Forget Her Name

by Jane Holland

  ‘And what the hell would you know about it?’ I ask him wildly. I’m sick of their lies and subterfuge. Sick of the sense of impending horror that’s been hanging over me for weeks now. Ever since the mysterious arrival of the snow globe with its vile contents, and the destruction of my wedding dress. Someone did those things to me. And my money is on Rachel. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  I pull away from Dominic’s grasp, and stumble out of the bedroom.

  ‘Catherine?’

  Ignoring my mother, I run downstairs, past the empty space on the landing where Rachel’s chest had been, and down the next flight of stairs, all the way to the kitchen.

  I grab my handbag from the kitchen table and let myself out the side door. I’m not really sure where I’m going, but I need to get out of the house, to get as far away from them as possible.

  I realise mistily that I’m including Dominic in that ‘them’ now. It feels as though he’s subtly crossed over to their side. Without me realising it, he has become one of my doubters and attackers. Which is insane and appalling. We only recently got married. Nonetheless, how else am I supposed to interpret the looks he and my father were exchanging up there, and the tacit way he agreed with their diagnosis?

  You’re overwrought.

  The humiliation of that dismissal is almost too much to bear. Outside the side door, I stop and take several deep breaths, trying to calm down. They used to say that when I was a child. Go to your room, Catherine. You’re overwrought. Like I’m a piece of iron that’s been twisted out of shape.

  I feel a sob in my chest and suppress it, too furious even to cry.

  It’s quiet and dark in the back garden, though the city sky glows as always, an eerie orange-black. I feel my way along the wall, glancing back once. The magnolia is a vast shape in the centre of the small garden, far too large for its space, spiralling out with stark, winter limbs to the red-brick walls on either side. On summer nights I’ve often lain beneath the magnolia and peered up at the luminous sky through its branches.

  Not tonight though. There’s a crisp, chill feel to the air this close to Christmas, and my breath is steaming. The ground is hard as ice.

  Passing the lit window of my father’s downstairs study, I glance in and for a second think I see someone looking back at me. A wild-eyed creature, hair in a mess; gaunt-cheeked, eyebrows arched in a perpetual question.

  I’m shocked and jump, but then realise the truth.

  That wild thing is me.

  It’s hardly surprising I look so mad. I’ve been driven half-crazy by the way they’re all treating me. Their absurd refusal to even discuss Rachel’s death. If she died at all, which I’m beginning to doubt.

  Now that sounds crazy, I think. Even to me.

  Someone touches my arm, and I cry out, backing against the wall instinctively, hands out, ready to defend myself.

  ‘Hey, calm down. It’s me.’

  ‘Oh God, Dominic.’ I clasp my chest and glare at him. He looms large in the darkness, almost menacing. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Why did you come after me?’

  He’s out of breath, his cheeks slightly flushed. His gaze meets mine. ‘Because I love you. Or had you forgotten that?’

  ‘If you love me so much, why let my dad talk about me like that? As if I wasn’t there?’ I mimic my dad’s voice. ‘Take your wife downstairs.’

  ‘I know, he’s a dinosaur.’

  ‘Then why not say so? Why not stick up for me?’

  ‘I’m sorry if you felt unsupported. It wasn’t deliberate.’ He grimaces. ‘The way you were biting everyone’s head off . . . I was just trying to keep the peace.’ When my chin wobbles, he groans. ‘Hey, come here. Let me give you a hug.’

  I didn’t realise until this moment how much Dominic’s apparent side-taking had distressed me. To have him come after me, apologising, offering me a hug, fills my heart with love for him.

  It also pushes me over the edge into tears.

  ‘Darling,’ I say brokenly, and he holds out his arms.

  ‘Come on.’ He hugs me, his face nuzzling against my throat. ‘It’s bloody freezing out here. Let’s go and grab something to eat.’

  ‘I’m not going back inside.’

  ‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to. You’ve had a shock and the last thing you need is to be patronised by those two.’ Both our coats are draped over his arm. He must have grabbed them on his way out. He helps me into mine, then pulls on his own jacket and pats his pockets. ‘Good, I’ve got my wallet. How about some pizza? Sit-in, not takeaway. That Italian place down the road.’

  ‘With the striped awning?’

  He nods, and then glances at my face. ‘Shit.’ He takes my hand and kisses it, an old-fashioned gesture that nearly makes me cry again. ‘Hey, please, no more tears. I can’t bear to see you cry. Did you think I’d let you go off on your own and not come after you?’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  ‘Poor love.’ He rubs the back of my hand against his cheek, which is scratchy with stubble. ‘You scarpered like a hare. I didn’t know you could move that quickly.’

  I laugh shakily. ‘Good to know I can still surprise you.’

  ‘I would have come after you sooner,’ he says, and tucks my arm under his as he leads me down the path to the front of the house, ‘only I stopped to give Robert a piece of my mind.’

  I stare at him sideways. ‘You had words with Dad?’

  ‘Bloody right. Speaking to my wife like that.’ He grins, and glances at me wryly. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t stand up to him? I told him not to be such a fool. Someone is obviously trying to scare you. He can’t just dismiss it as . . . I don’t know, some kind of acting-out on your part.’

  ‘So he definitely thinks I wrote it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Bastard.’ I hesitate, almost not daring to ask the obvious question. ‘What about you? Do you think I did it? To get everybody’s attention?’

  ‘Now you’re being silly.’

  I close my eyes. ‘I had to check. If Dad’s so convinced I drew that hangman on the wall myself, I thought maybe you would be, too.’

  ‘Well, he’s either suffering from a lack of imagination . . .’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or there’s something else at work here.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  We reach the street corner, which is fairly quiet now, and cross the road. The Italian restaurant at the end of the next block is lit up, a waiter standing outside having a sneaky cigarette in the cold.

  Dominic stops and frowns. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it’s not really any of my business. I’ve come in late to this situation. But I can see how upset you are and, all joking aside, you’re my wife and I love you.’

  Somehow I manage a smile. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘If you ask me though,’ he continues slowly, almost thinking aloud, ‘your parents are hiding something. I saw how they were when you asked them about Rachel’s death, and you’re right, it’s clear they don’t want to talk about her. Or not to you anyway.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of not being able to control the message.’

  ‘I don’t care about any of that.’

  ‘No.’ His gaze holds mine. ‘It was a long time ago and you were only a child. But Rachel was your sister, and you have a right to know how she died.’

  My heart is beating erratically. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So my advice is, write them a letter.’

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Take an hour to sit down and ask them in a letter what happened to Rachel. But be sure to ask them to write you a letter back, rather than talk to you about it.’

  ‘Good God, what makes you think they’d agree to that?’

  ‘Because a letter is less confrontational. Therapists use the technique all the time in conflict resolution, especially between close family members whe
re emotions can run high.’ He kisses me lightly on the lips. ‘The idea is, your parents are more likely to agree because, in a letter, they get to control the message. Whatever the message is.’

  I shiver, but nod, saying nothing.

  Whatever the message is.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next day is my day off work. While Dominic is at the hospital in the afternoon, I go out to a café where I can be private, and write the letter.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  Dominic suggested I should write you a letter to explain how I feel about what’s happened recently, and things we’ve never discussed – like Rachel. He thinks it’s easier to say in a letter something that would be hard face-to-face, and I agree. So if you want to reply to me in a letter too, that would be fine.

  First though, I want you to know that I love you both, and won’t ever blame you, whatever you tell me. All I want is the truth.

  Here’s what I already know.

  Rachel died in a skiing accident when we were on holiday in Switzerland. I was twelve, she was nearly fourteen. It would have been her birthday the following week. Rachel was really excited, looking forward to it. I remember the place we stayed at, that big white hotel just outside the village, and the ski resort. And I remember waiting on my own for news after the accident, and then Dad coming to tell me Rachel had passed away.

