The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller (9 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I can’t imagine what my own sister could possibly have done that was so bad I had to pay her to leave me alone. I almost don’t want to know.

‘Well,’ Cara says. ‘For a laugh, I took a video on my phone of Mia and her ex having sex.’

‘You did what!’ my mum cries.

‘It was just a laugh. I told her I’d put it online if she didn’t help me out. But Iwould never actually hav
e
―
’

‘Cara Richards!’ My mum rises to her feet. ‘I am ashamed! She’s your sister for crying out loud!’

‘Half-sister,’ she mutters.

‘You were blackmailing me? I shake my head and stare at her, open-mouthed. Of all the things I expected to hear, this wasn’t one of them. ‘You’re telling me that you were going to post sex tapes of me online if I didn’t give you more money?’ My stomach churns. How could she do that? Firstly, that she would video me . . . and secondly, that she would use it to get money.

‘You’re making it sound worse than it was,’ Cara says.

‘How can I make it sound worse? Blackmail is blackmail isn’t it?’

‘There’s no point me trying to explain it,’ Cara says. ‘You’ll just twist it like you always do.’

‘Twist it? It sounds horrific enough without any “twists”.’

My mum’s face has gone white. It’s obvious she knew nothing about this.

‘Surely you didn’t need to resort to blackmail?’ I say. ‘I would’ve given you the money if you needed it. You’re my sister.’

‘Yeah, you’d think that would count for something, wouldn’t you,’ she says.

‘Where’s the video now?’ I ask.

‘You erased it.’

‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

‘You don’t . . . But I am.’

‘Great,’ I say. ‘I can see that Piers was right. I really shouldn’t have come back.’

‘You weren’t going to give us anything, Mia,’ Cara says. ‘Nothing at all. I had to beg you for the pittance you did give us. And what about Mum? Sh
e
―
’

‘Don’t bring me into it, Cara,’ my mum says. ‘I’m disgusted with your behaviour. I don’t even want to look at you.’ She turns to me, ‘I’m sorry, Mia, but I think it’s probably best if you leave.’

I stare back at her. ‘Oh,’ is all I can say. I stand up, feeling a little unsteady.

‘It’s nice that you came, but I think tempers are running a little high around here. Maybe we should have a break and meet again when we’ve had a chance to let the dust settle. Okay?’ It’s not a question she requires an answer to.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I was just trying t
o
―
’

‘I know.’ She cuts me off. ‘But now it’s time for you to leave. In fact . . .’ she turns to Cara, ‘you can get out, too.’

‘What!’

‘Yes. I’m actually sick of the pair of you. Out! Leave me in peace.’ Her voice has become loud and quavery.

‘This is your fault.’ Cara shoots me a venomous look. ‘And if you want to know why there aren’t any photos of you here, it’s not because they’re “in storage” – she mimes air quotes – ‘It’s because, after you left three years ago, I ripped them up and threw them in the bin with all the other rubbish. I didn’t want your smug face staring at me. I didn’t want you as a sister anymore. I still don’t. You might have lost your memory, but you still think you’re better than us.’

‘That’s enough, young lady,’ my mum snaps at her.

I’m stunned by the depth of Cara’s hatred for me. That she would destroy all my childhood photos seems worse than anything else she might have done. I quickly turn to go, loathe to leave the house at the same time as my sister.

‘Sorry you have to go, love,’ my mum says, reaching out to touch my arm. ‘But it’s brought all the nastiness rushing back, and I can’t cope with it. My nerves won’t take it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean for it t
o
―
’

‘I know you didn’t,’ she says. ‘But that’s how it is. We’ll talk again soon, when I’m feeling up to it.’

‘Okay,’ I say, guilt plucking at me. I didn’t think I’d personally said anything that awful, but Cara had behaved like I was the devil. I’d almost expected her to physically attack me, she was so angry and bitter. I don’t know how today has spiralled so out of control.

