The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (2 page)

I take down a photo of Dan and me from on top of the piano – we’re dangling the keys to the cottage and brandishing a bottle of champagne – and slip Charlie into the silver frame instead.

My mobile rings. I leap on it, hoping it’s Dan, but it’s an unknown number. My mind leaps to conclusions – Dan’s had an accident and it’s the hospital – and a film of sweat breaks out on my skin. I answer the call and there’s the sound of breathing.

‘Hello?’ I say. Then, louder, ‘Hello?
Hello?
’

But nobody speaks. Eventually, the dial tone whirrs against my ear. This is the third time it’s happened today and I switch my phone off.

A wave of tiredness washes over me. Alcohol and emotion collaborate, forcing my eyes shut; I rub them, trying to dispel the past. I take the photo and envelope with me to bed and prop them against my bedroom lamp. The photos have stirred up so many emotions, I’m afraid I’ll lose it completely if I open Charlie’s letter tonight. I pop a sleeping tablet out of its foil cocoon, place it on my tongue and swallow it down with tepid water. I slip into patchy sleep clouded by dreams of Charlie and my father.

‘It’s your fault, Grace,’ my dream dad says. ‘I’d still be here if it wasn’t for you.’

‘Open the envelope, Grace,’ Charlie whispers to my subconscious. ‘Don’t let me down.’

I wake in the morning to tangled bed sheets and a damp pillow. Dan hasn’t come home.

L
ittle by little
, the world stopped spinning and I became conscious of Grandad rubbing my back in small circular motions, his hand warm and solid.

‘Breathe slowly, Grace,’ he urged, as I puffed out clouds of air like a steam train. I inhaled sharply and the ice-cold wind made me cough. Tears streamed down my frozen cheeks as I breathed in and out for the count of five, the way I’d been taught, until I felt calm enough to straighten up and release my grip on the iron railings. I’d clasped them so hard that specks of moss green paint were embedded in my gloves. I slapped my hands together, scattering the flecks onto the pavement, as I surveyed the monstrous construction in front of me.

‘Don’t make me go in there.’

‘I know the move’s been hard on you.’

That was an understatement. It wasn’t just the people I’d left behind, my sunflower yellow bedroom, or my school that I missed. It was the noises that make up a home. Waking each morning to the sound of crashing waves; the creak of the third stair whenever someone stepped on it; the screech of seagulls as I walked to school; the crunch of shingle underfoot as I ran across the beach on the way home, salt air filling my lungs.

I’d always loved visiting my grandparents in the school holidays. Watching the quaint Oxfordshire village grow year by year as red-bricked houses were tacked onto its outskirts, A second pub built, a coffee shop, a Co-op. ‘All the mod cons,’ Grandma said, but still, it didn’t feel like home. It didn’t sound like home. Never again would I huddle under my covers as the wind and rain declared war upon the cliffs, the flash of the lighthouse blinking through my curtains.

‘You’ll soon make friends,’ said Grandad, ever the optimist.

‘I won’t if they find out what I’ve done.’

‘Stop blaming yourself. No one will find out anything unless you tell them.’ Grandad straightened my hat. ‘You have to go to school, Gracie.’ He smiled, but it didn’t make his eyes crinkle around the edges like normal, and I nodded, guilty I’d made such a fuss. I’d turned nine now; I needed to act like it. If Grandma had been there I’d have been marched straight in.

‘Come on.’ He proffered a hand, age-spotted and wrinkled. ‘Let’s get you inside.’

I locked my fingers around his and we slid our way across the barren playground. I’d just finished reading
Gulliver’s Travels
and I felt like a Lilliputian as I stopped at the bottom of the concrete stairs and stared up at the huge red building. It seemed a million times larger than my old primary.

Grandad looked as though he might speak but he shook his head instead, gently tugging my hand until my reluctant feet followed him into the rainforest warmth of my new school.