  That moment is really clear in my memory.

  But my other memories of the holiday are confused and fuzzy. I’m not sure if that’s because I was in shock over what happened, but it means I can’t actually recall what happened to Rachel that day, or how she died, or whose fault it was – if anyone’s.

  I can’t remember much about what happened when we got home, either. Mum, you told me that she was cremated, only I wasn’t allowed to be at the funeral because I would have been too upset. Then Dad got that posting in Dubai, and it was years before anyone mentioned her name again.

  But now I’m not sure if everything you told me is true. Because odd things have been happening. Things that remind me of Rachel’s nasty tricks. And I don’t want to be horrible about my sister when she can’t defend herself, but we all know she could be really unpleasant at times. And it’s somehow connected to me marrying Dominic.

  First I got Rachel’s old snow globe through the post, with a cow’s eye in it. Then someone broke into our flat and cut my wedding dress to bits, and covered it in what looked like blood. I know I should have told you about that, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t want you to get upset. The police still haven’t come back to us about that. At the wedding, Jasmine told me she’d received a postcard from Rachel, with some sick message saying I was being watched. And somebody signed Rachel’s name on some paperwork at the food bank, and I don’t know how they managed that, but it wasn’t me, I swear it. Then last night, there was the lipstick hangman on the wall. With my name on it. So it’s clear this is all aimed at me.

  I know it makes no sense to believe Rachel could be behind this, because she passed away over ten years ago. But not knowing for sure is driving me mad. So can you please tell me – very clearly and in as much detail as possible – what happened that day in Switzerland? That would put my mind at rest.

  I’m sorry, I know this must be really distressing. Rachel was your daughter. But she was my big sister too and, despite everything, I loved her. So I want to know what happened to her, even if it turns out it was somehow my fault that Rachel died. Because that’s the only reason I can think why you would try to stop me talking about it.

  Anyway, Dominic says I don’t open up enough, that I bottle stuff up and it makes me ill. So this is me, opening up.

  With all my love

  Catherine

  After that I leave the café. It’s so cold outside, I pull up the collar of my coat, wishing I’d brought a scarf. The sky is grey and leaden again. But the shopfronts look gorgeous, all lit up for Christmas with flashing baubles and tinsel garlands, window edges white with spray-on snow, carols playing as I pass the open doorways.

  I go back to Mum and Dad’s house, feeling as if a weight has been lifted. Dominic was right to tell me to write the letter. It was absolutely the right thing to do.

  To my surprise, the front door is ajar.

  I go in and stop a moment, listening. The house is quiet, except for some rustling further down the hallway.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  There’s a sudden silence.

  The passage is dimly lit, but there could be somebody there. Is that a shadow moving, or is it my imagination?

  ‘Hello?’ I repeat more loudly, my back to the front door.

  Kasia appears in the kitchen doorway, a dripping mop in her hand. A strong smell of bleach wafts down the hall. She stares at me, clearly impatient. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  The cleaner shrugs, a slight flush of exertion in her sallow cheeks. ‘Your father . . . he goes to the office. I think your mother goes Christmas shopping.’ She glances down at the trail of drips left by her mop, her expression distracted. ‘I clean the floor.’

  She’s wearing make-up again, I notice. Black kohl eyeliner, mascara, dark-green eyeshadow. As I recall, she never used to wear make-up to work. Now I rarely see her without it.

  I remember the tension I’ve sensed between her and Mum since moving back in. I thought it was over me, that the presence of two more people in the house had laid unwanted extra duties on Kasia. But perhaps there’s another reason. A more sinister reason.

  ‘When did my dad go out?’ I ask.

  Kasia shrugs, still studying the wet floor. ‘Five minutes? Ten? You just miss him.’

