I realized I do not have ambition. I cannot. All I want is to feel normal. To live like everybody else, with experience building on experience, each day

shaping the next. I want to grow, to learn things, and from things. There, in the bathroom, I thought of my old age. I tried to imagine what it will be like. Will I

still wake up, in my seventies or eighties, thinking myself to be at the beginning of my life? Will I wake with no idea that my bones are old, my joints stiff

and heavy? I can’t imagine how I will cope, when I discover that my life is behind me, has already happened, and I have nothing to show for it. No treasure

house of recollection, no wealth of experience, no accumulated wisdom to pass on. What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories? How will I feel,

when I look in a mirror and see the reflection of my grandmother? I don’t know, but I can’t allow myself to think of that now.

I heard Ben go into the bedroom. I realized I would not be able to replace my journal in the wardrobe and so put it on the chair next to the bath,

under my discarded clothes. I will move it later, I thought, once he is asleep. I switched off the light and went into the bedroom.

Ben sat in bed, watching me. I said nothing, but climbed in next to him. I realized he was naked. ‘I love you, Christine,’ he said, and he began to kiss

me, my neck, my cheek, my lips. His breath was hot and had the bite of garlic. I didn’t want him to kiss me, but didn’t push him away. I have asked for this,

I thought. By wearing that stupid dress, by putting on the make-up and perfume, by asking him to kiss me before we went out.

I turned to face him and, though I didn’t want to, kissed him back. I tried to imagine the two of us in the house we had just bought together, tearing at

my clothes on the way to the bedroom, our uncooked lunch spoiling in the kitchen. I told myself that I must have loved him then – or else why would I have

married him? – and so there is no reason why I shouldn’t love him now. I told myself that what I was doing was important, an expression of love and of

gratitude, and when his hand moved to my breast I didn’t stop him but told myself it was natural, normal. Neither did I stop him when he slipped his hand

between my legs and cupped me, and only I knew that later, much later, when I began to moan softly, it wasn’t because of what he was doing. It wasn’t

pleasure at all, it was fear, because of what I saw when I closed my eyes.

Me, in a hotel room. The same one I had seen as I got ready earlier that evening. I see the candles, the champagne, the flowers. I hear the

knock at the door, see myself put down the glass I have been drinking from, stand up to open it. I feel excitement, anticipation; the air is heavy with

promise. Sex and redemption. I reach out, take the handle of the door, cold and hard. I breathe deeply. Finally things will be all right.

A hole, then. A blank in my memory. The door, opening, swinging towards me, but I cannot see who is behind it. There, in bed with my husband,

panic slammed into me, from nowhere. ‘Ben!’ I cried out, but he didn’t stop, didn’t even seem to hear me. ‘Ben!’ I said again. I closed my eyes and clung

to him. I spiralled back into the past.

He is in the room. Behind me. This man, how dare he! I twist around but see nothing. Pain, searing. A pressure on my throat. I cannot breathe.

He is not my husband, not Ben, but still his hands are on me, all over, his hands and his flesh, covering me. I try to breathe, but cannot. My body,

shuddering, pulped, turns to nothing, to ash and air. Water, in my lungs. I open my eyes, and see nothing but crimson. I am going to die, here, in this

hotel room. Dear God, I think. I never wanted this. I never asked for this. Someone must help me. Someone must come. I have made a terrible

mistake, yes, but I do not deserve this punishment. I do not deserve to die.

I feel myself disappear. I want to see Adam. I want to see my husband. But they are not here. No one is here, but me, and this man, this man

who has his hands around my throat.

I am sliding, down, down. Towards blackness. I must not sleep. I must not sleep. I. Must. Not. Sleep.

The memory ended, suddenly, leaving a terrible, empty void. My eyes flicked open. I was back in my own home, in bed, my husband inside me.

‘Ben!’ I cried out, but it was too late. With tiny, muffled grunts he ejaculated. I clung to him, holding him as tight as I could, and then, after a moment, he

kissed my neck and told me again that he loved me, and then said, ‘Chris, you’re crying …’

The sobs came, uncontrollable. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘Did I hurt you?’

What could I say to him? I shook as my mind tried to process what it had seen. A hotel room full of flowers. Champagne and candles. A stranger

with his hands around my neck.

What could I say? All I could do was cry harder, and push him away, and then wait. Wait until he slept, and I could creep out of bed and write it all

down.

Saturday, 17 November – 2.07 a.m.

I cannot sleep. Ben is upstairs, back in bed, and I am writing this in the kitchen. He thinks I am drinking a cup of cocoa that he has just made for me. He

thinks I will come back to bed soon.

I will, but first I must write again.

The house is quiet and dark now, but earlier everything seemed alive. Amplified. I had hidden my journal in the wardrobe and crept back into bed after

writing about what I had seen as we made love, but still felt restless. I could hear the ticking of the clock downstairs, its chimes as it marked the hours,

Ben’s gentle snores. I could feel the fabric of the duvet cover on my chest, see nothing but the glow of the alarm clock by my side. I turned on my back and

closed my eyes. All I could see was myself, with hands clamped tight around my throat so that I could not breathe. All I could hear was my own voice,

echoing. I am going to die.

I thought of my journal. Would it help to write more? To read it again? Could I really take it from its hiding place without waking Ben?

He lay, barely visible in the shadows. You are lying to me, I thought. Because he is. Lying about my novel, about Adam. And now I feel certain he is

lying about how I came to be here, trapped, like this.

I wanted to shake him awake. I wanted to scream, Why? Why are you telling me I was knocked over by a car on an icy road? I wonder what he is

protecting me from. How bad the truth might be.

And what else is there, that I do not know?

My thoughts turned from my journal to the metal box, the one in which Ben keeps the photos of Adam. Maybe there will be more answers in there, I

thought. Maybe I will find the truth.

I decided to get out of bed. I folded the duvet back so that I didn’t wake my husband. I grabbed my journal from its hiding place and crept, barefoot,

on to the landing. The house felt different now, sheened in the bluish moonlight. Frozen, and still.

I pulled the bedroom door closed behind me, a soft scrape of wood on carpet, a subtle click as it shut. There, on the landing, I skimmed through

what I had written. I read about Ben telling me I was hit by a car. I read about him denying I had written a novel. I read about our son.

I had to see a photograph of Adam. But where would I look? ‘I keep these upstairs,’ he had said. ‘For safety.’ I knew that. I had written it down. But

where, exactly? The spare bedroom? The office? How would I begin to look for something I could not recall ever seeing before?

I put the journal back where I had found it and went into the office, closing that door behind me too. Moonlight shone through the window, casting a

greyish glow around the room. I didn’t dare to switch on the light, couldn’t risk Ben finding me in there, searching. He would ask me what I was looking for,

and I had nothing to tell him, no reason to give for being in there. There would be too many questions to answer.

The box was metal, I had written, and grey. I looked on the desk first. A tiny computer with an impossibly flat screen, pens and pencils in a mug,

papers arranged in tidy piles, a ceramic paperweight in the shape of a seahorse. Above the desk was a wall planner, dotted with coloured stickers,

circles and stars. Under the desk was a leather satchel and a wastepaper basket, both empty, and next to it a filing cabinet.