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

by Meg Carter

  ‘Zeb?’

  ‘Yes?’ she answers, straightening up instinctively at the sound of Richard’s voice.

  ‘That was lucky, I was just about to hang up.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘You left it with my parents, remember?’ Her ex’s response is punctuated by an impatient sigh. ’Yesterday afternoon when you dropped off Matty. Where are you?’

  Finally, the receptionist has finished her call. She points at the visitors’ book with a freshly manicured forefinger. ‘Could you fill in your details, including your home address?’ she mouths.

  ‘A place called Beauloch near Fort William.’

  ‘Why?’

  Zeb scowls. Why not, she thinks, crossly, balancing her phone against her cheek as she fills in her details. What right do you have to judge? But no, she must rein it in, she knows; try not to be so defensive. It’s important for him to believe in her efforts – her determination – to get things back on an even keel.

  ‘I’m just up here for a night for… work. There’s a collector Kirsty wanted me to meet,’ she ad-libs, wildly. Did she tell him she quit her job? She can’t be sure. ‘He’s thinking of making a donation of some early daguerreotypes to the gallery. I’ll be back Tuesday in time to collect Matty from school, as I’ve a meeting first to see Dad’s solicitor.’ But that meeting is tomorrow, she now realises, angrily. How the hell could I forget? As soon as she gets into her room she will call to express her sincerest apologies. ‘How’s Matty? Can I have a word?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Richard grumbles. ‘I’m at work and he’s at school.’

  Slumping against the reception desk, Zeb struggles to swallow back the disappointment. Barely seeing her son in the days following Dad’s death was a trial, but one she dealt with by keeping busy. Then when Richard suggested that he take Matty away around the time of the funeral because he was too young to attend, she’d been too emotional to disagree. But after no contact for two weeks then only the briefest of reunions, her need to hear his voice is a desperate craving.

  ‘I’ll call later then.’

  With a glance at her screen, the receptionist reaches towards a bank of hooks on the wall, in search of Zeb’s room key. She slides it along the counter.

  ‘Try after six but before bedtime – so no later than half seven.’

  ‘I know when bedtime is,’ she answers, tartly.

  ‘Just to be clear.’

  Zeb winces. ‘Thank you Richard,’ she tries, more gently this time. ‘For being so supportive at what’s been such a… difficult… time. And please do pass on my thanks to Hugh and Jennifer, too. They’ve been a great comfort.’

  Her ex’s voice warms. ‘You know my parents dote on Matty.’

  As the line goes dead Zeb waits for her nerves to subside. She is relieved Richard didn’t challenge her lie about being here on business. Yet his pompous tone makes it hard to feel anything but resentful.

  The hotel lobby with its distant clatter of lunchtime service, its damp dog and woodsmoke smells slip in and then out of focus. Fearful she might faint, Zeb’s knuckles whiten as she grasps the counter’s edge. She stares at the oil painting of a Highland landscape on the wall opposite, then at the ornate silver dagger displayed in the glass-fronted box beneath.

  Then a chilling memory. Angel! the man child had cried, hugging the creature to his chest. Inert now, its spume-flecked mouth was clotted. It was a lumpen, crimson, broken thing. My Angel!

  She remembers how the dog had leapt towards her. The dull weight of the kitchen knife. The rage in the creature’s eye. The taste of whisky from that miniature she’d downed for Dutch courage before leaving the hotel. The shock that even as the blade slid hilt-deep there was no blood, not at first. But then, as the knife withdrew, the rapid release of scarlet. Blood on her face, her hands; the heat of it. Then, worse: the stranger – a man yet a man with a wet-lipped boy’s face – dropping to his knees. And finally, the awful truth.

  I killed it, she acknowledges, horrified. Davy’s dog, Angel. I stabbed it, through the heart.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ The receptionist is peering at her over a pair of half-moon spectacles balanced on the end of her nose. ‘A table for lunch, perhaps?’

  ‘No, nothing – thanks,’ Zeb says, startled. All she wants now is to retreat. ‘Really. Thank you. Everything… really… it’s all… OK.’

