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

by Meg Carter

  The Conservatoire has provided her with the foundation for a new beginning, and what she builds on that must be good. All she has to do is decide just who she should be. Alma the classical musician – a position for which, if she works hard and steps up her practice, she could just about pass master. Alma the session musician – a less predictable option but perhaps a more attractive one, with opportunities to meet a wider array of people and players.

  If all else fails, she can teach. And by the end of her course, she’s decided, should she still not know, then she will take some time out to travel.

  Already, Viola is talking about visiting a place called Kovalam in southern India when her studies finish. The plan is to take a few months out to travel by bus overland. It has become quite an established rite of passage, her friend claims, with plenty of budget hotels, restaurants and cafes along the way catering for young adventurers just like them.

  Assuming Viola still wants her to come along. Recently, since the start of the summer term, the two roommates have spent more time apart than together.

  The thought of a conversation she had with her friend saddens Alma. It was before Viola’s first live performance with Geoff’s new band in a pub on Upper Street. The venue was in the cavernous basement of a four storey building with a red brick façade, decorative columns and tall, arched windows. The place seemed at once both grand and seedy.

  They were drinking shandies in the ground floor bar at a table by the window through which they can hear a distant radio. A song was playing: ‘Three Steps to Heaven’ by Showaddywaddy.

  Feeling nervous? I would be, Alma asked.

  A bit, Viola agreed.

  The group is now called Lovefox – renamed in Viola’s honour, Geoff said. And securing the warm-up slot in the basement of the Hope & Anchor was little short of a coup. Later that evening Viola was to sing throughout the entire set for the very first time. Which would have been enough pressure on its own, only they’d just found out through a friend of a friend that someone had managed to persuade a reporter from NME to come.

  Don’t be, Alma grinned. You’re really good.

  I’d better be, Viola groaned. Because there’s a lot riding on this, and I don’t just mean the review. Dropping her voice, she leaned forward, confidentially. I want it to be really, really good for him, you know? I mustn’t – can’t – cock up.

  You won’t.

  Viola’s eyes clouded. I might, and you know what? For the first time ever, the thought of getting up there and performing makes me scared. Because I don’t want to let him down.

  Geoff, you mean? said Alma, understanding now. Her friend nodded. You really care about him, don’t you?

  The thing is, my friend, I think I’m falling in love – and that’s not happened to me before, Viola admitted, awkwardly. I’ve had plenty of fun, if you know what I mean, but none of it really mattered. And the even scarier thing is I think I want to tell him.

  Really?

  I know it seems mad, but I couldn’t bear it if he didn’t give a shit about me. If this was just a bit of fun. I’m not saying I want to get heavy or anything, just that I’d like to know it means something, you know? That I’m more than just a bit on the side.

  Alma couldn’t help but laugh. Christ, Viola, have you looked at yourself recently? I can’t believe anyone would dismiss you as merely a bit on the side. She took a long sip from her glass. But I think I know what you mean. It’s good to know you both want the same thing – that’s important.

  Viola groaned.

  No, seriously, Alma pressed on. Because she’d been thinking about this a lot – at least, about her and Pete. I think it’s important someone wants to get to know you for who you are, you know? And that you’re straight with each other about what you want. You’ve got to know if it’s just a bit of fun, a bit more than that, or something else – and then, knowing how you feel, you can decide whether or not that’s OK. Her voice faltered as she noticed Viola’s expression. I think it’s about self-respect, really. What’s the matter?

  Who have you been reading, lately? Viola grinned. Claire Rayner?

  Alma sighed. You know what I mean.

  I do. Viola nodded. And though I might not have seen it that way before, with Geoff I think I agree. Not that I’m anywhere near wanting to get serious yet, or anything. But, Christ, I do want this to mean… something.

  You old romantic. You’ll be wanting to settle down and have kids with him next. So much for women’s lib! Alma exclaimed without thinking. Viola’s face darkened. And then she remembered about Viola’s abortion. Sorry, I didn’t mean anything.

