Forget Her Name: A gripping thriller with a twist you won't see coming

by Jane Holland

  ‘Come on,’ he says calmly, ‘let’s do it right now. Like you say, Cat, the light goes quickly this time of year.’

  My mother stares at him, a blind panic on her face now. ‘Robert, no . . .’

  ‘Be quiet, Ellen.’

  Mum raises a fluttering hand to her mouth.

  Dad looks at me, an uncompromising line to his mouth, then nods at my high heels. ‘Better put some wellies on. It’s muddy outside. You can borrow a pair, if necessary.’ He leaves the room. ‘I’ll fetch the urn.’

  I glance at Dominic, who touches my arm.

  ‘Well done, darling,’ he whispers.

  We all troop back into the kitchen, heading for the side door where the outdoor shoes are kept on a long wooden rack. I select a muddy old pair of my mum’s wellies and slip them on, checking inside first for spiders. Dominic and Jasmine both insist they’ll be fine in trainers. My mother is still looking frightened, but she also exchanges her expensive indoor shoes for a pair of boots. I probably look very odd in this clinging, too-tight dress and wellington boots. It’s not really an appropriate outfit for scattering a loved one’s ashes. But there’s no time to change.

  Besides, Rachel is surely beyond caring what I wear to her second ‘funeral’. She is beyond everything now.

  By the time we have each grabbed a warm coat, Dad has returned with something in his hands: it’s a small, black-and-white marble funerary urn.

  I stare at it, my insides suddenly tightening.

  ‘Hey, relax.’ Dominic gives my hand a good squeeze. ‘I’m here with you, remember? Everything’s going to be okay.’

  The lawn in the back garden crunches underfoot, crisp with frost from where today’s thin December sunshine failed to reach it. The fences and trees of surrounding properties have a tendency to block out the afternoon sun, making the summers feel shorter and the winters longer. But it’s still the garden where I grew up, and I love its dark, muddy little corners.

  The vast old magnolia tree is stunning even in winter, its stark branches tipped with soft, velvety-looking buds ready for an early London spring. The earth beneath is iron-hard, the grass patchy round the roots.

  I walk beneath the spreading magnolia branches and look up at the darkening sky. It won’t be long until dusk falls.

  ‘Here,’ I say, and turn to my father, who is still cradling the marble urn. ‘Rachel loved this tree. If she could speak, she’d say this is where she’d want her ashes scattered.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, Catherine?’ Dad searches my face. ‘We can always do it another day.’

  ‘No, now is perfect.’ I glance back at Dominic for reassurance, and he nods, smiling. ‘I want to do this.’

  I could wish for a glorious summer day instead, blue skies above and all the birds singing. But this is the only day we have.

  Dad hands me the urn with great reverence. I remove the lid and place it gently on the frosty ground. Then I start to tip the contents of the urn out.

  The ashes puff out in a series of little gasps, surprisingly soft and insubstantial, like grey-black clouds. I turn slowly, letting them drop and scatter naturally in the air. There’s hardly any wind today, but they drift away all the same, like tiny black seeds pollinating the trunk of the magnolia and the rough soil beneath.

  Some of the ash attaches itself to my wellies, and I stare down at the grey-pitted green rubber, my breathing suddenly shallow.

  I’m shocked, I realise, and more than a little uneasy. It’s as though Rachel insists on remaining with me, even if only for a few more minutes, until I brush her off my boots like a stain. It’s as if she knows even from beyond death what I’m doing today, how I’m struggling to shed her influence over my life, to lay her ghost to rest at last.

  ‘Oh God.’ I stagger backwards.

  ‘Catherine?’

  Dad sounds alarmed.

  I see concern on Jasmine’s face too, her eyes wide with surprise, and fight to get a grip of myself. Bloody hell. What is going on inside my head today? I was on the point of bolting, of running back towards the house in panic. Which is absurd.

  Very deliberately, I slow my breathing, then tip the urn up again.

  It’s not empty yet.

