I Know My Name: A stunning psychological thriller

by C. J. Cooke

  The one with glasses spoke first. ‘Eloïse, is it? Is your mummy home, darlin’?’

  Eloïse broadened her smile, showing them a row of yellow teeth. ‘She’s busy.’

  ‘Oh. Can we come in?’

  ‘Will you be long?’

  The women shared looks. ‘That depends.’

  She held the door open and they stepped inside.

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Eloïse asked. She hoped that her pleasant manner would make it all OK, that they might tick whatever box they had to tick and be on their way. But as she busied herself in the kitchen arranging chipped cups and stale biscuits on a copper tray, they were calculating her precociousness and frail, bruised limbs as hallmarks of a neglected child, the sort they saw regularly.

  To her surprise, her mother appeared a few minutes later. She was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, with a bra underneath it, and her blonde hair was tied back with an elastic band. A slick of pink lipstick lit up her face. Jude was very attractive, and she’d pulled herself together enough to shake hands with the two women in trench coats and appear civil. Eloïse eyed up her mother, alert for the first time in weeks, and thanked whoever had heard her prayer.

  The women explained that they wanted to ‘check in’ on Eloïse, that they’d been passed on some information from the social workers in Brixton where Eloïse had last lived and wanted to get to know her. Jude nodded and smiled and explained the cause of the previous interventions by social services. She’d moved to London from Switzerland to be with Orhan, but things had gone sour. He’d been involved in an armed robbery and social services got involved. She was no longer with him, of course. New home, fresh start. She gave them one of her finest smiles, playing on the Swiss-German heritage that had gifted her with a long athletic frame and excellent bone structure, and an accent that sounded exotic and educated. Eloïse watched the women take notes, saw them visibly relax. Then they turned to her.

  ‘And how are you finding Stockwell, Eloïse?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said automatically. She paused. ‘Though I think I’d like to change schools. Would that be all right?’

  ‘I don’t see any problem with that,’ the woman with glasses answered. ‘But we will need a reason.’

  ‘I’m being bullied.’

  Her mother turned to her with such concern etched on her face that Eloïse thought something must have happened to her. All at once, Jude reached forward, wrapped her arms around her and held Eloïse close. Utterly overwhelmed by this long yearned-for affection from her mother, Eloïse began to cry, terrible gulping sobs that she could barely control. Her reaction confirmed the truth of her account of bullying to the women in trench coats.

  ‘There, there,’ Jude said, wrapping Eloïse in her smell of marijuana, vomit and cheap perfume, suddenly shifting to German. ‘Sagen Mama, die dich zu verletzen.’

  Tell Mummy who’s been hurting you.

  31 March 2015

  Potter’s Lane, Twickenham

  Lochlan: There’s a Polaroid photograph on the wooden console table in the family room that El framed a while back. The console table was covered with junk until the police came and took it all away, and what was buried beneath was revealed like archaeological trophies: one of El’s old sailing awards, Max’s baby footprint and handprint captured in white clay blocks, a couple of framed family photographs and this Polaroid. Unlike the other framed pictures, this one looks crumpled, blurry and a bit random – I’m giving El a piggy-back in the middle of the Champs-Élysées.

  We are literally in the middle of the road with the Arc de Triomphe behind us and cars on either side. I’m wearing sunglasses, swimming trunks and a wide, white grin. El is wearing a white strapless sundress and flip-flops, her legs straight in front of her and her expression as though she’s about to fall off, though she’s laughing.

  When I look at it, her laughter returns to my ears, an echo that makes my heartbeat race.

  It was not long after we met. We’d gone to France for a few weeks with a couple of El’s friends in her old clapped-out Ford Fiesta. A six-man tent in the boot, some cases of Budweiser. There was no pressure back then. No Monday mornings, no deadlines, no loft conversions and bin collections and decisions about childcare, and if someone had asked me what Calpol was I would’ve guessed it was something to do with the Californian police.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about the places we visited in the early days, El and me. I’ve been thinking a lot about Chania. Close to where we got married. It keeps rising up in my mind. Not the wedding itself, but the island, Komméno. Eloïse looked different there, seemed different.