Inside the entrance, an unsmiling receptionist sat behind a desk. ‘
Greenfields Learning Community Welcomes You!
’ was painted in daffodil yellow on the wall above her.

‘Grace Matthews.’ Grandad patted my shoulder. ‘It’s her first day.’

The receptionist gestured us to salmon-coloured chairs that could have once been red, and I sank gratefully into the softness. My feet dangled above the floor. I thunked my new plastic lunch box onto a wooden table etched with: ‘
Miss Markham is fit’
.

‘I wonder if Miss Markham is the PE teacher?’ mused Grandad.

I picked at stray bits of thread on my fraying seat as I looked around. No drawings or crafts adorned the scuffed walls. A forlorn Christmas tree stood in the corner, its branches almost bare, a too-short string of gaudy coloured lights twisted around its middle. I never wanted to celebrate Christmas again. A few weeks ago I’d felt like any other nine-year-old, and now I had my own counsellor, Paula. I hated the weekly therapy sessions, talking about my feelings – as if that could ever change anything. Now I wished I were in Paula’s office, with its walls so blue it made me feel like I was drowning. I wished I were anywhere but here.

The smell of citrus cleaning products was cloying and my stomach lurched as I was overcome with longing for my old school: the smell of plimsolls and poster paint; my old friends; hopscotch and kiss chase. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. It was eerily quiet. We’d been told not to come until after registration so I wouldn’t be quite so overwhelmed, but to me it felt worse. I’d have to join a lesson once it had started. I breathed in deeply, the way Paula had taught me, and tried to transport myself to a happy place. I imagined myself in my bedroom, my real bedroom, the one I’d probably never see again. My fists gradually unclenched and I must have drifted off because the click-clack of high heels roused me. For a second, I had actually believed everything was normal. I was back home and Mum was cooking supper for Dad.

‘Here’s Mrs Beeton,’ said Grandad. ‘She’s the one I saw when I registered you.’

‘Grace, it’s lovely to meet you.’ The headmistress stood before me, complete with a sympathetic smile. I’d been seeing a lot of those lately.

I stared silently at her, my lips straight and serious.

‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Roberts? I have some paperwork. Grace, we won’t be long.’

They hunched over the reception desk, heads close together, and spoke in hushed tones, occasionally throwing worried glances my way.

‘I’ll see you later, Pet.’ Grandad’s voice was a little too loud as he waved goodbye a short time later, his smile a little too wide. His footsteps echoed loudly, marching to the drumming of my heart, as I watched him walk out the door.

I trotted after Mrs Beeton through a warren of identical corridors, slowing each time we passed a window, longing for a glimpse of Grandad, head bowed against the wind, gloveless hands thrust into corduroy pockets. My smart new Clarks shoes squeaked on the linoleum and I could already feel blisters forming on my heels.

‘Here we are.’ Mrs Beeton pushed open a classroom door. A sea of faces turned towards us and I’d never felt smaller than I did in that moment.

‘Grace, this is Miss Stiles.’

Miss Stiles pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. She was wearing trousers and was younger than my last teacher, who’d always worn a dress. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to introduce myself.

‘There’s a spare seat at the back, Grace.’

Heady with relief, I scampered towards the empty chair faster than I should have in my not-yet-broken-in shoes. I splayed my hands to cushion my fall the moment I felt myself slip. My lunch box clattered to the floor and I was sprawled next to it, wishing I could die.

I didn’t make eye contact with anyone as I tugged down my skirt to preserve what little dignity I had remaining, and scrambled around retrieving my lunch. My yoghurt spoon was missing, but I didn’t care. The lid of my new lunch box hung at an unnatural angle, one of the hinges broken, but I thrust everything back inside and cradled it to my chest. My ankle hurt as I stood and I bit back hot tears.

‘I think this is yours?’

A boy tilted his chair towards me, thrusting out a piece of paper.

I shook my head. Limped forwards.

‘Don’t forget how much we
love
you, Gracie.’

I froze, as the words that could only have been lovingly written by Grandad were mockingly read aloud.

