RACHEL

MONDAY, AUGUST 12, 2013
MORNING
We’re in the car park at Wilton Lake. We used tocome here sometimes, to go swimming on really hotdays. Today we’re just sitting side by side in Tom’scar, windows down, letting the warm breeze in. Iwant to lean my head back against the headrest andclose my eyes and smell the pine and listen to thebirds. I want to hold his hand and stay here all day.
He called me last night and asked if we could meet.
I asked if this was about the thing with Anna, seeingher on Blenheim Road. I said it had nothing to dowith them—I hadn’t been there to bother them. Hebelieved me, or at least he said he did, but he stillsounded wary, a little anxious. He said he needed totalk to me.
“Please, Rach,” he said, and that was it—the way hesaid it, just like the old days, I thought my heartwould burst. “I’ll come and pick you up, OK?”
I woke up before dawn and was in the kitchenmaking coffee at five. I washed my hair and shavedmy legs and put on makeup and changed fourtimes. And I felt guilty. Stupid, I know, but I thoughtabout Scott—about what we did and how it felt—andI wished I hadn’t done it, because it felt like abetrayal. Of Tom. The man who left me for anotherwoman two years ago. I can’t help how I feel.
Tom arrived just before nine. I went downstairs andthere he was, leaning on his car, wearing jeans andan old grey T-shirt—old enough that I can rememberexactly how the fabric felt against my cheek when Ilay across his chest.
“I’ve got the morning off work,” he said when hesaw me. “I thought we could go for a drive.”
We didn’t say much on the drive to the lake. Heasked me how I was and told me I looked well. Hedidn’t mention Anna until we were sitting there inthe car park and I was thinking about holding hishand.
“Yeah, um, Anna said she saw you?.?.?. and shethought you might have been coming from ScottHipwell’s house. Is that right?” He’s turned to faceme, but he isn’t actually looking at me. He seemsalmost embarrassed to be asking me the question.
“You don’t have to worry about it,” I tell him. “I’vebeen seeing Scott?.?.?. I mean, not like that, not seeinghim. We’ve become friendly. That’s all. It’s difficult toexplain. I’ve just been helping him out a bit. Youknow—obviously you know—that he’s been goingthrough a terrible time.”
Tom nods, but he still doesn’t look at me. Insteadhe chews on the nail of his left forefinger, a suresign that he’s worried.
“But Rach?.?.?.”
I wish he’d stop calling me that, because it makesme feel light-headed, it makes me want to smile. It’sbeen so long since I’ve heard him say my name likethat, and it’s making me hope. Maybe things aren’tgoing so well with Anna, maybe he remembers someof the good things about us, maybe there’s a part ofhim that misses me.
“I’m just?.?.?. I’m really concerned about this.”
He looks up at me at last, his big brown eyes lockon mine and he moves his hand a little, as if he’sgoing to take mine, but then he thinks better of itand stops. “I know—well, I don’t really know muchabout it, but Scott?.?.?. I know that he seems like aperfectly decent bloke, but you can’t be sure, canyou?”
“You think he did it?”
He shakes his head, swallows hard. “No, no. I’mnot saying that. I know?.?.?. Well, Anna says that theyargued a lot. That Megan sometimes seemed a littleafraid of him.”
“Anna says?” My instinct is to dismiss anything thatbitch says, but I can’t get away from the feeling Ihad when I was at Scott’s house on Saturday, thatsomething was off, something was wrong.
He nods. “Megan did some babysitting for us whenEvie was tiny. Jesus, I don’t even like to think aboutthat now, after what’s been in the papers lately. Butit goes to show, doesn’t it, that you think you knowsomeone and then?.?.?.” He sighs heavily. “I don’twant anything bad to happen. To you.” He smiles atme then, gives a little shrug. “I still care about you,Rach,” he says, and I have to look away because Idon’t want him to see the tears in my eyes. Heknows, of course, and he puts his hand on myshoulder and says, “I’m so sorry.”
