The Last Thing She Remembers

by J. S. Monroe

  “You should have gone onto the stage,” she says. He’s going to enjoy his svelte new look while he can. Give him six months, and he’ll have put it all back on—and some.

  “Still smoking?” she asks.

  “When I can,” he says, taking a seat. In truth, he’s trying to give up.

  The last time they met, by chance at the bar of the Watermill Theatre in Newbury, she had openly flirted with Silas. He had subsequently heard that she had separated from her husband soon afterward. Is that why has he has come here today?

  “Are you happier?” he asks.

  “Different person. It was long overdue.”

  “Any kids?” he asks. “I’ve forgotten.”

  “One cross daughter. Angry about the divorce.”

  “She’ll come round.”

  “And you?”

  He falls quiet. “Still just the one son.” Conor. He doesn’t want to go into details.

  “I’m assuming you haven’t come all this way for a family chat,” Susie says, sensing his discomfort.

  “Am I that shallow?”

  “I really don’t know if she is Jemma Huish. It’s just a hunch.”

  “I like hunches. A woman losing her memory is of no interest to us—mental health services are welcome to her. But if the last time she lost her memory she slit her best friend’s throat—your hunch becomes more interesting.”

  “And you really don’t remember her?” she asks. She knows Silas used to work in the Met—it was one of the reasons she had called him last night—but was unaware of his personal connection with the case. “What she looked like?”

  Silas shakes his head. “I was more concerned with trying to save her friend’s life.” He pauses. “And I failed.”

  “You tried. That’s what matters.”

  “If you say so.” He looks up at her and smiles. He knows that life has slipped through Susie’s hands too.

  “Couldn’t you just check for her passport number?” she asks, changing the subject. “See if she came through Heathrow yesterday?”

  “Huish didn’t have a passport when she committed her crime. Never been out of Wiltshire before she moved to London, let alone traveled abroad.” It was silly, but he had felt personally responsible in some way for what had happened with Huish. Maybe that’s why he transferred out of the Met soon afterward and moved back to Wiltshire. To try to do some good, set the record straight. “All we’ve got is her last risk assessment, along with physical description, family contacts, GP and financial details, and a mug shot. Not been updated since she left Ashworth five years ago.”

  “Can I see it?” she asks.

  “That’s kind of why I came to see you.”

  “There was I thinking you wanted to buy me lunch.”

  “Is that her?” he asks, keen to keep things professional. He puts a grainy photo of Jemma Huish on her desk. His own visual memories of Huish from twelve years ago have become too entangled with the subsequent media coverage of the case to be of any use.

  “Not sure,” she says, moving the photo to take a closer look.

  “Not a great image, I know,” he says. “We’ve been trying to contact her last care coordinator this morning, as well as the shrink who saw her regularly. So far, no dice.”

  “I tried too,” she says. “Everyone’s moved on.”

  “We just need to bring someone down here who has worked relatively recently with Huish and get them to positive ID her. A lot of the NHS files are also lost or missing. I don’t know how you put up with it.”

  “I gather Jemma Huish’s fingerprints have gone missing too.”

  “Touché,” he says, looking up at her from across the desk. His face is close to hers. “We’ll find them. In the meantime, we need to talk to Jemma.”

  “She’s next door. I’ll take you through in a moment. Be gentle on her—she’s very fragile.” She pauses. “Do you really think she could be Jemma Huish?”

  Silas sits back in his chair, glancing at the map on the wall behind her. India is somewhere he’d like to visit again. He’s only been to the north—golden triangle and then up to Ladakh. “Whoever she is, she came to your village for a reason.” He pauses, his eyes on hers. “Twelve years ago someone failed to act quickly enough on a 999 call made by Jemma Huish. She warned us, and we were too slow to respond. I’m not going to let that happen again on my watch.”

  A knock at the door and Strover appears. She glances from one to the other, as if checking for evidence of intimacy. “Sorry to interrupt, but Jemma appears to have gone walkabout.”

  CHAPTER 19

  I had to slip out of the surgery for the sake of my own sanity, if I ever had any, and I’m now in the graveyard across the road. It’s as quiet as a library, each headstone like a book cover. Some are more emotional than others, passionate page-turners: “Darling wife who died in the morning of her life”; others less so, more measured tomes. “A much missed father and brother.”

  I move among the stones, browsing, thinking. Ever since I woke up this morning, I haven’t felt in control, events running ahead of me. The early-morning call from the police, Laura running down the street like that, Tony’s erratic behavior. Why did I agree to his suggestion that I call myself Jemma? None of this confusion with Jemma Huish would have happened if I’d been given a different name.

  I’m now in front of a grave that reads: “Mary Huish, much loved wife and mother.” A wave of emotion washes over me. I close my eyes and summon the Bodhi tree again, listening to the sound of the warm wind in its leaves, whispering like a mantra. I take a deep breath. I hope I will see Mum again soon.

