Care For Me: A tense and engrossing psychological thriller for fans of Clare Mackintosh

by Farah Cook

  ‘Liar.’ She drops the bag clutched in her hand. ‘You’ve been going mad throwing things around all day because your daughter never showed up. Is she not coming to get you over the holidays? Is she abandoning you?’

  ‘Shut up, I say. ‘Chup karo.’

  ‘You are crazy. Super crazy. Everyone around here knows. You pushed poor Ed when he was reading for us in the hall. You snatched the papers out of his hand. We all know your secrets. Your wild nightmares. We all know what you did.’

  ‘Get out.’ I fetch the book and throw it at her. She wails and runs away screaming.

  ‘Myrtle, hurry up, stop her! Afrah’s gone stark raving bonkers.’

  ‘Carol, what are you still doing here? I thought you had left already.’

  ‘I am about to, but please stop Afrah.’

  I hear footsteps approaching. My door squeaks open.

  ‘Afrah Bibi!’ says Mrs Brown appearing in the door. She squints her eyes. ‘Goodness gracious, what have you done to your room? Do you know what we do to patients like you? Well, do you? Answer me.’

  I hesitate before shaking my head. She’s now right in front of me. I smell her breath. Sour like acid. I turn my head. I don’t want to see or smell her. She grabs my arm and I tell her to let go.

  ‘We make sure they leave and don’t come back.’ She smiles. Her face is calm as it was from the start. ‘I’ve spoken to that doctor in your family. I’ve informed him about what’s happened. But this tops it. We do not tolerate havoc and patients smashing, littering and destroying the historic property of Ravenswood Lodge.’

  ‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do any of this.’ I want to shout: ‘you did this. Liar!’ But I am afraid of what she might do if I said it out loud.

  ‘Then who did? Lying runs in the family. Your daughter is as unreliable as you are. Perhaps it’s a thing in your culture. In any case, we are reviewing your stay at Ravenswood Lodge. We simply cannot tolerate this sort of behaviour. Do I make myself clear? You will have no more privileges of Pakistani food and ordering special Urdu books from the library. It stops now!’

  ‘What about the newspaper?’ I ask. ‘You said I could have it.’

  ‘What?’ She arches her brows. ‘I said no such thing. Now, if you are you putting new demands on me to bring you the newspaper then it’s never going to happen. Never!’

  ‘I want my daughter. Where is Amira? I need to call her.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of that daughter of yours. If she cares about you, and I hope she does, then she’ll show up today just like she said she would. Otherwise, I’ll make the decision without her consent.’

  ‘What decision?’

  ‘That you, my dear Afrah Bibi, should be removed for showing outrageous behaviour and be placed in the tower till you learn how to behave. Never in my history as a nurse have I ever seen anyone quite like you. Now, clean up your mess.’ She stares at the walls for a while, then leaves, slamming the door shut.

  There’s an odd smell in my room and I swivel around. That’s when I notice the graffiti paint dripping off the wall. In big letters, it says: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!

  The writing makes my cheeks hot and my heart ache. I go into the bathroom and smack the door against the frame. There’s no lock so I grab the shower chair and lean it in front of the handle so no one gets in. I let the water run cold from the tap and splash it onto my face, loosening the tensed muscles that are vibrating with fear. I see several pictures of Amira, hanging loose from the tiles and torn in the middle. One, with the two of us in it, has her face scratched out and the edges are burned.

  I begin to cry, loud inconsolable sobs. I sit on the floor with my head dipped in between my knees. Where is Amira when I need her? Something pounds in the middle of my body. I feel cold. Help me God, I am trapped. Somebody is outside, yanking the handle to get in. The door is shaking violently. I feel myself go cold. I am trembling. Somebody knocks. It’s getting louder, like a fist hammering inside my head. I draw my knees closer to my chest, crunch my upper body into a ball.

  The hammering stops. It’s silent. I release my arms from my knees and push myself forwards, coiling and twisting like a snake before I get to my feet. I am losing my balance, and push my hands against the damp tiles to support myself. I think I smell blood. I turn to look at the mirror and cover my mouth, strangling my scream. There it is again, this time scrawled in red across the mirror. I know what you did!

