Final Cut(15)

I woke early to a pale light streaming in through thin blue curtains and tried to work out where I was. The room smelled of cheap air freshener and had few clues, just a chest of drawers with a television on it next to a vase of flowers, a mirror on the wall opposite, a bedside table with a lamp and an empty glass. For a second I thought I was in a hotel, that any minute I’d hear the toilet flush and some guy would reappear and tell me to get lost, but then I remembered. I was in the hospital, where I’d been since I was brought here from Kent.

I saw Dr Olsen after breakfast. She met me in the day room; it was more comfortable in there, she said, as if we were just going to have a chat, a catch-up like old friends. I knew the real reason was I hated her office: it was too small, it felt cramped and stuffy and whenever I was in there I began to sweat. We sat on the stained chairs, and she shuffled hers nearer to mine. That day she was wearing a dress and smart leather boots, even though the weather was warming up.

‘How’re you doing?’ she said, her accent barely perceptible.

I shrugged, then remembered to speak, too. I liked Dr Olsen; she’s done nothing to hurt me. ‘Fine.’

She smiled.

‘Fine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Want to elaborate on that?’

‘Not really.’

She waited. The silence grew until, eventually, I felt compelled to fill it.

‘There’s nothing much to say.’

‘Still no luck?’

I shook my head. Dr Olsen thinks muscle memory might one day kick in and, without thinking, I’ll start to remember, maybe remember the code to get into my phone, but so far she’s been wrong.

‘And nothing has come back to you?’

A little, I thought. I remember a coach. Next to me, a huge man ate cheese-and-onion crisps and swigged a bottle of Coke before burping his rotten breath all over me. A cute kid with a mass of corkscrewed curls was told off by her mum.

But those memories are mine, I thought, they’re all I have. And was that the journey I must’ve taken to Deal, or some other journey, from before?

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

I nodded emphatically.

‘Yes.’

She looked disappointed, but tried to hide it. I felt sorry for letting her down, but there was nothing else I could do. After ten more minutes she told me she’d have to go.

‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, standing up. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’ She took out her phone. It was a new iPhone, the latest model. ‘You know more about these than I do, I expect. I want to film my grandson, only I can’t figure it out. There’s a video, apparently, but …’

She shrugged helplessly. I held out my hand and she gave me the phone; without thinking, I tried to unlock it.

‘What’s the code?’ I said, but she was looking at me strangely, watching my hands.

‘You just tried thirteen seventeen,’ she said. ‘I want you to try that on your own phone. Okay?’

I stared at the phone in my hand, then gave it back to her. She’d tricked me, and I felt a hot, stabbing resentment. But, on the other hand, maybe it’d worked.

‘I will,’ I said.

I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, my open phone heavy in my hand. I’d found only one number in the memory. It seemed simple. If I wanted to find out who I was, all I had to do was dial it. So why couldn’t I do it?

It was ridiculous. I sat up and tapped the number. I waited for it to connect, and when it did the silence seemed to stretch for ever.

‘Hello?’ I said, finally. There was a pause, then a slick voice, velvety and with a hint of an accent that I couldn’t quite place.

‘Hello? he said, sounding concerned. ‘Sadie?’

The name was like a pin puncturing a balloon and I recognised it instantly as my own. There was no doubt; it felt like a lifeline thrown across the abyss, a secret code that might lead me out of the damp, fusty cellar in which I was trapped. Memories flooded back in an almost overwhelming rush. I remembered Blackwood Bay, I remembered hitching as far as Sheffield, spending a few nights there before continuing to London. I remembered, too, that I was in danger, that I mustn’t tell anyone anything, not even my name. I just couldn’t remember why.

‘Sadie?’ the voice said again.

Maybe this person knew why. His was the only number in my phone, after all.

‘Who’s this?’ I said.

‘What?’

I repeated the question quickly. ‘Who am I speaking to? I don’t—’

The line went dead. ‘Shit,’ I muttered, before calling back straight away, hopeful that it was just a dropped call. This time it didn’t ring out, and neither did it the second time I tried, nor the third. In the end, I gave up. There was nothing else I could do.

Dr Olsen tapped on my door a little while later.

‘Any luck?’

‘It was the right number,’ I told her. She smiled, but she could see from my face that it wasn’t good news.

‘And?’

I remembered the conviction I’d felt that I mustn’t tell anyone.

‘There was only one number.’ I sighed. ‘Whoever it was hung up.’

She sat on the bed next to me. I could tell she wanted to put her arm round me, but she didn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t allowed to.