“When you began working on the podcast, it must have triggered another episode. A shift in your psyche. You’d been very engaged with these events.”
“Obsessed. That’s what Matt says.”
“Words are difficult to choose sometimes.” She pauses. “I believe that the podcast is what caused the schism to open in your psyche. As if you were split in two. The coincidence was too much for you.”
“The coincidence?”
“You’ve been consumed by this tragedy, for years. Then out of the blue the very paper you work for decides to investigate the case. You thought it was a divine sign maybe, but it was just a coincidence. You took it upon yourself to get involved with the podcast at every level. We may never know when you became Molly Forster, but it was probably a gradual process. A fantasy at first. Then over time, a suspicion. Then images came that you mistook for memories. But they weren’t yours, they were just your brain filling the blanks of what you’d been hearing. When the podcast happened, it’s also possible that at some subconscious level, you were frightened that the podcast would reveal you’re not Molly Forster. So you had to have complete control.”
I really am, and have always been, Rachel Holloway. I say this to myself, to see how it fits.
“You’re fragile, Rachel, and no wonder. Life wasn’t always kind to you, was it? The death of your mother would have been terribly hard on you.”
I nod. “I’m starting to remember. About me, I mean, the real me, Rachel Holloway.”
“Good. And I have every confidence that you will recover all those memories, yes. And that you will realise that Molly Forster is a person separate from you.”
I bring the sheet to dry my cheeks this time. It feels rough against my skin, dry.
“Rachel…”
I look at Barb.
“Can you tell me about how it was to be Molly? Where you went? What you did?”
“What do you mean? In my head?”
She brings her chair closer to the bed. “Why don’t we start with the day you found out about the podcast.”
So I do. I tell her everything I can think of about those last few weeks, from the day Chris told us about the bloody podcast until now. It takes ages. I don’t think I leave anything out. Well, maybe one or two details.
She doesn’t write anything down, mostly she nods, asks a pointed question, mulls over the answer.
“And here we are. I woke up in this bed an hour ago and, you’re here.”
“Thank you, Rachel. I’m grateful for your candour.” She hesitates and then adds, “Your friend told me about your visit.”
“Vivian?”
“Yes. I know that you were convinced her friend…”
“Peter.”
“That’s right. That’s a big jump into acute paranoia.”
“What do you mean?”
“Feeling that people around you are pretending to be someone else, that they want to harm you, it’s a big shift for you. We need to understand what may have triggered it.”
I shake my head, look away. “I have no idea.”
“You must be tired, I’ll let you get some rest.”
“When is my father coming?”
“He couldn’t get a flight until tomorrow, but Matt has all the details.” She checks her watch. “I’m sure Matt will be here soon. He can tell you himself.”
She has one hand on the doorknob, almost out the door, and I call out to her. “Barb… what do you think my prognosis is?”
“We’ll be doing an evaluation shortly, but there’s no need to worry.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I’m your doctor,” she replies, smiling, before closing the door after her.
And not a very good one after all, Barb.
Forty-One
If Barbara really wants to believe that the name I was born with is Rachel Holloway, that’s her choice, I guess. But then what’s the point of these professions? Barbara is a psychiatrist. Isn’t she supposed to spot the difference between the truth and a lie? I spent my entire life hiding my true identity and now I don’t know why I bothered. It’s taken me twelve years to drum up the courage to tell someone, my name is Molly Forster, and for what?
Maybe it’s better for me that way. Let them all believe I’m Rachel Holloway. The only problem will be when Mr Holloway shows up, all the way from Sydney, Australia. He may not have been in touch with Rachel for the past nine years, but he’ll know I’m not Rachel when he sees me.
She almost got to me though, Barbara. There was a moment there, where I was contemplating the reality that I really am Rachel Holloway, complete fruit cake. When enough people tell you that you’re crazy, you start to wonder if you are. But I know I’m not Rachel Holloway.
I met the real Rachel Holloway when I returned from Barcelona. I was in London, homeless, again. I zeroed in on the same places I used to hang around before, like a homing pigeon. It had only been a year since I’d left, or not much more, but most of the old faces were gone. That’s the thing with the abandoned. You either find a path for yourself, or someone finds one for you. But you rarely stay still.
I was almost nineteen and I looked young for my age. She may have been only a couple of years older, but she looked like she was a hundred. That’s what crystal meth will do to you. And the rest. The things you do to get the money to buy it, for one.
I was asleep in the doorway of a building. I didn’t mean to fall asleep but I’d been up for three days and it just happened. Until she nudged me awake with her toe.
“You want to come up?”
That’s how naive I was, I thought she was being nice to me. I was desperate for a bed, so I said yes. She flicked her cigarette butt on the ground without bothering to put it out. I scrambled to get my things together, which was only a coat and a backpack.
We went up the three flights of stairs to her room. It stank. The whole building reeked of urine and stale cigarettes. And something else, like vomit, maybe. The smell you get sometimes in an old pub where they never bother to clean the carpet.
“What brought you here, then?” she asked.
