C.J. Cooke - I Know My Name

‘But – how do you get supplies?’ I ask.

‘There used to be a big hotel on the south side,’ Hazel tells me, as if in confidence. ‘There was a restaurant, a few shops, even a bowling alley. But they closed it down last year. The recession, you know. That’s where we got our supplies before. Nikodemos – the man who owns the island – well, he loaned us a powerboat this time round …’

‘… which seems to have sunk,’ adds George.

‘There’s no Internet here, either,’ Joe warns.

No Internet means I can’t use social media or Google to search for reports of a woman of my description going missing from Crete.

‘Nikodemos gave us a satellite phone,’ Sariah says, observing my unease. ‘And thank goodness. With the boat gone, we really would be stranded.’

This, I do remember. The satellite phone that George pulled from his pocket last night. The phone they said they’d use to contact the police on the main island.

‘Have the police been in touch?’ I ask quickly.

‘I called them again first thing,’ George says, and for a moment I feel relieved. But then he adds: ‘No one’s filed a missing person’s report. I asked them to correspond with some of the stations in the other islands and they said they would.’ He shrugs. ‘Sorry it’s not better news.’

‘Maybe we could call the British Embassy?’ I suggest. ‘Anyone looking for me is likely to leave a message there.’

‘Okey-dokey.’

He pulls the phone from the pocket of his jeans and extends the long antenna from the top. Then he rises sharply from the table, dialling a number and heading towards the window, apparently to get a better signal.

‘I need to be connected to the British Embassy, please?’ I hear him say.

My heart racing, I stand and make my way towards him, full of anticipation.

‘Athens, you say?’ He holds the phone away from his mouth and tells me, ‘There’s no British Embassy on Crete. The closest is Athens.’

When I ask how far Athens is, the answer is depressing: about sixteen hours from here by boat, which of course we don’t appear to have.

George turns back to the phone. ‘Hello, yes? Yes, I wish to report a missing British citizen. At least, we think she’s British.’ He glances at me, expectant, but I have no answer to give. I don’t know whether I’m British or not. He turns back to the phone. ‘She’s turned up here on Komméno and can’t remember much about anything. Yes, Komméno. We’re about eight miles northwest of Crete.’

He gives a description of me and nods a lot, clicks his fingers for a piece of paper and a pen and jots something down. Then he says goodbye and hangs up.

‘No one has contacted them about a missing British woman,’ he sighs. ‘Though of course it would help if we knew your name.’

Sariah frowns. ‘They’re based in Athens, though,’ she says. ‘Maybe we should try the police in Chania?’

George looks reluctant but dials a number. After a few moments he begins pacing the room, looking up at the ceiling. ‘No signal,’ he says. ‘I’ll try outside.’ He goes out the back door but returns a few minutes later shaking his head, and I can’t help but feel stricken. No one has reported a missing person. No one has reported me.

Despite all their efforts to make me feel at home, the news saps what small amount of my strength had returned. My head and neck begin to throb again, and – bizarrely – my breasts are sore and hot; they feel as though someone’s injected molten lead into them. As Sariah begins to clear the table I pull my T-shirt forward subtly and peer down. My senses prove right: my breasts have swollen into two hard white globes, blue veins criss-crossing them like maps.

‘Are you all right?’ Sariah asks.

I let go of the neck of my T-shirt, embarrassed. ‘I’m not feeling so good. Would you mind if I had a lie-down?’

Sariah tells me of course it’s fine, and Joe is already on his feet, offering to help me to my room.

‘Are you sure you don’t need me to check you over?’ he says, helping me up the stairs. I tell him that I’m fine, but the pain across my chest is alarming and bizarre: a strange tightening sensation that wraps right around my back. It feels like someone has rammed hot pokers through my nipples.

By the time I get to the bed I’m in tears, unable to hide it any longer. I can’t decide if I’ve torn some muscles in my chest or if I’m having a heart attack. Sariah is suddenly there by the bed, Joe on the other side, both of them asking me what’s wrong, why am I crying.

I just want to sleep.

Lochlan: I don’t sleep all night. Gerda and Magnus decamp to the spare bedroom and I carry Max up to his bed and settle Cressida in her cot after another bottle. Then I turn one of the armchairs around to face the window, overlooking the street, and pour myself a glass of gin.

For hours I lurch between incredulity and devastation. Amazing how you can almost convince yourself of conversations that didn’t happen, of realities and explanations that promise to restore balance and bat away anguish. For a good half hour or so I almost manage to persuade myself that Eloïse told me she was going away for a conference and that I had simply forgotten. Desperation grows possibilities where none are usually found. I play out mental scenarios involving El falling down the stairs and banging her head, becoming disoriented and stumbling out into the street, a burglary gone wrong. Or maybe she became suicidal and couldn’t do it in front of the children. Each possibility is as bonkers as the other.

The thing is, Eloïse is absolutely the last person you would worry about doing something out of the ordinary. She’s the person who keeps us all together. If I lose my keys, a file, a document, Eloïse will intuit its exact location. She’s like a satnav for lost objects. No, more than that: she’s steady . I know, it sounds boring, but it’s true. Countless times I’ve come home to find someone in the house being consoled, counselled or geed up by Eloïse. She’s the sort of person people gravitate towards for reassurance.

Around five, the fear that accompanies thoughts of an abduction or burglary gone wrong makes me hold my head in my hands and force back tears. Finally, when exhaustion kicks in and my body shouts for sleep, I reach the absolute bottom of the well of self-questioning. She has left me. It’s the only answer to this most complicated of riddles, the only piece that fits the puzzle. As punishment for all the times I’ve put work before her and the kids, for all the times I’ve not listened or exploded over something small, she has left me, and most likely for someone else. It is why her phone and credit cards are all here. She’s been using another phone to talk to him. He has money. They’ll come back for the kids.

My vigil propels me through the spectrum of emotions. Anger, self-pity, sorrow, paranoia, a surreal kind of acceptance. Around six I hear Cressida begin to wail. I get up and make up a bottle, then take it upstairs to Cressida. Gerda is already stooping over the cot, trying to quiet her. She mutters to her in German.

‘It’s OK, Gerda,’ I say wearily. ‘I’ve got what she wants.’

Gerda turns and, without meeting my eye, takes the bottle from me. Then she lifts Cressida out of the cot and settles in the nursing chair to feed her.

‘There, there,’ Gerda says. ‘Mamie’s here. Take your milk, meine Süße .’

I lean against the cot woozily and watch Gerda as she feeds Cressida. I feel I ought to say something to her but don’t quite know what. After a moment Gerda says, ‘Seems only five minutes since I was feeding Eloïse like this. Cressida is the image of her.’