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

by Lucy Dawson

  ‘The film was actually based on a true story, you know. A fourteen-year-old boy was introduced to a Ouija board by his aunt which then began the apparent chain of events: shaking beds, an aversion to religious artefacts, scratching behind the walls – that sort of thing.’

  I sincerely wish I hadn’t asked now. Tim looks terrified. Father Mathew notices too, as he rather hurriedly says: ‘but as I’ve already mentioned, this was back in the 1940s and now it’s believed the poor child was actually suffering from schizophrenia. Not so understood a condition as it is these days. My job now is to provide relief to unquiet souls.’ He looks Tim directly in the eye.

  Tim gives a small bark of laughter, catching his meaning straight away. ‘That sounds about right, don’t you think, Claire? Wouldn’t you describe me as an “unquiet soul”?’

  ‘I’d say you have genuine anxieties about this house,’ I reply carefully. ‘And I see no reason why a blessing from Father Mathew wouldn’t help relieve them.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible for a house to be evil?’ Tim blurts suddenly. He looks really distressed and I wish I hadn’t taken us off down this route. It wasn’t kind. The poor man is on the verge of tears again.

  I reach out and take his hand as Father Mathew says gently: ‘I certainly believe it’s possible for acts of evil to happen within a house, and I think, as Claire says, it’s perfectly reasonable to want to bless a house and celebrate a new beginning, in which that evil – or any evil – will play no further part. Some orthodox churches believe in demonic infestations – I think that’s what you mean by a house being evil, perhaps? Or are you talking about human ghosts? Spirits of dead people you might have known, that sort of thing?’

  Tim nods.

  ‘Well, we believe when a person dies there is an encounter with God. A merciful God who welcomes us into a place of peace and rest.’

  It’s my turn to shift uncomfortably. Is a theology lesson really necessary? I just want to get on with ticking the box so Tim feels better.

  ‘My God, who I believe to be your God too, doesn’t abandon his child to roam the Earth without him,’ Father Mathew says confidently.

  ‘There you go, Tim, no such things as ghosts,’ I say briskly. ‘What does the blessing you’re about to do actually involve, Father?’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve asked, Claire.’ He places his mug on a box next to him, temporarily acting as a coffee table. I look up to see Adam walking past the window to get something from the van, and distracted, miss the first part of what Father Mathew says. ‘… so it will be going from room to room with some holy water, saying prayers that you may well be familiar with. You’d be very welcome to join me, or I can perform it alone?’

  ‘Every single room?’ I say in disbelief. He’ll be here all day.

  Father Mathew looks at Tim carefully. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘May I join you, if that’s OK?’ Tim says.

  ‘Of course,’ Father Mathew says kindly. They both look at me.

  ‘I’ll get sorted down here if I may and come and find you en route, if that’s all right?’

  ‘We’ll start on the three-storey side, I think.’ Tim gets up bravely, although he’s actually shaking, which makes me change my mind.

  ‘You know what, I’ll come with you now and then leave you to it, once you’ve done a couple of rooms.’

  I take his hand and he grips mine in return so tightly, I almost wince.

  ‘So if we’re starting on the other side – as it were – we’ll need to go through here, Father Mathew.’ I point to the interconnecting door in the upstairs hall, right in front of the three of us, and start to fumble with the new, heavy bolt. Just as Tim steps forward to do it for me, I finally manage to throw it back and the door slowly swings open onto the bare, freezing landing. It’s like unsealing a tomb. I think we all feel the rush of dead air escape past us.

  Father Mathew steps forward and puts a reassuring hand on Tim’s arm. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

  We traipse up the steep staircase to the very top floor of the house and the front bedroom. I don’t even remember this one from the viewing. Did I see it? Despite the gloom of the low ceilinged and small windowed space, the thin curtains are open and a brave pale sunlight is fighting with sugared-violet walls. It’s so bare and bleak with the naked bulb hanging in the light socket, it’s not hard to imagine things going bump in the night up here. In fact, Tim immediately says: ‘Can you feel how cold it is?’ as Father Mathew steps in over the creaky boards.

