Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (15 page)

P
eter made her nervous
, trying to be so friendly all the time. Lindsey preferred it when she’d been an invisible blot on his horizon. She was glad he was selling Havenstone. A photograph hung in the window of Carrie Davern’s estate agency. Lindsey felt sad and nostalgic yet relieved, because if new people moved in they would change everything. They could knock it down and build a new house, maybe a ranch or a villa, and she would no longer have to think about Sara every time she passed it.

T
hat last weekend
should have been special. A memory Lindsey could cherish but, instead, she remembered Sara’s expression when she’d arrived with her backpack and portfolio case. Surprised but also displeased, as if she’d forgotten they had made the arrangement before she went to Africa. She’d told Lindsey to bring her portfolio so that she could advise her on how to present her work to the art college of her choice. Even when Sara had smiled and slapped the side of her head, as if placing the memory back into position, Lindsey had still felt unwelcome. The feeling had lasted throughout the evening. Her uncle had been the only one who was interested in looking at her work. Hard to believe he had been an artist before he became a suit. He’d explained how he’d once tried to capture the energy of destruction and passion in his own paintings – using her own mother’s eyes for inspiration. It sounded weird – almost as weird as imagining her mother having inspirational eyes.

‘Just as well you weren’t inspired by Van Gogh,’ she’d said. ‘Or you’d have been obsessing about her ears.’

He’d laughed, throwing back his head as if she’d said something hilarious. Sara hadn’t been amused. She’d closed Lindsey’s portfolio before she got to the last page and said her paintings were ‘cute’. She’d tightened her mouth and, just for an instant, she reminded Lindsey of Marjory when she’d said something spiteful. Why had Sara used that word? ‘Cute’ was a code for everything that was mediocre and pathetic and naff. Since then, Lindsey had been unable to stop thinking about little things Sara used to say. And she figured they were not so little, not really.

Later, when she was in bed, she’d heard her aunt and uncle arguing in Sara’s studio. Their anger had jerked her upright. It was awful, being alone in the dark listening to the ugly words they shouted at each other. To make out what they were saying was difficult but that didn’t matter. The sound was everything and in its incoherent fury Lindsey had heard her name. Her scalp had tingled with embarrassment when it was repeated again. She was the reason for the row. Her uncle must resent her hanging around his house all the time. Why else would he shout her name as if he hated her? A door had banged and Sara had crossed the landing, fleeing from his anger to her bedroom. Then, later, Lindsey had heard his heavy tread, like he had rocks on his shoulders. Even when everything had gone quiet, she felt their anger seeping through the walls on either side of her.

The following morning his car had been missing from the driveway. Sara had been in the garden cutting roses when Lindsey had come down for breakfast. A straw hat with a drooping brim shaded her eyes. It had been impossible to tell if she’d been crying. In the kitchen she’d thrown her hat on the counter and begun to arrange the roses. She’d looked so young and pretty in her dark blue sweater and faded jeans, her hair tied in a ponytail. No shadows under her eyes, no tears ravaging her face. She certainly hadn’t looked like a woman with an angry husband and Lindsey wondered if she’d dreamed the whole crazy scene.

Often on Saturday mornings they would go shopping in the city. Sara had an unerring instinct when it came to style, especially when it came to choosing clothes for Lindsey. But all Sara had wanted to do that morning was work in her studio. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to be disturbed until lunch.

‘I’m way behind schedule,’ she’d said, as if Lindsey’s presence was an extra hassle she had to endure.

The morning had passed slowly. Lindsey had been bored and resentful of her aunt’s indifference. Melanie had told her about the garage gang. How they liked to hang around the city on a Saturday afternoon. It sounded way more interesting than emptying the dishwasher and tidying her aunt’s kitchen. At lunchtime she’d made soup and sandwiches, and carried the tray upstairs to the studio. Sara had laid out her African photographs on the floor. Lindsey had stared at the images of children tumbling in the dust, laughing out at her with toothy grins, and the women with their dark, fathomless eyes, had been smiling, proud to be photographed with their babies. There had been other photographs of people in fields, carrying parcels on their heads, working on looms, baking bread, happy faces, sad faces, and the hard sun-baked face of her mother’s best friend, Jess O’Donovan.

Sara had blinked when she noticed Lindsey, as if forcing herself from some imaginary landscape. Her eyes swept over the tray and away again.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ she’d said. Her impatience had been obvious. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You have to eat something.’

‘Please, Lindsey…’ She’d pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘Can’t you see I’m working to a deadline? I’m very busy right now.’

‘I’m sorry. I just wanted—’

‘I’ll make dinner when I come down. We’ll talk then, but for the time being I can do without any interruptions.’

Lindsey had wanted to ask about the row. She wanted to know why her name had been shouted with such rage but the tension she sensed in Sara kept her silent.

