We Were Sisters: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Wendy Clarke

  ‘It’s been a great evening, hasn’t it? Maddie’s such a wonderful cook.’

  A woman’s voice brings me back to the present. It’s Jackie, who’s sitting beside me. I’ve found out she works in a shop in the lanes that sells crystals, angel jewellery and other holistic items. Surprisingly, her husband, who is on my other side, works for the council and has already talked at me about bin collection days and the state of the local roads. They’re nice enough, but we have nothing in common.

  Turning my attention to Jackie, I force myself to look enthusiastic. ‘Yes, she is, but I suppose she has the time. What I mean is,’ I hurry on, scared I’ve sounded catty, ‘it’s easier to cook when you don’t have a child pulling at your top asking where their silver unicorn is or a baby throwing up on your shoulder.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ She pulls a face and I remember that, over our starter of feta and pine nut tart, she’d told me in no uncertain terms that she and her husband didn’t ever want children. Seeing her eyes alight on the milk stain on my dress, I turn away, mortified.

  Mitch laughs again and I look over at him, even though I don’t want to. The wine glass in front of him is full. The last time I’d looked, it had been almost empty. Just one, he’d said before we’d left. It’s different now. I know when to stop. Maddie’s slim fingers are playing with the label on the wine bottle, scraping at the edges with her blackberry nail polish while she talks. Did she top his wineglass up or did Mitch help himself? Anger flares. Maddie must know that Mitch has been trying to cut down.

  Over the course of the evening, the talk has moved from music to the state of the building industry and now there is an animated discussion on Brexit. It’s only myself and Maddie’s date who aren’t joining in. Mitch doesn’t usually like to discuss politics, preferring to keep his opinions to himself, but now he’s leaning back in his chair pointing a finger at Carl, a large man with a beard, who used to be the landlord of the pub he and Maddie frequented a few years back.

  ‘Didn’t know you were an outie, you bastard.’ It’s said with a smile, but his words are starting to slur. I’m worried. He’s not a good drunk.

  ‘Mitch,’ I call across the table.

  He looks away from Carl and our eyes meet. But it’s not just his eyes that are on me, the others are looking too. It’s almost as if they’d forgotten I was there. Maddie has a half-smile on her face and her cheeks are flushed a delicate pink. She’s tipsy too. I don’t like the way she’s sitting so close to him. Her fingers, with their chunky silver rings, dangerously near his. I will my husband to see how unhappy I am, how desperate to leave, but he looks away again. Lifting the bottle from Maddie’s hand, he refills his glass and then hers.

  ‘To old times,’ he says, raising his glass to the table. ‘Can’t beat ’em.’

  I watch the red liquid slosh over the rim of the glass and run down the stem as he takes a gulp and places it clumsily back on the table, leaving a circle of red on the cloth. How much has he had? I kick myself for not keeping check. Beneath the heavy waxed tablecloth my hands twist at my napkin. I wish now I hadn’t suggested we walk Noah here in the pram to get him to sleep. If Mitch had driven, this wouldn’t be happening.

  ‘I think we ought to be going. I said eleven to Stephanie.’

  From the other end of the table, Mitch frowns at me. ‘She’ll be fine for another half hour or so. What’s the hurry?’

  ‘I’m tired, Mitch.’ I hate that we’re having this conversation in front of the others.

  Maddie is smiling at me. ‘Stay for coffee at least.’

  ‘Our babysitter. She’s—’

  Mitch cuts me off. ‘It’s ages since we’ve been out. You go if you like, but I’m enjoying myself.’

  All eyes are on me, wondering what I’ll do. There’s a hollow feeling in my stomach. Mitch is my rock, the one who supports me, but tonight he seems different. The drinking… making himself the life and soul of the party… flirting with Maddie. It’s got something to do with the argument we had the other evening about the letter from my mother. My refusal to see her. Why does he care so much? It’s not as if he’s seen his own mother since he was a boy. My face aches as I try not to cry. Standing up, I place my napkin on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry, Maddie, but I really must go. Before Noah wakes.’

