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

by Meg Carter

  Someone coughs.

  ‘I said, your tea – how do you take it?’ Standing in the beaded doorway, Mrs Allitt is holding a Chinese lacquered tray with bamboo handles.

  Stumbling to her feet, Zeb moves towards her hostess and takes the tray of tea things. It didn’t happen, she tries to reassure herself, struggling not to think of the heavy thumps on the bathroom door. ‘A little milk would be lovely, thanks. And thanks for coming to the hospital, too. All that way, it was really kind.‘

  Seated on the sofa once more, her cup of tea positioned on the coffee table before her, Zeb smiles, noticing her neighbour’s expression has grown expectant.

  ‘Really, you must let me give you something towards the cost of the ticket.’

  ‘I knew you’d see me right,’ her neighbour nods. ‘I’ll fish out the receipt when we’ve had our tea. Now I know I have some nice nibbles somewhere – bear with me, I’ll just go and check.’

  With the heating on full blast, the room feels airless and oppressive. Though this flat is a mirror image of her own with an identical layout, the space feels smaller. The hallway is cramped – the width halved by the piles of fading newspapers meticulously banked against the wall from floor to waist level on either side.

  In the sitting room, dark oak cupboards line the entire breadth and length of one wall. Along the opposite wall is a ramshackle line of grey filing cabinets. On top of these sit rows of cardboard boxes stamped with an assortment of food and supermarket brands; each crammed with neatly bound bundles of A4 paper stacked upright to make the most of the space available.

  Shifting position to turn her gaze behind her, Zeb registers the dusty green velvet curtains that reach from ceiling to floor around each window. The ancient leather stool like an elephant’s foot. A shape like a tailor’s dummy in the far corner, concealed beneath a dirty dust sheet. The glass bell jar beside it containing a glass-eyed red squirrel posed awkwardly, mid-clamber, on a dusty branch.

  A sudden image of outsized hands filling a tiny teapot makes Zeb’s insides lurch. Spilling her tea, she quickly replaces her cup on its saucer.

  Zeb stares at the brown liquid as it begins to pool on the wooden table. With nothing to blot it, she turns instead to move a nearby assortment of buff-coloured folders, blank sheets of A4 and newspaper cuttings out of harm’s way. It looks like Mrs Allitt is compiling some sort of scrapbook, she thinks, using her sleeve to blot the spill.

  Leaning forward, Zeb flips open the folder closest to her. Inside, a collection of official-looking letters – which she is about to put down when she registers the name on the uppermost sheet, a bank statement. It’s addressed to Stan Williams, the tenant in the ground floor flat. Curious, Zeb scans the sheets behind it, which include a response from the local council about his application for a refund on his resident’s parking permit. A postcard from his friend in Paris. A letter from the oncology department at the Royal Free detailing the time and date scheduled for a number of tests and scans.

  What’s Mrs Allitt doing with all this?

  Zeb snaps shut the folder and slides it away but as she does she dislodges another which now tumbles off the table and onto the floor. Hastily retrieving it, she is about to replace the set of papers beneath the first when she sees something sticking out from one side. A newspaper cutting about a coatless woman wandering dazed and confused along a secluded Highlands road.

  With a sharp intake of breath Zeb snatches back her hand. But her gaze remains fixed on the image of her own face, staring blankly from her hospital bed. Quickly, she flicks through the other sheets inside the second folder. The selection of newspaper cuttings it contains count back the past few days. Beside a grainy shot of herself sitting up in bed is a close-up image of the silver chain and its piano charm, suspended from PC Heath’s forefinger and thumb.

  Piano Girl, the caption reads.

  Me, this file is about me, she realises, her anger rising.

  Turning over another piece of newsprint Zeb is surprised to find a proof of purchase from a recent book order she must have made on Amazon and a subscription renewal reminder, also addressed to her, for Hello! Though old and creased, both look like they have been carefully flattened out.

