Ten days after the incident with Kennedy she drove into County Down to meet Dan Cochrane.
It was a Sunday morning. October had arrived, bringing slate grey days that were colder. Hedgerows sparkled with diamond drops left over from the night’s rain.
She had thought he would never ask.
‘Sunday,’ he had said on the phone. ‘Are you doing anything?’
‘Not a lot, no.’
‘Do you like walking?’
‘Yes, but I don’t do enough of it.’
‘Do you know where Castle Ward is?’
She did.
‘Then I’ll meet you at eleven thirty in the bottom car park, at the cornmill. You’ll see the signs directing you if you don’t know how to locate it. Don’t wear anything you don’t mind getting dirty. Have you got walking boots?’
‘Yes,’ she had said. She had, somewhere. ‘And then what?’
‘Then we’ll go for a walk and afterwards we’ll have a nice lunch.’
Castle Ward was a National Trust property just a couple of miles along the coastal shore from the village of Strangford.
She was not a Trust member so she paid the attendant at the gate lodge, then went on into the grounds, driving past heavy rhododendron bushes and fields of grazing sheep that were abundant with wool.
In a few moments, across the meadows on her right, she saw the house that gave the place its name. Built in the eighteenth century, it was an architectural oddity. The original owner and his wife had been unable to agree on an overall style so that one side, the one she saw now, was classical in construction, while the other, facing out over Strangford Lough, was gothic.
As instructed, she followed the signs to the cornmill and turned towards the car park. He was sitting on a tree stump, waiting, and she felt her heart beating harder when she saw him.
She got out. ‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ he answered and they stood for a moment smiling nervously at each other.
She could not see his van. ‘Where’s your limo?’
‘I left it in Strangford and walked here.’ She looked puzzled.
‘Well, I thought we’d walk into Strangford and I didn’t think you’d want to walk all the way back again after lunch.’
She aimed a forefinger at him. ‘Good thinking,’ she said.
She got her boots out of the car and put them on. She had bought a pair of thick socks and she tucked her jeans in, then pulled a waterproof over her head.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You look the part.’
She peered at him. He was wearing a chunky sweater, a pair of rainproof trousers and sturdy leather boots that were muddy already.
‘No coat?’
‘It won’t rain. Not until tonight. I checked the forecast.’
‘Very trusting of you,’ she said. ‘So, come on then. Lead the way.’
They headed out of the car park and down towards the shore. There was almost no wind at all and the tide was out a little way. Black-headed gulls bobbed on the surface of the water and the smell of seaweed was pungent in the air.
He cut through a crumbling stone gateway and into the woods. They followed a broad path with heavy tyre tracks embedded deeply in soft mud, passing trees which had fallen and been cut neatly into piles of logs. She could smell the damp sawdust.
She thought immediately of her last venture into a forest. This was different.
They did not talk much; she did not feel the need. Instead she listened to a stillness broken only by the soft sound of their feet on the earth, the sweet melody of a robin in the bushes, and the call of a curlew out over the water.
It reminded her of walks when she was young – what, thirteen? Fourteen?
There had been a boy the same age. She couldn’t recall his name. She remembered how his eyes would scout ahead, seeking out a suitable tree, and then when he reached the spot he would pull her in behind it and she would pretend to be surprised.
She remembered awkward kisses. Cold lips on cold lips. Each of them trying to hide the fact that they had runny noses, which meant holding your breath for impossibly long periods until you broke apart, gulping for air and searching for a handkerchief.
And she remembered the tingling feeling of icy, furtive fingers making their persistent way past protective barriers of clothing.
She realised with a start that she was imagining Dan’s hands, that she was thinking of his touch on her skin.
She saw that he was looking at her with a little frown. ‘You OK?’
‘Me? I’m fine,’ she said, hoping he would think that the redness in her cheeks was the result of the fresh morning air.
They met two young people coming the other way, a boy and girl of about seventeen with an energetic golden retriever, its legs encased in black mud. A younger boy, about twelve and chubby, lagged several yards behind them.
The girl turned. ‘Run, Forrest, run!’ she called back to him.
The youngsters laughed, Cochrane, too, as they passed.
‘What’s so funny?’ Meg asked.
‘Forrest Gump,’ he said.
‘What’s forest gump?’
