He parks the car in one of the spaces outside a large Victorian building. It’s tall and narrow, looks like it will have a lot of stairs. My leg hurts just thinking about it.
He pushes open the heavy door and checks his mailbox for post, pulling out a couple of letters, which he tucks under his arm. Inside it feels warm, cosy, and I can feel the blood rushing back into my extremities, my toes tingling, fingers waking. The walls are painted a toasty shade of yellow, like early morning sunshine. I follow him as he walks towards the stairs, thinking how strange it is to be here, just witnessing normal things. Even the collection of his letters suggests a connection to the outside world that I don’t really share, life continuing all around me. I feel so far removed that I can’t help but wonder how I’ll ever make it back to some degree of normality.
‘You go first,’ he says, stepping aside to let me pass. The hallway is wide, big enough for an art deco table along one wall with a huge mirror above it, but still our bodies are close as I move past. ‘That way if you get stuck on the stairs with that dodgy leg of yours I can give you a nudge in the right direction.’
We take it slowly, stopping for a short break on the second landing. When we arrive on the third floor, he tells me to wait, edges past me to get to his front door. The space is narrower here, and this time as he moves past me his body brushes mine, the heat almost instant. He pushes open the door, and as he steps inside a woman comes out from one of the other flats. She’s wearing sports gear, a rainproof jacket and a woolly hat with earbuds already in place. ‘Hi,’ she says, waving.
‘Hi,’ I reply, taken aback by her friendliness. I look to Guy, who’s holding the door open. I see him smile at the woman but he doesn’t say anything, offering a quick motion with his chin and a brief raising of his eyebrows to acknowledge her.
‘Well, see you,’ she hollers as she skips down the stairs two at a time. I lean over the banister to watch her. Jealousy rises in me, longing, the hope that one day I will achieve something as simple and easy as that: leaving my home, heading confidently out towards life. Guy is right. I need to work on facing up to things on my own.
He closes the door behind me as I move into a large open-plan living room. It’s quiet inside, not a sound from the outside world. No heating pipes or household appliances rattling into action. No television or radio to give the impression we aren’t alone.
‘Why don’t you take a seat,’ he says, setting the mail down on a table. He pulls off his coat and tosses it across the back of a chair before pointing to the sofa along the far wall. After the stairs I find my leg is sore, my head woozy and light. I can feel even the smallest of my muscles trembling with the effort. ‘I promise it’s comfier than it looks.’
I sit as instructed on the modern replica of a mid-century-style sofa, cold black leather, shiny and uninviting. I can hear Guy moving about in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. I look round the room. The walls are white, interrupted only by the window and a large flat-screen TV. No paintings hang here like they do in my parents’ home. A couple of shelves house a limited selection of books, a half-built model boat, and a picture of a man with two boys in a thin-edged silver frame. I stand up, take off my coat and place it alongside Guy’s, then cross the room towards the photograph. The boys in the picture have dark hair. Is one of them Guy? I pick it up, gaze at their faces, both of them happy, kissed by the sun. The man behind them has wrinkles stretching deeply across his cheeks, much like Guy does now. I set it down quickly as I hear him arriving from the kitchen.
He’s carrying two mugs and hands me one decorated with a picture of Brighton Pier. ‘You don’t need to stand on ceremony,’ he says. ‘Come on. Take a seat.’
I do as he asks, and watch him as he moves about the room. He sets his mug down on a glass table in front of the sofa and then fiddles with a thermostat on the wall. I listen as the radiators kick in. Next he crosses to a narrow table that runs along the wall underneath the window. The sky is so white outside that if it hadn’t been for the frame I would barely have noticed the break in the surface of the walls. He presses a button on an answering machine before going over to lock the door. I listen as a woman’s voice crackles through after the beep.
‘Hey, Guy, it’s Julia. I was just wondering what time you wanted to meet this evening and—’
He rushes back to the machine, presses at buttons until the recording stops. He scratches his head, covers his mouth with one hand. He takes a moment to compose himself, to find the right words. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ is all he manages to come up with.
‘You really don’t need to be.’ I feel I have intruded, even though it was him who invited me here. I have heard something private that I shouldn’t have. I perch on the edge of the sofa, willing it to swallow me up. ‘I can leave soon,’ I tell him, thoughts of his plans going around in my head. Of a woman called Julia. Of where I will go next. ‘I can call a taxi if I’m putting you out.’
