Trauma: a gripping psychological mystery thriller

by Dylan Young

  ‘Never been called titillation before.’

  ‘I thought I’d trot you out in front of them. You are worth three chapters of any textbook.’

  I can almost see Adam smiling as he says this.

  I pause, think about it and then ask again, ‘And the real reason?’

  Adam hesitates, but he knows he’s beaten. I can tell by the way he softly snorts. ‘Okay. The truth. Rachel rang me.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes. She has me on speed dial.’

  ‘She mothers me.’ Yet more stuck record.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. It’s called continuity of care.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to worry.’

  ‘Good. That’s good. But she did say you’d had some fresh recall?’

  Rachel will have told Adam everything I told her. So I tell him only what’s new. ‘My fugues have changed.’

  Adam says nothing. I recognise it as one of his expectant pauses.

  ‘I’m still on the rooftop at the bar, but now I know Ivan isn’t Russian. He does too. There are maids making up beds, and there’s a sandstorm. It blows in and wipes everything away – well, almost everything. What’s left is a statue that seems to move and something very unpleasant made out of black smoke.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ says Adam.

  ‘Glad you like it. Any ideas?’

  ‘Do you feel threatened by these new appearances?’

  ‘They’re increasingly becoming a part of the final scene. Emma’s fall and mine.’ I don’t say push. Too close to the bone.

  ‘A statue, you say. Classic? Modern?’

  ‘More classic. Looks weathered. Sometimes wears a maid’s uniform.’

  ‘Well that’s easy. You were staying in a hotel. As for the smoke, what’s strange about it?’

  ‘Ivan says it smells. It seems alive to me.’

  More silence. Then Adam speaks. ‘You’ve been doing some research, I take it? On Cirali and where it all happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Though you may not remember, it’s highly likely that you and Emma would have visited Cirali’s more obvious tourist attractions. That means you will have been to Olympos and seen the Chimaera.’

  ‘Probably, though I don’t remember doing either.’

  ‘Olympos is at the end of the beach and it has a necropolis. Lots of tombs and ruptured sarcophagi and crumbling stones. Not sure if there are any intact statues, but certainly there’d be carvings. And, as I said, there are the Chimaeras.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘The breath of a monster tamed by Bellerophon when he jumped on Pegasus and poured molten lead into the beast’s mouth,’ Adam affects in a dramatic voice. ‘The stuff of nightmares. Legend has it the flames are the beast’s breath. And I understand that the seeping gas from somewhere underground contains methane amongst other things. Maybe even a little sulphur? You’d certainly smell that.’

  ‘So, are you saying that what I’m seeing is a melon… I mean melange of my trip to Cirali?’

  ‘It could be. Perhaps the best way I can think of to explain it.’

  I pause. It almost makes sense. ‘But there’s something else. This morning I ended up being outside when I came out of the fugue. I wasn’t to start with. That’s never happened before.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t.’

  ‘What do you think this all means?’

  Something that might be a meaningful exhalation escapes Adam’s lips into the phone’s mouthpiece. In my mind’s eye I see him lean back in his chair and steeple his fingers. Classic Adam. ‘Clearly, the change in your memory, the improvement I should say, is affecting, possibly informing, the fugue. Feeding into it somehow.’

  ‘That’s how I see it too.’

  ‘Much of what you’re hallucinating is open to interpretation.’

  ‘I agree. But on the whole, I’d say the lines are getting more blurred.’

  ‘Lines?’

  ‘Between the reality of what I can actually remember and what the fugue, in its own way, is trying to tell me. A kind of cryptic puzzle. Ivan is the giveaway. His real name is Rusink. He was the barman at the beach in Turkey. Looks just like him. But in the fugue, I’ve mangled the name and stereotyped him as Ivan. The point is, nothing in the fugue is quite what it seems. Josh has postulated the Second Life theory. He thinks all the people are avatars in a kind of virtual reality.’

  ‘Interesting analogy,’ Adam says.

