It is there that memory fails me again. Though I remember looking at his face, I cannot remember what I saw. It is featureless, a blank. As if unable

to cope with this vacuum, my mind cycles through faces I know, through absurd impossibilities. I see Dr Nash. Dr Wilson. The receptionist at Fisher Ward.

My father. Ben. I even see my own face, laughing as I raise a fist to strike.

Please, I cry, please don’t. But my many-faced attacker hits anyway, and I taste blood. He drags me along the floor, and then I am in the

bathroom, on the cold tiles, black and white. The floor is damp with condensation, the room smells of orange blossom, and I remember how I had

been looking forward to bathing, to making myself beautiful, thinking that maybe I would still be in the bath when he arrived, and then he could join

me, and we would make love, making waves in the soapy water, soaking the floor, our clothes, everything. Because finally, after all these months of

doubt, it has become clear to me. I love this man. Finally, I know it. I love him.

My head slams into the floor. Once, twice, a third time. My vision blurs and doubles, then returns. A buzzing in my ears, and he shouts

something, but I can’t hear what. It echoes, as if there are two of him, both holding me, both twisting my arm, both grabbing handfuls of my hair as they

kneel on my back. I beg him to leave me alone, and there are two of me, too. I swallow. Blood.

My head jerks back. Panic. I am on my knees. I see water, bubbles, already thinning. I try to speak but cannot. His hand is round my throat, and

I cannot breathe. I am pitched forward, down, down, so quickly that I think I will never stop, and then my head is in the water. Orange blossom in my

throat.

I heard a voice. ‘Christine!’ it said. ‘Christine! Stop!’ I opened my eyes. Somehow, I was out of the car. I was running. Across the park, as fast as I

could, and running after me was Dr Nash.

We sat on a bench. It was concrete, crossed with wooden slats. One was missing, and the remainder sagged beneath us. I felt the sun against the back of

my neck, saw its long shadows on the ground. The boys were still playing football, though the game must be finishing now; some were drifting off, others

talked, one of the piles of jackets had been removed, leaving the goal unmarked. Dr Nash had asked me what had happened.

‘I remembered something,’ I said.

‘About the night you were attacked?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How did you know?’

‘You were screaming,’ he said. ‘You kept saying, “Get off me,” over and over.’

‘It was like I was there,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please, don’t apologize. Do you want to tell me what you saw?’

The truth was I did not. I felt as if some ancient instinct was telling me that this was a memory best kept to myself. But I needed his help, knew I

could trust him. I told him everything.

When I had finished he was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Anything else?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t remember what he looked like? The man who attacked you?’

‘No. I can’t see that at all.’

‘Or his name?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’ I hesitated. ‘Do you think it might help to know who did this to me? To see him? Remember him?’

‘Christine, there’s no real evidence to suggest that remembering the attack would help.’

‘But it might?’

‘It seems to be one of your most deeply repressed memories—’

‘So it might?’

He was silent, then said, ‘I’ve suggested it before, but it might help to go back there …’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No. Don’t even say it.’

‘We can go together. You’d be fine, I promise. If you were there again … Back in Brighton—’

‘No.’

‘You might remember then—’

‘No! Please!’

‘It might help?’