The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller

by Shalini Boland

  ‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Another time, maybe?’

  ‘Sure. That would be great,’ I say. I make a move to leave, but then I turn back. ‘Apparently I used to row here.’

  ‘Only every day,’ Jack says with a grin.

  I have a thought. ‘Maybe . . . Do you think I could book in a session some time? I might need help remembering what to do, though.’

  ‘Of course. Give me a call, or better yet just drop by. I go out most mornings around 7 am.’

  ‘Great. Thanks so much. I lost my mobile so I don’t have anyone’s numbers, but I’ll definitely drop by one morning.’

  ‘Look forward to it. Good to see you, Mia. Take care.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I walk away feeling more optimistic. He seemed like a nice guy. Easy to talk to. Hopefully, I’ll remember how to row. Maybe it’s like riding a bike – something you never forget. It seems like something I might really enjoy.

  Maybe the old me is starting to resurface? Meeting old friends, getting back to my old hobbies, rediscovering my house, my town.

  Maybe.

  Chapter Ten

  Sitting on the balcony with a tuna salad and a glass of dry white wine, I sigh with pleasure at having an evening to myself to relax. I gaze out over the river, at the boats going by – the sail boats, canoeists, pleasure boats, rowers. Funny to think that I’m actually one of them. That I used to spend so much of my time out on the water. Maybe I will again.

  A loud ringing makes me jump. A phone. Must be the landline. Its shrillness sets my pulse racing. Who could it be? Piers? I want to ignore it and carry on sitting here with my thoughts. But what if it’s important?

  I swallow a mouthful of salad, but it’s still lodged in my throat as I make my way inside towards the intrusive sound. I don’t even know where I keep the phone, but I locate it quickly enough, on the breakfast bar.

  ‘Hello?’

  There’s a pause, and then ‘Mia, is that you?’ A woman’s voice, with an east-coast accent, maybe London or Essex.

  ‘This is Mia,’ I say.

  ‘Are you okay? Cara saw a post about you on Facebook. Said you lost your memory. Is it true?’

  ‘Sorry, who is this?’ I ask.

  Silence on the other end of the line. Whoever it is has tried to cover the mouthpiece and is talking to someone else. I make out the muffled words: ‘She asked me who I am. Maybe it’s true.’

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, I’m here,’ she replies. ‘Mia, don’t you recognise my voice?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘That post you saw on Facebook was right. I did lose my memory. Who is this?’

  ‘Mia, it’s me. It’s your mum.’

  I don’t know what to think, what to feel. I don’t recognise her voice and I can’t picture her face.

  ‘Mia, are you there? Mia?’

  ‘I’m here,’ I say, my voice only a fraction above a whisper.

  ‘Can you remember who I am? Can you remember your sister?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I reply, ‘but I don’t remember anything or anyone. I don’t remember you.’ I feel a whooshing in my ears, my heart pumping hard. It’s as though I’m hearing myself from a long way away.

  ‘Oh my God, Mia. That’s terrible. What happened to you, sweetheart?’

  I don’t feel like I can have this conversation now. The thought of explaining everything that’s happened makes me feel exhausted. ‘Maybe we should meet up?’ I say. ‘I could come to you tomorrow? Piers said you live in London.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Can you get up here okay? I can take the day off work tomorrow. I’ll get Cara to take the day off, too.’

  ‘Cara?’

  ‘Your sister. God, you really have lost your memory. Don’t worry, hon, we’ll take care of you. Just jump on a train and get yourself home. You know, there are probably some trains still running tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ The thought of travelling to London tonight is too much. ‘Not tonight,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow would be better.’

  ‘Well, alright. But make it first thing. I’m worried about you, Mia, sweetheart. I need to see you and make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, not quite able to call her “Mum” yet. She does sound really worried about me. Maybe when I see her and my sister I’ll remember some of my past. I hope so.