‘No, no, don’t be stupid,’ he says, waving his hands at me. He sits down next to me on the sofa. The way he lies back makes it impossible for me to see him behind me. So I sit back too, although I hold myself stiffly. I can’t relax here with him. ‘I’ll call her later and cancel.’
‘You really don’t need to do that. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.’
He laughs, quiet and warm, his legs spread wide across the couch. Then he speaks. ‘Of all the things you’ve said today, that’s the silliest.’ Despite his efforts to appear relaxed, I can tell that he too feels somewhat uncomfortable about the message I heard, struggling to make eye contact with me. ‘Really, it’s no big deal. I’m not in the mood to see her anyway.’
The shift in atmosphere makes me feel out of place. Like I shouldn’t be here. I’m the antithesis of this cool, sterile room, the white walls and monochromatic furniture. I feel torn and filthy, unkempt and patched up. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my appearance and the intrusion I have created in Guy’s life. Who am I to make demands of his time, beg for his help to drive me about in search of a past I know so little about? I think back to my memories of who I was before the accident: a grown woman with a job, a husband. Marital problems. A car. A child who adored me, although I was unable to shield him from his father’s problems. A habit of swimming in the sea. All of those things are gone. I never realised how loosely the elements of my life were held together until it all unravelled. One broken stitch and it came spiralling apart, leaving me with almost nothing recognisable to help me find my way forward.
‘Well I’m sorry to ruin your evening, anyway.’
‘Really, it’s fine. You didn’t ruin anything,’ he says, but I notice a cherry blush creeping up his neck. ‘In actual fact, and at the risk of sounding inconsiderate, I’m glad to cancel the plans I had with her. Now, why don’t you finish your cup of tea and go take a shower. It will do you good to get out of those wet clothes. I’ll find you something to wear. After that you can call your parents if you like, let them know where you are.’
He shows me to the spare room, hands me a fresh towel. I look about the room, the spotless bedside table, the bed with crease-free sheets. Everything is so neat and tidy it only serves to make me feel like even more of a mess.
‘Here’s some shower gel, shampoo.’ They are feminine products and remind me of Julia from the message. Has she been here, in this shower, in his bed? Are these her things I’ll be using now? ‘Take as long as you like,’ he says, leaving me alone in his bathroom.
I peel my clothes away like an old wet skin until I’m standing in my underwear. It’s impossible to avoid looking at myself, a wide floor-length mirror completing one of the walls. I look down, gaze at my scarred leg, then up at the cuts on my face. I finger through my hair, the thing Guy said he noticed the first time he met me. And despite my earlier reservations about the mess, I realise something here with my whole self on display: I look better than I did when I first left the hospital. I have put on weight, have more colour in my skin. I’m damaged, sure, still healing, but I’m not broken beyond repair in the way I thought I was. The idea gives me hope that perhaps my life, just like my body, can also be rebuilt.
I stand under the water, let it wash over me, my eyes closed. But in that blackness I can’t help but think of my parents: how they have lied to me, how they have manipulated me, how they have made my recovery so much harder. They have behaved in ways I can’t even begin to explain or excuse. But I also think of moments of genuine tenderness: my father’s reaction to the photo of me and Joshua on Facebook; the tender way my mother mopped my brow. Nothing about any of this makes sense.
I dry off and fold the towel into a neat square, then dress in an old tracksuit of Guy’s that he left for me on the spare bed. It’s soft, smells freshly laundered. Homely. When I return to the lounge I find him sitting on the settee, a laptop on his knees.
He looks up as I arrive in the doorway. ‘You look better.’ I washed my hair, and it has already started bouncing up, falling into the shape of my curls. ‘Have a seat, I’ve got something to show you.’ I sit alongside him, keeping a distance, and he turns the laptop so that I can see. ‘I was interested in what you said about your father this morning. The drug, propranolol. It’s a beta blocker, usually used to treat hypertension. But it does have some uses in psychiatry. Specifically in the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorders.’
