Forget Her Name: A gripping thriller with a twist you won't see coming

by Jane Holland

  Yes, I wanted a cat as a child. A soft, fluffy kitten who would run after dangled wool and cuddle up to me at night.

  But there was a very good reason they decided against getting a cat. Because of Rachel’s hatred for animals. Not least the day she tortured and killed that unfortunate stray in front of me. And further traumatised me by plucking out its eye, and . . .

  The snow globe.

  I close my eyes and push that memory away. It’s easier to do than I feared. But then, it was always quiet here at the top of the house. The windows are specially double-glazed to be soundproof, and the noise of traffic below is barely audible. That’s one reason I spent so long up here after Rachel’s death. I felt cocooned, a rook in a high nest, cut off from the rush and confusion of the city below. Like I was all alone in the world, and nothing could bother me. Not even the most troubling memories of my sister.

  I let myself drift into sleep. I’ll mention Rachel’s snow globe at dinner. That’s why I’ve come to see them, after all.

  We eat in the dining room, not the breakfast room, which surprises me. The dining room is long and very grand, and normally reserved for when my parents have company. And I hardly count as ‘company’. But the table was laid by Kasia before she left, Mum tells me. It has been covered with a cream damask tablecloth, and laid with wine and water glasses, and slender silver cutlery. There’s a floral centrepiece too, white roses with delicate green candles, and for each person a damask napkin enclosed in a silver-plated napkin ring.

  There’s an empty seat opposite me. No place setting, but the seat is there.

  I glance at it briefly, and then away.

  ‘How’s Dominic getting on at the hospital?’ my mother asks, and I smile, turning to her, only too happy to talk about someone other than myself.

  While I describe Dominic’s recent issues at St Hilda’s, I’m aware of my dad watching me, his eyes intent. Such close scrutiny makes me uneasy, but I keep talking. I know what he’s thinking. That Dominic isn’t good enough for me. Such crap. None of the boys I’ve dated have ever been good enough for him. At first I was disheartened by his patent disapproval of Dominic – ‘A male nurse?’ Dad had repeated when I first mentioned his job, clearly horrified – but Dominic himself persuaded me to let it go.

  ‘Parents never like the guys their daughters date,’ he assured me, grinning. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  I did worry though, but secretly, and certainly didn’t allow Dad to influence my choice of boyfriend.

  Dinner over, Mum disappears into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, again rejecting my offer of help.

  I stay at the table, talking politics with Dad.

  ‘Are you happy with this man?’ he asks suddenly, reaching for my hand.

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘You’d tell me if you weren’t? You wouldn’t hide it from me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, you know I would.’ Embarrassed, I pull my hand away, and feel his gaze narrow on my face. ‘Look, everything’s fine. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘Your mum said you sounded unhappy on the phone. She thought there might be a problem.’

  ‘Not with Dominic.’

  He nods slowly, his expression giving nothing away. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I love Dominic.’ I have to struggle not to raise my voice. Would he be this overprotective if I were his son? ‘How can you even think that? For God’s sake, I’m marrying him in a few weeks.’

  ‘People change their minds sometimes.’

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘Okay,’ he repeats, but continues to watch me closely.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t treat me like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like some stupid kid who doesn’t know her own mind.’ My mother comes back in, carrying a tray of coffee. ‘I told you before, everything’s going fine with our wedding plans. We know what we’re doing. So you don’t need to worry. Either of you.’

  Mum looks worriedly from me to my father. ‘I only left you two alone for five minutes. Don’t tell me you’ve argued again?’

  ‘Not at all,’ my father says smoothly.

  He reaches out again and pats my hand before I can stop him. A deeply patronising gesture, though I know Dad’s probably unaware of his own latent sexism. I suppress my little burst of temper and say nothing.

  ‘Typical dad–daughter stuff, that’s all,’ he says easily. ‘And it seems we’ve had a false alarm. No probs with the delectable Dom, after all.’ He sniffs the air appreciatively. ‘That smells amazing, Ellen. It’s been a long day. Endless bloody problems at work. I could murder a cup of coffee.’