  Christ, Alma, her friend snapped, draining the contents of her glass. Since when did you become such a… child?

  Ashamed by the indigestible memory of it, Alma rolls onto her side and hugs her knees.

  * * *

  Downstairs a short while later, Alma waits in the sitting room, flicking through the latest copy of Cosmopolitan she bought to read on the train. Though hungry for distraction, she is wearied by the prospect of actually reading.

  Rising to her feet, she takes up position once more by the window overlooking the vicarage’s shingled driveway, the open gateway, and beyond that the empty road. Checking her watch for the umpteenth time she sees it is five to eleven. Which makes him almost late.

  Turning away, Alma rolls the magazine she’s still holding into a baton then jabs it into the weekend bag which she’s left standing on the floor in the hall. She lets out a sigh.

  At first, the prospect of the long summer break had hung heavy; some kind of holiday job, ideally in London, would seem be the only way to survive. She’d made little effort to stay in contact with any of her old classmates from Burford and a year since leaving seemed too late to rebuild bridges. Meanwhile her friends from the capital had quickly gone their separate ways.

  Viola would already be at her parents’ place in the south of France with Geoff. Trish and Judy, the two girls from their year who shared the room next door, had headed back up north. Pete, meanwhile, had left London for Southend-on-Sea for the last few days of term to take some pictures for a local magazine. And to make matters worse, the weather had turned dreadful.

  Five days into the holidays, things started to look up. Her parents confirmed they would once more be running the annual young Christians’ summer camp in Hertfordshire – this time without Alma’s help.

  A day later, Pete travelled south to meet her outside the Odeon in Southampton where, Alma assured her mother, she had arranged to meet some girl friends to see the latest Pink Panther film. He had a plan, to take her away for a few days while her parents were busy. Which made not exposing their relationship to her parents’ scrutiny – for fear they might change their minds about leaving her alone – all the more pressing.

  Finally, yesterday afternoon, her parents had set off, and this morning, Alma had woken to the kind of brassy summer day that makes the world feel unbreakable.

  Now she turns her attention back to the sitting room. An antique coffee table stands at its centre on which thirty-six weekly instalments of a Cordon Bleu cookery partwork are diligently stacked. The empty basket in the open hearth is guarded by an intricate wrought-iron fireguard. Her mother’s prized cherry blossom three piece suite.

  Alma stares at the Blüthner baby grand, recalling the Christmas her father bought the piano. The reverence with which he introduced her to it. The silence with which he would sit listening to her play. The weight of his expectation that she would commit herself to her music, exclusively. And then she grins. Because since meeting Pete, far from distracting her from her music, his presence had reignited her love of it. With him, maybe she really could be as good as everyone once said she’d be.

  Noticing the arrangement of lilies on the windowsill with water clouding at its base, Alma despairs. With the bed and breakfast in Dymchurch booked for the next three nights, she can’t leave it like this. It will give Mrs Douglas, her parents’ next door neighbour, a tell
-tale sign she isn’t in if the woman pops round to see how Alma is doing while her parents are away.

  She carries the arrangement into the kitchen and empties the vase, rinses it out then put it away. As she dries her hands, a car draws into the drive. It parks up and the door opens. She hears footsteps.

  ‘What time do you call this, then?’ she calls from the front porch.

  ‘About time?’ he grins, pulling her towards him for a kiss.

  ‘Not outside,’ begs Alma, shooting a nervous look over his shoulder towards the point where, beyond a stretch of lawn bordered by pink rose bushes, an old stone wall marks the boundary with the Douglas’s place next door.

  Pete gives her a squeeze before letting her go. ‘Walls have eyes, do they?’

  ‘I think it’s ears, silly,’ Alma grins, tugging him through the open front door.

  A surge of excitement pulses through her as they step inside. Even at school she’d rarely had friends back to the house to play, let alone a boyfriend. Now here she is with Pete in her parents’ house, alone. The novelty of it feels thrilling.

  ‘I thought you’d never come,’ she sighs, relishing the pressure of him against her hips.