We sit for a while in comfortable silence. I bitedown hard on my lip to stop myself from crying. Idon’t want to make this any harder for him, I reallydon’t.
“I’m all right, Tom. I’m getting better. I am.”
“I’m really glad to hear that. You’re not—”
“Drinking? Less. It’s getting better.”
“That’s good. You look well. You look?.?.?. pretty.” Hesmiles at me and I can feel myself blush. He looksaway quickly. “Are you?.?.?. um?.?.?. are you all right,you know, financially?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really? Are you really, Rachel, because I don’t wantyou to—”
“I’m OK.”
“Will you take a little? Fuck, I don’t want to soundlike an idiot, but will you just take a little? To tideyou over?”
“Honestly, I’m OK.”
He leans across then, and I can hardly breathe, Iwant to touch him so badly. I want to smell hisneck, bury my face in that broad, muscular gapbetween his shoulder blades. He opens the glove box.
“Let me just write you a cheque, just in case, youknow? You don’t even have to cash it.”
I start laughing. “You still keep a chequebook in theglove box?”
He starts laughing, too. “You never know,” he says.
“You never know when you’re going to have to bailout your insane ex-wife?”
He rubs his thumb over my cheekbone. I raise myhand and take his in mine and kiss his palm.
“Promise me,” he says gruffly, “you’ll stay awayfrom Scott Hipwell. Promise me, Rach.”
“I promise,” I say, and I mean it, and I can hardlysee for joy, because I realize that he’s not justworried about me, he’s jealous.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2013
EARLY MORNING
I’m on the train, looking out at a pile of clothes onthe side of the tracks. Dark-blue cloth. A dress, Ithink, with a black belt. I can’t imagine how it endedup down there. That certainly wasn’t left behind bythe engineers. We’re moving, glacially though, so Ihave plenty of time to look, and it seems to me thatI’ve seen that dress before, I’ve seen someonewearing it. I can’t remember when. It’s very cold.
Too cold for a dress like that. I think it might snowsoon.
I’m looking forward to seeing Tom’s house—myhouse. I know that he’ll be there, sitting outside. Iknow he’ll be alone, waiting for me. He’ll stand upwhen we go past, he’ll wave and smile. I know allthis.
First, though, we stop in front of number fifteen.
Jason and Jess are there, drinking wine on theterrace, which is odd, because it isn’t yet eight thirtyin the morning. Jess is wearing a dress with redflowers on it, she’s wearing little silver earrings withbirds on them—I can see them moving back andforth as she talks. Jason is standing behind her, hishands on her shoulders. I smile at them. I want towave, but I don’t want people to think I’m weird. Ijust watch, and I wish that I had a glass of wine,too.
We’ve been here for ages and the train still isn’tmoving. I wish we’d get going, because if we don’tTom won’t be there and I’ll miss him. I can seeJess’s face now, more clearly than usual—it’ssomething to do with the light, which is very bright,shining directly on her like a spotlight. Jason is stillbehind her, but his hands aren’t on her shouldersnow, they’re on her neck, and she looksuncomfortable, distressed. He’s choking her. I can seeher face turning red. She’s crying. I get to my feet,I’m banging on the window and I’m screaming athim to stop, but he can’t hear me. Someone grabsmy arm—the guy with the red hair. He tells me tosit down, says that we’re not far from the next stop.
“It’ll be too late by then,” I tell him, and he says,“It’s already too late, Rachel,” and when I look backat the terrace, Jess is on her feet and Jason has afistful of her blond hair and he’s going to smash herskull against the wall.
MORNING
It’s hours since I woke, but I’m still shaky, my legstrembling as I sit down in my seat. I woke from thedream with a sense of dread, a feeling thateverything I thought I knew was wrong, thateverything I’d seen—of Scott, of Megan—I’d made upin my head, that none of it was real. But if my mindis playing tricks, isn’t it more likely to be the dreamthat’s illusory? Those things Tom said to me in thecar, all mixed up with guilt over what happened withScott the other night: the dream was just my brainpicking all that apart.
