The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (4 page)

‘
B
ulbs are coming up
. Daffodils already.’ Grandad washed his hands at the sink, while Grandma wiped splashes of water from the stainless steel taps with her ‘J’Adore Paris’ tea towel. She’d never been to France, never been out of England at all, but she loved tea towels, always buying one when she visited somewhere, and was often bought them as gifts. She had a drawer full of places she’d never been. It wasn’t like I’d been abroad either, but at thirteen, I thought I had all the time in the world.

I sat at the pine kitchen table, squeezed next to the Welsh dresser crammed with blue and white crockery. Only a few crumbs remained from my slab of lemon drizzle cake and I pushed my plate away, slid the stack of photo albums towards me.

I opened the brown crinkly pages. My hand rose to the stabbing in my chest. Seeing my fractured family always left me breathless. It was something I usually avoided, but I needed some photos for a school project. Grandad stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders as I silently turned the pages. I traced the faces with my fingertips. We looked like an ordinary family: Mum, Dad and me. Quality Street Christmases and sandcastle summers. We
had been
an ordinary family. I missed that. I paused at a photo of Mum and Dad grinning on the beach, holding me up proudly between them like a trophy they’d won, their hair blowing in the wind. I must have been about two and had ice cream dripping off my chin as I thrust my cone towards the camera. The image captured the moment in time so perfectly I could almost feel the sun, see the crashing waves, hear the seagulls. The sense of home. There was a grainy photo of Dad and me. We were sitting at the breakfast bar, nestling mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and flakes. Dad used to make me proper hot chocolate, ‘None of that powdered rubbish for my girl.’ He’d a special pan just for milk, and would stir chunks of Cadbury’s round and round until the milk was smooth and brown.

‘This one.’ I eased it out from its plastic cover and added it to the pile of photos of my grandparents, Mum and various aunts and uncles I didn’t think I’d ever met. Scrawled names on Christmas cards I never recognised.

‘You must miss them.’ Grandad sat next to me. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way. Your mum rang again last night.’ He covered my hand with his. His palm was warm and moist.

‘I don’t want to talk about her.’ My stomach twisted when I thought of what I’d done and I snatched my hand away.

‘You should talk about her. Get things straight in your head.’

‘I talked to Paula at the time, didn’t I? What was the point of having a bloody therapist if I have to talk to you too?’

‘Don’t swear, Grace.’

The chair legs screeched on the tiled floor as I pushed back my seat and stood. ‘I’m going to Charlie’s.’

‘Wait.’ Grandma held up a hand the way a policeman might stop traffic and I leaned against the door frame, drumming my fingertips on the wood as she placed a huge slice of sponge on a piece of foil and parcelled it. ‘That’s to take with you. That girl needs feeding up.’ According to Grandma, nobody ate properly except us. ‘You might want to ask her on holiday with us this year, we’re going abroad.’

‘Really? Where?’ Curiosity lifted my mood. I crossed my fingers behind my back:
Disneyland, Disneyland, Disneyland
. Esmée had been to stay with her aunt in Paris last year and hadn’t stopped talking about it since.

‘The Isle of Wight.’

‘Ivy, it’s not abroad. I’ve explained this to you.’ Grandad winked at me and I couldn’t help smiling back, my outburst all but forgotten.

‘If it’s not abroad then why do we need to catch a ferry to get there, eh? Explain that.’

* * *

T
he Tesco carrier
bag stuffed full of photos and cake bumped into my legs as I sprinted through the village, past humming lawnmowers, and garden hoses spraying grubby cars. My trainers smacked against the concrete as I ran faster and faster, trying to drive out Grandad’s words, which were circling around my mind. My life seemed split into two. Before and after.

