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

by Jane Holland

  ‘I preferred Rachel.’ I shrug. ‘Still do.’

  ‘Then I was told you’d died, but Cat was okay. I thought that must be your younger sister, another cousin I’d never met. I mean, fuck, we live at the other end of the country practically, and I was only a little kid at the time.’ She’s flushed now, getting hysterical. ‘I had no idea what was going on. Someone should have told me. It wasn’t fair to keep it a secret.’

  ‘It was none of your business,’ my mother says coldly.

  ‘But if I’d known, I would never have mentioned the postcard. Not in a million years. Especially on her wedding day.’ Jasmine turns to me. ‘I mean, God, that must have been what started all this shit again. Otherwise why would you be tripping out like this so soon afterwards?’

  ‘Tripping out?’ I repeat, as icy as my mother but with my own special twist of crazed batshittery for added menace.

  ‘Flipping out, relapsing, whatever you want to call it.’

  Jasmine is crying now, tears rolling down her cheeks. Tears of guilt and fear. She’s worried my parents will blame her, of course. That’s what this is really about. These are tears of self-protection. Just look at how unhappy I am about this; you can’t make matters worse by blaming me, it wouldn’t be fair. She’s so transparent, it’s embarrassing.

  Jasmine sees me looking at her, coolly dissecting her behaviour, and almost shrieks. ‘You sent the postcard. You sent it to me. So it wasn’t my fault. It was yours.’

  ‘Jasmine,’ my mother says, a reprimand in her voice.

  I let go of Dominic’s hand and keep staring at Jasmine, playing back those words in my head.

  You sent the postcard. You sent it to me.

  She’s right, of course. I must have sent her that postcard signed, so provocatively, Rachel. Except I have no memory of doing it. Surely I ought to remember?

  Yet it’s the only logical explanation. Like the creepy eyeball in the snow globe. Nice touch that. I congratulate myself. I pinched the snow globe from the wooden chest on the landing, procured the eyeball and posted it to myself at work. Later, I cut up my own wedding dress – it made me look fat, anyway, so it was probably a good move – and sprinkled it with animal blood for dramatic effect, then went out to work as usual, being sure to leave the bathroom window open to make it look like an intruder got in. As for the cat noises and the footsteps in the cellar . . .

  Well, the mind is a strange and unpredictable thing, never entirely under our control. That’s what I love about being me. The not-knowing part.

  I didn’t know I was Rachel, after all. Not until I read my father’s notebook. Or rather, I forgot that I was also Rachel. Or rather, to be completely accurate, I was induced to forget. Brainwashing, some might call what they did to me at that specialist clinic in Switzerland. I don’t remember much of that either, to be fair. It’s all a blur of snow and white rooms and pills. Pills every day. And yoga therapy.

  God, I’d forgotten about the yoga. How weird.

  So yes, I did it all, I hold my hands up to that naughtiness. I masterminded my own relapse. Because I was sick of being goody-two-shoes Catherine, and wanted badass Rachel back in my life.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I say. I pick up the wine bottle, my mouth suddenly dry. It’s empty, of course. ‘Shit. Out of wine. Did I do that?’

  I place the bottle back on the kitchen worktop but somehow miss the edge. Or maybe I deliberately miss it. I can’t be sure which, afterwards. But it drops to the tiled kitchen floor, where of course it shatters.

  Glass explodes across the floor.

  Jasmine shrieks again. It’s almost a default setting with her, I’m beginning to suspect. Mum jumps hurriedly out of the way to avoid the glass shards. Dominic doesn’t move from my side.

  My rock, I think drily.

  Dad comes back into the kitchen and stares at the mess, then looks at me.

  Oops.

  ‘Thank God. What did he say?’ Mum asks, sounding tearful herself now. ‘What did Doctor Holbern say?’