Later, Sara chopped mushrooms, onions and tomatoes, simmered pasta and filled the kitchen with her laughter. She’d kissed Lindsey and apologised for being so offhand in the studio. She’d explained about the pressure of deadlines. Everything had seemed perfect again and Lindsey couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else.

A place had been set at the table for Peter but he never showed. They’d laughed, imagining him sulking somewhere, probably in the Oldport Grand, afraid to come home and face the music. After the meal they’d sat in the drawing room with the curtains open and the village lights winking back at them. Sara had poured brandy into a goblet and swirled it around, staring into the liquid as it swished from one side of the glass to the other. She’d spoken about her days as a professional photographer when she lived in London and how her uncle had given her the money to mount her first exhibition. The subject had been Irish emigrants, homeless people sick with the need to return to their families. The exhibition had been well reviewed but most Irish people hated it because it was so grim, all those sleazy rooms and weary, lined faces. They’d only wanted to know about the successful emigrants like her cousin, Kieran, who was hell-bent on becoming a rich stockbroker in New York.

One day, when she had still been living in London, Beth phoned her. She’d paid little attention to Sara since she’d run away from Anaskeagh, but then, out of the blue, she commissioned Sara to do a photo shoot.

Beth was always laughing, Sara had said, her voice so low she could have been talking to herself. Lindsey had imagined her mother looking glamorous and confident as she’d flicked back her long black hair, teasing Peter with her cats’ eyes, tormenting Stewart, giving orders, ignoring Sara, who was just the hired photographer, nothing more. Why had Beth always been laughing? A sick fluttery feeling had started in Lindsey’s chest. She hadn’t wanted to hear about her mother and Peter being in love. To think of them in each other’s arms was sickening – but Sara had kept going on and on about those days and Lindsey hadn’t known how to stop her.

Then Peter had begun to stare at Sara instead. He’d found it difficult to breathe when she stood too close. Beth hadn’t had a clue about what was going on right under her nose. Sara had swirled the brandy faster before drinking it down in one swallow then made a face. Her laughter had made Lindsey uncomfortable. She was unable to see the joke. She’d sensed an echo in her aunt’s words, as if she’d wanted to harm Beth. It had seemed wrong to talk about her mother in this intimate way, as if these disclosures stripped away her privacy, laid bare her painful love.

Sara had pulled out a fashion brochure from a drawer and handed it to Lindsey. The photographs were brilliant. Lindsey had recognised Pier’s Point, the high tide lapping the jetty. The models had looked as if they were suspended on sun beams, as vaporous as spray. Her crazy aunt Marina had been the main model, her face white as a vampire bride, skinny as a stick.

Sara had married Peter soon afterwards because, Sara said, when a force wind blows you either get out of the way or you blow with it. Beth had gone to London and Sara had come to Oldport – two sisters moving past each other in opposite directions. Lindsey had suddenly grown angry with her aunt when she’d thought of Beth in those days, living with crazy Marina, so miserable and sad, while Sara had stolen Peter away with her charms and settled into Havenstone. Queen of the palace.

How edgy Sara had looked when she’d finished her story. She’d crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured another brandy, her movements too fast, and when she replaced the bottle Lindsey thought it would break with the force she’d used. She touched Lindsey’s hair, ruffling it, and smiling in a dreamy, off-focus way.

‘I’m tired,’ she’d said. ‘I’m going to lie down. I’ll see you in the morning.’

And away she went to her white bedroom, walking airy light, like egg shells would crack under her feet.

Lindsey had switched on the television, flicking channels, unable to relax. The story Sara had told her felt as cloying as a cobweb against her skin. She’d realised that she always saw her mother in a lesser way after being with her aunt. Remarks Sara made, nothing unkind or horrible, just remarks that made the feeling grow until Lindsey wanted to belong only to her. Then everything would be perfect, so effortless and elegant.

She would go home, she’d decided. That was where she belonged, not in this cold, cheerless house where she was obviously unwelcome. Sara had been sitting in front of her dressing table when Lindsey entered her bedroom. She’d twisted her hair into a tight knot at the top of her head, clamping it into place with a clip comb. It had shown off her long neck, so taut, as if the skin was stretched too tight. There had been lines on her cheeks, still faint, but Lindsey had seen them clearly, and known how her aunt would look in years to come.

She hadn’t seemed to notice Lindsey standing behind her, even though their eyes had locked in the mirror. Her cheeks had been marked by angry red welts, as if she had slapped or scratched her pale skin. Her fingers trembled as she touched the marks, her eyelids flickering when she realised Lindsey was standing behind her.

‘Oh,
Christ
… You even look like him,’ she’d whispered and covered her eyes, as if unable to endure the sight of Lindsey. ‘How dare you enter my room without my permission?’

