Look Behind You Page 5

  When I finish, I say, ‘Do you think I made this all up?’

  ‘Did someone say you had?’

  I think about the look in Dr Traynor’s eyes. Maybe I mistook his lack of belief for concern. But Liam…no, he definitely didn’t believe me. I don’t know if the police even think I was telling the truth. ‘I don’t think my husband believes me.’ I bite my lip. ‘But I didn’t make this up. I know I didn’t.’

  I know I’m not mad.

  Don’t I?

  I mean, not mad as I apparently was when I was sectioned.

  He regards me for a moment with a kind smile then leans towards me slightly. ‘I don’t think you’ve made this up. What’s important is what you believe. And you believe this did happen. But…’ he pauses here. ‘What you’ve described is a reaction very similar to what happened with the antidepressants before when you were sectioned.’

  ‘I know.’ I exhale a lungful of breath in defeat.

  ‘On the other hand, you have slight abrasions on your wrists, which could point to you being retrained. You’re dehydrated, scratched and bruised, and you have a bump to your head. Something has obviously occurred. In which case, there is a possibility you could still be in danger.’

  7

  ‘That’s what I’m scared of. I don’t know who took me. I don’t know why they took me.’ A rising panic forces my chest muscles to constrict.

  ‘Indeed. It’s natural to be scared, but I think we need to leave the investigation to the police and let us doctors handle the other side of things. I was more concerned about finding out if you were a danger to yourself.’

  ‘Myself?’ I say cautiously.

  He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. I can see everything he’s not saying reflected clearly in his eyes. He clears his throat. ‘When you were released from hospital before, you had one follow up appointment with me, but you mainly wanted to talk about the loss of your baby.’

  A twinge of grief rips through me so hard it physically hurts deep inside, leaving me raw.

  ‘I encouraged you to write a journal or a letter to your baby as a way to let the grief out.’

  ‘Did I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. As I said, you only had one appointment, but you thought it sounded like a good idea.’

  ‘But I wasn’t depressed, was I? I didn’t think about killing myself? It was just grief?’

  ‘There can be a fine line between depression and grief. Sometimes the symptoms of depression are similar to the emotions of the grieving process. But in our outpatient appointment, I saw no signs that would indicate clinical depression.’

  ‘But I was depressed when I went to my GP after the miscarriage?’

  He purses his lips, as if he’s weighing up how much to tell me. ‘Apparently, your GP believed you were; that’s why she prescribed the antidepressants and sleeping tablets. Liam also believed you were depressed.’

  ‘Dr Traynor thinks that after I came out of hospital, the grief turned into depression again. He thinks I tried to kill myself with the sleeping tablets, but I had another adverse side effect and I’ve hallucinated this whole thing.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, this is all just…’ I shrug hopelessly. ‘It’s so confusing. I don’t think I would’ve tried to kill myself. And I know I wasn’t hallucinating when I was kept confined in that underground place. I remember it all so vividly. The terror. The feel of the walls when I touched them. The rat. The dripping sound of water. Scraping away at the doorframe. Running down the corridors and through the woods.’

  Dr Drew looks skeptical. ‘When you had the episode with the antidepressants, you also believed the hallucinations were very real, too.’ He pauses for a moment then says, ‘Perhaps we should talk about the time you do remember. The time before the party.’

  ‘Will it help me recover my lost memories?’ Hope and desperation emanates through my voice.

  ‘It’s possible. It may trigger something in your brain, and it could help us determine your state of mind at the time this new incident began.’ He scratches his head. ‘I believe you could be suffering from dissociative amnesia, which means amnesia caused by trauma or stress. It’s a form of denying a distressing event as a coping mechanism. Since there is no brain injury involved here, it’s likely that you may begin to recall the trauma over time, and talking about your past could help with that. It is possible that the trauma of the miscarriage itself has brought this on.’

  I frown, confused. ‘Wait, Dr Traynor didn’t mention anything like that. He said the amnesia could be from concussion or as a side effect of taking the sleeping tablets, the Sil…Sil—’

  ‘Silepine.’

  ‘Yes, that.’

  ‘Well, all of our theories are entirely possible.’ He sounds a little defensive, and I wonder if there’s some kind of departmental rivalry going on about my diagnosis. ‘Unfortunately, there is no exact test we can do to prove the correct one, which is why we need to look at everything.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, except I don’t see at all. I feel like I’m stumbling around in the dark still, blindly bumping into things. I take a sip of water and swallow slowly. My fingertips itch under the gauze and I fight the urge to scratch them. ‘Where do I start, then?’

  ‘How were things going before the miscarriage?’

  ‘Well…things weren’t perfect, I suppose. I mean, whose life is perfect?’

  ‘I would imagine it depends on your idea of perfection. What was your home life and work like?’ He looks at me as if I’m a curious specimen.

  ‘Work was good. I teach A Level English Language to college students. Of course, you get the odd pupil who likes to muck around and have fun, but on the whole, they’re a good bunch of teenagers. It’s a sixth form college affiliated with Cambridge University. Most of the students are from good backgrounds and want to go on to Cambridge, so it’s not like I’m teaching in an inner city school, which brings its own set of problems.’