I snatched the paper as the class sniggered.

The boy jabbed a finger at me. ‘Look, Ginger’s face is as red as her hair!’

‘That’s enough, Daniel Gibson.’ Thankful for Miss Stiles’s intervention, I hobbled to my seat, staring at the floor as if it could turn into the Yellow Brick Road, take me to see the Wizard. There’s no place like home.

It was two to a desk. I didn’t acknowledge my neighbour as she slid her textbook to the centre so I could share it. Hostility I could cope with, kindness would make me cry. I’d done enough of that lately.

I tried to calm myself by imagining I was on a beach, but that made me think of home, and I wanted to rest my forehead on the desk and howl with the injustice of it all. It seemed like hours before the bell rang for lunch.

Miss Stiles pushed her way to the back of the room as the class swarmed towards the door.

‘Charlotte,’ she said to the girl next to me, who was shoving things into a pink rucksack. ‘Can you please take Grace and show her where we eat?’

‘OK,’ said Charlotte.

‘Where are you from?’ Charlotte asked, as we weaved through a maze of corridors. She was tall. I had to half run to keep up with her. My ankle throbbed but I didn’t complain; I was grateful not to be alone. ‘How come you’re late starting?’

I’d been expecting this question, but the lies I’d been practising in front of my bedroom mirror seemed to stick in my throat. Charlotte stopped walking and I swallowed hard, thinking she was waiting for my answer, but then I realised we were there, at the canteen. The hall looked like a clip of the prison I’d seen on TV once: rows of plastic grey tables and orange chairs. Lunch had only just begun, but crisps and crusts were already scattered over the parquet floor. I was stung by a sharp longing for my old school, where we had eaten lunch in our classroom, swapping Club biscuits for Penguins, yoghurts for cake.

‘Well, this is the canteen. “Hardly the bleedin’ Ritz,” as Mum would say, but you know…’

I nodded, even though I had no idea what she was talking about.

Charlotte waved to two girls hunkered down in the corner. ‘That’s Esmée and Siobhan; I’ll introduce you later. I usually sit with them, but not today. C’mon.’

I scurried after Charlotte, straining forward to hear her.

‘You can come round my house if you like after school, yeah? I can do your hair and make-up. My mum’s a singer and has loads of cool stuff. She’s hardly ever home so she won’t know.’

I couldn’t. Grandad was picking me up; besides, Grandma would have a fit if I came home wearing make-up.

‘Maybe,’ I said, not wanting to sound like a baby.

‘Let’s sit here.’ Charlotte plonked her things next to the boy who’d humiliated me in class. I hesitated, told myself it was better than sitting alone, but I felt my cheeks heat all the same.

‘Take a pew.’ Charlotte stared at me. Her bright green eyes reminded me of our old cat, Bessie, and something told me I could trust her.

My throat always felt like it was closing whenever I was anxious, but I sat and unpacked my lunch anyway. If I’d still had a spoon I might have managed to swallow some yoghurt. It was apricot, too: my favourite. I scowled at the boy, Daniel, then pierced my carton of apple juice with a straw and took small sips. Charlotte shook her bottle of banana milk.

‘Could you fetch me a straw?’ Charlotte flashed Daniel a brilliant smile.

‘Yeah.’ He flushed, scraped back his chair and swaggered across the hall in an I’m-too-cool-for-school kind of way.

‘Keep watch.’ Charlotte snatched Daniel’s half-eaten sandwich and removed the top slice of bread. She grabbed the ketchup bottle from the condiment holder and squirted tomato sauce on top of the strawberry jam, then reassembled the sandwich.

I stiffened as Daniel returned, picked up his lunch and took a large bite. He chewed once, twice, before spitting everything out and rubbing at his mouth with his sleeve.

‘Oh, look!’ Charlotte pointed at him. ‘His face is as red as his sandwich.’

‘Who did that?’ Daniel stood up, hands fisted by his sides.

