The Memory Collector

by Fiona Harper

Jason looks surprised but not horrified. He hasn’t run away yet. ‘And this is…’

  ‘What’s left of her hoard. The council had served an order to clean out the house and when she…’ She breaks off, and tears burn her eyes. Usually she can turn this around, make them go away, but she has a horrible feeling her usual tactics of deep breathing and willpower aren’t going to work this time.

  She has to walk away. She heads back down the hall and into the living room, where she stands in the centre of the rug and breathes deeply, not even caring that Jason has followed her, that he can see her performing her ritual.

  He comes up behind her but stops just out of reach. When he speaks his voice has lost that hard edge. ‘How did she die, Heather?’

  Silence, wide and spacious. Heather collects herself and fills it with her words.

  ‘She had high blood pressure. They think she lost her medication in all the clutter and just stopped taking it, and she had a stroke.’ That’s probably enough information, but now she’s started she can’t seem to stop. ‘When the postman alerted the emergency services, they couldn’t get a stretcher inside because of the state of the house. It took them hours to get her out. If they’d been able to go straight in, maybe…’ She hiccups, holds her hand briefly over her mouth before carrying on. ‘They lost precious time. She died a couple of days later.’

  Jason doesn’t say anything. He just walks towards her and wraps her in his arms. She lays her head against his shoulder and the tears come. It’s such a relief. She feels as if she’s been holding herself upright, no one to support her, for most of her life. As her mind starts to drift in the oddest way, she wonders if she could stay like this, warm and safe, forever, but eventually Jason loosens his hold and steps back so he can look at her.

  ‘And that stuff in the room? That’s all of it?’

  Heather shakes her head. ‘The council had an order out for compulsory cleaning, and when my mother died and was no longer blocking their efforts, they enforced it. I didn’t know at first, so I didn’t get there until they were three days into the clean-up.’

  Jason looks shocked. ‘You didn’t get a chance to go through anything?’

  ‘No. And, to be honest, I really didn’t want to. They did me a favour by saving what looked like important papers and family mementoes and anything that hadn’t been ruined, and put it all into boxes. I stopped them chucking out any more – my mum would keep precious things in the weirdest of places – then I hired a van and brought it here, intending to go through it, but…’ she trails off. Now he knows the real reason she couldn’t face going through her mother’s stuff.

  He nods. ‘Hoarding is a kind of addiction, right?’

  ‘I think so. At least, my mother never seemed to be able to stop, even in those rare periods where she could see how destructive it was.’

  Jason walks over to the sofa and perches on the arm. ‘Well, hoarding I might not have much experience of, but addicts I get. My dad was an alcoholic.’

  A long, low breath escapes Heather’s body. It’s as if she’s been on high alert for so many years, and now the threat level has been downgraded to something more manageable. She takes a good look at Jason, really looks at him: past the ruffled dark hair and lean physique. She can’t quite marry her idea of him up with what he’s just told her. Jason can’t have problems. Not real ones. He’s too perfect, too normal.

  He smiles back at her, a rueful one, a we’re-in-this-together one. Heather can’t help smiling back, just a little.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, shifting his legs so he’s more comfortable. ‘Things are starting to make a bit more sense to me now – why you were so freaked out the night of the flood, the way you disappeared for what seemed like weeks afterwards.’

  ‘Only six days,’ she says, feeling a sudden pang of nostalgia for the Park Lodge Hotel.

  ‘And, yes, I was angry with you the other day, but I’m ready to listen now. The only thing I don’t understand is what all of that…’ he says, waving a hand in the rough direction of the spare room, ‘has to do with what you asked me.’

  Heather goes to the bookcase and retrieves the plastic box where the photograph albums and the first newspaper article are stored. She places it carefully on the desk and unsnaps the lid. Her hands shake as she pulls out the folder with the newspaper story, but she keeps going. She slides the flimsy paper from its home and hands it to Jason, lets him read the headline.

