The Good Sister

by Gillian McAllister

  She took the drink back into the snug. Upstairs was utterly quiet, and she immersed herself in Carrie and Big’s world.

  It felt like only moments had passed but, when she checked her watch, it had been three hours.

  She walked across the landing and stood outside Forrest’s room. She could hear something from within. Creepy music, but complete silence otherwise.

  She opened the door a crack and recognized the film immediately. Oh shit. It was The Shining. She would recognize it anywhere. For fuck’s sake. Jones loved horror films. They must have found his recording.

  “What’s this?” she said. The words were out before she looked at Xander, and her heart seemed to expand in her chest. Oh, no. Poor, anxious Xander, who earlier had asked her innocently if there would ever be another world war. And now this. Her unmanageable children had indoctrinated him into watching hard-core horror. She would be the talk of the school gates.

  His long, lanky legs—he was huge for a nine-year-old—were drawn up to his chest and he was so frightened, so bloody frightened, that his shoulders were jerking. His eyes were fixed on a point on the wall to the left of the television. He couldn’t even look.

  “Okay, that’s enough horror,” she said brightly. “Off,” she commanded.

  “It’s not even that scary. It’s so crap it’s funny,” Forrest said.

  Ralph didn’t look bothered, either. She guessed it was too much to expect her two children to think of Xander, and his nervous disposition. No. Not nervous, exactly. Worried. Wanting to please people, to not be in trouble, so much so that he would go along with watching a terrifying movie.

  “You all right, Xander?” she said to him.

  “Not really,” he said, meeting her eyes across the room.

  And then he unfolded his limbs and came to her.

  Oh shit. This was real. He was upset. He would tell Becky—and Becky could be fierce.

  “Oh, no—it’s not real. It’s not real at all,” she said. “I always imagine the cameramen and the sets, when I’m frightened.” She looked at where they were on the Sky Glow. It was paused just ten minutes from the end: The damage was done.

  “I want to go home, Alison,” he said. He often spoke in this formal way. She doubted her children knew the Christian names of any of their friends’ parents.

  He wiped his cheek with one of his adult-size hands and looked at her, standing in his pajamas in the middle of the room. Forrest snorted derisively and she gave him a look.

  “Let’s watch something nice to get rid of the memories,” she said.

  “Beauty and the Beast?” Forrest said snidely.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Okay,” she said, realizing there was no use trying to salvage the night. “You’ll all have to come in the car.”

  She texted Becky and then bundled everybody into the car. She didn’t make them put their proper clothes on. Becky hadn’t read the text by the time Alison was turning the key in the ignition. It was unusual for her. She was usually an immediate replier, one of those people who responded seemingly before you had even sent your message, and always with questions.

  Forrest and Ralph were quiet in the back of the cold car. Xander was in the passenger seat, mostly because he was almost as tall as she was, but also because he was still shivering with fear. The Shining. What were they thinking?

  It was less than a five-minute drive to Becky’s, and she still hadn’t read the text by the time Alison pulled up outside the house. She called Becky’s mobile, but it rang out and went to her chirpy voice mail, so Alison sat in the car for a few minutes longer.

  She looked at the house. All of the lights were off, except one. The front room was in darkness. The kitchen, too, the taps just catching the reflection of the streetlights. Only one upstairs window was illuminated. A bedroom. Surely it was all right to knock? Anyway, what was worse: risk annoying Becky by disturbing her at a late hour, or risk traumatizing her child by making him stay the night with her tiny psychopaths?

  She got out of the car, pulling her coat around herself, and rang the doorbell.

  There was no answer. Ten seconds went by, then twenty. She glanced back at the children in the car. Forrest and Ralph were watching something on an iPad. Xander was staring straight ahead. Alison wondered if perhaps she should just try the door and send Xander in by himself.

  No. She’d wait. Her breath clouded the air in front of her and she stamped her feet, trying to keep warm. The early-winter cold seeped through her thin trousers and she drew her coat tighter around herself.

