Forgotten: a truly gripping psychological thriller (6 page)

He looked up at her, his eyes slightly closed as though memory was an effort for him too.

‘And then I quit my job completely and decided to teach English abroad. I spent two years in Japan and now Thailand. I think I inherited my dad’s itchy feet. I like seeing different places. I suppose I like being away from home and writing postcards while sitting in the sun. Especially at this time of year.’

‘If you’ve moved around a lot you probably recognise quite a lot of accents. Can you tell where I’m from?’ Kai asked suddenly.

‘You’ve not got a very distinctive accent. It sounds northern but you might have travelled around a fair bit, like me. How about I try naming a few places?’

She nodded, kneeling forward on the bed so she could concentrate on his words.

‘Okay, well, York didn’t ring any bells?’

She shook her head.

‘How about Manchester?’

Nothing.

‘Leeds?’

Nothing.

‘Nottingham? Bradford? Leicester?’ Each one said slowly and clearly like an incantation to help her to remember.

Kai threw herself back on to her pillow and put one arm across her eyes trying to feel each word, trying to find some familiar resonance. They all sounded familiar but none leapt out at her like she expected her home to. Gradually even the rhythms of Mark’s voice sounded like part of the past that she was trying to regain.

‘This isn’t working,’ she told him without uncovering her eyes. ‘I think I need to talk to you more naturally. This feels like some sort of test to spot the odd one out.’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, clearly disappointed. She wondered if he’d cast himself in the role of some sort of heroic knight, rescuing her memory from whatever tower it was imprisoned in. The only problem was that it didn’t seem to want rescuing; it seemed to be manning the barricades itself and jangling the keys tauntingly at her.

She hauled herself up from the bed and crossed the room to the window. The view was uninspiring, a corner of another block of the hospital and a tantalising glimpse of a car park, where she sometimes spotted real people with real lives.

‘You okay?’ she heard Mark ask.

She turned to face him, trying to smile but her face didn’t feel like it belonged to her. She’d expected to be able to find something to talk about, some common ground but all she knew was this room. The feeling of claustrophobia was crushing her.

‘Can you get me out of here, please?’ she asked, desperation making her willing to trust in the kindness and concern of a stranger.

He looked uncertain.

‘I don’t mean kidnap me, just try to convince Ekachai that I need to get out for a day, soon. I’m suffocating in here and there’s a whole world outside that I can’t even remember properly. Just take me for a walk or something. I can’t talk to you while I’m in here, I feel like I’m in a zoo or a circus and the doctors are waiting to see what tricks they can train me to do.’

She rubbed both hands across her face as though she were trying to wash away the depression that was settling on her like a well-worn overcoat, stifling but familiar.

‘Hey.’ Mark was standing in front of her trying to prize her hands from her face. Reluctantly she looked up at him surprised to see the concern in his eyes. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Okay? I’ll talk to Ekachai now and come back tomorrow. I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.’

He was still holding her hands and she pulled away firmly, trying not to show her discomfort. Mark pulled back with a puzzled frown.

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, tucking her hands into her pockets and side-stepping around him. ‘I just can’t jump through the hoops. Maybe I’m scared of landing flat on my arse.’

Mark laughed in surprise at her graphic image.

‘Look, I think it’s best if I go now. I think we tried to go too far, too fast and I haven’t a clue what will help you. I’ll try to convince the doc to let you out. If he’ll let me I can show you around town. Just a bit at a time.’

‘But what about your travels?’ she asked. ‘You can’t have planned to stay here for too long.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s all open ended. Let’s see how it goes. You look like you need some company and I’ve nowhere to be at the moment.’

‘See you tomorrow?’ she asked, deeply touched by his concern.

He gave her a dazzling smile before turning to leave. ‘I’ll bring the rope and bolt cutters,’ he said over his shoulder.

Kai was still smiling to herself when Ekachai appeared in the doorway ten minutes later.

‘It looks like you had a good time with your new friend,’ he said. ‘I bumped into him in the corridor and he told me how much you want to go outside. I will allow it, if you will agree to my request that you do not go too far away or for too long.’

