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

by Meg Carter

  Twisting the cold tap, she cupped her hands beneath the icy trickle to splash her face. Wiping her cheeks with her sleeve, she straightened up. The footsteps stopped just outside the door.

  You a’right in there? Staccato words fired into the woodwork like bullets.

  His fist shook the doorknob.

  Zeb released the bolt.

  Just as she does now.

  Take anything, she rehearses, as her hand hovers at the door. Whatever you want. I won’t say anything. Just take it, and go. Leave me alone, please. I didn’t see you properly. I won’t tell anyone you were here…

  But now the flat seems silent.

  Zeb turns her head instinctively to press her ear against the wood.

  Any minute now, she thinks as blood pounds her temples, this door will give. As she swallows back a dry sob, her mouth fills with the taste of metal. Her eyes feel hot and dry. As she blinks she hears a muffled voice.

  ’No sign of it,’ she clearly hears him say. Is he speaking on the phone? And then, at the sound of a familiar, approaching clatter, there is a sharp intake of breath. ’Not now. There’s someone coming.’

  A series of clunks: the sound of a shopping bag on wheels being slowly bumped up the building’s communal stairs. The front door is open, she realises with a surge of hope, and now she can hear a woman humming. Then, a minute later, a familiar voice echoes from the landing.

  ‘Hello?’ a woman calls. ‘Is there anybody there?’

  Zeb springs towards the bathroom door, trembling.

  ‘Christine?’

  * * *

  The locksmith beams as he hands Zeb a new set of keys.

  ‘All done!’ he declares. ‘The bronze one is for the Banham. The silver Yale is for the five-lever mortice. Then you’ve got new top and bottom bolts. Plus all your rooms now have window locks – even the window in the bathroom which doesn’t open. You should do something about that, you know; it could be a useful alternative exit in—’

  ‘In case of fire. Yes, I know.’ That’s what Dad had long told her, because the narrow, steel grating walkway that clings to the building’s rear runs right past that window – though she’d never got around to doing anything about it, of course. Zeb forces a smile, though she needn’t have bothered, for the locksmith now has his back towards her, as he puts his tools away.

  Straightening up, the man hesitates in the open doorway.

  ‘Thanks,’ she adds. ‘I mean, for coming so quickly.’

  ‘All part of the service,’ he winks. The locksmith hands her a business card from his back trouser pocket. ‘Recommend us to a friend and you’ll get ten per cent off next time.’ Zeb frowns. ’Sorry love, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well let’s hope there isn’t a next time,’ trills Mrs Allitt, who is watching from her open doorway. ‘Elizabeth – I’m so sorry,’ she gushes once the locksmith has gone. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what to say. Are you sure you don’t both want to sleep here tonight, with me?’

  ‘No, really thanks. We’ll be OK,’ Zeb answers, her mind now solely set on retreating back behind her own front door with Matty, with whom she’s made a great deal of effort to downplay the break-in. It was a silly mistake, she told him. Nothing to worry about at all. Just like she told the junior policewoman who, with time to kill before a bigger crime was committed, seemed to have come round simply to go through the motions. With no signs of forced entry, might Zeb have left the key in the front door, providing irresistible opportunity to the next passing opportunist? It was certainly a possibility, her neighbour had quickly chipped in.

  Elizabeth’s not quite been herself recently, the woman had confided before Zeb could object. First Richard leaving, then her poor dear father dying suddenly… so difficult for anyone to think straight when they’re going through that much stress.

  The idea that this was no more than a simple blunder had been further reinforced by Zeb’s rueful admission that nothing of value seemed to have been taken. What’s left of the pile of banknotes her neighbour brought to her in hospital still sits on the bedroom dresser beside her car keys and her mobile phone.

  ‘Come on, Mummy – per-lease!’ Matty calls from the sitting room where he is lying on the sofa wrapped in a snuggle sack watching TV. ‘Mike the Knight’s about to start.’

