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

by Lucy Dawson

  Not really, no – but I can’t refuse, and trudge upstairs after him as he disappears off. He’s waiting delightedly in the room having painted the three walls either side of the cherry tree a primrose yellow.

  ‘Marvellous what a lick of paint can do, eh?’ He looks around the room, pleased. ‘One wall still needs a second coat – but I’ll do that in the morning. I’m going to come back tonight after supper to put the first one on your room. No, I insist. It won’t be done in time otherwise. Ah – something else,’ he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bunch of keys, ‘your chap left these with me. All of the new locks are fitted. There are two of each key for the front and back door and the inner door to the small sitting room. He’s also put a second lock on the one out here.’

  We walk into the hall and he points to the large new bolt on the door leading to the three-storey section. Our own, personal, Fort Knox.

  ‘You’re all set.’ He holds out the keys and drops them into my hand. ‘That was a job well done, Claire. You’re getting there!’

  ‘Thank you.’ I force a smile. ‘And thank you for your help too. Do you think I could ask you to do one last thing and take this lock off when you get five seconds?’ I point at the old-fashioned, black, turn-key mechanism on Rosie’s door. ‘I know I can just take the key away so Rosie can’t lock herself in – or out – but I’d rather the whole thing just came off completely.’ I want to add how bizarre I think it is to have it there in the first place, but then I suppose Isobel is a grown woman – in body at least – and entitled to privacy. Anyway, I have no desire to discuss Eve Parkes with Tony, after what Tim told me yesterday.

  ‘Of course,’ he says easily. ‘I’ll bring the tools with me tomorrow.’

  ‘Lovely. I’ll wait for you downstairs.’

  I wash up the mugs in the kitchen staring unseeingly out of the window into the small, dark courtyard, because I’m actually focusing on my own reflection in the glass – hair scraped back, make-up worn off, up to my elbows in suds. Isobel briefly appears in the glass instead, smiling beatifically as she did at Rosie earlier, before I firmly push the picture away, pull my hands from the water and dry them off on a damp tea towel which I hang over the Aga – no, Rayburn, I correct myself – which seems to be finally working and is hot.

  Thank goodness for Tony. I lean back on it for a moment and close my eyes, feeling the welcome warmth spread through the tired, aching muscles of my lower back. I groan suddenly, realising that’s probably in part why I’ve been so out of sorts. I’m due on any day. That explains a lot – and is also all I need. The older I get the worse they become. Men just have no idea, the bastards.

  I look around the kitchen and feel completely exhausted at the thought of having to unpack so many boxes. Perhaps I’ll just burn them all instead – that would be considerably easier. I wander back through to the sitting room to see if Tony is ready.

  I can hear him still pottering around upstairs, so flop down onto one of our sofas for a minute and stare up at the beams, watching a small spider creep along and disappear into a hole. I’d like to disappear like that. So now I’m jealous of a spider… but as I peer more closely, I realise that among the grooves, missing chunks, knots and frankly worrying worm holes – the survey would have picked that up surely? – someone has scratched elaborate stars into the beam. That must have taken quite some effort. Several of them are five-pointed, some six – and there’s one… I squint… eye? How odd.

  Before I can think about them any further, there is a sudden hammering at the front door, so insistent, I exclaim aloud ‘All right!’ in amazement, and get to my feet.

  Before opening my shiny new Yale lock, I flick on the outside light – to reveal a furious Eve Parkes staring back at me, eye pressed right up to the glass panel as she stands on the doorstep with Isobel a little way behind her. My heart sinks as I open the front door. It swings easily – someone has already fixed the hanging too – and I jump back as Eve literally falls in through the doorway, having put her shoulder to it through habit, expecting it to stick… determined as she is, to come in.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I gasp as she sprawls on the floor in front of me, while I reach out to try and pull her to her feet. Isobel just stands there, hands over her mouth, and I realise Adam is present too, dressed in paint-splattered clothes, doors to his van open and a folded-down easel on the ground. He’s obviously packing up for the night. He dashes forward to help Eve as Isobel starts to chuckle, watching her mother drag herself to her knees. It turns into the peal of uncontrollable laughter of a child being tickled; the sound that adults worldwide can’t help but smile at. I stare at her in disbelief, it’s so incongruous; but then I realise she’s shocked – this reaction is just a reflex – and I remember someone telling me that’s why you mustn’t tickle a child too much, even though the sound is addictive, because they can’t control their laughter… it doesn’t mean they’re enjoying what you’re doing to them.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ Eve waves my hand of assistance away from her undignified position on all fours.