My T-shirt was damp with sweat by the time I got to the high street and I slumped against the postbox to catch my breath. A peal of laughter floated across the road. Siobhan. She’d come out of Boots with her younger sister, Abby. I began to call hello but Siobhan cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered in Abby’s ear. They both looked over and giggled. I snapped my jaw shut and studied the mail collection times, conscious my cheeks were probably the same colour as the postbox, wishing I’d cut across the park – but Grandma didn’t like me going there alone. ‘Undesirables,’ she said, but in the day the park was usually full of sticky toddlers and fraught mothers. I wasn’t sure what Siobhan had against me but she’d never welcomed me the way Charlie and Esmée had, and the older we’d got, the unfriendlier she’d become. Abby and Siobhan ducked into the coffee shop and I scurried passed the window, head low, shoulders hunched.

Charlie’s house was sandwiched in the middle of a row of Victorian terraces, red-bricked and chimney-stacked. These were where the employees of the old textile factory used to live. The factory was long gone, it was a primary school now, but the houses remained.

The grass was knee-length and full of nettles and I kept my hands raised as I picked my way towards to the front door. Ignoring the doorbell – I’d never known it to work – I banged the knocker. Specks of black paint flaked off, fluttering onto the step. I waited, and just when I was about to knock again I heard stilettoed footsteps, the jangling of bangles, and the door swung open with a creak.

‘Hi Lexie.’ Charlie’s mum flattened herself against the wall while I squeezed into the hallway. Lexie flapped her hands.

‘Wet nails. Shut the door, Gracie-Grace.’

I pushed the door shut behind me and bent down to pick up the post from the mat.

‘Any red ones take them home with you,’ said Lexie. ‘I don’t bleedin’ want them.’ She blew on her ruby red nails. ‘How’s it going? Got a boyfriend yet?’

‘No. I…’

‘You’re better off without one. They’re no bleedin’ good, the lot of ’em. Charlie’s in the kitchen – she’s cooking tea. Hungry?’

‘Starving.’ I’d run off the lemon drizzle cake.

Charlie was shaking chicken nuggets and chips onto a baking tray that was ginger with rust.

Lexie almost never cooked. Charlie practically lived on pizza, burgers and chips – it was a wonder she was so skinny. ‘Lazy food for lazy people,’ Grandma said, but my mouth watered all the same.

‘Do me a favour, light me a ciggie. Don’t wanna smudge me nails.’ Lexie nodded towards her packet and I tapped a cigarette out and held it up. She closed her scarlet lips around it. It took me three attempts to spark the lighter to life and as Lexie leaned forward I was worried that her hair, dry and straggly from years of dyeing, would catch alight. She inhaled and the tip of the cigarette glowed red.

‘Watcha got there?’ Lexie nodded towards my carrier bag.

I shifted a pile of letters that had spread all over the table like paper ivy and tipped my photos out. ‘It’s for our history project. The family tree one? Stupid idea but it’s compulsory. Charlie needs some pictures too.’

‘Not sure if I’ve got any suitable. They’re publicity shots. A bit risqué, if you know what I mean?’

I didn’t, but I laughed along anyway to her cackle. ‘What about Charlie’s dad?’

‘What about him?’ She frowned, flapped smoke away from her eyes.

Charlie scowled at me, clanked the nuggets in the oven.

‘Do you have any photos? We need the whole family. It’s ridiculous but…’

‘I am her whole family. Aren’t I bleedin’ good enough?’ Lexie ground out her cigarette.

‘Yes, but…’

‘But what?’

‘We’re supposed to have pictures. Did you lose them in the fire?’

‘What fire?’

‘Charlie said she remembers a fire, here, when she was younger.’

‘Charlie’s got a bleedin’ overactive imagination.’

‘But Mum… I remember…’

‘You remember nothing, you lying little madam. There never was no fire.’ Lexie pushed her chair backwards. It thudded against the wall. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Mum, I’m cooking…’

‘I’m not hungry.’ Spiked heels echoed down the hallway. The house vibrated as the front door slammed shut.

