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

by Susanna Beard

  She mentioned it in passing, not wanting to sound possessive, made a joke of it. Ali laughed it off. Though she liked Fergus, he wasn’t her type. She was far more interested in the new man at work.

  Beyond this Lisa’s mind goes blank. Though she now knows how they knew Fergus, she’s no closer to understanding the nature of their relationship when Ali died. She has a sinking feeling that there’s something important waiting to emerge. And a new emotion accompanies it. Shame.

  *

  Riley bounds around her legs as they leave the cottage and head next door. “Go on, away!” she laughs.

  “John? Are you there?” There’s no sound from the kitchen. But then she hears coughing from upstairs, so she climbs the first few steps of the staircase to call to him. Riley waits obediently at the bottom.

  “Are you all right? John?”

  The coughing comes closer and he appears at the top of the stairs, his hand trembling as he steadies himself on the banister. His frail body shakes with each cough and he bends over, his other hand holding a handkerchief to his mouth.

  “I’ll get you some water. Don’t try to talk.” She runs to the kitchen, grabs a mug, half-fills it with water and hurries back up the stairs. “Sit on the top step and take a sip or two.” He does as he’s told. Gradually the coughing subsides and he’s able to take a normal breath or two.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I’ll be okay in a minute.” His voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.

  “Take your time. I’ll help you down when you’re ready.”

  After a few minutes he hands the mug back and they take it slowly down the stairs to the kitchen, where she helps him to his chair. She sits in front of him. His eyes are closed, his eyelids patterned with tiny trails of blue.

  “John? I think I should call the doctor now.”

  He nods without opening his eyes. She scrabbles through his scraps of paper and finds the number, dials and waits for a reply, listening to his laboured breathing, thick and rasping. Within minutes she’s organised the doctor to visit. She sits down next to his chair.

  “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry to be such trouble.”

  “You’re not, John. I just want to make sure you’re okay. It’s what neighbours are for!” She tries to make her voice sound cheerful, masking the concern that’s creeping through. “The doctor’s coming, and I’ll wait with you until he’s here. You should have told me it was getting bad…”

  “It got worse today. Had a bad night.”

  “I’m always in, you know – you just have to ask. You could call me if you don’t want to go out. You have my number.”

  “Thank you…” He starts to cough again and she gets more water to put beside him. He takes a few sips and rests his head on the back of the chair, exhausted.

  She sits for a full forty minutes, beginning to nod off herself, before the doorbell rings. Riley jumps up. “Stay,” she says firmly, and he sits back down next to John.

  It’s the same doctor as before, Doctor Morris, the man with the flappy coat – only this time he’s not wearing it, looking younger in an open-necked shirt, the sleeves partly rolled up.

  “Oh, hello,” he says. “Weren’t you here last time?”

  “Yes, hi, come on in.” She indicates the kitchen and he strides through. The room is dwarfed by his presence, his energy absorbing the space around him.

  He moves straight towards John, pulling the stethoscope from his bag.

  “John, I think we need to admit you for a few days, sort out your lungs.” He speaks loudly, as if John is hard of hearing.

  John looks at him blankly.

  “Your lungs are congested and I think you need to be in hospital where we can keep an eye on you. I’m going to get an ambulance to come and get you.”

  “Oh, dear. Hospital.” He looks up at Lisa, fear in his eyes. She feels a rush of sympathy for this lonely, elderly man.

  “It’ll be all right,” she says. “You need to be looked after. I can keep an eye on the house for you. And I’ll visit, too. You’ll be back before you know it.” She cringes inwardly at the cliché but doesn’t know how else to comfort him. He beckons her to him and she leans down to hear his whisper.

  “Don’t let them keep me in. Can’t stand hospitals.” Perhaps he’s scared he might never come out.

  She takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “I won’t let them. Please don’t worry. Do you want me to call anyone?”

  “There isn’t anyone.”