  I should return to Dr. Patterson. My absence will only cause more trouble, but I don’t like the thought of meeting the police. They make me nervous. Like Tony did when he walked me down to the surgery. I tried not to think of him as my escort, but everything about his body language suggested that he’d been told to keep me under close supervision. I can’t blame him, given I’d just tried to climb out of his upstairs window, but it’s confusing. A few minutes earlier, he’d been giving me a hug on the landing.

  I look up to see Dr. Patterson standing over by the lych-gate, a man and a woman next to her. The detectives, I guess. A minute later, Dr. Patterson is by my side. The detectives are still at the gate, fifty yards away.

  Dr. Patterson studies the Huish gravestone in front of us. “Must be her mother,” she says, almost to herself.

  I start to walk on through the old graves, many of them listing at different angles in the long grass, like masts in a rough sea.

  “There’s really nothing to worry about, you know,” she says, catching up with me. “They just need to ask you a few questions. Take your fingerprints, do a DNA test. A simple medical swab from the inside of your mouth.”

  My whole body tenses. Does she notice?

  “They want to establish that there’s no connection, that’s all,” she continues, as if it’s got nothing to do with her. “Jemma Huish used to live in Tony and Laura’s house.”

  “Was it you who alerted them?” I ask quietly. She stops and looks at me, surprised by my question.

  “It was a precaution, nothing more,” she says.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” I say, a new urgency in my voice. “I’m not Jemma Huish. This is not my mother buried here.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she says, growing concern in her eyes. “But given your amnesia...”

  “I may not know who I am, but I would never kill a friend. Never kill anyone.”

  A red kite circles above us, its plaintive cry carrying on the light wind. We both look up.

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” she says. I sense she’s a kind woman, even if she did alert the police. My breathing has become fast and shallow. Could I take another’s life, if it really came to it? Would I be able to slit someone’s throat? I reach
for my wrist and touch the tattoo.

  “I don’t want a DNA test,” I say, turning away from her. A simple medical swab from the inside of your mouth.

  “It might help to work out who you are, where you’ve come from,” Dr. Patterson says.

  “I desperately want to know that, but...” I falter.

  I catch her signaling to the detectives—a raised palm, as if to tell them to wait, keep their distance.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” I repeat.

  “Let me talk to police. We need to find you a proper bed, in a specialist center. Or up at the hospital.”

  “Not the hospital,” I say quietly.

  She looks up at me and notices my fingers still on my wrist.

  “That’s a pretty tattoo. What is it?” she asks.

  “A lotus flower.”

  “Can I see it?”

  I hold up my wrist for her to inspect, like a child who has been caught drawing on herself in class. We both stare at the flower’s nine purple petals.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says. “When did you get it done?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, suddenly tearful. I wish I could remember the details, why Fleur and I both chose a lotus, what happened afterward. But it’s like swimming in a dark sea.

  “We both had one,” I add.

  “We?” Dr. Patterson asks.

  “My friend and I.” I pause. “She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Patterson says, full of sympathy. “When did this happen?” she asks, after a respectful silence.

  I shake my head.

  “Do you remember her name? It might be important.”

  I need some strength right now, and hope that saying her name out loud might help.

  “Fleur. She was called Fleur,” I repeat, watching Dr. Patterson write down her name.

  We were matching flowers.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tony is late to open up his café. A couple passing through the village on the canal are at the door, hoping for a coffee. He tells them to come back in ten minutes, once the Fracino Contempo is up and running. It’s proving a little temperamental since he installed it—maybe why it was going cheap on eBay.

  He could have done without taking Jemma down to Dr. Patterson, but Laura was in no state to accompany her after the police rang. She’s reacted badly to Jemma’s arrival. Very badly.

  “How was it at the surgery?” she asks.

  He turns around to see Laura standing in the café doorway. She’s in her yoga clothes, no doubt on her way down to a class in the Scout Hut.

  “The police want to take her DNA,” he says. “I’m sure it’ll all be sorted soon.”

  “I hope so,” she says, stepping into the café. “Did they think Jemma was—”

  “A crazy psychotic killer? I didn’t ask. It’s not her, angel. Not in a million years.”

  He takes a bowl of cinnamon quinoa and some jars of citrus granola parfait out of the fridge and places them in the display cabinet.

  “How can you be so sure?” she asks.

  He’s not sure at all.

  “I’ve spoken to the pub,” he says, pouring some decaffeinated coffee beans into the grinder. He’s keen to change the subject. “They’re happy to put her up for a few days, until she can be found a bed. Susie seemed okay with that—thinks that out-of-area care wouldn’t be appropriate right now. The village clearly holds some significance for her.”

  “Too right it does. I think you’re in denial about who this woman is, Tony. She’s very ill.”

  “And she’s getting help,” Tony says. She doesn’t often raise her voice, and for the first time he notices that she’s been crying. He walks around from behind the food counter. “Susie’s right on it,” he says quietly, squeezing her arm gently.

  “I didn’t sleep last night,” she says, turning away from him to look out onto the high street. “Nor did you. You were calling out again.”

