I Know Who You Are

by Alice Feeney

  It feels like I’m falling, so I sit down. It’s as though I’ve slipped into a messed-up parallel universe in the last couple of days, one where I’m still myself, but everything and everyone around me has twisted all out of shape. When I don’t say anything, she just carries right on.

  “Your husband mentioned that you had been diagnosed with some form of amnesia when you were a child. That the condition meant you sometimes forgot traumatic events, blanked them out of your memory completely, without even knowing that you had. He suggested that your symptoms were ongoing, but that you were in denial about that. So that you think you have a perfect memory but that in reality, you might have forgotten some of the things that you did when you were upset. Does any of this ring true?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I was diagnosed with a condition when I was a child, but it was a misdiagnosis. I haven’t forgotten anything since.”

  I didn’t forget anything that happened then either, I just pretended to. I carry my memories of my life before in an old trunk inside my head. It’s been locked for a long time.

  “And you’re sure about that? That you’re not still experiencing some form of memory loss? It was one of the reasons your husband decided not to press charges.”

  “Press charges for what?”

  “Do you drink, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “Everybody drinks.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that you were too drunk to remember what happened between you and your husband that night?”

  No. I remember everything. I’m just selfish with most of my memories; I choose not to share them.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know, do you? You said it was, and I quote, just a slap?” She waits for me to respond, but I don’t. I’m starting to think it might be best to say as little as possible. “Where is your husband, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  Something inside me snaps. “I. Don’t. Know! That’s why I called you people!”

  The volume of my voice surprises me, but she doesn’t flinch. “Did you manage to find a recent photo of Ben to help with our investigation?”

  “No.”

  “Not to worry, I have one here.” She reaches inside her pocket, then produces a photo of Ben’s face, bloodied and bruised, one eye almost completely swollen shut. I have never, ever, seen him look like this. He’s almost unrecognizable. “This is what your husband looked like when he came to the police station, on the day you say he went missing. His nose was broken in two places. I’m not a medical professional, but I’d guess these injuries were caused by more than just a slap. The only reason we didn’t bring you in then was because he refused to press charges in the end. I think he was afraid of you.”

  I accept that my mind might have a hairline fracture, but my memory works just fine.

  I’m not crazy.

  “This is insane! I’ve never seen him looking like that—”

  “In his statement, your husband said he had confronted you about an affair he believed you were having with Jack Anderson, your co-star in this movie. Any truth in that?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “Anything that helps me find your husband and ensure his safety is my business. A few hours after he left the police station, you reported him missing. Where is he now, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  Everything is too loud, I just want her to stop talking, or for someone to explain what is happening in a way that makes a shred of sense. “I told you, I don’t know. If I knew where he was, or if I had hurt him myself, why would I call the police?”

  She shakes her head. “One last question. Can you remind me what time you said you came home the night you realized he was … missing?”

  “About five p.m. I guess, I’m not sure exactly.” I notice Wakely scribble something down.

  “See, now that’s interesting, because it means you were home when your husband made his final call from the phone you said was his, the one that was left on the coffee table. He has been seeing a domestic abuse counselor for a little while now. He said this wasn’t the first time you attacked him, and he left a message on his counselor’s phone. Want to know what Ben said?”

  Not really.

  She hits a button on her iPad, and Ben’s hushed voice fills my dressing room. It’s like hearing a ghost.

  “I’m sorry to call, but you said that I could if I ever felt in danger again, and I think she’s going to kill me.”

  Twenty

  Essex, 1987

  “You’ll get square eyes,” Maggie says, getting out of bed and turning off the TV. I’ve been living here for a long time now and she’s always saying that, so I check my eyes as often as I can in the mirror to make sure they are still round. I carry on staring at the screen anyway, even though the picture has gone. I can see a girl in it, like a little gray ghost of me. She smiles when I smile, and stands when I stand, and looks sad when I look sad. I don’t see what she does when I turn and walk away, but sometimes I imagine she stays right where she is inside that screen. Watching me.

  “Do you know the best thing about Christmas?” Maggie asks.

  I’d forgotten that she said it was Christmas today and don’t answer.

  “Surprises!” She ties one of her bras around my head, like a blindfold. I don’t always like Maggie’s surprises. She pulls me up and leads me to the door in the flat I’ve never been through before. It’s locked and I’m afraid of what might be behind it. I hear her take out the giant set of keys, then she opens the door, and we shuffle inside. It’s dark, but I can feel soft carpet beneath my toes, just like in my bedroom. She takes the bra off my face, which I’m glad about, but I still can’t really see until she opens the heavy-looking curtains.

  The room is beautiful, like the grotto in Dunnes Stores in Galway at Christmas. A pretty pattern of red and white flowers is all over the walls, and there is red carpet on the floor. I see a big red sofa, with lots of cushions, and the fireplace is a bit like the one at home. Paper chains are hanging down from the swirly white ceiling, and in the corner of the room there is a giant green tree, covered in tinsel, with a big silver star on top. Best of all, there are presents underneath, more presents than I’ve ever seen before.