  ‘That’s me,’ she says. ‘That girl in the picture is me.’

  Jason’s head jerks up. He swears. Yup, thinks Heather, that pretty much covers it.

  ‘Hoarding is often triggered by something traumatic,’ she adds.

  ‘You think this is what did it for your mother?’

  Heather gives him a little half-shrug. He swears again, more colourfully this time, then shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Wow. I mean… to grow up knowing this…’

  She inhales sharply. ‘Well, that’s just it. I only just found out.’

  Jason’s mouth drops open. If he wasn’t already perching on the arm of her sofa – bringing his face on a level closer to hers, she notices – she suspects he might have sat down at that revelation. ‘No one told you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Seems there was a big family secret. I don’t know why I’m surprised, though. My family are good at those – secrets. Experts, in fact.’

  Even her. Especially her. But she doesn’t say that.

  Jason looks at her and she knows he understands.

  ‘I need…’ she begins, and then wonders what she really does need. More than she can tell him, that’s for sure, but she doesn’t want to scare him off with her own sordid little compulsions; her mother’s are terrifying enough. She breathes out, tries again. ‘I need to find out more. There are too many questions cluttering up my head. I need to answer them, sort them and tidy them away. Maybe then I’ll be able to move past this.’

  Maybe I’ll stop turning into my mother before it’s too late, she adds silently.

  ‘That’s why I came to you… why I asked you…’

  He’s silent for a few seconds, and his answer when it comes is wary. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I found more newspaper stories like this one,’ she continues. ‘I know the name of the woman who took me.’ She walks to the other end of the room and stares out the open French doors into the darkness. ‘I just wanted to know who she is, why she did it. I had this idea of trying to find her. It was all I could think of.’ She smiles and turns round, even laughs a little. ‘Crazy, I know.’

  He stands up and walks over to her, looking deadly serious. ‘Not at all, under the circumstances. I think I’d be tempted to do the same.’

  ‘You’re just saying that.’

  ‘No. My dad upped and left one day when I was sixteen. We didn’t see him for years. I know how that uncertainty can eat away at you. I even ditched school one day and caught a train all the way to Bristol to see if he’d gone to visit my uncle. My mum was furious, especially as it was the day of my history GCSE.’ He shrugs. ‘Like you said – stupid – but sometimes life makes us do stupid things.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, he turned up again after I’d gone to university. Mum wouldn’t take him back, thank goodness, so he just drifts around on the fringes of our lives, hiding away when he’s drinking heavily and then appearing when he’s doing better.’

  Heather is silent for a moment. ‘I meant about the history exam, but…’

  Jason laughs and she marvels at him. How can he do that hot on the heels of telling her something so painful? Something he said as effortlessly as if he’d been telling her the weather forecast.

  ‘Oh, I did resits. Got an A.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she says, and then they go quiet again. This time there’s a warmth to the silence that wasn’t there before. ‘I’m sorry I asked you to break the rules,’ she eventually says. ‘I was desperate. I’d tried everything I could think of – internet-based and noninternet-based. But I shou
ldn’t have put you in that position. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘If you’d told me all this right off the bat, I probably wouldn’t have said yes, but I wouldn’t have got angry.’

  Heather nods. It seems so obvious now it’s all said and done, but she realizes she’s got so used to only giving out the minimum information that it didn’t even occur to her to open up a bit more until her own bumbling actions pushed her into it. ‘So you’ll forgive me?’

  He smiles. ‘Yeah, we’re friends again.’

  There’s that word again. Friends. If only you could make words physical, Heather thinks, catch them like butterflies and keep them in a jar. That single word from Jason would be her first specimen.

  His smile grows brighter. ‘Is there any reason we’re standing here in the dark?’

  Heather laughs, and as she walks over to turn on a lamp she spots the bottle of wine she put next to it earlier. She pushes the switch with her thumb, and the living room is filled with gentle yellow light. She holds the bottle up. ‘Would you like some?’ And then she realizes what they’ve just been talking about and quickly corrects herself. ‘But, obviously, I don’t know how you feel about… if you even…’ While she remembers other people drinking beer at the barbecue, now she thinks about it, she doesn’t remember seeing Jason with one.

