by C. L. Taylor
My hands shake as I fumble with the seat belt. Glass shards fall from my thighs and tumble into the foot well as I grip the steering wheel and ease myself up.
“Billy? Billy is that—”
I clutch my hands to my head as a pain unlike anything I have ever known tears through my brain. And then everything goes black.
There is something hard and leathery under my fingertips. Curved, solid. I grip on to it as my vision zooms in, zooms out, zooms in, zooms out. Focused, blurred, focused, blurred. The windscreen—clean apart from a dribble of bird shit—a street, a building, a road, the windscreen. Why do I keep looking at the windscreen? An image flashes through my mind, of Billy’s lifeless body on the dashboard. I thought I’d run him over but I can’t have. There’s no glass, no blood and the windscreen is still intact. A wave of nausea courses through me. It’s so powerful, so sudden, that I vomit over the dashboard, the steering wheel and my hands. The world spins and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as the car fills with the stench of puke.
A voice whispers, “It was another blackout. Oh God. Not again.”
My voice.
My name is . . .
I search for a name, for something solid to hang my identity on, but my mind is so muddled, so gray. There is nothing behind my eyes but inky darkness.
Who am I?
My chest tightens and I gulp air into my lungs. Breathe slower.
Claire!
I open my eyes.
Claire. My name is Claire Wilkinson. There is a gold band and a sparkling engagement ring on the third finger of my left hand, smeared with bile. I am married to Mark. I have two sons. Jake and Billy. Billy!
I undo the seat belt and open the driver’s-side door. There is a flash of color, a squeal of brakes and someone swears loudly.
“Fuck’s sake!” A face in a bicycle helmet looms toward me, a man’s face, his eyes wide with anger, his lips twisted into a snarl. He waves in front of my face, slicing his hand through the air. “Watch what you’re fucking doing. You nearly had me off my bike.”
I am so shocked, so terrified, I swing a leg out of the car and kick out at him. My shoe connects with his knee and he jumps back, doubling over, one hand pressed to his knee, the other wrapped around the handlebar of his bike.
I slam the door shut before he can recover and turn the key in the ignition. I press my foot to the accelerator and the car lurches forward. Somewhere behind me someone presses their horn. The sound reverberates in my head as I speed away, the cyclist shaking his fist at me in my rearview mirror. There’s a woman standing beside him, a white Vauxhall Astra pulled up behind her. She’s got her phone in her hand.
I drive down street after street. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. There are no thoughts in my mind, just an angry buzzing as though my head is a hive, crammed with bees.
There’s a light, blinking red on the dashboard. I’m running out of petrol. I need to stop. I need to find a garage. The buzzing in my head dims as I pull into a large Tesco but, instead of parking by one of the petrol pumps at the service station, I drive into the car park and turn off the engine. I pull a packet of wet wipes out of the glovebox and wipe my hands, the steering wheel and my jeans. I work methodically; wiping, then dropping the used wipes into an empty plastic bag until I am clean. Then I reach for my bag. It’s on the passenger seat. Underneath it is a photo album and an A4 diary, opened to this week.
Mark’s appointment book.
Why have I got Mark’s appointment book? He normally keeps it on his desk in the corner of the living room. Did I take it? He’s methodical about diary-keeping, entering everything into this book as well as his phone, just in case his phone dies or is stolen. I open it and run a finger down the appointments he’s got listed for today:
9:45 a.m.—Fallodon Way Medical Center, 3 Fallodon Way, BS9 4HT
10:45 a.m.—Nevil Road Surgery, 43 Nevil Road, BS7 9EG
11:45 a.m.—Horfield Health Center, Lockleaze Road, BS7 9RR
2 p.m.—Gloucester Road Medical Center, BS7 8SA
Where am I? I open my handbag and take out my phone. It’s 2:30 p.m., Friday, August 14th. Five hours have passed since I went into the garage to look for the screwdriver set and . . .
