Care For Me

by Farah Cook

Genres: Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Some secrets follow you wherever you go . . . CARE FOR ME is a haunting, heartrending thriller from a brand-new voice in psychological suspense, Farah Cook.

Some secrets follow you wherever you go . . .

When Afrah arrives at Ravenswood Lodge Care Home for the first time, she feels far from home. Her daughter, Amira, didn't want to send her away from the comfort and familiarity of her surroundings but she's struggling to cope.

Ravenswood Lodge was meant to be a safe space for Afrah. But when her belongings start vanishing, her family photographs, her jewellery, her pill boxes, Amira and the staff say it's just Afrah's imagination, it's just her failing memory. But Afrah is adamant someone is playing games with her. She knows Ravenswood Lodge isn't safe for her. Someone wants her gone.

At home, Amira is looking through her mother's belongings, tidying things away, bringing order to her house. Until she stumbles upon some strange newspaper clippings, stories her mother has become fixated on. Is it just a coincidence, or could her mother be telling the truth about Ravenswood Lodge? Does someone want revenge?

Elizabeth is Missing meets I Let You Go in this page-turning psychological suspense novel from debut author Farah Cook. Perfect for fans of Clare Mackintosh and K L Slater.

(P) 2021 Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Release date: August 12, 2021

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Acknowledgements

Deepest thanks to Noor Sufi for her trust and support. Without her this book wouldn’t have been possible. I am also immensely grateful to my editor Sara Adams. Her advice and positive energy has been invaluable. Thanks to the fantastic team at Hodder and for their creativity in designing the book cover. I am also eternally grateful to my copy-editor Christina Webb who has a keen eye and knows how to be judicious. I am indebted to my lovely agent Hannah Weatherill for her guidance and support. Thanks for believing in me and for sending your happy vibes my way.

I will always be grateful to my dear friend, Sally Long, for sharing her knowledge on dementia with me. Her emotional insights made me understand what it’s like to place your mum in a care home. And my talented friend, the writer Lindsey McGhee who never stopped believing in me since we first met at the University of Surrey during our creative writing course. She believed in me yesterday, today and tomorrow. Thanks for being a true friend. And for always, always reading all my drafts. A deep thanks to Lubna Abbas for sharing her experience as carer with me. Her insights into the Pakistani community and what it means to care for your own mother who has dementia was tremendously helpful.

I want to thank my loving mother, my oldest friend and mentor for listening to me, for praying for me; my sister and best friend for her spiritual love and guidance; my beautiful family for empowering me, for teaching me how to be strong and to be myself; my lovely aunt for sharing her experiences as head of SubCo Trust, a charity that addresses the unmet needs of vulnerable Asian elders in London. Every day, she does a remarkable job helping the Asian community, in particular those who suffer from dementia, memory loss, diabetes and stroke.

Last, I don’t know how to thank my wonderful husband for his kind and loving support during hard times. I am grateful that he was there to look after the boys while I worked day and night. My gratitude goes especially for his patience, understanding and eternal encouragement and belief in me.

Chapter 1

AMIRA

Thursday, 25 April 2019

It’s a dull day, rainy and wet. I park the car outside the local church, which is lending its room to the Carers Support Group. The woman at the Alzheimer’s Society office scrawled the address on a piece of paper when I went to see her. I crease it up and throw it inside my handbag.

I don’t even know why I am here. That’s a lie. I am here because Meena suggested I speak to a care group. It’s done wonders for her. I should turn around, it doesn’t feel right. Neither did chatting to strangers in online discussion forums. But being anonymous comes with its perks, and strange friendships can be found, like the one I formed with Meena. I don’t know her, but I instantly connected with her online and even gave out my real name, instead of holding onto my identity as Nursemira. It just seemed so impersonal. Now we chat every week and have become so close through exchanging daily episodes about our parents. I tell her personal things about Mum I never dreamed of telling anyone. She trusts me with things about her father. Sometimes I think that without Meena I’d have been lost.