  “Well, go on then, see if there’s anything there for you,” says Maggie. Her yellow T-shirt with a smiley face comes down to her knees, but her teeth are chattering, which seems to make mine do the same. It’s as though the cold in the room is like the colds that make you cough and sneeze—something you can catch. She turns on a switch next to the fireplace, and I see that the fire is not real, only pretend with blue flames. Then she flicks another switch, and little colored lights appear all over the tree. It’s beautiful. But then the lights on the tree and the fire go off, and Maggie’s face turns from happy to cross awful fast.

  “Damn it, John, this was meant to be perfect.” She looks behind me. I turn and see John in the doorway. I didn’t even know he was there, he always seems to be hiding in the shadows.

  “Hold your horses.” He reaches inside the pocket of his jeans and disappears down the hall. It’s a silly thing to say because Maggie doesn’t have any horses to hold.

  A thing called a meter lives inside the big cupboard at the top of the stairs. It’s where the ironing board and Hoover live, too, not that we ever use those. If we don’t put enough fifty-pence coins inside the meter’s mouth, the power goes off. It needs feeding all the time, the way I think a pet dragon might. John must have fed it, because the lights and the fire come back on.

  Maggie is wearing her happy face again, just like the one on her T-shirt. “Well, go on.”

  I walk a little closer to the tree, and when I bend down, I can see that all the presents have little name tags tied on with ribbon. I turn one over and it says AIMEE. I look at another and it says the same thing. But they are all covered in dust, as though they have been sitting under the tree for a very long time. I look around the room and see that everything else in here is covered in dust too.

  “Aren�
�t you going to open something?” asks John, lighting a cigarette and sitting down on the sofa. “I don’t see nobody else called Aimee around here, do you?”

  Just as he says it, I do see another little girl in the room, or at least a picture of her in a frame on the mantelpiece. She looks a bit like me, but older, with exactly the same length hair. Maggie sees me looking at it and lays the frame down flat.

  “Open your presents,” she says, folding her arms.

  I pick up the one nearest to me, getting dust on my fingers and pajamas. I open it slowly, peeling back each piece of Sellotape, trying not to tear the pretty paper. I see what looks like orange wool inside and pull it out. John takes a picture of me with his Polaroid camera; he likes doing that. He takes pictures of me everywhere all the time—in the shop, in my bedroom, in the bath. I don’t think the photos he takes of me in the bath or in bed at night can be very good; he never shows them to me or Maggie afterwards.

  “It’s Rainbow Brite, your absolute favorite! Do you like her?” asks Maggie. I nod, not sure who Rainbow Brite is, but remembering her from the duvet and wallpaper in my bedroom. “Well, go on, open another.”

  This time it is a red machine.

  “It’s a brand-new Fisher-Price cassette player, so you can play all those Story Teller tapes you like so much. Just try not to break this one.”

  I didn’t break anything.

  “Now, what do you say before you open the next one?”

  I think hard before answering. Maggie gets awful cross when I get things wrong. When I think I know the answer, I turn and look at her. “Thank you, Mum.”

  I pick up another present, hoping I’m still allowed to open it.

  She smiles at me. “You’re welcome, Baby Girl.”

  Twenty-one

  London, 2017

  “Are you okay?” asks Jack.

  No.

  My husband is trying to frame me.

  The only person who ever really knew me, who I thought loved me, is coming after me in a majorly messed-up way. I feel terrified and broken and so fucking angry all at once.

  Jack knocked on my dressing room door less than a minute after the police left. I thought they had come back, so seeing him standing there instead brings nothing but relief.

  “I’m fine,” I say, as he steps inside uninvited and I close the door behind him.

  “You’re a great actress, but you’re a terrible liar. Tell me to mind my own business if you like, but I thought you might need to talk, and I wondered if you fancied getting a quick drink in the bar. That was our final scene together after all, and I think I’m going to miss your face.”

  I would love a drink right now. It isn’t as though I have anything to look forward to at home. Ben has clearly decided to punish me in the most elaborate and inventive way. I find it hard to believe he came up with something like this all by himself. Now that I know he went to the police and told them some story about me attacking him, any concern I felt has unraveled into hate, but he surely can’t plan on keeping this up forever. Faced with the facts that have stacked themselves higher than misremembered truths, and although I’m sure it’s the wrong decision, I do want a drink.

  “Yes, that sounds nice, I’ll just grab my bag.”

  “Great, you might want to change first, too, mon amie.”

  I follow Jack’s gaze down my body and realize I’m still wearing the silk nightie that wardrobe dressed me in earlier. I can’t believe I spoke to the police looking like this. Everything is covered up, but I’m completely naked underneath. I can see the outline of my nipples through the thin pink material.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You know you can trust me, don’t you?” The kindness in his voice pierces my emotional armor and my eyes fill with tears. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He wraps one arm around my waist and pulls me close. I just stand there, not knowing what to do at first without a script and stage directions. He wipes my tears away, then kisses my forehead. It feels a little fake, but that’s the problem with actors, they never know when to stop. I do start to relax, though, resting my head on his shoulder and closing my eyes, while he strokes my hair. I breathe in the smell of him, and when he pulls me closer still, I don’t resist. I enjoy the feel of his body next to mine, picture his chest beneath his shirt, imagine taking it off. I can hear his heart beating almost as fast as my own.

