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

by Jane Holland

  ‘No!’

  He only bites me harder though, and I thrash about wildly beneath him, trying in vain to dislodge his weight.

  ‘You . . . total . . . fuck!’

  I hit his back and shoulders, pummelling him with my fists. He ignores me, licking and biting in swift succession, pleasuring me and hurting me cruelly.

  ‘Get off me, you bastard!’

  He sucks hard, and I scream. They can probably hear me downstairs. But right then I don’t care. I don’t care if everyone in London can hear me. I just want him off me.

  My upper body starts to thump up and down on the bed, my thighs locked like iron manacles about his neck, everything straining impossibly upwards as if I’m trying to reach the ceiling. I can’t breathe, my lungs burning from a lack of oxygen. I bite hard on my lower lip, tasting blood in my mouth. My own blood. Then my lips part and I scream again. Not in pain or distress, though it’s a close call.

  I’m having an orgasm. The best damn orgasm of my life.

  I gasp, my arms flailing about.

  God, it feels amazing.

  With one swift movement, he’s up and thrusting between my legs, rigid with excitement himself, harder than I’ve ever known him.

  ‘You nasty little bitch!’ Dominic pants into my face, our sweaty bodies sliding together like pistons. ‘This is what you want, isn’t it? To be screwed hard. To be taught a lesson.’

  I turn my hot face into the pillow and say nothing. He’s hurting me, for sure. Hurting me good. But inside, I’m smiling. Because no, actually, getting screwed is not what I want.

  But it will do for a start.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Later, smiling secretly at each other, we get dressed again and go downstairs to the kitchen, where my parents and Jasmine are still playing Scrabble. Dad’s head shines under the ceiling spotlights. He’s got a little bald patch developing on top, I realise. Like a monk’s tonsure. Why did I never notice that before? They glance up as we come in, and see us hand in hand. Jasmine smiles and looks down at her letter tiles. Trying to pretend she’s not thinking what I know she’s thinking.

  I drop Dominic’s hand – we’re hardly love-struck teenagers, for God’s sake – and stare over Jasmine’s shoulder at her letter tiles, too.

  ‘Winning?’ I ask.

  ‘Not even close. Your dad’s on fire.’

  Christ, if only.

  I study her letter tiles, then the partially completed Scrabble board, and give a wry smile of my own.

  BAGGAGE.

  The universe does love to have its little jokes, doesn’t it?

  ‘Cup of tea, darling?’ my mother asks, jumping up rather too quickly. There’s an odd note in her voice. ‘And . . . and you too, Dominic? What can I get you?’

  Clearly they heard us having sex.

  Ah, bless. Mother’s embarrassed because we made so much noise upstairs. Screwing each other into the ground. Twice.

  How delightfully quaint.

  As though I’ve never heard her and Dad having it off. Poor old bastard, puffing away manfully, and her moaning, trying to sound excited, though really they both know she’s thinking about that young man at the gym.

  Pyotr. Her personal trainer for the past six months. Polish-born and hung like a horse, by the sound of it.

  Not that my mother’s ever mentioned his equipment. It’s the way she hasn’t mentioned it that tells its own story. Not a story she’d like to share with my father either, I’m guessing. Despite his own ill-disguised appreciation for all things Polish.

  ‘Such a nice young man, that Pyotr,’ she says every time she comes back from her personal training sessions, a slight sheen to her face, her pupils dilated. What is she now? Fifty? Older? Still with plenty of ambition in the bedroom though, oh yes. ‘Such a very nice young man.’

  She’s gagging for it, obviously.

  And she’s not the only one.

  Mouth dry, I make straight for the fridge. ‘No tea for me, thank you very much. I’ve had enough tea to last me a lifetime.’ I swing open the door and check the wine bottles in the door. Pinot Grigio. That’ll do. I extract one of the open bottles and fill a large glass without hesitation, then glance back at my husband. ‘Wine, Dom?’

  He shakes his head.

  My father looks from me to Dominic and frowns. Disapproval. Perhaps even suspicion. What’s his problem? He’s not usually as prudish about sex as Mum.

