Secrets of the Dead

She passed out.

‘Abigail? Can you hear me?’

The panic was still there, but now it was dormant, a slow fuse burning a hole in her gut. Her breaths came shallow and unfulfilling. She tried to move her arm and couldn’t. The breaths came faster. Keep calm.

She located the beeping noise and listened, forcing herself to fix on one rhythm among the syncopation. She tried to breathe in time with it. She felt herself relax a fraction – enough that she dared to open her eyes.

A face stared down at her. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown beard. Was he real? Or had her imagination formed him from the brown stains on the roof?

The face moved. The roof didn’t.

‘Abigail Cormac?’ he said again.

‘I don’t know …’

‘Don’t you remember …?’

The panic quickened. Should I remember? What should I remember? Is it important? Her mind felt as helpless as her body, pushing against bonds it couldn’t see.

‘I don’t.’

‘Nothing?’ Incredulous. That only made the desperation worse.

The face drew away. She heard the scrape of a chair. When the face reappeared, it was lower and further back, a sun on the horizon of her flat world.

‘Your name is Abigail Cormac. You work for the Foreign Office on secondment to the EULEX mission in Kosovo. You were on holiday here and things went wrong.’

That sounded mostly right. Like seeing the film of a book you’d read. Some things skipped or not quite right, others changed for no apparent reason. She peered at him.

‘Who are you?’

‘Norris, from the embassy here. Podgorica. It’s …’

‘… the capital of Montenegro.’ It came out of nowhere, surprising her as much as him. How did I know that?

The brown eyes narrowed. ‘So you do remember.’

‘Yes. No. I don’t …’ She struggled, trying to articulate it. ‘I know some things. When you say words like “British Embassy” or “Kosovo” or “holiday”, it makes sense. I understand you. But if you ask me a question, there’s nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

She struggled to think. The effort exhausted her.

‘There was a man with a gun,’ she said carefully. Trying on the words like a dress she didn’t think would fit.

‘Do you remember him?’

She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze the image back into them. ‘A blue suit. He came through the door.’

‘At the villa?’

‘Here. In this room.’

Norris sat back with a sigh. ‘That was this morning. They’ve put a police guard on your door. He heard you screaming and came to make sure you were OK.’

A police guard? ‘Am I in trouble?’

‘You really don’t remember?’

She wished he’d stop saying that. She let her head slump back on the stiff pillow. ‘Just tell me.’

He glanced towards the door, as if looking for confirmation of something. Abby felt a new stab of panic. Is there someone else here? She tried to lift her head, but couldn’t see.

‘You were shot. All we know is that when the police turned up, you were lying there half-dead. Blood everywhere, a bullet inside you. They found your passport and called us. As for your husband …’

Something tightened inside her. ‘What about him?’

‘Do you remember?’

She shook her head. Norris shot another sidling glance into the corner.

‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m sorry to inform you that your husband is dead.’

‘Hector?’

Now it was Norris’s turn to look baffled. ‘Who’s Hector?’

I don’t know, she wanted to scream. The name had come to her like a ghost, unbidden and unexpected. ‘Isn’t he my husband?’

But even as she said it, she knew that wasn’t right. I’m not married, she thought. And then, with the ghost of a smile, I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.