We Were Sisters: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Wendy Clarke

  I give a half-hearted smile. It’s certainly better than his first barbeque idea, but what I’d have really liked was a day in bed. A day without worries. A picture of my bed drifts into my mind and I imagine the deep softness of the pillow. The bliss of floating into a dreamless sleep in the cocoon of my duvet, knowing that I wouldn’t be dragged awake a few hours later by Noah’s cries.

  We’ve parked in a rough lay-by at the side of the road and, through a kissing gate, a hill rises ahead of us. The thought of climbing it makes me wearier still, but Mitch is smiling expectantly – waiting for me to give him a verbal pat on the back for his idea. However much I want to, I haven’t the heart to deflate him.

  ‘It was a great idea,’ I say instead. ‘Well done you.’

  He grins and rubs the top of his stubbly head with his hand. ‘Anything for my gorgeous wife. Come on, tribe. Let’s go.’

  He picks up the green-striped cool bag and leads the way with Izzy. I follow, letting Sophie go through the gate first before pushing through myself, taking care not to catch Noah’s legs as it swings opens.

  The track is not particularly steep. It’s long, though, winding through stubbled cornfields dotted with hay bales, the margins edged with pale violet chicory flowers and the tall, spiky heads of teasels. In the field to our right, a skylark rises skywards with rapid wingbeats, its trills filling the air as it stops and hovers, poised between heaven and earth. Sophie and I stop and watch it for a moment, her head leaning against my leg. It’s a beautiful day and the sun is warm on our backs. For the first time in ages, I feel relaxed. Not feeling the need to guess the number of steps to the nearest waymark or the number of fence posts before we reach the first hawthorn hedge pregnant with red berries.

  Up ahead, I can see Isabella. She’s running in front of Mitch, her strong little legs taking her away from him with every step. Every now and again, I see her jump over the tufted line of grass that runs down the middle of the chalky track, as deft as a gazelle. She’s quick on her feet – just like I was at her age.

  Sophie squeezes my hand. ‘Are we nearly there?’

  She’s always the first to tire, but we haven’t gone far. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’

  She doesn’t answer, just holds out her arms.

  ‘I can’t carry you, Sophie. You can see I’ve got Noah. It’s not much further.’ I cross my fingers as I say it, having no idea where we’re going. ‘Let’s play a game.’

  Without thinking, I break a stalk of purple Yorkshire fog from the side of the path. Lowering it, so Sophie can see, I run my finger down its soft seed head. ‘Here’s a tree in summer.’ I tickle her under the chin with it, then, placing the grass between my first finger and thumb, I run my thumbnail up the stem until the seeds are bunched between them. ‘Here’s a tree in winter…’

  I stare at the seeds, trying to remember where I’ve heard the rhyme before and then it comes to me. It was Freya who taught it to me.

  Sick to my stomach, I drop the seeds onto the ground and stare at them, my eyes filming with tears.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Sophie wraps her little arms around my legs, sensing something’s not right and I pull myself together. It’s just a rhyme.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and see Daddy.’ Taking her hand, I pull her gently away from the scattered seeds and catch up with Mitch who’s waiting for us by a stile.

  ‘You okay?’ He looks at me curiously. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just tired. Are we nearly there?’

  He laughs. ‘You sound just like the kids. See that copse of trees at the top of the hill? I thought we could have our picnic near there. Tired legs, Soph?’

  Sophie nods and Mitch bends down and taps his back. ‘Hop on.’

  She climbs onto his back and he carries her, and the cool bag, up the hill to where Isabella is already waiting, her little legs raised to the blue sky in a handstand. Sometimes I wonder how my twins can be so different. Even when they were babies, Isabella cried the loudest, woke more often and demanded my attention. Maybe Sophie learnt early that there would be no point in competing with her spirited sister.

  I follow behind, smelling the sweet cakey aroma of Noah’s head through his sun hat. He’s moving his head from side to side against my chest and I know I’ll have to feed him soon.

  When we’re all gathered at the top, Mitch spreads out a picnic rug beneath one of the trees and I reach behind and unclip the sling. Lifting Noah from it, I lay him on the rug and circle my shoulders.