When we last spoke, Meena encouraged me to contact the Alzheimer’s Society. ‘Do it for your own well-being,’ she said. ‘Or you will go insane.’

She has been a great support, and I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found her in the forum for carers. Two words lit up my screen, brightening my day: ‘Hello lovely.’ I’d know it was her – Thelonelymouse – and would proceed to pour my heart out, tell her things only another carer would understand. I realise burdening one person with the same issue is unhealthy. I need to talk to somebody other than Meena, who is going through what I am. Somebody who understands my situation. That’s why I need to attend the Carers Support Group.

I head through an arched corridor, gently knock on the door to my left and enter. Five people are sitting in a circle of chairs. An older man in a shirt, bow tie and trousers introduces himself to me as John Buchanan. He immediately pulls out another chair as if he’s been expecting me. It’s a cosy room, lit with bright fairy lights that fill the space like shimmering glitter. There’s a table in the corner with tea, coffee, water and biscuits. I make myself a cup of tea, take a seat and listen to the man in his mid-forties talk about his mum. He scratches at his beard the entire time, looks down at the floor. When he’s done, a woman, perhaps younger than me, starts talking about her dad. She dabs her eyes and blows her nose with a Kleenex. Tells the strangers in the room how much she loves him, but that she simply can’t care for him all by herself anymore.

‘It’s just so hard, d’ya know what I mean? I’m so drained most days – physically and emotionally. I hardly have any contact with my friends. Dad needs constant attention. I worry that he’ll hurt himself, d’ya know what I mean?’ She pauses and looks at John, who nods understandingly. ‘I’ll never be able to forgive myself if anything were to happen to Dad. Never.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asks the man sitting next to her. He reveals a forehead full of deep creases as he pushes back his hair. A woman with a short crop leans in and asks the same question.

‘My brother has agreed to move in with us. He wants to help care for Dad.’

‘Good for you, Susan,’ says John. ‘You’re finally getting the support you need.’

Susan wants to go on. But now John looks over at me. He expects me to introduce myself, and confess the thoughts that I carry around like a bag of bricks.

I inhale the stale air and take a good look at the unfamiliar faces. They suddenly don’t seem so unfamiliar anymore. They must feel the same way I do, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. I get an it’s OK nod from John. I clear my throat

‘Hello, my name is Amira Khan.’ I pause. I always forget to use my maiden name. ‘Malik. I’m Amira Malik and I’m thirty-eight. I have been caring for my mum for about seven years since she was diagnosed with dementia. I have lived with her ever since my dad died.’ I pause again, feeling the relief easing from my chest. I don’t mention the time I lived with Haroon. That time is a distant memory.

‘When she was diagnosed, they said she might have had dementia for longer, but the signs could have just been related to her age. Mum turns seventy-six this year. I don’t have siblings or relatives. We are alone and have been ever since my teenage son decided to move in with my husband. Ex-husband, I mean.’

‘What was the reason your son—’ John furrows his brows. ‘What I mean to ask is did he move because of your mother? Teenagers can be quite sensitive to people with dementia.’

‘No, I don’t believe him going had anything to do with Mum. Nothing like that,’ I hear myself lie. Shafi was annoyed. He was devastated that Nano was becoming forgetful. She’s stopped recognising me, he used to say.

‘It was getting too cramped for us all living under the same roof in a small, two-bedroom house. He’s a typical thirteen-year-old and needed space, a room of his own. I’m sure you all understand—’

‘Aye, I get that,’ says Susan. ‘My boy lives with his dad, too. And I was never married. Tony is my ex and—’ Susan pauses, catching herself. ‘I’m sorry, Amira, you were talking.’ She gestures for me to continue, her face screwed up in apology.

‘It’s OK.’ I need a break. But really, I want to go home. I feel guilty for being here. Meena told me not to let my guilt get to me. Haroon said that too. I can’t help it. Talking about Mum in a support group makes me feel I am doing something terribly wrong. ‘Actually . . . where is the loo?’

