We Were Sisters: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Wendy Clarke

  Kelly runs, desperate to get away from the terrible thing she’s been told. She hates this place. Hates the sunlight that flickers through the branches. Hates the tree. Hates the rope. But most of all, she hates the terrible thing that Freya has just told her.

  Being so far from her house is no longer exciting. No longer an adventure. Why did she ever let her sister persuade her to leave the garden? Her sister. The very words bring goosebumps to her skin. Is Freya following her? She doesn’t want to stop to find out. The kissing gate’s in front of her. Not far now.

  Bursting from the trees into the open and hearing the gate clang shut behind her, she stops to catch her breath. The grassy slope that leads down to the meadow is in front of her, her house just visible. After the coolness of the trees, the heat is shocking, the sun blinding.

  ‘Wait!’

  Freya’s call is faint. She’s not close. If her mum knew she’d left her behind, she’d be angry. Kelly runs faster, Ben jumping at her legs, thinking it’s a game. Her feet pound the ground. One two. One two. She’s glad she’s the best runner in her year. Not once does she look behind to the belt of trees they’ve just left or to the far end of the meadow where the rifle range is. Instead, she looks straight ahead, being careful not to slip on the loose chalk. Then she’s back in the meadow, the grasses whipping at her legs as she runs through them.

  It’s only when she reaches the stile and is about to climb over that she dares to look over her shoulder. Freya is no longer running but is walking through the grass, her head bowed. Biting back the guilt, Kelly climbs over and runs down the track beside the house, Ben at her heels. Her mum’s not in the garden and when she lets herself in through the kitchen door, there’s no sound from inside either. Not sure what to do, she shuts Ben in the kitchen and tiptoes up the stairs.

  ‘Mummy?’

  When there’s no answer, she creeps to her mum’s bedroom door and pushes it open. The room is in darkness, the curtains drawn to shut out the sunlight. Her mum’s fast asleep on top of the covers – her wiry hair spread out on the pillow, a packet of white pills peeping from an open packet on her bedside table. Hardly able to believe her luck, Kelly tiptoes out again and into her own room to wait.

  She hears Freya come in. Hears the back door closing. Then silence. When she can wait no longer, Kelly creeps back downstairs and looks around the living room door. Freya is lying on the settee, but she hears her before she sees her – the dreadful sound her lungs are making as she tries to drag air into them. If it’s possible, her face is even paler than before.

  ‘Don’t tell,’ Freya whispers.

  Kelly can’t meet her eye. ‘Your secret’s stupid. Who cares if anyone knows? Maybe I’ll tell Mummy.’

  It makes her feel strong standing up to Freya. Important. For once, it’s she who’s in control. But even as she’s thinking this, guilt is creeping up on her. She left Freya alone in the wood. Despite the awful thing she told her, that makes her a terrible sister.

  Freya turns onto her side. Beside her, on the settee, is Kelly’s doll, Amber, wrapped in her cellular blanket. It’s where she left her that morning. Slowly and deliberately, her breath coming in gasps, Freya unwraps the doll from Kelly’s blanket and starts to twist the soft material. When it’s in a tight rope, she holds the ends to make a loop and slips it over Amber’s head. Kelly watches in horror as she holds the twisted blanket high so the plastic body swings by its neck.

  Running to the settee, Kelly grabs the doll from Freya’s hands.

  ‘I hate you,’ she says, the words mirroring Freya’s in the changing room. ‘I wish you’d never come.’

  20

  Kelly Now

  I’ve been looking at the letter for a good half hour, trying to pluck up the courage to open it. There’s nothing my mother can say that I’d want to hear. All the way to the school, I’d thought of nothing else, knowing that when I got home with Noah, the letter would still be there waiting for me.

  As we’d reached the classroom door, Sophie’s hand had tightened in mine, but she hadn’t cried and, somehow, this had been worse. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Allen, coming out to meet us, taking Sophie by the hand and telling her all the lovely things they were going to do that morning, I don’t know if I would ever have managed to leave her.

