Forget Her Name

by Jane Holland

  I don’t bother putting on the lights. There’s enough daylight creeping in around the curtain edges to navigate my way across the room to his large, leather-topped desk.

  I pull the letter out of my handbag, and smooth it out. I’ve sealed it inside a plain white envelope, and written Mum and Dad on the front.

  It seems ridiculously formal.

  But Dominic’s right; this is the least painful way to get answers. Assuming they reply and don’t just ignore my letter.

  There’s a photo frame on his desk. It’s a photograph I don’t remember seeing before. A holiday snap of Mum on some windswept beach when she was much younger. A baby in a swimsuit is squirming on her hip. Is it me or Rachel? It’s hard to tell, the baby’s face is hidden under a pink sun hat and those chubby legs could belong to either of us.

  I lean the envelope upright against the photo frame where Dad can’t fail to see it. There’s a creaking noise in the hallway and I turn my head.

  The study door is ajar.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  There’s someone outside the door, I’m sure of it. No sound, but I can feel a change in atmosphere. A sense of someone standing there and listening. Breathing quietly.

  I frown, straightening. ‘Kasia? Is that you?’

  No answer. But the light levels in the room flicker, then steady again, as if someone has just slipped soundlessly past the door, blocking out the light for a second.

  I stiffen and stare at the partly open door, holding my breath.

  Is someone else in the house?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I go to the door and open it, jerking it back. ‘Who’s there?’

  The passageway is empty.

  I stare up and down it, then lean forward to peer up the staircase.

  Nothing.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ I start to turn away, then realise I’ve missed something.

  The cellar door.

  It’s usually shut, but today it’s open. Not fully open, but a crack . . . Like someone went down there to retrieve something – a bottle of wine, some china or linen – and forgot to shut it afterwards.

  Hesitantly, I go to shut it, and hear something from below. Just the faintest echo of a cry from the dark pit of the cellar. Like a hungry baby, starting to whine.

  I listen and it comes again. No, not a baby’s cry. A mewing sound.

  A cat?

  I stand there motionless, stunned.

  We don’t have a cat.

  Reluctantly, I open the cellar door and look down the steps to the cellar. ‘Kasia?’

  There’s no reply. It’s pitch-black down there.

  I leave the door ajar and head for the kitchen. I want to find Kasia. But the kitchen is empty, and she isn’t in the breakfast room either. I check the two dim and chilly pantries. No sign of her anywhere.

  The side door to the back garden is locked and bolted from the inside. So Kasia does know how to use a key, I think wryly, rattling the door as I try it. But at least that means she’s unlikely to be outside.

  So where is she?

  I didn’t hear her go upstairs while I was in the study. But there was that fleeting shadow across the door . . . going in the wrong direction, I thought at the time, back towards the kitchen. But perhaps I made a mistake and it was Kasia heading upstairs with the vacuum or a basket of clean laundry. She usually checks the bedrooms are tidy, of course. Makes the beds, does a quick vacuum round, and brings down any cups or glasses left upstairs. But normally that gets done first thing, shortly after she arrives.

  I leave the kitchen and go back along the hallway to the partly open cellar door.

  I can hear mewing again, louder now, more desperate.

  ‘Hello?’ I say loudly. ‘Is anyone down there?’

  I put a foot on the creaky old stairs down into the cellar, then stop, holding my breath as the mewing continues. If it is a cat, it’s sounding more and more distressed.

  I grope in darkness for the light switch, but fail to find it.

  Shit.

  I click my fingers and purse my lips, making a beckoning noise instead. ‘Pussy cat? Here, pussy . . .’

  There’s a brief silence, then the mewing starts again. Only this time it’s more high-pitched. I can hear what sounds like thin, scratching noises, too. As though the poor defenceless thing is trapped somewhere down there, and is terrified.

  My hands are trembling. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head.

  I can’t bear this torment much longer. The air of the cellar is so cold, it’s almost like being outside. My palms are clammy, my heart thudding. I clap my hands over my ears, but the mewing is somehow still there, echoing inside my head.

