Sara stands at the very edge of the gardens. Her lip is split and her knees torn to shreds. Blood slides down her shinbone. Her back presses up against the chain-link fence that separates the home from the road as hot tears run down her cheeks. The shame of the attack separates her mentally as well as physically from the other children. She can see them now. After delivering their beating, the group has moved to play on the lawn directly in front of the large bay windows of the main office.
She can see the prize for which they are competing. A silhouette, mostly claimed by the shadows in the room, sits in front of the matron’s desk. A would-be parent. The matron turns to the window and points to certain children with her finger, her mouth moving soundlessly. The children, for their part, cavort on the grass in a transparent attempt to show themselves to their best advantage.
Sara is not the shortest of the kids. Nor the weakest physically. But she is unlike them in many ways, and in this home of rejected children, any difference is a reason for the others to unite against a common prey.
The matron points to Sara, gives a minute shake of her head, and her mouth never stops moving.
Sara knows what she is saying, even from here, through double-glazed windows and across over a hundred feet of worn garden. The matron is recounting the erratic behaviour, about how Sara sometimes screams out loud, at the top of her voice, when she is alone. The matron will then go on to describe the amnesia that blocks out any memories from before a month ago. She will talk about the abandonment and the fruitless efforts to find her parents. Soon she will hand him a paper that describes the blood tests on Sara that failed to find matching samples at any blood banks or hospitals in the country, and how untraceable parents means there is no way to identify any genetic health issues that might have been handed down. And without a full medical history, she is especially vulnerable. She is, in short, damaged goods: the runt of the litter. Picked on by others.
Sara has sat on the top step of the central stairway and heard the matron deliver this speech in her study multiple times. It is Sara’s history and the only one she knows. The parents always disengage at this point.
But not this time.
This time the silhouette stands and approaches the window, materializing into the form of a man who stares at Sara in an unabashed way. He shows the matron a sheet of paper and then returns his gaze, looking over the heads of the prancing children to the forlorn figure at the edge of the property.
The shrieks coming from outside increase in volume when the matron appears at the door to the garden. She leads the man towards the children as the tiny forms beam up at the adults. One by one their smiles falter and disappear as the adults march past them, heading for the large oak tree at the back. By the time they are halfway to Sara, the other kids have fallen completely quiet and stand as still as statues, watching the procession move away.
The matron stands in front of Sara, exuding a waft of antiseptic in her direction.
‘Sara,’ says the matron, ‘this is Mr Dobbs. Do you remember him?’
‘Hi Sara, it’s me, Lionel,’ he says with a smile.
Sara can see him clearly now for the first time. He is taller than the matron by a few inches but has a burly physique, which gives him the impression of seeming much larger. He has round, cherubic cheeks and soft, brown eyes. He crouches down next to Sara so his face is at her level.
It has been a long time since she’s seen a face that friendly, and for the first time, a memory stirs for her. That face. It is not the first time she has seen that face. She racks her brain, but her memory dead-ends on her arrival at the home. Before then, there is simply a mist of nothingness.
‘I think so,’ she replies to the matron.
‘Don’t worry, your memory will come back. I promise you,’ says Lionel.
The matron clears her throat. She has folded her arms and is looking with concern at Sara.
‘Sara, Mr Dobbs has papers for you, but the final decision to release you to him is mine. I would like some proof you know him.’
She looks at Sara expectantly.
Sara stares at Lionel, waiting for some other piece to fall into place. But nothing comes. She takes a step towards him, hoping some miracle will supply the proof that will allow him to take her away.
‘Let’s see,’ says Lionel, ‘maybe I can help. Sara loves reading adventure books, her favourite colour is green, and she’s a whizz at hide-and-seek.’
At one level, it is like Lionel is describing someone else, a stranger, and yet on another level, the mention of these things seems to resonate with her. An image pops into her mind – her fingers pulling back a tree branch as she runs deeper into a wood, weaving among the trees as she looks behind her. Is it a memory or a scene from a television show she has watched at the home? She is not sure, but her heart begins to beat faster.
