Believe Me Not

by Natalie Chandler

Genres: Women's Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

'This was a FANTASTIC book, I will not forget this one for a loooooooooong time and if ever . . . a MUST READ!' Real Reader ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

'I SWALLOWED THIS BOOK WHOLE. Devoured it. Could not put it down . . . fast paced, twisty and kept me guessing' Real Reader ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

'ENGROSSING. I couldn't believe that i was reading a debut novel' Real Reader ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

'What an awesome fast-paced popcorn thriller!! This would be a REALLY good tv series' Real Reader ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

'An unputdownable thriller with nonstop twists and turns' Real Reader ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

THEY SAY YOUR BABY DOESN'T EXIST. BUT YOU KNOW HE DOES. DON'T YOU?

_______

WHAT IF EVERYONE YOU LOVE IS LYING TO YOU?

When Megan wakes up in a hospital bed, her first question is: where's my baby?

But her husband, her sister and her doctor say he doesn't exist.

Megan's not in a maternity ward, she's in a psychiatric unit.

Convinced that they're lying to her, Megan is determined to find out the truth.

But how can you prove your baby exists when you can't trust your own memories?

An utterly chilling psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist. You'll love this if you enjoyed THE PERFECT FATHER, THE RECOVERY OF ROSE GOLD or PLAYING NICE.
_______

Readers LOVE Believe Me Not!

'Compelling and tightly plotted, the story twists relentlessly. I couldn't turn the pages fast enough.'
DEBBIE HOWELLS

'An impressive debut with an original premise. A story of long hidden secrets, when past trauma forces loved ones to do the unthinkable. I found it utterly compelling.'
EMILY FREUD

'A fast-paced and gripping thriller that you'll find hard to put down. I loved it.'
SOPHIE FLYNN

'A gripping, frightening, knotty mystery.'
ELLE CONNEL

'The unfolding twists kept me on the edge until the end'
STACEY THOMAS

Release date: March 3, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Even before it became clear she was being held prisoner in a cell masquerading as a hospital room, she knew something was missing. Something physical. Something vital.

What, exactly, she had no idea.

The fluorescent lighting burned into her eyes, their weighted lids begging to close again, but she fought the tempting return to darkness. Her surroundings were blurred, a fluid film mottling her vision, but rapid blinking only cost precious energy and she failed to raise her heavy head from a pillow that smelled of sweat and fear.

The bedsheets were too tight, trapping her legs in an efficient bind. She forced herself to be still, drawing deep breaths into tense lungs as her grip tightened on the blue blanket drawn nearly to her nose. The breaths flooded her with that unmistakable hospital smell, a medicinal tang mixed with antiseptic cleanliness, faint undertones of disinfectant not quite masked by a subtle floral air freshener.

She groped around the narrow bed, feeling the cold steel of rails confining her, searching for a drip’s needle in her arms, the coarse rasp of a plaster cast or the sticky pads of a heart monitor. Nothing. Just a gentle pinch of her index finger, a small plastic clip displaying several numbers that meant nothing.

‘Mrs Newman? Megan?’

The voice startled her, too strident in the hushed quiet, and she bolted upright. A wave of vertigo swept over her and the room swam, a carousel of distorted images.

‘Have some water.’ A woman came into focus, standing beside the bed. A plastic beaker of water was placed carefully into Megan’s weak grip, the head of the bed slowly raised.

It took concentration to raise it to her lips, an effort to swallow, but it seemed to help. The spinning sensation slowed, allowing her sight to clear. She blinked again, trying to clear the last of the blurriness, but it clung defiantly, sepia tinges at the edge of her vision.

The woman took the empty beaker from her. She wore medical scrubs and a reassuring smile, dark hair slicked back into a neat bun.

‘My name’s Gemma. I’ve been your nurse since you were admitted.’

‘Where am I?’

‘This is the Grosvenor Unit.’

‘Was I in an accident?’

‘Not an accident, exactly. You had a knock to the head, but there’s no long-term damage.’

