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

by Sarah Simpson

  ‘Oh, God, that’s awful.’ I shake my head, ‘but no – this isn’t anything so dramatic, I missed my breakfast this morning, that will be it,’ I lie again. ‘This is what happens if I skip meals. Silly. My own fault.’

  ‘Even so… you look ever so pale. Why don’t you let me at least get that cleaned up for you?’ she nods at my hand.

  ‘Really, there’s no need,’ I brace myself and scamper away to the downstairs bathroom, shutting the door behind me, then lean up against it, listening until I hear the sound of the vacuum firing up. Wincing as I hold my hand under the tap, allowing the blood to swill away, spiraling down the plughole, I think back, what was it she said that flummoxed me? What were her exact words before I lost my balance. Jesus, even the cleaner is throwing up problems now. What was it she said?

  I was visiting Mum yesterday, she’s in that nice home now, down near the harbour wall, they’ve got gorgeous views across the estuary there, you know. I said to Mum, I’ll be putting my name down for here, when my time comes.

  I was half listening, half not, at the time, but then she said.

  She was having one of her good days, you know – really switched on, like. She was asking me all about the kids, how they were getting along, remembered their names and all. Then, she was asking me about me, she hasn’t done that in ages, asking about work and all sorts, she was. Then, you’ll never guess what, talk about a small world.

  It was the next lot of rambling words that grabbed my attention, spinning my mind with it.

  She said, so who is it you clean for then? So, I told her. But, as soon as I said your name, her whole face lit up! She said – Andi? I knew of an Andi once. Yes, an unusual name for a little girl! Her name was Andriana really but everyone called her, Andi. Well, I couldn’t believe it, could I? I told her that was the same as you, you were Andriana too. You know, I’ve seen your certificates in the frames on the walls, like. So I knew it was you straight away. She became proper excited, reckoned you used to be called, Andriana Johnson? Was that you? She said – she knew your mum, cus she used to work in the bakery where your mum would come for her bread, cakes and stuff, during the holiday times, for years she said. I showed her a photo of you on my phone, you know, from a Google search, that’s her, she said. Yes, that’s definitely her, she’s not changed a scrap. Can you believe it? There’s more too, wait for it, you and I used to play together at your big house near Fowey, sometimes, when Mum worked late. We would only have been young, but I can remember, now she’s mentioned it. You know how these things jolt your memory. Can you remember? Can you believe it? What a small world, eh? You and I used to be friends! But then, she became all tearful she did, something about a terrible accident, I had to change the topic. She watches the news you see, then forgets what’s real, what’s news. Bless her.

  Is she for real? The last thing I need is someone reminding me of a past. Vaguely, I’d told her, very vaguely, my memory is terrible but yes, I do remember you. Why is everyone so intent on throwing my past in my face. My parents. I can’t talk to Kyle, because he definitely thinks I’m losing the plot or he’ll tell Carol. Or, if I tell Carol, she’ll give me the look, and she’ll most definitely tell Kyle anyway.

  Or is it me? Am I the victim of my own paranoia? I slide down the door in the bathroom, pulling my knees up to my chest. The noise of the vacuum has stopped, my heart quickens at the prospect of the door opening in on me, or the, are you okay? words, being whispered through the wood separating us. I can’t step back out there, she’ll want to continue the conversation, but I can hardly stay in here for the morning either. Look at the state of me, a prisoner in my own home, too scared to leave the bathroom because of the cleaner. I look at my watch, I’m supposed to be on my way, heading back to Sennen Cove by now for an interview with the chef, I can’t face it any more. My legs are physically trembling. I press the side of my head to the door to hopefully establish which room she’s moved on to. I wait for some time until I hear her footsteps climbing the stone stairs.

  One, two, three. Slowly, quietly does it, I tip-toe across the hallway to the kitchen, looking around to check I’m alone, closing the door separating the hallway from the open area. And listen, thank God for the hum as the vacuum starts back up. I pad across the floor to reach for the bottle I opened last night and pour a small amount in to a pale blue china mug. Just a couple of swills to moisten a dry mouth, only enough to calm me until I feel myself again, so I can think straight. Nothing more.