‘To the left in the hallway,’ says John.

As I leave, an echo of Mum’s voice rings in my ears.

‘Where is Shafi? And who is that boy?’ She’d point a sharp finger at him. ‘Don’t want him in the house. Tell him to leave.’

She started to forget that Shafi had grown up. She never grasped the concept that he was no longer the sweet little boy stuck in her memory. Shafi started to spend more and more time away, making excuses not to come home and staying at Haroon’s place more often. And whenever I’d ask him what was going on, he ignored me. But I knew he was frustrated with Mum who had started to treat him like a stranger.

‘Get out,’ she’d say when he’d come home. ‘Out of our house.’

‘Make Nano stop, please,’ he would plead. How could I? The only thing I know how to do is making sure Mum is alright. I never saw that Shafi wasn’t. And neither am I.

The corridor out of the room is dark, and the tube bulb in the ceiling is flickering. At the far end of the exit a shadow stands watching. Then I hear the clacking of heels start to echo down the corridor. The shadowy figure is getting closer. I spot a dark grey door to my left pressed into the whitewashed walls. I jerk on the handle and rush into a storeroom, full of boxes and cartons. A statue of Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus sits on the floor.

My heart pounds faster. The clacking stops. I place my ear on the door and hear a loud, heavy breath coming from the other side. Like something is out to swallow me. The air catches in my lungs. Beads of sweat trickle down my face. I step away from the door and manage to grab hold of Mary’s head with the tip of my finger as it tips over. The sound of footsteps fade and somewhere a door slams shut.

I twist the handle open. The hallway is empty and the light from the ceiling no longer flickers, but illuminates down the long corridor. Did I imagine somebody was here? Whenever I am alone and in dark places, I tend to imagine things that aren’t real. It started when I was little, alone in my bed. I used to scream and Mum would come running. I used to think spiders crawled all over my bed.

I gather myself together, pulling back my hair, breathing deeply. I decide to go back to the room, even though my heart is still racing. I take a seat back in my chair and feel John’s gaze deepening. He takes a sip from his cup and encourages me to go on. I hesitate. Can I trust that what I say will stay sealed between these walls? John assures me that everything we choose to share is confidential.

‘How’s your social life?’ he asks. ‘Do you see your friends much?’

‘When I told my friends that Mum was diagnosed,’ I say, wringing my hands, ‘they felt sorry for me – said it’s going to be hard caring for her full-time. I don’t speak to any of them anymore.’

‘That’s just like my friends. D’ya know what I mean?’ Susan asks. John stares at her. He signals that she should let me continue. ‘Sorry, go on Mira or is it A-mira?’ she glares at me with wide eyes.

‘Amira,’ I smile.

‘Sorry.’ Heat flashes to Susan’s cheeks.

‘Lately, I feel more and more frustrated. Mum’s condition worsened. She won’t let me help her in the bathroom. She doesn’t want my help showering. She shuts the door right in my face when I try to.’ I am trying to follow Meena’s advice, I’m trying to open up. It does feel cathartic. ‘She often walks around wearing her nightgown. Sometimes for days because she refuses to get changed. Drawers are left open, clothes will be on the floor. She stopped wearing underwear, says she can’t find any. But I always find them stuffed underneath her pillow.’ I stop myself from saying more. Looking around, I realise I don’t need to reveal the reasons why Mum does what she does. They understand. They’ve been down that road.

‘How are you helping your mum overcome some of these issues?’ asks John.

‘I smile when I speak. I try to remain calm. But it’s not easy.’

Meena says Smile and the world smiles with you. I’d heard this quote before. I can’t remember how it feels to be truly happy, or the last time I really smiled. I don’t know if Mum and I feel anything for one another. Love, hate, disgust even.

‘And what are some of the things you do that could improve her memory?’

