The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller (5 page)

Chapter Nine

After my lunch with Piers, I’m all antsy and keyed-up. I’m walking back home, and feel like I want to go for a run or something, but it’s far too hot. It must be 35 degrees out. Unless my memory returns, I really don’t see how Piers and I are going to make it work. I don’t feel any connection between us. There’s no spark. Not for me, anyway.

A mobile phone shop catches my eye and I decide to go inside and pick out a new phone. Not that I know many people to call, but I guess I’ll need one eventually. I spend an hour or so in there, and finally leave with a phone that’s made the sales guy far happier than me. I step back out onto the pavement feeling hot and bothered, unable to relax. I’m still walking back in the direction of home, but I don’t want to go back yet. Instead, I think I’m going to head straight to the rowing club. I’m not sure where it is, but maybe I can ask someone.

I walk quickly despite the heat, and now I’m almost back at the quay. There’s some kind of sailing club near my house. Maybe the rowing club is part of it. As I walk back through the car park, I’m grateful for the shade provided by all the trees here, along with the hint of breeze coming off the river. I leave the cool of the car park and cross the cobbled road, walking over the stone bridge and heading towards the boats. There are quite a few people milling about. I approach a family who are loading supplies into a dinghy.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman, who’s chastising her young sons for mucking about instead of helping. She turns to me with an irritated expression, but it transforms into a smile when she realises I’m not a misbehaving child.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘You going out on the water this afternoon? Isn’t it just the most perfect day.’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I agree. ‘I’m actually looking for the rowing club.’

‘Oh, okay. You’re at the wrong end.’ She points west. ‘It’s about a ten-minute walk in that direction. You can’t miss it. It’s just past the kids’ playground.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply.

‘Hot work, though,’ she says, ‘rowing in this heat. You must be fit.’

I smile. ‘Thanks again.’

I leave the bustle of the sailing club behind, and walk along the gently curving river, passing overfed ducks and swans, admiring the silvery reed beds on the opposite bank, and a pretty wooden house which sits alone amid the long grass. I pass elderly couples relaxing on wooden benches, and families playing ball games on the field. Dogs trot lazily in the heat and children squeal with delight in the playground and water park up ahead. I’m alert for anything which might look familiar to me, but it’s all fresh, new and interesting. Nothing to suggest I’ve been here before.

As I pass the playground and come around a sharp bend, I spot four teens at the river’s edge, gathering up their blades ready to climb into their boat. Wellington boots lie discarded on the shingle, and their instructor is sliding a launch into the water.

I jog towards her, hoping to have a word before their session gets underway. I wonder if she might recognise me. But as I draw closer, I glance to my right and catch my breath.

It’s the building. The one from my dream. Piers was right. Sitting close to the river bank, it’s ultra-modern, clad in wood, with a floor-to-ceiling window on the upper level, leading onto a huge wrap-around balcony. It seems slightly different to how I remember it – bigger and more imposing somehow – but maybe that’s because now it’s a bright sunny day, rather than a lonely dark night, like in my dream. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is the same building, though.  My heart rate accelerates, and I stare ahead to the path along the river, expecting to see the woman from my dream coming for me. Of course, there is no woman there, just a family throwing a ball into the river for their collie dog to retrieve. My pulse slows and I attempt to get my breathing back under control.

Apart from the coach and her students at the water’s edge, the club itself appears deserted.

‘Excuse me,’ I call out.

The coach turns and frowns. I don’t recognise her. Her students are already in their scull, and she’s seconds from following them. I step down onto the shingle slipway and smile at her, but she doesn’t say anything or return my smile.

‘Is there anyone in the clubhouse?’ I ask. ‘Can I go in?’

‘Are you a member?’

‘I think so.’ As I say the words, I realise how dodgy they sound, and I don’t blame her for the look she gives me. But I can’t start telling a total stranger about my amnesia; she’ll think I’m even weirder. ‘I used to be a member,’ I say, saving my faux pas.

‘Oh, right. Well, if you want to renew your membership, you’re best off giving them a call. They can talk you through it. You can find the details online.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘No problem.’ She hops up onto the launch and motors off after her students who have already pulled away upstream. I stare after them for a moment, envious. Feeling as though I’d like to be out there, too.

I guess that’s it for now. I should go back home. Thank goodness I managed to put Piers off coming round tonight. It’s too much like hard work trying to figure out how our relationship should be. I’ll have to try harder. I guess I owe him that much. Just . . . not tonight.

I should be pleased with how things have gone this afternoon. At least I know this building is definitely the one from my memory, so there’s every chance more memories will start returning. That’s got to be good news. But I get a strange vibe from the place. It’s comfortable here, and kind of familiar, but it’s also making my stomach flutter with nerves.