  Chapter 35

  AMIRA

  Monday, 23 December 2019

  The flurries of snow whirl in the car headlights along the road leading out of Inverness. I put my foot on the accelerator and drive at full speed. The evening sky spreads like a blanket above the curve of snow-covered patches, the forest ahead naked, the branches black.

  I flick on the radio and listen to the presenter’s voice talking about the holiday season madness. Last-minute shoppers buying presents to be decorated underneath their Christmas trees. I lower the volume. There’s an incoming call from unknown caller, which I answer.

  ‘Am I speaking with Amira Malik? This is Dr Abdullah – you left me a message.’

  I keep my eyes steady on the road. ‘Thank you for returning my call.’

  ‘This is quite some coincidence, Amira beti, I can’t believe this is you. I never thought it to be true that you are Haroon’s wife.’

  ‘Ex-wife.’ I say, but I don’t think he’s heard me.

  ‘My late wife used to babysit you when your family lived in Glasgow.’

  ‘You knew my family?’

  ‘Yes, we were neighbours, and I knew your parents very well. Your father was one of my patients. Such a tragedy how he died. He was a good man. Your mother stayed with us after your house burned down. You were little then and may not remember.’

  ‘I don’t, I mean I have a vague memory of Dad, glimpses really.’ I see him pushing me in the stroller, smiling down on me. ‘Can you tell me more about him?’ Tears are blinding me, and I dab my eyes with the sleeve of my coat. ‘Did you know any of his friends?’

  ‘I knew of one Pashtun family, I suspect many in our community did. They were close friends of your father’s. Before, we’d see them a lot. But then they stopped coming around to your house Their black Mercedes used to stop around the corner to drop your sister off.’

  ‘Was that because—’

  ‘Your mother disapproved of your sister seeing their daughter. Her name escapes me.’

  ‘Naima?’ My sister mentioned her a lot in her diary.

  ‘Something like that. My wife kept an eye on things, called your mother so she wouldn’t be worried. I suppose there had been a few incidents. It wasn’t hard to see your sister was mixing with the wrong kind of people. Her friend showed up at your doorstep and your sister ran off several times with her. Your mother would get worried sick.’

  ‘Dr Abdullah, do you remember what caused the fire?’ I sense the scar on my calf itching. ‘Mum’s old now, she has dementia and never mentioned anything to me. I’ve only just found out I had a sister and how Dad died.’

  ‘Oh wow . . . Well, I remember very well. You don’t easily forget incidents like this about people you know. I believe the police report stated that the fire was caused by an accident in the kitchen. They didn’t do much investigation. Your mother wasn’t herself after that. She was in severe shock, and I treated her while my wife took care of you. She blamed herself . . . But there was something else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something she wasn’t telling us. A pain, a guilt that plagued her.’

  ‘Well of course, she had lost her husband and daughter in the fire.’

  ‘I’m talking about some kind of trauma, which she never spoke of. She naturally would blame herself. But it wasn’t her fault. The night of the fire was a warm summer evening. She was expecting guests and had spent all day cooking and cleaning. My wife had offered to take care of you in the morning so that she didn’t have to look after you. Your father worked most weekends
. He took extra hours tutoring children with learning difficulties. You loved coming to our house and playing in the garden. We never had children of our own. You brought happiness to our lives, Amira beti. But my wife was a little worried. You had so many bruises around your arms and legs.’

  ‘What do you mean? Was I a clumsy child?’

  ‘You’d say: “Meena did this to me.” We thought Meena was your imaginary friend. Then your sister showed up on our doorstep once. You pointed your finger at her and said, “That’s Meena.”’

  ‘Meena? Are you sure it wasn’t Mona? I think . . .’

  My thoughts try to connect the dots.

  Forgotten memories suddenly flood me. And that name sounds so familiar. I think I used to call my sister Meena. I think it was her nickname.

  I shudder. My sister has been missing ever since the house fire that killed Dad. She was never found.

  She is presumed dead.