He closes the laptop, twists in his seat. ‘There was an interesting study to come out of MIT a few years back. The researchers realised that if you administered propanolol before the recollection of traumatic experiences, it was possible to diminish levels of ongoing stress associated with the index event. They found that people started to care less about their past, and stopped being debilitated by their trauma. The theory is called reconsolidation, the same thing your father mentioned to you. Sort of a reorganisation of your memories. By recalling the memory it becomes malleable. It’s almost as if you are storing it for the first time, and hence it’s amenable to change.’
‘You think that’s what he’s doing to me?’
He shakes his head, appears indecisive. ‘Chloe, it has been hypothesised that the same technique could be used not only to minimise stress, but also to remove memories that incapacitate a patient.’
‘So you think he’s trying to erase my husband from my mind? My son?’
He fidgets, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure. But I don’t think you should have any more therapy sessions with him just yet. Not until we can establish what’s going on. It’s not right for a patient to be in the dark about their treatment like that.’
He orders a pizza, and before it arrives he pours himself a drink, kicks off his shoes. He puts on an old movie, something from the eighties about two teenage boys who manage to bring a mannequin to life. He laughs along with the terrible jokes, the pizza box between us smelling of grease and cheese. I end up with my legs curled up on the sofa, my belly full and plump. For a moment, just the briefest of seconds, I forget.
I wonder if it really is so bad of me to enjoy being around Guy like this. To want to be around him. Part of me feels guilty, as if somehow it’s duplicitous to even think it; as if the joy I find in his company is a betrayal, disloyal to a man I can barely remember. Yet being here with him makes me feel whole. He makes me feel like more than just a victim, more than a woman lost. As if I’m a person with a life. Surely there’s no better reason to spend time with somebody than that. Surely such a feeling shouldn’t be something to feel guilty about.
After the movie finishes, I find my eyes drawn to the framed picture of the two boys on the shelf. I realise that apart from the model boat, it is the only personal item in the room. Guy mutes the television, and when I turn to look at him, I see he has caught me staring.
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,’ I say.
He stands up, walks to the shelf and picks the picture up. ‘You’re not prying.’ He hands it to me and I study it hard, conscious of my greasy fingers as I gaze at the two small boys. Now that I’m looking close up, one of them is undoubtedly Guy, the dark eyes and curly hair the same as today. Even at that young age it is easy to see his bone structure, the pout to his lips, and the high line of his hair. The other boy looks the same, albeit with softer features.
‘Your brother?’ I ask, remembering his story about the younger brother who died.
‘Yes. My father loved to sail.’ He takes a sip of his drink. ‘Kept a boat near Holly Hill beach, on the River Hamble. It was only a small thing,’ he says, almost apologetic, as if he should be embarrassed for having a boat. ‘He used to take it down the Solent, to the Needles and back. Do you know the northern coastline of the Isle of Wight?’ I shake my head. ‘Well it’s beautiful. Towns nestled on the water, boats everywhere. Striking green cliffs that merge into brilliant white rocks. All the way down to the Old Battery lighthouse.’
The picture he creates is idyllic, potentially the beginnings of a happy memory. But I set the frame down on the sofa, knowing that there is something awful to come.
‘He was a year younger than me, always excited to be on the water. Me, never so much, and I was a bit reckless, I suppose. Slapdash, my dad used to call me. Never did things quite the way I should.’ His eyes blink in rapid motion. His discomfort causes a tight pain in my chest. ‘The day we lost him, I hadn’t tied the boom in properly. It swung out, knocked him overboard.’ He looks down into his glass and brings it to his lips, draining it. ‘We never found him.’
For a moment I can’t say anything. The thought of a young boy’s death. I look up, find Guy composed, his bottom lip nibbled between his teeth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I stutter, knowing first hand just how empty a sentiment that is. How little it helps. But it is, in that moment, all I can find.
‘It was never the same after that. They didn’t want to blame me, but they couldn’t forgive me either. As soon as I could, I left. I felt like I’d become his ghost, you know? No matter how many tears they cried, no matter how hard I tried to be perfect for them, none of us ever managed to raise the dead. Can you imagine, living in that house for another ten years after the accident, being blamed for my brother’s death, even though I was only eight years old at the time?’
And the thing is, I don’t think I can. Because even now, after everything that’s happened, my family want me around, despite the problems they have and the complications that my accident has caused. I remember them at my bedside in the hospital, and even when I protested their presence, claimed I didn’t know who they were, they stayed there with me, sometimes throughout the night. No matter what, I always felt wanted.
