The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

I open my eyes to find myself staring at the cream sofa back. I remember last night – passing out, then coming to on the kitchen floor. I managed to haul myself up and gulp down a glass of water before making it onto the sofa, curling up and falling asleep. Now, it’s morning, and I turn over and blink at the brightness. My neck is cricked where I slept with my head pressed up against the arm of the sofa. Yesterday’s memories wash over me like waves. My mum calling . . . DS Wright from CID telling me how I capsized in the sea . . . my lunch with Piers. Everything hits me, buffeting my brain with an overload of information. I close my eyes and turn over to face the back of the sofa again, wishing I could go back to sleep. To oblivion. It hurts to think.

But, I remember, I’m supposed to be going to London today. I could cancel, I suppose, but I really do want to meet my mother and sister. They appear to be the only family I’ve got. They could be the ones to help me get my memories back. I take a breath, open my eyes and sit up too quickly, feeling like I left my head on the sofa cushion. After a few seconds, I feel steadier, the room comes back into focus so I lurch shakily to my feet. I notice that I left the doors to the balcony open all night, and a coolish breeze has ensured the room isn’t too stifling. My tuna salad and glass of Prosecco must still be out there, too, wilted and gone flat.

My dress is crumpled, my mouth tastes vile and I have a pounding headache. First things first, I need to find some paracetamol or aspirin, brush my teeth, have a shower then make myself some breakfast. After that, I’ll tackle train times and the rest.

Two and a half hours later, I’m on the train, staring out of the window, the chair material hot and prickly beneath my thin cotton dress. Opposite me, two smartly dressed women chat excitedly about shopping and a theatre visit. The seat next to me is empty and I’ve placed my handbag on it, in an attempt to deter anyone from sitting there.

It’s only a few minutes after ten, so I should be in London by lunchtime. My headache has cleared up and I’m suddenly infused with optimism. I’m not sure what happened to me last night. Perhaps a touch of exhaustion. I’m constantly having to process new information about my life, and I did do an awful lot yesterday.

Maybe meeting my mum will give me a sense of belonging. Anchor me. I wonder what my sister’s like, what our relationship is like. Do we get on? Is she older or younger than me? Are we close? I hope so. I don’t want to build up my hopes too much, in case I’m disappointed.

The train journey goes by quickly enough. I gaze at the fields and houses, the factories and warehouses, daydreaming about nothing in particular. I eavesdrop on the women sitting opposite whose superficial conversation soothes me. I feel included somehow, even though they pay me no attention. And then the relaxed atmosphere on the train changes as we pull into Waterloo Station and everyone busies themselves gathering belongings and dealing with the subtle etiquette of moving out from their seats, into the aisle and finally off the train onto the platform.

I manage to navigate the underground with ease – strangely, I discover I know how the system works. I know the names of the main tube stops, even though I don’t recognise the name of the place my family lives – a suburb called Southfields. This underground network is familiar to me, its dull greys and browns, its warm, burnt musty scent, the hum of tube trains pulling away into dark tunnels, and the screech of brakes as they arrive. The throngs of people moving as one, downwards, upwards, along corridors and platforms. Purposeful. I move along with them, comfortably swept up in their colourful rush. Eventually, I reach my stop and emerge into bright sunshine once more.

Southfields isn’t anything like I imagined. I thought it would be more built up, more urban, but it actually has quite a village-y feel. As I follow the directions my mum gave me, I find myself walking past designer boutiques, bistros, delicatessens and cafes. And, lovely though it is, none of it looks familiar. At the end of the High Street, I turn into a tree-lined residential street flanked with characterful Edwardian terraces. The sun dapples my face through the leaves. It’s a pleasant walk and I almost forget why I’m here.

