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

by Sarah Simpson

  ‘Really? You haven’t mentioned this before. Why haven’t you said anything?’

  Good question. I reach for the jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, wishing I could fetch its companion, vodka. I turn my attention back to the estuary, noticing one of sailing dinghies has capsized, I can just make out two bodies bobbing up and down. ‘Looks like they’re being taught what to do if the boat capsizes,’ I nod in their direction. ‘Can’t say I envy them, think I’d panic, practice or not. At the mercy of the sea.’

  Carol’s eyes follow mine. ‘And, why haven’t you mentioned the stalker thing before? I’m assuming you’ve told Kyle?’

  ‘No.’ I say, ‘I don’t want to worry him about it, just yet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t sure to begin with, I’m still not. I need to be sure in my own mind first, it could be nothing more than a string of coincidences.’

  ‘Oh, come on, obviously that’s not what you believe. You think someone’s deliberately targeting you.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why, Andi, why would they? There’s something you’re not telling me, I know you. I think it’s time to come clean.’

  What does she think I’m withholding? She must just be snooping. ‘I’ve been running an online piece of research for my current feature for the magazine. I asked my followers to vote on their favourite coastal eatery, it’s been really successful. People have voted in significant numbers. But then the other night, something woke me, in the early hours. What, I don’t know, any other day I could say the wind, cats fighting, foxes, badgers, take your pick out here.’ The ladder! ‘But, oh, I don’t know, it sounds silly now but it was something unusual. I’m used to all those noises, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have woken me. Anyway, I checked my mobile for the time and noticed I’d a new Twitter notification and a new follower, I know this seems normal but… I’d a strange feeling about it, then my mobile ran out of battery. So instead of doing the right thing and going back to sleep, I logged into my laptop.’

  ‘But why, Andi? What is it you’re not telling me?’ Carol has lowered her head, staring at me, all eyes.

  ‘As you said the other day – I’ve not really discussed my past with you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t!’

  I’ve my reasons and I’m still not ready to. But for the purpose of her having an understanding of why I’m so freaked out, I’ll say this. I glug from my glass to relieve my throat, rapidly drying out. ‘After I graduated, we had a summer party to celebrate but there was a terrible accident. I mean a really awful accident. People died.’ Carol is regarding me with an open mouth. ‘I can’t stay with this for too long, Carol, as much as I know you have questions literally on the tip of your tongue.’ I raise my hand and avoid eye contact, she mustn’t press me on this. ‘That’s as far as I can go with this particular event at the moment, so please don’t ask any more of me. Anyway, it’s not relevant. The point is, this new follower, the tweet, was from someone who died that night, I think. I mean, obviously it can’t be, but someone is trying to impersonate her, then.’

  Carol rocks back into her chair, exhaling noisily out of her mouth, ‘Jesus, And. Flipping shit. Really?’

  ‘At first, I tried to convince myself it was a sick coincidence. But then, the follower – unfollowed me, then I began to think I was going crazy, had I imagined it? Until they refollowed, with a different user name. The worst being the profile photo was of somewhere really significant to the both of us. Me and the dead person. Then they placed a vote too, for somewhere, again, at the spot this person died.’

  ‘Are they still following you?’

  ‘Yep. But they have no history, they’re not following anyone else. Tell me, Carol, tell me I’m not going mad, that this is sufficient reason to be perturbed. Please.’

  ‘Look. Granted it’s bloody odd, but don’t get yourself in a flap just yet. It still could be any internet nutcase. They could be living on the other side of the world for all you know. Done a bit of research and off they go.’

  ‘But can’t you see, it’s stranger than that, not only do they know about the incident, or at least from the posts, they are insinuating they do. It’s the other things too, the estate agent, the footsteps.’

  Carol shakes her head, placing her glass lightly back on the table, ‘I get what you’re saying but even so, don’t get carried away with it. People can find all kinds of stuff out on the internet, personal stuff, even from way back. As well as the current stuff. And well, if there were footsteps, we’ve already agreed why this may have been. All perfectly plausible explanations.’

