Care For Me: A tense and engrossing psychological thriller for fans of Clare Mackintosh

by Farah Cook

  I examine her close. She has elegant features, fair skin. Her nose is pierced. I don’t ask, but I know that from this she is definitely not Kashmiri.

  ‘Tell me more about your daughter,’ she says. ‘About Amira.’

  ‘She is like her father, with a much sharper edge. My mother was a lot like her too, although she was a happy person.’

  ‘And Amira isn’t?’

  ‘She is strong-minded, with a will of iron. We used to be close. I don’t know what happened. Amira is less forgiving than her father. She has his brain, but not his compassion.’

  ‘I’m sure things will change. Mothers hold a special place with daughters.’

  ‘Yes, they do.’ Perhaps if I were closer to Amira, I wouldn’t be sitting here chatting to Zahra. I would be in the comfort of my own home.

  ‘I’d like to meet Amira next time she’s here.’ She undoes her ponytail, hair swinging onto her shoulders. One corner of her mouth tipping upwards as if pulled by a string.

  ‘I am not sure that’s such a good idea,’ I hesitate. ‘Let’s see what happens.’

  Zahra smiles when I finish my plate, wipes the sauce from my mouth with the napkin gently. ‘Something sweet for the sweet lady.’ She opens a tin that’s full of golden ladoo. I take the biggest I can find and push it into my mouth at once. Yellow crumbs gather in my lap and I laugh with her as we both look at the mess.

  ‘I love mithai,’ she picks a ladoo and eats it in the same way I have done.

  ‘Me too,’ I take another without hesitating. Amira isn’t around to tell me off.

  ‘How about I save the rest for a rainy day? I’ll bring it to your room.’ There’s a glint in her eyes. ‘I wont tell anyone about it.’ I nod. I know we are going to get along just fine.

  Saturday, 23 November 2019

  The daylight is sharp, and I bring a hand in front of my face, shielding my eyes from the sun. I’m sitting in the garden with Nisha. A teapot is on the table with two saucers and a plate with assorted biscuits. Nisha pours tea into our cups. She’s in a wheelchair, her legs covered in a blanket. No gold bracelets glint around her wrists.

  ‘What have you done to your bracelets?’

  She shrugs. ‘Diya took them because she was afraid they’d get lost.’

  I know how much Nisha likes wearing jewellery. It’s the only thing that makes an Asian woman shine with age. She presses a biscuit between her teeth. I don’t feel like eating anything sweet today. My mouth is moist, filled with the taste of sugar and ghee.

  ‘They said it will rain in the afternoon. That’s when Margaret was meant to take me out for a walk.’ She holds out her palms. ‘No one wants to walk in the rain except for Carol. She likes the rain.’

  ‘Who is Carol?’

  ‘You must have met Carol. Big girl, talks a lot. It’s impossible not to notice her.’

  ‘I remember who she is. I saw her sitting in the library. I think she said call me Kate, Katie. Anne, Anna.’ We both laugh.

  There’s a long silence. Nisha looks at me. ‘Michael said he will light up the fireplace in the little reading room. I like sitting in front of the fire, reminds me of the time I married Anand. We walked the seven rounds around the Agni.’

  ‘Michael?’ I see a man with a missing front tooth. He looks after the house – the caretaker. He said he was going to get me an Urdu book from the library in town.

  ‘Diya doesn’t want to re-marry. Still, I let her keep my bangles. The Pandit warned me. Her janam kundali didn’t match with that man she wanted to marry. Now I’m waiting for her to do the seven peras again to fulfil Saptapadi.’ Nisha pulls the blanket close to her chest. ‘Join me inside if you like? It will be cosy and warm.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, no I don’t like sitting by the fire.’

  ‘You prefer being in the garden?’ She laughs, a sharp bark. ‘Don’t catch a cold.’

  Nisha babbles on and on about the weather. The freshly planted flowers. Colourful and lovely. Suddenly, she speaks to me as if I am a stranger. We stop talking about our usual things. Jewellery. Food. Family.

  I ask Nisha if she knows who I am. She laughs loud this time and says, ‘Don’t be rude. How can I forget you, Afrah Bibi?’