‘Mia!’

I turn at the mention of my name, already becoming used to the sound of it. A man dressed in shorts, t-shirt and trainers comes out of a door in the side of the clubhouse. He brings a hand up to shade his eyes and takes a step towards me.

‘Mia? It is you isn’t it?’

‘Hello?’ I say, taking a step towards him.

‘It’s me, Jack.’

‘Sorry, do I know you?’ I hunch my shoulders and flush at the thought of not recognising a possible friend or acquaintance. He must think I’m so rude. I’ll have to explain my amnesia.

He gives me a smile, his head tipped to the side in a gesture of sympathy. ‘I heard what happened, Mia. The police have been here, and we saw it on the news. The beach and your amnesia. How terrible.’ He’s standing right in front of me now. Tall, with a rower’s body, dark hair and blue-green eyes.

‘I . . . Yeah.’ God, what an idiot. I literally can’t think of anything to say. At least he knows what happened, saving me having to explain everything.

His smile broadens. ‘I’m Jack Harrington, club coach and fellow rower.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it. ‘I’m guessing you can’t remember me?’ he says.

‘Sorry, no.’

He puts his hand on his heart, steps back and pretends to be offended.

‘But if it’s any consolation,’ I say with a hesitant smile, ‘I can’t remember anyone, or anything, so it’s not just you.’

‘Okay, I’ll let you off. Do you want a cuppa? I was just locking up, but we can go back upstairs and sit on the deck for a while if you like?’

‘No, that’s okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the offer but I’d better get back.’ I don’t know why I turned him down. A chat and a cuppa with a former-friend sounds like it could be just what I need, but I’m a little tired and off-balance.

‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Another time, maybe?’

‘Sure. That would be great,’ I say. I make a move to leave, but then I turn back. ‘Apparently I used to row here.’

‘Only every day,’ Jack says with a grin.

I have a thought. ‘Maybe . . . Do you think I could book in a session some time? I might need help remembering what to do, though.’

‘Of course. Give me a call, or better yet just drop by. I go out most mornings around 7 am.’

‘Great. Thanks so much. I lost my mobile so I don’t have anyone’s numbers, but I’ll definitely drop by one morning.’

‘Look forward to it. Good to see you, Mia. Take care.’

‘Bye.’

I walk away feeling more optimistic. He seemed like a nice guy. Easy to talk to. Hopefully, I’ll remember how to row. Maybe it’s like riding a bike – something you never forget. It seems like something I might really enjoy.

Maybe the old me is starting to resurface? Meeting old friends, getting back to my old hobbies, rediscovering my house, my town.

Maybe.

Chapter Ten

Sitting on the balcony with a tuna salad and a glass of dry white wine, I sigh with pleasure at having an evening to myself to relax. I gaze out over the river, at the boats going by – the sail boats, canoeists, pleasure boats, rowers. Funny to think that I’m actually one of them. That I used to spend so much of my time out on the water. Maybe I will again.

A loud ringing makes me jump. A phone. Must be the landline. Its shrillness sets my pulse racing. Who could it be? Piers? I want to ignore it and carry on sitting here with my thoughts. But what if it’s important?

I swallow a mouthful of salad, but it’s still lodged in my throat as I make my way inside towards the intrusive sound. I don’t even know where I keep the phone, but I locate it quickly enough, on the breakfast bar.

‘Hello?’

There’s a pause, and then ‘Mia, is that you?’ A woman’s voice, with an east-coast accent, maybe London or Essex.

‘This is Mia,’ I say.

‘Are you okay? Cara saw a post about you on Facebook. Said you lost your memory. Is it true?’

‘Sorry, who is this?’ I ask.

Silence on the other end of the line. Whoever it is has tried to cover the mouthpiece and is talking to someone else. I make out the muffled words: ‘She asked me who I am. Maybe it’s true.’

‘Hello?’ I say.

‘Sorry, I’m here,’ she replies. ‘Mia, don’t you recognise my voice?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘That post you saw on Facebook was right. I did lose my memory. Who is this?’

‘Mia, it’s me. It’s your mum.’

I don’t know what to think, what to feel. I don’t recognise her voice and I can’t picture her face.

‘Mia, are you there? Mia?’

‘I’m here,’ I say, my voice only a fraction above a whisper.

‘Can you remember who I am? Can you remember your sister?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I reply, ‘but I don’t remember anything or anyone. I don’t remember you.’ I feel a whooshing in my ears, my heart pumping hard. It’s as though I’m hearing myself from a long way away.

