Does she think my problems are all in the mind? An overactive imagination?

  ‘Yes.’ She continues, ‘the imagination, our most powerful tool. Which means it is also our best friend or our worst enemy, depending on how we learn and choose to use it.’

  ‘Oh. But, don’t we all have imaginations.’

  ‘Of course, yes, but it’s varies and depends on whether the person is left or right brain dominant, their life experiences and much more. Generally speaking, our left hemisphere is more about order, structure and procedure, our right hemisphere on the other hand, thinks more outside of the boxes. More of a floodlight, rather than a torch.’

  Eve rotates to place her mug behind her on the desk, reaching for a file and pen, this is where she begins scribbling as fast as I talk, I’ve seen it before in films. ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t be taking masses of notes only the odd word to remind me for the notes later on,’ she says. I nod, my God, can she read my mind? Stop it. Don’t be ridiculous. I used to have these disconcerting thoughts back in my twenties, paranoid, what if people could read what was sitting in the back of my mind? I’d have nowhere to hide. I almost became scared to make eye contact.

  ‘If you think about it, to worry, to ruminate, to fear, we have to engage our imagination. Your husband mentioned you seemed worried at the moment, Andi?’

  ‘Don’t we all worry?’

  ‘From time to time, yes. It’s healthy to a degree. Else we wouldn’t recognise danger. It’s when it becomes excessive it causes problems.’

  ‘I guess I am worrying more than usual.’

  Eve nods. ‘We don’t think worry in words, we think worry in images. If I ask you to think of your home now, you see it don’t you.’ She cocks her head slightly, I nod in return. ‘So your thoughts become images in your imagination.’

  My mind zooms back to only moments before, in reception, those haunting images.

  ‘Unfortunately as clever as our brain is,’ she continues, ‘it doesn’t discriminate between what’s in our minds eye and what is real. If it thinks it, it sees it, so it has happened, will happen, is happening, is real. Our imaginings, our worries, become our reality. So you see why our imagination can be so powerful and then also so destructive if turned against us.’ Using our imagination to see our worries creates a fear of the fear.

  ‘And what if it’s not fear about what might happen, more…’ What am I saying? I knew this would be dangerous.

  Eve finishes, ‘you mean, fear or worry about what has happened?’

  I don't answer, I feel sick.

  ‘Well, it's simply re-living the events all over again. As if it were happening again.’ Increasing and compounding the trauma.

  ‘So, it feels as bad, as you know, when it first happened?’ Be quiet for Christ sake.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘if it’s not been dealt with, rationalised, come to terms with. Physical and psychological responses can often be as bad. Worse sometimes without the context.’ With many anxiety fuelled re-visits.

  It makes sense, perfect sense, when I see these things, I’m right there, in the moment, real time. Like just then, in reception, I was back there, all those years ago.

  ‘Of course, I’m not saying this is you, Andi, just thought while we were on the subject of reading, imagination, worrying…’

  ‘So what’s the difference, if you have a stronger left hemisphere?’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t mean you can’t suffer emotional difficulties, only that you are less vulnerable to the dark side of the imagination. Generally speaking, the left hemisphere is far more matter of fact, not so prone to wondering about the what ifs, should I’s, wished I’s, and issues sitting outside the boxes.’

  ‘I see.’ I know people who appear never to worry, taking everything in their stride. A problem, fix it, move on. Carol’s much more like this.

  I feel Eve’s eyes watching me, absorbing my responses, my twitches. ‘Can I ask what made you pick up the phone?’ She asks gently, ‘what made you decide to book an appointment, don’t think too much about it. Your gut reaction is perfect.’

  The first word out my mouth, like a horse through the gate is, ‘guilt,’ she nods for me to continue, ‘fear.’ Fear? I hear myself say. Guilt and fear. Guilt for what I did. Fear of my imagination. Or fear of someone finding out what I did?

  ‘Fear, perhaps the strongest negative, driving emotion. Guilt, possibly one of the most destructive.’ Eve smiles reassuringly.

  I’ve said too much already. How did she manage to make me spill so easily, maybe she is some kind of witch? ‘My children too,’ I add, feeling more guilt as if they were some kind of afterthought.

  ‘I was just about to ask,’ she says, ‘often the fear of damaging the love you have for others, intensifies the emotion. Love being the strongest positive motivator for most. It’s also what you will use, Andi, to get you through this period troubling you. There’s rarely a stronger drive than a mother’s love.’

