Forget Her Name(66)

Very deliberately, I slow my breathing, then tip the urn up again.

It’s not empty yet.

‘I think that’s enough,’ Dad says urgently, and steps forward as though to take the urn away from me.

Suddenly Dominic is next to me, steadying my trembling hands with his own, his hip brushing mine. Like we’re two halves of the same person.

‘No,’ Dominic says, looking straight at my father, ‘let her finish. It was never going to be easy. But this is important. It’s a laying-to-rest. She can’t stop now.’

I don’t think I’ve ever loved him as much as at this moment.

With Dominic beside me, I turn and scatter the last soft ashes across the trunk and base of the magnolia tree. I try not to think too much about what I’m doing, about the terrible significance of the act. But of course there’s no escaping the truth. Deep down, this is an exorcism. It’s an emotional and spiritual banishment of the big sister I feared so much, the sister whose death I’ve always secretly doubted. The ash proves to me that her life ended, and everyone here knows it.

I’ve been waiting for this for so long, now that I’m here at last it feels as if a silent earthquake is taking place inside me. An upheaval so total and overwhelming, the shock waves have only just begun . . .

‘Goodbye,’ I say under my breath. ‘Goodbye, Rachel.’





Chapter Thirty-Nine

Dominic has left for his night shift at the hospital. My parents and Jasmine have disappeared next door to old Mr and Mrs Bishop’s house for Christmas drinks. I leave it a good ten minutes to make sure nobody’s coming back, then head straight upstairs to Dad’s bedroom.

The door is locked.

I rattle the handle, annoyed and more than a little taken aback. Dad almost never locks his door. Did he guess what I was planning? Why is he trying to stop me?

A locked door won’t stop me for long. I know there’s a spare key in Mum’s room. It’s in a small box on the mantelpiece in case of emergencies, and her room is never locked.

It takes me all of two minutes to find the spare key, unlock Dad’s bedroom door and slip inside.

The spacious bedroom is dark and gloomy. The curtains are drawn to keep in the heat, but there’s a small gap in the middle. I don’t want to put on the light in case he happens to look out from our neighbour’s house and see it. It’s unlikely. But if the locked door is an indication that he knows I’m after the notebook, it’s better to be safe and do this in darkness.

Slowly, I creep across the carpet until I reach his bedside table, which is covered in books and papers.

I check under the papers first. Then among the pile of books.

The notebook isn’t there.

‘Shit.’

My hands curl into fists at my side, my heart thumping loudly. Where the hell has my father put it? I’m even more convinced now that he guessed my intention and has hidden it somewhere.

But why is it such a big bloody secret?

From what I saw of the notebook in the cellar, it’s a record of Rachel’s ‘problems’ – whatever they were – and was written by my dad. Some kind of informal diary of her treatment. Which makes it all the more interesting to me, since I know so little about what was actually wrong with my sister.

As I stand there, staring in frustration at the empty space where I last saw the notebook, I catch a soft click somewhere in the quiet house. Like a door being closed, or a floorboard easing under the pressure of a foot.

I turn my head, holding my breath in apprehension. The door to Dad’s room is partially open, the landing outside brightly lit . . .

I can’t be caught in here.

Have my parents come back early from the neighbours’ drinks party? Maybe they’ve forgotten something. Or have come back to pressurise me into going along too, not wanting to leave me alone in the house. Jasmine tried to persuade me to go with them, promising it would be more fun than it sounded, especially with her there. My mother was insistent, too. I was forced to lie. I told them I had a headache and was going to sit quietly and watch television.

I didn’t like lying to Mum, especially after she was so loving towards me earlier, sitting with me on the sofa for an hour when I finished scattering Rachel’s ashes. But I needed a chance to look for the notebook undisturbed.

There’s that click again.

I wait, listening hard. But I hear nothing more. It could have been the boiler coming on or turning off. That’s the likeliest explanation. Yet I remain unmoving.

It’s ridiculous, but despite the silence that’s settled over the big house now, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m not alone. That someone else is here with me.

I tiptoe back towards the doorway, grimacing at every creak of the floor.

That’s when I see the notebook.

Dad’s tweed jacket is hanging on the back of the door, and there’s a black notebook sticking out of the pocket. It looks exactly like the one I’ve been looking for.

There’s no time to feel triumphant, but it’s hard not to be excited. My heart thuds as I pull the notebook out of the pocket, and flick through it quickly, just to check it’s what I came for.

It’s the same book, I’m sure of it. That’s my dad’s handwriting. The same endless lists of symptoms and treatment schedules. The name ‘Rachel’ leaps out at me again. And my own name too, here and there, scattered through the pages.