  ‘That must be very rewarding.’

  ‘For the most part it is. Liam doesn’t like me teaching.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I exhale a deep breath. ‘He’s old fashioned. He thinks the wife should be at home, taking care of her husband’s every whim.’

  ‘And you don’t agree with that?’

  ‘Teaching is one of the few things I’ve managed to hang onto that’s mine.’

  His brows furrow together. ‘Can you elaborate on that?’

  I wonder how much to tell him. I don’t like airing my dirty laundry in public. This is the life I’ve chosen, and sometimes you just have to put up with things, don’t you? And anyway, every relationship has its up and downs. But I want to find out what happened to me, and talking about this may be the only way to get my memory back. ‘Liam can be a bit controlling sometimes. You know, he just likes things done his way, I suppose.’ I shrug. ‘And then sometimes, he’s wonderful. Attentive, loving, thoughtful. It’s not all bad, really, it’s just normal. No one’s perfect, are they?’ I let out a mirthless laugh. ‘We’ve all got flaws, haven’t we?’

  ‘Of course. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t.’

  ‘In the beginning, things were great between us. He was romantic and kind, and funny. After we got married a couple of years ago, things started to change. He was working long hours, and I put it down to the stress of his job that was making him moody sometimes, then he got a promotion, which made him even more stressed, but now I think…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just me that makes him moody. I thought the baby might help get things back on track for us. But, well, obviously that didn’t happen. It looks like it’s just made things a whole lot worse.’

  ‘Was he happy about the baby?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I was going to tell him after the party, but that’s where my memory ends.’

  ‘Did you talk about having children?’

  ‘He didn’t want to s
poil things between us if we had a baby. He wanted it to just be us as a couple.’ I bite my lip. ‘Some men are like that, aren’t they? They get jealous when a baby comes along.’

  ‘Was he jealous over you?’

  A memory hits me then. About a year ago, Liam had just been promoted. We were having a celebratory meal at his favourite Chinese restaurant. His close work colleagues were there, but none of my friends by then. I was on one side of Liam at the table, and on his other side sat his new boss, Julianne, to whom he was paying rapt attention. He practically ignored me, so I turned to the man on my other side, Paul Etherington, who worked in the department Liam was leaving, and began an interesting conversation with him. Liam was happy, on form, making witty comments and charming everyone. The drinks flowed. At midnight, everyone left the restaurant, and when we got in the taxi Liam wouldn’t speak to me.

  As soon as we walked through the front door, he accused me of flirting with Paul. The intensity of his anger took me aback as I remembered just how much flattering attention he’d paid to Julianne. I told him I was just being polite, making small talk with people he worked with. Suddenly, Liam grabbed hold of me and pushed me hard against the wall, his mouth on mine, his excitement pressing against my thigh. I tried to push him away, tried to say I wasn’t in the mood after his outburst, but in the end, I thought it best to go along with it. I hated the angry Liam, who either sulked and wouldn’t speak to me for days, or berated me and made snide comments and told me how everything was my fault. So I did nothing when he lifted up my dress and yanked my knickers down, ripping them in the process. Did nothing when he picked me up and dropped me roughly onto the stairs, the hard wooden corners digging into my spine. And when he shoved himself inside me, I pretended I was as excited as him. It was better that way. Easier for me.

  Afterwards, he kissed me roughly, his eyes as dark as the ocean in a storm, and said, ‘You’re mine, Chloe. Don’t ever forget that.’ And he walked past me up the stairs, leaving me to wonder what the hell had just happened.

  Maybe it had been my fault. Maybe I was paying too much attention to Paul and not enough to Liam. I didn’t know whether apologizing might just make him angrier, so I crept into our bedroom, undressed in silence as I listened to him singing in the shower, and got into bed, keeping my eyes shut tight.

  When I woke up the next morning, it was so unreal I thought I must’ve imagined it at first, but my back was bruised and I was sore inside, and I knew it really had happened. He brought me breakfast in bed, apologizing profusely. Said he couldn’t stand the thought of me leaving him and had just got himself so wound up he couldn’t help it.

  I justified it by telling myself that hadn’t most women done that at some time or another? Had sex when they weren’t in the mood for it. Done it because their partner went on and on about it. Done it just to keep the peace. And that’s what I was doing. Keeping the peace so the loving, caring Liam returned. He was my husband, after all, and I desperately wanted to please him. Maybe that sounds sad and pathetic, but I’d been without love since my mum died, and now I’d had a taste of it, I craved it like a drug, so I resolved to try harder to keep everything in harmony.

  ‘Sometimes he gets jealous,’ I say, answering Dr Drew’s question but finding it hard to meet his eyes.

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’

  I fiddle with the sheets. ‘I used to think it was kind of sweet and protective. As if it proved just how much he loved me.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s stifling. I have to be careful who I talk to and who I look at when we’re together. It’s like I can’t be me anymore, because I’m worried I might upset him.’ I risk a glance at Dr Drew, who’s tapping his fingertip on the side of his forehead, looking deep in thought. I wonder what else to say. How can you talk about something that’s hard to define? ‘I suppose things just creep up on you, don’t they? Liam’s a bit stuck in his ways, I suppose you’d call it. It could be the age gap between us.’ I shrug. ‘Don’t get me wrong, though, it’s not all bad. I’m probably making it sounds worse than it is.’