‘I’m sorry… Sorry―’

‘Get out…
Get
out of my sight and don’t ever come back here again,’ Sara had shrieked and, in that instant, Lindsey understood that she’d been looking at a stranger – and that she had become a stranger to Sara. As she turned away, she’d seen her aunt’s reflection fragmented on the mirrored walls, her neck bowed, her slender frame shattered.

Downstairs, she’d slumped on the sofa, weeping. Sara should have locked her door if she hadn’t wanted to be interrupted. That was what she’d always done when she was in one of her moods, staying there for days or working in her studio all through the nights.

Yes, Lindsey had understood about those ‘reflective moods’. That was what Sara had called them. Peter phoned her mother at such times and asked her to come to Havenstone. Beth usually returned home exhausted, pretending nothing was wrong, but talking low to Stewart and falling silent when Lindsey entered the room. She’d overheard them one night discussing depression and mood swings. She had wanted to tell her mother she was wrong, so very wrong, because when Lindsey was in Havenstone, it was impossible to believe such words could ever be applied to anyone as wonderful as Sara.

When Sara had come downstairs she’d been wearing make-up to cover the welts on her face.

‘I’m
so
sorry, my darling.’ She’d taken Lindsey in her arms and dried her tears. ‘Forgive me. I drank too much brandy. A bad mistake. Say you forgive me, please.’

Lindsey had made excuses and left. She couldn’t remember if they’d said goodbye. No matter how she racked her brains, she was unable to recall the last words she’d spoken to her aunt. All she knew was that she’d hated Sara and never wanted to return to Havenstone again. Such a horrible feeling and it lasted until her mother had taken her in her arms two days later and broken the terrifying news to her.

B
ombshells
, Beth thought, should be carefully introduced into conversations. Yet by their nature, bombshells, no matter how carefully they were handled, exploded lives that, moments before, had been seamlessly held together by habit and routine.

Stewart had been away for two nights. Business matters, he’d said. An opportunity he needed to investigate. She sensed his excitement when he returned home but he waited until the children were in bed before breaking the news.

She glanced down at the brochure he handed her, daunted by statistical information she would once have absorbed at a glance. ‘Action on Creative Indigenous Industry’ was embossed on the front cover. He pointed to a photograph of a small factory in a semicircle of eight similar buildings – a modern, compact industrial estate. His briefcase looked bulky and incongruous in the middle of the dining-room table. Like a fat squatting toad, she thought, its bottom lip hanging down, disgorging information she did not want to hear.

‘This is a strong possibility,’ he said, tracing the route on the map, his finger moving westwards towards a brown headland dominating a small town. ‘There’s a small clothing factory available here. The previous owner moved her production base to Morocco and we can set up immediately. There’s a skilled workforce ready and willing to begin working for me.’

‘But that’s Anaskeagh,’ Beth whispered. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘It’s outside the town. Your uncle used to have his furniture factory there. Some years ago it was turned into an industrial estate by the ACII. They give excellent grants to first-time business ventures so it’s ideal for our needs.’ He stopped short when he saw her expression. ‘Don’t block me at the first fence, Beth. This could be the perfect solution.’

She was aware that her responses were too slow, the conversation running ahead of her. ‘Has Albert Grant got anything to do with this?’ she demanded.

‘He contacted me after the factory closed and offered to help. At first I wasn’t sure but he persuaded me to go down and look at what was available.’ His voice quickened, as if he already sensed her resistance. ‘He’s got clout with the ACII and has offered to cut through a lot of red tape. The town is thriving, well worth thinking about as a place to live. I wanted to see it for myself before I told you. Honestly, Beth, he really has been invaluable with advice and support.’

‘How could you even talk to him? I can’t believe what I’m hearing!’

‘He’s only trying to help us. I’d never have considered Anaskeagh. But now that I’ve seen the centre, I believe it’s perfect for our needs.’

‘So you’re handing me a fait accompli, is that it? Why didn’t you discuss this with me at the early stages?’

‘I didn’t want your emotional responses stopping me before I’d fully investigated the possibilities.’

‘There are no possibilities, Stewart.’ Her disbelief gave way to fury. ‘I’ve no intention of moving to Anaskeagh. Not now, not in a million years. Never!
Never
! Do you understand? I won’t be involved in this – I’m not even prepared to discuss it.’

‘Why? What’s so dreadful about the town? I’ve never understood why you hate it so much.’

‘I don’t hate the town. I hate
him
.’

‘You’ve a hard memory, Beth. Sometimes it’s wiser to move on instead of living in the past.’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘To tell the truth, I don’t know what you’re doing any more. I’ve no liking for him either. But maybe it’s time to bury the hatchet. Life’s short, Beth, too short to carry hatred.’

‘How can you forget the way he behaved when my father was dying? How much he hurt Connie?’

‘That was a long time ago. Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?’

‘Talking about Sara won’t bring her back.’