  ‘Don’t you know by now?’ he counters, cupping her chin in his hand and raising her face towards his. ‘Don’t you know by now I always keep my word?’

  As they kiss if feels to Alma as if her whole life has been leading up to this moment. Gently, he slips his hand beneath the hem of her sundress and his fingers slowly make their way up her thigh. Overwhelmed by an unexpected sense of urgency, she sinks back against the wall. Grasping the buckle of his belt, she slips the leather free.

  ‘What, here?’ Pete whispers, stopping her hand by holding her wrist. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sssh!’ she giggles.

  Afterwards they roll onto their backs on the hall floor and lie in silence, side by side, listening to the muffled sounds of the world outside as their bodies cool. A bird circles unseen above with a listless shriek. A tractor’s steady rumble from a nearby field. The distant A-road with its steady traffic pulse. Then three sharp raps on the frosted glass of her parents’ back door, shattering the moment.

  ‘It must be Mrs Douglas,’ Alma whispers, grabbing for her dress. ‘Oh Christ,’ she mutters, hotly. ‘Dammit, have you seen my pants?’

  Flattening her hair with her hands, she hurries into the kitchen. A moment later, she is smiling politely at the stout woman in her late fifties whose white hair makes her humourless face even more severe as she stands, impatient, on the vicarage’s back door step.

  ‘I saw the car,’ Mrs Douglas barks, swinging an ancient pair of secateurs.

  ‘Yes?’ Alma replies, noting her inquisitor’s beady demeanour. Her thick rubber Wellingtons and A-line skirt. The woman is wearing a long-sleeved blouse beneath her padded gilet. Just how many layers does the nosy old parker need on a warm summer’s day?

  ‘In the drive,’ the other woman presses on, gesturing towards Pete’s car with a calculated glance.

  ‘Oh, it belongs to a friend from college.’ Alma steps outside, hopeful she can sweet talk her parents’ neighbour back towards the gap in the fence through which she’s come. Trying not to think of her lack of underwear, she smooths the front of her dress. ‘She just popped over for a cup of tea. Gillian—’ she calls back over her shoulder. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ Then she turns back to the neighbour. ‘Would you like to join us?’

  Mrs Douglas frowns. ‘No, it’s all right.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Alma, lightly. ‘It is.’

  ‘Only your father specifically asked me to keep an eye on things while you were here on your own,’ the other woman presses on.

  Viola-style, Alma beams. ‘Which, as always, is very much appreciated.’

  ‘Yes, well, if there’s anything you need – anything – I’m always here.’ Relaxing her grip on the secateurs, Mrs Douglas laughs: a brittle sound. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come round for supper a little later?’

  ‘Oh, well, that would be lovely but I’ve got some chores to do in town then I’m meeting some friends. We’re planning to see the new Pink Panther film – you know, with Peter Sellers?’

  Mrs Douglas looks blank. ‘As you wish,’ she says, turning away.

  Alma waits for the woman to disappear from view before retreating back into the house where she finds Pete sitting on the bottom stair. ‘Forgotten these?’ he grins, holding up her pants then gently lobbing them towards her.

  ‘Stop it,’ she protests, slipping them back on. ‘Though I did forget something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cash. I meant to go to the bank.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I’ve—’

  Alma shakes her head. ‘No, it’s fine, just wait.’

  Hurrying back into the kitchen, she stops in front of the fridge. She opens the door of the cupboard above which contains assorted tins of biscuits, savoury and sweet. Squeezing her hand between the stack of boxes and the tea caddy by their side, she feels her way towards the back corner where her fingers close around a black and white plastic figure of a suited man.

  ‘Come on Fred,’ she whispers, unscrewing the flour sifter’s bowler hat. ’Good man!’ Inside is stowed a roll of pound notes. Slipping the bundle out of its rubber band, she counts out twenty and puts back fifteen. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay it back before they get home,’ she adds, noticing Pete’s surprise. ‘I’m a good girl, honest!’