‘What did you do that for?’ Charlie stood, hands on hips.

‘What?’

‘I’ve told you how she gets when I mention my dad.’

‘You’ve a right to know; anyway, we need…’

‘
We
don’t need anything. Siobhan’s right, you can be a real pain in the arse sometimes, Grace. Just because your family’s a mess – stop interfering in mine.’

My chair toppled over with a clatter as I sprang to my feet, fists balled. ‘I can’t believe you said that. You’re supposed to be my best friend.’

‘Well maybe we shouldn’t be friends any more. I don’t need a dad and I don’t need you, Grace Matthews. Just fuck off.’

Charlie jumped up and rocketed out the door. Footsteps thundered up the stairs and the light above me shook as Charlie ran into her room. There were no carpets in this house to cushion the sound. I remembered Charlie once saying they’d all been ripped up when they were smoke-damaged, and I couldn’t help but wonder why Lexie denied having a fire. What was she trying to hide? But as I scooped my photos back into my bag I knew Charlie was right about one thing. My family was a mess and it was all my fault.

I
hold
the letter in my hands. The notepaper has a jagged edge. It’s clearly been ripped from an exercise book and I can almost hear our primary school teacher, Miss Stiles, shouting: ‘Charlotte Fisher! What do you think you’re doing?’ Charlie had so often been in trouble.

I pick up my wine glass, rest back and begin to read.

O
NLY GRACE
AND CHARLIE ALLOWED TO READ THIS SO IF YOU’RE NOT ONE OF US, RE-BURY OUR BOX AND BUGGER OFF!!!

So we’re not fifteen any more and we’re all grown up and fabulous and here is my list of things to do, if I haven’t already:

1
) I want
to find my dad. There, I’ve admitted it. I’m so bloody sorry for being such a whining bitch, Grace, when you were trying to help me before, but Mum’s so against it and I feel so torn. I thought writing it down would be easier than saying it but I’m feeling so guilty for even thinking it. Mum’s a mad cow sometimes but she’s all I’ve got and I don’t want to upset her. But you know what it’s like not having your dad around, don’t you, Grace? There’s always a hole, isn’t there? A sadness under the surface that just won’t go away, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

I seem to spend more and more time thinking about him lately. I wonder if I look anything like him (my gorgeousness has to come from somewhere), if we share the same humour (something needs to explain my obsession with
Monty Python
) and if he hates beetroot as much as me. I’m half of someone I don’t know, and I want to. I want to know who I am and where I came from, and I want him to know me too (only the good bits though!).

Hopefully by now Mum will have come clean and told me who he is (I’m NEVER going to lie the way she does BTW) and we’ve already found him and holidayed in his Hollywood mansion by the pool. (Is it too much to hope he’s a millionaire movie star too?)

2
) Don’t get fat
!!! We’ll be spending lots of time in bikinis (see above)!

3
) Stay friends forever
. Grace, Siobhan, Esmée and Charlie. Our fab four. I love you all (but especially you, Grace. My BFF).

C
harlie
xxxx

I
read
the list twice more while I finish my drink. I’m still no nearer to uncovering the meaning behind her last words. There’s nothing here to help me understand them and disappointment sours in my stomach. I don’t know what I was expecting, really. A letter-labelled clue? A big black arrow with ‘start here’? As I read it again, it hits me that we never did find her dad, and I stand and pace the floor. Where did she go when she disappeared? Could she have found her dad? Might he know what she did that she thought was so terrible?

I close my eyes.
Think, Grace.
If I could find him, I could ask him. The only problem is there’s only one person who knows his identity. Lexie.

R
ain-laden clouds
hang heavy in the slate sky as I drive towards Lexie’s house, and I’m not quite halfway there when they burst. Fat raindrops machine-gun down, bouncing off my windscreen. I switch my headlights on, although it is not yet four o’clock.

