The Liar's Sister (ARC)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  ‘Bastards,’ Grandad mumbled. ‘John will have to deal with this. They can’t get away with damaging our property.’

  All I could think about was what would have happened if Buster had been sitting in the room. Or Heather. Or Mum and Dad. I took a deep breath to settle myself. What was out there? Had they hurt Midnight?

  Mum opened the door and we followed her out into the small courtyard that led down to the stables. I quickly scanned the two ponies’ heads bobbing over the door. Both of them were fine, and Midnight’s ears pricked up when he saw me.

  Cautiously I checked the rest of the area. The chickens seemed undisturbed; the house was okay. Nothing was out of place.

  ‘They must mean the front,’ Mum said.

  Still gripping my sweaty hand, we walked around the side of the cottage, with Grandad now leading the way. His heavy boots plodded over the stone slabs.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘This is it, then.’

  ‘What is it?’ Mum asked, her footsteps hurrying along. I had to speed up to stay with her, but my legs were heavy as lead and didn’t want to move. Whatever was there, it was my fault.

  Mum gasped when she saw the front of the house, and tears sprang into her eyes.

  ‘I’ll find the number of a good cleaner,’ Grandad said briskly. ‘Where’s the phone book?’

  I was about to tell him that no one used the phone book any more, but then I finally allowed my eyes to rest on the front of the house. Across the door and the brickwork either side, painted in black, was one word: LIAR.

  Twenty-One

  Heather

  Now

  Eyelids glued shut, I regain consciousness. I blink them open and watch the room settle from spinning to stationary. The resulting headache forces me to close my eyes again. In the minutes that follow, I realise that I can’t move a muscle without searing pain splitting my skull in half. Even twitching my fingertips makes me want to throw up. Eventually I’m able to open my eyes again and adjust to the light in my room. I haven’t had a hangover this horrendous possibly ever, though a particularly awful morning-after at university springs to mind.

  What did I do last night? What did I say? Most of the night is completely gone. I remember getting into a taxi with Peter, and that’s about it.

  This isn’t me. The last time I let go like this was probably my last week at uni when I partied with my friends until I lost myself. The final release, and the one time I forgot to be apologetic about who I am like most other good little English girls from the countryside. And this is my punishment for allowing that side to come out. Pain.

  The bedroom door opens and Rosie pads in wearing a summer dress, her hair pulled up into a topknot. Her bare arms reveal the scars that she never hides away, and the line of stars tattooed along her wrist. The scars give me a stab of guilt every time I see them. Rosie is trying to stay sober, and here I am passing out from too much booze.

  ‘Morning, waster,’ she says brightly, slamming a cup of tea on the bedside table. She places a packet of ibuprofen next to it. ‘Breakfast of champions.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I croak. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Six,’ she replies.

  ‘In the morning?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘The evening?’

  She nods. ‘You slept all night and most of the day.’

  This time I ignore the pounding pain, forcing myself to sit up. ‘What the hell?’ I wince as the room wobbles and my head seems to crack open. I lean over and put my face in my hands. ‘Jesus. How am I still in this much pain after all this time?’ Now that I’m aware how long I’ve been asleep, I know this is definitely my worst hangover ever.

  ‘You woke up for a little bit about eleven this morning, drank some water and went straight back to sleep.’

  I slowly lift my head. ‘I did?’

  She nods.

  ‘But that’s insane.’

  ‘I agree. I was thinking of taking you to A and E or calling a doctor if you didn’t wake up tonight.’

  I rub my eyes, run my fingers through my hair. Mascara coats my fingertips, and is no doubt all over my pillowcase too.

  ‘This has never happened to me before,’ I say. ‘I feel …’

  ‘Paranoid? Self-conscious? Ill? Like you could drink a gallon of water and still be thirsty? Yep. I know the feeling, matey.’ She reaches over and ruffles my hair. ‘How much did you drink anyway?’

  ‘Three double vodkas.’

  ‘Huh,’ she says. ‘Thought it would be more than that.’

