The Day She Can’t Forget: Psychological suspense you’ll just have to keep reading

by Meg Carter

  Not so long ago, Alma yearned for a way to patch the snags and dropped stitches in her relationship with her mother and father. But their stubborn refusal to believe her soon made her question why she should even try.

  Carefully, Reverend Dean eases each finger back into his driving gloves then turns towards his daughter. Seeing him hesitate, undecided whether to hug her or shake her hand, makes Alma almost choke with rage. But by the time she is monitoring her parents’ retreat from the open window, she is calm. As they climb into the car, they do not look up and she doesn’t care.

  Alma reaches back to release the plaits that have neatly secured her hair since she started school. She shakes her blonde mane free. Then she hears it. Someone singing.

  She turns back slowly to face the room.

  ‘Oh you pretty things,’ repeats Viola who, having discreetly retreated into the kitchenette while the goodbyes were made, is now standing in the narrow doorway. ‘Don’t you know you’re driving your mothers and fathers insane?’ Her gaze is steady. ‘Gotta make way for the Mother Superior.’

  Alma smiles, coolly. ‘Isn’t it homo superior?’

  ‘Not in my book,’ Viola sighs, extracting a silver hip flask from a secret pocket by her thigh, in the right side of her dress. ‘Nil carborundum illegitimi, as my beloved father would say,’ she declares, tipping generous splashes of whisky into two of her finest porcelain teacups. ‘Now come on, girl, buck up.’ With a broad grin, she holds one out towards her new roommate. ‘Onwards and upwards, as they say.’

  ‘Well, I’ll drink to that,’ says Alma, boldly accepting the cup. She has drunk little until now, save for the glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream she was allowed last Christmas.

  Now I am in London, I will live life in colour, not in black and white, she silently pledges then blinks, vigorously, as the whisky catches her throat. Her eyes widen in surprise as deep inside her something stirs, like a tiny bird unfurling its wings.

  3

  Scotland, February 2016

  The patient opens her eyes and blinks.

  Colour, shape and definition come gradually as she adjusts to the world in which she finds herself. A primrose cell crowned by white ceiling tiles. Strip lighting that dazzles. To the left of her bed, there is a vase of unopened daffodils beside a jug of drinking water. To her right, a wipe-down plastic armchair. The smell of antiseptic; safe, but nullifying. The drive to the hospital with Jean now a waking dream.

  As she rolls onto her side, the mattress protector squeaks. She stares at the sleet-flecked window. Through the pane, distant mountains loom against a leaden sky.

  ‘Welcome back.’

  Startled, the patient recoils. Willing her thumping heart to slow, she turns her head towards the open doorway where a nurse stands. He is in his mid-twenties, dressed in scrubs with cropped beach-blonde hair. Kind eyes, though, she thinks. Moving towards the bed, he reaches up to check a monitor attached to a saline drip. Only then does she register the tube connected to the back of her right hand.

  ‘Well you’ve had a good sleep, I must say,’ he soothes. ‘Feel better for it, though, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The hoarse croak of her voice is unexpected.

  Her body tenses with a sudden terror.

  Someone strokes her hand. It is the nurse. And as the patient’s fear subsides she gazes at her left arm resting limply on the bed. The bruising around her wrist. The scratches above it. How grey the skin on the inside of her arm looks; skin into which the man now inserts a needle. She tries to object but her mouth seems so small – even just to say no – as the mist thickens. When she wakes it is almost dark.

  Her chest is tight. She feels breathless. For she has been dreaming. A terrible dream in which she was trapped inside a strange house with a crenellated façade and a clock tower with a round, Play School window. She was there to visit someone, though she can’t recall who. Waiting in a tiny sitting room as her host prepared tea to pass the time. But when she went into the kitchen to offer help what she saw there was – what, exactly? She can’t remember. But whatever it was, was unspeakable.

  She’d fled into the tiny downstairs bathroom where, balanced on the edge of an old enamel bath, she’d tried to force the window. But the wood was too warped to budge. So she’d dropped to her knees, cowering in the corner on the dusty floor as she’d fought against a welling tide of panic. Gulping back sobs as a fist hammered against the door. Staring in horror at her bloodied hands. Knowing the rusty old hinges would not hold for long.

