Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense

by Laura Elliot

  The men were joined briefly by Sheila O’Neill, who had cycled over from Anaskeagh. Sheila was engaged to Bernard. They planned to build a bungalow on the farm. She still had jittery eyes and the same compulsion to talk about her sisters, who were coming home for the wedding. She took off her engagement ring and showed it to Beth.

  ‘Twist it towards your heart and make a wish,’ she said.

  Beth twisted the ring and pretended to wish before handing the ring back to Sheila.

  ‘How’s Nuala?’ she asked. ‘Is she coming home for the wedding as well?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sheila looked away, embarrassed. ‘I’d like her to come but you know my mother. Anyway, she’s mad busy working in this craft place. It’s some kind of co-operative that these women run in a basement. They make pots and candles, that sort of thing. Nuala sells the stuff for them.’

  ‘Did she ever get married?’

  ‘Married!’ Bernard held up his hands as if warding off an evil word. ‘The only man in her life is the kiddie she had after she was in the traces with Derry Mulhall. She’s one of those feminists. A holy terror she is when it comes to us poor men.’ He winked at Beth. ‘What about you? Are you stepping out with one of them jackeens or saving yourself for the local lads?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ retorted Beth, slipping easily into the familiar banter of the O’Donovan household.

  Sheila was working in the new supermarket. She listed the recent engagements, marriages and births that had taken place in Anaskeagh. When Beth mentioned Oldport, Sheila checked her watch and said she had to run, bored by events that had no relevance outside the circle of her own life.

  By evening the rain had cleared and the countryside was bathed in sunshine. Goldie lay on the lawn in Cherry Vale, his head flopped between his paws, looking reproachfully at them through the open French doors. May fluttered anxiously around the table, her bare arms quivering as she ladled mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. Two slices of roast beef glistened on each plate. She talked throughout the meal. She had always been a talker but Beth was surprised at how aimless her conversation had become: rambling monologues that relayed the minutiae of her daily routine and the demands that were made on a busy councillor’s wife. Her nieces were not expected to participate in the conversation, only to nod at appropriate intervals.

  Sara moved her food around, chewing continuously on a piece of meat, as if the effort of swallowing was too great. Her aunt leaned across the table and coyly tapped her knuckles with a fork.

  ‘I heard about your latest conquest, you sly puss.’ The young girl looked up from her plate, puzzled. ‘What do you mean, Aunty May?’

  ‘Ben Layden!’ She glanced over towards Beth. ‘His family own the new supermarket. I was talking to his mother last week and she spilled the beans.’

  ‘Baked were they?’ asked Beth.

  May ignored her. ‘He fancies our little Sara but she gives him the cold shoulder, don’t you, you heartless vixen? It won’t do, my dear. It won’t do at all. You can’t dazzle the poor boy with your wiles and then pretend not to notice him.’

  ‘I don’t pretend—’

  ‘Every boy needs a little push to get him moving in the right direction. And he’s a shy one, God bless him.’ May’s eyebrows arched, coy slivers of brown pencil. ‘I’ll have to arrange a little tête-à-tête to get the two of you together. More carrots, Beth?’

  ‘No thank you, May.’

  ‘Eat up now and none of your nonsense.’ She ignored Beth’s protesting hand, ladling another helping of vegetables onto her plate. ‘You’re far too scrawny for your age. A man likes a girl he can cuddle and there’s little to cuddle on a broomstick.’

  ‘I saw Conor at a dance in Dublin a while back,’ said Beth, staring at her aunt’s flushed face. ‘When did he start drinking so heavily?’

  May’s smile disappeared. ‘What do you mean? Conor’s never broken his Confirmation pledge.’

  ‘Oh! Then maybe it was drugs. This fellow came up and asked me to dance. He vomited over my shoes. Suede. Such a waste. I had to throw them away. I was sure it was Conor – but under such circumstances it was hard to be certain.’

  ‘I’m quite sure it wasn’t my son,’ May replied grimly. ‘Conor is a student of law. I don’t imagine he’s in the habit of frequenting the same dance halls as common factory girls.’

  ‘She’s unbelievable. Yap, yap, yap,’ Beth muttered when their aunt went into the hall to answer the phone. ‘She never shuts up for a minute.’

