Before I Go to Sleep by S. J. Watson
‘I’m sleepy,’ I say. ‘Can we go to our hotel?’
He looks at his watch. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Of course. Sorry. Yes.’ He starts the car. ‘We’ll go there right now.’
I am relieved. I am both craving sleep, and dreading it.
*
The coast road dips and rises as we skirt the edges of a village. The lights of another, larger town begin to draw nearer, tightening into focus through the damp glass. The road becomes busier, a marina appears with its moored boats and shops and nightclubs, and then we are in the town itself. On our right every building seems to be a hotel, advertising vacancies on white signs that blow in the wind. The streets are busy; it is not as late as I had thought, or else this is the kind of town which is alive night and day.
I look out to sea. A pier juts into the water, flooded with light and with an amusement park at its end. I can see a domed pavilion, a rollercoaster, a helter-skelter. I can almost hear the whoops and cries of the riders as they are spun above the pitch-black sea.
An anxiety I cannot name begins to form in my chest.
‘Where are we?’ I say. There are words over the entrance to the pier, picked out in bright white lights, but I can’t make them out through the rain-washed windscreen.
‘We’re here,’ says Ben, as we turn up a side street and stop outside a terraced house. There is lettering on the canopy over the door. Rialto Guest House, it says.
There are steps up to the front door, an ornate fence separating the building from the road. Beside the door is a small, cracked pot that would once have held a shrub but is now empty. I am gripped with an intense fear.
‘Have we been here before?’ I say. He shakes his head. ‘You’re sure? It looks familiar.’
‘I’m certain,’ he says. ‘We might have stayed somewhere near here once. You’re probably remembering that.’
I try to relax. We get out of the car. There is a bar next to the guest house and through its large windows I can see throngs of drinkers and a dance floor, pulsing at the back. Music thuds, muffled by the glass. ‘We’ll check in, and then I’ll come back for the luggage. OK?’
I pull my coat tight around me. The wind is cold now, and the rain heavy. I rush up the steps and open the front door. There is a sign taped to the glass. No vacancies. I go through and into the lobby.
‘You’ve booked?’ I say, when Ben joins me. We are standing in a hallway. Further down a door is ajar, and from behind it comes the sound of a television, its volume turned up, competing with the music next door. There is no reception desk, but instead a bell sits on a small table, a sign next to it inviting us to ring it to attract attention.
‘Yes, of course,’ says Ben. ‘Don’t worry.’ He rings the bell.
For a moment nothing happens, and then a young man comes from a room somewhere at the back of the house. He is tall and awkward, and I notice that, despite it being far too big for his frame, his shirt is untucked. He greets us as though he was expecting us, though not warmly, and I wait while he and Ben complete the formalities.
It is clear the hotel has seen better days. The carpet is threadbare in places, and the paintwork around the doorways scuffed and marked. Opposite the lounge is another door, marked Dining Room, and at the back are several more doors through which, I imagine, one would find the kitchen and private rooms of the staff.
‘I’ll take you to the room now, shall I?’ says the tall man when he and Ben have finished. I realize he is talking to me; Ben is on his way back outside, presumably to get the bags.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
He hands me a key and we go up the stairs. On the first landing are several bedrooms, but we walk past them and up another flight. The house seems to shrink as we go higher; the ceilings are lower, the walls closer. We pass another bedroom and then stand at the bottom of a final flight of stairs that must lead to the very top of the house.
‘Your room is up there,’ he says. ‘It’s the only one.’
I thank him, and then he turns and goes back downstairs and I climb to our room.
I open the door. The room is dark, and bigger than I was expecting, up here at the top of the house. I can see a window opposite, and through it a dim grey light is shining, picking out the outline of a dressing table, a bed, a table and an armchair. The music from the club next door thuds, stripped of its clarity, reduced to a dull, crunching bass.
I stand still. Fear has gripped me again. The same fear that I experienced outside the guest house, but worse, somehow. I go cold. Something is wrong, but I can’t say what. I breathe deeply, but can’t get enough air into my lungs. I feel as if I am about to drown.
I close my eyes, as if hoping the room will look different when I open them, but it doesn’t. I am filled with an overwhelming terror of what will happen when I switch on the light, as if that simple action will spell disaster, the end of everything.
What will happen if I leave the room shrouded in blackness and instead go back downstairs? I could walk calmly past the tall man, and along the corridor, past Ben if necessary, and out, out of the hotel.
But they would think I had gone mad, of course. They would find me, and bring me back. And what would I tell them? That the woman who remembers nothing had a feeling she didn’t like, an inkling? They would think me ridiculous.
I am with my husband. I have come here to be reconciled with him. I am safe with Ben.
And so I switch on the light.
There is a flash as my eyes adjust, and then I see the room. It is unimpressive. There is nothing to be frightened of. The carpet is a mushroom grey, the curtains and wallpaper both in a floral pattern, though they don’t match. The dresser is battered, with three mirrors on it and a faded painting of a bird above it, the armchair wicker with yet another floral pattern on the cushion, and the bed covered with an orange bedspread in a diamond design.