  ‘Cara was beside herself when she saw that post on Facebook. She thought it was some kind of hoax. Couldn’t believe it could be true. How did it happen? It said you were found on the beach. You weren’t attacked were you?’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘How can you be fine when you’ve lost your memory?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Can you give me your address?’

  Her voice goes muffled again as she speaks to the person in the background, presumably my sister: ‘She doesn’t even know our address.’ And then she comes back on the line and gives me her address, phone number and directions of how to get to her house in South West London.

  When I finally end the call, my head is spinning. I’m not sure how to feel. I can’t stop my brain whirring, trying to picture the woman behind the voice on the phone. What does she look like? Surely I must have a photo of her somewhere. I glance around the apartment, but I can see no photos on display at all, which strikes me as odd. Not even of me and Piers. I’ll have to hunt some out. I must have family photos somewhere. I also realise I need to find out the train times.

  The phone rings again, making me jump out of my skin. Maybe it’s my mum calling me back. She must have forgotten to tell me something.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Mia?’ A woman, but it’s not my mum. It’s a younger voice. Vaguely familiar.

  ‘Yes, this is Mia.’

  ‘It’s DS Emma Wright here, from CID.’

  ‘Oh, yes, hi.’ Nerves kick in. Why are the police calling me?

  ‘How’s your memory?’ she asks. ‘Any improvement?’

  I pause, deciding how much to tell her. ‘I actually did have one small memory,’ I eventually reply. ‘I had a dream about the rowing club. I just got an image of it, though. Nothing specific.’ I leave out the detail of the woman, like I have with everyone else, wondering if in this instance I should I tell her.

  ‘Well that’s good news,’ she says. ‘Hopefully, that’s the start of you getting all your memories back.’

  ‘Hope so.’

  ‘I’m just ringing with a progress report,’ she says. ‘Nothing to worry about, but I have a bit of news for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, curious.

  ‘We’d like you to know that unless any new evidence comes to light, we’re treating your case as an accident, so you can rest a bit easier.’

  ‘Oh, okay, an accident.’ I repeat the words. To be honest, I didn’t really consider the fact that it could be anything else. No one gave me any reason to believe otherwise.

  ‘Yes,’ she continues. ‘After investigation, it appears you went rowing very early on Sunday morning,’ she says. ‘A fishing vessel found your abandoned boat out in the Channel this morning. We think you must have capsized, hit your head and been swept out to sea which is how you ended up on Southbourne Beach.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. Looks like you’re one very lucky lady. You could easily have drowned out there.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say again, sinking down onto one of the kitchen stools.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m fine. I guess it’s just a relief to finally know what happened.’

  ‘Of course.’

  We chat for a few moments more. I tell her about my mum calling, and about my brain scan results, and she asks me to contact her if I remember anything else that could be important. But, apart from that, this feels like the end of it. Now, it’s simply a case of me trying to regain my memories and get on with my life.

>   I hang up the phone, exhausted. The room feels suddenly darker, the evening turning to night. Through the open doors to the balcony, I see yellow and white lights winking on along the river. My supper is still out there on the table, but I no longer feel hungry. I think again about the police woman’s words. I was swept out to sea. How frightened I must have been. No wonder I blocked it out. It really is a miracle that I survived at all. I realise my left leg is trembling, and my breathing is becoming heavier. I need to calm down. Maybe I’m in shock. I breathe in slowly through my nose, and out through my mouth. Deep steadying breaths. My fingers tingle and my head feels light, like there’s nothing in it. I realise I’m about to pass out, so I purposely slide off the stool and sink to the floor. That way, I won’t have far to fall . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  I open my eyes to find myself staring at the cream sofa back. I remember last night – passing out, then coming to on the kitchen floor. I managed to haul myself up and gulp down a glass of water before making it onto the sofa, curling up and falling asleep. Now, it’s morning, and I turn over and blink at the brightness. My neck is cricked where I slept with my head pressed up against the arm of the sofa. Yesterday’s memories wash over me like waves. My mum calling . . . DS Wright from CID telling me how I capsized in the sea . . . my lunch with Piers. Everything hits me, buffeting my brain with an overload of information. I close my eyes and turn over to face the back of the sofa again, wishing I could go back to sleep. To oblivion. It hurts to think.