  I fill the mug again, only to the half way line as I bang out an email for the chef at Sennen Cove on my mobile, I can’t make it today, not now. I’ll go later in the week maybe. I’ve no chance of making the looming deadline anyway. The worst is, right now – I don’t even care. How can I be expected to write creatively, when every millimetre of space in my mind has been consumed? I wander outside to the terrace, welcoming the gentle breeze ahead of what threatens to be another hot day. She’ll leave me alone out here, she’ll assume I’m working. I’ll keep my mobile pressed to my ear, make pretend conversation if she appears. It won’t be the first time. Her bloody mother! Can you believe the chance of this happening? Why isn’t she dead yet? Can’t remember a sodding thing, gaping holes in her memory, doesn’t even speak any more. But this, she would remember this, wouldn’t she?

  I decide to send another email, this one to Eve, I need to see her, this morning if possible, I sign it off as urgent then allow my head to fall back as the tender warmth of the sun penetrates. My phone spasms in my hand. Shielding the screen, I automatically open the message. Strange, he must have texted me back from the restaurant, not emailed me? I squint at the words.

  How amazing, who’d have guessed it? You, a writer? Proud, eh?

  47

  London 2017

  Camilla

  I watch him walk back to the table with our drinks, we’re below the photography building, in a cellar, an amazingly moody French wine bar, come Bistro. We found it on the third week here, though not so much found it, we’ve both ambled past several times before today. Neither of us would have dared be as presumptuous as to invite the other to take a look, have a drink. The dwelling is dimly lit with candles, subtle brass lanterns lurking prudently behind hanging hams, hocks and bacons. The aroma of garlic and caramelised butter hangs in the air. Some would suggest romantic.

  ‘A dry white wine for the lady,’ he smiles, before straddling the leather medieval styled chair opposite me. He softly places my sizeable glass on the table in front of me. I won’t say it, but his eyes are troubled with a weary expression. As if he’s slightly on edge, and I wonder? I wonder?

  ‘Perfect,’ I tell him. ‘Only a half for you?’

  ‘A-huh.’ He takes a swig, ‘not really in the mood for it, only fancied a half tonight. Besides, I’ve work to get on with later.’

  I feel my eyebrows rise with an agenda of their own. ‘Sure everything’s okay with you? You’re not feeling unwell or anything are you?’ I furtively hate myself inside, because this thoughtful, gentle man is clearly not happy at the moment. I would say, he hasn’t been so for weeks. I hate myself, because I can’t help being pleased about this. And – I could make him even more unhappy if I go ahead with my plans. But if I don’t go ahead with them, what then? I spend the rest of my life unhappy? Anyway, if I care about him, which I’m frightened to say I do, then doesn’t he deserve to hear the truth? Don’t I owe it to the both of us? Sometimes the kindest thing being the cruelest, the hardest. I wasn’t the one to make up these rules. I’m really only the messenger here. Although, this could be argued against, I’ve done wrong too.

  He rubs a lightly tanned hand through dark hair, causing it to stick up slightly on the side, making him appear even more vulnerable. ‘No, not ill, other than the sleep being pretty dire at the moment. It doesn’t help does it, no sleep? Poxy air conditioning is on the blink too, it gets so unpleasantly hot in the room.’ He looks away.

  ‘Oh, it’s horrible when you can’t sleep.’ But this
isn’t about the air conditioning. ‘So what’s up then, other than the lack of sleep?’

  He tilts his head to one side as I sip my wine, wondering whether he should confide in a virtual stranger. ‘That obvious?’

  ‘A-huh.’

  He sighs heavily, ‘nothing really, stuff at home, nothing to bore you with anyway.’ He waves his hand dismissively, his eyes distant as he says this.

  ‘Anything I can help with, a problem shared and all that? I’m a good listener, apparently.’

  He shakes his head, which isn’t a good sign, perhaps he doesn’t trust me enough yet. Just tell me, I want to say, put me out my misery, fill me in on what’s happening in your other life. I’ll push again later.

  ‘Are you interested in the residential?’ he asks.

  ‘The…?’ He has blatantly changed the subject, he doesn’t want me to pry into his family affairs. I take a mental note to tread more carefully, sensing that despite his reluctant happiness at home, he is definitely loyal. Which makes my task a little more difficult.

