Forgotten: a truly gripping psychological thriller (4 page)

At first she couldn’t really comprehend that the article was about her, even though Ekachai had already told her the circumstances under which she’d been found. This was too concrete, too factual; it felt like reading her own obituary. How could she be a story in a newspaper, an accident statistic? This shouldn’t be happening. She was a real person with a real life, somewhere. She passed the scrap of paper back to the doctor, unable to conceal the trembling in her hands and took a deep, ragged breath.

‘How did I get there?’

Ekachai shrugged. ‘No one knows.’

Kai just stared at the doctor, forcing him to continue, to offer an explanation.

‘It seems likely that you fell while you were trekking.’

‘
Likely
– that’s hardly conclusive. Maybe I was pushed, somebody mugged me.’

Again Ekachai shrugged.

‘Or maybe I fucking jumped,’ she whispered, turning away from the doctor’s concerned face.

‘The police have advertised. They have circulated your description. They have asked for witnesses,’ he sounded desperate to give Kai some grain of hope. ‘They wanted to take a photograph but I refused to allow it until you were able to give permission.’

She turned back to look at him. ‘I take it no-one has come forward?’

Ekachai shook his head and lowered his eyes.

‘No-one who knows anything of importance. We had one visitor who thought he knew you but, sadly, when he saw you he realised that he was mistaken.’

‘He saw me? You mean you let people in here to have a good gawp?’

‘I’m sorry, a good…?’

‘You let people come in here and look at me while I was unconscious. Jesus!’

He shook his head and held his hands out to her in a
what was I supposed to do?
gesture. ‘I’m sorry but we needed to do anything possible to discover your identity. There was only one man; he came in under my supervision and, when he realised that he was mistaken, he left.’

As he explained she studied the lines on his palms. They were deeply carved as though his life and destiny were more important than those of others. She wondered if all doctors had hands like that; was it a sign of their vocation?

‘So who was he?’ she demanded.

‘A teacher from England. He’d been working here in Thailand and thought he recognised you from your description. Sadly, he was mistaken. However, he has called on the telephone several times to find out whether you are awake. He said he would like to see you when you regained consciousness. Perhaps a visitor would be a good idea. He might be able to help you remember your home as he is an Englishman. I have a telephone number. Perhaps you would like me to contact him on your behalf.’

She thought for a minute. How would it be to get to know a complete stranger when she had nothing of herself to offer in return? At the moment, her life was made up of visits from Ekachai and various other hospital staff, most of whom couldn’t speak English. It was easy to relate to them within the hospital situation, but an outsider… She was convinced it would be awkward, but anything had to be better than staring at the grey walls of her room. She’d even been tempted to ask if she could be put in a ward with other patients – anything to break the monotony and emptiness – but she didn’t feel in any position to make any requests or demands. Meeting a stranger wouldn’t be too awful because everyone was a stranger; she was even a stranger to herself. She clenched her fists in front of her face and nibbled her thumb nails, a hundred responses flickering in out of her consciousness like fish in a cramped pool.

‘Okay,’ she decided. ‘Why not? I could do with some different company.’

Ekachai smiled and she could see that he’d been wanting her to agree. ‘So my visits are not company enough?’ he teased.

She smiled back at him, the movement of her muscles feeling unfamiliar and awkward.

‘Ah, now you can smile at me. It is a change from all this sighing and frowning. I’ll call this Mark and ask him to come tomorrow. How is that?’

‘Whatever. I mean, whenever he can make it. No hurry.’ She could hear herself waffling as she became aware of a growing excitement. A new face, someone from outside. The potential visit made her feel different somehow, more alive, more relevant.

Ekachai left with a smile.

Kai hauled herself from the bed and wobbled to her private bathroom, one of the boundaries of her world. A room within a room. The mirror confirmed what she knew inside, that the change wasn’t outwardly visible. Her hair still looked greasy and uncared for and it was difficult to determine its natural colour. She decided she would make a small request for some decent shampoo to improve its condition because she’d run out and was using hand soap which just seemed to dry it out for a day or so. There was an angry cut above her partially closed left eye, its clean edges held together by a row of neat stitches. It was surrounded by the rainbow of a fading bruise which disappeared under her hair, vivid greens and yellows clearly visible in the unnatural glare of the fluorescent light. Her other eye was bright and clear, no sign of trauma in the contrast between the white and the pale brown of the iris but no sign of animation either. Her good eye looked as dead as her bruised one. Her mouth was a fixed line, thin and unfriendly. She tried the smile that she’d shown Ekachai – it made no attempt to conspire with her eyes, to make her look genuinely pleased or happy. Running the tap, she bent and splashed her face with lukewarm water as though she could wash away what she’d seen in the mirror.