  Thankfully, Jason rescues her. ‘No, it’s okay. I drink. I just don’t overindulge much. Can’t quite cope with the idea of stumbling into the bathroom after a big night out, looking blearily into the mirror and seeing my father staring back at me.’

  Heather nods, remembering how much that accusation of Faith’s hurt, and goes to fetch a couple of glasses. She returns with a modest amount of Merlot in each and hands one to Jason. She takes the armchair and he settles on one end of the sofa.

  They talk about other things for a bit – books, music, TV shows they love and hate – but as Jason drains his glass and stands up, he says, ‘Thanks. I’m glad we patched things up.’

  ‘Me too,’ Heather says, standing up and walking closer. It seems to be the thing to do.

  ‘And I want to apologize, too – for overreacting the other day.’

  Heather waves her hands around. ‘No, no, no…’ She knows it was all her fault.

  ‘It’s just, for a moment, it reminded me of someone else, someone in my past who was just after what she could get.’

  ‘A girlfriend?’ Heather asks, and is amazed at her own audacity.

  ‘Yes.’ He sighs. ‘Wasn’t great at the time, but it’s for the best. She wasn’t who I thought she was. But I shouldn’t have taken how I feel about her out on you.’ He reaches out and touches her shoulder, just lightly, just momentarily.

  When he pulls his hand away she wants to follow it. She wants to walk into the solid mass of his chest and stay there, feel his arms come around her. That hug earlier on has possibly turned her into an addict of a different kind, because she can’t stop craving the sensation.

  He smiles at her. ‘If there is something I can do – legally, I mean – just ask. Honestly.’

  She nods again. It’s an echo of the former gesture, weak and unconvincing – at least to her – because as she follows him to the front door and sees him out, all she can think about is that he’s been so nice to her and maybe he shouldn’t, because she isn’t who she seems to be either.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  NOW

  Jason knocks on Heather’s door. She opens it, knowing it’s him, because she can recognize his blurry silhouette on the other side of the textured glass. Without saying anything, he hands her a thin folder.

  Heather frowns. ‘What’s this?’

  His ever-present smile is missing. ‘Take a look.’

  She peeks inside. There are only a few lines of writing, but enough to guess what this might be, and she gasps softly. ‘You’d better come in.’

  He does, shutting the door quickly behind him.

  Heather walks towards the kitchen, her heart beating firmly. ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  Jason nods.

  ‘But… You said…’

  ‘I know, I know. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me. Normally I’m pretty much a “play by the rules” kind of guy, but…’ He completes the sentence with a shrug. ‘You needed my help. It seemed like the right thing to do.’

  Heather pulls a single sheet of paper from inside the cardboard folder. Staring at it, she reaches over and absent-mindedly clicks the button down on the kettle, then begins to read out loud, needing to hear the words as well as see them: ‘Patricia Waites, 14c Hill Croft Road, Hastings.’

  ‘It’s old,’ Jason says. ‘More than ten years ago.’

  Heather is frowning. ‘Hastings?’

  Jason looks over her shoulder at the piece of paper, even though he already knows what it says. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘That’s where she took me! Why on earth would she go back there? It’s creepy!’

  Jason nods. ‘Yeah, kind of revisiting the scene of the crime.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Did she go to prison for what she did?’

  ‘There wasn’t much to go on. I did a bit more digging recently and discovered she was arrested and sentenced. The judge ordered a psychiatric evaluation, so I don’t know if that meant prison after that or not.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ he replies. ‘Obviously not a person who was thinking straight.’

  Heather opens a cupboard and takes two perfectly aligned mugs down from the shelf and makes some tea. They sit down at the table, mugs between their hands.

