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

I thought of what they’d told me on the ward, and Ben in his letter.

You were occasionally violent

I realized it might have been me who caused the fight on Friday night. Did I lash out at Ben? Perhaps he hit back and then, upstairs in the bathroom, I took a pen and explained it all away with a fiction.

What if all this journal means is that I’m getting worse again? That soon it really will be time for me to go back to Waring House?

I went cold, suddenly convinced that this was why Dr Nash had wanted to take me there. To prepare me for my return.

All I can do is wait for Claire to call me back.

Another gap. Is that what’s happening now? Will Ben try to take me back to Waring House? I look over to the bathroom door. I will not let him.

There is one final entry, written later that same day.

Monday, 26 November, 6.55 p.m

.

Claire called me after less than half an hour. And now my mind oscillates. It swings from one thing to the other, then back again.

I know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I know what to do

But there’s a third thought. I shudder as I realize the truth:

I am in danger

.

I turn to the front of this journal, intending to write Don’t trust Ben, but I find those words are already there.

I don’t remember writing them. But then I don’t remember anything.

A gap, and then it continues.

She sounded hesitant on the phone.

‘Chrissy,’ she said. ‘Listen.’

Her tone frightened me. I sat down. ‘What?’

‘I called Ben. At school.’

I had the overwhelming sensation of being on an uncontrollable journey, of being in unnavigable waters. ‘What did he say?’

‘I didn’t speak to him. I just wanted to make sure he worked there.’

‘Why?’ I said. ‘Don’t you trust him?’

‘He’s lied about other things.’

I had to agree. ‘But why did you think he’d tell me he worked somewhere if he didn’t?’ I said.

‘I was just surprised he was working in a school. You know he trained to be an architect? The last time I spoke to him he was looking into setting up his own practice. I just thought it was a bit odd he should be working in a school.’

‘What did they say?’

‘They said they couldn’t disturb him. He was busy, in a class.’ I felt relief. He hadn’t lied about that, at least.

‘He must have changed his mind,’ I said. ‘About his career.’

‘Chrissy? I told them I wanted to send him some documents. A letter. I asked for his official title.’

‘And?’ I said.

‘He’s not head of chemistry. Or science. Or anything else. They said he was a lab assistant.’

I felt my body jerk. I may have gasped; I don’t remember.

‘Are you sure?’ I said. My mind raced to think of a reason for this new lie. Was it possible he was embarrassed? Worried about what I would think if I knew he had gone from being a successful architect to a lab assistant in a local school? Did he really think I was so shallow that I would love him any more or less based on what he did for a living?

Everything made sense.

‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘It’s my fault!’

‘No!’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault!’

‘It is!’ I said. ‘It’s the strain of having to look after me. Of having to deal with me, day in and day out. He must be having a breakdown. Maybe he doesn’t even know himself what’s true and what’s not.’ I began to cry. ‘It must be unbearable,’ I said. ‘He even has to go through all that grief on his own, every day.’

The line was silent, and then Claire said, ‘Grief? What grief?’

‘Adam,’ I said. I felt pain at having to say his name.

‘What about Adam?’

It came to me. Wild. Unbidden.

Oh God

, I thought.

She doesn’t know. Ben hasn’t told her

.

‘He’s dead,’ I said.

She gasped. ‘Dead? When? How?’

‘I don’t know when, exactly,’ I said. ‘I think Ben told me it was last year. He was killed in the war.’

‘War? What war?’

‘Afghanistan.’

And then she said it. ‘Chrissy, what would he be doing in Afghanistan?’ Her voice was strange. She almost sounded pleased.

‘He was in the army,’ I said, but even as I spoke I was starting to doubt what I was saying. It was as if I was finally facing something I had known all along.

I heard Claire snort, almost as if she was finding something amusing. ‘Chrissy,’ she said. ‘Chrissy darling. Adam hasn’t been in the army. He’s never been to Afghanistan. He’s living in Birmingham, with someone called Helen. He works with computers. He hasn’t forgiven me, but I still ring him occasionally. He’d probably rather I didn’t, but I am his godmother, remember?’ It took me a moment to work out why she was still using the present tense, and even as I did so she said it.

‘I rang him after we met last week,’ she said. She was almost laughing, now. ‘He wasn’t there, but I spoke to Helen. She said she’d ask him to ring me back. Adam is alive.’

I stop reading. I feel light. Empty. I feel I might fall backwards, or else float away. Dare I believe it? Do I want to? I steady myself against the dresser and read on, only dimly aware that no longer do I hear the sound of Ben’s shower.

I must have stumbled, grabbed hold of the chair. ‘He’s alive?’ My stomach rolled, I remember vomit rising in my throat and having to swallow it down. ‘He’s really alive?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes!’

‘But—’ I began. ‘But — I saw a newspaper. A clipping. It said he’d been killed.’

‘It can’t have been real, Chrissy,’ she said. ‘It can’t have been. He’s alive.’

I began to speak, but then everything hit me at once, every emotion bound up in every other. Joy. I remember joy. The sheer pleasure of knowing that Adam is alive fizzed on my tongue, but mixed into it was the bitter, acid tang of fear. I thought of my bruises, of the force with which Ben must have struck me to cause them. Perhaps his abuse is not only physical, perhaps some days he takes delight in telling me that my son is dead so that he can see the pain that thought inflicts. Was it really possible that on other days, in which I remember the fact of my pregnancy, or giving birth to my baby, he simply tells me that Adam has moved away, is working abroad, living on the other side of town?

And if so, why did I never write down any of those alternative truths that he fed me?

Images entered my head, of Adam as he might be now, fragments of scenes I may have missed, but none would hold. Each image slid through me and then vanished. The only thing I could think was he’s alive. Alive. My son is alive. I can meet him.

‘Where is he?’ I said. ‘Where is he? I want to see him!’

‘Chrissy,’ Claire said. ‘Stay calm.’

‘But—’

‘Chrissy!’ she interrupted. ‘I’m coming round. Stay there.’

‘Claire! Tell me where he is!’

‘I’m really worried about you, Chrissy. Please—’

‘But—’

She raised her voice. ‘Chrissy, calm down!’ she said, and then a single thought pierced through the fog of my confusion: I am hysterical. I took a breath and tried to settle, as Claire began to speak again.

‘Adam is living in Birmingham,’ she said.

‘But he must know where I am now,’ I said. ‘Why doesn’t he come to see me?’

‘Chrissy …’ she began.

‘Why? Why doesn’t he visit me? Does he not get on with Ben? Is that why he stays away?’

‘Chrissy,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Birmingham is a fair way away. He has a busy life …’

‘You mean—’

‘Maybe he can’t get down to London that often?’