Forgotten: a truly gripping psychological thriller Read online

  Forgotten

  By

  Heleyne Hammersley

  Copyright © 2016 Heleyne Hammersley

  The right of Heleyne Hammersley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  for Viv

  I

  In the beginning was a light. Something in her mind told her that death would be like this, rushing towards a whiteness, but this felt more like a birth and she was reluctant to leave the womb-like darkness where she’d been… what? Sleeping? Hiding?

  And then there were the voices, speaking in a language that she didn’t understand, if it was a language at all. Faces came into view, not gradually but suddenly as though they’d all jumped out for a birthday surprise. Unfamiliar faces gazing down at her like she was an unexpected new arrival. Only she didn’t feel new, she felt ancient and battered with no will to move.

  Then she understood. That’s what they were waiting for. They wanted her to move, to give them a sign, to show that she could see them, or hear them. Perversely she wanted to stay still just to displease them, to see what they would do. Anyway, she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Could she?

  Just her eyes. They might not notice that. If she could just shift her gaze away from the ring of faces peering down at her like she was something precious on the bottom of a shallow pool that might sink into the mud at any minute. She managed to focus on a small part of one of the people bending over her – a shape, a badge or a pocket? Her eyesight wasn’t strong enough to make sense of it.

  But they’d seen her move, she could tell from the excited whispering and murmuring. And then she heard, quite distinctly, ‘Can you hear me?’

  Suddenly she wanted to stop the charade, wanted to be on their side of the game, not lying here trying to work out the rules. She picked out one of the faces, a woman – somehow she expected a woman to be kinder, more sympathetic.

  ‘Yes, I can hear you,’ she said, or thought she’d said until she realised that the sound like sand hitting a window had been her voice.

  More smiles and conspiratorial glances between the faces. Something strange entered her field of vision, a stick-like object with a pink lump on the end. She tried to back into the pillow, to stop it touching her but, when it finally met her mouth it felt wonderfully cool, and more soothing than a kiss. She licked her lips, eager for more.

  ‘That felt good,’ she whispered and this time she heard her own voice, quiet but clear. This sent the faces into a frenzy.

  ‘What is your name?’

  She opened her mouth but found she had no answer. She searched inside herself, as deep into her mind as she could go. There were vague shapes, half-memories but nothing firm, nothing fixed.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted, hearing the defeat in her own rasping voice.

  The faces eased back and she knew that she’d disappointed them, but her own sense of disappointment was much worse, much deeper. She didn’t know her own name. She closed her eyes and willed herself back into that dark place.

  She was no-one.

  II

  ‘And you don’t recognise any of these things?’ The doctor gestured towards the objects scattered over the foot of her bed. His face was encouraging but his sharp movements betrayed some of the frustration he must have been feeling.

  She wanted to help him. She wanted to please him, to see a look of warmth and understanding in his eyes but she found herself unable to lie. A lie would be pointless if she didn’t have the substance to back it up.

  Despondently she surveyed the assorted items spread out on the coarse blanket of the hospital bed. They looked like someone had abandoned them and waded out to sea. The largest was a rucksack and had obviously contained the other items: sandals; a small pile of clothes, shorts, underwear, trousers and a shirt, which looked like they’d been recently washed and ironed; a battered hard-backed book, toiletries and a waterproof jacket. She eased herself up in the bed until she could lean forward easily then picked up the rucksack, trying to sense some connection with the dust and unidentifiable stains, convinced that each one held a story that was now lost to her. Frustrated, she turned it over and traced the stitching with the pad of her middle finger, wishing the rucksack could speak to her, release its history, tell her where she had been. She fastened and unfastened the buckles and zips methodically, hoping the movements might feel familiar.

  Nothing.

  She placed the rucksack carefully back on the bed, afraid to handle it roughly in case she dislodged whatever memories it contained, and picked up a dark blue cotton shirt with a faded check pattern. This time she tried to spark her non-compliant brain through her olfactory sense, burying her face in the soft brushed cotton and inhaling deeply. It smelt of nothing, as though it had been sterilised, and, through the fabric, the antiseptic smell of the room still prickled her nostrils. She tossed the shirt back down on the bed in disgust.

  ‘Sorry,’ she sighed, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes, ‘this is pretty hopeless. None of it means anything to me. Are you quite sure these things are mine?’

  The physician shrugged, his face closed and resigned. ‘They were found with you. We have only these clues. This rucksack and the clothes and boots that you were wearing. I have waited for a few days until I was sure you could manage the shock of seeing things that you might know or recognise.’

  His formality and his heavily accented English forced a smile from her but it was of sympathy rather than real amusement. The doctor was probably as discouraged and despondent as she was at her lack of progress. Since she’d woken fully, less than a week ago, Dr Ekachai had visited her countless times, checking her vital signs and gently but insistently trying to probe into her past – except there was no past, a few shadows and ideas but mostly greyness, static. He’d been the one to tell her what little he knew about how she’d ended up in hospital in Chiang Mai and he’d been the one to witness her tears of confusion and defeat.