  ‘Not Mike the Knight!’ cries Sam, suddenly appearing at the top of the stairs. ‘Hold on, hun, he’s my Number One favourite.’ Adjusting her grip on some plastic shopping bags, she drops her voice. ‘Sorry I didn’t buzz, only the guy from the ground floor flat was just leaving and he let me in.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Zeb says firmly, tightening her grip on the spare set of keys she now has no intention of leaving with her neighbour. ‘Sam,’ she smiles, reaching for the bags, which are heavier than they look. ‘What perfect timing.’

  It’s raining outside, and watery beads glint like silver in her friend’s hair, which tonight she is wearing swept back off her face and loosely secured against the back of her head with what looks like a pair of lacquered chopsticks. Her coat, which is knee-length and inappropriately woollen, is sodden so Zeb hangs it in the hall by the radiator, beside which Sam leans the daypack she’s also been carrying.

  ‘A few overnight things – just in case,’ Sam grins. ‘You look great, by the way. If a little pale. Like the necklace, too. Is it new?’

  As Zeb’s fingers brush the silver chain around her neck she has a nagging sense of unease. She’d forgotten she had it on, and is unsure why she’s still wearing it. But, she also hopes, if the piano charm is against her skin long enough maybe through some kind of osmosis she’ll understand the secret of it. And when the mists finally clear, she senses, maybe she’ll find it has something to do with Dad.

  ‘You know something funny?’ Zeb murmurs, as her friend hurries past her into the sitting room in search of her godson. ‘I’m not quite sure.’

  In the kitchen a short while later they unpack the provisions Sam has brought. Breadsticks and a selection of dips. Fresh pasta and Arrabbiata sauce in a plastic tub. A bag of mixed salad. Readymade dressing. A tarte au citron. Two bottles of Pinot Grigio – the sight of which make Sam blush. ‘I know, I did remember you were clinging onto the wagon but I thought – well, under the circumstances – you might need to make an exception…’

  How long has it – had it – been, Zeb wonders, trying not to think of the wine at Dad’s and the empty bottle of vodka in the recycling bin, since she’d tried to cut back? She forces a laugh as she takes the bottles from her friend.

  ‘Expecting visitors, were you?’

  Sam chuckles. ‘Well, we could always invite the Grantham Menace to join us, if you’re desperate for company. The old bag from over the landing. Your nosy-neighbour – what’s her name?’

  Zeb frowns. ‘Mrs Allitt.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Sam grimaces as she wrestles with the cork. ‘Although I prefer the nickname you came up with for her—’

  ‘—because she’s always banging on about going to the same primary school as Margaret Thatcher!’ The memory of it raises Zeb’s spirits. ‘No, she will not be joining us tonight.’

  ‘Christ, this one’s tough,’ Sam exclaims, putting down the first wine bottle.

  ‘Here, let me,’ Zeb quickly counters, offering the second bottle before her friend has a chance to split the cork. A moment later, with an expert twist of her wrist, the wine is open. She fills two of the fine-cut wine-glasses Dad gave her as a moving-in present then hands one to her friend. ‘Thanks!’ Zeb raises her drink in a toast, relishing the wave of confidence and hope that comes with the first mouthful. She’ll stop again tomorrow. ’For coming over. For bringing food. For helping me remember.’ She drops her voice so as not to be overheard by Matty, who’s now in bed. ‘Fuck it, for being a friend!’

  ‘Now, now – don’t get all mushy on me,’ Sam counters, briskly. ‘Not yet, at least. First things first, let’s eat.’

  Sam reads Matty his bedtime stories while supper is co
oking, then they retreat with a bowl of snacks into the sitting room which is now lit by candles. The curtains are open and the windows streaked with rain but the bleakness of the world outside serves only to make the flat’s interior more comforting. Slipping off her shoes, Sam takes a seat one end of the sofa with her feet tucked beneath her. She looks cosy, childlike, Zeb thinks, though her face is shadowed by a mixture of guilt and concern.

  ‘How was Spain?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Helene went with them, though of course he didn’t mention that beforehand.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Sam sits in silence for a moment, lost in thought, then sips more wine. ‘So go on, tell me,’ she says at last, changing the subject. ‘Where have you been? What’s going on?’

  She listens carefully as Zeb fills in the gaps, relating the facts – or at least as much as she can recall – about what happened in Scotland in between mouthfuls of food and sips of wine. But Zeb is getting weary and has to reluctantly admit that she still can’t remember what happened in the hours immediately before she was picked up by Jean.

