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

by Lucy Dawson

  I sigh. ‘I wondered that myself and hearing you say it out loud, it does sound ridiculous.’

  ‘That’s because it is ridiculous.’ Tony comes back into the room.

  ‘It wasn’t just me, Dad – Claire saw something too,’ Tim says instantly.

  Tony sits down heavily and looks at me.

  ‘I’m almost certain I did,’ I agree.

  He looks at me steadily. ‘So if I asked you to bet your life on it now, would you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Exactly,’ he adds, disappointed. ‘I must say, I’ve always thought you made of sterner stuff, Claire. These two…’ he gestures at Tim and Susannah and shakes his head, ‘but we’re the sensible ones.’ He looks sad and rather wistful.

  ‘Tony!’ Susannah says sharply. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘I’m not sure it is, actually.’ He scratches his chin thoughtfully. ‘I worry when we find ourselves dragging an ill child out of bed in the night because we “think” we saw something. This is becoming a fait accompli. It’s just a house. The builders start in three days’ time, for goodness’ sake – they’re going to rip most of it down.’

  No one says anything.

  ‘Very well.’ He sighs. ‘If you really can’t bear it, live here until they’ve done the worst of it. In fact, perhaps we ought to reconsider our plans and attack the whole lot in one go. It would certainly speed things up if you weren’t living on site.’

  ‘Tony, shouldn’t we?…’ begins Susannah.

  ‘Shouldn’t we what?’ he looks at her and shrugs helplessly. ‘Got an alternative? No? I thought not. So, Rosie can stay here with us today while you move whatever you need in the short-term, up here. The bigger items, we’ll discuss tomorrow. But I want to hear no more of this exorcism rot, or figures watching you. It is not real. It does not exist.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad,’ says Tim, standing up with almost military obedience. ‘That’s very kind of you. We’ll go and get packed up now.’

  I think about the eyes I am sure I saw looking back at me, and say nothing.

  And just like that, I’m moving back in with my in-laws.

  As we pull up outside Fox Cottage, nothing seems out of the ordinary at all. We let ourselves in and walk around cautiously, but it’s all exactly as we left it in the middle of the night. Tim takes a deep breath and starts off slowly up the stairs, with me following behind him. The rooms are light and bright and I begin to wonder if I had the most odd of turns last night. Did I have a night terror of some sort? Was I in a mental state halfway between dreaming and reality?

  We both walk into Rosie’s room, and I pull the curtains, looking at the crumpled covers thrown back by me with such urgency. My phone is lying in the middle of the mattress, and I pick it up. Just a message from Jen saying yes, she is up and some Facebook notifications. No calls made or received. No new photos, except the ones of the dark ceiling I took last night.

  Tim walks over to the wardrobe and opens it again. Just as he said, an assortment of puffy princess dresses and Rosie’s actual clothes. He exhales. ‘Well, let’s start getting packed up anyway.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ I say. ‘You really want to move in with your parents for what could be months?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it will be. I’m certain Harry’s cheque is going to clear. Don’t you think it’s actually better this way? Dad suggested it himself; we didn’t even have to ask him.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I sink down onto Rosie’s bed and put my hands on my head. ‘We’re still going to have to send her to the new school tomorrow though?’

  ‘If she’s well enough to go,’ he points out. ‘The way things are going at the moment, I think we should just take one day at a time, don’t you?’

  We spend the morning boxing up belongings that we unpacked the day before. We break for lunch and head back to The Rectory, me in a daze, Tim starting to chat excitedly on the way about the possibility of discovering that maybe his agent won’t have refused that part and getting the money back, all in one day.

  ‘Tomorrow could be amazing.’

  I eat roast chicken with my in-laws on autopilot, then head back down to the house again.

  At 5 p.m. – exhausted – we are almost ready to start the car runs up to The Rectory of items we need immediately.

  ‘If you start taking Rosie’s stuff down to the car, I’m just going to shove all of the dresses and her hanging clothes in a plastic bag, it’ll be easier.’ I look around us, in her room.

