Trauma: a gripping psychological mystery thriller

by Dylan Young

  ‘Cam, how they hanging?’

  ‘They are hanging well, thanks. Several feet off the ground as always.’

  Owen grins. He always talks to me this way. As if nothing has ever happened. I like it. His way of coping. He hasn’t said so, but Rachel has. In whispers when Owen’s flippancy annoys her. Which is often, though I suspect she affects that annoyance. Owen makes Rachel laugh. After what she’s been through – thanks largely to me – humour is a gift not to be scoffed at. He, on the other hand, tells me it is his role in life not to mollycoddle.

  ‘How are things in the big smoke, Cam?’

  ‘I’m stocking up on essentials with my one eye on the zombie apocalypse. I also have garlic and wooden stakes.’

  ‘You need to work on your mythology, but otherwise that all sounds good. We, too, are replete when it comes to toilet rolls and handwash. Costco was like a war zone.’

  ‘Are you okay, Owen?’

  ‘You know me, Cam. Enduring, as always, under immense pressure.’ He flinches as my sister clips him a playful one around the ear.

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m working from home for the foreseeable. Now that both kids are ill.’

  The phone is jostled again. Owen steadies it with a, ‘Whoa, savages at six o’clock.’ Two more faces cram together to appear on-screen. My nephew, Ewan, and niece, Rosie. Rosie’s cheeks appear eponymously flushed and she has slight shadows under her eyes. Ewan looks like his dad. For five minutes I listen to a breathless account, in Welsh, of their day at home with Rachel. Making posters, pice ar y maen (Welsh cakes), and playing hide the teddy with Sibli, their dog. Behind them, Rachel makes rabbit-ear fingers above Rosie’s head until their performance becomes too competitive and some pushing and shoving enters the scene. At that point, Rachel calls a halt. ‘Okay, that’s enough. Back to the dungeon.’

  Ewan, with the pedantry of a six-year-old, objects. ‘We don’t have a dungeon.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Owen says and drops his voice into cartoon Dracula. ‘Would you like to find out?’

  More squeals and I see Owen’s blurred form chase the kids from the room.

  Rachel takes a slug of wine and puts the phone back to its stable place on the table. ‘As you can see, despite casualties, we are fine. But how about you? Are you okay? I got your text. So the drive and the visit to Emma’s practice turned out well?’

  I’ve thought hard about this moment. About what to say to Rachel. No point lying. She’s a human polygraph.

  I say, ‘It was good. I met someone there who remembered me. A colleague of Emma’s. But I didn’t remember her. We had a toffee. A coffee.’

  ‘That sounds good. You had no trouble finding the place then?’

  ‘Google Maps found it for me.’

  ‘But it was worth the trip, was it?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. Afterwards, I remembered going through the barrier at the reception desk to a room that Emma must have used. I didn’t recognise it at the time, but the memory came back later.’

  Rachel is smiling. ‘That’s just the way Adam said it might happen. Visiting old haunts will push some of these memories to the front of your brain. Anything else happen?’

  ‘Josh says the last piece of work I did for him was good.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘He says I should consider doing some freelance stuff. He’ll help with it.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re up for that?’

  ‘I need to do something.’

  ‘True, but remember what Adam said about overdoing things. Stress is not the friend of recovery from brain injury.’ Rachel’s head snaps up and to the left. She yells, in Welsh, ‘Ewan, do NOT play quidditch in the passage! Do you hear me?’ When her face appears in shot again, she shakes her head. ‘They are so wound up. Owen is reading them The Prisoner of Azkaban and they’re obsessed with Hogsmeade and Butterbeer. He’s told them that if they don’t behave, they’ll get turned into chocolate frogs. I swear he’s worse than they are.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s me that’s stressed, Rache.’

  ‘Ha, bloody ha. Anyway, baby steps, Cam.’

  ‘And don’t forget the nappy, yeah, yeah.’

  That’s an unpleasant in-joke from the time I was in a coma. One that both of us would prefer to forget.

  She assures me again that she is available any time if I need her, adding that I can come down and stay with them until this virus thing is all over. I decline.

