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

by Susanna Beard

  “He can give you antibiotics. Let me ring, John, please.”

  “Oh, well, okay then, if you think it’s worth it. Come in, I’ll find the number.”

  He shuffles towards the kitchen, his slippered feet making little swishing noises as he moves. She follows him in and puts the kettle on, noticing the dirty dishes by the sink. As usual it’s cold in the kitchen and the electric heater is off. Handing her a slip of paper with the doctor’s name and number, he sinks into his armchair, coughing. She extracts the blanket from behind him and covers his legs.

  She makes the call and arranges a visit. It’ll be a couple of hours or more, but the doctor will come.

  “Shall I wait with you?” She takes her coat off and starts the washing up without asking.

  “Thank you, but no, you don’t need to wait. Could you come back and let him in? I’ll go back to bed in a minute.” He seems exhausted, rests his head on the back of the chair, his eyes closed, while she moves about, tidying the crockery and making tea.

  “Of course. There you go.” She sets the mug down on the table by his chair. “Might be a bit hot, so leave it a couple of minutes, maybe. I’m going to the shop, shall I get you some bits?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you, thank you. Usual things…” His voice trails off. She opens a couple of cupboards. They’re almost empty and the bread bin on the side contains only a stale crust in a bag and a pile of crumbs.

  “I’m going to get you a good stock of things you can eat easily. And some soups that you just need to heat up. Shall I collect your newspaper?”

  “Don’t worry, dear, can’t read in bed, anyway. Wait until I’m better…” That cough again, hard and painful.

  “I’m going to go now. Drink your tea and I’ll be back with your shopping before the doctor gets here. Can I take a key, so I don’t disturb you?”

  He points to the sideboard where she finds a key with a blue plastic tag. “That’s the one,” he says, and sits back in his chair. “Thank you, dear. I’m just going to finish my tea and go back to bed. Just call me when he comes.”

  She turns on the electric fire and leaves him sitting there, his eyes closed.

  *

  Doctor Morris is with John for a long time. Lisa waits downstairs, cleaning and tidying the kitchen to occupy herself.

  He reappears suddenly at the kitchen door as she’s scrubbing at the hob, which is covered in bits of blackened food.

  “I’m done.”

  She jumps, not having heard him coming downstairs, and drops the knife she was using to scrape at the surface. “Oh, sorry,” he says. He’s young, perhaps in his thirties; a big, black coat swirls around his legs when he walks.

  “It’s fine,” she says, flustered.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, I live next door. I do his shopping sometimes and look after his dog.”

  “He has a dog?” He looks around the kitchen.

  “Well, he’s really my dog now. John couldn’t keep him, so he came to live with me. John looks after him when I’m out.” She doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to explain.

  “Would you be able to get his prescription? He needs a couple of different medicines for the next few days.”

  She nods. “No problem.”

  “Does he have anyone looking in on him? A relative, son, daughter? I asked but he seemed confused.”

  “I don’t think there is anyone. He has a nephew, but he lives in Spain. Otherwise nobody, only friends at the social club and me.”

  “Right. I’m going to get a nurse to pop in for the next few days to check on him, help him bath and eat and so on. I’ll come back on Wednesday. I’ll go back up and explain it all to him now. Apparently you have the key?”

  They agree that she’ll have another key cut and that the nurse will call in at Lisa’s to collect it the following day. He asks for her telephone number, just in case, and she gives it reluctantly.

  Only a handful of people in the entire world have her number. Right now, she’d prefer it to stay that way.

  *

  John’s recovery is slow. The nurse calls by and updates Lisa on his progress. He’s still confined to bed, only managing to walk to the bathroom and back, but is feeling slightly better and has managed some soup for lunch. The nurse is leaving him a cold supper tray each day. She seems satisfied with his progress.

  “Slowly but surely,” she says. “It takes a long time to recover from things at his age. You did the right thing to get the doctor in, though. It could have developed into something a lot worse without treatment.”

  After she’s gone, Lisa gets her coat, puts Riley on the lead and locks up behind her. They head for Jessica’s house, where she leaves him wandering round the garden with Bobby. She makes her way to the station and checks the time of the next train to the city.

  She picks at the stitching on the arm of her chair, avoiding his eyes.

  “You said you thought I might want to blame myself. That I might be choosing to be the victim.”

  “Have you thought about that?”

  “At first I didn’t understand what you were getting at, but then I thought that maybe there’s some reason for me wanting to take the blame, that maybe I’m getting something out of it.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve gone over and over it in my mind. I can’t work it out. What benefit would I get out of taking the blame for something I didn’t do? Maybe I did do something that caused Ali to die, and I’m frightened of what I might remember. Or maybe I’m just being the victim, looking for attention. But I don’t think so. That’s the last thing I want at the moment. So why would I want to be a victim? I’m not getting anywhere with any of it.”

  “Have you put this all in the diary?” There’s a hopeful tone to his voice.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Is there a reason for that?”

  “It’s too confused. I feel like I’m going round in circles.”

