Day of the Accident

by Nuala Ellwood

  I look down at my hands. The shaking has stopped for a moment because I’m pressing my palms into the desk but I know that as soon as I lift them up it will start again. It’s like they are shaking in tandem with my heart.

  ‘Now you mentioned you’re taking codeine,’ continues Julia, turning from her computer to me. ‘How are you getting on with that?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘But to be honest, I can deal with the physical pain.’

  Julia raises her eyebrows.

  ‘The not knowing is just … it’s horrific,’ I explain, choking back the tears. ‘I just want to get my memory back.’

  ‘I know you do,’ says Julia gently.

  ‘It’s frustrating because I can remember snippets,’ I say, dabbing at my eyes with the sodden tissue. ‘But that’s all they are. I have no way of connecting them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I look down at the stark white floor, remembering the flashback I had at Larkfields yesterday: Elspeth begging me not to put her in the car and then that flash of red, the person standing on the riverbank.

  ‘Maggie?’

  I lift my head. Julia is looking at me quizzically.

  ‘I can’t really remember anything, just fragments. It’s like I’m being tormented by these flashbacks, like that’s all I’m going to get.’

  ‘Maggie, there is a good chance that your memory of that evening will return,’ says Julia. ‘But it’s a long process and …’ She pauses then looks down at her keypad as if trying to find the right words to say to me.

  ‘What?’ I say, looking up at her pleadingly. ‘I will get there, won’t I? I will remember what happened that night? I mean, I have to remember.’

  ‘We can try our best,’ she says, folding her hands together. ‘But you have to be prepared for the worst too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘People assume that the brain retains every single memory we have and stores it away neatly but that’s not the case. The brain is very much like a computer. It only saves the memories that are regularly recalled, the rest are just deleted.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I gasp, my hands beginning to tremble again. ‘That I might never remember what happened that night?’

  ‘No,’ says Julia. ‘I’m just trying to make you aware of every eventuality. In cases like yours when the patient has experienced a traumatic event, the brain can actually wipe out a memory. It’s like an act of self-preservation. That way the person doesn’t have to relive the trauma.’

  It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. My chest tightens and the panic attack that has been threatening all morning envelops me with a violent force. My heart pounds so fast it feels like I’m about to die.

  ‘Maggie,’ says Julia, getting out of her seat. ‘Are you okay?’

  She puts her hands on my shoulders. I stare into her eyes, desperately trying to control my breathing, but it’s like I’ve got an elastic band tightening round my heart.

  ‘I can’t … catch my breath,’ I gasp.

  ‘Maggie, listen,’ says Julia, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘I want you to inhale very slowly through your nose, okay?’

  I keep my gaze on her as I follow her instructions.

  ‘Really deeply,’ she says. ‘Inhale as far as you can go then hold that breath until I tell you to let go.’

  I do as she says.

  ‘Now exhale.’

  I breathe out.

  ‘And again,’ she says.

  I inhale. Hold. Then on Julia’s nod, I exhale, and the room stops spinning.

  My heart rate slows down. It’s over.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, feeling embarrassed. ‘I’m okay now.’

  ‘Would you like some water?’ says Julia.

  ‘I have a bottle in my bag,’ I reply, pointing to my crumpled rucksack. ‘In the front pocket.’

  She opens the pocket and takes out the half-drunk bottle of water.

  ‘Here,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘Take small sips.’

  I do as she says. The water is lukewarm but soothing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Julia, cradling the bottle in my hands.

  She looks at me and nods then returns to her chair.

  ‘Do you get those often?’ she says. ‘The anxiety attacks?’

  ‘If I let myself think about my reality for more than a few minutes, yes,’ I say. ‘It’s just when you said I might never be able to remember what happened I …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maggie,’ she says. ‘I really didn’t mean to upset you. I was just giving you the worst-case scenario. But in the light of that panic attack I’m thinking we should look at some options.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Well, there are certain forms of medication that might be suitable. I’m thinking anti-anxiety drugs in particular.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, knowing where this is leading.

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ says Julia, smiling.

  ‘It’s just …’ I begin, my voice quivering. ‘Well, I’ve been on that kind of medication before and it didn’t agree with me.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of your medical history. It was in your notes.’

  She meets my eye and fear flutters through my body.

  ‘It’s okay,’ says Julia, noticing my discomfort. ‘The reason I’m raising this is it reinforces my feeling that we should look at some anti-anxiety medication in the short term. Now, according to your notes you have had some mental health issues in the past.’

  I look down at my feet. Why does it always have to come back to this?

  ‘Maggie, as your GP it would really help to know a bit more about this,’ she says. ‘You were admitted into a psychiatric unit, I believe, when you were a teenager?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, staring at a black mark on the white floor. ‘Almost fifteen.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Julia. ‘And can you tell me why you were admitted?’

  I don’t answer. If I just stay silent then maybe she will stop.

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’

  ‘I understand it’s difficult,’ says Julia. ‘But in order to help I really do need to know a bit more about it.’

  I look up at her. She is sitting forward in her chair, her hands clasped together.

