The Memory: A Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Heart-Stopping Twist

by Lucy Dawson

  I arrive in front of him as Sam leaves. Harry eyes me warily, but I smile, throw my arms open and to his surprise force him into a hug, placing my lips at his ear.

  ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve,’ I whisper. ‘I want you to leave, now. You’re not welcome here.’ I draw back and twist to look over my shoulder at Tim who is watching us anxiously, before giving him a smile and wave that all is well.

  Harry doesn’t budge. ‘No can do, I’m afraid. I’ve come to wish my oldest friend bon voyage.’

  ‘“Friend”?’ I take a step closer to him again. I can almost taste the musky, expensive cologne I’ve no doubt he’s splashed all over his smooth skin to mask last night’s booze and garlic. ‘Friends don’t stand by and watch lives fall apart because of something they’ve done.’

  ‘If I still had the money, I’d give it to him, Claire.’

  ‘You’re a liar. You know what I think? You needed a big cash injection. You knew Charlie and Tim had funds and you tapped them up even though you understood the risks. That was the money I made from selling my dead parents’ house. My little girl is homeless because of you. You can really live with that? Honestly?’

  He looks me in the eye. ‘Homeless? Really? Seven bedrooms, I think I just heard Tim say? It must be terrible to be you.’

  ‘Not as bad as it is to be Charlie, that’s true,’ I fire back but Harry doesn’t react, because he is completely heartless. There’s just a big black hole where it ought to be. ‘Did Tim invite you here today?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ I can see he enjoys telling me that, positively revels in the discomfort this additional disloyalty makes me feel.

  ‘Right, well unless you’ve got my £250k tucked in your back pocket, I meant what I said. You can fuck off.’

  He snorts. ‘You’ve never liked me, have you, Claire?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ I look at him unflinching. It feels good to be telling the truth.

  ‘Well, you may not believe this, but Tim is pretty much the most important person in the world to me. I would never want to hurt him. I didn’t know this was going to happen.’

  ‘Important enough that you’d assault the girl he’d just met? Take all of his money? Force him to move back home? God knows how you must treat your enemies.’

  ‘“Assault”?’ Harry curls a lip in disgust. ‘Not that, still? It was a test! I wanted to see how serious you were about Tim, if I could trust you… if he could trust you – or if you were the sort of aggressive social climber who might just be chasing the biggest… inheritance,’ he adds nastily, ‘and might break his poor little fragile heart. The fact that you’re still going on about it all these years later says far more about you than me, I’m afraid.’ He takes a mouthful of Prosecco. ‘You’re not ever going to be my type though, dear, whatever mood I find myself in. I’m so sorry to disappoint.’

  ‘I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it.’

  He looks bored and straightens up. ‘Look, I don’t know if it’s because you’re that bit older or because of that chip on your shoulder – your inverse snobbery – but we can’t help that we’re better connected than you, that we’re more interesting than you. We are what we are and I’m sorry that you’re not part of the gang, but there it is.’ He sighs. ‘I can’t spend a lifetime apologising for you being a little bit – cheap.’ He pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Now, let’s talk of happier things! I’m so glad to hear Tim’s “long cherished dream” is coming true.’

  I pale. ‘Don’t, Harry. Don’t play that game. He doesn’t want anyone to know. You’ll make him look pathetic. Just have your drink and go. Let him have today, at least.’

  He looks suddenly angry. ‘I’ve told you, I would never intentionally hurt him. And while we’re being honest,’ he lowers his voice so nobody can tell we’re having a row, ‘let’s not pretend it doesn’t suit you perfectly to go along with this, so you can keep his balls in that jar on your bedside table. He’d have been every bit as successful as Sam, you know, if it wasn’t for you and your child holding him back.’

  ‘Our child,’ I correct, now trembling with anger. ‘His daughter. Who he loves, more than he’ll ever love you. If what you say is true, and you were any kind of friend to him, you’d do whatever it takes to get that money back to him. It’s because of you he’s being forced to give up on this dream of his. No one else.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! As if you thought he was going to make it anyway!’ snaps Harry. ‘He’s too old now, even you can see that, surely? You’ve had the best years of his life! What a waste!’