  Mum pours us all a cup of coffee, her movements precise and studied. Then she sits back in her place and smiles at me. It looks like she’s brushed her silvery-blonde hair while out of the room. There’s not a strand out of place.

  The perfect society hostess.

  ‘So, darling,’ she says, ‘if the wedding’s still on, and you and Dominic are still madly in love, what on earth’s bothering you? I don’t want to come across as one of these irritating mother-hen types, but you did sound a little upset on the phone. And you hardly ever pop over to see us these days.’ She searches my face, then her smile fades. ‘Oh God, you’re not . . . you’re not expecting, are you?’

  I almost laugh out loud, but then see a similar look of alarm etched on my dad’s face. ‘Of course not. It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’ Dad sips his black coffee and settles back in his seat, crossing his long legs. Like a crane fly, we used to say as girls, giggling at him in shorts. Daddy-Long-Legs. ‘What’s this visit about?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Rachel.’

  Chapter Nine

  A thick silence follows my sister’s name, as I guessed it might.

  My parents never like to discuss Rachel with me, not even in passing conversation. Mum is sitting so still, she seems to be holding her breath. My parents look at each other down the length of the dining table as though I’ve said something explosive. Talk about the black sheep of the family, I think, gulping down a mouthful of hot coffee to hide my nerves and only succeeding in scalding my mouth.

  I can hardly blame them for that reaction, of course. My own memories of my older sister are not exactly fond. In fact, I still have nightmares . . .

  Dad puts his cup down carefully.

  ‘Rachel?’

  Looking directly at him, I say, ‘A parcel arrived for me at the food bank. I don’t know who sent it. But when I opened it . . . Rachel’s snow globe was inside.’

  He stares at me. ‘Her snow globe?’

  ‘With an eyeball inside it.’

  My mother makes a noise of protest, a hand at her mouth. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘It was a horrible shock. Which I imagine was the whole point.’ Noting my mum’s sudden pallor and wide eyes, I say, ‘Though it turned out not to be as gruesome as it appeared. I took it to Louise – she’s a nurse at the hospital, a friend of Dominic’s – and she confirmed my suspicions. It isn’t human.’

  My mother lets out a shaky breath. ‘You mean it was a fake? One of those joke-shop eyeballs?’

  ‘No, it was a real eyeball.’ I think back over the phone call from Louise. ‘Just not human. Probably a cow’s eye, Louise told me.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Mum says faintly.

  ‘They’re quite easy to get hold of, apparently. Butcher shops have them. And abattoirs. Places like that.’

  Dad stirs at last, sitting forward with obvious interest. ‘So who on earth sent you this . . . cow’s eyeball?’

  ‘I told you,’ I say, ‘I don’t know. There was no sender’s address on the parcel. And nothing inside either.’

  ‘How convenient.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  But he sidesteps the question, asking instead, ‘What did Dominic say?’

  Now it’s my turn to feel uncomfortable. ‘He doesn’t know.’

  For a mome
nt, nobody says anything.

  My father frowns, studying my face. ‘You’re telling us you received something that ghoulish in the post . . . and didn’t tell your fiancé?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Why, may I ask?’

  ‘I didn’t want to alarm him,’ I say, not entirely untruthfully.

  ‘You didn’t want to alarm him?’ my dad repeats. ‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous. The man works in a hospital. He can hardly be squeamish.’

  That wasn’t what I meant, of course. I hesitate. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘I see,’ he says drily.

  Mum glares at him. ‘Robert.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ He shrugs, a vague hunching of his shoulders. But I can tell he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said tonight. He’s just humouring me for Mum’s benefit. And perhaps mine, too. ‘So let’s see if I’ve got this right. The cow’s eyeball was inside Rachel’s snow globe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re certain it was her snow globe? Not simply a similar-looking one?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say again.

  ‘But how can you be so sure?’