  It seemed she’d been discovered unconscious at the base of a low cliff a few miles from a tiny village far from the popular tourist towns in north-west Thailand. She’d had a raging fever from infected cuts – an especially angry one still lingered belligerently over one eye – and some fairly harmless-looking bruising on her scalp and forehead. And, now she was conscious, the amnesia. She’d had no money and no means of identification so one of the nurses had nicknamed her ‘Kai’ – Thai for fever.

  Kai had come to realise that this might symbolise more than her physical ailments as she remembered sweating through nameless, terrifying nights as she struggled to come to terms with her situation.

  This morning the doctor had obviously decided that she was well enough for a more direct confrontation with her past because he’d brought her possessions. And, this morning, she’d given up hope of ever being able to remember who she was.

  ‘Perhaps this?’ He was holding the book out to her, laid flat across both outstretched palms like an offering. Instead of taking it she raised her eyes to his face. He was looking at her eagerly but with kindness in his d
eep brown eyes. She studied him, trying to absorb every detail, afraid she might have forgotten something when she saw him next. He had a broad, intelligent face with only a faint suggestion of lines around his narrowed, intense eyes suggesting that he was probably in his early thirties. He was smiling, his white teeth a startling contrast to his olive complexion and his short hair which was so black it seemed to shine blue whenever it caught the few meagre rays of sunlight that entered the room. He wore a formal-looking shirt and tie under his white coat, the shirt neatly tucked into a pair of tailored trousers. A stethoscope was draped carefully around his neck, the ends falling to exactly the same level on each shoulder, and his coat pocket contained two pens, black and red, neatly spaced. In the few days she had been conscious Kai had found him to be a caring visitor who managed to encourage her while hiding the curiosity and frustration he must have been feeling. He had accepted her tantrums and her despondency equally and without comment all the while trying to encourage her to stay calm and focussed. He had become the most important person in her world, the only one who really interacted with her and the only one that she could trust. She had to try. She owed him that much.

  Reluctantly she reached out and took the book.

  ‘It is a journal, or a diary,’ Dr Ekachai informed her. ‘There is no name but it was in the rucksack with the other things. I am the only person who has seen inside and my English is not so good at reading. I think it is a secret thing so I want to give it to you. It might help you to remember. I have kept it safe until now. Now you are stronger it may be the big clue to your condition.’ He was looking at her so expectantly that she had to look away, worried he might see the doubt in her eyes. She didn’t want him to know just how lost she felt, how much her condition was dragging her down; she didn’t want to undermine what little confidence he’d managed to show in her over the last few days.

  Unopened, the journal was silent, harmless. It was a large book with a dark blue hard-back cover and quite heavy; almost too heavy for carrying around casually. The physical weight added to its significance. Despite its obvious importance, it had an appearance of neglect. The corners looked worn, probably from being stuffed in the rucksack every day and the cotton binding on the spine was starting to fray. As she turned it over, she noticed that the back cover was starting to split around a darker blue patch that looked damp. It had been used, and used often.

  She nodded at the doctor and he clearly understood the dismissal.

  ‘I will visit later again,’ he whispered before leaving silently. She studied the book again, willing it to give up its secrets without having to be opened and read but they remained sealed within its pages. Inhaling heavily, like a swimmer about to dive into a cold pool, she flipped it over and opened the front cover, willing the book to help her, to provide answers to some of the questions that kept her awake at night. Instinctively, she turned to the last page of writing, expecting the most relevant information to be the most recently recorded.

  I managed to find a quiet spot behind a minor wat. The view was stunning – layer upon layer of forested hills stretching across into Burma with the sun setting behind the furthest mountains. It really looks like the whole area is totally uninhabited. All my doubts about the next few days have disappeared. It was so peaceful sitting on top of the hill that I want to find more places like that. I really want to get off the beaten track and do some serious exploring away from the supercilious looks of other more experienced travellers. I want to be out of touch with the rest of the world.

  I’ve checked the route again – it’s marked on a road map of the area so it should be easy to find. I spotted the bus stop yesterday so I know where to get off. All I have to do now is pack my rucksack and get some sleep. God knows when I’ll sleep in a proper bed with sheets again.

  It meant nothing.

  Obviously she’d been intending to walk somewhere, the entry was written in somewhere called Mae Hong Son which Kai assumed was near where she had been found, but the name might as well have been written in ancient Greek. Realising that there was nothing to be gained from the end of the diary she decided to start at the beginning, hoping that she’d be able to piece together the journey that had led her to this room.

  To make as thrifty use of space as possible the first entry was squeezed on to the plain cream cardboard; the handwriting was wholly unfamiliar, small and cramped but legible. With a deep sense of foreboding she began to read.

