by A J Waines
She reached forward and gulped down a sip of water, then looked up and gave a small smile.
I pressed my hand against my chest. I wanted to stand up, walk around, take deep breaths, but I didn’t want to look shaken. At this stage in our encounter it was better for me to stay in tune with Rosie’s emotional response, not distract her by bringing my own reaction into the equation. Nevertheless, I needed a moment to pull myself together; I felt like I’d been down there, drowning in the lake beside her.
‘I managed to get to the bank with my viola,’ she said, her voice slow and barely audible. ‘I was dizzy, shivering with the cold; I didn’t know a body could shake so violently. It’s all a bit hazy after that.’
‘You must have been terrified…’ My voice came out in a scratchy whisper.
‘You know what? I was on autopilot when it happened. There was no time to feel anything. I was too busy fighting to stay alive.’
I nodded, not taking my eyes off her.
‘You only get scared afterwards, don’t you?’ she said. ‘When you think about what actually happened…about what it meant…about the others…’
Rosie’s incomplete medical notes stated that she’d spent two days drifting in and out of consciousness in a Carlisle Hospital, before being discharged. Ultimately, she’d escaped very lightly and returned to London with only bruises, scrapes and minor respiratory problems. The extent of the psychological damage, however, remained to be seen.
‘We can talk about the full impact of it when you’re ready.’
‘Does that mean I can come back?’
‘If you think it could be helpful. The NHS will let you have six sessions, then we’ll see if you need more.’
A wave of triumph seemed to envelop her and I invited her to give me more background details. She told me more about the quartet, how they’d originally got together at college fifteen years earlier.
‘I was in my second year,’ she told me. ‘It was college policy for tutors to select players to form chamber ensembles, based on performance level and personality. To start with, I wasn’t picked for anything. Then the viola player in Max’s quartet dropped out and they needed someone to fill the place.’ She shrugged. ‘I think I was the only viola player left without a group, so they asked me.’
Before long our time was up.
‘Everyone said it was one of those things,’ she said as she got to her feet. ‘The police put it down to a combination of driver error – the sun in Richard’s eyes, driving too fast round the bend, brakes not as sharp as they should have been – and bad luck. But I know that’s not how it was. That’s why I’m here, really.’
‘Sorry?’
‘What I mean is, I don’t need any support, you know, to deal with what I went through.’
‘You’re not here for psychotherapy?’
‘Oh, no, absolutely not.’
‘Psychotherapy can help you deal with the trauma, Rosie; the shock, the complex and often contradictory feelings people have after a— ’
She cut me off. ‘Oh, no, I’m not in a bad way or anything like that. I’m fine – you know, emotionally. I just need to remember.’
I didn’t quite understand. She’d been to hell and back, but seemed to be dismissing the experience out of hand.
‘So, it’s your memory you’re concerned about?’
‘Yeah, that’s why I’m here. There are so many gaps.’ She took hold of the door handle, ready to leave. ‘The thing is, I knew as soon as it happened…’
She turned to go.
I stood up, took a hasty step after her. ‘You knew what, Rosie?’
‘Oh. That it wasn’t an accident. I know that for definite. Someone meant it to happen.’
Chapter 2
Rosie
I think it’s going to be all right. Her name sounds very grand: Dr Samantha Willerby, and I was expecting someone older, so that was a pleasant surprise. She’s pretty too, with glossy hair that’s nearly black and swings like a hairspray ad when she turns her head. She looks like a character from the cover of a Mills & Boon novel.
I asked if I could call her Sam and she looked a bit taken aback. She said most patients call her Dr Willerby, but that I could use whatever I felt comfortable with. Nice touch, I thought – letting me decide. I prefer Sam; it makes our relationship less formal.
So here I am, sitting on the wall outside the staff entrance to the hospital. London Bridge is easy to get to in my lunch break from work and my GP says St Luke’s has a good reputation. Besides, the place I go to is called a ‘Mental Health Unit’, which sounds so much better than ‘Psychiatric Department’. I don’t like labels; people get pigeonholed and then spend their whole lives being treated like nutters.
If I spot Sam popping out for her lunch I’ll give her a wave. See how she responds. It would be nice to see what she’s like outside her office; see how she acts when she’s not being all professional and aloof. I imagine her to be the kind of person who would wave back and even come over to join me to share a bag of nuts or sweets; she looks like a Turkish Delight kind of girl to me.
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 any more.’
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 sidetracked 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 reforming, 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. Said 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.
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‘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 on 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.’