  ‘How old were you when you met Liam?’

  ‘I was twenty-five and he was thirty-eight. I’d just started my job at the college. We met at a nightclub, and he whisked me off my feet. He was intelligent, kind, had a good sense of humour. It was the first real relationship I’d had, and we fell madly in love. We got married after three months.’

  ‘A whirlwind romance?’ He smiles.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he ever hit you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Has he ever been verbally abusive?’

  ‘Aren’t most men like that sometimes?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, my dear.’ He takes a sip of his tea, grimaces, then sets it back on the bedside table. ‘How about psychologically or emotionally abusive?’

  I sigh, wanting to put into words things I’ve never talked about, but not wanting to because it will make it too real. ‘I don’t really know what you mean by that. Maybe.’

  ‘Are you happy with the way things are?’

  ‘Is anyone really happy? I mean, you look at other people’s lives and you think they have a great job or a great marriage and they seem so happy, but you’re only seeing what they want you to see. When people ask you how you are, the automatic reaction is to say you’re fine, isn’t it? No one wants to listen to you moaning about the trivial little bits and pieces of your life. So how do you know when someone’s happy and when they aren’t?’

  ‘I’m only interested in you, not everyone else. What do you want people to see?’

  ‘All couples have bad patches. You can’t go through life being happy all the time. What is the definition of happiness, anyway? I bet if you asked a hundred different people, you’d get a hundred different answers. Ups and downs are part of marriage.’

  ‘True, but do you think your problems are trivial then?’

  ‘I suppose so. I have a good job. A nice house. A husband. What can I have to complain about? You just have to get on with life and make the best of things.’

  ‘Little things have a way of piling up.’

  I don’t say anything. Don’t know if he’s expecting me to say something. What can I say? It’s a marriage, and all marriages have problems. Then I think I finally get what he’s saying. Or not saying. I stare at him for the longest moment until I’m forced to take a breath. ‘Do you think Liam has something to do with me being kidnapped? Is that why you’re asking about him?’

  ‘No, I’m not suggesting that at all. I’m simply trying to find out about your life to see if it helps jog your memory.’

  ‘As I said, things aren’t perfect, but Liam is a manager in a pharmaceutical company, not some kind of lowlife criminal. He doesn’t kidnap people and leave them for dead.’

  Dr Drew nods profusely. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting? That I’ve hallucinated the whole thing? That I’ve made it all up for some reason?’ The room becomes stuffy and hot, or maybe it’s me.

  He smiles at me then. It’s a kind, patient smile. ‘The problem is at the moment we don’t know what happened, so we should carry on exploring all avenues. For example, do you talk to any friends or family? Maybe you spoke to someone about where you were going or what you were doing before you were found near the woods.’

  ‘Not really. Do you know about my mum?’

  ‘Yes. When you were sectioned, I discussed what happened to her with you and Liam, as it might’ve had a bearing on you.’

  I voice the fear I’ve wondered about for a long time. ‘Can depression and suicide be hereditary?’

  ‘Depression is a very complex disorder where both genes and environment play a role, but, yes, depression often runs in families. But you don’t know if your mother intentionally overdosed on cocaine, do you? She was discovered dead in the bathroom of one of her co-workers’ houses when he was having a party, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

>   ‘When we spoke before, I seem to remember you saying neither you nor anyone else saw any warning signs of depression prior to her overdose, so this wasn’t something you could foresee. The obvious circumstances point to your mother using the cocaine recreationally. Her death was also ruled as accidental by the coroner.’

  ‘Yes, but I was nine years old when she died. I could’ve missed a lot of things. No one will ever know what really happened, will they?’

  ‘I agree, but at that age it’s not your responsibility to be the parent.’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t make things any easier.’

  ‘Tell me about what happened after she died.’

  I think back to when the police came to my babysitter’s house and told us how Mum had been found dead after a suspected overdose at a friend’s party. How I felt numb for a long time afterwards. So long, it felt like it was ingrained in my soul and etched into my bones, as if I’d never feel anything again. One day out of the blue, the disbelief and shock hit me so hard I physically lost my voice. I couldn’t speak at all, and that was good. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to try to explain how I felt. I couldn’t.

  Slowly the shock gave way to overwhelming grief and sadness. Feeling as if I’d never stop crying. A black cloud hovered over me constantly. It took six months before I started talking again and even longer for the cloud to blow away.

  ‘It was awful. I never knew my dad. He left Mum as soon as he found out she was pregnant. He’s not even named on my birth certificate. I had no other family, so I was taken into care and lived in a children’s home.’

  ‘It must’ve been hard losing your mum at that age and growing up in the care system.’

  ‘Hard is an understatement. No one wants to adopt someone that age who’s damaged. They all want perfect, sweet babies. So I was basically on my own, and it was tough. I knew education was my key to getting away from it so I could gain my independence and start again. So I worked hard, got good exam results at school, and went to Uni.’

  ‘What about any friends?’