The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (16 page)

T
he snow was falling lightly
and I brushed it off my windscreen with my gloved hand. My grandparents had bought me a second-hand Fiesta for Christmas and I loved it. It was grey – the colour of fungi, Dan said, and joked that there ‘wasn’t mush-room in it’.

Stuffed under the windscreen wiper was a letter. My skin prickled and I checked to see if I was being watched before I crumpled the envelope into my back pocket. There had been no more ‘gifts’ since the shoebox, but letters continued to arrive, each more threatening than the last. I tried not to let it get to me but it was hard. I didn’t know why Siobhan was still doing it, but at least I didn’t have to see her at school every day.

The lounge curtains twitched and I saw Grandma’s lined face peering out. I forced my mouth into a smile and waved. I’d kept the letters hidden from her; she worried enough now I was driving, and I didn’t want Mum finding out either. It had been lovely, her spending Christmas with us, but our relationship was still new. Fragile. I didn’t want anything to put a strain on it. I was scared of losing her again, so I smiled brightly at her jokes, keeping our conversations light.

The muscles in my upper back felt like stone as I chugged through the village, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Dan found it amusing that I adhered to the speed limit at all times, but he’d been driving a year longer than me.
The tortoise always got there in the end
, Grandma said. I indicated as I turned into Charlie’s street, despite the roads being deserted.

The engine thrummed as I sat in the car checking my mirrors, making sure I hadn’t been followed, before I stepped out and hurried down the path. I was constantly edgy, jumping at the smallest of things: the tree in the front garden casting shadows in my bedroom, dogs barking. I tried to tell myself that the letters couldn’t hurt me, but anxiety had taken up permanent residency in my stomach, leaving little space for food. At least I was losing weight.

Ice crystals scattered onto the wooden floor as I stamped my booted feet. ‘It’s me,’ I called as I headed towards the kitchen. Lexie couldn’t afford to heat the whole house ‘all the bleedin’ time’, but a fan heater blasted out warm air in the kitchen, clicking on and off as it tried to regulate the temperature.

‘I’ve got another one.’ I dropped the envelope on the table, then slumped into a wooden chair that was just as uncomfortable as it looked.

‘What’s it say?’ Charlie picked it up. ‘You haven’t opened it yet?’ She sliced open the envelope, pulled A4 lined paper out and smoothed it open.

‘LEAVE OR YOU’LL REGRET IT.’

The letters were uneven, cut from a magazine just like all the others.

‘Fucking Siobhan.’ Charlie tossed it down onto the table.

‘She says it’s not her.’

‘She would, wouldn’t she? Who else can it be?’

‘For you.’ Lexie slopped a chipped mug of milky tea on the table. I pressed my spine back against the chair, turned my head away from her stale alcohol breath. She slid a packet of cookies towards me with a hand that was shaking so violently I was surprised the biscuits weren’t crumbs.

‘It must be bleedin’ awful. Don’t know how you’re concentrating on your exams.’

‘I’m not.’ I yawned.

Lexie picked up the letter. ‘Why don’t you?’

‘Why don’t I what?’

‘Leave? I don’t mean for good, but you could go and stay with your mum in Devon, give that Siobhan one a chance to cool off?’

‘No.’ I couldn’t even contemplate being so far from Dan. ‘It’s only words. Sticks and stones and all that.’

‘Doesn’t want to leave Dan either. I’ve barely seen her the past few weeks,’ said Charlie, and she was right. ‘You’re turning into one of those girls who dumps her friends when she gets a bloke.’

‘I’m not. It’s just…’

‘You look bleedin’ knackered, Grace.’

‘I am, but this is an important year. I’ve got exams. I can cope with a few letters.’

‘She’s promised to help me with something important, too.’ Charlie’s voice softened. ‘In fact, Mum, I need…’

‘Bugger!’ Lexie said, as her mug clattered to the floor. She grabbed a grey cloth that could once have been white and dropped to her knees, soaking up coffee. She stood up to wring out the cloth. Mud-coloured liquid splattered over the ketchup-encrusted plates piled in the sink.

‘We’d better go.’ Charlie scraped her chair back. ‘We have an appointment.’

‘We do?’ I asked.

‘We do. Wanna leave your car here? Town will be rammed with all the sales on and you’re crap at parking.’

‘Thanks for that. Yes. Let’s get the bus.’