‘Then why am I here?’ Megan heard her voice rasp, as if her vocal cords had been strained, her throat raw and sore. She stroked it, searching for swelling or the sting of bruises. The water beaker was offered again, refilled, and she welcomed its soothing coolness. ‘I feel strange.’

‘That’ll be the medication.’

‘Why am I on medication? How long have I been here? What day is it?’

‘Your doctor will explain everything. Let me check where he is.’

‘Don’t leave me!’ Panic swelled from nowhere.

‘I’m only down the corridor, love.’ Gemma squeezed her hand. She was shorter than Megan, more athletic, and she radiated the sort of capability Megan had always prided herself on. ‘You’re safe here. Just press this button if you need me.’

As soon as the door closed gently behind the nurse, Megan pushed herself off the mattress and sat fully upright. The dizziness returned with a vengeance, frightening in its intensity, and she nearly lunged for the call button, but it took only a few moments to subside to a fuzzy dullness.

She found herself focusing on another button attached to the wall, larger, red, like a panic alarm should look, but she was distracted by a jolt of clarity, reminding her something was missing. She could sense a loss, something of great importance, but it remained stubbornly beyond her grasp. Trying to reach for it only made her head spin again.

Gingerly, she explored her skull, searching for the head injury Gemma had so casually mentioned. Her chestnut hair was greasy and lank. Through the tangles, she identified a painful spot and what felt like a wound closed with surgical glue, which stung sharply as she pressed too hard.

As she recoiled, she became aware of a strange, uncomfortable tension in her lower abdomen whenever she moved. Raising the synthetic material of the hospital gown, she was confronted with a large wound, the path of a surgeon’s scalpel stretching across her bikini line.

She ran a tentative finger along the healing scar, conscious of a dawning familiarity at the sensation. She knew what this was. The skin was still tight and tender to touch but there were no stitches or raw-redness. No evidence a surgeon’s hands had plunged into her open abdomen.

It had been the strangest sensation, staring at the fabric screen obscuring her view, the urgent tugging and fumbling inside her, careless violation of vital organs that should never have known the sure touch of human fingers. Stef clutching her hand, sweat beading on his forehead. At last, the cry, severing the hush of concentration as the slippery bundle was pressed briefly to her chest. Startled eyes, a slick of black hair, tightly clenched fists.

Luka.

Luka, the child she had never craved until, one day, it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

Megan was certain she had devoutly planned her pregnancy. She would have consumed a myriad of antenatal books, taken up yoga, swum daily, listened to foreign audio books to encourage an ear for languages, even broken her coffee addiction. She would have done everything right because that was how she ran her life. Scheduled, organised, dedicated to whatever task was being undertaken.

So why was she here, in this hospital bed, without her baby?

She fumbled for the call button, pressing it repeatedly, increasing the pressure until she was almost punching it, free hand gripping a hank of her hair. Finally, the door opened, but it wasn’t Gemma she saw first.

Stef’s usual beguiling grin beamed at her, but his striking grey eyes quickly slid away, as if he was uncomfortable with what he saw. As usual, he hadn’t bothered to lace his Converse or iron his T-shirt and his messy flop of dark hair remained untamed. He was uninterested in designer labels or status symbols, entirely at ease with himself.

‘Stef, you’re here!’ She flung her arms out to her husband, a dry sob clawing at her throat. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. Stef, what’s happening to me?’

He crossed the room to her in swift strides, bending to allow her to wrap her arms tight around him, clinging to his salvation. His familiar smell – citrus and bergamot – comforted her, defeating the reek of sweat and chemicals that clung to her skin. He felt firm and strong against her protruding bones and paper-thin skin.

‘Don’t be scared.’ He pulled back, taking her hand in his reassuring grip. His platinum band matched her own, now too large for her finger. Against her alabaster colouring, his olive skin appeared permanently kissed by the sun of all the foreign shores they had explored together.

She raised her eyes to his and saw clouds in their smoky depths. ‘Where’s Luka? Haven’t you brought him?’

He squeezed her hand, a momentary shift in his careful expression.

‘Is he OK?’ she persisted. ‘Is he not allowed to be in here with me? They shouldn’t separate mothers from their babies!’

