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

by Meg Carter

  The keys dance for a moment before Mrs Allitt lowers her hand. Zeb rubs her eyes. What if I’m wrong? She’s brought my things from home, after all. Come all this way to see me. Her face burns. The policeman clears his throat and the two women look towards him, expectantly.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we really must move on,’ he says. ‘Now Miss Hamilton, think back. Can you remember anything about coming to Scotland?’

  Zeb fixes her gaze on the wall above the door opposite and tries to think. But all she can remember is arriving back in the house that morning. Alone – Matty was with Richard, again. Because she’d had so much on her plate. Too much. And he had loved that, hadn’t he? Any excuse to steal some extra time with her son. Richard and his fiancée, Helene, who’d wasted no time positioning herself as Matty’s other mummy.

  He’d told her to take as long as she needed to sort herself out, the patronising shit. Helene and I will always be here to pick up any slack. Even though he was Matty’s father she’d been expected to be grateful.

  ‘Miss Hamilton?’

  Opening her eyes Zeb finds an intangible urgency now pumping in her veins. Like the feeling you get when you’ve left home but can’t remember shutting the bedroom window, or locking the front door. She thinks of Matty. Of the boxes of stuff on her sitting room floor that need sorting. What is she doing here, wasting time? Her memory is a bit patchy, that’s all, but it will come back – Dr Prentiss said so.

  Home, she now thinks. I should be at home.

  Taking a deep breath, Zeb wills them not to press her for too much detail as her mind scrambles to concoct a suitable story.

  ‘I came here for a short break just a few days ago. It’s been a tough few weeks,’ she freestyles, latching on to Mrs Allitt’s earlier comment. ‘I really needed to get away. But then while I was out I slipped and banged my head and came to all muddled and confused.’ Lies, a voice inside her chides. Every single word, and you know it. Zeb won’t falter, though. Now she even manages to force a smile. ‘But now I’m starting to remember I’m beginning to feel much… better. Which is why I’d like to leave now. To go home.’

  4

  Kensington, October 1974

  ‘Penny for them!’

  Seated on the edge of the bathtub brushing her hair with long, firm strokes – twenty-five on the left side of her head, twenty-five on the right, then the same again at the front and back – Alma is frowning at her reflection in the mirror. Putting down her brush, she turns towards the doorway where Viola is standing with her arms folded. Though dressed in black – a ribbed jumper over a pair of charcoal-coloured drainpipes – somehow she manages to look glamorous, not plain.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Viola smiles. ‘I said, penny for them. What’s up? You seem miles away.’

  Alma shrugs. ‘Well don’t take this the wrong way but…’

  Her friend’s face darkens. ‘You’re not in the mood?’

  ‘Not really. Look, I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve had period pain all day and, well—’ Alma waves a hand towards what she is wearing – her performance outfit, comprising a high-necked black satin shirt, an A-line skirt cut from burgundy cord, black tights and matching court shoes – ‘I’m not exactly dressed for the part. You don’t get much opportunity to eat out and visit clubs where my parents live.’

  It’s late afternoon on the second Thursday of term and Viola is determined that Alma should join her for a night out on the town to celebrate her twentieth birthday.

  With compulsory lessons in theory, harmony and music history as well as one-to-one instrument tuition concentrated over just two days each week, the students are expected to spend the rest of their time perfecting their primary instrument. As practice is banned in the halls of residence, Alma and the other girls spend much of their time in The Conservatoire’s main building, drifting between the canteen, bar and common room while waiting for a turn in one of the handful of tiny rehearsal rooms.

  Not tonight, though. Viola has bought tickets to see The Towering Inferno at the Empire in Leicester Square and booked a table at her favourite Chinese restaurant in Soho to introduce her new friend to the delights of Peking duck and jasmine tea. Later, she hopes to take them to a bar with live music her older brother has recommended, in the heart of Soho.