  ‘Claire,’ says a voice behind us and we look up to see Tim, standing right behind us. He’s obviously heard every word. ‘Mel wants you… and it’s becoming increasingly evident to everyone that you’re both having words. Please don’t. Not today.’ He goes to turn away.

  ‘Tim!’ Harry says, quickly. ‘Wait! You’re right – we’ll put a lid on it and behave. Let me buy you a leaving drink, at least. A proper one.’ He sets his flute down.

  ‘With Claire’s money?’ Tim asks.

  Harry flushes. ‘Touché. Crass of me, but I will get you the money back. I’ve promised you, haven’t I?’

  Tim nods silently.

  ‘Listen, what you heard us saying just then…’ Harry begins awkwardly.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me now,’ Tim cuts in, ‘I need to go and say goodbye to a few people. Enjoy your drink.’ He takes me by the hand and leads me away.

  Once we’re back in the throng, he turns to me in explanation. ‘I invited him because it would have looked weird if I hadn’t, like there was some sort of problem.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. People would have just assumed he was busy, that’s all – but I’m not going to argue with him any more, so please try and relax.’

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘Do you think Harry meant what he said?’

  ‘I would like to think so,’ I confess, ‘but I very much doubt we’ll see the money again. I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  ‘No, I mean about me being too old now.’

  I stare at him and I want to scream. I want to open my mouth and let the sound explode out of me. I picture it shattering the glasses, the windows, flaying the skin from his face leaving him featureless. Do you understand what Rosie and I are doing for you, Tim?

  ‘I still think I could have been a good professional shapeshifter.’ He smiles at me desperately, not having noticed at all. ‘Being paid to be someone else. Never mind.’

  I swallow and manage to say calmly: ‘Let’s talk some more when we get back to the flat. It’s not the right time now.’

  ‘No, you’re right. In fact I don’t want to talk about it any more. I want you to understand that I’m totally committed to making this work. I’m not going to lie, I’m struggling with the prospect of moving back home and working for Dad. It’s all messing with my mind. I don’t feel… quite myself. I’m pretty depressed, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, well you and me both,’ I can’t help saying. ‘I’m feeling downright shit about moving.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I have no right to bang on about anything. Hey listen, ignore me. I’m fine.’ He looks determined, takes my hand and kisses it. ‘It’s going to be fine. I love you.’

  I’m too tired to cook when we get home, so Tim goes to get the last takeaway from our favourite Indian because this time next week we shall be at his parents’ house in Shropshire. He’s just left when I pick up a text message from Mel.

  What’s going on? You looked sad this afternoon. If anything was wrong, you would tell me? This is all so sudden and random. Maybe it’s just me seeing something that isn’t there because I DON’T WANT YOU TO GO.

  I throw the phone back on the sofa and pad through the flat into Rosie’s bedroom, where she has brushed her teeth, is in her pyjamas and waiting for her story. I read her two chapters of one of The Worst Witch books while she plaits my hair in several eye-wincingly tight and tiny braids. ‘Ooh, thank you!’ I reach around and feel
my head once we’ve both finished. ‘They’re amazing!’

  ‘Look in the mirror!’ she insists, so I do – and see a tired, middle-aged woman staring back at me, who has mad sticking-out plaits, but not the strength for this. For quite a while, I’ve felt smug about not ageing as fast as some of my friends. Good genes, I’ve told myself, assuming that, were Mum and Dad still here, they’d look suitably Peter Pan-ish. People even occasionally mistake me for being younger than Tim, despite my being five years older (as a friend once said to me brightly ‘a toy boy, but not enough of an age gap to be creepy’). Instead, it all seems to have happened overnight. I don’t recognise myself. The skin on my forehead is no longer smooth, but papery and faintly lined, my eyelids are drooping… only my roots are freshly done – I held off on my appointment until the very last minute because I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to come back again once we’ve moved.

  Once we’ve moved…

  I turn back to Rosie. ‘Hop into bed, sweetheart.’ She snuggles down and looks up at me, clutching Dog. I sit down on the duvet and start to stroke her hair as she yawns. ‘It was a long day today, hey? Fun though, to see everyone!’