  But, I remember, I’m supposed to be going to London today. I could cancel, I suppose, but I really do want to meet my mother and sister. They appear to be the only family I’ve got. They could be the ones to help me get my memories back. I take a breath, open my eyes and sit up too quickly, feeling like I left my head on the sofa cushion. After a few seconds, I feel steadier, the room comes back into focus so I lurch shakily to my feet. I notice that I left the doors to the balcony open all night, and a coolish breeze has ensured the room isn’t too stifling. My tuna salad and glass of Prosecco must still be out there, too, wilted and gone flat.

  My dress is crumpled, my mouth tastes vile and I have a pounding headache. First things first, I need to find some paracetamol or aspirin, brush my teeth, have a shower then make myself some breakfast. After that, I’ll tackle train times and the rest.

  Two and a half hours later, I’m on the train, staring out of the window, the chair material hot and prickly beneath my thin cotton dress. Opposite me, two smartly dressed women chat excitedly about shopping and a theatre visit. The seat next to me is empty and I’ve placed my handbag on it, in an attempt to deter anyone from sitting there.

  It’s only a few minutes after ten, so I should be in London by lunchtime. My headache has cleared up and I’m suddenly infused with optimism. I’m not sure what happened to me last night. Perhaps a touch of exhaustion. I’m constantly having to process new information about my life, and I did do an awful lot yesterday.

  Maybe meeting my mum will give me a sense of belonging. Anchor me. I wonder what my sister’s like, what our relationship is like. Do we get on? Is she older or younger than me? Are we close? I hope so. I don’t want to build up my hopes too much, in case I’m disappointed.

  The train journey goes by quickly enough. I gaze at the fields and houses, the factories and warehouses, daydreaming about nothing in particular. I eavesdrop on the women sitting opposite whose superficial conversation soothes me. I feel included somehow, even though they pay me no attention. And then the relaxed atmosphere on the train changes as we pull into Waterloo Station and everyone busies themselves gathering belongings and dealing with the subtle etiquette of moving out from their seats, into the aisle and finally off the train onto the platform.

  I manage to navigate the underground with ease – strangely, I discover I know how the system works. I know the names of the main tube stops, even though I don’t recognise the name of the place my family lives – a suburb called Southfields. This underground network is familiar to me, its dull greys and browns, its warm, burnt musty scent, the hum of tube trains pulling away into dark tunnels, and the screech of brakes as they arrive. The throngs of people moving as one, downwards, upwards, along corridors and platforms. Purposeful. I move along with them, comfortably swept up in their colourful rush. Eventually, I reach my stop and emerge into bright sunshine once more.

  Southfields isn’t anything like I imagined. I thought it would be more built up, more urban, but it actually has quite a village-y feel. As I follow the directions my mum gave me, I find myself walking past designer boutiques, bistros, delicatessens and cafes. And, lovely though it is, none of it looks familiar. At the end of the High Street, I turn into a tree-lined residential street flanked with characterful Edwardian terraces. The sun dapples my face through the leaves. It’s a pleasant walk and I almost forget why I’m here.

  Not too far now. Just a couple of streets away and I’ll be there. My stomach swoops with a sudden attack of nerves. Questions flit through my mind once more. What will my family be like? Will I like them? Will I recognise them? Or will it be like with Piers where I feel no connection? I want to belong. To be part of a family, rather than simply a person on the periphery of things. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

  I turn left, and then right, and finally, find myself in Smithbridge Close. Straight ahead sits the block of flats where my mum lives. Is this the place where I grew up? It’s a low, wide building, set out in a horseshoe shape. Built from yellow bricks, it has that ex-local authority look about it. I can’t help feeling disappointed that they don’t live in one of the pretty Edwardian terraces I just passed.

