The Girl From the Sea

by Shalini Boland

  ‘No. It was bright. I could feel the sun on my face.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asks.

  I reach for the information in my brain, I even open my mouth to give the answer, but it’s just not there. My mind won’t cooperate. I try to conjure an image of where I live. Try and remember the place – a house? A flat? I shake my head and stare down at my hands. ‘I don’t know.’ I realise my fingers are bare of rings. So, not married or engaged then, unless I lost them in the sea. Or maybe I didn’t wear them for some reason. I rub my thumb over a line of callouses on the palm of my hand.

  ‘Do you have any identifying marks?’ DS Wright asks. ‘Tattoos? Birthmarks?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d have to check.’

  ‘Okay, can you do that at the end of the interview for us?’

  I nod.

  ‘Can you remember the names of any people you might know?’ she asks.

  I look up again. Her face is open, hopeful. I so want to remember someone. But it hurts to think.

  ‘It would help us find out who you are,’ she continues. ‘If you could remember someone’s name, or even a nickname?’ she prompts. ‘Does any name at all spring to mind?’

  Stupidly, the only name I have in my head is Poppy. This makes me want to laugh. I bite my lip.

  ‘Anything at all?’ the officer asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘CSI went down to the beach earlier to investigate,’ she says. ‘To see if anyone saw anything. Maybe they’ll find your bag, or purse, or phone. Something we can use to identify you.’

  I nod.

  ‘Would you mind if we fingerprinted you?’ she asks. ‘We can run your prints through our national computer, see if we find a match.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I say.

  ‘And a DNA sample?’ she asks. ‘That way, if you’re not on our database, we still might get a percentage match.’

  ‘Percentage match?’

  ‘A match with a relative – a parent or sibling.’

  I nod. Too weary to do anything else. I feel exhausted again. I want nothing more than to slide down under the hospital covers and sleep. But DS Wright is still talking:

  ‘We’d like to pass your details to the local media, see if they can help us get the word out. Either to trigger someone’s memory about what happened to you, or to find someone who knows who you are. Do we have your permission to do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Please do what you have to do. Thanks.’

  ‘We won’t release a photograph of you in the first instance. But may we take your photograph, in case we need it for identification? Is that okay?’

  I nod again. I wish I had someone here to help me. Someone I knew. A friend. A parent. I don’t want to face all this on my own. These things they want me to do, they all sound reasonable, I know it’s all to help me, but it’s still overwhelming.

  The police officers ask a few more questions, and I answer as best I can. But I can’t tell them anymore than I’ve already told them. My mind feels like it’s shutting down. Perhaps after a sleep things will become clearer.

  The next half hour goes by in a haze. DC Blackford fingerprints me here, in the hospital, with a handheld fingerprint scanner. Then, he swabs the inside of my cheek for a DNA sample. They take my picture – I’m sure I look terrible, but there isn’t the time or opportunity to check my reflection. I realise with a jolt of panic, that I don’t even know what I look like.

  Lastly, I go into a private room with a nurse, and we check my skin for birthmarks or tattoos. Aside from an old, faint scar on my forearm, there’s nothing. My body is smooth and blemish free.

  I know these people are here to help me – the doctors, nurses and police officers – so why do I feel like Exhibit A? What if I never get my memories back? What if nobody knows I’m missing? What if I have no one? What if I am no one?

  Chapter Three

  As I approach the hospital bathroom mirror, I’m almost too scared to look. Will I recognise myself? After the police officers left yesterday, I slept. Consequently, I woke up this morning, feeling a little stronger, a little more determined. And I’m off the drip finally, so at least I feel less like an invalid. My memory is still missing, but I will get it back. I’ll do everything it takes, starting with facing myself in the mirror. Hoping against hope that I’ll recognise the person staring back at me.

  I have deliberately unfocused my eyes. The mirror sits above the sink, directly in front of me, but I must gather up my courage to look properly. I take a deep breath and stand up straight. I let my eyes relax and do their job of seeing.

