I Remember You: An addictive suspense thriller

  I Remember You

  by

  Jamie Sinclair

  For the Princess

  For showing me how to fly

  And catching me when I fall

  xJx

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  Ben Torrance is devastated when he learns his girlfriend has left him in the middle of the night following the latest in a series of arguments about having a baby. Driven by love and fuelled by desperation, he embarks on a mission to find her. When he learns the truth – that Rhia had an affair and became pregnant by his best friend - Ben has to make a decision. Walk away from the woman he loves or give their relationship a second chance and bring up another man’s child. By turns funny and moving, Playground Cool is a fast-paced and humorous story that will stay with you long after you read its final page.

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  Prologue

  From here, sitting on a bench just a few feet from the shore, it is like looking at a painting. The sea, a mass of grey, rises to meet the green and brown of the hills which contrast against the blue sky mottled with dabs of white cloud. It is a beautiful landscape, constantly changing, a source of inspiration and peace.

  It’s a warm day and the sun is shining. I stand, pebbles shifting under my feet, damp sand crunching as I break the thin crust. As I look out across the bay I feel strangely calm. Perhaps it’s shock. Or relief that finally I have been exposed.

  I walk forward and pause, watching the small waves break gently, wetting my feet. I close my eyes, thinking about the people I hurt and the people who hurt me. As I raise my face to the sun I take another step into the water, catching my breath as the cold stings my ankles.

  An image of my mother begins to form in my mind. Instead of thinking about something else, as I normally do, I let the picture develop. I think about what she did to me. The years of isolation and conditioning which left such an indelible mark. I realise I do not know if she is alive or dead. I also realise I don’t care either way.

  My mind races through the events from the moment my mother left to the moment everything changed. As I have so many times before I think about the knife. Those frantic seconds as my fingers reached out for anything which might help me. Then there is a gap in my memory. There was silence. Surprise. Then blood. Red, sticky, everywhere.

  I look down and notice that the tide is lapping at my knees. I was naïve to think that my past would remain a secret. But over time I had allowed myself to believe it might. That my new life was forever.

  I look at my hands. My knuckles are white around the handle. There is blood on my fingers. I kneel in the water and begin to wash my hands. But I have never been able to remove these stains.

  I have spent my life running away. Too late I realise the thing I am trying so desperately to escape is myself. And I can never run fast or far enough to do that. I have been caught, so I suppose this story is my confession.

  1 Victoria, then

  Dad delivered planes. Once, when I was very young, he explained it to me.

  ‘They need to be flown from wherever they were bought to wherever in the world the new owners want them to be,’ he said. ‘It’s called being a ferry pilot.’

  I was sitting on his knee, resting my head on his chest. The fibres of his jumper felt scratchy against my face but I liked it. ‘That sounds exciting,’ I said. I loved it when Dad was home because I was allowed out of my room.

  ‘It’s the loneliest job in the world.’

  I think he looked lost when he said that, but it was a long time ago and the memory is likely distorted.

  As a child I wanted for nothing. Except, I realised much later, affection, approval, love.

  ‘You are a princess,’ Mother would tell me. ‘You can have anything you desire.’

  I would spend countless hours playing, entertaining myself. I could have anything I wanted, except her attention. Approval had to be earned and would be withdrawn as a punishment when she was too busy to spend time with me. Also, she suffered with her nerves. She would often say that to me, an anguished look on her face. ‘Darling, sweetheart. Don’t bother Mummy now. I am in the midst of a battle with my anxiety.’ Then she would march me upstairs to my room so that she could have peace to recuperate.

  Often her busyness or nerves would result in me remaining in my room for days at a time. I understood, and learned to be perfectly content occupying myself. When I was very young, before I knew better, I panicked when I needed to use the toilet. I screamed and screamed, pounding on the door, tears pouring down my face, but the door did not open, and in the end I could not control myself. When Mother found me, she wasn’t cross. She took me gently by the hand and showed me where the cleaning supplies were, and told me how to scrub the floor clean. The next day, she came to my room. ‘Look what I have for you, my princess,’ she said, her voice sweet and kind. It was a potty. ‘You’re such a good girl.’

  I twirled around, a beaming smile on my face, delighted that I hadn’t disappointed her. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  I was home-schooled, and I enjoyed my lessons because I had the undivided attention of the teacher. My mother. As an only child, I craved those moments and despaired in between. But we could only have lessons on the days when she was up to it. On the other days I had to study in my room. When she said I was doing very well I was thrilled. Other times, I did less well and Mother was dissatisfied with my efforts. Then I would spend more time in my room, studying so that I could be better.

  Once a week I was allowed out of my room when the cleaner came. Mother needed help with the domestic chores, owing to her nerves. In the hour before Mrs Hendricks was due to arrive, the door would be unlocked and Mother would appear with a wide smile on her face.

  ‘There you are Victoria my darling. Shall we go downstairs and play for a while?’

