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

‘Adam,’ I said. ‘I know we had a son.’

I half expected him to ask me how I knew, but then realized this conversation was not unusual. We have been here before, on the day I saw my novel, and other days when I have remembered Adam too.

I saw he was about to speak, but didn’t want to hear any more lies.

‘I know he died in Afghanistan,’ I said.

His mouth shut, then opened again, almost comically.

‘How do you know that?’

‘You told me,’ I said. ‘Weeks ago. You were eating a biscuit, and I was in the bathroom. I came downstairs and told you that I had remembered we had had a son, even remembered what he was called, and then we sat down and you told me how he’d been killed. You showed me some photographs, from upstairs. Photos of me and him, and letters that he’d written. A letter to Santa Claus—’ Grief washed over me again. I stopped talking.

Ben was staring at me. ‘You remembered? How?’

‘I’ve been writing things down. For a few weeks. As much as I can remember.’

‘Where?’ he said. He had begun to raise his voice, as if in anger, though I didn’t understand what he might be angry about. ‘Where have you been writing things down? I don’t understand, Christine. Where have you been writing things down?’

‘I’ve been keeping a notebook.’

‘A notebook?’ The way he said it made it sound so trivial, as if I have been using it to write shopping lists and record phone numbers.

‘A journal,’ I said.

He shifted forward in his chair, as if he was about to get up. ‘A journal? For how long?’

‘I don’t know exactly. A couple of weeks?’

‘Can I see it?’

I felt petulant and angry. I was determined not to show it to him. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

He was furious. ‘Where is it? Show it to me.’

‘Ben, it’s personal.’

He shot the word back at me. ‘Personal? What do you mean, personal?’

‘I mean it’s private. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you reading it.’

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Have you written about me?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘What have you written? What have you said?’

How to answer that? I thought of all the ways I have betrayed him. The things I have said to Dr Nash, and thought about him. The ways in which I have distrusted my husband, the things I have thought him capable of. I thought of the lies I have told, the days I have seen Dr Nash — and Claire — and told him nothing.

‘Lots of things, Ben. I’ve written lots of things.’

‘But why? Why have you been writing things down?’

I could not believe he had to ask me that question. ‘I want to make sense of my life,’ I said. ‘I want to be able to link one day to the next, like you can. Like anybody can.’

‘But why? Are you unhappy? Don’t you love me any more? Don’t you want to be with me, here?’

The question threw me. Why did he feel that wanting to make sense of my fractured life meant that I wanted to change it in some way?

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What is happiness? I’m happy when I wake up, I think, though if this morning is anything to go by I’m confused. But I’m not happy when I look in the mirror and see that I’m twenty years older than I was expecting, that I have grey hairs and lines around my eyes. I’m not happy when I realize that all those years have been lost, taken from me. So I suppose a lot of the time I’m not happy, no. But it’s not your fault. I’m happy with you. I love you. I need you.’

He came and sat next to me, then. His voice softened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I hate the fact that everything was ruined, just because of that car accident.’

I felt anger rise in me again, but clamped it down. I had no right to be angry with him; he did not know what I had learned and what I hadn’t.

‘Ben,’ I said, ‘I know what happened. I know it wasn’t a car accident. I know I was attacked.’

He didn’t move. He looked at me, his eyes expressionless. I thought he hadn’t heard me, and then he said, ‘What attack?’

I raised my voice. ‘Ben!’ I said. ‘Stop it!’ I couldn’t help it. I had told him I was keeping a journal, told him I was piecing together the details of my story, and yet here he was, still prepared to lie to me when it was obvious I knew the truth. ‘Don’t keep fucking lying to me! I know there was no car accident. I know what happened to me. There’s no point in trying to pretend it was anything other than it was. Denying it doesn’t get us anywhere. You have to stop lying to me!’

He stood up. He looked huge, looming over me, blocking my vision.

‘Who told you?’ he said. ‘Who? Was it that bitch Claire? Did she go shooting her ugly fat mouth off, telling you lies? Sticking her oar in where it isn’t wanted?’

‘Ben—’ I began.

‘She’s always hated me. She’d do anything to poison you against me. Anything! She’s lying, my darling. She’s lying!’

‘It wasn’t Claire,’ I said. I bowed my head. ‘It was somebody else.’

‘Who?’ he shouted. ‘Who?’

‘I’ve been seeing a doctor,’ I whispered. ‘We’ve been talking. He told me.’

He was perfectly motionless apart from the thumb of his right hand which was tracing slow circles on the knuckle of his left. I could feel the warmth of his body, hear the slow drawing in of his breath, the hold, the release. When he spoke his voice was so low I struggled to make out the words.

‘What do you mean, a doctor?’

‘His name is Dr Nash. Apparently he contacted me a few weeks ago.’ Even as I said it I felt like I wasn’t telling my own story, but that of someone else.

‘Saying what?’

I tried to remember. Had I written about our first conversation?

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I wrote down what he said.’

‘And he encouraged you to write things down?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ he said.

‘I want to get better, Ben.’

‘And is it working? What have you been doing? Has he been giving you drugs?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’ve been doing some tests, some exercises. I had a scan—’

The thumb stopped moving. He turned to face me.

‘A scan?’ His voice was louder again.

‘Yes. An MRI. He said it might help. They didn’t really have them when I was first ill. Or they weren’t as sophisticated as they are now—’

‘Where? Where have you been doing these tests? Tell me!’

I was starting to feel confused. ‘In his office,’ I said. ‘In London. The scan was there too. I don’t remember exactly.’

‘How have you been getting there? How did someone like you get to a doctor’s office?’ His voice was pinched and urgent now. ‘How?’

I tried to speak calmly. ‘He’s been collecting me from here,’ I said. ‘And driving me—’

Disappointment flashed on his face, and then anger. I had never wanted the conversation to go like this, never intended it to become difficult.

I needed to try and explain things to him. ‘Ben—’ I began.

What happened next was not what I was expecting. A dull moan began in Ben’s throat, somewhere deep. It built quickly until, unable to hold it in any more, he let out a terrible screech, like nails on glass.

‘Ben!’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’

He turned around, staggering as he did so, averting his face from me. I worried he was having some kind of attack. I stood up and put my hand out for him to hold on to. ‘Ben!’ I said again, but he ignored it, steadying himself against the wall. When he turned back to me his face was bright red, his eyes wide. I could see that spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth. It looked as though he had put on some kind of grotesque mask, so distorted were his features.