Forgotten: a truly gripping psychological thriller

Forgotten

By

Heleyne Hammersley

Copyright © 2016 Heleyne Hammersley

The right of Heleyne Hammersley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

for Viv

I

In the beginning was a light. Something in her mind told her that death would be like this, rushing towards a whiteness, but this felt more like a birth and she was reluctant to leave the womb-like darkness where she’d been… what? Sleeping? Hiding?

And then there were the voices, speaking in a language that she didn’t understand, if it was a language at all. Faces came into view, not gradually but suddenly as though they’d all jumped out for a birthday surprise. Unfamiliar faces gazing down at her like she was an unexpected new arrival. Only she didn’t feel new, she felt ancient and battered with no will to move.

Then she understood. That’s what they were waiting for. They wanted her to move, to give them a sign, to show that she could see them, or hear them. Perversely she wanted to stay still just to displease them, to see what they would do. Anyway, she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Could she?

Just her eyes. They might not notice that. If she could just shift her gaze away from the ring of faces peering down at her like she was something precious on the bottom of a shallow pool that might sink into the mud at any minute. She managed to focus on a small part of one of the people bending over her – a shape, a badge or a pocket? Her eyesight wasn’t strong enough to make sense of it.

But they’d seen her move, she could tell from the excited whispering and murmuring. And then she heard, quite distinctly, ‘Can you hear me?’

Suddenly she wanted to stop the charade, wanted to be on their side of the game, not lying here trying to work out the rules. She picked out one of the faces, a woman – somehow she expected a woman to be kinder, more sympathetic.

‘Yes, I can hear you,’ she said, or thought she’d said until she realised that the sound like sand hitting a window had been her voice.

More smiles and conspiratorial glances between the faces. Something strange entered her field of vision, a stick-like object with a pink lump on the end. She tried to back into the pillow, to stop it touching her but, when it finally met her mouth it felt wonderfully cool, and more soothing than a kiss. She licked her lips, eager for more.

‘That felt good,’ she whispered and this time she heard her own voice, quiet but clear. This sent the faces into a frenzy.

‘What is your name?’

She opened her mouth but found she had no answer. She searched inside herself, as deep into her mind as she could go. There were vague shapes, half-memories but nothing firm, nothing fixed.

‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted, hearing the defeat in her own rasping voice.

The faces eased back and she knew that she’d disappointed them, but her own sense of disappointment was much worse, much deeper. She didn’t know her own name. She closed her eyes and willed herself back into that dark place.

She was no-one.

II

‘And you don’t recognise any of these things?’ The doctor gestured towards the objects scattered over the foot of her bed. His face was encouraging but his sharp movements betrayed some of the frustration he must have been feeling.

She wanted to help him. She wanted to please him, to see a look of warmth and understanding in his eyes but she found herself unable to lie. A lie would be pointless if she didn’t have the substance to back it up.

Despondently she surveyed the assorted items spread out on the coarse blanket of the hospital bed. They looked like someone had abandoned them and waded out to sea. The largest was a rucksack and had obviously contained the other items: sandals; a small pile of clothes, shorts, underwear, trousers and a shirt, which looked like they’d been recently washed and ironed; a battered hard-backed book, toiletries and a waterproof jacket. She eased herself up in the bed until she could lean forward easily then picked up the rucksack, trying to sense some connection with the dust and unidentifiable stains, convinced that each one held a story that was now lost to her. Frustrated, she turned it over and traced the stitching with the pad of her middle finger, wishing the rucksack could speak to her, release its history, tell her where she had been. She fastened and unfastened the buckles and zips methodically, hoping the movements might feel familiar.

Nothing.

She placed the rucksack carefully back on the bed, afraid to handle it roughly in case she dislodged whatever memories it contained, and picked up a dark blue cotton shirt with a faded check pattern. This time she tried to spark her non-compliant brain through her olfactory sense, burying her face in the soft brushed cotton and inhaling deeply. It smelt of nothing, as though it had been sterilised, and, through the fabric, the antiseptic smell of the room still prickled her nostrils. She tossed the shirt back down on the bed in disgust.

‘Sorry,’ she sighed, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes, ‘this is pretty hopeless. None of it means anything to me. Are you quite sure these things are mine?’

The physician shrugged, his face closed and resigned. ‘They were found with you. We have only these clues.
This rucksack and the clothes and boots that you were wearing.
I have waited for a few days until I was sure you could manage the shock of seeing things that you might know or recognise.’

His formality and his heavily accented English forced a smile from her but it was of sympathy rather than real amusement. The doctor was probably as discouraged and despondent as she was at her lack of progress. Since she’d woken fully, less than a week ago, Dr Ekachai had visited her countless times, checking her vital signs and gently but insistently trying to probe into her past – except there was no past, a few shadows and ideas but mostly greyness, static. He’d been the one to tell her what little he knew about how she’d ended up in hospital in Chiang Mai and he’d been the one to witness her tears of confusion and defeat.