Stef gently pulled free from her grip, and she saw the red marks her fingers had left. ‘How long ago did you wake up?’

‘I don’t know! It doesn’t matter. Who’s looking after Luka?’

‘I’ve visited every day. Did you hear me talking to you?’

‘No. What does that matter? Where is Luka?’

‘Have you seen the doctor yet?’

‘Stef, what is wrong with you? Answer me! I want to know where our baby is. Tell me who he’s with!’

‘Let me fetch you a coffee.’

She waved her hand abruptly, dismissive of her favourite addiction. ‘I don’t want coffee! Where’s the doctor? Maybe he’ll tell me what the hell is going on. I need to see him.’

Stef was already heading decisively for the door. ‘I’ll ask Gemma while I get your drink.’

‘Hurry up, for God’s sake! Luka might be in danger.’

The door banged carelessly behind him, sending a sharp spike of pain through Megan’s aching head. Time passed that could have been seconds or minutes, perhaps even hours. Too long. Megan’s gaze remained rooted to the door, her fingers constantly fidgeting with a lock of hair, tugging at it whenever her attention began to drift, her unconscious method of calming herself since infanthood.

When the door finally opened again, it wasn’t Gemma or Stef but another man who strode to her bedside. A tanned stranger with honey-coloured hair greying at the temples and a dusky-pink linen shirt tucked precisely into chinos.

‘Hi, Megan, how are you?’

Megan only just prevented herself from seizing his pressed sleeve. ‘Are you my doctor?’

‘I am. My name is Dr Barnard Macaulay. Most patients call me Barney or Dr Mac.’ His American accent was rich and smooth even though he spoke quietly. ‘I’m from California, but I work solely in the UK now.’

He had a ready smile, the very straight, very white teeth of American dentistry, but she didn’t care about his name or his home state or his bedside manner.

‘My baby isn’t with me. I need to know where he is. No one will tell me and I don’t understand why.’

He took a seat by her bed, unhurried, no flicker of concern at a missing infant. ‘Megan, we need to talk about your condition and why you’re in hospital.’

‘But what if my son’s in danger?’

‘No one’s in danger.’

‘How do you know?’ Megan demanded.

Stef chose that moment to return, juggling two enormous Costa coffees, causing them both to turn their heads.

‘Megan, do you know who this is?’ Macaulay asked, gentle voiced, as if speaking to a young child.

‘Of course I know! This is Stefan . . . Stef . . . my husband.’

‘I’ve already met Dr Mac, sweetheart.’ Stef handed over her usual order, large cappuccino with an extra shot, blithely unaware of the reason for her agitation.

‘We don’t usually allow hot drinks, Mr Newman. They can be a safety risk.’

Stef’s jaw set. He’d never liked being told what to do. ‘I didn’t think—’

‘What do you mean, a safety risk?’ Megan demanded, the flare of rage taking her by surprise. ‘I won’t burn myself, I’m not stupid!’

Macaulay gave her another smile. ‘It’s just procedure, to keep everyone safe. It’s fine this once.’

‘I’m not allowed coffee again until I get out of here? You’ve no right to do that!’

‘Of course you can have coffee. It just won’t be as piping hot as you’re used to.’

Megan took a gulp, as if the cup would be snatched from her any moment, clutching it tightly, drawing comfort from its heat. The familiar smell enveloped her, nutty and earthy, coaxing tentative buds of memories to the surface – the rush of pleasure each morning at the first velvety sip, cappuccinos shared with friends in steamy cafés, winter’s chill chased from her fingers by the warming comfort. Normal life, beyond these claustrophobic walls.

Then she remembered where she was and what the most important question was.

‘Where is my baby and why the hell am I here? How long have I been away from him? I don’t know what’s going on!’

An unreadable glance passed between Macaulay and Stef.

‘Megan, there’s no easy way to explain situations such as these.’ Macaulay leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He indicated to Stef to take the chair on the other side of the bed. ‘Three weeks ago, you attempted to commit suicide. You sustained a serious head injury and internal bleeding, which meant you required an emergency hysterectomy.’

