“And I’ve told you, several times now, that I was never at the petrol station. I left the restaurant and went home to bed, alone.”

She shakes her head. “Did you ever wonder why two detectives were sent to your house when you reported Ben missing?”

“Well, I—”

“It’s not standard procedure, but your husband was deemed to be high risk. Do you want to know why?”

I stare back at her, not sure that I do.

“Because earlier that day he visited the local police station and reported you for assault and battery. Either you really are a great actress, or I’m guessing you didn’t know.”

It feels like I’m falling, so I sit down. It’s as though I’ve slipped into a messed-up parallel universe in the last couple of days, one where I’m still myself, but everything and everyone around me has twisted all out of shape. When I don’t say anything, she just carries right on.

“Your husband mentioned that you had been diagnosed with some form of amnesia when you were a child. That the condition meant you sometimes forgot traumatic events, blanked them out of your memory completely, without even knowing that you had. He suggested that your symptoms were ongoing, but that you were in denial about that. So that you think you have a perfect memory but that in reality, you might have forgotten some of the things that you did when you were upset. Does any of this ring true?”

“No. I mean, yes, I was diagnosed with a condition when I was a child, but it was a misdiagnosis. I haven’t forgotten anything since.”

I didn’t forget anything that happened then either, I just pretended to. I carry my memories of my life before in an old trunk inside my head. It’s been locked for a long time.

“And you’re sure about that? That you’re not still experiencing some form of memory loss? It was one of the reasons your husband decided not to press charges.”

“Press charges for what?”

“Do you drink, Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Everybody drinks.”

“Do you think it’s possible that you were too drunk to remember what happened between you and your husband that night?”

No. I remember everything. I’m just selfish with most of my memories; I choose not to share them.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know, do you? You said it was, and I quote, just a slap?” She waits for me to respond, but I don’t. I’m starting to think it might be best to say as little as possible. “Where is your husband, Mrs. Sinclair?”

Something inside me snaps. “I. Don’t. Know! That’s why I called you people!”

The volume of my voice surprises me, but she doesn’t flinch. “Did you manage to find a recent photo of Ben to help with our investigation?”

“No.”

“Not to worry, I have one here.” She reaches inside her pocket, then produces a photo of Ben’s face, bloodied and bruised, one eye almost completely swollen shut. I have never, ever, seen him look like this. He’s almost unrecognizable. “This is what your husband looked like when he came to the police station, on the day you say he went missing. His nose was broken in two places. I’m not a medical professional, but I’d guess these injuries were caused by more than just a slap. The only reason we didn’t bring you in then was because he refused to press charges in the end. I think he was afraid of you.”

I accept that my mind might have a hairline fracture, but my memory works just fine.

I’m not crazy.

“This is insane! I’ve never seen him looking like that—”

“In his statement, your husband said he had confronted you about an affair he believed you were having with Jack Anderson, your co-star in this movie. Any truth in that?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“Anything that helps me find your husband and ensure his safety is my business. A few hours after he left the police station, you reported him missing. Where is he now, Mrs. Sinclair?”

Everything is too loud, I just want her to stop talking, or for someone to explain what is happening in a way that makes a shred of sense. “I told you, I don’t know. If I knew where he was, or if I had hurt him myself, why would I call the police?”

She shakes her head. “One last question. Can you remind me what time you said you came home the night you realized he was … missing?”

“About five p.m. I guess, I’m not sure exactly.” I notice Wakely scribble something down.

“See, now that’s interesting, because it means you were home when your husband made his final call from the phone you said was his, the one that was left on the coffee table. He has been seeing a domestic abuse counselor for a little while now. He said this wasn’t the first time you attacked him, and he left a message on his counselor’s phone. Want to know what Ben said?”

Not really.

She hits a button on her iPad, and Ben’s hushed voice fills my dressing room. It’s like hearing a ghost.

“I’m sorry to call, but you said that I could if I ever felt in danger again, and I think she’s going to kill me.”

Twenty

Essex, 1987

“You’ll get square eyes,” Maggie says, getting out of bed and turning off the TV. I’ve been living here for a long time now and she’s always saying that, so I check my eyes as often as I can in the mirror to make sure they are still round. I carry on staring at the screen anyway, even though the picture has gone. I can see a girl in it, like a little gray ghost of me. She smiles when I smile, and stands when I stand, and looks sad when I look sad. I don’t see what she does when I turn and walk away, but sometimes I imagine she stays right where she is inside that screen. Watching me.

“Do you know the best thing about Christmas?” Maggie asks.

I’d forgotten that she said it was Christmas today and don’t answer.

“Surprises!” She ties one of her bras around my head, like a blindfold. I don’t always like Maggie’s surprises. She pulls me up and leads me to the door in the flat I’ve never been through before. It’s locked and I’m afraid of what might be behind it. I hear her take out the giant set of keys, then she opens the door, and we shuffle inside. It’s dark, but I can feel soft carpet beneath my toes, just like in my bedroom. She takes the bra off my face, which I’m glad about, but I still can’t really see until she opens the heavy-looking curtains.

The room is beautiful, like the grotto in Dunnes Stores in Galway at Christmas. A pretty pattern of red and white flowers is all over the walls, and there is red carpet on the floor. I see a big red sofa, with lots of cushions, and the fireplace is a bit like the one at home. Paper chains are hanging down from the swirly white ceiling, and in the corner of the room there is a giant green tree, covered in tinsel, with a big silver star on top. Best of all, there are presents underneath, more presents than I’ve ever seen before.

“Well, go on then, see if there’s anything there for you,” says Maggie. Her yellow T-shirt with a smiley face comes down to her knees, but her teeth are chattering, which seems to make mine do the same. It’s as though the cold in the room is like the colds that make you cough and sneeze—something you can catch. She turns on a switch next to the fireplace, and I see that the fire is not real, only pretend with blue flames. Then she flicks another switch, and little colored lights appear all over the tree. It’s beautiful. But then the lights on the tree and the fire go off, and Maggie’s face turns from happy to cross awful fast.