I can see how disappointing it would be to someone who has booked it for their holiday, but, though Ben has booked it for ours, it is not disappointment that I feel. The fear has burned itself down to dread.
I close the door behind me and try to calm myself. I am being stupid. Paranoid. I must keep busy. Do something.
It feels cold in the room and a slight draught wafts the curtains. The window is open and I go over to close it. I look out before I do. We are high up; the street-lamps are far below us; seagulls sit silently upon them. I look out across the rooftops, see the cool moon hanging in the sky, and in the distance the sea. I can make out the pier, the helter-skelter, the flashing lights.
And then I see them. The words, over the entrance to the pier.
Brighton Pier.
Despite the cold, and even though I shiver, I feel a bead of sweat form on my brow. Now it makes sense. Ben has brought me here, to Brighton, to the place of my disaster. But why? Does he think I am more likely to remember what happened if I am back in the town in which my life was ripped from me? Does he think that I will remember who did this to me?
I remember reading that Dr Nash had once suggested I come here, and I had told him, no.
There are footsteps on the stairs, voices. The tall man must be bringing Ben here, to our room. They will be carrying the luggage together, lifting it up the stairs and round the tricky landings. He will be here soon.
What should I tell him? That he is wrong and being here will not help? That I want to go home?
I go back towards the door. I will help to bring the bags through, and then I will unpack them, and we will sleep, and then tomorrow—
It hits me. Tomorrow I will know nothing again. That must be what Ben has in his satchel. Photographs. The scrapbook. He will have to use everything he has to explain who he is and where we are all over again.
I wonder if I have brought my journal, then remember packing it, putting it in my bag. I try to calm myself. Tonight I will put it under the pillow and tomorrow I will find it, and read it. Everything will be fine.
I can hear Ben on the landing. He is talking to th
I go towards the door, and then I see it. To my right. A bathroom, with the door open. A bath, a toilet, a basin. But it is the floor that draws me, fills me with horror. It is tiled, and the pattern is unusual; black and white alternate in crazed diagonals.
My jaw opens. I feel myself go cold. I think I hear myself cry out.
I know, then. I recognize the pattern.
It is not only Brighton that I have recognized.
I have been here before. In this room.
*
The door opens. I say nothing as Ben comes in, but my mind spins. Is this the room in which I was attacked? Why didn’t he tell me we were coming here? How can he go from not even wanting to tell me about the assault to bringing me to the room in which it happened?
I can see the tall man standing just outside the door, and I want to call out to him, to ask him to stay, but he turns to leave and Ben closes the door. It is just the two of us now.
He looks at me. ‘Are you all right, love?’ he says. I nod and say yes, but the word feels as though it has been forced out of me. I feel the stirrings of hate in my stomach.
He takes my arm. He is squeezing the flesh just a little too tightly; any more and I would say something, any less and I doubt that I would notice. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes,’ I say. Why is he doing this? He must know where we are, what this means. All along he must have been planning this. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I just feel a little tired.’
And then it hits me. Dr Nash. He must have something to do with this. Otherwise why would Ben – after all these years, when he could have but did not – decide to bring me here now?
They must have been in contact. Perhaps Ben called him, after I told him all about our meetings. Perhaps some time during the last week – the week I know nothing about – they planned it all.
‘Why don’t you lie down?’ says Ben.
I hear myself speak. ‘I think I will.’ I turn towards the bed. Perhaps they’d been in touch all along? Dr Nash might have been lying about everything. I pictured him, dialling Ben after he’d said goodbye to me, telling him about my progress, or lack of it.
‘Good girl,’ says Ben. ‘I meant to bring champagne. I think I’ll go and get some. There’s a shop, I think. It’s not far.’ He smiles. ‘Then I’ll join you.’
I turn to face him, and he kisses me. Now, here, his kiss lingers. He brushes my lips with his, puts his hand in my hair, strokes my back. I fight the urge to pull away. His hand moves lower, down my back, coming to rest on the top of my buttock. I swallow hard.
I cannot trust anybody. Not my husband. Not the man who has claimed to be helping me. They have been working together, building to this day, the day when, clearly, they have decided I am to face the horror in my past.
How dare they! I think. How dare they!
‘OK,’ I say. I turn my head away slightly, push him gently so that he lets me go.
He turns, and leaves the room. ‘I’ll just lock the door,’ he says, as he closes it behind him. ‘You can’t be too careful …’ I hear the key turn in the door outside, and I begin to panic. Is he really going to buy champagne? Or is he meeting Dr Nash? I cannot believe he has brought me to this room without telling me; another lie to go with all the others. I hear him go down the stairs.
