The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (6 page)

T
he week passes quickly
and it’s Friday already. I’ve worried all day that I’ll have nothing to wear for my night out, but when I get home from work there’s a Royal Mail card on the doormat: a package has been left for me at Mrs Jones’s. I tap on my neighbour’s glossy green door, tuck my hands deep in my pockets and rock from foot to foot for what seems like ages in a bid to keep warm. Crouching, I peer through the letter box and see Mrs Jones, grey head bowed as she shuffles up the hall. I straighten as the door swings open.

‘Hello, Grace dear, it’s lovely to see you.’

‘You too, Mrs Jones. How are you?’

‘I mustn’t grumble, dear. Everything’s working and still where it should be.’

‘Have you taken a parcel in for me?’

‘It’s here on my new telephone table. I’m ever so pleased with it, dear. It’s a lovely colour. That pretty Kirstie Allsopp had one just like it on her programme last night.’

‘It was my pleasure; I really enjoyed restoring it. I’m glad you like it.’

Mrs Jones squeezes my package and looks at me expectantly. ‘It’s a squashy one.’

‘It’s a dress, from eBay.’

‘Going anywhere nice, dear?’

‘It’s Hannah’s hen do, from work. We’re going to Pizza Express.’

‘Lovely, dear. It will be your hen night soon, I expect?’

I grin wryly. ‘Have to wait until he asks me, first.’

‘A lovely young girl like you? I’ll tell that young man of yours to get a move on, shall I? Before somebody else snaps you up.’

I smile at the old lady I’ve grown so fond of.

‘And is he better now?’ she continues.

‘Who?’

‘Dan. I saw him go to work on Monday and then come home again about an hour later. I thought he must be ill. It’s unusual for you to not have the same holidays. He got changed out of his suit and then went out again. Doctor’s, was it?’

I hesitate. If I admit I’ve no idea Dan was off work or why, the whole village will know by teatime. Mrs Jones must keep BT in business, the amount of phone calls she makes – repeating ‘have you heard’ and ‘you’ll never guess what’. There’s no maliciousness in her, though; just loneliness, I think.

‘Stress, is it? All you young people seem to have it. It didn’t exist in my day. I’ve heard him shouting at someone on that cordless phone of his. You should do what my granddaughter does.’

‘What’s that?’

‘She chillaxes.’

My laugh sounds forced, even to me. ‘We’ll definitely try that.’

I take my package and step over the picket fence that divides our properties. My parcel feels light compared to the ton of questions I want to ask Dan.

* * *

T
he pale blue
shift dress fits perfectly and I’m so pleased – it was such a bargain. I can’t afford to shop in Coast normally, and this looks barely worn. I smooth the fabric over my hips and twist from side to side as I check out my reflection: stomach in, chest out. Ella Fitzgerald sings ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. Mrs Jones has certainly been watching Dan. I practise turning my rose-painted mouth into a happy smile.

The front door closes with a crash. Keys chink into the bowl on the telephone table; shoes thud against the wall as they are kicked off.

I find Dan in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. He is rooted in front of the sink, staring at the garden, ice-cold lager in his hand, beads of condensation dribbling down the can.

‘You OK? I thought you were driving me into town later?’

‘It’s just the one. I’ve had a shit day.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I place my palm on his shoulder, feel the muscles under his shirt tighten as he shrugs me off.

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Mrs Jones says you seem stressed lately.’

‘Don’t talk about me with the bloody neighbours, Grace.’ His fingers clench the can. It begins to crumple.

I tense up. ‘I wasn’t. She mentioned she heard you shouting on the mobile. Who were you talking to?’

‘A client. Christ.’ Dan bangs his drink onto the draining board. Lager fizzes and froths, pooling on the gleaming surface. ‘Can’t a man have a drink after work without an interrogation?’

I flatten myself against the fridge as Dan pushes past me, and I remain motionless long after the front door has slammed. It isn’t until my heart has stopped thumping quite so loudly that my trembling fingers dial for a taxi.

* * *

T
he jalapeños
on my spicy meat pizza are volcano-hot, and I knock back chilled wine to cool the flames. Lyn tops up my glass with Pinot Grigio as I check my mobile again. No messages from Dan.

‘I can’t believe Charlie wanted to find her dad. It’s so sad,’ says Lyn.

‘I read a story in
Take a Break
this week about a Mum who gave her son up for adoption.’ Hannah reaches across the table for a slice of garlic bread. Her sparkly sleeve brushes against the pizza, and I dab the cheese that sticks to the material with my napkin. It’s funny to see her so dressed up, and not in her in her ‘Little Acorns’ T-shirt and leggings. ‘She spent her life waiting for him to knock on the door. Imagine if he’s waiting for Charlie, thinking he’ll meet her one day. Have grandchildren.’

‘I know. That’s why I want to find him. To tell him the truth.’
And to find out the truth
, I think, but I don’t say that.

‘Do you think Lexie gave you his real name?’ asks Lyn.

‘Paul Lawson? Yes. She seemed really relieved to talk about him. She doesn’t have any female friends or family. Probably kept it all bottled up for years. She was really cagey when I tried to find out whether he knew about Charlie, though.’

‘Does she know you’re looking for him?’ Hannah asks.

‘No. She resents him for running out on her when she was pregnant. It probably wouldn’t have occurred to her that she should tell him his daughter has died.’

‘I don’t blame her. He sounds like a bit of a bastard,’ says Lyn.

‘We haven’t heard his side.’

‘So what next? He may not be Internet-savvy. A lot of that generation aren’t.’

‘I’m not sure. I will find him, though. One way or another.’

I signal to the waiter, brandishing our empty bottle.