She couldn’t read his expression but he sounded reluctant to let her go. Perhaps he didn’t think she was ready. Maybe he was worried that she’d go back on her word and refuse to see this hypnoshrink friend of his.

‘Thank you,’ she said as steadily as she could, trying to control the excited trembling in her voice. ‘You’d better make me an appointment with your colleague.’

As soon as he’d gone she threw herself face down on the bed beating her fists into the pillow in glee. Freedom.

Feeling smug, she picked up the journal again hoping to communicate with her former self who she’d left heading for the mountains south west of Beijing.

September 20th – Wutaishan, Shanxi

Christ, I feel lucky to have arrived here in one piece! I was worried enough about travelling by bus on my own but if I’d known what the bus would be like I’d have probably flown.

I headed for the bus station in Datong at 6.30am and soon found a young man in a dark suit trying to show me the way. Despite my reservations and the fact that he looked like an undertaker I followed him and, to my surprise, he put me on the right bus. The casual helpfulness of the Chinese has amazed me. It’s almost like they have some innate sense of duty towards anyone who seems to be lost or having difficulty. Most of the time they do it without so much as a smile so it’s a bit hard to respond. I wish the British were more like it. How often have I wished for intervention from a passing stranger before an argument went too far? How often have I wanted someone to step in when I saw the warning signs? It could have saved me a lot of trouble and a lot of pain. I suppose our traditional reserve is simply another way of saying we’re too embarrassed to get involved with the lives of others. Or too afraid of what we see of other people’s relationships.

Anyway, the undertaker followed me on to the bus and sat at the back without giving me time to say ‘
xie xie
’ and I soon forgot all about him as the journey grew puzzling and then completely terrifying. I threw my rucksack on to the pile of luggage at the front of the bus and squeezed myself into a window seat next to a young woman with a drooling baby. We set off around town with the conductor, a young guy who looked like he was just along for the ride, shouting at anyone who looked like they were waiting for a bus. When he was satisfied that he’d found all the passengers he possibly could we hit the open road, stopping every few minutes for him to shout our destination at unwary passers-by. I was pretty uncomfortable but I was glad to be squashed in when we hit the first of the mountain bends.

It was a wonderful road and I would love to have driven it in my own time. The mountains surrounded us on all sides, some covered in scrubby looking trees, others rocky and inhospitable. The road itself was wide and comforting but the driver seemed determined to milk every possible drop of terror out of it. He took each bend as wide as possible, offering me a glimpse of my own mortality over each hair-raising precipice, and only slowed down at the last possible minute, ensuring that I was completely terrified at every turn. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse and my nerves were tested to breaking point I heard a loud blast on a horn coming from behind us. To my horrified fascination another bus drew level with us and a race ensued. The other driver seemed slightly more skilful, or reckless, so our driver decided to improve his chances of overtaking on the straight bits by throwing fruit at the other bus. This sounds quite harmless but it involved him opening his side window, holding the wheel with one hand and throwing the fruit as hard as he could with the other. All the time we were speeding along with a vertiginous drop on one side. The other passengers were either laughing or dozing. I was praying!

When I finally got off the bus, in Wutaishan, my legs were like jelly and I collapsed on the nearest wall trying to get my bearings. This turned out to be a big mistake as it made me easy prey for the hospitality-vampires lurking around the bus stand. A small woman with her hair scraped back into a severe pony tail showed me pictures of a hotel then simply stood in front of me thrusting the leaflet under my nose repeating ‘Very nice’ in a bored sounding voice. I tried to will her away by ignoring her but she was very determined. I stood and began to walk away from her but she followed me down the street, changing her chant to ‘Nice hotel’. After a few yards I saw a sign for No. 8 Guesthouse.
It stood out amongst the other signs and posters as though it was drawing me towards the alley where the guesthouse was hidden.
It reminded me of the bed and breakfast sign in that spooky Roald Dahl story about the psychotic landlady who stuffs her guests. I should have taken this as a warning but I ducked into the courtyard and threw myself through the door.