  ‘He’s not in England,’ my father says flatly. ‘He’s in the States.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know. Talk about bad timing.’ He opens the walk-in kitchen cupboard and reaches for a broom. I didn’t even realise he knew where the broom is kept. But maybe he and Kasia get kinky in the cupboard occasionally. Dirty bastard. ‘Dr Holbern flew out there for a Christmas skiing break, apparently. Some mountain cabin he keeps up in Vermont. He flies home the day after tomorrow. But his PA is going to email him, see what can be arranged for when he’s back. We may even be able to get Cat booked back into the specialist clinic in Switzerland. There’s been a change of management since she was there before, but they still accept private referrals, thank God.’ He starts sweeping up the glass with quick, impatient movements, then stops to look around at me again, breathing hard as though he’s been thinking about Kasia. I smile and his face tightens. ‘Meanwhile, his PA suggests we do what we did last time, as an interim measure.’

  ‘Which is?’ Dominic asks.

  ‘Take away everything she could use to harm herself, and lock her in her room. And try to get a doctor out to her, for an emergency prescription of antipsychotics.’

  Dominic nods. ‘Leave that last part to me, I can make a call. And I’ll stay with her in the room. Keep her safe.’

  The largest fragment of the broken bottle, the heavy glass base, is glinting at me, still wet with wine, right at my feet. Like an invitation nobody in my position could be expected to resist. And being me, I don’t see the need even to consider resisting.

  I stoop to pick it up, and Dominic grabs at my arm.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ He twists my arm behind my back as I struggle. I could be wrong but it sounds almost like he’s laughing at me. ‘Please don’t fight me, darling. This is for your own good.’

  ‘That’s what they always say.’

  ‘Well, I’m not them. I’m your husband.’ His breath is warm on my neck, oddly reassuring. ‘And I can do this all night if necessary.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ I gasp.

  So here we are again. Back to Rachel. Back to ground zero.

  I laugh, throwing my head back, and enjoy my wrestling match with Dominic. It’s a bit one-sided though. He’s strong, and he knows what he’s doing; there’ll be no getting out of this arm lock. What was it my father wrote in his notebook?

  I just wish we could have our lovely Cat back.

  Not while I’m alive.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I wake up with a start, dragging air into my lungs. It’s dark and I’m lying on my side, stiff and cold, completely naked. My back is nestled against something soft. But when I put my hand up, I find something hard in front of me. Just inches from my face. Like I’m in a coffin.

  My God, they’ve actually killed me. I’m dead and this is the afterlife.

  I ought to be upset by that idea. Instead, I’m curious, and maybe a little angry. Except it’s not wood, I realise. It’s too solid for that. And it’s been papered. A wall, I think, running my fingertips lightly over the surface. My fingers sting at the pressure, and I pull them back, instinctively sucking them into my mouth like a baby for comfort.

  I taste blood. And the nails on my right hand are jagged and broken.

  What the hell?

  Reaching out more slowly, I discover that the papered wall in front of my face is covered in gouge marks. Deep grooves that seem to match the shape of my fingernails, with ragged strips of paper hanging down loose.

  Then I remember . . .

  It was all very ‘Sunday tea with the vicar’ at first. Sitting me down after midnight with a very nice woman in a flowery skirt who had come out specially. The duty doctor. She asked a long and irritating series of questions. I answered. I didn’t answer. I made shit up. I put my hand on her knee and squeezed. She nodded and wrote things down on a clipboard. Then she gave me two small, white, bitter-tasting pills, with a glass of water. I may have spat them out on her clipboard. />
  Not very nice of me.

  She suggested a second opinion.

  ‘Not yet,’ Dominic said at once, quiet and concerned, a voice in the corner. ‘Some meds first, and a few nights of peace and quiet here at home. I’ll get time off. I’ll look after her.’

  A second opinion. I knew what that meant. The woman in the flowery skirt wanted me committed.

  Definitely not nice.

  I was glad then that I’d ruined her notes.

  ‘She ought to be somewhere secure,’ the duty doctor said. ‘Catherine needs professional care.’

  ‘I’m a trained nurse, and she’s my wife. I’ll deal with it.’

  A hesitation. ‘Do you have any experience of psychotic patients?’

  ‘Some, yes. Enough to get us through a day or two until she’s seen by a specialist. And if there’s any trouble at all, I’ll take her to the hospital myself.’

  Later, the meds arrived.

  I spat those pills out, too. I like spitting, I’ve decided. It expresses perfectly what I’m feeling, and seems to annoy everyone in the room.

