Inheritance

by Thomas Wymark

Colin explained the science behind the thinking. I listened, but didn’t really take much of it in. As soon as he had mentioned inherited memory something went off within me. Like a cannon that goes off when boats cross the finishing line in an Atlantic race, my internal cannon had signalled that I too had crossed the finishing line. It was as though everything had slotted into place. I knew he was right. That was what I had inside my head. They were memories. Not premonitions, not simply nightmares, although nightmarish they were, but solid, distant memories. And they were a part of me. Just like any other memory.

  ‘And who knows what triggers these things?’ Colin said. ‘In your case, it was most likely the head trauma, but it may not have been. It could equally have been a new smell that brought all this back for you. Because that’s really what it is — it’s bringing back your memory.’

  I zoned out again and brought up the visions and dreams I had been trying to suppress. I played them through as memories, thought of them as memories for the first time. I gave them permission to be there, in my mind.

  But something didn’t quite square. I could accept the visual memories, but what about the voice I had heard? What about the vision of the girl on the stairs at home? What about the physical changes I had felt?

  I tried to ask these questions of Colin, but my throat had dried and my words died before they even made it out of my mouth. I mimicked having a drink with my hand. Colin stopped talking and stood up.

  ‘Water?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Neil?’ he said.

  Neil nodded too.

  I swirled it around my mouth before swallowing, feeling it flow down my throat. Lubricating and cool.

  ‘What about the girl I saw on the stairs?’ I said. ‘The physical changes, and the voice in my head? What about the fact that I wanted to hurt Michael and Rose? That’s not part of inherited memory.’

  He dipped his head to one side. Tapped his pen on the top of his notebook.

  ‘The field of cellular memory isn’t just concerned with the brain,’ he said. ‘It suggests that all cells have the capacity to remember things. Things like function and how they are supposed to be when they are well. Like factory settings in a way. It may be possible that some other characteristics have come across too.’

  ‘Is this genuine?’ I said. ‘I mean, why isn’t everyone like this?’

  ‘It’s possible that they are,’ he said. ‘But they may just not be attuned to their bodies in the way you are. It’s not a new science, but it is controversial.’

  I closed my eyes and massaged the bridge of my nose. Allowed my thumb to rub along my eyebrow.

  ‘So I may still have her mental illness,’ I said, ‘as well as the worst parts of her memory.’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Colin said.

  Neil and I talked very little on the way home. There was too much for us to take in.

  ‘I need to go back down to Plymouth,’ I said.

  ‘Today?’ he said.

  ‘In the morning,’ I said. ‘I need to. I need to see Janice Ward before the results of the blood test come back. I have to find out more about my mother. And I’ll see Richard too. Make sure he’s OK. I’ll spend the night down there and come back on Sunday.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ he said.

  I touched his leg.

  ‘I’ll get the train. I’d prefer that. It’ll give me time to think about things. And Michael and Rose will still have you around.’

  When we got home I rang Janice.

  ‘Of course I can see you tomorrow,’ she said. But not until 3:30pm. Will that be OK?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the early train down anyway and visit the hospital.’

  The next morning I decided to go first to Richard’s house in St Germans.

  Ernie scowled at me as I walked through the living-room. It was as though he knew I had breached Richard’s trust by going into the loft the last time I was there. I told him to piss off. A knock at the front door stopped me halfway through taking my coat off.

  ‘Hello again.’ It was Thelma. ‘Back so soon?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just a few things I needed to sort out. And Richard’s on the mend already.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fantastic news,’ she said. ‘When will he be out?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I hope to see him later. I’ll find out then. Thank you so much for looking after Ernie.’

  She smiled as though she’d been looking after a grandchild or something.

  ‘He’s such a poppet,’ she said. ‘Just like Richard.’

  I smiled at her. It seemed to work.

  ‘What’s the best way to get to Rame Head?’ I said.

  ‘Rame Head?’ she turned and looked up at the sky. ‘It might be a bit bracey up there at the moment.’

  The wind was brisk, but the day was mostly bright. I wasn’t sure what she was basing her forecast on.

  ‘I just fancy a wander,’ I said. ‘I’ll only be up there a short while.’

  ‘There’s a church in Cawsand,’ she said. ‘A large one as you drive into the village. A footpath leads up past the church, up the hill through some woods and out onto Rame Head. But the weather is very changeable up there. Very windy too. Make sure you keep to the paths. Don’t go too near the edge.’