  Ah, finally. Light pooled in the hall, and there was Becky, showcased in the frosted glass. She was tall, but tonight her frame seemed unusually hunched, her shoulders rounded as she undid the locks. She was usually so confident, so self-possessed: a quality Alison greatly admired.

  “So sorry, Becky,” Alison said to her now. “Did you see my text . . . ?”

  Becky’s face was gray. She swallowed. “No,” she said, sounding spaced out. Her eyes looked strange. Not teary, exactly, but older. More lined, somehow. Like she hadn’t slept for a few nights. Like she had the flu.

  “Xander . . . um, well, Forrest and Ralph, they watched . . .”

  “Sorry?” Becky said.

  Her hair was bundled on top of her head. She had no makeup on, and Alison was struck by the circles underneath her eyes. One of her hands was shaking, and the other was wrapped around her waist. Was she ill? Perhaps, Alison thought, looking closely at her, she was drunk.

  “Sorry—what?” Becky said again.

  “No, no, I’m sorry,” Alison said, “disturbing you like this.” God, she really was gray. Alison had never seen a complexion that color. Little dots of sweat sat on Becky’s upper lip, which she dashed off when she saw Alison looking. Her finger came away wet, and she wiped it on her jogging bottoms.

  “They watched a mental film. I’m so sorry, I should have noticed, and stopped them. Xander is . . . well, he’s very frightened. He wanted to come home.”

  “Right, okay,” Becky said. She nodded distractedly and then—for the first time in the entire exchange—looked beyond Alison to her son in the car.

  She didn’t ask what film. She didn’t say anything further. She merely made a defeated kind of gesture, motioning to Xander, who went dutifully inside. He disappeared into the house, into the rooms beyond the kitchen. To bed, alone.

  “It was The Shining. I’m sorry,” Alison said.

  “Sure,” Becky said. “Whatever.”

  Whatever? “I didn’t get the impression he’d watched anything like that before.”

  “I don’t really know, to be honest,” Becky said, not looking at her.

  “Anyway, I’m really sorry for any anxiety he—”

  Becky waved off her apologies with her hand, then went to close the door on her.

  The rest of the house was silent, she noticed.

  Completely and utterly quiet.

  28

  Martha

  Thank you for that,” Ellen says. She looks pretty pleased with herself. “So, just to clarify: You definitely could not hear baby Layla crying when you dropped Xander back?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “One hundred percent,” Alison says.

  She is firm and clear, just as Becky would be in the witness box. Becky was always good at choosing friends who are just like her. Fat lot of good it’s done her, though, that selectiveness. They’ve betrayed her. Every last one of them.

  “Good.” Ellen sits down.

  Harriet rises. “How distressed would you say the defendant appeared, on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Um,” Alison says. She pushes her hair back.

  “Slightly distressed? Very?”

  “Only slightly. She was just . . . weird.”

 
“Right. So not, perhaps, as distressed as somebody might be had they committed murder just hours before?”

  “The witness cannot possibly answer that,” Ellen says. She doesn’t stand, doesn’t even look up.

  “Okay. Not very distressed, then? Not in shock?”

  “Well, no.”

  “And remind us why you were there. With Xander.”

  “He was frightened.”

  “He was frightened and who did he want to see? Who did he ask to see?”

  “His mum,” Alison says quietly, a slight catch in her voice.

  “His mother,” Harriet says, turning to the jury, her voice loud, almost too loud, for her small frame. “And how did he seem when he went into the house?”

  “He just . . . he just walked past her and went in.”

  “Entirely at home, then.”

  “He seemed at home, yes.”

  “Did he—who knows his mother best—seem at all troubled by her behavior?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing further.”

  They don’t mention the lack of crying. Whether or not Becky did it, by that point Layla was dead. And she ought to have known it. What spin could the defense put on that? None.