  She sees a handwritten letter at the back, dated two weeks earlier. Dear Elizabeth, it begins, I am so very sorry to have upset you yesterday by coming unannounced. Scanning to the bottom she sees it is signed with a name she doesn’t recognise: Cynthia Purnell. But before she can read any further Mrs Allitt is standing beside her, glaring.

  ‘Nosy,’ the old woman observes, tartly.

  ‘Sorry—’ Zeb begins, struggling to her feet, but then it strikes her: she’s not the one who should be apologising. ‘—but that letter, and others in there, no doubt, belong to me. What do you think you’re—’

  ‘A letter? Addressed to you?’ Mrs Allitt cuts in, crisply, as she reaches for the large knife resting beside a Victoria sponge which has appeared on the coffee table beside two mismatched side plates. ‘Well I don’t know how that could possibly have happened. I’m ever so sorry, really I am, I must have picked it up without noticing in a pile of post for me.’

  With the knife clasped tightly in her right hand, the older woman reaches with her left for the top plate.

  ‘What, and opened it too?’ Zeb is astounded by her neighbour’s nerve.

  ‘Why yes, I must have – by mistake, of course. Care for a slice?’

  Zeb hesitates, her attention flitting between the steel glinting in the other woman’s hand and the lack of any awkwardness or embarrassment on her face. A moment later, the cake is cut and the sugary knife replaced on the far side of the table, once more out of reach. Wearing an expression of pained innocence, Mrs Allitt places Zeb’s plate on the table then takes a seat at the far end of the sofa.

  Zeb wonders if the message is from a friend of Dad’s. The older woman leans forward. Reaching towards a soup bowl piled with Turkish Delight at the far end of the table, she selects a fleshy sweet then quickly pops it into her mouth. The intimate smell of the bowl now looming towards her is so intense Zeb fears she will retch.

  ‘I was terribly sorry to hear about your father, you know,’ her neighbour commiserates. The woman’s lips are sticky with icing sugar, her voice is soft. ‘I mean to say, sixty-four seems so young nowadays. You know, to die. Of a heart attack.’

  Zeb buckles as the truth clicks into focus. The reason for the black-edged card pinned to her kitchen wall. The sombre outfit she was wearing the morning she recalled returning to the flat while still in hospital. Why her flat had become a temporary staging post for Dad’s stuff. Her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘May I use your loo?’ she gasps, stumbling to her feet.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ the older woman nods, licking her fingers. ‘It’s the last door on the right. Just like in your flat, but without the designer touches.’

  In the bathroom doorway Zeb falters. A large Victorian cistern is suspended from the wall just below the ceiling in front of her, an ancient wooden-seated toilet lurking on the floor beneath. Her mouth is alive with the sudden scorch of vomit. She gasps for breath.

  Fearful she will faint if she doesn’t get some fresh air, fast, she races to the front door where she wrestles for a moment with the bolt and chain before tumbling out onto the landing and finally back inside her own flat.

  Why did you go so soon, Daddy? a child-like voice inside her wails.

  Hurrying into the kitchen, Zeb searches a number of cupboards before finding what she’s looking for: a selection of spirits including a set of miniature whiskies and an unopened bottle of cherry liqueur, tucked away from view behind a box of cornflakes. As her fingers close around a half-drunk bottle of vodka she fleetingly recalls a decision she made not so long ago to cut back on her drinking. But the thought is gone as soon as it registers.

  With a shaking hand, Zeb tips more than a double shot into an oversized tumbler, downs it in one then pours herself another. The moment feels as unreal as h
er neighbour’s words.

  How could I forget?

  Swaying slightly, she retraces her steps back down the corridor, bottle and glass now in hand, to secure the front door chain. For now, at least, I’m safe from the old bitch with a spare key, Zeb thinks as she retreats into Matty’s bedroom and carefully places the vodka beside her son’s night light on the bedside table. She’s certainly no friend.

  Without bothering to get undressed, she slips under Matty’s duvet. Hugging herself tight, she buries her face in his pillow. The smell of Matty’s sheets, the ones with the rocket man motif, is reassuring. But as Zeb reaches for the bottle and swallows three more mouthfuls she starts to sob.

