The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (24 page)

‘You should go.’ I feel as though I could sleep for a week.

He stands. ‘I am sorry, Grace. For everything.’

I nod. ‘I know.’

‘But you’re wrong about one thing.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve gone through life thinking you needed me. That you couldn’t cope if I were to leave you, like your dad did, like Charlie. But it doesn’t matter how anxious you get or how afraid you feel, you keep going. You never give up. It wasn’t you that needed me, Grace. It was me that needed you. You’re the strong one. You can do anything. You’ve got to stop blaming yourself. None of it was your fault.’

His words slap me and I feel dizzy as he opens the arms I once never wanted to leave. I step into them and inhale his Dan-scent. It’s over and we both know it. Memories of us will dwindle and fade until Dan becomes just a boy I once knew.

‘Friends?’ he whispers into my hair.

‘Maybe.’

Tears blur my eyes as I watch Dan slouch down the street until he disappears from view. My mobile vibrates and I half hope it’s him, asking if he can come back, until I remember that he doesn’t know I have a new phone. It’s a text from Lexie and I slide my thumb right to display it.

‘Urgent – I’m in hospital – can u come?’

W
e could be anywhere
as we rumble through the midnight-blue countryside. I peer out of the train window but all I can see is my pale, worried face reflected back at me. I lace my fingers together on my lap, try to relax.

Lexie was agitated when I called her, said she’d fallen down the stairs but was OK, just anxious to be discharged. Her neighbours heard her screaming – her lodger was away – and they called an ambulance. She said she’s already fed up of the ‘bleedin’ nurses fussing round’, and the ‘bleedin’ scratchy hospital gown’, and having ‘nothing to bleedin’ do’. She said she has something important to tell me but is insistent that she talks to me face to face. It’s about Charlie, she said. Visiting hours will be long over by the time I get back, but despite my wheedling, she wouldn’t give anything away on the phone, said she’d see me tomorrow at ten o’clock.

I ring Grandad from the train to tell him I’m on my way home but he doesn’t reply. Minutes later I get a text. ‘
We can’t talk, our voices have disappeared. We’re tucked up in bed x
’

I reply: ‘
Do you need anything? x
’

‘
No, having a hot toddy, we’re going to go to sleep soon x
’

‘
Night xx
’

I decide not to tell them I’m coming back. It doesn’t matter how poorly she feels, Grandma would get up and change sheets, bake a cake most likely. I’ll let them rest and call in to see them tomorrow. It’ll be a nice surprise. The cottage sounds habitable, anyway. The downstairs is finished. Grandad’s been overseeing the decorating, chivvying along the men as they clean and paint. Project manager, he calls himself. Grandma packs him off each morning with a Tupperware stuffed full of scones and flapjacks to placate the workmen.

I rest my head back, close my eyes, feel my body vibrating to the rhythm of the train. I can understand why children are lulled to sleep by moving vehicles. It only seems like seconds later that my head jerks upright as though I’ve received a small electric shock. The train is motionless. I wipe my mouth, hope I haven’t been dribbling, stretch, and recognise the station sign outside the train window.

‘Shit.’ I grab my bag, stumble down the steps. Home. I zip my jacket up, huddle on a bench and call for a cab.

There’s always noise at Esmée’s flat: the whirring of the dryers below; traffic whizzing past the window – even in the dead of night there’s the sound of sirens; lads on their way home, hollering at each other, dribbling empty cans down the road. The village, in contrast, is still and silent, as if a zombie apocalypse has taken place and all the residents have fled. Most of the houses are in darkness.

It’s late but I’m not tired and I ask the cab driver to drop me at Lexie’s. If the key’s still hidden in the same place, I can pick up her nightgown and toiletries, some of the trashy magazines she pores over, take them with me when I visit. The torch on my phone illuminates Brian the gnome, dull and chipped, forever grimacing as he fishes. Weeds have grown around his base and I yank hard to dislodge him. The silver Yale key is still underneath and I turn the cold metal over in my hand before unlocking the door.

