Читать книгу I Know My Name: An addictive thriller with a chilling twist - C.J. Cooke - Страница 7

I’m woken by the sounds of feet shuffling by my ears and voices knitting together in panic.

Is she dead? What should we do? Joe! You know CPR, don’t you?

A weight presses down against my lips. The bitter smell of cigarettes rushes up to my nostrils. Hot breath inflates my cheeks. A push downward on my chest. Another. I jerk upright, vomiting what feels like gallons of disgusting salty liquid. Someone rubs my back and says, Take it easy, sweetie. That’s it.

I twist to one side and lower my forehead to the ground, coughing, choking. My hair is wet, my clothes are soaking and I’m shaking with cold. Someone helps me to my feet and pulls my right arm limply across a broad set of shoulders. A yellow splodge on the floor comes into focus: it’s a life jacket. Mine? The man holding me upright lowers me gently into a chair. I hear their voices as they observe me, instructing each other on how to care for me.

Is that blood in her hair?

Joe, have a look. Has the bleeding stopped?

It looks quite deep, but I think it’s stopped. I’ve got some antiseptic swabs upstairs.

My head starts to throb, a dull pain towards the right. A cup of coffee materialises on the table in front of me. The smell winds upwards and sharpens my vision, bringing the people in the room into view. There’s a man nearby, panting from effort. Another man with black square glasses. Two others, both women. One of them leans over me and says, You OK, hun? I nod, dumbly. She comes into focus. Kind eyes. Well, Joe, she says. Looks like you saved her life.

I don’t recognise any of these people. I don’t know where I am. Whitewashed stone walls and a pretty stone floor. A kitchen, I think. Copper pots and pans hang from ceiling hooks, an old-fashioned black range oven visible at my right. I feel as though all energy has been sucked out of me, but the woman who gave me coffee urges me to keep awake. We need to check you over, sweetie. There’s an American lilt in her voice. I don’t think I noticed that before. She says, You’ve been unconscious for a while.

The younger man with black glasses tells me he’s going to check out my head. He steps behind me and all of a sudden I feel something cold and stinging on my scalp. I gasp in pain. Someone squeezes my hand and tells me he’s cleaning the wound. He looks over a spot above my eyebrow and cleans it, too, though he tells me it’s only a scratch.

The man who hoisted me into the chair sits opposite. Bald, heavy-set. Mid to late forties. Cockney. He takes a cigarette from a packet, plops it into his mouth and lights it.

You come from the main island?

Main island? I say, my voice a croak.

From there to here on her own? the younger man says. There’s no way she’d have managed in that storm.

I think that’s the point, Joe, the bald guy says. She’s lucky her boat didn’t capsize before it hit the beach.

The woman who served me coffee brings a chair and sits at my right.

I’m Sariah, she says. Good to meet you. Then, to the others in the room, Well, she’s awake now. Why don’t we stop being rude and introduce ourselves?

The guy with glasses gives a wave.

Joe.

George, says the bald man. I’m the one who found you.

Silence. Joe turns to the thin woman at his right, expectant. She seems nervous. Hazel, she says, her voice no more than an exhalation.

You got a name? George asks me.

My mind is blank. I look over the faces of the others, fitting their faces to these names, and yet my own won’t come. I feel physically weak and battered, but I’m lucid and able to think clearly.

It’s OK, sweetie, Sariah is saying, rubbing my shoulders. You’ve had a rough time. Take it easy. It’ll come.

You holidaying on the main island? George asks again.

My head feels like someone is pounding it with a hammer. I’m sorry … what is the main island?

Crete, Sariah answers. Whereabouts were you staying?

You staying with family? A group of girlfriends? the guy with glasses asks. Hey, she might have come from one of the other islands. Antikythera?

I don’t think so, offers the tiny woman with red curly hair – Hazel – in a low voice. The currents between here and Antikythera are worse than travelling to Crete. And Antikythera is further.

I’m sorry, I say. Did someone say I’m in Crete?

See? George says.

No, no, I try to say, but Joe cuts me off.

She asked if she’s in Crete, Joe answers. This is Komméno, not Crete.

Well, we’ll need to let whoever you’ve left behind know that you’re still in one piece, George says. You got a number I can ring?

He pulls a small black phone from a pocket and extends an antenna from the top. Crete. Was I staying there?

I can’t remember, I say finally. Sorry, I don’t know.

The kind woman, Sariah, is holding my hand. We’ll call the police on Crete the second we get a signal on the satellite phone. Don’t worry, sweetie.

The big guy – George – is still watching me, his eyes narrowed. Where are you from, then?

I’m light-headed and nauseous, but I think I should know this. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t even call it to mind. Why can’t I remember it? I try to think of faces of my family, people I love – but there’s a complete blankness in whatever part of my brain holds that information.

George is leaning on one hand, taking slow, thoughtful drags from a fresh cigarette, studying me. The others are halfway through cups of tea. I have no recollection of anyone putting cups out or boiling a kettle. Time lurches and stalls. I rise from my chair and almost fall over. My legs are jelly. Sariah moves to hold me up.

Easy now.

The large window at the other side of the kitchen frames a round moon in a purple sky, its glow bleaching fields and hills. A burst of light crackles across the ocean, lighting up the room. A few moments later thunder pounds the roof, rattling all the pots and pans. I am disoriented and weak. I begin to shake again, but this time it’s from shock.

Sariah wraps an arm around me. We’re going to move you into the other room, OK? Deep breaths.

But before we have a chance to move, I hear a deep voice say, Maybe she’s a refugee.

Sariah hisses, George!

He gives a loud bellow of laughter. It makes me jump.

I’m joking, aren’t I?

Pressure builds and builds in my head until I’m gasping for air and clawing at my throat. The two women lean forward and tell me to breathe, and I’m trying. They ask me to tell them what’s wrong but I can’t speak. Someone says,

We need to think about getting her to a hospital.