The Sister

by China, Max

  He crept back out the way he came in. His victim had a window of opportunity. Check. One move he can still make. After that, there won't be a thing he can do about it. Checkmate.

  He paused to look at the back of the house from the other side of the fence. A light switched on in one upstairs room, then in another. It gave the house the appearance of two big square eyes, staring out of a dark face, looking out into the night.

  "I'm coming to get ya, Kennedy," he whispered.

  Then he shrank away from the fence and made his way back along the alleyway.

  Chapter 73

  Early hours, March 7th

  As the last lights turned off in the bungalow, the intruder remained in the shadows by the garden summerhouse. He stayed in the same place for a full hour. The frosted window of the bathroom in the house next door came on. The colour of naked flesh caught his eye; it was a dark haired female form, coming close enough to the glass as she cleaned her teeth for him to make out her breasts as they swayed pendulously. A minute later, the light went out.

  He moved silently, withdrawing the ladder that he knew was behind the storage shed. These people that keep unsecured ladders lying around, where would we be without them? Shaking his head, he rested the ladder against the wall. It was just long enough to project above the roofs edge. He climbed up and formed an opening just above the eaves line, removing only enough tiles to enable him to squeeze through. Twenty-four inches square should be enough. He slid them up twisting them out, laying them down, restrained by thin steel anchor straps that he inserted into the tiles either side of the opening. When he'd finished, he would use the same straps re secure the tiles in their original position, to bridge across the void he'd made, then he would put the ladder back as he found it. The tiles would hold, at least until the next strong wind.

  He cropped through the exposed timber battens with heavy loppers and sliced a flap through the felt underneath. With his penlight torch in his mouth, he silently squeezed in between the rafters at the far end of the bungalow, away from the bedrooms. Pulling the loose felt down behind him, and then taking the torch from his mouth, he shone it onto the boarded out roof space before him, and then crouched low to avoid banging his head on the timber cross beams, moving forwards slowly; easing his feet down, he shifted his weight with each step, listening intently for tell-tale creaks that might alert the occupants in the rooms below him.

  He knew there was little danger he would wake either of them because when he'd scouted the outside of the house the night before, the bins revealed that both of them took something to help them sleep; in the case of one, from the empty whiskey bottles in the recycling, it was alcohol. In the case of the other, it was Tramadol.

  The area of the loft closest to the access hatch had shelves built for storage. Stacked in rows of boxes, from the looks of it, were the entire family archives. If he had the time, he would quite happily spend all night and day reading up on them and their dealings, absorbing it all for some future campaign. One day, he might come back.

  He passed the torch beam across the shelves. All the boxes were labelled with the details of their contents and archived in date order –utility bills, bank statements, appliance guarantees, old vehicle documents and then to one side, two boxes similarly labelled, but marked 'Johns Records' 1963 - 1981 and 1982 - 1992. He peeled the tape off the top of the latter box and lifted out a lever file; he ran his latex covered fingers through the contents. Not this one. Pulling another out, he realised the contents were listed on the spine. He had moved a dozen files before he found what he was looking for. The box was full of pay slips, bank statements, old cheque stubs and paying in books, dating back fifteen years or more. He removed a paying in book. A couple of unused slips remained inside; he put them in his pocket. Returning everything to the way he found it, he spotted an old newspaper encapsulated in a clear plastic sheet; the print still looked crisp and fresh. 'Kennedy Assassinated'. After quickly reading the page, he withdrew it from its preserving sleeve and folded it into his inside jacket pocket.

  There was another box on the shelf marked 'newspapers and magazines'. It was heavy. Inside, were dozens of True Crime magazine, more newspapers, clippings, scrapbooks. He opened one. The childish scrawl told him who had written it and when. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Fall 1976. "Somebody's been reading too many American magazines, eh Kennedy?" he whispered to himself as he put the box back.

