The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (22 page)

T
he coffee pot
steams and bubbles and I pour scalding liquid into Esmée’s travel mug, hand her a banana. She unplugs her mobile from the wall, drops it into her cavernous bag.

‘What are your plans today? It’ll be really uncomfortable here. They’ve forecast a mini heatwave. Typical. It’s boiling in April, and when I’m off in August it will most likely rain.’

‘I might go out.’ I lie. This is our daily script. I wait for the part when Esmée tells me to have a good day and I smile brightly and say I will, but instead she slaps a shopping list on the worktop.

‘Can you pick up a few bits then, hun?’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘Grace, there are approximately ten million people living in London. Even if Anna knew you were here, which she doesn’t…’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘You’ve been here nearly a week. If she was going to find you, she’d have done it by now.’

‘You don’t know her.’

‘Neither do you, not really. What are you going to do if they never catch her? Stay in forever?’

I chew my thumbnail. Esmée sighs, her hand spiders over the list and she scrunches it up.

‘Sorry, Grace. I don’t want to push you. I just hate seeing you like this.’

I cover her hand in mine. ‘Leave the list. I’ll try.’

‘You don’t have to…’

‘I know. Now scoot or you’ll miss your train.’

I bow my head, smoothing the crumpled paper as she gathers her keys, picks up her coffee.

‘Have a good day, Grace. Feel free to rummage through my wardrobe for something summery.’

I blink away tears, smile brightly. ‘I will.’

Esmée’s heels click-clack down the wooden staircase and I shut the door to the flat, pull the chain across. Seeds scatter over the worktop as I drop granary bread into the toaster. I scoop them into my hand, drop them into the sink and I flick through Esmée’s DVDs as I wait:
The Shining
,
Poltergeist
,
Halloween
. Movies I’d watch from behind a cushion at the best of times. The toast pops, making me jump. I tweezer it out with a thumb and finger, spread thick layers of butter and Marmite. I eat standing, palm scooped under my chin to catch the crumbs. The day stretches before me, long and lonely. I swallow the last of my breakfast, rinse my fingers. My phone vibrates, skittering across the counter. It’s Dan. His calls have tapered off but he still rings at least three times a day. I don’t answer, I never do. The phone stills, its battery almost drained even though I haven’t used it once since I got here. I haven’t got my charger and Esmée’s is not compatible with mine.

The windows rattle in time to the drilling outside and I rub my temples, trying to ease away the headache that’s snaking its way around my skull. I study the map Esmée has left me, trace the underground routes with my index finger. Work out which line I’d need if I were to venture out.
If.

I curl on the sofa, punch numbers into Esmée’s landline.

‘Grace, how are you?’

‘I’m OK. Any news?’ Grandad’s been calling the police daily.

‘Not yet, but they’ll catch her. Don’t you worry.’ He coughs and I hold the receiver away from my ear.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine. We both have a bit of a cold, but it’s nothing. Grandma’s out sorting donations at the charity shop. Mrs Jones has had a fall.’

‘Oh, no. Is she OK?’

‘Needs a new hip. Luckily the decorators heard her banging on the wall with her walking stick. She’s in St. Anne’s. Don’t want to visit and take my germs in.’

‘I’ll go and see her when I come home. I might go out today.’ I wait for the protests. For the ‘it isn’t safe’s.

‘Fresh air will do you good.’ Grandad has never been to London.

‘The air here…’ But there is a buzzing against my ear and then nothing.

‘Grandad?’ I can’t hear anything so I dial again, am met with silence.

I jolt as there is a thumping at the door downstairs. The phone thuds to the sofa and I drop to my knees. Cover my mouth with my hands. The banging comes louder this time and I crawl over to the window. Raise myself until I am peeping over the ledge. There is a figure below with a baseball cap on. I can see a glimpse of blonde hair sticking out from beneath the New York Yankees logo. Heat whooshes through my body. The thumping comes again and the figure steps back, looks up.

I dart down, but not quickly enough; they have seen me, I have seen them.

I clatter down the stairs, open the door a crack. Nod as the workman tells me he is replacing cables, that I may experience temporary problems with my phone line.

The door clicks behind me and, as I lock it, I wonder when I became so frightened. Whether it’s purely because of Anna or if the fear runs deeper. I don’t think I’ve felt properly safe since Dad died. I’ve always carried a sense of unease. I think of Grandma, carrying on regardless, despite Anna, despite feeling ill, and I want her to be as proud of me as I am of her. A quiet courage creeps over me. Maybe this new life I’ve been thrust into isn’t what I’d have chosen, but maybe, just maybe, it’ll be the right one for me.

Esmée has a flowing floral maxi dress that fits me and I slip her sandals onto my feet. I try to fold the map but it doesn't seem to fit together, so I concertina it as best I can and tuck it inside my messenger bag. I gather my keys and my courage and venture into London on my own for the very first time.

The brick wall presses hard against my spine as I flatten myself against it, fighting the urge to return home. I’ve never seen so many people jostling for space before. No one makes eye contact, everyone’s in a rush and I’m not even in the centre yet. I inch my way to the Tube. My whispered apologies are unacknowledged and it takes an age to get to the station.

Two trains rumble past before I have the courage to hop on, darting out of the way of the door before it closes. I plant myself in the centre of the carriage, feet hip-width apart, and clutch the pole with both hands. I barely wobble as the train sets off and I chalk up my first victory of the day.
Baby steps, Grace.
A muffled voice announces we’re at Charing Cross and I follow the crowd – sharp elbows and banging briefcases – to the ticket barrier, before I climb the steps to daylight. It’s bright outside and I blink as I’m propelled forward, clutching my bag.
London is rife with pickpockets, Grace
, Grandma warned me.