Still, that familiar sense of dread grows when thetrain stops at the signal, and I’m almost too afraid tolook up. The window is shut, there’s nothing there.
It’s quiet, peaceful. Or it’s abandoned. Megan’s chairis still out on the terrace, empty. It’s warm today,but I can’t stop shivering.
I have to keep in mind that the things Tom saidabout Scott and Megan came from Anna, and noone knows better than I do that she can’t betrusted.
Dr. Abdic’s welcome this morning seems a littlehalfhearted to me. He’s almost stooped over, asthough he’s in pain, and when he shakes my handhis grip is weaker than before. I know that Scott saidthey wouldn’t release any information about thepregnancy, but I wonder if they’ve told him. Iwonder if he’s thinking about Megan’s child.
I want to tell him about the dream, but I can’tthink of a way to describe it without showing myhand, so instead I ask him about recoveringmemories, about hypnosis.
“Well,” he says, spreading his fingers out in front ofhim on the desk, “there are therapists who believethat hypnosis can be used to recover repressedmemories, but it’s very controversial. I don’t do it,nor do I recommend it to my patients. I’m notconvinced that it helps, and in some instances I thinkit can be harmful.” He gives me a half smile. “I’msorry. I know this isn’t what you want to hear. Butwith the mind, I think, there are no quick fixes.”
“Do you know therapists who do this kind ofthing?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’trecommend one. You have to bear in mind thatsubjects under hypnosis are very suggestible. Thememories that are ‘retrieved’”—he puts air quotesaround the word—“cannot always be trusted. Theyare not real memories at all.”
I can’t risk it. I couldn’t bear to have other imagesin my head, yet more memories that I can’t trust,memories that merge and morph and shift, foolingme into believing that what is is not, telling me tolook one way when really I should be lookinganother way.
“So what do you suggest, then?” I ask him. “Isthere anything I can do to try to recover what I’velost?”
He rubs his long fingers back and forth over hislips. “It’s possible, yes. Just talking about a particularmemory can help you to clarify things, going overthe details in a setting in which you feel safe andrelaxed?.?.?.”
“Like here, for example?”
He smiles. “Like here, if indeed you do feel safeand relaxed here.” His voice rises, he’s asking aquestion that I don’t answer. The smile fades.
“Focusing on senses other than sight often helps.
Sounds, the feel of things?.?.?. smell is particularlyimportant when it comes to recall. Music can bepowerful, too. If you are thinking of a particularcircumstance, a particular day, you might considerretracing your steps, returning to the scene of thecrime, as it were.” It’s a common enough expression,but the hairs on the back of my neck are standingup, my scalp tingling. “Do you want to talk about aparticular incident, Rachel?”
I do, of course, but I can’t tell him that, so I tellhim about that time with the golf club, when Iattacked Tom after we’d had a fight.
I remember waking that morning filled with anxiety,instantly knowing that something terrible hadhappened. Tom wasn’t in bed with me, and I feltrelieved. I lay on my back, playing it over. Iremembered crying and crying and telling him that Iloved him. He was angry, telling me to go to bed; hedidn’t want to listen to it any longer.
I tried to think back to earlier in the evening, towhere the argument started. We were having such agood time. I’d done grilled prawns with lots of chilliand coriander, and we were drinking this deliciousChenin Blanc that he’d been given by a gratefulclient. We ate outside on the patio, listening to theKillers and Kings of Leon, albums we used to playwhen we first got together.
I remember us laughing and kissing. I remembertelling him a story about something—he didn’t find itas funny as I did. I remember feeling upset. Then Iremember us shouting at each other, trippingthrough the sliding doors as I went inside, beingfurious that he didn’t rush to help me up.
But here’s the thing: “When I got up that morning,I went downstairs. He wouldn’t talk to me, barelyeven looked at me. I had to beg him to tell me whatit was that I’d done. I kept telling him how sorry Iwas. I was desperately panicky. I can’t explain why, Iknow it makes no sense, but if you can’t rememberwhat you’ve done, your mind just fills in all theblanks and you think the worst possible things?.?.?.”