  Shining the torch across the floor, he located the loft access hatch; he levered the sides up with a screwdriver lifting it clear, setting it down quietly, he leaned down and listened . . . the sounds of two people deeply snoring reached his ears. Each had a distinctive sound. Lowering himself down onto a coffee table, almost slipping on the cloth that covered it, he regained his balance in an instant, then reaching up, replaced the access cover. Stepping down, he crossed the hallway, looking in on both sleepers. Old man Kennedy was flat on his back, mouth open, throat half closed, throttled by the weight of his tongue. Across the passageway in her room, his wife was propped almost upright, snoring through gritted teeth, like waves rolling on the shore. He resisted the temptation to root around in their rooms while they slept.

  After a few minutes spent searching the other rooms and hall, he finished with a quick scout through the kitchen cupboards and the bathroom cabinet; there he found an array of medication. He noted that Kennedy senior was on Beta-blockers. Better not to wake the old git up. I'd not want him to have a heart attack.

  When you tune in to an environment, a sudden silence acts the same way as a warning shout. One of them had stopped snoring . . . he strained his ears. A creak . . . Movement! Someone was getting out of bed; he cleared out of the bathroom into the spare bedroom with seconds to spare. He heard the soft fall of feet on carpet, then the pad of naked feet on the vinyl in the bathroom, followed by the sound of urination, a hawk, and a spit, then the padding of feet again. Five minutes later, the old man's tongue was choking him in his sleep again.

  Finally, he found Kennedy junior's room. It was a shrine to someone who had not died, someone who was perhaps expected to arrive back home from college, any day now. Baseball posters covered the walls and the shelves stocked with youthful memorabilia, racing cars, figurines from Marvel comics and Star wars. He opened the wardrobe, and a stale smell of uncirculated air wafted out, the smell of clothes that needed airing and old shoes; he crinkled his nose as the smell caught in his nostrils. Satisfied he had all that he needed, he opened the window and climbed out. He reached back in as an afterthought, to retrieve an object that rested against the wall by the window. Pulling the window behind him, the friction hinges held it closed.

  Chapter 74

  Late afternoon, Wednesday 7th March.

  Theresa Hunter saw the road works traffic build-up just too late to turn off. She cursed herself under her breath. Why didn't you pay more attention to the advance warning signs when they went up! The date just had not registered. Now she was in the wrong lane, the other was moving faster - she craned her neck round and seeing a gap hopped the car into it, almost slamming into the back of the car in front. The lane she was in started moving ahead. If she'd stayed where she was, she would be ten cars further down by now and still it kept moving. She remained stationary. Damn!

  Determined to keep moving, she indicated to change lanes again. No one would let her in. Her temperature began rising. There was a slight opening a few cars back; she could see the lorry driver looking at a map or newspaper. The gap widened further, and she geared herself up to cut into it. She always used to be so critical of other people that lane-hopped, for the first time she understood how saving even a few seconds seemed worth the extra risk.

  Terri would soon arrive home from college, and she didn't want that to happen until she was there. If she could have, she'd have picked her up from the college gates, or even a pre-arranged point round the corner, but to do so, would have alerted her to the fact that something was wrong, and the poor kid had had enough to put up with since
her father died.

  She switched in front of the lorry and congratulated herself on her perfect timing. The lorry driver let her know he didn't agree with a sudden deep, bass blast on his horn and thundered up close behind. She put her slender hand out of the window, and lifted it to say sorry, hoping the realisation that she was a woman would persuade him to back off.

  He remained inches from her boot lid, uncomfortably close, intimidating her. The rumbling engine noise and diesel fumes invaded her car, making her wish she'd stayed where she was. Having made his point, he dropped back. With a sigh of relief, she opened the other windows to allow the fumes out.

  Ahead, a car had broken down. Beyond that, both lanes were moving steadily. She realised she'd been holding her breath. Emptying her lungs, she inhaled long and deep.

