‘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.
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