  I go out into the hall and push open the door to the living room. The room is dark, the curtains closed. In the light from the hall, I see him stir and hear his small mewl. When I wheel him out, Jackie is already at the front door, holding it open. I can hardly see her through my tears.

  ‘I’ll get Kevin to walk you back.’ She sounds embarrassed.

  ‘There’s no need.’ I’m humiliated enough without having someone else’s husband walk me home. Manoeuvring the pram down the step, I set off along the dark street, feeling as though my life is unravelling.

  It’s quiet tonight, the only sound the shush of the pram wheels on the pavement. As I walk, I count under my breath, keeping my steps even. There are seventeen steps between each lamp post, but how many lamp posts in the street? If there are more than twenty, Mitch will come after me. If there are less, he won’t.

  I’ve almost reached the end of the road when I sense someone behind me.

  With relief I turn, ready to forgive him, but there’s no one there.

  The street is empty.

  33

  Kelly Before

  It’s the weekend and Kelly has spent most of the day in her room looking at her clothes. Ethan was at the athletics club again on Thursday and had run next to her like he had before. The following day at school he’d said he and his mates would be at the skateboard park at the bottom of the cricket field on Saturday afternoon. Maybe he’d see her around. See her around. In the hours since he’d said it, she’d worked herself into a state trying to work out his meaning. Was he hinting he wanted her to go there to watch him? Or was it just a throwaway comment?

  Whatever he meant, there’s nothing in her wardrobe that would make him look twice at her, just plain T-shirts and jeans, jumpers with roll-necks and shoes with heels no higher than she had when she was a child. If she had a weekend job, it would be different – she’d be able to catch the bus into Churchill Square and buy the things the other girls had. But her mum won’t let her, saying she needs her in the house. Not that she ever takes any notice of her when she’s there.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Freya is leaning over the bed. In her hand is a pink blouse with ruffles down the front. ‘What in God’s name is this?’

  Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Kelly takes it from her and throws it into the corner where it joins a pile of equally hideous things. ‘I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? I’m sorting things out for the charity shop.’

  Freya stares at the clothes in the wardrobe. And pulls a face. ‘I’d get rid of the lot if I was you.’

  ‘Then I’d have nothing to wear.’

  ‘Oh, poor little Cinderella.’

  Freya gets up and puts an arm around Kelly, pulling her close to her side. ‘Don’t look like that, darling. I was only joking. Next week, we’ll take the bus into town. I can buy you something. Treat you.’

  She kisses her cheek and Kelly’s grateful. It’s something her mum never does. In fact, she suspects she wouldn’t look at her at all if she could help it.

  ‘You’d do that? What about money?’

  But Kelly knows Freya has money – she keeps it in a sock in her drawer and it’s what her mum pays her for cleaning the house. She does it on a Saturday morning and it’s certainly made the house nicer. There are no longer dead bluebottles on the windowsills or dirty footprints where Ben has walked across the tiles after being in the garden. The only room she’s not allowed to clean is the small one at the back of the house which Kelly’s dad uses as his office. But she does it anyway – Kelly’s seen her coming out.

  Her dad’s home a lot more now than he used to be. As she sits in her bedroom, struggling with her homew
ork or daydreaming about Ethan, the music her father loves will rise up to her from his office: the strains of a violin, followed by the mournful bass notes of a bassoon. It’s comforting.

  ‘Do you want to go or don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  Kelly slips an arm around her foster-sister’s waist to hug her but instead of the soft indentation above the waistband of her jeans, she feels something hard.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ta da!’ Freya lifts her sweatshirt and whips out the bottle of vodka that’s wedged between the material and her skin.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ It looks like one from her dad’s drinks cabinet.

  ‘Where do you think?’ She grins. ‘He won’t find out, and even if he does, he won’t mind. Your dad’s a big softie when you get to know him.’