  He hoped she hadn’t heard. It must have been loud if it had disturbed her on the sofa downstairs. Had Jemma heard too? He’s been having more nightmares recently, ones where he wakes up, only to discover that he’s still dreaming. He wipes a tiny piece of food off a table using the tea towel that’s draped over his shoulder. He hates dirty tables.

  “And I’m not going to sleep any better tonight,” she continues, “knowing she’s just down the road.”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” he says, trying not to inflame the situation. They are not used to arguing, both of them preferring to avoid confrontation.

  “Am I?” she says, spinning around to face him. “So why did she choose our house? She could have knocked on any door in the village but she came to ours, where she once lived. Doesn’t that worry you? It fucking freaks me out Tony, and you’re doing nothing about it.”

  A man on his way to the station stops at the open door. Damn Laura. They should be having this conversation at home.

  “Open?” the man asks, glancing nervously at both of them. He must have heard the swearing. “Need a bacon sandwich for the train.”

  “Smoky tempeh wrap with veganaise?” Tony offers in his politest voice, grateful for the distraction.

  “Okay,” the man replies hesitantly.

  He steps back behind the counter and prepares the wrap for his customer, watched by Laura, still by the window, arms folded. He needs to get on. The locals are taking to his vegan food with impressive open-mindedness, given the place was once the village bakery. From Lardy Cakes to Falafel Wraps—that’s how the Parish News described it.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got food to prepare, customers to feed,” Tony says to Laura, once the man has gone. He feels more comfortable with the food counter between them.

  “You really don’t care, do you?” she says, her voice more sad than angry.

  “What?”

  “About Jemma, what I think. My concerns.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I care.” This time he decides not to go over and comfort her. Nothing he can say or do is going to help. He starts to polish some glass tumblers with the tea towel.

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” she says.

  “It’s been a stressful few weeks, the move and everything.” He holds up a glass to the light, checking for smears. He hates dirty glasses. “And now this mysterious woman arriving on our doorstep. No wonder you’re upset.”

  She shakes her head in slow disbelief. “Please don’t patronize me,” she says, walking over to the door. “There’s nothing mysterious about her. It’s pretty obvious who she is, isn’t it?”

  Tony places the last glass on the tray and flings the tea towel back over his shoulder. They stare across the café at each other for a moment. He needs to be careful with Laura; she’s fragile. “Maybe it’s better if you take a short break, angel?” he says. “You know, a visit to your mom? She hasn’t seen you for a while.”

  Laura nods her head sadly.

  “You know, I might just do that,” she says and walks out of the café, slamming the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 21

  As we continue along the path through the graveyard, toward the surgery beyond, Dr. Patterson’s phone rings. She drops behind to answer it. I wait for her, but she gestures for me to go on ahead.

  “I’m coming,” she says.

  I can’t help feeling that the call is about me. She’s already phoned one of the detectives—he’s called Silas, I think—asking for some more time with me, and she’s reassured me that she’ll personally oversee my care. She’s not going to send me to A&E. She senses my reluctance. Instead she’s put in another request to the Cavell Centre, a local specialist mental health unit, and put me on a waiting list for a bed. I’m counting on it being a long one.

  I walk on, checking behind me. Dr. Patterson is following at a short distance. Up ahead the detectives are n
owhere to be seen, but there’s a man entering the graveyard from the far end, a dog at his side. He disappears behind a large yew tree before I can see who it is.

  I keep walking. The man should have emerged from the other side of the tree by now. As I walk past, I can just see his dog, sitting on the ground, lean haunches trembling, but there’s no sight of the man. It’s as if he’s consciously hiding from me. And then a voice calls out in what sounds like Russian, although there’s a strong hint of Irish too.

  “Ty skuchayesh’ po zhizni v Moskve?”

  I stop, not sure whether to go around to the back of the tree or to keep walking.

  “Gde vashi loyal’nosti?” the man continues.

  I quicken my step. It’s unnerving not being able to see the speaker. I’m almost at the lych-gate when the voice calls out again—in English this time, but still with an Irish accent.

  “Jemma, Sean from the pub last night.”

  I turn around to see Sean coming up to me, a smile twitching at his lips, dog by his side.

  “Did you hear any weird voices back there?” he asks, looking around at the empty churchyard.

  “No,” I say, wondering how long he plans to keep up this ridiculous charade.

  “Funny—honest to God, I thought I heard someone speaking Russian.”

  We both look across to the water meadow, where a train speeds past. Beyond the track, on the wooded hillside, a flock of crows rises up into the sky.

  CHAPTER 22

  “I don’t think she’s up to being interviewed at the moment,” Susie Patterson says, sitting down behind the desk in her consulting room. “That’s all. I’m sorry.”

  Silas gestures for Strover to take a seat and sits down in the other chair. He’s got only himself to blame. He should have dispatched Strover and another junior detective for a case like this, not driven over to the village himself. Huish’s name had intrigued him when Susie called last night, but in reality it was an excuse to see her again. A transparent one. He can’t be annoyed with her now if he’s wasted a morning.