  I covered my smile with my hand. It sounded like a warning out of a horror movie.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure I’m careful.’

  I already knew the church in Cawsand. I spent a few minutes at my mother’s headstone then found the wide path running along the southern side of the church. It started out as a stony lane leading to three cottages overlooking the bay. After passing the cottages the lane quickly became a narrow footpath. A mixture of sand and pine needles on a dry, mud base. It was just like the seaside of my imagination. The gentle waves brushed against the shore in the bay below as the footpath steadily increased in an upward slant. Already my breath was coming faster. I undid the buttons on my coat, let the wind fill it with cool air.

  After ten minutes the woodland path gave way to open land. The gentle waves from the bay behind me had been replaced by a crashing roar from somewhere up ahead. The pine needles and sand were gone. Now darker pebbles and heavy earth lay beneath my feet. A blast of wind almost knocked me off balance. My fingers grew cold and I fumbled to do up the buttons on my coat. I passed a gorse bush.

  I pushed on, further up the hill. The sea to my left looked cold and dark. The bright sky of the day had become sullen. It seemed to reflect the mood of the sea. Gorse bushes now all around me. The pretty yellow flowers in stark contrast to the dark-green spikes.

  A gull screamed at me as it flew over my head. I ducked down, even though it was way above me. I looked back along the path and tried to set my bearings. Perhaps Thelma hadn’t been melodramatic after all.

  Another ten minutes hard walking and the ground levelled out. Apart from gorse, Rame Head was desolate. I could imagine it being stunning in Summer, but at that moment it looked hellish. The dark sea spat out large white flumes as wave after wave smashed against the jagged rocks just off the head. The roar sounded like some prehistoric leviathan patrolling the foot of the cliffs, threatening all who dared to come near, either by land or sea.

  Something made me stop. I spun around and thought I just caught a glimpse of a figure. No more than fifty metres away, ducking behind a gorse bush. The sea, now on my right, pushed up more spray. Water droplets smacked into my face as I started walking back down the path. Thirty metres to the gorse bush now, and another seagull screamed overhead. My ears stung from the vicious wind and spray. The leviathan still prowled at the bottom of the sheer cliffs. The sea spray became heavier, more like mist. More like fog. Ten metres from the gorse. Something dark within it? I couldn’t be sure. Too misty. I can’t see the path now. The weather has taken it, the wind has confused me, buffeted me off course. A sweet smell. Sweet and sickly. A girl is walking up the path towards me. She’s smiling at me throu
gh the mist. Waving at me and breaking into a trot. I have to warn her about the dark something in the gorse bush. But she can’t hear me shout. I can’t hear me shout. A stabbing pain in my leg. She’s getting nearer now. Her dog is running ahead of her. She pulls back on its lead. It’s Barbara. Barbara Stannard. She’s still smiling.

  I realise there’s something cold on my cheek. Damp and cold. It feels like my hand. When I open my eyes I know immediately where I am. Tangled brambles, rough undergrowth and the smell of damp earth. I am leaning against my mother’s headstone in the graveyard of St Andrew’s. The hand supporting my head lies along the top ridge of the headstone. I am sitting on the ground. My mother lies in the ground directly beneath me.

  A pulse pumps through my ear. Slow and firm. My breathing is steady and my head feels clear. I check my fingernails for blood.

  The sky was darker. I rummaged in my coat pocket for my mobile so that I could check the time. But I couldn’t find it. I searched the undergrowth around me, but it wasn’t there. I must have lost it up on Rame Head. It would have to stay lost. Then I noticed the clock face on the church. It was 2:45pm. I had probably been out for about 45 minutes. Less than previous blackouts. My shoulders ached and I stretched my neck back. When I stood up, I realised I had scratched my left leg on brambles. A few thorns had gone through the trousers and into my shin. I pulled them out and rubbed it with both hands. I brushed off the leaves and mud that had found their way to my coat and trousers and left the churchyard. Cawsand’s little beach was empty. I stood in the sand and looked out into the bay. No angry leviathan poked it’s seething head around the rocks. No violent weather approached across the water towards me. Gentle waves and a cool breeze. Even the seagulls sounded more friendly.

  I found a phone-box and called a taxi to take me to Janice Ward’s.

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