Look Behind You

by Sibel Hodge

  ‘You received a call on your mobile phone on the twenty-ninth of April from the college as well.’

  ‘Maybe it was Theresa, asking how I was doing and when I’d be back to work.’

  ‘She didn’t mention it.’

  It could’ve been Jordan who called from work, then.

  ‘There’s something else.’ Summers nods to Flynn, who starts the engine. ‘Liam said he called your mobile when he got to Scotland to let you know he’d arrived, but there’s no record of that call anywhere.’

  The breath evaporates from my lungs. Why would he lie to the police? ‘Did you ask him about it when you spoke to him this morning?’

  ‘Yes. He said he didn’t want to mention it last night in front of us because of your fragile state, but—’

  ‘Fragile state?’ I splutter. ‘Anyone would be fragile who’d been through what I went through.’

  ‘Those were his words, not mine,’ he carries on calmly.

  I fight to keep my breathing in check. In. Out. Keep calm. Do not flip out and give them any excuse to believe you’re crazy.

  ‘He told us that before he left to go to Scotland, you and he had an argument. You weren’t speaking to him, so he decided it would be best not to call you. He said he wanted to give you time to calm down while he was away.’

  ‘An argument?’ I stare at him wide-eyed. ‘What was it about?’

  Summers clears his throat. ‘Er…plates.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I shake my head slightly, wondering if I’d heard him right.

  ‘Liam said he brought you breakfast in bed before he left, and you accused him of using the wrong plate.’

  I open my mouth. Close it. It doesn’t make any sense. I wouldn’t care what plate he put my breakfast on. It’s something Liam would care about, not me. I scroll back through the memories I do know, searching for something that might explain what Liam said.

  I can see it clearly. It’s just after we got married. Everything was perfect. I was in our kitchen, humming to myself, dishing up a Thai curry for Liam, one of his favourite dishes that I’d been slaving over for hours. And then he started shouting at me, annoyed because the sauce spilt over the lip of the plate when he picked it up. It slopped down the front of his best work trousers, causing a stain that even the dry cleaner couldn’t get out. Incensed with anger, he threw the plate across the room at the wall before storming out and heading for the pub. It took me ages to clean up the mess, and when he returned three hours later, he was full of apologies, smelling of alcohol and carrying a bunch of wilted flowers he’d bought at the all-night garage down the road.

  I made sure I never gave him that plate again, but it didn’t take long before he found something else to get angry about.

  ‘He said you threw the plate at him and told him to get out.’ Summers’ voice brings me back to the present.

  ‘I wouldn’t argue about a plate,’ I say with a forced steadiness. That’s just not me. I don’t like confrontation. I don’t like having a bad atmosphere in the house. I’m not a violent person. ‘And I would never throw something at him.’

  I wouldn’t. And if I didn’t, that meant Liam was lying. If I did, it meant…what? That I was acting out of character? Having some kind of break down or episode again? Hallucinating?

  Oh, God.

  Despite the stiflingly hot car, I shiver and wrap my arms around me.

  10

  ‘I thought I was going to die down there.’ I wonder briefly who would care if I had. Sara would. I’m not so sure about Liam. My students might be a little sad, but they would get over it. I didn’t want to think about Jordan. It was too complicated. ‘All I could think about was doing anything to get out of there. To escape.’

  ‘It must’ve been a horrific experience for you,’ Dr Drew says, nodding at me in his calm, professional manner.

  ‘But we couldn’t find the place.’ I tell him what happened with the police that morning. ‘Nothing looked the same in the daylight. And…’ I can just about summon up the energy to give him a defeated shrug. ‘It wasn’t like I was paying attention when I was running. I was just running for my life.’

  ‘It’s frustrating that you didn’t recognize anything.’

  ‘It was. The police said Sara and I called each other before I disappeared. They tried to phone her but couldn’t get hold of her.’ I fidget with my fingers, tight in their gauze, glancing around his office in the hospital. One wall houses a bookshelf stacked full with psychology books. The opposite wall holds various certificates in frames. Behind Dr Drew, the window looks out onto the hospital grounds. The sun’s still shining, the sky squeezing out the last of the bright light.

  Dr Drew picks up the phone on his desk, scattering a few sheets of paper. ‘Do you want to try her again?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He places it in front of me.

  I press the numbers in, the motion sending a pain shooting up my finger. It rings and rings then cuts off. ‘No answer.’ I replace the receiver. ‘I haven’t spent much time with her lately. Just snatched cups of coffee for half an hour here or there when she’s back in the UK, but if anyone is able to shed some light on what I was doing before I was taken, I’m sure it will be her.’ I press my fingertips to my temples, ignoring the thumping pain filtering through my head. ‘I just wish I could remember! If the memories are still in there somewhere, can’t you just hypnotize me or something?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. The use of hypnosis for dissociative disorders is considered controversial due to the risk of creating false memories.’

  ‘False memories?’ I blink rapidly.