I leave the flat in a rush. Dazed, I head back to the tube with my pulse still racing. What the hell was all that about? I went there to get answers, hoping for a reconciliation. Instead, I feel more alone than ever. My goal of getting my memory back seems to be receding. I had hoped that spending time with my family would make me remember who I am. Instead, it’s thrown up more questions. Questions I’m not sure I want the answers to.

The train journey home is a blur. Today has been way more than I ever bargained for. The words
blackmail
and
sex tapes
are lodged in my brain – ludicrous words that shouldn’t be anything to do with me. Is my sister for real? Any hopes of us reconnecting have been well and truly severed.

I step out of the taxi and slot my key into my front door. I’m home. Safe. I make a resolution to leave the past alone. If my memory doesn’t return, I’ll start my life from scratch again. No family. No Piers. Just me, and whatever life I can create for myself. I’m rich. I have the luxury of doing what I want. I do like it here in Christchurch, but maybe I should go away somewhere where nobody knows me.

Dance music filters down from somebody’s balcony. The sound of laughter – someone else’s Saturday evening. As I open my front door, the music gets louder. It’s coming from . . . upstairs. It’s really loud. Thumping. Piers is here again! The mood I’m in, I feel like marching up the stairs and telling him to get lost. I don’t care if he is my boyfriend. This is my house and he can’t keep letting himself in anytime he feels like it. It’s like I’m under attack from all sides. I want to scream. Instead, I slam the door behind me and stomp up the stairs, anger pulsing inside my head, growing, pounding, prickling at my skin.

‘She’s here!’ A woman’s voice cries out above the music.

What the hell?

A pair of feet appears on the stairs, walking down towards me. Denim-clad legs, a white shirt. It’s Piers. His eyes are bright. He’s smiling, holding a bottle of beer.

‘What’s going on?’ I hiss. ‘Are there people here?’

‘I know you’ve had a crap time recently,’ he says, kissing me with beer breath, draping his arms around my body. ‘And I know today’s visit will have been shit, so I rang round a few of our friends and invited them over. Thought it would cheer you up. It’s Saturday night, babe. And I know how much you love to party.’

If I’d thought today couldn’t get any worse, Piers just proved me wrong.

‘Who knows,’ he adds, his voice slurred with drink. ‘Maybe you’ll recognise someone and your memory will come back. What can I get you to drink? Wine? Vodka tonic?’ He doesn’t notice my glare, or if he does, he chooses to ignore it.

I’m suddenly defeated by his cheerful onslaught. I feel my shoulders slump. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Vodka tonic sounds good.’

All my anger evaporates. Piers has filled my house with friends who may as well be complete strangers randomly picked up off the street, because I know I’m not going to recognise a single one of them. Could my boyfriend possibly be the most insensitive man on the planet? Short of storming upstairs and yelling at everybody to get the hell out, I have no choice but to make the best of this. The only choice now, the only way for me to get through this farcical evening, is to get spectacularly wasted.

‘Make it a large one,’ I say.

‘That’s my girl,’ he says with a grin.

I run my fingers through my hair, push my shoulders back and follow him up the stairs, wondering what new hell I’m about to encounter.

‘Mia!’

‘Oh my God, Mia, we heard what happened.’

‘How are you?’

‘Piers told us what happened. We can’t believe it.’

‘Mia!’

‘Hey, Mia.’

As the music throbs, pulsing through my core, my house swarms with beautiful people, all crowding around me, kissing me on the cheeks, hugging, offering condolences and well wishes. The women with their shiny hair, bright designer dresses, perfume, lip gloss and sparkling jewellery. The men confident and tanned in shirts and shorts, their aftershave subtle but expensive.  Everyone’s giving me the same weird, fascinated smiles and pitying looks, like I’m some strange museum exhibit. I bet they’ve all been gossiping about me. Loving the drama.

I smile back and nod, saying I’m fine, knocking back the vodkas, letting all the people merge into one big smiling face of concern. Piers steers me from one to another, introducing them, telling me how I came to know each person. I don’t even attempt to take in the information. I simply nod and smile politely, gulping at my drink, waiting until the blissful moment I can pass out and forget this hellish day.