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘It was just a … something bad happened, with me and a boy I knew, that’s all,’ I say, trying not to meet her eye. ‘It was a long time ago. It’s not relevant any more.’

  ‘It must have been pretty serious if you were admitted into psychiatric care,’ says Julia, her voice hardening.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘We got into some trouble,’ I say, staring at the white tiled floor.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Maggie, I just want to try to help you and to do that I –’

  ‘I tried to kill myself,’ I say, raising my voice. ‘Okay? That’s why they sent me to that place.’

  It comes out in a rush. It’s almost a relief to say it, after all this time.

  Julia looks at me for a moment without speaking. Then she nods her head and turns to the computer.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to pry,’ she says as she begins to type. ‘But any information you can give me at this stage really will help me come up with an appropriate care plan.’

  She stops typing then looks up at me as if waiting for me to speak but I have no words. I feel like I’ve just been cut open and I’m sitting here, raw and exposed.

  ‘You suffered from an eating disorder,’ she says, her eyes fixed on me. ‘For over ten years I believe.’

  I nod my head. ‘That’s right,’ I say shamefully. ‘But that was a long time ago. I got better.’

  ‘It was anorexia nervosa, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, willing her to stop. ‘Look, I don’t want to talk about that. It’s in my past. I told you, I got better.’


  ‘I know this is difficult, Maggie, but if I’m to help you then I do need to know as much as possible about your background.’ She smiles and it puts me at ease. That feeling I had when she brought me home yesterday returns. This is a good person. I can trust her.

  ‘The anorexia started before I went into the unit,’ I tell her. ‘When I tried to kill myself and it didn’t work, well, I decided I’d starve instead. My mum couldn’t cope with it so she –’ A lump lodges itself in my throat. ‘I’m sorry, this is just … it’s really hard.’

  ‘I understand,’ says Julia softly. ‘And you’ve done really well to tell me this much. Before we go on I’d just like to ask you a couple more questions, nothing too probing, I promise. Is that okay?’

  I nod.

  ‘We talked just then about the anorexia and where you think it stemmed from,’ she says, leaning back slightly in her chair. ‘Now in a lot of cases it can come about due to a traumatic event and I’m wondering …’

  ‘If you’re asking whether I’ve gone anorexic again, the answer’s no,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘Sure, I don’t feel like eating at the moment because my stomach is so twisted with sadness but … it’s a different feeling.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when I was in the grip of anorexia food was all I could think about,’ I say, remembering the room in the unit, the smell of boiled vegetables in the air, the weekly weigh-in. ‘I was obsessed with it. I would dream about it. Now I don’t give food a second thought. All I can think about is Elspeth and Sean and what happened that night at the river. That’s the difference.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Julia. ‘But I still think it’s something we’ll need to monitor.’

  ‘I understand your concern,’ I say. ‘But I don’t see why my background is important. What is important is getting my memory back.’

  ‘Maggie, we can use your background to get you out of that B & B,’ she says, looking up from the computer screen. ‘Which I don’t think is a suitable environment for someone in your current state. Your medical history just strengthens the case.’

  She starts typing again. I sit and watch her, feeling utterly disconnected; a woman drowning on dry land.

  ‘So, as your GP,’ continues Julia, ‘I’m going to call Lewes Social Services today and strongly suggest that as a mentally vulnerable patient you be moved into more stable accommodation as soon as possible. I’m also going to prescribe a course of antidepressants to deal with your anxiety.’

  ‘Antidepressants,’ I say, my breath growing shallow again. ‘Are you sure? The last time I took them it wasn’t a good experience.’

  ‘The ones I’m recommending are much more advanced than what you were prescribed in your teens,’ says Julia. ‘Things have improved a lot since then.’

  She looks at me and I feel like I’m being judged. She’s seen my medical notes. God knows what she must think of me.

  ‘What happened when I was a teenager … it was a very long time ago,’ I say. ‘I was so young … I didn’t know what I was doing. But I would never do something like that again. I didn’t harm Elspeth, you know that, don’t you? I loved my daughter more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.’

  Julia stares at me for a moment as though she’s assessing whether I’m telling the truth. Then she takes a deep breath.

  ‘Of course. Now,’ she says, ‘the reason I mentioned your medical history wasn’t so I could haul you over the coals for your past behaviour. As I said, it simply adds weight to the case for getting you into more secure accommodation and tackling your anxiety issues. Both of which I consider to be urgent considerations and crucial to your recovery process.’

  She stands up and retrieves a slip of paper from the printer.

  ‘Here’s your prescription,’ she says. ‘You can pop it into our on-site pharmacy. It’s on the first floor.’

  I take the prescription and ease myself out of the chair.

  ‘And my memory,’ I say as we walk to the door. ‘You think it’s gone for good, don’t you?’

  ‘The truth is, I don’t know, Maggie,’ she says. ‘But what I’m trying to do here is help you get back on your feet, try to piece your life together. And who knows, with the medication I’ve prescribed and more stable accommodation, perhaps your memory will return. But you have to remember that it’s not a race, your mind and body have a lot of healing to do.’