  ‘It’s a little fresh,’ he agrees, ‘but then I see there’s no heating in these top rooms, and it’s a chill wind out there today.’ Holding aloft the silver ball on a wooden stick that he’s brought up with him, he flicks it around the room – I think I see some drops of water come out – and begins to quietly pray. Tim, next to me, seems to know the words and starts to join in, head bowed. I can’t help but catch my breath – but the lights don’t flicker, nothing implodes. It’s a bit of an anti-climax really.

  I wait respectfully until they’ve finished. Tim lifts his head and exhales heavily, I think with relief.

  ‘I’ll go and get on now, OK?’ I smile encouragingly. ‘Come and find me when you’re finished.’

  He nods. He already looks better. It’s amazing what blind faith can do. I give his hand another reassuring squeeze and head back off downstairs. I’m certain this is nothing more or less than him finding comfort in the familiar – if not necessarily pleasant – rituals of his childhood being repeated now, but I’m not going to say that. If it means he moves in here tonight and doesn’t fall apart, that’s fine by me.

  I head down a level, back through the door into the middle section of the house and into Rosie’s room. I better start here really, because God – there’s so much to do. I groan aloud as I look at the boxes and check my watch. Susannah and Tony are bringing Ro over at 3 p.m. I need to get cracking. At least the room looks brighter now Tony’s painted it. The cherry tree catches my eye, however; it looks different, as if the blossom has bloomed more fulsomely – which is ludicrous. I peer at it more closely, something is written – or more accurately painted – on the leaves in red:

  Get out

  My eyes dart to another leaf.

  Get out

  Get out, Get out, Get out… relentlessly, over and over again. I imagine the sound of the threat being whispered repeatedly, mimicking the soft swish of the leaves moving in a malicious breeze.

  Only it has been deliberately painted all over the beautiful tree, which is now ruined. You bitch, Isobel. I feel my chest tighten with fury. When the hell did she do this? Rosie will notice, of course she will. She doesn’t miss a trick – and what do I say to her then? How do I explain this to a child?

  My eyes suddenly fill with tears; the resolve that I’ve been managing to hold together starting to crack at the sheer unkindness of such an action. Rosie is a little girl, she’s no threat to anyone. She is bravely moving here, starting a new school on Monday. She does not deserve this.

  I hear Tim and Father Mathew come back downstairs on the other side of the house, which instantly creates another problem. They’ll be coming in here soon. Tim already thinks this tree is creepy – he’s going to think this is another sign. He’ll ask me how I think Isobel got in to do this last night when the locks have all been changed? And I don’t know the answer to that.

  She must have done it on Wednesday night and I just didn’t notice. Although, Tony and Tim were painting in here yesterday. Surely they would have seen it? I did tell them to ignore this wall though, and it’s meticulously and neatly on each leaf rather than daubed in obviously large red, dripping letters like graffiti. Isobel is certainly committed. I thought she liked Rosie – she seemed to, when she was holding her hand and whispering to her in the pet shop. Perhaps that was all an act too.

  I grit my teeth at that thought of her touching my daughter, threatening her like this. Right now I need a solution rather than an explanation. Isobel Parkes
will learn – just like the rest of us – that you can’t always get what you want; but more importantly, I need to get these words off the walls before Ro arrives.

  I hurry downstairs into the small sitting room, through the passageway and past the grain store room to the barn. Thank God – Adam is still in there. He turns at the sound of my footsteps.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’ I pant. ‘I need a favour.’

  Tim is understandably surprised to discover Adam carefully repainting the tree in Rosie’s room.

  ‘Hello!’ I say cheerfully. It’s no less weird than flicking a pastry brush of water around each and every room asking God to banish the darkness and let in the light, after all. ‘Adam is just touching this up for me; putting some personal little touches on for Rosie, which is very kind of him. Could you bless this room last, do you think, Father Mathew?’ I don’t move from the doorway, blocking both of their entry.

  ‘Of course,’ says Father Mathew.

  ‘And cheers, Adam!’ Tim calls quickly, over my shoulder. ‘That’s really decent of you.’