  ‘That’s better.’

  Mitch is standing with his hands on his hips, a twin on either side of him, looking out at the view. Turning to me, he grins. ‘What do you think?’

  I join him. Below us, a patchwork of fields in different shades of green and brown follows the dip and sway of the land and I can see a white farmhouse and two tiny tractors that look as though they’ve come from the twins’ farm set. In the distance is the sea – the line where it meets the sky dotted with white wind turbines as straight as tiny soldiers. It’s beautiful, but however much I want to enjoy the view, I can’t. Always there, at the back of my mind, is the locket that’s in my jewellery box. The one whose heart-shaped casing is empty of any faces. Whenever I think of it, a cold lick of fear curls around my heart. If I’m right that Freya was wearing the necklace the day she died, there’s only one person who would have kept it. Would that same person have put it in Noah’s pram? But, where there was once certainty, there is now doubt. However hard I try, when I attempt to fix the last image of Freya in my head, it breaks into pieces.

  ‘I asked you what you think of this place, Kel.’ Mitch is searching my face, worried that, once again, his idea isn’t up to scratch. He’s desperate for me to enjoy my surprise and I can’t disappoint him.

  ‘It’s perfect.’ I slip my arm around his waist and try to draw comfort from his warm body. ‘Thank you.’

  Mitch beams. ‘Thanks for being my missus.’

  Behind us, on the blanket, Noah is starting to fret. Reluctantly, I go back to him and settle myself down to feed him. As I do, I watch the girls who are trying to do cartwheels. As usual, Isabella is in charge. She’s telling Sophie what to do and showing her where to put her hands. I wish that Sophie would stand up to her sister more – not always do as she says. But I know that, more than anything, Sophie wants to be liked by her sister. I chew my lip, knowing what that feels like.

  ‘Come on, kids.’ Mitch points to the food he’s set out on the rug: sandwiches, mini sausages, packets of Wotsits and Swiss rolls in shiny purple wrappers. ‘Your banquet awaits.’ He turns to me and laughs. ‘Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. I wanted to make sure I put together something the kids would eat. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s the thought that counts.’

  Lifting a rather limp Marmite sandwich from the foil, I take a bite, a few crumbs landing on Noah’s side. Brushing them off, I watch as my husband hands sandwiches to the children and tears open bags of Wotsits with his teeth. The girls are quiet, Sophie picking at her sandwich and Isabella tipping back her head and emptying the crumbs from her crisp packet into her mouth. Her teeth are stained orange.

  It would be perfect, except that tomorrow is a school day and again I will have to relinquish control of my children to someone else. Ever since that first day, last week, Sophie has been tearful, and Isabella overexcited, when I’ve collected them from the classroom. Even though I know I have no choice, it’s hard to trust that their teacher can look after them as well as I can.

  I watch my husband throw Hula Hoops into the air, tipping his head back to try to catch them in his mouth. How can he be that carefree when there is so much danger in the world? I could tell him my fears, but I know he’d just laugh them away. Turn them into a joke. If only he knew that the unimaginable can sometimes happen when you least expect it.

  ‘I need to pee.’ Isabella has got up and is jiggling on one foot, her hand between her legs. ‘I need to pee now!’

&nbs
p; I look around for inspiration, but the spot where we’re sitting is pretty open. ‘Just squat over there. No one will see.’

  Isabella’s face screws up. ‘I don’t want to. I want a toilet.’

  ‘There isn’t a toilet here, Izzy. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Look, if you’re that bothered, we’ll go over to those trees.’ I point to where the trees are closer together. ‘Can you hold on until we get there?’

  ‘Yup.’

  She runs ahead, like a puppy, and, when she gets there, begins the search for the perfect tree before pulling down her shorts and shouting at me not to look. Wondering when my children became so prudish, I face the other way and look out at the valley below.

  The view is different here. Below us is a village, its squat church tower rising from the rooftops. It’s very pretty. Moving a little closer to the edge, I see how the downs have drawn back, revealing and protecting a field of waving meadow grass.

