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

by Sarah Simpson

  Elliott is staring at me, what is he thinking? ‘You never know do you, people’s backgrounds, how much it impacts on them? The choices they make because of it.’ He shakes his head. ‘Anyway, on a lighter note – I’m gonna have to pay a visit to this flat, go on, invite me for dinner one night.’

  ‘No chance, Clara would eat you alive. Anyway you’re my mate, not theirs, they can’t have everything. On the other hand, Andi does keep asking, and it would be quite entertaining. Yeah, you should come over, tomorrow night?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Got yourself a deal. Only best fillet for me though.’

  ‘Good luck with that, they only eat pulses, rubbery stuff and orange stuff.’

  ‘Great,’ he says, both of us glance around the pub, a slightly awkward air between us. Elliott is quick to fill it. ‘So what’s the big plan then? You’re a free agent with no ties, work, uni, family, nothing.’

  ‘Yeah, about that – don’t be mentioning the uni situation if you come to the flat or to Andi, I’ve not found a way to broach it yet. I’ll tell them, eventually. But thanks for reminding me I’ve nothing in my life.’ I swill the remains of my drink.

  ‘Sorry, Cam, didn’t mean it in that way,’ my heart warms as he blushes slightly, ‘you sure I can’t get you another, I’m having one?’

  I uncross my legs and begin to stand ‘Nope, I’m off, thanks though.’

  ‘You’re not going because you’re mad with me?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What I just said?’

  ‘Ha, no, course not. I need to get to work, I told you. Anyway, it’s true, isn’t it, the nothing in my life bit?’

  ‘Only by choice, Cam, only by choice.’ He holds up his hand to put me off retaliating. ‘Aye, off you go then,’ he stands, shaking out each leg, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket, ‘I’m gonna have one for the road, unless you need me to walk you to work?’

  I give him a peck on the cheek. ‘Knock yourself out, I’m good. Think I can look after myself, don’t you?’

  His raises his other eyebrow at me. ‘No harm in accepting some help you know, from time to time. Doesn’t make you a bad person. You should give it a go.’

  ‘Sure, I know that and I do ask sometimes but only if it has a purpose, otherwise, it’s a needless favour, and folks always want something in return,’ I squeeze his hand and leave.

  As I walk through the loud din of this back street pub, I pull my camel coloured coat on and begin to fasten it up. My hair becomes entangled on a button; I yank at it in frustration without thinking. It wasn’t attached to my button but my necklace, a feeling of panic flashes through me, nervously I feel for the fine silver chain, but it’s okay, it’s still there.

  Something to hold on to.

  52

  Edinburgh 2017

  Camilla

  Water globules trickling, dripping over anaesthetised skin. Feels like a fly tiptoeing its filthy way over me so I swipe at my brow, damp sticky skin. The same dream again. Slowly I lift an arm as an alien hand fumbles for the bedside lamp to switch on the light. Then, I pull myself up, hugging my knees into my chest. Were they both in on it? Trying to kill me? There’s something you need to know, something you don’t know about her. She whispered. I couldn’t believe it at first, now I realise it must have been true. I should never have returned to the beach that night. Shouldn’t have followed them. I didn’t stand a chance against the spring tide, the power. It still baffles me, all along I’d thought – I was the one in control, yet all the time, she was the one with plans for me, for her. Turning my head, I peep at the digital clock, 03.07, I hate the nights, the sweats, the images, the sounds. The memories.

  After a few minutes, I turn off the lamp to slump down under loose sheets, a false security from whatever may attempt to crawl over me if I sleep. Closing my eyes, I begin to count, waiting for the thrash of the rolling waves to recommence, crashing through my mind, white foam satiating white matter, terror circling like a bird of prey. Always a burnt orange sphere, sitting on top of the sea, rays reflecting over the steel indigo surface. A warm feeling dances on my shoulders but there’s something else, something looming, filling the atmosphere with doom. Black and heavy. I can hear my name; someone calling my name? Who is it? Where am I? I can’t reach you, I hear myself whimper over and over. I can’t move.

