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

by Susanna Beard

  She leaves Jessica there, still staring into the fire, and trudges back upstairs. Back in the warmth of her bed, she remembers that they’re going to Jessica’s house today and prays they don’t come across her husband. She wishes she was brave, like she used to be. Ready to take on the world. But actually, where did that get her? It didn’t stop what happened or even help poor Ali. So maybe she hasn’t changed that much.

  Later, over breakfast, they decide to call the police and go to the house as soon as possible after Mike’s normal leaving time, to get it out of the way. The sooner the better.

  *

  She doesn’t go with Jessica. In the end there’s no need. The police come and collect her, wait while she goes into the empty house and drop her back with the bag. There’s no sign of Mike.

  The detective comes in with Jessica and sits at the kitchen table handing over leaflets of organisations and writing down the names of people who might be able to help: a legal advice service, a support group for battered women, a mediator. Jessica’s expression shows she’s not ready for this, but she accepts the information without comment. When the policewoman has gone, she puts her mobile phone on charge, preparing to call her sister later.

  “I’m a battered woman,” she says flatly, but with a hint of a smile. “Sounds like a new kind of takeaway. One battered woman with chips, please.”

  The police have warned her to look out for Mike when he returns, concerned that he might get angry if he finds she’s been to the house while he’s out. But the house belongs to both of them, so she has a right to enter as much as he does. They’ve encouraged her to consult a family lawyer before she decides what to do.

  “I’ve got to think about all this before I see him again. I’m going to call my sister, see if I can stay with her for a week or so. I need some distance. Once I’ve got more perspective and my face back, I’ll try and talk to him.”

  Her sister, who lives in South Wales with her family, wants Jessica to leave immediately, today, but after a discussion of the pros and cons accepts that tomorrow is probably better, and Jessica borrows the laptop to book a train ticket. Lisa’s relieved, as she’ll be out most of the day tomorrow at the psychotherapist. She doesn’t want to leave Jessica on her own, particularly when Mike might be around. Leaving Jessica to organise herself, she takes the dogs and goes out to get some supper before the shops close.

  She arrives back drenched. The weather has worsened, with torrential rain and a bitter wind, and they had to run the last part. She dumps the bags on the floor and grabs a towel for the dogs, who are shaking themselves energetically, drops of muddy water showering the walls and the floor.

  “Wait a minute… hold on, Riley!” Scrabbling madly at him with the towel, she manages to soak up the worst of it before doing the same for Bobby. There’s a strong odour of wet dog. She vows to give them a proper wipe down later. She hangs her sodden coat and scarf to drip onto some newspaper by the back door. “Come here, Riley, in your bed. Come on, Bobby, lie down.” Retrieving the shopping, she heads into the kitchen and drops the bags onto the worktop, then runs upstairs to dry her hair, still dripping onto her neck and shoulders.

  When she comes back down, Riley has settled himself in front of the warm stove with Bobby. Jessica is in the kitchen, unpacking the shopping, two glasses of wine already poured.

  “I felt we deserved it,” she says, raising a glass to Lisa. A glimmer of her old self back.

  Lisa nods towards the wine. “Too right.”

  Jessica’s face looks even more colourful now, the dark bloom of the bruises deepening. It’ll be a good few weeks until she’s back to normal.

  Jessica is chopping carrots when, after a few minutes, she glances at Lisa and stops. Under her gaze, Lisa looks up and realises, too late, that she’s taken off her scarf.

  “What happened, Lisa?”

  Lisa’s hand flies up to her neck protectively. The scar is still new and red and she can feel it standing out from her throat.

  Jessica’s eyes have grown large. “The panic attack…?”

  “It was a flashback. PTSD.” She turns away.

  “A flashback?”

  “I was attacked. I’m sorry, Jessica, I can’t talk about it.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Honestly, it’s okay.”

