Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  Connie awoke the following morning with a pain in her head that was already threatening to become a migraine. She popped some paracetamol from the blister pack beside her bed and swallowed them with the stale water from the glass on her dressing table, knowing full well she’d regret having them on an empty stomach. It was the lesser of two evils: hideous debilitating headache, or a queasy tummy. It was no surprise she was getting a migraine now. It’d been a tense few days, followed by a tense arrival home, followed by a tense visit to her mum’s to retrieve Amber last night.

  She’d managed to avoid detailed conversation about her visit to Manchester and her dad. Nothing that went deeper than ‘we ate pizza and chatted about my plans for the consultancy’. She didn’t share the recent events, either, not wanting to scare her. Not wanting to scare herself. Her sleep had been fitful – no longer than an hour at a time – her dreams plagued with dark figures and dead animals. Now, with a migraine and feeling like she’d been hit by a bus, Connie had to face work.

  Despite her fuzzy head and lethargy, Connie remained alert on her journey, regularly turning to check behind her as she walked from Totnes station to her office, making sure she didn’t have a follower. No man in a hoody, no Jonesy, no Brett. She passed by Halls, the butcher shop, waving up to the man inside – she was getting to know people by sight now – the regulars on her daily walk who gave her a nod or a wave. It was a lovely, warm community, she was lucky she’d been able to set up in this town. Her relief at having made it almost to the front door without incident drained when she saw a hunched-up figure sitting on the steps. She had a flashback of Steph waiting there for her barely two weeks ago.

  Brett looked up as she approached, then stood aside to allow Connie to reach the door. She wasn’t sure how she should approach this. On the one hand, some of her initial fears had been unfounded; she now felt sure he had been telling the truth. However, on the other hand, there was still the question of whether he was the one who’d hidden downstairs and knocked her to the floor on Monday. Had written ‘for Luke’ on her mirror. If so, why? She knew her curiosity would mean that she’d invite him in – all her hopes of a well-ordered morning evaporated.

  ‘It’s Thursday – you don’t have an appointment, Brett. Is there something you wanted?’ Connie kept him on the step for the moment.

  ‘I’d hoped you might be free for another chat. I’ve been going over Monday’s session in my head. You suddenly seemed real keen to get rid of me. It’s because you’re scared of me, isn’t it?’

  What should she say – yes, actually I am? Or play it cool? Maybe she should tell him that she believed him. That’s what he wanted to hear anyway, wasn’t it?

  ‘I was, I suppose. A little.’ She watched him for a reaction. He looked sad, his face losing hope. ‘But I’ve come to think, or perhaps question, my assumptions – my original beliefs.’

  His head shot up, a smile lighting up his face. ‘What made you suddenly believe me?’

  ‘Let’s just say, certain evidence came to light that corroborated what you’d told me. And refuted what Steph, sorry – I mean Jenna – had.’

  He sighed. ‘Eventually. Someone who’s opened their eyes to Jenna’s lies.’

  Connie’s stomach tightened at the bitterness in his voice. This young man still held a lot of anger within him, and a niggle scratched away inside her head – was she colluding with a criminal? Her prison training had warned of the dangers of manipulation, coercion, conditioning. Just because she’d left that environment she shouldn’t forget all of that. Brett had spent his entire adolescence in a secure unit. She must be careful, remain cautious.

  What she couldn’t ignore was how terrible it was that the stupid actions of Steph’s mother and father had impacted so detrimentally on their children. Brett and Steph’s lives had been over before they’d had any chance to flourish. An awful case of adults’ behaviour, their selfish actions, forever imprinting on their children. And in Steph’s case, the end result had been her and Dylan’s deaths. Was Brett’s future any brighter?

  ‘My first client is due soon, but you can come in.’ Connie didn’t have a client until eleven, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.