  Double whammy.

  After the duty doctor had gone – still muttering darkly about a secure unit – they took me upstairs to our self-contained flat on the top floor. They stuck me in the bedroom with Jasmine while they cleared nearly everything out of the living room – previously my bedroom, of course – then trundled me in there, a firm hand on each shoulder, Dominic and Dad.

  My guards.

  The old lock and bolt on the door had been reinstated.

  In we went, then the key was turned.

  Bare mattress on the floor. One plastic chair. Nothing else.

  I looked at Dominic.

  ‘Well, this is cosy.’

  He stroked my hair back from my forehead, then smiled. ‘Strip,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not very romantic.’

  ‘Strip,’ he repeated. ‘Everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ I rolled my eyes at him, gasping in mock horror. ‘But what if Dad comes back?’

  ‘Everything.’

  I smiled. ‘Pervert.’

  He hesitated, then reached round for the zip at the back of my little silver dress. ‘Okay, if you won’t do it yourself . . .’

  ‘Oh, darling. This is so sexy.’

  ‘Don’t get any ideas. You’re going to sleep.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’

  He dragged my dress over my head and threw it aside. ‘I’m going to watch.’

  ‘You’re going to watch me sleep in the nude? How unspeakably kinky. Can you film me too? On your phone? So I can watch myself later?’

  His eyes met mine at last. He looked exhausted, poor lamb. It must be such a tiring business, looking after mad Mrs Rochester.

  ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he said wearily. ‘Come on, it’s really late. And this is for the best. No phones in here. No clothes. No hidden weapons.’

  He took off the rest of my clothes. Transparent bra and thong. Not very gently. Then knocked twice on the door. Jasmine opened it, staring in with a worried expression, and he handed her my clothes.

  The door was locked again.

  ‘Bed,’ he said, pointing at the mattress.

  I struck a pose, thrusting out my bare breasts. ‘Oh baby, what an invitation. Okay, okay. I’ll be a good girl and lie down. But only if you lie down with me.’

  Dominic drew breath, then picked me up and threw me backwards onto the mattress. I screamed and tried to scramble back up. He pinned me down, hands to wrists, his full weight on my body.

  That was when the fighting began in earnest.

  I kicked and screamed and spat at him. He struggled to hold me down. I told him exactly what I thought of him. He said nothing. I gave up trying to escape and attacked the wall instead with my bare hands. Gouged holes in the appalling black-and-white striped wallpaper, tore strips off it, banged my forehead against the wall until I was dizzy. Dominic dragged me away a few times, but I kept charging back, attacking the wall like it was my enemy.

  ‘I hate this wallpaper!’ I was shouting at one point. ‘This is my bedroom. This isn’t how it’s supposed to look.’

  I’m not sure how long all that drama lasted. But somehow it ended with me rolling onto the floor between the cold wall and the mattress, too drained to do anything beyond moan and swear.

  I guess I must have fallen asleep in this position.

  ‘Catherine?’

  A voice breaks the silence. A man’s voice nearby. Is he watching me? He knows I’m not asleep.

  ‘Catherine?’

  My heart rate picks up. I don’t respond, though I know that voice.

  It’s not for me.

  ‘Cat?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Cat’s not here right now. Please leave a message at the beep.’ I raise my voice, strident with defiance. ‘BEEP. BEEP—’

  ‘Rachel?’

  I smile. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help myself.

  ‘Yes?’

  Dominic laughs. ‘Stubborn little bitch, aren’t you?’

  My rock.

  Also the weak link in their chain.

  ‘I’m cold,’ I say.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘You could warm me up. What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone five. And there’ll be no warming up. Not until you’re better.’

  I pretend to sulk for a minute.

  ‘You should try to get some sleep,’ he adds.

  I say nothing.

  It takes him another three or four minutes of waiting, then Dominic breaks. ‘Cat?’ Quickly, he corrects himself. ‘Rachel?’

  I roll over and look for him in the darkness. There’s a shimmering, man-sized mass over where they placed the plastic chair. So he’s not even trying to sleep. Just sitting there, wide awake, watching me.

  Now I call that cheating.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get some sleep yourself?’