So here I am, in No. 8 Shithole. There’s no hot water, the stains on the sheets are less than welcoming and the TV only receives one channel. I asked the room attendant for toilet paper and was rewarded with a smile and ‘
Meiyou
’ which literally means ‘is none’ but in practice is used more like ‘don’t be silly’ or ‘piss off’. At least all Chinese hotel rooms have a flask of hot water and tea bags which meant that I could console myself with a cuppa (washed the mug first).

I had a look around the town this afternoon and it seems quite small and friendly. I stopped at a roadside stall for some fried bread type thing where the woman serving me laughed at my pathetic attempt at Mandarin and tried to teach me how to ask the price properly. That’s what I mean about the Chinese being helpful. If I laughed at a non-English speaker at home it would seem rude but here it’s just part of the culture, I suppose. It’s inoffensive anyway.

The town is full of monasteries. Literally. Monasteries and hotels. There are about thirty-five temples and monasteries in the town and the surrounding mountains, and the place is overrun with monks. It’s quite strange to walk down the street and see monks wearing baseball caps and Nike trainers with their brown robes. I think I spotted one on a mobile phone but he turned away from me when he saw me looking.

I wandered a little way out of town, pulled by the mountains which surround the place on all sides, and ended up at a small monastery down a long track. It seemed semi-derelict so I decided to have a poke around. It was a beautiful place with tufts of dry grass trying to keep their hold on the crumbling stonework and flaking paint on the doors and pillars. I walked round the back of the main temple and discovered a monk doing his washing in a twin tub. I know it sounds unlikely. He looked as surprised to see me as I was him but he greeted me with a warm smile as soon as he’d dried his hands on his robes.

With the help of my trusty phrase book the monk gave me a tour of his monastery. He took me into the temple and gestured for me to pray. I shook my head so he gave me a demonstration, holding his palms together, raising them above his head and then lowering them to his chest before kneeling on a cushion and muttering. I gave it a try but I felt like a bit of a fraud. The monk just smiled knowingly, I think he realised I wasn’t really nun material.

I managed to explain where I was from and he seemed to be from somewhere in the north. The monastery turned out to be over two hundred years old and built around a sacred tree. It was totally surreal to be reaching some sort of understanding by passing the book backwards and forwards between us but it made such a change from people trying out their English on me. Why should everyone speak my language? I think we expect that. Brits are notorious for not speaking foreign languages and just relying on English with the volume cranked up.

Despite the anarchic bus driver, it’s been a good day. I like it here in spite of the awful hotel. The town is a manageable size and I’ve found a nice restaurant. I think tomorrow I’ll have to give in to the temptation of the hills and do a little bit of exploring. I wonder if I can ring reception and order a packed lunch.

September 21st – Wutaishan

My walk in the mountains didn’t go quite as I’d expected. I knew it would be difficult to find my way out of town because the map I’d bought didn’t have any indication of scale on it and most of the monastery names were in Chinese characters. I managed to translate some of them by comparing this map to the one in my guidebook but others I knew I’d just have to guess.

My first objective was Shouning Monastery, high above the western side of town, but as soon as I hit the backstreets I began to realise the limitations of my map. I tried accosting passing strangers. I must have made quite an entertaining spectacle as I contorted my words into all sorts of shapes in a bid to make myself understood. Most conversations went something like.

Me: (pointing in the direction I expected to be sent) Shouning Monastery?

Stranger: Shaning?

Me: Shooonin?

Stranger: Shianing?

It seemed pretty hopeless – especially when the path forked and I had a decision to make – until I found an old man who understood where I wanted to go. I would have loved to have taken a photo of him. He had one of those faces that looked old until he smiled, then the lines made him look impossibly ancient. He was only the second person I’d seen in the full Mao suit and, judging by the state of it, I assumed it was due to poverty rather than any particular political leaning. He listened carefully to me repeating the name of the monastery, his head tilted on one side, regarding me quizzically. When I’d tried every pronunciation I could think of he repeated my first attempt, smiled and, with a trembling hand, pointed up the woody path to my left. I’d been expecting to take the right-hand fork so I set off with some trepidation.