  After they’d settled, with Connie positioned opposite Brett, she began the session as she would any other. Brett continued to focus on the relief he felt that someone finally believed him, how it was like being reborn, but didn’t ask why she’d reached the conclusion he wasn’t guilty of setting the fire. He talked quickly; maybe he wanted to get it all out before the next client showed up, but part of her wondered if he’d taken something, he seemed so hyper.

  ‘How are you coping, being back in the community after so long?’ She wanted to know how he saw his future, rather than his past.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m at the hostel, in Paignton. It’s near the sea. That’s good. A massive difference from Manchester, the home, the YOI. It’s like being on holiday. Only, I’m on my own, obviously.’

  ‘That must be difficult. How is it that you came here? I’d have thought the probation team would’ve wanted you in your own area.’

  He lifted a shoulder and screwed his nose up, like he’d smelt something bad.

  ‘Some guy in the YOI – the offender supervisor inside, he arranged it with outside probation. Said it would be better to go far away from my red flags, and said seeing as I had no positive people – the green flags – in Manc, then I should start somewhere new. Even though I got no links in Devon, he suggested it.’

  That struck Connie as strange. Devon had been plucked out of thin air as the best place to relocate? Where his stepsister had also been relocated only months beforehand? That was one hell of a coincidence. Could Miles have had anything to do with it? She shook the thought away for the moment.

  ‘How do you manage your anger now? Still with fire?’

  He relaxed back in his chair. Connie waited while he seemed to consider the question – was he working out how he should answer, give a response that he thought Connie would want to hear? He cracked his knuckles. Then spoke.

  ‘I don’t get as angry. Now. Most of the reasons for my anger are no longer a problem.’

  The way he said that sent a shiver rippling across her skin. He’d meant Steph, she was sure. And now Steph was dead he didn’t have to hold on to the anger. Connie didn’t feel like probing any further. It was unlikely Brett had started the fire. His obsession with fire had given Steph the perfect opportunity to blame him; he was just a confused, hurting ten-year-old kid who’d witnessed his dad die in the flames. He’d been primed, and was at that point easily manipulated. Steph had been a very resourceful sixteen-year-old. Clever. Devious.

  Which begged the question, why wouldn’t she have tried every other avenue before killing herself and Dylan?

  ‘You sent letters to Jenna when you were in the secure home. Did she reply?’ Connie wasn’t sure any more that Brett had ever written to Steph, she may well have lied about that too.

  ‘I started off sending them to Jenna, but she only ever replied a few times. Later, when I was beginning to recall the actual events, I wrote … well, more angry letters I guess. But I never sent them.’

  ‘Okay, so the letters you sent said what?’

  ‘Mostly begging for her to come and visit me. I’d lost my dad, wasn’t expecting her to visit, so I only had Jenna. I used to tell her stuff, too, like what it was like in the home, the therapy I had, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you send the ones that were angry? I’d have thought you’d want her to know your feelings, that you were remembering certain things more clearly about the fire?’

  ‘I wrote those letters as part of my therapy. We all had to write to our victim, or someone who’d been affected by our crime. Well, almost all of us. There were some who got away with all that, like Flint – jammy bugger.’

  ‘I see.’ Connie knew that was a part of some of the rehabilitation programmes in prison. So it was entirely possible that Brett had nev
er written to Steph and certainly not while she’d been in Totnes. Miles had been right.

  She was about to bring his session to a close – get rid of him in time for her client – but the niggle that had become a regular sensation in her mind attached itself to something Brett’d said.

  ‘Who is Flint?’

  Brett’s eyes narrowed, and for a split second, Connie thought she saw panic flash across his face.

  ‘Just a lad I was inside with in the YOI.’

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘I guess. I never really connected with anyone much. But he had my back. Tried to help me integrate when I first got put in there. It was a big jump, secure home to YOI. It could be brutal in that place. Flint had respect from a lot of the inmates, and he was a bit like me, we both had a thing for fire – that’s why he had the nickname, Flint. In return for his protection, I helped him with his programme work. I’d made the most of my time, you see – took every opportunity to learn, to better myself. I loved the education programmes and I enjoyed teaching others when I could.’