  ‘We didn’t know what to believe. But it was clear your sister was hurting you.’

  My sister mentioned me in her diary. She was unstable and jealous. I think of how Diya mentioned sibling rivalry. I can see why my sister hated me. Her constant clashes with Mum made her feel left out.

  ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ I take a deep breath. But I think I do. I hear a younger version of myself cry, ‘Meena, stop hurting me.’

  ‘I think that “Meena” was your sister’s nickname, chosen by your mum.’

  ‘That’s very likely, Dr Abdullah.’ Mum also nicknamed me Mimi. I never liked that name.

  Mum has always been controlling. Has always had a strong mind of her own. But why would she never tell me I had a sister whom she called Meena? I get that she had a fall out with Dad’s friends and refused to see them again. She didn’t want their daughter hanging out with my sister. But why did she have to spin a lie like that?

  ‘Dr Abdullah, why did you never get in touch with Mum after she moved to Inverness? It sounds like you and your wife were close to her.’

  ‘Afrah disappeared. She left no note to explain why she had gone. No one knew where she went or what had happened to her. We thought that perhaps she had moved back to Lahore. She often spoke about how much she missed the warm climate and the food. That nothing was left for her here after the death of her husband. Your mum was deeply hurt after the dispute with the Pashtuns who accused her of stealing gold bangles. And when your sister sided with them she was devastated. Afrah wasn’t a thief. She stayed with us after the fire and insisted paying for everything. Left money all the time for food. Both my wife and I wouldn’t hear of it. It’s not how things are done among us. Even so, before your mother disappeared with you, she left an envelope with money.’

  ‘But why would she leave without even saying goodbye?’ I make a sharp turn into the quietness of the Highlands. The wind rustles through the mountains. Low swinging branches snap in the blowing gale. Snow keeps falling, covering the valleys and hills stretched far beyond the rivers, which run wild between them.

  ‘Like I said, Amira beti, something else deeply troubled your mother. It was like a splinter in her mind that drove her insane. She had terrible nightmares and I’m sure it had something to do with your sister’s death.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was a proper burial for your father in the graveyard. But your sister’s grave—’ His words are breaking up. ‘—it had a traumatic effect on Afrah. She couldn’t get closure.’

  ‘Hello? Dr Abdullah. I can’t hear you.’

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Fuck!

  ‘Please can you repeat what you said?’ I shout into the receiver.

  ‘Amira Beti, are you still there? Hello?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. I’m still on the line.’

  There’s noise in the background. I can’t reach him.

  I am about to hang up when I get another incoming call.

  I thank Dr Abdullah again, but I don’t think he hears me. I take Haroon’s call. He says he can’t hear me, the connection is breaking up. I realise I’m about five miles away from Ravenswood Lodge. I tell him to hold on while I turn the speaker off. I turn my head towards the radio, look up at the windscreen again and see a deer appear out of nowhere. I feel the car begin to skid. I think I’m in a ditch. Blood is splattered all over the windscreen. I touch my forehead. The skin is split open. Warm blood trickles down my face.

  ‘Haroon?’ The screen on my phone is crushed. I can hear him say, ‘Are you still there Mira? Listen, you will never believe what I found out about your sister Mona—’

  I taste blood. My eyelids are heavy. The sound of wind muffles in my ears. I give into the darkness.

  Chapter 36

  AFRAH

  Monday, 23 December 2019

  I hear the ocean striking the cliffs. I call out. ‘Hello, is anybody there?’ I call out again. But I don’t think anyone is here. I am alone. Snowflakes sweep in through the window and land like dust against my face. A storm is brewing outside.

  I notice the paint on the walls glowing in neon colours. I know what you did written all over in small and big letters. The letters are jumbled, the colours sharp and intrusive. Somewhere in the room, music begins to play. It’s a familiar old Hindi song that I would hum to my daughter. ‘Is that you, Nisha? Quit it.’ I cover my ears. ‘I said stop it.’ I unplug the cable from the socket, but the music plays on. Its’s coming from everywhere.

