Nicci French - The Memory Game

I knew that I was projecting my misery out onto the world – however miserable some of its individual components might have been in their own right – so that I wasn’t all that surprised when I stood in front of the TV rental shop and saw images of Alan mouthing silently on a dozen screens. There was the patriarch, justifying himself in words that I couldn’t understand. For a moment, I thought that I had gone entirely mad, that the real world and the worlds of my memories and my nightmares had become one and that Alan had defeated me, utterly and finally. Then I remembered.

‘Oh, fuck.’

I looked around, dazed but shocked into action. I saw a yellow ‘For Hire’ sign and flagged the taxi down. I gave a Westbourne Grove address. As we drove towards Swiss Cottage, Paddington and beyond, I held my face against the ferocious blast at the open window.

‘All right, love?’ the driver asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak coherently. When I knocked at the door, Erica let me in.

‘It’s almost over,’ she said. ‘Drink?’

‘Water,’ I replied as I followed her up the stairs.

‘Off the drink?’

‘On it.’

She ushered me into a dark room, lit only by a vast television screen. The chairs were all occupied by indistinguishable silhouettes and I found myself a spot on the floor. Erica handed me something that rattled. My water. I held the damp glass against my forehead. I had thought of Paul’s documentary about our family as a series of interviews. I hadn’t prepared myself for what it would actually look like. When I started to pay attention to what was happening there was a photograph of Natalie on the screen, a hazy blow-up of a class picture that didn’t do her justice. Someone was saying something about the lost spirit of the sixties, Jonah, I think, but it may have been Fred. From Natalie, the image changed to a picture of the Stead, seen, I guessed, from Chantry’s Hill. At first, I thought it too was a photograph, but there were tiny things, a tremble of the camera, barely distinguishable flutters of leaves, shimmers of light, that showed this was being filmed. The camera began to move until it settled on Paul. He was looking down on the house, his face hidden from us. Then he turned and began to walk, accompanied by the camera. He addressed it as if it was a friend. What a pro.

Paul talked about the family as home and home as the place where, when you go there, they have to let you in; the family as the symbol of our affections; and the family as the symbol of society with its ties and obligations. I found it a bit difficult to concentrate, befuddled as I was, but I understood that he was telling some story from his golden childhood. At the moment he finished the story he came to a halt. The camera pulled back from his face and we could see that he had reached the spot where Natalie’s body had been discovered. The hole was still there and he stood looking soulful. The camera pulled back and back until it could take in the whole scene: pensive Paul peering into the hole, the Stead, early morning sunlight, a tweeting bird. Some Delius-style music struck up and the credits began to roll. Someone switched the light on.

‘Where were you?’ Paul nudged me from behind.

‘Sorry.’

‘I’m glad you saw the final sequence though,’ he said. ‘That was a real tour de force. Four and a half minutes without a cut. I walked all the way down the hill, and hit the mark at the moment I finished the reminiscence. It’s the most technically demanding thing I’ve ever tried. When I said cut, even the technicians applauded. But I want you to see the whole thing. I’ll get a tape sent round.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go now.’

‘You’ve only just arrived, Jane. There are people I want you to meet.’

‘I’ve got to go now.’

I hadn’t even taken my hat or coat off, so I walked straight down the stairs and out. I thought I might have spent the last of my money on the taxi but I didn’t check. I walked all the way home. I went through Regent’s Park on the way. It took me an hour and a half and I was bleakly sober by the time I unlocked my front door.

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.’