The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller (4 page)

The night air is warm with hardly a breeze. A pearl of sweat trickles down my back. The river is quiet, the wooden building looms, its blank windows gazing at me, menacing. No one is here. It’s just me, so why is my heart beating so fast, why am I so on edge? I’m waiting for something, for someone. And then I see her in the distance. She’s walking towards me, unhurried, along the river’s edge. I cannot run. I cannot move. She’s coming for me, with hatred burning in her eyes.

Chapter Seven

I finally got rid of Piers last night. That sounds uncharitable, but I was desperate to be alone and he hung around for ages. He wanted to stay the night in the spare room – to make sure I was okay. But I managed to persuade him that I would be fine on my own. That I needed some space after the hospital with its endless parade of nurses, doctors and police officers. That I just wanted some peace and quiet. He wasn’t happy about leaving, but I promised we’d meet for lunch today, and that seemed to appease him.

Now, I lie beneath the warmth of my quilt, my bedroom shrouded in darkness. The illuminated numbers of my bedside clock say 7.22 am. I stretch, slide out of bed, draw back the heavy cream curtains, and squint as golden sunlight floods the room. Once again, I’m taken aback by the view. Like the lounge upstairs, this room also has a balcony overlooking the river. I certainly knew what I was doing when I bought this place.

It feels luxurious to be here all alone. Like I can finally breathe. I may not know who I am, but at least I have my own place in a beautiful spot. I can work on the rest of it. I even managed to sleep well last night. My bed is so comfortable and large compared to the one in the hospital. I sit back on the rumpled quilt and stare out at the pale blue sky and the glistening water.

As my mind relaxes, a memory hovers around my subconscious. I don’t dare breathe for fear of dislodging it. I wonder is it a memory? Or is it simply the remnants of a dream I had last night? I’m getting snippets of feelings, but I can’t seem to hold onto them. Desperately, I struggle to remember the details:

I was standing by a wooden building at night. But it was locked up. Deserted. I felt . . . scared? What else? My heart begins to thud as I recall feelings of fear. The image of a woman flashes into my mind. I can’t picture her face clearly, but she was coming towards me. She meant to do me harm. I felt terror. I was rooted to the spot, unable to run.

I close my eyes and try and squeeze some more details out. But the harder I try, the more the details elude me. The feelings it conjured up are already slipping away. If only I knew whether or not it actually is a memory. It could just as easily have been a dream. How can I tell? I’m sure I used to know the difference between a dream and a memory, but my mind is jumbled, broken. Another beat of fear creeps sounds in my chest, and I try to shake it loose, to recapture my earlier waking moments of peace. But that peace is shattered, replace by deep unease.

I can’t live like this. Not knowing who I am. Not knowing what is real and what is imagined. I sigh. The sunshine feels as though it’s mocking me. Everyone out there knows who they are. They know their place in the world. Yet I am untethered. Adrift.

I refuse to sit here and wallow. I’ll get dressed and keep myself busy. Anyway, I have my follow-up doctor’s appointment this morning with Dr Lazowski. I take a deep breath and wonder if there’s anything in the kitchen for breakfast. Hunger galvanises me up and into the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, I slide open one of the doors to the wardrobe which lines one wall of my room. It’s stuffed with clothes and shoes, and I’m overwhelmed with the choice of what to wear. Not jeans – it’s far too hot. In the end, after rejecting several items on the basis that they’re too glamorous, I settle on a chambray knee-length sundress.

Accompanied by my gurgling stomach, I take the stairs up to the kitchen, hoping there’s something edible. There are a few tins and packets in the cupboards, but the contents of the fridge are more promising, with some salad items, Greek yoghurt, and a punnet of fresh berries. Although I almost gag when I sniff the milk which is way past its sell-by-date.

Moments later, I’m heading out onto the balcony with a cup of herbal tea and a bowl of granola and yoghurt. It’s more of a wide terrace than a balcony, with plenty of space for the two sun loungers and a rattan patio set which comprises a sofa and two armchairs furnished with plump cream cushions. I slide past the glass-topped coffee table and settle myself onto the sofa, putting my mug and bowl on the table with a clink.