  ‘Nisha, I want to go home. This place, I do not like it. I can’t explain what it is.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Her mouth falls open, shapeless like a bag. ‘Why would you want to leave? It’s wonderful. Calm and serene. Here, people look after me. Here, I can do what I want without anyone complaining. I’m at peace.’ She takes another biscuit, covered in thick chocolate, dips it into her tea and eats it in one mouthful.

  Words begin to spin inside my head. Rules. Two or three gongs for bedtime or supper, or both? I don’t know, it’s unclear and muddled. What was her name, little Myrtle sneeze? No, it was Cookie, wasn’t it?

  Nisha shrugs. ‘I, I don’t remember what I was saying. Tell me, what was I saying?’

  ‘You can stay. I want to go home. Is there a way out?’ I look at the black gates. I am trapped. There’s no way out. Even if there was, I wouldn’t be able to go far. Beyond the garden, the line of trees is endless. A thick forest, dark. The sea hugs the cliffs and a barren landscape. Where would I go, and how would I reach home? There is no escape.

  Looking out and beyond, a vast emptiness surrounds me. The quiet valleys and cold hills, with their dramatic, flat ridges, they inhabit the dark and uncontrolled borders of the woods. At the brink of it sits this old Victorian manor, resting like a silent grave. The narrow drive up to the house is bordered by old limbs of large swaying trees. Out here among the untamed wilderness, I feel restless like an animal. The wind ruffles through my body and my mind. The weather is changing.

  Nisha drinks her tea. ‘You miss your daughter. I hate to admit it, but I also miss Diya.’

  I almost forgot to tell Nisha. I smile leaning closer. ‘Amira rang,’ I let out the excitement filling my voice. ‘I can’t remember when—’

  ‘What did she say?’ Nisha licks the chocolate from her lips.

  ‘She is coming to visit me today.’ I hear my own silly grin ring in my ears.

  ‘Did you forget already?’ says Nisha. ‘Amira has already been.’

  ‘When?’ I trace my memory back, but nothing comes to mind. ‘No she hasn’t.’

  ‘She was here this morning, and brought you a basket full of fruit and the new pair of shoes snuggled around your knobbly feet.’

  I look down, only to realise I am wearing a pair of shiny shoes. The leather tight, yet soft. I have no memory of how it came to be that I have new shoes.

  ‘Where’s the fruit basket?’

  ‘Carol ate most of the apples. I didn’t touch the grapes. Diya never brings me anything. Why can’t she be more like Amira? Your daughter is so sweet.’

  I don’t remember Amira being here. It must have been a short visit.

  There’s a scraping sound. The gardener uses a rake to gather fallen leaves.

  ‘Liam was complaining about the strange smell coming from the kitchen,’ says Nisha. ‘I think he meant the smell came from your Pakistani food.’

  ‘He probably never had a good curry,’ I say.

  The gardener stops, holding the shaft with one hand and resting his chin on the handle, staring in our direction. A cold unnerving glare.

  ‘Who is he?’ I wonder what’s wrong with him since he looks so miserable.

  ‘That’s Liam. He looks after the garden. Thinks he owns Ravenswood Lodge.’

  I know he’s the gardener. I wonder who he is and why he is unfriendly. ‘Tell him not to stare like that.’ I find most of the staff to be unfriendly. All orders and rules, no smiles. Except for Zahra. She always smiles.

  ‘No use,’ says Nisha. ‘He doesn’t like our kind. Calls me Gandhi when no one is around. I told Margaret. She insisted he meant no harm. Sometimes I don’t remember what he says. This Liam, he says some very strange things.’

  ‘He said something to me passing by, if only I could rememb
er his words. Harsh, like the look on his face.’ I try not to let his glare bother me.

  ‘If he ever speaks to you again, ignore him,’ says Nisha. ‘I try writing things down to remember them better. But it is simply no use. I have scribbles with Post-its in my room with no clue what I write down. When and why it matters, or what I did. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. God knows.’

  I tell Nisha about my diary and how I bookmarked it using colours. ‘It’s how I recall important events like memories and dreams. It’s how I sometimes differentiate between what’s real and what isn’t.’

  ‘Show me,’ says Nisha. ‘I want to see this diary of yours.’

  ‘You can’t,’ I say and twist my hands in my lap. ‘It’s private.’

  I don’t want Nisha to know the things I write. About my dreams.

