by Farah Cook
‘Yes, I am thinking of moving further out with Mum. She likes to be close to nature.’
‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Me too. I got myself a little cottage out in the Highlands.’
‘Actually, I have someone interested in the house. A couple.’ I look at Mrs Nesbit.
‘We’ll miss having you around,’ she says. ‘Things will not be the same without you.’
‘Have you found anything?’ asks her son. ‘I can recommend some places—’
‘I’m looking at a small cottage in a rural area,’ I smile. ‘With an hour’s drive into town so I can see my son once in a while.’
‘He’s a handsome lad, like his daddy,’ says Mrs Nesbit. ‘Smart, too, I can tell.’
‘It was his idea to set up the charity,’ I say. ‘We’ve raised more than £90,000, which will go to people with dementia. It’s a small amount, but it’s a start. Shaf feels quite passionate about raising awareness. It’s given him a purpose, a way to deal with Mum’s condition.’
‘You have lots to be proud about,’ says Mrs Nesbit. ‘Shafi is a fine young lad.’
She gets up and gives me a hug, then leaves. The snowflakes melt into the silver of her hair, and her footprints fill with newly fallen snow. A car pulls up at the front of the house and a man brings me a bunch of flowers and a card. I open it and read:
Dearest Amira, I heard about the unfortunate event that struck your family and I am truly sorry once again for the loss you and your mother suffered. Give her my best regards.
Best wishes, Dr Abdullah.
He’s included a check for £10,000 to go towards our charity.
At night, I sit in the kitchen with Mano in my lap and hover the cursor over property sites. I have my eyes on a cottage by the sea. It’s small, with a garden, and is forty minutes’ drive into town. I can see myself living there with Mum. I can enrol on a long-distance learning programme with the university. Shafi is planning to study in London, so there’s no point in staying here. And he’s promised to keep in touch and call frequently.
The incident at the care home shocked him. He was by Mum’s side the entire time at the hospital, and even came home with us. It’s brought us all closer together while Haroon’s been busy with his newborn daughter. Three names I told him were out of the question: Mona, Zahra and Meena. He laughed. They called her Nayab. I can live with that.
It was hard explaining everything to the police. But I showed them Mona’s old diary. It turns out she was a very skilled con artist like Naima’s father. She made money providing people with fake identities. Faking and forging papers wasn’t an issue. She was a natural liar, an expert in pretending to be someone she wasn’t. That’s how she landed herself a job at Ravenswood Lodge and fooled us all. Mona may not have planned to die, but she did plan her own disappearance. She made everyone believe she was to the world and changed her identity multiple times.
Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise that Mum doesn’t remember what happened. She doesn’t watch the news and she stopped reading the newspaper. How can anyone live with the truth that your own daughter planned to murder you?
Mona went to great lengths to carry out her plans. She bought gallons of petrol to set fire to the care home. Mum and I made it out in time. By some miracle, I managed to find her again and carry her through the smoke and flames, then managed to jump out from a window. Mum was lucky – she landed in bushes covered in thick snow. She doesn’t remember anything, of course, and thought her recovery at the hospital wasn’t in a medical facility but that she was still at the care home. She kept telling me she wanted to go for a walk out to the sea. Kept talking about Zahra. It’s only a matter of time before she fully forgets about her.
I broke my leg, but it could have been much worse. I hesitated before jumping. I had a moment of fear as if I had been in a similar situation before. The fire spread violently, and then I took a leap of faith. I threw myself out of the window and landed on the ground. I heard the snap of a bone breaking. The colour of red turned dark, almost black against the snow. I pulled away and dragged Mum with me.
I saw the whole house burn to ashes as it came crashing down. There was no sign of Mona. She had turned to dust. Sometimes, at night, I still think I see her shadow standing in the distance and watching me.
The wind slips through the window and the kitchen door creaks. Mano meows and arches his spine. His eyes are wide, glaring firmly at the door. No one is there, I tell him. For a brief moment, I feel chills run down my neck. The hair on my arms rise prickling my skin. We are alone. I pat Mano’s soft fur. It’s just the three of us. You, me and Mum.
Chapter 45
AFRAH
Tuesday, 10 March 2020
The sun is hiding behind the clouds, leaving a red glow across the mauve sky. Feathered wings spread and make a flapping sound. The birds of spring caw loudly as the day turns a shade darker. Sitting in my wheelchair, I let my hands rest on its flat arms. I find comfort and solace in the garden, smelling the sweetness of the daffodils in bloom.
‘Ami, I’m going to tilt this back for you so that you are comfortable.’ The girl raises my foot rest and my body leans back. She puts a blanket over my legs. ‘There, you can take a nap in the sun, isn’t that nice?’ Light begins to stream out from behind the clouds. The sun is tired of shying away from me now, and it comes out to kiss my prickly skin.
‘I don’t want to nap,’ I say. ‘I want to go for a walk down the beach.’