‘I’m helping her do Life Story Work, which helps her recognise her past. I’ve hung pictures of us in her bedroom. I plan to put up more. Perhaps a picture of my dad and my son. Mum doesn’t remember them. I also want to write down her favourite foods and music. Perhaps familiar places she feels connected to. Anything to evoke her memories from the past. She can’t remember what happens day to day. Isn’t able to grasp time, as in, when things have happened. Mum refers to today and yesterday as the other day. And any the other day is the same. I want to give her a journal. She likes to write things down. Likes reading. I want Mum to use it so that she doesn’t have to repeat everything. Even the smallest things she writes on her hand.’

‘What does she like reading?’ asks John.

I pause, blow at the surface of my tea before I take a sip. He offers me a biscuit, which I take.

‘The newspaper. She is obsessed with reading it. Mum doesn’t watch the news on telly, and I know it’s because she can’t recall anything she sees blinking on the screen. But I can’t drive to town to get her the daily newspaper, I simply don’t have the time for it. The Inverness Courier is biweekly. She’ll read it and highlight all the headlines in yellow marker, often. She’s searching for a fictional story about a young girl she says went missing—’

‘Me dad cuts papers,’ the heavy man sitting on the far left of the room says. ‘Newspapers, letters, cards. You name it, he keeps all the scraps and bits.’ He coughs. ‘He don’t live with me and me family no more. It’s his carer who tells me he won’t stop cutting things.’

‘Anything else you want to share with us Amira?’ John rolls the ‘r’ in my name as if he knows me well already. I feel like he’s giving me special attention. Perhaps it’s because I am new.

‘Mum likes food. She used to be a wonderful cook, but I can’t let her do the grocery shopping. She forgets things and buys too much, and it goes to waste. We’ve also had incidents where she picked food up from the store and started eating it right there and then. So I try to go during her afternoon naps. That’s the only time I have to get things done around the house. She always wants to know what we’re eating. Refuses to eat takeaway. Insists she has to do the cooking herself. We’ve had some minor accidents in the kitchen. Nothing serious. I wouldn’t allow her in there cooking on her own.’

‘I try not to leave Mother alone anywhere around the house,’ says the woman with short blonde hair. ‘She empties Nutella out of the jar with a spoon and then there’s the honey pot—’

‘Thank you, Bridget,’ says John. ‘For sharing that with us. Shall we, um, let Amira continue where she left off?’ He sends me an approving nod.

‘I no longer ask Mum what she wants for her meals. I give her what I know she needs, even when she refuses to eat what I plate in front of her. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes I find that she makes her own meals when I am not around. She goes to the shop without my knowledge. Once, she left the shopping in the back of the car. I’ve had to throw meat away several times because she leaves it out for too long. I want to stop buying it. I want Mum to eat more vegetables.’

‘She’s forgotten how to cook, hasn’t she?’ asks Susan.

I nod. ‘Yes, she no longer remembers the recipes.’

‘My mum does something similar,’ says the man I took to be in his forties. ‘Once, she woke up early, took all the meat out from the freezer and left it on the counter, where it sat for the whole day. She said she wanted to prepare Christmas dinner for the family. I said to her, Christmas isn’t due for another six months. She didn’t believe me. I get that a lot and—’

‘Thank you, Tom, for sharing your insights.’ John looks back over at me.

I go quiet. Look down at my thumbs and twirl them round and round.

‘I appreciate coming here today to share my experiences. Caring for Mum the past couple of years has been hard. And it’s getting harder. I’m not sure how long I can manage to look after her. I’m terrified that some day something will go wrong.’

‘What do you think might happen?’ John grabs a biscuit for himself. ‘If you were to leave your mother all by herself, is there a risk of danger?’

‘The house is secure. I’ve had fire alarms installed. But I worry she’ll forget what she’s cooking and burn things.’

‘Me dad’s carer makes what he likes. Neeps and tatties. Boiled eggs and toast,’ says the heavy man. ‘But he burns the food when she’s gone and eats all the black bits. He says it’s delicious. I told him it’s dangerous and that he’ll end up causing a fire.’

