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

by Sarah Simpson

  God, I wish I hadn’t read that blasted letter. It wasn’t what I was expecting to discover at all. All those years wondering why my father didn’t love me, and now I know. Why would he love a child that wasn’t his? Look at you, and to think I resented you before, now it’s more hate. Lady muck.

  You’re not even scarred by all this, like me, are you?

  Completely unblemished. For now.

  59

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  Musical cymbals crash around me, I’m running, covering my ears, the echoes of a tambourine somewhere in the distance. My feet trudging through heavy wet sand, my breathing in the highest part of my diaphragm. Time is running out. Keep running, or I’m going to die. But a wall of water hits me from behind, throwing me to the ground like a rag doll, no muscle or bone. Powerless, at the mercy of the cold tempered water surrounding me. I swallow, gulping and gasping before retching with the smack of salt. My eyes stinging from the blast of gritty sand, my hands and knees sinking further into the sand. Pushing my hair from my face I gradually ease myself up, I need to keep moving. Death is not far behind me. As I look up, I focus on an imposing column of rock, I run, splashing through knee high water, waiting for the tide to bowl me over again. Each time more powerful, each time more draining. Life is slipping away.

  I wake with a start as the cymbals crash one final time above my head. My heart pounding against the softness of the sofa, my hair wet with sweat. A lingering taste of salt. Lying in the recovery position still clutching an empty glass. Bringing it to my nose, I inhale. Whisky? I shiver. I must have run out of wine last night. Gently unravelling my legs from the sofa, raising myself up onto one elbow, I pause. There it is again, the crash of the cymbals, the tambourine playing in my ears in confused harmony. How much whisky did I drink?

  Slowly I scoop up my mobile from the floor and illuminate the screen to check the time. It’s 02.07, I’ve to be up in less than five hours. This is becoming a bad habit. Like someone thirty years my senior, I heave myself to my feet as the room begins to gyrate. I take a couple of minutes to stabilise until I feel safe enough to sway my way through to the kitchen. Placing the empty tumbler into the sink, I blast it with the shower tap, rinsing away residual evidence. Who from? Me? Hide the evidence from myself in the morning, so I can keep pretending? Moments later, tentatively, I begin to climb the stairs, one tender step at a time. Shadowed with a feeling of black gloom, the memory of the day before seeping through my mind. Dotty and Trey abandoned at school while their bad mother drank in a bar in Truro. The patronising look on Carol’s face, the tone of her supercilious words as I collected my children from her all too keen grasp.

  Then, worst of all, Kyle, I cringe, squeezing each muscle in my body with the thought of the argument with Kyle. He doesn’t get it, I’m being stalked, set up, haunted and there’s nowhere for me to turn. The one, the only person I was close to, rapidly becoming a stranger. How could he seriously believe I’d abandon my children, our children? Does he really think this lowly of me? More worryingly, why doesn’t he believe me? It’s not bloody helping with you drinking the way you are, Andi. What you thinking of for Christ’s sake? It’s not like him to speak to me so sharply, we’ve had plenty of rows but there was something about how he spat the words out. As if he’d finally seen me in a different light. I’d disappointed him. Bloody Carol and Kyle, sod them both.

  Stumbling over the top stair, I turn off the landing light, stabbing it with the back of my mobile. I could quite happily hurl the mobile to the floor, given the trouble it’s caused. Instead I flick through and locate the torch to guide me down the dim corridor to the bedroom. Remembering I’m still fully dressed, then also that I don’t care, I’ve moved beyond the normal realms of tired, the feeling of nausea increasing, furring the inside of my gullet. Reaching my bedroom, I creep the few steps before plunging onto the bed sheets, pulling them closely around me. No teeth cleaning. No cleansing, no moisturising. My skin slowly suffocating with the daily gathering of grime and chemical sun screens. Still dressed in the clothes I chose for my appointment with Eve in Truro. What would she make of me right now? I’m in a state but I don’t care. Or do I? I must do, or else I wouldn’t be feeling such intense self-hatred.