  She nods. ‘In the new house, if I don’t like the bedroom you think I will – the one with the tree on the wall,’ she sounds uncertain, as if she’s tried to imagine it and not succeeded, ‘can I choose another one?’

  ‘Of course you can! There are loads of others, or you can just sleep in with me until you’re used to the house and you’ve decided which one you would like.’

  She looks relieved, but then troubled again. ‘Won’t Daddy mind?’

  ‘No, he’ll be fine. He won’t mind sleeping in another room,’ I say firmly.

  She smiles happily.

  ‘There isn’t anything else you’re worried about?’ I stroke her head again.

  ‘No. I’m excited to go to Granny and Grandpa’s house, although it will be strange living there and not wishing we didn’t have to come home, because we will be home!’ She laughs. ‘Although I will miss my friends,’ her face clouds, ‘but I’ll make lots of new ones, too, I expect.’ She brightens again.

  ‘Of course you will.’ Then I hesitate and my heart thumps. ‘Sweetheart, I think Daddy’s actually going to go and live in a different house to us.’ I’m horrified to hear the words come out of my mouth before I know I’m going to say them.

  ‘What?’ she sits up in alarm. ‘Where?’

  I don’t stop – I actually carry on. ‘We might have to stay here and live with Aunty Jen so that Mummy can go to work and you can go to school here, and Daddy will go and live with Granny and Grandpa and build their house.’

  ‘No!’ she says and her eyes fill instantly with tears. ‘I don’t want him to! Please don’t, Mummy. No!’ She grabs my sleeve in wild panic. I have never seen her look so frightened. It’s obvious she hasn’t entirely processed the finality of what I mean, only that she knows whatever this is, it’s bad and she doesn’t want it to happen.

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s OK, Rosie, we won’t do that.’ What’s wrong with me? I’ve already made this decision, what am I doing, hurting her unnecessarily like this? I pull her safely into my arms. ‘We’ll all go together, OK? You’re right, that’d be a much better idea.’ I kiss the top of her head and hold her tightly. ‘I promise. It’s OK. We’ll all go together.’

  I’m supposed to be the one who makes her feel safe! I’m overwhelmed with nauseous guilt and appalled by the damage I’ve probably already done by making such stupid remarks. Enough now! I have no idea why I just did that. It’s a done deal.

  I will make this work. I’ve come through far worse than this.

  It’s not as if I don’t love him – I do – and we will be a happy family again, because I will do anything for my daughter. Whatever it takes.

  Eight

  Eve

  ‘Isobel, please. You have to come out now,’ I call outside the closed and locked bedroom door. ‘The men are going to be here any minute to put our furniture and things in the van. They need to take it to the new house.’ I wait and listen, but she doesn’t answer and for a wild moment I picture the fire brigade going in via the skylight and dragging her out, kicking and screaming, but that of course will not need to happen, I must calm down. ‘Please Izzie,’ I beg, almost crying. ‘I know this is hard, darling, and you don’t want to go, but we have to. Do you remember I told you about the new little girl who is coming to live here?’ My heart hardens as I picture Claire Waters and Timothy Vaughan standing in front of the apple tree watching their child swing backwards and forward, laughing happily as she goes higher and higher… In my mind she has golden hair. They have golden hair in all of the best fairy stories. Perfect little girls, perfect parents, perfect lives.

  ‘Rosie needs to be able to move her things into this room now, angel. You don’t need it any more, you know you don’t. You’ve got a lovely bedroom at the new house. Come out now, please?’

  I hear a creak on the stairs and turn to see Adam walking slowly up, to join me.

  ‘Still nothing?’ he whispers, and I shake my head wearily, before looking at my watch and trying to contain my panic.

  We are set to complete at half past twelve today, at which point the agent will be arriving to collect the keys from me, to hand to them. I do NOT want Izzie to be here when Claire and Timothy arrive. I want the chance to explain to her that it is Timothy that will be living here once we have finally left and she is unable to get back in again.

  ‘Izzie?’ I repeat.