‘I did. It serves you right for being so mean to Grace on her first day.’

‘You’re a bloody bitch, Charlotte Fisher.’ Daniel swept his lunch into his rucksack, glaring at me, and I flinched. ‘I’ll get you for this.’ He stormed towards the exit.

‘Good riddance!’ Charlotte shouted.

‘I can’t believe you did that, Charlotte,’ I said.

‘It’s Charlie, not Charlotte, if we’re gonna hang out,’ she said. ‘Want one?’

My mouth felt too dry to eat, but I took a cheese and onion crisp and placed it on my tongue.

‘So why did you move here, Grace?’

And the crisp felt heavy and solid in my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my throat had closed.

I
t took
ages to get to sleep last night. Looking through the photo album stirred up so many memories that my stomach churned with regret and my mind refused to still. The sleeping tablets aren’t as effective as they used to be. I resolve to go to the doctor on Monday, pretend I’ve lost my latest prescription. That way I can get some more and double my dose.

When I last checked the time – frantic with worry that Dan still wasn’t home – it was two in the morning, and I thought I’d never drift off, but now, looking at my clock, it’s past six so I suppose I must have. I jump out of bed so fast my head spins, thrust my feet into slippers and yank my dressing gown off its hook on the back of the door. There’s a chance, I tell myself, that Dan has crept in and crashed on the sofa, so as not to wake me, but as I run into the lounge and turn on the light, only Mittens is there, blinking at the sudden brightness.

I pull open the curtains. My temples throb as I try Dan’s phone for the umpteenth time, a slideshow of despair flickering across my mind: Dan in a ditch, car upturned, wheels still spinning; Dan mugged and left for dead in an alleyway; Dan bleeding and broken at the side of the road.

There isn’t much to see past the front garden. It’s still wintery dark and the fog hangs heavily in the air, snaking fingers swirling towards me, rendering the lane invisible. It wasn’t until we moved here that I appreciated how powerful the weather is: now you see it, now you don’t. I shiver, although I’m not cold, and wrap my dressing gown a little tighter. There’s a packet of Polos in the pocket and I slip one onto my tongue. The medication I’m on leaves a foul taste in my mouth that seems to linger all day, no matter how many times I brush my teeth or how many mints I eat.

I check my watch again, as if I can somehow make time go faster. It isn’t yet seven, too early to really panic, but still, it doesn’t stop me thinking the worst – I always do. Paula used to say it stems from a fear of loss, Dan says it stems from being uptight. I pace in front of the lounge window, carpet pile flattening under slippered feet, a tiger in a cage, backwards and forwards, coiled with tension.

When did Dan and I begin to unravel? My life seems split into two: before Charlie’s death and after. I think we were happy before, but it’s hard to properly remember. Sometimes it feels like I’ve pushed him so far away it will be impossible to pull him back, but although I’m terrified I’ll lose him, I can’t stem the almost constant irritation I feel. I tell myself it doesn’t matter if he makes a mess, if he doesn’t do the things he’s promised, but I nag him all the same – almost goading, wanting him to bite back sometimes.

I shiver as the wind howls and rattles the gate. The latch doesn’t hold and it swings wide open before crashing shut again. I’ve asked Dan to fix the catch so many times. I hear a car and strain my eyes to see. Headlights poke through the fog at the end of the lane, like cat’s eyes, and I wait for the car to properly appear. It must be Dan. Our lane only leads to fields. When we bought the cottage I had visions of sheep grazing, or horses hanging their heads over the five-bar gate, but the land is arable. Wheat is farmed here, and every time I eat Weetabix I feel strangely proud, as though I’ve grown it myself.

The car emerges from the fog. It’s too small to be Dan’s and is barely moving. I wonder whether the driver is lost. There are only two cottages along here. Ours and Mrs Jones’s. She doesn’t have a car and only has visitors at Christmas and on her birthday; besides, who would visit at this time in the morning? It’s not even properly light yet.