  ‘No problem, Tim, it’s a pleasure,’ he says, not turning round.

  They move on to the bathroom and I sigh with relief. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Adam speaks calmly, concentrating on what he’s doing. ‘It’s much easier to get rid of something like this than to put it on in the first place: just the sweep of a brush and no one will be any the wiser.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you.’ I feel a little uncomfortable about keeping this from Tim, but it’s definitely for the greater good.

  Adam hesitates. ‘I’m just sorry that it’s here at all.’

  I want to tell him what I really think – but Isobel is his girlfriend. It’s not his fault, but he’s still kindly helping me put it right. Instead, I settle on: ‘I hope she gets the help she needs,’ which is a lot more generous than I actually feel, before I go to find Father Mathew and Tim.

  ‘So maybe I’ll see you at Mass with your mother on Sunday?’ Father Mathew tries, as we reach the front door, once they’ve finished.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Tim replies enthusiastically, while I smile politely and refuse to make false promises. Father Mathew notices and says kindly: ‘we’re here when and if you’re ready.’ He hesitates. ‘You know, Claire, I do a lovely marriage celebration too.’

  I glance at Tim. Wow, he really has unburdened his soul. I open my mouth to say that while I’m grateful for Father Mathew’s help, I don’t actually believe in God. Not one who takes the lives of good people who are loved and needed, because if He’s that powerful, they could have been saved, surely? And if I don’t believe in God, it would be hypocritical to get married in a church. Tim, on the other hand, doesn’t see how any old person off the street can declare a couple married. Only a priest can do that. So here we are, ten years on, still at the impasse, still unmarried. Good luck with sorting that one out, Father M. There isn’t enough holy water in the world.

  But I keep my peace, deciding it can be a conversation for another day.

  ‘Can I ask you one last thing?’ says Tim. ‘Have you ever come across people advocating leaving objects around the house that absorb negative energy – a sort of spiritual lightning rod? What are your thoughts on that?’

  Father Mathew hesitates. ‘I have a small wooden crucifix next to my bed. Is that what you mean?’

  Tim hesitates. ‘I was thinking more about dolls?’

  ‘Dolls?’ Father Mathew looks confused. ‘Er – that represent saints, perhaps? Statues and figurines? That sort of thing? Well, I would see no harm in that. A statue of Our Lady could certainly provide a sense of calm and comfort.’

  There’s a pause before Tim says heartily: ‘That’s very helpful. Thank you.’

  Father Mathew smiles. ‘Well, I’ll be off then. God bless you.’

  ‘Should we have paid him?’ I ask as we watch him hurry to his little red car, presumably relieved to be heading to the Dicksons’ house for lunch.

  ‘No!’ says Tim, appalled by what’s obviously a ‘bad form’ suggestion. ‘I’ll make a donation on Sunday.’

  ‘You’ve not been to Mass in as long as I can remember. You’re really going to go?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know… but I feel much, much better about the house now.’ He smiles.

  ‘Good,’ I say carefully. ‘So what was all that about dolls that absorb energy?’

  Tim shrugs. ‘Just something I read about online. I got the wrong end of the stick, I think. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.’ He checks his watch. ‘Don’t we need to pull our finger out? Rosie’s going to be here soon. Talking of money though, I think we probably should pay Adam, shouldn’t we, for whatever it was he was doing in Rosie’s room?’

  It’s my turn to be horrified at the thought of Tim handing him a couple of tenners. ‘No! Don’t do that – he’ll be really embarrassed.’

  Tim frowns. ‘Looking at the state of his van I think he’d be glad of it?’

  ‘Well, I’d feel embarrassed. Please don’t,’ I beg. ‘It’d feel really condescending when I asked him for a favour.’

  Tim sighs. ‘Fine. I’ll nip out and get him a bottle of something instead then. Has he done a good job?’

  It’s quite hard to explain what Adam’s done, actually. Whatever I could say wouldn’t do the end result any justice. He has added a deep cherry pink blossom alongside Eve’s more delicate pale flowers, cleverly blotting out most of the leaves completely, and sweeping the brush cleanly over the ones that are left. Butterflies and two fluttering doves hold either end of a banner, which says ‘Rosie’ above the tree.

