by Karen Perry
‘No … I … No, that’s not possible …’
I look to the side, trying to remember. Outside the window, the sun is beaming down on the street. Fretful thoughts clamber and squirm inside me. It’s not possible, I think. It couldn’t be.
‘Temazepam interferes with the consolidation of memories,’ she explains. ‘Events that happen while under the influence of the drug often don’t enter the long-term memory and so will not be recalled subsequently. The potent amnesiac effects of these drugs complement the sedative effects. And of course, the effect of all of these drugs is enhanced by alcohol intake. You’ve heard of the drug Rohypnol?’
The spectre of bruising on my thigh rears up suddenly. ‘The date-rape drug?’
‘Exactly. It is a benzodiazepine drug, like temazepam.’
I’m struggling to take all of this in, and perhaps she sees the confusion in my face, for she adopts a less academic tone.
‘Memory is a strange thing, Cara. Some studies have indicated that memory lost while under the influence of a drug like temazepam might be recovered when you take another dose.’
Sweat forms and rolls along my spine. My mouth, still partially numb, is beginning to tingle. I feel assaulted by this information, like my thoughts are scrambling to get away from it, while at the same time needing to understand.
‘Memories that have been repressed for any reason,’ Dr Nichol continues, ‘are more likely to be recalled from long-term memory when the person is exposed to the same or a similar situation. It acts as a powerful cue.’
‘So, if something had happened to me while under the influence of temazepam and alcohol, but I had repressed the memory, you’re saying I could remember it if I took the same drug, coupled with alcohol, in the same place –’
‘Yes. It’s a possibility.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Are you alright?’
Both my hands have come up to my face, my fingers pressed against my mouth.
‘Cara?’
‘I just –’
‘It’s a theory, dear, that’s all,’ she says kindly, and I can see the concern in her gaze, perhaps a slight push of regret. ‘Perhaps, whatever it is you thought you dreamed was just that – a dream.’
‘But how can I know?’
I hear the desperate edge in my own voice, see her suck in her lower lip and shake her head. In this matter, she cannot help me. No one can.
I turn the key in the lock and push the door. The numbness in my mouth has worn off, a tenderness there instead. I test the filled tooth cautiously but obsessively with the tip of my tongue. A wave of warm air comes to meet me, voices from outside alerting me to a presence in the back garden. The day has bloomed into an unseasonably hot afternoon, the kind that occurs in high summer, not a Saturday in May. I go into the kitchen, put my bag down on the table and look out the window behind the sink.
All three of them are there. Jeff, keeping to his promise, is standing on a stepladder fastening a rope swing to the largest tree in the garden. Mabel is jumping up and down with excitement below him, trying to contain her impatience for the swing to be ready. In a deckchair nearby, Olivia sits watching. The chair faces away from me, so I can only see the wide-brimmed hat she wears, and one stalk-like arm raised as if to hold the hat in place.
It is a perfect scene. An idyllic snapshot of family life. I want so badly to go out there and join them, to kick my shoes off and feel the spring grass beneath my bare feet, to push my little girl on her new swing and hear her squeal with delight, to stand back with my husband and observe with silent gratitude all we have, all that has been saved.
But I don’t. I can’t. I am held back by a memory. Not a dream.
Just a theory, Dr Nichol had said.
But I felt the hum of truth in it, the unmistakable feeling of authenticity.
‘Tell me what’s wrong?’ she says.
We are sitting together on the couch. It is the middle of the night, and there is that quality of stillness that accompanies the hour, like everything said or done is veiled in darkness and secrecy. Outside, a car alarm is going off. I feel oppressed by all that has happened – the way Finn has turned on me, sending that photograph to my colleagues, his threats over Mabel. My hands are wrapped around a glass of vodka and Amy urges me to drink. I can feel the burn of it in my throat, feel it wending its way through my bloodstream, dancing and twisting with the sedative, filling my limbs and my head with a welcome heaviness – the promise of obliteration.
We have talked and drunk and somehow ended up on the floor, my arms around her. She is sobbing after her account of Connie, the accident. Tears roll wetly down her cheeks – they seep into the cotton of my T-shirt, making little dark marks of their own.
‘Poor Amy,’ I say. ‘Poor, poor girl.’ The words feel foreign in my mouth.
I don’t feel afraid. I don’t feel threatened or violated. I feel perfectly at peace.
She is stroking my hair, and it makes me think of my mother, and it’s like I’m a little girl again and my mother has momentarily left aside her own dark thoughts to focus on mine.
‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘What’s wrong?’
And I realize that I am crying too. I am sobbing hard, gulping for air, so great is the emotion that has built inside me.