A car engine starts up below. And then another. I guess it’s around the time when people are leaving for work. Piers still hasn’t told me why I’m not working. How can I afford to pay the mortgage if I don’t have any money coming in? I’ll have to quiz him some more at lunchtime today.

Through the balcony railings, I see a heavyset man in a suit, with a bicycle, standing in next door’s driveway. He’s talking to a woman. Arguing. Words float up – fragments of sentences – ‘not my fault’ . . . ‘don’t forget to’ . . . ‘No, don’t be stupid.’ The man glances up. He’s wearing sunglasses so I can’t tell if he’s actually looking at me, or at something else. He raises his hand. I guess he must be waving at me, so I wave back, feeling slightly awkward. The woman follows his line of sight and catches my eye, but her scowl remains. They must be my next door neighbours. The man gets on his bike and cycles away.

‘Matt!’ she calls after him.

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his hand and calls back: ‘I’m late, see you later.’

She glances back up at me, her scowl deepening. Then she turns and disappears into the house.

It’s not even eight o’clock yet, but it’s already warm, the summer sun rising above the river and fields to the east. I think I’ll let my hair dry out here this morning, allowing its natural wave to come through. In the photos Piers showed me, my hair was immaculate – dead straight, styled to within an inch of its life with hair products and straighteners. A reminder of the person I used to be versus the person I seem to be now.

I chew my granola and gaze out at the river, trying to let my mind rest for a while. To stop forcing it to try and remember.

Half an hour later, I make my way back inside, the cooler air a relief on my heated skin. My doctor’s appointment is at 10.15 this morning, and I don’t want to be late. I’m pretty sure I still know how to drive, so I’m going to be brave and attempt the journey on my own. I know I could call a cab – Piers gave me a large wad of cash until my replacement bank cards arrive – but I want to get back into the swing of things as soon as possible. Anyway, driving will help me orient myself. I need to get to know the area.

I find a set of car keys in one of the kitchen drawers. I assume they’re the right ones, as the key fob is emblazoned with the
Mini Cooper
logo. I stuff some cash in a small leather shoulder bag and head downstairs, ignoring the swooping nerves in my belly.

Satnav gets me to Bournemouth Hospital in plenty of time and without any incidents. I find a parking space without too much trouble, get a parking ticket, and make my way into the main entrance, my low-heeled sandals clicking across the tarmac. It feels like weeks since I was last here. I can’t believe it was less than twenty-four hours ago.

I make my way to the Neurotherapy Department, give my name to the receptionist and take a seat in the waiting room. After skimming a magazine for ten minutes, I’m called into Dr Lazowski’s room.

She gives me a smile as I enter the small consulting room. I’m taken aback again by how young she looks – not that much older than me. I guess I assumed a neurology consultant should be older. Her window is wide open, and the sound of distant traffic filters in.

‘Mia,’ she says. ‘Please take a seat. You look great. Much better. Sorry it’s so warm in here. I’ve opened the window but it makes no difference.’

‘Hi,’ I say, sitting down.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

‘Okay thanks,’ I say.

‘Have you managed to remember anything?’

‘No . . . well . . . sort of.’ I flounder, still not sure how much to say.

‘Really? Well, that’s great news. Tell me.’ She has my notes in front of her on the desk. Her pen is poised, ready to record my words.

‘I don’t know if it’s a memory,’ I say. ‘It could just’ve easily been a dream. I’m not sure.’

‘That’s alright. Was it a clear memory, or fragments?’

‘Well, I woke up this morning and it came to me as a feeling, and then as images.’

‘Go on,’ she says.

As I recall the dream again, my palms begin to sweat. Images of the woman flash up in my mind. ‘It was night time,’ I say, ‘and I was standing near a wooden building. I remember I felt . . . nervous.’ I decide not to tell her about the scary woman in the dream. I’m sure that she was part of a nightmare, rather than a memory, and it would sound too over-dramatic. Anyway, I don’t want to think about that woman, let alone talk about her. I shiver at the memory. The more I think about it, the more real it feels. So I push it away.

‘Do you recognise the building?’ Dr Lazowski asks.

‘No. Sorry. It’s probably just a dream, anyway.’

