Missing Molly

by Natalie Barelli

  “I’m going to scream and someone will come.”

  “Oh, Molly, don’t do that. At least wait until I finish my piece. I’ve come all this way to see you!”

  I hold my breath.

  “It was nice to meet your daughter, by the way. And I thought it was very sweet of you to name her after your slut sister. Touching even. I almost felt a tinge of nostalgia when I heard her name. Is your daughter a slut, too? Oh, wait, she’s three years old. Early days. Oh well, maybe I can teach her a thing or two.”

  I open my mouth to scream, but before I manage to let out a sound, his hand has muffled the breath.

  He puts his lips very close to my ear and whispers, “I don’t think you understand. You’re in a lot of trouble, little Molly.”

  I look into his eyes. It’s like I’m twelve again. I feel the warm sensation between my legs that turns cold and wet in an instant. The smell of urine is pungent. He releases me and steps back, wrinkling his nose.

  “Oh gross! Get a hold of yourself, girl!”

  I’m losing consciousness. I have to speak very slowly.

  “The police are going to come. I’m going to tell them everything. They will come after you, Hugo.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You killed Emily Dawson, you burnt the receipts, but there’s still the photos. And our testimony, and our recordings. And the lady from Boots. The police will be able to piece it all together. That’s one murder you won’t get away with.”

  “But Molly, I didn’t kill Mrs Dawson! Don’t you remember? You did.”

  “What?” I can’t breathe.

  “You’re going to get caught, Molly Forster.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I finally manage.

  “You shouldn’t have gone poking around, Molly. You should have let dogs lie. Now, Mrs Dawson is dead, and it’s all because of you.”

  “How did you know? The podcast wasn’t out yet?”

  “I didn’t. But I followed you and your little mate. I didn’t even know you were Molly then, I thought you were some stupid bitch from the podcast. Dad told me the podcast people were in town, poking around. Everyone knew you guys were there. I sent that moron Cindy McFuckme, to see who you were talking to. That girl will do anything for me, seriously. She thinks I love her and she sure loves me. Anyway, when she told me you went to see Dennis’s mother, well I just had to go and ask good old Mrs Dawson what the three of you chatted about. And now, thanks to you, she’s dead.”

  “They’ll catch you, Hugo.”

  “No, Molly, they’ll catch you. Oh wait, I didn’t tell you. When that stupid bitch from Boots piped up, ‘I remember Dennis at the chemist that night’,” he says in a high-pitched, stupid voice, “and the cops announced they were looking at the case again, what did you expect me to do? Sit on my hands?” He tutted. “I called the cops, and lied about who I was, and said that they might want to take a closer look at Rachel Holloway, who is so fucked up she thinks she’s Molly Forster reincarnated or something. And she’s the one who interviewed Emily Dawson. And now that poor Mrs Dawson is dead,” he slaps his palms on either side of his face, like he’s pretending to be shocked, “I wonder if she’s had anything to do with it. She is crazy after all, ask her boyfriend.”

  “Why would I want to kill Mrs Dawson?”

  “Because she just revealed, on record, that it’s unlikely her son committed the murders, so it follows that it must have been somebody else, wouldn’t you agree? I thought long and hard about this, you know. And I’ve come to the conclusion, that it must have been hard to grow up in the shadow of your perfect sister. That’s what they’ll say. I’ll make sure of it, once it occurs to everyone that they did indeed put the wrong man in jail for those terrible crimes. Poor little Molly. It’s no wonder you went crazy, after what you did. You grabbed a cricket bat and smashed your father’s skull, then you ran to your mother and smashed her skull too! Or was that it the other way around?” he shrugged. “I can’t remember. It’s such a long time ago.”

  I can’t breathe. My chest hurts so much, like it’s in a vice. “You killed them, Hugo,” I managed to say. I want to scream but he’s so close, almost on top of me.

  “Maybe I did,” he says, “but you’re the one who’s crazy. That’s why you’re here. One day, you’re Rachel Holloway, the next you’re Molly Forster, one thing everyone agrees on though: you’re crazy.”

  “I was twelve years old. They’ll never believe you.”

  “Of course, they will. You know, I think maybe my memory failed me, back then. The shock, you know. But all these years later, something will come back to me. Some detail that will open Pandora’s Box. I have it all worked out. The tales of your jealousy, of you being in love with me. I’ll say that Grace broke up with me because she was afraid of you. I’ll say that I never wanted to make that public, out of respect for your family. But you were becoming a monster. You were going insane and nothing could stop you. I’ll cry when I say that if I’d known back then, that you were the killer, I would have spoken up.”

  He leans forward and speaks softly right into my ear.

  “Why don’t you end it all now, Molly. It’s the best way. Think about it. You won’t win this fight. It would be very easy for me to prove to the police that you really are Molly Forster, and that you killed your family. I have relatives in high places, haven’t you heard? They’ll find you guilty of murdering your family because we now know it wasn’t Dennis. Then they’ll put you in a psychiatric hospital, and trust me, it won’t be as nice as this. Or you could save yourself all this grief and kill yourself right now. What do you say, Mol?”