  Her lipstick is smudged and her hair tousled. The top three buttons of her white blouse are undone. Her short skirt looks remarkably unsuited to housework.

  I’ve seen my dad looking at her covertly.

  No . . . impossible.

  Dad wouldn’t be unfaithful to Mum. Not in a million years.

  Or would he?

  Kasia’s married, too. Or has small kids, at any rate. She could be divorced, I suppose. I realise with a shock that I don’t actually know much about Kasia Lecinska. Except that her Polish surname is pronounced ‘let-chin-scar’ and she didn’t like me moving back in here with Dominic. That last is just instinct on my part, of course. A chilly atmosphere whenever I walk into a room where she’s working.

  But perhaps Kasia wishes we weren’t here at all. Perhaps there used to be less chance of being disturbed while my mother was out of the house . . .

  That bright-red lipstick.

  Everything inside me comes to a boil.

  ‘Did you do it, Kasia? Last night. The writing on the wall.’ I study her suddenly startled face. ‘Was it you?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Kasia is instantly on the defensive. ‘I don’t know what . . . what it means,’ she says warily, her accent thickening.

  ‘I think you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Someone wrote my name on my bedroom wall last night. Along with a hangman’s noose. You understand what a noose is?’

  I demonstrate with a quick-jerk gesture of being hanged, and she gazes back at me in horror.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ I fumble in my coat pocket and drag out the offending lipstick, a smooth black tube. When we got home last night, I found my mother had closed it and left it on my dressing table. Pulling off the lid, I screw it up to show her the mashed stump of scarlet lipstick. Or what’s left of it. ‘With this. See?’

  Kasia looks at it, her brows contracting. ‘Lipstick?’ She sounds perplexed. ‘On the wall?’

  ‘A sick joke.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did it.’

  Her eyes widen, then she understands. ‘No.’

  ‘Who else could have done it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She backs towards the kitchen door again, staring at me, the wet mop banging against her leg. ‘I clean the floor. Your mother asks me.’

  And with that, s
he’s gone.

  I’m half tempted to follow her into the kitchen, but don’t. What good would it do?

  I twist the lipstick down and replace the lid. The click is loud in the silence.

  I don’t care what my parents believe. I didn’t do it.

  So who did? Could it really have been Kasia?

  By the time Dominic and I got back to the house last night, my parents were in bed and all the lights were off. We crept up to our bedroom, hand in hand, trying not to make too much noise. The wall above the bed was still damp, but clean of any lipstick. There was a faint reddish smear where the hangman’s noose had been.

  I know somebody went up to our bedroom yesterday and left that drawing on the wall for me to find. And maybe it wasn’t Kasia. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know who did it. She could have let someone else into the house. Or failed to shut the front door, as she apparently did today, so that anyone could just walk in off the street.

  As Dominic said, whoever did it wanted to frighten me.

  But who? And why?

  Unable to answer that, I head for my father’s study instead. The door is often locked because his work at the Foreign Office sometimes involves keeping sensitive documents on the premises.

  To my relief though, like the front door, his study isn’t locked today.

  I don’t want to hand the letter over in person, that would be too embarrassing. But I’d dreaded having to leave the letter somewhere more public like the kitchen, for instance. Even if I know Kasia would never dare to open and read it, the very fact that I’m writing to my parents when we live under the same roof must seem strange. Especially after my accusation just now.

  I hate people knowing my business. My dad calls it being ‘secretive’. But if so, I got it from him. As a diplomat, he often has to be secretive. I’ve never understood why being secretive is a strength for him, but a weakness for me.

  Double standards.

  In my dad’s study, the full-length curtains are still closed, the lights off. I guess he didn’t come in here before leaving for the office today, or not for long. I love this room, always have. It feels so snug. The walls are insulated with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, several shelves of rare calf-bound volumes from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries housed in a glass-fronted cabinet. A few early editions of Milton’s Paradise Lost are among his collection.