The House on the Cliff

by Charlotte Williams

  I read on, fascinated by her description of the cut-and-paste technique that our brains engage in, using snippets from actual events, to produce a nicely formed, meaningful memory of an event that is largely fictitious, yet believed by the subject with absolute certainty. She concluded:

  People can be led to remember their past in different ways, and they can be led to remember entire events that never actually happened to them. When these sorts of distortions occur, people are sometimes confident in their distorted or false memories, and go on to describe pseudo-memories in substantial detail. These findings shed light on cases in which false memories are fervently held. The findings do not, however, give us the ability to reliably distinguish between real and false memories, for without independent corroboration, such distinctions are generally not possible.

  I thought about how all this applied to Gwydion. Clearly his recovered memory, triggered by his recurring dream, could be false, even if he himself believed it to be true. He could easily have taken details from real trips on real boats and, quite unconsciously, cut and pasted them into this particular childhood memory of the trip on the yacht with Evan and Elsa. That explanation seemed to fit with my experience of him; I had sensed that he was telling me the truth about what he remembered, even though it was causing him a great deal of anguish. But if he was mistaken, and the memory was false, that still left the question: Who had implanted it in him? And why?

  I cast my mind back to my last encounter with Gwydion. What was it that he’d said about the buttons? Sometimes she wanted them done up. And sometimes she wanted them undone. It had struck me at the time as Oedipal, as quite clearly related to his disturbed relationship with his mother, Arianrhod.

  What if it was Arianrhod who had implanted the memory in Gwydion? Not just instructed him to lie to me, but repeatedly and consistently, over a period of time—perhaps from childhood—got him to believe it himself? Told him the story of how his father had taken him out on the boat with Elsa, and how he’d witnessed the accident, or murder, as a result of one of his father’s drunken rages? And then told him, perhaps, that it was a secret? Sometimes she wanted them done up. Only now, it wasn’t. Now, she wanted him to go to court and tell all. And sometimes she wanted them undone.

  I finished reading the paper, closed the file, and put it back on the shelf. As I reached up, I felt momentarily dizzy, as if I was going to faint. I leaned against the bookcase for a few seconds, closed my eyes, and waited for the sensation to pass. I wasn’t too worried. After a long day of seeing clients, one after the other, I often find myself a little woozy, as though I have run too far and too fast, or downed a glass of wine too quickly. It was simply the effort of concentrating for an entire day, closeted in this one room with a succession of clients and the pressing throng of “the neuroses,” as Freud called them. He used to go walking in the Alps to get away from them. Not being a Victorian paterfamilias, I didn’t have that option. The girls would be at home now, I knew, waiting for their tea, needing me to check their homework, drive them to ballet class, band practice, or whatever it was that evening; or simply to be there, sitting next to them, with a cup of tea and the newspaper, as they watched television.

  I went over to the hat stand, got my jacket, and looked in the mirror. The bags under my eyes were back, along with a fetching pair of semicircular bluish shadows. My face was slightly flushed, my cheeks a little blotchy. My hair wasn’t looking its best, either. When I’m tired, it has a habit of rearranging itself to look untidy, with strands that stick out, however much I try to smooth them down. Yet, strangely, although I looked exhausted and a little disheveled, there was something unusual in my face that day, I thought; a sparkle in my eye, a glimmer of curiosity, of liveliness, playing around my features. Perhaps it was that Evan’s interest in me had made me feel more attractive; or, more importantly, that I was beginning to get closer to solving the mystery of the girl’s death. Whichever it was, and it could have been a little of both, as I tugged at my hair, trying to make it look respectable, I couldn’t stop a smile coming to my lips. I felt alive again, alert and, despite my fatigue, ready for action.

  People are sometimes confident in their distorted or false memories, and go on to describe pseudo-memories in substantial detail. A wheel or a tiller? That one small anomaly in Gwydion’s account of what had happened on the boat could perhaps lead me to the truth. But to find out, I’d have to go back to The Grange and talk to him again.

  When I got home, Nella was in the front room watching television with her new boyfriend. I saw them through the window as I came up the path, one dark head, one fair, sitting on the sofa together holding hands. Rose wasn’t with them; she’d stayed in school to rehearse for a concert that was being held at the church in a few days’ time. I’d forgotten, which made me feel a little guilty.

  I went into the kitchen, made a pot of tea, put a few biscuits on a plate and took it in to them on a tray. When I walked in, knocking briefly before I entered, the boy got up and cleared some space on the coffee table so that I could put the tray down.

  “Mum, this is Gareth.” Nella stayed sitting on the sofa, staring at the screen, more out of embarrassment than rudeness, I felt.

  “Hello. Good to meet you, Gareth.”

  “And you, Mrs.—”

  “Jessica.”

  He nodded, smiling at me. He was small and slim with dark hair, soft brown eyes and a nose-piercing that did little to dispel the general impression of innocence about him.

  He took the tray from me and laid it carefully down on the coffee table. Nella leaned forward and took a biscuit.

  “Thanks, Mum,” she said. There was a pause. Then she added, “Did you have a good day?”

