by A J Waines
The office smelt of geranium oil. I like touches like that. There were freesias in a swirly pink vase on the desk, too. Quite homely. No photos, though. Shame. I like it when people have their family in frames beside the computer; it makes them seem more real somehow, like they belong somewhere.
Sam’s an expert in memory recovery as well as stress and stuff. I admit I did lay it on thick with my GP about how badly the crash had affected me. I gave him a clip from the newspaper so he could see my name in black and white. In the past, doctors have had the nerve to question what I’ve said – bloody cheek. That gruesome shot of the van being dragged out of the lake obviously helped though, because I got an appointment here really quickly. It usually takes months on the NHS.
I felt cagey talking to Sam at first – she’s quite posh – and I don’t like having to see her at the hospital. It’s too clinical. She asked if she could record us next time. Therapists tend to do that and it really annoys me. I hate the idea of someone else listening in on our conversation. I agreed though. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of her, although I’ll need to be super careful I don’t slip up and say something I shouldn’t.
She asked me if I’d ever thought about suicide and I put on my shocked face that said, Fancy asking an awful question like that? – like no one had ever asked me it before. They have, of course, and needless to say, I lied this time. I was scared she might pass me on to a psychiatrist if she knew the truth. I just need to get to the bottom of the crash, that’s all; piece all the memories together in my head. I had to tell her I’ve had therapy on and off since I was about sixteen, though – she’d find that out from my medical records anyway.
‘I haven’t seen anyone for six months,’ I said. I didn’t want to put her off, make her think I had too much ‘baggage’.
I saw her write a note on her pad at that point. I know if something I’ve said is important because up goes the pen and down go her eyes for a second or two.
I hope she’s as good as she looks. My memories are like strands of a broken spider’s web; tiny wisps that itch just out of reach ever since that wreck of a van went off the road. I want them all back, in the right order, because just now nothing makes sense. I made it clear I didn’t want proper therapy. I don’t want to go into all the stomach-churning stuff. I just want to remember.
‘I know from the police that Max, Stephanie and Richard are still missing,’ I told her, ‘and that one of Stephanie’s shoes and her coat were found floating in the lake. I expect other belongings will turn up too, over time. Our purses and wallets have all gone, which is odd, don’t you think? Shouldn’t they have been floating in the water too?’
She didn’t say anything – actually, she looked a bit ruffled. I reckon she’s used to being the one who asks all the questions.
‘But you rescued your viola?’ she’d said eventually, leaning forward, her pen resting on her chin.
‘Ah – no. I got it out of the van, but I must have passed out on the bank once I climbed out of the water. When I came round my viola had gone. I don’t know if it floated away. Maybe it got trapped in the reeds somewhere along the bank. Do you think it’ll turn up?’
She opened her eyes wide like she didn’t know what to say. It makes me think she’s someone who likes being in control the whole time. I carried on. ‘Whatever happened, it looks like none of the others will be needing their instruments anymore.’
Sam looked a bit shocked at that point and I wished I hadn’t said that, at first. I don’t want her to think I’m heartless, but I do need to show her I’m not going to get all drippy over what happened. They weren’t my friends, after all. We played a few concerts back at college, but I never really knew them.
‘The police said that dead bodies usually sink first, then reappear again a few days later,’ I went on. ‘Especially if the water is cold – which it was, being October. They said there are lots of reasons why some bodies don’t ever surface at all; they get snagged underwater in the weed and old branches or come up during the night and don’t get spotted, so they sink again. Something to do with the gases in the belly, I think.’
Sam – I like her name – it’s kind of cute and tomboyish, squirmed when I said that. I was glad. That means she’s sensitive and she’s paying attention – not just going through the motions.
‘As it stands, it looks like I’m the only one who’s survived. You’d think they’d send divers down to scour the whole lake, wouldn’t you? But Ullswater gets deep close to the edge and goes down to over sixty metres in places, so the police have only searched near the van. They said Donald Campbell – that guy who set world water-speed records – wasn’t found in Coniston Water until over thirty years after his terrible crash. If they couldn’t find him in a smaller lake, they won’t find…the others, will they?’
I trailed off then. Something rubbery was stuck in my throat. Suddenly it felt weird that I might be the only one who’d made it, but I didn’t want us to get side-tracked with how I was feeling. All I want are my memories back.
Sam waited – I respected her for that, she didn’t press me.
‘We all hated the idea of doing the concert,’ I told her. ‘Max in particular. He was a total pain. He kept going on about “having to play with crappy amateurs.”’
‘You didn’t like him?’ she said.
‘I had a bit of a crush on him when we first met at music college – crikey, when was that? Sixteen years ago now, but nothing happened. I’m not the sort he’d take any notice of. I did an online search for everyone when we first talked about re-forming, but Max was the only one who’d come to anything. He took distinct pleasure in rubbing that in. I hadn’t seen him since we graduated.’
‘And Mr Hinds organised the concert?’