  Before me stands a woman – maybe early to mid-twenties. Sallow skin, brown eyes and a dark tangle of hair. She could definitely do with some mascara and lipstick. I put my hands to my face. To my pale lips, my dark eyebrows, to my nose which tips up at the end. I almost look like I could be Spanish or Italian.

  Is that me?

  I guess it must be.

  Well at least I know now – my amnesia is so severe that I don’t even know the woman staring back at me from the mirror. I am a stranger. I try not to let that information mess with my emotions. ‘You’re fine,’ I whisper to myself. ‘Your memory will come back.’ I stare harder, as if that might change things. As if I can will myself to know my reflection. But the harder I stare, the stranger I look. My vision begins to blur. And without warning, I’m crying. I watch tears run down a stranger’s face. I wipe them away with my fingers, but yet more tears fall to replace them. Who is that girl in the mirror? Who am I? Why is this happening to me?

  I close my eyes to block out the forlorn image, sink down onto the floor and press myself back against the bathroom door, curled into myself.

  Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here on the bathroom floor, but suddenly I’m tired from all the crying. My eyes raw, my throat dry, my mind weary. I tell myself that’s enough now, snap out of it, and I struggle to my feet, shaky, but stronger.

  I can’t let myself think dark thoughts again. I must try and stay positive. Have faith that someone will claim me. Like a lost suitcase or a forgotten tombola prize with a raffle ticket taped onto my side. A hot shower will shake this negativity. It’s only been one day. Maybe this time tomorrow my memories will return, and all will be well.

  Half an hour later, I’m back on the ward wearing clean pyjamas and a dressing gown – clothes donated by a hospital charity. I must remember to thank them. My skin is clean and tingling, my wavy hair now thick and shiny. I already feel miles better. I walk past the other patients. A young woman stares at me, but most are asleep. I’m lucky to be right at the end of the ward, next to the window. It feels more private down here. I climb onto my bed, but sit on top of my covers, not wanting to lose the fresh feeling the shower has given me.

  Through the window, I can see it’s another clear, blue-sky day. It looks hot out there. I realise I’d like to go outside. Feel the warmth of the sun on my face and fragrant summer breezes, rather than this stifling hospital air. I wonder, can I go out for a while? I don’t see any reason why not.

  But a trip outside will have to wait, for I glance up to see a familiar face approaching. It’s Emma, the policewoman – DS Wright. She’s wearing grey trousers and a white shirt, her jacket over her arm, her face flushed. She looks hot and bothered, but she smiles at me as she gets closer.

  ‘Morning,’ she says. ‘You look better today.’ She sits, and pushes back a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Thanks. I do feel a bit better. I managed to get a shower and sort my hair out, so I feel more human.’

  ‘Good.’

  I look at her expectantly, wondering if she has any news. Then, I notice her colleague, DC Blackford, has also come onto the ward. He walks past the other beds, clutching two small bottles of water. He nods and smiles at me, passing one of the water bottles to DS Wright as he takes a seat next to her.

  ‘It’s roasting out t
here,’ he says, unscrewing the lid and taking a long swig of water. ‘And the air con in our vehicle has decided to pack up.’

  I make a sympathetic face.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not important. How’s your memory? Has anything come back to you since yesterday?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing. I don’t even recognise my face in the mirror.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ DS Wright says. ‘But we may have some good news for you.’

  My heart thumps louder as I wait for her to go on.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ she says. ‘Someone local reported a woman missing last night – a woman matching your description. We think it might be you.’

  My brain takes a few seconds to register her words. I didn’t expect them to have news about me so soon. I shuffle backwards on the bed and cross my legs, pulling my dressing gown tighter around my body. What am I about to find out? There are so many worrying possibilities swimming through my head, but I can’t latch on to any of them. I can’t think straight.

  ‘Are you okay?’ DS Wright asks. ‘You’ve gone a little pale. Mind you, that’s not surprising.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I croak.