  ‘She’s lonesome with the boys gone all the time,’ said Sara. ‘And Uncle Albert’s so busy he’s never here.’ She swayed, slumping forward. Sweat broke out on her upper lip.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Beth half stood but Sara lifted her hand and pushed her back. An action that was surprisingly strong, considering her crumpled position. ‘I’ve got a stomach cramp,’ she gasped. ‘I think I’ve picked up a bug.’

  ‘Were you sick during the night?’

  Sara nodded and rose unsteadily to her feet, holding the edge of the table for support. For an instant, as she bent forward, she was silhouetted against the evening sun. It shone through the fabric of her dress, pale blue chambray, soft creased pleats falling loose to her ankles. Her stomach, high and swollen, stretched tight. Her small full breasts rested on the curve.

  It was so obvious. Beth wanted to fling the reality far back into the cold reaches of her mind. Her eyes, seeking relief, stared down at the linen tablecloth and almost immediately came back to Sara. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light, shimmering energy. It had to be her imagination. Sara had just turned fourteen, a schoolgirl who played with her dog and took strange photographs of empty lanes and time running away. The young girl moved from the light, oblivious of what she’d revealed, moving heavily, her hand reaching instinctively to touch the small of her back. She opened the door and disappeared from view. Beth tried to detain her but her throat was too raw for words. Her breath wheezed, carried on a wild sob.

  The phone call ended and May was back, annoyed at people’s lack of consideration, ringing at meal time when they knew her husband was away and wouldn’t be able to deal with their problems.

  ‘Sara’s gone upstairs to lie down for a while,’ Beth said.

  ‘Poor child, it’s probably her monthlies. I used to be cursed with them myself when I was her age. You really are a bold little brat, Beth, teasing me about Conor.’

  ‘I’ll go and check if she’s all right.’ Beth ran up the stairs, her heart pounding at the thought of confronting her sister.

  The bedroom was empty. When she ran downstairs May was standing in the hall, her jacket slung over her shoulders. ‘Is she all right? Does she want me to bring her up a hot-water bottle before I leave?’

  ‘No, she’s sleeping.’

  ‘That’ll do her good. I’m off to play bridge with the ladies. I should be back about midnight.’

  As the puzzle pieces slotted into place one by one Beth realised she was not surprised. The signs had been obvious yet she had deliberately ignored them. No, surely not deliberately. How could she have guessed what was incomprehensible? Sara had put on weight, a fine layer of puppy fat softening her face. Her strange behaviour, sudden outbursts. Hormones. Moody teen blues. An explanation for everything except the truth. Sara crying on Anaskeagh Head because there was no one to tell. Sara on the phone, panicked, desperate, silent. She had dismissed her suspicions, refused to give them any credence because she wanted to be with Peter Wallace, playing word games, stupid, stupid word games with no meaning. Images on canvas – the mirror of the soul.

  Chapter 14

  Goldie had disappeared from his position outside the French windows. The gate at the foot of the back garden had swung open. A narrow road ran along the back of Cherry Vale with hedgerows on either side. At one end it swept around to join the main road leading into Anaskeagh. The other route led to the headland. Beth followed the curve until it ended on the bottom slopes in a bou
ndary of ash and willow. It was easy to find an opening through the thicket. Soon she was walking over clumps of stubby grass that squelched under her feet. Boggy moisture seeped into the thin soles of her trainers and the bottom of her jeans. This was a spent area that had been flattened and dug, leaving trenches of bog water and scaly steps hacked into the earth.

  She strained her ears, hoping that Goldie would bark. The moon became visible, a pale disc that lit the trail, but once she moved from the path the dense shadows of rock and gorse were almost impossible to penetrate. She switched on the torch she’d grabbed from the garage before leaving Cherry Vale. Slate-grey clouds banked behind Anaskeagh Head. The peaks, the rocks, the black jagged trees rising above her were fleeting impressions, a nightmare glimpsed through a swirl of descending mist.

  Sara crouched under Aislin’s Roof. She was kneeling, her stomach thrust forward, the pale blue dress rucked around her waist. Goldie lay beside her. He whimpered, licking her ankles, shivering. This was the picture Beth absorbed when she finally stumbled upon them, illuminated in the glow of the torch. A tableau that was to imprint itself forever on her mind.

  ‘I’m here, Sara.’ Beth collapsed on the grass. Her heart hammered with panic and exertion.