  “But I’ve put you in a horrible situation if—”

  “Listen, do you mind if we cook? I need to eat, otherwise the wine will go straight to my head,” she replies, trying to sound cheerful, hoping the moment can be forgotten.

  So they prepare the food together and when they’ve finished eating, Jessica turns to Lisa. “I’m so sorry to have landed on you. If I’d known about this, I would never—”

  “Don’t… really. You didn’t know. Actually, I’m glad you came. It’s been good for me to think about someone else for a change.”

  *

  The diary sits on the table in front of them, unopened. So much has happened that isn’t about her. She describes to him the events of the last few days and her reaction to them. She feels weird today, as if she’s floating.

  “So, you say you experienced a flashback when Jessica’s husband came to the door. Can you describe it?”

  She stares at the picture behind him.

  “No different, really. Still the screaming and the smell of whisky…” Steady. She frowns at the picture on the wall.

  “What are you feeling right now?”

  “Anxious, talking about the flashbacks. Panicky.”

  “What happens to you, physically?”

  As she talks, it’s as if she’s watching herself as a different person, analysing what happens and when, as a scene unfolds in a play. She’s listening to her own voice droning on and when she focuses on it, it fades away.

  Sometimes she’s irritated by his calm acceptance, his patient listening while she struggles with her emotions. But today she leaves his room feeling a little more positive than usual, just a fraction stronger.

  That night, as if to punish her for that fleeting moment of progress, the nightmares return with a vengeance.

  She’s staring down at the familiar, though oddly surreal scene. The knife has turned into a sword, beautifully etched with exotic patterns that flash as the man brandishes it with exuberance, flaunting his power. The smell of whisky is overpowering. She and Ali are like hunted animals, running around the flat in terror, trying to escape, nowhere to hide, knowing that eventually they’ll run towards their inevitable and bloody demise.

  With a peculiar sense of detachment, still asleep, she knows this isn’t reality, that it’s just a nightmare, but the pain and the fear are, as always, horrifyingly present. She jolts awakes, sweating and panting hard, heart thumping. Riley, curled in the crook of her knees, looks at her intently and she almost laughs at his concern. Grateful for the relief.

  With a sigh, she turns the light on, finds the remote on the bedside table and picks up where she left off the previous evening with Cary Grant and his cast of beautiful people.

  *

  When the buzzer went, they’d looked at each other, but weren’t particularly concerned. People often pressed their buzzer, mistaking it for the downstairs flat - or kids pushed the button for a laugh, flitting away as soon as they looked out. If they pushed up the sitting room window, the old, rickety wooden sash, which was loose in its frame and rattled in the wind, they could lean out over the steps at the front of the house and check who was there before running down to open the door.

  Ali opened the window and they peered out, leaning forward to see who it was. Fergus smiled up at them.

  “How about that mug of Ovaltine?”

  “Not tonight, darling.” Ali was laughing. “Anyway we haven’t got any.”

  “Let a man up for a quick piss? Please?”

  Lisa leaned back so he couldn’t see her, shook her head silently and mouthed No to Ali, who leaned out again.

  “Sorry, Fergus, we’re going to bed.
”

  “Go on, take pity, I’m busting. I won’t stay, I promise.”

  Ali looked back at Lisa. “Oh, go on then,” she shouted down. “But be quick, okay? We’re both working tomorrow.”

  Lisa had gone down to let him in. He went straight to the bathroom, where he stayed for a few minutes. Ali went through to the kitchen. When he emerged Lisa noticed a sway about him, his feet not quite firm on the floor.

  “On the whisky tonight, Fergus?” she said, wrinkling her nose. He gave her a sideways look and a grin. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead and there was that strange, earthy smell about him. She wondered if he’d taken something on top of the whisky.

  Ali appeared from the kitchen with two steaming mugs in her hands and put them down on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

  *

  She goes to see her mum and tells her what happened with Jessica.

  “How awful. Poor girl.”

  “I know, she’s coping really well though. I can’t imagine how scared she was.”

