The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller

The Girl from the Sea

A gripping psychological thriller

~

Shalini Boland

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©
Shalini Boland 2016

~

This novel is entirely a work of fiction
.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead
,
events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

~

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.

~

http://www.shaliniboland.co.uk

A chilling suspense story of wounded hearts and dark secrets.

Washed up on the beach, she can’t remember who she is.

She can’t even remember her name.

Turns out, she has a perfect life –

friends and family eager to fill in the blanks.

But why are they lying to her?

What don’t they want her to remember?

When you don't even know who you are,

how do you know who to trust?

“But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone.” 

―
Haruki Murakami
, Kafka on the Shore

The dark water swallows me whole, pulling me under into blackness, dropping too fast. I cannot let the water take me, so I kick and flail. I push my body up. Water flows. Bubbles stream away. The sound of air and desperate splashes. The scent of damp night. And, at last, I see the inky sky once more. I don’t have enough energy for relief.  Instead, I gasp and thrash. All I know is that I must move my arms and kick my legs.

Keep moving forward.

Stay alive.

Chapter One

The scent of salt and seaweed. My throat, dry. Lips parched. Head aching. My clothes cling to me, heavy and wet. Cold. Shivering. I can’t think straight.

What’s happening?

Eyes closed. A rushing, bubbling, frothing. Birds, wind, warmth. I cough, a dry, echoing scrape. Painful. Everything sounds close by, yet far away. My body is stiff. Numb. I can’t move. Can I?

Water rushes over me. Cold and salty. Like it wants to claim me. To keep me covered. But it seeps away, replaced by a mixture of cool air and warmth.

My eyes fly open.

A fuzzy brightness greets me. I see blurred outdoor shapes in beige and blue and grey.

My head is pressed down onto something cold and hard. Not a pillow. Not a pavement. Sand. Wet sand. Something presses into my temple. A stone? I raise my head with difficulty. And bring up a reluctant arm. My hand peels away a pebble. Tosses it aside with herculean effort. I cough. Retch. There’s saltwater in my mouth. Bile. Tears. Snot.

Please, someone, tell me what’s happening. I feel as though I’m trapped inside my head, unable to look outside. Like I’m covered in a membrane. Sealed in.

A muffled voice breaks through my panic. I try to latch onto it. But the incoming words slip and slide away – a flow of sound that I can’t decipher. I try to keep my eyes open. To focus on something. But neither my eyes nor my ears want to cooperate.

‘Poppy, no!’

A snuffling black nose and a wet tongue. A whine and a bark.

‘Poppy, no! Come here!’

It’s someone’s dog. I still can’t focus properly.

‘Are you okay? I’m so sorry. Good girl, Poppy.’

I open my eyes once more and order them to focus.

‘Are you okay?’ The same voice, closer this time.

A face looms into my field of vision. I see a nose, a mouth, pink lipstick, glasses.

A noise comes from the back of my throat. But it’s just a rattle and a rasp. Nothing intelligible. What am I trying to say?

‘I called 999. Don’t worry. Poppy, sit! The ambulance will be here soon.’ A warm hand takes my cold one. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.’

Will I? This person is here to help me. I know that much. That’s good. I can give myself over to the help of this woman. I close my eyes again. It’s too hard to keep them open. Too hard to focus.

More voices roll in and out like the salty water, like the breeze on my cheek. A wash of sound trying to break through to me. Part of me tries to resist the voices. Wants to keep them as a distant, blurring sound. Merging one with the other, like the waves and the wind. But a greater part of me needs to decipher the words. Needs to understand what’s happening.

‘Can you hear me?’

Another female voice in my ear. A younger, firmer voice. Her breath warm on my face.

‘Hello, can you open your eyes? Can you look at me?’

I force my eyes to open.

‘That’s it. Can you tell me your name?’

Warmth spreads over my body. Someone has placed a blanket over me. I’d forgotten how cold I was.

‘Look at me again. That’s it. Can you tell me your name?’

I’m staring into kind brown eyes. A woman in uniform. Her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I open my mouth to say my name. But then I close it again. My mind has gone blank. It hurts to think.

‘Can you hear me?’

I want to nod, but my head won’t obey. ‘Yes,’ I say, even though no sound comes out.

‘Good,’ the woman says.

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘Beach?’ My voice is a faint croak.

‘That’s right. Do you know which beach?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me how you feel, physically?’

‘Tired.’

‘Have you been in the water? Been for a swim in the sea?’

‘I think I was in the water,’ I whisper.

‘Are you hurt? Are you in pain anywhere?’