  The woman nods. ‘Through the far door then right past the breakfast room, up the stairs to the first floor, then third along the corridor to your left,’ she instructs. Then her face twitches into a faint smile. ‘And Miss Hamilton?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Welcome back.’

  20

  Mornington Crescent, September 1975

  Alma is woken by a distant rumble, like furniture being moved. She grasps the corner of the eiderdown which has fallen to the floor her side of the bed. She is naked. But though the flat was hot and airless when they lay down on the bed a short while earlier, now the open bedroom window is shaking in a gathering wind.

  Curious to know if Pete heard the sounds that have just woken her, Alma rolls onto her back. But he is fast asleep, snoring. As she tucks the eiderdown around her, occasional shafts of feathers poke her skin.

  Tilting her face up towards the window, Alma stares at the darkening sky. Jostling rain clouds are all she can see, which makes her uneasy. Like the way she felt as a child when, returning from a wet Sunday afternoon outing, it looked like darkness would fall before they could make it back home. Though this is early September. And it’s only mid-afternoon.

  Must be one hell of a late summer storm, she thinks, flinching as the first drops of rain break against the pane.

  Closing her eyes, Alma imagines the weekend shoppers in the West End for the day cramming the streets below now hurrying, ant-like, towards Kings Cross and Euston for their trains home. The stallholders at the new market by Camden Lock deciding whether to shut up early. Morecambe & Wise and a TV dinner for the keepers working late at the nearby zoo.

  She slips her feet onto the floor. The carpet’s deep pile is a delicious contrast to the stripped wooden floors of Pete’s old place on Rivington Street, which Phil had lost – pub and all – to a business debt.

  With just forty-eight hours’ notice, Patsy had insisted her ex find her son somewhere else, however temporary. And for perhaps the first time in his life, the man was as good as his word. For a peppercorn rent, Pete now has use of this two-bedroom flat on the tenth floor of a high rise built in the mid-Sixties behind Mornington Crescent.

  With its panoramic views across Victorian rooftops westwards, and the valleys of railway tracks pointing to the tree-lined fringes of Regent’s Park, the place has quickly become a welcome refuge. Secret and secure, this eyrie has provided the perfect antidote to her return to the Conservatoire for the autumn term. For despite talk last year of renting a flat with Viola, Alma’s parents have forced her to return, instead, for a second year in halls.

  Alma can now see it was inevitable her parents would find out about Pete.

  Watching from her upstairs window, Mrs Douglas had spotted the sitting room table lamp which Alma left on, and the upstairs bedroom window curtains left undrawn. She had wasted no time telling the Reverend and his wife about Alma and the male companion she had seen. And she knew for a fact they’d gone away together, on their own, for almost a week.

  It was all somewhat suspicious, the woman had said.

  As was the timing of Alma’s return four days later when Pete had dropped her off just an hour before her parents’ arrival. Most damning, however, was the length and intensity of their parting kiss. It was an intimate moment which given the care Pete had taken to shield her out of view beneath the leylandii, Alma calculated the old cow could only have witnessed through a crack in the fence.

  Punishment was inevitable, and all about teaching Alma a lesson.

  She would return to London, and be grateful for it, on signi
ficantly reduced living expenses until Christmas, her father decreed. She would live in a single room to guard against an inappropriate roommate who might lead her further astray. And she would end her friendship with her boyfriend, too – something that he planned to work in close contact with college authorities to ensure. Which is why – for anything other than official, supervised course-related activities – Alma must now adhere to a 6pm nightly curfew.

  It was a high price to pay, but one in line with the severity of her transgression, her father said. And standing before him, with her fingers crossed behind her back, she had agreed.

  Buoyed by the memory of those four glorious days with Pete in Dymchurch, spent mainly in a four-poster bed in the front-facing bedroom with its barely noticed sea views, she knows she will somehow bear it. Evenings out with friends may now be banned, but in her father’s naivety he has failed to limit her from spending daytime hours with Pete.