  ‘I guess.’ But I don’t believe it. I glance over to the table of whispering and tittering children; the children are on a natural high knowing their dad is home in a few days. But I’ve a sinking feeling in my stomach, it feels more like a time for more questioning, more covering up. ‘Let’s move on, shall we. You’re right, I shouldn’t let my imagination carry me away.’ What I mean is, forget I mentioned it because I now appreciate this is something I need to deal with alone. Carol only has the bones of the story, so her advice and comments are pretty meaningless, without context or perspective.

  ‘Thinking about it,’ Carol ignores me. ‘This awful accident you mentioned – was it documented somewhere?’

  So much for let’s move on, ‘how do you mean, documented?’

  ‘You know, the local newspaper, national newspaper?’

  ‘I see what you mean, yes, I think so. I would imagine so.’ In truth, I know it was, I have the article upstairs, hidden in my box of secrets under the bed. The details are all there, written in black and white. Kind of, anyway. Contained in an article in the North Cornwall News. The details as they believed them to be, at least.

  Carol could be right, this could be some random crackpot, who has stumbled across the article in the archives. But why? For what purpose? Then there’s the other article too, dated a week or so later, the other tragic loss of life, different circumstances but all part of the same friendship group. Jo’s suicide, one week after the party. I can’t for the life of me remember the specifics of the article off hand, it’s been some time since I took them from the box and the articles are very different to what I’ve stored away in my conscience. I’ll need to take a look as soon as Carol has left.

  I take an obvious glance at my watch. ‘Keep an eye on the time, Carol,’ I advise her.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Time’s getting on, didn’t you say you needed to be back for Allan’s work do.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m only saying, it’s gone six, you don’t want to be late, do you?’

  ‘Shoot, really?’ She jumps up, ‘yep, I need to scoot. Come on, you two, time’s up,’ she calls across to the children, whilst picking up strewn rogue shoes and other items of clothing.

  A feeling resembling respite creeps across me, my conscience attempts to push it away but it’s as persistent as an agitated wasp. I’m becoming more anti-social by the day. Or is it more that I prefer my own company when I’m not frightened. I’m not so judgemental about myself, I don’t ask heaps of questions, I have a deep understanding of me and my past. And I fully comprehend the role of alcohol in my life and how it has temporarily befriended me, to help me through a most challenging patch. ‘I’ll fetch the kid’s bags,’ I offer. ‘Did you bring your bag in too?’

  An hour later, I’m back in the kitchen, with my car returned to the driveway, Carol dropped us back at the school to collect it before she left. It took me a few minutes to convince her I was sufficiently removed from being under the influence. The children are now upstairs, in bed, teeth cleaned and listening to their new audio CD. Both have different stories, both versions are merging into a nonsense story. A little like the ones I have biting at my mind. I smile to myself as I pour an indulgent glass of Pinot Grigio. Followed by a shiver sliding down the back of my vertebrae, I did hear footsteps earlier today, definitely, and for all I know they could still be waiting somewhere in the house, awaiting
the perfect moment, when I’m again alone.

  I move into the sitting area, where there are no dark corners to hide and fall back into the L shaped sofa, removing the children’s books and PE bags to the floor. I sigh heavily. This is what alcohol allows me, space to breathe, a calmer state of mind. Sanity. Reaching for the remote stuck down the side of the cushion, I click the TV on then casually flick through all available channels. I spend a couple of hours feeling relatively normal, watching nothing in particular whilst skimming through Facebook.

  Eventually, once my fight or flight is sufficiently settled, I plod heavy shoulders upstairs, peeping into Dotty’s and Trey’s bedrooms, checking they’re fast asleep before turning off the CD players at the wall. Managing to step on an incredibly sharp metal object, biting down on my lip to stop me from yelping. Now in my room, I make my way to the en suite bathroom. Placing my freshly filled glass on the dresser, I fill the bath with gorgeously scented crystals and steaming hot water before turning to stare at the face in the mirror, who am I becoming? I’m better than this. Stronger than whoever it is trying to haunt me, sending me cryptic messages. After all these years, I can’t allow myself to slip and stumble on spilled milk.

