Forget Me Not. Claire Allan

20 June

       Epilogue: Rachel

       Acknowledgements

       Keep Reading …

       About the Author

       Also by Claire Allan

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      I disappeared on a Wednesday afternoon, in June, right in the middle of the heatwave. I was there one minute and the next I was gone. You might think it hard to disappear in broad daylight. To be visible and then, just seconds later, to be invisible. To have a life, and then moments later to have lost it. It wasn’t hard at all.

      It was much too easy.

      They found my shoes. Well, one of them, turned upside down and covered in dust. They found my car, unlocked. The driver’s window down. My keys in the ignition. My weekly shop melting and rotting in the boot. Cooking in the unspeakable heat.

      They found my bag, my purse, my bank cards. My phone. The memorial card with my mother’s picture on it and some rhyming words of comfort, which were supposed to make me feel better about the fact she’d died of breast cancer in her sixties.

      They found traces of blood – mine – on the ground outside. Minute droplets. They found traces of unidentified seminal fluid on the back seat, too. Not my husband’s profile. Evidence of a sexual assault, maybe?

      Or maybe not.

      Scuff marks on the ground, the ground kicked up. Vomit on the patchy, faded tarmac. Smeared fingerprints – mine.

      Signs of a struggle.

      Half a packet of Wotsits crisps, crushed into the floor of where the rear seats are. An empty Fruit Shoot bottle – blackcurrant – under the passenger seat. An ankle sock. Pink trim. A booster seat in the front of my car.

      Signs I was a mother.

      ‘She wouldn’t leave the baby,’ they said. The baby was three. Blonde curls and blue eyes. Cupid bow lips. A dimple in her left cheek. I wouldn’t leave the baby, they were right. Not unless I had no choice.

      I’d been given no choice.

Wednesday, 6 June

       Chapter One

       Elizabeth

      Even with every window open, this house is still too warm. It’s only half past five in the morning and I know there will be no reprieve from this heatwave. It didn’t cool more than a few degrees overnight and I’ve not slept properly in days. Izzy looked at me mournfully, big brown eyes, pleading for the chance to run about outside before the heat becomes oppressive. I feel sorry for her – even though she’s shed her winter coat, it’s much too warm for her. Like me, she’s become a virtual prisoner in our home.

      We’d changed our walking routine a few weeks before. Setting out early now. Before six. Doing our best to avoid the full heat of the sun, though the temperature didn’t seem to drop much overnight. This heatwave was stronger than any I remembered in my lifetime. Even warmer than 1976. That morning I was tired, though. My bones ached and I felt every one of my sixty-seven years, and then some. Still, I’d be back at home within an hour, I reasoned, and I could spend the rest of my morning doing what I had planned – baking bread for my grandchildren, who were coming here after school. I eyed the bananas on the worktop – brown spots seeming to multiply with every hour that passed. I might even throw a quick banana bread in the oven. With chocolate chips. The children would love that.

      I had to leave the dough for the bread to prove for another hour anyway – wrapped in clingfilm in the airing cupboard – so I had no excuse but laziness and the persistent ache in my left arm. It hadn’t been the same since it had been broken eighteen months earlier and was, according to the doctor, unlikely to improve further. I’d just have to work through it.

      ‘Come on, then,’ I called to the dog, who started to wag her tail with great enthusiasm. ‘You win. Just like you always do.’

      She bounced her way down the hall, deliriously happy at seeing her lead in my hand. Patting my pockets to make sure I had everything I needed with me – phone, keys, poo bags – I opened the door then watched as Izzy bounded to the end of the garden before stopping, looking back at me and waiting. She was a good dog. She made me leave the house at least once a day, which was a positive thing. I could quite happily have never left the safety of my own home. I preferred my own company. Peace and quiet. My solitary routine. But fresh air was good for body and soul. Or so they said.

      I clipped Izzy’s lead to her collar and off we set along Coney Road, narrow, quiet, just far enough from the main roads of Derry to feel as if we were in the middle of nowhere. We’d walk half an hour out on the road and half an hour back, taking in some of the back roads, maybe slip into the country park for a bit.

      Striding out, I didn’t put my earphones in. I preferred to be able to hear what was around me. To keep my wits about me, just in case. I doubt I posed an attractive prospect to any would-be kidnapper, rotund and in my mid-sixties, but nonetheless, you never could be too careful. People who wanted to hurt others would do so regardless.

      I was glad I’d brought a bottle of water with me. It didn’t take long for me to feel too hot. I chided myself for bringing a jacket. Even though it was light, it was still too heavy for this weather. Everything was too heavy for this weather.

      I slipped it off and tied it around my waist. There was a beautiful calm to the morning. The sound of birds tweeting. In a while the city would start to wake up and the rat race would begin again. I was so glad to be out of that now.

      After a while, I let Izzy off the lead. She ran on, occasionally stopping to look back at me, teeth flashing a bright canine smile, before setting off again. Occasionally, she’d spot a rabbit or a bird and would speed off up the road, or into the fields to chase them – bounding as she ran. It was then I felt guilty for wanting to stay inside and not walk her. This was where she was at her happiest.

      She never wandered far enough that I couldn’t see her. She’d reach a certain point and stop, then turn her head back to me as if to say: ‘Come on, old girl! Keep up.’ She’d wait patiently until I was closer, then set off again.

      We walked on until she started barking, running to the hedgerow, yelping and spinning around – running back to me and back to the hedgerow again.

      ‘What is it, girl?’ I asked as I followed her, wondering what it was she’d uncovered this time: an old ball, ripe for throwing into the field for a prolonged game of catch, or more likely a bone, or the remains of an animal that she’d then roll in, necessitating me wrestling her into the bath when we got home.

      Only as I got closer, I saw her pull at something bright. Orange. Fabric. Whatever it was, it was heavy. She pulled and struggled with it, yelping all the time. Despite the heat, I felt a chill run up my spine. I wanted to turn around and run, but Izzy was becoming more and more distressed.

      The orange object took shape before my eyes. Sharpened. Came into focus. As did a hand, bluish grey. Izzy pulled back. I noticed her white paws, which just minutes before were brown with mud, were now a