He glanced at her for a second and realised. ‘Of course – you wouldn’t know. It’s a film. It was a big hit when you were—’
‘In a coma,’ she finished for him. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. This sort of thing happens all the time.’
After half an hour, they reached Strangford.
They entered the village all of a sudden. They came down a sloping stony pathway called the Squeeze Cut and when they turned the comer, there it was. The harbour was below them and on the far side of the shore she could see the town of Portaferry. A gentle sun had cut through the clouds, bathing the buildings along its seafront. Windows flashed like signals in morse code.
She felt warm. Thirsty, too. And hungry. ‘So where are we having lunch?’
‘I’ll show you. We’re nearly there.’
They walked on, past substantial stone houses of well-kept privacy, until they reached The Square. A row of cars was lined up, waiting for the ferry which would take it on the short journey to the far side.
‘This is it,’ Cochrane said and opened the door to the Cuan pub and restaurant.
They stepped into the hallway and wiped their muddy feet. In the heat, her glasses steamed up straight away. She took them off and rubbed them with a tissue.
Although it was early, there was already the sound of activity in the bar and the smell of food.
‘Yes sir?’ a waiter said, stepping forward to welcome them.
‘We’re going to have lunch,’ Cochrane said. He looked down at his boots and then at Meg’s. ‘In the public bar will be fine.’
‘Certainly,’ the waiter said and led them there, handing them two menus on the way.
In the hearth there was a fire and the heavy smell of peat.
‘Can we sit at the window?’ Meg said. ‘I’m roasted.’
She took off her waterproof top and her sweater. She had a polo shirt underneath. She felt his eyes on her for a moment but it did not trouble her.
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Now, what’s good today?’
They both went for the home-made Irish stew. It was hearty and full of flavour and they devoured it with hardly a word. Cochrane had a pint of Guinness to go along with it; Meg had a Coke and then a coffee.
‘That was great,’ she said. ‘So was the walk. Brilliant idea and thank you very much for thinking of it.’
‘I thought you might enjoy it. Get you out into the good country air.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever done that stretch before. Funnily enough, this part of the coast was never a family haunt. We always went further along. Ardglass direction – where you are. My grandmother had a house there.’ She folded her arms and gave him a meaningful stare. ‘And now it’s your turn.’
‘What do you mean?’ He looked wary.
‘That night at my house. I said I didn’t know anything about you. You said we’d leave that for another day. Well, here it is. Another day.’
‘So it is.’ He smiled. ‘What do you want to know?’ He sipped his drink then licked the cream from his lip.
‘Anything. All I know is that your name’s Dan Cochrane and that you’re looking after that pottery for somebody. That’s hardly a lifetime’s vocation.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I suppose it’s not. OK – I’m twenty-nine and I’ve got a degree in psychology from Queen’s University but for reasons I don’t want to bore you with I haven’t got a job at the moment and I’m doing this as a favour. How’s that?’
‘It not much but it’s a start. Is there a Mrs Cochrane?’
She had assumed not but she had a sudden worried feeling and wondered what she would do if the answer was yes.
‘No,’ he said and she relaxed again.
‘Was there ever?’
‘No. Well, yes. My mother.’
‘I didn’t mean that. But your mother—’
‘She’s dead. My father, too.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s OK.’
Two priests came in and were greeted like regulars. They wore golf sweaters over black clerical shirts and dog collars and they took seats at the fire with pints of lager. One of them opened a small tin of tobacco and went through the elaborate ritual of lighting a pipe while the other folded a copy of the Sunday Telegraph into a compact square at the crossword page.
‘Psychology,’ she said. ‘Now there’s a subject I’ve been in contact with of late. Did you ever practise?’
‘For a time, yes. I was with one of the education boards.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Oh, children’s assessment. Kids with learning difficulties and psychological problems, often stemming from dreadful home circumstances. But I had to give it up. A family situation of my own.’
He did not elaborate and she could see that he did not want to.
‘Any brothers and sisters?’ she asked.
‘No.’
He looked away from her, towards the window, and she wondered if she had touched something she wasn’t supposed to. The glass in the window was frosted, impenetrable. Like you, she thought, looking at his dark, brooding expression. She felt the mystery in it drawing her closer to him but she sensed that she was wandering where she was not wanted. Trespassing.