  I’ve left Noah in the hall in his pram, knowing that if I take him out, he’ll wake and scream. It’s bad enough when I haven’t anything else to worry about, but I can’t cope with a crying baby as well as Sophie and my mother’s letter.

  Picking the envelope up, I take it into the living room. Without realising what I’m doing, I begin to pace the room, counting the number of steps between the door and the fireplace. Steeling myself to slide a finger under the flap.

  When I’ve counted twenty paces, I stop and take a deep breath, a sudden realisation dawning on me – I don’t have to open it at all. I can throw it in the recycling bin and never know what it is she wants to tell me. Whatever it is, it will be poisoned.

  But what if the letter is about Freya? What if she knows something about the locket?

  Before I can change my mind, I rip the envelope open and slip out the page. The letter is short, barely one side, and it doesn’t take me long to read it.

  My hand drops to my side and numbness spreads through me. It’s not about Freya. It’s about my father. He’s dead.

  I sit heavily on the settee, trying to process my thoughts. Once I idolised this man, would do anything for his love, but that’s all changed. I’m older now and know that you can’t make someone love you if they don’t want to. If only that little girl had known, maybe she wouldn’t have tried so hard.

  Lifting the letter again, I re-read it. He died of a heart attack two days ago and the funeral is next week. My mother wants me to go. I think of the village I looked down on from the hill on our day out, the way my blood had frozen at the sight of it. The funeral will be held in the church with the square tower, and if I go, it will be the first time in years that I’ve set foot in the place where I grew up.

  In the hall, Noah has started crying and I feel like joining him. Mitch has his faults, but there’s no denying he is a loving father and would do anything for all his children. My own father was dispassionate. A figure of no substance who came in and out of our home with barely a look my way.

  I’ll write and say I can’t come. That I’m too tied up with the children. But how can I say that when she knows nothing about them? No. I’ll say nothing. Pretend the letter never reached me.

  I put the letter down on the coffee table, relieved I’ve made a decision and get up to see to Noah. As I do, I catch sight of the envelope with my address written in my mother’s neat writing.

  In the shock of receiving it, I hadn’t given it a thought, but now there is something nagging at me.

  I’ve kept where I live a secret for so long. How did she find me?

  21

  Kelly Before

  Kelly takes Amber into the kitchen and sits at the table wondering what to do. Placing the doll in front of her, she moves her plastic head from side to side, imagining the feel of the blanket around its neck. It isn’t long before she hears her mum’s footsteps on the stairs and when she appears at the kitchen door, she looks dazed. Her skin blotchy.

  She rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘Where’s Freya?’

  Kelly stares straight ahead. She smooths Amber’s shiny blonde hair. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

  Kelly points behind her to the half-open door. ‘She’s in there.’

  Her mum folds her arms and leans her back against the door frame. ‘I hope you haven’t had an argument. Freya is…’ She stops as if searching for the right word. ‘Freya is delicate.’

  Delicate is for flower petals and snowflakes. It has nothing to do with the girl who swung from the rope, her hands gripping at the twisted strands, feet wedged in the noose.

  She looks up. ‘Why is she delicate? Wh
at’s the matter with her?’

  Walking over to the cupboard, her mum opens it and get out two plates. She puts them on the table. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about. What have you two been doing with yourselves while I’ve been upstairs?’

  Kelly wants to tell her about the meadow, the wood, the creepy tree. Most of all she wants to tell her about the hangman’s noose that swings from it and Freya’s secret, but she doesn’t. She can’t. Instead, she twists Amber’s legs in their plastic sockets to make her do the splits.

  ‘We were playing in the garden with Ben.’ Reaching down to him, she picks off some of the dried brown leaf litter that has caught in his fur and pushes it into the pocket of her shorts. Ben’s yellow tennis ball is over by the back door. ‘We played fetch.’

  ‘Freya,’ her mum calls as she gets a sliced loaf out of the bread bin. ‘Come here, love, and choose what you’d like in your sandwich.’