The car crawls closer and closer until it stops virtually outside the cottage, but it’s too foggy to see inside it. The engine thrums and the lights illuminate our apple tree, but no one gets out. Time ticks past and I wonder what they’re doing.
Who they’re watching
. The words run through me with a chill. It isn’t the first time I’ve felt I’m being watched, and I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. Who would watch me? But I can’t tear my eyes away all the same. The last time I’d requested a repeat prescription, my doctor asked whether the sleeping tablets were causing any side effects. I said no, but a sense of unease has burrowed its way inside me; my skin crawls and my mind hops and it’s hard to stay focused. I really should stop taking them. I’m edgy and paranoid and barely recognise myself.

It’s just a car.

A second set of lights appear now and Dan’s ancient Land Rover chugs into vision. I scoot over to the sofa, casually recline and pick up my book with a hand that still shakes. I will be calm. Dan shuffles into the room, slings his jacket on the sofa near my feet and glances at me through bloodshot eyes. He looks terrible. My inner fury and joy wrestle: fury wins.

‘Where the hell have you been? Who’s with you?’

‘With me?’ Dan looks over his shoulder.

‘The other car?’

‘Other car?’

‘Are you just going to repeat everything I say? Why didn’t you call?’

‘I lost my phone.’

‘Where?’

‘If I knew that it wouldn’t be lost,’ he snaps.

‘Don’t…’

He holds both hands up in front of him, fingers splayed. ‘Sorry. I should have called you from Harry’s but I fell asleep on his sofa.’

There’s a stabbing in my gut as I imagine Dan, Harry and Harry’s girlfriend, Chloe, curled up in front of Harry’s log fire with a case of Budweiser and bowls of tortilla chips and salsa, the way we all used to on a Saturday night before Charlie died.

‘I was worried.’

‘You always are. I’m going to clean up and crash for a couple of hours.’

Avoiding my gaze, Dan strides out the room, thumps up the stairs. A moment later I hear the creak of the bathroom door opening and the gurgling of pipes as he turns on the water.

I wonder whether he’ll come back down after his shower, suggest a Sunday morning snuggle. I wonder why I don’t feel I can suggest one myself. Before long, the bedroom door opens and closes. The bedsprings squeak.

In the bathroom, steam rises and hangs, a cloud of uncertainty hovering over me. I open the small window and pick Dan’s towel off the floor. Stepping into the glass cubicle, I turn the shower on and shiver while I wait for the water to heat. My eyes close as I remember how we both used to squeeze in here. My palms would be flat against the wet tiles. His hands on my hips. Afterwards, he’d massage shampoo through my hair as I leaned my body back against him. Was he really at Harry’s all night? I wash with lavender shower gel: the familiar fragrance, my childhood comfort, dissolves my fears, until one by one I wash them down the plughole. I’ve no reason to believe Dan has lied to me. Grief has skewed my judgment. My grasp on reality feels tenuous at best. Paula always encouraged me to process my thoughts rationally rather than submitting to fear. ‘The mind can create multiple possible scenarios from one thought and the majority of them won’t be true,’ she’d said. I’m too tired to think about it properly

I step out of the shower, away from my thoughts, and pull my pyjamas back on. I’ll leave Dan to catch up on his sleep. I’m afraid of what I might say if I stay, afraid of what I might hear, and it isn’t until I’m walking downstairs I think to check if that car is still outside – but it’s gone.

* * *

I
t’s freezing
in the shed; my breath mists before me. I flick on the heater and pull on grey fingerless gloves. The telephone table I’ve sanded rests on sheets of newspaper, ready to be painted. It’s for Mrs Jones’s birthday. She always admires my own table. I dip my brush and stroke pistachio chalk paint over the bare wood. Dan can’t understand my fascination with old furniture, but I love to upcycle, to preserve a little piece of history. I always wonder about the original owners: what were their lives like, were they happy? The sweeping of the paintbrush soothes me and by the time I’m finished, tension has released its grip on my shoulders, my fears tightly packed away where they can’t be seen. My phone beeps and I swipe the screen. It’s Grandad confirming lunch is at one – not that I could forget, we go most Sundays, but since Grandma bought him a mobile phone for his seventieth birthday last year, he texts me all the time. I punch out a reply that’s far more upbeat than I feel, and slip the phone into my pocket. I’d better wake Dan up.

