C.J. Cooke - I Know My Name

He stops and points at an inlet on the west side of the island. ‘You might not see them, but if you look past the Cyprus trees there’s a row of black dots. They’re ancient caves. Pretty cool. Atmospheric. I can take you, if you like.’

I’m already feeling a lot weaker than I expected, so I tell him that maybe I will in a day or so.

‘Well, we’re close to Bone Beach,’ he says.

‘We are?’

A nod. ‘It’s a bit of a climb down. I’m not sure you’re well enough to manage it.’

I tell him I can manage, but he insists on my taking his arm before negotiating a narrow pathway that leads down to a rocky outcrop. A few moments later, I’m gazing down at calm, azure waters, gently lapping at the rocks below.

‘The tide is in,’ I say, straining to see any sign of a boat.

He grins. ‘No such thing as a tide here.’

‘No tide?’

‘Not really. Something to do with the Mediterranean not being affected by the Atlantic.’

I think back to the other night. ‘I definitely saw waves crashing against the rocks.’

He nods. ‘Yeah, it’s the currents between Crete and Libya. We get big cruise ships passing by every now and then, too. Causes waves. Or it might have been the storm. Here, take my arm again.’ He crooks a pale elbow at me. ‘Bone Beach isn’t much further.’

He reveals a path to the right of the outcrop that drops down to another level. He tells me to be careful and follow behind as he presses against the rockface and moves along. Finally, he stops and turns carefully.

‘There is a faster route, but I don’t think you’d make it today. Some climbing involved. Look down to the right.’

I see a chalky beach about twenty feet below. The name of the beach is immediately clear – the rocks do resemble bones. They are muscular and ribbed, the colour of old teeth. From here it looks as though a giant is pushing upward out of the ground, two white rocks the shape of shoulder bones on either side of a strip of small rocks mimicking a spine. And there, right at the edge of the water, is a wooden boat, two long masts jutting from the centre. Red sails splay out across the milky sand like the huge wings of a Jurassic butterfly.

‘Does that help you remember?’ Joe asks.

‘That’s the boat I came in?’ I say, and his silence confirms it. Astonishment doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel. I have no memory, nothing, that indicates a link between me and that boat. It may as well be a spacecraft as a boat.

‘Are you all right?’ Joe asks.

I tell him that I’m fine, but I feel scared and dazed. I guess I’d expected everything to come together upon seeing the boat. The fact I feel nothing, remember nothing, despite being able to see the very vessel that brought me here, is deeply troubling.

I turn and look up at the cliff path that leads back to the farmhouse. It looks treacherous.

‘How on earth did I get up there?’

‘George carried you,’ Joe explains. ‘I gave you mouth-to-mouth.’ He shrugs. ‘Like I said, you were lucky.’

Further out to sea are shadows of other islands, boats, a cruise ship. The possibilities for my origins are daunting, endless. I feel panicky again, like I can’t get my breath.

‘I’m glad Nikodemos is coming,’ I say. ‘I need to find out where I’ve come from. Who I am.’

‘Still no memory of your name, then?’

I shake my head.

‘Have you considered that perhaps you don’t want to remember?’

I turn and try to read his expression, the tone of his voice, but I don’t know him well enough to work out whether he’s joking.

‘That sounds dramatic. Why wouldn’t I want to remember?’

He shrugs and looks back down at the boat, unaware of how stricken I am.

‘I’d say that the fact that you were on a boat in the middle of nowhere suggests you were running from something. Or sailing, rather. And there’s no other island nearby that you might have been headed for. Why would you come to this island?’

I think about this for a long minute, willing the answer to come to mind.

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Can I make a suggestion?’

‘Of course.’

A smile. ‘Why don’t you try writing?’

‘Writing?’

He nods. ‘It really does stir up the subconscious. As therapy, for want of a better description. It’s helped me with a lot of stuff. Childhood stuff.’ He bites his lip and looks down, a shadow passing across his face. ‘Anyway. It might help you remember your name.’

‘I’ll give it a go,’ I say with a shrug.

He brightens. ‘I’ll give you a notebook and pen. Get you started. Come on, then. Let’s get you back on higher ground.’

The climb saps the last of my energy. By the time I reach the top, I’m so out of breath that I want to be sick.

‘Sit down,’ Joe instructs me. ‘Lean forward, like this.’

He sits beside me and demonstrates. I copy him but still feel awful. My hips and shins ache and I’m weak from thirst. I decide to head back to the farmhouse and tell Joe to go on, but he insists on accompanying me. This time I head for the other route past more trees and shrubs surrounded by grass. Grass is easier on my joints. The ground rises up sharper than I’d realised, affording me a view of an elephant-shaped headland on the west of the island, a clean cleft of shimmering white rock.

A rhythmic gust of wind keeps me from feeling like I might drop to my knees. Joe steadies me.

‘Keep back from the cliff,’ he warns, though the wind is so strong his voice sounds far away.

I sit down again, pressing my hands behind me and lifting my face to the sun.

‘You don’t look well,’ Joe says. ‘Why don’t you stay here? I’ll run up to the farmhouse and bring you some water. Maybe I can get George and we can carry you, save you walking?’

I shake my head, but even this small movement makes me feel woozy. My vision is beginning to blur at the edges. Joe doesn’t wait for any further prompting but gets to his feet and begins to run up the hill.

It’s then that I hear it: a raw, desperate cry, almost human. It’s coming from the other side of the cliff. I crawl on all fours to the rocky edge and look over. The sea is below, licking the rocks. Dozens of nests dot the narrow ridges of the rockface at either side of me. Black birds with white faces sway against the wind, wings impressively wide, attending to white fluffy chicks bobbing in the nests, ravenous.

The shrieking rises to a clamour, a piercing wail. The sound of a cat or perhaps an infant. I sit back on my hips and all at once there is a burning sensation in my breasts, a sudden pain searing through them. I am alarmed – it’s as though the noise is causing it. I have no idea what is happening.

I pull my T-shirt forward and peer down, expecting to find blood there. There’s a slight wetness around my breasts, but no blood. A sugary smell rises up. Sweet and milky.

I turn and stagger back up the hill, hot, sharp stones digging into the soles of my feet and my breasts leaking, soaking my shirt. Something is terribly wrong, and I barely know how to describe it.

Lochlan: When I pull into our driveway with a screech of tyres there is already a police van on the kerb opposite, and a silver Mercedes facing me has a man and a woman in the front seats who jump to attention when they see me emerge from my car. I stride towards the front door and they race after me with that surprising paparazzi speed, calling out, ‘Mr Shelley! Mr Shelley!’ And I say ‘not now’ and shut the door in their faces.

Inside I can hear Cressida screaming and Magnus barking at someone down the phone. There is a man in the front room in my favourite armchair and a woman wearing a crisp white shirt and trouser suit. She rises to her feet when she sees me, and I hold up a hand to tell her to wait a second while I search out my screeching daughter in the kitchen.