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

by Lucy Dawson

  ‘OK,’ she says reluctantly. ‘Can I have a hot chocolate and a biscuit when we come back in, though? In front of the TV?’

  ‘Yup,’ I agree briskly. ‘Go and find your coat, it’s cold.’

  It’s actually more than cold as we pick our way through the long tufts of grass in the back garden. I have to return for an old spoon to chip frozen bird shit off the swing seat and the temperature has fallen away because of a wind chill that bites through to my very bones, but even though I huddle miserably over my tea, I still feel better for being out of that bloody house. I stare out over the fields through the gaps in the hedge as my hair whips about my face and I’m forced to peel strands of it from my mouth.

  Rosie valiantly attempts another swing, then shivering, turns to me and begs: ‘Can I go in now, please, Mummy?’

  I nod, feeling bad that I dragged her out in the first place as she legs it in relief back towards the house. I watch her running off and sink down onto the swing myself, looking around the forlorn garden; everything dead and cut back. A birdbox is half hanging off one of the tree trunks. Even the wildlife has had the sense to move out. I try to imagine how nice it will be in the summer, when it gets warmer. We’ve had glorious picnics at The Rectory before. I know it can happen here. I just have to hold on. I gently push back with my feet, still clutching my tea, about to let go as I come in line alongside the trunk of the tree, only to notice it has barbed wire embedded into it. The twists of metal have somehow sucked into the body of the tree, as over time it’s grown up and around the wire – both forced to coexist unhappily alongside the other. It’s pretty much the definition of bleak.

  I shudder, sip my now-almost cold tea and glance up at the flaking white picket fence and the wooden back gate – to see Isobel stood on the other side of it, completely motionless – just watching me.

  I scrabble to my feet, spilling some tea down my jeans. Her loose, red hair is lifting in a cloud around her on the wind. She’s wearing a full-length, black trench coat over a longer eccentric green velvet dress, which is just visible beneath the bottom of the gate. She has her hands in her pockets, and doesn’t say a thing, just holds my gaze unflinchingly. A robin flits past and lands on the grass by the compost, cocking his head on one side and trilling at us. The same one that sang on the day I looked round this garden with Isobel’s mother, when she still lived here and I had a happy life miles away? Isobel’s face breaks into a sweet smile at the sound and, to my amazement, she lifts a hand and blows me a kiss.

  My mouth falls open. How dare she taunt me like this? Furiously, I turn on the spot and walk off. I will not be provoked into another confrontation – but two steps more changes my mind. I want to ask her exactly what she thinks she’s playing at, hanging around outside? She does not live here any more! This is my house now! MY family!

  Except, she has vanished. I blink in astonishment. She was definitely, definitely there. I rush over to the gate and look up and down the road. There is no sign of her. Chucking what’s left of my tea over the lawn, I stride round to the French windows and pull them open, but Adam is not there either. The stacked paintings in their blankets are still leaning against the wall, and the rest of his belongs are lying around too. He’s clearly coming back, but has just as obviously popped out. I look through the front window to see that his van isn’t on the forecourt either. So he didn’t let Isobel in here then. She’s just – gone. I walk back out into the garden and look around again. There is no sign of her. The swing is moving gently in the wind, to and fro, but remains empty.

  ‘Can you eat just a little bit more, darling?’

  Rosie shakes her head and pushes her beans on toast away from her. ‘I don’t feel hungry.’

  ‘Well if you’re not hungry enough for beans on toast, you won’t be hungry enough for this either.’ I reach behind me for the plate on the side, which has the most enormous doughnut on it that I bought when I nipped to the shop for the beans.

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want it. Can I get down, please?’

  My eyes widen in surprise. ‘You don’t want a doughnut? Come here!’ I tease, holding out my arm. ‘Are you ill?’

  She comes round the table to lean on me, and heat radiates from her small body.

  ‘Actually, I think you might be.’ I place my hand on her forehead. ‘You’ve got a temperature. Poor bunny. You come and sit down while I get you some Calpol.’