  I nod, ‘I see, yes.’ There’s something in Eve’s smile, I sense she’s a mother, she’s known fear too.

  ‘Sometimes it feels all too challenging to take on our fears, for ourselves, I mean,’ she continues, ‘but we find a way somehow, for our children. But for me to help you,’ she advises me, ‘you’ll need to feel you can be completely honest with me.’

  So this isn’t going to work then is it? I’m unhealable.

  We chat on, skipping around the sensitive issues, she asks questions, merely a tip-toe from the danger zone, without ever being intrusive. As if sensing when I physically tense, when we move too close, then she slips away to safe ground again. A small part of me desperately needs to divulge all to this person. My bottled thoughts feel as though they could blow the cork at any point soon. I pull myself up, this is why this was a dangerous idea. How can I possibly ever be honest? And despite what she says, this is especially because of my children. Especially.

  17

  Cornwall, 2017

  Eve

  Eve follows Andi back through reception, closing the front door after her. Ruan is busy with a telephone call so she returns to her room to write up the notes. Andi, she thinks, almost a reduced form of a strong woman awaiting her when she entered the reception. The haunted look at the back of surprised eyes was what she met first. As if waking someone from walking in their sleep. Her hands damp to the touch, Eve noted, small beads of sweat, discreetly shone from her brow.

  Eve scribbles a few notes down. Andi held back on conversation, waiting for her to speak, with a look of someone out of her depth, an unassured mind. Holding back, deliberately. A sharp and intelligent woman perched in front of her, a creative right brain, yet still a good operating left hemisphere too. Something sufficiently upsetting has challenged this equilibrium. But why now? There behind her eyes lies a strain, a fear, a loss or a fear of loss? Then the guilt? What has she done or what is she about to do that is so bad as to imbalance her? Perceived or otherwise? Her children were mentioned only after her revelation of the most negative emotions, so they are not the reason, she is worried they will suffer as a consequence of the reason. Her truth?

  Eve scribbles in the file, this may be a long journey. Andi seeks help but only to help her come to terms with or protect her from her truth. Does she want help or help to come to terms with whatever she knows, believes, has experienced? Someone else’s truth, her truth or just another box of lies?

  One more box for the attic.

  Eve replaces her pen on the desk, looking out at the garden through the sash window, if only she could convince her that the box of lies will need to be opened in order to gain any relief, any control, any closure. That she can keep running from it, from him, from her but she will never gain sufficient distance. It’s only ever a matter of borrowed time. Time doesn’t always heal, despite what they say, sometimes it only scratches at the surface like wire wool to an open wound. Incubating the wicked.

  She’s
running from something, someone or both but soon she may trip. Her only hope is to turn and face it, whatever it is.

  18

  London 2017

  Camilla

  Dare I say, my research is progressing exceptionally well. Today’s invasive world of social media allows anyone to locate and research even the most personal of details. What’s the point in privacy settings? Gathering snippets of information from one source, adding to the banked data from others. It’s a jigsaw in progress, discovering the pieces that fit, those that don’t, shuffling around until you’ve a good idea of the story you’re building. It’s beautifully satisfying in an iniquitous, twisted way. Once I’d seen her, looked for her, began to unearth the truth, I needed more. Sucked in to a life belonging to someone else.

  Hence my reason to locate the acclaimed Photography Academy in London. Somewhere in Covent Garden, booking myself on an eight week course, necessitating one evening each week. This only allows me eight days in total to achieve what I need to. But you can accomplish great things in eight days, I’m sure. Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t discovered the truth but remained blissfully ignorant.

  This course indulges a natural interest, a street photography course, snatching the spontaneity of life on the city’s busy streets. It couldn’t be more perfect, this piece of the jigsaw was cut out especially with me in mind, capturing the true grittiness of urban living. Initially, I’ll travel there and back to London in the day, a long day but thoroughly worth it, I’m hoping. I’ve not had more than the odd day away from the restaurant for the last couple of years so Drew is in full support; in fact, he’s practically ordered I take some time out. At the very least, he told me, it allows him to do the same without feeling so guilty. We were both blown away with his recent diagnosis, why do bad things happen to the best people? I think it was this that deepened the feeling of injustice bubbling inside me, prompting me to take action.