Kamal nods. “I can imagine. Go on.”
“So eventually, just to get me to shut up, he toldme. Oh, I’d taken offence at something he’d said,and then I’d kept at it, needling and bitching, and Iwouldn’t let it go, and he tried to get me to stop, hetried to kiss and make up, but I wouldn’t have it.
And then he decided to just leave me, to go upstairsto bed, and that’s when it happened. I chased himup the stairs with a golf club in my hand and triedto take his head off. I’d missed, fortunately. I justtook a chunk out of the plaster in the hall.”
Kamal’s expression doesn’t change. He isn’t shocked.
He just nods. “So, you know what happened, butyou can’t quite feel it, is that right? You want to beable to remember it for yourself, to see it andexperience it in your own memory, so that—how didyou put it?—so that it belongs to you? And that way,you’ll feel fully responsible?”
“Well.” I shrug. “Yes. I mean, that’s partly it. Butthere’s something more. And it happened later, muchlater—weeks, maybe months afterwards. I keptthinking about that night. Every time I passed thathole in the wall I thought about it. Tom said he wasgoing to patch it up, but he didn’t, and I didn’t wantto pester him about it. One day I was standingthere—it was evening and I was coming out of thebedroom and I just stopped, because I remembered.
I was on the floor, my back to the wall, sobbing andsobbing, Tom standing over me, begging me to calmdown, the golf club on the carpet next to my feet,and I felt it, I felt it. I was terrified. The memorydoesn’t fit with the reality, because I don’t rememberanger, raging fury. I remember fear.”
EVENING
I’ve been thinking about what Kamal said, aboutreturning to the scene of the crime, so instead ofgoing home I’ve come to Witney, and instead ofscurrying past the underpass, I walk slowly anddeliberately right up to its mouth. I place my handsagainst the cold, rough brick at the entrance andclose my eyes, running my fingers over it. Nothingcomes. I open my eyes and look around. The roadis very quiet: just one woman walking in mydirection a few hundred yards off, no one else. Nocars driving past, no children shouting, only a veryfaint siren in the distance. The sun slides behind acloud and I feel cold, immobilized on the threshold ofthe tunnel, unable to go any farther. I turn to leave.
The woman I saw walking towards me a momentago is just turning the corner; she’s wearing adeep-blue trench wrapped around her. She glancesup at me as she passes and it’s then that it comesto me. A woman?.?.?. blue?.?.?. the quality of the light. Iremember: Anna. She was wearing a blue dress witha black belt and was walking away from me, walkingfast, almost like she did the other day, only this timeshe did look back, she looked over her shoulder andthen she stopped. A car pulled up next to her onthe pavement—a red car. Tom’s car. She leaneddown to speak to him through the window and thenopened the door and got in, and the car droveaway.
I remember that. On that Saturday night I stoodhere, at the entrance to the underpass, and watchedAnna getting into Tom’s car. Only I can’t beremembering right, because that doesn’t make sense.
Tom came to look for me in the car. Anna wasn’t inthe car with him—she was at home. That’s what thepolice told me. It doesn’t make sense, and I couldscream with the frustration of it, the not knowing, theuselessness of my own brain.
I cross the street and walk along the left-hand sideof Blenheim Road. I stand under the trees for awhile, opposite number twenty-three. They’verepainted the front door. It was dark green when Ilived there; it’s black now. I don’t remember noticingthat before. I preferred the green. I wonder whatelse is different inside? The baby’s room, obviously,but I wonder whether they still sleep in our bed,whether she puts on her lipstick in front of themirror that I hung. I wonder if they’ve repainted thekitchen, or filled in that hole in the plasterwork in thecorridor upstairs.
I want to cross over and thump the knockeragainst the black paint. I want to talk to Tom, to askhim about the night Megan went missing. I want toask him about yesterday, when we were in the carand I kissed his hand, I want to ask him what hefelt. Instead, I just stand there for a bit, looking upat my old bedroom window until I feel tears sting theback of my eyes, and I know it’s time to go.