I head into the playroom and see the figure of old Mrs Shahjalal sitting on the edge of the sofa, rocking the Moses basket where Cressida is lying, arms raised at right angles by her tiny head.
‘Hi,’ I whisper. ‘Where is she?’
Mrs Shahjalal shakes her head.
‘But … she’s here,’ I say. ‘Her car is outside. Where is she?’
‘She isn’t here.’
‘But—’
Mrs Shahjalal raises a finger to her lips and looks down at Cressida in a manner that suggests it has taken a long time to settle her to sleep. Cressida gives a little shuddered breath, the kind she gives after a long paroxysm of wailing.
‘Max is upstairs, in his bed,’ Mrs Shahjalal says in a low voice.
‘But what about El’s car? The white one in the driveway?’
‘It’s been here all the time. She didn’t take it.’
I race upstairs and check the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the attic, then switch on all the lights downstairs and sift the rooms for my wife. When that proves fruitless I head out into the garden and stare into the darkness. In that moment a daunting impossibility yawns wide. I barely know Mrs Shahjalal, save a few neighbourly waves across the street, and now she’s in my living room, gently rocking my daughter and telling me that my wife has vanished into thin air.
I take out my phone and begin to dial.
Komméno Island, Greece
Somehow I find myself in a rocking chair with a thick orange blanket around me, next to a crackling fire. My right sleeve is rolled up and someone’s tied a belt tight around my bicep. The tall skinny bloke with glasses, Joe, is standing next to me with a cold instrument pressed to my wrist. The room smells funny – like seaweed. Or maybe that’s me.
‘Only a couple more seconds,’ he says.
‘What are you doing?’ I say, though it comes out as a strangled whine. The inside of my mouth feels like sandpaper.
‘Checking your blood pressure.’
There’s a heated discussion going on amongst the others in the room and I sense it’s about me. I still feel queasy and limp.
Eventually he removes the belt from my arm. ‘Hmmm. Your blood pressure is a bit low for my liking. How about the tightness in your chest?’
I tell him that it seems OK but that I’m weak as dishwater. He reaches forward and gently presses his thumbs on my cheeks to inspect my eyes.
‘You’re in shock. Little wonder, given that you rowed across the Aegean in a full-blown storm. Let’s get your feet raised up. And some more water.’
The woman – Sariah – lifts my feet and supports them on a stack of cushions.
‘How’s your head?’ she asks.
‘Sore,’ I say weakly.
‘You don’t feel like you’re going to pass out again?’ Joe asks, and I give a small shake of my head. It’s enough to make the pain ratchet up to an agony that leaves me breathless.
‘It’s after midnight, so getting you to a hospital has proved a little tricky,’ Sariah says, folding her arms. I notice she has a different accent than the others. American, or maybe Canadian. ‘There’s no hospital or doctors anywhere here,’ she says. ‘George has contacted the police in Heraklion and Chania.’
‘Did anyone report me as missing?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
She must see how this unnerves me because she lowers on her haunches and rubs my hand, as though I’m a child. ‘Hey, don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We’ll call again first thing in the morning.’
Nothing about this place feels familiar. It feels like I’m seeing everything here for the first time.
‘Do I live here? Do I know any of you?’ I ask her.
‘We saved you,’ George says flatly. I can’t see him, but sense his presence behind me.
‘There was a storm,’ Joe adds, though something in his voice sounds uncertain, hesitant. ‘Big sandstorm coming across from Africa, no doubt. George and I went out to check that our boat hadn’t come loose from its moorings. And then we saw you.’
‘Where was I?’
‘On Bone Beach,’ Joe says.
‘Bone Beach?’
‘The small horseshoe beach with white rocks that look like bones. Down below the barn.’ He grins. ‘Crazy that you managed to survive all that. Someone up there must like you.’
‘You were in a boat,’ Sariah explains. ‘You don’t remember if you were with anybody?’
I have a terrible feeling that I should know all of this, that I should know all about the boat and the beach and where I’m from. And I have no idea, absolutely no clue, why I don’t know these things.
‘Why did you come to Komméno, anyway?’ George asks, moving to the light as he reaches for a pack of cigarettes. ‘I mean, it’s not like there’s anything here.’
‘What’s “Komméno”?’ I say.
‘It’s the name of this place,’ Sariah says, a note of sadness in her voice, as if she’s addressing someone very stupid, or ill. ‘Komméno Island.’
I hesitate, hopeful that an answer to George’s question will surface in me automatically and provide an explanation for all this.
But it doesn’t.
Potter’s Lane, Twickenham, London
Lochlan: It’s after midnight. My wife is officially missing. I’m trying to get my head around this.
The facts are as follows: (1) I Facetimed Eloïse on Monday night shortly after seven while she was making pancakes in the kitchen and our two kids were playing happily in the family room, and (2) sometime between ten and one today, while our children were asleep in their beds upstairs, she disappeared from our home. Also, (3) there is no indication that anyone has been here, Max didn’t see anyone come in and (4) Eloïse’s clothes, passport, credit cards, car, driving licence and mobile phone are still at home. She has therefore no way