  ‘Well, for a start, “Rachel” was written on the plinth. It was a typed label, just like the one I remember.’ I’m struggling to sound credible, hearing myself and thinking wildly: I wouldn’t believe this either. ‘Obviously, I should have brought it with me. But to be honest, I didn’t think you wouldn’t believe me. And I couldn’t stand to look at the horrible thing again. I’ve hidden it.’

  ‘Hidden it?’

  ‘In our flat,’ I tell them.

  He glances at my mother again.

  I look from one to the other, reading their shuttered expressions with dismay. They think I’m losing it.

  I want to leave. That’s my first unhappy impulse. Leave now before they humiliate me any further. Snow globes and eyeballs. What must they be thinking? I made a mistake coming here tonight. I could have been snug at home in front of the telly, or falling asleep in a deep bubble bath, waiting for Dominic’s key in the door. He’s my rock, my safe haven.

  I should have told Dominic instead. He would have believed me without question. He would have understood how much this incident is shaking my confidence. He wouldn’t speak to me as if I were deranged. But I didn’t want to drag him into the nightmare of my past.

  I’m angry now. Angry and confused.

  ‘I thought maybe . . .’

  Dad raises his brows, his searching glance on my face again. ‘Yes?’

  ‘That maybe it was you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Who sent me the snow globe.’

  Mum says something in quick denial, clearly distressed. But I miss it in the sudden grate of my dad’s chair on the marbled floor of the dining room.

  ‘Get up.’

  I stand in confusion, staring at him. Is Dad throwing me out? He grabs for my wrist. His fingers curl round the narrow bones like a manacle, and he squeezes, jerking me forward.

  ‘Come with me, Catherine.’

  I’m scared for a second, but he isn’t threatening me. Not with violence, anyway. His voice is one I recognise from childhood. That ‘you’re in trouble now’ tone. It makes me instantly defensive.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s something I need to show you.’

  Flushed and breathless, I try to shake him loose. ‘No.’

  Dad isn’t expecting resistance. I see the flash in his eyes. He refuses to let go, tightening his grip. ‘Now you listen to me—’

  ‘Ow, that bloody hurts.’

  ‘Robert!’ Mum exclaims.

  He looks round at her, releasing my wrist. But his face is dark with anger. Anger or shame, I’m not sure which. Maybe a touch of guilt, too. And he should be bloody guilty, the way he just treated me.

  ‘Follow me,’ he says abruptly, and leaves the room.

  When I stride angrily after him into the hall, Dad is already heading upstairs.

  ‘Up here, Catherine.’

  I hesitate, then follow him.

  There’s an old, dark-wood chest on the landing outside the guest room, ornately carved, gleaming with polish. My father is waiting beside it with folded arms.

  I approach him warily, mistrusting the look in his eyes. I can smell beeswax from the polished chest, and a faint scent of flowers mixed with chemicals emanating from the pale-blue-and-white carpet.

  Kasia has been hard at work up here too, I think.

  I look down at the chest. I recognise it as having stood at the foot of my parents’ bed once. It held linen then, I recall. Neat stacks of freshly laundered sheets and duvet covers, all beautifully ironed and folded, a sachet of lavender slipped between the sheets at intervals to keep the linen scented. Mum sometimes sent me tiptoeing into their bedroom at night to fetch fresh sheets for my bed – there were embarrassingly frequent bed-wetting occasions in my childhood – and I remember lifting the lid quietly, so quietly, to avoid waking Dad, and then dragging out armfuls of clean, lavender-scented sheets.

  Now the chest has been moved onto the landing for some reason. Somehow I doubt it still holds linen.

  ‘Open it,’ he tells me.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just open it.’

  It’s obvious that he won’t be happy until I’ve performed this stupid little charade for him. So I kneel, feeling ridiculous, and open the heavy, creaking lid of the chest.

  Inside the chest are things I recognise from childhood. Not my things though. It’s a jumble of old dolls and teddy bears, stuffed animals, toys, Christmas annuals and a few much-thumbed paperbacks. Some collections of poems, some paranormal romances and an illustrated paperback of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass. I hesitate over that, pick it up, then put it back.