  ‘I mean, goodness, and please don’t take this the wrong way, Zeb—’ Sam drains her glass. ‘But anything could have happened.’

  Zeb nods, thinking of the man in Mrs Duffy’s kitchen. Tears well up and she feels Sam’s arm around her shoulders, holding tight. Unable to speak at first, she simply squeezes her friend’s hand. ‘You’re right,’ she stutters. ‘Something did happen… only I’m still not quite sure what.’

  ‘Come on,’ her friend soothes. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Like work – it’s been crazy since you left. Natalie will be back full-time from Easter, now the doctors have finally given her the all-clear. Oh, and the council are still considering the stage two development plan, which means there’s now no time to complete work on the extension before the autumn. So it will be winter in a Portakabin for the education department and marketing. All good fun.’

  ‘About that—’ Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Zeb picks up a breadstick and dips it in the hummus. ‘I’m still a bit sketchy on some of what’s gone on in recent weeks.’ She offers Sam a tentative smile. ’You’re going to have to fill me in. You mentioned I walked out… when was that, exactly?

  ‘I’m not surprised you’ve blocked that out,’ her friend snorts. ‘It was quite a scene. Now, let me see.’ She leans back in her seat and munches thoughtfully.

  ‘It was a fortnight ago. You’d just got back to work after, you know, the funeral. But I could tell you weren’t right. You seemed so distracted. Then, at William’s leaving do, it all seemed to come to a head. We’d all had quite a lot to drink, and you started talking about some friend of your dad’s you’d never heard of turning up at the funeral unannounced and sending flowers. You even had the card from the wreath in your purse. You went on and on about it, about wanting to track them down. An ex-lover, perhaps—’

  Zeb sighs, remembering the card. It was attached to a mystery wreath: the only one without a sender’s name. The only hint was a tiny sticker securing the cellophane with the name of a local Scottish florist. She’d put both in the purse that disappeared when she lost her bag.

  Her friend presses on.

  ‘—only you’d just had time off on compassionate leave and Kirsty point blank refused to give you any more. You got quite cross about it. Just as we were about to move on to the club, you just let rip. Told her to stick it. I can’t remember what else, we were all a bit taken aback, not to mention pretty drunk. Then Marcus tried to calm you down, but you weren’t having any of it.’

  Awkwardly dropping her gaze, Sam stares at her meticulous fingernails, freshly painted in a seashell pink, as she toys with the base of her wine glass.

  ‘Next morning, when heads cleared, you not only didn’t show up to work but also couriered over the proofs for the Bert Hardy exhibition catalogue, unedited. According to Marcus, the last thing you said before disappearing on your lost weekend was that you were going to find an old friend of your dad’s. In Scotland.’

  14

  Kings Cross, March 1975

  ‘Close your eyes and take my hand,’ says Pete, guiding Alma onto the narrow landing at the top of the final set of steps. Her heart is pounding from their steep ascent. ‘Slowly, slowly,’ he murmurs, urging her forward step by step. ‘And whatever you do, don’t look until I say.’

  It had taken him a week to phone her after their encounter in Rivington Street; the conversation had been brief. He’d like to see her again and yes, she would like to see him, too. But rather than meet one night at a bar or restaurant he proposed they should rendezvous one evening outside the Kings Cross Cinema on Pentonville Road.

  The suggestion left Alma mystified, because when she’d asked he’d insisted that no, they’d not be seeing a film. There was something special he wanted to show her, he insisted, though even when pressed he wouldn’t say what.

  Pleased that he’d called and intrigued by his evasiveness, Alma was happy to play along – allowing herself to be led through the lanes of traffic that filled the wide roads near Kings Cross Station. It was just past six and already dark, but the day had been fine and she was wearing only a light jacket and thin-soled shoes as the weather was unseasonably mild.

  A few paces on, outside the monolithic façade of St Pancras Chambers, he stopped, turned towards her and instructed her to shut her eyes. Once the Midland Grand Hotel, the building had fallen into disrepair and had been turned into British Rail offices. Alma hesitated until he leaned towards her – not to kiss her, as she’d secretly wanted – but to whisper something in her ear.

