The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (3 page)

I
hopped
from one foot to the other, rubbing my arms as I peered down the road waiting for Charlie to appear. She was coming to tea. I’d thought very carefully when Grandma suggested I invite a friend home at the end of my first week at school. Esmée was lovely, Siobhan more guarded but still nice, even Dan had been OK with me after the first day, but there was already a strong bond between Charlie and me. No one had ever stood up for me before; hadn’t really needed to, I supposed.

‘You’ll let all the heat out,’ grumbled Grandma from the hallway.

I pulled the front door closed behind me but remained on the step, standing on tiptoes each time I heard a car. But when Charlie appeared, twenty minutes late, she was walking alone.

I ushered her through the front door. ‘We’ll go upstairs to my room.’

‘Not with shoes on, young lady, you know the rules.’ Grandma bustled into the hallway, wiping floury hands on her apron.

My scalp prickled with embarrassment as Charlie kicked off her faded blue trainers. Grandma picked them up and placed them on the shoe rack, clicking her tongue as she noticed the soles were almost worn through at the toes. Charlie and I thundered upstairs and flopped onto my bed.

‘What do you want to do?’

I still hadn’t properly unpacked. In the corner of my room were boxes of games and books. Charlie walked over and picked up Mousetrap, and shook the box. The contents rattled inside.

‘Here.’ She passed me it and I popped off the lid. It wasn’t one of my favourites, some of the pieces were too fiddly.

‘How come you live with your grandparents?’

I’d been expecting the question but still felt unprepared for it. ‘My parents can’t look after me. What colour mouse do you want?’ I held out my hand.

Charlie took the green one and looked at me steadily. ‘Why not?’

‘They’re dead.’ The lie lodged in my throat and I picked up the pink plastic beaker of Ribena that Grandma had put in my room, and gulped it down as though I could wash my words away, screwing my nose up at the syrupy sweetness.

‘Dead?’ Charlie’s forehead creased.

‘Yes.’

‘How did they die?’

‘I think I’ll be blue.’ I tossed the other mice back into the box. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s just Mum and me. I used to get so lonely I had an imaginary friend.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, her name was Belle. She’d whisper to me to do naughty things and Mum would go mad and shout, and Belle would laugh when I got into trouble. I got a Barbie for Christmas once and Belle made me cut off her hair and paint nail varnish over her face. She was fun though, too.’

‘Did you name her after Belle in
Beauty and the Beast
?’

‘Suppose. I grew out of her though, like I grew out of Disney.’

‘Me too.’ I hoped Charlie wouldn’t open the box with my videos in. I’d been a bit princess obsessed until recently. I’d grown up now, though, after what had happened with my parents. Anyone would have.

‘You’re lucky to have grandparents.’

‘I know. Don’t you have any?’

‘Nah. Mum says we don’t need anyone else. It’s me and her against the rest of the bleedin’ world. But we’ve got each other now, haven’t we? You and me are the same, with no dads. We’ll be best friends.’

Charlie reached for her coat and pulled out a Kit Kat. She slid off the paper and scored the foil with her thumb before snapping it in two and holding out half. I took it gratefully.

‘Let’s play Mousetrap – you’ll be much more fun than Belle, even if I’m not guaranteed a win.’ Charlie grinned and shook the die. ‘And smile! You, me, Siobhan and Esmée, we’ll be like a little family at school. I’ll make sure of it.’

We were deep into Mousetrap and it was Charlie’s turn to play when Grandma tapped at the door. Flour from her hands dusted the carpet. She rubbed it in with the toe of her slipper.

‘Phone, Grace.’

‘Don’t cheat, Charlie. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Downstairs, Grandma disappeared into the kitchen. I picked up the receiver and twisted the telephone wire round and round my finger, listening to the static on the other end. I didn’t speak. I already knew who was there and I had nothing to say.

‘Grace? Grace?’ Mum’s voice sounded far away and I slammed the phone down.

‘That was quick?’ Grandma called as I stamped back upstairs.

‘We were cut off,’ I shouted.

Charlie handed me the die as I sat down again. ‘Who was on the phone?’

‘No one,’ I said, crossing my fingers. ‘There was nobody there.’

I
lie awake all night
, wondering why Lexie told Grandma she wanted to see me. I yo-yo between thinking she might apologise for her behaviour at Charlie’s funeral, to convincing myself she wants to kill me. My mind buzzes like a hive of bees, busy and noisy, and by the time the sun rises, tingeing the sky a fiery red, I’ve drunk three cups of tea and still haven’t decided whether to see her.

I know Lexie stopped singing in the local pub, and is rarely seen in public at all now except at the supermarket, pushing a trolley containing more alcohol than food. Dan thinks her unhinged – he did even before her behaviour at the funeral – Grandma’s more compassionate. ‘She shouldn’t have spoken to you the way she did,’ she said. ‘But people grieve in different ways.’

By the time I arrive at work I’m exhausted and puffy-eyed.

‘Morning, Grace.’ My boss, Lyn, is always cheerful. ‘Ready for the onslaught?’ Lyn unlocks the front door and holds it open, greeting each parent and toddler by name.