  But maybe he doesn’t like the thigh-length silver dress I’m wearing. I suppose it is a little snug about the chest, and the hips, and . . . well, snug all over. Even Dominic raised his eyebrows when he saw me take it out of the wardrobe. He seemed to approve though, going by the way he smacked my backside several times on our way downstairs.

  Clearing his throat, my father reaches for the tile bag to complete his letter allowance, head bent as he fumbles about inside the bag.

  I swig back a generous mouthful of Pinot Grigio, studying my father’s profile as I ponder the question. It can’t be jealousy, surely? That would be kind of sweet. Not to mention sick and illegal, of course.

  Definitely one for the blackmail list.

  ‘Still here, Jasmine?’ I ask lightly, and see my cousin’s look of surprise. ‘Oh, of course. You’re scrounging off us for another few days, aren’t you? Just until your parents come home from holiday. Because poor little Jazzy can’t be left alone over Christmas. That would be too mean.’

  My mother’s eyes are wide. ‘Catherine, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘What?’ I drain the wine glass and pour myself some more. It’s not bad, this. A cheeky little number with a bold aftertaste. ‘Did I say something untrue?’

  My mother blinks.

  Jasmine’s face is stiff with hurt and offence. My two favourite reactions. ‘I offered to pay my way,’ she says. ‘Your parents didn’t want anything.’

  ‘Of course not. Because they’re loaded and you’re the poor relation.’ I smile at her. ‘It’s like a scene out of Jane Austen. Or is it Charlotte Brontë? I forget which. You get the gist anyway.’

  Dominic catches my elbow. ‘Hey,’ he says, a bite in his voice, ‘what do you think you’re doing? That was totally uncalled for. Apologise to Jasmine at once.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Or what?’ I repeat, arching my eyebrows in polite enquiry. ‘How exactly are you planning to enforce that manly command, Master Dom? Put me over your knee? Like you did upstairs?’ When he says nothing, staring at me with a face that is beginning to flush with anger, I laugh. ‘The second time, that is. The first time, you were a little too preoccupied to bother with good old-fashioned punishment.’

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  Behind him, I see Mum suck in her breath in silent protest at his swearing. Which tells me I must have got to him. Dominic’s normally so careful to be polite in front of his mother-in-law. How marvellous. The dominant’s cage has been well and truly rattled. I want to clap my hands in triumph, but it might spoil the moment.

  I haven’t finished with them yet.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Dominic tells me, standing very straight, his shoulders back, as though he still believes he has some kind of power over me. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you tonight, Cat? It’s almost as if you’re . . .’

  ‘Yes? What is it like?’

  ‘As if you’re a different person.’

  I smile.

  My father stands up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly in the silence. ‘Cat?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy darling?’

  Oh shit, that’s torn it. Now he’s staring at me the same way as Dominic, frowning and suspicious. The two of them are a couple of bookends. With my mother squeezed between them, staring at me too, pale and restless. She’s twisting her silver necklace between her fingers, and I can tell what she’s thinking.

  My mother shakes her head. ‘No . . . no.’

  I take a long, easy swallow of wine, then murmur, ‘Yes, Mummy dear. I’m afraid so,
yes’, and see her take a few faltering steps backwards.

  Jasmine looks up at everyone, still hurt and confused by my comments, to judge by the way her lower lip is quivering. She’s put GAGGED on the board, her five letters joined to a ‘D’, and has been writing down her paltry score. My father’s going to blow her out of the water with his KUMQUAT.

  ‘Did I miss something?’ Jasmine says. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Exactly what I want to know.’ I pour the last of the wine into my glass. ‘And I intend to find out.’

  ‘Find out what?’ Dominic’s gaze has not moved from my face. He’s tenacious, I’ll give him that. Poor sap. ‘Catherine?’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘Shit,’ says my father.

  ‘Oh, Daddy. That wasn’t very polite, was it?’ I turn to him with a mock frown, and tut. ‘Remember what Mummy always used to say. Pas devant l’enfant, Papa.’

  My mother collapses back onto her chair, a shaking hand at her mouth.