  “Not bad.” I was touched by her inquiry. Since the episode with Emyr she’d been uncharacteristically solicitous.

  I looked over at the television. “What are you watching?”

  “Come Dine with Me.” Gareth sat down again. “It’s rubbish, but we’re addicted.”

  I smiled, feeling a sense of relief. Nella had found a boyfriend, a confident, engaging young man who was not too shy to talk to her mother.

  “Actually, we’ve got some recording to do,” he went on. “I’ve brought my recording desk over and we’re going to set up in Nella’s room. I hope that’s OK with you.”

  “Fine. No problem.”

  “We just need to make a few rough demos,” Gareth went on. “Then we’re going to go over to a studio that belongs to my cousin, in Newport, and record the songs properly.”

  “Gareth says the tracks I did with Emyr were really lame,” Nella added. “I’m going to bin them and start again.”

  I felt like going up to Gareth, throwing my arms around him and kissing him. But instead I said, “Well, that sounds great.”

  Gareth had started to pour out the tea. “Would you like a cup before you go?” he asked, turning to me.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got to go out again now. Just one more appointment and then I’m done. See you later, perhaps.” I smiled at Gareth, trying not to beam. “And good luck with the recording.”

  It’s not very far from my house to The Grange. A few wet country lanes, edged on either side by dripping hedges; a dreary stretch of road with nothing much to recommend it except a clear view of a featureless expanse of sky; a dip down into a neat, prosperous commuter village, full of lawyers and media folk; a patched tarmac path up to a large, white-painted institution built in the twenties, and you’re there.

  I got out of the car, locked it, and walked over to the entrance of the house. Under the darkening sky the place looked uglier than ever. I pressed the bell and stood waiting until a nurse appeared. Like the one I’d seen on my last visit, she spoke English in a heavy Eastern European accent and seemed quite happy to let me go upstairs to see Gwydion, even though I hadn’t made an appointment. This time, I found my way to his room by myself, since I now knew where it was. I walked along the corridor, the creaking floorboards announc
ing my arrival, and knocked tentatively at the half-open door of his room.

  There was no reply, so I put my head round the door. I saw Gwydion seated at the window. The room was dark. The curtains were open and he was looking out at the view.

  “It’s me, Jessica. Can I come in?”

  He didn’t turn his head, so I walked over to him and gently touched him on the shoulder. He turned round, glancing at me briefly, and then went back to looking out of the window again.

  “Shall I sit here?”

  He nodded, but this time he didn’t turn his head.

  I sat down quietly in the chair beside him, and looked out, too. Outside, I could just about make out the ditch at the end of the garden, and the glimmering white backs of the sheep in the fields beyond. In the distance you could see the lights of the power station by the coast, and nearby those of the local airport. It wasn’t exactly a beautiful sight, but in its own way it was striking. There was something unnatural and otherworldly and rather theatrical about it, like a Gustave Doré etching, or the animation for a sword-and-sorcery video game.

  I glanced over at Gwydion, trying to gauge his mood. He looked gaunt, his cheekbones jutting out from the side of his face, but it could have been just that the shadows in the half-light of the room emphasized the angularity of his features.

  “How are you getting on?”

  He shrugged. I could see that he was depressed, but I persevered all the same. I was even mildly encouraged by his demeanor; at least he was less manic than when I’d seen him previously.

  “Feeling any better?”

  He shrugged again, still gazing out of the window.

  There seemed nothing to be gained by drawing out our exchange, so I came quickly to the point.

  “Gwydion, I want to talk to you about what happened on the boat. If you don’t mind.”

  I could see him stiffen slightly, but I went on.

  “You see, I need to get the story clear before I can make my statement to the police.”

  I paused to see if he’d react, but he didn’t, so I continued, “There are some little details that make me wonder . . .”

  This time, he turned his head. His eyes looked larger than ever, great green pools glittering in their sockets.

  “What little details?”

  “Well, for instance . . .”

  “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  He spoke more in surprise than anger, as if I’d wounded him, turned on him suddenly.

  “No.” I understood that he was hurt by my questions, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “I just need you to explain what happened to me more clearly. I mean, just to take a small point, you say there was a wheel on the yacht, yet there wasn’t. The boat has a tiller. I’ve seen it. So . . .”

  “What does that matter?”

  I tried to be tactful. “Well, it makes me begin to wonder . . .”

  “If I’m lying?”

  “If you’ve remembered right.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to upset him, but there was no alternative. “It was a long time ago, Gwydion. And you were a young child. It’s possible you could be wrong, isn’t it? Anyone can make a mistake—”

  “I’m getting a bit sick of this, you know,” he interrupted. “People poking their noses into my life, trying to make me say what they want me to say, about an event I can hardly remember. No wonder I’ve been . . . ill. I wish you’d all just get off my back, and leave me in peace.”

  “Look.” I spoke as gently as I could. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you. But I have to decide whether to make a statement to the police. And, before I do, you’ve got to tell me the truth. For your father’s sake. And for your own.”