‘Kai,’ she whispered to her reflection before returning to the sanctuary of her bed and digging out the journal. She felt slightly more relaxed and ready to learn a little more about herself. If she was going to have a visitor it would be useful to have some experiences to talk about that didn’t involve this room.

After a day of rather tedious sounding jobs around Beijing she was struck by a humorous entry and found herself drawn back into the world of another self, another Kai, who wasn’t Kai at all.

September 14th – Beijing

Back on the tourist trail (or is that trial?) today. I decided to head for the south of the city to visit the Temple of Heaven which is ‘the most perfect example of Ming architecture’ according to my guidebook. I contemplated taking a taxi but it seemed like a bit of a cop out. There’s something about being in a car that separates you from the place you are in. It’s sanitised and safe and easy; there’s something not quite real about it. I’d expected to want something safe and easy but I actually feel surprisingly confident today. There’s a sense of peace somewhere within me which makes me certain that this trip was the right thing to do. Sadly, I couldn’t work out the bus routes from my map so I had to walk.

The heat seems to be getting more intense which is a bit of a surprise as we’re heading into autumn. It makes walking anywhere quite a slow process. I suppose it’s no bad thing to be slowed down though. Life at home is all about getting things done and getting to places quickly so as not to waste time. Now I’ve got all the time in the world I don’t mind wasting a bit. (If walking the streets of Beijing is a waste.) After all, it’s my time. It’s a good feeling after three years of wondering if I had any rights at all to realise that I
am
in control of my own life and what I choose to do with it is entirely in my own hands. When I think about this time I’m taking to get my head back together I picture an hourglass with the sand flowing through it at a soothing rate and the hands holding the hourglass are mine. God, I’m getting carried away. I promised myself I wouldn’t use this journal to spout purple prose in some pretentious travel-writing manner.

Anyway, back to the narrative! I walked straight into the baking hot sun for nearly an hour before reaching the outer wall surrounding the grounds of the temple. As luck would have it I’d hit the boundary at a point between two of the four entrances and had to walk for another fifteen minutes in one of the overcrowded bicycle lanes before I reached a gate. It turned out to be worth the walk though as it was a really peaceful spot in one of the busiest parts of the city. The park surrounding the Temple of Heaven had plenty of places to sit in the shade and watch this small part of the world go by. I saw my first old man in a Mao suit sitting on a bench with his Little Red Book in the breast pocket of his jacket. He seemed to be dozing judging by the unattractive ribbon of drool sparkling on his chin. I found myself intensely curious about him and what he thought about modern China but sadly there was no way I could speak to him – the chances of him knowing English were very slim and there’s no way I could attempt an opening gambit such as ‘So what did you do during the Cultural Revolution?’ in anything resembling Mandarin so I contented myself with staring and imagining.

In a strangely parallel situation I was accosted later while I was relaxing on a park bench. Two young women wanted to practise their English on me so we had a rather surreal conversation. One did all the talking while the other one seemed to be studying the way I was dressed and the colour of my skin and hair. I got the feeling that she wanted to touch me to see if I felt any different from her. The other one wanted to know my star sign. I told her Pisces.

‘Is that fishes?’

‘It is,’ I tried to keep my answers short and simple.

‘I am Sagittarius the archer,’ she informed me, leaving me at a loss as to what to say next. She seemed to share my discomfort for a few seconds before asking me brightly, ‘Do you like football? I like English football. Wayne Rooney. Do you know him?’

Do I know Wayne Rooney? Good question. Yes, I know Wayne Rooney, and Ashley Cole and all the others that I was made to watch in silence so I would ‘understand’. The trouble was that I didn’t want to understand. So, of course I know Wayne Rooney. His was one of the names that made up the soundtrack to my suppression. Not that the girl wanted to know any of this, so I simply tried, ‘Yes, David Beckham was good too.’