  I stare at Alison as she leaves.

  Could Marc have been there? Is that why Becky took so long to answer the door? Was she hiding him?

  * * *

  —

  Now,” the judge says. “The prosecution is going to play the 999 call made at 7:59 A.M. the next day.”

  A clerk moves toward the back of the court. Her robes sweep across the carpet as she brushes past us. She is messing with a computer at the back.

  And then Becky’s voice starts to play:

  Ambulance. My niece is . . . she’s not breathing. Oh God, she’s not breathing. Help, please help. How can she not be breathing? I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I didn’t . . .

  There is a beat of silence, and then a soothing operator asks for Becky’s address, the address I could rattle off without any thought at all. I always liked the way her postcode tripped off the tongue: BN3 3AA.

  Operator: Okay, Becky, how old is the child?

  Becky: Eight weeks. Layla.

  Operator: Okay. We’re going to perform CPR. Five rescue breaths, into Layla’s mouth. Okay? Make a seal with your mouth around hers. Blow steadily until her chest rises. Has anything happened to the baby that you know of?

  Becky: [silence]

  Operator: Becky?

  Becky: Her skin is totally white. She’s not moving. I . . . She’s not moving at all.

  Operator: Have you done five breaths?

  Becky: Yes.

  Operator: And now the chest compressions. Two fingers, okay? Just two fingers, not hands. Thirty compressions. Depress the chest by one-third of its own depth. Do you know what that means?

  Becky: Oh God, I’ve been using my hands. Oh, two fingers. Okay.

  Operator: The ambulance is on its way. How long has she been this way?

  Becky: Her skin is totally white.

  Operator: Two fingers on the chest and thirty compressions, okay? Push down by one-third of the depth of her chest.

  Becky: One-third. Okay.

  Operator: Twice per second. To the rhythm of “Stayin’ Alive.” Do you know that song, Becky?

  Becky: Yes.

  Operator: Now, Becky, is the front door unlocked?

  Becky: Yes. I’ve sent my son down. I didn’t want him to see . . . Xander, unlock the door, yes?

  Operator: Okay, Becky, I can see the ambulance is less than two minutes away. Keep going with the compressions. Can you see any signs of life?

  Becky: Signs of . . . life? No. None.

  Operator: Ambulance is one minute away, Becky.

  Becky: She’s not breathing at all. Her limbs are . . . I think her limbs are stiff. Oh God . . .

  Operator: Keep compressing, Becky. “Stayin’ Alive,” yes?

  Becky: Yes. Oh God, oh God, come on, Layla . . .

  Operator: The crew have arrived now, Becky, so I’m going to hand you over . . .

  I dart a glance at the jury as the tape stops and the courtroom falls silent. I can’t look at anybody else. Not Becky. Not Scott.

  The tape exists in the few minutes right after Layla was found, and right before she was declared deceased in A&E. Right in the middle, where things might have turned out otherwise, though I know they never could have. It is harder to think about what Becky might have done differently in those minutes than it is to think about what she did the night before. I don’t know why.

  “Thank you,” the judge says to the clerk.

  Ellen stands up. “The prosecution calls Natalie Osbourne, the attending paramedic.”

  A large woman in a short black skirt, white top, and black long-line cardigan is brought in by the usher. Her hair is dark and glossy, curling to her collarbones, and just the ends hint at auburn.

  She is sworn in, and confirms she’s a paramedic, and has been for six years. As she confirms it, a flush overtakes my body. It works its way up my torso and down my arms.

  This woman in front of me who is self-consciously adjusting her cardigan held my baby in her dying moments.

  29

  Natalie Osbourne

  8:05 a.m., Friday, October 27

  They were approaching the house, there within six minutes of the call. It was the very start of her day and, already, something grim awaited. An unconscious baby, the operator told her. Her skin was white. Not breathing, no pulse. CPR being performed. It didn’t sound good.