  Her sister did not look up. She seemed incapable of focusing on anything other than the pressure that fused her body into the downward contraction and tore a shuddering gasp from her. Her hands gripped the edge of the rock. When the moment passed and her body relaxed she began to sway backward and forward. The sound she made, a humming monotone, seemed to rise through the roof of her mouth, almost inaudible.

  ‘Are you having the baby? Tell me what’s happening to you.’ Beth put her arms around Sara. She sobbed with terror because she didn’t know what to do. She lifted Sara’s hair, pushed it back from her face, wiped her hand across her sister’s cold, damp forehead. The swaying movements ceased. Sara stared at her. No recognition flickered in her eyes as she pushed Beth away. She crawled into the shelter of the overhanging rock and crouched in the darkness.

  ‘No one can see me.’ She ground the words between her teeth. ‘No one can see me… no one… no one can see me.’

  ‘Are you having the baby now?’ Beth repeated, trying to follow her. She shone the torch under the slant of rock. Framed in the glow, Sara hunkered against the sloping wall, cornered. Her body was in spasm, her breathing heavy and fast. Goldie barked, responding to her panic. Mindlessly she touched his head, shushing him. He pawed the earth, scattering damp muddy clay. Beth noticed he was digging in a hole that was already partly dug.

  ‘Sara, I’m here with you… it’s Beth. I’ve found you… everything’s going to be all right… Come out from there and let me help you—’

  ‘Get away… get away! Don’t come in here… get away,’ Sara hissed. She pressed her face into her knees and waved her hands outwards as if she was pushing against an invading force.

  As Beth came to terms with the unfolding tragedy she realised that Sara had not just fallen into the earth to give birth. Aislin’s Roof had been carefully chosen. The rock, embedded on a flat shelf of earth, offered shelter and protection. But Sara was restricted by the low level of the ceiling and the tight space into which she had wedged herself. If Beth was to help her sister she must concentrate only on what was about to happen, not on what had happened. Softly she coaxed Sara forward.

  ‘You should be out here. Sara… it’s safe out here. No one can see you… it’s the best place to be.’ She reached out one hand, continuing to talk softly, concentrating the beam of the torch on the ground in front of her, using it to beckon the young girl forward.

  Clouds parted. The moon shone on Sara’s upturned face. She leaned back into the rough grass. Her elbows supported her weight. She drew her knees forward, tensed her feet, arched her body like a bow then sank again into the earth. Time had ceased to have any meaning. Beth had no idea how long she crouched there, comforting Sara when she screamed, waiting for each spasm to pass and bring her sister to that final, terrifying moment. When Sara screamed again, the sound was different, more primal, and Beth knelt in front of her, spontaneous actions, intuitive knowledge. She reached into the dark space between Sara’s legs and her hands felt something moist, solid.

  ‘Sara. I’ve touched the baby’s head, push again, it’s coming – coming – push, you have to push harder, Sara, push!’

  The young girl looked outwards, unseeing, her eyes opaque with terror. Beth sensed her travelling beyond the moment, her mind moving away even as her body pulsed and prepared to give life. A sundering cry was forced from her – a hard cry of denial. Beth placed her hands over the emerging head and drew her sister’s child into the moonlight. Still kneeling, she held the baby in her arms. She ran her hands over the tiny frame, hair slicked smooth with blood and mucus. She touched the smooth incision between the baby’s thighs. A thin wriggling body that could slide so easily to the ground.

  ‘It’s a girl, Sara,’ she whispered.

  ‘Give it to me.’ Sara’s voice was hoarse. She lay still, her legs splayed, milky white in the angled glow of the torch. Blindly, refusing to look, she allowed Beth to lay the child on her stomach. She shuddered at the contact. Her movements were slow, trance-like.

  ‘Cut the cord,’ Sara cried. ‘Cut it quick. In there – under the rock. The bag, get the bag.’

  In the gap under the rock Beth discovered a white plastic bag. Inside it she found a towel, cotton wool, pieces of ribbon and sanitary towels. Her chest knotted when she saw Marjory’s dressmaking scissors. They clanged against the handle of a small shovel from the bronze companion set her mother kept beside the fireplace. When she cut the cord, instinctively using the ribbons to clamp it at either end, her sister’s head flopped sideways, as if someone had released her from the pull of an invisible string.