‘Mia, it’s good! You’re seeing images and you’re remembering feelings. This is progress. Whether or not it’s a dream or a memory, doesn’t necessarily matter. Before this, you hadn’t been able to tell me anything. So, I’m hopeful for you.’

My heart lifts at her words. I hope she’s right. I hope this means my memory really is returning.

‘I also have the results from your MRI,’ she says. ‘I asked the radiology department to fast-track the results for me.’

This piece of news instantly takes my mind off the dream. I don’t know which is scarier. I flex my fingers and then cross my arms, waiting.

Dr Lazowski continues. Thankfully, she doesn’t string it out:

‘According to the scans,’ she says, ‘everything is normal – no dead tissue, lesions, aneurysms or tumours. Your brain appears healthy. So there’s no reason why your memories shouldn’t return. There’s nothing we can see that suggests your condition will persist or worsen.’

I feel my shoulders relax at her words. Now they’ve come back clear, that’s one less thing to worry about.

‘Thank you so much,’ I reply, my voice barely a whisper. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as we can be. I don’t think those bumps on your head are anything to do with your memory loss. Retrograde amnesia is more likely to have been caused by psychological trauma – the shock of almost drowning, something like that.’

The rest of our consultation goes by in a blur. I’m hardly concentrating, my relief is so great. She gives me a list of things I can do to try and help my memory along. Things such as talking to friends and family, revisiting familiar places – old schools, places of work, clubs, usual routes etc. I nod along, and resolve to do everything she’s telling me. She’s also going to schedule me in for regular therapy and a follow-up consultation.

Although the results of the scan are good, it still doesn’t explain what happened to me. I still don’t know how I ended up unconscious on the beach with no memory. And, although I know my name and where I live, I still don’t really know who I am.

Chapter Eight

After my hospital appointment, I stop off at home to freshen up before my lunch date with Piers. I’m going to walk to the restaurant which is somewhere in Christchurch. Given that the town centre is more-or-less one long street with a few little side roads, I’m confident I’ll find it.  I leave the house and head away from the river towards the Priory. I find myself cutting through a busy car park, weaving past queues for the ticket machine and parents wrestling with car seats and pushchairs. All these people leading normal lives with people they love – or maybe they hate, but at least they
know
them. The only person I know is Piers, and today I’m determined to get to know him better.

Leaving the car park behind, I find myself in the shadow of the Priory, walking along a path through a grassy graveyard. The gravestones are old and worn, covered in white spots and lichen. I draw my gaze up, and am mesmerised by the grand stature of the building, by its ancient solidity, its huge square tower staring down at me. I wonder how long it’s been standing here. What dramas and tragedies it’s seen during its lifetime.

Piers gave me directions yesterday. He told me I needed to turn right at the roundabout. I spot it up ahead, a little further along the crowded high street. Nothing about this place seems familiar. No landmark or shop that I recognise. I don’t have any sense of having been here before, other than the drive home yesterday. Maybe, I’m concentrating too hard, too desperate to remember.

I’m hungry again. Haven’t eaten since breakfast so I’m more than ready for lunch. A few moments more and I find myself pushing open the door to a pretty French restaurant. I don’t know why I expected it to be half empty. Instead, it’s buzzing with diners. There doesn’t appear to be a single spare table. I hope Piers has booked.

A young waiter comes over and I’m about to give him my name, but he smiles and kisses me on both cheeks.

‘Mia!’ he says, with no trace of a French accent. I’m guessing he must be local. ‘We heard about your accident. I saw all about it on television. How are you? You look amazing as always. Piers is already here at your usual table.’

I push my sunglasses up onto my head and glance around, not sure where our ‘usual’ table would be.

‘Here,’ the waiter, says. ‘By the window.’

I turn back around to see Piers smiling up at me. I’m taken aback again by how handsome he is. He also looks friendlier than he did yesterday. Maybe he was just more worried yesterday. He could’ve been nervous, too. I think I might have been a little harsh on Piers. He’s my boyfriend, so I must like him. Maybe I even love him. I wonder what stage our relationship has reached. Are we serious? How long have we been going out? I need to ask him all these questions, and more. Surely, there has to be some connection or spark between us.