  ‘Why didn’t he have to do the victim letters, though?’

  ‘He had this brain disorder or something, which meant he couldn’t write things down. All he had to do was tell the facilitator stuff, one-to-one, and I’d help with some writing for the in-cell work after sessions.’

  Connie sat up straight. ‘Brain disorder?’

  ‘Yeah. He got a bad bang to the head when he was a kiddy. An accident of some sort, can’t remember what he said now. But it left him with lasting damage. I mean, he was okay, up there,’ Brett tapped a finger against his temple, ‘he just couldn’t write things down the same.’

  Her mouth dried.

  ‘What do you mean, he couldn’t write things down the same?’

  ‘Weird as hell it was. Like it was nothing to him, he could do it perfectly.’

  Connie’s pulse raced, knowing what was coming, but asking anyway.

  ‘What could he do perfectly?’

  ‘Mirror writing. He wrote everything backwards.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Connie

  As soon as Brett left and she’d watched him from the window until he disappeared from view, Connie picked up the phone and dialled the station.

  Someone she didn’t recognise answered and said DI Wade and DS Mack were out on a call. Damn. There was no point leaving a message, she’d phone again when she got home. Connie’s hands shook and her pulse rate was doubled, as if she’d had twenty cups of coffee. She’d tried not to show any reaction when Brett spoke about Flint’s condition, attempting instead to sound interested in the phenomenon, rather than in Flint himself. But when Brett went on to tell her that Flint had been released prior to him, Connie was sure her face must’ve given away her shock. She was now convinced that the writing on the toilet mirror must’ve been done by Flint. He and Brett were in this together – Brett had let Flint in when he left after their session. It was obvious. Although the ‘why’ was less so.

  The more she thought about it, the more definite she felt about her theory.

  But, then, was she panicking, jumping to a hasty conclusion? Just because this Flint wrote backwards, that wasn’t enough evidence to be certain it was him – it might be coincidence. There must be other people who had the same condition.

  Or those who could emulate it.

  What a perfect way to detract attention from yourself to another. Was Brett playing her?

  She couldn’t trust anyone.

  After seeing her client at eleven, there’d only been one more in the afternoon. Connie’s new business was suffering. She’d have to focus on building it up if she was going to make a success of it. Allowing what was going on to affect it so much was counterproductive; she had to get a grip or it was going to go under. Right now, though, her resolve was poor. Only 4 p.m. and she switched off her computer, deciding to call it quits for the day. She wanted to go home, catch up with Lindsay, who’d said she was going to call around tonight. That’s what Connie felt she needed right now – someone to talk to, someone else who knew what was going on. Someone she should trust.

  Instead of walking the direct route to the train station, Connie took a detour, turning right as she exited her building and carrying on up the hill. There was a delicatessen at the top of High Street that did the most delicious takeaway antipasti platter that would be perfect for her and Lindsay to have later over a bottle of wine.

  With the platter carefully placed in the bottom of her bag, Connie crossed the road to the narrow cut-through leading to a steep, winding road that would get her to Station Road quicker than going back down the busy main street. It had a claustrophobic feel to it, the high walls either side of the road so close she could almost reach out both arms and touch each one. The lack of cars and people meant it was always quiet.

  Apart from the footsteps she could hear behind her.

  She turned to see the source of them and her heart missed a beat.

  A man in a black hoody.

  She quickened her step.

  He quickened his.

  Connie scanned the road ahead of her – there was a turning coming up about a quarter of the way down the hill. She couldn’t remember if that took her back on to the main road again, or to houses, but either of those options was better than staying there – it was a few minutes before she’d reach Station Road. And that might be too long.

  ‘Hey, Connie. Fancy bumping into you again.’ The voice came at her as she approached the turning, causing her to give a startled cry.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, are you stalking me?’

