up is only going to make things worse. I’m a qualified doctor. I have many years of experience and I’ve checked you over with the utmost care. If I had the slightest suspicion you were in any immediate danger, I most certainly wouldn’t be dealing with this here. Trust me, you’re far better resting in bed than being jostled around in a car or an ambulance.’
‘How can I trust you, though? I have no memory of you. You claim to be a qualified doctor, but how do I know that’s true? You also said yourself that you’re retired.’
‘That’s right. I am retired, but I’ve kept up my registration with the GMC so I can do locum work once in a while. I still have a licence to practise. Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please, I would actually.’
‘Fine.’
Miles leaves the room. He’s obviously annoyed that I don’t believe him, but what am I supposed to do? I don’t know him from Adam.
He returns a few moments later and hands me a framed certificate. It hurts my head to read it, but it looks official enough. I pass it back to him. ‘Thanks.’
‘I thought you might like to see this too,’ Miles adds, handing me a smaller picture frame containing a local newspaper cutting. ‘Popular GP hangs up his stethoscope,’ reads the headline. Underneath is a photo of Miles surrounded by a bunch of his former colleagues outside the medical centre where he apparently used to work.
I read the first few lines of the article, which confirm what he’s already told me, and it’s all I can manage.
‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ I say, handing the frame back to him, ‘but put yourself in my shoes. I don’t remember anything at all and it’s pretty damn terrifying. Plus my head hurts like hell.’
‘I understand,’ he says, although his folded arms and curt reply tell another story.
‘So what now? Do I need to see some kind of specialist? What do you think?’
Miles screws up his face, emphasising the wrinkles around his sea green eyes. ‘Um, no, I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s most likely a bad concussion. Take it easy for a few days and you’ll soon be back to normal. I can keep an eye on you.’
‘Whatever you think is best,’ I say, keen to avoid riling him any further.
He nods and throws me a pursed smile, although I’m sure I spot a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. After pouring more water into my glass and leaving me some ginger nut biscuits to nibble, he tells me to try to sleep.
‘Can’t you tell me my name and something about myself?’ I ask. ‘Are we related? Is this my home?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snap, loud enough to provoke my headache. ‘That’s the bloody problem.’
His voice is placid. ‘I’ll tell you if you still can’t remember by tomorrow, but I’m confident you will. Please try to keep calm. I know what I’m doing. Studies have shown that it’s preferable for a patient to be given the chance to recover lost memories for themselves.’
He shuffles out of the room, pausing before closing the door behind him. ‘For the record, it’s not locked,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘You’re free to leave here any time you like, but I definitely wouldn’t recommend that in your condition.’
I have a better view of my surroundings now that I’m sitting up in bed. I see a single-glazed sash window with curtains to match the green walls; a high ceiling, white with Victorian-style coving and a light bulb on a bare ceiling rose; a wooden chair with jeans and a black T-shirt draped over it. There’s also a pine bedside table that matches the wardrobe and bookcase, plus a brushed steel reading light. None of it looks familiar.
I’m tempted to get up and peer out of the window. From my current position, I can only see the overcast sky and I wonder whether a full view of the outside world might jog my memory. However, a jerk forward and another dagger between the temples puts paid to that idea. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait for a few moments until the pain has subsided
My phone! I think suddenly. Where’s my mobile? There must be some answers on there. There will be numbers to call, photos, videos, all sorts. I’ll be able to work out the last person I spoke to and see who I dial regularly. Someone will be able to tell me who I am. I feel a rush of relief at the thought of this solution and look wildly around the room. My gaze falls on blank surfaces; I can’t see a mobile anywhere. There’s not even a charger in any of the plug sockets. I sit forward, slowly this time, and consider getting out of bed to look for it, but as I try the pain kicks in again and, reluctantly, I accept that it’s not going to happen.
‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Miles, are you there?’
I try a few more times, but he doesn’t reply, so I scour the room again from the bed, in the vague 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.