You Were Gone

by Tim Weaver

  ‘Stop this,’ I said.

  ‘I have access to your medical records, David,’ he said, ‘through the hospital system. When DS Field got in touch, I went back and had a look at your history and, since I discharged you from my care back in 2011, you’ve been seen a number of times with head injuries. I can see your GP, Dr Jhadav, has noted that – since 2014 – you’ve been suffering from headaches and even experienced a blackout. We, in the psychiatric community, are still learning all the time about Capgras delusion, but what we do know is that it can be transient. It can come and go. And even if you’d been fine every day for the past six years, even if you’d been functioning completely normally, it wouldn’t mean it couldn’t come back. It doesn’t mean it hasn’t come back. It doesn’t mean it’s come alone this time either. If you’re suffering headaches, if you’re blacking out, if you refuse to recognize that your wife is alive and well and living in your house, it means these delusions about Derryn have returned. Worse, it could mean your illness hasn’t just come back – it’s come back in an even more aggressive form than before. You were diagnosed with PTSD three years ago. You might be suffering exhaustion as well, depression, any number of other things.’

  All I could feel was a dull pounding behind my eye. It was making me feel nauseous. I felt frayed, on edge and boxed in, like I needed to scream.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said softly.

  I shook my head.

  ‘You can trust me, David.’

  I looked up at him. ‘Trust you?’

  ‘My strong suspicion is that part of this cocktail of illnesses may be a delayed reaction to some of the things you saw and witnessed in your days as a journalist. You spent time in South Africa at a dangerous and traumatic point in that country’s history; you were in Iraq and Afghanistan for a time; you told me you spent weeks bedded in with the police in major US cities and were seeing murders on an almost daily basis – all those things could have had an effect on you. And now history is repeating. In your job as an investigator, you’re experiencing all those things again.’

  He waited for me to say something.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said again.

  ‘So everyone just played along?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The funeral, the grave, the aftermath – everyone in my life, anyone who’s ever met me – they all just played along with it. That’s what you’re saying, right? Because I’ve talked to Derryn’s friends and they remember the funeral, so the funeral clearly took place.’

  McMillan grimaced. ‘It’s your sickness. You’re hearing what you want to hear.’

  I reached for my coffee, felt its warmth against my hands, and said, ‘I’ve got a question for you.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good.’ He smiled. He was clearly encouraged by something in my voice. I sounded calmer to him, more cooperative.

  ‘Who called you yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You received a call at four forty-five in the afternoon yesterday while I was on my way to a police station in Charing Cross. You may or may not know that the call was made from a payphone in Plumstead, but I’m betting you knew who the caller was.’

  A flicker of something crossed his face.

  ‘Uh, I’m not sure I underst–’

  ‘You understand just fine.’

  ‘Really, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s on your phone bill.’

  ‘If it is, I don’t specifically remember any call.’

  I smirked. ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘I can assure you, I’m not.’

  I thought of the book I’d found in the loft: the copy of No One Can See the Crows at Night with the message inside. Thank you for our special time together.

  ‘Did you know Derryn before she died?’

  ‘She hasn’t die–’

  ‘Did you give her a book?’

  ‘A book?’

  ‘No One Can See the Crows at Night.’

  His expression was benign, unchanged, but the colour had drained from him, pink rinsing out of his cheeks. He smiled, tried to act unconcerned, but finally I’d got to him and we both knew it – I just wasn’t sure if it was the book that had done it, or me telling him I knew about the phone call. His eyes shifted from me, to the walls, the windows and out to the semi-lit staff area. The security guard was back at his post. We were entirely alone.

  ‘You’re confused,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘David, you’re sick and you don’t even know it.’

  ‘I don’t think I am.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. That’s how it works.’

  ‘So who was it who called you yesterday?’

  This time I wasn’t sure if he was genuinely puzzled or just pretending to be. Getting up from the desk, he said, ‘When we spoke on the telephone, I promised you I’d show you your file. Would you like me to do that, David?’

  I didn’t move.

  ‘David, would you like me to do that?’

  If he had a file, I wanted to see it. If he didn’t, I wanted to see him flounder. But I’d had him for a moment. He hadn’t given me much in the way of a tell, but it was enough. So I stayed where I was, seated at the desk, drinking my coffee.

  ‘David, would you like to see your file?’

  ‘Did you give Derryn that book?’ I repeated, ignoring his question entirely. ‘Did you know her before she died?’

  ‘I really don’t know what –’

  ‘Were you the one who gave it to her?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Where’s Derryn’s death certificate?’

  ‘Death certificate? She’s not dead, David.’

  ‘Stop lying.’