A sea of children floods into the cloakroom, trailed by weary mothers, stamping booted feet and shaking umbrellas. Droplets of rain pool on the floor. I make a mental note to remember to mop, or someone may slip. Emily dashes over and wraps her arms around my knees. I shouldn’t have favourites, and I do love all the kids, but I have an extra-special bond with Emily. I unzip her raincoat and ease it off her shoulders, revealing a pink
Dora the Explorer
shirt underneath.

‘Morning, Sarah,’ I say. Emily’s mum looks pale, violet smudges under her eyes. ‘How are you?’

‘Tired. This little one was screaming all night.’ She rocks the pram. I peep at the sleeping baby splayed out like a starfish, hands bunched into fists. ‘I’ve been struggling to sleep anyway, since…’ Her eyes meet mine above Emily’s head, and I know she means since Greg left. Sarah warned us several weeks ago that Emily might be unsettled, missing her father. Sarah kicked him out after catching him in bed with his secretary, a cliché that until then I had never quite believed actually happened.

‘I’m off for a nap anyway,’ Sarah continues, ‘before she wakes.’ She plants a kiss on the top of Emily’s blonde hair and walks towards the door, one hand pushing the pram, the other pulling her hood up.

I spend a happy morning at the arts and craft table, observing the children creating their glittery masterpieces, utterly absorbed in what they’re doing.

‘Look, Grace.’ Emily pushes a piece of paper in front of me, depicting two stick figures. Blue paint drips onto my black trousers.

‘It’s beautiful, Emily. Is that you and Lily?’

‘Yes.’

‘It must be fun having a sister?’

‘No. She cries all the time. Mummy says when she’s bigger she’ll be more ’tresting.’

I smile at her mispronunciation. ‘I’m sure she’ll be very interesting.’ I peg the sopping paper onto the washing line above the table. ‘Mummy will love it. It should be dry by the time you go home.’

Emily darts over to the dressing-up corner and I study the image of the two little girls. Growing up, I always wanted a sister, someone to share things with – and then I met Charlie and I thought we’d always have each other. Grow white-haired and walking-sticked together, sucking humbugs on a park bench as we compared our aches and pains. Laughed about the good old days.

‘Penny for them?’ Lyn lightly touches my arm.

‘I don’t think they’re worth that much.’

‘I’m sure…’ She trails off, interrupted by the buzzer. The noise is relentless: either someone is keeping their finger pressed on the button, or it’s broken.

‘Keep the children in here,’ Lyn instructs Hannah, and I follow her into the corridor, closing the activity room door behind me.

Emily’s dad releases the buzzer when he sees us, slapping the door with his palms instead. Rain streaks down his furious crimson face.

‘Let. Me. In.’

Lyn presses the intercom and speaks in her normal tone, and it’s only because I know her so well that I can detect a slight quiver in her voice.

‘What do you want, Greg?’

‘Emily.’

‘You need to go home and calm down. I can’t let you in like this.’

‘Open the fucking door.’ He begins to kick it. Muddy footprints haphazardly imprint the glass like the children’s potato print patterns, and the frame rattles. But it remains secure, for now.

‘You’ll scare the children. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.’

‘I have the right to see my daughter, you fucking bitch. You’re all fucking bitches.’

I wonder how long the police will take to arrive. The room next door is silent. I can picture the children’s faces, pale and anxious, small hands covering their ears. Anger nudges out my fear. How dare he? Dads are supposed to be protectors. Long-forgotten feelings ignite as I slip through the staffroom and out of the back door, gasping as the wind blows freezing rain into my face. My shoulders are hunched and my head is down as I arc my way around the building to the front door.

‘Greg.’

He swings around. The vein on the side of his head is pulsing.

‘Where’s my fucking daughter?’

‘I’m not bringing her out.’ Ice-cold water snakes down my back and my purple ‘Little Acorns’ T-shirt clings to my skin.

Greg darts forward, raising his fist. I flinch. The muscles in my thighs tremble; they feel too weak to support me. I think of Emily, pink tongue between her teeth as she concentrates on her painting.

‘If you don’t let me see her, Grace, I swear you’ll be sorry.’ His jaw tics.

‘Do you really want her to see you like this?’ My voice is measured, belying my fear.

His arm suspends mid-air as his eyes lock onto mine. Distant thunder rumbles. His legs crumple and he drops to his knees, his face wet with rain and remorse. He covers his eyes with tremulous hands.

‘I miss her. I miss them both, so much.’ He lowers his forehead to the ground as if pleading to a God that isn’t listening.

I reach out and touch his shoulder, not sure whether I’m trying to comfort him or steady myself.

He raises his head, looking at me through bloodshot eyes. ‘I can’t cope with the pain I’ve caused.’

But he can. We all have to carry the consequences of our own actions, no matter how heavy they are. I know that better than anyone.

‘Please. Let me see her, Grace.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Then I’ll make you feel the way I feel right now. How would you like that?’