I see an image in my mind of a photo album, the photos defaced and scrawled on, but that’s it. That’s all there is.
I must have gone back into the house and picked up Mark’s diary but I don’t remember doing that. Or getting into my car and driving. Oh my God. I could have killed myself. Or someone else.
I look back at the phone and open Google Maps. The red location dot blinks several times, then the map comes into focus. Tesco Lime Trees Road. So I am still in Bristol. I enter one of the postcodes from Mark’s diary into the app and a tiny red line appears, connecting my location with the address I’ve just entered. It’s three minutes’ drive away. I zoom in on the location and turn on street view. That’s where I was just parked, outside Gloucester Road Medical Center. Did Mark ring me and ask me to bring his diary to him? It’s the only logical explanation but it only takes twenty-five minutes to drive from Knowle to Gloucester Road. What else have I been doing in the last five hours?
I exit the Google Maps app and I’m just about to ring Mark when I spot the WhatsApp icon at the top of the screen. Someone’s sent me a message in the last five hours. I tap on the icon and Liz’s name appears on the top of the list. Three new messages:
Where is that?
She’s replied to a photo of a row of houses I must have sent her. One of them has a sign outside that says Fallodon Way Medical Center.
Why have you sent me a picture of a doctor’s surgery? Do you need me to pick you up or something?
Then there’s another image. One I must have sent. It says Nevil Road Surgery above the door.
Claire? Is that Mark? Who is he with?
I look closer at the photo. Yes, it is Mark and he’s standing outside Nevil Road Surgery with a willowy blonde. His hand is on her arm. I zoom in on the image. It takes me several seconds to work out who she is. It’s Edie Christian, Billy’s form tutor. And she looks worried.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Jackdaw44: Why have you started ignoring me?
ICE9: I haven’t. I’m busy.
Jackdaw44:
ICE9: What’s that supposed to mean?
Jackdaw44: Bullshit. You’re not busy.
ICE9: OK. Truth. This feels a bit weird.
Jackdaw44: What do you mean?
ICE9: Us. Texting all the time. Sneaking off for secret beers. It feels . . . weird.
Jackdaw44: We’re not doing anything wrong. Just talking. Nothing wrong with talking.
ICE9: It feels dangerous.
Jackdaw44: How?
ICE9: You know what I mean.
Jackdaw44:
ICE9: So you do know what I mean.
Jackdaw44: I know nothing. I like hanging out with you. End of.
ICE9: I still feel weird about it.
Jackdaw44: There’s a cure for that. !
ICE9: Not today.
Jackdaw44: You suck.
Chapter 24
“Claire?” I jump as Liz knocks on the window of the car. Her hair is tied up in a messy topknot and there’s a smear of eyeliner smudged into the creases beneath her right eye. She looks as though she’s just woken up from a nap.
“Can you open it?” she mouths, signaling for me to wind down the window. I turn the handle.
“Oh my God, Claire.” She reaches through the gap and wraps her arms around my head, pulling me up against the door as she attempts to hug me. “I can’t believe it happened again.”
She lets me go, glances at the keys dangling in the ignition and holds up a hand as though warning me not to touch them. “I’m coming around the other side.”
She skirts around the front of the car, opens the passenger door, picks up my handbag, the photo album and Mark’s diary and plunks herself into the seat.
“Are you okay?�
� She sounds breathless from her run across the car park. “You’re not hurt or anything?”
“I’m not hurt.”
She looks me up and down as though she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. “You drove all the way across Bristol and you can’t remember it? Fuck, Claire! That’s really scary.”
“I know.”
“You can’t remember anything at all?”
“Nothing.”
“Right.” She gives me a long look. I can tell she’s freaked out, even though she’s trying hard not to show it. “I think I need to get you to a doctor. Are you okay to drive? Silly question. I’ll drive the car. Caleb can pick mine up later.”