  She waits with him for the ambulance and packs a small bag, feeling like an intruder. The bedroom is gloomy, layers of dust lying undisturbed on the surfaces, and there’s a faint whiff of urine.

  The paramedics are cheery and matter-of-fact. They help him into a wheelchair and into the waiting ambulance. And with that, the house is left empty.

  *

  She calls in to update Jessica and finds her reorganising her living room.

  “Spring clean,” Jessica says, smiling.

  She tells her about John. It’s shaken her. It seems that wanting a peaceful life is no guarantee of getting one; things happen anyway.

  “I don’t think we’re here for a quiet life,” Jessica says. “I think we just have to take what life throws at us and we can’t expect to control it in any way. Whatever you do, stuff happens and there’s nothing you can do about it. You just have to adapt and move on.”

  She’s impressed with Jessica’s certainty, her apparent ability to weather the storm.

  “You sound like my mum,” she says.

  “That’s not so bad – I like your mum.”

  Despite her confidence, Jessica has her own worries. Mike has gone, together with some of his belongings, and the house seems strangely empty. Despite the fact that he travelled so much when they were together, she feels very alone. She’s longing to get a job so that she can focus on something new. In the meantime, she’s creating an office for herself in the spare room upstairs and changing things around to stamp her new status on her surroundings.

  “I don’t want to do too much though, in case we decide to sell,” she says. “Then I’ll have to do it all again somewhere else.”

  “What does it depend on?”

  “Just me, really, and whether I want my parents to support me. If I buy him out, I would be back to being financially beholden to them. I’m not sure I want that right now.”

  “If you sell, could you buy a place on your own with your share?”

  “Possibly. That would be great, though it might be a strain on the finances at first. I need to do a bit of research – get the house valued and look at the cost of a smaller place.”

  “Perhaps you could rent for a while, until you find the right place.”

  “Or I could keep this and let out a room. I don’t know, I really need to do my sums. Changing the subject, will you come to the country show with me next weekend? It’s here, by the lake, and we can take the dogs…”

  *

  Lines of booths selling everything from bread to jewellery to local crafts rub shoulders with old-fashioned village activities, including a coconut shy, the stocks, fishing for plastic ducks in big blue dustbins, and traditional quoits. In the centre is an enclosure with a sign announcing a dog show, ferret racing and a tug of war.

  Marilyn, the kindly woman from the local shop, is running the tombola and persuades the girls to buy tickets. Lisa comes away with a bottle of wine and some vinegar.

  The dog show attracts dogs of all sizes and breeds. Jessica enters Bobby for the most beautiful dog category and he behaves immaculately, his eyes fixed on Jessica, the feathers on his tail waving constantly. Lisa watches from the boundary fence, laughing. She can’t remember the last time she felt so relaxed. Bobby wins second prize, to Jessica’s obvious disgust. She pins the yellow ribbon to his collar.

  “It was definitely rigged. He’s way prettier than that Labrador…”

  They stand for a while, watching the ferret racing, when a voice startles them both. “Hello, we meet again.”
It’s Doctor Morris, casual in shorts and a T-shirt, holding a large paper coffee cup.

  “Oh, hi,” she replies after a slight delay. “Sorry, I didn’t recognise you!” The blood rushes to her face.

  “No problem, I’m not in work mode today.”

  “Jessica, this is Doctor Morris. He’s John’s doctor.”

  “Andy,” he says, shaking Jessica’s hand.

  “How’s John, have you heard?” Lisa says.

  “He’s not under my care while he’s there, so I haven’t seen him, but I believe he’s getting better. It’s a good hospital. I’m sure he’s well looked after.”

  “He hates hospitals. I hope he gets out soon.”

  “Well, he’s eighty-nine, it takes much longer to recover when you’re that age. But he has all his marbles and he seems pretty fit apart from the bronchitis. Anyway, it was lovely to see you, enjoy the fair!” And with that, he smiles and makes his way to the tombola.

  When they move on, Jessica nudges Lisa.”He’s nice.”