I shrugged. I told her a tale of abuse, of a father who beat me, and of a mother who died too soon, while she rolled cigarettes and drank red wine from a cardboard box.
“Yeah, my mother’s dead too. I’ve been on the street for a year, I reckon. I don’t know what day it is anymore.” She tucked a strand of greasy hair behind her ear. It was bleached blond, but it showed at least an inch of dark roots. Like everyone else around here.
“What about your dad?” I asked.
“He found some other bitch who didn’t know what she was getting herself into, right after my mum died, like days, I’m not kidding. He said he couldn’t help me anymore, that I’d brought it upon myself by my behaviour, but that was bullshit. He just wanted to be rid of me so he could fuck off with his new squeeze. The prick.”
I didn’t want any wine and she didn’t offer. But she said she had to go out and if I wanted, I could lay down on her bed for a while. It was just a mattress on the floor, with some cheap bedcovers on top of it. But I didn’t care. I was happy to be safe.
“You can stay over tonight, but it’ll have to be the floor. I’ll want my bed back when I return.”
I was so grateful I could have wept.
I was awoken by the sensation of a foot pressing down on my shin. I opened my eyes. There was a large man, looking down on me. I still remember the pungent smell of aftershave.
“What’s your name?” he asked. He was wearing a shiny dark jacket. He hooked his thumbs in his jeans’ pockets and I caught the spark of a gold chain around his wrist.
I sat up.
“Sorry, I’ll go. I shouldn’t be here,” I said.
I stood but he put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down. I lost my balance, stumbled backwards and my head hit the wall.
“What’s the rush, pretty girl? I just got here!”
I rubbed the back of my head. Behind
him I could see her, sitting at the table. I wanted to call out to her but didn’t even know her name. She was counting money, licking her index finger, making a little pile.
The big guy smirked. “I’ll go first, shall I?” He undid the belt of his trousers, licking his lips. I sprung forward, screaming, and rammed my head into his stomach as hard as I could. He stumbled backwards onto the floor.
“What the fuck!?” she yelled, my Good Samaritan, but I was already out the door, running down those steps two by two, my hand flying down the bannister, and I was all the way down the street by the time I realised I didn’t have my backpack.
All I had was me, running.
Run, Molly!
Forty-Two
“Hey, hon.”
I open my eyes, knowing already it’s Vivian.
“Hey, you too.” I sit up, making a show of how gingerly the effort is. I don’t know why. Because I’m in a hospital maybe, it makes me behave like I’ve been in an accident.
“How are you feeling?” she asks sweetly. I pat the bed beside me for her to sit down.
“Like shit. You?”
She laughs and pats my hand. “I’m sorry, about yesterday.”
“Was it only yesterday?”
“‘I’m afraid so.”
“Oh. Well, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”
“Matt called me. I didn’t know, Rach. That you’d been so...”
“Sucked into another reality?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, neither did I.” I pluck imaginary lint from the thin cotton blanket. “You tried to help me. I know that.”
“I should have gone home with you. Talked to Matt with you, it would have been easier.”
“I wouldn’t have let you.”
“You don’t still think…”
“No.”
“I didn’t make the connection, you know, with the other time. I knew you were confused over Peter, but I thought you were just seeing danger and plucking the scariest name you could from your head. I didn’t know you thought then too, that you were, you know.”
“Molly Forster?”
“Yeah. Shit. That’s full-on. Do you still think that?”
I heave myself up a bit more and I put my hand behind her neck, gently pull her head close to me. Then I whisper in her ear, “I am Molly Forster.”
She recoils, and I laugh. “Sorry! Sorry, I was kidding.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I know. Sorry. Is Matt coming soon?”
“I don’t think he’s coming yet.”
“Why?”
“He’s pretty upset.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Of course.”
“What is he upset about?”
“It might not make sense to you, but he’s in shock about Gracie.”
I pull back the covers to get out of bed, but she puts a hand out to stop me. “About her name. He said that you insisted on calling her Grace. Because she was a miracle you said. Now he finds out she’s named after that dead girl in Whitbrook.”
I wince.
She shrugs. “You have to admit, it’s kinda sick.”
“I have something called dissociative personality disorder. Haven’t you heard?”
“Matt loves you, Rach, you know that. But he has to think about himself, and Grace.”
My heart starts beating faster. “Think about what?”
“About what’s best for Grace, for her to be safe.”
“What? Are you kidding? I’m not a danger to my daughter! Did he say that?”
“You have to understand, you need to get well.”
“I am well!”
“No, you’re not, honey. It’s not just that you called your daughter after some dead kid, it’s also, you know, that other time.”
I don’t need to ask what she’s talking about. It seems no one will let me forget it for as long as I live.
“Do you remember, Rachel? What happened then?”
I nod. “Of course I remember.”
“But do you remember how it started?” she asks.
I sigh. I’d taken Gracie out, in the pram. It was a lovely sunny day, warm and bright after what felt like weeks of rain. Matt was at work, Gracie was six weeks old.