  Alma’s wings may have been clipped, she thinks, but she is far from beaten.

  All she needs now is Viola.

  Within hours of her return, Alma had been thrilled to discover that her old roommate had been allocated the only other single room in hall on the same floor as her, just two rooms down. But she must wait another day or two more to learn precisely why – and, indeed, what are the family reasons that have delayed her friend’s return to London.

  Knowing Viola, however, she is sure that this is just a manufactured excuse and that really everything is OK.

  On the mattress by her side, Pete rolls over without opening his eyes.

  Careful not to disturb him, Alma gets out of bed then creeps out of the master bedroom, along the corridor and into the bathroom then closes the door behind her. What would her parents think of it all, she wonders, pulling a face at her reflection in the mirror as she brushes her teeth before stepping into the shower.

  They would be horrified by the speed with which Pete and she became intimate, of course. By the fact they are still together, too. The spontaneous rough cut of him. His mother’s open-hearted giddiness and the roulette-wheel unpredictability of his stepfather’s late night world. They would be bemused, too, by how effortlessly wealthy bankers like Viola’s dad rub shoulders with upstart market traders and West End theatre types. A place where cash talks louder than class.

  But this is a world as legitimate as her parents’ cloistered rural fiefdom. A world of possibility that certainly feels more vibrant and alive; somehow, more real.

  Wrapped in Pete’s dressing down, Alma pats her hair with a towel but as she tries to comb it through finds it knotted and tangled. She spots a bottle of hair conditioner standing on the shelf, between bottles of shower gel, shampoo and Pete’s shaving products, and reaches for it.

  The treatment is for coloured hair; an expensive brand. Alma sniffs the contents. Squeezing a small amount into the palm of her hand, she slowly rubs the conditioner into her scalp. Once more she runs the comb through her hair but this time meets no resistance. She stares at the bottle for a moment, wondering if she could take it, but has second thoughts.

  Tightening the lid, she drops the conditioner into the plastic carrier bag propped against the wall next to the bin, into which Pete has placed assorted items left in the flat by the previous tenant. There is a half-used bottle of baby oil. Three silk stockings. A large canister of heavy-duty, professional hair lacquer. Vaseline. A pair of eyelash curlers. A black silk sleeping mask.

  Alma is intrigued. Without these clues, she’d simply have assumed from the flat’s taupe-coloured carpets, khaki walls and dark grey curtains that its previous occupant was male; perhaps, even, Phil. Someone who stayed over a few times a week when he was too late to get home to his wife, or too drunk. Maybe just to get laid.

  Thank goodness Pete’s plan is to lighten the decor to make the most of the rooftop views and natural light, just as soon as he has a free weekend.

  As she makes her way back towards the bedroom, a clatter from the kitchen makes Alma jump. Assuming Pete has woken, she turns back along the corridor to follow the sound to its source. But as she steps into the sitting room, an unexpected figure standing at the kitchen counter, filling a teapot with boiling water, stops her in her tracks.

  ‘Excuse me—’ Alma calls out.

  The figure, an auburn-haired woman wearing a long-sleeved denim dress, spins towards her, abruptly. ‘What?’ she counters, defiantly.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  The woman frowns and folds her arms. ‘A question I might just as well ask you.’ Alma’s eyes widen, for the woman is familiar. Though it’s been a while since they met – and, even if she is right, she can’t imagine why Pete’s cousin would be here, unannounced. The other woman reaches for something on the countertop then holds it up, pointedly. ‘I have a key,’ she presses on. ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Alma retorts. ‘Who said you could let yourself in?’

  Chrissie smiles. ‘Pete did.’

  ‘Rubbish. Pete’s asleep.’

  ‘Not just now, earlier in the week. He let me have the spare key so I could come and go if I needed, when things get tricky with Brian.’

  Alma takes a step forward. ‘That’s very—’

  ‘—generous. Yes, it is. But that’s Pete for you. He’s all heart.’

  ‘I was going to say, unlikely.’

  Now Chrissie takes a step towards Alma. ‘Really, how so?’ she glowers.