Not too far now. Just a couple of streets away and I’ll be there. My stomach swoops with a sudden attack of nerves. Questions flit through my mind once more. What will my family be like? Will I like them? Will I recognise them? Or will it be like with Piers where I feel no connection? I want to belong. To be part of a family, rather than simply a person on the periphery of things. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

I turn left, and then right, and finally, find myself in Smithbridge Close. Straight ahead sits the block of flats where my mum lives. Is this the place where I grew up? It’s a low, wide building, set out in a horseshoe shape. Built from yellow bricks, it has that ex-local authority look about it. I can’t help feeling disappointed that they don’t live in one of the pretty Edwardian terraces I just passed.

A group of kids on bikes and skateboards are hanging out in the car park, chatting and laughing. As I walk past, they pause to glance at me, but I’m obviously not interesting enough, for they turn straight back to their conversation.

The front door to the block is one of those heavy-duty wooden fire doors, its glass embedded with wire mesh. The buzzer for number 2B is easy to spot, near the top of the list. Written next to it in smudged blue biro is the name F. Richards. I’m guessing that’s my mum. I press the buzzer and wait.

Seconds later, there’s a reply.

‘That you, Mia?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘Come in. Turn right, off the hall.’

The door buzzes and I push it open, walking into a large, warm, dim hallway that smells of last night’s dinner combined with peach-scented air freshener. I smooth down my dress, run my fingers through my hair and turn right, down a long corridor. Before I’m halfway down, the door at the end opens.

‘Mia!’ A woman stands in the doorway. She’s short and slim with a greyish blonde bob. I walk a little faster. I guess this must be my mum. With a jolt of disappointment, I realise I don’t recognise her. When I reach the doorway, she takes my hand and kisses my cheek. Her hand is cold, and she smells of perfume and cigarette smoke.

‘Come in, sweetheart. Come in.’

I follow her through a narrow hallway hung with water-colour prints, past several doors until we reach the end where the lounge is situated. A girl sits on a faux leather sofa chewing a lock of hair. She’s the spitting image of my mother, but her hair is longer and blonder. She stands when she sees me and gives a hesitant smile.

‘Hi, Mia,’ she says.

‘You must be Cara,’ I say.

She and my mum give each other a look. I don’t blame them. It must be so strange for them – the fact that I don’t know who they are.

‘Yeah, I’m Cara,’ she says. ‘Can you really not remember us at all?’

I shake my head.

‘Shit,’ she says. ‘That’s mad.’

‘You want a cuppa?’ my mum asks. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’ She laughs.

‘Tea’s good,’ I reply.

‘Cara?’

‘Yeah, tea,’ she replies.

My mum nods and leaves the room, and it feels a little uncomfortable with me and Cara just standing there. She’s much shorter than me, even in her four-inch spike-heel sandals. I try to see if there’s any resemblance at all between us. But all I see is a pretty young woman with dyed blonde hair and too much makeup. I feel wildly undergroomed by comparison. But I don’t think I could ever carry off her look.

‘So,’ I say, desperate to break the awkward silence. ‘Am I older or younger than you?’

‘You’re two years older,’ she says, scratching her nose with a perfectly manicured leopard-print fingernail.

‘So, that would make you . . .’

‘Twenty-three,’ we say at the same time, punctuated by a small laugh. She sits back down on the sofa, gesturing for me to do the same.

There’s a set of open patio doors at the end of the room, leading out to a small terrace screened by a low hedge. Beyond that, is the entrance carpark, and I can hear the voices of the youths I passed earlier.

‘So,’ Cara says, ‘you, like, can’t remember anything about us? Not growing up here, or school, or anything?’

‘I can’t even remember my own boyfriend,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t remember what my face looked like. I looked in the mirror, and didn’t recognise myself. That was scary.’

‘That’s mental. You’ve got to tell mum. She won’t believe it. She already thinks it’s some kind of wind up.’

‘She can call the hospital if she doesn’t believe me,’ I say. Strangely, I notice myself modifying my accent a little as I talk to Cara, taking on more of a London twang. Is this how I normally talk? Or has being around Piers made me lose my accent?

My mum comes back into the room carrying a tray with three mugs and a plate of pink wafer biscuits. I take a mug gratefully and sip at the liquid. It’s a hot day, but the tea is refreshing.