  I lead her into the sitting room, then once she’s on the sofa, I jog upstairs to find the bottle and a clean plunger.

  ‘That’s come on quickly,’ I say sympathetically as she swallows the mouthful. ‘You were fine this morning. Does anything hurt?’

  ‘Just my tummy,’ she says unhappily and leans her flushed face down on one of the sofa cushions. It’s clear she doesn’t feel well at all. I get her settled in front of Moana with some water to sip, little and often, as well as a sick bowl, because I’ve learnt the hard way that it’s always a good idea to have one, just in case.

  I’m unpacking warily around her, thinking that today can’t really get much worse, when quite simply, it does.

  The front door goes. ‘Tim?’ I call. ‘Can you get that?’

  I wait, but there’s no response, just another knock, so swearing under my breath, because Rosie will undoubtedly be sick the second I leave the room, I head out into the hall, only to see through the glass panel that Harry Asquith is standing on my doorstep.

  I open it and don’t say anything – even though he’s standing in front of a Porsche and it’s as much as I can do not to snort in derision.

  ‘Hello.’ He gives me the ghost of a smile. It’s more of a brief twitch of either end of his mouth. ‘May I come in?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, you may not.’

  He opens his mouth, but unfortunately, Tim – who obviously did hear the door, but apparently just didn’t feel like answering it – appears behind me. ‘Harry?’ he says in astonishment. ‘I thought it was your voice! What on earth?’

  Harry takes a deep breath and reaches into his back pocket for a small, folded-up piece of paper, which he passes to Tim.

  Tim unfolds it and his mouth falls open. ‘This is a cheque for two hundred and fifty grand!’

  ‘It’s every penny of your original investment. I said I’d repay you, and now I have.’ He scratches his head and blinks in confusion. For a moment I wonder if he’s had a drink, but not even Harry would be stupid enough to drive pissed from London to Shropshire. He doesn’t look well though; his eyes are piggy slits sitting in uncooked pastry. Perhaps he’s hugely hungover.

  ‘I sold my house,’ he blurts, looking at me, as if I’ve just asked aloud where the money came from.

  I raise an eyebrow and look at Tim.

  ‘Come in,’ Tim steps to one side, ‘please.’

  Harry holds up a hand. ‘No. Claire’s right. I shouldn’t. I’ve got to get back to town tonight anyway. I’m supposed to be meeting someone.’ He rubs the back of his neck; he seems to be crawling within his own skin. ‘Although I’m not going to make that, I don’t think.’ He checks his watch and looks around him, although quite what for, isn’t clear; a magic portal back to London that is big enough to fit his ridiculous car and enormous ego into? That would be some black hole.

  ‘You’re driving back to London now?’ Tim says in disbelief. ‘But that’s crazy!’

  Harry laughs. ‘Yes, it is a bit, I suppose. I don’t know what I’m doing here to be honest with you. I can’t lie, I wasn’t going to give you this back.’ He motions at the cheque. ‘It wasn’t why I sold up and I still maintain it wasn’t my fault the business went under. I didn’t intend to use your money to bail anything out. It really was a straightforward opportunity that I wanted you to get in on. That said, if I hadn’t offered it to you, you wouldn’t have lost everything.’ He throws his hands up, helplessly. ‘Nothing is black and white, as they say.’

  I peer at him more closely. It’s freezing out here but he’s actually sweating. I can
see small beads of perspiration forming on his top lip and round his hairline. I’m almost certain it’s pure alcohol weeping from his pores rather than from any social embarrassment.

  Harry swallows. He’s gone very pale. ‘When you told me you’d got the part and you weren’t going to take it because of being here…’ He shakes his head. ‘I know how long you’ve wanted this and what it means to you. It’s not my fault, but I can’t be the reason it doesn’t work out for you. Take the money and go home. Tell your dad to get someone else to labour for him. You bloody have got a proper job and don’t let him or anyone else tell you otherwise.’ His voice trembles with emotion, and his eyes fill with tears as he suddenly leans over and hugs Tim tightly, kissing him quickly on the cheek. He stares at the cheque between Tim’s fingers and for a minute I think he’s going to snatch it back after all and rip it into tiny pieces, but he turns abruptly on the spot, marches back to the Porsche and folds himself back into it without so much as another word.