‘Mum is terrified of causing a fire,’ I say. ‘She’s always been worried about it, ever since I can remember. I contacted her doctor, and spoke to a memory loss clinic that was recommended to me. I told them about Mum’s condition. She should be due for an assessment soon, and one of the nurses said she might be better off living in a care home. I’m not sure I agree with them.’

‘And why is that?’

I shrug. I don’t tell him that in Pakistani culture the children are obliged to care for their parents. That we simply do not put our elders in a care home. It’s considered amoral.

‘My neighbour told me she doesn’t like Mum wandering about the neighbourhood peering into people’s houses. She said, “Why don’t you place her in a care home? It’s where she belongs.” I think she called the social services. They almost took Mum away because she was shouting at pedestrians passing by our house to help put out the fire. People thought she was crazy. Our house has never been on fire. Mum has a phobia of lots of things. Loneliness, losing her jewellery. Fire is also one of them.’

John makes a note in his book of what I’ve just said. ‘Go on, Amira.’ He rolls the ‘r’ again.

‘Earlier this year, I felt more tired than usual. I started to sleep in for an extra hour in the morning. Some days, I could barely get out of bed, let alone take care of Mum. I don’t want her to go into a care home. I can’t afford to put her into one. But I also have to think of what’s best for her. I have to think about her safety.’ I look over at Susan. ‘I would never be able to forgive myself should anything happen to her.’ She nods.

John thanks me, says I shouldn’t worry. There’s help if I need it. And I can tell by the look on his face that he thinks I need it.

I fold my hands and place them in my lap. I can’t finish my tea. It’s cold anyway. So is the room. Everyone is staring at me. No one says a word. I don’t think they expected me to say this much on day one.

Before I go, John pulls me aside. He gives me what looks like a leaflet. Ravenswood Lodge Care Home. ‘Speak to them. They are like no other facility. They might be able to help you.’

‘How?’ I ask.

‘They offer grants for special cases,’ he says, before he leaves.

I look at the glossy brochure in my hand. There’s a picture with tall trees and a Victorian house on a cliff top, sleeping like a silent tomb.

I recognise this place. I’ve driven the long route to the rural Highlands, with its curved lanes bouncing over ruts and channels. The loose gravel spraying from beneath the tyres and wearing them out. And the deer, there must be thousands of deer out there in the wilderness roaming free.

One misty morning I remember driving past these large gates and the twisted driveway that leads up to the old manor. Beyond the hedgerows, I caught a glimpse of the sea. There was something beautiful and dangerous about the way the house stood there swallowed by dark woods and quiet hills facing the ocean. Powerful, and with a real presence marked by two tall turrets, it seemed out of my reach. I wondered who could live in a place like this. I imagined a wealthy family, or someone who wanted to live off-grid, undisturbed and in peace.

But now I know it’s just some fancy care home I would never be able to afford to put Mum into, and Mum is not a special case. Just an old woman with dementia.

I flick through the brochure. Happy faces of elderly people selling false hope. Mum wouldn’t be happy living in a care home anyway. I throw it in the bin and walk out of the building. I don’t look back. I feel the guilt creep under my skin.

It was a mistake coming here.

Chapter 10

AFRAH

Wednesday, 20 November 2019

‘Where are we going, Mimi?’

I don’t think Amira is paying any attention to what I’m saying. ‘Are you listening?’

Flurries of rain whirl in the car headlights. She drives off the highway and takes the left lane, long and winding, where the trees stand like burned sticks thrashing against the wind.

‘Huh?’ Fingers clutching the steering wheel, she bites her lip. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Now I am worried. Above us, giant ravens fill the ink-coloured sky in plumes of powerful dark feathers, and a ridge of cold clouds rise above the morning mist. I peer out of the window. There’s no mistaking it, we’re somewhere rural, in the Highlands.

‘Ami, you are going to be so happy where I’m taking you,’ she smiles reassuringly. But behind her smile, my daughter reveals doubt. ‘It’s a beautiful place on the cliffside and close to the sea. You can go for walks and get plenty of fresh air.’

