The Memory: A Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Heart-Stopping Twist

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The Memory: A Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Heart-Stopping Twist Page 18

by Lucy Dawson


  I sigh and hang up. ‘I’m so sorry, Adam.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says and smiles, but he looks terrible: even thinner than usual, with pallid skin, dark shadows, greasy hair, and jeans just visible under the coat that have gone soft and creased from repeated wearing without washing. I think wistfully of my peaceful bath, disappearing off down the plughole before I’ve even climbed in.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll go get the book from upstairs while you get me your laundry from the van. Let me stick it on while you take Her Majesty what she needs, then come back and have some breakfast. Have you got time? We need to talk about your current living arrangements. You can’t sleep in the van at this time of year, Adam.’ I speak gently but firmly. ‘It’s too cold and that’s that.’ I pat his arm sympathetically and turn on my heels to go upstairs.

  Most people by now would have said to me: Mum, my boyfriend has nowhere to live – could he stay with us for a bit? I don’t think Izzie’s noticed, or even still thinks of him as her boyfriend for that matter, despite him referring to the Valentine’s Day lunch they had yesterday – the one he very evidentially couldn’t afford at all. Poor chap.

  I collect the book from her bedside table; she’s rereading Anne of Green Gables again. Adam is waiting in the hall when I return, holding a large, battered Ikea holdall stuffed full of dark clothes.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, unable to meet my eye for fear of dashing away the last of his pride completely. ‘This is really kind of you. I guess I can start a little later this morning.’

  ‘Oh that’s great!’ I say brightly. ‘You’ve found somewhere to paint then?’

  He nods as I pass him the book and a £10 note from the drawer for her lunch. It’s too much and she’ll lose the change but it’s all I’ve got to hand.

  I watch him walk back to the van. I’ve barely closed the front door when my phone starts to shrill with Izzie’s ringtone again. I sigh and pick up with a second bright: ‘Hi, darling!’

  She’s remembered she’s working this afternoon, not this morning after all – so in fact, she’s just going to come home again.

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking!’ she laughs. I can hear her footsteps on the pavement, then the sound of a horn. ‘Oooh! Here’s Adam – he can just bring me back. It’s all worked out perfectly! See you in a minute, Mum!’

  I close my eyes briefly as I hang up. She has no idea. None at all. It hasn’t worked out perfectly in the slightest. Adam’s got work to do, I’ve got a house to unpack. She really doesn’t get it.

  The phone rings again.

  ‘What, Isobel?’ I pick up, trying not to snap.

  ‘All right…’ she sounds injured at the tone I’ve obviously not hidden well enough. ‘Adam said you’re making breakfast. Can you put some on for me, that’s all I was going to say. You’re doing a cooked one, I mean?’

  I am now, it appears. ‘Fine. What do you want?’

  ‘I’ll have a bacon sandwich please, with an egg in it. Thanks, Mum. Oooh! We’re here now! Hey – open the door and see!’

  I’m so used to doing everything asked of me – I automatically obey before I remember the blasted drawer is still open and the doll’s legs are visible. She’s standing on the doorstep, phone pressed against her ear delightedly.

  ‘It’s me!’ she exclaims, ‘talking and here!’ She hangs up as Adam appears behind her.

  ‘So you are!’ I shove the drawer desperately with my hip – mercifully, the contents loosen and the box drops low enough for the drawer to bang shut this time. I herd them straight through into the kitchen. ‘Come and tell me how many bits of bacon you both want!’

  I’m pathetically pleased with my diversion as they obediently follow me. In another life I probably could have been an excellent spy. I could have done a lot of things.

  Once we’ve all eaten and Adam is finishing a cup of tea with Izzie in the sitting room, I sneak off – supposedly to wash up but actually to retrieve the doll… only I’m too late.

  It’s gone.

  I swear under my breath and slam the drawer shut again. That’s the thing about Izzie. She appears away with the fairies, and often she is, but then she will have these maddening moments of lucidity and competence when you least want her to. It’s utterly infuriating.