I flick the light switch – dust motes dance under the weak electric bulb – and trudge straight up the stairs. The door to Charlie’s room is ajar and I resist the temptation to peek my head in, mindful that it’s now someone else’s space. Lexie’s room has hardly changed: clothes are still strewn over every surface, much as they had been when we used to play dress-up in here. I remember Charlie wriggling into a Lycra mini skirt and bra top, stuffing the cups with toilet tissue.
Look at me, dah-ling, I’m fabulous.
I wait for the sting of tears, for the lump in my throat – but instead, find myself smiling at the memory.

A tiny black silk slip trimmed with lace is stuffed under Lexie’s pillow, and I pull open drawers trying to find something more suitable for the hospital; something that will, at least, cover her bottom. The clothes in here are neatly folded, barely worn, and I find a large white T-shirt, ‘
RELAX
’ written across the front in bold black lettering. There’s a hessian bag on the floor and I place the T-shirt inside, add clean underwear and toiletries, the latest copy of
Cosmo
and, because it’s Lexie, a red lipstick and hairbrush. I’m just about to leave, am pulling the door behind me, when I think of slippers. There was nothing by Lexie’s bed and I try to recall whether I’ve ever seen her wearing slippers. I don’t think I have, but I remember Grandma buying her some moccasins one Christmas. I bet they’ve never been worn.

Back upstairs, I slide the doors to the wardrobe open and step back as clothes avalanche from the top shelf. I fold them, stack them neatly and then drop to my knees, looking for the shoebox with the slippers in. There are several boxes at the back and I ease them out, pop lids off. Some of the shoes look brand new: red shiny stripper heels, gold gladiator sandals. I lift the lid from the last box. Papers spring up and tumble to the ground. I bunch them together, putting them back, when I notice a birth certificate, and smooth it open.

I take care to stick to the original creases as I fold it back up, but then I notice an identical piece of cream paper. I think it must be Lexie’s birth certificate, but as I read the name, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.

The same birth date as Charlie. Annabelle. Belle. She’s real. Charlie’s imaginary friend. Belle.

Annabelle. Belle. Charlie’s sister.

Anna.

Letters scatter over the threadbare carpet as I upend the shoebox. I grab the one nearest to me, pull the paper from the envelope.

I read another.

I feel as though I’m on a fairground ride. My head spins and I can’t properly focus. I sink back onto my heels. Anna. Annabelle. Belle. I call Lexie’s mobile. This can’t wait until morning, but it goes straight to voicemail. I ring the hospital direct. Tell them it’s an emergency, that I need to see Lexie, speak to her at the very least, but when they ask who I am, I stumble and stutter before I hang up the phone in frustration. I should have prepared a story. I never could lie. Not like Lexie.
Not like Anna.

The kitchen smells of rotting food but I don’t care. The table is littered and I sweep piles of unpaid bills, nail varnishes and empty cigarette packets to the floor. An ashtray shatters as it hits the floor; shards of glass scatter like confetti but I don’t clear them up.

The fridge is empty but I find vodka in the freezer. I rinse out a glass, cough as the icy alcohol hits my chest. It’s only when I am halfway down my second glass that I sit, study the postmarks on the envelopes and put the letters into date order. I read the earliest.

The letters are all different. Some are loving, some are pleading, some are hateful. It’s clear that Lexie never replied.

The last letter sends shivers down my spine.

I
shuffled
downstairs in my dressing gown, scooped up the post from the mat. There was a postcard of the Trevi Fountain. I flipped it over:

‘
Back in Rome, can’t keep still! Love you lots, Charlie xxx
’

I’d hung a corkboard in the kitchen especially for the postcards that had arrived regularly over the six years since Charlie left. Each time one arrived, I felt a mixture of relief that she was still alive and fury that she never came back. The cards were piled on top of each other and the pins struggled to hold them in place. Often, I found them strewn all over the kitchen floor.

I hadn’t seen her since we were eighteen. I’d never found out why she left, or what she had done that she wanted forgiveness for, but I followed her progress as she flitted from country to country, always going somewhere and not quite real to me any more. It was nice to be able to look forward to the post. The threatening letters had stopped once Charlie had left. I tried not to think about that too carefully. Tried not to jump to conclusions.
Look at the facts
, my old counsellor Paula would say. Siobhan’s parents had moved away straight after her funeral. Took Abby somewhere remote. Somewhere they thought they could keep her safe. Was there such a place?