‘I want to go with Lionel, Matron,’ says Sara.
The matron seems nonplussed.
‘I need something I can verify.’
Lionel stands up from his crouch and nods in agreement.
‘Fair enough. How about if I told you Sara has a birthmark on her upper right arm in the shape of an infinity sign?’
The matron considers them both for a second before nodding.
‘Good,’ he says, as if the matter is settled. ‘Let’s take you home, Sara.’
Sara follows them as they walk back to the home. She does her best to ignore the incomprehensible whispers that murmur at the edges of her consciousness. The sounds are muffled, like they are coming from the other side of a locked door. She never understands anything that is said, but, at times, the voices have such violence and urgency that they terrify her, and screaming out loud is the only way to drown them out.
The matron sends her upstairs to pack. She has the clothes she has been given by the home, a few books, her toothbrush and nothing more. After all is packed, she looks around to check she is alone, then reaches under her mattress to pull out the plastic bag that contains the two things she has from before the time when things went blank.
She first pulls out the locket and lays it with care on the bed. Then she removes the worn Polaroid picture.
She stares at the man in the photo: the man she should not trust. After poring over it, she knows. It is not Lionel. She is sure of it. But she knew this already. She can trust Lionel. The words of her imaginary companion can’t be heard, but she knows what it is saying. It wants her to go with Lionel Dobbs.
He is waiting for her in front of the home, standing by a black Mercedes car. The rear passenger side door is open, and Sara sees a young woman sitting in the back seat. She is pretty, with short dark hair.
Once they are on the road, Sara looks over and asks the question she has been mulling over since she first saw the woman.
‘Are you my mother?’
The woman does not reply, and Lionel twists in his seat.
‘No, this is Penny. She’s going to help you, Sara. Help you get your memory back.’
‘Do you know my mother?’ Sara asks Lionel.
‘Probably better than anyone else in the world,’ he replies. He turns back to look at the road and presses a button on the compact disc player. The car fills with classical music.
Sara looks out of the window and takes a deep breath.
Her first questions have gone unanswered, and she desperately needs someone to tell her what is happening. She turns back to the two adults in the car and tries again, with the question that dominates the waking hours of each of her days.
‘Have I always had these voices in my head?’
The music must be too loud, as neither of them respond.
The house is set back from the main road and other houses and is surrounded by woods. It feels like a remote destination, and Sara’s eyes take in the exterior of the house, hoping for some memory to surface. But it is alien to her. All of the curtains are closed, and she can’t see inside.
The car crunches into the gravel drive, and Lionel parks it in front of the garage. Penny gets out and motions for Sara to follow her. As they walk to the front door, Sara reaches up and takes her hand. It’s an instinctive act, and she’s pleased when Penny doesn’t pull away. To Sara’s surprise, Penny’s hand feels cold, rubbery and smooth, like the dolls in the play room of the home she has come from. Sara doesn’t mind, she squeezes tightly and doesn’t want to ever let go. Someone has found her, someone who knew her from before, and soon she will be reunited with her parents.
It is dusk, and a dog bounces in from the street and sits in the driveway, watching them, its tail wagging frenetically. He looks so friendly Sara wants to pet him and stops, but Penny tugs her towards the house.
As they enter, Sara looks around, craning for a view of each room. But it is not what she expects. No memories come back. Indeed, the house does not feel like a home at all. There is no furniture in any of the rooms, and what she thought were curtains are in fact wooden boards that cover the windows. A hallway mirror is the only evidence of habitation she can see.
They take her to the kitchen, which has been stripped down so only the sink remains. A single chair sits in the middle of the floor, and she is placed on to it. Lionel stands in front of her. She sees that his hands have a dull sheen and as she stares at them, she realizes they are covered with some form of thin membrane that is catching the light. She looks back at Penny, who is crouching down in the corner of the room, where a host of metal parts lie on the floor. Penny’s hands have the same reflective cast, and it is then that Sara realizes they have both been wearing tight, see-through plastic gloves the whole time.
