S. Watson - Before I Go to Sleep - A Novel

He squeezed my hand. ‘Christine, there isn’t. Believe me. We’ve tried everything.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘What have we tried?’

‘Chris, please. Don’t—’

‘What have we tried?’ I said. ‘What?’

‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Everything. You don’t know what it was like.’ He looked uncomfortable. His eyes darted left and right as if he expected a blow and didn’t know from what direction it might come. I could have let the question go then, but I didn’t.

‘What, Ben? I need to know. What was it like?’

He said nothing.

‘Tell me!’

He lifted his head, and swallowed hard. He looked terrified, his face red, his eyes wide. ‘You were in a coma,’ he said. ‘Everyone thought you were going to die. But not me. I knew you were strong, that you’d make it through. I knew you’d get better. And then, one day, the hospital called me and said you’d woken up. They thought it was a miracle, but I knew it wasn’t. It was you, my Chris, coming back to me. You were dazed. Confused. You didn’t know where you were, and couldn’t remember anything about the accident, but you recognized me, and your mother, though you didn’t really know who we were. They said not to worry, that memory loss was normal after such severe injuries, that it would pass. But then—’ He shrugged his shoulders, looked down to the napkin he held in his hands. For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to continue.

‘Then what?’

‘Well, you seemed to get worse. I went in one day and you had no idea who I was. You presumed I was a doctor. And then you forgot who you were, too. You couldn’t remember your name, what year you were born. Anything. They realized that you had stopped forming new memories, too. They did tests, scans. Everything. But it was no good. They said your accident had damaged your memory. That it would be permanent. That there was no cure, nothing they could do.’

‘Nothing? They didn’t do anything?’

‘No. They said either your memory would come back or it wouldn’t, and that the longer you went without it coming back the less likely it was that it would. They told me that all I could do was look after you. And that’s what I’ve been trying to do.’ He took both my hands in his, stroking my fingers, brushing the hard band of my wedding ring.

He leaned forward, so that his head was only inches from mine. ‘I love you,’ he whispered, but I couldn’t reply, and we ate the rest of our meal in near silence. I could feel a resentment growing within me. An anger. He seemed so determined that I could not be helped. So adamant. Suddenly I didn’t feel so inclined to tell him about my journal, or Dr Nash. I wanted to keep my secrets for a little longer. I felt they were the only thing I had that I could say was mine.

We came home. Ben made himself a coffee and I went to the bathroom. There I wrote as much as I could of the day so far, then took off my clothes and make-up. I put on my dressing gown. Another day was ending. Soon I will sleep, and my brain will begin to delete everything. Tomorrow I will go through it all again.

I realized I do not have ambition. I cannot. All I want is to feel normal. To live like everybody else, with experience building on experience, each day shaping the next. I want to grow, to learn things, and from things. There, in the bathroom, I thought of my old age. I tried to imagine what it will be like. Will I still wake up, in my seventies or eighties, thinking myself to be at the beginning of my life? Will I wake with no idea that my bones are old, my joints stiff and heavy? I can’t imagine how I will cope, when I discover that my life is behind me, has already happened, and I have nothing to show for it. No treasure house of recollection, no wealth of experience, no accumulated wisdom to pass on. What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories? How will I feel, when I look in a mirror and see the reflection of my grandmother? I don’t know, but I can’t allow myself to think of that now.

I heard Ben go into the bedroom. I realized I would not be able to replace my journal in the wardrobe and so put it on the chair next to the bath, under my discarded clothes. I will move it later, I thought, once he is asleep. I switched off the light and went into the bedroom.

Ben sat in bed, watching me. I said nothing, but climbed in next to him. I realized he was naked. ‘I love you, Christine,’ he said, and he began to kiss me, my neck, my cheek, my lips. His breath was hot and had the bite of garlic. I didn’t want him to kiss me, but didn’t push him away. I have asked for this, I thought. By wearing that stupid dress, by putting on the make-up and perfume, by asking him to kiss me before we went out.

I turned to face him and, though I didn’t want to, kissed him back. I tried to imagine the two of us in the house we had just bought together, tearing at my clothes on the way to the bedroom, our uncooked lunch spoiling in the kitchen. I told myself that I must have loved him then — or else why would I have married him? — and so there is no reason why I shouldn’t love him now. I told myself that what I was doing was important, an expression of love and of gratitude, and when his hand moved to my breast I didn’t stop him but told myself it was natural, normal. Neither did I stop him when he slipped his hand between my legs and cupped me, and only I knew that later, much later, when I began to moan softly, it wasn’t because of what he was doing. It wasn’t pleasure at all, it was fear, because of what I saw when I closed my eyes.

Me, in a hotel room. The same one I had seen as I got ready earlier that evening. I see the candles, the champagne, the flowers. I hear the knock at the door, see myself put down the glass I have been drinking from, stand up to open it. I feel excitement, anticipation; the air is heavy with promise. Sex and redemption. I reach out, take the handle of the door, cold and hard. I breathe deeply. Finally things will be all right .

A hole, then. A blank in my memory. The door, opening, swinging towards me, but I cannot see who is behind it . There, in bed with my husband, panic slammed into me, from nowhere. ‘Ben!’ I cried out, but he didn’t stop, didn’t even seem to hear me. ‘Ben!’ I said again. I closed my eyes and clung to him. I spiralled back into the past.

He is in the room. Behind me. This man, how dare he! I twist around but see nothing. Pain, searing. A pressure on my throat. I cannot breathe. He is not my husband, not Ben, but still his hands are on me, all over, his hands and his flesh, covering me. I try to breathe, but cannot. My body, shuddering, pulped, turns to nothing, to ash and air. Water, in my lungs. I open my eyes, and see nothing but crimson. I am going to die, here, in this hotel room. Dear God, I think. I never wanted this. I never asked for this. Someone must help me. Someone must come. I have made a terrible mistake, yes, but I do not deserve this punishment. I do not deserve to die .

I feel myself disappear. I want to see Adam. I want to see my husband. But they are not here. No one is here, but me, and this man, this man who has his hands around my throat .

I am sliding, down, down. Towards blackness. I must not sleep. I must not sleep. I. Must. Not. Sleep .

The memory ended, suddenly, leaving a terrible, empty void. My eyes flicked open. I was back in my own home, in bed, my husband inside me. ‘Ben!’ I cried out, but it was too late. With tiny, muffled grunts he ejaculated. I clung to him, holding him as tight as I could, and then, after a moment, he kissed my neck and told me again that he loved me, and then said, ‘Chris, you’re crying …’