  I’m becoming isolated by my situation again, especially noticed because of the way Carol is changing, she’s become more of a spy than a friend. Perhaps Kyle has asked to her keep an eye on me? Maybe they’ve secretly become even more strangulating close. I’m doubting her more and more, not even sure if I can trust her any more. Can I trust either of them? Her or Kyle? What if they’re both in on this together? Perhaps the footsteps belonged to her when I was showering? How did she respond when I told her earlier? I take a long slurp of wine. No – now I’m being a paranoid idiot, and surely not Kyle? But then – Carol, why not? She’s as good a suspect as anyone else. That night on the beach cost me my trust in people, now – everyone has expectations, everyone has agendas, motives.

  Given the true suspect is dead.

  35

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  My skin still salmon pink and hot, fresh from the bath, in a sudden hurry to do what I contemplated earlier, but only remembered as I slid into the overly bubbly water. Now, a quivering hand grips the black and white cut out, the other still rummaging through the box, is this all there is? It’s been a while but I’m sure I had a collection of newspapers? There were other things too, they seem to be missing. I rack my brain, where else could I have put them? Did I change my mind about leaving them all in this one box? Maybe, well I obviously did, probably a wise decision. I turn my attention to the words, I need to see beyond the print, beyond this relayed story. The truth I hold in my heart. But, it is this written, black and white story, I use, I live. I trust.

  It’s all I have.

  Two are missing following a party on the beach off the North Cornwall coast.

  The two university graduates were believed to have been celebrating at a pre-arranged graduation party. At 21.20 as the beach hit full tide conditions, the emergency services were alerted by a member of the public, walking her dog, the RNLI said. It is believed the former students of Edinburgh University were trapped, then cut off from the main beach exits by the unusually high spring tides, at a notorious segment of the beach.

  A huge air, sea and land search was launched in the evening, following the call to the emergency services. But the coastguard later took the decision to suspend the search due to the dangerous conditions over night.

  The controller with the UK Coastguard, said: “Sadly, after an all-embracing two day search of the area, we have been unable to find the missing two. So the decision has been made to suspend the search pending further information.”

  This significant operation employed the Newquay coastguard helicopter, the Padstow lifeboat and also the inshore lifeboat from Rock. It also involved the Newquay RNLI inshore lifeboat, three coastguard teams from Padstow and Newquay, Treyarnon Bay lifeguards and Devon & Cornwall police.

  Family members have said the victims were very aware of the changing tides in the area and its potential dangers but they believed they had been the victims of a freak accident.

  Both victims remain missing despite extensive searches by the coastguard, Padstow RNLI and the police.

  I steady my eyes to re-read:

  Both victims remain missing despite extensive searches by the coastguard, Padstow RNLI and the police.

  Missing soon became – missing, presumed dead.

  Forgotten?

  I screw up the paper, why have I even kept this?

  It’s more than time to let go.

  36

  Funny, I always assumed I needed to care for her. But as it turns out, I didn’t! I needn’t have worried myself. Guilt tripped myself. After so many years, I was lead to believe we had something, blood ties, we didn’t. But then it depends on the way you look at it, I mean we were almost sisters. Almost.

  I found the letter hidden amongst the ‘precious things’ when clearing out a while ago now. Why didn’t any of you tell me? All this time allowing me to believe I was some kind of failure. I was the reason for our sadness, for everything we went through, went without. Did you not trust me, love me?

  Anyway that was all a long time ago, for which I had a plan.

  I still have a plan but now it’s needed to change. Why? I hear you all ask. Because you’re all liars. The anger, the pain, the hatred.