  I nod my head meekly.

  ‘Now let’s see how that medication goes,’ she says. ‘Any problems, just come straight back and we’ll reassess. And in the meantime I’ll put in a call to the Social Services team. Does that all sound okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, trying to be upbeat. ‘It all sounds very sensible.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, opening the door. ‘Now take care of yourself and remember that breathing exercise.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I say as I step out into the waiting room.

  ‘Good,’ says Julia. ‘And, Maggie, one step at a time, okay?’

  I turn to answer but she has closed the door and gone back into her room, the smell of her perfume trailing in her wake. I look down at the prescription in my hands. A year ago if someone had handed me antidepressants I’d have flushed them down the loo. Now, though, I realize that I need them. If I can get rid of this anxiety then I can start to think straight and once my head is clear then I can focus on what needs to be done. If Julia is right, and there is a possibility that my memory is gone for good, then I’ll have to find other ways of getting to the bottom of what happened that night, and the only person who can help me with that is Sean.

  As I make my way across the waiting room I make a vow to myself that, no matter what, I am going to find him. But I can’t do it on my own.

  25

  Three hours later I am standing outside the police station. Sonia has gone home. After collecting my prescription we went into town together to buy a phone and managed to find a cheap model that has internet access. Though we still had to stop several times along the way so that I could take my inhaler, I feel a little of my strength returning. I’m determined to solve this now.

  I look up at the glass doors and try to gather my thoughts. I’m holding a piece of paper with the name of the police officer who visited me in hospital. DS Grayling. The one whose voice reminded me of the girl I shared a room with in the psychiatric unit all those years ago. Hayley Redmond, that was her name. She had light-brown hair and freckles all over her face and chest. I remember she came from Leeds and was a self-harmer. Her arms and legs were covered in scabs and scars from where she had slashed herself. ‘Poor girl,’ my mother had commented on one of her rare visits. ‘She’ll never be able to wear a sundress.’

  I try to wash all thoughts of the unit from my head. It’s not helpful to be thinking about the past now. I have to focus, remember that I’m here to find Sean. I have to ignore the pains in my legs, where my underused muscles are slowly coming back to life, ignore the panic that is fluttering through me and start behaving like a fully functioning adult.

  But it’s easier said than done and when I step through the glass doors and enter the busy entrance area I feel bewildered. I look around for someone to help me, then I see a glass unit on the left. There’s a large bald police officer sitting behind it. I make my way over and stand for a moment waiting while he finishes typing something into his computer. Then he looks up and nods his head.

  ‘Hello there. What can I do for you?’

  His voice is loud, and I feel small and insignificant in his presence.

  ‘Erm, I’m here to see DS Grayling,’ I say nervously.

  ‘You have an appointment.’

  It’s more a statement than a question.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ he says, sighing. ‘Well, it’s going to be difficult to see her if you haven’t got an appointment. Can you tell me what this is about?’

  I open my mouth to speak but I can’t get the words out. I look at the man. He glares back impatiently.


  ‘I was … involved … in an accident,’ I say, the words slowly unlocking. ‘DS Grayling has been investigating it.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ he says, looking down at his computer.

  ‘It’s Maggie Allan. The accident happened in the river just outside the Plough Inn. My little girl drowned.’

  The man makes an ‘o’ with his mouth and something resembling pity flashes across his hardened face.

  ‘Let me see if I can contact DS Grayling for you,’ he says, his voice softer now. ‘Bear with me a moment.’

  He lifts the phone receiver, presses a button then waits.

  ‘Hi, Cathy, it’s Des. Yeah, not too bad. Listen, I’ve got a Maggie Allan here at the desk. She’d like to speak to you if you’re free. I don’t know. I could ask … Are you sure? All right then, Cathy, see you in a sec.’

  He puts the receiver down and the ghost of a smile flitters across his face.

  ‘She’ll be with you shortly,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you go and sit over there?’ He points behind my head. I turn and see a small waiting area. I thank him then make my way over to it.

  When I sit down, tiny silver stars dance in front of my eyes. The anxiety is still as sharp as it was. I took the first of my anti-depressant pills an hour ago, but Julia told me it would be at least a couple of days before they start to take effect. I wipe my forehead. It is damp and clammy.

  ‘Mrs Allan?’

  I look up and see DS Grayling standing over me. She looks different to the last time I saw her. She’s had honey-coloured lowlights put in her hair and she’s wearing pale-pink lipstick. It makes her look softer.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, extending her hand. ‘My colleague said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I had some questions and you said at the hospital I could get in touch if I needed to …’

  ‘That’s fine. Listen, why don’t we go somewhere a bit quieter?’ she says, perhaps sensing that I’m starting to ramble. ‘There’s a free room along the corridor. It’s just this way.’

  I follow her past the glass reception desk and into the corridor. The walls are covered with posters proclaiming: ‘See it. Say it. Sorted.’ The words run through my head like a stuck record as DS Grayling ushers me into the room and closes the door behind us. See it. Say it. Sorted. If only life were that simple.