  He doesn’t look at either of us as he starts it up, staring blankly ahead as he roars off the forecourt in a spray of loose grit, leaving us staring after him in astonishment.

  ‘I’m not having this conversation until the money is actually in your account,’ I insist, sitting at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. ‘I don’t trust him at the best of times and that was just plain weird. Who drives all that way to hand over a cheque? He couldn’t just get your details and do a transfer like a normal person?’

  ‘Oh come on, Claire. It was about the gesture! Yes he’s a drama queen, but like he said, he didn’t have to do this. Would you give the money back, in his position?’

  ‘Yes! Of course I would!’

  ‘Really and honestly? You can say that hand on heart?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ I insist. ‘And while we’re on the subject of ethics, if this money does credit back, you’re telling me you’re prepared to simply walk away from this house that your dad bought us, leaving him completely in the lurch, despite promising to do it up with him?’

  ‘Well, like Harry said, we can pay someone to take over my role,’ Tim says eagerly. He’s like a different person all of a sudden. This lifeline seems to have completely re-energised him. ‘I’m hardly a skilled labourer, am I?’ he reasons. ‘Maybe I should ring Jan back and see if they’ve offered the part to someone else yet? I suppose there’s a chance they haven’t? It was late on a Thursday night? She might not have even called them yet to say no.’ His eyes dance with excitement. ‘Imagine if it happened after all!’

  ‘Rosie is supposed to start at her new school on Monday,’ I remind him quietly.

  ‘We can find somewhere to rent back home and ask for her old place back, I’m sure. She’d be fine with that.’

  ‘They probably won’t have one any more. I imagine there’s a waiting list.’ I hold up a hand as he opens his mouth again. ‘I’m honestly not prepared to talk about any of this until I see proof that the money is in your account, and I really don’t think we should mention this to your parents yet either.’

  ‘It’ll clear and we’ll be able to go home. We won’t have to spend another night in this horrible, spiteful house.’ He shudders.

  Spiteful? What’s he talking about? It’s a bloody house, not a person. ‘Try not to get too excited. Just in case.’ I get to my feet. ‘I need to go and check on Rosie. She’s all I want to concentrate on right now.’

  At bedtime, Rosie’s temperature is still high, despite my tagging doses of Calpol and Nurofen. I put her to sleep in our bed so that I can keep an eye on her, and lie alongside her as she dozes fitfully, looking through my phone. The signal is so slow, however, I give up on Facebook and flick through my pictures instead, especially the ones I took of our leaving party. There’s a lovely one of me and Mel, although I can see Mel is trying not to cry. I close my eyes and try not to think about Harry rocking up like the cavalry and waving his cheque.

  I can’t pretend I wouldn’t give anything to go home and not have to live here for a year after all – and is it unkind of me to be so sceptical of him suddenly returning the money? Maybe he really doesn’t want to stand in the way of Tim’s dreams coming true… except this is real life – not an X Factor backstory.

  And how exactly are we supposed to tell Tony and Susannah? It’s a house. They bought a house for us. It’s not like returning a birthday gift I don’t much want and swapping it for something else on the sly. I don’t see how we can possibly leave them in the lurch – but most of all, MOST of all – what will this do to poor little Rosie? She won’t know if she’s coming or going. Literally. I look at her again, breathing faster than normal, her eyes fluttering under the lids as she sleeps lightly, her small body fighting whatever infection is trying to take hold. I can’t believe I made her go and sit on that freezing swing earlier. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I turn back to my phone and scroll through the rest of the pictures, right up to the latest, only to see one of me and Rosie asleep in her bedroom, taken last night at 23.03, apparently. Rosie is curled up sweetly like a hamster, I however am flat out on the airbed, arm draping off the side, mouth hanging attractively open. Thanks, Tim.