  On this occasion, Connie had never felt so relieved to see Kelly Barton and didn’t care that she’d obviously been hanging around again. It was far too much of a coincidence, her turning up like this; she’d clearly capitalised on the fact she lived close by and was keeping a close eye for any development, meaning she’d get in first with her report. Her dislike for Kelly would need to be put aside right now. Connie grabbed her arm and carried on walking, her pace fast.

  Kelly opened her mouth, about to protest, but then must have picked up on Connie’s anxiety and kept in step with her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She looked behind them. ‘Are you being followed?’ The excitement in her voice was barely containable.

  ‘Keep walking, Kelly. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘Good try, Connie.’ She laughed.

  ‘I’m not messing.’ Connie chanced another look behind her. The hooded figure was still following. ‘Shit, he’s going to catch us up.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re serious.’

  ‘Have you known me to joke? As you’ve apparently already been informed, I don’t have much of a sense of humour.’ Her previous run-in with Kelly had not been forgotten.

  ‘Just stop, confront him, and ask him what he wants.’ Kelly broke from her, looking as if she was going to wait for the man to catch up.

  Connie grabbed Kelly’s arm again, yanking her onwards. ‘No! That’s a really bad idea. What if he’s armed?’

  Kelly’s eyes widened. ‘Are you mad? Why would he be? What have you got yourself mixed up with, Connie?’

  Connie risked another look, praying he’d gone, or at least was far behind them now.

  ‘Fuck, there’s another one.’ A second figure was a few strides behind the hoody-man, closely following.

  ‘Shit, are we about to get jumped?’ Kelly’s voice finally sounded concerned.

  ‘Keep walking.’

  They were in a secluded part of Totnes, narrow road, high walls. If something happened to them here …

  ‘We need to get back into the main town – quickly,’ Connie said, her breath coming in short bursts, her legs shaking from the effort of walking so fast in her stupid high-heeled slip-on court shoes.

  Kelly pulled her arm out of Connie’s. She rummaged in her bag and took out her camera, turned and, still walking fast, started snapping away.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? Great, let’
s give the dodgy men something to kill us for!’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’

  ‘Really? You’ve got photographic evidence now.’

  Connie remembered the photos she’d been sent. Kelly always carried that camera everywhere with her. Connie’s suspicion that she was the mystery photographer now seemed undisputable. No time to question her now, though.

  They started jogging. The men did the same.

  ‘When I say … take your shoes off … and run, Kelly.’

  They briefly gave each other a wary look, both pale-faced and huffing. Only the adrenaline was keeping Connie moving.

  ‘Okay … now!’

  They both stooped, taking one shoe off at a time, discarding them as they went – then began running. Connie could only hear her own heart banging, her own laboured breathing. Her lungs hurt, her feet, too.

  They weren’t going to make it.

  Were the men right behind them? She was afraid to check. It’d be better not to see it coming. How stupid to have taken this cut-through for the sake of a few saved minutes.

  ‘Shit, look.’ Kelly had fallen back. What was she playing at? She must keep running.

  Connie slowed her run to a jog so she could follow Kelly’s gaze. The men were on the ground, way behind them now. They looked to be fighting.

  ‘What the hell?’ Connie bent over, hands on her thighs, taking in deep gulps of air. She was going to be sick.

  ‘Come on, let’s not hang around for them to stop and continue after us.’ Kelly took hold of Connie’s arm and together they jogged on until they reached the last corner that led on to Station Road.

  Out of breath, panting and with no shoes, the two women merged in with the other people who were walking calmly, going about their afternoon in ignorance of Connie and Kelly’s near miss with a stranger in a black hoody.

  ‘They were my favourite shoes,’ Kelly said as they approached the train station.

  ‘How can you think about that at a time like this?’ Connie muttered. But then she remembered her antipasti platter. Would it be ruined?