  A group of kids on bikes and skateboards are hanging out in the car park, chatting and laughing. As I walk past, they pause to glance at me, but I’m obviously not interesting enough, for they turn straight back to their conversation.

  The front door to the block is one of those heavy-duty wooden fire doors, its glass embedded with wire mesh. The buzzer for number 2B is easy to spot, near the top of the list. Written next to it in smudged blue biro is the name F. Richards. I’m guessing that’s my mum. I press the buzzer and wait.

  Seconds later, there’s a reply.

  ‘That you, Mia?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘Come in. Turn right, off the hall.’

  The door buzzes and I push it open, walking into a large, warm, dim hallway that smells of last night’s dinner combined with peach-scented air freshener. I smooth down my dress, run my fingers through my hair and turn right, down a long corridor. Before I’m halfway down, the door at the end opens.

  ‘Mia!’ A woman stands in the doorway. She’s short and slim with a greyish blonde bob. I walk a little faster. I guess this must be my mum. With a jolt of disappointment, I realise I don’t recognise her. When I reach the doorway, she takes my hand and kisses my cheek. Her hand is cold, and she smells of perfume and cigarette smoke.

  ‘Come in, sweetheart. Come in.’

  I follow her through a narrow hallway hung with water-colour prints, past several doors until we reach the end where the lounge is situated. A girl sits on a faux leather sofa chewing a lock of hair. She’s the spitting image of my mother, but her hair is longer and blonder. She stands when she sees me and gives a hesitant smile.

  ‘Hi, Mia,’ she says.

  ‘You must be Cara,’ I say.

  She and my mum give each other a look. I don’t blame them. It must be so strange for them – the fact that I don’t know who they are.

  ‘Yeah, I’m Cara,’ she says. ‘Can you really not remember us at all?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Shit,’ she says. ‘That’s mad.’

  ‘You want a cuppa?’ my mum asks. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’ She laughs.

  ‘Tea’s good,’ I reply.

  ‘Cara?’

  ‘Yeah, tea,’ she replies.

  My mum nods and leaves the room, and it feels a little uncomfortable with me
and Cara just standing there. She’s much shorter than me, even in her four-inch spike-heel sandals. I try to see if there’s any resemblance at all between us. But all I see is a pretty young woman with dyed blonde hair and too much makeup. I feel wildly undergroomed by comparison. But I don’t think I could ever carry off her look.

  ‘So,’ I say, desperate to break the awkward silence. ‘Am I older or younger than you?’

  ‘You’re two years older,’ she says, scratching her nose with a perfectly manicured leopard-print fingernail.

  ‘So, that would make you . . .’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ we say at the same time, punctuated by a small laugh. She sits back down on the sofa, gesturing for me to do the same.

  There’s a set of open patio doors at the end of the room, leading out to a small terrace screened by a low hedge. Beyond that, is the entrance carpark, and I can hear the voices of the youths I passed earlier.

  ‘So,’ Cara says, ‘you, like, can’t remember anything about us? Not growing up here, or school, or anything?’

  ‘I can’t even remember my own boyfriend,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t remember what my face looked like. I looked in the mirror, and didn’t recognise myself. That was scary.’

  ‘That’s mental. You’ve got to tell mum. She won’t believe it. She already thinks it’s some kind of wind up.’

  ‘She can call the hospital if she doesn’t believe me,’ I say. Strangely, I notice myself modifying my accent a little as I talk to Cara, taking on more of a London twang. Is this how I normally talk? Or has being around Piers made me lose my accent?

  My mum comes back into the room carrying a tray with three mugs and a plate of pink wafer biscuits. I take a mug gratefully and sip at the liquid. It’s a hot day, but the tea is refreshing.

  ‘Mia doesn’t remember anything,’ Cara says. ‘Nothing at all. She didn’t even know what she looked like in the mirror.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ my mum replies. She settles herself on the sofa next to me. ‘Let me look at you, Mia.’