  “And the flashbacks, and the nightmares?”

  “I can’t seem to find the words. It makes it sound too simple, too banal. I can’t describe it. It’s just all too horrible.” “Tell me what it is you can’t describe – your feelings, the nightmares, the flashbacks?”

  “All of it. My feelings, because when I write it down, it doesn’t go anywhere near describing what I’m feeling. And the other things – what happened. I don’t want it to be a story, I suppose.”

  “A story?”

  “Yes. If I don’t write it down, it’s not so real. At the moment, it’s only what I remember and what he – Fergus – remembers. Nobody else knows what really happened. So if I don’t write it down, nobody ever will know. So it won’t really exist.” She pauses, trying to catch something that flits through her mind. But she can’t quite grasp it, it keeps floating out of reach.

  “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, really.”

  “I think I understand.” There’s a pause. He seems to be considering what to say next. She braces herself.

  “For next time, do you think you can try again to write it down?” he says. “It can be really helpful, particularly if you’re confused. And it can trigger your memory.”

  She nods, wondering if she’ll be able to force herself.

  “You know that this room is a completely safe environment?” he says. “Nothing you say here will go any further than these four walls. And the same goes for anything you write down. It’s completely confidential.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s not that.”

  “Are you concerned that you haven’t told the police everything?”

  “Not really, though I haven’t told them anything I’ve remembered since hospital. He’s already been sentenced and that’s not going to change, whatever I remember now.”

  *

  When she arrives to pick Riley up, it’s already late afternoon. Jessica invites her to supper. She’s worn out after the session this afternoon and would prefer not to stay, but there’s a pleading note in
Jessica’s voice.

  They eat early, sitting at the kitchen table. Lisa picks at her food.

  “Sorry, Jessica, I’m not great company when I’ve just been to The Psycho.”

  “That’s okay,” Jessica offers a small smile. “It must be hard.”

  They sit in companionable silence for much of the meal, each with her own thoughts.

  The trill of the phone in the hallway interrupts the silence and Jessica leaves to take the call. Lisa clears the table and prepares to go home; she’s so tired she can barely stand.

  “That was the police,” says Jessica when she reappears in the kitchen. “They said that now would be a good time to change the locks and put window locks everywhere. It feels like an act of aggression to me, though. It could really piss him off if he gets back and realises he can’t get in to his own house.”

  “It could. They’re probably right. You said yourself you’re scared of him. Have you emailed him yet?”

  “No – I started but I haven’t sent it yet.”

  “Why don’t you email him about the locks? Tell him the police advised you to change them. Then at least he’ll have a chance to get used to the idea, rather than it being a shock when he gets back.”

  “You’re right, I should do it. I’ll have another go tonight, otherwise I won’t sleep. And I’ll get on to a locksmith tomorrow.”

  “It’s good to have a plan in place sometimes. Just take each day as it comes and set out small tasks that you know you can complete. It’s what I do with my work sometimes, or even something as small as walking Riley. Sorry, but I’m whacked. I need to get home and get some sleep, if I can. Walk in the morning?”

  They fix a time for the next day and Lisa leaves, battling against a strong wind which races through the trees and rattles the gates along the street.

  But sleep is a long time coming that night. This time, she can’t get Fergus’s leering face out of her head.

  *

  She thinks a lot about Ali’s memorial. Though it’s still nearly three months away, the anniversary looms large in her mind. She can’t imagine how she will get through it. The first anniversary is the worst; you start to move on from your grief after the first year. That’s what they say. But Ali’s death is omnipresent, in her dreams and in her waking hours and there’s been no let up. If anything, as she pieces together her memory of what happened, the jigsaw gradually reaching completion, it’s become more difficult than it was at first. Perhaps she won’t be able to grieve until the demons leave her and she can sleep – and live – without the fear.

  The idea of attending a service to mark the occasion, possibly the start of a new phase of recovery, brings her no comfort. Because of the flashbacks, which happen without consideration for where she is or what she’s doing, she can’t trust herself to get through even a single hour safely. The thought of it happening in front of all the people who are also mourning her friend, fills her with dread.

  She calls her mum, who wants an update on Jessica. They talk for a while about what’s happening with her before Lisa has the courage to tell her about the memorial.

  “Mum, Geoffrey and Diana want to hold a memorial for Ali on the anniversary. They want me to go with them – and you.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. I’ll put it in the diary.”

  “Yes, but, Mum…” She swallows, unable to express herself in the face of her mum’s simple practicality.

  “Lisa? Don’t you want to go?”

  “I do. I do – and they said I wouldn’t have to do anything. But I don’t know if I can.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. It’s a good while yet, so you might be feeling better by then. And I’ll be there. I’m sure it means a lot to Diana and Geoffrey, and Connor, for you to go.”

  “I know. I know all that. And I missed the funeral, so I should go to say goodbye. But it’ll be really hard. I still miss her so much.”

  She hears the sadness in her mum’s voice. “I know. Perhaps it will help you, though?”