  ‘Mum!’ she calls. ‘I’ve knocked over my cup. Have you got a tea towel?’

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ I shout back. ‘If you scrub it you’ll wreck the carpet. I’ll sort it out.’ I swear again, less quietly this time, and march back into the kitchen to snatch up a cloth. Not even twenty-four hours. She’s unbelievable.

  When Michael died, Izzie understandably wanted to sleep in my bed. I was grateful for the comfort, at first, but God help me, it wore off very bloody quickly. She’s an appalling bedfellow – always has been – and I started to resent the poor girl when she’d appear next to me in the wee small hours: a motionless little figure whispering ‘Mummy’ – because I didn’t even get respite from her at night. It got worse after the shooting. Understandably she didn’t want to leave my side, especially at bedtime, and when she was ill, it was maddening; she’d chase me round the bed, coughing in my face, dragging me into a feverish neck hold, jerking, thrashing around, often turning direction wildly on the pillow on the cusp of sleep and smashing her skull onto the bridge of my nose as she did so. I would just about manage to hold it together, digging my nails hard into the palm of my hand to stop myself from losing my temper completely and shouting at her to lie still because I was so desperate to sleep and escape my day. Hot tears of frustration and guilt would run down my cheeks into my ears as I lay there wishing someone, anyone, was there to share the shift with me.

  I love her so much but, my God, it was tough. And here I am – fifty-six-years old now – and not only am I still on the go with her all the time, I still I haven’t learnt how to do the right thing either; I should have thrown that doll away while I had the chance, instead of playing with something that doesn’t belong to me.

  I’m putting the tea towel in the brand-new washing machine and frowning at the mass of programme options in the tiny utility room when Adam appears behind me, in his enormous coat.

  ‘I’m off. Listen, Eve, I feel like I should mention, I asked Timothy if I could use the barn at Fox Cottage for one more week until their builders start.’

  My jaw must drop, because he says miserably: ‘yeah, I know. Selling my soul. Hypocritical beyond belief – all of the above. But I’m desperate. My mate’s space hasn’t come off and an extra week buys me the chance to look for something else and get finished in time to ship the paintings to that exhibition I told you about.’

  ‘I understand,’ I tell him. I don’t actually, but it’s not my place to tell him what to do when I can’t offer him an alternative. ‘What a shame you had to clear it all out only to put it back again.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m only putting the easel up. I just want the light really, just to keep the conditions consistent. I should have been finished before now anyway, to be honest.’

  ‘It’s done when it’s done,’ I say kindly.

  He smiles. ‘Thanks for understanding. It’s only for a week anyway. Hopefully they won’t even notice I’m there.’

  Fourteen

  Claire

  ‘What you two got stashed under the sofa so that you need me the day after moving in, then?’ The locksmith grins, folds his arms and looks around the small sitting room. ‘The crown jewels?’

  ‘I wish. Although my husband also wants every single lock in the house replaced, so I can see why you might think that.’

  The locksmith’s smile fades. ‘Not really?’

  I point up the stairs and mouth ‘he can hear us’ before putting my finger to my lips and motioning for the locksmith to follow me through into the dining room.

  ‘I know, it sounds a bit mad,’ I whisper conspiratorially, ‘and I also know the French windows are rotten in the barn and so are some of the downstairs windows in the three-storey
bit – I’ve been round them all properly this morning. I can see that if someone really wants to get in to either end, they’ll still be able to. All I want you to do, is make sure this middle portion of the house is secure. This is the bit we’re actually going to live in.’

  He shrugs. ‘I can do that. You’ve already got that massive bolt across the door upstairs that joins the house to the three-storey bit, so no one’s getting in there. I’ll change the front and back door locks, so that only leaves this one here.’ He points at the glass-panelled door at the back of the room we’re standing in, connecting to the grain store where Adam had his stuff stored – and the barn beyond, where he’ll no doubt be painting his messed-up pictures again later. Just as I think that, the light is suddenly dimmed by a van pulling up on the forecourt. I walk to the window and see Adam climb out, open the back of it and start rummaging around inside.