  They look at each other across the table, a silent recognition between them. Lisa suggests they walk Riley to the local park for some air. They stroll for an hour or so until their fingers start to feel the cold, then go back to the house before Lisa has to return to the station.

  “Sorry to bring it up, love, but Ali’s parents are still keen to see you.”

  “I know, Mum. Maybe next time. Soon.”

  Her mother sighs.

  At the station, she sees the guard who shouted at her last time. She squares her shoulders and looks straight at him, almost inviting a confrontation, as he glances at the dog beside her. Seeing the challenge in her eyes, he turns away and she walks past with her head high, Riley trotting obediently at her heel. She’s exhilarated by the moment and her small, silent victory.

  *

  She misses Jessica and the distraction from her past.

  Her life has become an act of marking time, waiting. She’s unsure what she’s waiting for, or even what she’d like to happen. She must get over the immediate problems of lack of sleep, nightmares and flashbacks, but after that? She has no ideas, no plans and no ambitions. She’s stuck in a vicious circle. The past haunts her, and she can’t reach the present or the future until she’s free of it.

  The phone rings.

  “Hi Lisa, it’s Jane here – Jane Warner.” It’s her former boss, who gives her the work. “Listen, I’ve got an interesting project going on which I think might be just right for you.”

  She’s anxious about what it might be, but reminds herself that she needs the work.

  “This wouldn’t involve you being in the office more than a couple of hours a month, which would be an update meeting, just with me. It’s similar to what you’ve been doing for us, but I think more interesting – and you’ve done a great job so far, so I thought you might like to have a go. It would be more money, too.”

  “Well, I suppose I could be interested. What is the project, exactly?” She wants to turn the offer down but forces herself to consider it.

  “Tell you what, could you come and see me and we can talk it through? It’s easier face-to-face and I can show you what’s been done on it so far. Nothing formal, just a chat. I could offer you a cup of our terrible coffee?”

  Jane is a practical person, it’s what Lisa has always liked about her. But she’s also sensitive and seems to understand that Lisa can’t take on too much.

  Lisa glances at the calendar beside the phone. Its empty days stretching out for weeks, months ahead.

  They arrange a meeting the following week, on the day of her therapy, to save her travelling costs.

  As she puts the phone down she immediately wants to change her mind, cancel the meeting, retreat into her shell.

  “No,” she says to herself out loud. “No. Go to the meeting. You can do it. If you’re really not up to it, you can always say no.”

  Sometimes she feels pulled two ways, as if there are two Lisas: the one who wants to live normally, to get on with her life, and the other sad, frightened Lisa, who will never be the person she was meant to be.

  *

  Jessica calls. Mike is out of the country for three weeks so she’s coming back in a few days’ time.

  “How are you feeling?” Lisa says. “And how are the bruises?”

  “The ones on my face have gone a lovely shade of yellow. It’s delightful. I still look pretty bad, but I can cover them a bit better now. The emotional ones – I don’t know yet, but I’m not going back to him. He really scared me, and I don’t believe anybody can change that much.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Anyway, my sister and my parents wouldn’t let me go back. They’re furious. They want me to press charges. I’m not going to, but that doesn’t mean I’m wavering.”

  “So, when are you coming back, then?”

  “I just need to give him a couple of days, I think, to be sure he’s gone. The police say I can change the locks after that, if I want to. I’ll let you know when I’m back, shall I?”

  “Yes, definitely, let me know if you need anything, even if it’s only moral support when you get home. Plus, I’m sure Riley is missing his best friend.”

  *

  He’s leaning against the wall at the end of the street where she lives. With her head bent against the drizzle, her hood obscuring all but her immediate surroundings, she almost trips over him before she sees who it is. She stops in her tracks, her eyes flicking, searching for an escape.

  “Hello, Lisa,” he says and her heart pounds in her chest. Riley pulls towards him, tail wagging.