Sam didn’t need to look down at her notes for that; she must have remembered his name from the start of the session. I had to hide a smile, but that gets a gold star from me – she’s certainly listening. ‘Yeah. He’d booked another group, apparently, but they’d cancelled and as we’d done a performance for him at his tenth wedding anniversary, he thought it was worth seeing if we could all come back for his twenty-fifth. I was going to say no, but, thing is – Mr Hinds was offering a cracking good fee for it.’
I stopped and listened to the sound Sam’s nail made on her tights as she scratched her ankle. Her legs are slim and you can see shapely grooves alongside her calves, like she works out. I could tell she was going to ask about the others so I saved her the trouble.
‘Richard was down on his luck,’ I told her. ‘Doing odd jobs by the sound of it – hence the crappy van. He’d given up playing professionally ages ago, but like me, he needed the money. I don’t know about Stephanie; she was really quiet the whole time. I hardly had a chance to talk to her before…’
‘Go on…’
I knew what Sam was doing; she must have heard something catch in my throat again. This time she was trying to find my breaking point; the furthest I could go before it all became too much for me, but I was determined not to go there.
I stuck to the facts. ‘Max never let his violin out of his sight. It was a Guarneri – you heard the name before? It’s a world-famous make of violin from Cremona in Italy. Richard asked about it, but you could tell he was only being polite – I’d switched off by then. It wasn’t just me who didn’t like Max. None of us did. He was a real big-head. Always was.’
‘How did you get to the Lakes?’ she asked.
‘Richard offered to drive Stephanie and me up from London the day before. Stephanie didn’t say much the whole time, she just stared out of the window, but me and Richard kept talking about how scared we were at the thought of performing in public again. We talked about how Max had always got on our nerves at college and wondered what he’d be like now. I remember Richard saying, “He’ll be insufferable,” and he was right.
‘We had two rehearsals at the Hinds’ mansion on the day of the concert and things went from bad to worse. Max was tetchy. Sa
id we were all wasting his time. I have to admit we were pretty rubbish. Stephanie hadn’t played her cello in ages and her strings kept slipping out of tune and Richard’s E string snapped.’
Sam took a quick look at her watch at that point, slyly, like she didn’t want me to see. They’re always so fussy about time these shrinks – can’t they just let you finish what you have to say without worrying about squashing everything into that measly fifty minutes?
That’s when I realised I was sitting in her chair, because I could see the clock inside the bookcase and she couldn’t. I wanted to giggle; I’d stolen her special space in the room and she hadn’t said a thing, but I didn’t want to have to explain myself so I carried on.
‘When we finished the afternoon rehearsal, Richard decided to take the scenic route back to our B&B to have a rest before the performance. Max complained. He was staying in a different place to us and wanted to go a more direct route. “You need to see real life for a change,” Richard told him.’
‘So, it was Richard who suggested you go that way – beside the lake?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes – I suppose it was.’
She nodded and made a note. She’s sharp. I’m not going to get anything past her. I’m pleased she’s on the ball. I’ve had some pretty dim therapists in the past. Sometimes all they seem to do is repeat exactly what you’ve just said, as though you haven’t heard yourself say it, or something. I mean, what use is that?
When Sam said it was the end of the session, I gasped. The time had flown by. I couldn’t believe it; I had to check the clock again. But I left on a high. Sam had passed the initial test as far as I was concerned and she didn’t sneak in the dreaded question, How do you feel about that? once. That’s another reason I’m going back.
I slide off the wall and make a decision. This evening, I’m going to browse a few online fashion sites and get a new outfit for our next session. Time will tell, I know, but we’ve made a good start. I feel like Sam could be on my wavelength. Although, of course, even if it all goes swimmingly, I won’t be telling her everything.
Chapter 3
Sam
Hannah was waiting for me at the bar. She tapped her watch as I dropped my bag at her feet.
‘Doing overtime, Willerby?’
‘Sorry. My last patient was late and I didn’t want to cut the session short.’
She linked her arm through mine and rested her head on my shoulder. ‘So diligent…’ she said.
Hannah and I had met at university, although I’d gone on to pursue clinical psychology while she’d qualified as a psychotherapist. She was my best friend, my favourite cheerleader and my own personal therapist rolled into one. Sadly, though, she wasn’t always around. She hated the routine of the five-day working week and found any excuse to travel. Her latest trip had taken her to Iceland – she’d seen a documentary and wanted to experience the Northern Lights for herself.
‘Usual G&T?’ she said, holding out her purse. I stuck out my dry tongue by way of a reply.
Hannah ran her own private practice in Harley Street, so she could take breaks whenever she felt like it. She earned packets more than me, but it had never been an issue between us. We both offered psychotherapy – just using different models – and I preferred the community feel of an NHS hospital and the fact that I got to support patients who hadn’t the money to pay. Hannah was smarter than all the therapists I knew put together, which was very handy for me when I needed a second opinion. In that respect her generosity was unflagging; in my view, she deserved to indulge her wanderlust.
‘How’s life at St Luke’s?’ she asked. ‘Got any new amnesia patients now you’ve added memory retrieval to the mix?’