  Initially, Alma was excited. Until Viola let slip she’d invited someone from Imperial College to join them. He is an engineering student called Geoff who the pair met the previous weekend in the neighbouring college’s student union bar, which has a reputation for rowdiness thanks to Imperial’s almost exclusively male studentship. He bears a passing resemblance to Phil Lynott and, even better, he’s in a band. But none of this is a compelling enough reason to convince Alma to play gooseberry.

  Despite Viola’s nonchalance, Geoff’s persistence in phoning her daily over the days since they met makes it only too clear where his interests lie. And who can blame him? Alma thinks as she tugs her brush through stubborn knots of tangled hair. Her roommate is – she ponders what exactly for a moment or two before she has it – compelling.

  Beautiful and self-assured, Viola is different to the other girls, most of whom have taken time out between school and college to single-mindedly develop their music skills – touring with local and national youth orchestras, or tutoring younger children. Instead, Alma’s roommate spent six months working as an au pair in St Moritz, then another six travelling around the US. Moreover, for all her attempts to affect an attitude of languid disdain towards her music, Viola is a musical all-rounder, able to play piano, violin and flute with equal brilliance. She is also blessed with a powerful singing voice.

  While Alma, at just eighteen, is the year’s youngest student, Viola is the oldest. No wonder her new friend seems to live life on a different plane. Yet the common ground between them – a sense of otherness, perhaps – has quickly been acknowledged.

  Unable to play most contemporary performers’ records back home without upsetting her father, Alma is hungry to embrace the city’s soundscape and the release it offers from the stifling confines of the vicarage. Heavy metal music blares from the open windows of Gabor House, the nearby Imperial College hall where Geoff lives. Then there is the darker, harsher style of the underground New York bands whose imports are all the rage on the record stalls of Portobello Road. Joni Mitchell. Some soulful Tamla Motown tracks.

  Richer, deeper musical influences seem to seep from the corners of this new world. Everywhere apart from within the hallowed confines of the Conservatoire, whose great and good pride themselves on the purity of its focus – a goal every student is expected to pursue. And everyone she’s encountered so far seems more than willing to conform. With one exception.

  Viola has come to London with one ambition: to compose and perform her own music. Her aim is to deepen her musical education on her own terms at her parents’ expense, she confided over vodka and blackcurrant that first night in halls. So from the outset she’s merely gone through the motions, doing just enough to keep the teachers happy while scanning the latest ads for musicians wanted in the NME. Not that she’d admitted this to her family or any of her tutors.

  How about you? her roommate demanded later on that first day, pinioning Alma with a quizzical stare. What do you want to do – you know, with all of this?

  Her tongue loosened by the unfamiliar collision of mixers and spirits, Alma laughed. For she’d not thought about her studies like this. Beyond getting here she’d not had much of a plan. A chance to wipe the slate clean; perhaps to start again? But no, that wasn’t right. Bad stuff had happened, and would happen again. What was important was how you dealt with it. To not let it define you. That’s what Jean-Claude had said.

  I’m not sure – not yet, Alma had replied. Find out how to be me, I guess.

  ‘Can’t decide what to wear?’ Alma shrugs. Viola pulls her roommate to her feet. ‘Well if you’re looking for style advice you’re looking at the right person.’

  Half an hour later, with only a ba
th towel wrapped around her, Alma steps over the tangle of Viola’s clothes the pair have strewn across the floor. Hanging over her arm is the winning combination: a plum-coloured cocktail dress – a perfect match for the high-heeled sandals Alma wore for her final prize giving, and a nearly new men’s jacket; no tights.

  Taking a seat at the dressing table, she pulls her hair back from her face then stares at her roommate in the mirror. Freshly showered and wearing only a calf-length satin dressing gown with a multi-coloured dragon motif, Viola seems oblivious to the fact that the fabric now gapes open almost to her navel as she casually flicks through a dog-eared magazine.

  Could I ever get away with it? Alma wonders, quickly finding herself transfixed by the unbroken sweep of Viola’s tan. The upward slope of her nipples. The shallow scoop of her tiny breasts.

