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

by Meg Carter

  Her heart is galloping.

  Disoriented, her eyes dart around the room to make sure, registering with relief this time the full-blown daffodils, the plastic armchair, the curtained window and the half-light battling to poke through.

  It is morning and this is the hospital, she tells herself. I am in Belleview. Somewhere near Fort William. Safe and well. Even if my head is pounding. Even if, try as I might, I can’t place the setting for the doorstep scene that is already fading, fast.

  She rubs her eyes as she struggles to remember, desperate for a clear outline of the image already fading in her head. But now the fog is regathering, pushing her further from the truth that lies just beyond.

  Scotland, it looked like Scotland, she thinks. But as she battles to recapture the views from the hillside, she fears with a sense of dread that she can’t be sure she was ever on that doorstep. Somehow she knows it was her. That she was there. And that she was lured there, so far from home, by something momentous. Something that led to her wandering, cold and frightened, along that icy road before she met Jean.

  Zeb considers this for a moment. Stares into the blackness. Feels her fledgling resolve start to liquefy. Because not knowing what happened to her during those lost hours is dreadful. Once more, her body starts to shake as she stares at the white plastic control panel on the mattress beside her. The rubber cable connected to it loops twice around the metal bed frame before plunging out of sight behind the pillow towards the floor.

  It would be so easy, she thinks. To call for help. Only she knows she shouldn’t. Mustn’t. That by admitting her fear and confusion about what may or may not have happened, what is real and what is not, she will be forced to stay. If I can just keep it quiet I’ll be discharged a little later today, she decides. It is a dream, that’s all. Something formed in my subconscious from strands of stories I’ve read and films I’ve seen. Unrelated to whatever happened. Nothing to do with me.

  Rolling onto her side, Zeb reaches for her watch on the bedside cabinet. Mrs Allitt brought it, she remembers, along with the bag of things from home that now sits on the floor. The familiar sight of both is reassuring.

  Not long now, she thinks, and I’ll be on my way. Back to Matty.

  * * *

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Richard? It’s me.’ Zeb tightens her grip on the phone. The hospital corridor is busy and she has to block her free ear with her left hand to dull the prattle of voices.

  ‘I can’t take your call right now. But leave a brief message after the tone and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’

  Irritated at being confounded – still – by her ex-husband’s halting telephone manner, Zeb frowns. Where is he? she wonders, checking her watch. It’s just before twelve. A meeting, perhaps. Though he rarely leaves his corner office on the ninth floor of the DeHaan building at Heron Quays – unless on official business with one of his company’s dockland neighbours, of course. A client meeting. Or out for an early lunch with Helene.

  Her mood darkens at the thought of the soon-to-be second Mrs Richard Latham, a twenty-nine-year-old lawyer with a double first from Cambridge – and the four-storey house in Bayswater they’ve recently moved into. But then there’s a tone, and silence to be filled, so she starts to speak.

  ‘Richard. It’s Zeb. On – um, Thursday. I’m fine, now, and on my way back home. From Scotland…’ She grimaces. Too much detail, as always. Get to the point, for God’s sake. ‘Anyway, I’m just calling to speak to Matty.’ To see how you are, Baby Boy. What you’ve been up to. Whether you’ve missed me. When you’re coming home. She lets slip an involuntary sigh. ‘Call me later when you get this, OK? But on my home number as I’ve a problem with my mobile—’

  Her phone had been in her bag – the one Dad gave her last Christmas – which she lost a few days ago, somewhere in Scotland. Along with her purse, all her cards, keys, coat and God knows what else. She can’t think how she would have coped if Christine hadn’t brought her overnight bag. Or the cash Zeb had left in her flat on the table by the front door which was more than enough to keep her going until her new bank cards came through.

  ‘—I’ll be back there in a couple of hours, OK?’

  Replacing the handset Zeb exhales, slowly.

  She is still dressed in her hospital gown, though over this she wears a zip-up hooded sweatshirt and a pair of sheepskin slippers from London. She could have changed sooner, she thinks, staring for a moment at her right wrist which is still encircled by a white plastic hospital ID wristband, but somehow that would have felt like tempting fate.