Despite my pleading, Dan’s refused to accompany me. I’ve tried to explain to him that I need to make peace with Lexie, she’s my only real chance of finding Charlie’s father, but he doesn’t understand why I feel so compelled to track him down. At best, Charlie’s dad met Charlie when she disappeared and can provide some answers. At worst, he didn’t meet her, but in that case at least I could tell him all about her. Honour her memory.

Besides, I need to unravel the meaning behind Charlie’s last words:
I did something terrible, Grace. I hope you can forgive me
. I have to start somewhere.

My mobile trills and I pull in at a bus stop to see who’s calling; if it’s Grandma, I’ll answer it. A red Corsa slides in behind me. The call is from an 0843 number and I think it’s probably a cold call and reject it. I indicate and pull back onto the road, leaning forward in my seat, squinting to see through the downpour. It’s a relief when I reach Charlie’s street.

Lexie’s front garden is saturated and by the time I’ve made my way through the overgrowth to the front door, the bottom half of my jeans are soaked through. It doesn’t seem seven years ago that my palms stung as I slapped them against the door, tears streaming down my face, screaming for Charlie, demanding the truth. I never had an inkling then that I wouldn’t see Charlie again for years, and that the next time I knocked on the door would be to take Lexie to Charlie’s funeral.

The door knocker is stiff, and as I yank it upwards it creaks in protest. I stamp moisture from my shoes while I wait. A clap of thunder startles me; at first I think it’s a car backfiring and I turn around. A red Corsa is parked behind my car, but it’s too dark for me to properly see the driver and I wish I’d noticed the number plate of the car at the bus stop. How many red Corsas can there be? Hundreds probably, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I wonder whether it’s the same car that sat outside the cottage last Sunday.

I knock again. Hard and fast.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me. Grace.’

The door swings open and I try and hold my smile in place, as Lexie’s lined face peeps around the door. Tiny red blood vessels streak the whites of her eyes.

‘I don’t answer it any more unless I know who it is. I’m sick of bloody do-gooders. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Neither was I.’

I step into the hallway, prepared to defend myself if she starts shouting, but to my surprise, she opens her arms and her behaviour at the funeral doesn’t seem quite so important any more. She’s Charlie’s mum and she’s hurting. We both are. Her hipbones dig into me as we awkwardly hug – she’s never been tactile – and I turn my head away from her hair. Her dark grey roots contrast with bright red split ends, it smells as though it hasn’t been washed in weeks.

I follow her down the narrow hallway, my shoes leaving wet imprints on the naked wood.

‘Take a pew.’

The kitchen is pungent. Rubbish piled high against the back door, spilling out of carrier bags. Hot shame fills me. This is Charlie’s mum and no matter what happened at the funeral I should have visited before. She has no one else. I pull out a chair. The legs wobble, and I sweep crumbs from its seat before sitting.

‘Tea?’

‘Thanks.’

The sink is stacked with dirty crockery like a giant game of Jenga and as Lexie pulls out a mug, cutlery falls. The clattering shatters the uncomfortable silence.

‘Sugar?’

‘No thanks.’

Lexie rinses the stained cup under the cold tap and pours not-yet-boiling water onto a tea bag. I push away a pile of post and an overflowing ashtray to make room for the drink slopped before me. I don’t bother asking for milk.

I raise the mug, hovering it in front of my lips, and pretend to sip. ‘How have you been?’

Lexie shrugs and glances around the filthy kitchen, as if that should tell me all I need to know – and it does. The uncomfortable silence returns.

‘I get by, I suppose. Your grandma sends over enough casseroles and cake to feed the street.’

I mask my surprise. Grandma has never been Lexie’s biggest fan. I’m touched by the gesture.

‘So.’ I take a deep breath. ‘You wanted to see me?’

Lexie lights a cigarette with shaky hands. She carries the ashtray over to the back door and aims the contents towards an already full bin bag. Ash spills to the floor. ‘I’m taking a lodger in. Need the cash. Haven’t worked since… You know.’