  She rolls onto her side, ignoring the creak of the plastic mattress. The backs of her knees and the small of her back are slick with sweat. The muscles in her legs shake like she’s been running. It’s only dream, she thinks. Just a bad dream. She must pull herself together. That’s what she’d tell Matty.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ she wonders out loud. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Belleview.’

  The reply comes from a white-coated figure who stands at the window, adjusting the blinds. A doctor, she guesses. He has thick, dark hair, swept back and streaked with silver. ‘That’s in Fort William,’ he adds, turning towards her, and as he speaks an unseasonal golf resort tan is accentuated by the gleam of his teeth. ‘You were brought in two days ago. Not to worry if it’s still a bit of a blur – it’s often like that when we’ve taken a bit of a tumble.’ He pauses, as if for effect. ‘I’m Dr Prentiss.’

  She is fine apart from minor cuts and bruising. Mild hypothermia, but no evidence of anything else… untoward. The blood remains a bit of a mystery because it was canine, not human, he gently explains. The bump on her head is the most likely cause of her memory loss. She will remain under observation for a day or two and the head trauma specialist will need to check her, just to be sure. But the scan she had earlier is encouraging.

  ‘The police are waiting to speak to you, too, if you’re feeling up to it,’ Dr Prentiss concludes, moving towards the door. ‘They want to do a media appeal – which can help get things sorted when someone’s picked up with a dicky memory and no ID.’ He smiles. ‘In the meantime, buzz a nurse if you need anything.’

  Alone once more, she turns towards the flowers. Daffodils with heads still barely opened and petals that are dull and paper-dry. Refocusing on the base of the vase where the water has turned soupy, she notices the silver necklace coiled snake-like by its side. Her hand hovers above it for a moment before she hooks it over her forefinger then holds it up for a closer view. The links of the chain are fine, the detailing on the silver grand piano intricate. Who does it belong to?

  For no apparent reason, she starts to cry.

  * * *

  The local TV reporter is a sharp-faced brunette whose bitten fingernails belie her brassy confidence.

  She arrives at tea time, shooting her own footage on a hand-held digital camera, quizzing her subject with brisk efficiency under the watchful eye of the constable appointed as her minder. The pair are quite at ease discussing the case and its scant details across the foot of the patient’s bed. Like I’m not even here, the patient notes, though she is too tired to find this irritating. Too distracted, too, by what the hours ahead might bring.

  What effect the TV appeal will have. Who might come.

  When the reporter is done, the patient looks towards the window. Snow is falling once more. The flakes are tight and grey. More like ash than the soft and billowy eider flakes of childhood. Closing her eyes she sleeps and as she does she finds a younger version of herself walking on ice. Tentatively pushing forwards, her left foot an inch or two away from her, shifting her balance slightly before pushing forwards on her right. Just like Matty all those years later, the Christmas she took him to the rink at Somerset House.

  That’s it. Good girl. Left then right, left then—

  With a rasp, the skates slowly scored the frozen surface and for a moment she felt her fear subside enough to steal a quick glance downwards. Her own feet, tightly encased in pristine white leather with scarlet laces tied
into a double bow, seemed to have taken on a life of their own.

  Got you!

  The arm around her waist suddenly braced to absorb her weight as her legs shot in either direction and her body began to buckle. Then, before she could fall, she was scooped up into the air and spun around until she started to squeal.

  Stop it, she pleaded. You’re making me dizzy. Daddy, please, no!

  The world sharpened as her father gently lowered her back down onto the ice and she found her bearings staring at his feet. He was wearing thick rubber Wellingtons, large and dependable boots with reinforced toes on which she never tired of balancing as he tried to walk. His broad face creased into a grin. His cheek was still flecked with paint from the canvas he’d been working on earlier. His chin, decisively pointed, was the most visible Hamilton family trait she’d inherited. His pale blue eyes danced as he smiled.

  Taking her mittened hand in his, Dad gently tugged her back the way they had come; towards the bank and then on to home.

  Time to get going. Letting slip an earthy chuckle, he swung her up into his arms once more. And I’ve cooked our favourite for lunch.