‘Thank you,’ I say to the waiter.

‘Cheers, mate,’ Piers says. ‘Can you bring Mia a glass of Prosecco?’

‘Sure.’

Piers stands and we kiss on the cheek. He didn’t even attempt the lips today, for which I’m grateful. Maybe he has some sensitivity after all.

‘How was the hospital?’ he asks, sitting back down. ‘You should have let me take you.’

I sit down and dump my bag on the window sill. ‘It was fine. I didn’t get lost once.’

‘You drove?’ He frowns and shakes his head. ‘I told you to take a cab.’

‘I’m fine, Piers. I’m not ill. Just a little . . . memory impaired.’

‘Okay, babe. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile, thinking how it’s nice to have someone worry about me.

‘So, what did the doctor say?’ he asks, taking a sip of wine.

‘It’s good news, I suppose. My brain scan came back negative. There’s nothing bad there. It’s just a case of amnesia, and hopefully, my memory will start returning soon.’

‘That’s amazing news. We should have a toast.’

The waiter returns with my drink. I take it from him and raise it in Piers’ direction.

‘To memories,’ he says.

I grin. ‘To memories.’ We clink glasses.

‘I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered for you. You always have the same thing anyway.’

‘What do I always have?’ I ask, curious.

‘Wait and see.’

‘That’s mean!’ I give him a fake glare. ‘Tell me.’

‘I see you’re still impatient,’ he says with an eye roll and a smirk.

‘Fine. I can wait. I am starving, though.’ I reach across to the basket in the centre of the table and break off a piece of warm crusty bread.

‘Hmm,’ Piers says. ‘That’s new.’

‘What?’ I say, popping the bread into my mouth.

‘Nothing. Just . . . you never used to eat bread.’

‘Why not? This stuff is heaven.’ I tear off another chunk.

Piers leans across the table. ‘You’ve got flour . . .’ he wipes the side of my mouth with his thumb. It’s an intimate gesture and I’m annoyed to feel myself blushing.

‘So,’ I say, wiping at imaginary crumbs on my dress. ‘What is it you do . . . for a living, I mean?’

‘I’m a property developer.’

‘Oh, okay. So, you like, do houses up, and sell them on?’

‘Pretty much, yeah.’

‘Have you got any properties at the moment?’ I ask.

‘I’m working on one. Early stages,’ he says, taking a healthy swig of his wine.

My drink has already gone straight to my head.

‘Do you like it?’ I ask. ‘Being a property developer? Have you done it for long?’ I tear off another chunk of bread and stuff it into my mouth in a half-hearted attempt to soak up the alcohol.

‘Not that long, no,’ he says, draining his glass. ‘It’s okay, yeah. Hard work, though.’

‘Do you do the actual . . . developing?’ I ask. I’m not even sure if I’m interested in what he’s saying, or if I’m merely trying to keep the conversation flowing. ‘Or do you pay people to work for you?’

‘A bit of both.’

‘And you said before that I don’t work?’

‘Not at the moment. You’re taking a break from teaching.’

‘Why would I take a break?’

‘I . . . Oh, here’s lunch.’

I look up to see our waiter returning. Piers has ordered the filet mignon with French fries, and I have a disappointing salad. I eye his steak hungrily.

‘Duck salad with asparagus,’ Piers says. ‘Your favourite.’

‘Lovely, thank you,’ I say, wishing he had let me order my own food.

He orders himself another glass of wine and we dig in. After my initial disappointment, I find the salad is actually delicious, and also quite filling. It would seem the old me knows what I like to eat.

‘I had a strange dream last night,’ I say, taking a sip of Prosecco. ‘But I’m wondering if it might have been a memory.’

‘What was it about?’

‘It’s silly really. I was standing outside a wooden building at night.’

‘A wooden building? What sort of building? A house? A shed?’

‘I don’t think it was either.’ I conjure up the image in my mind. ‘It looked like a massive garage. I guess it could have been a storage shed or something. But I think it had this huge overhanging balcony. It was by the river.’

‘Sounds like the rowing club,’ Piers says spearing a French fry.

‘Do you think so?’ My heart gives a leap as I realise I could have experienced a real memory.