  Naked feet, cold ground, wet sand, squiggling between my toes, a gush of cold water swallowing them, obscuring them, leaving me only with ankles. A loud scream pierces my chest, it sounds like me? But isn’t it coming from ahead? I feel something – terrified? Horrified? Frozen. My feet unable to move, weighed down as the water gushes up to my knees. I tug at my feet but the alcohol renders me so heavy. I hear myself laugh, despite the dread, am I laughing? Or screaming? Pulling at heavy legs, one at a time, scampering across the sinking boggy surface. I hear voices but I can’t see anyone. Then her, I see her. Why is she running in the opposite direction to the voices, I try to cry out but my voice is carried away on the waves.

  She left me to die.

  As the water pulls away again, I heave myself forwards, turning to run in the direction of rapidly blurring grey rock face. I can make this; keep moving. Then, again there’s the boom rolling from behind and I’m hit by a stony cold wall of water, solid blocks, slamming at my delicate side. I plunge. I swallow. I cannot breathe. Bare knees, dragged backwards against the course shingle, the sea throws me over its shoulders, taking me with it. Huge angry arms reaching for me, gripping me, hauling me. I am powerless. A fizzy sharp pain perforates my nostrils. Salt, bile, fear. I cannot breathe.

  I start in the bed. My breathing rapid, high and shallow, my eyes wide again. I need to answer the questions, to free myself from the memories. Reaching for my mobile, I begin to type. Why did she do this to me? I have to find out and he’s my only hope.

  I’m going to Cornwall. Please say you’re still up for it?

  I throw the mobile onto the bedsheets, it’s the early hours, I’ll not receive a response yet. But, as I’m rolling onto my side, the mobile vibrates at my feet. I stare at it for a moment before tentatively reaching for it.

  Was just thinking the same. Sure am K x

  53

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  Heavy feet carry me over the cobbles as I leave the bar behind. My friend, can you credit it, didn’t arrive. I’ve somehow managed to feel indignant about this but still savvy enough to realise this probably isn’t right. The air is warm and the sunlight almost too bright to bear, instantaneously I raise my hand to shield my eyes. In the background the cathedral chimes, half past something, quickly I lower my hand to check. It’s 15.30, I’ve been in the bar much longer than I thought, even so, I’ve still time to kill before school pick up.

  My legs carry me left into Boscawen Street where I bumble into the Big Issue seller, un-deterred he shoves the magazine towards my face as I utter apologies. ‘Sorry, I’m running late,’ I lie, recomposing my clumsy self, I only make a couple more steps before something halts me, the same guilty nagging feeling, bad mother, bad wife, bad friend, bad human being. I begin to dig into the depths of my bag, remembering I dropped loose change in after paying my parking dues, then hand it over to him. ‘There but for the Grace of God,’ I hear myself muttering as I tread away. All the time, aware of my heartbeat, gaining pace, becoming curiously fast with each step, my chest constricting, resisting the urge to hold my breath. I plough on defying the horrible floaty feeling as the grey unforgiving floor draws all the closer. Around me, I’m conscious of how little room there is on the pavement. Suffocating. Fighting for my space, clumsily rebounding off nameless faces, insufficiently confident to orientate myself around them, my feet moving in sequence, I don’t feel them on the ground, they don’t belong to me.

  Taking my chance, I dart left in through the door of Waterstones and stop once inside the doorway, I glance around, people nonchalantly drifting between book heaped tables in slow motion. Those blasted messages. Bu
t which one’s worse? Someone bumps past me, muttering something about lurking in a doorway, so I drift further into the store, wary of looking odd I pick up a hardback book from the table I’m hiding behind. For Christ Sake, my eyes follow the title – I’m Always Watching, I read. Who are you? Why did you send that message? I play the words back over in my mind? Dropping the book back to the table, I drift to the centre of the store, deciding to take the steps to the second floor. There’s a café on this floor, I need sugar. I’m supposing the message was meant for me? Not sent in error, one digit incorrectly typed – it happens. For God sake, get real, of course it was meant for me, worded as it was, who else would it be for? I think back to my phone calls to Kyle, him not answering. Several times I tried. Whoever sent the message, whoever you are – were you with my husband? Is there a link here? I grasp the rail at the top of the stairs. Gulping back a wave of nausea, shall I tell him? Now or later? I keep moving forward until I find myself lurking at the end of the queue in front of the glass counter of the café.