  ‘I guess I drank them quite quickly. Within about an hour and on an empty stomach.’ I take a cautious sip of hot tea. Did I even finish the last drink? Two and a half doubles would be more accurate. ‘I don’t know if I’m ravenous or going to puke.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, if I was thinking of having a drink, you’ve just cured me of that temptation with this display.’ She lifts her hand and wafts it over me, the sad little specimen to prove her point.

  I can’t deny I’ve missed this side of my sister. This is how it used to be before everything that happened with Samuel.

  ‘What were you doing yesterday, Hev?’ she asks.

  ‘I had this idiotic idea that it’d be good to meet Emily and Rhona.’ I explain the ridiculous plan while Rosie frowns.

  At the end of my story, she sighs. ‘Sis, I don’t get what’s going on. Why do you keep bringing up the past? It’s not as though you can ever go back and change it.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know any more.’

  ‘You should be concentrating on grieving for Mum.’ She sits down on the bed and shifts my leg with her bum. ‘I think that’s what you’re doing, you know. You’re avoiding grieving for Mum. And …’ She taps her thigh nervously and doesn’t meet my gaze.

  ‘What?’ I ask, sensing that there’s more.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve ever properly grieved for Dad, either. You idolised him. And then he let you down.’

  I lift my knees underneath the duvet, making myself smaller. ‘No, he didn’t. It’s not his fault.’

  ‘He’s the one who took the gun and put it in his mouth.’

  I clamp my hands over my ears. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘And now someone has stolen that gun because they want us to go. Or they want us dead.’

  The image of Ian Dixon’s face comes into my mind. Did he confront me outside the pub, or did I imagine it? I have a vague recollection of him threatening me. And then I got into the taxi with Peter.

  ‘What is it?’ Rosie asks, noticing the change in my expression.

  ‘I think I saw Ian Dixon when we were coming out of the pub. He told me – well, us – to get out of the village. But I’m not sure if I’m remembering that, or if I imagined it.’

  Rosie frowns, creasing up the space between her eyebrows. ‘You were seriously fucked up, weren’t you? It’s a little scary, Hev. Have you had this sort of reaction to alcohol before?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, but I’ve never pounded double vodkas like that before.’

  ‘Listen to big sis, yeah? Have a break from the booze. I don’t think it agrees with you. This is no normal hangover. People don’t usually sleep for twenty-four hours straight.’

  * * *

  The next day is mainly made up of dealing with the aftermath of the ill-advised drinking session. My phone is missing, but when I call the Prince of Wales, surly Reg tells me that he found it underneath one of the tables. How did it get from the bar to the table? Did I drop it and someone accidentally kicked it there?

  I arrive at the pub and sheepishly pick up the phone from Reg, who – thankfully, and tactfully – doesn’t say a word. Then I drive home, eat jam on toast until my stomach stops grumbling, and help Rosie sift through some of Mum’s paperwork.

  ‘Here are the deeds to the house,’ she says. ‘We’d best keep them somewhere safe for when we want to sell up.’

  ‘We haven’t decided that, though, have we?’
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  ‘No,’ she says, backtracking. ‘I meant, if we decide to sell.’

  I nod thoughtfully, watching as Rosie organises Mum’s belongings. It seems an odd thing to say by accident.

  ‘Did you say that you’d sold some short stories recently?’ I ask.

  She puts some old pens and pencils into a bag for rubbish and nods her head. ‘Just a couple to some sci-fi zines.’

  ‘I never asked how you paid for rehab.’ I try to keep my voice light, as though the thought has just occurred to me. Of course, it hasn’t. I haven’t known how to broach it. Most of our conversations end abruptly when one of us annoys the other. But now that we have the deeds to the house here, and Rosie is talking about selling up, I realise that I need to know more about her money situation before making a decision.

  ‘I found funding through the NHS,’ she says, without meeting my eye.

  I have no idea if that’s possible, so I can’t say much more.