  ‘You don’t buy it?’

  ‘Way too simplistic a theory. And, given what I know about Josh, the easiest way for him to process it. But that’s the issue. Rationalising. Second Life is a virtual world with laws and parameters. What rational laws are there in your fugue?’

  ‘Not many that I can see. Except that we’re not flying or have fishes’ heads.’

  ‘Make sure you record the changes. For when we next meet.’

  I drift into the living room, still on the phone to Adam, stand in front of my wall. ‘What about the physical changes? The fact that I walked outside–’

  ‘You’ve had fugues out walking before, haven’t you?’

  True. I may be worrying unnecessarily.

  ‘Let’s see what happens next time. This could be a one-off,’ he adds. Adam, as always, is reassuring.

  ‘When are your students coming in?’ I ask.

  ‘I lied about them.’

  ‘Course you did. I just wanted to make you feel guilty.’

  ‘Mea culpa.’

  ‘If she rings again, tell Rachel I’m fine.’

  ‘I will. And I’m here if you need me.’

  Adam’s photo stares out at me from the corkboard. I stare back. ‘Thanks. What about your clinics? How are they going to work with social distancing?’

  ‘Not easily. We’ve had a heads-up from our director of clinical services. The grapevine says that by Monday we’ll be in total lockdown. No more voluntary restrictions. They’ll be mandatory.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Enforced closure of all non-essential businesses, I suspect. We think they’ll ask at least 1.5 million vulnerable individuals to completely self-isolate.’

  ‘Vulnerable?’

  ‘At risk. The immune-compromised. Diabetics. Cancer patients on treatment. Known respiratory disease. The list is long.’

  Another thought slips into my head. ‘What about wedding venues?’

  ‘Something you’re not telling me, Cam?’ Adam’s voice cracks with amusement.

  ‘A friend of mine is a guest at one this weekend.’

  ‘Though we as a unit are gearing up in advance, my understanding is that major changes will come into play beginning of next week. This weekend is the last chance saloon for anyone wanting to tie the knot.’

  ‘Wow. This is the real peel… deal.’

  ‘It is. So you need to stay safe, Cam.’

  ‘I love alone, you know that. Live alone. You know that too.’

  Adam laughs softly. ‘Things like this can seem unreal, as if it won’t happen to you.’

  ‘I’m being careful. I’m handwashing. I own lots of sanitiser and toilet paper.’

  ‘Then you are all set. Even so, any problems, ring me.’

  I thank Adam. He’s a good guy. But he’s right when he says this seems unreal.

  I have started McCarthy’s The Road. What a brilliantly bleak picture he paints. Disconcertingly, I wonder if we’re all going to end up in nuclear bunkers.

  Half an hour later I get a text from Leon.

  Double whammy, Cam my man. Gym is closing tomorrow for the foreseeable. As if that’s not bad enough, I’ve got a bit of a cough, bit of fever. I’m self-isolating but you need to monitor yourself.

  I text back.

  Stay safe, Leon.

  I don’t know for certain, but I think I’m okay. I don’t feel unwell. I don’t have a fever or a cough. But Leon’s text has shocked me. As Josh would say, ‘This shit just got real.’

  41

  FRIDAY 20 M
ARCH

  After a restless night, I get up early and make coffee, this time with almond milk. Rachel says it’s good for me. At least it’s palatable, not like her other suggestions. Those I have to swallow and some of them are big buggers. Like 1,000mg glucosamine tablets, or the orangy salmon oil capsules. The label for the latter tells me they’re full of EPA/DHA fatty acids and DHA contributes to the normal function of brain activity. I’m AFT – all for that. Are they doing any good? Who knows? Sometimes I wonder if they’re just placebos. But then they don’t seem to do any harm, so I take them, swallow them down with the almond milk coffee. But today the glucosamine gets stuck at a bend in my oesophagus halfway down and I need to chase it with a glass of water.

