Forget Her Name(50)

Someone who managed to entice me into the cellar by making those scared mewing noises, pretending to be a trapped cat. But whoever it was has gone now, and I’m alone in the pitch-black, my heartbeat loud in the silence.

I swallow down sickness at my own stupidity.

Groping along the wall, I make my way slowly, limping and hopping, back to the bottom of the stairs. My ankle is so bloody painful, I have to bite my lip to avoid crying out. Finally, my searching fingers touch something cold and flat and plastic.

The light switch.

I click it down and the bulb at the top of the stairs comes back on, light flooding the cellar again.

‘Kasia?’ I raise my voice. ‘Kasia, this isn’t funny.’

I wait, but the door at the top of the stairs remains firmly shut. Fury makes me almost hysterical.

‘You come back here right now!’

I’m crying, I realise, and wipe my face with the back of my hand.

Blood.





Chapter Thirty

I stare down at the blood in shock. A bright streak of red along my knuckles. I check gingerly, using only fingertips, and discover more blood. Thicker, darker red, trickling down my forehead from my hairline.

I must have cut my head when I fell down the stairs.

How bad is it?

I feel gently around the edge of the wound. It’s not a deep gash, thank goodness, but deep enough to be bleeding quite heavily. And I did give my head one hell of a whack against the wall, I remember now.

‘Kasia?’ I glare up at the shut door. ‘I’m not joking. Unlock the door.’

There’s no answer.

Perhaps she can’t hear me, I tell myself, and lean against the wall for a moment to take the weight off my ankle.

It has to be Kasia who tricked me, then turned off the light and ran away. I have no idea why she would do it, but she’s the only other person in the house.

A shiver runs through me, and not simply because the cellar is so cold. I feel sick and light-headed. My hands are shaking. It’s all too much. I thought it was fear at first, but this is a natural physical response to falling down stairs and hitting my head on the wall.

I’m not just bleeding, I could be concussed. And somebody has locked me in the cellar.

I don’t have a phone – it’s still in my bag, which is on Dad’s desk – so I can’t ring for help. I don’t know the exact time. But it must be early afternoon. If Kasia doesn’t come, I’ll have to wait for someone else. How long will Mum spend Christmas shopping? Is Dominic finishing at two or eight today? Sometimes he works extra hours when they’re shorthanded. Dad could return at any moment, but it’s rare for him to come back early once he’s made the effort to head into the office rather than working from home.

So this is a waiting game.

I’m shivering more violently now. A combination of shock and this cold atmosphere. Huddling on the bottom step while I wait for help is an appealing thought. But it’s also dangerously seductive. I can’t let myself sink into torpor, I decide, and limp back towards the filing cabinet instead. If Dominic was here, he would say I need to keep moving, keep awake, occupy my mind with something . . .

My father’s files, I think, picking one of the documents up to study it.

What was Kasia doing, messing about with them?

The top sheets are typewritten, full of impenetrable legalese and dense small print. Some look quite old. One dates back over ten years.

I begin stuffing them back into the manila folder, not really paying much attention to their content. Foreign Office documents, probably. Not top secret, I’m sure, but privileged information.

There’s a slim black notebook with the papers. Dusty now, from the floor. I pick it up, wipe it off and flick idly through its densely handwritten pages. Then stop, my chest suddenly ice-cold with dread.

A familiar name has caught my eye.

Rachel.

I scan the page. Some kind of report about a hospital stay, with personal observations. I don’t understand all of it. But no doubt Dominic will. There’s a drugs section, with names and abbreviations that mean nothing to me. And a list of symptoms at admission. Mania, aggressive behaviour, spitting, hearing voices . . .

Psychosis.

I hold the book up to the light and look through it properly, checking for more references to Rachel.

Most are meaningless to me, written in some kind of shorthand. Others are simple reports, of visits from doctors or further hospital admissions. A few contain detailed information about Rachel’s condition. Much of what is in the reports goes over my head, but it’s clear Rachel had some serious mental health issues.

No surprise there.

But what makes me suck in a breath is that two of the handwritten reports near the back of the book are dated after our skiing holiday in Switzerland. Not long after, but the following spring.

After Rachel’s death.

How is that possible?

There’s a noise from upstairs. Someone in the hallway, a deep male voice calling, ‘Hello? Anyone in?’

‘Down here,’ I shout. ‘In the cellar. I need help.’

Reluctantly shutting the black notebook, I push it into my waistband at the back of my jeans and cover it with my top. Then I hop as quickly as possible to the bottom of the stairs, grimacing at the spikes of pain shooting through my ankle. Though the throbbing in my head is beginning to match it as I stare up at the naked bulb. There’s a misty halo around the light that I can’t seem to shake by blinking.