‘I don’t know’ he says. ‘Maybe.’

The scary woman flashes into my mind. I stare at Piers’ face to try and block her out, push her away. ‘I’ll go there after lunch,’ I say, swallowing down a beat of fear. ‘See if I recognise it.’

‘Sounds about right,’ Piers says, swallowing a mouthful of food followed by another swig of wine.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean, it sounds about right that you’ve only been out of hospital for one day, and you’re going back to the bloody rowing club already.’ He twists his lip into an irritated smile.

‘What are you talking about?’ I say. ‘If that’s my first memory, of course I have to go there. I have to see if it triggers anything else.’

‘Sure,’ he replies, draining his glass and signalling the waiter for yet another.

‘You do understand that, don’t you?’ I say, annoyed that he doesn’t seem to get it. That he’s letting past issues cloud my current predicament.

‘I understand,’ he grunts.

‘What’s the issue with me and the rowing club, anyway?’ I lay my knife and fork down, suddenly not hungry anymore.

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

‘Well, I can’t forget it. It’s obviously something that’s causing a problem between us.’

He glances around. ‘Where’s that bloody waiter with my wine? I should’ve ordered a bottle.’

‘Piers?’ I try to get his attention back. ‘Tell me, what the problem is with the rowing club?’

‘You just spend a lot of time on the water, that’s all.’

‘Okay. Sorry, I guess. But you do understand why I have to go there today, don’t you. If it could help me get my memory back, then . . .’

‘Yeah, sure.’ He scowls.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ I say, trying to revive his mood.

‘Too much going on with the flat this afternoon. I’ve got the bathroom suite being delivered and I’m the only one on site today.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ I say, half-relieved he won’t be coming with me. It’s something I should probably do alone. If Piers is there, I won’t be able to think properly. I won’t be able to concentrate on remembering.

‘I’ll come over to your place later, though,’ he says, brightening a little.

‘Could we make it tomorrow instead?’ I ask. ‘I really want an early night. I’m so tired, still.’

‘Just for an hour or two?’ he says, wheedling. ‘I won’t stay long.’

It would be easier to give into him. He looks like he doesn’t want to take no for an answer. But I know I’d regret it later. ‘Not tonight,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I won’t be good company.’

‘Mia,’ Piers says, pushing his empty plate away, and wiping his mouth with his napkin. ‘Do you know how weird this all is for me?’

Weird for
him
? ‘Um, yeah. Of course.’

‘I mean, one day you’re my girlfriend. You love me and we have a great relationship. The next day you don’t even know who I am, and you don’t want me coming over. It’s weird, right?’

‘Of course it’s weird, Piers.’ I try to keep my voice level, not quite believing that he could think his situation is any stranger than my own. ‘I get that it’s hard for you. But it’s not something I’ve chosen. I didn’t
want
to lose my memory. I don’t know anything about myself. I don’t know what I like to eat, what clothes I like to wear. I didn’t even recognise my face in the mirror, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Whoa,’ he says, raising his hands in submission. ‘Easy there, tiger. I’m just trying to have a conversation about everything. Trying to work out what we should do.’ He runs his fingers up and down the back of his head, massaging his scalp.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Didn’t mean to swear.’ I exhale and stare through the window at a middle-aged couple browsing the menu outside. Piers must think I’m a total cow, losing my temper like that. ‘I don’t even know how old I am,’ I murmur.

‘You’re twenty-five,’ Piers says with a sigh.

‘Oh.’ I guess twenty-five seems like an okay age to be. I look across at him. He’s staring down at his empty plate. I can’t tell if he’s upset, or angry, or what. ‘If it’s awkward for you,’ I begin. ‘Do you want . . . I mean, should we . . . I don’t know . . . take a break. Split up or something?’

‘What? Jesus, no, Mia. That’s the last thing I want.’ He reaches across the table and takes both my hands. ‘You may not know me anymore, but I know you, Mia James. And I love you. We’re great together, and I’m going to make sure you know it.’

I suddenly realise that of course it must be awful for Piers. To have the person you love stare at you blankly, like you mean nothing. What a kick in the guts. I give his hands a squeeze, and smile weakly.

‘Thank you,’ is all I manage to say.