  She would reach out her hand for mine, and we would have the most wonderful time together. I felt very lucky. Mother often became so engrossed in our games that she seemed surprised when the cleaner arrived.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Hendricks, you startled me. Victoria and I were lost in our game. Weren’t we, darling?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Hendricks.’ I gave her a big smile. ‘We’re playing with my new dolls.’

  ‘That’s good, dear. Anything interesting to tell me this week?’

  ‘Hmm.’ I always considered my answer carefully. ‘Mum bought me a new doll for being a good girl.’ I waved my princess doll at Mrs Hendricks.

  Mrs Hendricks nodded, a fixed half-smile on her face. ‘I’ll get on then.’

  By the time the cleaner was finished Mother was usually tired, so I’d go back to my room so she could rest. I was content though, because we had enjoyed a lovely time together.

  My favourite thing was my doll’s house. A scale model of a grand house rendered in minute detail. I would imagine the lives of the people who lived in that house and create stories for them. But the main characters were always the princess and her prince. I wanted to live in a house like that. I wanted to be the princess.

  ‘You will live in a house like that, my dear,’ Mother would say as she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. ‘If you behave, try hard, do as you are told, you will find your prince, and he will look after you.’

  This was my childhood. My imaginary family expanded and contracted over time. Dolls fell out of favour to be replaced by new ones who became my favourites. The princess made sure the house stayed in perfect condition. She changed the décor, the furniture, and was in turn looked after by her prince. A perfect life.

  And then everything was turned upside do
wn when my mother left. It was my fault. I should have tried harder. I had driven her away.

  I knew she was going. I heard her on the telephone more than once. I didn’t know it then, but she was talking to the woman with whom she now lives.

  At the time, that was the headline. Mum was suddenly a lesbian. Dad fixated on that. But to me, and to him eventually, it was the fact that she left that was important. The ‘who’ didn’t matter at all to me.

  I can imagine you might be rolling your eyes. Parents split up. So what? Absent father. Practically commonplace. I’m not sharing any of this to make myself sound more interesting. It’s just how things were.

  I’m not sure how old I was when she left, perhaps twelve or thirteen. Mother always said that because I received gifts all year round it was like having lots of birthdays, so there was no need to worry about the actual date.

  ‘You must try to understand that I have sacrificed a great deal of my life so far, darling,’ Mother explained to me as she bumped her suitcase down the stairs. ‘I have been a mother, a wife. No time for myself. I have to do this, for a chance to be happy.’

  My dad was away delivering light aircraft. These periods of absence lasted anywhere from a couple of weeks to more than a month depending on where in the world he was. I admit I had a brief moment of panic when I realised I would have to fend for myself. But the reality was I had been doing just that most of my life. My mother had prepared me well, so, in the beginning, it wasn’t so challenging. The cupboards were filled with tins and packets, and I was well practised at heating things up.

  Suddenly I had all the freedom a girl could ever dream of. I could leave my room whenever I wanted. Or not go into it at all. I had a whole house entirely to myself so I explored it. I didn’t find anything particularly interesting though. Old clothes, books, some photographs of my mother with various men and women I didn’t recognise. But nothing that offered any real insight into my parents as people, what they were like before I came along or why Mum chose to leave when she did.

  I stood in my mother’s bedroom, looking through the things she’d left behind. Anger welled up inside me, beginning in my stomach and quickly building until I could not contain it. I swept the photographs off the dresser with my arm, stomping them until the glass broke. I ran to my own room and slammed the door shut, sobbing into my pillow.

  Dad came home a little over a week later.

  ‘She’s gone?’ were the first words he said. I nodded and then he took my hand, pulled me towards him and hugged me tightly. When he pulled away I saw tears in his eyes. I had never seen my dad upset before. Tears flowed down my cheeks, and my stomach rumbled once before I retched. I managed to run to the kitchen sink, where I was repeatedly sick until my guts ached and my eyes watered.

  Later, when I felt better, we walked hand in hand to the local fish and chip shop. The noise and smells of the shop were almost overwhelming, as was being out of the house. At home, after we had picked at our food, my dad looked at me.

  ‘I don’t know how to look after you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you need.’

  I considered for a moment what I needed. ‘I can look after myself,’ I said. ‘Mother taught me how.’

  He was silent for a while. ‘I have another job in a day or two. You could come with me. I don’t know if that’s something you’d like.’

  I grinned. ‘In a plane, you mean?’

  That first trip will forever be my most powerful and by far my favourite memory of my father. At home he was quiet, uncertain, clearly a man not cut out to be a parent. But in a plane he was commanding, confident, impressive. My heart was racing as he lifted me into the plane, explaining what the various dials and switches were for. I watched, mouth open, as he started the engine, and I screamed over the noise as we hurtled along the runway and took off. But as the plane rose and Dad pointed out sights such as churches and castles, my terror subsided.

  He took me with him whenever he was able, usually on the shorter trips. The rest of the time I remained at home, alone. I told him I could manage and he accepted it. But the loneliness began to eat away at me as much as my mother’s rejection. At least she provided a source of noise, occasional conversation. The house felt far too big and the silence was oppressive, especially at night.