* * *

I
huddled
on a bench on the high street, stamping my feet to keep warm. Charlie had leaped off the bus last minute – she’d forgotten her purse. I hoped she’d had time to go home and find it and run back to the stop in time to catch the bus that was trundling towards me. It slotted into its bay, and I was relieved to spot Charlie waving out of the window. There was an almost manic atmosphere in town as crowds hurried from shop to shop, hunting for the elusive New Year’s Eve outfit. The it-doesn’t-make-me-look-like-I’ve-eaten-a-million-mince-pies dress. Clothes marked at fifty per cent off were tugged from hangers, bundled towards the till.

Charlie weaved through the throng. I kept my eyes on her green hat and tried to keep up. Despite questioning her, I had no idea where we were going.

She stopped in front of a peacock blue doorway. A neon pink sign flashed: Tattoo Parlour.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘I thought we could have matching tattoos.’

‘Yes. And then we can grow beards,’ I said.

‘Nothing masculine. Look, I drew this.’ Charlie pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it. It was a butterfly. ‘We can have them somewhere discreet. On our shoulders?’

‘You’re serious?’ I was absolutely never getting a tattoo, I was sure of that.

‘I am. New Year, new start.’

‘What will your mum think? Ben?’

‘I’ve dumped Ben.’

‘What! Why?’ It was selfish, but I was disappointed we wouldn’t be able to double-date any more.

‘Got my eye on somebody new.’

‘Who? Ben’s lovely…’

‘But boring.’ Charlie flashed a smile and pushed open the door. The reception area was white and clinical. Christmas songs blared from a Roberts radio.

‘Charlie Fisher?’ I couldn’t help but stare at the woman behind the desk. Tattoos crawled like vines up her bare arms, snaking around her neck.

‘That’s me.’

‘Hi. I’m Nancy. An appointment for two small tattoos, isn’t it?’

‘You can make it one.’ I sat on the bench, crossed my arms.

‘Charlie said she thought you’d back out.’

‘Back out?’ I said. ‘That would imply I was ever in.’

‘Spoilsport.’ Charlie showed her drawing to Nancy.

‘That’s cute. Did you design it yourself?’

‘Yeah. I wanted something that represented freedom.’

‘Come through,’ Nancy said. ‘You can watch if you want,’ she added, to me.

‘Are you doing it?’ I was surprised. I’d anticipated a man: black T-shirt and too many piercings.

‘Yeah. Expecting someone else?’

I shook my head, embarrassed.

The back room was not the dingy, dirty place I’d expected. Posters of fifties girls hung from stainless steel frames on stark white walls. Nancy snapped on gloves as Charlie lay, face down, on a black leather bench. Charlie twitched as the needle touched her skin, inhaled sharply.

‘Does it hurt?’ I was fascinated.

‘Yeah. Take my mind off it. What did you do last night?’

‘Saw Dan.’

‘I don’t need to be Einstein to figure that out.’

‘We took his telescope to the forest. It was quite a clear night.’

‘You must have been freezing.’

‘We lit a fire, toasted marshmallows. Kept each other warm…’

‘I bet you did! You seem really happy?’

‘We are. I thought it would be strange making that transition from friends, but it isn’t. I know we’re only young but I think he’s the one, Charlie.’

‘God. You’ll be getting his name tattooed on you in a minute.’

Sixty minutes later, Nancy was finished. She leaned back in her chair and tugged off her gloves, dropping them into a waste bin as she ran through the aftercare instructions. Charlie sipped water, the colour gradually returning to her cheeks.

‘How about you?’ Nancy looked at me. ‘Are you tempted?’

‘I don’t think it’s really me. It’s beautiful, though.’

‘You should spread your wings and fly, Grace,’ said Charlie.

‘Maybe one day,’ said Nancy.

‘Maybe.’ But I doubted it. I liked having both feet firmly on the ground.

* * *

W
e hopped off the bus
, carrier bags bumping our shins. I’d spent the Christmas money Mum had given me in Topshop, on an off-the-shoulder purple dress to wear to the New Year’s Eve party at the pub the following night. I couldn’t wait for Dan to see me. Charlie had bought a postbox-red Lycra dress and a lipstick to match.

‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. I’ll grab my stuff and tell Mum.’

‘I’ll wait in the car.’