  ‘I think that’s enough,’ Dad says urgently, and steps forward as though to take the urn away from me.

  Suddenly Dominic is next to me, steadying my trembling hands with his own, his hip brushing mine. Like we’re two halves of the same person.

  ‘No,’ Dominic says, looking straight at my father, ‘let her finish. It was never going to be easy. But this is important. It’s a laying-to-rest. She can’t stop now.’

  I don’t think I’ve ever loved him as much as at this moment.

  With Dominic beside me, I turn and scatter the last soft ashes across the trunk and base of the magnolia tree. I try not to think too much about what I’m doing, about the terrible significance of the act. But of course there’s no escaping the truth. Deep down, this is an exorcism. It’s an emotional and spiritual banishment of the big sister I feared so much, the sister whose death I’ve always secretly doubted. The ash proves to me that her life ended, and everyone here knows it.

  I’ve been waiting for this for so long, now that I’m here at last it feels as if a silent earthquake is taking place inside me. An upheaval so total and overwhelming, the shock waves have only just begun . . .

  ‘Goodbye,’ I say under my breath. ‘Goodbye, Rachel.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Dominic has left for his night shift at the hospital. My parents and Jasmine have disappeared next door to old Mr and Mrs Bishop’s house for Christmas drinks. I leave it a good ten minutes to make sure nobody’s coming back, then head straight upstairs to Dad’s bedroom.

  The door is locked.

  I rattle the handle, annoyed and more than a little taken aback. Dad almost never locks his door. Did he guess what I was planning? Why is he trying to stop me?

  A locked door won’t stop me for long. I know there’s a spare key in Mum’s room. It’s in a small box on the mantelpiece in case of emergencies, and her room is never locked.

  It takes me all of two minutes to find the spare key, unlock Dad’s bedroom door and slip inside.

  The spacious bedroom is dark and gloomy. The curtains are drawn to keep in the heat, but there’s a small gap in the middle. I don’t want to put on the light in case he happens to look out from our neighbour’s house and see it. It’s unlikely. But if the locked door is an indication that he knows I’m after the notebook, it’s better to be safe and do this in darkness.

  Slowly, I creep across the carpet until I reach his bedside table, which is covered in books and papers.

  I check under the papers first. Then among the pile of books.

  The notebook isn’t there.

  ‘Shit.’

  My hands curl into fists at my side, my heart thumping loudly. Where the hell has my father put it? I’m even more convinced now that he guessed my intention and has hidden it somewhere.

  But why is it such a big bloody secret?

  From what I saw of the notebook in the cellar, it’s a record of Rachel’s ‘problems’ – whatever they were – and was written by my dad. Some kind of informal diary of her treatment. Which makes it all the more interesting to me, since I know so little about what was actually wrong with my sister.

  As I stand there, staring in frustration at the empty space where I last saw the notebook, I catch a soft click somewhere in the quiet house. Like a door being closed, or a floorboard easing under the pressure of a foot.

  I turn my head, holding my breath in apprehension. The door to Dad’s room is partially open, the landing outside brightly lit . . .

  I can’t be caught in here.

  Have my parents come back early from the neighbours’ drinks party? Maybe they’ve forgotten something. Or have come back to pressurise me into going along too, not wanting to leave me alone in the house. Jasmine tried to persuade me to go with them, promisi
ng it would be more fun than it sounded, especially with her there. My mother was insistent, too. I was forced to lie. I told them I had a headache and was going to sit quietly and watch television.

  I didn’t like lying to Mum, especially after she was so loving towards me earlier, sitting with me on the sofa for an hour when I finished scattering Rachel’s ashes. But I needed a chance to look for the notebook undisturbed.

  There’s that click again.

  I wait, listening hard. But I hear nothing more. It could have been the boiler coming on or turning off. That’s the likeliest explanation. Yet I remain unmoving.

  It’s ridiculous, but despite the silence that’s settled over the big house now, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m not alone. That someone else is here with me.

  I tiptoe back towards the doorway, grimacing at every creak of the floor.