  My focus shifts from the picture on the console table to Gerda, who sits in the rocking chair opposite, her face tight, her shoulders rolled forward. She clears her throat and waits for Magnus to sit down before telling me what she has to say. Magnus sits on a wooden chest containing wooden pieces of Max’s elaborate village. He tugs his trousers up so as to not crease them and flicks a small, apologetic smile at me.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ I say wearily.

  ‘It’s about the children, Lochlan,’ Gerda says sternly. ‘We want to take the children back with us to Ledbury. Magnus and I have thought about it and we feel that, given the circumstances, Max and Cressida would have a lot more stability and protection if they came back with us.’

  ‘I’m sorry – stability? Protection?’

  She looks to Magnus, who keeps his expression mild and his eyes on a spot on the rug. ‘Well, it’s chaos for them here. Their mother isn’t here. It can hardly be easy for them, what with police turning up to search through the house.’

  ‘That happened once,’ I say irritably. ‘I can’t imagine they’ll be searching again.’

  ‘Well, Max is becoming very unsettled, and I don’t think it’s ideal for two innocent young children to be in the midst of all this.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s ideal either,’ I say quietly. She’s punishing me for Harriet, I know it.

  As if reading my mind, she says, ‘And this isn’t about Harriet. Though when Eloïse comes back, I think you’ll need to have a serious talk.’

  ‘Gerda …’ Magnus says, and she lowers her tone.

  ‘It’s the last thing any of us needed to hear right now.’

  ‘This isn’t what I wanted either,’ I say.

  ‘Which is why I think you ought to let us take Max and Cressida back with us,’ Gerda says, returning to her original topic. ‘I mean, what about your work, Lochlan? Surely you’re going to have to go back to work soon? How will you do that and look after the children?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  A short, satisfied smile. ‘There. See? The children have their own bedrooms in Ledbury. It’s their home from home. I can register Max at the local Montessori and he’ll settle straight in. He has some friends there already. Nice, well-mannered little boys.’

  My stomach tightens at the sound of this. ‘For how long?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘How long do you intend to keep them? When will you bring them back?’

  ‘Well, as long as is best, I’d imagine.’

  I let her words hang in the air, my eyes turning back to the photograph. Perhaps it is out of selfishness as much as love that I want my children to stay right here with me. But what would Eloïse want? What would she do?

  ‘All right,’ I say at last, and Gerda claps her hands together and stands up, ready to take charge of the situation. She begins muttering about which clothes she’ll pack for Cressida, about how they ought to leave as soon as possible to avoid rush-hour traffic. She urges Magnus to get up, but he shakes his head and folds his arms tightly against his chest.

  ‘Magnus, what are you doing?’ she says.

  He looks away. ‘I’m staying here. You go.’

  Gerda looks appalled. ‘What?’

  He raises his eyes to meet hers, softens his voice. ‘You take the children. I’m needed here.’ He turns to me and smiles. ‘Moral support
, and all that.’

  Gerda is visibly perplexed by this shift in loyalty. She tries to gather her composure, but her eyes remain wide. She slips into German and mutters to Magnus, who shakes his head.

  ‘I’ll be able to pick up my prescription here,’ he says reasonably. ‘I’ll call my doctor and tell her of this plan.’

  Gerda protests some more and tries to laugh, as though he’s playing a prank, but Magnus raises his hands and makes a firm and conclusive statement in German. Gerda falls silent, though her cheeks flame and she stomps off upstairs.

  Magnus turns to me, a smile on his face, then rises to his feet with a stretch.

  ‘I think it’s time for a stiff drink, don’t you?’

  31 March 2015

  Komméno Island, Greece

  I race up to the farmhouse, shouting Sariah’s name. The gunshot reverberates across the sky, the scream’s echo caught in my ears. Moonlight reveals four dark splats on the tiles of the doorstep. Blood.

  Inside, George is holding his gun barrel down by his side, a bloody object slumped on the table, and Hazel is flapping her hands and freaking out. As I move closer, I see a large brown rabbit laid flat out on his back, its long ears flopped to one side, the legs splayed like upside-down wings. Sariah comes into the room and says incredulously, ‘You ain’t just shot no rabbit.’