  There was a silence, and then he turned away from me, gazing out of the window. I could sense that he was wondering what to say, so I kept quiet. Then he began to speak.

  “It did happen.” He still didn’t look at me. “I was on that yacht with Evan and Elsa, and I saw him push her overboard. It’s my earliest memory. I can remember it clear as day. I’ve always known that he killed her. I’ve had to keep it a secret all this time and now I’m expected to—”

  He broke off suddenly. Once again I waited until he resumed.

  “Arianrhod swore me to secrecy. She told me that if I ever told anyone, Evan would have to go to prison. And it would all be my fault.” He paused. “I accepted the situation, the way you do when you’re a kid. It was our secret, hers and mine. I never questioned that keeping quiet about it was the right thing to do.”

  I followed his gaze, looking out of the window as the sky on the horizon darkened.

  “Of course,” Gwydion went on, his voice low, “the secret cast a huge shadow over my childhood. It gave me some huge hang-ups, like the button phobia. Undermined my confidence. Made me terrified of Evan. Ruined our relationship, really. I mean, although he was always domineering toward me, he could be very affectionate, too—but I rejected him completely after that. And over the years, although I was pretty fragile some of the time, I got used to the situation. Then . . .”

  He stopped, turned to look at me as if to reassure himself I was listening and, when I nodded, looked away again.

  “Ari suddenly changed her mind about going to the police. After all this time, she suddenly decided that we should tell them everything. I suppose things had got to an all-time low between her and Evan.” He began to rub at his neck distractedly. “I mean, the pair of them have always fought like cat and dog, but since Evan got this new . . . I don’t know what you’d call her . . . girlfriend. Mistress. Whatever. She’s younger than me, anyway.” He paused. “I think when he took up with her, Ari finally realized that she couldn’t go on, that the marriage was over. So . . .”

  He came to a halt. I realized that I was sitting on the edge of my chair and leaned back, trying to appear relaxed.

  “. . . she decided to shop him,” he went on. “And she came up with a story to explain why she hadn’t gone to the police before. We’d pretend that I’d had a recurring dream about the murder, that it had thrown up a recovered memory. That was where you came in.”

  He glanced at me again for reassurance, but this time I found it hard to give him any.

  “She knew who you were, and that you worked as a psychotherapist. Bob had mentioned it to Evan, I think. So she tracked you down.” He paused. “Maybe she thought you’d be sympathetic.”

  Maybe she’d been right, I thought. I had been too sympathetic to Arianrhod. What a fool I’d been not to see through her lies before.

  There were stars in the sky now, tiny points of light, which seemed to have appeared suddenly, as if by magic. Although we’d been looking steadily at the horizon, we hadn’t seen them come out.

  “I wanted to make my visit seem plausible,” Gwydion continued, “so I started with some real problems. The button phobia, and my insomnia. But then I went on to the dream, which I made up. And . . .” He paused, registering my puzzled expression. “I’m sorry, Jessica. I did lie to you. I never had a recurring dream. Or a recovered memory. But I did see the murder. I know I did. That much is true.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” I said. I was having trouble taking in what he’d told me. “Your mother tells you to go to a psychotherapist, pretend you’ve had a recurring dream and that, in the process, you’ve recovered a memory. Of your father killing a young girl on a boat twenty years ago. That way, Arianrhod can explain why she never reported Evan to the police at the time of the incident. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Gwydion nodded. He looked relieved that I wasn’t angry. Strangely, I wasn’t. I was more surprised than anything else.

  “The thing was,” he said, “I couldn’t really keep up the pretense. You were so kind, so understanding . . .” He looked down. “I felt terrible lying to you. That was why I left that first time. I couldn’t go on deceiving you. And then when I came back, I began to realize you could help me sort out my real problems, so I stayed. I really felt we were getting
somewhere. But Ari started pushing me to finish the sessions, tell you the final part of the dream, where I heard the splash in the water, so that she could put her plan into action. That’s why I left so abruptly.”

  “I see.” I felt hurt, but I didn’t say anything. Instead, we both continued to look out at the sky. The stars got brighter, and more appeared, as we looked.

  “And on top of that . . .” He stopped.

  “What?”

  He stared ahead, unable to meet my gaze.

  “I found you—find you—very attractive. Even though you’re so much older than me. And not the glamorous kind I usually go for.”

  Thanks very much, I thought.

  “So I started lying to Ari about us.” He began to rub at his neck again. “About . . . you know . . . our near-affair . . .”

  Our near-affair. That was a succinct way of putting it, I reflected.

  “And in the end, I suppose, all the layers of lying got too much. I got confused.” He took a deep breath, held it for a moment and let it out slowly. “So here I am.”

  There was a silence. We both looked out of the window and watched as, in the distance, a plane took off from the airport, its blue and red lights winking in the darkness. Seeing it rise into the sky like that, too far away to hear any sound, or to make out the shape of it, was curiously reassuring. For a moment I wished I was on that plane myself, in limbo up there, bound for a new, unknown destination, far away from this earthbound tangle of history and emotion. And I sensed that perhaps Gwydion did, too.