Forget Me Not

by Claire Allan

  I was hardly in a position to say no.

  As I left the police station and walked out into the hot morning air, the brightness of the sun in my eyes, I felt a growing sense of unease wash over me. I cursed myself for going for my walk on Wednesday morning. I should have stayed inside. Things would have been easier if I’d just stayed inside.

  My body tensed, my muscles aching. Stress, they say, makes every ache and pain flare up. Fibromyalgia, the doctor told me. On top of the nerve damage from my fall. Physical pain to match the mental anguish I lived with every day.

  As I walked my ageing, aching body back to my car, part of me hoped that whoever it was that had brought this horrific end to Clare Taylor would come back and end my life, too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rachel

  The press conference was timed to hit the evening news. Paul questioned whether or not it was wise for me to watch.

  ‘It’s not going to tell you anything you don’t already know,’ he said, but of course he didn’t know that for certain.

  ‘I’m just trying to protect you from further upset,’ he said, when I told him I felt I had to watch.

  ‘My upset isn’t going to go away, Paul. That’s not how it works,’ I snapped at him.

  ‘I just don’t see why you have to torture yourself with the details,’ he said. ‘Once you hear things, you can’t un-hear them. They’ll stick with you.’

  ‘All of this is going to stick with me anyway,’ I told him.

  I already couldn’t imagine a time when I could close my eyes and not think of what had happened. I didn’t see things the way he did. The more I knew, the less my mind would wander. My imagination could be a dark place. How did he not know that about me? After all these years.

  ‘Well, I’m going to take Beth and Molly out for an hour. I don’t want Beth being upset more than she already is.’

  His intentions were good, I saw that, but he was naive to think that Beth wouldn’t access the press conference feed when she got the chance from her phone or tablet. The reality of the modern world was that we couldn’t protect her from it. Nonetheless, I agreed with him. I wanted time to absorb it all by myself. I didn’t need his commentary, his tutting and judgement.

  They left and I poured a glass of red wine before sitting down in front of the TV. The press conference started, and I saw Ronan and Mr Taylor sitting behind a table alongside Patricia and two men, who I presumed to be police officers. A uniformed officer spoke, detailing where the investigation was and asking for the help of the public in tracking down Clare’s killer.

  ‘We’re in the process of checking phone records, CCTV evidence and other information brought to us by the public, and we’re confident that the person or persons responsible for the horrific murder of Clare Taylor will be caught and brought to justice,’ he said.

  He went on to urge anyone with information about Clare’s movements in her last few hours or who may have witnessed anything out of the ordinary in the area surrounding Coney Road on the night prior to her death to come forward.

  ‘No matter how inconsequential the information may appear, it could help us close the net on this dangerous killer quicker,’ he said.

  I listened to the words of the policeman, but my eyes were constantly on Ronan and Mr Taylor. Their gaze never left the table in front of them. I watched as Mr Taylor wiped his eyes repeatedly. Watched as Ronan looked forward and held up a picture of my beautiful friend – in which she was smiling to the camera, looking carefree and happy.

  He read from a prepared statement: ‘My sister, Clare, was a bubbly, generous and loving person. She was a devoted daughter to my parents, a devoted sister to me, and a much-loved aunt to her niece and nephew. She was loved by both her friends and her work colleagues. She’d never have willingly hurt anyone in her life. As her family, we’re at a loss to try to understand why anyone would have done this to her. My parents will never get over what’s happened,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘We ask anyone, anyone at all, who has any information about whoever did this to come forward as soon as they can and to allow our family some sense of justice.’

  The policeman spoke again.

  ‘The person who did this would have sustained some injuries during the attack. There’s evidence that Ms Taylor tried to defend herself. It’s probable that the person responsible would have had Ms Taylor’s blood both on his or her clothes and on their person following the killing. Police believe that Ms Taylor was brought to Coney Road by car and she sustained her fatal injuries at the roadside. The car this person was driving would also likely be spattered with Ms Taylor’s blood and would require a significant deep clean.

