The Memory Game

Twenty-Eight

When I got up the next morning, after a night of lurching dreams, I felt so dizzy and sick that I had to hold onto the edge of the bed and breathe deeply for several seconds. In the long mirror facing me I saw an ageing and distraught figure with a chalky face and unwashed hair. I hadn’t eaten properly for days, and my mouth tasted of decay. A week before, I had kissed Caspar and felt my body come alive. This scrawny woman staring at me was a different person altogether, shuffling and sickly, belonging to dark corners.

The image of Alan’s stooped figure wouldn’t go away. I saw him; I saw him as clear as ever. I didn’t need Alex’s help any longer. The monster had come out of its hiding place, into the glare of day. I wouldn’t be able to push him back again. I remembered everything. I had witnessed a murder, a double murder, and now I witnessed it once again. I could watch myself watching. I took shallow, queasy breaths, and saw Alan standing over Natalie, triumphant and appalled.

I put on my dressing-gown, and went to the kitchen, where I ground coffee beans and made myself two pieces of toast. I smeared them with butter and marmalade, sat at the table and stared at them. After five minutes, I took a bite. Then another. It felt like grit. I chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed. Nausea hit me again, and beads of sweat broke out on my cold forehead. I rushed to the bathroom, where I was sick until my throat hurt and eyes stung.

I ran a bath and scrubbed myself. I brushed my teeth, but could still taste the vomit and the panic in my mouth. I lit a cigarette and filled my lungs with ash. Ashes to ashes.

I dressed in black jeans and a black polo-neck sweater. I brushed my hair back from my face. I sat on a chair in the kitchen and drank cooling brackish coffee, smoked another cigarette and stared out of the window at the rain which made the untended garden look grainy. It was nine o’clock and I had no idea how to get through the rest of the day. The rest of my life.

I rang Kim at work. She was busy with a patient, so I left a message to call. ‘As soon as possible. Please,’ I said. My voice was a croaky whisper. The receptionist probably thought that I was dying. Another cigarette. I heard the mail plop through the letter box onto the hall floor, but I didn’t move. My body was heavy and hollow. The phone rang.

‘Jane.’

I opened my mouth but I couldn’t speak.

‘Jane. It’s Kim, Jane, tell me what’s happening.’

‘Oh Go-o-o-od!’ Was that thin wail coming from me?

‘Jane, listen, I’m coming over. Don’t move. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. All right? Fifteen minutes. It’s going to be all right.’

‘I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you. Oh God. I can’t.’

‘Drink your tea, Jane.’

I sipped obediently and grimaced: it was milky and sweet, food for a baby.

‘Now, I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?’ I nodded.

‘Is it to do with Natalie?’

I nodded.

‘Do you think you know something about Natalie’s death?’

I nodded again.

‘Do you think you know who the murderer is?’

Nod.

‘Have you arrived at this through your therapy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen, Jane, will you tell me who you think murdered Natalie, but remember, telling doesn’t make it any truer.’

‘I – I – oh Christ, oh Jesus Christ, Kim, I can’t.’

‘You can. Is it one of your family?’

‘Of my extended family, yes.’

‘Tell me the name, Jane.’

I couldn’t say his name. I used a word that didn’t seem to fit him: ‘My father-in-law.’

My father-in-law. My father’s best friend. My sons’ grandfather. The man I had known all my life, and who, until a few weeks ago, I casually would have said that I loved. As I gasped it out to Kim, I could see his leering face.

‘He must have killed her because she was pregnant. Maybe he got her pregnant. He could have done. I can imagine it. Another thrill, and an act of revenge against Martha. Or somebody else made her pregnant and he found out about it. All the time I’ve been asking questions about Natalie, people kept talking about how, how peculiar she was: manipulative, calculating, private, charming, sexy, sexually hung-up. It all makes sense now.’

Bile rose from my stomach again and I rushed from the room, but I only had milky tea to bring up. When I came back, Kim was staring out of the window. She was frowning.

‘Jane,’ she said. ‘This is a huge thing you’re saying.’

‘I know,’ I gulped.

‘This is your family, Jane. Are you sure?’

‘I saw it as clearly as I’m seeing you now.’

‘So you’re saying that Alan Martello murdered his own daughter, perhaps having made her pregnant as well, and buried her outside his front door?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you told the police?’

‘No.’

‘What will you do?’

I stared at a magpie – one for sorrow – hopping across the soggy lawn.

‘Talk to somebody. Claud, probably. Whatever else, I owe him that.’

‘I think you do. And Jane, think this through. Don’t do anything yet, just think about it. Okay?’

‘Jane, it’s Caspar, when can we see each other? What are you doing tonight?’

‘Oh, I can’t, I mean it’s not convenient.’

‘All right, tomorrow maybe?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘All right.’ His voice shaded from warmth to polite hurt. ‘If you want to see me, call.’

‘I will. Caspar.’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. Goodbye.’

∗

‘You look dreadful, are you ill?’

Claud, back from work in a pale grey suit, stood at the door, his face stretched in concern. I knew I looked awful, I’d seen myself in the mirror before setting out and had been shocked by the pinched face that stared back at me. At the sight of Claud, a pain screwed between my eyes. I thought my knees would buckle.

