I Know My Name

‘I’m sorry about your boat,’ I say. ‘If it turns out I’m rich, I’ll buy a replacement.’

George offers a laugh. ‘Hardly your fault. Pretty sure the insurance will cover it.’

This brings a great deal of relief. Maybe I misread his mood before – I felt he was irritated with me, that he blamed me for their boat sinking. He seems less brooding in this light, less intimidating and not as tall. I’m about to ask about getting to Crete, when he says:

‘I contacted Nikodemos half an hour ago.’

‘Nikodemos – the man who owns the island?’

He nods. ‘Well, I spoke to his wife. She says he’s out of town for the next couple of days but she’ll get him to come out here and pick you up on Monday evening.’

I give a gasp. ‘Thank you so much. That’s fantastic news.’

George grins. ‘And he’s bringing food. You ever tried mizithropita?’

I shake my head, only half hearing what he’s saying, but he persists.

‘Gorgeous. Ah! No food like Greek food, I’m telling you. It’s why all the Greeks live so long. I’ve put in a special request for him to bring squid, too. Sounds disgusting, doesn’t it? Squid. Not something I’ve ever tried in England, but here, you don’t want to miss it.’

He’s still talking but I’m thinking about this man, Nikodemos, trying to figure out if his name sounds familiar or not. I decide that it doesn’t, and so I wonder if he will help me contact the embassy and explain to them what happened. From there we can work out how I ended up here, and more importantly how to get back to whoever may be going crazy looking for me.

‘You’re sure you want to leave this place?’ George asks. I notice he’s standing closer, studying my body language. The wind carries a sharp smell of his body odour. I turn my head but he doesn’t notice, pointing at the hills ahead. ‘Paradise, here.’

The island is more of a wilderness than a paradise.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, a bit shabby,’ he says, as though reading my mind. ‘Well, there are some interesting ruins around. Trust me, you’ve hit the jackpot, coming here.’

‘Have I?’

‘Mmmm. Archaeological treasure trove, this place. Real mythology to it.’

I give him a look that says I have no idea what this means, and he grins, pleased that he gets to fill me in.

‘You see that?’ He leans towards me and points at a cave in the distance. ‘Apparently, that there’s the actual cave that King Minos used to send boys and girls into as food for the Minotaur. Thousands of years old, that is.’

I glance at him. ‘Minotaur?’

‘Ah, forgotten your Greek myths, too, then?’ He chuckles. ‘They say King Minos had a son who was half-human, half-bull. Instead of killing him, he built a network of caves, a labyrinth, and put the kid at the end of it to make sure he never got out. Then Theseus, the hero, said he’d go in with a ball of wool to help him retrace his steps. And he found the Minotaur.’

It crosses my mind that he’s telling me this to unnerve me, and if I’m honest it does. Perhaps I sense that this place has been abandoned for a reason.

‘They found some helmets not so long ago, couple of swords, I think,’ George says when I don’t react to his myth. ‘Bigwigs from the museums came over, took the lot.’

He’s still trying to convince me not to leave. I say, ‘Thank you, and it’s tempting, but no. There must be people who are going frantic without me.’

He sniffs, glances down, like a rejected schoolboy. ‘Well then, you’ve got a little while to enjoy this place. Six miles square. That’s how big the island is. Or small, depending how you look at it. The dock’s about a fifty-minute walk in that direction, by the old hotel.’

A small flicker of hope stirs in me. ‘Hotel?’

‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ he says. ‘Went bust a while back, so it’s nothing but a shell. Investors stripped it bare. The recession hit this place very hard. There are derelict apartment buildings to the east side, too. Money ran out. Builders packed up and left before they got finished. Now the carcasses are just sitting there, empty. Shame.’ He nods ahead in the distance. ‘Some interesting things to see round here, though. Loads of interesting flora and fauna, if you’re into that sort of thing. Sariah can tell you all about the plants and flowers. Animals, too. All sorts here. You got your geckos, your tortoises, rabbits, hedgehogs, snakes …’

I shudder. ‘Snakes?’

‘Not fond of snakes?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Pretty harmless round here. It’s the spiders you want to watch out for. Oh, and wild goats. I reckon they keep to the hills over there to the right, near the hotel. Wicked things, they are. Kri-kri goats. More ibex than goat. Big looping horns.’ He makes the shape of the horns with his hands, swooping from the base of his skull to his chest. ‘According to folklore, they’re the offspring of the Minotaur.’

‘I’ll take that with a pinch of salt.’

He winks. ‘Stay well clear if you see them.’

I squint into the distance at the hills veiled with blue mist. ‘I will.’

‘Hey, guys.’

I turn to my left and see Joe coming down the steps from the kitchen door, a laptop under his arm. He is tall, thin as a string, and walks with a loping gait.

‘You off to find a writing spot?’ George asks him. Then, to me: ‘Joe doesn’t like writing in the same place every day. Weirdo.’

