Look Behind You (10 page)

I look at it with the eyes of a stranger, scrutinizing as I search my brain for something to tell me what happened here before I lost my memory.

‘Are you getting out?’ Liam twists around to retrieve my bag from the back seat then opens his door. He walks up the small path towards the bright red front door. It looks ominous all of a sudden. Like a blazing, bloody warning telling me to stay away.

I don’t want to get out. I want to be back in the hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors who will reassure me that I’m OK. Cocoon me in the stifling heat of the building and the protection of knowing someone is always around. Someone who would notice if a killer dragged me away kicking and screaming. But then, what did a killer look like? It wasn’t as if they had the words tattooed on their forehead for easy recognition. They came in all shapes and sizes. What did the person who took me look like? Were they tall, short, ugly, spotty, attractive, fat, skinny? How would I even know? And despite what Dr Drew, Dr Traynor, and Liam think, the memory of being in that place is too real to be a hallucination.

I will my body to start working and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other until I’m inside the house.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Liam calls from the kitchen as I look around, trying to notice any subtle changes that might give me a clue.

The hallway leads through into the kitchen/diner. On my left, the door to the lounge is open. A bay window lets sunlight flood the room. The door to the dining room is closed. To my right is the white glossed banister and staircase with cream carpet. The downstairs has wood effect laminate floorboards throughout. The sterile white walls are impersonal, with only a few pictures dotted around. There’s plenty of modern furniture—chrome and glass tables, black leather sofas with purple cushions, the only bit of colour Liam allowed me to add because he thinks I have no taste. It’s horrible.

I go into the lounge. Everything is tidy. No magazines lying around. No used mugs littering the coffee table. Remote controls for the TV, DVD, and stereo all lined up neatly in a row as if Liam has spent hours setting them out with perfect precision.

I walk past the dining room door. We never use it to eat in, except when we have guests. Liam insists on holding dinner parties for his work colleagues, always trying to be the superior host who knows exactly which wine goes with which course. Who cares? As long as it tastes nice and you like it, it doesn’t really matter if red wine doesn’t go with fish. His finicky ways only put more pressure on me, since I’m an average cook. Even when I spend hours poring over fancy cookbook recipes, measuring ingredients precisely, timing things to within a second, I usually get something wrong. The soufflé sags in the middle, the chicken is tough and stringy, the veg not al dente enough. It doesn’t help when Liam likes to make a big show of apologizing to our guests about the poor state of the food. He does it in a jokey, light-hearted way, saying we can’t all be Nigella Lawson in the kitchen. Telling them he swore he told me not to leave it in the oven for so long. But it doesn’t detract from the embarrassment when all eyes turn to me and everyone’s chuckling at my expense. And I know it’s not a joke. At the end of the night, when I’m the one left with a table to clear, dishes to wash, and empty wine bottles to throw away, he’ll tell me I’m not trying hard enough or not being a supportive wife, or that I’ve embarrassed him in front of his friends and ruined what’s supposed to be a perfect night. The next day, I’ll get the thick, oppressive silent treatment and the cold stares, and I’m forced to admit to myself what an idiot I am yet again because I can never get things right.

Hovering in the kitchen doorway now, I lean my forehead on the doorframe, watching Liam spooning coffee into a French press. Real coffee for him. Not the instant stuff. He looks smart in his business suit, self-assured and confident. He was wearing a suit the first time I met him at the nightclub. Liam was so different from the students I’d been used to hanging around with at Uni, whose uniform was just-got-out-of-bed hair, worn, faded jeans, and scuffed trainers. The only time Liam ever wears trainers is when he goes to the gym at work early in the morning before he starts his day.

All his colleagues think he’s great. A great boss, a great delegator, great squash partner, funny, witty. But people hide things in layers. No one
really
knows someone else. Not until they live with them.

‘Here.’ Liam hands me a mug of coffee, which probably isn’t a good idea. I’m already jittery enough without caffeine, but Liam knows best, after all.

I reach out to take it, but they removed the gauze from my hands before I left the hospital, and the heat of the mug stings the scabs, making me drop it. The mug smashes on the floor, scalding hot coffee splashing up my legs.

I yelp and wipe at my leg with the back of my hand. When I look up at Liam, his eyes flash with anger for the briefest of moments before creasing at the corners as he smiles.

‘That was my fault,’ he says.

Wow. For once, it’s not mine.

He sweeps up the shards of pottery carefully with a dustpan and brush, dumping it all into some newspaper, folding it over carefully so no pieces can escape. It jolts me enough to ask him about the argument with the plate. ‘Summers said you told him we’d argued before you left for Scotland. About a plate. Is that right?’

He puts the newspaper in the bin under the sink. ‘Yes, that’s right. I didn’t want to mention it in front of you because…’ He swings round to face me, a concerned frown in place. ‘Well, you’ve had a hard time lately. You’ve gone through a lot, and you’re already fragile, darling.’ He waves one hand casually through the air. ‘Anyway, the argument wasn’t important.’

I stare at him. Something’s definitely not right. ‘But I wouldn’t smash a plate. I wouldn’t throw something at you.’ I don’t mention that’s his MO. ‘So what did actually happen with this argument? I mean, did—’

‘For God’s sake, Chloe, just stop nagging about something so trivial. Why do you always have to make things so complicated?’ His eyes flash with dark fury, and he bangs his fists down on the kitchen worktop so hard it makes the kettle and toaster on top rattle.

Startled, a coldness shifts over me, as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.

Liam takes an exaggerated lungful of breath, trying to calm himself. He presses his fingers to his temples and closes his eyes for a moment. When he’s composed again, he says, ‘Like I said, it wasn’t important. It doesn’t matter now, let’s just forget about it. The most important thing is trying to get you well again.’

