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

by Farah Cook

  I turn back to my list. Fresh coriander, mint and tomatoes. The phone rings.

  ‘Hello? How are you, Mrs Singh? . . . Is everything alright? . . . Are you sure? . . . Can you see her right now getting out of the black Mercedes? . . . I know, you mentioned it’s not the first time they stop around the corner of our road to drop her off. Please excuse me, but I have to go back to the kitchen . . . Yes, yes thank you for looking after Amira this morning. She is fine, napping upstairs with Nadeem . . . I really must go, we’re expecting guests this evening . . . Bye.’

  I feel heat on my face. Nadeem must know what she is up to. He knows everything. Keeps secrets from me. They both do. He spoils that ladki. Had to give her an unconventional name too. Saeeda Begum was asking, ‘Is Mona short for Mahmona?’ I shook my head, felt the shame creep into my skin. I had chosen such a beautiful name for her, even Mona said, ‘I like it, Ami.’ She was a little girl then. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be your Meena. I’ll be a good girl.’ Look at her now, all grown up and independent. I hope the Durrani family take a liking to her. But first, let her come home. She’ll have to answer to me.

  I tune the radio to the local station and it crackles with static. I turn and fiddle the button around, trying to find a music station. Something blows through the speaker – it’s that Whitney Houston song again. I stand by the window and lift the net curtain. I want a good look at her when she comes down the road. If Mrs Singh’s report is correct, she should be here by now.

  The English lady next door pushes the pram. All dressed up in her summer dress and sandals with painted toenails. I see her chatter with the other goreh mums on the pavement. They keep amongst themselves. Nod when they see me. The old widow living next to Mrs Singh never nods. Always in her plastic slippers and pink apron, she stands in the doorframe and stares curiously at me like I am some mystical ornament. Whenever she sees Nadeem, she says, ‘You all right Nad?’ like he was the same type of goreh living in their neighbourhood. The last time she did that, I said, ‘My husband’s name isn’t Nad.’ She didn’t look at me, but at Amira crying in the pram. My girls get stared at, and I tell myself it’s because they are pretty and like twins, only years apart.

  The children in the playground are screaming, laughing. Tomorrow I’ll take Amira out for a stroll. Buy her an ice cream. Mona doesn’t like it when I spend time with Amira. Tells me I love her more than her.

  ‘I don’t, Meena beti,’ I say.

  ‘Stop calling me that. My name is Mona.’ She gets angry so fast. Takes all the toys from Amira and screams, ‘They’re mine. Not yours. I don’t want to share.’

  When I was a child we had to share everything. Mona doesn’t understand, she’s a desi goreh, and takes after her father. I wish she wouldn’t be so angry all the time and I wish she would stop going to Sultana’s house without telling me.

  ‘But Naima is my best friend, she is like my sister, and I like spending time with her. Her parents care about me. Naima always pays for everything when we’re out and so does her mum. Why can’t I see them?’

  ‘How many times have I said this? I will not have you go around to their house behind my back. We have nothing to do with them anymore. Nothing, so stay far away. Understood? I don’t want to catch you going there again.’

  Her face gets pink, and she thinks I don’t know about all the things they buy her. Clothes and shoes from expensive shops like those white Nike sneakers she’s started wearing. I don’t want their charity.

  Boiling with anger, I pull the entire curtain to one side. She should be here now! ‘Where in God’s name is that silly ladki?’

  Upstairs, Nadeem and Amira are awake. ‘Where’s Ami?’ I hear Amira say.

  There’s noise at the front, keys rattle. I pull back my hair and leave the kitchen.

  She comes down the hallway, leaving the front door open. I stand poised and watch her throw her bag onto the floor. Jennifer Rush crooning from the radio in the kitchen. She walks right past me. She doesn’t meet my gaze. I’m not sure she even knows I exist. The pressure cooker whistles and a starchy smell of rice moistens the air.

  ‘Where were you?’

  No answer.

  I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror at the other end of the hall. I catch my own gaze in it as I stride in her direction.

  ‘Answer me. Where did you go?’ She turns into the dining room, pulls back a chair and sits at the table set with empty plates and glasses. Her fingers toy with the table cloth, twisting it into a tight knot.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know where I went.’ The candle flickers, casting a shade on her face, which has turned pink. ‘You’ve known all along, haven’t you?’