  ‘Because he would have told me.’

  The other woman laughs. ‘Tells you everything, does he?’

  Alma nods, firmly. ‘In the main.’

  ‘Told you about us then, did he?’ she sneers.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Us. Pete and me. We used to go out.’

  Alma snorts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’re cousins. Besides, he would have said.’

  Chrissie shakes her head. ‘Not unless he had to. So I guess he hasn’t had to, not until now. But the thing is, Little Miss Perfect, blood’s thicker than water, see? And when it comes to the crunch, family trumps all. We were each other’s first kiss. Our first something else, too—’ She interrupts herself with a laugh. ‘But let’s not go into that. Just think of us as kissing cousins.’

  Alma narrows her eyes. ‘Well that’s your thing, I guess.’

  Chrissie takes another step forward. ‘Are you suggesting I’m a—’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Both women turn towards Pete who has appeared in the sitting room doorway dressed only in a pair of crumpled jeans. ‘Chrissie, what are you doing here?’

  ‘She let herself in,’ says Alma, affronted.

  ‘Because you gave me a key.’

  ‘For an emergency,’ Pete interjects.

  ‘Which this is?’ His cousin shrugs.

  ‘Sorry,’ he adds. ‘I didn’t quite hear you. What happened?’

  ‘Brian and I… we had a row,’ she mumbles.

  ‘A row. But not an emergency. Look, Chrissie, I meant what I said about being here to help as and when you need it. But until you do, please—’ He holds out his hands then lets them fall. ‘—just don’t take the piss. And while you’re at it, you can set the record straight about what you just said to Alma about you and me being kissing cousins. Go on.’

  But Chrissie says nothing.

  ‘How old were we…? I said—’

  ‘Oh all right, then.’ She scowls ‘Ten and twelve.’

  ‘And what happened, exactly? Other than a misguided peck and a grope, I mean.’ His cousin mumbles something. ’I’m sorry, I don’t think Alma and I quite caught that.’

  ‘I said, nothing,’ snaps Chrissie, reaching for her bag and coat.

  Pete accompanies his cousin into the hall. Closing the front door behind her, he secures the chain before coming back into the room and taking a seat beside Alma.

  He smiles, tentatively. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I guess. Is there anyone else who might drop in?’

  Pete shakes hi
s head. ‘I’ll change the locks. You can have the spare key.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hey, are you sure you’re OK?’ Pete says, reaching his arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry if that gave you a fright.’

  Though the exchange with Chrissie has unnerved Alma, it isn’t that that plays on her mind. It’s the same idea she had after that Sunday lunch at Patsy’s. The sudden hope, buoyed by a growing understanding of some of the family dynamics in Pete’s life, that maybe the time will soon be right for her to open up fully to him; to come clean about the conflict of emotions that muddy and magnify the feelings she has for her own family. Anger and resentment. Pity. Guilt. Regret. The lingering belief that only by admitting what happened in Vienna can she ensure the love they feel for each other will take root on solid ground.

  But, as ever, her chance has passed.

  Pete walks to the kitchen counter and takes out two mugs from the cupboard. ‘Fancy a cuppa now it’s brewed?’ Bending down, he takes a bottle of silver top from the fridge.

  ‘OK. But no milk for me,’ she mumbles, suddenly feeling queasy.

  21

  Beauloch, February 2016

  The bedside table vibrates as the phone, a retro Bakelite replica with an old-fashioned rotary dial, lets out a tinny ring. More asleep than awake, Zeb struggles at first to remember where she is. Wrapped in a soft white towel, she is lying adrift on a sea of tartan that covers a large double bed.

  Her eyes quickly scan the unfamiliar contours of a spacious bedroom. In the corner is an oak wardrobe tall enough to almost brush the ceiling. To its left there is a broad bay window, with a seat built into the base, upholstered in tartan. On the other side, a leather armchair and matching footstool beside a large chest of drawers, on which rests the crumb-covered plate from the club sandwich she ordered earlier. Her black holdall sits on a collapsible case stand.