There’s a small park down our street. It doesn’t have swings or a sandpit, nothing like that, which didn’t matter since she was so small. I bought a coffee and sat on the bench. I took her out of the pram and I was holding her, enjoying the feel of my baby in my arm, the smell of her skin as I nuzzled her cheek.
“Is it a girl?” a voice beside me asked. Everyone loves babies. It’s what we all have in common. Humanity. People who wouldn’t give you the time of day in normal circumstances will spend half an hour cooing over how pretty your baby’s face is. I turned, a smile already on my lips, and came face-to-face with Hugo Hennessy.
Or so I thought. It wasn’t him, I know that now. But back then, some strange chemical reaction made me think it was.
I ran away, clutching my screaming baby. I left the pram behind and ran all day. I don’t think the word terrified could do justice to my feelings. I sat in the gutter in a small alleyway and rocked her until she went to sleep, then I rented a cheap room in a hostel.
I wish I could explain to Vivian that I was, and still am, in a way, a little bit crazy, a little bit broken. Being hunted for so long will do that to you. But I can’t, obviously.
That poor man was stunned at what happened and he went to the police to explain. He even brought the pram with him.
“It took almost a week for them to find you.”
I nod, wiping my tears.
“She almost died, Rach.”
“No she didn’t!”
“Shh, don’t get upset.”
“I was trying to protect her!”
“She hadn’t been washed, or fed. She was dehydrated, if they hadn’t found you when they did, who knows what might have happened.”
“Don’t say that, please.”
“I’m just—”
“I know, okay? I was there! But there’s a lot you don’t understand.”
She stands, straightens her skirt.
“You’re leaving?”
“Peter is waiting for me. And I think you should get some sleep.”
“Don’t be angry with me,” I plead.
“Oh Rach, I’m not angry. I’m just really worried about you.”
“I know. I’ll be okay. I just—I made a mistake.”
“Just get some rest, hon.” She turns to leave. “Oh, you haven’t heard the news.”
“What news?”
“The cops have reopened the case against Dennis Dawson!”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope, all thanks to you and Jacob, too.”
“Oh my God, that’s fantastic!”
“I know! Apparently, the woman who worked at the chemist has come forward. She remembered the case of course, because she’d heard that night that the family had been killed, and then the next morning she heard that Dennis had been arrested. She thought it was odd, since he was at the chemist at the time of the murders. But she assumed the police knew what they were doing, as most people do. So there you go! You were right!”
It’s the most incredible news, but I’m sad for Emily Dawson, who achieved what she wanted, but died anyway.
I swing my legs out of the bed. “I need to get out of here, Viv. I have to go home.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t think you’re ready, have some rest, okay? Enjoy it while you can.”
After she’s gone I close my eyes. Maybe I should get some rest, but that’s impossible right now. My brain is spinning with the news. I want to talk to Chris. And Jacob.
“How are you feeling?”
Reluctantly, I open my eyes again. The nurse checks something on her clipboard and hands me a small cup that holds two white pills. The badge on her blouse says ‘Jackie’. Sh
e has a nice smile. Dimpled.
“I don’t know. Okay I think.” I take the small pills from her, pop them in my mouth and take a sip of water from the cup she hands me.
“These will help you sleep.”
“Jackie?”
“Yes?”
“Can I leave here? If I want to?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. You’re under our care.”
“Do you know how long?”
“Dr Morrison will come by tomorrow morning, he’s our resident psychiatrist. He’ll do an assessment and manage your treatment.” She pats the bottom of the bed. “You’ll be out of here in no time. You’ll see.”
My eyelids are heavy. I want to ask what she’s given me but she’s already gone. I should have checked. I close my eyes again and a sensation of falling washes over me. I really need to sleep.
I hear the door click softly. I think someone is in the room. I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t have the strength. I figure Jackie will do her thing and leave again. There’s a smell of flowers. I feel a breath on my cheek. A soft puff of air.
“Hello, Molly.”
Forty-Three
My eyes fly open. Peter—no—Hugo is standing over me.
“You can’t be here,” I mumble.
“Wow. It really is you.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m Rachel Holloway,” I slur.
“I think we both know that’s not true.”
He sits down on the chair by the bed. “I can’t believe this day has come, finally. I have been looking for you for a very long time, Molly Forster.”
His voice resonates with me in a way I hadn’t noticed before. But now it does. It’s like something deep in my core has woken up. He’s speaking differently—entirely differently—than when he was Peter. Even through my haze, I can see that his mannerisms and posture have completely changed.
“Are you cold, Molly? You’re shaking.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s no way to treat an old friend, Molly. You know, I wasn’t completely sure it was you. When Matt said you coloured your hair I thought, yeah, probably, it’s probably you. But I needed more, to be absolutely certain. Calling my house? Thank you, Molly. Your little slip up on the podcast was gold, by the way. I am Molly Foster. Gold! Then getting your boyfriend to call my house? Cherry on top. Pity you never heard of call forwarding. When Matt called, I was a few blocks away from you. Don’t you love technology?”
Missing Molly Page 20
