The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (25 page)

I
t’s
two in the morning before I lock Lexie’s front door and stuff the key under the gnome. I scurry through the village, whimpering as a cat darts out from between two parked cars. I see Anna everywhere: behind branches that sway and whisper in the wind; crouching in shadowy bushes; lurking in darkened doorways. I pass through the centre of the village, the street lights less frequent now, and as I reach the outskirts, they disappear completely. I pause at the top of my lane. It stretches out before me like a gaping black mouth. The sky is clouded and I can’t see my cottage. My knees jerk as a bang shoots down the lane like a bullet. I’m about to run away when I hear it again, realise it’s my gate.
Bloody Dan.
My fists furl and unfurl by my sides and I sprint, stumbling over potholes, the carrier bag full of letters bumping against my thighs. I hurl myself at my front door, jab the key towards the lock once, twice, three times – and then I’m in. I slam the door behind me. Lean my back against it as I wait for the burning in my chest to subside.

The fug of fresh paint catches in the back of my throat and I tramp upstairs, crack open the window in my bedroom; it doesn’t smell like home. Grandma has taken down the curtains to clean. My Laura Ashley wallpaper is soot-stained and peeling – the lemon and cream flowers are hardly recognisable – but I barely notice my surroundings as I sit cross-legged on the bare mattress, the coverless duvet draped around my shoulders. I sift through the letters, trying to make sense of the timeline. Anna started writing to Lexie a few weeks after she had turned eighteen. From memory, I think that was around the time Lexie changed. Previously just a social drinker, she had become drunk all the time, snappy and tearful. This was also the time I started getting threatening letters. Were they from Anna?

Anna wrote to Lexie over a period of six months, tried to visit, but then the letters stopped. The letters to me stopped, too. Why? Had Anna met Lexie, met Charlie? Is that why Charlie disappeared?
I’ve done something terrible Grace. Please forgive me
. The words swim together as I try to focus through puffy eyes. I stifle my second yawn in less than a minute, pull on pyjamas that smell of Grandma’s washing powder, topple into bed and snap off the lamps.

When I was small and couldn’t sleep, my dad would perch on the side of my narrow bed, his face glowing orange from my night light, and stroke my hair. ‘Think of ten nice things that have happened today,’ he’d say, and I’d list them one by one, never once letting on that the nicest thing of all was the sense that we were the only two awake in the world, safely cocooned in my sunflower-yellow bedroom.

I feel anything but safe tonight. Despite the exhaustion that has seeped into my bones and the amount of alcohol I have drunk, sleep evades me. I lean over the side of the bed and rummage around for my handbag, pull out my sleeping tablets and shake one out – then think about the day I’ve had and rattle out a second. I hesitate as I read the warning on the bottle, thinking about the amount of vodka I have drunk – more than I’d usually have – but then I toss the tablets onto the back of my tongue and wash them down with the warm dregs from a bottle of Evian I bought at the station. I snuggle down, pulling the quilt tightly around my shoulders, breathing slowly, until sleep claims me.

When Charlie and I were fourteen, my grandparents took us to the Isle of Wight. The wind bit my cheeks and blew my hair into my mouth as I swayed on the deck of the ferry, arms outstretched, licking droplets of salt water from my cherry chapsticked lips. I remember how disorientated I became: there was solidity beneath my feet and it seemed we were barely moving, but I was off balance. Saliva flooded my mouth and Charlie held my hair back as the contents of my stomach rocketed into the frothy slate sea.

For a moment, I think I’m back on that boat. I have the same sense of movement and stillness and I feel nauseous. Soft fingers stroke my hair and hot breath warms my ear. My nostrils inhale the scent of Impulse body spray.

‘Grace,’ soothes a voice.
Charlie?
I know I’m dreaming, and blackness swirls and spins and tugs me under once more.

* * *

L
ight slices
through the windows and I massage my eyelids with my fingertips, trying to rub away the grogginess I feel. The smell of emulsion and gloss is suffocating; I can almost taste the paint. The back of my throat stings and my temples pulse with pain, but there’s another smell wafting into the room and I tell myself I’m mistaken, inhale deeply – but there it is again. Bacon.