  ‘The name of the missing woman who answers to your description, is Mia James,’ she says. ‘Does that name sound familiar?’

  Does it? I don’t think so. I say the name in my head – Mia James. It’s a nice name, but does it feel like my name? Maybe. I don’t know. God, this is stupid. How can I not know who I am? I feel like the answer is there on the tip of my tongue, just out of reach. I grasp for it, but it eludes me. Slips away like a fish. Darting through the ripples to disappear. Suddenly, I’m tired again. My brain hurts. I need more sleep.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asks. ‘Chris, pour her some water, would you.’

  ‘Sure.’ DC Blackford stands and does as he’s asked, passing me a glass. I take a couple of sips of the tepid liquid and put the glass back down on the side table, my hand trembling.

  ‘Who was it who reported me missing?’ I ask. ‘Was it a member of my family? Or a friend?’

  ‘We need to do a few more background checks on the person before we can confirm anything. But we wanted to run the name “Mia James” past you first, to see if you recognised it. See if it triggered any memories.’

  ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ I say. ‘I don’t recognise it at all. Is that bad?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘It just means we have to make sure that we identify you correctly. That you really are who this person says you are.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ I ask. I don’t want to think too much about the name “Mia” until I know it really is my name. I’d rather not be disappointed if it turns out to be a mistake, or duff information from a crank.

  ‘We can’t be sure how long it will take. We’ll process things as thoroughly and quickly as we can for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I’m increasingly curious about the person who’s come forward. I wish they could tell me who it is.

  ‘Your details are already on our social media network. They’ll also be going out in the local press and on the local news channels today,’ DS Wright adds. ‘So, if this missing-person lead turns out to be a dead end, I’m hopeful we’ll get a strong response from the media coverage. We haven’t released your photograph yet. We’ll keep that back in case we need to use it later.’

  I think about the newspapers running my story today, about the local TV news presenters talking about “a woman washed up on the beach”. It makes me want to pull the bed covers over my head and hide.

  ‘I know it’s overwhelming,’ DS Wright says, almost reading my thoughts. ‘But, you don’t need to worry or do anything for now. Just rest, while we get the wheels in motion. We’ll find out who you are, okay?’

  I nod, grateful for her kind words, but also wishing they’d go now and leave me in peace. This is all too much. I really need to sleep again.

  When they finally do leave and I’m able to close my eyes, all I can think about is the name “Mia James”, and whether or not it belongs to me.

  Chapter Four

  I soften my gaze against the glare of harsh hospital lights, and wrinkle my nose at the sharp smell of disinfectant, so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat. My whole body pulses with nerves as I lie here on the scanner table, my head secured in some kind of cradle. I opted not to listen to music, so instead I’m wearing earplugs, and all I can hear is the blood whooshing through my body and thud of my heartbeats. Occasionally, the radiographer’s voice breaks through this muffled seclusion, as he issues instructions and reassurances through my earplugs.

  Because I had a couple of bumps to the back of my head, and because of the amnesia, they’re using this magnetic resonance imaging scanner to check for damage or abnormalities in my brain. Dr Lazowski assured me this scan is “just routine”. But everything starts off that way, doesn’t it. It’s all “just routine” until they find something; then it’s not routine anymore.

  I take a deep breath as the motorised bed begins to shift me towards the giant doughnut-shaped machine. My head will sit inside the hole while they take images of my brain. It’s pretty clever really and if I weren’t so freaked out I’d marvel at the technology. But I am freaking out. I’m panicking, my breathing heavier, less regular. My heartbeats begin to race away. The whooshing of my blood threatening to drown out everything.