  He came around the desk, almost standing over me. ‘I’m not a liar, David. Whether you choose to believe me or not, I’m trying to help you. You want to know what’s going on, and I believe showing you your file is the best way for me to do that. I’ll present to you some of the work I collated on our sessions, some of the proof that you really were in my care from the autumn of 2009 until the early part of 2011. All of us here just want to see you get better, and I’m sure Derryn would like –’

  I launched myself at him, grabbing him by his collar and pushing him against the wall. He winced, hissing through his teeth as his back crunched against the hard surface. Rage was charging through my veins, it was humming in my blood, my bone marrow – I couldn’t help it. I’d had enough. As I pinned him there, I felt the thump become more violent behind my eyes, the pressure building.

  ‘Stop saying her name, or I’ll …’

  My words dropped away.

  Somewhere, a door had just opened and closed.

  I let go of McMillan’s collar and looked out of the office, into the staff area. There was no sound of footsteps, but the ceiling lights at the other end, close to the doors in and out of the admin block, had come back on.

  I glanced at McMillan. ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘No one,’ he said, straightening up.

  ‘So what was that noise?’

  He frowned again. ‘What noise?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, holding up a hand. ‘I swear.’

  I studied him, but his face was a blank. When I looked back at the staff area, in the direction of the entrance, I saw a minor shift.

  A shadow on the wall.

  It was moving.

  30

  I went to the office doorway and looked out. More ceiling lights flickered into life above me. Apart from at the entrance and the low light of the offices, everywhere else on the floor – its edges and corners – was pitch black.

  I glanced over my shoulder at McMillan. He had an expression which I’d seen today already, one of confusion and concern. ‘David, what’s going
on here?’

  ‘Do the guards do a rotation?’

  ‘You seem agitated.’

  ‘Do the guards do a rotation?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes.’

  ‘Stay here,’ I said to him and left him by his desk.

  I moved out of the office and into the hub of the admin block. More lights snapped into life above me. Working my way around, I checked under desks, in hiding places between cabinets, pushed open the doors of the other offices to see if anyone was inside. They weren’t. By the time I was done, the entire floor was lit up.

  ‘David?’ McMillan called from his office.

  ‘Stay there.’

  I looked over at the main doors.

  ‘This really needs to stop, David.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  I moved across to the doors and looked through the reinforced glass panels. It was near-dark on the other side, the stairs that had brought me up dotted with low-power night lights. Next to the entrance was a release button. I pressed it, the door buzzed open, and as I stepped through to the landing, more lights sprang into life.

  The staircase was empty.

  At the bottom was the first of the security doors I’d have to pass through to get out of the hospital. There was no access, no way to open it, without the proper pass.

  No one’s here.

  We’re alone.

  I rubbed at my eyes again, trying to settle the thump behind them, to clear it, and when I opened them, I felt off balance and my vision was smeared. What the hell was wrong with me? Was I hearing things now too? I gave myself a moment, drawing my perspective back, my sense of clarity, and then I slowly headed back to McMillan.

  ‘What were you hoping to find?’ he said.

  ‘I thought I …’

  I stopped in the doorway of his office, glancing over my shoulder.

  ‘I’m worried about you, David.’

  I ignored him.

  ‘I’m worried about your state of mind,’ he went on, ‘about these headaches you have. I’m worried about the blackouts. At times of stress, all those things are big –’

  ‘Why are you lying?’

  ‘Stress could bring on more blackouts.’

  ‘Why are you lying?’

  ‘Why won’t you let me help you?’

  Suddenly, I felt light-headed.

  ‘David?’

  I swallowed, closed my eyes, trying to regain my balance.

  ‘David?’ McMillan said again.

  I held up a hand, not wanting him to come any closer.

  ‘Are you okay? Do you want some water?’

  I lurched to my left, reaching out to the door frame for support – but where I thought the frame was, there was only space, and I fell sideways, missing it entirely.

  I hit the floor hard.

  I managed to roll over on to my back; was conscious long enough to see McMillan drop to his haunches beside me.

  ‘I’m sorry, David,’ he said.

  Then the sound went.

  And so did the light.

  DAY THREE

  * * *

  31

  I opened my eyes.

  My head was throbbing so much it took me a second to focus, the pain forking across my nose, under my eyebrows and into my temples. I could see daylight off to my left, a block of it cutting through the gap between the curtains and spilling across my feet and legs. When I looked the other way, I heard the mattress creak as I shifted my weight, felt it soften beneath me, and saw the en suite, the dresser, the wardrobes.

  I was at home, in my bedroom.

  Confused, I slowly hauled myself up, still feeling woozy, a little nauseous, my head swirling like I was drunk. As I sat at the edge of the bed, I closed my eyes for a second, trying to think, and remembered McMillan’s office. That was where I’d been.

  That was where I’d blacked out.

  I’m sorry, David.

  McMillan’s last words to me in the seconds before I lost consciousness. What did he mean? What was he sorry for? I thought of the coffee he’d made for us both. I’d been thirsty, my mouth bone dry. I’d taken the drink from him willingly.

  Had he spiked it?

  Something else resurfaced: the vague image of a red door. I didn’t recognize it, had no idea where it was or why I’d retained it, but, as I tried to blink it away, it came back again, over and over, like a strobe. I tried to think where I might have seen it but then, finally, the image started to fade.