  ‘If you’re asking whether money has been an issue,’ she says, ‘it has. I’ve had jobs, though. I write in my spare time.’

  ‘Did you tell Mum about the published stories? She would’ve been proud.’

  ‘I did,’ Rosie says. ‘In the hospital with you. It was nice to be able to tell her something good for a change.’

  ‘I’m glad you inherited her talent.’ I stand up from my uncomfortable position on the floor and walk over to the shelves on the other side of the office. Using one finger, I edge out a thin book and take it over to Rosie. The corners are frayed. The paper is yellowing. The cover almost immediately tries to curl up like those plastic mood fishes in Christmas crackers. It opens on the correct page, the spine already bent to that location. The Road, by Iris Sharpe.

  Rosie reaches out for it with a smile. ‘I haven’t read this in years.’

  It was the one and only published poem of our mother’s. Now that I’m older, I can’t imagine the rejection she faced just to have those few lines of words published.

  ‘It’s not my favourite of hers,’ Rosie says. ‘There was another. What was it? It started “Blame the blue” …’

  ‘“Guilt the trees”.’

  ‘It was such an unusual one.’

  ‘What do you think it means?’ I ask.

  Rosie shrugs. ‘No idea. Maybe it’s about regrets.’

  Mum’s last words to me: I want you to know that I never regretted anything, and that I love you very much.

  Rosie might be right, and perhaps that’s why the poem speaks to me too. As last words go, ‘I never regretted anything’ isn’t so bad. And why should Mum have regrets? She was always true to who she was. Of course she had flaws, but she was a good person, as most relatively normal people are. Dad, too. On a scale of Mary Berry to Ted Bundy, they were both definitely closer to everyone’s favourite baker.

  Then why did I have such a strange feeling that the poem we’re talking about is related to Samuel’s disappearance? Blame the blue. The bluebell field? Guilt the trees. Buckbell Woods, where I found Rosie’s bracelet? We were complicit. Who? Did Mum know that Rosie left the house that night? Wouldn’t she have told me?

  Maybe, a long time ago, before Rosie left Buckthorpe, she told Mum about the night Samuel disappeared. If she did, then that means something bad happened. The blue. The trees. It has to be Buckbell Woods.

  And there is one person who knows everything about those woods. Buckthorpe Jack.

  I have to admit, this isn’t the first time I’ve thought of asking Buckthorpe Jack about that night, but I held off, forever hoping that one day Rosie would open up to me. Now I feel as though she will never tell me the truth about Samuel, and I have to find another way to move on from the past once and for all. That means going back to the woods, alone, despite the threat from the village. There’s no other choice. I just need to be brave enough to do it.

  Twenty-Two

  Heather

  Now

  When we were little, Rosie and I had the run of the woods. Other parents would have a panic attack at the thought of their children walking through a forest on their own, but for us it was more akin to nipping to the playground across the street. There were rules we had to obey – we weren’t allowed too far in – but from the ages of seven and eight we took Buster on little walks to the bluebell field and back, though only in spring and summer when the weather was nice.

  Sometimes Grandad walked with us, complaining about us running too fast and his knees aching. He was a mutterer, always grumbling underneath his breath. Rosie used to say that she heard swear words amongst the muttering, but I think she was exaggerating. That was what she wanted to hear, so she heard it.

  It was around that age that I first started sleepwalking. Mum would find me sitting on the sofa with the TV on, a strange, impassive expression on my face. Or I’d stand over their bed, resembling the possessed kid in a horror film. But it wasn’t until I was twelve that I wandered into the woods.

  To see Buckthorpe Jack.

  As I’m doing today.

  That night is one I don’t tend to let myself think about because I lost control of myself. I made no conscious decision to wander into the woods, and that makes me feel ashamed for some reason. It’s possible I’m just a control freak who can’t stand losing the ability to choose. Unless the shame is an echo of whatever darkness was in my mind that night, because whenever I think about sleepwalking in the woods, that same sensation comes over me again.