I jerk my head off the pillow, push myself to sitting, drawing my knees up to swing my legs out of bed. There is something cool and tight around my right ankle, slowing my movements. Throwing back the quilt, my mouth dries at the sight of an iron cuff, its chain trailing off the end of the bed. I think I must be sleeping still, and dig my nails into the soft flesh of my belly, but I don’t wake up. I spring forward onto my knees and hoist the chain with both hands. It’s heavier than it looks and it clanks as I tug it, but it doesn’t move. It’s hooked through the carvings at the base of my bed frame. There’s a second chain, an identical empty cuff. For my left leg? What’s going on? I reach for my phone but it’s missing; so is my lamp. I lean over the bed and my head spins. My handbag has gone too.

Footsteps thud up the stairs and the bedroom door swings open.

‘Morning, Grace.’ Anna sashays into the room carrying a breakfast tray, except she doesn’t quite look like Anna any more. Her hair is white-blonde, shorter, bobbed. She’s wearing Charlie’s orange tie-dye T-shirt and, despite the freezing temperatures, her tiny white denim shorts. She looks just like the Charlie in the photograph downstairs.

I scramble backwards, pressing my spine against the headboard.

‘The orange juice is freshly squeezed, just the way you like it. There’s brown sauce in the sandwich.’

Terror has lodged in my throat and I try to scream, but whimper instead like a tormented puppy.

‘Are you OK? You had a late night. You really shouldn’t take these.’ She rattles my tablet pot. ‘It’s not a natural sleep.’

Anna sets the tray down on the floor and as she leans forward, I notice my missing chain with the two broken half-hearts swinging from her neck, glinting in the light.

‘You fucking bitch.’ Fury shoves fear aside and I lunge towards her, but my reactions are dulled, clumsy and I’m too slow. Anna sidesteps to the door. The chain rattles, tightens, and I howl as I fall to the floor next to my breakfast, the metal cuff biting into my skin, the carpet grazing my knees. The smell of bacon makes me gag and I vomit over the tray.

‘That’s fucking ungrateful,’ Anna snaps and sweeps out of the room, leaves the door open as she clatters down the stairs.

I remain on my knees, resting forward on my elbows, until the room stops spinning and I sit back, wipe my mouth with my sleeve. I clasp the chain with both hands and yank as hard as I can until my shoulders burn in their sockets, but the solid pine bedstead my grandparents bought as our house-warming present doesn’t move. Dan had wanted a faux-leather one where the TV rises up like flotsam at the touch of a button – he’d seen one on MTV’s
Cribs
– but I’d thought it tacky, out of place in our cottage. Now I wish I’d listened to him. I wish he were here. I try the cuff instead, find the join and strain to prise it apart, wincing as I rip my nail to the quick.

Nausea rises again and I drop my head onto my knees. My breathing is too rapid, too shallow, as I wonder whether Anna will come back. I’m petrified she will. I’m petrified she won’t. I force myself to calm down. Footsteps pound back up the stairs and the ball of dread inside me grows.

‘Here.’ Anna rolls a beige bucket towards me. Grains of sand spill out onto the carpet. Dan laughed at me for keeping a fire bucket outside the back door, but the plumes of smoke generated as he cremated hot dogs and burgers made me nervous.

‘Don’t say you haven’t got a pot to piss in,’ Anna cackles and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. ‘You can clean up your mess, too.’ A roll of black sacks begins to unravel as it flies through the air, landing with a thump next to the tray.

‘Anna, this is crazy. Unlock me and then we can talk.’ I keep my tone calm and measured, blink back tears and try to stretch my mouth into something resembling a smile.

‘I’ll be happy to.’ Anna reaches into the pocket of her jeans, pulls out a silver key and dangles it in front of her. ‘As soon as we’ve sorted things out. We’ve got off to a bad start but I want us to be friends, Grace. Sisters, even. Family’s important, don’t you think?’

