“Straight away, apparently. Thank goodness he did, or you’d have had to appear in court and testify against him.”
“That would have been unbearable. I’m not sure I could have got through it.”
“It was pretty awful even without you having to testify.”
“Was there any defence?”
“A lawyer read out a statement from Fergus. He apologised. He said he was drugged up and very drunk, he’d broken up with a girlfriend and was upset. That was his excuse, anyway. He said he didn’t mean to hurt anybody, and he was very sorry.”
“He was told to say all that! Why did he do it then, Mum? Why did he try to kill us?” The fury that’s been smouldering inside her suddenly erupts and she jumps up and goes to the kitchen sink, holding on to the sides with shaking hands. The cool porcelain, rock-solid and real, steadies her. Everything else in her life seems unstable, impossible to grasp, and she leans forward, unsure if she feels sick or faint. Her mum follows and lays a gentle hand on her back.
“I know. None of it makes sense. I knew this would upset you.”
“It all seems so pointless. Ali died for no reason and my life’s wrecked. And we still don’t know why he did it – or even what happened. We’ve got no idea.” She runs the cold tap and splashes her face with water. The cold is like a penance; she sips from her hands and the water runs off her chin and onto her neck, calming her with its cool touch. As she dries it her fingers skim over the still-red scar, the everlasting reminder.
*
Her head aches with the strain of trying to remember. She searches for clues in what her mum has said – anything that might trigger a fragment of memory, but there’s nothing. She sighs and comes back to the present, puts the kettle on and sits down.
“What happened then?”
“There was some legal stuff that didn’t mean much to me, then they fixed a date for the sentencing,” her mum says. “Do you remember any more of it now?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.” She’s beginning to wonder what’s real and what’s nightmare. “How was everybody after the hearing?”
“We were all pretty shell-shocked. I can’t remember what we talked about, even.”
She gives her mum’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you for going – I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Does it help to know what happened?”
“Yes, though it’s all still jumbled up in my head.”
She needs more time. She’s not sure what she’ll do with the information she’s just heard, whether it’ll lead her anywhere at all, let alone somewhere useful. So far, it’s given her no new clues, no direction or further understanding of what happened.
“Mum, did anyone talk about how we’d met Fergus? How well we knew him?”
“No, I don’t think so. Can’t you remember?”
“No, that memory’s gone as well. It’s probably not important.”
But it might be, she thinks. And it might reveal a reason why it all happened.
Glancing out of the kitchen window, she notices Riley disappearing through the fence into John’s garden. She remembers John’s birthday coming up and reminds herself to sort out a cake and a card.
“Did anything more come out at the sentencing?” she says, turning back to her mum.
“Not really. It was all over very quickly. There was a bit of legal talk and the charges were read out again. Then the judge passed sentence. It caused a bit of a furore in court. We were so upset – and the papers made a meal of it. They tried to get pictures of us on the way out. Geoffrey was furious.”
Lisa has avoided the media coverage, not wanting to see the story dissected, those terrible, life-changing moments reported in cold detail. This is as much information as she needs for now.
*
Lisa and her mum walk by the lake in the warm sunshine. They stroll, reminiscing about Lisa’s childhood, her father and the holidays they enjoyed together. They watch the ducklings and laugh as the tiny creatures dive and bob back up, experts at feeding already. Lisa enjoys the freedom of light summer clothing – though she still covers her throat with a scarf – and has taken to wearing jeans and T-shirts on warm days, her pale arms soaking up the rays.
In the evenings, they eat outside until the light fades and they talk or sit watching films when it gets dark. In the mornings, Lisa gets up early to work at her desk, so she’s got time to spare for her mother later in the day.
The day before John’s birthday, they buy the ingredients for a cake and make it together, as they used to do when Lisa was small. They buy candles, a card and a balloon that says: “Happy Birthday John.”
On the day they’ve arranged to arrive around tea-time. Jessica comes to call for them on her way, and they gather up the birthday things and troop next door. They find him in the kitchen, his hair combed and proper shoes on his feet, the kettle already boiling.
“Hello, hello! Come in,” he says, easing himself out of his chair.
“Happy Birthday, John,” they chorus.
A smile lights up his face when he sees the cake and the balloon.
“Look at that! I haven’t been so spoiled for years.”
Lisa helps him open the cards and they squeeze together round the kitchen table. There’s a single candle for him to blow out and although this prompts a coughing fit, he soon recovers and tucks into the piece of cake Jessica has cut for him.
“Lovely,” he says, winking at Lisa. “You must get your mum to stay more often.” Crumbs stick to his chin, giving him a comical look.
“Oh, she doesn’t want me around too much,” her mum says, smiling. “She has her own life to lead.”
And to sort out, Lisa thinks.
John starts coughing again, his thin body shaking with the effort. Lisa helps him to his armchair while Jessica gets a glass of water. He’s only eaten a small piece of cake, but shakes his head when Lisa offers to leave it next to him.
“Thank you, it’s delicious, but not now. I’ll have some more later. There’s a cake tin in that cupboard, if you’d be so kind.” He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry, I get worn out quite easily these days.”
