Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel

‘What happened?’ I said.

‘Difficult to say. You panicked. It’s not that uncommon. It isn’t comfortable in there, as you said.’

I looked down at my slice of cake. Untouched. Dry. ‘The photographs. Who were they? Where did you get them?’

‘They were a mixture. Some of them I got from your medical files. Ben had donated them, years ago. I asked you to bring a couple from home for the purposes of this exercise — you said they’d been arranged around your mirror. Some I provided — of people you’ve never met. What we call controls. We mixed them all up together. Some of the images were people you knew at a very young age, people you should, or might, remember. Family. Friends from school. The rest were people from the era of your life that you definitely can’t remember. Dr Paxton and I are trying to find out whether there’s a difference in the way you attempt to access memories from these different periods. The strongest reaction was to your husband, of course, but you reacted to others. Even though you don’t remember the people from your past, the patterns of neural excitation are definitely there.’

‘Who was the woman with red hair?’ I said.

He smiled. ‘An old friend, perhaps?’

‘Do you know her name?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. The photos were in your file. They weren’t labelled.’

I nodded. An old friend. I knew that, of course — it was her name I so wanted.

‘You said that I reacted to the pictures, though?’

‘Some of them, yes.’

‘That’s good?’

‘We’ll need to look at the results in more detail before we really know what conclusions we can draw. This work is very new,’ he said. ‘Experimental.’

‘I see.’ I cut off a corner of the carrot cake. It too was bitter, the icing too sweet. We sat in silence for a while. I offered him my cake and he declined, patting his stomach. ‘Have to watch this!’ he said, even though I could see no reason for him to worry, yet. His stomach was mostly flat, though it looked to be the sort that would develop a paunch. For now, though, he was young, and age had hardly touched him.

I thought of my own body. I am not fat, not even overweight, yet still it surprises me. When I sit it takes a different shape from the one I am expecting. My buttocks sag, my thighs rub as I cross them. I lean forward to reach for my mug and my breasts shift in my bra, as if reminding me that they exist. I shower and feel a slight wobbling of the skin under my arms, barely perceptible. There is more of me than I think, I take up more space than I realize. I am not a little girl, compact, my skin tight on my bones, not even a teenager, my body beginning to layer its fat.

I looked at the uneaten cake and wondered what will happen in the future. Perhaps I will continue to expand. I will grow pudgy and then fat, bloating up and up like a party balloon. Or else I will stay the same size as I am now, never getting used to it, instead watching as the lines on my face deepen and the skin on my hands grows as thin as that of an onion and I turn into an old woman, stage by stage, in the bathroom mirror.

Dr Nash looked down to scratch the top of his head. Through his hair I could see his scalp, more obvious in a circle at the crown. He won’t have noticed that yet, I thought, but one day he will. He will see a photograph of himself taken from behind, or surprise himself in a changing room, or his hairdresser will make a comment, or his girlfriend. Age catches us all out, I thought as he looked up. In differing ways.

‘Oh,’ he said, with a cheeriness that sounded forced. ‘I brought you something. A gift. Well, not really a gift, just something you might like to have.’ He reached down and retrieved his briefcase from the floor. ‘You’ve probably already got a copy,’ he said, opening it. He took out a package. ‘Here you go.’

I knew what it was even as I took it. What else could it be? It felt heavy in my hand. He had wrapped it in a padded envelope, sealed it with tape. My name was written in heavy black marker pen. Christine. ‘It’s your novel,’ he said. ‘The one you wrote.’

I didn’t know what to feel. Evidence, I thought. Proof that what I had written was true, should I need it tomorrow.

Inside the envelope was a single copy of a book. I took it out. It was a paperback, not new. There was a coffee ring on the front and the edges of the pages were yellowed with age. I wondered if Dr Nash had given me his own copy, whether it was even still in print. As I held it I saw myself again as I had the other day; younger, much younger, reaching for this novel in an effort to find a way into the next. Somehow I knew it hadn’t worked — the second novel had never been completed.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

He smiled. ‘Don’t mention it.’

I put it underneath my coat, where, all the way home, it beat like a heart.

As soon as I got back to the house I looked at my novel, but only quickly. I wanted to write as much as I could remember in my journal before Ben came home, but once I’d finished and put it away I hurried back downstairs to look properly at what I had been given.

I turned the book over. On the cover was a pastel drawing of a desk, upon which sat a typewriter. A crow was perched on its carriage, its head cocked to one side, almost as if it were reading the paper threaded there. Above the crow was written my name, and above that, the title.

For the Morning Birds, it said. Christine Lucas.

My hands began to shake as I opened the book. Inside was a title page, a dedication, For my father, and then the words I miss you.

I closed my eyes. A fluttering of memory. I saw my father, lying in a bed under bright white lights, his skin translucent, filmed with sweat so that he almost shone. I saw a tube in his arm, a bag of clear liquid hung from an IV stand, a cardboard tray and a tub of pills. A nurse, checking his pulse, his blood pressure, and he not waking up. My mother, sitting on the other side of his bed, trying not to cry while I tried to force the tears to come.

A smell came then. Cut flowers and low, dirty earth. Sweet and sickly. I saw the day we cremated him. Me wearing black — which I somehow know is not unusual — but this time without make-up. My mother, sitting next to my grandmother. The curtains open, the coffin slides away, and I cry, picturing my father turning to dust. My mother squeezing my hand, and then we go home and drink cheap, fizzy wine and eat sandwiches as the sun goes down and she dissolves in the half-light.

I sighed. The image disappeared, and I opened my eyes. My novel, in front of me.

I turned to the title page, the opening line. It was then, I had written, with the engine whining and her right foot pressed hard against the accelerator pedal, that she let go of the wheel and closed her eyes. She knew what would happen. She knew where it would lead. She always had.

I flicked to the middle of the novel. I read a paragraph there, and then one from near the end.

I had written about a woman called Lou, a man — her husband, I guessed — called George, and the novel seemed to be rooted in a war. I felt disappointed. I don’t know what I had been hoping for — autobiography perhaps? — but it seemed any answers this novel could give me would be limited.

Still, I thought as I turned it over to look at the back cover, I had at least written it, got it published.

Where there might have been an author photograph there was none. Instead there was a short biography.

Christine Lucas was born in 1960, in the north of England, it said. She read English at University College London, and has now settled in that city. This is her first novel.

I smiled to myself, feeling a swell of happiness and pride. I did this. I wanted to read it, to unlock its secrets, but at the same time I did not. I was worried the reality might take my happiness away. Either I would like the novel and feel sad that I would never write another, or I would not, and feel frustrated that I never developed my talent. I couldn’t say which was more likely, but I knew that one day, unable to resist the pull of my only achievement, I would find out. I would make that discovery.

But not today. Today I had something else to discover, something far worse than sadness, more damaging than mere frustration. Something that might rip me apart.