  Trust me, he breathed.

  And she did – well, almost – peeking only every now and then as he led her towards what looked like some kind of service entrance at the far end of the gothic façade. Here they stopped momentarily as he tried the door then let slip a quick laugh as it swung ajar. He had arranged this with a friend who worked in one of the offices upstairs, he explained. A friend who owed him a favour – and this was a good one; the kind of thing money can’t buy. Which she can see too as she stands by Pete’s side at the building’s peak, a narrow maintenance walkway skirting the inside of the upper level of the clock tower.

  Alma’s stomach lurches at the dizzying perspective this vantage point gives over the southward sweep of London. In the foreground she can make out the interlocking grid of streets and garden squares of Bloomsbury and, beyond that, the canyon of Oxford Street and then, further away, Soho. Shaftesbury Avenue. The Strand. Visible to the left is the necklace of street lights lining the Embankment and St Paul’s distant dome. To the right, she imagines – for, in truth, she cannot quite see – Westminster and Big Ben.

  ‘My god, Pete,’ she murmurs, enthralled. ‘It feels just like we’re on top of the world.’

  ‘Not a great place to be if you suffer from vertigo, of course,’ he smiles. He rubs the pane of glass with the edge of his sleeve. ‘But yes, I know exactly what you mean. It makes you feel tiny, doesn’t it, looking down on the world from up here. Then again from this perspective, you almost feel like you could fold up the city below and tuck it in your pocket… Fancy some of this, by the way?’

  ‘Got a couple of glasses in there, too, have you?’ Alma grins as Pete pulls a bottle of red wine and a Swiss army penknife from his coat pocket. Accepting the opened bottle, she takes a deep mouthful before passing it back.

  ‘To you,’ he smiles, raising the bottle. ‘To me. To all this.’

  They stay another ten minutes or so, enough time to drink their fill of the view and almost half of the wine.

  She tells him about the Conservatoire and her growing disillusionment with the course. Her teachers’ obsession with received notions of what is and is not correct musical interpretation. How liberating it would be to play something spontaneously. How Viola is on the verge of dropping out altogether as Geoff’s band is building quite a following. How she, meanwhile, is earning beer money lunchtimes and some evenings playing the original
compositions of a frustrated third-year composer – another of her disenfranchised fellow students, whose real passion is jazz.

  Alma half expects Pete to tease her for the high hopes she had for student life. Yet instead he seems to understand as, with a sweep of his hand towards the north, he tells her about growing up in a modest terrace in Hackney where money was tight and tempers short as his father worked all hours to build his own business. How he’d struggled at school – smarter than his contemporaries, and not sporty enough to fit in. How he’d spent his formative years whiling away hours in the local library, dreaming of escape as he pored over ancient maps and photographic plates in reference books about Kalahari bushmen; Genghis Khan’s legacy; the fledgling Israeli state.

  Determined to make his own way without anyone else’s help, when he left school, Pete first joined a local newspaper as an apprentice typesetter – an occupation he reluctantly pursued until a lower paid job came up as general dogsbody for a north London photographic agency. The experience was an eye-opener, providing a rough and ready introduction to the basics of professional photography and the magical chemistry of film processing.

  Around the time Alma arrived in London, Pete handed his notice at the agency to try his hand as a freelancer. She imagines how, able to fulfil his dreams, life felt rich with possibilities he determined not to waste.

  He is, she decides, draining her last mouthful of wine, quite unlike anyone she has ever met – or, indeed, will ever meet. With an inner strength and surface stillness that is totally and utterly compelling. And as they make their way back down the flights of stairs towards ground level, Alma finds herself overwhelmed by a pressing need to show him how touched she feels by the experience they’ve just shared.

  At ground level they slip back outside then onto the street to walk silently towards Euston. On a wooden bench in the scrub-like hinterland between the station entrance and the Euston Road they sit, side by side, sharing a large portion of fish and chips. It is almost nine when they have finished and he offers to walk her towards home – south to Oxford Street and the nearest stop for buses going her way. Alma finds herself affected and amused in equal measure.