“Don’t you worry at all,” Lisa replies, leaving him to rest.
They wash up and tidy and by the time they’ve finished he’s asleep. They creep out, closing the front door carefully behind them.
“I’m not sure about that cough,” Lisa’s mum says as they walk back. “I think he should see a doctor, especially if it’s been a few days.”
“I’ll check on him tomorrow,” Lisa says. “Last time I asked, he brushed it off, but I’ll ask again.”
“It’s good you’re keeping an eye on him. What happens if he gets too ill to look after himself?”
“He gets some help already, after the last time he was ill, but I don’t know. He’s only got his nephew, and he lives abroad. I suppose his doctor would have to take the decision if he needs full-time care.”
“Yes. It can’t be easy being that age, and alone,” her mum says.
*
She sits quietly at the far end of the café, her back against the wall. She’s early and has already finished her drink. The dregs congeal into a syrup in the bottom of the mug. She wonders if he’ll come. When she called him, he was taken aback, hesitant. He had agreed to meet – but maybe he just wanted to get her off the phone.
She’d agonised over contacting him, going over and over what he’d said, torturing herself. In the end there was no choice but to talk to him, find out what brought him to make those accusations, to be so sure.
Diana had answered the call.
“He’s not here, I’m afraid. Is there something I can help with?”
“No – I just wanted to catch up with him.” It was lame, but it had to do.
“I should tell you, Lisa, he’s been behaving strangely. It’s all got to him. He’s seeing a therapist. I don’t know if he can be any help.”
“It’s okay, I just want to keep in touch. Do y
ou have his mobile number?”
It took a few days to summon up the courage to call him and now she’s there, she asks herself for the hundredth time if this is wise. But she’s practised what to say many times and she’s determined to get the answers she needs.
Then he’s there in front of her, unsmiling, a tall, dark presence. She jumps and the table shakes.
“Connor. Thanks for coming. Are you going to get a drink?”
It takes a few moments for him to be served and she has time to compose herself, determined not to panic. He comes back with a coffee and sits opposite her, dwarfing the table in front of him. His face is pale and a dark stubble shades his cheeks. His clothes are worn and hang off his slender frame, as if he’s lost weight. He looks too long for his chair.
She waits for him to settle and begins.
“I wanted to talk about what you said the last time we met, outside your house. You seem to hold me responsible in some way for… for what happened.” She forces the words out. They hang in the air between them.
He leans back in the chair, knees apart, head on one side. He says nothing. But she has steeled herself for this encounter.
“Connor?” She tries to get eye contact. He looks at his coffee mug, plays with the handle. “Why do you blame me?”
He looks at her then and his eyes flash. “You lived. Ali died.” His voice is low, but he spits the words out and she shrinks from his anger.
Don’t be intimidated. “But, just because I lived, doesn’t mean I wanted her to die. Or had any hand in her dying…” She swallows hard. Pushes her mug to one side on the table, then pulls it back in front of her again, like a shield.
You have to do this.
Connor is silent, his coffee untouched. She tries another tack.
“Listen, I wasn’t at the hearing, or the sentencing, as you know. I don’t know what Fergus said and my mum has only just told me what she remembers. Did he say something to give the impression… to make you think…” You must say it. “…it was my fault she died?” She falters and the tears threaten.
He looks at her then, the pain in his eyes taking over from anger. “I don’t know what to think. You were there. You could have done something!”
“Honestly, Connor, I don’t think I could have done. I can’t really remember but it looks like I collapsed, I’d lost a lot of blood. You don’t really think I wouldn’t have tried to stop him if I could?”
“But why did he let you live? Why did he release you and attack her instead? There was no evidence, apparently, and he couldn’t remember, he was so fucked up on drugs and booze.”
She drops her head into her hands. “God, I don’t know, Connor. He was off his head. Perhaps he thought he’d killed me… I would have done anything, anything, to save her. I need you to know that.”
Stop. Don’t say any more. The tears have won the battle and she scrabbles in her bag for a tissue. She looks up again and he’s wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. When he’s done, he picks up the coffee mug and drinks. Then looks at her again.
“I never envied her, not for a moment,” she says. “I loved her, she was my best friend, and I thought she would always be.”
He shakes his head, starts to speak, then shakes his head again. “I’m sorry I said that.”
There’s a long pause. He seems to be struggling to say something, so she waits, miserably. “I don’t know, Lisa. I suppose I’m looking for someone to blame.”
“Oh, Connor – you can blame me. I already blame myself for letting him into the flat, for not shoving him out when he started behaving strangely, for surviving, for living… If I deserve to be punished, then I’m carrying out my own sentence, every minute of every day. But I didn’t want her life and I didn’t cause her death.”
For a moment they stare at each other, their souls bare. “I believe you,” he says eventually. “I’m sorry if I made it worse.”
She closes her eyes in relief. Small steps.
*
When he’s gone, she sits there for a very long time, watching people come and go, drink coffee, talk, laugh. She takes comfort in the familiar noises.