  An old gentleman in a tweed jacket strides speedily over in our direction. His arms flailing up and down. He steals a biscuit from our plate and goes down to the garden next to the gardener. He loops around and pulls down his trousers and pees all over the flowers.

  ‘Get him, Liam!’ a woman in a blue dress shouts.

  ‘Aye.’ Liam drops his garden tools and walks down the gravelled path. ‘Stop yer doaty old fool.’

  The woman runs in the old gentleman’s direction. She is out of breath. Her face puffy and red like a pig’s. ‘John, how many times have I mentioned, you are not allowed to do this.’ She yanks him to the side. He pulls up his trousers. She grabs his arm and ushers him back towards the house, shaking her head the entire time. He has wispy hair and is almost bald. He stares at me as he passes. Shouts, ‘My biscuits. Give it, give it!’ He runs back and scoops the plate clean.

  ‘Stop it,’ the woman says tugging him towards her. But he isn’t listening. His mouth darkens from the chocolate smeared all over. He laughs. ‘Stop stealing, John.’

  I turn to Nisha, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Still think it’s calm – serene?’

  ‘Ignore that old idiot,’ Nisha laughs out loud. ‘When he’s not snooping into other people’s rooms, he has this nasty habit of peeing outside.’ She pours another cup of tea.

  ‘Did I tell you, Amira is coming today.’

  Nisha shakes her head, drinks from the cup, slurping slowly.

  ‘Clouds are gathering, time to go,’ says a woman who’s just come outside. ‘We expect heavy rain anytime now.’ She pushes Nisha’s wheelchair inside. I sit back and sip my tea. Down the hill, I see the zigzagging track. Through the faint light, a head bobs up like a giant rock. It’s the gardener. He comes up to me and barks something. His expression cold. ‘Excuse me?’ I feel ashamed for not understanding what he’s said.

  ‘Yer kind make me wanna—’

  ‘What?’ I demand.

  ‘Nothing.’ He stomps away without turning around.

  The iron gates open and a car drives onto the twisting road. Smoke rises from the chimney of the house, curls with the mist. Grey clouds scud across the sky above. A woman, fresh-faced with chocolate brown eyes, steps out of the car and walks in my direction. I see a wide smile spread across her face.

  ‘Let’s get you settled inside.’ She has the face of an angel. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  ‘Tell me, who are you?’ Water touches my skin. I am getting wet. Her arm is around mine. And we walk inside. Heavy rain splashes against the windows. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘It’s me, Zahra, remember? I’m glad I made it in time. Otherwise you would have gotten wet sitting out there in the cold and in the rain, you poor thing. You look so tired. How was supper? Did you hear the gong? Have you eaten?’

  I nod. I think I have. I don’t remember what I ate.

  ‘Let’s get you in bed early, skip bath time. OK?’ She seems tense.

  ‘But I am not tired.’ I turn as we walk up the stairs. ‘Where has Nisha gone?’

  ‘I’m sure Margaret is giving her a bath,’ she says in a feathery voice, and I know who she is. ‘I’ll check on Nisha for you tomorrow.’ She strokes my arm gently.

  We reach the top of the stairs and the sign on the wall reads Mill Annex. We turn into the corridor and she stops in front of a door with the number nine on it.

  ‘This is your room, Afrah.’ She pushes it open and places me on the bed. Her features are familiar. Graceful. Smooth and fair skin. She looks Kashmiri, like my daughter.

  ‘Is that you?’ I feel a tear draw down my cheek. I touch her face. She smiles.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Zahra, and if you promise to be good, I’ll give you the treat I went to town to get you. It’s something we don’t keep here.’

  I feel my childlike excitement spark into life. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something very special. You will like it,’ she says with a sweet smile.

  ‘How do you know what I like?’

  ‘Your daughter told Myrtle and Myrtle told me.’ She tears open a plastic bag with dried kiwi, apples, bananas. I take it from her and lay down, smelling the sweetness of the fruits.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say in a low whisper. ‘Can I eat it?’

  ‘Go on.’ She gives me the treat.

  Zahra is so kind to me. She draws the curtains and puts a blanket over me, humming a sweet lullaby. I feel myself drift away while listening to the rain drum against the windowpanes.

  ‘Amira said she would come, but she hasn’t been to see me.’