  ‘It’s still weird, though,’ Jason muses. ‘Why would she go back? Did she live there at the time she… you know… did what she did?’

  Heather shakes her head and takes a soothing glug of hot tea. ‘No. That’s the thing. Unless the newspaper was wrong. It said she lived in this area, which makes sense, I suppose. I was taken while I was waiting outside my school – I was in the playground on my own, waiting for my mum to pick me up. It was just one of those fluke things.’

  He nods. ‘In the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Yes. Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking since I found out the details, but what if the paper was wrong and she did live in Hastings? It’s what… more than fifty miles away and it’d take over an hour to drive from there to here. If that’s true, it can’t have just been an opportunistic thing. It feels more…’

  ‘Planned,’ Jason finishes for her. She’s grateful she didn’t have to say it out loud; her stomach is churning hard enough as it is.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers and closes her eyes, concentrates on the warmth of the mug against her fingers. She wishes she could remember that time, but whenever she tries to picture Hastings, all that comes to her mind is the holiday with Aunt Kathy, all laughter and fun and sunshine. But that was in Eastbourne, not Hastings. It makes no sense. Her only theory is that she has subconsciously whitewashed the more traumatic events with something nicer. The memory is lost. Buried. Like a forgotten piece of rubbish at the bottom of her mother’s hoard.

  Jason’s voice drifts through her thoughts. ‘You’re stronger than I am… the way you’re dealing with this. Especially finding out after all this time. I think I’d be a mess if I were in your shoes.’

  Heather shakes her head. She’s not strong. She’s not even close.

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ Jason tells her. ‘Deciding to find out the truth – the whole truth – like this is incredibly brave.’

  Heather gives him a weak smile in return, but she doesn’t feel very brave at all.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Heather sighs. ‘I really don’t know. Bow at the altar of Google some more, I suppose. Hope the search gods smile on me now I have something more to go on.’

  Jason gets up, puts his mug in the sink, and looks at her. ‘Well, if you need any help, just yell.’ He glances at the folder on the table and adds, ‘Apart from the confidential, work-related kind, that is. Sorry, that’s my limit. Bu
t if you need someone to talk to…’

  Heather releases her mug and stands up too. ‘Thank you,’ she says hoarsely. She has the stupidest urge to step forward and kiss him on the cheek. She picks the folder up and hugs it to her chest to prevent herself from doing so. This is a good man, she thinks to herself. He said they were friends and, unlike others in the past, he’s proved it in word and deed. Even so, she hopes this rush of warmth she’s feeling towards him is just gratitude.

  But then he does that shoulder-touching thing again and she can’t help reacting. She raises herself onto her tiptoes and presses her lips softly to his cheek. The instant it’s over she feels awkward, sure she’s overstepped the mark, so she looks down as she pulls away. She’s about to mumble her apologies when something makes her look at him.

  He’s close. He hasn’t backed away. Hasn’t pulled a face of disgust. In fact, he’s looking the most serious she’s ever seen him. She can’t stop watching him watching her, especially when he stops looking in her eyes and his gaze drops a fraction lower. Her lips start to tingle. She wants to say something but she’s frozen…

  And then – snap! – the moment is over. Eye contact is back and she can see a million thoughts whirling around behind his eyes. A million reasons, probably, why he shouldn’t do what every instinct told her he was about to do.

  He nods, as if confirming something with himself. ‘Take care,’ he says quietly and then he’s gone, leaving Heather clutching the folder, both relieved and gutted he made the right call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  NOW

  Halfway down the M25, just as Heather’s car crests the North Downs, something starts making a funny whirring noise. She drives on for a bit, hoping it’s just something in the air vents, but a few minutes later she pulls onto the hard shoulder, just in case. No warning lights are on, but she turns the engine off anyway and sits there wondering what to do. Perhaps she should double-check before calling roadside assistance?

  She turns the key in the ignition but the starter just coughs half-heartedly and gives up. She tries again. Same thing. She turns the key again and again, until all that is left is a wheezing breath.