I nod.

‘Gotta clear Charlie’s room. Can’t do it on me own.’

Lexie picks up her gold Zippo lighter, flicks it open and snaps it shut, over and over. I clench my jaw. I want to cover her hand in mine and still her, but I don’t.

‘You want me to help?’

‘Yeah. They move in tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yeah. Will you help me?’

Her question hangs in the air, demanding a response, but my mouth is dry and I can’t speak. I don’t want to go back into Charlie’s bedroom.

Her grey eyes lock onto mine. ‘Please.’ The word is whispered so softly I almost miss it.

I open my mouth. The word ‘no’ sits on my tongue, like a caged bird waiting to be released, but my guilt has other ideas. ‘Yes,’ I say.

* * *

T
he door feels
cold and hard against my palm, as if it knows it’s guarding a room that has lost its heart. As I push it open, I’m not sure whether it’s dust or old memories that make me choke. The faded purple curtains that have never quite met in the middle are drawn, and I swish them apart and open the window. I gulp air as though I’ve been underwater for a long time, welcoming the splashes of rain that splatter against my face.

Charlie’s bedroom wasn’t used in the six years leading up to her death but she left so suddenly that most of her things are still here. Barely an inch of floor space is visible beneath the chaos that was once Charlie, but the room feels empty somehow. Hollow.

Lexie lingers in the doorway, not quite crossing the threshold, chewing her thumbnail.

‘I’ll get a rubbish sack,’ she offers.

I nod, although I feel we will need at least a roll of sacks, and possibly a miracle, to empty the room today.

The corkboard, covered in photos, still hangs skewed against the Artexed walls. Charlie had hated her room: ‘Who has walls like a ceiling?’ I remember the weekend she gave up asking Lexie to hire a plasterer, and we painted the nicotine-stained walls bright pink. It looked even worse. Charlie came back to mine and cried as she picked paint from her hair, complaining her room now looked like a giant marshmallow. Grandma cooked us shepherd’s pie while Grandad silently fetched his roller and ladders from the shed. By the time Charlie went home the following day her walls were crisp white, but the Artex remained.

I unpin a photo and my abdomen contracts as I gently trace the outline of Charlie’s face with my finger. ‘I miss you,’ I whisper.

‘I miss her too.’ Lexie hands me some sacks and a cardboard box. ‘I’m drinking the last lager so we can use the box.’

I swallow my sarcasm. She is trying. ‘Where do you want to start? We should probably divide it into sections. Stuff to keep, things for the charity shop and rubbish.’

‘I’ll strip the bed, put the laundry in the machine. You start with the drawers. Anything you think you might wear you can keep.’

I kneel. My kneecaps press into the wooden boards and I’m glad I’ve worn trousers. The top drawer is unyielding and I have to yank it open. The handle comes off in my hand and I think about asking Lexie to try and find a screwdriver, but I place it in my pocket instead. I’ve got a small toolbox in my boot. Crumpled inside the drawer is a glorious rainbow of tiny T-shirts. Even if I wanted to wear them, they’d be too small. I pick out several that I think Lexie might like to keep – an orange tie-dyed T-shirt, Smartie-coloured vest tops – and fold the rest into a sack for the charity shop. There’s a floral shirt in the bottom drawer. ‘This is mine,’ I tell Lexie. ‘Wonder what else I’ll find?’

A ghost of a smile passes Lexie’s lips.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘When Charlie was about five or six she went through me drawers playing dress-up. I was making dinner in the kitchen when she came in waving me vibrator. It was buzzing away in her hand. “What’s this, Mummy?” she asked.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Told her it was a special shoulder massager I used when I had a hard day.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Didn’t think any more of it but about two weeks later when I went to pick her up from school, Miss Johnson, her teacher, asked if she could have a quick word. Said she’d told the children the day before she had a stiff shoulder and couldn’t write on the whiteboard properly. Charlie had brought my special massager for her to borrow. She handed me my vibrator in a Tesco carrier bag. I nearly bleedin’ died.’