  Shepherd’s Pie? Please say it’s Shepherd’s Pie. Daddy? It is, isn’t it? Tell me it is!

  Hoisting her up onto his back, he carried her up the snowy bank to where a wooden bench stood on a patch of level ground. Beneath it sat a plastic bag containing extra jumpers and scarves and a pair of bright red children’s Wellies. He lowered her down gently onto the bench. As he unlaced her ice skates, his fingers quickly tickled each foot before boots were slipped back on.

  Come on, Zeb – let’s go…

  ‘Elizabeth.’

  Picking up the plastic bag, Dad slipped her skates inside before setting off at a slow stride towards the line of trees. Eager not to be left behind she hurried after him, stumbling every now and then on the uneven ground that lurked beneath the snow, rubbing her nose which had started to run. Just by the gate she caught him up. Then they walked, hand in hand, along the path towards home.

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  Home.

  Doctor Prentiss clears his throat before trying once more.

  ‘Elizabeth! I’ve good news.’

  She turns towards the voice, blinded for a moment by the sunshine cutting through the window. For it is morning now and temporarily, it seems the snow cloud has lifted. As her eyes refocus she sees him standing at the foot of her bed, clutching a manila folder with writing on the front she can’t make out.

  A name, but whose?

  ‘It is Elizabeth, isn’t it?’ he presses on gently. ‘Elizabeth Hamilton?’

  No. Not Elizabeth. Or Liza. Lis. Lizzy. Beth.

  ‘It’s Zeb.’ Not a question, but a statement of fact. Like Matty, never Matthew.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Zeb. Not Elizabeth. My name is Zeb.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Zeb. Good, very good.’ He pauses for a moment, thoughtfully pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. In that instant she remembers who he reminds her of. Dad. ‘Can you remember anything else?’

  ‘Bits and pieces.’ Zeb frowns. ‘Playing in the snow. Shepherd’s pie. My dad.’

  She hesitates, uncertain for a moment whether she’s thought or spoken this. Grimacing at the sudden, fleeting image of the draughty toilet with its broken window. Approaching footsteps. Glass jam jars on a kitchen counter. The fear which almost undid her. Biting her lip, Zeb says no more.

  ‘An encouraging sign,’ he declares. ‘And a good start, too, which we can build on with a bit of extra help. It seems the police have had a positive response to the media appeal. A friend of yours from London – a Mrs Christine Allitt, your neighbour – gave the police your name and they’ve just advised me she’s on her way. She’s most concerned, it seems – positively insisted she had to come, in fact. Which will certainly help.’

  Zeb sinks back against the pillow. London. Yes, that feels right. Maresfield House, that’s the name of it. A Victorian building converted into flats. But Mrs Allitt the name means nothing. Her mouth is sticky, ash-dry.

  ‘But how will I what if I don’t…?’

  * * *

  Mrs Allitt is in her mid-sixties with smoky hair that might once have been auburn. Her face is round with cheeks so uniformly paled by powder that every nuance that might otherwise have added warmth or depth has been obliterated. Short and stout, she wears a mustard-coloured roll neck – to conceal a double chin, perhaps, Zeb thinks. Her skirt is made from a thick plaid of interlocking browns and greens.

  But it is the woman’s eyes that draw Zeb’s attention as she takes a seat at her bedside. Deep-set like currants, just a bit too far apart.

  ‘Miss Hamilton—’ the policeman from yesterday begins. ‘I’m PC Heath and this is Mrs Allitt – she lives in the flat next to yours on Bridge Street, Camden. And she has very kindly offered to come and see you today in the hope we can help… clear things up.’

  Reaching for his note pad, he leans forward. There’s something about the way he’s sitting – even the toes of his regulation police boots are spotless and meticulously aligned. Disorientated, Zeb wonders for a moment if she is dreaming.

  ‘As I was saying,’ he continues. ‘Mrs Allitt lives in the same building as you and has done for – how many years did you say, Mrs Allitt?’

  ‘Call me Christine,’ says the woman, lowering her voice as she turns towards the policeman, conspiratorially. Like two adults discussing grown-up things they hope I won’t understand, Zeb thinks. ‘Twenty-five years – that’s how long I’ve lived at Maresfield House.’ Turning back towards the bed the woman modifies her voice to a tone more appropriate for a young child or someone who is hard of hearing. ‘Though you and I have been on and off neighbours, dear. You’ve lived there almost a year – this time round.’