  They take their time, relishing the drive down narrow country lanes pooled in shade from the interlacing foliage above their heads. They stop for a late lunch in a pub overlooking an immaculate village green, taking in a lazy game of cricket. Then they set off through parched fields once more.

  Just past Winchester, Pete pulls in at the side of an elevated A-road section where metal barriers obscure what would once have been a panoramic view. ‘Just for a minute,’ he says, answering her as yet unasked question. ‘You’ll like this, trust me.’

  Alma climbs from the car to stand by Pete’s side, behind a temporary wall of broken rocks caked in earth. They are close to the top of one side of a tree-rimmed valley, though an area of vegetation the size of a small field below them has been cleared. Staring down through a gap in the bank, she sees a fleet of giant diggers with dusty caterpillar tracks preparing the ground for construction.

  ‘It’s the next new section of the M3 motorway to link Southampton with London,’ he murmurs.

  Uncertain why they have come, she turns towards him in search of further explanation. Then, registering the expression on his face, she knows there will be none. ‘How old are you?’ she laughs.

  ‘Old enough to know better,’ Pete shrugs. ‘But come on, isn’t it fantastic? I mean, look at what’s happening. This is progress. Life moving on.’

  Gazing back down onto the construction site where the bronzed bodies of the workers below are gleaming with grit and sweat, Alma sees what he means. That the people down below could be from any time, forcing their will onto nature. Without the toys, they could just as easily be carving out stone to build the pyramids.

  ‘You should come back here,’ she purrs. ‘Take pictures.’

  ‘I already have.’ Turning towards her Pete kisses her cheek. ‘I knew you’d see it like I do, you know. That you’d understand. Because we’re soulmates, you and me. Listen,’ he adds. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He tugs from his pocket a small cardboard box little bigger than a box of matches, wrapped in candy-striped paper that reminds Alma of the seaside. ‘It’s not much, but when I saw it… Well, I thought of you.’

  ‘A token of your affection?’ Alma jokes, squinting into the solar glare.

  ‘If you’ll accept it, yes.’

  Taking the gift, she slides her forefinger beneath the paper to reveal a tiny jewellery box and peers inside. Buried within a nest of cotton wool is a slender, silver chain.

  Hooking the necklace with her little finger, she raises it to the light. But as she stares a
t it she sees something else. That in this simple exchange is a kind of a turning point. Alma takes his hand in hers then drops the chain into the centre of his open palm.

  ‘Oh Pete,’ she murmurs, noticing the uncertainty now clouding his face. ’It’s beautiful. Really, I love it. Can you help me put it on?’

  Dipping her head, Alma relishes the dry touch of sun against the back of her neck as Pete secures the clasp. Then, as she closes her eyes, she experiences a curious sensation of completeness. This is it, isn’t it? she asks the voice inside her. A coming together of two separate halves. A perfect submission to our fate.

  19

  Fort William, February 2016

  Zeb takes a seat on the bench outside the bookies then unfolds her map and plots a route to the shop where Anna works.

  As it starts to rain, she pulls the hood of her jacket over her head. But as she tries to make sense of the scrap she tore from the magazine, sheltering it as well as she can, she realises the map is too imprecise. Of the alien fretwork of streets, only the largest are marked by name and the landmarks detailed are a handful of town centre pubs which stock the beer sold by the map’s sponsor, a local brewery. What she can see, though, is that the town centre appears too small to get lost in.

  Behind her, next to the bookies, is the tourist information office. Closed ’til lunchtime for family service, a handwritten note stuck to the inside of the window says.

  Rather than wait and get drenched, Zeb sets off at pace towards a pedestrianised street lined by shops on either side, some of which contain staff getting ready for the start of business.

  Without thinking to ask directions, she turns on what feels like a whim down a left-hand side street where, at the bottom, she finds an alley on her right. Scanning the blackened walls of the end buildings on either side for any hint of the street’s name and finding none, she is about to retrace her steps to the shopping street when she spots a sign hanging from above the door of a small building at the far end. Three words that spell out the name The Bass Clef.