  “If you want to wear a sexy see-through nightie to the bar, then you go ahead, there’s really no need to cry about it, I won’t try to stop you.”

  I laugh. Jack is one of those men who thinks you can heal any hurt with humor.

  “Or I can help you slip out of it?”

  I presume he is still joking, so I step behind the screen to change into something a little less revealing. Then I quickly wipe all the tearstained makeup from my face, while Jack plays with his phone. He’s concentrating so hard I wonder what on earth he can be doing; checking his Twitter account no doubt.

  We walk along the corridor to the Club Bar at Pinewood, attracting stares from everyone we pass along the way. The bar is sometimes used as a set, but the rest of the time anyone can drink here, a good example of life imitating art and making a healthy profit. The place is busy, but the manager asks two other people to move, freeing a table for us to sit down at. It’s the sort of thing that I hate, but I’m too tired to stand so I go along with the suggestion. Besides, it’s Jack they are being asked to move for, not me. He is most definitely A-list, everyone says hello to him and smiles in his direction. It’s like walking into a bar with a tall Tom Cruise, and I’m only too happy to hide in his shadow.

  “You don’t have to talk about it with me if you don’t want to, but I’m here for you if you do,” he says once we’ve chosen a bottle of wine. Everyone else has to order at the bar, but not Jack.

  “Ben is still missing.”

  He frowns at me. “So why are the police coming here and not out looking for him?”

  “Because they think I had something to do with it.”

  It feels good to say it out loud. Less terrifying somehow.

  He stares at me for a little while, then tilts his head right back and laughs. His face turns red and he holds his chest as though the laughter is causing him too much pain.

  “Shh, it’s not funny,” I whisper. But his reaction has made me smile for the first time in days.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I know you play a proper badass on-screen, but anyone who knows you in real life knows that you could never hurt anyone.”

  I guess I must be a better actress than I give myself credit for.

  “I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding, he’ll turn up tomorrow. I frequently didn’t come home without telling my wife where I was; perhaps that’s why I’m no longer married. Besides, he’s a journalist isn’t he, your chap? He’s probably pissed in a bar somewhere, isn’t that what they do?”

  “Yes, maybe you’re right,” I say, knowing he’s wrong.

  “Bien sûr, je suis très intelligent!”

  “What’s with all the random French?”

  “I’m trying to impress a certain little lady I know. Do you think I’m getting any better?” I shake my head. “Merde.”

  Jack excuses himself and disappears to the men’s room, leaving me sitting alone with my thoughts and fears. It’s clear to me now that Ben has set me up, to punish me for something I didn’t even do. That’s what this is: revenge. Ben is just smarter than I am. He’s read more and seen more. He understands the world in a way I never will, but I’m a better judge of character. That’s something he always struggled with. I understand people and why they do the things they do. And I understand him. He’s trying to hurt me by damaging the career he says destroyed our marriage.

  I’m not going to let that happen.

  Jack returns and promptly pours two more glasses of red wine. I notice that he fills mine considerably more than his own.

  I take a sip. “Thank you for this. I’m sure you’re r
ight, everything will be okay.”

  “Course I’m right,” he says. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Twenty-two

  Essex, 1988

  I swat the fly on the TV screen with the rolled-up newspaper, just like Maggie taught me, pleased with myself that I got it first time.

  I’ve got used to the little back room where I sit when the betting shop is open. I know all the cracks in the walls, and the marks on the desk, and I know to remember to wear a coat every morning, even though I sit inside all day, because the radiator is broken and it is cold. It’s someone else’s coat that I wear; it has her name sewn inside in case I forget. But it’s mine now. My name, my coat.

  I spend my time reading, watching TV, or listening to the Story Teller tapes on my Fisher-Price cassette player. When I run out of other people’s stories to read, watch, or listen to, I make up my own about a little girl who lived in Ireland. I tell myself the story of me so that I don’t forget. I whisper it so that nobody else can hear, and enjoy seeing little puffs of my own breath when the words sneak out of my mouth. Sometimes I pretend that I am a baby dragon, and that one day I’ll learn how to fly away home and burn down anyone who was ever mean to me.

  The shop is noisy and loud. I hear the sound of the horse races all day long, and the men who watch them shout things like, “Go on!” really loudly at the TV screens out there, as though the horses can hear them, which is silly because they can’t. Sometimes I look through the stripy plastic curtain that hangs between the shop counter and the phone room, and I see them, the customers. They all look sort of the same to me, wearing blue jeans and mean faces, from what I can see through the fog of their cigarette smoke.

  I know when the shop has closed because the noise stops and everything is quiet again, except for the sound of John’s adding machine going clickety-click. I think he must like maths because he uses it a lot. He comes into the little back room, pretends to like a picture I have drawn, then opens the back door.