  “It’s okay,” Mike says. “I just want to know how Jessica is.” He looms above her. She takes a couple of steps back and breathes deeply. She pulls at Riley until he stands between them, cursing herself for not being more aware.

  “I… she’s at her sister’s.”

  “I know. They won’t take my calls. Have you spoken to her?” His voice is measured but his eyes are anxious, framed by dark shadows. A small part of her is pleased that the strain is taking its toll.

  “Yes. A couple of days ago.” Her voice shakes as she speaks. Her body has tensed, unbidden, the maleness of him threatening to overwhelm her. She looks around, hoping someone is there, walking by, to reassure her. There’s nobody, no cars even, but she can see the end of the road ahead and she knows she can run that far. The knowledge offers a morsel of comfort.

  “How is she?” He’s looking intently at her, waiting for her reply. He takes a step closer. She backs away again.

  “I… She’s okay.” She takes a deep breath. “She thought you were going away.” She must check that, for Jessica’s sake.

  “I am, tomorrow. Look, could you ask her to call me? I’m not going to try to see her or anything, I just want to talk to her, make sure she’s okay.”

  “I can ask.” She nods. Doesn’t want to risk more; she has to get away from him. She turns, pulling on Riley’s lead, and they step into the road to cross to the opposite pavement.

  “Okay, thank you,” he says. “Thank you…” he hesitates, as if to carry on, but she can’t stay, she has to get away. She waves her hand, not daring to look back.

  Heart thumping, she almost runs to the end of the road, breathing hard. She resists turning round until they get to the lake. Only once they’re through the gate and a good few metres onto the path does she turn to check. There’s nobody behind them. She lets Riley off the lead and stands for a few moments, steadying herself on a tree trunk at the edge of the water, listening to her pulse slow, swallowing hard, gulping air.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gerrard and Blanding, business publishers, are housed in one of those tall buildings that look as if they’re entirely made of glass. Behind the rather glamorous exterior, though, lies a typical publishing house: people squashed into too little space, an air of disarray, boxes of books everywhere, computer screens back to back on small desks overflowing with piles of paper.

  As sh
e approaches the front door, Lisa takes a deep breath and pushes through the revolving doors into the reception area. A bright-looking twenty-something smiles at her from behind a pale wooden desk.

  “I’m Lisa Fulbrook,” she says. “I’m here to see Jane Warner.”

  “Of course, take a seat. I’ll let her know. Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee?”

  “Tea please, thanks.” She sits waiting, feeling odd under her coat in her unfamiliar work clothes. At least they still fit, she thinks wryly. If anything, she’s lost weight, judging by the trousers, which slip down her hips and have to be hitched up every so often.

  The tea arrives and so does Jane, who shakes her hand and smiles. “It’s so good to see you,” she says, turning towards the lift. “Bring your tea – good choice, much better than the coffee.”

  They sit in a small, bland meeting room, no adornment relieving the grey walls, no colour in the furniture.

  “Hideous room,” says Jane, smiling as Lisa takes in her surroundings. “But functional.”

  She gets down to business, describing in detail the project she wants to give Lisa. It’s more interesting and a lot more work than she’s had to date, but she’s already decided to take it on, as long as it’s within her capabilities and she can continue to work from home.

  By the time she leaves they’ve agreed on her role, pay and deadlines, and there are notes and documents weighing down her bag. She’s glad of the extra load. A further weight to anchor her.

  *

  She tells Graham about her meeting.

  “That seems a positive step,” he says. “As long as it’s not putting too much pressure on you. A lot has happened recently, hasn’t it?”

  “It’s helped, in a way. It’s better if I have something else to think about, like Jessica, or work. It stops me from dwelling on… it… and feeling trapped by it.”

  “You feel trapped?”

  “It’s taken over my life. Everything I do is because of what happened. Where I live, how I behave, what I say, even. How I dress…”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  God, that question. She wrestles with her irritation, forces herself to answer truthfully. “Angry, frustrated with myself. Pathetic.”