I sprinkled porridge oats into a pan, added milk. A proper breakfast to face the challenge today would bring. While it bubbled, I swished open the curtains in the lounge. Picked up Dan’s empty Foster’s cans and pizza box. The porridge steamed and I stirred in blueberries, poured orange juice and took my breakfast to the pergola outside. August had been dismal but September had brought an Indian summer. The sky was aquamarine blue and the clouds were white and fluffy. There was a slight breeze today; I’d be glad of that later.

‘I’m off.’

Dan stuck his head outside the French doors.

‘I didn’t think you’d go today?’

‘I always play on a Saturday.’

‘I thought you’d come and support me.’

‘I've sponsored you, haven’t I? How often do you come to a match any more?’

‘Maybe if I wasn’t so busy cleaning up after you…’

‘Don’t start this again,’ Dan sighed.

I clattered my spoon into my bowl and swept past him. ‘See you later, then.’

He scuttled out the front door before my tears fell.

My legs felt leaden as I clumped up the stairs. This constant bickering Dan and I had fallen into was exhausting. Would it have been different if Charlie had stayed or would she had been driven away by our fighting? I supposed that even if she’d stayed it didn’t mean she’d still be living with us. By now, she might have met someone and got married. It was hard to think of Charlie being married. Of being anything except the eighteen-year-old girl who loved to stand on the pub stool, waving a bottle of Bulmers cider around as she sang along to Madonna, Mike shouting at her to get her mucky feet off his upholstery. The pain was sharp when I thought Charlie had a whole life I’d never be a part of. A new best friend, most probably.

It took three attempts to hoist up the sash window in the bedroom. When I did, I stuck my head outside, letting the warm breeze ruffle my hair. It was the hottest September for years. I remembered the last one. We’d been due back at school but instead Charlie, Esmée, Siobhan and I had sat in the woods, dangling our feet in the stream, pooling our packed lunches. It had felt so daring to skip school, and even though Grandma had found out and grounded me for two weeks, I’d thought I could do anything with the support of the others.

Now, with Siobhan dead, Charlie god knows where, and Esmée living in London, there was only me, and I found I wasn’t so brave after all. Often, I had thought I could pack a rucksack. Go to the places on the postcards Charlie sent. Try to find her. But I knew I wouldn’t. Too scared I wouldn’t find her. Too scared I would. Besides, there was Dan, and underneath the sniping about leaving the cap off the toothpaste, the grumbling that the toilet seat was left up again, I did love him and I hoped he felt the same.

The shower was cool, and afterwards, I lathered my summer-dry skin with lavender shower gel, shaved my legs. I didn’t always bother shaving any more, but they’d be on display today. My T-shirt smelled of fabric softener as I pulled it over my damp hair. I looped a scrunchie around my wrist for later, and headed out towards the village green.

Grandma, Grandpa and Mum were already sat behind a rickety trestle table, handing numbers out to a queue of runners. I was pleased Mum had come. She was so happy with Oliver it seemed sometimes she’d forgotten Dad, but when I’d told her of my plan she’d been thrilled and said she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

‘Morning. It’s a good turnout already.’ I shaded my eyes as I scanned the green.

‘Fifty registered so far. Who’d have thought the first village games would draw such a crowd? It was a fantastic idea, Grace.’

‘Thanks. I think the beer tent might help. I’m glad Lexie’s singing later.’ Lexie’s hostility had softened over the years and we were uneasy friends. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.

‘It’ll be great. Where’s Dan?’

‘Football. He’ll be here later.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back.

* * *

T
he bark
of the oak tree was coarse against my palms as I leaned forward, stretching out my hamstrings. A hand tapped my shoulder and I straightened up.

‘Grace?’ The voice was soft. I stared at the trunk as adrenaline raced around my body
. It can’t be
. I didn’t dare look.

‘Grace?’

I slowly turned.

Charlie’s mouth turned upwards but her eyes didn’t light up, her skin didn’t crinkle. Tiny shorts hung from her hips, and collarbones jutted out beneath her vest top.