  ‘I can fit a new lock on this frame,’ the locksmith has started talking again and I force myself to turn back to him and concentrate, ‘but basically, if a burglar really wants to get in here, all he’s got to do is smash one of these panes, reach through and undo it from the inside. It’s the door that’s the problem in this case, not the lock.’

  I picture Isobel standing the other side of the glass, rattling the handle. ‘I definitely want it done. What about if you change the lock and I’ll keep the key someplace else instead then?’

  He shakes his head gravely. ‘That’s a major hazard, Ms Waters. In a house fire, the smoke will overcome you long before you remember where you’ve hidden the key.’

  ‘OK.’ I rub my eyes tiredly. ‘I hear what you’re saying and I can see it’s a waste of money, but can you change the lock anyway? Just as a short-term measure?’

  ‘It’s your party.’ He shrugs again, adding kindly: ‘It ain’t like down south here, though. We don’t have a massive crime rate. Where have you moved from?’

  ‘Surrey.’

  ‘Near my old stamping ground! I’m a Surbiton boy!’

  ‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s where I’m from! What a small world!’ I’m overcome by such a wave of homesickness, I have to sit down on the sofa. ‘Do you go back much?’

  He shrugs. ‘Not as often as I’d like. The journey’s a bit meaty for a weekend and I’ve got two boys a bit older than your girl – you said she was eight, didn’t you? Well they get too tired, don’t they? All that driving in two days. Anyway, they’re Shropshire kids now. I’d go back properly if it were just about me – the South East will always be home – but it’s better for them here really. I expect it was what brought you up here too, eh? All this space. Perfect for kids.’

  I nod with difficulty. ‘Something like that. I’ll go and get the kettle on.’

  ‘Now you’re talking!’ He grins. ‘And we’ll make sure we really do get you safe as houses, don’t you worry. I’ve got a few bits to get out of the van and we’ll get going!’

  As he disappears, I go upstairs to see if Tim and his dad want a cup of something.

  ‘Tea break, gentlemen?’ I stick my head round Rosie’s bedroom door. ‘It’s officially eleven thirty.’

  ‘I thought as much.’ Tony smiles at me, holding a paintbrush. ‘I was starting to feel a little bit Winnie the Pooh-ish. My tummy was telling me it needed something in it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see if I can find a biscuit as well as the tea or coffee then. You’re making good progress. Promise you won’t paint over the mural wall, though?’ I look at Tim as I say that, who ignores me.

  ‘No, no – of course not.’ Tony wipes his brow. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think the whole thing is any more than a lick and promise wash, though, Claire.’ He puts his brush down. ‘But it will liven it up for the time being and that’s the important thing.’ He looks at Tim, who doesn’t say a word, just carries on painting. ‘Isn’t that right, Timothy?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Tim replies tersely, and my heart sinks. They’ve been up here for less than an hour. They can’t have fallen out already?

  ‘Timothy is having a sulk because I’ve told him not to pull out that wardrobe,’ Tony explains, gesturing at it in the far right-hand corner of the room.

  ‘It’s a bloody horrible old thing!’ Tim explodes and glares at his dad, who bursts out laughing. ‘Me or the wardrobe?’

  Tim looks pained. ‘It’s an unsightly piece of furniture and we’ve already got a wardrobe that can go in here.’ He speaks with exaggerated patience.

  It’s Tony’s turn to look annoyed. ‘Old chap, I already told you – it’s fixed to the wall and the plaster is so shot that if you try and pull it off, you’ll probably pull great chunks of wall with it. Leave it until the builders get to this bit and they can rip it all out when it doesn’t matter about dust and debris. Same story with those built-in shelves over there.’ He points at a large bookcase. ‘I wouldn’t disturb them either. It’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘I really don’t want plaster dust everywhere,’ I agree hurriedly. ‘Rosie has her hanging rail and chest of drawers in any case,’ I remind Tim. ‘Let’s not pull lumps out of the wall if we can avoid it?’

  I watch him clench his jaw, then smile widely. ‘Of course. No problem. To be honest the poxy furniture is the least of my worries. I’ve got other, far more important things on my mind.’