  Never one to let problems build up, somehow since the burglary and the subsequent wrong decisions made, she'd done exactly that. For the sake of a quiet life, to shield Terri from any involvement, knowing the anxiety she would feel, she succeeded, but only amplified the effect on herself. She found herself thinking about the past two weeks.

  Was it really only two weeks ago . . . is that all it was? It seemed as if an eternity had passed since she walked in that evening. It wasn't so much that anything was obvious; there was no sign or clue that anything was amiss. The only thing odd that she recalled now was how her mother's old tin had been turned around. Joey, the blue and yellow budgerigar whose picture adorned the tin, was facing the wrong way.

  She thought about her mother, how she'd always told her from when she was a little girl that while the bird faced outwards, he was looking out for us. Theresa would watch as she reached up to the tall shelf where 'Joey' lived and after she'd taken money from the tin; she was always so meticulous about putting it back exactly as it was. That way, she could tell if her no good husband had gotten his hands on it. Sometimes, a terrible row followed, and he would say, "I never took no money out, I was only looking to see how much—" and her mother would retort, "If you ever as much as look at that tin again . . ." She let the words trail . . . the rolling pin she brandished, completed the thought for him.

  Her mother would never have left the tin like that. Now that it was her turn to look after the tin, she wouldn't have left it like that either, she was obsessive about things like that. Terri would never have left it like that either. She was obsessively compulsive. It was a big problem for her.

  Standing on a chair, she stretched up to get the tin. She lifted the lid; it was all there, no cash missing. How strange, could it have been a mouse? Shuddering at the thought, she put the tin back and faced it the right way. She continued to think about it, and it played on her mind. Maybe she did borrow a bit of cash without telling her and then put the money back without putting the tin back properly. No, she'd never have done either of those things; she would have definitely put the budgie back facing the right way. It was like having her mum looking out over them. "No way!" she said it aloud, hoping to break the circle of repetitive thoughts; they retreat for a moment before regrouping in her head.

  She thought about asking her, but then realised she would only freak out. She played out part of the scenario in her head. Terri would be saying. "Hang on - If I didn't do it and you didn't do it, who did?" She took a deep breath and fought to control the rising panic she felt. By the third deep inhalation, she'd finally managed to put it to the back of her mind.

  The following day, when Terri let herself in, Theresa was just finishing a telephone call. The two of them signalled each other with a series of shrugs, hand gestures and facial expressions as she passed on her way up stairs. Once out of sight, she called down, "I'm just having a quick bath, Mum."

  Theresa replaced the receiver on the wall-mounted phone.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall next to it and teased her hair, flicking her fingers through it. She leaned in on tiptoes to examine her teeth. The ornate mirror was another hand-me-down from her mum, the bronze coloured latticework that surrounded it always had notes weaved into it. While pulling the old ones out, she noticed Terri had a doctor's appointment the coming Monday.

  "Okay, I'm coming up to see you, how was it last night?"

  "Oh, Mum, you wouldn't believe…"

  Theresa was three steps up the stairs when the phone rang; she was in two minds whether to answer it. It had already rung five times that morning and every time she answered; silence greeted her. It had to be a wrong number, or one of those auto-dial services.

  She turned and went back to the phone, a sense of foreboding unsettled her as she picked it up. Something bad was about to happen.

  As she lifted the receiver to her ear, she remembered a trick one of her friends had taught her. Always let the caller speak first. That way if it's someone you don't want to talk to, you can just say, wrong number and bang it back down.

  "Trie? Is that you?" The caller said.

  The way he said her name caught her off guard. No one had called her that since her husband died. Trie, as in Tree, he was so drunk the first time they met; he couldn't say her full name. She found herself thinking about him; an affectionate smile graced her lips. She couldn't remember him calling her anything other than that.

  It had to be someone who knew her. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but no one she knew would do that to her. Something was wrong; she sensed it; she couldn't explain. Her chest began to tighten, her mouth suddenly dry.