  September 10th – Heathrow Airport

  I can’t believe I’ve actually done it. I’m sitting here completely free, about to fly off into the unknown and, instead of fear or worry, I feel such intense relief. I’m looking out of the window at the planes and I just can’t wait to get on board. I feel like I can fly away from the past and when I get home everything will have changed, like Rip Van Winkle except I don’t get to enjoy such a long sleep. I’ll be lucky to get any sleep at all in the next twenty-four hours or so.

  Penny came to the airport to ‘see me off’ as she put it. She did her usual mother hen bit while I tried to be cool and blasé.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, slinging my rucksack over my shoulder and hoping I looked tough enough to take care of myself. ‘It’s not like I’ve never been away before.’

  ‘I know, but a whole year, and especially after the past few months…’

  I didn’t want to go over the last few months. Penny’s been a rock ever since I ended up in hospital but I really think that the time for talking is over. I had to hug her to shut her up and even then she was speaking into my shoulder. I’m quite glad I didn’t hear the rest of her advice; I’d have either screamed at her or cried. It’s been an emotional few days with all the goodbyes and the stress of sorting out all the final details. I suppose I’m lucky that Penny’s still talking to me after I threw her out of my flat so I could sell it. I did feel a bit guilty: she’s been there pretty much since I moved out, well over two years, but she was so helpful, showing people around and liaising with the estate agent. I checked my bank account one final time before I came through the departure gate and I still can’t quite get my head around the fact that the money is all mine. Thank God for the housing boom and for the fact that I decided to keep the flat as some sort of ‘security’. I now have no mortgage and no job but a very healthy bank balance.

  I wish Penny hadn’t mentioned the past though. I just want to enjoy this feeling. I don’t really want to remember or analyse the past few months yet, I’m just not ready. All I want to do is fly off into the great unknown and unravel it all in my own time. I spent way too much time inside my own head while I was supposedly ‘recovering’; it’s time to see the world outside.

  So, here I am, sitting in the departure lounge at Heathrow Airport completely alone with all the ‘take cares’ and ‘see you soons’ behind me and nobody waiting at the other end. It’s a really scary feeling, knowing that I’m completely on my own in this. I’ve dithered and deliberated. I was ready to cancel the whole thing a few days ago but I know that if I don’t get on that plane then I’ll never forgive myself. And more importantly I’ll never know if I still have the courage and the confidence to do something like this. I really want to live this dream and I desperately want to see if/how it will change me. It’s like I can get on the plane and by the time I reach Beijing I’ll be another person, a different person. Who knows, maybe I’ll even be a better person?

  God I hate airports. I think Limbo must be an airport departure lounge. Nothing’s familiar, the people around me are speaking in languages I can’t begin to understand and there’s no continuity. Everyone’s waiting to see what fate brings, which gate they have to go through. Will it be heaven or hell? Rome or Reykjavík? My own personal hell is ten hours to the capital city of the most populous nation on earth. Now I’m really scared!

  September 11th – Beijing

  Christ, I’m tired. Ten hours on a plane with the most an
noying man in the world. Not only did he want to talk loudly to anyone who’d listen, including some guy about four seats in front, he wanted to do it while getting extremely drunk. I’m not naturally a violent person but it would have felt good to whack him round the head with his dinner tray. I must be changing: I wouldn’t have even thought of that a few weeks ago. Maybe I’ve developed some sort of instinctive ‘fight back’ mechanism when I get frustrated. Needless to say I was awake all through the flight and the selection of in-flight entertainment was so dire that I ended up listening to that tape they play to send you to sleep. Fat chance.

  I felt more than a little dazed by the time I found myself in a taxi heading towards central Beijing so I didn’t take much in really, beyond the fact that I’d managed to get myself into a taxi with a strange man and I was trusting him to take me to where I wanted to go. The driver turned out to be really helpful which was a bit of a surprise as I’d been expecting to get seriously ripped off – perhaps I’m too cynical for my own good. He dropped me right outside the hotel and, on the way here, he pointed out some ‘sights’. I couldn’t see much though, maybe he was just pointing in the general direction of Tiananmen Square etc. Who knows? No doubt I’ll find out later when I take myself out for a walk.

  The view from the hotel room window isn’t very inspiring. I can see some buildings opposite but they could be anything, anywhere. It’s not that different from the view I got used to while I was lying on my back for two weeks, except here I can get to the bathroom on my own and I’m not frightened every time I hear a noise in the corridor. The skyline is mainly skyscrapers, what I can see of it through the haze. It’s hotter and more humid than I expected, a bit like an English summer’s day when the heat’s really building up for a storm. Perhaps there’ll be one here later. The guidebook reckons the hotel’s only fifteen minutes’ walk from the Forbidden City so I think I’ll head there first. What I really want to do is sleep but I know that if I give in it will only take me longer to get over the jet lag. Oh well, time to gird my loins (whatever that means) and get out.