  ‘The residential, Peter, the tutor – called it that in the session last week. Ha, the residential, sounds as though we’re back at college all over again. Apparently it’s an optional two day trip, not part of the course or anything, sounds like more of an impromptu jolly. Were you asleep or something? Think he’s decided to invite a few students along to justify an expenses paid trip, nothing more.’

  ‘Oh yes, vaguely,’ I lie, couldn’t believe my luck when the tutor came up with the idea.

  ‘To Cornwall, Land’s End, I’m pretty sure that’s where he said. Said he goes each year. I bet he does.’

  I nod, lowering my glass from my lips, ‘I remember now, does sounds good. Quite a journey for me, however. From one end of the country to the other, literally. I’m extremely tempted to try and make it though, how about you? Will you go?’ Please say yes, it’s down the road for you, how could you not. And are you open to persuasion?

  He shrugs. ‘Like you, I’m tempted. You’d probably need to do the journey in two stages, come to London, stay over, then move on to Cornwall. Have you been to Cornwall before?’

  Now there’s a question, but what do I say? Minimal lies, minimal chance of being discovered. ‘Hmm, I have, some time ago now. It’s beautiful, as I remember it, plenty of spectacular scenery and historic landmarks, a photographer’s dream really. Don’t all the artists claim the light to be different in Cornwall too. More, how do you call it, more luminous than anywhere else in the country? That’s what I’ve heard anyway.’

  He chuckles. ‘They do, and I think that’s the excuse he used too! How true it is – I’ve no idea,’ he grins, ‘it’s light, dusk or dark surely? But seriously, you should think about it, if you do go, I will too. How about that? Deal? Or not? What do you say?’

  ‘Sounds like you have a deal. I think.’

  ‘Come on, Camilla, live a little dangerously. Life’s too short, isn’t it.’

  I can’t help but think, he has no idea just how dangerously I’ve been living. It’s exactly what I want to stop doing. On the plus side he’s perked up no end at the prospect. His eyes are glimmering all over again. I almost don’t want to break it but I have a task, a target for each week we meet. I glance discreetly at my watch as he takes a call from the office, I’m guessing. He advises whoever it is, that categorically no, he’s not returning this evening. He’ll be working from his room. Shaking his head, blowing out through his mouth he places his mobile face up on the table, I watch as the volume scale reduces on the screen as it is switched onto silent.

  ‘What is it they say?’ I ask him, he returns a childlike frown, ‘no peace for the wicked?’

  He smiles, lifting his glass to his mouth, ‘clearly I’m a very wicked person.’ No sooner have the words departed from his lips than his mobile begins to flash intrusively, fighting for his attention. He stares at the screen whilst rubbing his chin. Although the screen is upside down, I can see her face filling the square panel, she’s not really changed either, she is unmistakably the person I thought her to be. Pure blatant unashamed and staring up into the eyes of her husband. He is clearly torn, I sit and watch, wondering which way this is going to play out. Eventually he flips the mobile over, she can no longer see his torn face and he can no longer see her striking face. The tide is turning or so they say.

  ‘Do you not need to take that?’ I test.

  He shrugs his shoulders but his eyes do not meet mine, they wander guiltily across the room. ‘No, it’s fine,’ he says to no one in particular, ‘I’ll return my calls later when I’m Billy no mates alone.’

  ‘If you’re sure, I really don’t mind, so please don’t feel obliged to reject calls on my account.’

  He smiles at me. ‘Nope, it’s fine, really. Can I get you another?’ He nods at my nearly empty glass.

  ‘Gosh, I’ve guzzled that so quickly,’ I must be more nervous than I think I am. I make a point this time of looking at my watch, ‘blimey is that the time already? I can catch the later train, I guess. But my scheduled train leaves in approximately thirty minutes, which means, if I’m catching it, I need to get my skates on and quickly.’

  ‘Oh, stay, have another. I mean, it’s your call, but why not, you’re not rushing back to anything? So what’s the harm.’ He lowers his head and holds out his hand, ‘sorry, so rude and incredibly presumptuous of me, maybe you have something, someone to get back for?’