It seemed she’d been discovered unconscious at the base of a low cliff a few miles from a tiny village far from the popular tourist towns in north-west Thailand. She’d had a raging fever from infected cuts – an especially angry one still lingered belligerently over one eye – and some fairly harmless-looking bruising on her scalp and forehead. And, now she was conscious, the amnesia. She’d had no money and no means of identification so one of the nurses had nicknamed her ‘Kai’ – Thai for fever.

Kai had come to realise that this might symbolise more than her physical ailments as she remembered sweating through nameless, terrifying nights as she struggled to come to terms with her situation.

This morning the doctor had obviously decided that she was well enough for a more direct confrontation with her past because he’d brought her possessions. And, this morning, she’d given up hope of ever being able to remember who she was.

‘Perhaps this?’ He was holding the book out to her, laid flat across both outstretched palms like an offering. Instead of taking it she raised her eyes to his face. He was looking at her eagerly but with kindness in his deep brown eyes. She studied him, trying to absorb every detail, afraid she might have forgotten something when she saw him next. He had a broad, intelligent face with only a faint suggestion of lines around his narrowed, intense eyes suggesting that he was probably in his early thirties. He was smiling, his white teeth a startling contrast to his olive complexion and his short hair which was so black it seemed to shine blue whenever it caught the few meagre rays of sunlight that entered the room. He wore a formal-looking shirt and tie under his white coat, the shirt neatly tucked into a pair of tailored trousers. A stethoscope was draped carefully around his neck, the ends falling to exactly the same level on each shoulder, and his coat pocket contained two pens, black and red, neatly spaced. In the few days she had been conscious Kai had found him to be a caring visitor who managed to encourage her while hiding the curiosity and frustration he must have been feeling. He had accepted her tantrums and her despondency equally and without comment all the while trying to encourage her to stay calm and focussed. He had become the most important person in her world, the only one who really interacted with her and the only one that she could trust. She had to try. She owed him that much.

Reluctantly she reached out and took the book.

‘It is a journal, or a diary,’ Dr Ekachai informed her. ‘There is no name but it was in the rucksack with the other things. I am the only person who has seen inside and my English is not so good at reading. I think it is a secret thing so I want to give it to you. It might help you to remember. I have kept it safe until now. Now you are stronger it may be the big clue to your condition.’ He was looking at her so expectantly that she had to look away, worried he might see the doubt in her eyes. She didn’t want him to know just how lost she felt, how much her condition was dragging her down; she didn’t want to undermine what little confidence he’d managed to show in her over the last few days.

Unopened, the journal was silent, harmless. It was a large book with a dark blue hard-back cover and quite heavy; almost too heavy for carrying around casually. The physical weight added to its significance. Despite its obvious importance, it had an appearance of neglect. The corners looked worn, probably from being stuffed in the rucksack every day and the cotton binding on the spine was starting to fray. As she turned it over, she noticed that the back cover was starting to split around a darker blue patch that looked damp. It had been used, and used often.

She nodded at the doctor and he clearly understood the dismissal.

‘I will visit later again,’ he whispered before leaving silently. She studied the book again, willing it to give up its secrets without having to be opened and read but they remained sealed within its pages. Inhaling heavily, like a swimmer about to dive into a cold pool, she flipped it over and opened the front cover, willing the book to help her, to provide answers to some of the questions that kept her awake at night. Instinctively, she turned to the last page of writing, expecting the most relevant information to be the most recently recorded.

I managed to find a quiet spot behind a minor wat. The view was stunning – layer upon layer of forested hills stretching across into Burma with the sun setting behind the furthest mountains. It really looks like the whole area is totally uninhabited. All my doubts about the next few days have disappeared. It was so peaceful sitting on top of the hill that I want to find more places like that. I really want to get off the beaten track and do some serious exploring away from the supercilious looks of other more experienced travellers. I
want
to be out of touch with the rest of the world.

I’ve checked the route again – it’s marked on a road map of the area so it should be easy to find. I spotted the bus stop yesterday so I know where to get off. All I have to do now is pack my rucksack and get some sleep. God knows when I’ll sleep in a proper bed with sheets again.

It meant nothing.

Obviously she’d been intending to walk somewhere, the entry was written in somewhere called Mae Hong Son which Kai assumed was near where she had been found, but the name might as well have been written in ancient Greek. Realising that there was nothing to be gained from the end of the diary she decided to start at the beginning, hoping that she’d be able to piece together the journey that had led her to this room.

To make as thrifty use of space as possible the first entry was squeezed on to the plain cream cardboard; the handwriting was wholly unfamiliar, small and cramped but legible. With a deep sense of foreboding she began to read.

September 10th – Heathrow Airport

I can’t believe I’ve actually done it. I’m sitting here completely free, about to fly off into the unknown and, instead of fear or worry, I feel such intense relief. I’m looking out of the window at the planes and I just can’t wait to get on board. I feel like I can fly away from the past and when I get home everything will have changed, like Rip Van Winkle except I don’t get to enjoy such a long sleep. I’ll be lucky to get any sleep at all in the next twenty-four hours or so.