  I grow cold. Recognising it.

  Memories come flooding back. Freya and I are lying on our backs. She giggles and holds out fingers bulging with grass seeds. Here’s a bunch of flowers, she says, scattering them into my lap. Here’s an April shower.

  Her face is everywhere I look.

  Squatting down, I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, my breathing ragged. Blood pulses in my ears and I start to count. I’ve reached twenty-five before Mitch finds me, Noah in his arms. Behind him, Isabella and Sophie are looking at me curiously.

  He crouches beside me. ‘Someone cried out. Was that you?’

  I lower my hands and look at them. They’re shaking. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What happened, Kelly?’

  I look around me, my senses extra heightened – the sun that shines through the trees behind me too bright, the rhythmic metronome of a chiffchaff calling from high up in the canopy, too loud. ‘I thought I saw… thought I heard…’

  Mitch looks around him. ‘What, Kelly? What did you hear? Look, you’re worrying the children.’

  Isabella is sitting cross-legged, her back to me and Sophie has crept behind Mitch’s legs.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was fine and then…’ I point to the combe below. ‘It’s this place. I don’t want to be here.’

  Mitch rubs a hand across his stubbled head. Once. Twice. ‘I don’t get you, Kel. We’ve only just got here.’

  There’s a hint of impatience in his voice and I long to tell him the truth. Tell him what happened to Freya and that it was all my fault. But that would mean telling him her secret and that’s something I swore I would never do.

  I try to laugh it off, telling him that the sleepless nights have got to me, but I can tell he’s not convinced. As we finish our picnic, I feel his eyes slide over to me. Wondering what it is I’m holding back.

  I owe it to him to give him something.

  ‘That village below us. It’s where I used to live.’

  12

  Kelly Before

  It’s been two weeks since Freya arrived at their house. Two weeks since Kelly’s mum helped her empty her little rucksack into the drawers of the bedroom which looks out onto the meadows. In all that time, she’s said nothing. Not a word.

  At first, Kelly didn’t mind, but now she’s upset. Why won’t she speak? She knows she has a tongue and teeth and a throat. She’s even heard her humming to herself when she thinks no one is listening and, sometimes, after they’ve gone to bed, she’s heard her crying. Once, when she couldn’t stand it any more, she got out of her own bed and tiptoed to Freya’s room, pressing her hand to the door as if that might somehow comfort her. She’d been too scared to go in, as her mum had told her she wasn’t allowed, but she hoped that in some strange way, Freya might feel her presence outside her door. That she’d know Kelly realised how lonely she was. That she understood.

  Although it’s the summer holidays, and Kelly usually looks forward to them, she’s quickly discovered that it’s no fun talking to yourself. Asking questions and getting no answers. She wants them to be like Tabby and Ava at school, whispering behind cupped hands, laughing at silly jokes, having a made-up language only they can understand. What she has instead, is a girl who follows her around, her arms always wrapped across her body as though she’s cold. Her candyfloss hair covering half her face.

  Having a sister is not turning out how she imagined it to be. On the shelf above Kelly’s bed is a book of fairy tales. Her favourite is Snow White and Rose Red. Sometimes Jade would read it to her and she knows some of it off by heart. ‘We will not leave each other,’ Rose Red answered. ‘Never so long as we live.’ And her mother would answer, ‘What one has she must share with the other.’ Kelly wishes her mum would say the same to Freya; her sister never shares anything with her – not even her voice.

  Her parents don’t seem to think it strange that she doesn’t speak. They act as if it’s normal. Answering questions for her or giving her multiple-choice options to which she can nod or shake her head.

  Today, Kelly’s come down early for breakfast. As she nears the kitchen door, she hears voices. Her mum and dad are together for a change. Instead of going in, she waits. The only information she ever gets is the information she overhears when they think she’s not there.

  ‘Look, Andrew. I’ve bought her this locket. If you open it, you’ll see I’ve put in our photographs – one on each side. What do you think?’

  There’s a silence and I picture my dad taking it from her hand.