  The door pushes open. I see a person standing there dressed in white. A bad feeling devours me. The room is cold, and more snowflakes fly in, seeking home in the blank surfaces of the room.

  ‘Is that you Carol?’ The floor creaks and the tall shadow with a pale face gets closer. ‘Who’s there?’ I try to grab something, anything. My hand fumbles, and I take hold of the book from the table. It must be the gardener. He is out to get me and so is Mrs Brown. She told him to do it. And it was him all along playing with my mind. He wants to hurt me. They both do.

  ‘I will hit you, I am warning you. Stop. Don’t get any closer.’ If only the music would turn off, it’s driving me crazy. What do you want?’ Cold sweat runs down the knobs on my spine. ‘Do you want gold? Here, take my bracelets. I wrench them off my wrists and throw them into the thin air. The person in the darkness laughs evilly.

  The knots in my tummy are getting firmer and I slip into bed. There’s a pain growing in my shoulders. I lay on my back, hugging my knees. The white cotton envelopes me. My mind is unable to rest, and I press one hand over my eyes and let the other wander over to the cold side. The music suddenly stops playing.

  The bedside clock is ticking. Every minute there’s a loud pounding in my ears. I pull down the duvet, my body shivering. I lay watching it as the hand moves around the dial. Outside, the snow keeps falling. Silence.

  There’s no sound and not a breath of wind, no cold creeping through the walls. I smell something burning. Ashes and dust. Smoke curls like a rope around my neck. The dry air is trapped in my throat. I can’t breathe. I creep out of bed and lurch forward, coughing and snatching at breaths of air.

  Then, out of the quiet, I hear footsteps getting closer and closer. I feel cold hands tightening the bones in my fingers, cracking one by one. Click, click. Fear has me ensnared. Someone is speaking to me and I look up. It’s a woman with long dark hair blowing wildly in the wind. She is dressed in a long white dress and puts the candle in her hand on the nightstand. I have seen her before. Who is she?

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask.

  ‘Hello Ami,’ she says. Her eyes glint red and amber like flames.

  ‘Is that you, Amira?’

  She throws me a hollow glare. No, this can’t be. She is not my daughter. I look away, shut my eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ It’s a ghost. An evil spirit haunting the house. ‘Stay away from me.’

  ‘It’s me, Meena. Don’t you recognise your own daughter?’ she laughs.

  ‘My daughter is dead.’ I open my eyes
and look right at her.

  ‘I am back, Ami. Back from the dead.’

  PART FOUR

  Union

  Chapter 37

  MONA

  Thursday, 15 April 2019

  I feel so much better now that I am alive again. Well, I was never really gone. I am still presumed dead by the world. I have been for decades. It feels good to bring some part of me back to life, and it’s all thanks to Meena. She has done a fantastic job fooling my little sister, who never suspected a thing. Meena, the sweet girl with rosy cheeks and tight black braids, just the way Mum imagined I would be after I was born. Sorry to be a disappointment Mum. But I never was a good Pakistani girl. I have my own rules by which I live.

  Unlike most other things in my life, lying comes easy to me, and I always get what I want. Technically speaking, I built my world around a sound web of lies, and it’s served me well. I have fooled the world and my own mother into believing that Mona Malik disappeared from the face of the earth after that dreadful night of the fire.

  But why? Mum will wonder, when she finds out. I’ll tell her again and again, as she’s becomes demented and may need reminding. It’s just like I told her before the house burned down. She stopped loving me. And what’s the point in staying with someone who doesn’t love you? You might as well be dead to them. And so I remained dead for decades. But now that I am back, I want revenge.

  The way I found out about Mum and the little brat is the way it works in most Asian communities, where gossip travels faster than lightyears. My curiosity awakened when I first heard some girls at a party chatting, saying that a sharif ladki, a decent girl, from a Kashmiri family, had married a doctor – Haroon Khan – after he impregnated her, and who divorced him several years later after he had impregnated someone else. Gossip like this spreads like a tumour among Pakistani circles. Sorry it didn’t work out, sis. I could have told you he was a cheating bastard. I know a wandering eye when I see it.