  “Perhaps. Anyway, they’re going to want an answer, and I don’t want to say yes and then let them all down. I hate being like this. It’s pathetic I know. I just feel like I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.”

  “Do you want me to talk to them? I can say I’ll be coming and we’re hoping that you’ll be up to it. At least then they’ve got an answer, of sorts. Then, if you’re not up to it on the day, they’ll be disappointed, but they’ll understand.”

  “You’re right. Would you talk to them, then?”

  “I will. I’ll call you when I’ve done it, let you know what they say.”

  “Okay, thanks, Mum. Look after yourself. Love you.”

  “You too.”

  *

  There’s another date that plagues her in the small hours of the morning, when she can’t escape. Four years for Ali.

  Three years after the first anniversary, he’ll be out.

  She can hardly bear to think about it, but she finds it plaguing her every thought. Four years is far too short, not only for taking Ali’s life but for the people left behind to recover. It hurts to imagine him going back to a normal life, working and socialising and taking up where he left off. The fallout from what he did is so much greater than his punishment. That will be finished, over with; a criminal record might inhibit him, but not that much. He’s young, with the rest of his life in front of him. What about Ali? What about her life?

  She doesn’t know where he’ll go afterwards, though she knows where he is now – banged up in the north of England somewhere. But what if he comes back to the city? It would be far too close for comfort. The idea of him being nearby, that she might come across him by chance, is too awful to contemplate. And what if he tries to find her? What if…?

  The questions spin around her head on a loop. She has to get better. She has so little time.

  *

  The phone is ringing as she opens the door. She throws down her keys and unhooks Riley from his lead, still kicking off her boots as she reaches for the phone.

  “Hello?” she says, breathy from the struggle with her boots.

  “Hello, Lisa, it’s Mike.”

  For a moment, she can’t work out who he is. There’s a pause while her brain ticks, like a timer, towards understanding. As soon as she realises, the panic bubbles up inside.

  “How did you get my number?” Her voice is harsh, the anger rising. He’d promised Jessica he’d leave her out of it.

  “It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to—”

  “It does matter! How did you get my number? Why are you calling me? Where are you?” Now she’s shaking with fury. The thought occurs to her that if he could find her number, then anyone could. She’s not safe.

  “Steady, Lisa. You don’t want to upset yourself, do you? Not after what you’ve been through.”

  “What? What did you say?” Her voice comes out as a whisper, the anger giving way to fear.

  “I’ve been wondering about you. After all, you know all about me from my wife. I know what happened to you. And to your friend.”

  A cold shiver creeps down her spine as his words trickle through the phone. “My friend? What – what are you talking about?”

  “You’re the best of friends now, with Jessica, just like you were with the other girl. And what happened to her? She died, didn’t she? I don’t want Jessica seeing you. I’m frightened for my wife.”

  She squeezes the handset as if to shatter it with her bare hand. “You’re what? You’re frightened for Jessica? After you nearly put her in hospital? You could have killed her! You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You turned her against me, you manipulative bitch. It’s your fault. You want to control everyone, don’t you?”

  For a split second, she’s dumbfounded. Calming her voice with difficulty, she says, very slowly and clearly: “I’m calling the police. Now. And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. Jessica should do the same.” She slams the phone down so hard it clatt
ers to the floor and Riley slinks off into the kitchen, tail between his legs.

  *

  Graham opens his door and smiles at her.

  “Come in, Lisa. I was just running through my notes from last time.” He moves to sit in one of the armchairs as she puts her bag down and settles into the other. As he sits, his trousers ride up over red socks, incongruous against the grey of his trousers. She notices for the first time that his eyebrows, heavy and black, almost meet in the centre of his forehead.

  “What’s come up for you this week?” he asks.

  “Jessica’s husband called me.”

  “I see, and what happened?”

  “I was shocked. He shouldn’t have my number. I suppose, thinking about it, there are lots of ways he could have got hold of it. But it frightened me.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I don’t know really. He said he didn’t want Jessica to see me. He’d found out what happened to me and seemed to think I’m a threat. He pretended he was concerned for her. But he wasn’t, obviously, he was just threatening me. He accused me of turning her against him.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “At first, really frightened. But then I got angry. He beat her up and he’s telling me he’s worried about her? And he’s obviously been digging into my background.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I told him I was going to call the police, get a restraining order and tell Jessica to get one too. Then I cut him off – I just didn’t want to hear any more. He seems to have gone off the rails, with her wanting a divorce.”

  “Some people need to be in control. They find it hard when things change. Are you still frightened?”

  “I couldn’t get the restraining order because he hasn’t actually done anything, but I did talk to the police about it and they said they’d keep an eye on him. It’s made me even more anxious about security, though. I don’t know where he was when he called, he could be anywhere. And he seems to blame me for everything that’s happened. I just hope Jessica gets it sorted out soon.”

  “You got angry, you said.”

  “I got very angry – I broke the phone. After all I’ve done to protect myself, he gets my number, tries to threaten me.”