  ‘If you’re protecting someone, the time to come forward is now. Police can be contacted by calling 101 and asking to speak to the inquiry team at Strand Road. Alternatively, members of the public can call the Crimestoppers anonymous line on 0800 555 111. Given the nature of this murder, we believe the person responsible to be a highly dangerous individual. The sooner we can have this person in police custody, the better.’

  CCTV images of Clare were flashed on the screen. She was standing at a checkout, a bottle of wine in one hand. She was seen pushing a strand of hair behind her ear and smiling at the cashier.

  ‘The footage we’ve shown you was taken on the evening before Ms Taylor’s death at around 7 p.m. These images are from Chill Off Licence at the DaVinci’s Complex on the lower Culmore Road. We know that Ms Taylor didn’t return to her apartment that evening. We believe that her killer may have been known to her and that on the evening preceding her death, she may have willingly gone to meet with this person.

  ‘Police are examining a number of lines of inquiry at this stage, but we’re extremely keen to speak to a man Ms Taylor was believed to be in a romantic relationship with. We’d ask that man to make himself known to police to help with our ongoing investigation.’

  ‘So you believe the perpetrator to be a man, then?’ a reporter asked from the scrum.

  ‘As I said, at this stage of the inquiry we’re examining a number of lines of inquiry and haven’t ruled out the possibility the killer was a female. However, given the extent and nature of Ms Taylor’s injuries, we do know the killer would have had significant body strength. We also know that she’d recently begun a relationship with an unidentified male who has yet to make himself known to us.’

  The policeman continued speaking, but my eyes were transfixed on the now still image of my friend, smiling at the camera, not knowing what had been lying in front of her. It took me back to the last time I’d spoken to her and just how happy she’d sounded. She couldn’t have had any idea of what kind of a man he’d turn out to be. What he’d do to her. The death he’d give her.

  I shuddered, thankful in that moment for a safe and boring life. Paul and I may not be madly in love with each other any more – truth was, I wasn’t even sure we were in love with each other at all any more – but we knew we were safe together. We had our girls to hold on to. We had our perfectly nice life in our perfectly nice house with our perfectly nice jobs. Surely there was something to be said for that?

  I glanced at my phone again. Still no reply from Michael. He was probably hurt at my reaction. I doubt it was what he’d have expected. I chewed on my thumbnail, looked at the flowers on the table. I thought of how I’d felt with him on Wednesday night – the delicious thrill that came with breaking the rules. The eroticism of touching someone new for the first time. Of hearing how he moaned and sighed as we’d had sex. How he sounded different to Paul. How he’d felt different to Paul. How the newness of him was an all-encompassing assault on my senses.

  But it was more than that, surely. It wasn’t just sex – after all, we’d only just, after two months of meeting in secret, gone to bed together. It was the newness of the relationship. The friendship. It was how he looked at me and didn’t see, above all else, a mother and a wife and a tired housekeeper. He didn’t see me and remember the figure I used to have, or that
my breasts used to be firmer, my hips neater. He saw me as the person I was – and without any of the ties of time and duty, he still wanted me.

  But it hadn’t been real, had it? False names in my phone. Stolen moments. A fantasy that could only hurt other people. I needed to decide to be happy with Paul and work on that. Stop looking for what I didn’t have and make what I did have work again.

  I picked up my phone and my finger hovered over the ‘block’ button as I looked at Michael’s number. With one touch I could erase him from my life. I could make my excuses and pass my evening class responsibilities to someone else. It wasn’t as if we needed the money. I could use those nights to spend more time with my husband. Encourage him to come home more during the week, do things with me. Be a couple again.