‘But it will help you to come to terms with it. And it will help us—’

‘Us?’

‘Yes, us. Your family. You know what I’m saying. This wall…’ He sighed, a quiet man who usually relied on Beth to instigate conversations. ‘You’ve been erecting this wall around yourself, pretending everything is normal, but you’re not seeing us. You’re not with us at all, Beth, and it’s seriously beginning to bother me. I can’t stand pretence. I’m trying to make important decisions, and I need to know you hear me when I talk to you.’

‘I hear you. Of course I hear you. Are you saying I’m not allowed to grieve in my own way because it upsets you and the children?’

‘That’s not what I said.’ He sounded weary. ‘I do appreciate what you’re going through. All I want to do is make a new beginning with you.’

‘A new beginning? I spent my childhood taking charity from my uncle and now you want me to do the same again.’

‘Charity! This has nothing to do with charity.’ She had never seen him so angry. ‘You’ve no idea of the work I’ve put into this project. Anaskeagh needs employment and I can provide it. Steve Maguire needs a supplier for Fashion Lynx and I can give him what he wants. I’m willing to beg and borrow and work all the hours God sends to support my family – and you have the gall to call that charity!’

‘I won’t return to Anaskeagh, Stewart. Don’t make me.’

‘I’ve never made you do anything you didn’t want to do. But this is important to me. To
us
. I want to know the real reason why you’re not interested. You still love him, don’t you?’ He held her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. ‘I know the signs. I had a long apprenticeship on the sidelines, remember?’

She pushed him aside and ran upstairs. She locked the bedroom door and flung herself onto the bed, aching with the need for tears and release, aware of Stewart at the door, pleading with her to let him in.

All she could see was a slumbering country road. An old pub with a half door and milk churns in the yard. She remembered her father’s strong arms when he’d lifted her up on the counter one warm autumn afternoon, and how he’d played his accordion until it was time to collect the furniture that stood in the building with the corrugated iron roof.

She’d heard the men sawing and hammering and the sawdust swirling like a snowstorm, making her sneeze and catch her breath when she tried to speak.

‘Gold dust,’ her uncle had said, laughing as he tossed the sawdust in the air.

Outside, her father had leaned against the van, smoking a cigarette and chatting to the woman who did the wages.

It had been musty in the big storeroom where chairs and tables waited to be delivered. She’d been ten years old, hiding. He’d found her though, as he always did. And afterwards there had been new furniture in her mother’s kitchen, a table with a leg that was too short and had to be evened up with a folded cigarette box.

‘
A
re you sick
, Mammy?’ Gail’s sleepy voice sounded from the landing. The child clutched her teddy bear under her arm and held the end of her nightdress in her other hand. Her blonde hair was tousled and the sleepy expression on her heart-shaped face was an aching reminder of the young Sara. Beth hugged her daughter and carried her safely back to bed.

She was calm when she returned to the living-room. ‘Go if you must, Stewart,’ she said. ‘The decision is yours. But I’m staying here.’

S
he no longer swam in
the mornings and awoke heavy-headed, longing to sink back into the pillows and stay there for the rest of the day. She stared at her reflection and saw a faded woman with lacklustre eyes gazing back at her. She dreamt about Fatima Parade. A child’s memory shaped into an adult nightmare. The faded cabbage-rose wallpaper, the lights from passing cars throwing shapes across the bedroom ceiling. The creak of a wardrobe door. A red dress swaying from a coat hanger. Her heart thumped as she curled into the empty space where Stewart’s body had once warmed her. She turned restlessly and awoke. Was he also lying awake thinking about her, unable to understand why, so suddenly and so determinedly, she had turned from him?

He was staying in the O’Donovan farmhouse. On Friday evenings when he returned home he brought news from Anaskeagh, titbits to try and arouse Beth’s interest. Sheila O’Donovan – who was once Sheila O’Neill, smuggler of forbidden baby photographs into school – had offered to mind their two younger children if Beth decided to move. Her sister, Nuala O’Neill, had returned from London and was running an arts and crafts gallery in the town. Nuala’s baby, whom Beth remembered in white ribbons and lace, was now an architect, speaking fluent Japanese and stamping his signature on skyscrapers. Hatty Beckett sent her love. The corner building that had once housed her famous chip shop had become a shopping mall and she was running the café in Nuala’s gallery.

He asked her opinion on machinery, fabrics, deals he was negotiating with Fashion Lynx. The factory would be called TrendLines. What did Beth think of the name? A bungalow near O’Donovan’s farm was for sale. It had a view of the sea, wonderful cliff walks, a fifteen-minute drive from the town, no traffic jams. They could move in immediately.

Marjory had closed down her boutique and was drifting aimlessly through each day. Stewart had invited her out for a meal but his efforts to make peace were curtly rejected. What did he expect? Forgiveness for being a McKeever?