  That’s when I see the notebook.

  Dad’s tweed jacket is hanging on the back of the door, and there’s a black notebook sticking out of the pocket. It looks exactly like the one I’ve been looking for.

  There’s no time to feel triumphant, but it’s hard not to be excited. My heart thuds as I pull the notebook out of the pocket, and flick through it quickly, just to check it’s what I came for.

  It’s the same book, I’m sure of it. That’s my dad’s handwriting. The same endless lists of symptoms and treatment schedules. The name ‘Rachel’ leaps out at me again. And my own name too, here and there, scattered through the pages.

  Catherine.

  Underlined in red every time.

  Chapter Forty

  I hear a noise downstairs again, and freeze instantly. It’s not the heating this time. Too loud for that. A door being closed, perhaps.

  Has Dad come back to check on me?

  I try not to panic. There’s still time to get out of his room without being noticed. But I need to hide the notebook, too. I can’t risk anyone else seeing me with it.

  Not even Dominic.

  I fumble with the rucked-up flap on Dad’s pocket, trying to conceal my theft, and something falls to the carpet. Something small, white and rectangular.

  I bend and pick it up.

  It’s a blank white card.

  I turn it over.

  A business card. I move closer to the light coming from the landing through the gap in the bedroom door and read the embossed black writing.

  Jason Wainwright. Private Investigator.

  Why on earth has Dad got a business card for a private investigator in his jacket pocket? Is it something to do with his work at the Foreign Office? There’s a mobile number, an email address and a website. No postal address, but it does state London offices under the name.

  Another odd noise from downstairs. Not a click or a thud this time, but a thin, pathetic cry.

  Like a cat mewing.

  I shove the business card back into Dad’s jacket pocket. What the hell? Am I imagining the sound of a cat in the house again?

  But no, there it is, clear and unmistakeable, breaking the silence.

  A cat, mewing.

  This is way beyond funny, I think angrily. If somebody’s playing a trick on me it’s downright cruel. Especially if it’s a real cat in distress.

  I hurry out of his bedroom, lock the door behind me and return the key to the box on my mother’s mantelpiece. Then I head upstairs to our flat and push the notebook as far under the bed as I can reach. It’s not the world’s most original hiding place but it will have to do. I can always move it later. Right now, I need to check out the cat sound. Nobody is making a fool out of me twice.

  I head downstairs more slowly, favouring my weak ankle. I can still hear mewing. The living room and the dining room are both dark and empty. I make my way cautiously past the closed cellar door.

  The kitchen is dimly lit. One spotlight is on over the range, its bulb angled away to shine on artfully exposed brickwork.

  I spot a brief flicker of movement under the pine table, and gasp. My hand goes instinctively to my heart.

  ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ I ask.

  The movement comes towards me, gradually getting closer to the head of the table. Like I’m being tracked.

  ‘Jesus.’

  Then it emerges out of the shadows. Two green eyes raised in curiosity, followed by a narrow body with glossy dark fur, and a tail held high, curved in a question mark.

  A cat. A young black cat, looking lost and in need of some love.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I whisper.

  So it was a cat I could hear. This time at least, I wasn’t imagining things.

  But how did a cat get into my parents’ kitchen?

  I crouch to stroke its head, and the graceful creature purrs weakly, tilting its neck back for more.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous. What on earth are you doing here?’

  It doesn’t have a collar, though I suppose it could have been microchipped by its owner. It looks very young, almost too young to be away from its mother. Not that I know much about cats. We were never allowed to have pets as a child, due to Rachel’s tendency to mistreat animals. I guess we just never got around to getting a cat once she was gone.

  The cat necklace swinging round my neck is attracting the cat’s vivid green stare.

  At the sound of soft laughter, I look up to find a figure watching me from the darkened archway that leads into the utility room.

  ‘Dominic? You startled me,’ I say, straightening up and staring at him. ‘What are you doing home?’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ Dominic says. He looks down at the black cat, who is weaving between my ankles, purring more loudly now.