  ‘These are Rachel’s,’ I say, and glance up at him, frowning. ‘So what?’

  I try to close the lid, but his voice stops me.

  ‘Take another look.’ Dad’s watching me, his face unreadable in shadow, the landing light behind his head. ‘A proper look, please.’

  Reluctantly, I pluck a teen novel out of the chest and flick through it. It’s one of the paranormal romances. Witches in a coven, fixing love potions or making up curses. There’s occasional red pen in the margins, too. Some kind of commentary on the text? I try to skim through quickly, not reading my sister’s angry scribble. But a few words leap out at me.

  SLAG, one angry note reads, heavily circled and underlined, with five exclamation marks. Another states simply, LIAR. There are numerous scribbled doodles, too. Animals with sad expressions. Heart shapes with dark-red crosses scored through them. Then, on one page, a completed hangman picture, the dashes filled out beside it in childish capital letters.

  C A T

  Shuddering, I drop the book back into the chest as if it’s burning my fingers.

  ‘Okay, so you’ve cleared out her old bedroom at last. It was about time. What’s your point?’

  Dad studies me for a moment, until I grow uneasy under his stare. ‘Catherine, please, don’t play games. It’s not funny. We both know it’s in there. You can’t pretend it’s not.’

  I stare up at him, confused.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The snow globe.’ He sounds angry again. ‘You’re right, I finally got around to clearing out Rachel’s room a few weeks back. Kasia helped me sort this lot out. We threw some stuff away too. Took her old clothes to a charity shop.’ He pauses. ‘It’s something we should have done years ago. Ridiculous to hold on to it all. Like keeping a shrine.’

  I look away, uncomfortable.

  ‘If it had been up to me alone,’ Dad continues, ‘I’d have thrown the whole lot out. I mean, what’s the point? But your mother got upset. She wanted to keep a few things at least. Personal items.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the snow globe is in there. I put it there myself. Bloody thing was leaking, but your mother wouldn’t hear of me throwing it out. So I wrapped it in a plastic bag.’
<
br />   I glance into the chest again. It isn’t completely full. The soft toys and the stack of tatty annuals take up most of the room. But there are plenty of smaller items at the bottom. I bend over the chest and carefully move my sister’s possessions aside, one by one, searching right down to the wooden base.

  There’s no plastic bag. No snow globe.

  ‘Well, it’s not there now.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  I stand aside while my father bends too, searching the chest with mounting urgency. ‘Where the hell?’ He flings Rachel’s toys aside, practically emptying the contents onto the landing. ‘I don’t understand.’

  I fold my arms across my chest. I want to stay calm. To be adult about this, as he had asked me to be. But my heart is beating fast, like I’ve been running, and there’s a familiar flush spreading over my cheeks.

  He straightens at last, his face pale. ‘You’re right,’ he says heavily. ‘It’s not there anymore.’

  ‘So you were wrong,’ I say, unable to keep the hurt and anger out of my voice. ‘I wasn’t playing games.’

  ‘It would appear not.’

  ‘You could at least apologise for accusing me of lying.’

  I wait for an apology.

  My father says nothing, of course. He’s rigid, his brows drawn together.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter.

  I slam the chest shut and glare round at him. I’m his only surviving child. Yet I might as well be a stranger, the amount of suspicion and uncertainty I can see in his face.

  ‘When are you going to start believing me for a change, Dad?’

  Chapter Ten

  There’s a fire engine skewed to a halt outside Gloucester Road tube station, and several police cars parked alongside it. There are no sirens, but flashing blue lights bounce eerily off glass all around the station. As I approach, I see that the entrance to the station has been cordoned off, the concourse empty except for one bearded police officer on the phone. A noticeboard has been dragged out into the street, where it’s flexing back and forth, in danger of being blown down by the wind. On it someone has written in black marker pen Station Closed Due To A Serious Incident, followed by two alternative stations within easy walking distance.