I pretend I’m happy to see them all. I laugh at their jokes, kiss Piers, hang off his arm, make a good show of enjoying his concerned attention. But inside I’m fuming. He says this will help me get back to normal. That maybe I’ll recognise someone. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. If I can’t even recognise my own mother, how would I recognise a bunch of strangers? Inside I’m laughing hysterically. Laughing and screaming.

‘This is Suki and Matt Willis,’ Piers says. ‘From next door.’

My heart skips a beat as I realise I recognise them. But disappointment hits me when I realise I don’t remember them from before the accident – it’s the couple I saw arguing in the driveway the other morning when I was having breakfast on the balcony. They look a little older than me and Piers, maybe in their mid-thirties. They don’t fit in well with the rest of the crowd here tonight. They’re older and more conservatively dressed. Matt is short and broad, he’s almost square, half a head shorter than his wife. But he has an open, friendly face with grey-flecked short, brown hair. Suki is an English-rose with a dark brown bob, dressed in an expensive-looking, knee-length fitted dress. She doesn’t smile or acknowledge me in any way. She just looks bored.

I nod and smile at them, my eyes becoming heavy as the vodka does its work.

‘Hello, Mia,’ Matt says warmly. ‘Sorry to hear about what happened. If there’s anything Suki and I can do to help, you will let us know, won’t you. We’re just next door, and Suki’s home most days.’

‘That’s kind,’ I reply, thinking how there’s no way I’d ask that sour-faced woman for any help. Not even if I were dying.

‘How many of those have you had, Matt?’ Suki asks, inclining her head at his can of lager. ‘I thought you were going to go easy.’ She turns to Piers. ‘He’s trying to lose the beer gut, but it’s not going too well.’

Matt pats his stomach good-humouredly. ‘This baby? I’m trying to cultivate it, not get rid of it.’ He and Piers laugh, but Suki just purses her lips.

‘You’re succeeding,’ she says to her husband. ‘It’s getting bigger by the second. Glad you’re feeling better, Mia,’ she says to me without enthusiasm before turning away and glaring at Matt until he takes the hint and follows on behind.

‘Matt is so whipped,’ Piers says to me with a grin. ‘Suki needs a slap.’

I’m not inclined to disagree.

I have to put up with another two hours or so of small talk. Music and laughter shuffles in and out of my consciousness until finally everyone leaves and I can flake out on one of the sofas. Piers tries to pull me to my feet, but I resist him, my body heavy and lethargic. I want to stay here in the lounge and curl up on the sofa.

‘Come on, Mia,’ he says. ‘Help me out. I can’t carry you all the way downstairs.’

‘Staying here,’ I mutter, leaning back. My stomach is cramping and the lounge ceiling spins past as though it’s on a carousel. Piers leans over me again. He’s talking, but I’m not listening, and I suddenly find it hilarious that he doesn’t know how much he’s annoying me right now. I try to tell him how arrogant he is, but the words won’t come out right. Instead, I’m giggling and pointing up at him, jabbing him in the chest.

‘Okay, Mia,’ he says with a sigh. ‘You win. If you want, we can sleep up here tonight.’ He flops next to me and sticks his feet up on the wooden coffee table, knocking a can of beer onto the floor. Pale amber liquid seeps onto the carpet, but I don’t have a clear enough head to reprimand him.

‘Like my mum with the coasters,’ I mumble. ‘She wouldn’t be happy with you.’ I poke his shoulder with my forefinger.

Piers turns to me with a heavy-lidded smile. He starts unbuttoning my dress, but I push his hand away, flapping at him, irritated.

‘God, you really are pissed,’ he says.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ I say. Then, I turn away from him, lean over the arm of the sofa and puke my guts up onto the carpet.

‘For fucks sake, Mia. I am not clearing that up.’

I sit back up on the sofa and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. He glares at me in disgust and I give him what I imagine to be a triumphant smile.

He stands up and steps away from the sofa as if I’m contaminated. ‘I’m going to sleep downstairs – in a bed,’ he says. ‘Are you coming?’