  When Freya doesn’t appear, she puts her head around the kitchen door and calls louder. ‘Freya? Did you hear me?’

  Kelly follows her into the living room, feeling uncertain. Freya is still there, lying on the settee where she left her, but her eyes are now closed, and her cheeks are flushed. Instantly, her mum’s beside her, feeling her forehead with the back of her hand.

  ‘She’s very hot.’

  Kelly knows Freya’s pretending. Just the way she did when they thought she couldn’t speak. When she’s been too noisy or asked too many questions, her mum calls it attention-seeking. It’s what Freya’s doing now.

  ‘Freya?’ her mum says in a choked voice. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Freya’s eyes open and she tries to smile. She pushes herself up onto her elbow, her white hair falling around her face. Her mum puts an arm around her, brushing the hair from her face and Freya leans into her.

  Kelly wonders what that must feel like.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell, Freya?’ her mum asks. ‘Is it your tummy?’

  Freya says nothing but nods her head.

  ‘Is it sore? Do you have any pain? Do you feel sick?’ All the time she’s speaking, her mum is rocking her to her plump bosom, smoothing her hair with gentle fingers. ‘Kelly. Get the thermometer from the medicine box.’

  Normally, Kelly isn’t allowed to touch the medicine box, but today is no ordinary day. Running to the kitchen, she drags a chair to the worktop and climbs onto it. The box is where it always is and she lifts it carefully out, then jumps off the chair and hurries back to the living room.

  Without thanking her, her mum opens the box and searches through the packets of paracetamol and boxes of plasters until she finds the thermometer. She slides it under Freya’s T-shirt, pinning Freya’s arm to her side to keep it in place. After a minute or so, she pulls the thermometer back out and looks at it.

  ‘It’s high. I’ll give you some Calpol and then I think we should call the surgery, just in case.’

  Freya pushes away from her, but she’s firm. ‘I’m sorry, Freya, but while you are living here with us, I am in loco parentis. I can’t take any chances.’

  She acts as if Freya understands what she’s talking about, but Kelly doesn’t know what she means. Loco parentis – it sounds foreign and exotic. She watches her mum take her phone out of her pocket and listens as she tells the receptionist what the problem is.

  ‘Tell Dr Bradley it’s Karen Harding. It’s about Freya – he’ll understand.’ She waits for a few minutes, then Kelly sees her nod. ‘Certainly. I’ll bring her in straight away.’

  * * *

  That night, Kelly’s sleep is restless. She dreams she’s at the clearing in the wood, but the trees that surround it have knotted their branches together to keep her from entering. They can’t stop her, though, and she pushes through them, knowing she has to see what they’re hiding from her. The giant beech tree stands in the middle, but now it’s grown to fill the space. Its roots, instead of being underground where they should be, are pushing up through the soft earth. As she watches, the great tree moves towards her, heaving its two trunks. Its branches creak. The rope swings.

  She wakes and cries out, her heart beating so hard she thinks it will burst out of her chest. Pulling the covers over her head, she knows she won’t sleep again until it gets light. She wants her mum to come and comfort her. She wants her to tell her it’s all just a bad dream but knows she won’t. All her mum’s worrying is for Freya who is lying in her bed in the big bedroom overlooking the meadow. She’s had too much sun, the doctor said, and not enough to drink. That’s all.

  When her dad got home from work, she’d heard her mum tell him what had happened. Kelly had seen her through the door, sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands and her fingers pushing through her hair. ‘They’ll say I’m not fit to look after her. I can’t bear it. What will I do?’

  She’d reached a hand out to her father, but he’d moved away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Karen. You’re being hysterical.’

  It’s dark under the covers and there’s no air, but Kelly’s too scared to push them back. Instead, she tries to think of nice things: the tickle of the meadow grass against her legs and the tiny orange butterfly she’d seen on the blackthorn. It doesn’t work. Pushing through these thoughts are darker ones. The tree’s monstrous trunks. The swinging rope. When she hears her door opening, she thinks she might scream, but she bites it back and pushes down the cover. It’s better to know what’s out there.