‘It’s pretty late and I’ve had a drink,’ he says. I look at the clock, see that it’s coming up to ten in the evening. I have been here for hours, but it hasn’t felt like it. ‘Why don’t you just stay the night? The spare bed is already made up.’
‘OK,’ I say. I don’t know where else he thought I might have been able to go.
I lie awake for over an hour, unable to relax in the unfamiliar surroundings. Eventually I get up, walk in the dark through to the lounge. I open one of the windows and listen to the distant hum of the waves breaking against the shore. Joshua’s ashes somewhere out there in the cold. Andrew somewhere else, a potential suspect. It’s hard to keep my mind focused. After a while, I close the window and move back through the lounge, along the corridor, until I find myself standing outside Guy’s bedroom.
‘Come in,’ he says when he hears me knocking. He’s sitting up on top of his bed, nursing a brandy. The sheets are crumpled and messy beneath him, and he has photographs strewn about across the surface. ‘Everything all right?’ he asks as he organises some of the pictures into a pile. ‘Was there something you needed?’
‘I can’t sleep. Want some company?’ He nods his head and I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands tucked beneath my legs. But I see him move aside, motion to the space alongside him. Part of me feels that I should stay where I am, but I came in here for the company and so I shuffle up the bed as he scoops yet more pictures away. It’s hot in his bedroom, the air dry. ‘What are you looking at?’ I ask.
‘Just old photographs. Sometimes I get them out, take a look. I suppose it’s because we spoke about it earlier. Still searching for answers I guess, same as you are. Wondering whether it could have been different.’ He smiles and gives a little shake of his head. ‘If I could have been different.’
‘Nothing is ever different, though, is it?’ I say, remembering what Joshua said to me that day at the beach. Guy casts his eyes down to the bed, takes another brief look at the pictures of his brother. He hands me his brandy and I sip it, without question. I feel it go to my head, my eyes blurring.
‘You’re right. It’s always the same. You can’t change the past, unfortunately. Only yourself.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ He looks up, waits. ‘If you could take a pill, have some sort of treatment to forget like my father is trying to give me, would you do it?’
He shuffles about, brings one leg up to his chest, wraps his arm around it. ‘No, Chloe, I wouldn’t. Life is not ours to manipulate. Life is given to us, a gift. We follow our path, meet people, experience pain and joy and all the things that make us who we are as part of that gift. It’s like that expression, what is it?’ He glances off into the distance as the wind whistles past the window. ‘It’s the journey that matters, not the destination. Something like that, anyway. Without our past, we are not ourselves. Without our memories, we cannot explain our choices. Why try to forget when instead you can use the past and everything you have ever learned in order to become something better. I’m stronger because of what’s happened to me, including what happened with my brother. Yes, the mistake I made still hurts, but it’s a lesson.’
Our conversation flows between his pain and mine, a dead brother, a lost son. ‘I just wish something made sense to me,’ I say. ‘That I could remember something more solid than snippets of memory. That something would feel real.’ I think of his kiss in the bedroom at my old house, how that moment offered me more comfort than anything else since I have woken up. Is that why I agreed to come back here, and why I wandered about in the dark until I found myself here on his bed? To feel something? Something real?
He takes the glass from me and sets it on the side. He edges towards me and I can feel his body close to mine. His heartbeat. The heat. His pulse. ‘I’m real,’ he whispers. And then he kisses my lips, his stubble soft against my skin. This time I don’t stop him. I touch his face, his cheekbone, the curve of his shoulder, the muscles flexing in his arm as I run my hand across it. I press myself against him, savouring the taste of his kiss.
He lifts my arms up, his movements gentle, nothing like the urgency in the bedroom earlier on. That was a stolen moment, but this, now, is ours. He knows I’m not going to push him away. He doesn’t have to rush. He slides the jumper over my head, exposing my skin, and traces his lips across my neck. He stops, stares at me. I don’t look away. He runs his hands from my face to my shoulder, across my bare chest and down to my side. I shiver at his touch, his fingers light.
‘Let me make it go away,’ he says. ‘Let me make it just me and you.’ And I think in that moment: yes, I want that. What I crave most is to forget, to simply feel the moment I’m in. I close my eyes, and for a while, with his consuming weight on top of me, I am lost.