  It happens too fast. With two fingers he pinches my nose so I have to breathe through my mouth. I begin to scream but he has dropped the pills on my tongue and he pushes my chin up hard. I can’t get away from his grip. The medication Jackie gave me earlier has sapped all the strength from me.

  I’m going to die.

  “Knock, knock! Visitors’ hours are over, I’m afraid. Your friend needs to go now.”

  I inhale and cough at the same time, my hand on my mouth. Hugo is already upright and doing half a turn.

  “Sorry, I was just leaving,” he says sweetly.

  Jackie stands against the door, keeping it open for him to get through. “Tomorrow is another day, Rachel. You’ll have plenty of visitors then, I’m sure.”

  She thinks I’m disappointed. I don’t have the time to tell her otherwise. As soon as she shuts the door I pull back the covers and run to the bathroom. I stick two fingers down my throat and throw up the pills.

  When I wake up later, it’s dark. An image flashes inside my mind, Hugo had been in the room. It was horrible. For a second, I am awash with relief that it was only a nightmare, and then I see the small bouquet of flowers on the side table.

  I move slightly, and my legs feel cold. I know then. I throw the covers back. I remember. I’ve wet the bed.

  There’s a wardrobe in the room, and inside are the clothes I was wearing when I got here. I go to the bathroom and clean myself as quickly as I can. Once I’m dressed I peek out the door of my room. It’s funny, but what I notice is that the corridor is surprisingly lovely, the way they decorated the place. Not your horror movie white tile corridor at all. Instead it’s all pastels and warm and surprisingly comforting. It makes me feel that, had I really been crazy, this would have been a fine place to heal.

  But I’m not crazy, so I stick my head out and look both ways. Everything is deadly quiet. Holding my shoes in my hand, I tiptoe out softly in my bare feet. There’s carpet everywhere. I walk slowly in the direction of the Exit sign.

  “You all right?”

  I was just about to turn the corner. I turn around. There’s a small, elderly woman staring at me. She’s dressed in a nightgown, slippers on. She asks again, “You all right?”

  “Yes! Thank you!” I walk quickly, purposefully down the hall but she follows me at a distance.

  “Are you here
to see someone?”

  I stop, close my eyes. She’s talking too loudly, she’ll wake the whole place up.

  I turn around. She’s frowning at me.

  “Everyone is asleep,” she says sternly. “It’s night time. You should come back tomorrow,”

  “Ah. Thank you, I’ll do that. I’ll just find my way out and be gone.”

  “Okay then.”

  I hurry down the corridor, which leads into a small foyer, with a comfortable seating area. I’m again surprised at how pretty it is here, with its pastel colours and fluffy cushions. Matt and I don’t have private insurance. Can we really do this on the NHS?

  There’s a counter that separates the nurses’ station from the foyer, but it’s unattended. The Exit doors have a pane of glass and I can see beyond, into what looks like another corridor. I hurry across and press my palm against the door, but it doesn’t budge. Then I notice the keypad, just to the left of it.

  “You can’t go out this way. You have to put the number in first.”

  I stare at her.

  “Sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Maureen.”

  “Okay, Maureen. Do you know the way out of here?”

  “There’s a way out the back.”

  “There is?”

  “This way.”

  She shuffles away, and I follow her along. “How do you know?”

  “I work here.”

  “You do?”

  “I serve the morning tea. You’ll see me tomorrow, I’ll be the one behind the trolley.”

  Not if I can help it.

  “And they let you stay here? You don’t seem dressed for it.”

  “I’m supposed to be asleep. But I don’t need to. I only need four hours a night, and I already had those.”

  “Four hours?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” We’ve walked down the corridor and into some kind of communal room. There are tables for four scattered around like card tables. I don’t see any exits.

  “Where’s the way out, Maureen?”

  “This way.”

  She turns around and takes me back the way we came. We walk past a sign for the ladies room. I really need to pee. “Would you mind waiting for me here for a minute? I won’t be long.”

  “All right. I’ll be here.”

  I check my face in the mirror. I look terrible. My skin is pasty, my eyes are red. I am Molly Forster I tell myself, to check that it rings true. It does.

  When I come out, there’s no sign of Maureen. What kind of a place is this where no one is around? I don’t want to call out for her, so I continue the way I thought she might have gone, which takes me down a dead end. I backtrack and turn down another corner and there it is. A door. Big double swing doors with glass and a lawn beyond it. Freedom.

  I push against the heavy horizontal bars, but nothing happens. They’re locked. I have to find Maureen, maybe she has a key.

  “Are you all right?”

  I’m back in the foyer, and she’s sitting in the same armchair as before.

  “Maureen! There you are. I thought I lost you. I found the door but it’s locked, do you have the key?”

  “Are you here to see someone? Because they’re all asleep you know. You’ll have to come back in the morning.”

  That’s how desperate and confused I am. How could I not know right away that Maureen is a patient? Why didn’t I ask her for the keypad code that would have let me out of here?

  “Rachel? What’s wrong?”