I fished my keys from my bag, walked around to the driver’s door and froze. The word ‘BITCH’ was carved in large, uneven letters onto the side of my car.

‘
D
o I need a solicitor
?’

I hope Anna has rung Dan and told him where I am. I’m not sure if I get a phone call or if that’s just in the films. The glaring brightness of the artificial lights hurts my head and the smell of cleaning products is nauseating. The air in this windowless room is stagnant and far too warm for a winter’s day. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever see the inside of an interrogation room again. I wait for someone to speak. There’s the shuffling of paper before heads are raised, eye contact made.

‘Miss Matthews, you’re not actually under arrest. At this stage, you’re just helping us with our enquiries.’

At this stage.

I reach for the plastic cup in front of me. There’s a bang outside, the sound of shouting and I blanch. Water sloshes over the table.

‘I’m sorry.’ The lukewarm liquid drips onto the grey linoleum.

‘Let’s start from the beginning. Answer each question honestly, and if there’s anything you don’t understand, you can ask us to repeat it. Are you clear?’

‘Yes.’ I need to tell the truth. I’ve nothing to hide. I’ve sat in a room like this before and lied to the police. Lived in fear of being found out. I can’t do it again.

‘How long have you worked at Little Acorns?’

‘Seven years.’

‘And could you describe the events of the past few days?’

I tell them about Emily, how I hadn’t gone straight outside when Lyn asked me to, how she fell. I didn’t tell them how I still hear her scream when I close my eyes, how I still see her body, twisted and pale, lying on the ground.

‘And I believe there’s been some backlash against you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have you any idea who started that?’

‘There was an incident a few weeks ago. With Emily’s father, actually.’ I tell them what happened.

‘And does anyone else you know of have a grudge against you?’

‘No.’ I want to tell them I’m being followed, but am scared they’ll think I’m making it up.

‘Does anyone else you know have a reason to break into the nursery?’

‘No.’

‘And you were home alone yesterday evening?’

‘Yes.’

We run through my story again and again, and then I’m left alone. I pull a tissue out of my sleeve, wipe sweat from my underarms and then wonder whether I’m being watched, whether hidden windows and two-way mirrors are just for TV. I place my palms flat on the table and close my eyes. Footsteps echo in the corridor outside and the door clicks open.

‘Thank you, Miss Matthews. You’re free to go, for the moment.’

For the moment.

* * *

M
rs Jones’s
net curtains twitch as I step out of the police car outside the cottage. I hurry up the path, berating myself for not taking my phone. The door’s locked. I ring the bell, peer through the letter box. Anna doesn’t answer. My fists throb as I bang my frustration out on the solid wood, before sinking onto the cold stone step, shivering in my thin hoodie. What should I do? I can’t face Mrs Jones and the scores of questions she’ll have if she comes outside. It seems ludicrous to hide, but I do, jogging down the side of the house and slipping through the back gate. The greenhouse is freezing and as I sit cross-legged on the floor, dampness seeps through my tracksuit. It isn’t long before my bottom’s numb.

Dan’s the first home. I hear the chugging of the Land Rover and run around to the front of the cottage.

‘Grace, been for a run?’

I hurl myself into his arms.

‘Grace? You’re shivering. Let’s get you inside.’

He leads me to the sofa. Clumps of compost fall from my trainers onto the newly hoovered carpet. I don’t pick them up.

‘Grace, I’m so sorry.’ Anna sweeps into the cottage, still in coat and boots.

‘I couldn’t get back in.’ I’m tearful now.

‘I was out looking for Mittens.’

‘What?’ My eyes dart around the lounge, searching for the ever-present grey ball of fluff.

‘When you’d gone, Mrs Jones came around and started asking questions. I didn’t want to let her in, so I stood with the door open. Mittens ran past me. I couldn’t catch her.’

‘Mittens never goes outside.’

‘I know. She must have seen a rabbit or something.’

‘What have you done, you fucking bitch?’ Dan’s voice is low, quiet. He steps forward.

Anna moves towards the door. ‘Accidents happen. Sometimes no one is accountable.’ Her footsteps pound down the hall; the front door slams.

‘Dan?’

Dan rests his chin on the top of my head. ‘I’m sorry, sorry, sorry,’ he whispers into my hair.

I push him away. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Mittens?’

He takes my hand. His palm is sweating. ‘Grace…’