  She is practically crying as Adam begins to help her up, but I’m pretty sure they are angry, frustrated, humiliated tears. I cried like that when I told my then-boss that a man called Harry Asquith had pulled me behind the marquee, pushed me down to my knees like Eve is now – but on the soft, summer grass – then shoved his hand up my skirt… before we both heard Tim tipsily calling me as he staggered back from the loo and Harry vanished. The boss told me it was ‘just what happens’ when guests at weddings get a bit drunk and letchy with the waiting staff.

  Not for the first time, I wish I’d told Tim instead. Then maybe none of us would be standing here right now.

  Eve staggers to her feet, leaning on Adam, her face bright red either with rage or the effort of getting up.

  ‘You!’ she exclaims, pointing at me wildly. ‘How dare you – how dare you do what you did today? You and your wretched mother-in-law sought my daughter out at her place of work to insult, intimidate and assault her? I don’t put anything past Susannah – but you? What kind of woman are you?’

  ‘Eve!’ I blanche. ‘Of course we didn’t! It was nothing like that.’ I glance at the house over the road. Her accusations are carrying clearly on the still night air and it’s a matter of seconds before a curtain begins to twitch. Immediately mindful of Susannah’s earlier warning, I hold out a hand. ‘Look, come in, please – I don’t want to do this on the doorstep.’ I open the sitting room door, and Eve blasts into the room, followed reluctantly by Adam and then Isobel, who is looking past me curiously. She’s come alive and is visibly excited. It takes a moment for me to realise she’s waiting for Tim to appear.

  ‘Isobel has told me everything,’ Eve says, turning to face me. ‘She was in tears when she came home. Her employer called and confirmed her version of events. I’ll say it again – what kind of woman are you?’

  ‘I’m really not sure this is helpful,’ Adam says worriedly, watching Isobel. ‘Let’s not do this.’

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding, I think,’ I start to try and explain myself. ‘I didn’t know where Rosie was and I found Isobel holding her hand and whispering to her. After Isobel appeared in here last night out of nowhere, I thought she had maybe followed us into the shop. I had no idea she worked there. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I accept I might have overreacted.’

  Eve stares at me silently, then swings to point at Isobel. ‘So tell her – not me. She’s right there. She can hear you.’

  That throws me, which is probably the point, but obediently, I turn to face Isobel. ‘I apologise for frightening you, Isobel.’

  She looks away uncomfortably, wringing her hands, her delicate wrists twisting awkwardly as she mutters something inaudible.

  ‘What’s that, Isobel?’ says Eve, irritably, in a teacher’s voice. ‘You’re going to need to speak up if anyone is to hear you.’

  ‘I said, it’s OK – you were only being a good mother.’ The words
tumble from her mouth in a silvery twist. She darts a glance and a flash of a nervous smile at me, before looking worriedly back at Eve. ‘Can we go home please, Mummy? I didn’t want any of this. It was only because Mrs Hughes phoned and told you. I wouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t want to make trouble.’

  The poor girl is utterly caught between us, and in spite of everything, I feel sorry for her. I instinctively liked Eve so much, but this woman who accused me of deception yesterday and verbal assault tonight is vile. I think about what Susannah told me: the way Eve treats her daughter… and the lock on what was Isobel’s bedroom door… then I notice the bruises on Eve’s wrists. Was Isobel forced to restrain her mother? What was Eve trying to do to her? I breathe in sharply and step away. I shouldn’t have invited them in. This isn’t a situation I want to be involved in. I want them all to go, immediately.