  My heart sinks. Jackie stands behind the counter at the nurses’ station. She comes out through the side door.

  “You should go back to bed. Why are you dressed?” She takes my elbow and gently turns me around. “Do you need something to help you sleep?”

  “I only need four hours sleep,” Maureen says behind me, “I work here. I serve breakfast.”

  “That’s right, Maureen,” Jackie says, winking at me. “Rachel, you should go back to bed.”

  I let myself be guided back to my room. “What time is it?”

  “Four a.m.”

  We’re at the door to my room. She holds it open and I step inside.

  “I—”

  “What is it?”

  I feel myself go red from embarrassment. I look down. “I need the bed linen changed.”

  She pulls the bed covers back. “Ah, that’s why you’re wondering around. That’s all right. It happens. Don’t worry, I’ll go and get some clean sheets and another nightie for you. You sit down here, okay?”

  When Jackie returns, she hands me a plain cotton nightie. I help her make the bed, tucking the corner of the sheet under the mattress.

  “Did you hear me, Rachel?”

  “Sorry, I was miles away.”

  “Do you want something to help you sleep?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “All right. Buzz me if you change your mind.”

  “Jackie? That man who was here before.”

  “Your friend? What about him?”

  “If he comes back, I don’t want to see him, okay?”

  “I’ll leave a note.”

  Forty-Four

  “Wake up, Rachel. Dr Morrison is here to see you.”

  I must have dozed off. The words pull me out of my dreams—or was it a nightmare? I don’t know anymore. It’s slipping away too fast for me to hold on, and all I’m left with is an image of me running and crowds of people behind me. My heart is still pounding. I think I woke up too fast.

  “How are you, Rachel?” he asks. He pushes his thin-rimmed glasses further up his nose. Dr Morrison is maybe in his late fifties, he has white hair. He doesn’t smile but his face is gentle. He looks at me with concern.

  “I’m fine, I’m very sorry I fell asleep.” I’m flustered, annoyed with myself. I get up quickly and straighten my clothes. I’d already had breakfast, I was showered and dressed. I should have sat in the armchair by the window, but instead I decided to lay down just for a moment. Just to rest my head a bit on the pillow.

  “You don’t need to be sorry,” he says kindly.

  “I wanted to be up and ready.” An image of Hugo standing over me flashes through my mind. I’m going to cry. I tilt my head back a little to stop the tears.

  “There’s no need to apologise. You can sleep as much you want. Sit down, please.”

  He indicates the armchair. He settles on the other chair, the hard one. The one without armrests. Jackie gives me a little nod of encouragement before leaving the room. She leaves the door open.

  Dr Morrison reads something in the folder, then he says, “I’m going to ask you some questions. It’s not a test, and there are no right or wrong answers. It’s to help us determine what you need to get better, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like some water?”

  I don’t answer, I just grab the water cup by the bed and sit back down. I take a sip.

  “What is your name?”

  “Rachel Holloway.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-six.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Newcastle.”

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “No.” I have to rush the word to get it out. Otherwise I fear it would get stuck in my throat.

  “Okay. I’m going to ask you whether you’ve had certain experiences, and you just need to tell me if you have, and approximately how often. Can you do that?”

  He must think I’m a complete idiot.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been in a car or public transport, like a bus, and you don’t remember what has happened during all or part of the journey?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How does it feel when it happens?”

  “I don’t know, I was deep in thought and I was on autopilot I guess.”

  “In percentages, how often does it happen, fifty percent of the time? Eighty percent?”

  “Twenty percent, I guess.”r />
  He makes a note.

  “Do you ever find that someone was talking to you, and you don’t recall what they just said?”

  “Sometimes, if I’m distracted or if I have something on my mind.”

  “How often?”

  I shrug. “Not often. Ten percent maybe.”

  In spite of what he said earlier, I really do want to ‘pass’ this test. It’s the difference between me getting out of here and being stuck here indefinitely. I figured some of these things happen to everyone so I’m reluctant to say “never” in case it flags the fact that I’m lying. I just have to not be crazy, essentially.

  “Have you ever found yourself wearing clothes that you don't remember putting on?”

  “No.”

  “Do you hear voices inside your head?”

  “Other than my own internal monologue? No.”

  “Does your internal monologue tell you what to do?”

  “It might tell me to get a move on when it’s time to go to work in the mornings.” I smile.

  “Do you ever find drawings or scribblings that you know are yours, but you don’t remember doing?”

  I shake my head. “No. Never.”

  We go through this for quite a while. I don’t tell Dr Morrison that I’ve already taken this test. After what happened with Gracie when she was a baby.

  After the test, Dr Morrison wants to talk about what happened to get me in here.

  “I had some kind of nervous breakdown,” I say. “It made me believe I was someone else.”

  “Who are you now?”

  “Rachel Holloway.”

  “Who were you when you arrived here?”

  He makes it sound like there’s a number of us, and we take turns.

  “I thought I was Molly Forster.”

  “But you don’t think that now?”

  “No. I was ill.”

  “How long did you think you were Molly Forster?”