  ‘Understandable,’ she says. ‘Chances are the kids have or will have it so Owen and I are toeing the line.’

  ‘When did Owen self-isolate?’

  ‘Today. We decided it was the right thing to do. Even if we were extra careful with the kids and the dog… Sibli knows sod all about social distancing and if there was ever a perfect vector, she’s it.’

  Sibli, the Griffiths’ golden lab, wavers into shot as Rachel swivels her iPad towards the floor. A wet nose and smiling eyes appear two inches from the camera.

  ‘Hi, Sibli,’ I say.

  Then Rachel is back, veering into shot. ‘Look after yourself. Cadwa’n saff.’

  ‘I will.’

  I text John Stamford and agree to the meet at The Pommelers Rest tomorrow morning. It feels impulsive. I suspect the two-and-a-half beers I’ve had has helped.

  Later, I watch one of Josh’s recommendations. This one is, ‘A simple tale of a mother and son relationship gone apeshit. With a bit of the supernatural thrown in. You’ll love it because it blurs the lines between reality and the unreal. In fact, if it was ever remade, you’d get a part no trouble, given your talent for mental wanderings.’

  It’s only when Haley Joel Osment says, ‘I see dead people’ that I realise just how much Josh has excelled himself with cryptic sarcasm this time. Later, when Bruce Willis finally realises his mistake, I wonder if whoever wrote the film had fugues too. After all, faceless Emma who always appears with me in the rooftop bar must be dead. Perhaps everyone there is. Or there’s the possibility that I am Bruce Willis, and that I’m dead already, but I won’t admit it to myself.

  I text Josh and tell him that. His reply is:

  No mate, you’re not in The Sixth Sense. You’re the lead in No Sense.

  I text back an emoji of a bell and the word end.

  Josh texts back: ROFLOL.

  At 11pm I hear three rapid pips. Nicole has suggested we use Snapchat for photos and messaging. I downloaded the app. That way, even if she forgets to delete them, messages will disappear. I’m there as Cam. Easy for her to claim it’s a Camilla. Safer to do that for now. Aaron is paranoid she says. She suspects he looks at her phone even though she’s password-protected it. She tries not to leave it unlocked ever.

  I open the app and scroll to messages. I read, Missing you signed N. That’s also the letter I’ve used in my contacts folder. There’s another signal. The photo that materialises shows Nicole dressed in a tight party frock, waving at me with a sad face. The photo counts down from ten seconds and disappears. I know she’s at her friend’s for another variation on a hen shindig this weekend and it looks like the celebrations have begun. But I’m glad she’s texted. Filling my mind with Nicole gets rid of all the weird feelings I’ve had about not being alive. Of being trapped in some kind of limbo like good old Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense.

  But Nicole is real. To prove it, I go into the bedroom and pick up the pillow. I can still smell leather and musk.

  Bandit.

  That’s how I remember her now.

  23

  SATURDAY 14 March

  What hits me the moment I walk into The Pommelers Rest on Saturday morning at 9.27am is how bustling it is.

  So much for voluntary social distancing.

  The bar is open and there are three people standing nursing pints. Everyone else, and there must be a hundred people in there, are sitting at tables, eating. I stand in the bar area looking around at a thriving business. The place is well-lit with lots of windows looking out
to the street. There’s a jolly, patriotic red-and-blue carpet on the floor and the place is buzzing. Thirty seconds later a man approaches. Big, around six-one, carrying a good few extra pounds that start at his neck and spread downwards so that his cable-knit jumper bulges taut under a waxed jacket. He holds out a hand.

  ‘Cameron? John Stamford.’

  He hands over a card. No frills. Black print on white paper with his name at the top and the words Private Investigator beneath followed by a phone number. I put it in my jeans pocket and then shake his hand, vaguely discomfited by the fact that I shouldn’t be doing that, and acutely aware that if I now wash my hands it’ll look embarrassing. I’m saved by Stamford fishing a little bottle of sanitiser out of his jacket pocket and squeezing out a thumbnail-sized dollop into my palm before doing the same himself.