‘Yes.’ In this moment I’d agree to anything. ‘We can start again. Be friends. Just unlock me.’

‘I can’t yet.’

‘You can. There’s no harm done. I know it was a mistake about Mittens. It’s fine, really…’ The words stream from me. I can’t stop babbling.

‘It isn’t just about Mittens though, is it, Grace? It’s about you stealing my life.’

‘I don’t…’

‘It should have been me growing up with Charlie, not you.
Me!
’ She thumps her chest and I shrink back.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You will be.’

‘I’ll scream if you don’t let me go.’

‘Go ahead.’ Anna crosses her arms.

‘Help! Help!’

I yell until my throat smarts and I’m drenched in sweat. My cries get weaker until they’re replaced with the sound of rasping as I pant with exertion.

‘Finished?’ Anna’s mouth twists into a smile. ‘Who do you think’s going to hear you? It’s Saturday, there are no workmen coming. Mrs Jones is in hospital. No one ever just walks past here. I thought you wanted to be friends?’

‘I do,’ I whisper.

‘If you want to be friends, you have to make amends.’

‘How?’

‘You’ll see.’ Anna spins on her heel and walks away.

‘Anna,’ I croak. ‘Come back.’ But I am alone.

I
contemplate my options
. The chain won’t reach the window. I can scream all day, but Anna’s right, no one will hear me. The lane doesn’t lead anywhere. No one ever just passes by.

What am I going to do?
I swallow hard; my mouth tastes sour. My hand is shaking as I pick up the orange juice, rotate my wrist in tiny circles and check the liquid for vomit as it sloshes around the cup. It seems to be OK and I take a sip, swoosh it around my mouth as though I have just cleaned my teeth, and spit it back out again. There’s no way I’m actually drinking anything. It’s probably full of ground nuts. My bladder is full already and I’m not pissing in a bucket.

I examine the cup: green and plastic, it’s usually wedged at the back of the cupboard in case friends with young children visit. My sandwich is on one of the paper plates we keep stacked in the pantry for impromptu barbecues. Anna has used the flimsy plastic tray from the greenhouse – I usually stand seedlings on it – rather than risk the heavy silver-plated one that I dust off when we have visitors. There is nothing heavy or sharp. Nothing I can use as a weapon. Did Anna know I’d be home this weekend? She can’t have, unless…

Unless Lexie’s accident wasn’t an accident.

How long will it be before anyone misses me? Before anyone finds me? The workmen will be here on Monday. I’m not exactly going to starve to death. What has Anna got planned?

I can’t let myself imagine.
Deal with the facts in front of you, one at a time,
Paula, my old counsellor would say. And I try, but I feel like I’m on a waltzer at the fair, spinning round and round. I press my palms hard into my eye sockets.
Think, Grace.
I stand. Blood rushes to my head and I splay out my hands as I sway. I step forward with my left foot, drag my right, see how far I can go, wondering whether I can reach my drawers, find something to help me. The chain tightens, the cuff rubs against my bone, jerking me backwards. I try lying on my front, elbows digging into the carpet, and inch forward as far as I can. If I could just reach the bottom drawer. I stretch out my fingers, but I’m still nowhere near.

I crawl back onto the bed. I examine the cuff, point my toes and try to slide it from my ankle. I wonder where it has come from, remember that Anna has read
Fifty Shades of Grey
, and shudder. I thrust the cold metal towards my heel again and again until my skin is split and blood drips onto my mattress. There’s no way it’ll fit past my ankle bone. I shiver as I remember Charlie and me watching
Misery
on video after school one day. I’d hidden my face behind a cushion as Kathy Bates smashed a sledgehammer into James Caan’s feet. ‘You can hear the bones cracking,’ Charlie had squealed.

My head drops onto my knees. I run my fingers through my hair, pull out the scrunchie I’d been too tired to remove last night. A hairgrip drops to the mattress and hope swells. I pounce on it, manipulate the metal until it’s straight. I struggle to keep my hand still as I insert the grip into the lock of the cuff, slide it around.
C’mon
. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Try again. I’ve seen this in the movies so many times. How hard can it be? My bicep burns with the effort of keeping my arm still, my hand steady, but there’s no click. The cuff doesn’t spring open.