  ‘Eve, we need to take Izzie home now,’ Adam says firmly, and I can see he’s right, Isobel is becoming visibly agitated.

  ‘You stay away from my daughter,’ Eve delivers her parting shot, stepping closer to me and pointing a warning finger in my face. ‘The Vaughan men really must have done something evil in a former life to deserve the pair of you! “What a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive.”’

  It’s the sheer hypocrisy of that last dig, on top of the day as a whole, that finally causes me to snap.

  ‘I am no liar!’ For a moment all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing as my courage gathers. ‘I apologise sincerely for what happened this afternoon, but you’re in no position to lecture me in my own house about deception. I get that all of this is pulling the skin of old wounds apart for a lot of people, but it’s opened my eyes too. What kind of woman are you?’

  Eve’s mouth falls open.

  That’s right, Eve – I know all about you. An affair with your friend’s husband… a special place in hell.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ she splutters a moment later.

  ‘Stop, both of you,’ Isobel says suddenly. ‘She’s a good mother too.’ She gestures towards Eve and then shakes her head. ‘This is all wrong. Something has gone very wrong. I can feel it.’ She looks around her wildly for a second before laughing again, except this time there is nothing endearing about the sound at all. ‘I don’t like this,’ she whispers. ‘Something isn’t right.’ She places her hands on the side of her head and closes her eyes tightly. ‘Adam?’ she pleads. ‘I need to leave!’

  He springs towards her and puts his arms round her waist. ‘I’m here! I’ve got you – you’re safe. We need to get her out, Eve, now!’

  He’s trying to drag Isobel backwards when her eyes suddenly snap open and her face goes first blank with shock, then contorts into a violent scream of absolute fury. I have never seen anything like it. She breaks away from Adam’s hold and standing freely on her own two feet appears to grow taller and taller in front of my very eyes; white-hot with rage. I cover my ears in horror as the dreadful high pitch of her shrieking continues. I half expect the windows to implode, sending darts of glass flying into our faces and hands – but then the sound simply cuts off with no warning.

  ‘Get out of here,’ she says, after a moment’s pause, but her voice is completely different: low and adult.

  It’s like a scene from a horror movie when a possessed child opens their mouth and the demon’s voice coming from within their body is heard for the first time, except this is real.

  I stumble back as she points in my direction. ‘Get out!’ she shouts again. She’s talking to me.

  Adam has backed off too, hands up – as if afraid of being burnt.

  She stands there for a moment, towering and furious before suddenly sinking to the ground, crumpling into a small heap on my sitting room floor and sobbing like she’s melting away. Is she even conscious? Eve gives a strange little cry and rushes over to her daughter.

  ‘We should call the crisis team.’ She looks up at Adam in panic, no hint of the angry, forceful woman from a moment ago, just a terrified mother who doesn’t know what to do.

  ‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘Not after last time. I told you, we shouldn’t have come.’ He rolls up his jumper sleeves to reveal wiry arms covered with intricate tattoos – he has no bare skin at all – right down to the wrists. I watch in disbelief as, despite his slight frame, he lifts Isobel’s lifeless body from the floor with almost no effort, gathering her in his arms and carrying her from the room in some bizarre reverse version of a husband carrying his wife over the threshold.

  The room falls silent as the three of them vanish. I am stunned and can only stare at the spot where they were all stood moments ago.

  ‘And thus the circus left town, packing up the big top and leaving under the cover of darkness,’ says a voice drily behind me. I whip round to see Tony standing on the stairs, looking down into the room, holding a paint tray containing a clean brush. He pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Did you see and hear all of that?’ I gasp.

  ‘I did,’ he agrees, shaking his head. ‘Dear, dear.’

  ‘Her voice when she shouted at me! It sounded like it belonged to a completely different person.’ I swallow and wobble back over to the sofa to sit down. My legs aren’t able to hold me up.