  I fight off dark memories, but they won’t stop coming. I’m remembering the last time I heard a cat make a sound like that. The day Rachel caught a kitten in our shed and tortured it to death in front of me, taking pleasure in its helplessness.

  I did nothing to stop her that day. I felt just as helpless in the face of my sister’s viciousness and mania. She was older than me and stronger.

  But I’m not a child anymore.

  And Rachel is dead.

  Is Kasia behind this cruelty? Why is she doing it?

  ‘Leave that cat alone!’ I shout down into the darkness, and slam my hand against the wall inside, so hard it dislodges some of the crumbling plaster. ‘Stop it, you bitch! Can’t you see you’re hurting her?’

  Abruptly, the mewing stops.

  I lean forward with a kind of angry roar, groping for the light switch and snapping it on. The bulb is unshaded and right beside the stairs, blinding me . . .

  I overbalance, miss my footing and fall.

  My arm flails out, clutching for the wooden banister, but it’s too old and smooth. I slither down several steps before cracking my head on the rough cellar wall and landing in an awkward heap at the bottom, my right ankle twisted painfully beneath me.

  ‘Shit, fuck.’

  Swearing under my breath, I scramble back to my feet and hop forward a few steps, wincing in agony the whole way, unable to put much weight on my hurt ankle. I shouldn’t be trying to move at all. But I’m not hanging around like an idiot at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve got no idea who else is down here. Or what else they’ve got planned for me.

  My head hurts badly, my eyesight is muzzy. I can see dusty boxes, and a storage chest and shelves, and rack upon rack of wine bottles all the way to the back wall. There’s only one light bulb though, up at the top of the stairs. It’s still swaying where I knocked into it as I tumbled. I stand in that dark, cramped space as the bare bulb swings back and forth, the long shadows rising and falling.

  I try the double switches at the bottom of the stairs, but the light at the top snaps off, plunging the cellar into darkness, and I hurriedly switch it back on. There should be another bulb down here. Is it missing? I peer up at the empty fitting hanging above my head. Somebody has taken out the bulb.

  Shakily, I look into the darkness and purse my lips again, making a soft beckoning noise. ‘Pussy? Puss-puss?’

  But the panicked mewing has stopped.

  It’s so cold in the cellar, my breath is making little clouds. The air is damp, too. I can see mould and dark stains near the base of the wall in front of me. Rising damp. The cellar is a great place for storing wine, but not so wonderful for human beings.

  I hop on a little way further, and look about for the cat, moving boxes and checking behind an ancient Welsh dresser full of unwanted china.

  Just in case.

  There’s no cat, of course. There probably never was a cat. But there is a grimy old filing cabinet. With one drawer open, files and papers spilling out onto the dirty floor.

  I lean on the dresser and stare at the mess of files on the concrete. The floor is dusty, but the files look pristine. As if they were dropped here recently. Perhaps even in the last few minutes . . .

  There’s a sound behind me. I turn clumsily and too late.

  The light switch clicks
off, and the cellar is enveloped in velvety blackness, only a faint glimmer at the top of the stairs.

  My breath goes out of my lungs in one blind moment of panic. I back away, my instinct to hide behind the dresser, and nearly fall again in the darkness, coming up against the cold, damp wall. I gasp, tearing at the air, then can’t seem to stop gasping. It feels like I’m being suffocated, as if there’s a weight on my chest, stopping me from breathing. My hands are shaking too, stretched out in front of me to ward off some unseen attacker.

  Then I hear it.

  Someone is running lightly up the stairs.

  The cellar door slams shut at the top, and I hear the key turn in the lock.

  Shit.

  I’ve just been locked in the cellar.

  My first instinct is to run up the stairs and thump on the door, demand to be let out. I don’t move though. My ankle is not up to running anywhere, and it feels safer to stay where I am for now, listening hard, trying not to lose control.

  Someone was down here.