  We’d been in love with each other once, after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rachel

  The girls were in bed. I was halfway through my third glass of wine. Everything was a little hazy. Paul was sitting on the opposite end of the sofa to me, a glass of whisky in his hand. He swirled the crystal tumbler, the ice cubes knocking together while he looked deep into the amber liquid. He didn’t take a sip, just went back to looking at the TV.

  There was a chat show on, but I don’t think either of us was really watching. We were both too lost in our thoughts. I wanted to reach out to him then, selfishly needed the comfort of his familiarity. It felt strange, though. There was a block between us and I couldn’t quite bring myself to reach out to him, physically or emotionally.

  I heard him sigh. I glanced back to where he was staring again at his drink, as if it might hold the answers to some great mystery.

  ‘I’m not immune to how awful all this is,’ he said, looking up and catching my gaze. ‘I know you might think I’m being cold about it, but I’m not. If the truth be told, I just can’t get my head around it. That she’s dead. How she died. She’s one of us, you know. One of our gang.’

  His voice was choked with emotion and in that moment I saw his vulnerability laid out in front of me.

  ‘I know,’ I said, feeling tears prick at my eyes.

  ‘I don’t want to think about it too much,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to know what happened. I just keep thinking, it’s so close to home. Too close to home. I imagine if it had been you, or Beth …’

  I watched as a tear slid down his cheek – down that well-worn face I’d loved for almost twenty years. He sniffed, rubbed his eyes roughly, raised his glass to his mouth and knocked back his drink. That was Paul – never one to let his emotions get the better of him.

  ‘This is something we need to face,’ I said. ‘We can’t run from it. You can see Beth. You can see how hard she’s taking it and it’s only going to get worse, you know. We’re only at the start of this. God knows where the next few months will take us.’

  He reached over and took my hand. I didn’t pull away, didn’t shrug him off.

  ‘Remember we used to say we could get through anything if we did it together?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I think somewhere along the way we might have forgotten that,’ he said.

  He looked directly into my eyes with such intensity that I wanted to look away. I wondered, did he know something, about Michael and I? Could he sense it? Had he seen something or overheard something? There was just something in his demeanour that made me feel transparent. Guilty.

  And, of course, I was guilty.

  I kept his gaze for as long as I could and then I dropped my eyes to our two hands, still together. Taking a deep breath, I vowed again that I was going to stop seeing Michael, no matter how it might pain me in the short term; instead, I’d work on what I had with my husband. Starting right at that moment.

  ‘Shall we go to bed?’ I asked him, a shake in my voice.

  He nodded.

  Quietly, in the darkness of our bedroom, we found each other. We didn’t need the light on, we knew every curve and contour of each other’s bodies. It felt strange, alien even, and I had to push down any feeling that I was betraying Michael by having sex with my husband. That was absurd.

  This was how it should be.

  We barely spoke. We barely made a sound, if the truth be told. Years of being aware of two children in the house had taught us to be quiet. We were out of practice with each other. Hesitant. I tried to remember the last time we’d had sex. It had been the winter. January, perhaps. Maybe earlier. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy his touch, to remember the things he liked. How he liked to be touched.

  It didn’t quite work. We were trying, but it was perfunctory. Like awkward teenagers, not long-term lovers. When we were done, he rolled off me and onto his back, exhaling loudly. I curled up, fought the urge to turn away from him.

  ‘It will get better,’ he said. ‘If we keep trying.’

  I nodded in the darkness first before muttering a yes. Muttering, ‘It will,’ but wondering why we even had to try. Surely it should be natural between us after all these years.

  I got out of bed and walked to the en suite to freshen up, switching on the light. I was just pulling my dressing gown from the back of the door, when I heard him say my name. I turned and looked at him, there in the half-light. He’d rolled onto his side, facing me, his right arm slung over the covers.

  ‘I love you, Rachel,’ he said.

  I would have answered him, but I couldn’t speak. The vivid red scratches on his right upper arm had caught my attention.

