Forget Her Name(17)

‘So?’

‘So the snow globe is in there. I put it there myself. Bloody thing was leaking, but your mother wouldn’t hear of me throwing it out. So I wrapped it in a plastic bag.’

I glance into the chest again. It isn’t completely full. The soft toys and the stack of tatty annuals take up most of the room. But there are plenty of smaller items at the bottom. I bend over the chest and carefully move my sister’s possessions aside, one by one, searching right down to the wooden base.

There’s no plastic bag. No snow globe.

‘Well, it’s not there now.’

‘Impossible.’

I stand aside while my father bends too, searching the chest with mounting urgency. ‘Where the hell?’ He flings Rachel’s toys aside, practically emptying the contents onto the landing. ‘I don’t understand.’

I fold my arms across my chest. I want to stay calm. To be adult about this, as he had asked me to be. But my heart is beating fast, like I’ve been running, and there’s a familiar flush spreading over my cheeks.

He straightens at last, his face pale. ‘You’re right,’ he says heavily. ‘It’s not there anymore.’

‘So you were wrong,’ I say, unable to keep the hurt and anger out of my voice. ‘I wasn’t playing games.’

‘It would appear not.’

‘You could at least apologise for accusing me of lying.’

I wait for an apology.

My father says nothing, of course. He’s rigid, his brows drawn together.

‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter.

I slam the chest shut and glare round at him. I’m his only surviving child. Yet I might as well be a stranger, the amount of suspicion and uncertainty I can see in his face.

‘When are you going to start believing me for a change, Dad?’





Chapter Ten

There’s a fire engine skewed to a halt outside Gloucester Road tube station, and several police cars parked alongside it. There are no sirens, but flashing blue lights bounce eerily off glass all around the station. As I approach, I see that the entrance to the station has been cordoned off, the concourse empty except for one bearded police officer on the phone. A noticeboard has been dragged out into the street, where it’s flexing back and forth, in danger of being blown down by the wind. On it someone has written in black marker pen Station Closed Due To A Serious Incident, followed by two alternative stations within easy walking distance.

Wrapping my scarf tighter against the chill wind, I smile at the policeman, then start to trudge on towards the next station.

Inside, I’m still in turmoil. Dad denied having anything to do with that parcel. But should I believe him?

After all, by his own admission, he’s the one who cleared out Rachel’s room. He saw the snow globe, even noticed it was leaking. Perhaps he took the opportunity to play a nasty trick on me. But I know what Dominic would say if asked. What possible motivation could my father have for doing that?

Because he holds you responsible for Rachel’s death, an inner voice taunts me.

I cross the road, raising my chin.

No, I’m not going back there again. Back to my demons, to that dark place where taking my own life seemed like the only way out. That’s the person I was years ago. A ‘troubled teen’, the doctors called me, though in fact the black dog pursued me into my early twenties, too. But with therapy and medication, I managed to push beyond those horrors, and into the light again.

There’s no way I’m falling back into that negative way of seeing the world. Believing everyone is against me. That everyone in my life is lying to me.

There’s a man huddled in a shop doorway a few hundred feet from the tube station. Cardboard wedged beneath him, dog crouched at his side in the damp folds of a blanket. There’s a rough sign partly tucked under his feet as he tries to sleep, turned away from the bitter wind, his body hunched.

HELP, the sign says simply.

I stop beside the sign, and fumble in my bag for change. Shit, I think, and check my pockets, too. I don’t have anything besides coppers and a few banknotes.

The dog doesn’t move, but the man half turns under the blanket, gazing up at me expectantly. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark and liquid, and he’s wearing a woollen hat to keep out the cold.

‘Here,’ I say in the end, and hand him a five-pound note.

‘Bless you,’ he says hoarsely.



The flat is in total darkness when I push through the front door, armed with two bags of shopping from the late-opening supermarket on the next block.

It’s all quiet inside. Surprisingly cold, too.

‘Dom?’

I kick the door shut behind me and listen. Nothing. Maybe he’s going to be home later than expected. Sometimes the hospital asks him to work an extra hour or two if things get really hectic in Accident and Emergency.

‘Dom?’

But he’s not there.

I wander into the kitchen and stab at the light switch with my elbow. The place is a mess as usual. We need to spend some time tidying up if it’s going to look nice for this weekend, when we’ve invited friends over for drinks.

Dumping the shopping on the kitchen counter, I frown.

Why the hell is it so cold?

I strip off my gloves and coat, and check the prepayment meter, situated on the wall above the television. The catch is fiddly and I have to stand on a chair to reach the box. But there’s still a tenner to go before it runs out. Dominic is pretty good at remembering to keep it topped up.