  My eyes survey the countless choices of overly sweet pastries as I feel all facial colouring rolling away. The pastries blur into one mass of candied fruit and buttercreams behind the glass, unable to distinguish between them, I gesture at the nearest offering to the smiley face now serving me. Some kind of almond slice with an Americano. ‘Anything else?’ she asks, as images of Kyle with someone else, giggling, deliberately avoiding my calls, flash through my mind. Him all enigmatic, her all coquettish. Surely not Kyle, he wouldn’t do it to me, would he? ‘No, thank you,’ I manage. But then isn’t it unlikely, whoever was with Kyle would contact me? Unless they know me? But who could that be? Carol? Bloody Carol?

  Physically shaking my head, noticing the pitiful look of my next but one queue mate, I touch it, to infer a headache. Nope, couldn’t have been Carol, she definitely wasn’t in London, I saw her only yesterday afternoon at the school. Unless, Kyle isn’t in London and he’s staying with Carol or somewhere else locally? I pay for my refreshments, spotting a free table and head over. No wonder I’m feeling shaky, I’ve eaten next to nothing today, I’m most probably entering hypoglycemic levels by now. A crashing aftermath from highly sugared alcohol.

  I wedge myself up close to the wall and nibble at the slice, following it down with a swig of almost hot coffee. Does this mean the messenger is also the blue bird stalker? The estate agent? The ladder pervert? Or could this be something to do with Clara? The elephant in the room – the real reason why I’m shaking – she’s found me. Bloody hell. I swallow back as vomit threatens. What the hell do I do about Clara? Has she tracked down Kyle too? Could the messages be linked in some way? They can’t be, not if she’s still in Cornwall? Or has she already left, perhaps she ended up living in London, I wouldn’t know. But why would she be with Kyle? I push the almond slice to one side. The only hope I can cling to is that Clara is anything but innocent in all this, she’s as guilty as I am in some respects. I know what she did. Yes, this is my protection from her. I need time to think about her, it’s not possible to deal with everything right now.

  The walls are closing in around me so I stand up to leave the café. Gingerly, trudging my way down the steps back to the ground floor, unable to shake off the crossfire of images, Kyle, Carol, Clara, Kyle, Carol, Clara, then Camilla. Camilla – what have I done? Utterly trapped, cornered. Stumbling as I try to speed up my steps, suddenly overwhelmed with tears, I’m scared, confused and so, so alone. With trembling legs, I clatter down the remaining steps, then off towards the front door, skirting a table a few feet from the entrance. A pile of displayed books catches my attention, The Power of the Sea, I’m stuck in some kind of wicked dream, subliminal messages smacking me across the face every few minutes.

  Back on the pavement I head left towards the bakery, one of many, whichever comes first, with time remaining before school pick up, I’ll buy cakes to help ease my guilt of not knowing about the rehearsal. The other mums, those who aren’t falling apart at the seams, remembered the rehearsal, sent their children off to school this morning with an afterschool snack, no doubt. I’m failing on each and every possible level. My work, I rushed the last article out in first draft condition, as for my current piece, Restaurants by the Sea, I’m nowhere near hitting my deadline. I haven’t returned to Sennen Cove to interview the chef as yet either. Everywhere I turn I’m bouncing off perceptual blocks.

  Then there’s Kyle, God only knows what’s happening to my marriage, how do relationships suddenly sail away unnoticed? Is he cheating on me? Is it him and not me? Then Carol, I’ve not always found it easy to build close friendships in these latter years but Carol and I, we grew close. When we first met, she cooked for us the first time Kyle decided to introduce me to his closest friends. I was nervous but she was so welcoming, even though her and Kyle kept abandoning the party for private whisperings in the kitchen. Now, I don’t feel I can trust her, she’s changed, I hate the way she seems to be judging me. Maybe she’s only ever used me to get closer to Kyle?

