Dare to Remember: Shocking. Page-Turning. Psychological Thriller.

by Susanna Beard

  “I’m not bothered about Christmas, myself.”

  She thinks about him as she wanders down the narrow High Street to collect his prescription. His house is cold, he’s not well and there’s nobody to visit him. Does old age always look like this? She feels a sharp pang of guilt about her mum. Pausing at a garish window display, all twinkling lights and baubles, a pile of colourful fleece blankets catches her eye, and on a whim she goes in and buys one for John. At least he’ll have one present, then. When she buys his food, she adds some mince pies and decides to wrap them as a present from Riley. Then she remembers she has nothing for her mum and goes back to the first shop for another blanket and some wrapping paper. She throws a packet of candles in her basket, too, for good measure.

  Christmas is impossible to escape, she thinks, as she tramps back to the house with her bags. It’s insistent, unavoidable. And for some, hurtful and horrible. All those trite messages, religious or otherwise, churned out year after year, make a bad situation worse for those who are unhappy, poor, lonely or just different. None of it seems genuine to her.

  How far she is now, she thinks despondently, from the person she was only a few short months ago. Her life then was on a certain, normal course. She wonders if it will ever get back on track.

  *

  Chloe calls again, on Christmas Eve. She’s getting together with her friends on Christmas Day and sounds quite excited about it. They’re all helping with the cooking and will eat at her friend’s house next door. “I’ve done the Christmas pudding,” she says. “And Angela’s doing a cake. We’ve got crackers. We’ll all look a bit crackers, too – three old birds getting tipsy on Christmas Day!”

  “Good for you, Mum,” she says, “Have fun.” She promises to see her later in the week and rings off, relieved that her mother will be in good company.

  There’s no work this week to distract her, so for the second time that day, she fetches Riley’s lead and they set off into the gloom. It’s not exactly raining, but there’s a fine mist in the air, as if the edges of the clouds are touching the ground. Everything looks hazy and out of focus. The Christmas lights on the trees in the front gardens shine with a halo of green and blue and as dusk falls the village looks bleak, Dickensian, secretive.

  It’s too dark already to head for the lake, so she walks around the streets for a while, stopping here and there for Riley to sniff at fences and lamp posts. There’s not much traffic and only a few people hurrying home with bags and packages. In some of the houses she can see families gathered and children playing. She feels oddly removed from them. She’s not envious. She feels that Christmas doesn’t apply to her any more.

  That evening she wraps her three presents. She lights the stove and sits on the floor with Riley, brushing his coat until it shines in the firelight. He loves the attention and stretches his legs with pleasure while the brush gets clogged with fur and little clumps of dark softness land on the rug.

  *

  The malevolent spirit of her nightmares has no respect for Christmas.

  There’s the knife, shining with an eerie blue light, so close to her face, caressing her cheek, following the line of her jaw down to her neck. As it touches her skin, it’s searingly hot. Someone is screaming. She sees Ali’s face, ghastly in the shadows, staring in horror over her shoulder, turns to look, only she can’t move, can’t turn her neck. She must turn round, but however hard she tries, her muscles are frozen, her eyes are shut. The scene stops there for a long time and she can’t escape, gasping for air. She wakes with a lurch to see Riley’s nose right next to hers, sniffing her gently, licking her cheek.

  “Oh, Riley, it’s okay.” His concern is reassuring and she strokes him, her heartbeat slowing gradually.

  She sits up, the cold air assaulting her bare arms, and shivers as she grabs her dressing gown and slippers. She pads down to the kitchen, followed by Riley, who paws at the door to be let out. It’s six o’clock. She unlocks and opens the back door and Riley bolts into the garden, tail swishing. She puts the kettle on and scuffs into the living room to check if the stove is still warm. A log is glowing slightly, so she adds a couple more and pokes at them until it looks like the fire might catch, closing the door and opening the vents while she scrunches up a few bits of paper. She chucks them in, poking them into the glowing embers until, with a satisfying crackle, an orange flame appears. She closes the door and goes back to the kitchen to let Riley in and make some tea. Outside it’s just getting light, and there’s a misty haze around, the paving stones by the back door glistening with moisture.

