Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

And she felt alone. So alone.

The old man waited.

‘My parents split up three years ago when I was seventeen. My mother started going out with a banker, an Australian guy called Patrick. After a few months we moved into his place — he had a two-bedroom apartment in Mid-Levels, so there was room for me. Of course I didn’t like him at first, he was my mother’s boyfriend, after all, but he was always nice to me, and patient. And I have to admit he was quite good-looking, in a tubby kind of way.’

‘Tubby?’

‘Yeah. He had a bit of a tummy, small and round that peeked over his belt — nothing like Dad, who is as thin as a rake. In fact I gave his stomach a name: Reginald. I used to say: “Hi, Reginald, are you hungry this morning?” every day at breakfast. It was meant to be nasty, and it wound Maman up, but Patrick seemed to like it. Eventually, I began to tolerate him, and then we got on pretty well. He was funny, and he took me seriously in a way neither of my parents had ever really done.’

She paused. Glanced at the old man, who was listening intently, unsure whether to go on.

‘You don’t have to tell me more if you don’t want to,’ he said.

‘No, that’s OK.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Then, when I was home over Christmas, just this last January, Maman was out somewhere, I was watching a dumb film on TV, in fact it was actually called Dumb and Dumber . Have you seen it?’

‘How would I know?’ said the old man, with a smile.

‘Right. I’m guessing you haven’t. Anyway, Patrick joined me on the sofa to watch it. He had opened a bottle of wine and he gave me some. We started swapping comments on how stupid the film was, and what with the wine I was laughing pretty hard. And then...’

She raised her eyes to the old man, but there was no point in stopping now, he could see what was coming.

‘Then he kissed me. I was so surprised, I responded, but only for a second, then I pushed him away, and yelled at him to get off me. He looked angry, for a moment I thought he was going to force himself on me. Then he said: “you shouldn’t have led me on like that”, and I ran off to my room.

‘Well, I didn’t know what to do. I shut myself up in my room. Should I tell Maman? Should I just keep quiet? Would he try it again? How could I even live in his flat with him now?

‘I thought the best thing was to confront him, and demand an apology. Make him promise not to ever touch me again. Maybe if he was sincerely sorry, if I believed he really would leave me alone, I might be able to forget it had ever happened. But what if he didn’t apologize?

‘Anyway, I never got the chance to find out. No one said anything at breakfast the next day, and I could tell Maman was very upset. After Patrick had gone to work, Maman sat me down at the kitchen table. “I know what happened yesterday afternoon, Clémence,” she began. For a second I felt really relieved: Patrick had told Maman all about it, and Maman was going to take charge. Maybe she would leave him and take me with her. But then I saw her face. She wasn’t just upset, there was anger there, and something else. Hatred. Hatred directed at me.

‘She said: “I know what you did, Clémence, and I can’t believe it. It’s not like you’re some thirteen-year-old with a crush, you are twenty, for God’s sake! And you know I love Patrick and he loves me. What were you thinking?”

‘So I said: “What was I thinking? What do you think happened? What has Patrick told you?”

‘And she said: “You tried to kiss him. And when he pushed you away you said that you loved him. Didn’t you think he would tell me?”

‘Of course, I said that that wasn’t what had happened at all, that it was Patrick who had jumped on me, but Patrick had anticipated all that. Maman said that he had told her right away, and that he had been sympathetic towards me, talking about schoolgirl crushes, but that she thought I was an adult woman and knew exactly what I was doing. She was going to buy me an air ticket to Scotland that same day, and she didn’t want me to come back to Hong Kong at Easter.’

‘How dreadful for you!’ said the old man.

‘I tried to reason with her, but there was no way she was going to believe me rather than Patrick. She was so besotted with him, she couldn’t conceive that he might be lying.’

‘Whereas she could conceive that her daughter was lying.’

‘That’s what it looks like. It’s not as if I ever lied very much as a kid.’

‘Did you tell your father?’

‘I tried. But she’d got to him.’ Clémence paused. She swallowed. ‘She’d told him that I had tried to seduce her boyfriend.’

‘And he believed her and not you? Why would he do that?’

‘He and I...’ Clémence hesitated. ‘We have our own problems. He wanted to believe her.’

Clémence closed her eyes and shook her head. Her eyes were stinging, but she didn’t want to break down in front of the old man. She needed to keep control.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. And he was. She could tell from the tone of his voice that he was. ‘Have you told your boyfriend? Callum, was that his name?’

‘No!’ Clémence said. She found she couldn’t look at the old man. ‘I can’t tell him. What if he doesn’t believe me? What if he thinks I’m some slut who wants to jump into bed with middle-aged men? What then? I’d lose him!’

‘I’m sure he’d believe you.’

Clémence kept her eyes on the corner of the kitchen, where the orange plastic rubbish bin stood.

‘Of course he wouldn’t. That was what was so clever about what Patrick did. He took the initiative — got his retaliation in early. Everyone will believe him not me.’

‘I believe you,’ said the old man. ‘Look at me, Clémence.’

Clémence kept her eyes on the rubbish bin.

‘I said look at me.’

Reluctantly, she did.

‘I believe you. Of course I believe you.’

She sniffed. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘No, I mean it. It’s obvious just looking at you, just listening to you, you’re an honest girl, Clémence. I’d bet my life on it.’

She looked into his eyes. He did mean it. There was something about that calm, steady gaze under those bushy eyebrows, the composure of that craggy face, that suggested reliability, authority, confidence. The reassurance of a wise doctor who spoke from decades of experience and would never deceive you. She smiled.

‘I’m glad you told me,’ he said.

‘So am I.’ And it was true, she did feel lighter. ‘But you can see how I might sympathize with Grandpa?’

‘I can,’ said the old man.

They both heard the front door open. ‘Hello!’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘They clearly don’t believe in ringing doorbells around here,’ Clémence muttered to the old man. ‘Yes, hello!’ she called, getting to her feet and going out to the hallway.

She was met by a small red-haired woman with a long freckled face, wearing a nurse’s uniform.

‘You must be Clémence,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m Rose, the district nurse. I’ve come to check up on Dr Cunningham.’

‘Come through,’ said Clémence.

The nurse fussed over the old man and professed herself very happy with what she saw. Physically, he was recovering well, and she was glad that the memory jogging was going well. She checked that Clémence had made an appointment for Dr Cunningham to see Dr Stenhouse at the hospital in Inverness the following Monday, although Clémence hoped that by then Aunt Madeleine would be in charge.

Just as the nurse was leaving, they had another visitor: Jerry Ranger in his small blue Peugeot, hired at an airport, presumably.

He stood awkwardly in the doorway, tall and rangy. Just like his name. Which, it occurred to Clémence, didn’t sound like a real name at all; it must have been made up.