Bad Blood by Aline Templeton Page B

remember everything.’ Marnie stated it as a fact.
    ‘Oh, I’m sure you have a very good memory.’ Anita achieved a light laugh. ‘But nobody actually remembers everything.’
    ‘I do. I mean it. I have something called hyperthymesia.’
    She’d never heard of it. Was it a case for ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Congratulations’? She raised her eyebrows.
    ‘I told you – I remember everything,’ Marnie repeated. ‘That’s what it is. It’s a condition that means I have complete recall of everything that’s ever happened to me.’
    Anita stared at her.
Everything?
Surely that had to be nonsense. Please, that was nonsense. She couldn’t possibly – but now she was proving that she could.
    ‘Would you like me to tell you what you were wearing that time you and Mum took me shopping in Dumfries? You had on jeans and a pink mohair sweater. Your stilettos were cream-coloured with peep-toes and the varnish on your toenails was pink but your fingernails were red. You had a glass pendant with a rose sort of drawn on it.’
    The etched crystal pendant was lying in a drawer upstairs. Her expression seemed to amuse Marnie; she gave a harsh laugh and said, ‘I can view it like a film, you see. Want any more? You said to my mother, “That so-called sale was just cheap rubbish bought in—”’
    ‘No, no, that’s enough,’ Anita said. She could feel the hairs rising on the back of her neck. If the child had remembered all that, what else might she have remembered?
    Marnie wasn’t a child any more, though, and the disconcerting woman she had become was studying her with her mother’s ice-blue eyes and a cool, measuring look that was all her own.
    ‘So I remember the man in the photograph, right? Drax, my mother called him. I didn’t call him anything. What’s his name?’
    Anita moistened her lips. ‘Daniel Lee.’ When was the last time she’d said that aloud?
    ‘So why Drax?’
    ‘Oh, it was just a stupid joke among us kids. He was allergic to garlic so we called him Dracula, Drax for short, and it stuck, somehow. Silly, really.’ She gave a little, self-conscious laugh. ‘He was just this guy your mum and I both knew from when we were at school, that’s all. Nothing sinister. I’m sorry if I made some sort of mystery out of it – I just thought it wasn’t likely you would have remembered him.’
    That was better. She’d managed to sound calmer, more relaxed.
    ‘Was he my father?’
    That threw her again. ‘H-how would I know?’ she stammered. ‘What did your mother tell you?’ Then, with sudden inspiration, ‘Why don’t you ask her about it?’
    Marnie’s eyes widened. ‘You mean – she’s still alive? Where is she?’
    ‘Don’t you know?’
    She saw the animation die out of Marnie’s face. ‘I never saw her again after I was injured that night at the cottage and was taken into care. I was hoping you might know what happened afterwards.’
    Anita gave a little shrug. ‘I didn’t even know you’d had an accident, dear. All I know is that I tried to phone your mother and when I got no answer I went out to the cottage. There were police tapes around it and no one was there so I tried to find out what was going on, but the police wouldn’t tell me anything.’
    She spread her hands wide. ‘I’m so sorry. It must have been very upsetting for you and I just wish I could be of more help.’
    ‘I … see.’
    Struggling with disappointment, Marnie looked much more vulnerable now, younger than her years and more like the child Anita remembered. Struggling not to wince at a piercing shaft of shame, she said, ‘It’s all a long time ago now, of course. It must have been very hard on you, but you’ve obviously made your own life. Where are you living now?’
    Again, Marnie refused to be deflected. ‘Maybe you can’t tell me what happened then. You can tell me what’s wrong here now, though.You know – I saw it in your face. Why did that woman try to attack me?’
    How could she tell her? A