  ‘Don’t be gone, Dad,’ she begs. ‘Tell me anything, just don’t be gone.’

  8

  Soho, October 1974

  A shard of light suddenly reflected from one of the top floor windows of the buildings opposite makes Alma blink. Above her head, the morning-after sky beams cobalt. With its scant heat, the brightness of the low-hung sun feels like a cheap con.

  She is sitting on a wooden bench in Soho Square, facing Number Nineteen. It is early – she has skipped the breakfast rehearsal she should be doing before the start of her daily classes. But she has had to, to retrieve the purse she left on the bar while drinking with Viola and Geoff the previous evening. The purse contains her room key. If she’s lost it, the porter at Engel House will go insane. Her only chance is to ask the barman who lent her his towel. But with the building’s windows still darkened and its door locked, all she can do is wait.

  Alma breathes out, slowly. It’s only just gone nine but already it’s been a difficult morning. She slept fitfully then woke early with a thumping headache. She discovered her purse was missing in the refectory as she reached the front of the queue to pay for breakfast, and had to put everything back. And then there was another special delivery.

  It had begun with a bouquet, a spray of roses with petals the colour of clotted cream wrapped in tissue paper and secured with a pink ribbon.

  Definitely for Alma – the label said so, though there was no message either attached or slipped inside. The other girls on her corridor teased her mercilessly about her secret admirer. Speculated wildly about his identity. Competed madly to nominate the most eligible contenders amongst the slender contingent of male associates and faculty staff. All of which would have been funny, if Alma hadn’t been struck by a hideous thought.

  What if this was some kind of peace token from Leonard?

  Then, this morning, she found in her pigeonhole chocolates gift-wrapped in silver paper. The box had been delivered to the porter’s office while she’d been out on the town with Viola and Geoff the previous night, by hand. The satin-covered box inside was embossed with a line drawing of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And this time there was a message.

  To the girl with the laugh in her eyes, the card read. From the man with a child in his heart.

  The oblique reference to Alma Cogan – the girl with the laugh in her voice – had made Alma feel sick. Though her famous namesake had long been her mother’s favourite singer, she had warmed neither to the name nor to the style of music. Both were so old-fashioned. Uncommon enough, too, as a name for most people to make some comment or other. Which was why, when she was little, she dreamed of changing her name to something simpler. Like Anna, or Mary.

  Rereading the message, however, caused Alma a curious conflict of emotions.

  The persistence of her father’s friend is sickening; his intentions shockingly outrageous. Yet with its light dusting of chocolate, the card smells almost sweet. As does the revelation that her admirer comes from outside the student body. He is a grown-up. And though she hates herself for it, the secret knowledge of this is exciting and naughty. She hates him, bitterly. But something about being sought out by him makes her feel special.

  A vigorous flapping sound from the tiled roof of the timbered hut before her makes Alma look up. At the building’s highest point, the bungled courtship dance of a ragged pair of pigeons looks more like an assault. She’s always loathed birds, pigeons especially. Shifting position on the bench, she stares at the patch of green at the centre of the square and the folly that marks its central point.

  It is a Tudor-style construction with wooden arches that sweep abruptly downwards. A wooden door is visible on the near side at ground level, the building’s narrowest point, behind which a single flight of stairs leads to the only room on the timbered, upper floor. The building has intrigued Alma since her first visit to the square. And reminded her, too, of the colour plate where the collection of fairy tales she received one Christmas as a child would always fall open. The picture is an illustration of the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel.

  Where’s that book now, she wonders?

  In the cardboard box of childish bits and pieces her mother has stowed beneath her bed back home, she guesses, as she readies the place for the decorators she’s booked to turn it into the new guest room.

  A car roars into the square with its stereo blaring. From inside, David Essex promises anyone who cares to listen that he’s ‘Gonna Make You a Star’.

  The car traverses three sides of the scrap of green in search of a parking space to park. Eventually the driver gives up, and pulls to a halt on the pavement. As a short compact figure in dark trousers and a black leather jacket climbs out, Alma’s spirits rally.