  George holds the rifle over one shoulder. His face is shining with sweat and pride, his naked gut hanging over his waistband. His belly button is an egg-shaped indentation in stretch-marked skin.

  ‘What I’ve done, Sariah darling, is brought you your dinner. Who’s hungry?’

  Hazel looks aghast. She looks from George to the carcass. One paw is white.

  ‘You’re not suggesting we eat that?’

  ‘You got a better idea, Hazel?’

  ‘But it’s a cute little bunny!’

  ‘He’s a cute little bunny with a bullet in his head. And you’ll be a cute little corpse if you don’t eat him.’

  Her face falls. ‘My Tommy used to have one like that when he was a lad. We called him Billy. Billy the Bunny.’

  George rummages through a drawer and it takes me a moment to work out that he’s searching for a carving knife. He finds one. Joe says, ‘You should sterilise it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The knife. Make sure it’s sterilised before cutting it up.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ George laughs. He turns and begins to cut into the rabbit. Hazel retches into her hand and turns away. I can’t look either.

  ‘You pack of pussies!’ George bellows. ‘You lily-livered pansies! Haven’t you ever had turkey for Christmas dinner? Or lamb chops? Where d’you think they came from, eh? At least this boy ain’t got no hormones pumped into him. Free range, fresh as a daisy.’

  ‘No, no,’ Joe says, stepping in to prevent George cutting any further. This brings some relief, but then he says, ‘You need to skin it first. Make a slit there and you should be able to pull it off like a glove. Then you cut the head off.’

  ‘I’m not sticking around for this,’ Hazel says, and she stomps outside. Sariah folds her arms and watches sadly for a few moments before turning to follow Hazel. I hear Joe instruct George on how to remove the liver before I decide I can’t handle it either.

  Sariah is sitting on the wooden bench near the washing line, her legs apart, a breeze making her skirt sway. It’s dark, but a steady stream of smoke from around the corner of the farmhouse tells me that Hazel’s there, keeping out of the wind. Even so, it’s a mild night. Sariah leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she looks out at the full moon casting a silver causeway of light across the ocean. I sit down next to her and glance around, hoping that Hazel isn’t listening.

  ‘Where’ve you been all day?’ Sariah asks lightly.

  I realise I haven’t told her anything about the boat. I say, ‘I think I can get us out of here.’

  She looks at me. ‘What?’

  ‘The boat,’ I say, leaning closer. ‘The sailing dinghy that got me here. I think I’ve fixed it.’

  ‘But you crashed that boat.’

  ‘I know. I had a go at repairing it and –’ I take a breath. ‘I want you to come with me and sail back to Crete. We can get out of here. Tonight.’

  She glances around in case anyone is in earshot. Then, whispering, ‘I don’t think this is a good idea, sweetie.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, last time you sailed a boat it didn’t turn out so good …’

  The old worry that Sariah might be deceiving me blooms in my mind, and I swipe it away.

  ‘The satellite phone is gone, Sariah. We have no other option. You and me, we could go and get help for the others.’

  A deep sigh. ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Why not?’

  And then she fixes me with a stare that suggests a conversation entirely different from the one we have been having, a look that insinuates a complete shift in gear.

  ‘There’s something you need to know.’

  ‘Something I need to know?’ I say, trying to keep my voice measured.

  ‘About me.’

  My mind turns back to the night in the barn. George’s rifle aimed at Sariah on the ground.

  My suspicions that she staged it. But my suspicions are based on nothing. Sariah has been a friend to me, taking care of me when everyone else lost interest. I can’t allow my fears to destroy our friendship.

  ‘What do I need to know about you, Sariah?’ I say.

  She opens her mouth to answer, but as she does, Joe shouts from inside. ‘We’re all done dissecting! You can come back in now.’

  ‘Lily-livered pansies …’

  But the interruption has shaken Sariah’s resolve, and she makes to go back inside.

  ‘Please,’ I say, grabbing her hand. To my surprise she pulls away, leaving me grasping at air.