  I don’t understand at first. Then I get it.

  ‘It was you,’ I say slowly. ‘You brought the cat in here.’

  He smiles.

  ‘For me?’ I ask.

  ‘You said you’d always wanted a cat.’

  ‘But Mum and Dad . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, I got their permission first. It won’t be a problem.’

  He bends down and strokes the cat.

  ‘No name yet,’ he says lightly. ‘I thought you might like to choose one.’

  ‘He’s my cat, then?’

  ‘Cat’s cat.’

  I don’t know what to say. Tears are pricking my eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and kiss him on the cheek. I scoop the cat up off the kitchen floor and cuddle it. ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’

  ‘Boy,’ says Dominic.

  I can’t believe I actually have a cat of my own. A real live cat to name and to love. And to love me back, I hope. The warm, lithe body wriggles against my chest though, hating captivity even for those few seconds. When I resist, there’s a cross mew and a sharp scratch at my wrist.

  I open my arms and watch, disappointed, as the cat springs to the ground and stalks away, its tail high and twitching. That taunting question mark, whisking back and forth.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Yeah, better watch out,’ Dominic says wryly. ‘Even kittens have sharp claws. He’s not used to you yet. Or this house.’

  ‘Well, he’s only a kitten.’

  ‘Nine weeks old.’

  ‘But where did you—’

  ‘Sally’s cat had a litter back in the autumn. I put first dibs on this one, soon as I saw him. Totally black.’

  ‘Like a witch’s cat.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I pretend to punch him, and he grins.

  ‘He can be your familiar,’ Dominic says, and laughs when I make a face. ‘Look, I know looking after a pet is a big responsibility.’

  ‘Too right. I haven’t the faintest idea where to begin.’

  ‘I don’t want you to worry about anything. Sally’s given me a diet sheet for the first month, and instructions on how to look after him. He’s not quite house-trained yet, she says.’ He grimaces. ‘Which didn’t exactly please Ellen. But I promised her we’d clean up any accidents.’

  ‘Of course we will.’

  He searches my face
. ‘So you like?’

  ‘Hugely.’

  ‘Because I wasn’t sure . . .’

  ‘It’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever had.’

  Dominic holds my gaze like a thread between us. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Totally.’

  He covers his face with his hands.

  I frown, watching him. ‘Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?’

  His hands drop from his face and he looks back at me with a curious intensity. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears. ‘I don’t know what to say. Except . . . you make me happy.’

  ‘You’re so sweet, Dom.’

  I put my arms around him, and lean my head against his shoulder.

  For a moment I’m tempted to tell him about the notebook. But some inner voice of caution warns me against it. Not until I’ve had a chance to examine it. I mean, what if there’s something in the notebook about me? Something embarrassing? Something that might make him think differently about me? I don’t think I could bear that.

  So instead I whisper softly, ‘Thank you for getting me the perfect present.’

  ‘The purr-fect present?’

  I chuckle, my head still nestled against him. ‘I love you so much, darling. Even if you do crack some truly appalling jokes sometimes.’

  He laughs too, and cuddles me in his arms, strong as an oak.

  ‘Hey.’ I draw back to stare at him. ‘How are you at home, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be working at St Hilda’s tonight?’

  ‘Surprise.’ Dominic tips his head to one side, his smile charming and apologetic at the same time. ‘I told you a little porky, sorry. I’m down to work tomorrow, not tonight. I had to pretend I was going out to work or you would have wanted to know where I was going when I went to collect His Nibbs there.’ His eyes crinkle up at the edges as he smiles. ‘And that would have spoilt the surprise.’

  I glance back at the cat, who is busy playing with the tassels on one of Mum’s pine-chair cushion covers.

  ‘Dom, did you ever bring him here before?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because I heard a cat just before I fell down the cellar steps, remember?’ I feel his sudden stillness and bite my lip, wishing I hadn’t said anything. I try to cover the awkwardness with a casual shrug. ‘Anyway, it’s not important. I could have sworn I heard a cat that day, that’s all.’