‘Sara,’ says Lionel, his voice soft, ‘we’re going to help you remember. I know this looks scary, but believe me this is the best way to do it.’
The dog begins barking outside. Lionel looks around, distracted for the first time, waiting for the yapping to end. But it is persistent. Penny shakes her head.
‘I’m going to need total quiet.’
Lionel leaves the kitchen. He takes care to close the door, but the catch is loose, and it swings back a couple of inches. Sara can see him, in the reflection of the hallway mirror, as he opens the front door.
The dog bounds over, its tail wagging back and forth, and lifts itself up on hind legs and offers its front paws playfully as Lionel crouches down and holds out his hand and tickles its ears.
Sara hopes the dog can stay. She’s never had a pet, not that she can recall anyway. The animal has lifted its head and is lapping its tongue on Lionel’s face. Looking at Lionel play with the dog makes her feel less apprehensive about the strange house and the equipment Penny is assembling.
Lionel’s hands drop to rub the fur on the animal’s front legs. The dog cocks its head to the side and wags its tail furiously, excited to find a play partner. Sara then watches as Lionel’s hands grip the front paws like a double handshake and abruptly yank the front legs apart, as easily as he might snap a turkey bone, his strength profound and unexpected. The animal’s spine cracks instantly, the dog dead before it hits the ground.
Sara’s scream is cut short by Penny’s gloved hand, which clamps over her mouth.
She can hear Lionel mutter as he walks back to the kitchen.
‘Fucking dogs.’
He sees Sara’s reaction when he walks in through the door. His face falls, and his earnest expression returns. ‘I’m sorry, Sara. I didn’t want you to see that. That dog was threatening what we were doing. I can’t let anything get in our way.’
Sara has stopped struggling and sits motionless on the edge of the chair. The tap drips insidiously into the sink, the plink plink plink is mutating, shifting into something else, a thumping sound, like a demented monster banging on a basement door. There is a whisper too, but what it is saying, if anything, makes no sense to her.
And with it, the same image returns to her mind, her fingers resting against a canopy of leaves, pressing them down, and slipping in between the trees.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ says Sara.
Dobbs looks at her for a long moment, as if sensing something between them has been lost. Finally, he purses his lips, as if this could not be helped, then nods to Penny.
‘Take her upstairs.’
‘Don’t lock the door,’ is all Penny says as Sara steps into the bathroom. Her voice is cold and robotic, and Sara nods in agreement as she shuts the door behind her.
The moment the door closes, Sara crams her fists in her ears. The entire house seems to have animated and is babbling at full volume now, and her heart is beating so loudly it seems ready to burst from her chest.
She walks as far as she can from the door. She wants to run. As far as she can away from this place. As much as she wants to remember, she knows it is not safe.
Sara climbs on to the cistern and opens the window. It is a ten-foot drop on to the paving stones below.
‘I’m giving you one more minute,’ says Penny from the other side of the door.
Sara looks around and notices how thick the hedge is that runs flush to the side of the garden fence.
By the time the doorknob begins to turn, she is standing on the outside window ledge. She pushes hard and launches herself at the shrubbery.
Seconds later, she is running down the alleyway by the side of the house, her arms and legs still stinging from scratches.
She runs along the gravel driveway and into the field opposite. Her legs pump like they have never before. Each time she feels herself tire, she digs deeper and squeezes more energy from her reserves. She does not stop running. Even though her lungs feel like they could burst and her throat is burning with acid.
She doesn’t look back until she reaches the tree line. Her hands reach out to pull the branches aside, and she realizes with shock she has seen this moment before. The leaves, the sapling branches bending under the pressure of her fingers, it was not a memory. It is this moment.