  ‘No need to throw away years of social etiquette because of a little cough,’ he says in a voice that goes with his bulk.

  From what I’ve seen on TV of the people in China and Italy, wearing personal protection gear and dealing with dying patients, it’s hardly a little cough. But I don’t argue.

  ‘I’ve never been in here before,’ I say, still a little awestruck.

  ‘Used to be a hotel. Course, doesn’t suit the craft beer brigade who turn their noses up at the cheap booze. But more than one Spoons has been a welcome haven after a long night of surveillance. It’s a pub. A place for a bite to eat and a drink for travellers. Plus, on occasion, a bloody useful site office for me. Walk in here mid-afternoon and you’ll see why some Spoons are social hubs for poor beggars fed up of staring at the same four walls. That’s what pubs are meant for and the staff in here are great. They take a tolerant view of letting the homeless people in for a cuppa, too. Within reason. This place used to be a hostelry. Named for the leather workers that worked in this neck of London as far back as the fifteenth century. Got a bit of a soft spot, me.’

  ‘Some of my friends won’t come in on pencil. Sorry, principle…’ I see Stamford frown. I explain, ‘I sometimes get words wrong. Anyway, as I was saying, some of my friends don’t come because of something to do with the owner’s politics.’

  Stamford’s smooth, broad face has light-coloured eyebrows that need trimming. His bald head is shaved. Different from the photo on my wall. He shrugs. ‘I voted remain, but I still eat breakfast in here. About time people accepted their fate, I say.’ He opens his hands by way of excusing an indulgence. ‘A Spoons’ full English every Saturday is my fix. We’re over there.’

  I follow him down some steps to a table for two under a print of the Thames from days gone by: sepia images of sailing ships and mudlarks on the banks. Stamford takes off his jacket and sits with his back to the wall. ‘Thanks for coming. I admit I was surprised to get your message.’ He has a raw voice. A local accent scoured by either overuse or cigarettes. He doesn’t look fit enough to be yelling at kids in a coaching capacity, so I presume that tobacco is the culprit. ‘What brought on the change of heart?’ he asks, his gaze penetratingly direct. He looks comfortable and I surmise he’s done this before. Then I remember that he was once a policeman.

  ‘I’m remembering some things. They are vague but each new memory triggers questions that I can’t answer.’

  Stamford nods and picks up a menu. ‘Let’s order. What do you fancy?’

  I don’t feel much like eating but he insists. I go for a smashed avocado bagel; Stamford orders a traditional full English. We’re both presented with large steaming mugs of tea. Stamford takes two sugars. The food comes quickly. While we eat, Stamford does most of the talking. ‘Just so you know my bona fides, I was with the Met for ten years and then a DCI with Essex police for another fifteen. Drug squad to start with, then major crimes.’

  ‘And now you are a private investigator.’

  ‘That’s it. The two M’s. Missing persons and marital indiscretions. Bit of debt-tracing as well. But now and again something unusual pokes its head up. Like you and Emma Roxburgh.’

  ‘So you are still working for Emma’s family?’

  ‘I am. Engaged to find out what happened that night.’

  ‘I still can’t remember anything.’

  ‘But you remember something. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right?’

  ‘What about your messages. The financial issues.’

  Stamford has bacon, egg and hash browns skewered in layers on his fork. The load pauses halfway to his mouth. He smiles. ‘Yeah, that’s a bit of artistic licence. Mentioning money usually gets a response. It hasn’t in you. Not so far. Unless that’s what’s got you out of bed this morning.’

  I shake my head. ‘So that’s a lie?’

  ‘Not exactly. You are the beneficiary of Emma Roxburgh’s will and insurance policies.’

  ‘And you think that’s a good enough reason to throw myself off a concrete jetty and almost die in the process?’

  Stamford puts down his fork. ‘No, I do not think that. But other people have put forward the possibility. That you miscalculated.’

  None of this is news to me. Rachel has been through this ad nauseam.

  Stamford chews, takes another gulp of tea and reaches for the ketchup. ‘So what’s made you contact me, Cameron?’