As we head back to Knowle I tell her everything I can remember, about the photo album, about finding myself parked in a street I didn’t recognize, about the guy on the bike, speeding off, running out of petrol and checking my phone. I don’t tell her about seeing Billy’s dead body on the hood of my car.
“And then I rang you,” I say.
“Fucking hell, Claire.” She presses her foot to the accelerator as the traffic light turns green. “I don’t know what to say. When you WhatsApped me that first photo I thought maybe you’d taken it by accident or pressed the wrong button or something but then you sent a few more and I thought you were having a laugh but I didn’t get the joke.”
She gives me a sideways look. “Who’s the blonde in the photo with Mark?”
“Edie Christian, Billy’s form tutor.”
“Why did you take a photo of them? Is he having an affair or something?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember anything. Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my hands as the cars in front slow to a near halt and a cyclist overtakes us. “What if the cyclist has reported me to the police for kicking him? The woman who stopped her car had a phone in her hand. She probably took a photo of my license plate. The press will have a field day if they find out what I did.”
“It’s okay.” Liz taps me on the leg, then puts her hand back on the steering wheel. “You’re ill. You didn’t know what you were doing. Is that the photo album you were on about?” She glances at the two books on my lap. “Can I see it?”
“Of course.” I open a page and hold it up so she can see. The traffic in front of us is still at a standstill.
“Jesus Christ, Claire. Who did that?”
“Billy, I think. The writing looks like his and it’s the same sort of thick black marker he uses.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought the police searched the house?”
“They did, but only places they thought he could be hiding. Then they took his laptop and his Xbox from his bedroom but they didn’t go through our stuff. They didn’t go anywhere near the garage.”
“It’s pretty macabre.” She runs a finger over one of the blacked-out figures and her eyes meet mine. “I think you should tell them. Don’t you?”
Monday, November 3, 2014
ICE9: I can’t do this anymore.
Jackdaw44: Oh FFS. Not this again.
ICE9: No, not this. My relationship. I feel claustrophobic and trapped. I’m not happy.
Jackdaw44: So leave.
ICE9: I can’t.
Jackdaw44: We could get a place together. I fucking hate living at home.
ICE9: You live on another planet.
Jackdaw44: What’s that supposed to mean?
ICE9: It’s a ridiculous idea.
Jackdaw44: Why?
ICE9: I’m miserable and you’re not helping.
Jackdaw44: Sorry.
Jackdaw44: Let’s both sneak out and go for a beer.
ICE9: OK. Meet you at the Victoria at 9 p.m.
Chapter 25
Every seat in the waiting room has been filled and the air is ripe with coughs, sneezes and the occasional wail from a bored toddler or hungry baby. Liz had to do battle with the receptionist to get me an appointment. I would have given up after the initial “There are no appointments left” but she wasn’t deterred. Not even when the receptionist suggested that perhaps we would be better off going to the walk-in center if I was having a “psychiatric episode” as Liz put it. The poor woman eventually relented when Liz mentioned that I’d had my blood taken at the surgery and that, if anyone knew what was wrong with me, it would be the doctor who had those results on her computer. We’ve been here over forty minutes so far and, during that time, my best friend has asked me twice if I’d like her to ring Mum or Jake and four times if I’m “having another funny turn” because I look “weird.”
“Look, here.” She jabs a nail at an article in the magazine she’s reading. “This is Tinder, that app Marco told me about.”
“Sorry?”
“The dating app. The one for straight people. I don’t know why Caleb lied to me about meeting him on Grindr. I don’t care if he met him in a pub or online. Just as long as he’s safe.”
“Right.”
For the last ten minutes Liz has been filling me in on her night out with her son and his new boyfriend. According to Liz, Marco was an absolute scream and she couldn’t have picked someone better for Caleb herself. Her exact words were, “Marco’s young, dark and fit. If he wasn’t gay I might have gone for him myself.”
She nudges me. “So do you think I should download it then? Give it a go?”
“Sure, why not?”