  I laugh. ‘You’re okay, I don’t – no. So you’re right, why not indeed. Just one more for the road would be fine and dandy, thank you.’

  I watch him leave for the bar, removing his already loosened tie, and stuffing it into his trouser pocket. I wait until he’s engaged in conversation with the guy behind the bar, to discreetly move my hand across the table, I shouldn’t be doing this but equally I mustn’t forget, I’m not here to enjoy myself, I have an agenda. I lower my head to work out if from where he’s standing, if he were to turn around suddenly, would he be able to notice my hand on his mobile, or is his jacket on the back if his chair covering me? I believe it is, so quickly does it, I spin it over and press the bottom button to highlight the screen. Three missed calls and a voicemail. I flip the mobile back over as he makes his way back to the table, smiling, this time with a tumbler of what looks like either a large whisky or brandy to me.

  ‘A dry white for you.’

  ‘Look at you, I thought you didn’t fancy a drink tonight?’

  ‘Couldn’t resist the pretty looking bottle, I’m so weak,’ he winks.

  We clink glasses. ‘Cheers,’ we say in unison.

  From my calculations, I have around forty-six minutes to hit my target for this week. Thank God for the pretty bottles, something to help the medicine go down.

  ‘So, tell me about yourself, Kyle.’

  He shrugs. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything, you seem to know a fair bit about me, as it’s usually you who asks all the questions.’ I’ve allowed this to be the case, I’m only too aware that men can become nervous with too many intrusive questions in the beginning. I’ve deliberately permitted him to think I really have no interest in his life outside the photography course. Anyway, I already have a good grasp, a better understanding than he probably would have volunteered. Thank you, internet, and my special medium, social media. ‘Whatever you want to tell me, I’m certainly not going to pry.’ I take a long sip, watching his mind tick over, quickly deciding on what to divulge, what to leave out. ‘Your life in Cornwall? Maybe? Tell me about the real Kyle, away from the city.’

  He rubs his chin. ‘Okay, so I return to Cornwall each weekend if I’m lucky, or every other as seems to be more the case recently, what with my work load.’

  ‘That must be tough, for your family too, I bet,’ I laugh, ‘sorry, I’m assuming you don’t go home to an empty abode there, I hope I haven’t been too precipitous? I suppose you look like a family type of guy.’

  He pats his non-existent stomach. ‘Like, too
many home cooked meals? No, that’s more like too many bored evening takeaways, I’m afraid,’ he laughs. ‘I live in a beautiful home on the Fal Estuary, with an exceptionally beautiful wife and our two even more beautiful children. Is that what you wanted to know?’

  I feel myself blush, at this last statement. Despite already appreciating all of this information, I feel the disappointment hit the base of my stomach. He hasn’t told me anything new, yet for some reason I’m taken aback. Gather yourself together and speak for flip sake. ‘Sure, that kind of thing. Go on,’ I say, ‘tell me more.’ The drink has allowed me some borrowed bravery, so I continue whilst I can. ‘So, your beautiful wife, was she the one calling your mobile a little earlier? I couldn’t help but notice the profile flashing on your mobile screen?’

  ‘Now I feel a complete idiot. Caught red handed.’ He has the good grace to look suitably embarrassed. ‘It was, yes. And I will call her back, just as soon as I leave. It won’t have been anything important. Now, I’m making myself look like a complete git, aren’t I?’

  It clearly was important to her, else she wouldn’t have called a further two times and left a voice mail but I can’t admit to knowing this. ‘Not at all, don’t be silly. This isn’t an inquisition. Don’t feel bad on my behalf, I’m sure you understand your wife better than I do.’ Or perhaps you don’t. Those butter doesn’t melt eyes, the moralistic attitude.

  But do you really? I want to say. Because I don’t think you do. I could feel guilty but then, I’m not playing him any more than she is. Or is she? Perhaps she’s told him everything and they’re both playing me? We all think we’re holding the winning hand, without really understanding the rules of the game or the motives of the other players. Or have I had too much to drink? I always vowed I’d stay away from drink, the past advised me to do so. I should call it a day now, take my leave but I can’t help myself. Words are falling from my lips without my grace.