  ‘Although some sufferers of dissociative amnesia appear to spontaneously recover their memories, the brain can also create false memories, which the patient strongly believes but which don’t actually reflect an accurate or real event from their past. Outside influences can affect or alter patient’s memories for many reasons. For example, repetitious opinions by an authority figure, or information passed down through generations of certain cultures. Individuals with a heightened desire to please, to conform, or get better, can also be easily influenced in those circumstances.’

  ‘So if I do remember something, how will I know if it’s true or false, then?’

  ‘We have to be mindful of False Memory Syndrome. In my experience, it can become a serious problem if the patient strongly avoids confrontation with any evidence that might challenge the memory they believe to be true. Therefore, we must try to determine all the facts and seek evidence or corroboration from other people.’ He scratches his head. ‘We’re all capable of creating false memories, not just people who suffer from amnesia. Sometimes, we don’t remember an actual event but remember our thoughts or feelings associated with what happened instead. Or we recall it how we would have liked the event to take place. It’s easy to reshape the details or lose them over the years.’

  ‘Lie to yourself, you mean?’

  ‘Not exactly. Although we’re all capable of that, too. What I’m saying is that some of our memories are true, some are a mixture of fact and fantasy, and some are usually false.’

  I glance out the window, unease sitting uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘I’ve liaised with Dr Traynor, and he’s happy to release you tomorrow since you have nothing much wrong with you physically. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Yesterday I just wanted to go home, but today…’ I bite my lip, eyes watering. ‘Today I think maybe I’m safer here, surrounded by people all the time.’

  ‘I’m sure the police are doing everything they can to find out what happened. As much as I’d like to keep you here for your own peace of mind, unfortunately the hospital is bursting at the seams. But being at home may trigger off a memory that will give you more information. And I’d like to keep up a weekly appointment with you, if that’s OK.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘My secretary will set up an appointment for you before you’re discharged. And you can call
me anytime.’ He hands me his card. ‘My mobile number is there, too.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I take it and immediately bend the corners with my thumb. ‘I’m not going mad, am I?’ I lean forward, desperate for reassurance. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t release me if I were, would you?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re going mad, dear. You’re recovering from a traumatic event. Whether the Silepine itself caused the amnesia or the fact that the hallucinations it gave you were so distressful you’ve blocked them out, I still can’t say for certain.’

  I open my mouth to object, but there’s no point. No one believes me. Maybe they’re all right and I really did hallucinate the whole thing. ‘So these memories I have of being held captive are definitely false?’

  ‘The very definition of hallucination is experiencing something which does not exist.’

  ‘But we all have a breaking point, don’t we? What if I flipped? What if the grief and the incident with the antidepressants all took its toll, and that was my breaking point? If I started doing things that were out of character, wouldn’t that be a sign I was going mad or having some kind of break down?’

  ‘You’re talking about the argument with Liam? Throwing the plate?’

  I bite my thumbnail, afraid of his answer but at the same time desperate to hear it. ‘Yes, and taking the sleeping tablets when I’d been advised not to take any more medication. Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can only make the assumption that you were having trouble sleeping and ignored medical advice.’

  I feel the world teetering before my eyes, and I’m struggling to hold on tight before it completely tips me off. ‘But that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s an assumption. You see, I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what the truth is.’

  11

  Liam parks his black BMW 4x4 in our driveway and turns off the engine. I sit and stare at our house through the window. It’s a three-bed detached in a quiet tree-lined cul-de-sac, newly built when Liam bought it five years ago, before he met me. It’s never really felt like home, more like a show house you’re not allowed to get messy because a potential buyer might walk in at any second. I prefer homes with character—period features, lots of wood, splashes of warm colour. Liam likes stark, white, crisp, and modern.

  I look at it with the eyes of a stranger, scrutinizing as I search my brain for something to tell me what happened here before I lost my memory.

  ‘Are you getting out?’ Liam twists around to retrieve my bag from the back seat then opens his door. He walks up the small path towards the bright red front door. It looks ominous all of a sudden. Like a blazing, bloody warning telling me to stay away.

  I don’t want to get out. I want to be back in the hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors who will reassure me that I’m OK. Cocoon me in the stifling heat of the building and the protection of knowing someone is always around. Someone who would notice if a killer dragged me away kicking and screaming. But then, what did a killer look like? It wasn’t as if they had the words tattooed on their forehead for easy recognition. They came in all shapes and sizes. What did the person who took me look like? Were they tall, short, ugly, spotty, attractive, fat, skinny? How would I even know? And despite what Dr Drew, Dr Traynor, and Liam think, the memory of being in that place is too real to be a hallucination.

  I will my body to start working and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other until I’m inside the house.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Liam calls from the kitchen as I look around, trying to notice any subtle changes that might give me a clue.

  The hallway leads through into the kitchen/diner. On my left, the door to the lounge is open. A bay window lets sunlight flood the room. The door to the dining room is closed. To my right is the white glossed banister and staircase with cream carpet. The downstairs has wood effect laminate floorboards throughout. The sterile white walls are impersonal, with only a few pictures dotted around. There’s plenty of modern furniture—chrome and glass tables, black leather sofas with purple cushions, the only bit of colour Liam allowed me to add because he thinks I have no taste. It’s horrible.