  ‘Can’t we just leave them?’ Tim says. ‘Cinderella costumes aren’t exactly a priority right now, are they?’

  ‘Well we’re not coming back, it seems, are we?’ I shrug, and he sighs.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  He bends and grabs one of the boxes and leaves the room, while I open the wardrobe door again. Reaching in, I put my arms around the gathers of brightly coloured satins and full net skirts, attempting to lift them out in one go. It sort of works – only her Ariel costume gets stuck and I pull gently to try and free it. It slips off the hanger and I think I’ve done it, only it’s still snagged. Swearing, I’m forced to pull most of the dresses free and dump them on the bed, as I go back for Ariel. The mermaid tail seems to have caught on something right at the back and, as I reach in to free it, instead, my fingers find a small metal latch hook. Confused, I stick my head in and start to fumble with it, pushing it up and out of the metal loop it’s secured to… at which point the whole of the back of the wardrobe simply swings away from me – opening out like a door… stopping as it bashes onto something behind it.

  My mouth falls open and I climb in – pushing a second back panel with my hand, only to realise it is, in fact, another wardrobe door, that in turn swings open and allows me to climb out of the wardrobe into the bubblegum bedroom, on the other side of the house. I turn and stare back through what is essentially a secret passage into Rosie’s room, in shock.

  ‘TIM!’ I yell, at the top of my voice.

  ‘I just can’t believe this,’ he says incredulously, as he stands alongside me in the bubblegum room and we stare back through the wardrobes into our daughter’s room. ‘Someone really has been getting into the house. You saw them in there last night and I saw them standing over me the night before that.’ He turns completely white. ‘Do you think they were expecting to find Rosie, not one of us?’

  I feel sick. Utterly, completely sick. ‘Yes, probably.’

  His shock bleaches away into fury and I watch his fists clench. ‘I will kill them,’ he whispers softly.

  ‘We need to phone the police.’ I put a steadying hand on his arm.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. We do.’ He walks over to the window and stares out onto the street below. ‘You’ve thought all along that Isobel has been getting into the house,’ he says, his back to me. ‘You were frightened when you saw her talking to Rosie in the shop; obviously she turned up here the night we moved in and she was with her mother when Mrs Parkes came round to have a go at you.’ He turns to look at me. ‘Do you still think it’s her?’

  ‘Now that I’ve seen this?’ I point at the passageway. ‘One hundred per cent. No question. She was hanging around the back gate yesterday, too. I’d been pushing Rosie on the swing, I looked up and she was just standing there, watching. I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to freak you out, but I found a Ouija board in Rosie’s room and someone painted nasty little messages over the leaves on the cherry tree on the wall; that’s what Adam was sorting out. I thought it was you she was obsessed with,’ I say truthfully. ‘I was obviously wrong.’

  ‘I trusted her.’ Tim stares into space.

  ‘Those dolls you said Mrs Parkes came to collect,’ I remember suddenly. ‘The ones she told you were shoved up the chimney to absorb negative energy. Don’t you think now it’s more likely they were something to do with us, and Rosie?’ It’s my turn to stare through the passageway in horror. I can just see the foot of my little girl’s bed. ‘What was Isobel planning to do?’
I stammer. ‘Take her from us?’

  Tim stands up abruptly. ‘Let’s get the car loaded up first. Rosie needs her things. Then we’ll call the police.’

  We’re putting boxes in the boot when Adam pulls up onto the forecourt in his van. ‘Hello! Busy Sunday all round,’ he smiles, climbing out. ‘I’ve just come to get everything out of the barn. I hope that’s OK?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Tim says briefly and waves in the direction of it. ‘Help yourself.’ He walks back into the house without another word, leaving Adam staring after him in surprise.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say quickly. ‘We’ve had a rough day. It’s not you.’ I hear the tremor in my voice and cough to cover it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He looks at me carefully.

  I nod, trying not to cry. The reality of my discovery is just starting to sink in. ‘It’s a bit complicated. Lots happening. I better get on; Rosie’s ill up with Tim’s parents and I want to get back to her as soon as possible.’