‘That’s not what my scar is from.’ Megan interrupted. ‘I gave birth via C-section.’

‘At the time of your suicide attempt,’ Macaulay continued as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘you were experiencing an acute psychotic episode. You believed your husband was trying to kill you, and when you have seen Stefan since you’ve been hospitalised, you’ve attempted to harm him.’

‘What? No. You’re wrong. Why would I do that?’

‘Your psychosis required immediate treatment. As you weren’t able to consent, Stefan signed the paperwork to section you and bring you here to the Grosvenor Unit. The Grosvenor is my London psychiatric practice.’

‘I don’t understand—’

‘You’ve been kept heavily sedated, for your own safety as well as others’, which is why you’re so confused. We’ve now started reducing the sedation. The next step will be getting you stable enough to be discharged home.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Megan’s voice rose in disbelief as she was finally allowed to speak. ‘This is madness! I’m not violent. I’d never hurt Stef!’

‘Psychosis can come and go. Sometimes you’re not in control of your thoughts or actions. At the moment, the medication is preventing many of your symptoms, but we can’t keep you on such high doses for an extended period of time.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question! Where is Luka? I want my baby!’

That glance again between the two men before Stef took her hand gently, as if she were an object of extreme delicacy.

‘Megs, we don’t have a baby.’

A moment of painful silence. Megan struggled to spit out the rush of words crowding her throat. Gasping for the necessary air to speak, she snatched her hand free, searching her husband’s familiar face for the giveaway, for the joke, unable to comprehend why he was being so damn facetious. Didn’t he understand how he was enraging her?

‘What are you saying?’ she managed to wheeze. ‘Of course we have a baby.’

‘We don’t have any children, sweetheart.’

Another ragged breath. ‘Stef, listen to yourself! You can’t just deny Luka like that! If you think this is funny . . .’

‘Megs, I’m not denying anything. We don’t have a baby.’

‘Are you out of your mind? His name is Luka. He was seven pounds two ounces. He was born by emergency C-section. You were there! You held my hand the whole time!’

Stef was becoming a stranger before her eyes. Everything that she knew so well was changing. Why was he telling her these lies?

‘Who are you, Stef?’ she demanded.

‘What do you mean, who am I?’

‘You’re not my husband. You’re acting like someone I don’t know!’

‘Don’t upset yourself, Megan.’ She barely noticed the doctor take her coffee cup, handing it to Nurse Gemma, who hurried discreetly away with it.

‘I hadn’t finished that!’ Megan seized a lock of hair, tugging at it. ‘I need to see my son. I need to know he’s all right.’

‘Calm down, Megs.’ Stef caught hold of her hand again, grip tighter this time. She watched him place his own coffee out of reach. ‘This isn’t helping.’

‘Why is no one listening to me?’

‘Megs . . .’

‘Stop saying my name! I know who I am! Why don’t you know who our baby is?’ Megan knew her voice was rising, but she was in control, assertive. Pushing Stef aside, she threw back the sheets, swung her legs out of the bed. Better to be standing up, show them she wasn’t an invalid who required pacifying.

Stef moved as if to corral her but was beaten to it by Macaulay, who gave the red button a sharp smack as he stood to meet her, arms spread wide, palms open. His lips were moving, no doubt reassuring words, but Megan couldn’t hear him above the echoing noise suddenly filling her head.

Gemma was back again, this time proffering a small plastic tray. Someone was screaming, a high-pitched howl that made the hairs on Megan’s arms stand on end and her throat ache. A tortured sound of suffering.

As Macaulay slid the needle into her skin, the noise abruptly stopped.

Stef averted his gaze as the nurse manoeuvred Megan’s limp body on to its side, removed her pillows and drew the sheets over her, raised the side rails. Her eyes slid closed, as if her eyelids were too heavy to hold up. The nurse checked her vital signs, made notes on the chart, before quietly taking the used syringe away.

‘Sorry you had to see that.’ Macaulay’s voice sounded too loud in the new silence, his tone brisk, business-like.