‘Come in, come and sit down.’

He led me to the sofa – he wouldn’t be so friendly and tender after I’d told him. Oh no. I was the wrecker.

‘Tell me what’s the trouble.’

His doctor’s voice. At another time I would have been irritated by his professional calm. Now I admired it, and welcomed the distance it put between us. I took a deep breath.

‘Alan murdered Natalie.’

Horribly, the expression on Claud’s face would have been comical under almost any other circumstances. There was complete silence.

‘I saw him doing it. I tried to forget, and now I’ve remembered.’

‘What are you talking about? What do you mean you saw him?’

I gave him a summary of my therapy with Alex Dermot-Brown. I thought I would be sick again. Claud’s face swam in and out of focus. His fingers gripped my shoulder like a desperate claw.

‘You’re talking about my father. You’re saying my father murdered my sister. Who was the father of the baby, then?’

I shrugged.

‘Excuse me a minute.’

Claud got up and left the room. I heard the sound of running water, then he returned, drying his face on a small towel. He replaced his glasses and looked at me.

‘Is there any reason that I shouldn’t throw you out?’

‘I don’t know what to do, Claud.’

He stood there, gazing down at me. I didn’t want him to throw me out.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yes,’ I said in relief.

Claud poured us a tumbler of whisky each and he stood over me while I drank a good half of it. It scalded my throat, and burnt a passage through to my hollow stomach, where it took fire.

‘Are you all right?’

I nodded, gulped more whisky. Claud took my hand and I let him straighten my fingers and stroke them. He rubbed my bare ring finger.

‘Jane, I’m not happy with this therapy revelation. You’ve ended your marriage, your sons have left home, you discovered Natalie’s body – are you sure you’re not just in a turbulent state?’

‘You think I’m making it up?’

‘You’re talking about my father, Jane.’

‘Sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry sorry sorry. What can I do?’

‘Suddenly you’re running to me, Jane, and asking for advice?’

I stayed silent. He walked over to the window and stared out into the opaque darkness for fully five minutes, occasionally sipping his whisky. I remained entirely immobile. Trying not to make a sound. Finally he returned to his chair and sat himself opposite me.

‘You’ve got no evidence,’ he said.

‘I know what I saw, Claud.’

‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I’m going to be candid with you, Jane. I don’t believe that my father killed Natalie. But I’ll try to help you sort out this muddle that you’ve got yourself into. I have two reasons. I have my feelings for you, which you know about. And I want to stop a further disaster happening to the family. Which is what will happen, one way or another, if you go around making accusations like this. If we can demonstrate Alan’s innocence, so much the better.’

‘So what can I do, Claud?’

‘That’s a good question. No physical evidence. No possible witness, apart from you.’ Claud raised his eyebrow as he said this. Now there was another long pause. ‘I’ve got one thought, Jane, for what it’s worth. Have you ever been in father’s study?’

‘Not since I was a girl.’

‘Do you know what’s up there?’

‘His manuscripts, I suppose, and working papers and copies of his books and reference books.’

‘And his diaries.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Claud, he’s not likely to have murdered his daughter and then written about it.’

‘But I’m the one who thinks he’s innocent, remember? If you could get hold of the journals for that year, they might give him an alibi for the time when you say you saw him and there might be witnesses who could be checked. If not, there might at least be some suggestions of his feelings in earlier entries.’

‘It doesn’t seem much of an idea to me.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ he said with bitter sarcasm. ‘Well then, I apologise for forcing my help on you. Perhaps you should try someone else, like Theo or Jonah.’

‘I’m sorry, Claud, I didn’t mean that. I’m grateful I really am. It’s a very good idea, how can we do it?’

‘When are you going up for the funeral?’

‘What? Oh, I don’t know, Saturday, I suppose. What about you?’

‘I’m going tomorrow. Look, if I have the opportunity, I’ll try to get in there. If I can’t manage it, you’ll have to do it. I’ll do anything I can. Anything.’

Claud stood up, and looked down at me. I looked back, unsmiling; our gazes locked, and I couldn’t look away. Then his face crumpled, and he sat heavily on the sofa beside me. This time it was me who picked up his hand. His ring was still on his fourth finger, and I turned it slowly. Tears were running in a smooth sheet down his face; carefully I wiped them away, cupped his face in my hands.

‘I’m sorry, Claud.’

He groaned and moved towards me and I didn’t stop him. How could I? He nuzzled into my neck and I let him. He slipped down and put his streaming face on my lap.

‘Jane, Jane, please don’t leave me. I can’t, I can’t, without you. Nothing’s the same without you. I can’t go through this on my own. You’ve always been with me. You’ve always helped me. Always. When I’ve most needed you, you’ve been there. You’ve saved me. Don’t go now. Not now.’

‘Ssssh.’ I stroked his hair, and felt his breath hot against my thigh. This felt like incest. ‘Ssssh. There, Claud, don’t cry. I can’t bear it if you cry.’ He lay there like a heavy child, and I raised him up and cradled him against my breast.