  ‘A nagging itch. The notion that perhaps all was not well between Emma and me. I found a notebook with something written in it.’ I show him a copy of Emma’s entry and then explain about Quantiple.

  ‘What’s your take on what this means?’ Stamford asks.

  ‘I should know everything there is to know about Emma. But I don’t. You, on the other hand, know more than anyone, I would guess.’

  There’s a lull. A door left open for me to get to my point.

  ‘Was Emma having an affair with someone?’

  Stamford looks surprised and then lets out a throaty laugh. ‘An affair? What makes you say that?’

  ‘There was someone at Guy’s. Someone she worked with. I think she was involved in stealing drugs.’

  ‘And you honestly believe Emma was part of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hoped you might.’

  Stamford’s eyes light up with interest. ‘And if she was, how would that play out with what happened in Turkey?’

  I don’t get a chance to answer. Stamford’s head snaps up and he pushes his chair back. ‘What the–’

  ‘Jesus, John. Is nowhere sleazy enough for you.’ A woman’s voice, confident and shrill, coming nearer. I have my back to her and I don’t turn around because the mask of horror on Stamford’s face is mesmerising.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Stamford demands, getting up and causing the table to shudder, almost spilling both mugs of tea.

  ‘I needed to speak to you, and your charming assistant was very helpful when I told her how urgent it was. You’re a creature of habit, it seems.’

  Stamford lunges past me. He drops his voice. ‘This is not the best time.’

  ‘It will only take a few minutes.’

  The other diners are turning to watch an altercation. A bit of drama.

  ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop across the road.’

  The woman laughs and her next words are a whisper. ‘Have I stumbled on an assignation.’

  ‘Harriet, please.’

  I turn around, recognise her immediately. She looks a little like the image of Emma on my kitchen wall, but thinner in the face and with longer hair. She’s lost some weight and there are dark circles under her makeup-free face. I should have recognised her voice. But I’ve only had Harriet Roxburgh talk to me half a dozen times since Turkey. Her voice has either been a sob, or a berating screech. She is on Rachel’s list of no-nos. Guilt flares in my brain. That’s two people on Rachel’s blacklist in one venue. Must be my lucky day.

  Harriet’s face freezes and her eyes go from slits to ovals in two seconds flat. She looks from me to Stamford and back before breathing out, ‘You.’

  Stamford puts himself between us. Too late. Someone has li
t a fire under Harriet. She points an accusing finger at me.

  ‘You bastard. You utter bastard. How dare you use Emma to post those disgusting things–’

  ‘Harriet,’ Stamford tries to intervene. ‘This is not good–’

  ‘You are sick, you know that. You’re not fooling anyone with your bloody memory loss bullshit. I know what you did, you despicable monster.’

  ‘Right, that’s enough.’ Stamford holds his arms out wide.

  Two pub staff members clock the fracas and are hovering. One walks over and says, ‘Is everything all right here?’

  I want to say something, but I can’t because I’m frozen to my chair.

  ‘I’m going to the police about this,’ hisses Harriet.

  But Stamford has turned her around firmly and slides one big arm around her, marching her to the nearest door while she resists like some errant child. She fights him all the way, craning to get her face around to hurl threats at me and to Stamford.

  ‘Let go of me. Why are you even talking to that piece of filth?’

  They reach a door. Stamford opens it using one large hand without letting go of Harriet. Then he grabs her by the elbows and shakes her firmly. He leans into her face and says something no one else hears. She stops shouting and sends me a glare that makes me shudder before they both leave through a side exit. Stamford keeps hold of her elbow as he crosses the road to the coffee shop. I turn back to my bagel. Smashed avocado spills over from the surface and the sight of it almost turns my stomach. My appetite is shot. I sit, sipping tea, pondering whether to leave, waiting for my pulse to subside. I’m at the point of standing up and putting on my coat when Stamford comes back in and sits.

  ‘Right,’ he says, pushing away his half-finished plate. ‘So that just happened. Can I tempt you with another cup of tea, Cameron?’

  24

  I toy with getting up and walking out. My heart thumps like a trapped bird in my chest.