‘Grace.’ Lyn covers my hand. ‘Don’t take on too much. I’m worried about you.’

‘Don’t worry about me.’ I shake free and pick up my glass.

‘And you’re drinking a lot. I didn’t think you could, with the tablets. Have you stopped taking them?’

‘Nearly.’ I don’t tell her about the strip I carry in my handbag. The way I break each pill into quarters that I take whenever life gets on top of me. Not enough to send me to sleep, but enough to create the warm haze I’ve become so reliant on. I will stop. I really will. Just not yet.

I change the subject. ‘A toast to Hannah.’ I raise my glass. ‘To eternal love.’

‘I can’t imagine love being any other way,’ says Hannah.

The conversation turns to the wedding, and it is gone eleven before we pay the bill and stumble out into the inky darkness. After the warmth of the restaurant, the cold air takes my breath away and I button my coat, ease fingers into gloves.

‘Shall we go to a club?’ asks Hannah.

‘If that’s what the bride-to-be wants,’ says Lyn. ‘Which one?’

‘I dunno. Which one have you booked the stripper for?’

‘You’d kill us if we had.’ Hannah only has eyes for Andy.

‘I’m just grateful you haven’t made me wear L-plates and carry a blow-up cock. Let’s try Rumours. They play lots of ’80s and ’90s music.’

We link arms and weave along the pavement. It’s the first payday since Christmas and people are out in droves: men with designer stubble, girls who look too young to drink. Tiny dresses, fake tans, bare arms and legs. I feel old as I shiver in my layers. The queue for the club is long and we stamp our feet in the cold air.

Bouncers in black ties appraise us before nodding at the door. We pay our entrance fee to a bored-looking bleached blonde and navigate our way down a dark staircase. It isn’t easy in heels; I hardly ever wear them. The pounding bass rumbles below us and the staircase shudders, making my toes tingle. I blink as my eyes adjust to the glaring neon brightness. The cocktails sign winks on and off; shiny black tables reflect flashing strobe lights.

‘Sex on the beach?’ screeches Hannah. I’m glad her wedding isn’t for another couple of weeks. I think we’ll all be hung-over in the morning.

I squeeze against the sticky bar and wait for ages to be served, despite waving my £20 note.

‘What can I get you?’ The young barman leans his forearms on the bar and stares into my eyes. Too many buttons are undone on his bright white shirt, displaying a tanned, hairless chest.

‘Three cocktails please. Sex on the beach.’ I’m glad it’s dark in the club. I can feel myself blushing.

I wend my way through the crowd to Lyn and Hannah, who are perched on high stools near the dance floor. We shoulder boogie as we drain our drinks. The cocktails are smooth and sweet.

‘Let’s dance.’ Hannah shimmies her way over to the DJ.

Three songs later and I’m panting. I gesture to our seats.

‘Not yet,’ Hannah clutches my wrist, shouts in my ear. ‘I love this one.’

Madonna’s throaty voice invites us to strike a pose. My body stiffens as the dance floor vogues. The thrum of the club slows and fades. I don’t need to close my eyes to see Charlie’s face. I can almost hear Grandma yelling up the stairs that we sound like a herd of elephants as we perfect our moves.

I feel a hand, hot on my arm. See Lyn’s worried face. I remind myself we’re supposed to be having fun and summon up a smile. ‘Going for a wee,’ I mouth and point over to the back wall.

I fight my way to the toilets and join the queue of over made-up girls in tiny black dresses. I squeeze into a cubicle and rest my forehead against the cool door. Toilet paper is caught on my heel and I use my other foot to knock it off. I want to go home, but I don’t want to ruin Hannah’s evening. Someone bangs on my door, shouting for me to hurry up, but it takes a while before I feel ready to emerge. I run my wrists under icy water; reapply my lipstick. The door leading back to the club is heavy, and as I pull, someone pushes from the other side. We fall into each other and red wine splatters the front of my new dress.

I wave away apologies and step back out into the fug of the club. I must look a state: my blue dress stained crimson, jostling my way through the throng, pulse beating in time to the music. I can’t see Lyn or Hannah.

I unclasp my bag to fish out a tissue, thinking that maybe I can soak up the worst, but then I notice the illuminated screen of my mobile. It’s a text from Dan.

‘We’ve found Charlie’s dad.’

Lyn and Hannah aren’t ready to leave, but I can’t wait to talk to Dan and I say my goodbyes, claiming exhaustion. They know I don’t sleep well and I can see the sympathy in their eyes. The night breeze cools my hot cheeks. The smell of frying onions from the burger van fills the air, greasy and sweet. I tap my clutch bag against my thigh impatiently as I scour the street for a taxi. The clubs haven’t kicked out yet and there are no cabs to be seen. The rank isn’t too far. I decide to walk.

The street is deserted – everyone’s still partying. I turn off the main road, and as the thumping of the bass quietens and fades, I hear footsteps behind me. I stop. Fiddle with my bag and glance over my shoulder. There’s no one in sight, but the shop doorways cast shadows and I wonder what they’re hiding. Who they’re hiding
.
I move again. My heels click-click-click against the pavement and there it is again. The slap of shoes on concrete.

I speed up. So do the footsteps. Alcohol churns in my stomach and I calculate the quickest route back to the main road. Run at full pelt. My breath wheezes and my mouth hangs open in a silent scream. Fight or flight has kicked in: I’m definitely the latter. My heels slow me down and I wonder whether I’ve time to kick them off – they’re hard enough to walk in, let alone run – but the footsteps are getting closer and I can’t afford to stop. There’s hot breath on my neck. Something brushes against my shoulder. I shrug it off, hurl myself around the corner and wham into something solid. A policeman. I cling to his arm, crying with relief, turning around to point – but there’s nobody there.