RACHEL

SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013
EARLY MORNING
One piece of the memory led to the next. It’s asthough I’d been blundering about in the dark fordays, weeks, months, then finally caught hold ofsomething. Like running my hand along a wall tofind my way from one room to the next. Shiftingshadows started at last to coalesce, and after a whilemy eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and Icould see.
Not at first. At first, although it felt like a memory, Ithought it must be a dream. I sat there, on the sofa,almost paralysed with shock, telling myself that itwouldn’t be the first time I’d misrememberedsomething, wouldn’t be the first time that I’d thoughtthings went a certain way when in fact they hadplayed out differently.
Like that time we went to a party thrown by acolleague of Tom’s, and I was very drunk, but we’dhad a good night. I remember kissing Claragood-bye. Clara was the colleague’s wife, a lovelywoman, warm and kind. I remember her saying thatwe should get together again; I remember herholding my hand in hers.
I remembered that so clearly, but it wasn’t true. Iknew it wasn’t true the next morning when Tomturned his back on me when I tried to speak to him.
I know it isn’t true because he told me howdisappointed and embarrassed he was that I’daccused Clara of flirting with him, that I’d beenhysterical and abusive.
When I closed my eyes I could feel her hand,warm against my skin, but that didn’t actuallyhappen. What really happened is that Tom had tohalf carry me out of the house, me crying andshouting all the way, while poor Clara cowered in thekitchen.
So when I closed my eyes, when I drifted into ahalf dream and found myself in that underpass, Imay have been able to feel the cold and smell therank, stale air, I may have been able to see a figurewalking towards me, spitting rage, fist raised, but itwasn’t true. The terror I felt wasn’t real. And whenthe shadow struck, leaving me there on the ground,crying and bleeding, that wasn’t real, either.
Only it was, and I saw it. It’s so shocking that Ican scarcely believe it, but as I watch the sun rise itfeels like mist lifting. What he told me was a lie. Ididn’t imagine him hitting me. I remember it. Justlike I remember saying good-bye to Clara after thatparty and her hand holding mine. Just like Iremember the fear when I found myself on the floornext to that golf club—and I know now, I know forsure that I wasn’t the one swinging it.
I don’t know what to do. I run upstairs, pull on apair of jeans and some trainers, run back downstairs.
I dial their number, the landline, and let it ring acouple of times, then I hang up. I don’t know whatto do. I make coffee, let it go cold, dial DetectiveRiley’s number, then hang up straightaway. She won’tbelieve me. I know she won’t.
I head out to the station. It’s a Sunday service, thefirst train isn’t for half an hour, so there’s nothing todo but sit there on a bench, going round and round,from disbelief to desperation and back again.
Everything is a lie. I didn’t imagine him hitting me. Ididn’t imagine him walking away from me quickly, hisfists clenched. I saw him turn, shout. I saw himwalking down the road with a woman, I saw himgetting into the car with her. I didn’t imagine it. AndI realize then that it’s all very simple, so very simple.
I do remember, it’s just that I had confused twomemories. I’d inserted the image of Anna, walkingaway from me in her blue dress, into anotherscenario: Tom and a woman getting into a car.
Because of course that woman wasn’t wearing a bluedress, she was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt. Shewas Megan.