* * *

L
yn queues for our drinks
, while I bag a table by the window. I unwind my scarf and shrug off my coat. I’m wearing Hannah’s gym clothes. My wet pre-school uniform is scrunched up in the boot of my car. I lean back in the tub chair and slide forwards on the faux-leather material. There are hordes of people scurrying past the window and I wonder where they’re going: home; picking up children; meeting a lover, perhaps? Feet slap against the wet pavement as coats are zipped around shivering bodies, scarves wound a little tighter. We haven’t yet had the forecasted snow but the January air is biting.

Across the road, under the street light, stands a lone figure: black padded coat, hood up, face shrouded. They’re looking directly in the coffee shop. At me? I shift uncomfortably in my seat and look away, but when I glance back they’re still there. Still motionless. The same feeling I’d had on Sunday, when the strange car sat outside my cottage, creeps up and down my spine.

‘Here.’ Lyn plops mugs of steaming chocolate on the table. Cream trickles down the sides and she licks her fingers.

‘See that person across the road?’

‘Where?’ Lyn squints without her glasses.

‘There.’ I stand and press my palms against the window. My forehead touches the window and my breath fogs the glass. I turn my head to her. ‘Do you see them?’

Lyn puts her glasses on and stands, forehead creased, peering into the darkened street. ‘Who am I looking at, Grace?’

I turn my head back, but the figure is gone, and I wonder if they were ever there at all.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘I think Greg’s unnerved me. Thanks for this.’ I sit and pull my mug towards me, half listening as Lyn recounts a mix-up with the order. My eyes are drawn out onto the street again. There is definitely no figure and I berate myself for my paranoia. My senses have been on high alert since Charlie died. It’s odd how many sides there are to grief: tears and sadness, confusion and anger. I reach forward and open the bag of mini muffins, pull one out and take a bite. The sugar rush goes some way towards restoring the energy the day has drained from me.

‘What a day.’ Lyn picks chocolate chips out of a muffin with her fingernails and pops them on her tongue.

‘At least Emily’s safe.’ I’d found the number of Greg’s sister from the emergency contact book and she’d come to pick him up. Despite everything, I didn’t think he deserved to be arrested. I know how it feels to have guilt sit in the pit of your stomach, gnawing away. A dull ache that never quite goes. Greg is human, as flawed and repenting as the rest of us, and we all make mistakes, don’t we? Only some mistakes are harder to forgive.

‘Do you think Sarah will take him back?’ Lyn asks.

I shrug and spoon cream into my mouth, savouring the velvety sweetness as it dissolves on my tongue.

‘It’s so nice to sit down,’ says Lyn. ‘I danced so much at Steve’s niece’s eighteenth on Saturday I’ve got blisters on my blisters. I wish you’d come.’

‘I know. It’s just…’

‘Too soon after Charlie.’ Lyn pats my hand, reaches for another muffin and leans back.

It’s been over five months now and I’m trying to rebuild my life. Sometimes I fleetingly feel something close to normal, but my grieving feet are not yet ready to dance, however much I appreciate Lyn’s attempts to get me out. I’m trying to let people back into my life, grateful they’re still here. I’d fallen apart after we buried Charlie; couldn’t seem to wrench myself out of bed. It was only as my grandparents stood over me with fake smiles and brightly wrapped gifts on my twenty-fifth birthday that I really noticed the worry etched into their faces. After that, I started to piece myself back together. I tell myself I’m coping but I’m not. Not really. Take away my sleeping tablets and I would shatter.

‘Grandma saw Lexie, Charlie’s mum. She wants to see me.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Only one way to find out, I suppose.’

‘Is that a good idea? She was awful to you, Grace. Driving you out of your best friend’s funeral.’

‘I know, but she’s Charlie’s mum and she has no other family. I really should check she’s OK. She probably wants to apologise.’

‘Probably,’ said Lyn. But she looks as unconvinced as I feel.

* * *

T
he washing machine
rinses my uniform as I stab holes in the film covering the fish pie I found languishing at the bottom of the freezer. I’d meant to go shopping, but the events with Greg and the sense of being watched had unsettled me, and I’d come straight home after leaving Lyn. I put the pie in the microwave and slosh some wine into a glass. Dan has football training on a Monday and always has dinner in the bar afterwards. He’s texted to say he’s found his phone; I’m glad we hadn’t replaced it already. I’ll eat and have an early night.

I flick through my albums, trying to find one that matches my day. The TV is rarely on when Dan isn’t around. I lower the needle and listen to the static before the singing starts. Ella Fitzgerald croons ‘Stormy Weather’; I’m ready for some sunshine of my own. Even though it’s early, I put on my fleecy pyjamas, the tartan ones that Dan says make me look like Rupert the Bear. Charlie’s pink envelope stands between my bedside lamp and a stack of books I have yet to read. I pick the letter up carefully, as if it may explode, and take it downstairs, where I stare at it while eating out of the greasy plastic container to save washing up. I’m curious to know what Charlie’s written, but equally reluctant to open it, scared of the emotions it may engender. This is the last new memory I can form of Charlie. Once I’ve opened it, everything else will forever be re-runs.

I place my tray on the floor, swing both feet up and stretch out on the sofa, pulling a patchwork throw over my legs. Picking the envelope up between thumb and finger, I ease it open.