‘I could probably qualify as a psychologist myself,’ she said. He turned to her. ‘Your memory – has anything at all come back to you?’
She shook her head.
‘But since you’ve been out of hospital, have you felt, well, as if you were on the verge of remembering at all?’
‘I always feel on the verge. But it doesn’t lead anywhere.’
‘How does the amnesia seem to you, when you think about it? How do you picture it?’
She considered the question, then she said, ‘It’s . . . it’s like a heavy black blanket. I know I can almost get out from under it, that everything is out there, just beyond, but I can’t manage to shake the thing off. I reach out from underneath but I can’t touch anything, I can’t feel anything. I stretch out my hand but the blanket falls more firmly over me. It’s suffocating. It chokes me.’
‘Well, that at least is pretty vivid,’ he said.
She told him about going to Vectra and meeting Alice Harte. ‘Then last week I got a call from them and an address for Paul Everett’s parents. I’ve made a couple of stabs at writing a letter but it just ended up in the bin. It’s so hard to know what to say to them.’
‘Just tell it straight. Tell them how you feel.’
‘The consultant who was helping me—’
‘What was his name?’
‘Dr Paddy Sands. Do you know him?’
‘I know of him. He’s rather eminent in this whole field of traumatic disorder. Sorry. You were saying?’
‘Well, yes, just that. He’s of the view that something may have happened earlier that night, that perhaps the accident – the murder – was the culmination of some deep psychological trauma and that in spite of my physical recovery, this psychogenic amnesia has remained.’ She put her hand to her heart. ‘Even though I feel as if I desperately want to remember, my inner self won’t allow me.’
‘There are various types of memory,’ Cochrane said.
‘I know. They explained it all to me. The semantic memory, the procedural memory and the episodic memory. That’s where my trouble is. That last one.’
‘That seems about right,’ he said.
‘Some people subscribe to the theory that we keep all of our experiences in the brain forever, filed away. They’re in the dark in there somewhere, just waiting for a light to be shone on them. Do you agree with that?’
‘Engrams,’ Cochrane said.
‘What?’
‘Engrams. Memory traces. They’re called “engrams”. They’re fragments of past episodes and experiences, stored away in our minds where they stay until for some reason our memory decides to retrieve them. But we don’t keep them all. That would be ludicrous. Everyone forgets things. It’s perfectly natural, just like the way you clear out a drawer from time to time, keep some of the stuff that’s in it and junk the rest. People worry too much about forgetting. They see the onset of Alzheimer’s every time something slips their mind but that isn’t the case at all. The brain only remembers what it needs, what’s important. We’d go insane if we remembered everything that ever happened to us in our lives. Our heads would be full of chaos.’
He swished his glass around to revive the remains of the drink in it. ‘The memory is a uniquely powerful thing. It’s not just a record of something that happened. When we remember something we also recall how we felt about it at the time – pain, joy, whatever – and we experience that emotion all over again. I would say Dr Sands is right. You’re like a battle victim, a war casualty, overloaded with some bad experience. Those particular engrams are still there,’ he tapped her gently on the forehead with his finger, ‘but your mind has hidden them away because it can’t cope. It just needs the right key to open the lock.’
‘But how do I do that?’
‘You might not. You might never remember at all. Not if your subconscious mind doesn’t want you to. But sometimes memories force their way to the surface by themselves. That will have happened to you at some time in your life. It happens to everyone. You hear a sound that evokes something. Or maybe it’s a smell. Something that’s significant to you and means absolutely nothing to anyone else.’
He pulled at his sweater. ‘With me, for example, it’s the smell of wet wool. Every time that smell comes to me, I get a crystal clear picture of my mother standing in our kitchen, ironing on autumn afternoons. I can even see the leaves in the lane outside. I’ve just come home from school and I’ve thrown my schoolbag onto a corner of the settee and I’m getting something to eat out of the fridge. I feel warm and content and secure. The thing is, I can conjure up that memory any time I like but without the smell, that unexpected, accidental trigger, the recollection isn’t anything like as sharp, nor do I re-experience the feelings I had at the time. Am I making sense?’
‘Totally,’ she said.
She had followed every word, watching his lips, fascinated by the concept and the eager way he explained it. For a second, too, she had glimpsed the world of his childhood and she wondered what else he had to tell but was reluctant to share.