  I walked into the bathroom and closed the door, stood with my back to it. I felt sick. Those scratches: three red-raw vivid lines from his shoulder down to his bicep looked like the kind of scratches fingernails might make.

  I knew I hadn’t been responsible for them. There wasn’t a whiff of raw passion about what had just happened in our bed. I sat on the toilet, cold despite the heat in the room. Maybe it was ridiculous to feel a pull of betrayal in the pit of my stomach. In fact, I knew it was both ridiculous and hypocritical, but I felt it all the same. Those scratches, the way he’d been acting lately. Even the way he’d looked at me earlier. How he’d insisted on spending more and more time in Belfast – staying there during the week instead of doing the daily commute.

  ‘It makes more sense,’ he’d said. ‘I can work late and when I come home on Thursdays or Fridays, you and the girls’ll have me all to yourself all weekend.’

  Except it had never quite worked out like that. I’d strayed; it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he could have strayed, too. I sat there, wondering if he’d fall asleep if I waited long enough. Knowing the alternative now was either to go back out there and pretend everything was normal, or open a can of worms I wasn’t sure either of us wanted open.

  I felt it like a punch to my stomach, the thought of him with another woman. The throes of passion so intense that she’d dig her nails into his flesh and mark him as hers.

  What other logical explanation could there have been?

  I felt something twist inside me. Something about the way he’d always looked at Clare. Something about the whispered conversations they’d had. Something from the pit of my stomach that had wondered if he really had been working late all those nights he said he was. If, indeed, he had been in Belfast. He could have been anywhere.

  An echo from earlier:

  ‘The person who did this would have sustained some injuries during the attack. There’s evidence that Ms Taylor tried to defend herself …’

  Saturday, 9 June

  Chapter Fifteen

  Elizabeth

  I woke to the whimper of Izzy looking to get out into the yard. As I followed her down the stairs, I felt the wooden boards creak and bow underfoot. I’d still not had the seventh step from the bottom looked at properly after the fall. I’d just learned how to step around the dip where the wood had cracked under the weight of my body slamming against it. I knew I should probably get all of them looked at – one of a growing number of things I needed to get looked at in this old, rattling fa
rmhouse.

  If this house were a dog, it would have been put to sleep long ago on humanitarian grounds. I suppose I was scared of what might be found. Woodworm. Damp. Rot. Evidence of what had happened here …

  Before she died, Laura had tried to convince me to sell up and move into the spare room of her spacious four-bed new-build in the Waterside. She kept a lovely home and there was no doubt I would have been made most welcome. I knew she hadn’t just been saying it out of politeness; but no – this old farmhouse was my home. I’d spent my entire married life here, raised a family here, buried a husband from here. I’d not leave it until I was carried out in a box myself.

  I never imagined I’d bury a daughter from here, too. Never imagined that my perfect family could be obliterated in such a short space of time. Paddy first. Then Laura. Then my son, Aaron, upping and leaving for a new life away from all the pain this house reminded him of. The ghosts of his sister and father were too much for him to take.

  But on mornings like this one, when thoughts of all the things that were going wrong troubled me, I wondered if Laura had been right all along and I was, as she’d called me, a ‘stubborn old goat who’d rather prove a point than be comfortable’.

  If I closed my eyes I could still see the way she used to wrinkle her nose and purse her lips when she was angry; not that she ever was really angry. Passionate might be a better way to describe her. Determined. Would things have gone differently if I’d moved in with her like she wanted?

  Each day, no matter how it started, seemed to bring my thoughts to her within moments. I liked it that way, even if it hurt. I feared for the day I’d wake up and she wouldn’t be there, at the very centre of my existence.

  After breakfast, I decided I’d make some more bread. I was still jittery after my visit to DI Bradley and the press conference declaring this unknown suspect to be dangerous hadn’t helped. If I made bread, and lost myself for a bit in the kneading and knocking-back process, I could let the physical work of creating something distract me from everything that was running through my head.