Despite her relief at Connor’s words, it still taunts her – a memory that sits just out of reach, beyond her powers of recollection. She almost grasped it in that last session with Graham, but it came and went so fast, she just couldn’t be sure.
There’s something – something she hasn’t yet remembered, which will explain it all. It just won’t be forced.
With a sigh she stands up and leaves the café.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She shakes her dripping umbrella outside the door before stepping inside. Her feet are wet in their canvas shoes and the legs of her trousers are still damp when he invites her into his room a few minutes later.
She writes regularly in the diary now, but she’s still unsure of her memories. Connor has fuelled the powerful desire to know the detail, to confront the event and her own actions, however painful. She knows it could be the path to recovery, but that’s not the reason she’s embarked on this quest. She’s unable to stop herself. She has to know.
She notices that today, uncharacteristically, he’s wearing odd socks – one black, one blue, and he looks dishevelled, with dark circles under his eyes. That’s ironic, she thinks. He can’t sleep, either.
She wonders about his other clients. Are they all damaged, like her? Have their lives been interrupted by some dreadful event beyond their control, or do some people just develop differently? Perhaps there’s some connection incomplete, some gap in the physiology, within some people from the beginning. Or perhaps some of them have such terrible stories to tell, he loses sleep over them, like she does over hers.
“Last time, we discussed what Connor said after the memorial,” he says. “Did you think any further about that?”
“I met up with him.” If she’d been expecting surprise, she got none.
“Was that helpful?”
“I don’t know about helpful. He’s looking for someone to blame and that someone is me.” It hurts to say it, but it’s true.
He nods. “Do you think you deserve that?”
“Well, I told him I didn’t envy Ali and I didn’t want her life. I think he knows now it’s unfair to accuse me of that.”
“And?”
“He blames me because he thinks I could have saved her, but saved myself instead. I’ve been going round in circles thinking about it. I don’t know if it’s true or not.”
“Last time, you seemed to think of something – or maybe you remembered something – which made you stop. We were talking about what Connor said to you outside the house.”
“Yes. I had a flash of memory, but I couldn’t quite grasp it and it hasn’t happened again.”
“Do you think it’s important to remember everything?”
“I do, yes. I’ve talked to my mum about the hearing and she told me what she remembers. I thought it might trigger something, but it didn’t really help.”
“So you want to know it all?”
“Maybe then, once it’s all clear, I can stop feeling guilty.”
“Have you considered the idea that, in the details, there might be something that makes you feel worse, perhaps even more guilty?”
*
She has remembered something. Perversely, her mind has released a memory that doesn’t seem significant, though it does explain the photo of the three of them.
It’s triggered by the smell of fresh paint at the post office, and the man up the ladder, his workman’s boots at eye level as she stands in the queue. The flashback is quick and clear, but it doesn’t floor her in the same way as the others. It’s more benign, and though she’s disconcerted and shaken, she manages to resist the impulse to run.
He’d come to the flat to decorate, on the landlord’s instructions. He’d been there when they arrived, having slipped his schedule and run over time, so when they moved in they were greeted by newly painted bedrooms, a bathroom cover
ed in paint-spattered sheets, and a kitchen still drying. He hadn’t even started on the living room. The smell of paint pervaded the flat, and they threw all the windows open to avoid being overwhelmed by fumes.
But Fergus, white spots of paint in his hair, was friendly and apologetic – it wasn’t his fault, after all, if the landlord had let the place before it was ready. He introduced himself and promised not to get in their way; anyway, they were out at work during the week and he could get on with it without bothering them. They liked him immediately, with his ready smile and his blue eyes.
One day he was still working when Lisa got back, and when Ali appeared he downed tools and suggested he buy them a drink at the pub. “For the inconvenience, you know,” he said. They had no problem agreeing to that.
That had been the start of their trips to the pub round the corner and the beginning of the regular group of friends – some already familiar with Fergus, some who seemed to join them by chance. He would talk to anyone and if he arrived on his own, he didn’t stay alone for long. They would get there early, down a few drinks, eat chips or nachos and head off mid-evening. Thursday nights became a habit. Once or twice they went together to the cinema close by, to the early showing. Fergus sat between them and they passed popcorn to and fro, slurping Coke and giggling like teenagers. She remembers they were affectionate with each other, tactile. They linked arms, kissed him on the cheek, wrestled with him as if he were their brother. The girls liked his easy humour, his sociability.
They seemed to stay later and later at the pub and sometimes they had too much to drink. But it didn’t matter, they could get home easily, and if one of them wanted to leave and the other didn’t, they felt safe enough walking home alone. Sometimes Fergus would walk them back and stay for a coffee to sober up. Sometimes, when they were early, they’d watch a bad TV show together before he went home. In the early days of their friendship, he even slept overnight on the sofa on occasion when he was working on the flat the next day.
Once or twice Lisa came home to find Fergus there and wondered if there was something developing between him and Ali. Their banter had become flirtation. Admittedly it was no different with Lisa – but there was a closeness between the two, a hint in the body language.
Dare to Remember: Shocking. Page-Turning. Psychological Thriller. Page 16