  Zahra stops humming, ‘Are you sure about that? I think I caught a glimpse of her this morning before leaving my shift. Does she drive a blue car?’

  ‘How should I know? She hasn’t been. She doesn’t love me.’ My voice is loud. ‘Why else would she leave me here?’

  ‘Calm down, Afrah Bibi.’ She touches my hand, but I yank it away.

  ‘Get away from me.’ I get up, trying to push her. She steps back.

  ‘Please, stop screaming,’ she says. There’s hurt in her chocolate brown eyes.

  I get up and start throwing the dried fruit at Zahra. She tells me to stop, to be kind.

  ‘Silly ladki.’ I go back to bed and pull the duvet over my head. ‘She doesn’t love me.’

  Chapter 18

  Saturday, 24th May 1986

  Dear Diary,

  Mum doesn’t love me. She caught me smoking. I know I should never have done it at home and it was a stupid, stupid thing to do. I opened the window to my room and sat on the edge of the windowsill to try one of the new menthol flavour cigarettes Naima gave me. Mum must have forgotten something because she came back to the house one minute later. She saw me from outside blowing smoke out of the window. Her eyes were wide like saucers. She rushed up the stairs, threw open the door to my room and totally freaked out.

  What is this? And who are you? she cried. What have you become? Where is my daughter?’ She shook my shoulders hard. I am your daughter, I said it’s me. Don’t you recognise me? But she kept yelling No, no, no like crazy. Then she turned and said something very nasty. You’re just a dirty and shameless girl. And I wished she wasn’t my mum. I wished she could just go away.

  She made me wash my hands thoroughly with soap. The entire time, she hovered over me, breathing down my neck. She asked me if I had more cigarettes. I shook my head. But she didn’t believe me and went through my things, pulling open all my drawers, throwing everything onto the floor. There was a madness about her that scared me.

  My room was a mess! I hate it when it’s a mess. Mum knows that I like all my things to be tidy and organised. She didn’t care. She did it to upset me and to make me feel horrid.

  Mum told me to brush my teeth. I want that filthy stink gone from your mouth, she barked. Then she began shouting and crying about what a disappointment I was. That I had betrayed her trust. I told her to stop and covered my ears. But she wouldn’t. One of the neighbours must have heard her yelling because the police came knocking on the door. Mum’s face went pale when the officer began questioning her. He looked at me and asked if I was OK. I nodded. But I wasn’t OK. My face was burning hot from the anger bubbling inside me. Aft
er he left, Mum leaned with her back against the front door and stared at me angrily.

  Mum was so annoyed. Now look what you’ve done, silly ladki. She pulled my arm and dragged me back into my room. She locked it from the outside. I was crying, begging for her to let me out. She didn’t. I jumped out of the window and ran all the way to Naima’s house. I was hysterical when her mum opened the door. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so horrible after what she did. Mum scared me!

  Naima said Mum was a real nutter. She called her pagal. We went up to her room and she leaned her head against my shoulder and said I shouldn’t even bother going back home. I should stay with them and her parents could adopt me. I told her Mum would never agree. That’s when Naima looked at me and said, There are ways, you know. My dad knows about these things and could sort out all the paperwork and get it done. Your mum wouldn’t even have to know anything about it.’ She had this mysterious look in her eyes, dangerous almost. She told me to think it over. I nodded. My life would be so different if I moved in with Naima and her parents. It would be better because I would be loved.

  Naima showed me her new pair of shoes. White Nike sneakers. She told me to try them on and said that they were mine if I wanted them. I hesitated at first. Shoes like that cost a fortune. But we don’t talk about money. I asked her if she was sure. She nodded and handed me the shoes. I slipped my feet into them and it felt sooo good being treated nice. She said I deserved them. No one should have to put up with a pagal mum like mine.

  I told Naima I was going to keep the shoes. This time I didn’t care what Mum would say. She nodded and said from now on whenever I want something I need not worry. We’re practically like sisters, and Naima is so right. We are just like sisters.

  Chapter 19

  AMIRA

  Sunday, 24 November 2019

  My laptop is on the kitchen table, bathed in a pool of light. I pry it open and visit the chat that’s just pinged with a message appearing on my screen. I put my tea down.

  Thelonelymouse: Hello lovely.