  Unsteadily, I got to my feet and then had to halt for a moment as my head swam, another wave of nausea hitting me. Once that had passed, I shuffled across the carpet to the mirror and looked at myself: I was dressed in some pyjama bottoms I’d forgotten I even had and a white T-shirt I thought I’d thrown out. My hair was a mess, flattened to my skull on one side where I’d been sleeping. When I leaned in closer to the mirror, turning my head so I could see my face and neck clearly, there were no visible injuries. No marks on my skin, no lump on my skull where I’d fallen down, no bruising, no evidence of blood.

  My head began swimming again.

  I moved back to the bed and waited for it to pass. I looked at the bedside clock. Eleven fifty-seven – in the morning.

  How the hell had I got home last night?

  Had McMillan dropped me back?

  Why would he drug me and then take me home?

  I looked around the bedroom for my phone but couldn’t see it anywhere. As I turned, I felt a sharp pain flare in my left shoulder. When I pressed fingers to the top of my arm, to the blade, everything was tender.

  Impact injuries.

  My left shoulder must have taken the weight of my fall.

  Getting to my feet again, I went through to the en suite and ran the cold tap. As I splashed my face with water, a feeling shivered through me, a sense that something wasn’t right – beyond waking up here, in my bed, and not on the floor of McMillan’s office. But I couldn’t interpret it, couldn’t determine what it was exactly, and pretty soon all I could think about was taking a painkiller and finding a dressing gown or a jumper, anything to warm me up, because, despite the sun outside, the room was cold and I was chilled to the bone. I went to the drawers where I kept my sweaters and yanked the top one open.

  It was empty.

  I tried the next one down: the same. I tried the bottom one and this time there were clothes inside – but they weren’t mine. T-shirts and vest tops, folded neatly into a pile. A cardigan. A faded denim jacket. Six sets of leggings, each a different colour.

  They all belonged to a woman.

  I shoved the drawer closed and glanced towards the door and the hallway, as if the answers might be out there. What was going on? Why was there female clothing in here? Where were my sweaters, my underwear, my T-shirts? Moving across the bedroom to the wardrobe I yanked one of the doors open. Some of my clothes were inside this time – jeans, shirts, a jacket, pairs of shoes at the bottom – except, again, something wasn’t right, and it took me a second to work out what.

  They were my clothes, but they were old.

  I hadn’t worn any of these things in years; in fact, I was pretty sure I’d actually given the jacket away, and the rest had been in storage in the garage. On the left-hand side of the wardrobe the hangers were full of blouses, skirts, dresses, a long winter coat. More women’s clothing.

  I went to the bedside tables and checked the drawers. Empty. I went to the bathroom, opened the cabinet and looked inside. It was full of things that didn’t belong to me. Roll-on deodorant. Hairspray. Face and body creams. Make-up.

  What the hell was going on?

  ‘David.’

  I stood there, surprised, taken aback, staring at the bedroom door. The house fell silent again. I moved past the bed and went to the doorway, looking along the hall towards the living room. My feet were heavy against the carpet and everything above it – all my joints, tendons, muscles – suddenly felt like weights sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I could taste bile at the back of my mouth and smell sweat o
n my skin.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  My voice was weak, hoarse. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Hello?’

  No response.

  I began to feel ill again, queasy, in pain. Goosebumps scattered up my arms, across my shoulder blades and down the ridge of my spine. I was cold, disorientated. I could feel sickness on me like a fever. I was hearing things, maybe seeing things as well, and as I looked along the hallway, it felt like the walls were closing in on me. It felt like the ceiling had dropped a couple of feet, like the whole house had shrunk. My vision warped and compressed – and then, totally unexpectedly, tears filled my eyes.

  What’s wrong with me?

  ‘David, lunch is ready.’

  Her voice stopped me dead.

  I could hardly move, the soles of my feet glued to the carpet, my fingers gripping the door frame so hard, my nails were making gouges in the wood.

  ‘D,’ she said again, ‘lunch is ready.’

  32

  I moved into the hallway. The doors into the spare bedroom and my office were both closed, and – ahead of me, off the living room – I could see that the cloakroom door was shut too. It made the house feel dark and confined. As I passed the office, I stopped for a moment, gripping the door handle, wanting to open the house up and get some more light in. It was cold, the heating off – even though I ran it throughout the winter – but now I felt feverish and hot, and the sense of being enclosed didn’t help.

  The office door wouldn’t open.

  I tried it a second time, but it still didn’t move, so I tried shoving it harder, tried putting a shoulder to it and pressing, rattled the handle over and over. There was no give. I’d never fitted a lock on it, because I never actually kept it closed – couldn’t even remember a single time, in all my years in the house, when I’d chosen to shut the doors like this – so why were they closed now? I stepped across to the other side of the hallway, trying the handle on the spare bedroom door. That wouldn’t yield either.