  I began to long for the weekly visits of Mrs Hendricks. I would peer through the window for hours until I saw her car. I would then hurry to the table and pretend to be studying.

  ‘You must be careful,’ Mother had warned me, her voice stern. ‘If people think you are unhappy, or that something is wrong, they may try to interfere, to take you away. You must behave at all times as if everything is perfectly normal. Above all, you must fit in.’

  I had no desire to be taken away; the thought terrified me. Her words, drilled into me each day, became a mantra.

  Mrs Hendricks’s hazel eyes swept the room before her gaze fell on me. ‘There you are, Victoria dear. Studying hard as ever. What is it this week?’

  ‘English,’ I lied. In truth I had hardly looked at a textbook in weeks. There seemed little point – there was no reward or punishment.

  Mrs Hendricks flashed a smile. ‘Your mother not around?’

  ‘Had to go out,’ I lied again.

  ‘Well, obviously she trusts you to look after yourself.’

  I don’t know what my father told Mrs Hendricks about my mum leaving, or even if he said anything. She never mentioned it, and I never dared in case it got me into some kind of trouble. We just carried on as normal. Until my father died.

  I remember that day vividly. I had been out shopping and arrived home to find the telephone ringing. I still hesitated to answer it, as I had never been allowed when Mother was here.

  ‘Hello. Four-one-four-five-two-seven.’ Saying the telephone number was something I’d heard Mother do.

  ‘Victoria, sweetie. It’s Mummy.’

  I tightened my grip on the phone. I had not considered who might be calling, but I certainly hadn’t expected it to be my mother.

  ‘Darling, are you well? Where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours. I’m afraid I have the most terrible news.’

  Though her voice sounded the same as I remembered, there was a definite American accent to some of her words.

  ‘Shopping,’ I replied. This sounded simple, but until recently I had never been in a shop on my own and wasn’t even very familiar with my own neighbourhood. But I’m a quick learner. She didn’t acknowledge my achievement, so I continued. ‘What news?’

  ‘It’s Daddy. There’s been the most dreadful accident.’

  She explained that the plane he’d been piloting had lost radio contact somewhere near Iceland. Apparently there were boats looking for wreckage, but it was a wide search area and a very small aircraft.

  I thought about the planes my father piloted. I could picture the cramped cockpit, the radio. I could see him speaking into it. Confident and assured. ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘My darling. I’m trying to explain that your father is dead, and that’s all you can say?’

  She sounded annoyed. As if I’d offended her with my lack of a proper response.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I offered. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Last night, my time. Early morning, your time. I got a call from the company he works for. I’m still listed as his emergency contact.’

  ‘I see,’ I said again. I could see Dad, soaring through the clouds, in complete control of the aircraft whatever the weather. Never flustered, usually commentating on what he was doing, asking me to confirm I had understood. Like I was his co-pilot.

  ‘I’m not sure what will happen now. To you, I mean. Would you want to come out here? To the States, I mean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To live.’ She laughed. It sounded humourless and distant. ‘My darling child, you can’t stay there on your own.’

  My knuckles were suddenly white against the receiver. ‘I’ve been on my own since you left and managed perfectly w
ell, thank you.’ I was surprised by the sudden anger in my voice. Clearly my mother was too.

  ‘You’re in shock, dear. It’s understandable. I wish I could fly over, but really, under the circumstances one hardly wishes to be on a plane. Look, when I learn more I’ll let you know. We’ll work something out, my dear. Be a brave girl for Mummy. I’ll call tomorrow.’

  She never did.

  There’s no way to say this without sounding utterly cold, or a little mad. But I got up the next morning and carried on as if nothing had happened. Which, in purely practical terms, it hadn’t. My father was so rarely present. It wasn’t much of a shift. I cried, of course. I’m not inhuman. It was thoughtful of Mother to let me know.

  I didn’t tell a soul about what happened because I had nobody to tell. I tried to focus on my lessons, but I would stare at the books and realise that I had not read a word. Instead I spent time removing my mother from any photographs I could find, either defacing her image with ink, or cutting her out with scissors. The rest of the time I spent with my doll’s house. The princess was happy. Surrounded by friends and family. She was loved.

  Then a letter from the bank arrived. The mortgage had not been paid. I calmly rang the bank to ask what the problem was. As I wasn’t the account holder they wouldn’t tell me anything. I hung up and paced the house, feeling utterly powerless. I had no way of contacting my mother, which left me with only one option.

  Mrs Hendricks arrived as normal the following day to clean the house. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I took a deep breath and showed her the letter. She read it and frowned.

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she said confidently. ‘But, Victoria, why are showing me this letter? Why have you even opened it?’

  ‘Mother has gone,’ I said simply. The relief from saying it out loud was immense. ‘She left to live with a woman in America some time ago.’

  Mrs Hendricks stared at me for a moment then muttered something I couldn’t make out. She did not show any surprise.