“How did that make you feel – the anger?”
She pauses, wonders what he’s getting at. “Powerful. For a moment. More like the old me.”
“Good. Has anything else happened this week?”
“Well… it’s the anniversary. Of the day Ali… died, in June. Her parents are holding a memorial service and they want me to go.”
She tells him about her visit to Diana and Geoffrey. The journey together to the grave and their plans for the anniversary in June.
“Would that be difficult for you?” he says.
“Yes. I mean – I wouldn’t have to do anything and my mum will come with me. But there’ll be so many people there I haven’t seen since it happened.”
“Go on.”
“I know they’ll be sympathetic. Feel sorry for me. I don’t think I could bear that. And, just focusing on Ali, even for just an hour… I can’t trust myself not to panic, and that would be terrible.”
“In what way would it be terrible?”
“Because I wouldn’t be able to hide it. There would be a scene…”
“Those people have lost Ali too. They’re also grieving. I think it’s more likely they’d be extremely sensitive to how you’re feeling, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think they might not be?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I still feel it was my fault somehow, and so I don’t deserve their sympathy, even to be there at the memorial, really.” She picks at the skin on her finger, next to the nail. A small, perfectly round drop of blood forms. She wipes it absent-mindedly on her jeans.
“Perhaps we can make some progress with the flashbacks before then. You know, the first anniversary of a tragic event can help enormously in coming to terms with things. It seems to me a good thing that it’s being marked in a positive way, and it may help you.” He’s looking hard at her now, trying to keep eye contact.
“Maybe. I need more progress.” It sounds lame, but overwhelmingly, urgently, she wants to get out of this terrible cycle of nightmares and flashbacks, weakening her and controlling her.
“Okay, let’s think about that. I sense that there’s something else on your mind though. A lot has happened this week for you.”
“I keep thinking about when he gets out of prison.”
“And that frightens you?”
“Yes. A lot. If it was now, I think I’d react badly. I’d be scared.”
“How do you feel about him now?”
“I hate him. I hope he rots in Hell.”
She spits the words out, surprising herself.
He pauses for a moment, a frown creasing his forehead. He uncrosses his legs and leans back in his chair.
“We want to get you to a place that whatever happens, whether he stays in prison or not, you don’t feel threatened. Do you feel you’re not making progress, or that it’s not happening quickly enough?”
“I don’t know, really. I don’t know what to expect. But the lack of sleep, and being so afraid all the time, it’s difficult to live normally. I feel like I’m just marking time. But now, more than ever, I feel as though I want to break this cycle that I’m living in.”
“I understand. I wonder – are you able to come more often? We could increase to twice a week and really focus.”
“I’ve got this big work project going on, but yes, I’ve got to. I’d like to.”
He reaches over to his desk and opens a large diary, appointments written in neat biro blocks. “This week is busy, but I can do two next week, and also the following one.”
She reaches for the notebook, the bulk of it still pristine, and writes down the days and the times he reads out to her.
He nods towards the diary in her hands. “In the meantime, I’d like you to concentrate on writing things down. Your fears, your thoughts, any flashbacks, the nightmares. As much detail as you can. I know you find it hard, but ultimately I believe it will help us to work this through. It might surprise you, you know.”
She nods. If that’s what she needs to do, then she’ll force herself.
“We’ll look at the anniversary first, then the longer-term issues. How does that sound?”
*
Two sessions each week will stretch her, both emotionally and practically. As for Riley, she doesn’t want to bother John while he’s still recovering from his spell of bronchitis. Twice a week seems a lot to ask while he’s so frail.
Jessica already has the perfect solution. Her garden is secure, with stone walls and a lock on the side gate – and there’s a small shed she uses as a summer house when it’s warm. When they’re both out, they’ll leave the dogs together in the garden, with the summerhouse door propped open so that they can shelter from the weather. Lisa will keep the spare key for the side gate, so that she can get into the garden if Jessica is out. They try the system one day while Lisa visits her mum and Jessica has an appointment nearby. It works perfectly.
Mike won’t be coming near, at least for the moment. When she heard about the phone call, Jessica was furious. Within a few days she’d managed to get a temporary restraining order against him.
“Thank you so much for looking after Riley,” says Lisa as they collect the dogs from the garden and start down towards the lake. “And it’s reassuring to know Mike can’t come near.”
“As long as he obeys the order,” Jessica says. Then, seeing the alarm in Lisa’s eyes, hurries on: “Oh, I think he will. I’m sure he’s not keen to be in trouble with the police.”
“Good. For both of us.”
Down at the lake, clumps of daffodils are flowering beside the fence and the mud along the path is beginning to dry out. The temperature has risen in the past few days and there are schoolchildren playing on the grassy areas, a watchful parent nearby. The water laps onto a tiny shore where the dogs drink noisily. It’s the first time Lisa has seen anyone other than dog walkers enjoying the lake. Something tells her the quiet times by the lake will change once the summer comes.
*
Three flashbacks in a single weekend. Two in one day. A man coming towards her in the street as she walks back home from the lake triggers an image of Fergus in the city street that night. The two places couldn’t be more different. But as he passes she hunches down into her collar. She doesn’t look at him, pretends to be waiting for Riley, who in turn is waiting for her.