  I think about him for a minute more, ‘terrified’ one moment, skipping round the place excitedly the next, and start to feel crosser and crosser – finally slipping downstairs to find him in the sitting room where he’s half watching TV and half on his phone. He looks up as soon as I come in. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Hot as a dog. I’m going to keep her in with me. Can you sleep in her room tonight, please?’

  He blanches. ‘On my own?’

  ‘Oh my God, Tim!’ It’s all the excuse I need to let rip at him. ‘Please don’t start this again! The house has been blessed. You are very tired and very stressed out right now. You said it yourself: coming back here has raked up a lot of feelings from the past. But that’s all this is. You are a grown man.’ I pause and he looks down at the floor. ‘Your daughter is ill. If you really feel you can’t sleep in her room, you’ll have to sleep in with Rosie instead and come and find me if you need me, OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’d rather do that,’ he says quietly. ‘Thank you. I’ll go up to bed now so that she’s not on her own and you can get some rest. I know you’re tired too.’

  I’d expected a defensive attack, not an apology and wrong-footed; I’m not quite sure where to go next.

  ‘Good night then.’ He doesn’t look up from his phone.

  I realise suddenly I’m not sure when we stopped kissing each other good night. ‘OK. Good night. Thanks, by the way, for that lovely picture you took of me and Rosie last night.’ I attempt to inject some light-heartedness back into the conversation, and finish the day on a positive note. ‘I was practically dribbling.’

  He frowns in confusion. ‘Sorry, what now?’

  ‘The picture you took.’ I walk back over to him, unlock my phone, find the picture and show it to him.

  He stares at it, and looks up at me. ‘I didn’t take this.’

  I laugh, thinking he’s joking.

  ‘No, seriously, Claire. I didn’t take this.’ He sits up straighter and takes the phone from my hand, looking at it closely, becoming increasingly wide-eyed.

  ‘Well, someone’s holding that phone,’ I say. ‘It’s taken from the doorway. It’s not me, because I’m in it. Rosie’s flat out, so it must have been you.’

  ‘Now do you believe me about the figure I saw?’ Tim says, his voice trembling.

  I stare at him. ‘What? But you’re the only other person who knows my phone code!’

  ‘You don’t need to unlock someone’s phone to take a picture – you just press the home button and swipe up. I promise you, I didn’t take it. I was in the other bedroom.’

  ‘Well, this picture didn’t take itself, did it?’

  Tim shivers visibly and swallows. He looks like he’s about to pass out.

  ‘No, Tim! It didn’t!’ I insist. ‘This is completely ridiculous!’

 
‘I want to take Rosie up to Mum and Dad’s now,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I’m happy with her being here. We can all just stay there tonight.’

  ‘No, she’s ill.’ I put my foot down. ‘It’s not fair to wake her when she’s got a temperature and drag her out in the cold in the middle of the night. I know you don’t want to live in this house. I know you want us to leave. I get it – OK? You don’t have to do stuff like this.’ I hold the phone aloft.

  ‘It’s not me! I am not making this up!’ he insists. He looks haunted. It might just be his best performance yet.

  ‘Right – have it your way then. If you’re certain that you didn’t take this,’ I hold the phone up again, ‘it means someone else was in the house last night. That is the only possible explanation. Tonight, you will sleep in with Rosie and I will sleep in her bedroom, like we just arranged.’ I’m now adamant. ‘Everything seems to be specifically happening in that room, so if Isobel wants to put in another appearance tonight,’ I pause and wait for him to register what I’ve just said, ‘I’m going to be waiting for her.’

  Twenty-Two

  Eve

  ‘Darling, do you think I could lock your door tonight?’ I look down at Isobel lying in her bed. She’s exhausted, with shadows under her eyes so pronounced, the skin looks bruised.

  ‘No!’ She twists her head on the pillow in such alarm that I put a hand out to steady her, the other one holding onto the dirty washing under my arm.

  ‘All right, all right!’ I reassure her. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You promise?’ she says. ‘I’ve not had any panics or night terrors since we’ve moved in.’ She’s almost pleading.

  ‘That’s true actually,’ I admit. ‘You haven’t.’