‘Cara, sweetheart, what? Tell me. Angel, what’s wrong?’
The crisis that’s working its way up through me is urgent and overwhelming – I feel like I can’t breathe. Mabel – my daughter. Finn is going to take her from me. Suddenly, I am sure of it.
‘He’s never going to leave me alone,’ I tell her. ‘I won’t ever get free of him.’
‘Who?’
‘Finn.’
I’m shaking now, little nervy spasms shooting through my limbs. I can feel her crouched beside me, the closeness of her body to mine, the heat of her skin, her breath. And I know that it is not my mother. It is Amy.
‘He’s dangerous to you,’ she says. ‘It scares me, thinking of what he might do.’
‘God, I wish someone would just …’
She puts her hand to my face, smooths the hair back from it. I close my eyes, surrendering to her touch.
‘It should just be the two of us,’ she says. ‘No one else to interfere. No one to stand in our way.’ Her body quivers with fear or excitement, and I can feel her holding herself back, as if afraid of releasing the held breath between us.
‘Let me help you,’ she says, her voice coming close to my ear. ‘Let me get rid of him for you.’
Even though the word is not uttered, it is there between us. I know, somehow, that for her killing is a possibility. I know that she will do it because she loves me; loves me to the point of obsession.
‘It’s the only way,’ she whispers.
In that moment, we are closer to each other than we have ever been to another living soul. Both of us exposed, vulnerable, dependent, needing to trust the other.
I open my eyes and look at her. See the expectation in her face.
She has seen my darkest thoughts, my most wicked desires.
‘Will you?’ I ask and, slowly, I smile at her.
Her eyes pass quickly over my face. They light up in understanding.
‘Yes,’ she says as she closes in, as her lips meet mine.
For why should I not rely upon her help? Why should I not ask?
She is, after all, my closest friend.
Acknowledgements
To borrow a phrase from my friend Tana French, this book has gone from brain to shelf in just under a year. It’s been a wild ride that would not have been possible without the skilful steering of my wonderful agent, Jonathan Lloyd. I’m indebted to him for his wit, wisdom and careful guidance, and I hope he will forgive me for the challenges of this last year! I owe thanks to the fantastic team at Curtis Brown, particularly to Melissa Pimentel and Luke Speed, for their stellar work in handling foreign rights, and film and television rights, respectively.
I’m deeply grateful for the
continued support of my publisher Penguin Random House, and the amazing team at Michael Joseph. Maxine Hitchcock has been championing the Karen Perry cause for some years now, and I cannot think of a better person to have in my corner. I’m hugely thankful for her tireless support, her inventiveness and wise counsel, and indeed, her friendship. Matilda McDonald worked closely with me while I wrote this book, lending her sharp editorial skills and astute insights, and making me feel like each deadline was achievable – I couldn’t have done it without her. Thanks also to Penguin Ireland, in particular Cliona Lewis, for bringing this novel to the attention of readers in my home country.
Good fortune allowed my path to cross with that of Professor David Harris in the autumn of 2017. I thank him for his generosity in sharing with me his knowledge of conscious sedation during dental surgery, in particular the effects of Benzodiazepine drugs on memory. I have taken some artistic licence with the facts he provided, and I hope he will forgive me for this. I claim full responsibility for any mistakes made.
I was lucky enough to have Alice O’Sullivan at RTE show me around behind the scenes of Ireland’s national broadcaster’s radio studios. I thank her for so generously sharing her time and experience with me, and for giving me a fascinating insight into the world of live broadcasting and the working life of a radio producer.
Part of this book was written at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig – a place I have returned to again and again over the years, always finding inspiration and peace there. I thank them for continuing to have me back. I’m also grateful to my wonderful parents-in-law, Catherine and Paul Sweeney, for allowing me to escape to their beautiful house in Donegal to work on this book when I was particularly panicked (and for feeding my husband and children in my absence!).
So many of my friends have provided encouragement and support in various forms over the past year. I must thank especially Tana French, Rowena Walsh, Rachel Conway, and the ladies of the Exclusive EU Book Club.
As ever, the support and love of my mother, my extended family and my in-laws make my writing life possible. My beautiful girls who almost always reacted with patience and grace when told to ‘leave Mummy alone, she’s working on the book’ – thank you, and sorry. And last, but never least, Conor Sweeney, for his love, his endless supply of coffee, and for keeping me going with his infectious optimism.
THE BEGINNING
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First published 2018
Copyright © Karen Perry, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover images © Mike Dobel / Arcangel Images and © Silas Manhood
ISBN: 978-1-405-93666-8