  It is the barman, she is sure of it.

  A moment later, the man is standing at the main front door fumbling with a bunch of keys. Stumbling to her feet, she hurries towards him.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The barman glances over his shoulder without turning around but says nothing.

  ’It’s Brian, isn’t it?’

  His eyes narrow. ’So?’

  ‘I was here. Last night, with some friends. And I think I left my purse on the bar upstairs.’

  The man nods. ’Your purse.’

  ‘Yes, did you see it – you know, later, when you were clearing up?’

  Turning back towards the door he finally chooses the right keys then nudges it open with his foot, but waits a beat before stepping inside. ’Might have.’

  Alma takes a step forward. ‘Oh that’s great,’ she exclaims. ‘It’s not so much the money, it’s the keys that are inside. If I could come up—’

  ‘Wait here.’ With a heavy thud the door swings shut.

  Sinking down onto the top step, Alma hugs her knees.

  Not only is she uncertain the barman will find her purse, but even if he does she’s left unsure by his manner if he’ll even return. Craving a cigarette, Alma paws inside her coat pocket but the only thing she pulls free is Leonard’s card. With a scowl, the tears it into two, then four, and then again and scatters what’s left.

  A black cab turns onto the square from Frith Street and pulls in a short distance away. In the back, obscured from view, a man and woman are shouting. It takes a moment or two for the argument to subside and when it does, a thick-set man wearing a sheepskin coat steps out onto the kerb then swiftly slams to the door. With his companion still sealed inside, the taxi pulls away.

  Too late, Alma registers that the man is striding towards where she now sits.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He has stopped on the second to last step and though he’s standing below her the bulk of him now looms above. A crumpled pinstriped suit is visible beneath his coat. There is a scuff on the left toe of his otherwise immaculate buckled slip-on shoes. His silver hair is straggly and combed-over.

  The man crosses his arms.

  ’No, that’s all right,’ Alma mumbles. ‘I’m just—’

  He leans towards her to better make his point. ’Only this is private property.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ His stale cigar breath makes Alma gasp.

  ‘If you want to sit down there’s a bench over there, in the public square.’

  Alma nods, enthusiastically, as she tries not to show she is intimidated. ’Yes, of course. Only—�
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  ‘Next to the bin.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The bin,’ the man repeats. As he points to the remnants of Leonard’s message, a clump of hair from his comb-over slips loose. ‘That was you, wasn’t it? Littering up my bit of the street.’

  ‘It was,’ she cries, hurriedly bending forward to make amends. ‘But really, I wasn’t going to—’

  The man steps past her, so close Alma can feel the heat of him, and by the time she is on her feet cupping the torn card in her hands he has extracted a large bunch of keys from his inside pocket. A second later he has disappeared inside. Is this Number Nineteen’s owner, Alma wonders? The sort-of-stepdad described by the man who came to her aid last night in the bar? She thinks of her rescuer for a moment.

  Where did he go to, she wonders. Perhaps she could ask his sort-of-stepbrother.

  Assuming the barman ever comes back.

  Retracing her steps back down onto the pavement, Alma decides to wait by the nearest lamp post a short distance away. Thinking back to the night before, she tries to imagine what might have happened if the stranger had not left before she had a chance to introduce him to Viola. At least then she’d have learned his name. She idly wonders if he comes to this place often.

  ‘You’re in luck.’

  Alma looks up. The barman is standing once more in the open doorway. In his hand is her purse.

  ‘I didn’t check, but it feels quite full,’ he adds with a lopsided grin, dipping his hand as if loaded down by its weight. ‘Fingers crossed the keys are still in there.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ Alma gushes, quickly unzipping the pouch inside and finding her keys still there. ‘Really. I mean, thanks.’

  With a curt nod, Brian turns back towards the open doorway. A moment later the door will be closed and Alma’s chance will have gone. Dare she ask him for his stepbrother’s name and, maybe, even his phone number?

  Viola would, Alma is sure of it. Though whatever her roommate would do is irrelevant, of course. Alma isn’t her. They may share some common ground but they are not the same.