  Then I sit and think about that last fugue. I can’t get that coiling black smoke out of my mind. It was almost as if it had a purpose. As if it sensed me. Ivan had used two words. Yad and vonyat. I google them. I start with Dutch, but that doesn’t work. Then I go to Russian and yad translates as poison, vonyat as stink. So, though Ivan is Dutch, he peppers his vocabulary with Russian words.

  There’s no logic to any of it.

  Still, these are accurate descriptions. Ivan had mentioned drains, too. He implied that was where the black smoke came from. But what I saw was more than the ooze of a bad smell. It had substance. Volition. Seeped almost like a miasma or gas.

  Gas.

  I wait until 10. I consider 10am a reasonable time. It gives people the chance to get up and have breakfast. I pick up my phone and scroll to my notes, to the copied and pasted number Nicole sent me the evening before. I memorise it and punch the keypad. The number rings eight times before someone answers. When they do, there’s no greeting. Only a terse question.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘You don’t know me. My name is Cameron Todd.’

  Haldane doesn’t reply.

  I try again. ‘Is this Mathew Haldane?’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘I’m sorry to call out of the blue. I am not trying to sell you anything.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’ He repeats the question, this time more slowly, in a monotone.

  ‘I am, I was, Emma Roxburgh’s partner.’

  Several long seconds of empty silence follow. I can hear him breathing. Finally, he asks, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need to know first. Are you Mathew Haldane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not trying to make trouble.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Haldane says, his voice dripping with derision.

  ‘I’m not. You know that Emma died.’

  ‘I read something. Saw it on the news.’

  ‘Then you also are aware that I was injured in the same… incident.’

  A three-second pause follows before he says, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I lost the vision in one eye. Broke an arm. Smashed one side of my head in and got a severe brain injury.’

  ‘Sounds like fun. Poor you.’ The meaning of the words bears no relation to how he delivers them.

  ‘That means no memory of things up to the event. I’ve been trying to piece things together ever since. Your name came up.’

  ‘I bet it did.’

  ‘Not from Emma. She might have told me about you, but I can’t remember that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I wanted to ask if she’d had any contact with you before the accident.’

  The laughter that follows is prolonged and bitter. When it finishes Haldane says, ‘Is this a wind-up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a sodding journalist, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am not. I promise. You can ring me back–’

  Haldane cuts me off. ‘Okay, let’s pretend it is you, Cameron Todd. You’ve lost your memory and now someone’s brought my name up, so you thought you’d ring me up for a chat, is that it?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Okay, Cameron.’ He uses my name with extra sardonic emphasis. ‘If you found my number you also googled me, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’ve read that your precious fucking Emma got me struck-off for sending her some texts and emails. She ruined my life. I am still under a restraining order not to contact her bolshy family, despite the fact she is long dead.’

  ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘If I do contact them, I could go to prison. So what makes you think I would go anywhere near Emma or any other toxic Roxburgh with a lit bargepole?’

  My turn to pause. ‘You’ve answered my question.’

  ‘Ironic, though, right?’

  ‘Ironic?’

  ‘That the lovely Emma fucked up both of our lives in her own sweet way.’

  Her photo is on the wall. Lovely Emma, smiling. I bristle. ‘Emma died. How can that be her fault?’

  ‘Good question. But from what I read the case is still open, am I right?’

  ‘That’s why I’m trying to find out as much as I can. So I can–’

  ‘Remember? I’m surprised you want to. You didn’t ring me for a simple chat. What reminiscences of mine could help you? You rang hoping that I’d confess to some bullshit theory you cooked up, didn’t you? Well I have theories too, Cameron, and I’ve had lots of time to ponder mine.’

  He lets his loaded sentence hang.

  I take a breath. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what if there isn’t anyone else involved?’

  I wait, sensing more. Dreading it.

  ‘What if you and Emma had a fight? What if she told you there was someone else and you lost it? What if you threw her off the cliff and then yourself after her? Maybe you were hurrying to get away and fell. Screwed yourself and Emma.’