  The tiredness of only moments ago has now reverted to an eyes wide open mind, a pounding headache reaching from ear to ear. I reach for the bedside lamp without having to disturb the lower half of my body, there should be paracetamol, somewhere. Fumbling with the foil wrapper, I drop the first capsule on the floor and somehow manage to snap the second when I notice the flashing red indicator on my mobile. Was that there a minute ago? Ignore it; be strong, ignore it. My hand hovers while my mind attempts to reason. Pressing the side button to illuminate the screen, I half squint at the display, I’ve a missed call, my mobile’s been on silent since the row with Kyle. A missed call from an unknown number, several text messages and some Twitter alerts. No voicemail, but a missed call at 01.09. Who makes a call at this time in the morning? A deranged stalker, a woman attempting to steal my husband?

  I flick through the Twitter notifications, nothing out the ordinary, until I get to the last one, tagged #bestbeacheats. I set this hash tag up but right now the only word standing out is, cheats, I’ve not noticed this before. Cheat. Cheat. Cheat. A photo of Bedruthan Steps, did I look at this before I fell asleep on the sofa? Is this why I slipped into yet another torrid flashback? I blink, a shiver stepping down each vertebra, Bedruthan Steps, unmistakable. Who are you? Why are you sending me this? What do you know about? Were you there, that night? Or have you been fishing?

  With shallow, tight breathing, I exit Twitter to open my texts, expecting to see an apologetic message from Kyle, realising he was completely horrible earlier, but his name doesn’t pop up. Clearly, he doesn’t give a damn. A sharp pain darts between my temples, then begins to beat in time with my rapid heartbeat. A text from Carol? Is she the husband thief? One, two, three, texts all from Carol. I pull myself up sharp against the headboard, take a deep breath and open.

  We NEED to talk.

  Then

  No, YOU, need to talk

  And then

  Time to come clean. Something you’re not telling us. Please, Andi I only want to help. You can trust me

  I can’t trust any of you. And even if I did. I still can’t tell you.

  60

  Cornwall 2017

  Eve

  ‘For crying out loud, Jack,’ Eve exhales noisily through her mouth. ‘Why do you leave getting your school stuff together until the moment we’re ready to go. Every single morning?’

  ‘Don’t, Mum, please. Not now. You’re not helping. Have you seen my astros?’

  ‘No. I’m stuck in flipping groundhog day. I’m sick of repeating myself, over and over.’

  ‘I know, nag, nag, nag. You mean? I’m sick of it too,’ Jack throws Eve his largest, cheekiest grin. Eve picks up the nearest cushion from the sofa, flinging it at the top of his head. Jack ducks and continues to force his feet into shoes without undoing the laces. Briefly pausing his fight to re-adjust the almost quiff of a hairstyle his mum has now interfered with.

  Eve hovers, watching him, wondering why he does everything the hard way, making life even more difficult than he need to. ‘Why do you that? You make it such hard work on yourself and, you’re damaging your shoes,’ she emphasises. Appreciating there is little chance of receiving a sensible reply, she collects her briefcase from the floor, making her way to the front door. The cushion she threw at Jack is still on the floor. She sighs and picks it up, if she doesn’t, it will stay there forever. Jack treading over it for the next couple of years. ‘I’ll see you in the car. Hurry up. And make sure you—’

  ‘Make sure the front door is locked and the gate is closed. I know, Mum, you don’t have to tell me every time we leave the house. I get it.’

  Eve makes her way down the uneven cobbled path to the car behind the old Cornish slate wall. Feeling uncomfortable with J
ack’s comment, she could kick herself. She desperately needs Jack to live a secure, normal life after all they’ve been through. Yet here she is, pulling him back into the dark past constantly, doing the exact opposite she’d advise her clients to do.

  She throws her briefcase into the back of the car and noticing her neighbour, she waves. Nobody knows but us, she thinks, just how dark it’s really been. Moments later Jack hurls his rucksack through the back door, jumping in beside her.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Jack, don’t you think this year especially, you need to be more organised.’

  ‘I am organised,’ he protests.

  ‘Only in your eyes.’

  ‘I only need to be organised in my head surely?’