‘Oh my God. What did you say?’

‘I said thanks, and I hoped she got some relief soon.’

I snorted. ‘Poor you, and poor Charlie. Was she in trouble?’

‘Nah. She was only trying to help. Wasn’t as bad as the time charity collectors knocked on the door asking for donations for the sick children in Africa.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was in the shower but Charlie decided to give them one of my plants. “These are herbs that make you get happy. Give them to the children,” she told them, as she handed over me home-grown cannabis.’

‘Lexie! You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested.’ I can’t help laughing. The air doesn’t feel quite so thick now.

‘I don’t think they knew what it was. They told Charlie they just wanted money. “Oh we never have any bleedin’ cash in this house,” she told them. She must have been about five.’

‘I can’t imagine her being small. Do you have any photos?’

‘A few. I’ll show you later if you like.’

‘Yes, please.’ I imagine Charlie at five, pigtailed and fearless. I’ll never forget the way she stood up for me the first time we met.

‘Grace, I owe you a big apology…’ Lexie tails off.

I smooth creases from summer dresses, fold winter jumpers. Clothes for seasons Charlie will never see again. ‘The funeral was stressful. You don’t have to apologise.’

‘It’s not just the funeral.’ There is the flick of the lighter, a waft of smoke. ‘It’s complicated…’

‘We don’t need to talk about it today.’ I pull the last thing out of the drawer. ‘These were yours once, remember?’ I hold up tiny white denim shorts.

‘I loved those jeans. Little madam.’

I place them with the things I’m setting aside for Lexie.

The drawers are empty. I stand and brush my knees, and open Charlie’s jewellery box. Tinkling music spills out as a pink-tutued ballerina twirls incessant pirouettes.

The other half of my heart necklace lays inside the red velvet lined case. I lift it out. It spins around, just as mine did in the woods, as if searching for its missing partner.

‘You should have that,’ Lexie says. ‘She was wearing it that day. She’d want you to have it.’

I nod, too choked up to speak. I unclasp my chain and slide on Charlie’s half-heart until it nestles against mine, not exactly fitting together: a broken heart that will never quite be whole again.

We work in silence until the moon rises, casting a creamy glow on rows of black sacks lined up like soldiers against the grubby walls.

‘I’ll drop these off at the charity shop on Monday.’ I heft a bin bag over my left shoulder and carry one in my right hand. I feel like Santa Claus as I inch down the stairs, careful not to slip. I fold the back seats in my car down and somehow cram Charlie’s entire life into my boot, except for the sack of bits I think Lexie might wear. That, I tuck inside her wardrobe.

I say goodbye to Charlie’s bedroom. Faded outlines of posters and the sticky remains of Blu-Tack are the only visible signs of a life that once was. How quickly we can erase someone’s physical presence, while their memory forever lingers. I flick off the light and join Lexie downstairs.

‘Drink?’

‘Please.’

I sit on the cracked leather sofa, tucking my feet under me, and sip from a glass of Merlot. I wait for the sharpness of the alcohol to soothe my anxiety. I’m going to take this opportunity to ask about Charlie’s dad. I have to get this right. This is my chance to get a name, an address even.

‘I had my first glass of red wine here,’ I tell Lexie. ‘Charlie told me it was blood and dared me to drink it. I cried when I got home. Told Grandad I’d turned into a vampire.’

‘She was a little bugger, Charlie was,’ Lexie says fondly.

‘Can you show me those baby photos?’ My tone is casual but my heart is pounding. I take another sip, bigger this time.

Lexie rummages through the sideboard and I cross my fingers behind my back.

‘Here they are.’ She drags out a brown A4 envelope with ‘
Charlotte
’ scrawled on the front in black felt tip, photo corners poking through split seams.