Joe stops next to us and looks out. ‘Think I’ll try one of the beaches.’

I ask if I can come with him, if I can see the beach where my boat landed. ‘Perhaps we might even spot the boat that got unmoored,’ I say, turning to George.

Joe frowns and looks me up and down. ‘I mean, I guess. It’s a fair walk, though. Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?’

I nod, though I’m not sure I am. I can’t quite believe that the whole island is uninhabited. Sariah – or maybe it was George – said it was only a couple of miles long. I can make that if I take it slowly.

We veer off the path towards a bank covered in tall reeds, stiff and unyielding as horse whips, then pick our way through an overgrown lemon grove. I suspect Joe is keen to march a good deal faster, but he waits patiently for me to keep up, holding back the branches and vines for me to pass through. This part of the island resembles a jungle, all tangled branches and rotting citrus fruit underfoot. I reach up and pluck one of the fruits that looks like a small green plum. It has a sour taste, and when I bite into it a walnut drops out. There are mounds of cacti with spiny paddles, and despite all my efforts to give them a wide berth I end up getting pricked in the legs.

I’m still barefoot – my shoes must have been lost at sea – so I have to tread carefully across the soil, which is surprisingly warm. What I do wish for, though, is a pair of sunglasses. The sun is piercingly bright out here, with virtually no shade.

‘Do you think you’ll publish a book after this?’ I ask Joe, more to keep up the conversation than anything else. ‘Is that what the retreat is for?’

He shrugs and tosses the rind. ‘I don’t know.’ He stops and looks down at me, then removes his sunglasses. ‘Here,’ he says, handing them to me. ‘You seem bothered by the light.’

‘Are you sure?’ I say, reluctant to take them.

‘Absolutely.’ He plucks his spectacles from a pocket and puts them back on his face. ‘Can hardly see without these on, anyway.’ He surveys the coast behind me. ‘I think I’ll try one of the caves to write in today. I won’t need them in there.’

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.

18 March 2015

Potter’s Lane, Twickenham

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.

Cressida is in Gerda’s arms, fighting off a bottle. I pluck the bottle from Gerda’s hand – it is ice-cold – and toss it in the microwave.

‘It has to be warm, otherwise she won’t take it,’ I say. How much I’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours.

‘Well, it would have been nice to know that before you left,’ Gerda snaps.

I take Cressida, struck by a sudden affection for her, so small and fragile in my arms, her cries turning to whimpers when I hold her. She roots at my chest, as though expecting to find a nipple there. Not finding it, she’s back to shrieking within seconds.

The microwave bleeps. I take out the bottle, give it a vigorous shake and place the teat into Cressie’s mouth. She sucks greedily, making piglet noises and bunching her fists tightly against the bottle. The milk foams against the sides of her mouth and her eyelids flicker, as though she’s spent all her energy railing against cold milk and is now about to fall into a cloud-cushioned coma of satiation. She drains the bottle in about five minutes, but as soon as she’s done she starts to cry again.

Frustrated, I pass her back to Gerda, who kisses the crown of her head and manages to console her. I head back to the living room to speak with the police.

The male detective leans forward and offers his hand. He is tall, serious-looking and broad-shouldered, early to mid forties, pale-haired, dressed in a grey suit with a navy tie. He reminds me of Archie Sims, one of the posh kids from Year Ten who used to throw wet paper towels at me in the playground. He doesn’t smile but gives me an iron handshake.

‘Detective Sergeant Roy Canavan. I’m the OIC. Officer in charge. This is my colleague, DS Welsh.’

The female detective is young: mid-twenties, soft face, light brown hair wrapped up in a bun. She extends her hand and nods out the window. ‘Seems we’ve already got some attention from the press.’

‘Yeah.’

I’m not quite sure where to sit, and it occurs to me that my own home has become rearranged by the situation, this thing that shouldn’t be happening, by these people who I shouldn’t be encountering. It’s like I’m visiting a place that reminds me of my house, and I’m waiting for someone to tell me where to put myself and how to act. I almost offer Detective-Sergeant-Canavan-the-OIC a stiff drink, and only as the words are about to tumble from my mouth do I realise this is probably not wise. He and DS Welsh sit on the sofa and each pulls out a notepad, ready for business. I take a seat in the armchair adjacent to them.

‘Mrs Bachmann – your grandmother-in-law? – said that some of the neighbours came forward this morning,’ DS Canavan says. ‘Mrs Shahjalal’s the one who raised the alarm, is that right?’

I nod. ‘She called me at work yesterday afternoon. She’d thought to check in on Eloïse after a delivery couldn’t be made. Good job, too, otherwise Max and Cressida would have been alone all night and I wouldn’t have known.’

It’s the first time I’ve said this aloud. What would have happened if Mrs Shahjalal hadn’t spotted Max? Cressida’s so young that she could have become dangerously dehydrated in a matter of hours. Max is too young to know how to contact anyone. He might have tried to feed himself and Cressida. I can’t bear to think of it. The tragedies that might have unfolded are too great.