* * *

T
he gravy is
thick and smooth. I pour it into a white china gravy boat, wiping the drops that trickle down the sides with my finger. Grandad carves the roast beef while Grandma heaps vibrant, steaming vegetables into serving bowls. My mouth waters at the smell of Yorkshire puddings. I’m ravenous. I’d skipped breakfast, feeling too rough to be hungry. ‘DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL’ is written on the side of my sleeping tablet bottle, but it’s just a stock warning, isn’t it? And we all ignore those. I fork the meat into my mouth, and my nose streams from the horseradish sauce. Grandma passes me a tissue and carries on telling us about the ‘nice young man’ who came to set up their new computer, and how she rides the Google every day.

My shoulders shake with suppressed laughter and I try to catch Dan’s eye. He’s hunched over his plate, pushing his food around, and doesn’t look up as I begin to clear the table. I carry the dirty plates through to the kitchen and balance the crockery next to the sink. I’ve often tried to persuade my grandparents to buy a dishwasher. They can afford one and have the space. They always say they’ll consider it, but they like the washing-up routine I think: standing side by side, Grandma washing, Grandad drying, discussing how big the marrows have grown, identifying the birds on the feeder.

Grandad’s voice filters through the wall, low and gravelly. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he smoked. Dan laughs and it takes me a second to identify the sound, it’s been so long since I heard it. We’ve grown up together and sometimes I wonder whether it’s natural that we’ve grown apart, whether it would have happened anyway and circumstances aren’t to blame.

Grandma stirs home-made custard for the apple crumble that is warming in the oven. I stand on tiptoes and pull down the jug from the top of the dresser, the pink one with the picture of cows grazing on it. Swill it under the tap.

‘Gracie, I got an email from my friend Joan the other day. It’s on top of the fridge for you.’

‘You printed it?’

‘Yes. She sent a recipe I wanted to forward to you.’

I open my mouth to explain what ‘forward’ actually means, and close it again. It’s enough for now that she’s got to grips with composing an email, even if she does put ‘THIS IS FROM GRANDMA’ in every subject line, and then rings me to make sure I’ve got it.

The recipe is for a butternut squash risotto; it sounds delicious. I’ll try it for tea next week, although I’ll have to cook a steak for Dan or he’ll lift up vegetables with his fork and ask where the meat’s hiding.

‘And, I saw Lexie.’

I freeze at the mention of Charlie’s mum’s name.

‘Drunk again, could barely stand.’

Lexie always liked a drink when Charlie was alive, but has gone off the rails completely since her daughter died. Grandma turns the gas ring off and faces me. ‘I didn’t know whether I should tell you, Grace. The last thing I want is that woman upsetting you.’ Grandma has never held Lexie in very high regard.

‘Tell me what?’

‘She wants to see you.’

My pulse skyrockets at the thought of facing my best friend’s mum. I haven’t seen her since Charlie’s funeral. The funeral I had to leave after Lexie told me she’d never forgive me for the death of her daughter.

What happened before Charlie died wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t Charlie’s either. How could it have been?
So why did Charlie run away?
whispers the voice in my head and I ignore it, but it won’t go away.

Grandma slops custard into the jug and hands it to me to carry into the dining room. It sloshes as I walk, hot liquid splattering my hand, but I barely notice. Grandma follows me through with the apple crumble that I now can’t face eating. I sit at the table, gripping my spoon. The hum of voices surrounding me become more and more distant until they’re indecipherable. I smile and nod at what I hope are appropriate moments, while all the time the same thought swims round and round my mind: what does Lexie want with me?