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t and I can’t be bothered to go through the routine of winkling it out of him like I usually would. I’ve got too much to do.

  ‘So, tea or coffee, then?’ I remind them quickly. ‘I’ll make them and head back to The Rectory if that’s OK? We’ve got a playdate this afternoon with a little girl at Rosie’s new school that your mum has arranged – one of her friend’s granddaughters.’

  Tim noticeably softens. ‘I’m really pleased to hear that! I hope Ro has fun!’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ I say hopefully. ‘Adam’s arrived by the way.’

  Tim nods and doesn’t say anything, but Tony looks up enquiringly.

  ‘Tim’s said he can use the barn to paint in until the builders start next Wednesday,’ I explain.

  Tony doesn’t say anything but I can tell from his raised eyebrow he shares my feelings on the matter. Tim carries on painting crossly.

  ‘Anyway, you’ll be here for a while, then? The locksmith won’t be done for a bit yet. I’ll tell him to come up if he needs anything, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, do, and well done for getting him in so quickly. Thank you.’ Tim starts to paint again then stops and rubs his eyes. ‘This paint is giving me a cracking headache,’ he complains. ‘Are you sure it’s fast drying, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, I am – you’ve also had it for free, so maybe don’t knock it,’ says Tony, before turning to me. ‘Tim’s right – it was very sensible to get the locks replaced so speedily. The mind boggles at how many people don’t take that measure once they move into a new house. Think about how many people could potentially have a key to this place?’

  ‘I know. Imagine someone letting herself in off the street when she felt like it?’

  Tim pauses and glances at me carefully. We both know exactly whom I’m talking about. I can see Isobel now, stood motionless, staring at Tim.

  I can’t seem to stop thinking about her, in fact. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  ‘Well I think the point is you make a conscious decision not to let her bother you,’ says Susannah, cutting straight down the centre of the conversational cloth with no hesitation, as we sit at her kitchen table having a post lunch coffee. ‘It’s a terribly sad situation really. I mean, Isobel’s always had that sense of other-worldliness about her – even when she was Rosie’s age she’d whisper to herself and when you asked her who she was talking to you’d have to try several times to get an answer because she just wouldn’t hear you, she’d be miles away.’

  ‘You’ve known her that long?’

  ‘Well, yes. Directly after the incident.’ Susannah is deliberately oblique in front of Rosie who is sitting at the kitchen
table with us doing some colouring. ‘Tony felt it would be helpful for the children to play together a few times over the remainder of the Christmas holidays to cement the feeling that everyone was OK, it was all happy, happy again, etc, etc. So she and her mother came over once or twice.’

  I lower my eyes discreetly, thinking about what Tim told me yesterday. Surely Tony and Eve didn’t begin their affair as early as that? How horrible for Susannah. ‘Isobel was probably still deeply traumatised though,’ I say. ‘In fairness.’

  Susannah shrugs. ‘But with careful management those personality quirks wouldn’t have become any more significant, that’s my point. Timothy and Adam are completely normal; they were there as well.’ She takes a sip of coffee. ‘I daresay she’d have always been a bit ditsy and floaty, but nothing like the girl she’s become. That voice, for example.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Total affectation.’

  ‘She’s always had that too?’ I’m astonished.

  Susannah nods. ‘A private doctor friend of mine saw Izzie once when she was seventeen – long story – it’s called Puberphonia. The voice stays permanently artificially high. Physiological causes are very rare, apparently; it’s mostly due to emotional stress.’ She glances at Rosie and whispers: ‘It’s the mother, squashing her down all the time and refusing to let her grow up.’ She shakes her head in disbelief and takes another sip of coffee before returning to her own normal level of voice again. ‘It’s almost as if the poor girl is desperately trying to remain the child her mother wants her to be.’

  Rosie doesn’t look up from her picture. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘No one sweetheart, just a grown-up you don’t know,’ I say quickly. ‘Do you want to go and get your unicorn, if you’re taking it to show Grandma’s friends? We’re leaving in five minutes.’

 

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