‘I . . . I don’t know. Sore throat. Headache. Cold.’

‘Alright. We’re going to get you up off this sand. Get you away from the waves where you’ll be more comfortable, okay?’

I close my eyes again. I’m scared. They’re going to move me, but what if my body’s broken? What if it hurts when they lift me?

The next few minutes pass in a strange blur. I’m lifted onto a stretcher. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be; my body aches, but there’s no sharp pain. People are watching. I’m awake enough to feel self-conscious. The woman in the glasses with the pink lipstick hovers over me for a moment.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘You’re in good hands now. Take care.’ She touches two fingers to my cheek, and then steps back.

And now I’m being moved. Carried away from the sea, across the sand. My body is still cold, but a warm breeze skims my face, the sun heats my forehead. I feel as though I’m floating. Light as air. The woman and the man in uniform talk to me, but I’m too tired to hear them. Their voices sway in and out, merging with the crunch of footsteps and the cry of the gulls.

The walls are toothpaste green, and the air smells of old socks and disinfectant. Stale and recycled like an overheated aeroplane. I’m sitting up in a hospital bed in the Accident and Emergency department, waiting for a doctor to see me. A nurse has already taken my blood pressure and temperature. The curtains are pulled around the sides of my bed, but they’ve been left open at the end so I can still see out. A teenage boy lies in the bed opposite, his mother at his side. I can’t tell what’s wrong with him. My thoughts are clearer now than earlier, my mind a little sharper. But my head still throbs, and I can’t quell the panic in my chest, the constant fluttering in my stomach or the tightness in my throat.

Nurses stride past, calling out instructions to colleagues. Trolleys clatter as medical equipment is wheeled up and down the ward. At least I’m warm and dry. They took my wet clothing, and now I’m wearing a hideous blue hospital gown. I tense as I hear a woman’s voice getting closer. Her accent is pretty, and I wonder where she’s from. Maybe Russia, or Poland?

‘The one from the beach?’ I hear her say. ‘How long?’

Another woman replies: ‘Only a few minutes.’

The women step into my line of sight. One is a young doctor in a white coat, her blonde hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. The other is an older lady, a nurse. The doctor looks up at me and smiles. The nurse continues on her way.

‘Hello. I’m Doctor Lazowski.’

‘Hi,’ I croak.

She picks up a clipboard from the end of my bed and comes closer. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

‘Strange,’ I reply. ‘A little dizzy. I have a headache. I’m tired . . . and a bit freaked out.’

‘Can you tell me your name?’

I open my mouth to answer, but, like before on the beach, nothing comes out. I give a small embarrassed laugh. ‘I . . . It sounds so silly, but I just . . . I can’t seem to remember.’ I run a hand across my damp and tangled hair.

‘That’s okay,’ she says. ‘Do you know where you live?’

‘I . . . I think. I  . . . No. I’m sorry. I don’t know. How can I not know?’ My voice is trembling and I’m on the verge of tears.

‘You’ve had a shock,’ she says. ‘Just try to relax. Try to stay calm. You’re here now, and we’ll look after you. Okay? You have some retrograde amnesia, but with any luck, your memories should return soon.’

The word “amnesia” makes me catch my breath.

‘I’m going to run a few tests,’ she says, closing the curtains fully. ‘We’ll see how you are, physically, and then we’ll try and get those memories back.’

I nod again, hit by a wave of exhaustion. My eyes want to close. I feel the pull of sleep, but Dr Lazowski is talking again. I should try and concentrate.

‘Can you sit up, please?’

I do as she asks.

‘I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs. Just breathe normally.’ She takes the stethoscope from around her neck and begins examining me, first by placing the end of the stethoscope on my back. Then, on my chest.

‘Can you remember swimming in the sea?’ she asks, as I clumsily try to rearrange my hospital gown.

‘No.’

‘Were you in the water at all?’

‘I think so. But I don’t know. I remember lying on the beach, soaking wet. The waves were coming over me.’ I give a shiver at the memory.

‘Hmm, Okay,’ she says. ‘We don’t know how long you were in the water. I’m worried about a possible lung infection, so we’ll have to keep you in for a few days at least. To keep an eye on you.’

‘Is it serious?’ I ask.

‘Just a precaution,’ she replies. ‘We’ll also get you on an IV drip.’

‘A drip?’
I don’t like the sound of that.

‘You’re dehydrated,’ she says. ‘You need fluids.’

I close my eyes and massage my forehead with the tips of my fingers. What’s happening to me? What am I doing here? How on earth did I end up unconscious on the beach?

Why can’t I remember anything?

