I leave the mill and the ghosts of my past, head back towards the river. I cross, the mist still thick this close to the water, and begin to pick my way through the trees, push on towards the house. Everything is growing against me, so I double back, follow the easier path in the opposite direction towards the road, my plan to return to the house via the village.
As I emerge from the trees it is still, quiet, the villagers hibernating for the winter. I’m thankful for the solitude; I must look a mess, with twigs in my hair and leaves stuck all over my boots.
The only sound apart from my footsteps is a car behind me, the headlights on full beam, casting me in a strange yellow glow. The driver seems anxious, perhaps because of the weather, his speed too slow. I pick up my pace to get out of his way, but as he passes, I lose my concentration and slip off the edge of the kerb, twisting my ankle as I fall to the ground.
A memory of my past momentarily descends over the present. I remember lying in a road like this, the grit of the tarmac beneath me, the screech of tyres as a vehicle sped away. I think I was in a park, the sound of a lawnmower revving in the distance. Hedgerows rising up all around me, the smell of roses carried on the heat and humidity of summer. Is this memory from the day of the crash?
I pick myself up and head back towards the house. But as I near the gate, with the oak trees peeping through the haze of fog, I stop. A man is fiddling at the latch, a briefcase at his side. He keeps pressing the buzzer over and over.
He turns when he hears me, greets me with a wide smile, all teeth and finely lined eyes, as if he has spent a summer at the beach. He reaches down to pick up his briefcase, the other hand up for a wave as he ambles towards me. He is underdressed for the weather, wearing a light jacket and a scarf draped casually around his neck. Even in my mother’s thick woollen coat I am freezing.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
As he approaches, I realise it’s the doctor who was here the other night, the one who works with my father and whom I met at the hospital once before.
‘Hello again,’ I say. ‘Dr Thurwell, right?’
‘That’s right. I wondered if you’d recognise me.’
‘You’re the only person I’ve seen other than my family in the last week or so.’ I offer him a smile. ‘You were here the other night.’
‘Yes. Your father and I often meet after work to discuss important cases. It’s part of my training.’ He pauses as I shiver from the cold. ‘Chloe, if you don’t mind me asking, just how long have you been out here? You look freezing, and very pale.’
‘I went for a walk.’ I look down at my wet clothes, a smear of mud on my coat. ‘I fell over.’
He slips off his jacket and offers it to me, cautious and slow as if to demonstrate he poses no threat. Like somebody might approach a stray dog they were trying to help when they really didn’t want to get bitten. ‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but I don’t think you should be out here after everything that’s happened.’ He motions to my head. ‘Why don’t I give you a hand getting inside?’
It takes a while to remember the code for the gate, and I have to make several attempts before I manage to open it. I keep an eye out for Ben, but he’s nowhere to be seen. We enter the gloom of the hallway, my face cold, my fingers blue. I hand him his jacket and he shivers a little as he threads his arms back into the sleeves. He has to rub his hands together in an effort to warm up, and I find myself doing the same.
His hair is short, a dark chestnut brown, the curls picked out by the moist winter air. He is younger than I assumed now that I see him close up, probably not much more than mid-thirties. The cut of his suit reminds me of my father’s: a classic fit, not too fashionable, designed to make him appear older than he is, more credible. He looks kind, with soft features, and there is something about him that I like, something reassuring. That same feeling he instilled in me at the hospital. His smile, I think. Maybe that’s what it is.
He catches sight of himself in the mirror, pulls a face of mock-horror. He flattens out the kinks in his hair as best he can, running his fingers through the thick curls. I remain by the door, watching his movements. ‘Is your father here?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘He’s already left for work.’ I hang the spare keys back on the hook, and throw my coat over the banister. ‘About an hour and a half ago.’
He presses his lips together in disappointment. ‘I just came from there. I thought he’d taken the day off.’ I see him gazing at my cheek, scratched no doubt on a tree branch. Then he looks down, notices my hands. ‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ he says.
I hold out my hands, let him see. I can feel myself cast in his shadow as he inspects the damage, my small hands swallowed up in his. I look down at my palms, which are dirty with grit, two grazes on the heels that appear wet and weepy. ‘And what about here? May I?’ He lets go, reaches up to touch my chin. When I don’t resist, he tilts my head back, lifts my hat. His touch is light and I feel the quickening of my heart as he moves in close.
‘Does it look OK?’ I ask
‘Your head looks fine, but we need to wash the wounds on your hands,’ he says. I can smell his aftershave, something rich and spicy. I avert my eyes, aware of his proximity. He has another look at my hands, pointing to a small black lump near my wrist. ‘That’s a piece of grit. Come on, let me help you wash it out.’
We go to the kitchen and he turns on the tap, tests the temperature of the water. He guides my hands underneath, flicks out the dirt and debris as the warm water washes over the broken skin. I stare at my ring finger as his fingertips move over it, the place where a wedding ring should be. He takes a wad of paper towel and bandages it around my hands.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘It’s only superficial. But if you’ve got some antibacterial cream, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to put a bit on the cuts.’
We exchange an awkward smile and he takes a step back, as if he realises he might have overstepped the mark. My cheeks feel warm, embarrassed. It isn’t his presence that makes me feel that way. Not even his touch. It’s my vulnerability, my reliance upon him. He’s a relative stranger and yet I need his help; that’s how little of myself I have left.
‘I remember you from the hospital,’ I say. ‘You came to talk to me not long after I woke up. You asked me some questions.’
Does he remember? A little wrinkle appears on the left side of his face as he smiles, almost as if he’s embarrassed. ‘You remember that? Indeed I did. I came to complete an assessment.’
‘But you’re not a neurologist. Why did you have to come and see me?’
He looks away awkwardly, pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘It was nothing, Chloe. We just wanted to see how you were feeling about everything, that’s all.’
It takes a while to realise what he means, the pieces fitting together one by one. To understand the reason a psychiatrist would come to assess me. ‘It was a suicide risk assessment, wasn’t it? Because people thought there was a chance I crashed on purpose.’
He takes a big breath in, looks to the ceiling. His eyes meet mine. ‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘But honestly, it was all just part of the process. I never believed that theory for a second.’