The Forgotten Room: a gripping, chilling thriller that will have you hooked. Ann Troup
for her by name, although God knew why, as they had never done more than tolerate each other. Maura viewed him as a pompous git and he’d never given the impression that she featured in his world at all, other than to act as a pain in his backside when they’d been forced to work together. Maura was the zealous nurse, full of fire and compassion for her patients; Philip Moss was the jaded doctor, too quick with the prescription pad and the chemical cosh of medication.
She stepped back from the door, afraid of being seen, so couldn’t make out exactly what he said next, but she could have sworn she heard her own name and some assertion that she wasn’t “that bright” and that, in her circumstances, she’d be grateful for the job. It was a low blow and proved the point that eavesdroppers would never hear well of themselves. Dr Philip Moss had always been a bit of an arsehole in Maura’s opinion, and he had done nothing to redeem himself by asserting such an opinion to a stranger.
There was no way she could knock on the back door now. He would know she’d overheard, or at least suspect it. Her already fragile pride forced her to trudge back to the front of the house, where, with two hands, she picked up the gurning iron ring and slammed it onto the rusting iron plate beneath, announcing her presence with a gunshot of noise that ricocheted through the house like a starting pistol. The sound caused the crows to rise and fly from the trees in a flurry of black feather and screeching. It made her blood run cold. ‘Bloody hell! Welcome to the house of fun…’ she muttered as the birds wheeled in the sky above her head. There was only one bird left in the trees, a single magpie. Clinging to its branch, it stared at her in what felt like defiance.
One for sorrow.
A bad omen.
She should have got back in her car and driven away.
She should have done a great many things – like ask more questions when the agency had called to offer the job; like think it through and use reason instead of reacting impulsively. Like not view the opportunity to get away with such desperate need that it had felt like a blessed relief instead of an abject act of foolhardiness on the part of a frenzied mind. Did she have a frenzied mind? Her doctor had thought so when he’d signed her off work all those months ago with a diagnosis of agitated depression. What a charming contradiction of terms that was – all the energy, none of the motivation. It might have made her laugh if it wasn’t actual depression, the Black Dog. Only Maura could end up with the version where the dog wanted to play fetch! But that was in the past; she was getting better, returning to work, moving on. She had smiled that day without someone telling her to with the inevitable “Cheer up, it might never happen”. “It” had happened and she was still standing. And now she was going back to do what she loved: her job. Despite the blood and the puke and the swearing, there was still something about nursing that made her feel like the little girl with the bandaged doll and the little outfit. It meant she still cared. It meant she still had hope. And it meant she still believed that things and people could be healed.
As she waited for the door to open, she realised that hers was the only car, other than the beaten-up old heap masquerading as a Ford Fiesta. Where on earth had Dr Moss parked? Perhaps there was a back way into the Grange and his posh wheels were parked out of sight behind the brick storage sheds and high wall. He sure as hell hadn’t ridden there on the bike that was leaning against the bushes. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to park out front. After all, she wasn’t a guest. She was staff. The thought made her feel even smaller than the vast, ugly house had already. It was becoming a familiar feeling. So many things in recent times had made her feel small – it was as if the effects of betrayal had come in a stoppered bottle complete with a label that demanded “Drink Me”, and she had, draining the bloody thing dry in one gulp.
Shaking the anxiety off, she stood firm. Someone was coming; there were footsteps approaching the door. A woman with a pinched-looking face and a bad perm opened the door, her hair looking almost as frazzled as her demeanour. ‘You the nurse?’ she asked, treating Maura to the sweeping gaze of one who wholeheartedly objected to her presence.
Maura nodded. ‘I’m Maura Lyle, the RMN.’
‘Best get in then – I haven’t got all day and you’re a bit later than they said.’
Maura felt a flush of guilt creep into her cheeks as she stepped into the hallway at the woman’s behest. ‘I’m so sorry. I got a bit lost coming through the new estate.’ It was true. Her satnav hadn’t recognised the new-build houses and crazy street layout, and she’d found herself at several muddy dead ends before finding the end of the drive that led to the Grange.
The woman looked her up and down, appraising her and apparently finding her wanting. ‘It’s easy done, it’s like a bloody rat maze now. Best come through to the kitchen, it’s warmer in there.’
Maura left her bag in the hall and followed the woman to a baize door hidden discreetly under the stairs. It was a long time since she’d seen a symbol that so succinctly announced the divide between us and them. It both amused and irritated her in equal measure; she had thought that kind of thing long gone and just a feature of nostalgic Sunday-night TV dramas. Not so with the Grange. She smiled behind the woman’s back as the strains of “Let’s do the time warp again” filtered through her mind. If she had to curtsey to anyone she’d be buggered; neither her knees nor her tight jeans would stand up to such nonsense.
The promise of warmth was welcome, though; just those few moments in the dark-panelled hall had created a distinct chill in her bones. The air inside felt colder than the damp winter mist outside, and her first impression was that the whole place would gleefully thwart any attempts at heat and light – it had cloaked itself in gloom and rendered itself impenetrable. The building seemed to have been constructed to defy comfort with its small windows, narrow passages and dark wood. It was a house built for secrets and seclusion. A house that silently screamed privacy. The Grange had no need of Keep Out signs; trespassers would willingly avoid it on instinct.
The kitchen came as a relief, clean and bright, yet not modern in any sense of the word. Last decorated in the early seventies by the look of it, but it did have the promised warmth. Dr Moss was nowhere to be seen and Maura guessed he had slipped out when she hammered on the door. God knew why – it wasn’t as if they didn’t know each other.
‘Sit yourself down. I’ve just made tea, then we can go through everything. I’m Cheryl, by the way – I do the cleaning and whatnot. Though it’s been more “whatnot” than anything else lately!’ Cheryl said with a thin, strained laugh. ‘Can’t say I’m not glad to see you in some ways, though I don’t know why they thought you were needed. I don’t mind seeing to his food and stuff or cleaning up after him, but I can’t be coping with his moods, the vicious old bugger. You’ll have to watch him, he likes to scratch.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her cardigan to show Maura the evidence of her claim. It looked as though she’d been savaged by a large and angry cat.
Maura assumed that Cheryl meant Gordon Henderson, the man she had been employed to look after. ‘I expect that Miss Hall falling and needing her own care has disrupted him.’
Cheryl rolled her eyes and flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘That’s an understatement! Mind you, he’s an ornery old sod at the best of times, doesn’t like change. He’s been like a cat on a hot tin roof ever since the building work started. Can’t get his head around it and it upsets him no end. Mind you, I’d feel the same if I was him – seeing your land sold off like that must be hard. Still, it’s her what has the purse strings, not him. You’ll have your work cut out, mark my words – he don’t take to strangers. None of us do.’ She said it as if it was a matter of intractable fact.
Maura gave her a wry smile in appreciation of her message of doom. In her ten years as a psychiatric nurse she had been spat on, sworn at, hit and generally abused on a daily basis. She felt confident that a stroppy old man wouldn’t prove difficult. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ It was what she did and why she’d chosen to work in mental health: she had the ability to tame people and absorb their distress. It was what she was good at, even if she struggled to tame her own. When it came to other people, she cared, even when nobody else did. Sometimes even when she shouldn’t.
Cheryl