“What’s up?” She closes the magazine and twists around in her seat so she can get a better look at me.
“I was just . . .” I lower my voice. “Just trying to decide what to do about the photo album.”
“Do you want me to drive you to the police station, after we’re done here?”
I shake my head. “I need to talk to Mark about it.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“No, but what if there’s a completely innocent explanation for it? Mark’s always going on about how he’s the villain and if I go straight to the police that’s exactly what I’m doing, isn’t it? Painting him as the villain without giving him the chance to explain. I don’t even know if it was Billy who blacked out the photos.”
“Who else would do that?”
Kira, I think, but don’t say. I hate myself for even considering what Stephen said about Mark and the fact that there’s a young girl who walks around our house in various states of undress but it’s there—it’s rooted in my brain and it’s not going away. I am ninety-nine percent certain that Stephen made that comment because he’s a shit-stirrer, but what if I’m wrong? What if Mark did say or do something inappropriate? I don’t want to believe it. I won’t let myself believe it but someone vandalized those photos and I need to see the look on Mark’s face when I show them to him.
“Mrs. Wilkinson?” Dr. Evans sticks her head around the door.
“That’s me!” I gather up my bag and cardigan and hurry toward her.
“This is my friend Liz,” I say as I draw closer. “Is it okay if she comes in with me? For moral support?”
“Of course.” Dr. Evans gestures for us to follow her into her office. “We’re in here.”
As she rounds the desk and Liz sits down in one of the patient chairs the words spill out of me like water from a dam. “Thank you so much for fitting me in, Dr. Evans. I know you’re busy and my appointment wasn’t for a couple of days but I had another blackout and—”
“One second.” She holds up a hand and glances at her screen. “Mrs. Wilkinson. Claire. Can I call you Claire?”
I nod.
“Sorry for interrupting, Claire. I just want to get up to speed.” She twists around to face her computer, frowning as she scrolls down the screen. “Okay.”
She turns back. “So you’re here for the results of your recent blood test, is that right? You had an amnesiac episode on the sixth of August?”
“Yes, eight days ago, that’s right.”
“Okay. So . . .” She leans forward, resting her weight on her elbows, and I instinctively press my
back into my chair, bracing myself for the verdict. “The good news is that all your tests have come back clear.”
Liz squeezes my hand. “Well, that’s good news.”
“Yes, it is.” Dr. Evans’s eyes don’t leave my face. “I would like to refer you for a CAT scan though, just to be sure.”
“You think it’s a brain tumor?”
“I think it’s more likely that it’s stress-related, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t rule out every possibility.”
“How long will I have to wait for an appointment?”
“A few weeks. Maybe five or six.”
“Six weeks!” Liz says and I shush her.
“The thing is, Dr. Evans, it’s happened twice now. I had another one today. A couple of hours ago. I’d been driving and I can’t even remember getting into my car. I can’t wait six weeks. What if it happens again?”
Dr. Evans’s expression becomes grave. “I see. Okay.” She glances toward the window and taps her nails against her teeth. “Claire, have you had any other unusual thoughts or seen any other unusual things?”
“What kinds of things?”
“Things that wouldn’t normally be there?”
“Like a hallucination?”
“Yes.”
“During my last blackout I saw . . .” I can’t tell her that I imagined running over my son. “I saw something that wasn’t real.”
Liz gives me a sideways look but says nothing.
“I see,” Dr. Evans says. “And have you ever seen anything you’ve attributed special meaning to?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you ever interpreted something you’ve seen as some kind of sign, some kind of special message, aimed at you?”
Liz sits very still, looking intently at me, and I tug at the sleeves of my shirt. I haven’t told her that I went looking for Billy last night.
“There have been a couple of occasions when I thought I saw Billy,” I say quietly, wishing I hadn’t brought my best friend in with me. I hate her seeing me like this. She must think I’m cracking up. “Billy’s my son who’s missing. I saw someone on his bike and I went after him.”