  The placenta came away. A rippling, muscular tremor passed through Beth’s hands when she placed them on Sara’s abdomen. A fusion of smells rose around her: blood, excrement, perspiration – bodily emissions that had swept this tiny life into existence. She needed water. She had seen it in films, steaming cauldrons of boiling water. She needed to clean Sara and stem the flow of blood. She needed blankets. It was cold on Anaskeagh Head and the wind was rising. Sara appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Her body was flat, as if it were being absorbed into the grass. The baby, now wrapped in the towel, lay in her arms. Each time she cried, Sara started awake and gazed with blank eyes at the tiny bundle. When her sister tried to take the baby, she kicked out with such ferocity that Beth froze, afraid a wrong word or movement would send her over the edge and out of reach.

  ‘We have to leave here, Sara. Can you try and sit up?’

  Dully, Sara pulled herself upright. The movement disturbed the child, whose mouth puckered as she turned her face inwards towards the young girl’s chest.

  ‘Monster… monster!’ Sara screamed suddenly. Her free hand scrabbled in the darkness.

  ‘Stay easy.’ Beth tried to hold her but Sara drew back from her and, in the instant before the blow was struck, Beth saw her upraised hand, the stone clenched in her fist.

  ‘No! Sara, no, don’t!’ She flung herself across her sister’s knees, knocking her hand sideways. The blow lost its force and scraped against the side of the child’s forehead. The startled wail – a shrill, outraged cry – reminded Beth of Goldie, scrabbling frantically up the side of the bath.

  ‘Leave me alone… I have to destroy the monster’s baby,’ Sara sobbed, flailing out.

  ‘Listen to me.’ She forced Sara’s hand backwards until it was twisted behind her back. The stone fell with a soft thud. ‘I’m here. I’ll help you. It’s your baby girl, Sara. You can’t harm her. Calm down! I’ll take care of the two of you.’

  The baby continued to cry. Beth was terrified in case she fell from Sara’s arm or was flung against the rock. ‘Give her to me, Sara. You must rest… sleep.’

  ‘Fucking monster!’ Sara began the familiar rocking mo
vements, still squeezing the child.

  ‘She’s a beautiful baby, Sara. They’ll find her if you bury her here. Look at Goldie. Tomorrow the dogs will come and dig her up. Everyone will know you killed your baby. Mammy will know and Uncle Albert—’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Sara rocked faster. Her face twisted in a grimace, distorted. ‘You left me here… You left me all alone! Bitch! Get away from me.’

  ‘Sara, listen! I’ll hide the baby. I’ll hide her in a place where no one will ever find it. Give her to me, Sara. This is our secret.’ Beth’s voice lulled her, controlling Sara as she lifted the baby into her arms. She stood up, her legs cramping, pins and needles causing her to stumble when she tried to walk.

  ‘I’ll be back soon… stop crying, Sara. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  It was almost eleven o’clock, only an hour since she’d found Sara. She tried to imagine the terror that had sent her sister crawling like an animal under a rock to give birth and then try to get rid of the child she had been forced to carry. The baby made a snuffling noise as if she was having breathing difficulties. Beth pressed the corner of the towel against the wound. She shone the torch on the tiny face, the withered blue flesh. Panicking, she wondered if she should baptise her because she would surely be dead by the time she was discovered. It seemed hypocritical to chant words she didn’t believe. If she was wrong and there was a merciful God waiting to receive this child then a meaningless ritual should not hinder her progress into the light.

  If she had allowed Sara to kill her, a swift merciful blow that would have crushed the fragile skull, their secret would be resting under Aislin’s Roof, slowly decomposing into the earth. How many babies born in the same secret desperation were mouldering in fields and ditches and rivers, alive only in the minds of those who had shared their brief existence? Yes, Sara would have suffered, remorse ebbing and flowing through her life. But there would have been an ending; a secret in the shade of Aislin’s Roof. Instead, Beth was unleashing a story that was going to have so many consequences. The police could come to their house and arrest Sara, arrest them both. And if the baby died they would stand in the dock accused of murder, their lives over before they’d even got used to living them. Yet she also knew that this frail child had to live or they would never be able to move forward from this terrible night. Her legs juddered as she pushed her way through the narrow trail, treacherous with unseen briars and moss. The path reached a fork, dividing sharply to the left. This was a little-used trail, leading away from the boggy slopes and onto firmer ground. A trail she had travelled many times with Jess when they used to take a shortcut to the farm. She beamed the torch, keeping it low in case it was noticed. Not that she expected to see anyone. Anaskeagh Head was too rough and formidable to attract young couples seeking privacy.