  “Stop it. He’s John’s doctor.”

  “Yes. But he’s still nice. He’s probably happily married, with four kids.”

  “Probably. No sign of them, though. Are you looking, then?”

  “Not really. But everybody needs somebody.” She flicks her hair from her face. “I’m pretty sure Mike has a new paramour.”

  “Really? Do you mind?”

  “Good luck to her – she’s welcome. Actually, I’m glad. He’s someone else’s problem now. I just hope she knows what she’s letting herself in for.”

  They walk towards the brightly coloured tents and booths lining the edge of the field.

  “Well, I’ve got a long way to go yet, before I start looking for more complications in my life,” Lisa says.

  Some of the booths are run by local groups – dog training, a running club, the local Round Table, looking for new members. Jessica stops at a small table next to a rack displaying a variety of bicycles. Cycling for Softies proclaims the sign. Come and join us every week for a gentle cycle ride around the area – everyone welcome, all abilities, sizes and ages.

  “Every Sunday morning, eleven o’clock,” says the woman looking after the stand. “We’re all new to it, so everyone’s in the same boat. We thought it would be good to see the countryside and get some gentle exercise at the same time. My husband’s leading it – he’s worked out some nice routes for us to start off with.”

  “Sounds great.” Jessica takes Lisa’s arm and draws her further in to the stand. “What do you think? Have you got a bike?”

  “I have. Haven’t used it for ages, though. I’m really quite unfit.”

  “All the more reason to give it a go. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to carry on.”

  She wavers, not wanting to say no to Jessica, but that familiar sense of anxiety seeping in. “I don’t know… I’d have to brush the cobwebs off and get it serviced…”

  “Great – we’re on, then.” Before she knows it, she’s signed up to the new cycling group. Reeling a little, she tries not to show how uncomfortable she feels. Uncomfortable, and ever so slightly excited.

  As they walk on from the cycling table, Jessica gives her shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll be good for you – I know it.”

  She nods, says nothing. She’s grateful to Jessica for understanding, and for her encouragement.

  It’s a small step for most people, but a huge one for Lisa.

  *

  Lisa calls the hospital.

  “He’s coming along quite well now,” the nurse says. “He’s not coughing so much and he’s eating a bit more. The pressure in his chest has certainly eased.”

  “Okay, do you know when he be able to come out?”

  “I think we probably need to keep him for a couple more days – give him a chance to get some strength back – but we’ll know more when the doctor comes round.”

  “Is he up to having a visitor?”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure he’d like that.”

  The hospital isn’t far, just on the other side of the village from Lisa’s street. It’s surprisingly modern, with many-paned windows and a long, tarmac driveway.

  John is sitting up, looking brighter, wearing old-fashioned striped pyjamas that are faded and soft. He smiles when he sees Lisa and waves to the chair next to his bed. It’s hard, plastic and uncomfortable.

  “Lovely to see you, dear – thank you for coming. Sit down, sit down.”

  She hands over the day’s newspaper, a book and some biscuits she’s picked up on the way. He offers her one and then struggles to open the packet, his hands trembling. She takes it back from him and tears it open, exposing the first two biscuits. He takes one and crumbs shower down on the sheet that covers his chest.

  “How have you been?” Lisa says. “I’m told you’re improving.”

  “Am I? Nobody tells me.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps they’ll let me out of here then.”

  “A couple of days, they said.”

  “Good. Need to get back.” Lisa wonders what he’s keen to get back to, but doesn’t ask. “Can’t sleep in here. Old chap over there snores – sounds like a steam train.”

  The bed opposite has a small lump in it, which Lisa hadn’t recognised as a person, but when she looks again there is a slight dent in the pillow. The ‘old chap’ must be very thin; he’s practically invisible under the bedcovers. A TV hangs from the ceiling at the end of John’s bed, a quiz show slightly flashing. Seeing her glance at it, John asks her to turn it so that he can see it better and to turn up the sound for him; he can’t work out the buttons on the remote control. She shows him what programmes are on and turns the sound up. They sit in comfortable silence. The only noise comes from John when he mutters the answer to one of the questions.