A grubby pink rucksack thunked to the floor. ‘Ta-da!’ She fluttered jazz hands. Her smile slipped. ‘Say something.’

I opened my mouth and closed it again.

‘A hug, at least?’ She stepped forward, opened her arms. I could feel her heart thudding, her ribs pressing against me. Her body juddered; the shoulder of my T-shirt was sodden. I pushed her away harder than I needed to.

‘Why did you go?’ I dug my nails into my palms. Tried to lower my voice. ‘Not one bloody phone call…’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘I’m listening.’ I crossed my arms.

‘I’ll explain everything. I promise. I’ve missed you.’

‘You disappeared without telling me. Ran off the minute Siobhan died.’ My hands twitched and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to slap her or hug her.

‘Didn’t know what to say.’

‘You couldn’t think of anything in the last six years?’

‘The longer I left it, the harder it got.’

‘The first race, the 200 metres, will begin in five minutes.’ Grandad sounded like a Dalek over the speaker system.

‘I’ve got to go. Look,’ I said, softening, ‘will you stay and watch? We’ll talk properly after. Your mum’s singing later. Does she know…’

‘No.’ Charlie’s face clouded. ‘But look.’ She gestured towards the crowd. ‘It’s a bit of an occasion, isn’t it?’

‘Grandma and I organised it. Didn’t expect it to be quite so popular.’

‘What’s it in aid of?’

‘It’s for charity. For head injuries.’

‘Your dad?’

I nodded. ‘It’s the fifteen-year anniversary soon. You know…’

‘I’ll run with you.’

‘You sure? You look knackered.’

‘I want to, unless you’re scared of the competition?’ Charlie grinned and I couldn’t help grinning too. She was so unmistakably Charlie. Unmistakably back. We’d sort everything out later.

‘Bring it on,’ I said. ‘I’ll even sponsor you.’

At the start line, Charlie and I elbowed our way to the front. I knelt to tie my laces in a double knot. ‘You should do the same,’ I nodded towards her feet. She shook her head and jogged on the spot.

‘Are you back for good?’ I asked

‘I hope so. I never wanted to leave but I felt I had to.’ She bit her lip. ‘I did something terrible, Grace. I hope you can forgive me.’

The starting pistol fired and I pumped my arms and legs as fast as I could, as if I were chasing her words. My ponytail swished against my neck. The sky was cloudless, the air muggy. I could hear the chant of the crowd. I didn’t look. I couldn’t take my eyes off Charlie, afraid she’d disappear before she had explained. What had she done? She was ahead of me. Ignoring the stitch in my side, I urged myself forward.

‘Come on, Grace!’ Grandma’s voice warbled my name, egging me on. The finishing line was ahead. With a final spurt, I lengthened my stride. I was practically level with Charlie now. Another push forward and I’d overtake her. We both reached out our arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her fall. She should have tied her laces properly. My hand swatted the yellow ribbon. I crossed the line, and as I tried to look behind me, I sprawled to the ground. There was a searing pain in my left ankle. Grandad jogged towards me as I whimpered on the grass, my hands massaging my swollen skin, and then past me. I turned. Charlie was lying motionless.

‘Call an ambulance!’ someone screamed, as I stumbled to my feet and limped towards Charlie. It might have been me that screamed.

She was still.

Too still.

Lexie pushed past me. She knelt at her daughter’s side. ‘Charlie? What the fuck?’

Get up. Get up. Get up.

I felt an arm around my shoulder. Dan had come to watch after all. I shook him off, kneeling beside my best friend. The first-aid course the nursery had sent me on momentarily deserted me, but as I checked her pulse, everything came flooding back. I puffed air into her mouth and compressed her chest.
One, two, three, four, five.

‘The ambulance? Where’s the fucking ambulance?’ I could hear Lexie screaming, but still I counted as I breathed into Charlie’s dry lips.
One, two, three, four, five.

Charlie didn’t respond. Her skin was waxy, and despite the heat of the sun she grew cooler. I counted as Lexie sobbed. I counted as Charlie didn’t move. The paramedics came and took over from me and when they eventually stopped and shook their heads I was still counting.