As she draws the curtains in the sitting room, the window rattles. Ali is standing beside the window. The scene appears to her, imposing itself, insisting. The image won’t go away. She’s in the flat, where the window is open, the yellow street light behind it bright on Ali’s hair. Ali’s shouting to her, but she can’t hear what she’s saying. She’s trying to lip-read but can’t work it out. The feeling of frustration, of being unable to move or cry out, assails her, her breath becoming sharp and shallow, sweat breaking out on her forehead and in the palms of her hands.
When it’s over – a few brief moments feeling like hours – she gets a glass of water from the kitchen, puts on the TV and watches a talent show, the sound turned up, Riley at her side.
On Sunday, she decides to work. With more trips to the psychotherapist, she needs to work whenever she can. And it occupies her mind. Yet still, in a moment of distraction, she finds herself watching the steam from the mug she’s just placed beside her. Ali is before her once more, carrying two steaming mugs from the kitchen. She hears his footsteps, feels his hand in her hair, smells the rank odour of whisky.
*
A warm breeze ruffles her hair as she leaves the house and heads for the station for the second time in a week.
She’s been writing in her diary. It’s not helping. When she reads over her scribbling, the words don’t do the horror justice. But she’s willing to do whatever it takes to help move forward.
She stares at the painting, trying to find the pictures she’s seen before, but the shapes seem to swirl about before her eyes.
“Many flashbacks?”
“More, if
anything.”
“Any different?”
“Intense. Terrifying.”
“Are you remembering more?”
“It comes back in bits. Sometimes it’s just a feeling, or a smell. Sometimes there are new things, like what he was wearing and what he said.”
“Take me through the events of that evening again. What you do know. It’s some time since we first looked at it and we may trigger something that didn’t come up before.”
Her stomach performs a nauseating flip.
“Keep your feet on the floor and try to locate the feeling. Can you tell it as if it’s happening now? Remember, you’re completely safe here. You can stop at any time.”
She closes her eyes and the scene appears in sharp definition before her. “We’re back from the pub. It’s not late, about 10.30. We’re in the sitting room when the doorbell rings. Ali opens the window to see who it is and calls down. It’s Fergus, he wants to come up to use the bathroom. I go down to let him in.”
“What is he wearing?”
“Blue T-shirt, jeans. Brown leather loafers.”
“Go on…”
*
He wandered around the sitting room, touching the furniture.
“How about a cuppa for me, then?” He inspected the pile of CDs on the bookcase. “And some music – something nice and slow so we can get up close and personal.”
“Er, I don’t think so, Fergus, we’re pretty tired.” Lisa was immediately regretting their decision to let him in.
He swung round and looked from one to the other, still swaying slightly. “Do you two always get tired together then? Shack up together?” His words were slurred, an unpleasant leer on his face. “I like that idea. I’ll join you.”
They both reacted immediately, jumping to their feet.
“Right, Fergus, time to go,” Lisa said and went to open the door, trying to steer him in the right direction.
“Come on, Lisa, you know you want to,” he said, lurching towards her.
“Out, Fergus,” she said, sidestepping him.
“Okay, okay! Just a quick glass of water, then, before I go. I’ll get it.” He was already moving towards the kitchen, so they let him go, saying nothing. They didn’t sit down.
They heard him crashing around, cupboard doors banging, a tap running. After a brief pause they heard the sound of a glass slam down on the kitchen work surface. He reappeared and made for the front door, where Lisa stood. She held the door open and tried to wave him through. He came towards her but instead of going past, he grabbed her by the arm, forcing her back into the room and kicking the door shut. The speed of his move took her by surprise and she went without a struggle.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mike’s back. Jessica has arranged to meet him in a local café.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lisa says, thinking of the phone call.
“He wanted to come to the house. I couldn’t agree to that. He was okay with the idea of the café.” They sit together in Lisa’s kitchen, the door to the garden open for the dogs. It’s been a few weeks since Mike left and though Jessica has contacted him, nothing has been decided.
“I feel like I’m in limbo,” she says. “I’m beginning to worry about money. I don’t have an income except for the housekeeping. He controls everything – bills, mortgage, credit cards, bank account, the lot.” Her forehead creases into tiny lines of worry.
“You haven’t got any savings?”
“No. It’s just the way it’s always been for us. He’s always been in control. Stupid of me to allow it, I know. If he stops paying now, I’m in trouble.”
“The money side will be okay. We’ll sort something out, together. But I’m worried about you meeting him alone. Surely you shouldn’t? What if he gets angry? Even if you’re in a public place, he could do you some serious harm. Do the police know?”
“You’re right. But what should I do? I’ve got to sort it out. The police have done all they can for now.”
“Did you find a mediator? I’d say that would be the best way to meet up with him, and you might be able to get something agreed quickly. It would be much safer.”
“I’ve got a name, but I haven’t fixed anything. I need to get on to it. In fact, I’m going to go and do that now.” She gets up and goes to the door, Bobby following.