  ‘But what I really want to know,’ I continue blithely, since nobody else seems to be jumping in to break the silence, ‘is who the hell was in that urn? Because those weren’t Rachel’s ashes, were they?’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  I sip my wine in a contemplative way, pleasantly aware that every eye in the room is on me. I’m enjoying being in the limelight at last. God knows I’ve had little enough of it this past decade or so. Ever since Daddy decided enough was enough.

  I have their full attention now though.

  ‘Shit,’ my father says again.

  ‘Exactly, Daddy. “Shit” is the correct word, and you’re up to the eyeballs in it. I ought to have smelled the manure a long time ago. But of course I was distracted, because I was playing the game too. A key player, in fact. Not just on the sidelines like you, dear little Jasmine.’ My voice sharpens. ‘Only I was playing blindfold.’

  There’s a faint mew from the other side of the room.

  I turn, quickly seeking the source of the sound, and I catch my breath. ‘Oh my, little Panther. I’d forgotten all about you.’

  The sleek black kitten Dominic gave me as a Christmas present steps out from the utility room and into the kitchen. His huge green eyes are on me. As if he too has caught the mood of the room.

  I click my fingers. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? Here, kitty kitty.’

  Mum gasps.

  Dominic grabs my wrist. ‘No.’ His voice is like steel. ‘Leave it alone.’

  It’s as if he thinks I’m going to launch myself on the defenceless little thing and tear it to pieces with my bare teeth.

  I glance at Dad, hoping for something equally dramatic. But he’s staring at me with that part-shocked, part-bemused look on his face, like someone just slapped him and he still can’t quite believe it.

  ‘What the hell do you think I’m going to do?’ I ask lightly. ‘Strangle the cat? For pity’s sake . . .’

  Dominic hesitates, then releases my wrist.

  ‘Ouch, so unnecessary.’ I give my wrist a shake. It hurts, but no more than what we did earlier. I sneak him a dirty sideways look, and stage-whisper, ‘Better save that kind of kinky shit for bedtime, yeah?’

  Dominic says nothing but there’s a flicker in his face. I’m guessing it’s fear. But it could be surprise.

  I crouch down, holding out a hand, and Panther comes to me trustingly. As if he knows exactly what to do to horrify everyone else in the room. Gently, I stroke the short black fur behind his ears. At once Panther purrs, half closing his eyes with delight, tipping his throat back for more.

  A willing sacrifice.

  ‘Look at that,’ I say softly. ‘Dear little kitty loves me stroking him. In fact, he’s practically gagging for it. Wouldn’t you say so, Jasmine?’

  I smile up at my cousin, who sits frozen in shock, staring at me with her big wide eyes.

  ‘Do you like his name?’ I ask nobody in particular. ‘Panther.’ I smooth a hand along his thin back. ‘He’s still quite small, of course. A helpless little thing, really. But he looks like he’ll be a panther when he grows up, don’t you think? It’s the black fur. And the eyes, always watching . . .’

  I stop stroking Panther, and my mother rushes forward to grab him. She backs away, watching me, clutching the kitten to her chest so hard he begins to struggle.

  ‘Look out, you’re the one strangling him now,’ I tell her.

  ‘Shut up,’ my father says.

  I make a tutting sound under my breath. ‘Nice.’

  Dad glances at Mum. I know that look. It means business. Nasty, unpleasant business. The kind that comes with pills and physical restraints.

  ‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘I’m calling the doctor.’

  ‘Doctor Holbern, by any chance?’ I ask sweetly.

  ‘But, darling, it’s Boxing Day,’ Mum says to Dad in a small, trembling voice. She has put Panther down on the floor at last, much to the kitten’s relief. ‘He won’t come out. He won’t be available. No one will be available.’

  ‘He’ll come.’

  ‘But darling . . .’

  My father is frowning, very much the man in charge. ‘Would you get me the phone, please?’ he asks, turning to Dominic as his second-in-command, his voice strained but polite. He’s preserving the niceties at all costs. Because that’s what diplomats do. ‘I want to keep an eye on her.’

  I watch as Dominic leaves the kitchen.

  ‘Got the good doctor’s number on speed dial, have you?’ I say. ‘In case of emergency. How very convenient.’

  Jasmine is hurriedly collecting up the letter tiles and folding the Scrabble board. So helpful, I think, smiling at her. She stiffens, no doubt worried that I’ve turned my attention to her.