  ‘Badtameez ladki. That’s not the way to speak to your mother. Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you to—’ I fall silent and watch her watch me.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do.’ Anger lingers like phantom threads between us.

  ‘What did you say?’ I loom over her, but she stands up and pushes the chair away with her foot. The table shakes, knocking over the candle. Thick smoke is coming from the kitchen. The smell of burning rice. But that’s not all. Something else is burning. I look down. Small ribbons of flames rise from the table top.

  ‘From now on, you don’t have to worry about me.’ She’s at the window looking out. The hazy summer light slips through the shutters, leaving shadows on the floor.

  ‘Why did you have to go with her?’ I go to stand beside her and place my hand on her shoulder. It feels warm, smouldering. Hot air begins to envelop us, makes its way into our lungs.

  ‘Tell me, why?’ I adjust my wool kameez.

  ‘Because,’ her beady eyes look directly into mine, ‘you stopped loving me.’

  Nadeem comes in holding Amira. He asks, ‘What is going on?’ I turn to look at him and a rage of smoke curls up behind him. It sweeps in like a wave and everything turns cloudy. The living room is hot. I scream, ‘Hurry, get out, now!’ He stumbles back and falls. Amira drops to the floor, her head hitting the panel hard. A wound splits open, dripping blood. She cries hysterically and stretches out her little fingers for me to reach. ‘Ami, help, help me.’ She coughs. The smoke is everywhere, dancing through the flames of fire. The walls are blackened. Flames flickering everywhere. There’s no time to get the extinguisher from the kitchen. Amira screams. Fire has caught her dress. Her movements are frantic. Eyes filled with fearful tears. I leap forward and lurch into action. Stamp on her dress, my foot warm from the blaze. I reach out to take hold. ‘I have you,’ I say. ‘I have you.’

  I swing around and see no sign of Mona or Nadeem. In the corner by the door, a glow sparks to life. A gaping mouth of fire spreads fast and the blue flames curl merciless surrounding the room. My throat is so dry I can hardly breathe. The sharp hot smoke plumes into the air. The fire begins to consume everything in our home. A black cloud of smoke circles above me. I look up and fear the roof will come crashing down anytime.

  ‘We’ve got to go! Nadeem? Where are you?’

  Desperately, I look around. I hear a distant voice caught behind the thick smoke. ‘Meena, meri Meena. Meri beti, is that you?’ I stretch out my hand to see if I can grab hold of her, but she is not there. ‘Where are you?’ There’s no answer. Sweat coats my skin, I can taste the char on my tongue.

  ‘Nadeem where are you?’ Perhaps they made it out already.

  Amira is crying, her calf a scorching wound. I rip a piece of cloth from my kameez and tie it around her leg to stop it from bleeding. I hold her close and pull my chador over her head and hurry towards the doorway. The searing heat throws us back. The frame is black and burning into ashes. The ceiling is lowering, making an awful, thundering sound. I crouch low, tightening my grip around my daughter. I spin around. My mind is racing. The broken windowpane. It’s our only option before it catches fire. Smoke and heat suck at the walls. I have to do this. Have to throw Amira out first.

  I kick at the glass with my foot again and again, smashing it into pieces
. I need to toss her out and lunge out the same way. I whirl round catching a glimpse of Meena’s brown eyes glowing with the fire. Then I look down at Amira’s eyes glazed with fear. I hold my crying child close. ‘You are going to be fine.’

  Amira is safe, she is in my arms and I hold her tight, feeling her heart beat next to mine before I let her go.

  Chapter 40

  MONA

  Sunday, 10 November 2019

  Reviewing my master plan, I have been very busy the past couple of months and I am close to reaching my goal, Mission Revenge. I have been chatting to Amira, aka Nursemira, for almost a year now, giving her the impression that I am Meena Bashir, a sweet carer who looked after her father till the end of his days. The reason for stealing Meena Bashir’s identity was purely to hook Amira, get her to trust me, and also to get as much information about Mum as possible. And it worked. She trusted me with everything I needed to know to get Mum into a care home.