  ‘Sariah …’

  She doesn’t move, doesn’t look at me. I press her.

  ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

  She turns her face to mine. There is no anger there, no frustration. Only pity.

  ‘The only way that you can get off this island is to remember.’

  ‘I’m trying to remember,’ I say, tripping over my words, because there is a warning in her words.

  But before I can ask anything more she walks away, heading inside.

  Joe and George are frying up the rabbit. Hazel pulls a face and stamps a foot in protest.

  ‘I’m not eating that. I’m not. You can’t make me.’

  George pulls a tablecloth from a drawer and flings it in the air, draping it over the table. Then he pulls out a chair and tosses me a broad grin.

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit at the head of the table?’

  Joe, Hazel and Sariah all turn to look at me. I glance across their faces nervously.

  ‘Well, go on,’ Hazel snaps, and I jump. I move forward and sit down.

  ‘There, now,’ George says, and he shifts back to the hob and forks a cooked leg of meat from the pan, tossing it on a plate. Then he sets the plate in front of me.

  ‘Can I get you any sauce?’ he asks. I shake my head, but he shouts over to Joe. ‘What goes with rabbit?’

  ‘Meadows, friendly butterflies, Bambi …’ Hazel mutters.

  ‘We don’t have any sauces left,’ Joe says, rubbing his chin. ‘I believe rabbit needs a good red wine, but we’re flat out of booze.’

  Hazel raises her head. ‘We’ve run out of alcohol?’

  Joe holds up a plastic tube. ‘We’ve got pepper, though.’

  Hazel begins to weep. Sariah lays a hand on her shoulder in comfort.

  George clicks his fingers. He reaches over to the worktop and produces a pepper pot, sprinkling the meat with it.

  ‘There we go.’

  He orders Hazel to sit down, then Sariah, and they do. He and Joe plate up the meat and take their seats, the mood strange and grim.

  ‘Shall we say grace?’ George says. Hazel sniffles and
dabs her eyes, her shoulders hunched, her curly orange hair all but covering her face. Sariah murmurs that yes, we should say grace, and Joe fumbles with his hands, not sure how to pray.

  George claps his hands together. ‘Our Father, who Art in Heaven …’ He pauses and turns to Joe. ‘What’s the next bit?’

  ‘That’s not how you say grace,’ Joe says.

  Sariah says, ‘Why don’t you say it, Joe?’

  Joe clears his throat and clasps his hands. ‘OK. Uh, Dear God. We are really grateful for this food that you have provided to us starving writers. Please can you let it taste nice and not poison us. And, uh, while you’re at it, can you help me with my new poem, please, because I’m really struggling with it and I can’t get the form to work …’

  Hazel slaps his arm. ‘Joe.’

  ‘OK, Sorry. Amen.’

  Hazel refuses to eat and although I am starving, I can’t bring myself to, either. Sariah is poking at the contents of her plate, visibly trying to persuade herself to eat.

  ‘It’s not a sin to eat rabbit, you know,’ George announces.

  ‘Try it,’ Joe urges me. ‘It’s tasty.’

  Sariah cuts a small piece and puts it in her mouth, making a face that says it’s OK. Encouraged, I do the same. Hazel raises her head and gives me a scowl of disgust. The meat is gamey, full-flavoured, but I’m so hungry I could eat the whole animal.

  ‘Hazel, eat the damn thing,’ George says, pushing the plate towards her. ‘You need to keep your strength up. Brain food, and all that.’

  She pushes the plate back and covers her face with her hands. Then she begins to weep. Joe lifts the pepper pot and sprinkles some on her plate. ‘It does make it taste nice,’ he says sweetly.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a baby,’ George says, and Hazel erupts, her eyes wild.

  ‘Don’t you dare call me a baby, George! I paid for this holiday, even though I’m flat broke!’

  ‘Same here,’ Joe says, sadly.

  ‘And now you say we’re out of booze!’ Hazel shrieks. ‘I want to go home!’

  George’s face darkens. He stays dangerously silent and still, though his mood is like a fine mist gathering in the room.