  Glancing along the corridor, Zeb sees Dr Prentiss, flanked by a huddle of junior doctors, emerge from the ward two down from hers. They are coming her way, which means she won’t have to wait for too much longer.

  Home, she tells herself, lightly. I’m going home.

  Though as she says it, all she can think of is the three bedroom semi in Chiswick which she, Richard and Matty shared up until a year ago.

  Glumly, she shakes her head. In recent months she’s moved back into the small two-bedroom flat her dad bought years ago and had let her stay in when she first arrived in London. Zeb frowns. After meeting Richard, she never dreamed she’d have to live there again.

  No wonder the word ‘home’ feels so hollow.

  * * *

  ‘Nice top.’

  Zeb’s fingers freeze around the cotton-covered button she is trying to ease through its corresponding hole. As she looks up, the face peering around the door – yet another nurse – creases into a warm smile that seems more than merely professional. And then she recognises her – the woman who’d picked her up and brought her to safety. Billy’s mum.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to take you by surprise,’ Jean continues. ‘It’s just I’ve not been in for a couple of days. I thought I’d pop over and see how you were doing.’

  ‘That’s really good of you.’ As Zeb’s hand relaxes, the button slides into position. Straightening her blouse, she rises to her feet. ‘I was hoping to see you before I left. I well, I wanted to say… thanks.’

  Jean waves her hand dismissively. ‘Really – anyone would’ve done the same.’

  The shoes she is wearing have thick rubber soles and the dark leather uppers are stained with tidemarks of salt from the slushy pavements outside. Steaming, Zeb thinks. That’s what Dad always recommended for cleaning stained shoes. A good steam then a firm rub with a wire brush.

  ‘Though you had luck on your side,’ Jean continues, her eyes skimming the clothes and other bits and pieces Mrs Allitt had brought with her, which now lay across Zeb’s bed. ‘Billy and I had spent the night at my mother’s – we don’t normally come that way. So. You’re away today, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zeb replies with greater certainty than she feels. Finally, she has a clear image in her mind of where she lives, the photography museum where she works as education officer, the view from the window opposite her desk. Yet still has little idea of what occurred between arriving in Scotland and waking in hospital.

  Dr Prentiss had begrudgingly discharged her at lunchtime. Now she’s gambling on the fog still obscuring her view lifting, soon. But what if it doesn’t? The thought is frightening, but now she’s feeling stronger she’ll just have to deal with it. For Matty’s sake.

  ‘And you’re OK, now?’ Simple words, almost innocent, though Jean’s stare feels forensic.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Zeb mumbles, noting another lie. Something bad did happen; something worse might still.

  ‘I can remember most of what happened, now, and hour by hour more bits and pieces come back.’ She takes a deep breath before continuing as she focused on the script she’s spent much of the previous night writing.

  ‘I came for a long weekend, you see. I hired a car at the station and found a place to stay in a village not far from where you found me, but while I was out walking the weather took a turn for the worse and I had a fall. When I came to it was snowing and I couldn’t find my coat or bag. And
it was so hard to see I couldn’t tell which way to go…’

  A thought stops Zeb in her tracks. There was blood on her when she was found: dog’s blood. And she’s been struggling to account for it. But maybe Jean won’t remember because this particular detail has not been released to the press.

  ‘So I picked a direction and started to walk,’ she presses on, scooping up the rest of her belongings then stuffing them into her case and clicking it shut. Zeb conjures a laugh but the sound is tinny. ‘Anyway, you know the rest.’

  Jean stares at her for a few seconds that seem never-ending until, abruptly, she rises to her feet. ‘Mystery solved then,’ she declares brightly. ‘Well you’ve certainly had a time of it, I must say. But at least you’re on your way home now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Zeb laughs, hoping the other woman can’t see the tell-tale flush of deceit now branding her cheeks. ‘It’s certainly a relief.’

  ‘Quite. Well. Good luck then. And have a safe trip.’ Jean takes a couple of steps towards the door then turns. ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ She fumbles in the pocket of her nurse’s uniform then pulls out a piece of folded A4 which she holds out towards Zeb with a fleeting smile.