  An orderly arrives with some tea for them both and eases John into a sitting position, plumping up the pillows behind him and brushing away the crumbs. Lisa pours from the tin teapot and they watch the news together.

  When she leaves, his eyelids are already drooping. Looking at his fragile hand on the sheet, she feels a pang of deep sadness.

  *

  Her bike is sitting there, neglected, with rust sprinkled along the spokes and on the rims of the wheels. She can’t remember why she even brought it to the cottage when she moved. Some small optimistic thought behind it.

  “Hm,” the man in the bike shop says, giving Lisa a dubious look and sucking his teeth. “Not a keen cyclist, then.”

  She’s not in the mood. “No. Can you service it?”

  He wheels it into the workshop at the back and lifts it onto the heavy wooden table. Bikes of all sizes and in all states of repair seem to hang from every possible point and tools in plastic boxes line the shelves on one entire wall. He tests the brakes and spins the wheels.

  “What kind of cycling are you wanting to do?”

  “Just to get some exercise and go from A to B. Nothing too serious.”

  He looks from her to the bicycle, a wry smile on his face.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure you want to spend any money on this bike. It’s had it, really – too much rust. We’ve got some great second hand ones in, hardly used. I can find you a super one, which will last a long time if you treat it right. I’ll give you a good price.”

  When she leaves the shop, she’s pushing a sleek blue bike – “nearly new ladies’ bicycle, suitable for gentle exercise” – with new tyres and a soft saddle. So, she seems to be joining the cyclists.

  *

  One woman dead, one badly injured in horrific knife attack.

  Bloodied man grabbed by passers-by.

  Her fingers tremble as she scrolls down to the rest of the article. It was written the day after it happened. There’s a picture taken from across the road, striped police tape cordoning off the house and a group of uniformed officers gathered in front. She swallows, wipes her hands on her jeans and reads on. She’s come this far, she has to go on.

  A youn
g woman died when she fell from the window of a first-floor flat in Newcombe Road yesterday evening; another woman was found seriously injured inside. A man in his thirties was apprehended by passers-by as he left the building and was later arrested.

  “I heard a terrible scream,” said neighbour Max Jacob, who went out to see what was happening. “When I got outside there was a body lying on the steps with some people crowded around it. Then a man ran out of the building – it was pretty obvious he was trying to escape and he was covered in blood. A couple of people grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. The police and the ambulance were there within minutes.”

  The police found a badly injured woman in the upstairs flat. She was taken to St John’s Hospital, where she is recovering.

  There’s an even shorter report in a national newspaper without the picture. And then she finds a much longer item and she’s immediately struck by the photo. Ali smiles directly into the camera. She remembers it being taken. It’s a holiday snap from a trip to Greece. She’s tanned and wearing a white dress, a silver necklace round her neck. Her arm is around Lisa’s waist and Lisa’s looking up at her and grinning, her dark curls contrasting with Ali’s blonde, blow-dried locks.

  The article describes the scene outside the flat – the scream, the knot of people around Ali’s body and the struggle between Fergus and the men who stopped him. It quotes a police officer. “We received a call at 23.15 on the night of Thursday, 20 June, and attended the scene in Newcombe Road, where we found the body of a woman, later identified as Alison Mayfield, on the steps outside number 21. The window above was open. A man, later identified as Fergus Collins, was apprehended at the scene and taken into custody. Collins remains on remand until the court hearing.

  “In the first floor flat we found another victim, Lisa Fulbrook. She was badly injured and there was evidence of a struggle. She was taken to hospital where she is recovering. We are waiting to interview her about the incident.”

  Lisa feels sick.

  Nothing. She’s learned nothing that she didn’t already know. She’s not sure what she was expecting, but she was hoping for more. More detail, more insight – just more.