  Natalie had a head cold. It had kept her up for most of the night. In the end, at four o’clock, Adam had made her up a bowl of Vicks, just like her mother used to do for her.

  But she wasn’t fuzzy-headed any longer. She was completely and utterly alert. An unresponsive baby. Adrenaline pulsed through her body.

  The house was tall and slim. They abandoned the ambulance on the drive and opened the door. Immediately, Natalie could hear the commotion upstairs.

  “Oh God, oh God, come on, Layla,” a woman was shouting. Natalie ran up the stairs. The nursery was the first door on the right. Her eyes were on the baby, and the woman who she presumed to be the mother. Her colleague saw the other child, the nine-year-old, tearstained and standing outside the bedroom, peering in horror at his mother, and took him downstairs.

  They didn’t call the deaths of babies. That was Natalie’s immediate thought when she saw the body. And, later, she wished she hadn’t had it, that she hadn’t been so pessimistic. Would she have done anything differently, she thought, later? No. She wouldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t, and yet . . . she couldn’t help but relive it again, just to see.

  That baby. Natalie stood on the landing and stared at it, for just a second. You learned to spot it. You learned to spot the signs. Not blue, as she would have presumed when she first started out in the job. Not blue, no: white. Floppy.

  The room was almost empty: a makeshift nursery, it looked like. A Moses basket. A chest of drawers. A faded carpet, worn in patches in the middle of the room and good as new at the edges.

  Natalie was measuring doses and felt a lurch of sympathy and wished she could tell the mother, then. To save her the hope of the resuscitation, of the ambulance journey, of the cold, sterile resus room in A&E, the doctor’s somber expression and, finally, the baby being wheeled away to the morgue. They could do it now; a black body bag might be kinder, in a way. But she couldn’t: The list of deaths she could call was minuscule. Dead on arrival: It was the doctor’s job.

  It was rhythmic. Natalie moved in. The airbag. The adrenaline. It came naturally to her. But the whole time, she was thinking: This is futile. Absolutely futile.

  Natalie glanced at the mother. She was ashen, a tissue clutched in her fist
, brought up to her face. She was shivering violently, pulling a cardigan around herself as she turned and closed the bedroom window. The sound of it closing seemed to reverberate around the bedroom.

  The finality of it.

  30

  Martha

  No questions,” Harriet says demurely, standing briefly before settling back into her seat.

  Ellen rises. “The prosecution calls Amanda Thompson,” she says. “The treating doctor in A&E.”

  I am determined to stay for the entire examination, which will be led by the prosecution. I am pinned to my seat as though forced to watch a beheading, although I will never be able to unknow what she tells the courtroom.

  I turn my eyes away from Ellen and watch as Amanda Thompson collects herself, ready to give her initial evidence. I look down at my hands. Everybody’s eyes are on me.

  Scott’s kind gaze.

  Becky’s.

  The jury’s.

  I hear Amanda clear her throat. She must know the pain she is going to cause me. She’s a doctor.

  And then, I can’t resist any longer, and I look up at Becky. When she sees me looking, she takes a step closer to the dock and holds a palm up. The guard removes it. It leaves a misted, sweaty mark against the glass, which fades after a few seconds.

  31

  Amanda Thompson

  8:20 a.m., Friday, October 27

  Amanda hung up the red telephone: The ambulance was on its way into A&E, carrying an unresponsive eight-week-old baby.

  She reached for the alcohol gel dispenser and squirted a generous amount into the palm of her hand. It was cold.

  People were right to revere medics, she thought. Amanda’s colleagues said they were tired of being treated like demigods, of being asked questions of life and death at New Year’s Eve parties, but the reality was they did know stuff. Amanda knew, for example, that a call at eight in the morning about an unresponsive baby was almost always a bad outcome. She knew exactly what had happened. The parents had woken up and had found that the baby was dead. It was as simple as that: Amanda would bet her career on it. Not that she was too fond of that asset—particularly at the moment.