  ‘What do you think, Ro?’ I lift my hands away from her eyes, when she finally arrives to see it later on.

  She smiles, and looks around, shyly biting her lip, obviously delighted. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Pretty cool, hey?’ says Tim. ‘Daddy’s friend did this for you.’

  I know it’s petty, but I can’t help but feel annoyed that he’s making out he organised this. Maybe that’s not what he means. I’m probably just being touchy.

  ‘Tim, will you stay with Rosie just for a minute? I want to thank Adam before he disappears.’

  ‘Sure. Come on, Ro – let’s put some of these books away on the shelves.’ He points to a stacked pile, next to the wardrobe in the corner of the room, and picks up the first one. ‘You could decide which one I’m going to read you tonight, too.’

  I am being touchy. Tim is just trying to make everything OK. I need to hold onto that.

  I find Adam in the barn, crouched over a pile of brushes that he’s packing into a box. He turns to look over his shoulder as I appear in the room. ‘I’m sorry to disturb, I just wanted to say thank you. I have a very happy little girl upstairs looking at her very beautiful tree.’

  He smiles. ‘You’re welcome. I’m glad she likes it.’

  ‘I don’t even know how you did that so fast!’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s very rough and ready – but also much easier when you have no pressure and you’re doing something for fun, rather than knowing someone is going to critically pull apart the components of whatever you’ve created. I enjoyed it. Isobel never let me paint her anything on that tree, so I should be thanking Rosie, really. I got there eventually. Tell her to look for the lucky ladybirds. There are five of them hidden for her to find. Each one has a letter of her name on its back.’

  ‘That’s so lovely of you!’ I’m enchanted.

  He straightens up. ‘’Night, Claire. Have a good evening.’

  ‘You too. See you Monday, if not tomorrow? Adam,’ I say as he lifts up the box, to leave, and he turns back. ‘I also just wanted to say, that snippy comment I made about Eve earlier,’ I speak clearly and hold my head up, ‘it didn’t need to be said, and I apologise.’

  ‘It’s honestly OK. If I’m being truthful, I had words with her myself yesterday. Explaining to you why she’s the way she is has helped remind me that she struggles a lot and no one is perfect, so
I kind of owe you one. No one gets it right all the time. And she really has been good to me.’ He puts the box back down and crosses his arms. ‘I don’t really get on with my own folks. My dad’s not around and my mum thinks I should get a proper job. This,’ he gestures at his painting materials, ‘doesn’t make a lot of sense to her or my stepdad. Eve let me stay here countless times when things got really bad for me at home. She did the same for Tim too, when his parents chucked him out.’ He’s assuming I know what he’s talking about, and I don’t – in fact I’m astonished to hear Susannah told Tim to leave. What could he have possibly done to deserve that?

  ‘That was that summer when you all did the séance, wasn’t it?’ I hazard, carefully piecing together what Tim told me himself about his night in the ‘bubblegum’ room here.

  ‘Yeah. When Iz got plastered in their pool.’

  ‘Remind me what happened again?’ I try to sound casual, but I don’t fool him.

  He hesitates and looks sideways at me. ‘I don’t really want to gossip, Claire.’

  ‘Please tell me.’ I must sound desperate because he runs his fingers through his hair and exhales heavily.

  ‘We were just sunbathing and swimming, being teenagers. Tim was a bit over-excited, going on about how it was hardly ever hot enough to use it.’ He pauses. ‘His dad came down and gave us some beers and opened some wine for Izzie. Then Tim’s mum came home and went ballistic.’

  ‘“You’re all drunk!” she shouted. “Have you any idea how bloody dangerous that is? Get out of the water! Now! What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”

  ‘I climbed out instantly and so did Tim.

  ‘“You too.” She glared at Izzie, who was giggling behind her hand in the water as she swayed slightly, then sank slowly beneath the surface and blew bubbles which popped, before she re-emerged, flicking her long hair back and spraying an arc of water, which Mrs Vaughan had to dodge to avoid.