  I want to hug her to me and never let her go, ever again.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Let me know if I can do anything to speed things up – bring another load, or something. I’d like to help if I can.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, thanks.’ I make myself smile at him before I disappear back into the house to get a bag of Rosie’s toys.

  When I return, he’s crouched over on the forecourt chucking what look like rags in a cardboard box and swearing under his breath.

  I put the bag in the car and walk over to him. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘I’ve just spilt a load of linseed oil.’ He looks up, anxiously. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve cleaned it up with these though, don’t worry. You don’t need any more on your plate today.’

  I hesitate for a moment, then hold out a hand. ‘Here – give me the cloths. I’ll wash them for you.’

  ‘No, no – please don’t worry.’ He pushes the flap over on the box. ‘I’ll sort them out later.’

  ‘It’s not a problem – I’ll just whack them on a twenty-minute cycle.’

  ‘It’s such a kind offer,’ he insists, ‘but I don’t want to make more work for you.’

  ‘You’re not. I promise.’ I make it impossible for him to refuse.

  He picks up the box. ‘Let me carry them in for you, at least, so you don’t get covered in the oil.’

  Once we’re in the washroom he insists on shoving the saturated cloths in the machine, and as he crouches down I notice a spliff tucked behind his ear.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I say, to acknowledge that I’ve seen it.

  He blushes, glances over his shoulder and straightens up. ‘I don’t, except the odd one here and there. I won’t do it in the barn, I promise.’ He reaches up and removes it, holding it in his hands. ‘It’s pathetic really… and nothing to do with being “creative”, it’s just for when I’m particularly stressed. I suffer from anxiety attacks now and then.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say immediately, thinking back to Susannah dismissively referring to Timothy and Adam as being ‘completely normal’. The thought of someone pointing a gun at Rosie and firing makes my skin turn cold. She can’t really believe those poor children genuinely grew up unaffected, can she? ‘Doesn’t smoking weed make it worse, though?’

  He looks amused, and I colour.

  ‘Is that not right? I don’t know what you call it – dope? Gear?’

  ‘In answer to your question, no,’ he says gently, ‘it doesn’t make it worse for me. I tried antidepressants, but they made me feel like a zombie. It was like wading through treacle all the time. I couldn’t paint, I couldn’t do anything really. This is better in comparison.’ He holds up the spliff.

  ‘Maybe you just need to try a different antidepressant?’ I hazard.

  ‘Maybe,’ he agrees, rolling the joint between his finger and thumb. ‘This isn’t a good look, that’s for sure – the older I get the more crusty hippy it makes me appear. Like I live on a campsite.’ He smiles sadly. ‘You’re probably right, I should try something more conventional. Or go a little bit further in the other direction. I read a big newspaper piece recently that says treatment with LSD could be the way forward.’

  ‘I read that too!’

  ‘Yeah? Interesting, wasn’t it?’ he says. ‘I also read that a mental health charity is crowdfunding half a million dollars to continue research into the use of LSD to treat post-traumatic stress disorder; they think it might be able to help change your way of thinking. Which would be nice.’ He sighs. ‘Maybe Tim was onto something all those years ago. I should have listened to him and not wussed out. He must have told you. That séance we did?’ he continues as I look confused. ‘Tim did a tab. He was very cool back then, very worldly-wise… I was just the village boy.’ He laughs. ‘Anyway, I didn’t have the balls to do it, so I pretended I’d “dropped” one instead. Although poor Tim had a really rubbish trip. He totally freaked out. I never much fancied it after that to be honest. Do you mind if I wash my hands?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ I step to one side so he can get to the sink. ‘It’s dreadful that you didn’t get any help after what happened to you all.’

  ‘The shooting, you mean?’ he says conversationally.

  I nod.

  He dries his hands on the towel hanging from the hook. I catch sight of the tattoos finishing at his wrist, covering as much bare skin as possible. ‘It is what it is.’ He shrugs. ‘We all survived. My mum made me go to those classes because she fancied Paul Jones. They’d been on a few dates but he lost interest. She used taking me as an excuse to get to see him. He scared me, though. I only suffered it because I got to hang out with Izzie.’ He smiles, straightens the towel and turns to me. ‘While we’re on the subject of anxiety – are you sure you’re OK? Tell me to mind my own business, but you seem a little on edge.’