  Look like… be like… that?

  ‘Have you ever cut hair?’ she blurts, awkwardly.

  ‘Often,’ Viola replies, meeting her gaze. ‘Why?’

  Staring at the thick blonde mane that almost reaches her waist, tears begin to well in Alma’s eyes. It has taken her years to grow and she loves it. Used to, at least. But that was before those few days in Vienna. ‘Please. Cut mine.’

  Casually retying the gown around her, Viola rises to her feet. ‘OK. A shorter style always suits a heart-shaped face. But your hair – it’s beautifully thick. Are you sure?’

  Alma nods and Viola takes up position behind her, staring at her face intently as she raises a handful of hair and scrutinises the effect as she slowly moves it up and down. Their eyes meet and they stare at each other for a moment. Is this a good idea? Alma wonders. She won’t make me look monstrous, will she? But that’s ridiculous. As if someone like me could pose any kind of threat to someone like her.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ her roommate chuckles. ‘Really, I have done this before.’

  At the first snip Alma shudders. Not at the sound of the scissors, but at the memory triggered by a stranger’s touch. The stubbiness of his fingers as he ran them through her hair. His quickening breath. The warmth of his lap. He shouldn’t have done it, taken advantage like that. A man in his position of responsibility. Chairman of an educational trust, for goodness sake.

  Call me Uncle Leonard, he said that first time.

  It began when she was little, playing sardines amidst the bushes and trees in her parents’ back garden. Spinning her round and around until she laughed so much, begging him to stop, that tears ran down her face. Slipping her sweets when no one was watching. Sherbet Fountains, acrid and sweet. Dib Dabs. One time he even bought her sugar cigarettes tasting of banana.

  Just for fun, he whispered, every time. Our little secret – just for fun.

  Leonard Parmenter, former head of music at Alma’s old school and patron of the county orchestra, had touched her many times since. But Vienna was different.

  It happened on the night they got through the semi-finals of the European inter-schools youth orchestra competition. She’d returned to her room early with a headache; he’d knocked on the door to check she was all right. He seemed louder and more animated than usual, she remembered thinking as they exchanged pleasantries in the open doorway. Then suddenly, with some weak excuse or other, he’d breached the divide. Stepped into her room, and closed the door.

  With the lock secured, Leonard Parmenter sat down on the side of her bed and tugged her onto his lap. Before she knew it he was playing with her hair, his hot breath thick against her neck. Slipping his hands down, then lower. Running the tip of his forefinger around the edge of her pants. Holding her firmly so she couldn’t clamber off. Gambling that the shock of it would buy her acquiescence. Which it did – even while he wiped himself down with her towel afterwards, the one she’d brought from home.

  Once he’d left it took what felt like hours to rub away his touch beneath a scalding shower. The humiliation at the thought of how frightened and confused she’d been. He was her father’s age and she had struggled to resist his benevolent interest. Afterwards, however, she felt tainted. Dirty. Because the dawning realisation of what he had always wanted made her feel complicit.

  She got dressed and crept out into the corridor in search of her friends. But all the rooms allocated to the young musicians were empty. Fearful of bumping into him if she went back downstairs, Alma made her way back along the corridor towards her room. Before she could reach it, however, a figure appeared at the far end of the landing.

  He was a flautist from one of the French orchestras. Two years her senior. Dark-eyed and strikingly handsome. He spoke little English but when he saw she was upset his concern was genuine. If anyone had taken advantage it was her, not him. When she invited herself inside, asked for a drink, accepted his offer to share a joint. And as she leaned towards him, willing him to kiss her, she knew that now she was in control.

  The time and place were of her choosing, no one else’s. If Uncle Leonard pushed things further, well, he’d find he was bloody well too late.

  It hurt, though the French flautist had been gentle. And still, months after that night, her conscience pricked at the memory of it – not the blood on the sheets, but the look on his face. His expression of… reproach. For she had duped him, they’d both known that. And she had laughed. As she did again the following day when their eyes locked across a crowded stage at the awards presentation.