‘David Beckham, very good football player.’

And that was it. We all smiled at each other and the two girls walked away. What a strange world we live in where the lingua franca is football, a language I never want to be made to learn. Even stranger is the fact that I’ve been haunted by Beckham today. This evening I had trouble with the toilet. It wouldn’t flush, so I decided to assert my independence and have a look myself rather than calling reception. (How do you say ‘the bog’s broken’ in Mandarin?) Staring up at me was none other than David Beckham. The cistern contained an ancient soft drink bottle full of water, presumably to conserve water during the hot season, and Becks was plastered all over the label. I think I ought to write to
Reader’s Digest
about this one when I get home.

I’m feeling a lot more settled today. I have all the things I need quite close by, my room is comfortable and Beijing is a fascinating city. More than ever this feels like the right thing to be doing, as if I’m going to be a stronger, more self-reliant person when I get home. I like being on my own and discovering things for myself and I’m sure it’s doing wonders for my confidence. I must try to think of interesting facts about football for the next time someone wants to make conversation.

September 15th Beijing

I went to see the Great Wall of China today. Ha! It’s not often you get to write that in your diary. I read in my guidebook that one of the local hotels runs trips to a quiet part of the wall so I rang them last night and managed to book a seat.

I had to get myself to the hotel for 8.00 this morning so I went against my resolution of yesterday and took a taxi. The hotel seems to cater for a mainly western clientele and I was surprised to find this a bit disconcerting. I think my main worry was that the other people on the trip would be more experienced travellers than me and that I would end up making a fool of myself. I certainly felt uncomfortable when we set off, but my fears weren’t realised because everyone fell asleep before we’d even cleared the suburbs of Beijing. At one point I thought the woman next to me was going to snuggle up on my shoulder she was so soundly gone. It was quite eerie to travel on a bus with ten or twelve other people who were all unconscious, but it was also liberating, because I was able to study them without seeming rude. It didn’t take me long to realise that they weren’t as interesting as the countryside.

It took about two hours to get my first glimpse of anything resembling hills and another hour before I saw the wall. I couldn’t get over the impossibility of the thing. It follows all the highest, steepest ridges of the landscape, defining the topography and defying gravity and common sense. It totally dominates the scenery. As a show of might it was seriously impressive and as a defensive barrier it must have been pretty daunting. How the hell could anyone get anywhere near it without being spotted and leapt on from a great height? I couldn’t wait to get a closer look.

The woman who’d been next to me on the bus joined me in the cable car and announced her intention to walk along the wall back to the car park. I had no idea that this was possible (poor research) but I was keen when she suggested we walk together. I just hoped that she wouldn’t want to talk about football. As it turned out she didn’t want to talk much at all. Her name was Fran and she was from Edinburgh. She’d travelled up from Hong Kong and was due to fly to Australia at the end of the week. I was grateful that she didn’t ask me much beyond my first impressions of China. My experience with the football fan amused her and she related something similar that had happened to her at the Summer Palace. Apparently a young male student had sat next to her for a chat and ended up asking her if she thought Michelle Obama was beautiful. When Fran didn’t know how to reply he launched into his theory about the ‘murder’ of Princess Diana. She had me in hysterics as she mimicked his earnest expression and his half-baked theory about ‘your Queen’.

It was surprisingly pleasant to have company, especially when we were hassled by the most persistent hawkers I could ever imagine. They followed us for about a mile, two young men trying to sell us postcards. I think, if I’d been on my own I would have bought some just to get rid of them (or, more likely, I’d have turned round and headed back to the safety of the bus) but Fran advised me to keep walking and just ignore them. It meant not stopping for a rest for the first half hour but it was worth it when one of them finally spat copiously and turned back. The relief made me feel almost giddy. Finally I could say things like ‘Wow look at that’ and not have to keep a constant watch over my shoulder in case we were about to be mugged. Actually, I said a lot of ‘wows’. The landscape looked like something that belonged at the edge of a desert, with sparse patches of greenery and a shimmering heat haze. The wall itself was incredibly steep in places and quite hair-raising as we were walking down hill all the time. At one point it simply dropped out of view at a crazy angle and the brickwork became a series of very narrow steps. And they used to ride horses over this?