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

Things I had written about him. ‘I forgot,’ I lied. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can see it must be frustrating, that one day you remember something and the next it seems to have gone again. But it’s still progress. Generally you’re remembering more than you were.’

I wondered if what he’d said was still true. In the first few entries of this journal I had written of remembering my childhood, my parents, a party with my best friend. I had seen my husband when we were young and first in love, myself writing a novel. But since then? Lately I have been seeing only the son I have lost and the attack that left me like this. Things it might almost be better for me to forget.

‘You said you were worried about Ben? What he’s saying about the cause of your amnesia?’

I swallowed. What I had written yesterday had seemed distant, removed. Almost fictional. A car accident. Violence in a hotel bedroom. Neither had seemed like anything to do with me. Yet I had no choice but to believe that I had written the truth. That Ben had really lied to me about how I ended up like this.

‘Go on …’ he said.

I told him what I’d written down, starting with Ben’s story about the accident and finishing with my recollection of the hotel room, though I mentioned neither the sex we’d been in the middle of when the memory of the hotel room came to me nor the romance — the flowers, the candles and champagne — it had contained.

I watched him as I spoke. He occasionally murmured an encouragement and even scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes at one point, though the expression was more thoughtful than surprised.

‘You knew this, didn’t you?’ I said when I’d finished. ‘You knew all of this already?’

He put down his drink. ‘Not exactly, no. I knew that it wasn’t a car accident that caused your problems, although since reading your journal the other day I now know that Ben has been telling you that it was. I also knew that you must have been staying in a hotel on the night of your … of your … on the night you lost your memory. But the other details you mentioned are new. And as far as I know this is the first time you’ve actually remembered anything yourself. This is good news, Christine.’

Good news? I wondered if he thought I should be pleased. ‘So it’s true?’ I said. ‘It wasn’t a car accident?’

He paused, then said, ‘No. No, it wasn’t.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me Ben was lying? When you read my journal? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

‘Because Ben must have his reasons,’ he said. ‘And it didn’t feel right to tell you he was lying. Not then.’

‘So you lied to me, too?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never lied to you. I never told you it was a car accident.’

I thought of what I had read this morning. ‘But the other day,’ I said. ‘In your office. We talked about it …’

He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t talking about an accident,’ he said. ‘You said that Ben had told you how it had happened, so I thought you knew the truth. I hadn’t read your journal then, don’t forget. We must have got ourselves mixed up …’

I could see how it might happen. Both of us skirting around an issue we didn’t want to mention by name.

‘So what did happen?’ I said. ‘In that hotel room? What was I doing there?’

‘I don’t know everything,’ he said.

‘Then tell me what you do know.’ The words emerged angrily, but it was too late to snatch them back. I watched as he brushed a non-existent crumb from his trousers.

‘You’re certain you want to know?’ he said.

I felt like he was giving me one final chance. You can still walk away , he seemed to be saying. You can go on with your life without knowing what I am about to tell you .

But he was wrong. I couldn’t. Without the truth I am living less than half a life.

‘Yes,’ I said.

His voice was slow. Faltering. He began sentences only to abort them a few words later. The story was a spiral, as if circling round something awful, something better left unsaid. Something that made a mockery of the idle chat I imagine the café is more used to.

‘It’s true. You were attacked. It was …’ He paused. ‘Well, it was pretty bad. You were discovered wandering in the street. Confused. You weren’t carrying any identification at all, and had no memory of who you were or what had happened. There were head injuries. The police initially thought you had been mugged.’ Another pause. ‘You were found wrapped in a blanket, covered in blood.’

I felt myself go cold. ‘Who found me?’ I said.

‘I’m not sure …’

‘Ben?’

‘No. Not Ben, no. A stranger. Whoever it was calmed you down. Called an ambulance. You were admitted to hospital, of course. There was some internal bleeding and you needed an emergency operation.’

‘But how did they know who I was?’

For an awful moment I thought perhaps they had never discovered my identity. Perhaps everything, an entire history, even my name, was given to me the day I was discovered. Even Adam.

Dr Nash spoke. ‘It wasn’t difficult,’ he said. ‘You’d checked into the hotel under your own name. And Ben had already contacted the police to report you as missing. Even before you were found.’

I thought of the man who had knocked on the door of that room, the man I had been waiting for.

‘Ben didn’t know where I was?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Apparently he had no idea.’

‘Or who I was with? Who did this to me?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nobody was ever arrested. There was very little evidence to work with, and of course you couldn’t really help the police with their investigations. It was assumed that whoever attacked you removed everything from the hotel room and then left you and fled. No one saw anyone go in, or leave. Apparently the hotel was busy that night — some kind of function in one of the rooms, lots of people coming and going. You were probably unconscious for some time after the attack. It was the middle of the night when you went downstairs and left the hotel. No one saw you go.’

I sighed. I realized the police would have closed the case, years ago. To everyone but me — even to Ben — this was old news, ancient history. I will never know who did this to me, and why. Not unless I remember.

‘What happened then?’ I said. ‘After I was taken to hospital?’

‘The operation was successful, but there were secondary effects. There was difficulty in stabilizing you after surgery. Your blood pressure in particular.’ He paused. ‘You lapsed into a coma for a while.’

‘A coma?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was touch and go, but, well, you were lucky. You were in the right place and they treated your condition aggressively. You came round. But then it became apparent that your memory had gone. At first they thought it might be temporary. A combination of the head injury and anoxia. It was a reasonable assumption—’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Anoxia?’ I had stumbled over the word.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Oxygen deprivation.’

I felt my head begin to swim. Everything started to shrink and distort, as though it were getting smaller, or me bigger. I heard myself speak. ‘Oxygen deprivation?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You had symptoms of a severe lack of oxygen to the brain. Consistent with carbon dioxide poisoning — though there was no other evidence for this — or strangulation. There were marks on your neck that suggested this. But the most likely explanation was thought to be near drowning.’ He paused as I absorbed what he was telling me. ‘Did you remember anything about almost drowning?’