  Kelly turns away. It’s as if Freya has no idea how her thoughtless words are killing her. ‘You should put it back.’

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport. I thought we could take it with us to the rifle range.’

  Kelly stares at her. ‘The rifle range?’

  ‘Yes – at the other end of the meadow. Don’t tell me you’ve never been there.’

  She hasn’t. The thought of the place makes Kelly shudder. Even on a Saturday afternoon, it sounds sinister – conjuring up images of bullets ricocheting off metal targets. And anyway, she’d wanted to go to the cricket field to see if Ethan was there. ‘Will anyone else be there?’

  Freya shrugs. ‘Why? Isn’t my company good enough? Maybe you’d rather go with lover-boy.’

  Kelly cringes at the name. Over the last couple of days, Freya’s been asking about him, helping her to come up with a plan to get him interested. It’s the first time, since she told her, that she’s been like this. Could she be jealous?

  ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t want to go with anyone, all right?’

  If the people at school are to be believed, the place is littered with broken glass and stinks of piss. Ivy growing unchecked up the crumbling walls. She imagines the wind that whistles up the length of the markers’ gallery and howls through the derelict target stores. The rain that darkens the graffiti-covered walls. The damp. The decay. But, more than this, she can’t get the phantom sound of rifle shots out of her head.

  Freya is grinning at her, holding the bottle up. ‘Well? Are you coming or are you chicken?’

  Kelly sighs and closes the wardrobe door. ‘All right, I’ll come.’

  They go downstairs and, through the kitchen door, they see Kelly’s mum. Freya knocks and pokes her head round the door. ‘We’re just going to take Ben for a walk, Karen. We won’t be long.’

  The sickly-sweet way she’s said it makes Kelly cringe, but her mum has clearly not registered the sarcasm in her voice. She looks up from the potatoes she’s peeling. ‘Thank you, love.’

  As they close the back door behind them and clip Ben’s lead to his collar, Freya shakes her head in despair. ‘She’s pathetic. She makes it sound as if I’m doing her a favour. At one of the places I was at, they made me a timetable for chores. There were three of us there, me and their own kids, and we all had to do our bit. Even the nine-year-old.’

  ‘Did you mind?’

  She shrugs. ‘I found ways of making the others do mine. When I was found out, you’d have thought, from the fuss they made, I’d spiked their Ribena or stolen their pocket money. When my foster-parents took their side, I told them that the making of timetables was symbolic of a totalitarian state and that my foster-mother was no better than a dictator. It didn’t go down too well, as you can imagine. In fact, they used it as an excuse to get rid of me. Said I was taking advantage of the younger ones. A bad influence. Your mother might be unhinged, but at least she appreciates me.’

  ‘I don’t think you should talk about my mum like that.’ Kelly’s not sure why she’s defending her but, as her only daughter, it seems the right thing to do.

  Freya looks at her coldly. ‘Oh, sorry, miss high and mighty. I forgot you’ve got a real mum whereas I have to make do with what social services give me.’

  She marches ahead, pulling Ben by his collar, and Kelly walks quicker to keep up with her long strides.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just think that maybe you should be a bit more grateful that she’s taken you in.’

  Freya wheels round and she almost bumps into her. ‘You think you’re so special, don’t you? So much better than me. What do you know about anything, stuck up in that bedroom, scared to say boo to a goose in case it upsets anyone? Though what you’ve got to be worried about, I don’t know. You’ve got it all: a mum, a dad… and a bloody dog. You even live in a thatched house that backs onto a meadow, for fuck’s sake. It’s like living in Little House on the Prairie.’

  Kelly knows there’s no point in arguing with Freya when she’s in one of her moods. It’s easier to let it pass. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  Freya glares at Kelly for a moment, then her face breaks into a smile. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Ignore me. I’m just a jealous cow. Friends?’