  The makeshift card flaps open, revealing a message carefully printed in multi-coloured crayon. DEAR PIANO GIRL GET WELL SOON! it reads in big bold red capitals. LOVE BILLY. But as she closes the card to admire the drawing on its front, Zeb’s legs almost buckle.

  The picture is of a blue-faced woman with pale eyes and matted hair walking coatless and barefoot along a white road. A short distance behind is a tall, grey house with snow-topped battlements and, to one side, a clock tower with a round window. Standing between the two is a giant blunt-nosed dog with yellow eyes.

  Reaching for the glass on the bedside table, Zeb drains its contents, trying to erase from her mind the memory of dog’s paws clawing at a kitchen door.

  But all she can now hear is the click as the catch slipped – before the creature, hackles bristling, skittered towards her across the floor. The rumbling crescendo from its growl. The way it paused before it leaped, weighing her up with a mathematical eye.

  Zeb shakes. Jean doesn’t seem to notice.

  ’That’s Billy for you,‘the other woman chuckles. ’Obsessed with animals. Can’t draw a picture without putting one in. It’s the dog that lives in the big house just up the road from where we found you. It really is a beautiful spot with stunning views of the mountains on a clear day – you should come back sometime and see it at its best.’

  Pressing her fingernails into the soft flesh of each palm, Zeb’s fear subsides as she focuses not on past but present and self-inflicted pain. Calm yourself, girl, a voice inside her soothes. Jean knows nothing; how could she? She forces her face into a smile.

  ’Tell him I love it,’ Zeb lies.

  6

  Soho, October 1974

  Weaving left then right between the crowded tables, Alma makes her way back towards the backlit bar where Viola is seated on a high stool.

  It is almost midnight, and they are in the public bar of a private members club called Number Nineteen, which occupies four floors of a Georgian townhouse on Soho Square. From the outside, darkened windows make the building look empty. Inside, the bar is thick with cigarette smoke and raucous chatter. An acoustic session by an Irish youth with a mournful voice has just finished but, though it’s late, none of the clientele are showing any inclination to leave yet.

  ‘We were about to give up on you,’ Viola cries, playfully brushing a stranger’s arm off her shoulders.

  Resuming her seat, Alma reaches for what’s left of her third glass of sparkling perry. ‘Sorry,’ she says, raising her voice to be heard above the roar of voices. ‘There was quite a queue.’

  ‘Here you are, one for the road!’ declares a lanky figure wearing a black long-sleeved shirt, skin-tight trousers and leather boots. Stepping over his donkey jacket, which he’s left slumped on the floor, Geoff hands each girl a fresh drink.

  Alma grins her thanks. Though Viola is old enough to drink here, she is not. But with her roommate’s admirer buying, no one seems to notice let alone care.

  With his angular jawline and dark, expressive eyes Geoff is, as Viola hinted, extremely good looking. More importantly, he is quick-witted and considerate and has been suitably attentive towards Alma despite the palpable attraction he feels for her glamorous roommate. He has just been telling them about the band he’s in; he’s the drummer; they will be placing an announcement for a singer in NME soon. Viola is now intent on persuading him to delay the ad and let her audition first. It’s all far more exciting than his engineering degree.

  Alma takes a large sip from her glass then looks away as Geoff turns to whisper something in Viola’s ear.

  Low ceilings, dimmed lighting and casual formality make the place thrilling for being precisely the kind of place Alma knows her parents would hate. These people are without a doubt a most curious assortment, she reckons, surveying the room once more. A group too eclectic for either the post-theatre or the after-work office crowd.

  In every direction, groups of men in dark suits are interspersed with heavily made-up young girls in high heels and low-cut dresses. Girls not much older than her. There are a handful of older women with powdered faces and back-brushed hair, too. And at a table in the far corner, two West Indian men in black roll-necks and cord trousers.