‘What was wrong with the air I was breathing before?’

In my mind, I see her walking by the beach and licking the drop running down her ice cream cone. She collects broken shells.

‘Nothing,’ she smiles again. ‘Wait and see, it’s going to be—’

‘Do you mean we are going on a holiday?’

‘Yes, exactly. It’s like a holiday,’ she laughs. ‘I’m taking you to a safe place, where you can rest. Where you will feel better. Like a hotel.’

She thinks I am not well. Is something wrong with me? Amira believes I am pagal. I know I am not. I bite my nails. She puts her hand onto mine and lowers it.

‘Stop the car!’ I shout out. ‘Can’t you see the dead animal lying in the road?’

She slows down. Brakes to a halt in the middle of the road. Majestic and big, a pair of button-blue eyes glare straight into my soul. The cold blood is so dark, a mucous brown dried on the black tarmac.

‘Poor deer,’ she says. ‘Must have run blindly into the road.’

‘It’s not a deer. It is a stag,’ I tell her. Monarch, to be precise, with sixteen antler points. Nadeem loved walks in nature. He taught me about Scottish wildlife. Eagles, wildcats and red deer.

Amira puts her foot down on the accelerator and turns the wheel. Swinging right around the mud-covered animal, she drives off at full speed. I turn to watch the dead creature shrink in the distance.

‘I heard it on the news,’ she says. There’s a deer problem in the Highlands.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are too many of them, and accidents appear to be normal. Drivers don’t even report them to the road commission. Can’t blame them. You get close to little or no reception out in this isolated part of the Highlands.’

Nadeem and I had looked over at the woods, our bodies in sync with the cold earth beneath us. Ahead of us the grass grew patchy, mingled with weeds and leaves. At the hem of the woods there was a vast wilderness. A space belonging to no man. Only deer. Antlers and large unblinking, curious eyes. Nadeem looked over his shoulder. I think he wanted to say, Look dear, a deer. But there wasn’t just one. Another appeared next to it. And another. A flock. Dozens, and more kept coming. We sat there in silence and watched the herd grow larger with each blink. Must have been hundreds. They just kept coming.

‘As I was saying, Ami. There’s no need for you to feel worried. Did I mention they have a garden, and right next to it there’s a forest and—’

‘What about you?’ I try to make eye contact again, lean in closer. ‘Are you not staying with me at the hotel?’ I put my hand on her shoulder. She jumps, eyes still focused on what’s ahead. A bleak landscape and fallen leaves scattering the pavement The grey getting closer to the mist that we’re driving through.

‘Mimi, answer me.’ She is quiet and I lose my trail of thought. ‘Have you read—’

‘No, nothing has been written about a missing fourteen-year-old girl, OK?’

‘Silly ladki, of course, it was front-page news.’

‘This is crazy,’ she cries. ‘You sure it was front-page news?’

I hesitate before nodding.

Amira glares at me suspiciously. ‘What happened to her?’

I say nothing and glare out the window.

‘Please try to understand. I need to feel well,’ she says. ‘You get that, don’t you? I’m only going to be better when I have some time for myself to recover from—’

I touch her forehead. It’s cold. ‘Mimi, you look pale. Are you sick?’

‘No, not exactly,’ Amira’s expression fills with worry. ‘Ami, it’s important you try to remember what I’m about to say. Maybe write it down in your black diary, so you don’t forget we spoke about it, OK?’

Amira knows about my diary. Has she read the blue and yellow bookmarked pages? Or the grey bookmarked pages? Does she know about my memories, about my dreams?

‘Ami, did you hear me?’ Her eyes have turned deep and dark like a cave. ‘Please, it’s very important.’

‘What did you say we spoke about?’ Amira’s face is clouded with something else. Something she isn’t telling me.

‘This new home I am taking you to. It is going to be so good for you.’

‘What home? I thought it was a hotel?’ Safe, rest, feel better. The words jumble inside my hea. . .