  ‘Ah, come now!’ Tony chides gently. ‘It was all just theatrical smoke and mirrors! Creative types like nothing better than a dramatic scene. They call it passion, the rest of us call it a complete breakdown of decorum. Don’t let it fool you. I can see what she was trying to achieve but I confess myself a little disappointed. The “strange local girl possessed by something evil” trick is somewhat of a cliché, don’t you think?’

  I glance at him. ‘You think she did that to scare me?’

  ‘Well I certainly don’t think anything “unworldly” took her over, that’s for sure.’ He hesitates and scratches his head. ‘I had a chap in the dock once who adopted no less than seven different voices – complete with accents – because his entire defence rested on him having multiple personality disorder, and he maintained his main personality was not guilty of the offence one of the others had committed. It was a masterful performance, but ultimately, a performance was all it was. So yes, I suppose either one could conclude Isobel Parkes has serious mental health issues or there was an ulterior motive behind that display. Certainly ignore what you heard her mother say about calling the crisis team. Isobel will be fine,’ he says firmly. ‘She’s always fine.’

  I’m aware of getting into very uncomfortable territory. ‘I know that Isobel historically has always had very strong feelings for Tim…’ I try and steer us away from Eve, ‘and obviously this was her house. It must be difficult for her to see me living here with him now. I can also see she’s not very well – but could I ask you something I asked Susannah? Do you think she’s dangerous?’

  He sighs, comes downstairs and sits next to me. ‘Over the years I’ve seen the effects of trauma on a huge range of people from all walks of life: witnesses, victims, professionals… and I’ve realised it’s impossible for some people not to manipulate the effects of said trauma to their own end. Subconsciously or consciously. I think Isobel Parkes has effectively played the part expected of her, when it has suited her, but I think it’s wise to be at least wary of her.’ He pauses while I digest that. ‘If I may offer you another piece of advice that applies here? “It’s a good rule in life never to apologise. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.”’

  ‘I’d guess who said that, but I’ve already got one quote wrong today,’ I manage eventually. ‘I take your point though.’

  ‘It’s P. G. Wodehouse.’ He rubs his jaw. ‘Another of his is: “Boyhood, like measles, is one of those complaints which a man should catch young and have done with, for when it comes in middle life it is apt to be serious”.’

  I snort sadly. ‘Yes, perhaps, could we not tell Tim about Isobel’s Carrie act? I’ll never get h
im back in this house otherwise. He already thinks it’s haunted. I’d rather just tell him the truth; they came over to have a go at me for shouting at her in a shop and I apologised. End of story.’

  ‘Of course. That’s exactly what happened, after all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully. ‘He really wants to make this work, and so do I.’

  ‘I know you do and I really think this could be the making of him. You’re very sensible not to let unnecessary distractions derail you.’ He nods at the door through which Isobel has just vanished. ‘Come on,’ he stands up, ‘they’ll be wondering where we are.’

  Seventeen

  Claire

  It seems Tim is feeling a little better once we get back to The Rectory. I decide to wait and tell him about my latest Eve Parkes showdown once Rosie is in bed. I don’t want him discussing it in front of her in case she gets upset again and thinks it was her fault when it wasn’t.

  Managing so many different agendas is exhausting and I’m glad to have Tim’s help with bathing Rosie and reading stories before snuggling her into bed. He does all of the different voices of the BFG, to her rapt delight, as I sit quietly at the end of the bed watching them. I used to love The BFG as a child; now as a parent I don’t particularly like it: a fast-running giant planting dreams or nightmares in your mind with a silver trumpet. I shiver involuntarily, but keep quiet, because Rosie is fascinated, snuggled in Tim’s arms. Part of the thrill is her daddy bringing it to life rather than the story itself and she’s right – he’s very good at it. Once he’s finished, I take over and sing her songs, before promising I’ll come and check on her in two minutes.

  When I appear in the kitchen, Susannah is wearing her apron and standing over the Aga, conjuring up one of her amazing meals out of nowhere. She’s an excellent cook and although I can’t smell whatever is in the pan, the sound of it sizzling and the sight of the laid table makes me immediately hungry.