  ‘You were going to lose anyway,’ I tell her kindly. ‘My father had “kumquat”. You can’t compete with an exotic fruit.’

  The door bangs open. Dominic is back with the phone. He passes it to my father, his gaze on my face.

  ‘And the hero returns, his mission accomplished.’ I flop with mock relief, one hand pressed to my forehead. ‘Thank God for that. We can all relax now.’

  ‘Cat,’ Mum says, pleading with me now.

  ‘That’s not my name.’

  Dad stops pressing buttons on the phone and looks at me. His face is drained of colour.

  ‘Fuck,’ he says under his breath.

  ‘My name is not Catherine,’ I say loudly, just to be clear, and look around the room at every face. Even the kitten is staring at me from behind Mum’s legs. I make a loud ‘shoo!’ at him and he makes a dash for the utility room. That makes me laugh.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ my mother says stubbornly. ‘You were christened Catherine.’

  ‘But I renounced that name, didn’t I?’ I smile at Dominic, who looks back at me in shock. ‘That sounds rather impressive, doesn’t it?’ I say. ‘Kind of preachy too. Like renouncing the devil.’ I put on a deep pulpit voice that echoes about the kitchen. ‘I renounce thee, Catherine, in the name of the Lord!’

  ‘You’re still Cat to us.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy.’ I put my hands on my hips and tip my head to one side, mocking her. ‘Was I a terrible disappointment? Of course I was. Your only child, and a complete nutjob. It must have been hard for you to call in Doctor Holbern. Admitting to the world that you couldn’t cope with naughty little Catherine.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she begs me.

  Dad has got through to someone on the phone.

  ‘Yes, hello. It’s Robert Bates. I’d like to talk to Dr Holbern. It’s urgent.’ He glances at me, then pushes past Dominic and goes into the hall to talk. The door bangs behind him but we can still hear him talking. I hear the word ‘relapse’.

  ‘What does he mean, relapse?’ I say. ‘This isn’t a relapse. It’s a return to normal service. A very welcome return, as far as I’m concerned.’

  Dominic holds out his hand to me.

  After a short hesitation, I take it, and watch our fingers interlace. He’s still my hus
band, after all. And he fucks like a jackhammer.

  ‘What is a jackhammer?’ I ask. ‘I’ve always wondered.’

  He blinks.

  ‘A jackhammer?’ he repeats.

  I turn to Mum. ‘What was in that urn, seriously?’ She doesn’t answer, but glances at Dominic.

  Then I realise and look at him. ‘So you were in on it too,’ I say softly.

  His jaw works, his gaze locked with mine.

  ‘I knew some of it, yes,’ he says. ‘But only because I needed to know. When we first talked about getting married, Robert gave me a call. We met up and he . . . well, he explained about your past, and what married life might be like for us. What could potentially happen. The signs to look out for.’

  ‘And you accepted the challenge. Wow.’ I smile, genuinely moved. For a moment, I drop the ironic tone. ‘Well done, you. I was wrong to take the piss before. You are a hero, Dominic.’

  He says nothing, although his hand tightens around mine.

  ‘But the question stands,’ I say, raising my chin as I face my mother. ‘What was in that urn? Not the ashes of some unfortunate neighbourhood moggy, I hope. Because it wasn’t Rachel, let’s face it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jasmine bursts out, and we all look at her, surprised.

  ‘Jasmine, stay out of this,’ Dominic says, a warning note in his voice. Not unfriendly but needing to keep control of the situation. To keep control of me, in other words.

  She’s still holding the bag containing the Scrabble letters. She dumps it in the box, then shakes her head.

  ‘I can’t do that, sorry,’ she says, and pushes her hair back with an impatient gesture. ‘You don’t understand, none of you. Some of this is my fault.’ She takes a shaky breath. ‘Maybe all of it.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘How so?’

  ‘I told you about the postcard. I shouldn’t have done that. That’s what triggered this relapse, isn’t it? But I didn’t understand.’ Her voice rises, agonised. ‘I didn’t know. I knew you as Rachel. You came to visit us in Birmingham that time, remember? You made our lives miserable. But everyone was calling you Rachel in those days.’