  Adam sits down on the top stair and first rubs his eyes tiredly, then wipes his face – he always has a light sheen of oiliness across the bridge of his nose – before hugging his knees as we wait for a response, but the only sound is the rain lashing down on the skylight directly above my head. It is, of course, a filthy, cold day. Perfect for moving.

  ‘Isobel!’ I say eventually, my tone changing. ‘Come along. Enough is enough now.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Isobel Parkes!’ I shout suddenly, feeling my cheeks flush hotly. ‘You are to come out now!’

  And damn it, I think I hear her bloody well laugh.

  ‘You think this is funny?’ I lose my temper completely. ‘Fine, if you won’t come out – I’ll come in and get you. Only babies behave this way, Isobel, not big, grown-up girls.’ I shove my shoulder violently against the door and the hinges rattle, but the heavy, old-fashioned lock does not budge. The door will splinter around it sooner than it will open.

  ‘Do you really want this?’ I shout in warning. ‘You really want me to find another way in? Because I am taking you out of this room, come hell or high water!’

  ‘Eve! Stop – please.’ Adam comes up the last of the stairs and puts a calming hand on my arm, his fingernails are full of paint. ‘Let me sort it.’

  He squeezes his wiry frame past me with ease and knocks gently on the door. ‘Izzie? It’s me. You have to come out now. It’s time to go. I’ve packed my things up too. Come out and I’ll take you to breakfast.’ He looks at me quizzically, and I nod gratefully. ‘We could go into Shrewsbury and see a movie at The Old Market Hall if we leave now? It’s a good day for movies, all rainy. We could get a hot chocolate and a cake afterwards in the café bar?’

  I soften. That sounds like such a nice day to me. He is a good boy.

  Adam sits down on the floor, crosses his legs in his faded jeans, rolls the sleeves up on his enormous baggy, stripey jumper – I am not a natural knitter; I did not get the tension right in my stiches, it’s almost grown bigger every time I’ve seen him wear it – and gives me a thumbs up. ‘You go downstairs,’ he whispers to me. ‘I promise I’ve got this.’

  I nod and reach into my back pocket where I have three £10 notes. I was going to offer them as a tip to each of the moving men, but if he’s taking Izzie to the cinema, he’ll need money. I hold the notes out, but he shakes his head and smiles.

  ‘I’ll phone you,’ he mouths, making a handset shape wi
th his thumb and little finger.

  There is nothing else for it, but to do as I’m told.

  I return to the kitchen, wash up my cereal bowl, dry it and pack it in the crockery box and then do the same with the little fruit knife I use to chop her banana every morning. I jump slightly, neatly slicing the end of my thumb and making it bleed, as I hear the slam of the front door. Hastening into the sitting room, sucking my thumb to stem the flow, through the window I’m just in time to see the back end of Adam’s elderly transit van pulling off the forecourt. He’s not done it? Oh clever old chap!

  I hasten upstairs. The door to Izzie’s room is indeed unlocked and still swinging open. I tiptoe in, but she’s gone. I can feel it. I sigh with relief, but then look around at the clothes she has taken from her drawers and wardrobe; piling them in mountains on the floor. Toys are strewn across every surface. There are colouring pencils and drawing pads on the rug. Her music stand has shed loose scattered sheets and the tiny objects of crap she collects, are everywhere. Boxes and boxes of hairbands, clips, nail varnishes, shells, leaves, feathers, tiny dolls, misty marbles, pictures of Michael, sewing threads, buttons. My heart sinks at having to pack up this entire room before the removals men arrive, but it was the right thing to do. It’s better, surely, that she’s walked out this morning leaving her room exactly as it is – preserved in her memory – than having the distress of seeing it all dismantled and packed away, then left empty… bar her birds and tree on the wall.

  I glance at the door and, on autopilot, take the large iron key from the lock and return it, through habit, back to where it lives on the outside – but then I realise what that would instantly reveal to the Vaughans – and hastily put it inside the door again. When we first moved into Fox Cottage, this was Michael’s and my room. I kept it for some time after he died, until it seemed unfair, when Izzie had so many more belongings than me. All of which I must now pack.