Читать книгу I Know My Name - C.J. Cooke - Страница 13

It’s morning. The sky outside the porthole window is grey and brooding. It’s so cold that the bedsheets feel damp to the touch. It takes a few moments to get my bearings. Sleep seems to have made a huge difference to how I feel. The terrible pain in my breasts has stopped. My head isn’t as sore, either. Still, when I move across the floor of the attic to the door, I find it locked, or jammed. Either way, it won’t budge, and it takes a minute or two of pounding my fists against the wood for Joe to come and open it. He explains that the wind must have caught it and offers to help me down the stairs, but I refuse. I cling to the old wooden banister and take each step very carefully.

Eventually I find the bathroom, close the door, testing the lock several times before sinking down to the ground. There’s no shower in here, just a sink and an old tin bathtub with rusty taps and a cobwebbed window. The water doesn’t seem to run any other temperature than ice cold. Sariah tells me they get their water from a cistern out by the hay barn so it’s not particularly plentiful.

I peel off the pyjamas that Hazel lent me and study the naked woman in the small shaving mirror above the sink. This woman who is me. She is Caucasian, slender, somewhere between thirty and forty, with thick honey-blonde hair to her shoulders. A long face, skinny arms and round hips, the chest streaked with blue veins. Her shoulders are defined, and beneath a layer of loose skin around the belly button is a firm six-pack. Lines fan around the eyes. A small, irregular nose, light green eyes and ears that stick out a little. No tattoos or scars. Her nails are unpainted and short, filed into neat ovals. Her left cheekbone and forehead are horribly bruised, and there are aubergine-coloured splodges on her shins, her right hip, and both arms.

Why don’t I recognise myself? Why isn’t my body familiar? Where do I live? Do I work? Do I have kids? The white space in my mind is luminous, unyielding. Why don’t I know my own name?

Gingerly I stretch out the arm that doesn’t hurt as badly as the other and touch the mirror to confirm that this is my reflection. I want her to talk back to me, to tell me my secrets. I read this body like a puzzle, a remnant of a larger story.

There’s a groove around the base of several fingers, as though I was wearing rings that have since vanished – the third and fourth fingers of my right hand, my wedding finger. Was I married? I rub my thumb up and down the faint circular indentations in my skin, willing myself to remember the ring that has vanished, if not the person who gave it to me.

I find a bar of soap on the side of the bath and slowly scrub the sour smell of brine off my skin and out of my hair, careful not to touch the cut at the right side. It stings so badly. Hazel told me she washed the clothes I was found in yesterday – a bra, pants, yellow T-shirt and jeans – and that she put them on the washing line outside to dry. She also lent me some of her clothes.

Wrapping a towel around me, I stagger painfully to the kitchen and out the back door to the stone steps that lead down into the grassy patch at the back of the house. I find my jeans, T-shirt, bra and pants all swaying on the line alongside the life jacket. I finger it, pulling at the straps.

A wave of dizziness forces me to sit down on a patch of dry grass. I can’t bear to think that someone else died on the trip to this place. Someone I loved, perhaps. After a long while I force myself to focus on my surroundings. George asked me before why I came here. There must be a reason. I must know this place.

I sit for a while and study the farmhouse, pitched as it is on a sudden incline, subjecting it to buffeting winds. It’s bigger than I expected, given how small the rooms seem inside: a tall stone building with patches of crumbling masonry, a spatter of orange tiles on the ground indicating that the roof is in disrepair, too. Metal balconies jut out from two of the upper windows that are crowned by explosions of vibrant pink flowers, lending the place a certain rustic charm. Part of the roof is flat, and there I can make out something that looks like a flat-screen TV with a huge battery attached to the top of it. Perhaps a solar panel – that would explain how the farmhouse has electricity.

A number of outbuildings are visible at the bottom of the hill, rusting and overgrown farm machinery indicating the property’s former purpose. After a while, a feeling of familiarity stirs in me, a small nudge from the recesses of my mind telling me I’ve seen this place before. It’s enough to get me to my feet to have a look around.

The island isn’t what I expected. It looks neglected, abandoned, with stone relics visible in the distance of what appear to be unfinished houses. The earth is dry and parched, and the nearby trees are gnarled and overgrown and filled with thorns. There’s a sense that everything here has to work very hard to survive.

I wonder how anyone would even begin to walk around the island – there’s a narrow dirt path leading from the farmhouse to the trees below, but I don’t imagine there could ever have been vehicles here. It’s a bit of a wilderness. Beautiful, yes, but a savage beauty – not the sort of place anyone would come for a holiday.

I make out three buildings on the north side, the closest one clearly a house that someone didn’t bother to finish. On the west side there are a handful of small beaches strung along the coast, but they appear rocky and treacherous. The ocean wraps itself around the island like a blue cloth dotted with the blurry outlines of boats and landmasses.

Did I really travel that distance across the sea alone? If I was drunk, did I really have the presence of mind to wear a life jacket? Did someone else accompany me? Did they drown?

It is daunting to think that the island is uninhabited. I can’t fathom how Joe, Hazel, Sariah and George don’t feel marooned out here. Or maybe they do, now that their boat is gone.

I check that no one is watching before stepping into my knickers and jeans, then slip the towel to my waist and twist awkwardly into my bra and the yellow T-shirt, my muscles shrieking with the slightest movement. Both the T-shirt and jeans are good quality, both with designer labels. Am I the sort of person who would buy a designer T-shirt? It doesn’t strike a chord. But then, nothing does. I have the sense of being reborn, wiped clean. The ghost of someone else.

When I turn to go back inside I see movement between the house and the outbuilding that looks like a small barn. Panic spears me, until I make out who it is: George, lurking in the shade. Did he see me get dressed?

‘Hello?’

He ambles down the hill towards me, a cigarette in one hand. He looks different in the clear light. Quite tall and portly, his head shining bald. Dressed in a tatty white polo shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Mid-forties, perhaps more. He throws me a salute.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi.’

‘You feeling any better?’

I try to smile. ‘A little.’

He wiggles the cigarette at me. ‘You want one of these bad boys?’

I shake my head, then pause, wondering if an automatic urge will take over. It doesn’t. I’m not a smoker, then.

‘Thanks for the offer.’

‘You’re welcome.’

A moment passes. ‘You’re not writing?’ I ask.

He takes a long drag before answering. ‘Today’s the day I usually head over to Chania for supplies. I might go take a look at the beaches on the west side, see if our boat turns up.’

‘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.