  ‘That’s it, you’re doing great,’ the radiographer says in my earpiece. My hands are together, resting on my stomach, my fingers interlocked. My palms sweaty. I have this sudden, awful image of a crematorium, of a coffin on a conveyor belt sliding inexorably towards a red velvet curtain behind which lies a roaring incinerator. The urge to get up and run is overwhelming. Think of something else. Think of something else. My head approaches the scanner. ‘You’re doing so well,’ the voice in my ear tells me. ‘Almost there, and then we can start getting some images.’ His no-nonsense voice jolts me out of my panic. I’m okay, I tell myself. They’re just going to take some pictures and then it will all be over.

  They warned me about the banging noise the machine would make, but even with the earplugs, it still makes me jump. It’s a good thing my head is held in place. I concentrate on my breathing. I close my eyes and tell myself to let go of the panic. To think of something calming. This machine is here to help me. These people are here to help me. I breathe in, and out, slowing my heartbeats and easing my fear. The mind is an incredible thing – it can steer you to madness, or furnish you with comfort. I relax my brain and try to conjure up a restful image. I see water, but instead of feeling scared by it, I am soothed. I see dappled light playing across inky blue ripples. I hear a steady splash, splash, splash. Feel warm sunlight on my face. Is this a daydream? Or a memory?

  The rest of the scan passes without incident, and before I know it, it’s over.

  I’m sitting on my bed, flicking through old magazines. I’m restless. Bored. I’ve been outside into the courtyard gardens. I’ve lingered in the cafeteria. Wandered the corridors. Been into the TV lounge with its endless rolling news. I thought I might have caught a glimpse of myself on television, but after an hour of depressing world calamities, I gave up and left the room. I’d like to wear some proper clothes. These donated pyjamas are making me think I’m ill, when I’m not. I’m sure I won’t be able to stay here much longer anyway. I’m taking up a bed when I don’t really need it. But where can I go? I have no home that I know of.

  As I laze in bed, I watch the nurses moving around the ward, kind and efficient. Dr Lazowski says the danger has passed. That I’m no longer dehydrated or in danger of an infection in my lungs. Apparently, I’m now perfectly healthy. She says I should be fine. Fine? How can I be fine when I still don’t even know who I am? I should have the results back from my MRI within a few days. Perhaps that will shed some light on what’s happening in my brain.

  The police haven’t been back for a visit, so maybe their lead was a dead-end. Maybe
the real “Mia James” has been found safe and well, reunited with a loving family. Or maybe she’s still missing. I sigh, set aside the magazine and lie down. I roll over onto my side and stare out of the window at the brick wall, and at the flowers wilting in the heat. A gull lands on top of the wall. He fixes his eye on me and I stare back. He’s big. He looks confident and sure of himself. He has no name, but he knows who he is. He knows his place in the world.

  ‘Hello.’

  I start at the words. Someone is here. The gull tilts his head and swoops away. I turn and sit up. It’s D.S. Emma Wright

  ‘Hello,’ she repeats.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  She smiles. It’s a genuine, warm smile, not a fake, polite one. It’s nice to connect with someone. Even a semi-stranger.

  ‘Mind if I . . .’ She points to one of the plastic chairs next to my bed.

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  She sits down, hanging her black handbag on the back of the chair. ‘I spoke to the charge nurse. She said you were well enough for us to have another chat. You feeling better?’

  I nod. ‘Still have no memory of who I am, though.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she says. ‘We may assign you a family liaison officer – someone who’ll be your point of contact with the police from now on, who’ll keep you updated on any new developments in our investigation. But, in the meantime, anything you need, any worries, new memories, issues etc. Feel free to contact me. Here, I’ll give you my card.’

  ‘Oh, okay, thanks,’ I say. I don’t even have a phone or any money, so how on earth would I be able to contact her. She fishes around in her handbag, and finally passes me a white business card.

  ‘There’s a freephone number on there you can use,’ she says.

  I thank her and place the card on my side table.

  ‘Do you remember me telling you on Monday that someone came forward to identify you?’ she says.

  I nod. I’ve thought of little else over the past couple of days. I realise I’m holding my breath.

  ‘We’ve run some background checks, and we believe the gentleman in question has positively identified you.’