  Someone who managed to entice me into the cellar by making those scared mewing noises, pretending to be a trapped cat. But whoever it was has gone now, and I’m alone in the pitch-black, my heartbeat loud in the silence.

  I swallow down sickness at my own stupidity.

  Groping along the wall, I make my way slowly, limping and hopping, back to the bottom of the stairs. My ankle is so bloody painful, I have to bite my lip to avoid crying out. Finally, my searching fingers touch something cold and flat and plastic.

  The light switch.

  I click it down and the bulb at the top of the stairs comes back on, light flooding the cellar again.

  ‘Kasia?’ I raise my voice. ‘Kasia, this isn’t funny.’

  I wait, but the door at the top of the stairs remains firmly shut. Fury makes me almost hysterical.

  ‘You come back here right now!’

  I’m crying, I realise, and wipe my face with the back of my hand.

  Blood.

  Chapter Thirty

  I stare down at the blood in shock. A bright streak of red along my knuckles. I check gingerly, using only fingertips, and discover more blood. Thicker, darker red, trickling down my forehead from my hairline.

  I must have cut my head when I fell down the stairs.

  How bad is it?

  I feel gently around the edge of the wound. It’s not a deep gash, thank goodness, but deep enough to be bleeding quite heavily. And I did give my head one hell of a whack against the wall, I remember now.

  ‘Kasia?’ I glare up at the shut door. ‘I’m not joking. Unlock the door.’

  There’s no answer.

  Perhaps she can’t hear me, I tell myself, and lean against the wall for a moment to take the weight off my ankle.

  It has to be Kasia who tricked me, then turned off the light and ran away. I have no idea why she would do it, but she’s the only other person in the house.

  A shiver runs through me, and not simply because the cellar is so cold. I feel sick and light-headed. My hands are shaking. It’s all too much. I thought it was fear at first, but this is a natural physical response to falling down stairs and hitting my head on the wall.

  I’m not just bleeding, I could be concussed. And somebody has locked me in the cellar.

  I don’t have a phone – it’s still in my bag, which is on Dad’s desk – so I can’t ring for help. I don’t know the exact time. But it must be early afternoon. If Kasia doesn’t come, I’ll have to wait for someone else. How long will Mum spend Christmas shopping? Is Dominic finishing at two or eight today? Sometimes he works extra hours when they’re short-handed. Dad could return at any moment, but it’s rare for him to come back early once he’s made the effort to head into the office rather than working from home.

  So this is a waiting game.

  I’m shivering more violently now. A combination of shock and this cold atmosphere. Huddling on the bottom step while I wait for help is an appealing thought. But it’s also dangerously seductive. I can’t let myself sink into torpor, I decide, and limp back towards the filing cabinet instead. If Dominic was here, he would say I need to keep moving, keep awake, occupy my mind with something . . .

  My father’s files, I think, picking one of the documents up to study it.

  What was Kasia doing, messing about with them?

  The top sheets are typewritten, full of impenetrable legalese and dense small print. Some look quite old. One dates back over ten years.

  I begin stuffing them back into the manila folder, not really paying much attention to their content. Foreign Office documents, probably. Not top secret, I’m sure, but privileged information.

  There’s a slim black notebook with the papers. Dusty now, from the floor. I pick it up, wipe it off and flick idly through its densely handwritten pages. Then stop, my chest suddenly ice-cold with dread.

  A familiar name has caught my eye.

  Rachel.

  I scan the page. Some kind of report about a hospital stay, with personal observations. I don’t understand all of it. But no doubt Dominic will. There’s a drugs section, with names and abbreviations that mean nothing to me. And a list of symptoms at admission. Mania, aggressive behaviour, spitting, hearing voices . . .

  Psychosis.

  I hold the book up to the light and look through it properly, checking for more references to Rachel.

  Most are meaningless to me, written in some kind of shorthand. Others are simple reports, of visits from doctors or further hospital admissions. A few contain detailed information about Rachel’s condition. Much of what is in the reports goes over my head, but it’s clear Rachel had some serious mental health issues.