  It’s only then that she remembers it’s Christmas Day. Cursing softly to herself, she retreats with the tea to the sofa. Worn out by the nightmare and the lack of sleep over weeks and months, she feels drained by the very thought of festivities. She puts the TV on, finds an old western and lies down on the sofa with the blanket covering her. She turns the sound so low she can barely hear it and watches the picture without registering what’s happening. Eventually she dozes, the sound of the film and the warmth of the stove filling the room soothing her.

  Riley wakes her, tail wagging, panting expectantly, his pink tongue hanging on one side of his toothy grin. “Okay Riley,” she says, groaning. “I get the idea.” She drags herself upstairs to get washed and dressed. She looks at the time. Still only eight o’clock. At least there won’t be too many people around.

  She throws on a coat, wraps a scarf around her neck, thrusts her feet into her boots and departs, deciding on the longer route where barely anyone walks on a normal day.

  They walk for a long time. The sky brightens, a patch of blue showing through the clouds, a suggestion of a sunny day. She sees only two lone dog walkers, who mutter ‘Happy Christmas’ self-consciously as they pass. By the time she returns, the patch of blue sky has disappeared and a low bank of cloud threatens on the horizon.

  After breakfast she calls her mum, who’s cooking, getting ready for Christmas lunch, the mumble of a radio in the background. She sounds excited and rushed.

  “I’m doing angels on horseback and mince pies. I won’t be able to eat for a week after this lot.” There’s a pause. “What are you doing for lunch, darling?”

  “I’m absolutely fine,” Lisa says. “I’m having something later with my dog-walking friend and her family.” A lie, but it’s worth it. She doesn’t want to spoil her mother’s day by seeming miserable.

  “Oh, good,” Chloe says. “Glad you’ve organised something.”

  “Have a great day, and I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Happy Christmas, darling.”

  The one good thing about Christmas that she can see is that the TV coverage is designed for children. There’s no violence, no sex, and not much to challenge the intellect. She spends the afternoon channel-hopping and avoiding the news.

  At around five o’clock, when she’s thinking she should deliver the presents to John before it gets too late, the doorbell rings. Riley barks and rushes to the front door, sniffing at the edges. This must be a mistake, she thinks, someone’s lost, maybe. Telling herself to stay calm, holding back the fear that sets her pulse racing, she goes to the door, where she can see someone through the glass panels.

  “Who is it?” Her voice quavers and she’s annoyed with herself at how feeble she sounds.

  “It’s only me, Jessica.”

  Holding Riley by the collar, she unlocks the door, unhitches the chain. Bobby gallops through the hallway to the kitchen, Riley in pursuit.

  “I had to get away,” says Jessica. “I brought you some wine, I thought we could have a glass together… I hope you don’t mind me popping by?” She’s clutching a wine bottle and a packet of mince pies.

  “Not at all,” Lisa says and means it, surprising herself. She leads the way to the kitchen. “It’s not very Christmassy here, I’m afraid.”

  “How refreshing,” Jessica smiles. “I think I’m going crazy with all the Christmas cheer at our house.” />
  As she retrieves a couple of glasses from the kitchen cupboard, Lisa remembers John. “I was just about to take something next door. Shall I ask John if he’ll come for a drink? He’s on his own and his house is always cold.” They agree to go together.

  John, too, is taken aback by the doorbell and by the sight of the two women. He’s wearing an old dressing gown over his clothes, the frayed slippers on his feet and a disconcerted look on his face.

  “Happy Christmas, John. Jessica’s just arrived with a bottle, would you like to join us? It’s nice and warm in my living room and there are mince pies…” Her voice fades away as she tries to think what else she could offer.

  John shakes his head and starts to say no, but Jessica chimes in. “Oh, please come, we’ll only eat all the mince pies ourselves if you don’t.”

  Hesitating, he looks from one to the other. “Oh, go on then. Give me ten minutes.”

  Twenty minutes later they’ve opened the wine, put the mince pies on a plate and are beginning to worry, when he arrives. He has a packet of chocolate digestives in one hand, his stick in the other, and is dressed neatly, his hair combed. He eases himself into the armchair next to the stove as Lisa chivvies the dogs out of his way, and accepts a glass of wine.