  Still, now in a more rational light – my new plan, the adapted version, has more legs if anything. Yes, that’s it, the letter is a twisted, perverse favour.

  A right. My right. Nothing more than.

  37

  Edinburgh 2017

  Camilla

  I get myself ready to leave the flat as quickly as possible. Last night, hours spent in bed, desperately trying to sleep has left me feeling oddly hypervigilant. The nightmares are becoming worse, I thought they’d gone but they’ve come back with more vengeance, more detail. But, can I really refer to them as nightmares, isn’t the correct term – flashbacks? The lack of any rational consciousness at night has distorted them a little, but otherwise, I’m right back there, on the beach. I quicken my step along Thistle Street, I’m going to be late. It took some time for me concede, to see a therapist. Then, at the first appointment, I felt like a big fat fake. I was never my intention to tell the therapist the truth. I only needed some way of untangling my thoughts. But today, I’m hungry for the appointment, a need to clear my fogged mind. Am I doing the right thing in hunting her down? Do I really want to go back? After all these years?

  I slow my pace as the stone terraced building comes into sight, I’ve been side-stepping people all the way here in some kind of self contained bubble. They bounce off me, I may even pop but they’ll never get to touch me. My bubble’s parameter disconnecting me from life. Clumsy, my feet tripping each other up. Time hasn’t healed me, it’s merely frayed the edges, leaving me more exposed if anything with no solid line to defend myself. There was a point in time, particularly when Drew and I first opened our bistro, when I was able to blank out the events. Hectic times of new beginnings, stimulated, preoccupied and easier to distract. But my recent internet trawling, my jaunt to London yesterday, has opened the door wide again. ‘You’ve lost your sparkle, Cam, what’s up?’ Drew asked the other day. I think I lost my sparkle a long time ago but how would he know the difference, he doesn’t really know me at all, I don’t even know me.

  Moments later, I’m perched on the edge of a hard chair in the therapist’s reception, despite the unusual early morning warmth outside, my legs are quivering. You can duck and dive, lie and distort all you like but your conscience will always hold the truth. The stern faced, auburn haired receptionist has kind of greeted me in her usual peering above her half-moon glasses manner. Silence now lingers in the air. I flick open my mobile, last night on the train returning from London, I managed to locate the man’s email address. Should I make contact before I see him again or will I look like a craz
y, obsessive stalker? Am I an obsessive, crazy stalker? Maybe, but at least not in the usual sense and for all the right reasons. But isn’t that what they all probably think? For a just course? To put right a wrong, an injustice of a kind?

  I jump as the door behind me opens, a watery eyed female marches out bumping into my shoulder as she passes, before scuffling out of the front door onto the street below. I can’t help but wonder if she appeared so unhappy before she began the appointment. Is it always healthy to talk about the bad things in our lives? Aren’t we simply compounding the misery, living it over and over again? The door behind me creaks open again, ‘Camilla?’ My therapist summons me through. All of my previously chosen words for this appointment have walked in the opposite direction as my mind fills with a black void. I’ll need to blab my way through again, I’m paying good money for this, yet mostly I sit and talk about anything other than what I need to. Resting myself awkwardly into the overly squashy chair, not really knowing what to do with my hands or my legs, I’ll speak borrowed words that hold no reflection of me.

  My therapist squeezes into the chair opposite me. ‘Good morning, Camilla, so how has life been for you recently?’

  Shall I do the usual, smile and say, yes, good, thank you, or shall I try to make the most of this? ‘Not so good this morning, really,’ I’ve caused her eyebrows to rise at least.

  ‘Okay. Shall we begin here, what’s not so good for you this morning? Are you referring to a general feeling or has something happened to make you feel this way?’

  ‘There’s a question.’ I bite my tongue. ‘Problem is – I’m not sure how to answer it.’

  ‘Not to worry.’ She says. ‘Can you tell me what feels bad, are you feeling low? Unwell? Anxious? Angry?’