  I go into the lounge. Everything is tidy. No magazines lying around. No used mugs littering the coffee table. Remote controls for the TV, DVD, and stereo all lined up neatly in a row as if Liam has spent hours setting them out with perfect precision.

  I walk past the dining room door. We never use it to eat in, except when we have guests. Liam insists on holding dinner parties for his work colleagues, always trying to be the superior host who knows exactly which wine goes with which course. Who cares? As long as it tastes nice and you like it, it doesn’t really matter if red wine doesn’t go with fish. His finicky ways only put more pressure on me, since I’m an average cook. Even when I spend hours poring over fancy cookbook recipes, measuring ingredients precisely, timing things to within a second, I usually get something wrong. The soufflé sags in the middle, the chicken is tough and stringy, the veg not al dente enough. It doesn’t help when Liam likes to make a big show of apologizing to our guests about the poor state of the food. He does it in a jokey, light-hearted way, saying we can’t all be Nigella Lawson in the kitchen. Telling them he swore he told me not to leave it in the oven for so long. But it doesn’t detract from the embarrassment when all eyes turn to me and everyone’s chuckling at my expense. And I know it’s not a joke. At the end of the night, when I’m the one left with a table to clear, dishes to wash, and empty wine bottles to throw away, he’ll tell me I’m not trying hard enough or not being a supportive wife, or that I’ve embarrassed him in front of his friends and ruined what’s supposed to be a perfect night. The next day, I’ll get the thick, oppressive silent treatment and the cold stares, and I’m forced to admit to myself what an idiot I am yet again because I can never get things right.

  Hovering in the kitchen doorway now, I lean my forehead on the doorframe, watching Liam spooning coffee into a French press. Real coffee for him. Not the instant stuff. He looks smart in his business suit, self-assured and confident. He was wearing a suit the first time I met him at the nightclub. Liam was so different from the students I’d been used to hanging around with at Uni, whose uniform was just-got-out-of-bed hair, worn, faded jeans, and scuffed trainers. The only time Liam ever wears trainers is when he goes to the gym at work early in the morning before he starts his day.

  All his colleagues think he’s great. A great boss, a great delegator, great squash partner, funny, witty. But people hide things in layers. No one really knows someone else. Not until they live with them.

  ‘Here.’ Liam hands me a mug of coffee, which probably isn’t a good idea. I’m already jittery enough without caffeine, but Liam knows best, after all.

  I reach out to take it, but they removed the gauze from my hands before I left the hospital, and the heat of the mug stings the scabs, making me drop it. The mug smashes on the floor, scalding hot coffee splashing up my legs.

  I yelp and wipe at my leg with the back of my hand. When I look up at Liam, his eyes flash with anger for the briefest of moments before creasing at the corners as he smiles.

  ‘That was my fault,’ he says.

  Wow. For once, it’s not mine.

  He sweeps up the shards of pottery carefully with a dustpan and brush, dumping it all into some newspaper, folding it over carefully so no pieces can escape. It jolts me enough to ask him about the argument with the plate. ‘Summers said you told him we’d argued before you left for Scotland. About a plate. Is that right?’

  He puts the newspaper in the bin under the sink. ‘Yes, that’s right. I didn’t want to mention it in front of you because…’ He swings round to face me, a concerned frown in place. ‘Well, you’ve had a hard time lately. You’ve gone through a lot, and you’re already fragile, darling.’ He waves one hand casually through the air. ‘Anyway, the argument wasn’t important.’

  I stare at him. Something’s definitely not right. ‘But I wouldn’t smash a p
late. I wouldn’t throw something at you.’ I don’t mention that’s his MO. ‘So what did actually happen with this argument? I mean, did—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Chloe, just stop nagging about something so trivial. Why do you always have to make things so complicated?’ His eyes flash with dark fury, and he bangs his fists down on the kitchen worktop so hard it makes the kettle and toaster on top rattle.

  Startled, a coldness shifts over me, as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.

  Liam takes an exaggerated lungful of breath, trying to calm himself. He presses his fingers to his temples and closes his eyes for a moment. When he’s composed again, he says, ‘Like I said, it wasn’t important. It doesn’t matter now, let’s just forget about it. The most important thing is trying to get you well again.’

  But I’m not unwell. I was kidnapped and left for dead. That’s not exactly like a spot of flu I can recover from. I bite my lip to keep the words I want to say locked deep inside.

  ‘And Dr Traynor said it wouldn’t do any good to blame yourself for things. It would only make you more agitated. That’s why I didn’t mention it in front of you.’ He wipes up the spilt coffee from the floor with some paper towels and plonks those in the bin too.

  ‘What else did Dr Traynor say about me?’ Inside I’m fuming that my doctor has been talking to Liam about me behind my back. I’m supposed to be the patient, not Liam.

  ‘He’s worried about you. We both are. He thinks you need some rest.’ He pours a coffee for himself but doesn’t offer me any more.

  While he’s occupied, I search the room for my handbag. It’s not on the hook behind the kitchen door where I usually keep it, so I pull out a drawer and rummage around. It’s not there, either. I open more drawers, a twinge of tension forming between my shoulder blades.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He sighs.