She handed me my glass and we found a table on the mezzanine overlooking the boats at St Katharine Docks. An air balloon advertising an oil company hovered dangerously close to one of the masts, before drifting off out of sight.
‘It’s still mostly PTSD, but it’s refreshing to have more tools to help patients with memory issues.’
Hannah ran her finger along the hem of her ruched purple dress. On me it would have looked like a giant toffee-wrapper, but she had the height to carry it. ‘And it’s just memory loss associated with trauma – not dementia or Alzheimer’s?’
‘Oh no,’ I flapped my hand, ‘just trauma related. I couldn’t bear to work on the degenerative side of things. Too depressing.’
She nodded. ‘Absolutely. Digging up memories can be tough, though.’
I squashed the lemon against the side of my glass with the plastic stirrer. ‘Yeah, I’m not looking forward to dealing with torture or abuse, but you know me…’ I cocked an eyebrow, ‘I like helping people find the missing pieces, love discovering a way to unlock their subconscious, so they can…’ I trailed off. We were meant to be switching off from work and letting our hair down, but this happened every time. We were both passionate about psychology and found never-ending fascination with the subject. Although, to be fair, I was probably more obsessed than she was.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Sammie.’ She rested her hand on my arm. Her coral lipstick was halfway between the colour of her freckles and her loose coppery hair. Sitting next to her either made me feel like I belonged to an exclusive club or that I needed to get my act together, depending on how buoyant I felt. Today it was the latter.
‘I’m sticking with the “worried well” for now,’ she added. ‘Mostly existential issues at Harley Street this week; the meaning of life, identity, status, striving for success…’ She drew the back of her hand across her brow in a demonstration of mock exhaustion. ‘Oh, so demanding…’
I laughed. Hannah had never denied that she embraced the ‘softer’ end of therapy, whereas I’d always been a sucker for a challenge. And not just at work. At school once, my class had to set a goal in PE designed to sorely test us. Most of the girls chose to cycle 5K or jog around the school grounds. I decided to join a kayaking group and paddle twenty miles from Windsor to Teddington through all the locks on the way. It took me the whole day, but I did it. Never again, mind you.
‘So, any juicy gossip?’ she said, teasing me.
Confidentiality is an issue for any therapist, but as we shared the same line of work and I trusted Hannah implicitly, I knew whatever I told her about patients would never go any further.
I took a long sip of my drink, waiting for the hit of alcohol to set my veins tingling.
‘I’ve got an odd situation, as it happens.’
She was interested now, sitting forward so I could keep my voice down. ‘In what way?’
‘A new patient came to see me today – she’s hard to describe – full of contradictions.’ Ice rattled against my teeth as I tipped up the glass. ‘She was all light and bubbly, then she said she nearly died a couple of weeks ago in a horrific car accident in a lake, up north somewhere.’
‘What happened to her?’ she said.
‘She was trapped in the back of a van that shot off the road and sank into the water.’
‘Whoa…’ She snatched a breath.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I mean, normally, trauma patients find it painful to recount their experiences, don’t they? You have to wait for them and gently coax them to reveal what happened, bit by bit.’ Hannah nodded. ‘But, this woman was different. It was like she relished telling me every little detail. She made it sound dramatic, like she was reading a story – it was bizarre.’
‘Does she need to be the centre of attention, do you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is she making it up?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so. There’s a copy of the press report of the crash on her file from the GP.’
‘You sure it’s kosher? It’s not like that dreadful time last year, is it?’
‘Hell, no.’ My mind flashed back to the distressing episode at St Luke’s she was referring to, when survivors of a Tube fire were all giving me accounts that didn’t add up. I did the extra memory training straight af
ter that experience, desperate to get a better grip on how the brain worked in that respect. Although if I’m honest, it was partly to take my mind off what happened. ‘This is different. I’m convinced she’s not faking it. It was more that she seemed kind of thrilled to have an audience to entertain.’
‘Lonely, maybe?’
I nodded. ‘Possibly.’
‘Is she coming back?’
‘Looks like it. Her parting words were that she didn’t need therapy, she just wanted all her memories back.’
‘Well, at least she knows what she wants.’
‘I’m intrigued, actually. She’s obviously in denial about how she feels, but there was something else…’
‘Spill…’ Hannah said, twisting her mouth to one side.
‘I don’t know…there’s something tragic about her. I’m waiting for her full medical records to come through, but I get a sense there’s some damaging history there. She’s a bit older than us, but she’s almost like a naïve little girl wrapped up in a huge tangle of sadness…’
Hannah sat back blowing out a big sigh. ‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself a handful there.’ She straightened up and wagged her finger at me. ‘Be careful.’
I shrugged.
A waiter brought over a bowl of warm olives and the oily aroma made me realise how hungry I was. I stabbed a fat green one with a cocktail stick and chewed it with relish.
‘Anyway, enough of that. What about you?’
She talked about her clinic, but her tone was flat and she wrinkled her nose a lot. It was obvious that she was growing tired of seeing celebrities who showed up week after week to dump their petty grievances, but had no real problems at all. ‘I need a change,’ she said.