Wringing my hands, I sit on the edge of the bed. I cannot calm my mind, cannot settle on just one thought. Instead thoughts race, as if, in a mind devoid of memory, each idea has too much space to grow and move, to collide with others in a shower of sparks before spinning off into its own distance.
I stand up. I feel enraged. I cannot face the thought of him coming back, pouring champagne, getting into bed with me. Neither can I face the thought of his skin next to mine, or his hands on me in the night, pawing at me, pressing me, encouraging me to give myself to him. How can I, when there is no me to give?
I would do anything, I think. Anything, except for that.
I cannot stay here, in this place where my life was ruined and everything taken away from me. I try to work out how much time I have. Ten minutes? Five? I go over to Ben’s bag and open it. I don’t know why; I am not thinking of why, or how, only that I must move, while Ben is away, before he returns and things change again. Perhaps I intend to find the car keys, to force the door and go downstairs, out into the rainy street, to the car. Although I’m not even certain I can drive, perhaps I mean to try, to get in and go far, far away.
Or perhaps I mean to find a picture of Adam; I know they’re in there. I will take just one, and then I will leave the room and run. I will run and run, and then, when I can run no more, I will call Claire, or anybody, and I will tell them that I cannot take it any more, and beg them to help me.
I dig my hands deep in the bag. I feel metal, and plastic. Something soft. And then an envelope. I take it out, thinking it might contain photographs, and see that it is the one I found in the office at home. I must have put it in Ben’s bag as I packed, intending to remind him it had not been opened. I turn it over and see that the word Private has been written on the front. Without thinking, I tear it open and remove its contents.
Paper. Pages and pages. I recognize it. The faint blue lines, the red margins. These pages are the same as those in my journal, in the book that I have been writing.
And then I see my own handwriting, and begin to understand.
I have not read all of my story. There is more. Pages and pages more.
I find my journal in my bag. I had not noticed before, but after the final page of writing a whole section has been removed. The pages have been excised neatly, cut with a scalpel or a razor blade, close to the spine.
Cut out by Ben.
I sit on the floor, the pages spread in front of me. This is the missing week of my life. I read the rest of my story.
The first entry is dated. Friday, 23 November, it says. The same day I met Claire. I must have written it that evening, after speaking to Ben. Perhaps we had had the conversation I was anticipating, after all. I sit here, it begins,
on the floor of the bathroom, in the house in which, supposedly, I woke up every morning. I have this journal in front of me, this pen in my hand. I write, because it’s all I can think of to do.
Tissues are balled around me, soaked with tears, and blood. When I blink my vision turns red. Blood drips into my eye as fast as I can wipe it away.
When I looked in the mirror I could see that the skin above my eye is cut, and my lip, too. When I swallow I taste the metallic tang of blood.
I want to sleep. To find a safe place somewhere, and close my eyes, and rest, like an animal.
That is what I am. An animal. Living from moment to moment, day to day, trying to make sense of the world in which I find myself.
My heart races. I read back over the paragraph, my eyes drawn again and again to the word blood. What had happened?
I begin to read quickly, my mind stumbling over words, lurching from line to line. I don’t know when Ben will get back and can’t risk him taking these pages before I have read them. Now may be my only chance.
I’d decided it was best to speak to him after dinner. We ate in the lounge – sausage, mash, our plates balanced on our knees – and when we had both finished I asked if he would turn the television off. He seemed reluctant. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I said.
The room felt too quiet, filled only with the ticking of the clock and the distant hum of the city. And my voice, sounding hollow and empty.
‘Darling,’ said Ben, putting his plate on the coffee table between us. A half-chewed lump of meat sat on the side of the plate, peas floated in thin gravy. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’ I didn’t know how to continue. He looked at me, his eyes wide, waiting. ‘You do love me, don’t you?’ I said. I felt almost as if I was gathering evidence, insuring mys
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. What’s this about? What’s wrong?’
‘Ben,’ I said. ‘I love you, too. And I understand your reasons for doing what you’ve been doing, but I know you’ve been lying to me.’
Almost as soon as I finished the sentence I regretted starting it. I saw him flinch. He looked at me, his lips pulled back as if to speak, his eyes wounded.
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Darling—’
I had to continue now. There was no way out of the stream into which I had begun to wade.
‘I know you’ve been doing it to protect me, not telling me things, but it can’t go on. I need to know.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘I haven’t been lying to you.’
I felt a surge of anger. ‘Ben,’ I said, ‘I know about Adam.’
His face changed, then. I saw him swallow, and look away, towards the corner of the room. He brushed something off the arm of his pullover. ‘What?’
‘Adam,’ I said. ‘I know we had a son.’
I half expected him to ask me how I knew, but then realized this conversation was not unusual. We have been here before, on the day I saw my novel, and other days when I have remembered Adam too.
I saw he was about to speak, but didn’t want to hear any more lies.
‘I know he died in Afghanistan,’ I said.
His mouth shut, then opened again, almost comically.
‘How do you know that?’