  A warm aroma of buttery pastry in the shape of Cornish pasties heckles my stomach. Normally, I’d love it, today it’s nauseating. Seeping, curvy, golden coloured short crust pastries sitting hand in hand. I avert my eyes, mentally hold my nose without sounding nasally and order two Chelsea buns and a crusted wholegrain tin. Standing back outside on the pavement I recover my mobile from my bag, remembering I’ve forgotten to take it off silent. I could feel it vibrating away in the bakery. Now, staring at the screen, I blink, attempting to refocus. The school have called, I’ve missed calls, at least four, five, six missed calls from the school and Kyle, a voicemail and a text. While I’m changing the setting from vibrate to sound, it bleeps in my hand, another new text. Kyle.

  What’s going on?? In a meeting. Spoken to school. Where are you? Why haven’t you picked up kids? Calling Carol. Let me know you okay?

  Swallowing back the warm, sour taste of bile, I begin to run up towards the station for my car, fumbling as I scamper to call the school with clumsy fingers. But, there’s no answer. I don’t understand, it’s not time to pick up yet, it’s only 16.25, did they cancel the rehearsal after all? It’s not my fault if they have. I call Kyle, he said he was in a meeting but I don’t care, he’s spoken to the school, I need to know what’s happened. He picks up after only a couple of rings.

  ‘Andi?’

  ‘What’s going on, Kyle?’

  ‘What? You tell me. Where are you?’ His words are hostile and irritated. ‘Jesus, And, I’m in the middle of a meeting. I’ve had to field calls from the school for the last forty minutes. Where the hell are you? Why haven’t you picked the kids up?’

  ‘They’re not supposed to be finishing until 17.00, the school called me earlier, they had play rehearsals until 17.00.’ That light headed feeling again, the school did call, Mrs whatever her name was, did call, or did I imagine it? My eyes stinging with threatening tears, as I search through a fuzzed mind. ‘They called from the office, said the letter informing us about the rehearsal may have got lost, but they definitely said to not pick up until 17.00.’

  ‘I’m not been funny, And. But don’t you think they would have mentioned this when they called me? Carol didn’t mention it either, I’ve not long spoken to her.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Carol? Again?’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do? You’re nowhere to be seen, you’ve neglected to collect the kids from school! The school’s calling me, I’m in London,’ his voice, though whispered is exasperated, he must still be in earshot of his meeting.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Call Carol, will you. I need to get back to this meeting.’

  ‘This isn’t my fault. The school called me, else I would have been there.’ Of course it’s my fault, look at the state of me. The tears begin to flow, I’ve no time to stop, my hands are full, so I sniff them back loudly.

  ‘And, I’ve no idea how this happened. But look, I’m… I’m sorry, I really need to get on. Sorry I snapped too,’
I imagine his face softening, his shoulders slouching, ‘I was worried about you, all of you. I’ll call you later, okay.’

  He hangs up and I carry on up to the car, rummaging in my bag for keys, pulling out everything but keys, holding the cakes under my chin, my legs still trembling. Who would do this? Making it look as though I’ve abandoned my children, a bad mother. Like I need any help. Not at any point did I stop to think after taking the call earlier, whether it was a genuine call, that maybe it wasn’t the school. One word from a private caller and I hand over my children without question, would Carol have done this? Why didn’t it occur to me, I had no knowledge of the play rehearsal because there wasn’t one? What the hell was I thinking? And to add insult to injury, again, I need to go, cap in hand, to perfect Carol. She’ll be loving this. Yes, Kyle, of course, no problem, I’m here, whatever you need, you can rely on me. Someone is determined to punish me, I’m bent backwards over the table, they understand I can’t tell anyone, I’m trapped. Who the hell are you and what is it you want from me? Haven’t I suffered enough already? My mobile beeps in my hand, quickly I open the text.

  See. You're not the only one who can play with lives. Bad, bad, Andi. Poor little you. When family are so, so precious too!

  54

  Self-pity. I hate self-pity.

  Isn’t this the worst human trait ever, almost? Makes people so flipping blinkered they can’t see the damage they do to everyone they come into contact with. Completely and utterly selfish.

  Look at me, please look at me. I’m so hard done to, look at me, life is so unfair. Everything’s happening to poor little me.

  Wake up! Realise how boring you really are. Understand you’re destroying everything you touch, every relationship you’ve ever had and every chance and opportunity life has gifted you. Yes, gifted you. Spoilt bitch.