  ‘That is not what happened.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  I can’t. Haldane, I realise, is enjoying himself.

  ‘I’d be in no great hurry to remember anything if I were you, Cameron, my friend. I’d let sleeping dogs doze by the fire.’

  ‘I loved Emma!’

  ‘Did you? Or maybe she was having it off with someone else and you couldn’t stand the thought of it. Maybe you were playing hide the saveloy with a nice little slice of totty on the side and she found out. Maybe that’s why you pushed her off that cliff?’

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  He’s right on one count. The bit on the side. I had been seeing Nicole. But that was only in response to something that Emma was doing. I begin to wonder at the wisdom of this call. People warned me off Haldane for a reason. I can’t let him start messing with my head.

  ‘Everyone says that we–’

  ‘Everyone says?’ He hisses out the sentence. ‘But only you can know the truth, am I right?’

  I don’t answer. I want to say something, but I can’t find the words because I realise that he’s right. Only I can know the actual truth of it. No one else. It’s then I hear something that sends a shudder quaking through me. A whisper, barely audible.

  ‘Emma wanted me more than anything. More than you, Cameron. It was only a matter of time.’

  I blurt out an exhalation of horror. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said only you know the truth.’

  ‘No, after that. The whisper…’

  ‘What whisper? Are you hearing things now?’

  ‘You said something about Emma wanting you.’

  ‘Jesus. You need some help, Cameron.’ Again, the heavy emphasis on my name. ‘Do me a favour. Never ring this number again.’

  The line goes dead.

  I sit for a long while after Haldane has hung up. I drink too much coffee, welcome the buzz, realise I’m an idiot. What the hell was I thinking in contacting him? What was I hoping to achieve? But even as I try to rationalise my actions, the memory of that whispered taunt echoes through my brain.

  ‘Emma wanted me more than anything. More than you, Cameron. It was only a matter of time.’

  Was it Haldane who said it? Or did I imagine it? Or did I hear a burie
d splinter of truth worming its way slowly and painfully to the surface of my consciousness? If we’d argued, what if I was the cause? What if Emma found out about Nicole? What if she confronted me on that beach in Cirali and I flipped?

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Force myself to imagine what it might have been like. An argument, a scuffle, my temper flaring.

  I do need some help.

  I glance at the clock on my phone. Half eleven. Rachel has sent me seven messages. The last one half an hour ago.

  I don’t respond. Rachel isn’t who I need to talk to, nor Adam, nor Josh.

  I send Nicole a Snapchat message. She answers within half a minute with a sad emoji followed by:

  Of course I can meet you. I’ll wangle an early lunch. Let’s try Bean There at half twelve.

  42

  The 1940s headscarf woman behind the counter looks flushed and hassled. Bean There is busy.

  Finally, people have realised something bad is coming and they’re wanting to make the most of things while they can. A last hurrah for coffee and cake and weddings. From everything I read on the news, life is about to change. But I arrive twenty minutes early and find a table for two. I’m already seated with a glass of spring water in front of me when Nicole arrives. She’s smart in a knee-length skirt, flats and a white blouse.

  Her uniform.

  We order soup and she sits opposite me, holding my hand as I tell her about my call with Haldane. She listens avidly. She’s a great listener, her eyes drawn down with distaste when I tell her how it went.

  ‘Sounds awful,’ she says.

  ‘He hates Emma, that’s obvious. But he was telling the tooth. The truth.’ I shake my head in frustration. ‘What if I’m not remembering because my subconscious isn’t letting me? Self-preserving by forgetting?’

  ‘He was messing with your head, Cam.’

  ‘But the whisper sounded… It sounded like it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’

  I don’t answer, but we both mull over what the implication is. Haldane wasn’t shy to spit out his accusations. That I was hearing things. Voices. From inside my head.

  The soup arrives. I’m glad of the distraction because I’m sensing a trend in what’s happening to me. First the fugue changes, then I find myself outside in a strange place after suffering one. And now this voice.