My borrowed sandals slap against the pavement. I have nowhere to go, nothing to do. It’s liberating and unsettling all at the same time. There’s a mishmash of shops lining the streets. The smell of incense merges with the aroma of hamburgers and Lush soaps. I spot a phone shop on the opposite side of the road, jab the crossing button with my finger and wait for the green man.

‘I’d like a new iPhone.’

‘Certainly, madam; do you wish to keep your existing number?’

‘Absolutely not.’

The sheer magnitude of the crowd is overwhelming and, as I wander around, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m being followed. I think I see a figure in my peripheral vision. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I stop dead and spin around, but there’s nothing but a sea of irritated faces swerving past me and I tell myself to stop being so paranoid.

The pigeons strut around my feet as I sit on the steps of Trafalgar Square. I fling them some chips. There’s just enough battery left in my old phone to scroll through my contacts, transferring the numbers I want to keep. I’ll send them a message so they have my new number. I feel a pang as I reach Dan’s, but I remind myself why I’m getting a new phone and fight the urge to text him. A fresh start. The plastic casing of my old mobile snaps off easily. I remove the SIM, scrunch it inside my empty chip wrapper and toss it in the nearest bin. I can never remember numbers, and although it wouldn’t be too hard to find out Dan’s if I really wanted to, it feels like a step forward.

It’s ridiculous to think it’s only April. The heat is oppressive; it builds and builds. My feet swell and my sandals squeeze tight. I pass a man on the steps bundled with his belongings, a cap before him cradling coppers and a chewing-gum wrapper.

‘Is this any good to you?’ I hold out my old phone. ‘It’s Samsung’s latest model. Can you pawn it? I don’t have the charger, but…’

The man swipes the phone. Stuffs it in his rucksack.

There’s a cafe in front of me, and I sit at a round table, shielded by a blue and white striped umbrella, and sip at a berry smoothie, playing with my new phone. It’s over. Dan and Anna can’t contact me, won’t find me.

‘Stifling, isn’t it?’ The waitress wipes her brow with her apron. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think I do.’

* * *

A
s much as
I want to see Big Ben, the Tower of London, all the things I’ve read about, I’m exhausted – feet hot and swollen – and I still have to find the things on Esmée’s shopping list. I trudge towards the Tube, and notice a neon pink tattoo sign flashing. I push open the door. It’s time to spread my wings.

‘Can you fit me in without an appointment?’ I cross my fingers behind my back, even though I’m not quite sure what I want the answer to be.

‘What do you want?’

‘A small tattoo of a butterfly, here.’ I point to the back of my shoulder.

‘Yeah, no problem. Look through these design books, see if anything takes your fancy while I finish my coffee.’

‘Thanks.’ I thumb through pages of swirling designs, Celtic bands and intricate lettering, stopping when I see a tattoo similar to Charlie’s. ‘That’s the one.’ I tap the image with my finger.

‘Nice and simple. My name’s Rick. Follow me.’

The room is small and private and I slide my T-shirt off my shoulder and lie on my front. A fan whirrs in the corner and every few seconds I’m hit by a blast of warm air.

‘Ready?’ Rick asks.

‘Yes,’ I say. I am.

The needle touches my skin and I tense. It hurts but it isn’t unbearable. I unclench my hands, take deep breaths through my nose.

Look at me, Charlie. I’m flying.

* * *

M
y shoulder stings
and I can’t help but pat the dressing again, as if reassuring myself that I’m really that brave. When I lost my virginity, I thought everyone would know just by looking, that there was something different about me. That I’d changed. That’s how I feel now as I stand on the platform, waiting for the Tube. Self-conscious but proud – it’s an achievement of sorts. I glance around, almost expecting someone to question me, to ask about my dressing, but it’s not like home – people don’t just strike up conversations in the city. I half smile at a couple standing next to me. They both have tattoos.
Look,
I want to say.
I’m one of you
.

That’s when I see her. Next to the archway. A flash of shiny blonde hair, a baby-pink leather jacket and then she’s gone.
Anna.

I crane my neck. Stand on tiptoes. But fear has made me dizzy and I stumble backwards. My fingers drum against my thigh –
think, Grace, think
. My head jerks from side to side, frantic eyes searching, as I breathe in to the count of five, exhale slowly. I tell myself that I shouldn’t be scared, not here. I’m surrounded by people. Safety in numbers. It’s when I am alone I should be frightened. When every shadow screams danger.

I can’t see her. I scan the crowd, picking out blonde women. None of them wearing a pink jacket. None of them Anna. My heart begins to slow as I think I might have been mistaken. That it isn’t her. Couldn’t be her. But then I see it again. The swinging blonde hair. A glimpse of pink. A surge of anger floods my veins, drowning out my fear. She killed my cat. Destroyed my home. Ruined my relationship. What more does she want? I loop my bag across my body and shoulder through the passengers, ignoring the throbbing as my new tattoo is knocked. The hunted becomes the hunter.

My arms are stretched in front of me like an Egyptian mummy as I fight my way through the throng, thinking of what I might do when I catch her – but then I shake that thought away. I’ve lost sight of her. There are too many people, scowling and swearing as I push forward, and my adrenaline ebbs away. I stop, suddenly aware I’ve been muttering to myself. I must look crazy, and I wonder if I am. I think, I should go.