‘She mentioned that UPS tried to make a delivery here,’ he continues. ‘We’re trying to locate the driver involved in case he heard or witnessed anything. One of your other neighbours from this side of the street – Mr McWhirter – said he saw a car pull up outside your house yesterday around eleven o’clock in the morning.’

I straighten. ‘Did he get the registration details?’

‘No. He said it was a white saloon, not sure of the make or model. He’s certain it mounted the pavement and remained parked for ten or twenty minutes. We’ll make enquiries with local taxi companies. Another neighbour, Mrs Malvern from number twenty-nine, said she thought she heard a shout sometime in the morning but couldn’t be sure.’

‘My colleague noted that you had a faulty lock on the back door of this property, is that right?’

I nod, crushed. I should have fixed it. ‘Yes.’

‘There’s been a couple of incidents over the last month in this area, so we’ll make enquiries about that.’

‘Incidents?’

‘Burglaries. You said no valuables were taken, correct?’

‘As far as I can tell.’

He searches my face, so I add: ‘I work away Monday through Thursday. So I suppose I’m not completely up to speed with everything in the house.’

‘We’ll do a sweep of the door for prints.’

DS Welsh tells me they want to ask me a few more questions, although a ‘few’ in this case means so many I lose count. Medical numbers, insurance company details, schools we went to, everyone and anyone we have contact with. They want to know more about my job, about Eloïse’s job, and I tell them that eight years ago she set up Children of War, a charity that offers emotional and educational support for refugee children. The detectives are deeply interested in this and take copious notes. When she set it up, what kind of work it involves. Their questions make me realise how much I don’t know about the charity.

‘Any colleagues holding a grudge against her?’ DS Canavan asks. ‘Anyone who owes the charity money?’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

He lifts his eyebrows. ‘She didn’t talk about her job? The people she worked with?’

‘I guess that Eloïse was so good at her job that everything looked to be very smooth.’ Even to my own ears I don’t sound very convincing. Right before I go dig out my Bad Husband sackcloth, I remember that she really did make most things look effortless. That’s why I didn’t tend to ask. If anything was good or bad, I expected that she’d tell me. And of course, she’s currently at home full-time with the kids.

He taps the pen against the page. ‘Even so, it’s important that we get a complete picture of the events leading up to her disappearance. Any media interviews she might have given, anything work-related at all, could prove extremely useful.’

‘What about her mental state?’ Welsh asks from the other armchair.

‘Eloïse’s mental state?’ I say. ‘What about it?’

‘Well, she gave birth recently. Sometimes women can experience mood swings and depression.’

I shake my head. ‘She was fine.’

‘Has she ever had any signs of depression or emotional instability in the past?’

A memory rises up. ‘Well, she saw a counsellor for a while after Max was born, but other than that she was fine.’

‘What counsellor?’ Canavan says, and I can see he’s writing down everything I’ve said and underlining it.

I rub my face, trying to think. ‘I honestly don’t remember the name. I mean, it was over four years ago. A health visitor kept going on about El’s moods after our son was born. Despite El saying she was fine, a bit tired, she had to go talk to someone. But she was discharged very swiftly. It was nothing.’

‘We’ll look into that,’ Welsh says, throwing a look at Canavan.

‘I really don’t think this has anything to do with her going missing,’ I say, fearful that they’ll waste time looking into something completely irrelevant. There’s no way this has anything to do with El having a bad day.

‘We need to rule this one out,’ Canavan says firmly. ‘We see a lot of cases where a loved one goes missing because they don’t want to admit that they’re struggling and don’t know where to turn to for help.’

‘I’m pretty sure my wife doesn’t fall into that category.’

He ignores me. ‘Anything else you can think of? Anything missing, any personal belongings gone? Even a single credit card can make a huge difference to the investigation.’

I shake my head, but then an image jumps into my mind: the Swiss passport. I tell Welsh and Canavan that it’s gone, but that I haven’t seen it in a long time anyway. ‘She never used it,’ I say. ‘More a token of her heritage than anything. Besides, if she’d used it to travel overseas I’d see it on the credit card statements. But I thought I’d mention it.’

Both Welsh and Canavan react to this a lot stronger than I’d have anticipated. ‘She could have used cash to travel. You don’t keep any at home?’

I tell him we do, but it’s all still there.

Magnus and I begin to draw up a list of everyone El’s ever had any association with, while Canavan writes up his notes. He interrupts Magnus and I to ask more questions: addresses and telephone numbers, a list of Eloïse’s support network. I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t recall the names of many of her friends and have no idea where they live. I promise to get the information off Facebook, but he tells me there’s no need: they’ll do their own investigation of my wife’s social media activity and check out her emails. For this, they require every device she has access to: her laptop, tablet, and mobile phone. They’ll check our bank accounts, Eloïse’s charity, and they’ll be speaking to our GP.