  He has a point, Eve thinks, ‘I know, love, but you’re moving into a really important year now. It’s the start of your GCSEs. Which are your steps into A levels or college or whatever. Which are the—’

  ‘I know, the steps to my future. I do listen, Mum. Stop getting so stressed about stuff. You stress me out.’

  ‘I only want to make sure you end up with choices, Jack. You never want to feel you’re without choices or the means to take control of those choices.’

  After Eve drops Jack at school and parks her car in the Truro multi-storey, she wanders down past the charismatic Grade II listed library. With a full day at clinic ahead, she veers off towards the cathedral for coffee first. Moments later, coffee in hand, she finds herself a table in the corner of what looks like an old church vestry and prepares to read through her notes for the day. But she can’t stop thinking of Andi. Hiding, when she spotted her at the bar window the other day. It doesn’t take a genius to configure, Andi has a drink problem, but why does she? What is it missing from her life or what is she running from in her life? On the surface she has everything, she lives in a most desirable area, she has an amazing career and is evidently talented and to top it off, she has two children she loves and a successful husband who apparently thinks the world of her. But, what is it she’s not saying? What’s she’s hiding from? Desperate for help one minute, slamming the door, putting up shields the next? Then, what about the article Ruan came across? Could it be her? Missing? Presumed dead? Why would anyone want family and loved ones to believe they were dead? She was so young? No, couldn’t have been her, could it?

  Half an hour later Eve pushes through the door of the clinic, a second takeaway coffee and warm croissants in hand. ‘Here we go, don’t say I don’t spoil you.’ She eyes Ruan across the room.

  Ruan leaps from behind the front desk. ‘Hey, am I pleased to see you, I’m starving,’ grabs the bag, inhaling the aroma, ‘just the job.’

  ‘You’re kidding? Really? How did I guess you would be?’ Eve makes her way through the pearlescent sunlit reception to her room, ‘you’re always starving. Do you even eat at home I wonder?’ She mumbles to herself, knowing full well Ruan will be too busy tucking in to answer or care. With only a few minutes to spare before her first appointment, she begins to doubt whether she should have accepted it in the first place. It’s odd to say the least. She received an email from a generic Hotmail account last week, from a tippy2toes@hotmail address. Nothing unusual in that other than the email was signed off as Anonymous, then with a polite P.S. note of explanation underneath… Sorry, I’d rather not provide my name, it read. Eve suggested they should contact Samaritans instead, if he or she wished to have someone to chat with anonymously but they declined the suggestion, politely. They explained, Eve had come highly recommended but they would prefer to keep their name private. Despite a few emails going back and forth, Eve explaining she normally collects more client information, previous ongoing medical conditions, medications, mental health patterns et cetera, they were incredibly persistent. So she agreed to a one off appointment via the telephone. They agreed for the purpose of the appointment, Eve would refer to this person as Camilla. Camilla would call Eve at precisely 09.15, Eve was in no doubt it would be from a private or withheld number. Maybe this person needed a sounding board, possibly an extremely private individual, or maybe a person in the public eye concerned about confidentiality issues? But then Eve reassured the emailer she would only ever break confidentiality in the event of them being of risk to others or themselves. But now sitting, waiting to take the call, she wonders what she’s let herself in for. How can she break confidentiality for the protection of the client or others if she doesn’t know who is at risk and because of who? But there’s something about the name Camilla? Where has she heard it, come across it recently?

  61

  Cornwall 2017

  Clara

  Kicking off my sandals, to feel silky grains between my toes. My favourite time in the evening, a giant orange ball bouncing on the surface of a milky sea, a sky muted with a dimmer switch, tones of silver and a flash of almost flamingo pink. The intense heat of the day turned down and a slight breeze caresses my pink shoulders. Too much time spent sipping a local gin on the hotel balcony overlooking Watergate Bay. I had my Kindle in hand, hoping for distraction, but as my eyes skimmed the pages, my hand brushed the screen, turning pages, the story remained a mystery. How the bloody hell has she managed to get away with this? However hard I tried, I couldn’t eradicate her ghostly image from my mind.