‘How about we do that tomorrow?’ she says.
‘Please, can you take me now?’
‘Just a brief walk then.’ She pushes the wheelchair out onto the pavement. A woman across the road stares at us and nods.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Nesbit,’ says the girl pushing my wheelchair.
‘Good afternoon, Amira. Good afternoon, Afrah.’ She smiles but I don’t know her.
‘Who is she?’ I ask. ‘How does she know my name?’
The girl doesn’t answer. And I forget what I had just asked.
On our way, we pass a couple with two large dogs, and a little boy on his red tricycle. His mother shouts, ‘Not too fast, sweetheart.’ Somewhere in the distance, church bells chime. I peer over to one of the neighbouring houses, red bricks and black roof.
The girl stops to buy two coned ice creams and a bag of cherries, which she places on my lap. ‘Try, delicious.’ She gives me the ice cream. Cold and sweet against my tongue.
Rays of dimming sunlight gleam through the trees as we get closer to ocean air. I longed to see it, and out here the water is beautiful, a vast cerulean shoreline. Cawing seagulls flap their wings, and steal leftover food from the beach. Smaller birds crush seashells between their claws. Others crowd the pier, the wind sweeping away their songs. I bend and collect some of the broken seashell. Grains of sand sift through my fingers as I close them tight into my fist.
We walk slowly along the beach, my hand in hers. We sit on the bench close to the dock, looking out towards the endless water where boats are drifting. She puts her arm around my shoulder and holds me tight. With her other hand, she brushes the windblown hair away from my face. She tells me that soon we’ll move into our new home which has sea views. A small cottage with a garden that’s also a short walk to the woods.
‘That’s nice my dear,’ I tell her.
‘I love you, Ami,’ she says, and kisses my hand. Two gold bracelets slip down my wrist. She is wearing the exact same pair around her arms. Must be a trend, I think.
I smile and look at her. The sun is glowing on her skin. I ask her who she is, but she doesn’t answer. She just smiles and tells me that soon we will go on a trip to Glasgow to visit my husband’s grave. ‘Isn’t that nice?’
I nod and lean my head against her shoulder and close my eyes. She takes the blanket and covers my legs. With her, I feel safe, I feel cared for. We sit a while on the bench together and watch the burning sun sink into the deep blue sea. Then she says, ‘Let’s go Ami, let’s go home.’
Acknow
ledgements
Deepest thanks to Noor Sufi for her trust and support. Without her this book wouldn’t have been possible. I am also immensely grateful to my editor Sara Adams. Her advice and positive energy has been invaluable. Thanks to the fantastic team at Hodder and for their creativity in designing the book cover. I am also eternally grateful to my copy-editor Christina Webb who has a keen eye and knows how to be judicious. I am indebted to my lovely agent Hannah Weatherill for her guidance and support. Thanks for believing in me and for sending your happy vibes my way.
I will always be grateful to my dear friend, Sally Long, for sharing her knowledge on dementia with me. Her emotional insights made me understand what it’s like to place your mum in a care home. And my talented friend, the writer Lindsey McGhee who never stopped believing in me since we first met at the University of Surrey during our creative writing course. She believed in me yesterday, today and tomorrow. Thanks for being a true friend. And for always, always reading all my drafts. A deep thanks to Lubna Abbas for sharing her experience as carer with me. Her insights into the Pakistani community and what it means to care for your own mother who has dementia was tremendously helpful.
I want to thank my loving mother, my oldest friend and mentor for listening to me, for praying for me; my sister and best friend for her spiritual love and guidance; my beautiful family for empowering me, for teaching me how to be strong and to be myself; my lovely aunt for sharing her experiences as head of SubCo Trust, a charity that addresses the unmet needs of vulnerable Asian elders in London. Every day, she does a remarkable job helping the Asian community, in particular those who suffer from dementia, memory loss, diabetes and stroke.
Last, I don’t know how to thank my wonderful husband for his kind and loving support during hard times. I am grateful that he was there to look after the boys while I worked day and night. My gratitude goes especially for his patience, understanding and eternal encouragement and belief in me.
About the Author
Farah Cook is a Danish writer of Pakistani descent. She grew up in Copenhagen with a creative and explorative childhood spent mostly outdoors. At the age of twelve, she began writing several short stories to fuel her passion for storytelling. Later, Farah graduated with a BA in social science from Sweden, an MA in arts from London and an MA in creative writing from the University of Surrey. Farah has lived in many countries, including Germany and New Zealand, but settled in London where she worked as a marketing manager for a large financial conglomerate. Her passion for storytelling remained, and at night she started to write all the things she’d imagine.
An alumna of the Faber Academy in London, Farah now lives in Bad Homburg, just outside Frankfurt, with her husband and two sons. She speaks six languages fluently including Danish, Swedish and German, and writes full-time.