‘I had an experience something like that the other day,’ she told him. ‘I was leaving my mother’s house. There was no trigger as such, just a feeling of sadness and loneliness that was depressingly familiar to me. I had a sudden sight of myself as a child. Later I remembered what it was. It was my birthday and I had done something my mother didn’t like, I’ve forgotten what. She was going to let me have a few friends in for tea and then she phoned all their mothers and cancelled it. I was on my own.’
‘What you’ve been trying to do,’ he said, ‘visiting the scene of the crash, the Clarendon Dock, that sort of thing – it’s the right way to go about it. You’re putting yourself in situations where you might remember. But you must be careful not to put too much strain on yourself.’
‘In what way?’
‘You’re getting frustrated because it doesn’t appear to be leading anywhere. Like I said, maybe it never will. And in that case, you’ll just have to live with it, adjust to the fact that part of you isn’t there any more. It’s . . .’ he searched for an image, ‘. . . it’s just as real a loss as if you had a limb amputated. After a while you’ve got to get used to that and face up to the reality that it won’t grow back again.’
‘Delightful thought,’ she said.
‘On the other hand, sometimes the re-creationof certain circumstances, a kind of reproduction of the context, can trigger recall. What you felt at your mother’s house was a bit like that. I remember reading once in a book on memory about a man who suddenly woke up one day and found that he couldn’t remember anything at all about himself. Nothing. He was taken to hospital and they found that he’d had a kind of stroke which had damaged the left thalmus.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘It’s a sort of control centre in the brain, where all the switches are, if I could describe it like that. Just about all our sensory input is routed through it. Anyway, nothing could be done for him. For a year, his memory was virtually a blank sheet of paper. And then one day he had to go to hospital. He had heart problems and he needed to have a pacemaker fitted. But when he was being wheeled towards the theatre, he started feeling a bit scared and he remembered feeling exactly the same way in identical circumstances twenty five years before when he’d had to go into hospital to undergo an operation for a hernia. Suddenly, he began to remember other aspects of that particular day: what the weather was like, what he’d been doing beforehand, how he’d got to the hospital and so on, and within minutes his head was swimming. A whole ocean of memories. His entire life came flooding back to him.’
The thought excited her for a second but then the feeling subsided.
‘That’s great for him,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got no great desire to drive a car into a tree and bang my head in order to get the same result.’
He looked at her, pondering something. ‘Listen, here’s an idea. Would you like to do a little test?’
‘What sort of a test?’
‘Nothing elaborate. Just some cues. I throw words at you to see what memories spring up.’
‘Like word association?’
‘Not quite. Not like branch – tree or anything like that. If I say the word “tree”, I want you to think about a tree from your past. What do you say? Do you want to try it?’
‘OK,’ she said with a little hesitation. She gave a nervous laugh. ‘What am I getting myself into here?’
‘Nothing. It’s simple. Right then. Tree. We might as well start with that.’
‘Tree – OK. The house where we used to live. Before my parents split up. There was a yew tree in the garden at the back, right in the centre of the lawn. Its bark was all scratches where my father kept banging the lawnmower into it.’
‘Good, you’ve got the hang of it. Car.’
‘A Volkswagen Beetle. My father bought it for me when I passed my driving test. I painted it a kind of pink, I remember.’ She laughed. ‘It must have looked disgusting. But I loved that car.’
‘OK – hospital.’
‘Getting my tonsils out when I was about twelve. They told me I’d feel sick afterwards but I didn’t realise how much. It was dreadful. God, enough of this. It makes me feel ill just thinking about it.’
‘Just one more. House.’
She thought for a second. ‘My grandmother’s house near Ardglass. It was full of places to explore and interesting things she didn’t mind me touching or playing with. I could be alone there but I never felt lonely. She’s gone now. So’s the house, more’s the pity. There’s a horrible hotel there instead, which my father built.’
He said nothing for a few moments. He had been taking notes on the back of the bill which the waiter had left and he seemed to be concentrating on what he had written.
‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Well, it wasn’t a very thorough test, not by a long way, but look at your responses. Every one of them’s from your childhood or that part of your past. There’s not a single recent recollection. Not even when I said “hospital”. Everything that comes to your mind is from a long time ago. Now, I wonder what we could do to bring you a little nearer to the present?’