The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller by Shalini Boland Read Free Book Online Page A

instantly takes my mind off the dream. I don’t know which is scarier. I flex my fingers and then cross my arms, waiting.
    Dr Lazowski continues. Thankfully, she doesn’t string it out:
    ‘According to the scans,’ she says, ‘everything is normal – no dead tissue, lesions, aneurysms or tumours. Your brain appears healthy. So there’s no reason why your memories shouldn’t return. There’s nothing we can see that suggests your condition will persist or worsen.’
    I feel my shoulders relax at her words. Now they’ve come back clear, that’s one less thing to worry about.
    ‘Thank you so much,’ I reply, my voice barely a whisper. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘As sure as we can be. I don’t think those bumps on your head are anything to do with your memory loss. Retrograde amnesia is more likely to have been caused by psychological trauma – the shock of almost drowning, something like that.’
    The rest of our consultation goes by in a blur. I’m hardly concentrating, my relief is so great. She gives me a list of things I can do to try and help my memory along. Things such as talking to friends and family, revisiting familiar places – old schools, places of work, clubs, usual routes etc. I nod along, and resolve to do everything she’s telling me. She’s also going to schedule me in for regular therapy and a follow-up consultation.
    Although the results of the scan are good, it still doesn’t explain what happened to me. I still don’t know how I ended up unconscious on the beach with no memory. And, although I know my name and where I live, I still don’t really know who I am.

 
     
    Chapter Eight
    After my hospital appointment, I stop off at home to freshen up before my lunch date with Piers. I’m going to walk to the restaurant which is somewhere in Christchurch. Given that the town centre is more-or-less one long street with a few little side roads, I’m confident I’ll find it.  I leave the house and head away from the river towards the Priory. I find myself cutting through a busy car park, weaving past queues for the ticket machine and parents wrestling with car seats and pushchairs. All these people leading normal lives with people they love – or maybe they hate, but at least they know them. The only person I know is Piers, and today I’m determined to get to know him better.
    Leaving the car park behind, I find myself in the shadow of the Priory, walking along a path through a grassy graveyard. The gravestones are old and worn, covered in white spots and lichen. I draw my gaze up, and am mesmerised by the grand stature of the building, by its ancient solidity, its huge square tower staring down at me. I wonder how long it’s been standing here. What dramas and tragedies it’s seen during its lifetime.
    Piers gave me directions yesterday. He told me I needed to turn right at the roundabout. I spot it up ahead, a little further along the crowded high street. Nothing about this place seems familiar. No landmark or shop that I recognise. I don’t have any sense of having been here before, other than the drive home yesterday. Maybe, I’m concentrating too hard, too desperate to remember.
    I’m hungry again. Haven’t eaten since breakfast so I’m more than ready for lunch. A few moments more and I find myself pushing open the door to a pretty French restaurant. I don’t know why I expected it to be half empty. Instead, it’s buzzing with diners. There doesn’t appear to be a single spare table. I hope Piers has booked.
    A young waiter comes over and I’m about to give him my name, but he smiles and kisses me on both cheeks.
    ‘Mia!’ he says, with no trace of a French accent. I’m guessing he must be local. ‘We heard about your accident. I saw all about it on television. How are you? You look amazing as always. Piers is already here at your usual table.’
    I push my sunglasses up onto my head and glance around, not sure where our ‘usual’ table would be.
    ‘Here,’ the waiter,