Chapter Two

I’ve been moved to a different ward. They’ve put me on a drip to replace fluids. But the fluid bag gives me the creeps, hanging there like a grotesque transparent organ, so I’m lying on my side, facing away from it, staring out of the window at a flower bed in front of a wall. Thankfully, my mind is beginning to feel a little clearer – less weak and fuzzy – so the fluids must be helping.

But the dehydration and possible lung infection are not what’s worrying me. No. The thing that’s really freaking me out, is that I still don’t know who I am. At all. Dr Lazowski says that amnesia due to shock or trauma is usually temporary. She checked my reflexes and balance, and I also had to do some tests to check my thinking, judgement and memory. So far, it’s just my long-term memory that seems to be the issue. But I’m going to have an MRI scan, so hopefully that will shed some light.

Truthfully, I’m struggling to keep my panic under control. My heart races, my head spins and I’m constantly having to wipe the sweat from my palms. How can I not know who I am? It’s crazy. Surely, I should know my name, my age, my history. But when I try to find that information in my brain, it’s just not there. The doctor told me not to worry. She said that they would try and find out my identity. That once I see my next of kin, my memories should all come rushing back to me. But what if she’s wrong? They’ve been asking me questions every twenty minutes. Questions like, ‘What’s your name? Do you know where you live? What’s your mother’s name? What year is it?’ And I always give the same answers:

‘I don’t know . . . No . . . I can’t remember.’

All I do know about myself is that early this morning I was discovered by a woman walking her dog on Southbourne Beach, Bournemouth, Dorset, on the South Coast of England. I’ve heard of Bournemouth, but I can’t remember anything about the place. Do I live here? I have no idea.

I turn my head at the sound of voices and footsteps. The charge nurse is approaching accompanied by a man and a woman, both wearing suits. Are they here to see me? They must be. They’re heading this way. Could they be relations? Friends? They look too smart. Like they’re here on official business. I sit up, my head swimming with dizziness. I take a breath, try to compose myself.

‘Hello,’ the nurse says to me with a smile. ‘You’ve got a couple of visitors from the police station. They’ve assured me they won’t stay long. Are you up to talking?’

I’m not sure I am, but I nod anyway. She draws the curtain around my bed, all the way up to the window, before she goes, leaving me with the two officers. Both look to be in their late twenties, maybe early thirties. They’re smiling at me, so I adjust my expression and try to smile back, not sure if I’m succeeding.

‘Mind if we sit down?’ the female asks, tucking a stray tendril of blonde hair behind her ear.

‘Sure,’ I reply, my voice a faint croak.

She grabs two stacked plastic chairs from below the window and brings them around to the other side of the bed, pulling at them with some difficulty. Her colleague helps her to tug them apart with a clatter.

‘Sounds like you’ve had quite a morning,’ she says, as they finally sit. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Emma Wright, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Christopher Blackford.’ He gives me a brief smile and says hello, before taking out a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. ‘Can you tell us who you are?’ DS Wright continues.

I bite my lip and shake my head. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I can’t remember. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay,’ she replies. ‘We’re from the Criminal Investigation Department, and we’re here to try and find out what happened to you this morning.’

‘Criminal?’ I ask, with a jolt of panic. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘Not as far as we know,’ DS Wright replies. ‘’We’d just like to try and establish some facts. Okay?’

I nod.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

‘Strange. A bit weak. I’ve completely lost my memory. The doctor says I have retrograde amnesia . . . I don’t even remember my name.’ Saying the words out loud, I feel my eyes fill with tears, but I blink them back and take a deep breath. These people are here to help me. I need to tell them everything I know without losing the plot.

‘What do you remember about this morning?’ she continues. ‘Can you tell us your earliest memory?’ Her eyes are kind, but also focused and alert.

I think back to this morning, remembering my confusion and fear, like it was part of a dream. Disjointed and surreal. It already seems like a lifetime ago.

‘I woke up on the beach,’ I say. ‘I was only half-conscious. Cold. The waves were washing over me, but I couldn’t move. Like I was too tired and heavy to get up. Dr Lazowski said she thought I’d been in the water for a long time. For over an hour at least.’ I shiver at the memory of the cold water. At least it’s warm in here, under my nest of blankets.

‘How did you end up on the beach?’ DS Wright asks.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ I reply. I have this nagging feeling I was in the sea, but it’s not a solid memory. It’s just an impression I have. But I couldn’t have been for a swim because I was wearing clothes. Anyway, an early-morning swim doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I would do. Even though I don’t recall what sort of things I do.

‘Are you hurt at all?’