  Alma’s gaze lingers on a figure standing at the bar a few feet away. A young blonde woman – girl, rather, for she looks barely old enough to have left school – with stiff, lacquered hair teased into a Sixties-style beehive. She is wearing a glittering green dress and high-heeled silver sandals. Yet though she is enviably slender, something waif-like about her makes the elegant clothes she is wearing seem borrowed. Alma’s attention slips to the ring on the third finger of the woman’s left hand – prominent on the band encircling it is a cluster of emerald stones set within a halo of diamonds. As Alma stares, the woman-child steps into the crowd and starts making her way towards the rear door. With the film companies that line nearby Wardour Street so close, Alma wonders with a shiver of excitement whether perhaps some of these people are actors or directors.

  ‘Hey, you! I said, will you be all right here for a minute? We won’t be long.’ Viola is now on her feet, leaning into Geoff whose eyes are shining.

  ‘Sure,’ Alma nods.

  The pair retreat hand in hand through the throng, edging their way towards the end of the bar then out of view through the doorway at the end leading to the public toilets. As the door swings too, Alma sees the couple slip together into the Gents. She smiles to herself as she toys with her drink.

  ‘Mind yourself!’ someone close by suddenly exclaims.

  Too slow to take evasive action, Alma watches helplessly as her glass is knocked from her hand by a short blond man carrying a metal tray of freshly-poured beers. As the drink clatters to the floor, sparkling wine drenches her right arm and thigh.

  ‘Idiot!’ the voice beside her continues. ‘Hey, Brian. Any chance of a towel down this end?’

  The barman, a balled fist of a man in tight black trousers and a crisp white shirt, turns their way. His shaved head and close-set eyes give him an air of calculated menace. Yet when he recognises the tall stranger now standing by Alma’s side, his face is transformed by a broad smile.

  ‘Here,’ the man called Brian calls, tossing a clean beer towel in the dark-haired man’s direction. ‘Better not let the old man see you’re here, though,’ he warns the stranger now dabbing her sleeve. ‘He’s in, you know. They’ve just gone upstairs.’ He winks. ‘Him and the child bride.’

  The dark-haired stranger hands Alma the towel.

  He is a man not much older than her, with dark, unruly hair and pale eyes, she notes as she pats her leg dry. Unlike the rest of the bar’s clientele, he is dressed in jeans and a Rolling Stones’ T-shirt. A camera is looped over his shoulder, and a faded army jacket is hanging from his hand. With his high cheekbones an
d the dimple in his chin, he is striking. And in this light, Alma can’t help but notice, his eyes look cornflower blue. As their eyes lock, her cheeks burn.

  ‘Can I get you another?’

  Alma feels tongue-tied. ‘Sorry?’ she mumbles, at last.

  ‘Another. Drink.’

  ‘Sure. Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Same again for the lady here, and a quick pint for me. I guess you heard what happened?’

  The barman shrugs. ‘I’ve been working since three.’

  ‘Another bomb. At some members’ club off Piccadilly. Heath was just round the corner, only he said he didn’t think it was intended for him, according to the Nine O’Clock News. Three staff were injured. West of Regent Street’s pretty much gridlocked.’

  Alma’s eyes widen.

  It is a little over a year since a bomb exploded in a snack bar at Euston Station, and in the previous few months there has been an attack on Parliament and a blast at the Tower of London. Another IRA attack – it has to be, though she can’t bring herself to say it. She checks her watch. She wonders for a moment what her parents are doing; whether they are still awake. But of course they will be – her mother, certainly, unsettled by the news. She should call them to let them know she is OK.

  ‘Christ.’ The barman shakes his head then, with a frown, casts a glance towards the bar’s rear exit. ‘Only—’

  ‘Yes, Brian, I heard you,’ the man beside her sighs. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he tugs free a folded brown envelope. ‘Can you give Phil this? I just got paid for a commission for The Post which means I’ve got him the rent I owe. Plus whatever the drinks are, of course.’

  ‘Sure.’

  The barman holds a fresh drink out, which the stranger now takes and hands to Alma. ‘Sorry about the spill.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alma smiles, raising her glass in a silent toast.

  The man grins. ‘My sort-of-stepdad owns this place.’

  ‘Sort of?’