Stef focused on Megan’s hand, which was hanging loosely over the edge of the mattress, the hand that could have killed him. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing slow and even, her face almost childlike. She couldn’t have looked less of a threat at the moment, but he had seen the madness within her, the violent rage even he wasn’t strong enough to fight.

He shook his head to dislodge the memory. ‘How long will she be like this for?’ he asked.

‘The sedation lasts a few hours.’

‘I’ll stay with her.’

‘There’s no point. She won’t be aware you’re here.’

Stef stepped carefully away from the bed, expecting sudden movements to startle Megan awake. ‘I thought she was going to attack me again.’

‘If it helps, she’s not in control of how she’s reacting.’ Macaulay moved to tap his pass against the door’s security fob. ‘I have a few minutes, come get coffee with me. We haven’t had an opportunity to talk yet.’

Stef’s instinct told him he should remain by his wife’s side, where he belonged, but he couldn’t bear the prospect of sitting silently by her motionless form for hours with only his conflicting thoughts for company. He nodded acceptance of the invitation and strode after Macaulay, casting a final glance back at his wife so he could watch the door close securely.

‘I was hoping that would go better.’ Stef didn’t bother to regulate the accusation in his tone.

‘It happens. There’s a lot of information for the patient to take in, many questions they want to ask. It can be an overload.’

‘She didn’t understand what was happening.’

‘That’s the effects of the medication. It will lessen as we reduce the dosage.’

Stef hadn’t visited the dining room before. The Grosvenor would not call it a canteen: the napkins were cloth rather than paper, there were glasses instead of plastic beakers, walnut tables and matching chairs. No touch of Californian cool in the very British decor.

It had felt wrong to casually sip coffee as he sat by his sedated wife’s bedside, so he’d just held Megan’s hand, babbled nonsense she hadn’t heard. He’d avoided coming here for her first cappuccino. It had taken longer to nip over to Costa and he had needed that time to gain his composure.

He took a seat while Macaulay brought the drinks. China cups and saucers, of course. The American raised one eyebrow.

‘I miss real-sized coffee cups.’

‘Quite a change from Los Angeles to London,’ Stef observed, unsure why he was wasting time with small talk even as he spoke. This was the first time Macaulay had afforded him an audience since Megan’s admission a week ago; each previous encounter had been an efficient, professional lecture about treatments or symptoms, delivered at speed before the psychiatrist strode off to attend to his next concern.

‘London has some better opportunities.’ Macaulay’s reply was blithely unconcerned.

‘You haven’t been here long.’

‘You’ve done your research, Mr Newman.’

‘I don’t like risky investments, so I made sure I got plenty of information on you.’ A lie, but he needed to sound in control, like he usually was, in the more familiar character of the successful businessman. He was uneasy with this new role he found himself in and he did not want Dr Macaulay to see it. ‘Please, call me Stef.’

Macaulay acknowledged the invitation with a courteous nod. ‘I haven’t been called an investment before.’ He laughed. His teeth really were excellent, even if the smile was false. Stef calculated him to have at least ten years on his own thirty-eight but in appearance they could easily have been contemporaries.

‘I’m investing my wife’s health in you, to be blunt.’ Stef took a gulp of his flat white. It was too hot, but he welcomed the burning sensation on his tongue. ‘I chose you because everything I read said you succeed where others fail.’

‘What else did it say, Stefan?’

‘That you sail close to the wind.’ Stef added a note of challenge to his tone, but Macaulay didn’t rise to it.

‘Your wife is safe with me; you don’t have to worry about that. I have the luxury of taking on very few patients at any one time, so I can give each one my full attention. It does mean my fees are somewhat higher than those of other psychiatrists—’

‘The money doesn’t matter,’ Stef interrupted. ‘I’ve gone private for a reason. I can pay whatever’s necessary. I just want Megan back to normal.’

‘We try not to use the term “normal”.’

‘Why? Because she won’t be? She’s never going to be the old Megan ever again?’

‘I’m not necessarily saying that, but this is a complicated process and results can vary between patients.’

‘Sounds like you don’t expect her to make a full recovery.’