  Freya’s changes of mood are doing her head in. Could it only be yesterday that they were sitting on the school field, giggling at Mr Seymores’ trainers? Agreeing he only wore them because the year elevens and twelves had lost a protest to make them part of the school uniform. It seems a lifetime ago but, despite her irritation, Kelly knows nothing’s altered. She wants Freya’s friendship as desperately as she did when she was eight.

  ‘Of course we’re still friends. The best.’

  ‘Then what the fuck are we waiting for?’ Freya leads the way down the stony track, Kelly following, and when they get to the stile, they let Ben off the lead. He runs through the gap at the side, happy to have his freedom.

  The meadow is empty. At this time of year, it’s lost its colour – the green and butter-yellow heads of the grasses flattened by the rain and the feet of walkers. It looks sad and neglected. Waiting for the new year to bring it back to life.

  Walking in silence, they follow the path that will take them to the rifle range, but as they near it and the brick wall of the markers’ gallery comes into sight, Kelly holds back.

  ‘Can’t we just sit there?’ Kelly points to the grassy slope on their right. At the side of the path, giving a view of the meadow, is a bench. No one is on it.

  Freya looks at her as though she’s stupid. ‘Why on earth would we do that? The bench will be wet and every dog walker in the area will see us. Anyway, I love the rifle range – the graffiti especially. There’s an edginess to it that helps me forget I’m living in some godforsaken backwater.’

  They’ve reached the end of the valley and in front of them is the stile that separates the meadow from the disused range. Ben has already pushed underneath it and is sniffing at the undergrowth that has grown up around the brick wall.

  Freya climbs over and Kelly follows. There’s not much to see at first, just the wall stretching away from them, its surface covered in blue and yellow graffiti. On the other side, forming a narrow corridor, is another wall – this one part of a derelict outhouse. It smells damp and the air is colder than it had been in the meadow.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never been here.’ Freya touches a finger to the pregnant blue letter of a tag and looks at her, her pale eyes giving nothing away.

  Kelly’s heard the rumours. Knows that groups of older kids from her school come here to party. To drink and do drugs. It scares and thrills her to think of it. What does Freya know about it, though? Has she been creeping out when they’ve all been asleep?

  Without waiting for Kelly to answer, Freya rounds the corner of the wall and stops, her hands in the back pocket of her jeans. ‘This is the markers’ gallery where they raised and lowered the targets. Cool, isn’t it.’

  Kelly stands next to her and looks where she’s pointing. Stretching away from them is a long area of wall overhung by a narrow roof. This wall too is covered in pictures and tags, the com
mon vocabulary of some of the kids at school: slag, minge, tosser.

  She looks away, turning instead to the eight rusted-metal target frames in their brick and concrete pits that run parallel to the wall. The carriages that once held the targets are still there and she stands, for a moment, imagining the clank of the wheel that’s attached to the top. The one that would have hoisted the targets above the wall.

  She can almost hear the crack of the guns and the whistle of the bullets.

  Freya is sitting on the ground, her back resting against the yellow belly of a giant Homer Simpson – her long legs stretched out in front of her. With long slim fingers, she unscrews the lid from the bottle of vodka, puts it to her lips and takes a mouthful. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she looks sideways at Kelly and holds the bottle for her to take.

  ‘Here, have some.’

  Kelly hesitates. She’s tried alcohol before, just red wine one Christmas, but she hadn’t liked it. Not wanting to look stupid, though, she holds out her hand for the bottle and takes a sip. It tastes disgusting, but she can feel it as it goes down her. Warm and comforting.

  ‘Like it?’

  She nods, trying not to pull a face. ‘It’s okay.’

  Freya’s delving into her bag again. This time it’s a can of spray paint she brings out.

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Standing up, Freya pulls off the plastic lid. She turns to the wall and positions the nozzle close to the brickwork. Crouching, she presses down with her index finger and sprays a vertical line of green paint across the rough surface. She repeats with another close to it, then finishes it with a horizontal arc top and bottom. At first Kelly isn’t sure what she’s drawing, but then she recognises it.