  ‘Me? I’m fine,’ I insist.

  ‘Honestly?’ He waits. He has such kind, sad eyes. I barely know this man and yet I suddenly want to tell him everything. It’s probably nothing more than I want to tell someone, anyone, but…

  ‘You can trust me,’ he says. ‘I’m a good listener.’

  I hesitate, but then I remember he’s her boyfriend, and I shake my head, my eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Hey!’ he says worriedly, putting a gentle hand on my arm. ‘Please don’t cry! I didn’t mean to upset you. I should probably go – I’m sorry.’ He steps away. ‘I’ll let you get on. Thanks again for this…’ He points at the washing machine, then quietly lets himself out of the back door.

  I exhale heavily and – as I wipe my eyes, my hands shaking – I hit a wall. I actually feel it happen. I simply can’t cope with any more of this. It’s not dissimilar to when they told me Mum and Dad had died: a total mental detachment from reality. It was too much; this is all too much. I just want to leave and never come back. Tim was right – this house was a terrible mistake. I want to get away from all of them. Rosie is not safe from that woman here. I don’t feel safe any more. I don’t want my daughter ever setting foot in this house again.

  I reach out slowly, put the cloths on the thirty degree, twenty-minute wash – and head off to find Tim.

  He’s sitting on Rosie’s bed, still staring at the open passageway.

  ‘The only problem with calling the police now is that I don’t think for a minute they’ll actually catch who did this,’ he says. ‘They’ll bring down a squad car or two which they’ll park outside, the whole town will start talking about it and whoever’s responsible will just stop and get away with it.’ He stands up. ‘I want to think about everything a little bit longer, if that’s OK? Are you nearly ready to leave?’

  I nod. ‘I want us gone by half seven at the latest. I’m tired now. I’ve had enough.’

  He looks up at me. ‘I bet you have. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say to you any more.’

  I turn without answering and leave the room. I’m not being rude, but there’s nothing more to say. I�
��m done here.

  At 7 p.m. I return to the washroom to retrieve Adam’s cloths from the tumble dryer. As I bend and open the door to remove them, a faint haze of smoke appears in front of my eyes. I can’t smell anything, though, so I don’t let myself worry about it. No doubt I’m so tired, I’m simply seeing things. Blinking and swallowing a sudden cough, I quickly and carefully fold up the hot cloths, placing them back in the cardboard box, deliberately leaving the lid open.

  Nearly there.

  ‘Wow! Thank you.’ Adam peers into the box and gratifyingly inspects my handiwork before I place them in the corner of the room. ‘That’s some service!’

  ‘You’re very welcome. I’ll tell you a secret,’ I say. ‘I worked as a chambermaid in a B&B when I was younger. I can actually make a swan out of a towel; it’s a dying art.’

  I don’t mention that not only did I have to strip the beds and remake them, I also had to take the dirties to the local laundrette and service wash them. I spent a lot of time watching machines going round while learning the do’s and don’ts of the laundrette trade from the very knowledgeable attendant, Lillian. ‘Now,’ I look at my watch, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re leaving in about ten minutes. I think it would be good if you could finish up and leave when we do tonight, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course. Claire – have I offended you in asking if you were all right? I didn’t mean to overstep the mark, or pry.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ I assure him. ‘Everything is fine.’

  I turn and head back to the main house. ‘Tim!’ I yell upstairs. ‘I’ve messaged your dad to come and get the last bits. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ He appears at the top. ‘Just wait until I tell him about the door in the back of the wardrobe. If he says he saw this coming, he’s a bloody liar. He owes me an apology. Ridiculous, is the word I believe he used?’

  ‘Can you just come on, please?’ I say. ‘I want to get back to Rosie now. Grab your stuff quickly so I can lock up. I’ll be in the car. Go!’