I walk away from Damien Treadstone, my head down, my hair swept left and right as the wind picks it up like flames. I find it hard to comprehend everything he has told me, to understand how his truth fits with mine. What we both think we know are two separate pieces of a puzzle. The edges don’t align; it is an abstract painting that makes no sense. Part of me wants to think he is lying, that this is nothing more than a ruse to exploit my amnesia. But I don’t believe that. He never tried to contact me between that night and now. He was relying on me going to court, relying on my inability to identify him. He trusts his account of that night. Because he is telling the truth.
I wander without purpose, confused, until I arrive at the seafront. I sit in one of the Victorian shelters with the glow of an ornate street lamp above me and gaze out to the ocean, the vast blackness of it. The lights of the Palace Pier shine through the mist, the dome lit up. The waves charge towards the shore like a squadron of cavalry, crash-landing across the shingle beach. I can feel the spray of the water on my face, a fine mist. I see the ghost of the West Pier and, as I turn, the Brighton Metropole behind me. I’ve been here before, I know it. Seen this same view. Further up the road a couple laugh as they share a bag of fish and chips.
I wrap my arms around my body and consider what Damien Treadstone told me. I believe his version of events. He is adamant that he wasn’t involved in the accident. It makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard. At least now I know why I can remember running through the trees to reach the clearing where Joshua died. It makes sense why I was found with cuts all over my face, and why my injuries seemed inconsistent with the findings from the crash site: I wasn’t driving my car. But why would somebody else be driving it with Joshua in it? And how did I end up in it before I was found by the police? Although I can’t explain why I was in Preston Park, I now know I was there prior to the crash. I need to talk to the police.
I find my way to my house, my old home, and with a rock from the beach I break a pane of glass in the door to let myself in. It is dark, cold without the electricity or heating, filled with that scent of a house left empty. The vulnerability of being alone smothers me. I move into the kitchen, stand there for a moment just looking. Trying to make sense of the things I have remembered. But I can’t. Instead I look through the drawers. Although most of them are empty, in one drawer I find an old kitchen knife. I take it out, run my finger along the edge of the blade. I take it with me, sit down on the couch and pull the phone towards me. I find DS Gray’s number in my pocket and punch it into the handset.
When he picks up, I tell him what I know: that I was in Preston Park on the night of the crash; that I believe I stole Damien Treadstone’s car because somebody else had stolen mine with my son inside. For a moment there’s silence, and I wonder whether he is going to believe me. But then, just as I am about to prompt him, he speaks.
‘I’ll struggle to get any CCTV from that area overnight, but I’ll do my best. If you remember anything else, be sure to let me know. And Chloe, there’s something else I should tell you before you go.’ He pauses. ‘Andrew’s alibi checks out.’
Of course it does.
I hang up the phone. In some ways I’m relieved to know I wasn’t driving the car that crashed with Joshua in it, but at the same time I can remember DS Gray telling me there was paint transfer between the vehicles, indicating that the two cars touched. I might still be responsible for causing the crash, which in some way is even worse. I look down at the knife, wonder how well it might cut.
I take off the coat which belongs to my mother, the one she forced across my shoulders before I left my parents’ house. I curl up on the sofa, hugging my legs in close with a dusty throw from the settee pulled over me to get warm. I think of Andrew alone in that tiny room, trying to fix himself even though he has lost the people most precious to him in the world. I am comforted by the idea that we were going to try again, by the thought that even now he is prepared to forgive me, that he understands we both messed up. Somehow it makes my mistakes easier to bear.
What I also know is that going to Preston Park has triggered certain memories, helped push my story further on. I knew as soon as I walked through the rose garden that I had been there that night. Now I know I must visit the scene of the crash, understand that night once and for all. I pick up the phone and dial Guy’s number.
‘Hello?’ he says.
‘Hi, Guy, it’s Chloe.’
‘Hey, it’s good to hear from you. I’ve missed you.’
He sounds coy, adolescent. We haven’t spoken since he dropped me at my parents’ house earlier, but surely that’s not enough time to miss me? The night we shared hangs over us, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it like I am. Should I be ashamed that we had sex? That’s certainly how I feel. But he is the only person who can help me now.
I explain what happened: the meeting with Damien, the certainty that somebody else was at the scene of the crash. I even admit that I think I was having an affair, because it now seems pointless not to. Andrew knows, and he has, in some small way, forgiven me. He doesn’t blame me like I blame myself. That somehow makes it easier.
‘Will you take me to the crash site?’ I ask. ‘I think you were right about facing up to things. Going there might help me remember the final pieces of the puzzle.’
‘Are you sure you’re ready?’
‘I don’t have a choice. I have to try to remember, and you’re the only person who can help me with this.’
‘OK. Let’s say nine in the morning. Do you want me to pick you up from your parents’ house?’
‘No. I want to go now.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late to go today? It’s nearly 9 p.m.’
‘I have to do this tonight. I’ve already told the police about what I’ve remembered. I can’t wait.’
The flippancy leaves his voice. ‘The police? What did you call them for?’
‘Because I’m convinced that Damien Treadstone is telling the truth, Guy. Somebody else took my car with Joshua in it. The police are already looking for CCTV from Preston Park now that Damien has admitted where he really was, and if they find what they’re looking for, we’ll know who took my car, killed my son and left me for dead. But what if they can’t find anything? I have to go there, Guy, and maybe then I’ll remember who it was.’
I listen as he takes a breath. For a moment I worry that he is going to say no. ‘OK, Chloe. When you put it like that … I’m on my way.’
I hang up the phone, pull the small throw from the back of the sofa and position it over my legs. It’s freezing cold in this house, the life gone. I dial one more number and hope my sister will answer. She does.
‘Chloe?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
She lets out a long breath. ‘Chloe, where are you? You’ve been gone for hours.’ I can hear her footsteps pacing back and forth in the hallway, my mother in the background trying to take the phone from her. My father? Where is he now? Now that I know he is still lying, that he had no intention of ever telling me the truth? ‘Just tell us where you are so that we can come and get you. It’s not safe for you to be alone for too long.’ It’s sometimes easy to forget that I’m only a few weeks past brain surgery, despite the reminder every time I look in the mirror.
‘It’s not necessary, Jess. I’m with Guy.’ What is one more little lie? ‘I’ve already spoken to the police. I know now where I was that night. I have to go and see the scene of the crash for myself.’
‘Chloe, why don’t you just wait for the police to do their job?’
‘I can’t do that. I’ll call you later, Jess, OK?’
And with that I hang up the phone. When it begins to ring, I pull the cable from the wall and the house goes silent. Guy will be here soon and then I can try to put this right. I close my eyes, let my head rest back, awash in the knowledge of everything I’ve remembered. It’s only minutes before sleep takes me.