  They raise their glasses to Christmas and after a while they do it again. They work their way through the mince pies and start on the chocolate biscuits.

  “You may think this village is a sleepy place now,” he says. “But when I was growing up, it was no more than a few houses, a school and a couple of shops. The farm animals used to graze where the station is now, and the farmer drove his sheep through the main street. Most people moved away to get work, but I liked it here, so I came back after my training and married Elsie. She was my childhood sweetheart.”

  “It sounds lovely.” Jessica says. “Do you have any photos? Was your wedding here in the village then?”

  “Yes, in the local church. I do have the photos somewhere, I can find them if you like.”

  “Only if it’s easy.”

  “It was quite a small affair, because we couldn’t afford much.”

  It’s early evening when he decides to go back. “Thank you so much, my dears, I’ve enjoyed myself,” he says. “Nice to get to know you a bit, and to get warm! You’ve made it very cosy in here, Lisa.”

  On the way to the front door, Lisa gives him a bag with the two presents. “Here’s something very small. One from me and one from Riley.”

  “How kind. I’ll open them at home, thank you.” He takes her hand and squeezes it warmly. She waits until his front door closes before she goes back in, thinking of him in that cold, empty kitchen.

  When she gets back Jessica’s putting on her coat and Bobby is waiting.

  “They’ve just called,” she says, waving her mobile. “Wondering when I’m coming back. Oh, well, into the fray once more.”

  At the door, she turns back to Lisa. “That was fun! The most fun I’ve had this Christmas.”

  Lisa realises that for a couple of hours, the first time in many months, that she, too, has had fun.

  *

  Christmas passes painfully slowly. She has no work to focus on during the day, only her long dog walks – mostly in the rain – and the odd trip to the shop. Jessica seems to be away or at least isn’t walking at her normal time by the lake, and everyone seems to be busy with their families.

  Sleep refuses to come.

  A couple of days after Christmas Day she goes to visit her mum and sets off with Riley for the station in the village. She means to get there in the early afternoon, avoiding meal times. Her mum always cooks too much for her and she feels guilty when she can’t do it justice. She carries a bag with the present and a card, along with a dog chew for Riley and a ball to throw in the garden.

  Tinsel adorns the ticket office. A uniformed man waits as she fumbles for her money. “Good Christmas?” he says as he hands over her ticket.

  “Yes, thanks,” she says automatically. Riley sniffs at the doorway as she puts her purse away and lifts his leg distractedly. A trickle of yellow urine darkens the door jamb. A station guard yells at her from the other side of the room. “Hey, control your dog!” He comes towards her, chest thrust forward as if ready for a fight, finger pointing.

  “Fucking dog, look what he’s done. Why do you have a dog if you can’t train him properly? Some people…”

  The blood rushes to her face as the panic rises. “I’m sorry… look, I’ll wipe it up.” Her hands shake as she crouches down, rummaging in her bag for something to wipe up the pee, which is settling into a small pool on the floor. She finds a couple of tissues; they’re woefully inadequate and shred in her hand, but it’s all she has and she does her best.

  She’s trembling as she stands, the man still muttering behind her. She drops the wet tissues in the bin and walks away, crushed with humiliation, almost in tears. Riley is unconcerned, wagging his tail, and she crouches down to him to hide her embarrassment.

  A woman approaches. Lisa tries to ignore her but she doesn’t notice. “My dog pees everywhere too. It’s the male of the species, can’t control themselves. It was only a couple of drops. Horrible man. It’s not as if the place is immaculate, is it?” She strokes Riley’s back. Lisa gives her a wobbly smile and straightens up as the train approaches.

  In the carriage, she sits hunched by a window, forcing her breathing to slow down. The scene in the station, a minor irritation for most people, has shaken her more than she’d like.

  She can’t live like this. She can’t be frightened for the rest of her life. She’s got to find a way.

  *

  Soon after that dreadful night in the city, lying there in hospital, she’d wondered about taking a pile of the drugs they were giving her and drifting off into oblivion. That was when she’d understood that things would never be the same. Surrounded by grief and questions she couldn’t answer. Missing Ali. But somehow suicide wasn’t right for her then and it still isn’t, though sometimes in the dead of night when the demons visit, she wishes she had the courage.