  ‘I think you’re bloody obsessed. She’s not our child, you know.’

  ‘No, but she’s a blessing.’

  ‘If you say so. You don’t think she’s a bit…’ There’s the rush of water into a kettle and Kelly misses what her dad has said.

  ‘How, could you say that, Andrew? She’s so much easier than the rest. You’ll grow to love her, I know you will.’

  There’s the clatter of a plate in the sink. ‘It’s just that it’s not something we’ve had to deal with before.’

  ‘Deal with? What do you know about dealing with things? You’re out before she gets up and even when you are here, it’s me who does everything. You’re in your office listening to your bloody music.’

  ‘And why do you think that is, Karen? You tell me?’

  There’s a rasp of chair legs being scraped across the tiled floor and footsteps coming nearer. Kelly melts back against the wall, her blanket bunched in her fist. If she’s caught snooping, there will be trouble. But the footsteps stop and she hears the clunk of the dishwasher being opened. The metallic clink of cutlery being dropped into the basket.

  Kelly holds her breath. She hates it when they argue. Tabby’s mum and dad got divorced last year and now she hardly sees her dad. She closes her eyes, imagining a life with only her mum. She doesn’t like the thought of it one bit.

  When her mum speaks again, her voice is softer. It’s the one she uses when she wants to get around her dad. ‘I know it hasn’t been easy and that you didn’t want to do it again, but it’s not the same this time. The poor kid has been through such a lot.’

  Kelly leans her back against the wall and looks up at the stairs. She thinks of Freya asleep in the best bedroom in the house. Imagines the white hair spread across the pillow, her closed eyelids patterned with a spiderweb of tiny blue veins.

  What has she been through? Why will no one tell her?

  Freya isn’t asleep, though. As if conjured up by Kelly’s thoughts, she appears at the top of the stairs, wearing a nightie that once belonged to Charlene that comes down to her ankles. Slowly, she descends and, when she reaches the bottom step, sits down and puts a finger to her lips. It seems Kelly isn’t the only one who wants to know what her parents are talking about.

  ‘And the publicity. Christ, that must have been hard.’

  ‘She won’t remember that. She was too young.’

  As they talk, Kelly is aware of Freya’s ghostly presence. What is she thinking?

  ‘It’s not like with Kelly,’ her mum says. ‘You said that…�
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  The voice becomes muffled and Kelly steps closer in frustration.

  ‘What time will you be home?’ She says it as though she doesn’t care, but Kelly knows she does. If her dad is late home, she’ll pace in front of the kitchen window like one of the tigers in the zoo her class went to. Her eyes growing cold when he walks through the door.

  ‘Can’t say.’

  Kelly imagines her mum gripping the edge of the worktop, her eyes wild. She’s scared that her bad mood will drift like a storm cloud out into the room and hover above their heads. Kelly’s eyes had been fixed on the door, but now she glances back at Freya. The girl is no longer sitting on the stairs but has got to her feet. She walks the few steps to the kitchen door and Kelly thinks she’s going to go in, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands silently in her white nightdress and waits, her arms crossed. Her hands rubbing at her upper arms.

  Moving out of the shadows, Kelly goes over to her and, this time, it’s she who takes Freya’s hand.

  13

  Kelly Now

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  Mitch stands in the doorway of their living room. The children have gone to bed and it’s just us downstairs. As he’d driven us home from the failure of a picnic, he’d flicked me uncertain glances and I knew he was wondering what to say. How to approach it.

  The television is on and I’m staring at the screen, although it’s a programme about gardening and I hate gardening. I don’t want this conversation. I want to forget the rooftops and the church tower. The restless grass in the meadow. But above all, I want to forget the path that leads through it, rising up the hill to a place I never want to see again.

  ‘Kel? Did you hear what I said?’

  I look away from the television, not bothering to try and hide the fact I’ve been crying. I know my eyes are red-rimmed. My face blotchy.

  Mitch frowns slightly. Hating to see me like this. Coming over to my chair, he kneels beside it, in a cameo of when he asked me to marry him and takes my hands in his.