  ‘I can sleep later. It’s no different from a night shift.’ He yawns audibly, then laughs. ‘Except for the sitting-still part. I’m used to a rather more eventful night shift than this.’

  I slap the wall behind me with the flat of my palm. ‘This wasn’t eventful enough for you? I must be slipping.’

  ‘Oh, you were right up there with the greats.’

  ‘Name me a great.’

  ‘The morbidly obese woman with the hernia. Who was also incontinent.’ He pauses. ‘That was an epic night.’

  I laugh and sit up. There’s an instant stirring from my guard, as though he’s steeling himself for some kind of attack.

  ‘Please may I have some water?’ I ask plaintively.

  Another pause. Then he gets up and turns on the light. I blink, shielding my eyes. Unlike me, Dominic is still fully dressed. Jeans, sweatshirt, trainers, all the same as last night. I bet he’s dying for a shower. There’s a smear of dried blood on his thigh. I focus on it as he comes nearer, holding out a bottle of water.

  ‘Here.’

  He’s already removed the cap. Just in case I try to swallow it, perhaps.

  I take the bottle and drink greedily while he watches. My body is so dehydrated. I can almost feel my cells plumping up as I pour mouthfuls of cold water down my throat.

  I hand it back, empty. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘All that wine earlier,’ he comments. ‘You knocked back most of a bottle in about ten minutes, by my reckoning. Not exactly clever.’

  ‘I was thirsty.’ I change the topic, pointing at the stain on his jeans. ‘Was that me?’

  He glances down, then nods. ‘You hurt your hands.’

  ‘You tried to stop me.’

  ‘Unsuccessfully.’

  ‘I’m feeling better now, honestly. No more wall-gouging.’

  His gaze moves down my naked body, then shifts quickly away. As if he’s unwilling to sexualise me in this state. To take advantage.

  I’m not unwilling.

  ‘Seriously though, I’m freezing.’ I rub my
bare arms and hug myself, pretending to shiver violently. ‘Can’t I have my clothes back?’

  ‘I was warned not to allow that.’

  I make a face, dismissing his concerns. ‘Because of the thing with the tights, I suppose.’

  ‘What thing with the tights?’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’ I mime making a noose from tights, and then hanging myself with it. ‘After that, they took turns watching me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘It’s okay though. I wouldn’t do that now. I was a teenager. Kids always do that wacky, look-at-me crap. It’s fine now. You can totally trust me with clothes. Even tights, though personally I hate them. So nasty and unsexy. Catherine used to wear them for work, I know. But God, you wouldn’t catch me dead in a pair. Well, maybe if I’d succeeded with the noose thing.’ I lean back against the cold wall, making sure he gets a good eyeful of my breasts before I draw my knees up to my chest. ‘Look, babe, I’m totally over the suicide vibe. And I’m freezing.’

  He checks the radiator behind his plastic chair. ‘The heating’s on.’

  ‘Still cold.’

  ‘I can’t get your clothes back. Jasmine’s looking after them.’

  ‘So knock her up.’ I give a derisive laugh at my pun, imagining the ineffectual Jasmine pairing off with my husband. ‘So to speak.’

  He frowns. ‘It’s five in the morning. She’ll be asleep.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Next door.’

  ‘You let her sleep in our bedroom? In our bed?’ My voice is high with outrage. ‘What the fuck, Dom?’

  A muscle jerks in his cheek. ‘Lower your voice, please.’

  ‘Oh, go screw yourself! You’ve got no power over me.’

  ‘I mean it, Cat. Stop shouting at me.’

  ‘Not Cat!’ I scream at him. ‘Not Cat! Not Cat!’

  ‘Stop shouting, Cat,’ he repeats deliberately.

  I want to get up and punch him in the face. To do something violent. Or better still, have it done to me. I glare at him through narrowed, speculative eyes.

  ‘Or what, fuckface?’

  Dominic takes three swift paces and picks me up without effort, his hands gripping my upper arms painfully. He slams me against the wall so we’re at eye level and stares into my face, mere inches away. His chest is heaving, his face flushed, teeth bared. It looks as if he’s finally had enough of me and my shit.