sadness a fleeting appearance before it was gone again. She knew I’d seen it, though, and after a moment she gave me a flat, empty smile.
‘Well. Of course. It has been two fucking years after all, hasn’t it?’
Just like the sadness a moment ago, the trace of anger vanished as quickly as it had arrived. She was more in control of herself than yesterday, I thought; where she’d appeared vulnerable and disorientated during that first interview, she seemed much more self-possessed now.
‘He always wanted children, Paul.’ There was a wry smile at that, then she shook her head. ‘And it makes sense that he’d move on, especially with me dead.’
‘You aren’t dead, Charlie. I don’t know where you’ve been for the last two years, but I do know that.’
‘I remember dying. In the car crash.’
‘Are you really sure about that?’
‘Yes.’ But I thought she sounded less certain than she had yesterday. ‘I remember the car. And I remember going over the embankment.’
‘But you must see that you’re not dead.’ I gestured around the room. ‘You’re in a hospital. You’re flesh and blood, not a ghost. Someone died in that crash, but it wasn’t you. I mean, how do you make sense of it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘People don’t come back from the dead.’ I almost added, I wish they did, but they don’t , but then I thought of Lise again, and I remembered the look on Paul Carlisle’s face yesterday. ‘And that’s where we have to start from. Something happened to you that night, and something’s been happening to you ever since, but you certainly didn’t die.’
She considered that.
‘So what do you think happened to me?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I admitted. ‘I think it’s possible that someone’s worked very hard to convince you that you died in that accident, and that over time, with everything you’ve been through, you’ve come to believe it’s true.’
Again she was silent for a moment. I leaned forward.
‘Let’s forget about the actual accident for now. You told me you lost consciousness afterwards. Can you remember what happened next?’
‘Yes.’
‘But?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
I spoke as gently as I could.
‘I know you don’t. I don’t know for sure, but I think a lot of very bad things have happened to you over the last two years, and I understand how difficult it must be to think about them. But it’s important, Charlie. Unless you talk to me, there’s no way for us to work out where you’ve been.’ I leaned back. ‘You were on the embankment. You lost consciousness. What happened when you woke up again? Where were you?’
Charlie looked at me for a long moment, her scarred face blank. Then she seemed to gather strength from inside herself.
‘Hell,’ she said simply. ‘I woke up in Hell.’
*
Hell .
It wasn’t, of course – not literally – but as she told me her story, it seemed as good a word as any for the place she described. When she had woken properly after the crash, she told me, she’d found herself in a small room: a cell, effectively. The walls were fashioned out of stone and mud, and the air was damp and clammy. Despite a cooler current that drifted through occasionally, the heat was oppressive. The silence was profound, punctuated only by occasional dripping in the distance, like water dropping into a pool somewhere deep underground, the sound echoing.
‘There was light,’ she said, ‘but not much. The door was metal, and it had a hatch in it – a letter box that had been cut out at eye level. Like you see in prison on the TV, except this one was always open. I could look out.’
Not that there was anything to see when she did. It was a thin corridor of some kind, with another stone wall opposite the door. It was illuminated by dim lights in dirty plastic cases, strung along the wall. They were always on.
‘There was a television too,’ she said.
‘A television?’
‘Yes. Just a small screen,
‘Well. Of course. It has been two fucking years after all, hasn’t it?’
Just like the sadness a moment ago, the trace of anger vanished as quickly as it had arrived. She was more in control of herself than yesterday, I thought; where she’d appeared vulnerable and disorientated during that first interview, she seemed much more self-possessed now.
‘He always wanted children, Paul.’ There was a wry smile at that, then she shook her head. ‘And it makes sense that he’d move on, especially with me dead.’
‘You aren’t dead, Charlie. I don’t know where you’ve been for the last two years, but I do know that.’
‘I remember dying. In the car crash.’
‘Are you really sure about that?’
‘Yes.’ But I thought she sounded less certain than she had yesterday. ‘I remember the car. And I remember going over the embankment.’
‘But you must see that you’re not dead.’ I gestured around the room. ‘You’re in a hospital. You’re flesh and blood, not a ghost. Someone died in that crash, but it wasn’t you. I mean, how do you make sense of it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘People don’t come back from the dead.’ I almost added, I wish they did, but they don’t , but then I thought of Lise again, and I remembered the look on Paul Carlisle’s face yesterday. ‘And that’s where we have to start from. Something happened to you that night, and something’s been happening to you ever since, but you certainly didn’t die.’
She considered that.
‘So what do you think happened to me?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I admitted. ‘I think it’s possible that someone’s worked very hard to convince you that you died in that accident, and that over time, with everything you’ve been through, you’ve come to believe it’s true.’
Again she was silent for a moment. I leaned forward.
‘Let’s forget about the actual accident for now. You told me you lost consciousness afterwards. Can you remember what happened next?’
‘Yes.’
‘But?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
I spoke as gently as I could.
‘I know you don’t. I don’t know for sure, but I think a lot of very bad things have happened to you over the last two years, and I understand how difficult it must be to think about them. But it’s important, Charlie. Unless you talk to me, there’s no way for us to work out where you’ve been.’ I leaned back. ‘You were on the embankment. You lost consciousness. What happened when you woke up again? Where were you?’
Charlie looked at me for a long moment, her scarred face blank. Then she seemed to gather strength from inside herself.
‘Hell,’ she said simply. ‘I woke up in Hell.’
*
Hell .
It wasn’t, of course – not literally – but as she told me her story, it seemed as good a word as any for the place she described. When she had woken properly after the crash, she told me, she’d found herself in a small room: a cell, effectively. The walls were fashioned out of stone and mud, and the air was damp and clammy. Despite a cooler current that drifted through occasionally, the heat was oppressive. The silence was profound, punctuated only by occasional dripping in the distance, like water dropping into a pool somewhere deep underground, the sound echoing.
‘There was light,’ she said, ‘but not much. The door was metal, and it had a hatch in it – a letter box that had been cut out at eye level. Like you see in prison on the TV, except this one was always open. I could look out.’
Not that there was anything to see when she did. It was a thin corridor of some kind, with another stone wall opposite the door. It was illuminated by dim lights in dirty plastic cases, strung along the wall. They were always on.
‘There was a television too,’ she said.
‘A television?’
‘Yes. Just a small screen,
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