  As the train rumbles on, she imagines how it would be if one day doctors or psychiatrists were able to identify individual memories in the human brain and disable them, so that people damaged by terrible experiences could continue their lives. Perhaps one day they’ll be able to. Too late for her, probably. It’s with her for the rest of her life and she either has to continue this half-life, or she must find a way, somehow, to deal with it and create for herself a life worth living.

  Anyway, she has a permanent reminder. The scar on her neck, easy to hide with a scarf or a high collar, is never going to fade completely. It’s long – over ten centimetres – and still red and puffy, though it’s a good few months since she left the hospital. Sometimes it aches, or maybe she imagines it, her mind tricking her with a memory of pain.

  She can remember that she’d felt nothing at the time, or nothing except the warm tickle of blood on her throat as the adrenalin flowed. The pain had come later, when she woke in hospital with a bandage around her neck and a button in her left hand to administer the pain relief. It hurt horribly. She imagined her head loose, hanging by a thread, severed like some beheaded Tudor queen. She’d thought the scar was roughly horizontal, as the bandages seemed to indicate, but when the nurse changed them the first time, gently pulling at the dressing as it stuck to the dried blood and she winced and tensed with pain, she realised that it was at an angle, from jawline to collar bone, untidy and ragged.

  “That won’t be too bad,” the nurse had said. “You were lucky it didn’t go in further. It was within a couple of millimetres of an artery.”

  She thinks about that comment now, sitting on the train. A throwaway comment, of course, and not intended to be literal. But maybe true, in a way. She’s luckier than Ali. That’s true.

  At her mum’s, she drinks tea and eats biscuits while Riley gnaws away at his chew, a dried-up piece of animal skin which doesn’t bear too much thinkin
g about. Chloe’s had a good Christmas with her friends and she shows Lisa the gifts they gave her – a pretty blue bowl from Angela, some scented soap from Jean. She’s delighted with her fleece blanket.

  Ali’s parents have been in touch over Christmas, wanting to know how Lisa’s getting on.

  “Did you get a card from them? Why don’t you drop round while you’re in town?”

  “Yes. I know, Mum. But I can’t. Not yet. I’m not… I just can’t. Maybe in a few months.”

  “You know, sweetheart…” her mum starts to say, and she closes her eyes, not wanting to hear. “I think they need to see you.”

  “I know. Can we just leave it? Please?”

  “Can I tell them you’ll come in a couple of months, maybe? I feel I should say something to them.”

  “Yes.” To change the subject she gets up to put the kettle on. “More tea?”

  While it boils, she goes up to the bedroom where she spent so many hours on her return from hospital. She pulls out from under the bed the bag containing her possessions from the flat, discarded without a glance when her mum brought it back. She looks at it warily, inhales and carries it downstairs, leaving it by the front door to take with her. If she’s going to look, she wants to do it by herself.

  Back at the village the early evening darkness has descended, bringing with it a sharpness in the air, a promise of frost. The house feels cold when she opens the front door and she shivers as she goes through to the garden to collect fuel for the stove. There’s a pile of wood in the little shed close to the back door, dumped untidily there at the beginning of winter. Her bike is squeezed in next to the woodpile. It’s dusty and spiders have woven threads from the saddle to the handlebars, high wires waiting for tiny acrobats. Otherwise the shed is home only to some garden tools and a broom, crammed into a corner. She puts the logs into a wicker basket and hurries back to set the fire.

  Once the flames have started to lick around the edges of the logs she goes upstairs to the bathroom. The light in the mirror above the basin is harsh and unflattering as she washes her hands. She sees her face as if for the first time in years. She holds on to the illusion and examines the stranger before her. Grey-blue eyes look back at her, under a mop of unruly brown hair. Her skin is pale and there are dark smudges under her eyes. No make-up. A spot threatens to erupt on her chin and between her brows there are two vertical lines that used to go away when she wasn’t frowning. Now they stay. This person looks unhappy, she thinks, and seriously unhealthy. She tries a smile and the face takes on a haunted look, as if posing for an unwanted photo, the smile fixed, not reaching the eyes.