I run my fingers down the chain until I reach the bedstead, trace the carvings with my fingers. I wobble the wood where the chain is looped through. It’s not as solid as the legs; the carvings are the bed’s weak point. I might be able to break the wood. I shuffle back up the bed. Lying on my back, arms by my sides, I pull up my knees and take a deep breath as though I’m preparing for a yoga move. I straighten my legs, smashing my feet into the wood, and I scream as pain radiates into my hip sockets.

I think I might be sick again. The wood hasn’t cracked, isn’t even splintered. I roll onto my side, wait for the nausea to pass; strain my ears, waiting for footsteps to bang up the stairs, but the cottage is silent. The only discernible sound is my heart hammering against my chest. I place both hands over it as if it is a frightened animal I can soothe. I draw my knees up, curling into a ball. I’m not sure whether it’s stress or the after-effects of the alcohol and sleeping tablets, but my eyelids flutter and close and I fall into a restless sleep.

* * *

T
he electric light
is dull through the smoke-stained shade but it still wakes me and I blink rapidly, curl up into a ball.

‘I’ve made dinner.’ Anna has placed the tray by the side of the bed and stepped back before I’ve even sat up.

‘Anna,’ I croak. It’s painful to talk. My throat’s raw from all the screaming. ‘Please let me go.’

‘It’s pasta,’ Anna says, as if I haven’t even spoken.

‘What do you want? How did you know I was here?’

‘I was at Lexie’s last night, sleeping in Charlie’s room. I followed you back.’

‘Lexie gave you a key to her house?’

‘No. The neighbour let me in. I told her I was Lexie’s niece. She said the family resemblance is striking.’ Anna fluffs the bottom of her hair. ‘What do you think? It seems short to me.’

‘I think you’re crazy. Let me go.’ I tug weakly at the chain.

‘Not yet.’

‘Grandad’s expecting me for dinner tonight,’ I bluff. ‘He’ll know something’s wrong if I don’t turn up.’

‘Really?’

I nod.

‘Funny, that.’ She pulls my mobile out of her pocket. ‘As he’s in bed ill, and he thinks you’re still in London.’

‘Esmée…’

‘Thinks you’re at your grandparents’.’ Anna waves my mobile. ‘Look, you even sent her a text to say you got there safely. Aren’t you the considerate one? Now, eat your dinner before it gets cold. And clean your mess up. It stinks in here.’

‘Anna. Anna. Please!’

‘SHUT UP!’ she roars, and slams the door behind her. I tremble as I listen as her footsteps fade away.

My bladder feels like the water balloons we used to throw at school: too full and ready to explode. I look at the bucket and begin to cry with frustration, but I don’t have any choice. I step out of bed. I’m not sure whether it’s exhaustion or fear making my legs shake, but I have to sit before I can wrench down my pyjama bottoms and squat over the bucket. Sweat pricks at my skin as I release a stream of urine into the plastic and I vow never to tell anybody about this – then wonder whether I’ll ever see anyone again to tell. I jerk my pyjamas back up and lie back on the bed, sobbing into my pillow so Anna doesn’t hear.

* * *

I
t’s
unfathomable that I slept again but I must have, because when I wake, the moon shimmers high in the sky. I’m glad I don’t have curtains, because I can see the twinkling stars, notice how beautiful the world is. There’s a growling in my stomach and I realise I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. I pick up the plastic bowl of pasta, and fork cold fusilli and congealed cheese into my dry mouth. The toilet flushes in the bathroom next door and my throat suddenly closes up. I drop the bowl onto the floor and huddle under my duvet as if a layer of cotton and feathers can protect me. It’s awful not to feel safe in my own room and I wonder if I’ll have to move after this. If there’ll be an after this – and I shake the thought away. Urge myself to stay positive. Anna has to let me go, doesn’t she?