  But not now, walking through the trees with a gentle April sun dancing through the leaves. Gorgeous early spring light, delicately bright and accompanied by a breeze to ensure I’m not too hot while walking. This is my favourite time of year, and Buckbell is my favourite place to see it.

  A few weeks ago, before Mum died, I was feeling as though my childhood memories were in a fog, or that they weren’t mine at all. Maybe that’s linked to Samuel and the way the village changed when he was accused of all those terrible things. It’s only now, in this light, that I see those days more clearly.

  The joy of Dad coming home after a job, but the moodiness of Rosie when he left. Mum’s headaches, her insistence on ‘me’ time when she was writing, but her warmth on a good day. Grandad teaching us to ride our ponies and muttering under his breath when we stuck our toes out and slouched. Rosie always running. Running to school. Chasing Buster. Racing me. Always with a red flush on her cheeks and uncombed hair. Mum forced us both into dresses, which makes the memory romantic, with the pastel-coloured fabric catching the breeze. That is, until Rosie fell face first into a puddle and ruined the entire outfit. There was laughter then, until it made our ribs ache, and until we realised we had to go home and tell Mum what’d happened. ‘One day you’re going to pay me back for all this laundry,’ she said, tutting and pacing the length of the living room. I’m not sure we ever did pay her back.

  It doesn’t take long to reach the edge of the bluebell field, which is where I stop for a moment. We’ve passed the anniversary of Samuel’s disappearance, but I still crouch down and pick one of the flowers, tucking it into my pocket. This is where I found the bracelet. It was here, tangled up with the flowers, barely visible. Of course I saw it. I’m the one who sees the small details others miss. Sometimes I wish I didn’t, but I do. I see the mistakes that other people make.

  But that does not mean I’m immune to making my own.

  There’s a path leading through the bluebells, winding around the edge of the field to protect the beautiful flowers from being trampled. In summer, autumn and winter, the field is green, or covered in golden leaves, or a blanket of fluffy white snow. Those months seem stark compared to the softness of the bluebells. One recent problem that Buckthorpe has had is Instagram models coming to lie down in the field for a photo shoot. There’s been talk of a fence being built to discourage such behaviour. I think we should tell them about Buckthorpe Jack instead.

  I usually head home after reaching the field, but today I keep going around it until I reach the little dirt path that c
ontinues on to Jack’s cottage. This part of the wood is darker, the trees positioned snugly enough to block out the sun. It reminds me of a movie where the protagonist rents a cabin in the forest. Those films are usually set in America, with bears and coyotes. The loner hunts with a fancy rifle and a funny hat.

  Hunting is not allowed in Buckbell Woods.

  Jack doesn’t have any of those things. At least, I hope not.

  I take a deep breath and continue on, trying to force my mind not to think about the night I went sleepwalking and the nightmare I had. But all I can see is Rosie’s face when she teases me about my dreams about becoming Jack’s bride.

  It’s cooler in this part of the woods, and I pull my jacket closer to my throat. As far as I know, Jack doesn’t own a car. Whenever he comes into the village, or goes to the Murrays’ farm, he walks.

  The crumbling cottage comes into view up ahead. Tiles are missing from the roof and patches of brick show through the disintegrating rendering. What did Jack see the night Samuel went missing? I know the police talked to him, but I don’t remember what was said, if I was ever told. I was two years away from being an adult, but neither of my parents treated me like one. They kept all the information to themselves, attempting to shelter us from the horrible truth.

  When my jacket doesn’t provide enough warmth, I fold my arms across my chest and continue walking. Did I see a shadow in the window of the cottage? Is that Jack watching me approach?

  A loud crack, similar to thunder, but at a higher pitch, sounds through the woods. Several birds lift from the branches, their wings spread out wide as they fly away from the disturbance. My breath catches in my throat as I watch them, my mind slowly reaching a terrifying conclusion. Silence falls, and when I glance back at the cottage, there’s no one in the window. Finally, I breathe.

  There’s no mistaking that sound. I’ve heard it coming from the farms before.