‘Oh my God, Mia. That’s terrible. What happened to you, sweetheart?’

I don’t feel like I can have this conversation now. The thought of explaining everything that’s happened makes me feel exhausted. ‘Maybe we should meet up?’ I say. ‘I could come to you tomorrow? Piers said you live in London.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘Can you get up here okay? I can take the day off work tomorrow. I’ll get Cara to take the day off, too.’

‘Cara?’

‘Your sister. God, you really have lost your memory. Don’t worry, hon, we’ll take care of you. Just jump on a train and get yourself home. You know, there are probably some trains still running tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ The thought of travelling to London tonight is too much. ‘Not tonight,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow would be better.’

‘Well, alright. But make it first thing. I’m worried about you, Mia, sweetheart. I need to see you and make sure you’re okay.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, not quite able to call her “Mum” yet. She does sound really worried about me. Maybe when I see her and my sister I’ll remember some of my past. I hope so.

‘Cara was beside herself when she saw that post on Facebook. She thought it was some kind of hoax. Couldn’t believe it could be true. How did it happen? It said you were found on the beach. You weren’t attacked were you?’

‘No, no. I’m fine, honestly.’

‘How can you be fine when you’ve lost your memory?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Can you give me your address?’

Her voice goes muffled again as she speaks to the person in the background, presumably my sister: ‘She doesn’t even know our address.’ And then she comes back on the line and gives me her address, phone number and directions of how to get to her house in South West London.

When I finally end the call, my head is spinning. I’m not sure how to feel. I can’t stop my brain whirring, trying to picture the woman behind the voice on the phone. What does she look like? Surely I must have a photo of her somewhere. I glance around the apartment, but I can see no photos on display at all, which strikes me as odd. Not even of me and Piers. I’ll have to hunt some out. I must have family photos somewhere. I also realise I need to find out the train times.

The phone rings again, making me jump out of my skin. Maybe it’s my mum calling me back. She must have forgotten to tell me something.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Mia?’ A woman, but it’s not my mum. It’s a younger voice. Vaguely familiar.

‘Yes, this is Mia.’

‘It’s DS Emma Wright here, from CID.’

‘Oh, yes, hi.’ Nerves kick in. Why are the police calling me?

‘How’s your memory?’ she asks. ‘Any improvement?’

I pause, deciding how much to tell her. ‘I actually did have one small memory,’ I eventually reply. ‘I had a dream about the rowing club. I just got an image of it, though. Nothing specific.’ I leave out the detail of the woman, like I have with everyone else, wondering if in this instance I should I tell her.

‘Well that’s good news,’ she says. ‘Hopefully, that’s the start of you getting all your memories back.’

‘Hope so.’

‘I’m just ringing with a progress report,’ she says. ‘Nothing to worry about, but I have a bit of news for you.’

‘Okay,’ I reply, curious.

‘We’d like you to know that unless any new evidence comes to light, we’re treating your case as an accident, so you can rest a bit easier.’

‘Oh, okay, an accident.’ I repeat the words. To be honest, I didn’t really consider the fact that it could be anything else. No one gave me any reason to believe otherwise.

‘Yes,’ she continues. ‘After investigation, it appears you went rowing very early on Sunday morning,’ she says. ‘A fishing vessel found your abandoned boat out in the Channel this morning. We think you must have capsized, hit your head and been swept out to sea which is how you ended up on Southbourne Beach.’

‘Wow,’ I say.

‘Yes. Looks like you’re one very lucky lady. You could easily have drowned out there.’

‘Wow,’ I say again, sinking down onto one of the kitchen stools.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m fine. I guess it’s just a relief to finally know what happened.’

‘Of course.’

We chat for a few moments more. I tell her about my mum calling, and about my brain scan results, and she asks me to contact her if I remember anything else that could be important. But, apart from that, this feels like the end of it. Now, it’s simply a case of me trying to regain my memories and get on with my life.

I hang up the phone, exhausted. The room feels suddenly darker, the evening turning to night. Through the open doors to the balcony, I see yellow and white lights winking on along the river. My supper is still out there on the table, but I no longer feel hungry. I think again about the police woman’s words. I was swept out to sea. How frightened I must have been. No wonder I blocked it out. It really is a miracle that I survived at all. I realise my left leg is trembling, and my breathing is becoming heavier. I need to calm down. Maybe I’m in shock. I breathe in slowly through my nose, and out through my mouth. Deep steadying breaths. My fingers tingle and my head feels light, like there’s nothing in it. I realise I’m about to pass out, so I purposely slide off the stool and sink to the floor. That way, I won’t have far to fall . . .