But I’m not
unwell
. I was kidnapped and left for dead. That’s not exactly like a spot of flu I can recover from.
I bite my lip to keep the words I want to say locked deep inside.

‘And Dr Traynor said it wouldn’t do any good to blame yourself for things. It would only make you more agitated.
That’s
why I didn’t mention it in front of you.’ He wipes up the spilt coffee from the floor with some paper towels and plonks those in the bin too.

‘What else did Dr Traynor say about me?’ Inside I’m fuming that my doctor has been talking to Liam about me behind my back.
I’m
supposed to be the patient, not Liam.

‘He’s worried about you. We both are. He thinks you need some rest.’ He pours a coffee for himself but doesn’t offer me any more.

While he’s occupied, I search the room for my handbag. It’s not on the hook behind the kitchen door where I usually keep it, so I pull out a drawer and rummage around. It’s not there, either. I open more drawers, a twinge of tension forming between my shoulder blades.

‘What are you doing?’ He sighs.

‘Looking for my handbag. My mobile phone would be in it and my purse and keys.’

He mutters something under his breath I can’t hear then says, ‘They’re not here. I already checked for you.’

I slump into a leather chair at the glass-topped kitchen table.

‘I cancelled the bankcards and changed the locks, so there’s no need to worry.’

I laugh then, even though nothing is remotely funny. ‘No need to worry? That man might have them. And if he does, he’ll know where I live.’ My voice escalates.

Liam walks over to me and crouches down, resting on his haunches. He takes my hand in his and strokes it gently. ‘Darling, nothing is going to happen. There is no man.’

‘Why don’t you believe me?’ I shriek, pulling my hand away.

He stands upright, walks to the window, and looks out into the garden. ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes! I can’t remember anything that happened. I want to know what’s going on. I have to know!’

He swings around and stares at me for a moment. The room is silent except for the clock ticking annoyingly in the background. Then he walks out of the room, and his heavy footsteps pound the stairs. When he comes back down, I’m pacing the floor, hands clutched to my elbows.

‘Here.’ He thrusts a piece of paper in my hand. ‘This is why I don’t believe you.’

I tentatively reach out and take it from him. It’s a regular piece of A4 paper, the kind we use for printing things off the computer. It’s got my handwriting on it, but it’s an odd scrawl, as if I’ve written it in a hurry or I was drunk.

Or drugged.

Liam

I can’t go on like this anymore. I need to end it all.

I’m sorry

Chloe

‘It’s a suicide letter, Chloe. I found it in the kitchen when I came back from Scotland.’ His voice sounds weird to my ears, slowed down and distorted.

My knees buckle and I collapse to the floor, grasping the letter. I look up at him with a questioning gaze. ‘I don’t…I don’t remember this.’

‘You obviously intended to kill yourself while I was away. I think you tried to take an overdose of sleeping tablets and had another reaction to them before you could take enough to finish off the job. Depression runs in families, Chloe, and you’re suffering with it, too. You’re taking after your mum, don’t you see? You were just hallucinating that you were kidnapped.’

No. No, no, no. I wouldn’t do that.
Would I?
I press my hands over my ears to block out what he’s saying. But Dr Drew said I was still grieving over the miscarriage. What if the grief escalated? What if I felt the only way to cope was to kill myself?

And I had thought of it before, after mum died and I was in the children’s home.

At nine, I was still small for my age. I was shy, painfully so. Quiet, meek Chloe, who didn’t like to speak anymore, even though her voice had returned. A perfect target for some of the bigger, older children who wanted to assert their authority. They bullied me mercilessly, and I blamed myself for everything. Thought it must be my fault the other kids didn’t like me. It was my fault Mum did what she did. It was all something
I
was doing wrong.

Growing up I learned to hate myself, and my self-esteem hit rock bottom. So, yes, I’d thought about suicide a few times over the years. Thought about jumping in front of a train or drowning myself or slitting my wrists. No one wanted me, and the world would just be better off without me.

I’m dizzy now. My chest tightens as I gasp for air.

Liam kneels next to me, pulling my hands away from my ears. He wraps his arms round me and rocks me gently. ‘This is why I wanted you to stay in the hospital. You need to get some help.’

‘But Dr Drew...Dr…Drew.’ I fumble for some sort of coherent thought. ‘He said…he said…I wasn’t mad. Not going mad. No.’

‘All right. Just take some deep breaths.’ He cups my face in his hands and makes me look at him. ‘Breathe slowly.’

I nod frantically. In. Out. In. Out. Tremors spread through every muscle.

‘Come on now, calm down.’ He strokes my hair.

The panic subsides but the confusion remains, bright and burning in my head like a blinding light blocking out everything else.

‘Did you tell Dr Drew you wanted to kill yourself?’ Liam asks softly.

‘No, because I
don’t
. I don’t feel suicidal. I don’t want to kill myself.’

‘Well, that’s obviously why he thought you were safe to be released from hospital, then. Perhaps with the amnesia, and the things you’ve forgotten, it’s made your urge to commit suicide disappear, too.’

‘I don’t…’ I trail off. ‘Did you tell Dr Drew about the letter?’

‘Yes. I spoke with him before I saw you last night.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘That you weren’t showing any signs of suicidal tendencies. The opposite, in fact, that you’d shown a will for survival.’

‘Yes. He wouldn’t have let me come out of hospital if he thought I’d harm myself, would he?’ I say, trying to reassure myself.

‘I’m not convinced Dr Drew is competent. Maybe we should get a different psychiatric opinion from someone else. Dr Traynor agrees with me and thinks everything that’s happened while I’ve been away points to you trying to take your own life. He’s also agreed with my concerns that depression and suicidal behaviour runs in families, and after what happened with your mother, it’s likely you’ve inherited some kind of dysfunctional depressive gene.’