  No surprise there.

  But what makes me suck in a breath is that two of the handwritten reports near the back of the book are dated after our skiing holiday in Switzerland. Not long after, but the following spring.

  After Rachel’s death.

  How is that possible?

  There’s a noise from upstairs. Someone in the hallway, a deep male voice calling, ‘Hello? Anyone in?’

  ‘Down here,’ I shout. ‘In the cellar. I need help.’

  Reluctantly shutting the black notebook, I push it into my waistband at the back of my jeans and cover it with my top. Then I hop as quickly as possible to the bottom of the stairs, grimacing at the spikes of pain shooting through my ankle. Though the throbbing in my head is beginning to match it as I stare up at the naked bulb. There’s a misty halo around the light that I can’t seem to shake by blinking.

  Double vision? And a cracking headache? I may have a concussion. I feel a trickle down my forehead, too. My wound appears to be bleeding again.

  ‘Hello?’ I call up again, even louder, though raising my voice makes the jagged ache in my head even worse.

  Someone rattles the cellar door. Several times, unsuccessfully.

  ‘I’ve been locked in. You need to—’

  Then I hear the key being turned, and the door opens. I stare up, shielding my eyes against the light.

  ‘Oh, thank God.’

  ‘You all right down there?’ A woman in a black uniform peers down at me. She seems vaguely familiar. ‘Hello, is that Catherine?’

  I clutch onto the wooden banister, staring up at her, unable to answer. I feel sick.

  ‘What’s happened here? God, that looks nasty. Banged your head, did you?’ When I nod, putting a hand to my bloodied forehead, she turns to the man beside her. ‘I think you’d better call an ambulance, Constable.’

  It’s the police.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They came to see me about the wedding dress, Pauline explains as we wait in the living room for the ambulance.

  ‘We’ve only just had the lab report back,’ she says, trying to make me comfortable in a straight-backed leather armchair. ‘I know, I’m sorry about the delay.’ She makes a face. ‘Cuts, what can I tell you? And it wasn’t high priority, I’m afraid. Your husband gave us your new address when
he contacted us last week. He was very keen to bring the investigation to a close. Again, I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say.

  I recall Pauline and Ahmed visiting the flat after the break-in, though it upset me so much to remember what happened to my lovely wedding dress, I’d tried not to think about it.

  ‘So what did the forensics report say?’

  Pauline is at the window, looking out for the ambulance, so Ahmed replies. ‘Pig’s blood. No other DNA. Whoever did it used gloves, I expect.’ He shrugs. ‘Without other evidence, there’ll be no further action. We’re putting it down as a prank.’

  I feel deflated, although I’m glad it’s not human blood. Still grisly, of course, but not actually murder.

  But for something so horrible to be dismissed by the police as a mere prank . . .

  Pauline comes back from the window and checks my head wound with careful, professional fingers. She notices my expression. ‘I’m sorry. I know that must be a disappointment. But it’s a good thing really. Someone messing you about, that’s all. Nothing more sinister. Destruction of property, of course. Breaking and entering too. But without further evidence . . .’ She smiles at me encouragingly. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Much, thank you.’

  ‘How did you get locked in the cellar, anyway?’

  I hesitate.

  I don’t know whether to tell them about Kasia or wait to speak to my parents first. Another prank, perhaps. And it’s possible Kasia didn’t realise I was hurt.

  It’s also possible it wasn’t her.

  I don’t want to start accusing people of things they didn’t do. Everyone is already so overprotective of me, I don’t want to give them any reason to think I’m not coping. Besides, the idea that anyone would have done this deliberately is absurd.

  ‘I thought I heard a cat . . . then I lost my footing.’ I manage a smile, though it’s hardly convincing. Not that they’ll be surprised by that. The double vision has abated since they helped me hop up the cellar stairs laboriously, but I’m still in pain and the dizziness has returned. ‘The cleaner must have seen the door open and locked it. A stupid accident. That’s all.’