  Kelly stares into the darkness, terrified of what she’ll find, but it’s just Freya. She’s standing in the doorway, her nightie hanging from her tiny frame, her face marble-white in the gloom of the room. At least she has legs and arms – not those terrifying white roots. At least she’s real.

  Coming into the room, Freya sits on the edge of the bed. In her hand is the nightlight from her bedroom. Bending down, she pushes it into the socket in the wall next to Kelly and a dim light shines out.

  Kelly pulls back her covers and Freya climbs in. She feels her thin arms wrap around her, pulling her body close against hers. They lie like that, their hearts beating as one, until Kelly can stand it no longer.

  ‘I’m sorry I was mean,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t hate you really.’

  ‘I know,’ Freya whispers back.

  The warmth of her sister’s body is comforting and it isn’t long before she drifts back to sleep.

  * * *

  The next morning, Kelly wakes up alone. Reaching out a hand, she smooths the sheet beside her to see if it’s still warm, but it’s not. She can hear voices downstairs and the slam of a car door outside. When she parts the blinds, a blue light flashes into her room, then slips away again. Over and over.

  She runs onto the landing. Freya’s door is open and her dad is in there pushing clothes into a bag.

  ‘What’s happening? Where’s Freya?’

  ‘Complications,’ he mutters.

  Her blanket is around her shoulders and she sucks the end of it. ‘Where’s she going?’ It’s easier to ask her dad these things, especially when he’s distracted.

  He’s dressed in his work clothes, but he’s yet to put his tie on and the top button of his shirt is undone. ‘To hospital,’ he says. ‘In London. They’ve got specialists there. Your mum is going with her.’

  ‘She’s my sister. I want to come too.’

  ‘She’s not your sister,’ he snaps. ‘Not really.’

  A sudden anger grips her. ‘She is. She is my sister and you can’t let them take her away. They all go and you promised it would be different.’

  Her dad takes a breath in, his fingers whitening around the bag. ‘We never promised you anything, Kelly.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. It’s all been in your head.’

  He pushes Freya’s sweatshirt into the bag. ‘Christ Almighty. Why can’t the woman see the damage she’s doing?’

  Kelly hates the way he’s speaking. ‘Who? Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Nobody. It doesn’t matter.’ He zips up the b
ag. ‘I’ll give this to your mum, then I’ve got to go to work.’

  ‘What about me? What will I do?’ She pulls the sleeves of her pyjamas over her hands and stares at him.

  ‘I suppose you’ll have to stay with Mrs Ringrose until your mum gets back. Get yourself dressed.’

  ‘Will Freya be coming back?’

  He doesn’t answer. Just picks up the bag and leaves the room.

  22

  August 16th

  I took the girls to have their hair cut today. It’s the first time they’ve been to a hairdresser. There was a bit of a to-do as Miss Fusspot didn’t want to sit in the chair, but I managed to persuade her eventually. I had the chance to pick up a lock of hair and I’ve attached it with the photograph I took of them both. I’ve also kept a piece for myself too. Hoping this makes you happy rather than sad.

  All the best

  23

  Kelly Now

  The trolley outside the girls’ classroom is piled high with lunch boxes waiting to be collected by the children when they come out. I can see Bob the Builder’s hat peeking out from under a plastic box with a picture of a Minion on it. I can’t see Sophie’s and wonder if she ate any of the food I packed inside. I’d chosen things I know she loves. Cheese strings and cucumber and a little pot of grapes. I think of my own school sandwiches when I was a child. Sliced processed cheese in warm white bread. An out of date chocolate bar if I was lucky or an overripe banana thrown in as an afterthought. Unless a new child was with us, of course. Then my mother would send us off with food fit for a king.

  As I remember, my fingertips close around the letter I pushed into my coat pocket before I came out. I’ve no idea why I’ve brought it with me as by receiving it, I feel like I’ve been cursed. Why couldn’t she have let things be? Why did she have to come back into my life now and ruin everything?