  Her orchestra came second – to St Jude’s; his third. And that was it: she never saw Jean-Claude again.

  Though Alma tried to tell her parents about Uncle Leonard when she got back home, they wouldn’t listen. He had already phoned to let them know how badly she’d behaved. How stubborn and surly she’d grown. How rude she was when he’d chastised her. That a number of the girls had been gossiping about Alma engaging in heavy petting with a young French musician.

  The shame of it, they said.

  Now, looking back, Alma can only marvel at her parents’ unassailable belief in the goodness of their friend. How their blind faith in him served only to stoke a growing despair in the waywardness of their only child. The thought of his fat, stubby fingers inside her. How brazenly he’d lied. The injustice of it. All of this had marked her, deeply. Even so, she’d never allowed it to make her cry. Until now. And as the tears finally spill, hot and fast, she is conscious only of the sound of Viola’s scissors.

  ‘Christ, I’m so sorry, but I thought you wanted—’

  Alma’s eyes snap open. The first thing she sees is her roommate’s expression: she looks anxious. ‘Don’t worry,’ she interrupts. ‘That’s not why I… Really, it’s something else.’

  Her voice falters. Because she has a fringe – just a wispy one, and as she turns her head she notices the layers Viola has cut into the side to give it shape. Her face looks different. The new style accentuates the roundness of her pale grey eyes, making her cheeks look more sculpted, softening her chin. Shaking her head from left to right, Alma takes pleasure in the novelty of how freely she now moves.

  Emboldened, she starts to tell Viola about Leonard. Just a few, brief facts at first. Then as she sees how closely the other girl is listening, outraged on her behalf, more detail tumbles forth. Like how soon after, Leonard moved to Bristol – a precautionary measure. How he kept a low profile for a while until, buoyed by the realisation that she must have said nothing, he sent a good luck card which arrived the week before Alma left for London.

  Wishing you all the best, my dear. She can still see the handwriting; his old-fashioned, curling hand. I look forward to treating you when I’m next in town very soon.

  The message, which she ripped into confetti, cast a pall over her final days at home and the excitement she might otherwise have felt at her imminent escape. Now, though, as she stares at the coil of hair dangling from Viola’s hand as if weighing up the old life it embodies, something inside her shifts. Besides, even if Leonard does come, chances are he won’t even recognise her now.

  ‘No one’s going to treat me like he did,’ Al
ma concludes, lightly. ‘Ever.’

  ‘Too right,’ Viola exclaims. ‘Us girls have got to stick together in the face of creatures like that. Fuck Leonard, that’s what I say, and all dirty old sods like him. Now come on, you. Let’s get gorgeous, hit the town and have some fun.’

  5

  Scotland, February 2016

  Zeb stood on the doorstep, waiting. Wondering if, having knocked twice already, she should try again. Because she had come to see someone and it was important.

  With a shiver, she braced against the quickening wind. Fought, too, the temptation to once more glance up at the front of the house and its curious tower with the Cyclops eye. She cast a quick glance back down the hill from where she’d come, towards the village with its street lights just flickering into life. Up here on the hillside, with its craggy skyline, night already seemed to have fallen. Then, as she was convincing herself to return the following morning, a figure appeared spotlit in the doorway.

  The woman stood with hands on hips. A good ten to fifteen years older than Zeb, her face was half-cupped by a loose tendril of grey hair which had slipped free from an otherwise meticulous bun. Her floral housecoat was made from some kind of wipe-down plastic. An old pair of sheepskin slippers were perched on her feet. But though she stared at the visitor intently, her expression was not unfriendly.

  Lost your way, mmm? the woman offered, not unkindly. It’s not unusual, she nodded, pre-empting Zeb’s answer. We’re a satellite navigation black spot, according to my son.

  Mrs Duffy? I’m looking for… your lodger.

  Zeb wakes in an instant.