‘I’ve got a couple of bumps on the back of my head. They throb a bit, but the doctor doesn’t think they’re too serious.’

‘Do you remember how you got the injuries?’

I shake my head. ‘No.’

Her colleague is writing in his notebook as we talk.

‘Do you remember anybody at all from before you woke up?’ she continues.

‘No, I don’t remember anyone. Just the woman who found me on the beach. She had a dog, I think. Poppy. That’s the dog’s name. She wore glasses. The woman, I mean, not the dog.’ I give a short strangled laugh. I must sound like a lunatic. ‘Sorry,’ I add.

‘You’re doing really well,’ the policewoman says.

I want to snort. Doing really well for a crazy person who washed up on the beach and doesn’t even know her own name. ‘I’m sorry I can’t remember more,’ I say. ‘Dr Lazowski said I was wearing sports gear. Some kind of lycra leggings and top, so maybe I’d been running?’

‘Yes, we’ll keep your clothing as evidence, for now,’ DS Wright says.

‘Evidence?’

‘Just as a precaution.’

A precaution against what?
I think to myself.

‘What time of day was it when you first opened your eyes?’ This time, it’s DC Blackford who speaks. His voice is deep and soft, and he fixes me with an encouraging stare.

‘It was this morning,’ I reply.

‘Was it early morning? Still dark?’

‘No. It was bright. I could feel the sun on my face.’

‘Where are you from?’ he asks.

I reach for the information in my brain, I even open my mouth to give the answer, but it’s just not there. My mind won’t cooperate. I try to conjure an image of where I live. Try and remember the place – a house? A flat? I shake my head and stare down at my hands. ‘I don’t know.’ I realise my fingers are bare of rings. So, not married or engaged then, unless I lost them in the sea. Or maybe I didn’t wear them for some reason. I rub my thumb over a line of callouses on the palm of my hand.

‘Do you have any identifying marks?’ DS Wright asks. ‘Tattoos? Birthmarks?’

‘I don’t know. I’d have to check.’

‘Okay, can you do that at the end of the interview for us?’

I nod.

‘Can you remember the names of any people you might know?’ she asks.

I look up again. Her face is open, hopeful. I so want to remember someone. But it hurts to think.

‘It would help us find out who you are,’ she continues. ‘If you could remember someone’s name, or even a nickname?’ she prompts. ‘Does any name at all spring to mind?’

Stupidly, the only name I have in my head is
Poppy
. This makes me want to laugh. I bite my lip.

‘Anything at all?’ the officer asks.

I shake my head.

‘CSI went down to the beach earlier to investigate,’ she says. ‘To see if anyone saw anything. Maybe they’ll find your bag, or purse, or phone. Something we can use to identify you.’

I nod.

‘Would you mind if we fingerprinted you?’ she asks. ‘We can run your prints through our national computer, see if we find a match.’

‘I suppose so,’ I say.

‘And a DNA sample?’ she asks. ‘That way, if you’re not on our database, we still might get a percentage match.’

‘Percentage match?’

‘A match with a relative – a parent or sibling.’

I nod. Too weary to do anything else. I feel exhausted again. I want nothing more than to slide down under the hospital covers and sleep. But DS Wright is still talking:

‘We’d like to pass your details to the local media, see if they can help us get the word out. Either to trigger someone’s memory about what happened to you, or to find someone who knows who you are. Do we have your permission to do that?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Please do what you have to do. Thanks.’

‘We won’t release a photograph of you in the first instance. But may we take your photograph, in case we need it for identification? Is that okay?’

I nod again. I wish I had someone here to help me. Someone I knew. A friend. A parent. I don’t want to face all this on my own. These things they want me to do, they all sound reasonable, I know it’s all to help me, but it’s still overwhelming.

The police officers ask a few more questions, and I answer as best I can. But I can’t tell them anymore than I’ve already told them. My mind feels like it’s shutting down. Perhaps after a sleep things will become clearer.

The next half hour goes by in a haze. DC Blackford fingerprints me here, in the hospital, with a handheld fingerprint scanner. Then, he swabs the inside of my cheek for a DNA sample. They take my picture – I’m sure I look terrible, but there isn’t the time or opportunity to check my reflection. I realise with a jolt of panic, that I don’t even know what I look like.

Lastly, I go into a private room with a nurse, and we check my skin for birthmarks or tattoos. Aside from an old, faint scar on my forearm, there’s nothing. My body is smooth and blemish free.

I know these people are here to help me – the doctors, nurses and police officers – so why do I feel like Exhibit A? What if I never get my memories back? What if nobody knows I’m missing? What if I have no one? What if I
am
no one?