  After bidding farewell to the friends I was visiting here in Cornwall, followed by a lonely dinner for one at a hotel full of families and couples, I drove the short distance to Bedruthan Steps. There, I sat peacefully for some time on the car bonnet, absorbing the exquisite scene. Eventually, almost spellbound I took the treacherous steps down to the beach again, compelled to walk in the footsteps of that summer night. Now, here I am, looking out at the calm, serene sea, a complete contrast from then. The screaming, the thunderous raw of the power mad waters. Taking everything in its path as sitting prey, no mercy for some. Mother Nature at her most ferocious, pocketing anyone in her way. Or at least that was the way it was meant to be. Wasn’t it? Did I really want her to die? In those moments of dejection and desperation, maybe?

  I lower my right hand to scoop up the empty shell of some crustacean, purples and blues with white crusts. How did she get away? How did the roll of the waves miss her, the voracious, unforgiving incoming tide – why did it show her mercy? All this time I’ve thought her dead. I’ve lived years with a conscience. For her? For them both. She always did skim life on a fragile thread, untouched. More than untouched, privileged.

  She’s a liar, a scheming lying bitch. Everyone fell for her act, except me, I never let her leave my sight, I knew her better than anyone. Keep your enemies close is what they say, which is what I did. I begin to tread my way across the golden sands, towards the imposing rock pillars, the steps, Bedruthan steps. Last night, flicking through the local attraction leaflets in reception, I came across one for here, Victorian tourists apparently described these rocks perched on the beach as – the stepping stones exploited by a mythological giant, Bedruthan, who apparently used them to cross the bay when the tide is high. But you, you are tiny, so how did you use them to flee your fate, to escape the violent high tide of that night?

  And now look at you. No shame. Bloody carry on regardless. Gifted a privileged life and using it to the full. Still, from what I see, taking in all and everyone who touch you, you haven’t changed one bit. As blatant and transparent as the tears from the fools who wept for you. And you let them. I didn’t weep, I was happy you were dead, drowned, taken by the Atlantic Ocean to a world far and beyond. I’d never admit it to anyone but I was so lost, two of the closest people in my life, taken, first my sister, then you. I couldn’t cope, I see this now but, in all honesty, I don’t think I really wanted anyone to die. Jo, neither, I was alone, scared, desolate, fragile but not a killer. Not really.

  But what have you done? So blinded by my hurt, did I notice, in the end we were all only ever being played, by you? If I wasn’t so wounded, I’d almost be impressed.

  62
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br />   So your father couldn’t live with the dishonesty any longer. The letter said he didn’t want anything to do with me. Of course, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me, why would he? Decided in the end, he’d remain loyal to his family. Bless him. How perfect for you all. At first I wish I hadn’t found the letter stashed away in the precious box in the wardrobe. But at least now it all makes sense. To a point. Who else knew other than my mother? Did you know? Of course you did. All laughing at me? Is that why you dumped me like trash?

  The problem is, the man I thought to be my father, didn’t want anything to do with me either. Couldn’t live with pretending he was my father, when of course, he wasn’t. So why should he pretend? That would make him a liar too. Never really looked me in the eye. I was only eight years old. And until the letter, I’ve never understood why? I always thought it was something I’d done wrong.

  So, this has all been bubbling away for some time, then just when I thought I’d seek out my compensation, my bit of what is yours, I discover another lie. A great, fat, whopping lie. HUGE. One I intend to use, oh yes, like a gift handed to me when I least expected it. Time to put so many wrongs to right.

  Dishonesty, is then, what I hate most?

  Filthy, disgusting liars. You should have told me the truth, Andi.

  63

  Cornwall 2017

  Eve

  ‘Those glass photo frames, the ones where you slip the photo between two leaves of glass? Is this how you mean? Feels as though your life is grasped within the realms of a 2d photo frame, you’re viewing it through the glass of the frame from all sides. Seeing it but not feeling it. Looking at it but not experiencing it?’

  ‘Exactly, I’ve lived the life, well – a life, at least. But I can’t feel it any more. I’m numb. No feelings, I’m not responding in the way I know I should and if I do it’s because… because I know how I need to respond. I’m an intruder in my own life.’