  "I don't know who you are, but please stop calling me Trie," her tongue ran over her lips, nervously moistening them. She looked upstairs, half expecting her daughter to come out on the landing, to find out where she was, why she was speaking so quietly. The moment seemed to linger, hanging on what would happen next.

  "Oh, I think you should know who I am, Trie. I'm the person that paid you a little visit yesterday. Did you not notice I'd been? I left you a clue, Trie; I thought it was only fair." He puffed theatrically on his cigarette, three little sucking sounds. "What an interesting lady you are, Trie, and oh, what a lovely daughter you have . . ." The soft tone of his voice was completely at odds with the menace he generated.

  Her mind was racing. It was him! He had turned the tin!

  "How did you get my number, it's ex-directory?" she whispered, watching the stairs.

  "Oh, Trie," he sounded disappointed. "I got it from the front of your telephone."

  Okay, but how did you know my pet name? She kept the thought to herself. What happened next put her in a daze.

  Terri called down from upstairs, "Mum, where the hell have you put all my underwear?"

  Her blood ran cold.

  She wanted to put the phone down immediately and call the police, but something inside stopped her.

  "I'm on the phone, Terri!" She surprised herself at how well she suppressed the anger and anxiety in her voice; she stared hard at Terri, willing her to go away.

  "Okay, Mum, calm it!" she said, and rolling her eyes, turned away sharply and sloped off.

  Theresa regained her composure. "What do you want from me?"

  "Trie, I want you to listen very carefully, your daughter's welfare depends on it." He veiled his threat behind a softly spoken voice. She suddenly realised how he knew her pet name. He'd read the letters from her late husband…

  She listened.

  "Three things, Trie, just three small things, that's all I want from you," his voice was soft and persuasive. "Now I know you are probably considering calling the police, or thinking you could tell your boss about this conversation, but that wouldn't be wise, Trie, not at all. You know; they've been looking for me since before I cannot tell you . . . a very long time. They won't be able to find me, let alone stop me and you telling them about our little situation - Well, it'll only spark a series of problems for you and I know with Terri's condition, you won't want that and believe me, you don't want me coming after you." He reeled it off like friendly advice; she felt an involuntary shiver of revulsion run through her.

&nb
sp; "Just get on and tell me what it is you're after," she said, "I'm listening."

  When he'd finished telling her, she weighed the options. What he was asking her to do seemed so innocuous. She felt guilty, but when push came to shove, Terri came first. To agree was the easiest thing to do and while she knew it wasn't right, something she'd once heard popped into her head. It was about doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. It puzzled her when she first heard it, but this must be exactly the type of situation they meant when they spoke about it.

  "Okay…" She felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

  "I'll get the things to you." He exhaled with a low barely perceptible blow. He's smoking; she thought, as if that explained everything.

  "When will you do that?"

  He disconnected her.

  She didn't see that Terri had come halfway downstairs. Terri watched her mother on the phone. The way her mum's face crumpled, as the conversation changed direction was impossible for her to conceal. Terri took the last few steps down and stood in front of her mum. "What's wrong?" she mouthed. Her mother shooed her away with her hand, but she stood her ground. When she put the phone down, she smiled a little crazily at Terri. "I just heard an old friend died. They're going to let me know when the funeral is," she said smoothly, as she turned on a sad face.

  Terri viewed her suspiciously. That wasn't a sad face. That was a worried face and if it was . . . Why did her mother just lie to her?

  "Oh," she said.

  Chapter 75

  When Theresa unlocked her car Thursday morning, she noticed a plain manila envelope on the front passenger seat. She unwrapped it and inside was a folded newspaper in a clear plastic sleeve and separately, in a resealable polythene bag, a mobile phone.

  How on earth did he manage to get into it? The spare key? He must have taken it! She'd checked nothing else was missing after he stole Terri's underwear, but hadn't thought to see if her spare keys were missing.