‘Mia doesn’t remember anything,’ Cara says. ‘Nothing at all. She didn’t even know what she looked like in the mirror.’

‘That’s terrible,’ my mum replies. She settles herself on the sofa next to me. ‘Let me look at you, Mia.’

I put my tea down on the glass coffee table.

Cara laughs. ‘She really has lost her memory.’

‘Why did you say that?’ I ask.

‘You dared to put your tea down on the table without using a coaster. You obviously forgot what mum’s like about stuff like that.’

I feel my cheeks growing warm, pick up the mug and place it on one of the black leather coasters. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur.

‘Cara!’ My mum glares at her. ‘Don’t mind her,’ she says to me. ‘She’s just winding you up. I don’t care where you put you put your mug, sweetheart. You could pour your tea all over the rug and I wouldn’t give a hoot. I’m just happy to have you here, safe and well.’

Cara mumbles something, but I don’t hear what.

The room falls silent. We sip our tea.

‘So,’ my mum says. ‘You going to tell us what happened to you? How you lost your memory?’

‘I’m not really sure how it happened,’ I reply. ‘After you called last night, I got a call from the police. They think it was a rowing accident. That I capsized and was swept out to sea, but then I washed up on the beach. They said I’m really lucky to be alive.’

‘My God, Mia,’ my mum says, taking my hand in hers and kissing it. ‘You nearly died!’

‘How come you were rowing?’ Cara says. ‘Were you, like, in a boat on your own?’

‘Yeah. Apparently I like to row.’

‘Weird,’ Cara says.

‘So, didn’t I used to row? Growing up?’

‘Er, no.’

‘I didn’t know it was something you were into, love,’ my mum says. ‘Sounds dangerous. Perhaps you shouldn’t do it anymore.’

It strikes me as really odd that they don’t know about a sport I apparently love. ‘Are you sure I never mentioned it to you?’ I say, rubbing at my temple. ‘It’s one of the things I love to do. Why wouldn’t I have told you about it?’

‘You probably did mention it, love,’ my mum replies. ‘You know what I’m like – brain like a sieve.’

Another silence cloaks the room. Cara picks at the hem of her denim cut-offs, and my mum helps herself to a biscuit while I rack my brains for conversation.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ I say, ‘but we don’t look very similar.’

‘That’s cos you look like your dad,’ my mum says.

‘Oh, right. I don’t suppose you have a photo?’

‘Cara, can you get the album? It’s in my room on the dresser.’

Cara puts her tea down on the tray and stares at my mum, giving her a look I can’t decipher.

‘The album, Cara,’ my mum repeats. ‘Or do I have to do everything myself?’

Cara peels herself reluctantly from the sofa and leaves the room.

‘My dad died, right?’ I ask my mum.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. You and Cara have different dads. Me and your dad – Marcus – we split up when you were a baby. You never really knew each other, which is a shame. And then he died a few years back. I met Steven, Cara’s dad, soon after Marcus left. Me and Steve got married. Stayed together for eighteen years, and he brought you up like his own. We’re still friends, but he’s with someone else now. He’ll be shocked when I tell him what’s happened to you.’

I try to take it all in, but it’s like she’s talking about someone else’s life. Someone else’s family. I can’t relate to any of it. I don’t feel any kind of emotion, other than a simmering panic that I’m in the wrong place with the wrong people.

Cara comes back into the room with a chunky looking photo album. She sits on the other side of my mum, so now we’re all squashed onto the one sofa together.

‘Right, let’s have a look,’ my mum says, taking the album from Cara and opening it at the beginning.

‘I’ve just realised,’ I say to her, ‘I don’t know your name.’

She turns to me and strokes my cheek. ‘Oh, Mia. It breaks my heart. How can you not even remember your own mum’s name? I’m Fiona. Fiona Richards.’

‘Would you mind if I called you Fiona, rather than
Mum
. It’s just . . . it feels too strange at the moment.’