Claire Allan - Forget Me Not

‘In so many of these things, it’s the husband or the partner or whatever. We’d be stupid to discount him,’ Ronan said while Julie nodded.

‘Well, I’m sure the police’ll speak to him, but I think it’s more important to find whoever this mystery man was that she was seeing. Don’t you all think it odd not one of us had met him, or knew his name even? And where is he now? His girlfriend’s been murdered. If he has nothing to hide, why hasn’t he come forward?’

Ronan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand any of it. Maybe he’s married and coming forward would risk his marriage.’

‘If he’s married, and is cheating, I’ve no sympathy for him,’ Julie sniffed. ‘I hope he gets hauled in front of the media. Scumbag.’

A shiver ran through me. What would they think if they knew about Michael and me?

I lifted my keys and told Izzy I wouldn’t be long. She looked at me mournfully, wanting to go on an adventure with me. But this wasn’t much of an adventure. This was just something I felt I had to do.

I’d been the last person to speak with Clare Taylor. If I could bring an ounce of comfort to her parents, it was only right that I did so.

I hadn’t been able to speak to DI Bradley that morning. He was busy, which was hardly surprising. But I had been able to speak to a friendly-sounding woman called Patricia Hopkins, the family liaison officer, and she’d okayed it for me to call round to the Taylor household. She’d be there to meet me, she said. ‘I think it really could help them greatly to know their daughter wasn’t alone when she passed,’ she said, which is exactly what I’d hoped she’d say.

Still, my heart was thumping when I arrived outside their house and saw the street lined with cars. There were huddles of photographers and reporters standing around, dressed in summer frocks and short-sleeved shirts. There was an air of informality to it that I didn’t care for. I saw some laugh as they talked to each other, slugging from bottles of cool water. I knew they were only doing their jobs but it felt ghoulish. They were waiting for a soundbite of misery. I’m sure they couldn’t have enjoyed it all that much, either. I’d seen reporters over the years breaking down under the pressure of covering some of those horrific atrocities.

I nodded an acknowledgement in their direction, wondered if they’d come running to me for a statement. Then again, they didn’t know who I was. What I’d seen. How I’d held her hand. If only they knew, they’d be all over me. I kept my head down, hoped that the natural invisibility that seemed to come with being a woman of a certain age would stop me from beeping on their radar.

They say you know you’re getting on in years when policemen and doctors start to look unconscionably young. The uniformed police officer at the door of the Taylors’ house looked as if he had yet to start shaving. He’d a nervous disposition about him, a natural air of suspicion in how he looked me up and down. It was laughable, really. It was hardly as if I posed any kind of threat to him.

I introduced myself as Mrs O’Loughlin, asked to speak with Constable Hopkins, the FLO – as Patricia had directed.

He nodded and opened the door, directing me through.

‘Patricia, Mrs O’Loughlin’s here,’ he called.

I was surprised and a little reassured to hear his voice had broken.

A short woman, with cropped dark hair and a friendly face, walked out of the kitchen and reached her hand out to welcome me. Her handshake was firm and I wondered whether or not she could feel my own hand trembling in hers.

‘Thank you for coming, Mrs O’Loughlin. I’m sure it’ll be a real help to the Taylors to hear from you.’

‘Please, Constable,’ I said, ‘call me Elizabeth.’

She nodded with a small smile. ‘I will do, and you must just call me Patricia. I’m here as support for the family at this very difficult time. We like to keep things informal. It helps everyone.’

I nodded and followed as she led me through to the small kitchen where three adults, two women and a man were sitting around the table drinking tea. I guessed they were all around the same age as poor Clare had been. Were they siblings, or cousins?

They looked at me and to Patricia as I stood awkwardly, waiting for an introduction.

‘Ronan,’ she said, ‘this is Elizabeth O’Loughlin, the lady who was with Clare yesterday morning when she passed.’

The man in front me, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, got to his feet and crossed the room. He stretched his arms wide and pulled me into a hug. I could feel him shaking, heard him say ‘Thank you’ over and over. I felt like a fraud. Sure, what was there to thank me for? I’d done nothing. I hadn’t saved her. Maybe if he knew I was a nurse who didn’t save her his welcome wouldn’t be so warm.

‘Ronan’s Clare’s older brother,’ I heard Patricia say, just as I heard the two women who’d been sitting with him excuse themselves.

‘We’ll give you some space,’ one of them said.

I wanted some space just then. Needed some air. I felt guilt and sorrow wrap around me just as Ronan’s arms did.

‘Maybe you’d like a seat, Elizabeth,’ I heard Patricia say and Ronan pulled away from me.

Patricia just looked at me sympathetically. She’d known I was feeling overwhelmed, or she was familiar enough with horrible events like these to assume that I would be.

‘Thank you,’ I said, sitting down on one of the pine kitchen chairs.

‘Tea or coffee?’ Patricia asked.

‘Tea, please,’ I said as Ronan tried to compose himself, wiping his eyes with a tissue.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to thank you enough.’

‘I didn’t do anything, really,’ I said, feeling my face blaze. I didn’t like being thanked for my woeful inadequacy.

‘She wasn’t alone, at the end …’ he said. ‘The police told us you were holding her hand. Had put your jacket over her. That means a lot.’

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

‘Did she say anything? Did she speak at all?’ he asked.

I was aware of Patricia close by. She’d asked me not to reveal what Clare had said to me. That it was sensitive to the case. I didn’t want to lie – that felt wrong – but I had to do what Patricia had asked, so I shook my head. I watched Ronan deflate in front of my eyes. Watched as Patricia took in every detail of our exchange.

‘She wasn’t really conscious, slipping in and out, you know …’ I told him. ‘I doubt she’d have been too aware of anything around her at that stage.’

‘But you held her hand?’ he asked.

‘I put my coat over her and called the emergency services, then I held her hand. Pleaded with her to hang on. She was just too ill.’

I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Saw images of her poor, mutilated body flash before my eyes. I shuddered. Patricia placed a cup of tea in front of me.

‘It’s a great comfort to my parents to know someone was with her,’ Ronan said.

‘Mr and Mrs Taylor are sleeping at the moment; it was a bad night for them,’ Patricia explained.

‘I can imagine,’ I said softly.

Although that wasn’t quite true. I didn’t need to imagine. I knew exactly how it felt to lose a child in the most horrific of circumstances.

I was exhausted, physically and emotionally, by the time I got home. I’d picked Molly up from crèche and had done my best to pretend everything was normal, but I could feel my facade slipping.

Spending time with Ronan, and then his parents, had been harrowing. It had made it too real. Mrs Taylor was the kind of woman who was always impeccably dressed and made up. She used to give us girls make-up lessons when we were teens – warning us against the dangers of going overboard on the rouge or choosing the wrong shade of lipstick. I’d never seen her without her make-up before – not even when I’d had a sleepover at Clare’s. Yet, there she’d been, her face pale, devoid of its usual glam look, her hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing a pair of black trousers and a jumper that seemed to swamp her. She’d looked so small, so vulnerable that it had shaken me, but at least she’d been able to talk to us. Mr Taylor – this big teddy bear of a man with a booming voice and an even louder laugh – just sat silently, staring into a mug of tea that he didn’t once lift to his lips.