  It took three further steps:

  Step one: making persistent calls and sending emails to social services to complain about Afrah Malik, a seventy-six-year-old dementia patient whose daughter is incapable of looking after her own mother. I had to pretend I was Mrs Silvia Nesbit. A perfect cover-up. Of course, a nosy neighbour like Mrs Nesbit would call them. Wouldn’t anyone, if some crazy old lady acted odd around a quiet neighbourhood? Mum doesn’t get any vote of sympathy. Amira, my dear little sister, is terrified what people would think if they knew that her mother, a well-respected woman, had dementia. This makes it so easy to carry out my master plan, a plan that shifts things and forces Mum out of her comfort zone. And I will use Amira to do the dirty job for me.

  Step two: making Amira go to the Carers Support Group where I had given John Buchanan an anonymous tip that she was a highly stressed-out carer who was struggling to look after her own mother. A dementia patient who accidently sets things on fire and who belongs in a care home. I mentioned that Ravenswood Lodge would be a suitable place for someone like Amira’s mum. A traditional Pakistani woman who thrives in close-knit communities.

  I’ve been busy spreading so many seeds and seeing the little plants of my lies grow. Tampering with Amira’s frail mind seemed easy, so it wasn’t hard to make her think that she was doing things subconsciously. Like telling her to attend the local Carers Support Group. ‘Did wonders for me,’ I lied. I had to expose her vulnerability. Make people see that she was simply not fit to be a carer.

  I know lots about Mum now, too. Amira’s told me how terrified Mum is of fire. That’s not her only oddity. Mum’s eating and cooking obsessions are checked in my little notebook. I know she prefers to drink Kashmiri tea. I also know she has a sweet tooth, especially for mithai. Mum’s always been fond of cooking and prefers eating a curry over Western food.

  Amira has revealed more details about Mum to me than about herself. Sure, she touched on the subject of her life. The failed wife. The failed mother. And the soon to become (if not already) failed daughter. She occasionally mentioned how awful she felt for not being able to complete her degree. Shame she never became a real nurse. Mum had such high expectations of her daughter.

  Step three: contacting her ex-husband to feed him information about Ravenswood Lodge. A first-rate facility and the perfect home for the elderly with dementia. I had to make sure a space would be available for Mum, and went through a lot to make it happen (including getting rid of Alice: it was time for her to go).

  It was also time to plant another seed. So I sent another email from the fake account I had created to Dr Haroon Khan. I had applied for a job at Ravenswood Lodge looking for a position as a carer. I raved about how fantastic a care home it was. Very traditional, with a close community of people based on trust among the carers and nurses. It’s in a lovely and natural setting. It’s a first-rate private facility. I know people who’d do anything for their parents to be there. I highly recommend it for dementia patients. It is also a perfect place to carry out my master plan. Isolated, few members of staff, no cameras. It even has a spooky history of murders and mad women.

  The key figure is Zahra Akram, a friend of Dr Haroon Khan’s distant relatives. She is trustworthy and sympathetic. The perfect carer.

  So how did I make it all happen, and what’s Meena Bashir’s role in all this?

  Nothing. Meena Bashir has no clue I used her name to cover my set up to trap Amira.

  Meena Bashir is a nobody. She was only a pawn in my plan – I met her first of all when I hired her to be a carer for Naima’s mum Sultana. She did a terrible job looking after Sultana and decided to leave after two years as soon as she was offered more money to look after a disabled boy in Inverness.

  Sultana was furious and filed a complaint against her for theft. Of course the accusation was false. But she had to be taught a lesson. In the end, I convinced Sultana not to press charges. It would have ruined my master plan. I couldn’t have Meena Bashir on police record. She agreed, and let Meena off the hook on the condition she be taught a lesson later. I told her not to worry, and to leave it with me. When Sultana talks about teaching someone a lesson, she means business. And what could be more glorifying than death?

  I stole her identity to hook Amira, struck up a friendship of trust. My sister told me everything I needed to know about Mum.

  I soon plan to get rid of Meena Bashir and dump her body into the Caledonian Canal. I have no use for her now that Mum is in the care home. I need to get rid of Meena Bashir. Fast.

