Free Remember Me This Way by Sabine Durrant Page A

hand on my knee. She is wearing a 1950s prom dress and fishnet tights. I expect she’s supposed to be somewhere else. She gives my knee a squeeze to show I’m not forgotten.
    ‘The waiter wrapped it in a packet of Birds Eye peas. It never occurred to me you’d find Birds Eye peas in an Indian. Matar paneer I suppose. Anyway, off to A & E and Bob’s your uncle.’ Hannah unwraps her arms and takes a long gulp of her tea. She slaps the mug back on the table. ‘Surprising amount of blood actually. Not as much as the head injury inflicted by a frozen turkey I was called out to witness on Christmas Eve. But more than you’d imagine. Real blood, I should add. Not red paint.’
    She gives me a conspiratorial smile and my gaze reverts to my lap. I am suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness, and it’s as if the compressed afternoon has suddenly expanded beyond reason, so that it could be days, rather than mere hours, since I told Jane, to her audible alarm, that I was coming straight back, placating her by promising to pull over and call her every thirty minutes; days, rather than just an hour, since I first sat shaking in this kitchen while Hannah, who had the police in Cornwall check over the studio, attempted to calm me with their verdict. Paint, not blood, on the walls. Possibly a break-in, although in the absence of anything that could be reported as stolen . . .
    I look down wearily. I’m still wearing my mother’s skirt. It’s filthy, covered in grass stains and muddy paw marks. I try to think when I got them. Was it from laying the flowers at the tree, or from charging down the hill earlier today? I unpick a shred of bramble tangled in the jersey at my shoulder. Under it is Zach’s shirt. The one with the stain. I should try again to get it out. I’m wearing wellies, too. Did I drive back in them? How did I change gears? Or brake? It’s the sort of thing Hannah might pick me up on. I don’t want her to get cross. Not now.
    Jane says, ‘I wish you had let me come and get you.’
    I shake my head.
    She leans over and, with a small, contrite smile, rubs the side of my face with two of her fingers. It must be red lipstick from her earlier kiss. I take a deep breath and look around the kitchen. My breakfast things from yesterday are still in the sink. Crumbs litter the worktop. I haven’t been looking after any of this – this room, this house – since Zach died. The woodwork is grubby and peeling. Brown splatters next to the bin show where a teabag has hit the wall. I’ll have to clear up.
    ‘You both think I’m mad.’
    ‘No,’ Hannah says. She is watching me carefully.
    ‘But I do think Zach’s still alive.’ I try to talk calmly. Howard is at my feet, idly scratching. The MacBook is on the table. ‘Why would his laptop be at Gulls? And other things were missing. His Hunter boots. I found them at Sand Martin. They were in the rack.’
    ‘Sand Martin?’ Hannah says.
    ‘I don’t know how they got there. The last time we were in Cornwall together, they were at Gulls, so it means something. I’ll work it out. But that’s not the important thing. Other stuff too. Things had gone. Clothes, a bag, a torch, money that was kept tucked away for emergencies, a picture, I think. I can’t be sure about that.’
    ‘And you searched the house properly?’ Hannah asks. Leaning back in her chair, she rests her knees on the edge of the table. ‘It’s a long time since you were down there.’
    ‘The police thought the studio had been broken into,’ Jane adds. ‘Gulls has been empty for a year—’
    ‘No, but wait. There were flowers already at the tree, lilies. Someone else had left them there. This SUV, a silver one; I kept seeing it everywhere.’ I shake my head, try and clear it. ‘Maybe that’s irrelevant.’
    I’m not doing this right. I have to go carefully or they’ll get it wrong. They won’t understand.
    To give myself time, I get up, take my boot out of Howard’s mouth, and open the door. The