hope I might have missed it. All I manage to do is wear myself out.
I close my eyes.
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
I ask myself this simplest of questions over and over, scouring the darkness of my mind for an answer. But it’s not there. All I can picture is the room on the other side of my eyelids. There is nothing else. It terrifies me. I’m seized by a gut feeling that Miles is wrong and my memory won’t come back any time soon, if ever. The tears start flowing down my cheeks. I feel pathetic but can’t stop them coming. I cry myself to sleep.
‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ a girl’s voice whispers into my ear, so close that it tickles; makes me shiver. The voice is familiar and fills me with happiness. I snap open my eyes.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Morning. Expecting someone else?’
Miles has pulled the wooden chair up to the foot of the bed. His eyes are fixed on mine, which are gungy with sleep, although it feels like barely any time has passed since we last spoke.
Whoever it was I thought had woken me, whatever brief memory I had of them, is gone. And yet something – a feeling that I should be somewhere else, with someone else – lingers. ‘I, um. I’m not sure. Morning? What do you mean? How long was I out?’
‘You slept right through after we spoke yesterday. That was late afternoon. I looked in on you a couple of times before I went to bed and you were out for the count.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I groan. ‘That would explain why my bladder feels ready to explode.’
I lever myself upright, ready for a fresh burst of pain that turns out to be much less than yesterday.
‘How’s the head?’
‘Better, thanks.’
‘Do you remember my name?’
‘Miles, right?’
‘Good. And the rest?’
I pause to think and then shake my head. ‘Only what we discussed yesterday.’
‘You remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘But nothing else?’
‘No.’
The void – the absence of crucial memories I know should be there – triggers a bout of anxiety. I feel my heart start to pound; there’s a tightening in my chest and my throat feels like it’s closing up.
‘Are you all right?’ Miles asks, clocking my discomfort. ‘Stay calm and don’t panic. Everything’s going to be fine. You’re in safe hands. I want you to take slow, deep breaths through your nose, into your abdomen, and hold. Then breathe out through your mouth.’
He demonstrates and gets me to breathe in time with him. We do this for several minutes and, gradually, the panic dissipates.
‘Calmer?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Thank you.’
Gingerly, I shift myself into a seated position on the side of the bed. The varnished floorboards feel cool under my feet. Miles stands at my side, ready to help if necessary, but I’m keen to do this alone. I rise gradually, testing my legs as I go. They’re a little shaky to start, but it soon passes and they strengthen up. My head throbs a little and I feel somewhat dizzy at first, but once I’m fully upright, with an arm on the wall to steady myself, the sensations ease.
‘Okay?’ Miles asks.
‘Yes, I think so.’
I need him to tell me where the bathroom is. It turns out to be right next door, but I manage to get there by myself, which is a relief. There is still a dull pain in my head when I make certain movements. The rest of my body feels fine, albeit a little stiff.
There’s not much to see outside the bedroom: a small corridor with more varnished floorboards, bare cream walls and three other doors. I open the one to the right of me and enter a glistening, modern bathroom with dark tiles floor to ceiling, a walk-in shower and a separate bath. It’s much nicer than I expected. There’s a neat pile of white towels under the sink and a shower gel dispenser on the wall, like something out of a five-star hotel. That starts me wondering whether I’ve spent a lot of time in posh hotels. Or perhaps I’ve never been in one and that’s why I’m so impressed by it. It’s awful not knowing myself, my own experiences up to this point. What kind of life have I had?
The drops of water lingering on the shower screen are the only giveaway that the room has been used. It’s not until I have a nose around the cabinet under the sink that I find things like a toothbrush and razor.
I stand at the toilet and do my best impression of a racehorse. Then, as I wash my hands and slap cold water on my face, I pause. Above me is a mirror. I’ve deliberately avoided looking in it so far. What will it feel like to see my reflection? Will it send my memories flooding back? Or will it be like looking at a stranger? I take a deep breath and straighten up.
None of the above, as it turns out. I recognise myself – tired eyes, thick stubble and ears that stick out more than I’d like – but that’s it. I don’t know how I know it’s me; I just do. No name, no age, no identity, but a face I accept as my own. The same goes for my body. I’m tall, probably a little over six foot, and in decent shape. I’m not gym-toned, but I’m about the right place between fat and thin and I seem fit enough. I look to be in my early forties, although I feel younger. There’s no obvious sign of my head injury, but it feels tender to the touch in places.
‘Better?’ Miles asks when I return to the bedroom, noting that the door isn’t even fitted with a lock. He’s wearing a navy polo shirt today, with jeans again, but I’m guessing a fresh pair. It’s the fact that he’s tucked the shirt into them that gives me this impression. Too neat to wear something for more than one day, I’d wager.
‘Yes, much better.’
I perch myself on the edge of the bed so we’re eye to eye. I’m still not sure I trust him. I’m not sure about anything. But he helped me just now and it feels like I need to build bridges between us. ‘Sorry for what I said yesterday: you know, suggesting that you might have attacked me and—’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘It’s hard when I can’t remember anything. I feel so confused.’
‘Seriously, I understand. There’s no need to explain. What did you think of the bathroom, by the way?’
‘Um, yeah. It was really nice. Very modern.’
‘Ring any bells?’
‘What do you mean?’
He stands up. ‘Never mind.’
‘Hang on,’ I say, also rising to my feet. ‘Do you know where my mobile is?’
Miles hesitates for a moment before replying. ‘Um, I do. Yes.’
‘Great.