  The police will think it was a suicide. Forging a fake psychological profile of someone only takes one cash transaction. I already have Meena Bashir down as depressive, unstable, frail and very nervous.

  Amira works as an alibi. Nothing can or will ever be linked to me. I do not exist, remember? Mona Malik went missing over thirty years ago. I will ask Amira to meet me at the time I plan to dump Meena Bashir’s body into the Caledonian Canal. The police will think Meena was depressed and obsessive. Everything will link back to the calls and emails to social services from Meena, as it turns out, and not Silvia Nesbit. The trap will work as a double-edged sword. Meena’s mental health issues, her fabricated lie about looking after her father. Her accusation of theft while working as a carer in Glasgow. And her laptop which has all the information the police need. Amira, the little brat, will feel hurt and betrayed. The real Meena Bashir will be dead.

  Soon, I can execute the last phase in my master plan: Mum. Amira has no idea what is coming. She’ll wish Mum never set foot in Ravenswood Lodge.

  Chapter 41

  MONA

  Monday, 23 December 2019

  It was peaceful this evening as I wandered down the dark hallway of the empty care home and admired the wood panelled walls and the arched church windows, throwing in a gleaming snow-white light over the rooms. I am getting attached to Ravenswood Lodge, it’s eeriness and isolated location. While everyone else couldn’t wait to get out of here, I couldn’t wait to stay behind. Not even Liam, who I consistently fooled into believing Mum dislikes him because he’s a gardener, a lowly working-class member of our society. ‘It’s a caste thing, Liam,’ I said, convincingly. ‘An old Pakistani woman, Afrah is very traditional about these things. Don’t make her cross.’ Ahhh, the beauty of reverse psychology. It didn’t take much persuasion before Liam started pestering Mum and insulting her with spiteful remarks. He even gave her a little nudge and made the poor old woman stumble. The things I saw . . . the things I chose to ignore.

  Liam did exactly what I needed him to do so that Mum felt threatened and vulnerable in her new environment. She believed he stole her things. The more I convinced her he didn’t the more she believed it be true. Truth is, Liam couldn’t care less about Mum’s stupid bracelets and her diary. He was a little resentful about placing the roses in Mum’s room as a gesture of peace when I asked him to. And that mud trail on the white carpet, such a classic clue I cleverly planted. All it took was a fistful of the soil from the garden and I sprinkled it like dust when no one was watc
hing. And no one watches around here. No cameras, no fuss. Bless Myrtle, she has the authoritative soul of a woman with strong principles. And principles rule in small thriving communities.

  And Carol. Curious, prying Carol, has also gone home to her family in up in Aberdeen. Merry Christmas Carol. She was the easiest piece to spin around my little finger. Carol was just being – what does Myrtle call her? – a ‘nosy creature’. That’s it. I told Carol Mum wanted her to have her bracelets. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Take them – they will look gorgeous on you.’ I put them in her room and said Mum left them for her, while I let Mum believe Carol had stolen them. The ongoing tension between them – Carol sparked that herself. The prying, the annoying remarks bothering Mum, generally getting on her nerves. In the end, even I got disturbed by Carol and had to tell her off. She just wouldn’t leave Mum alone. I didn’t want Mum to feel too annoyed, I wanted to scare her. Make her believe she was pagal.

  I was getting a little bored with some of the trivial games I played with Mum and decided to raise the stakes. Mum’s diary was pretty pathetic. And those silly bookmarks. ‘Today I am sad. I had an argument with Amira.’ Blah blah. The juicy stuff came from her nightmare entries, which I presumed were about me. I took copies and left them in the library. John, that fool, picked them up, and I convinced him it would be a grand idea to entertain the other patients with a story from Mum’s diary. ‘Afrah would appreciate it,’ I said. ‘She loves to read it aloud herself and really wouldn’t mind.’ Elderly people are so frail. They don’t need much convincing, bless their souls.

  Although, I do wish John would have hurt Mum a little more when he went after her. He only pushed her and chased her around the house a little when I told him she was rattled about his peeing in the garden. I don’t think Mum remembers what he did. She never mentioned anything. But I saw him going for her. It was a true pleasure to watch.