Who I Am: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist by Sarah Simpson

Author:Sarah Simpson [Simpson, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788544832
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2018-11-05T16:00:00+00:00

37

Edinburgh 2017

Camilla

I get myself ready to leave the flat as quickly as possible. Last night, hours spent in bed, desperately trying to sleep has left me feeling oddly hypervigilant. The nightmares are becoming worse, I thought they’d gone but they’ve come back with more vengeance, more detail. But, can I really refer to them as nightmares, isn’t the correct term – flashbacks? The lack of any rational consciousness at night has distorted them a little, but otherwise, I’m right back there, on the beach. I quicken my step along Thistle Street, I’m going to be late. It took some time for me concede, to see a therapist. Then, at the first appointment, I felt like a big fat fake. I was never my intention to tell the therapist the truth. I only needed some way of untangling my thoughts. But today, I’m hungry for the appointment, a need to clear my fogged mind. Am I doing the right thing in hunting her down? Do I really want to go back? After all these years?

I slow my pace as the stone terraced building comes into sight, I’ve been side-stepping people all the way here in some kind of self contained bubble. They bounce off me, I may even pop but they’ll never get to touch me. My bubble’s parameter disconnecting me from life. Clumsy, my feet tripping each other up. Time hasn’t healed me, it’s merely frayed the edges, leaving me more exposed if anything with no solid line to defend myself. There was a point in time, particularly when Drew and I first opened our bistro, when I was able to blank out the events. Hectic times of new beginnings, stimulated, preoccupied and easier to distract. But my recent internet trawling, my jaunt to London yesterday, has opened the door wide again. ‘You’ve lost your sparkle, Cam, what’s up?’ Drew asked the other day. I think I lost my sparkle a long time ago but how would he know the difference, he doesn’t really know me at all, I don’t even know me.

Moments later, I’m perched on the edge of a hard chair in the therapist’s reception, despite the unusual early morning warmth outside, my legs are quivering. You can duck and dive, lie and distort all you like but your conscience will always hold the truth. The stern faced, auburn haired receptionist has kind of greeted me in her usual peering above her half-moon glasses manner. Silence now lingers in the air. I flick open my mobile, last night on the train returning from London, I managed to locate the man’s email address. Should I make contact before I see him again or will I look like a crazy, obsessive stalker? Am I an obsessive, crazy stalker? Maybe, but at least not in the usual sense and for all the right reasons. But isn’t that what they all probably think? For a just course? To put right a wrong, an injustice of a kind?

I jump as the door behind

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