I Know My Name: An addictive thriller with a chilling twist - C.J. Cooke

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head feels like someone is pounding it with a hammer. I’m sorry … what is the main island?

      Crete, Sariah answers. Whereabouts were you staying?

      You staying with family? A group of girlfriends? the guy with glasses asks. Hey, she might have come from one of the other islands. Antikythera?

      I don’t think so, offers the tiny woman with red curly hair – Hazel – in a low voice. The currents between here and Antikythera are worse than travelling to Crete. And Antikythera is further.

      I’m sorry, I say. Did someone say I’m in Crete?

      See? George says.

      No, no, I try to say, but Joe cuts me off.

      She asked if she’s in Crete, Joe answers. This is Komméno, not Crete.

      Well, we’ll need to let whoever you’ve left behind know that you’re still in one piece, George says. You got a number I can ring?

      He pulls a small black phone from a pocket and extends an antenna from the top. Crete. Was I staying there?

      I can’t remember, I say finally. Sorry, I don’t know.

      The kind woman, Sariah, is holding my hand. We’ll call the police on Crete the second we get a signal on the satellite phone. Don’t worry, sweetie.

      The big guy – George – is still watching me, his eyes narrowed. Where are you from, then?

      I’m light-headed and nauseous, but I think I should know this. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t even call it to mind. Why can’t I remember it? I try to think of faces of my family, people I love – but there’s a complete blankness in whatever part of my brain holds that information.

      George is leaning on one hand, taking slow, thoughtful drags from a fresh cigarette, studying me. The others are halfway through cups of tea. I have no recollection of anyone putting cups out or boiling a kettle. Time lurches and stalls. I rise from my chair and almost fall over. My legs are jelly. Sariah moves to hold me up.

       Easy now.

      The large window at the other side of the kitchen frames a round moon in a purple sky, its glow bleaching fields and hills. A burst of light crackles across the ocean, lighting up the room. A few moments later thunder pounds the roof, rattling all the pots and pans. I am disoriented and weak. I begin to shake again, but this time it’s from shock.

      Sariah wraps an arm around me. We’re going to move you into the other room, OK? Deep breaths.

      But before we have a chance to move, I hear a deep voice say, Maybe she’s a refugee.

      Sariah hisses, George!

      He gives a loud bellow of laughter. It makes me jump.

       I’m joking, aren’t I?

      Pressure builds and builds in my head until I’m gasping for air and clawing at my throat. The two women lean forward and tell me to breathe, and I’m trying. They ask me to tell them what’s wrong but I can’t speak. Someone says,

       We need to think about getting her to a hospital.

       17 March 2015

       George Street, Edinburgh

      Lochlan: I’m having afternoon tea with a client at The Dome when my phone rings. It’s an important meeting – Mr Coyle is interested in setting up a venture capital fund to invest in some new technological companies – and so I pull it out of my pocket and hit ‘cancel’.

      ‘Sorry about that.’

      Mr Coyle arches an eyebrow. ‘Your wife?’

      It was, actually. Right before I hit ‘cancel’ I saw her name appear on the screen.

      ‘No, no. Anyway, what were we saying?’

      ‘Google glass?’

      I pour us both some red. ‘Ah, yes. This company’s creating something similar, only better. It integrates seamlessly with new social media platforms and user trials have rated it at five stars. The first product is scheduled to retail for around five hundred pounds in September.’

      My phone rings again. This time Mr Coyle gives a noise of irritation. ‘ELOÏSE’ appears in white letters on the screen. I make to hit ‘cancel’ again, but Mr Coyle gives a shooing gesture with his hand and says, ‘Answer it. Tell her we’re busy.’

      I stand up and walk to the nearest window.

      ‘El, what is it? I’m in a meeting …’

      ‘Lochlan? Is that you, dear?’

      The woman at the other end of the line is not my wife. She continues talking, and it takes a few moments for me to place the voice.

      ‘Mrs Shahjalal?’

      It’s the Yorkshirewoman who lives opposite us.

      ‘… and I thought I’d best check. So when I opened the door I was surprised to see – are you still there?’

      From the corner of my eye I see Mr Coyle hailing a waitress.

      ‘Mrs Shahjalal, is everything all right? Where’s Eloïse?’

      A long pause. ‘That’s what I’m telling you, dear. I don’t know.’

      ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

      ‘It’s like I said: the man from the UPS van brought the parcel over to me and asked if I’d take it as nobody was in. And I thought that was strange, because I was sure I’d seen little Max’s face at the window only a moment before. So I took the parcel, and then an hour or so later I saw Max again, and I thought I’d best go over and see if everything was all right. Max was able to stand on a chair and let me in.’

      I’m struggling to put this all together in my mind. Mr Coyle is rising from his chair, putting on his jacket. I turn and raise a hand to let him know I’ll be just a second, but he grimaces.

      ‘OK, so Max let you in to our house. What happened when you went inside?’

      ‘Well, Eloïse still isn’t here. I’ve been here since three o’clock and the little one’s mad for a feed. I found Eloïse’s mobile phone on the coffee table and pressed a button, and luckily enough it dialled your number.’

      The rustling and mewling noises in the background grow louder, and I realise Mrs Shahjalal must be holding Cressida, my daughter. She’s twelve weeks old. Eloïse is still breastfeeding her.

      ‘So … Eloïse isn’t in the house. She’s not there at all?’ It’s a stupid thing to say, but I can’t quite fathom it. Where else would she be?

      Mr Coyle glowers from the table. He straightens his tie before turning to walk out, and I lower the phone and call after him.

      ‘Mr Coyle!’

      He doesn’t acknowledge me.

      ‘I’ll send the fact sheet by email!’

      Mrs Shahjalal is still talking. ‘It’s very odd, Lochlan. Max is dreadfully upset and doesn’t seem to know where she’s gone. I don’t know what to do.’

      I walk back to the table and gather up my briefcase. The brass clock on the chimneybreast reads quarter past four. I could catch the four thirty to London if I manage to get a taxi on time, but it’s a four-and-a-half-hour train ride from here and then another cab ride from King’s Cross to Twickenham. I’ll not be home until after ten.

      ‘I’m

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