*
There’s a headache looming above her eyes. Opening the back door of the house for Riley, she notices that the overgrown garden has been cut back, its patch of lawn mown and the beds around it tidied up. The landlord must have been in, though she’d had no warning.
The idea that someone was in her home when she wasn’t around unnerves her. The niggling thought is sitting there, waiting for her to dwell on. Waiting for the panic she knows it could induce. She doesn’t allow it. She forces herself to remember that it’s not actually her home anyway. And the landlord is entitled to do what he likes with his own property.
Wandering outside, she stretches in the sunshine and looks around. Despite the neglect, some plants have pushed through and one or two shrubs have been revealed, their new leaves unfolding in the unfamiliar warmth. A small apple tree at the end of the garden is in leaf.
The hole in the fence is still there and she looks through the broken slats into John’s garden. Nothing has changed – the grass is knee-high and ivy grows out of control in clumps along the back fence. Bindweed and thistles cover the shrubs along the fence opposite. Remembering his comments about the garden in his previous house, she wonders if the mess bothers him. She goes next door.
John greets her with a smile, fusses over Riley and insists she stays for a cup of tea. He seems better, with a little more colour in his face, and he’s walking more freely, no blanket around his shoulders today. The kitchen still feels chilly despite the warm sun outside and it has the stale smell of a place unused to fresh air.
“It’s a lovely day. Shall I let some air in?” She fills the kettle, flicks the switch and moves towards the window.
“Oh no, dear. That window hasn’t opened for years. Completely stuck, though it still lets in the draughts. Open the back door if it’s warm enough.”
From the kitchen the garden looks even more overgrown. Riley shoots out and disappears into the tangle of weeds and grass.
“My garden’s been tidied up,” Lisa says. “It looks much better now. Do you want yours done? I could see if the man will come back?”
“I’ve lost track of the garden. Can’t do anything like that now.” He looks out of the window at the unkempt area, a note of sadness in his voice.
“Would you sit outside sometimes if I get it sorted out? It might be quite pretty in the summer.”
“Yes, if it’s sunny, I probably would. We used to, when Elsie was alive. But no need to go to any trouble.”
*
“Miss Fulbrook, what can I do for you?” The voice on the other end is business-like.
“Lisa, please. I just wondered who did my garden.”
“Yes, apologies, we should have warned you. We like to get it done a couple of times a year. Our normal gardener, Matt, did it.”
“Does he have a key?”
“No, I went with him and locked up when he’d finished. Was everything okay?”
“Yes fine, thank you. It looks lovely. But… could you let me know next time, please? Just in case…?” Her voice tails off. She’s not quite sure what reason she’d give if he asks.
“Of course. I’ll make a note. Is everything else all right with the house?”
“Yes, it’s all good, thank you. I wanted to ask, do you think Matt might be able to do my next door neighbour’s garden? His name is John, do you know him?”
“Yes, I’ve met him a few times, nice old chap. I’m sure Matt could do it. He will charge, of course.”
“Do you know how much it might be? It’s quite overgrown and a bit of a mess.”
“Tell you what, I’ll give you Matt’s number and you can get him round to have a look. The
n he can give John a proper quote. How does that sound?”
She calls Matt, not wanting to trouble John again. Matt sounds cheery and friendly and already knows John, though he hasn’t seen him for a while. They agree on a day for him to come and look at the garden.
She puts the phone down and can’t help feeling an unfamiliar twinge of pride, as though a flame inside is slowly catching on.
As she stands there, the phone rings again. It’s her mum.
“I spoke to Diana about the memorial. She was really pleased you’re going to try to go.”
“I can’t guarantee it, Mum.” The flame inside is flickering, its warmth fading as the cold harsh reality of the here and now sweeps in.
“I know and I explained. She’s very understanding. She’d like to talk to you, though, beforehand, if you’re up to it.”
“What about?”
“Oh, I think about the arrangements for the day. Will you call her?”
“I’ll try, Mum.”
Lisa glances at the calendar beside the phone. The memorial is less than a month away.
*
She wakes from another restless sleep soon after dawn. She lies motionless and tries to dispel the remnants of unpleasant dreams. Very rarely does she succeed and drift off. More often, she can’t stave off the recurring images and, heavy with weariness, she gets up, goes downstairs to put the kettle on and starts her day. Sometimes she works at that early hour, her eyelids drooping, and other times she just throws a coat and boots over her pyjamas and sets off with Riley for the lake.
There’s no-one around. There’s debris around the benches where there was none in the winter months; the light evenings have attracted more people. Today the lake is completely calm. No wind disturbs the glassy surface. Mayflies dance their peculiar jig at the water’s edge. She inhales the aroma of wild flowers and savours the silence.
Last night, unable to put it off any longer, she’d called Ali’s parents.
“Hi, Diana, Mum said you wanted me to call about the memorial?”
“Lisa! Hi, yes, we don’t want to put any pressure on you. We just wanted you to know what’s happening.”
“Right, okay. I understand that. I’m sorry I can’t commit entirely.”
Dare to Remember: Shocking. Page-Turning. Psychological Thriller. Page 12