The Forgetting

PRAISE FOR THE FORGETTING ‘The Forgetting is mysterious, deeply moving, impossible to put down – and its killer twist left me gasping. Brilliant. Hannah Beckerman’s best book yet.’ —Alex Michaelides ‘The Forgetting had me absolutely gripped from start to finish, and has one of the best story twists I have ever read. This brilliant and disturbing tale grabbed me from page one and I was completely hooked. I love Hannah’s writing – clever, insightful, eloquent and empathetic. Utterly compelling, compulsive reading and superb writing. I could not put it down!’ —Ruth Jones ‘I’m SO wowed! I literally gasped when I realised the twist. How clever, how very clever. It’s brilliant. So very effective. This is an excellent, important novel.’ —Marian Keyes ‘This book is amazing! It’s deliciously sinister, deeply twisty, and HUGELY addictive. I love the disquietness of it so much, and Hannah writes into the dark corners of the characters’ minds so beautifully.’ —Joanna Cannon ‘A tense, stylish thriller. Beautifully written and utterly compelling, with an important message at its heart. It’s fantastic.’ —Louise O’Neill ‘Absolutely compulsive, wonderfully plotted with a story that resonates long after you turn the final page. It’s gripping, surprising, interesting, relevant. I was hooked.’ —Rosamund Lupton ALSO BY HANNAH BECKERMAN The Dead Wife’s Handbook If Only I Could Tell You The Impossible Truths of Love This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2023 by Hannah Beckerman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542030380 ISBN-10: 1542030382 Cover design by Liron Gilenberg For Adam and Aurelia: the loves of my life CONTENTS ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON LIVVY BRISTOL ANNA LONDON ANNA LONDON ANNA LONDON ANNA LONDON ANNA LONDON ANNA LONDON EPILOGUE FIVE MONTHS LATER ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AUTHOR’S NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR ANNA LONDON When I open my eyes, nothing is familiar. Light falls in parallel strips across the ceiling. Square white tiles, puckered with small black holes, form neat grids. A metal rail hangs above me, curved like the broad sweep of an arm. My eyes blink against the too-bright light. My head is heavy, as if I have awoken from a leaden sleep. Muffled sounds become louder in my ears, more distinct: the clatter of metal, the ringing of a phone, the murmur of voices. I breathe, and my breath is hot against my face. On the periphery of my vision, a plastic dome curves above my nose. I breathe again, watch the transparent mask mist over, feel the heat rebound against my skin. ‘Hello, my love. How are you feeling?’ A man’s face hovers over me, so close his features are blurred at the edges. I try to swallow, but there is no moisture in my mouth, the muscles in my throat contracting without purpose: tensing, tightening, a sensation of choking. ‘You’re okay. Just breathe normally.’ The man rests a hand on my arm and it is hot, clammy, my skin flinching in response. ‘Where am I?’ The words are like sandpaper in my throat. ‘You’re in hospital. I’m going to get someone to come and look at you. I’ll be back in a minute.’ The man’s fretful tone is at odds with the reassurance of his words. As he leaves, the dial is turned up on my senses: the pale blue curtain surrounding my bed; the beeping of a monitor beside me; the rigidity at the back of my neck, aching and stiff. There is a swish of the cubicle curtain, a change in the direction of air. A new face appears above mine: young, female, wearing a blue nurse’s tunic with white piping around the collar. Behind her, the man hovers, knitting his fingers, a frown pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Can you hear me, Anna?’ The nurse speaks loudly, enunciating every syllable as though testing the shape of them in her mouth. I nod, not wanting the sandpaper to scratch the walls of my throat again. ‘Anna, my name’s Fran, I’m one of the nurses here. Do you know where you are?’ I shake my head. I am in a hospital, that much is clear. But I do not know where, which one. ‘You’re in Charing Cross Hospital, in Hammersmith. Do you remember what happened?’ The question snags in my mind, like the sleeve of a jumper caught on a rusty nail. I close my eyes, search for the drawer containing the answer to the nurse’s question. ‘Anna? Do you know why you’re here?’ Opening my eyes, the skin tightens across my forehead. Looking at the nurse, then at the man standing behind her, fear pools in the back of my throat. I do not know why I am here. Air sucks in through my lips, leaks out into the mask covering my nose, my mouth. Particles of moisture settle on my skin: damp and hot. I search in my mind for words to form an explanation but find only a blank