Macaulay downed his coffee like a tequila shot. ‘The definition of “full recovery” also varies. After the onset of psychosis, the brain reacts differently than it did before. In some cases, this is temporary and reversed once recovery is complete. In others, some long-term changes remain.’

‘You mean she could always be affected by this?’

‘I’ll do everything I can to reduce that probability.’ Another perfect smile. ‘Trust in your investment. Megan needs to see we’re both working from the same page. I need your support as much as you need mine, Stefan.’

Stef gritted his teeth at the condescension as much as the pronounced use of his full name. He had shed that name years ago, determined to banish the ghosts that haunted the old identity. ‘Understood.’ He drained his own cup quickly. ‘What happens now?’

‘You go home; I’ll introduce Megan to her treatment plan once the sedation wears off.’ Macaulay stood without further explanation, his sales pitch complete. ‘Have yourself a good afternoon.’

Stef was left feeling distinctly wrong-footed, and it bothered him more than it should. He had never liked being talked down to, but he reassured himself this was probably typical of dealings with highly educated, clever doctors, so different from his usual daily business. They didn’t have time for long explanations. Their brains worked much quicker than that of the average person and they just expected you to keep up.

That made him think of his brother. Isaac’s IQ had been in the genius range. Maybe he would have been a doctor too, if things had been different.

Stef shook his head, abruptly shoving his chair away from the table, searching each pocket for the car keys, even though he put them in the same one every time.

His brother was the last person he wanted to think about.

Once again, Megan wasn’t aware of waking up so much as gradually coming back to her senses. Her mind replayed the scene – Macaulay coming at her, syringe raised, ready to plunge it into her skin – and she cringed away from his ghost looming over her. She looked for the site of the needle mark on her arm, prodding the little pinprick to check it was real. Her ears rang, as if she could still hear her own screams, and her wrists burned with angry red weals, evidence of unforgiving material cutting into her skin as she fought against it. She didn’t remember being restrained but, somehow, she recognised what the marks were.

As before, Gemma was almost immediately in the doorway.

‘You OK?’ Gemma asked gently.

‘Think so. Thirsty.’

Gemma poured from a jug on the bedside table, hovering while Megan coordinated her fingers to grasp the beaker securely.

‘Am I awake?’ It was hard to be sure, even as she felt the water trickle into the cracks of her arid mouth and smelled the clean linen of Gemma’s spotless uniform.

The question didn’t seem to trouble the nurse. ‘Yes, love, you’re awake now.’

‘What happened? Why was I injected?’

‘You got a bit distressed; the doctor gave you something to calm you down.’ She had a pleasant West Country accent that spoke of Cornish beaches, cream teas and lazy summer holidays, at odds with the fragile atmosphere that clung to the room.

‘Did they say where my son is?’

‘No idea, love.’

‘Have you seen him? Has Stef brought him to visit?’

‘Not that I know of. Your husband’s gone home now, but he’ll be back again tomorrow. Been here every day since you were admitted.’

Megan stared at the nurse, struggling to process her sentences, unable to summon her initial panic at realising Luka’s absence. It had been replaced with a dull sensation, as if emotion had become impossible, clouded by a heavy fog not unlike a vicious hangover.

‘I need to see the doctor from before. The American? He must know where my baby is.’

‘I’ll page him for you. Do you need anything else?’

‘I need my child!’

‘How about a cup of tea?’

‘I don’t want tea. I want the doctor.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Try to stay calm, love.’

The door closed behind the nurse and Megan saw it was secured; entry and exit permitted only by a pass-card. She looked to the window, noted the lack of handles. An air-conditioning unit sat above it, rendering the window the sole decoration amid the clinical white.

Being faced with the undeniable evidence that she was a prisoner didn’t shock her. In fact, she couldn’t bring herself to care at all. What did it matter when she was denied the most important thing in her world?

She had no urge to move but forced herself upright with a vague idea she might find an escape route somewhere in the soulless room. Sliding clumsily out of bed, she had to cling to the rails until she was steady on her feet. The floor was uncomfortably cold and a draught made her shiver, making her aware of how the hospital gown gaped at the back, leaving her exposed.

She took the blue blan. . .