  Zeb stares at the overnight bag on the floor by the woman’s feet, willing herself to remember. Adjusting her gaze, her attention is snagged by the woman’s right hand which rests on the patent leather handbag cradled in her lap. The silver Celtic ring jammed onto Christine’s stubby forefinger does looks familiar. But how can she be sure? Zeb’s eyes narrow. Did PC Heath really need this stranger to travel all this way to identify her? How can he know the woman is telling the truth? Though somewhere, deep down inside her, she senses something has happened between the two of them… which she can’t quite recall. Unsettled by a sudden and inexplicable stirring of anger, she looks away.

  Gently, PC Heath probes further. ‘What do you remember?’

  The woman in 3a. Mrs Allitt. The carpeted stairs leading upwards from the communal hallway where the day’s post is always left in neat piles on the old oak dresser standing against the wall, its carved hoof-like feet askew against the cracked black and white tiled floor.

  Zeb meets his gaze. ‘Maresfield House.’

  The door to the woman’s flat, chipped and cracked; the smell of boiled vegetables emanating from somewhere behind it. Zeb knows she has never seen her neighbour’s door anything other than sealed or ajar as the woman peers over the thick metal chain, her pale hand clutching the edge of the door.

  ‘Your flat?’

  Up the first flight of stairs. Past her neighbour’s door. Right along the landing.

  ‘Yes, 3b.’

  The policeman says nothing, waiting for her to carry on. Mrs Allitt, however, cannot resist. ‘3b. That’s right – that’s your flat. Opposite mine. I keep an eye on the place when you and Matty are away. Feed your cat, Norton. A silver tabby, remember?’

  The woman is leaning forward, both hands now clutching the looped strap of her bag from which the plastic ring of a security tag still dangles. Their eyes meet and Zeb stares, hard, until the other woman looks away. There is something about her neighbour, a certain shiftiness, that makes her uncomfortable but she’ll be damned if she shows it. So, instead, she turns to the window where rods of sunlight now dart through breaks in the cloud.

  Eager to return to the landing on the firs
t floor of Maresfield House, Zeb shuts her eyes. She nudges open her front door and peeps inside. Sees her hand reach into her handbag, the one Dad bought her last Christmas, and pull out her keys. Stares for a moment at the chrome letter Z dangling from the keyring then unlocks the door and pushes it open with her knee. Because her arms are full of flowers.

  No, that’s not right. A wreath.

  Looking down at her feet she registers black patent court shoes. The matching tights, opaque. Her scarf and overcoat, her pencil skirt and V-neck jumper beneath. All in black.

  Zeb’s eyes snap open.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re doing really well,’ PC Heath soothes, handing her a box of tissues.

  ‘Sorry. It’s just it’s all a bit muddled…’ Zeb mumbles, wiping her eyes.

  ‘As it would be after what you’ve been through,’ Mrs Allitt chips in, steepling her fingers. ‘Don’t underestimate how stressful the last few weeks have been for you, Elizabeth.’

  With a brisk click the woman releases the catch on her handbag and reaches inside. After a moment or two she tugs out a plastic bag of salted liquorice. She rips off a corner, carefully selects a sweet, then offers Zeb the bag.

  ‘I found them in the shop at the airport,’ she purrs, clearly pleased with herself. ‘Your favourite.’

  Zeb reaches into the bag and pops a sweet into her mouth, but the pungent ammonium chloride kick makes her almost retch. Quickly, she spits the liquorice into a tissue and reaches for the glass of water standing on the bedside table.

  Do I really like these? Has the woman done this on purpose?

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, regaining her composure. ‘I’ve not had much of an appetite these past few days.’

  With a brief nod, the older woman folds down the top of the bag then places the sweets next to the vase of wilting flowers. ‘Save them for Matty,’ she says with a smile that fails to make it to her eyes. She reaches into her handbag once more she pulls out a set of house keys. ‘And while I remember, you’d better keep these. They’re the ones you asked me to look after. Don’t worry about Norton – I’ve a spare set, just in case.’