The Liar's Sister (ARC)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  It was a gunshot.

  The silence is broken by a rustle of leaves, but I don’t wait to find out what it is. I spin around and run. My feet trip and slide on the uneven ground, but I push through my thighs, running as fast as I can.

  When the second gunshot cracks through the air, my body jolts as though I’ve been hit. It was closer this time. I don’t know where the bullet went. I don’t know where the shooter is. But it’s too close for comfort.

  My arms stretch out for balance as I leap over stones and tree roots. My body warms, chasing the cold away. I run straight through the bluebells, trampling them, barely even noticing that they’re there. I have no idea if the person behind me is still following me. I can’t hear a thing over my own heavy breathing.

  Back on the main path, my ankle twists and I almost fall, but I straighten myself up, moving on instinct, a primal feeling taking over. There’s no one else in the woods today apart from me and my pursuer. No one to save me.

  Even though the gunshots have stopped, I run all the way home. I open the door with shaking fingers and burst inside. The first thing I do is lock the door, and then I start moving through the house checking for open windows.

  ‘Rosie? Rosie! Someone tried to kill me.’

  My boots leave prints all over the house as I tramp through checking every possible entry point, even the windows upstairs. Rosie’s room is empty. She isn’t here. I try to think whether she said she was going somewhere for the day. But I know she didn’t say anything.

  Her phone goes to voicemail. She doesn’t reply to my messages.

  Sweat drips from my forehead as I strip away my outerwear and try to think about what to do next. Can I go to the police without Ian Dixon being involved? What if they send him to the house to take a statement? I don’t trust him, and he is probably one of the most senior police officers in the area, which means he is the police.

  Who was shooting? And were they really shooting at me?

  If I’m being logical about this, then I would have to say that Buckthorpe Jack was spooked by someone coming to his house and fired a couple of warning shots. But I was sure I saw someone moving inside the house. I definitely saw a face at the window. If he’d run out of the house with a gun, I would’ve noticed.

  I don’t know much about guns, but I’ve lived in the countryside for long enough to recognise the sound of a shotgun or rifle. The Murrays used to run clay-pigeon shoots every now and then, and the crack of those guns would echo along to our house. It was the same sound today, only closer.

  And then, most alarmingly, the person firing the gun chased me. I’m sure they were chasing me.

  Were they trying to kill me?

  Or were they just trying to scare me? Because if they were, it certainly worked.

  Twenty-Three

  Rosie

  Then

  Dad hired a pressure washer to remove the graffiti from the front of the house, but it took away the top layer of paint from the front door with it. That meant we needed to buy a new front door and he wasn’t happy about that. The whole time I felt utterly miserable because it was all my fault. A new window and a new front door all because of me. Neither would be cheap.

  The day after the rock came through the window, Rhona called me, crying down the phone.

  ‘Samuel kept touching me when I told him to stop. He’s a psycho. He tortures animals. He drew a pentagram in blood while reciting Marilyn Manson lyrics and then he started muttering in this weird language. Do you think he’s some sort of witch who can curse me? Remember when he killed his lizard?’

  ‘He didn’t kill his lizard,’ I said. ‘He let the lizard loose into Buckbell Woods.’

  ‘Fuck. Off. It’s the same thing and you know it. The poor thing would’ve been eaten by a fox or starved to death.’

  Samuel actually did let his lizard loose in Buckbell Woods. He told us about it once. He was six and his parents had just adopted Peter. He’d had his lizard for a few months. Mr Murray came home with it, tank and equipment included, after a poker game in the Prince of Wales that later continued at someone’s farm. Samuel decided to learn all about how to take care of it. But then Peter came along and was terrified of it.

  Samuel bragged about his pet at school, which led to the kids teasing him. That, along with Peter’s fear, made him decide to get rid of it.

  He was only six. He didn’t understand what he’d done when he released it into the woods.

  Later, he grew fond of snakes and other reptiles too, which only added to his oddness. Rhona and Emily once stole his English workbook and wrote FREAK all over it, then threw it back at him, hitting him in the face. I cringed hard. But I’d done nothing.

  ‘Have you told the police?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yeah, that guy from the village. Ian. I made a statement. Emily did too. We love you, Ro. We’re with you. We’ll take the freak down together, okay?’

  After the call ended, I closed my eyes for a while and wished I could erase the entire conversation from my memory.

  I wished I could go back in time to before the incident.

  That would be nice.

  Rhona had called during lunchtime at school. But I was at home, stuck in my bedroom, staring at the sunlight coming in through the window, falling on Heather’s empty bed. I was pretty much alone today because Mum had gone back to work and Grandad was asleep on the sofa. Dad had never taken any time off work. He soldiered on, as did Heather. I was under strict instructions not to leave the house after the incident with the rock. Mum and Dad thought it might be dangerous for me to go out alone, seeing as someone had a grudge against me.

  But I couldn’t stand it. I’d never been good at sitting still, and this was torture. I’d scribbled down a few badly formed stories in my notebooks, and now I didn’t have anything left to do. I needed to feel the sun on my skin. I needed air before I suffocated.

  I left a note on the fridge telling Grandad that I was taking Midnight out for a ride. My pony needed exercise. None of this was his fault, after all.

  I retrieved my hat from the tack room, carried the saddle and bridle to the stable, and got Midnight ready, gently pushing my thumb into his mouth to put on the bridle. He drooled on me a little, and I wiped it on his coat before the saddle went on, then led him out of the stable.

  This was definitely the best idea I’d had for a long while. As soon as I was riding away from the cottage, all thoughts of Rhona and Emily slipped from my mind. Even Samuel seemed a million miles away. Spring sun was shining, and I wanted to see the bluebells in the woods. I wanted to go back to where it had happened, because I was afraid that if I left it any longer, I would never go there again.

  But there were butterflies in my tummy at the thought of it. I took a deep breath and pushed Midnight into a fast trot. Nothing bad could happen to me when I was with him. No one could hurt me. Not even Samuel. My trusty steed would protect me the way loyal beasts did in fantasy novels. Whenever I was riding him, I was invincible.

  With barely a breeze, Buckbell was quiet. It was perfect for strolling idly, listening to birdsong. I’d never been someone who enjoyed walking just to observe nature. It was boring to me. Not today, though, because anything that wasn’t my bedroom felt deliciously exotic. Even the sound of your average blackbird chirruping from the branches above. I slowed Midnight to a walk to take it all in, closing my eyes and lifting my face to the sun.

  The solitude was soon broken by the sound of voices. Of course, it was common to come across dog walkers and hikers, but they tended to stay in the western part of the woods, closer to the village. This part was our domain, the ones who lived outside the village in the middle of nowhere. The Sharpes and the Campbells and even the Murrays had relatively free rein in this part of woods. And then there was Jack, of course. Perhaps we were all trespassing on his territory.

  Just as I was about to push Midnight into a trot to get past the chatty people, I realised that one of the voices belonged to my sister. Though it was unmis
takably Heather, I had to admit that she sounded strange that day. It was as though she was upset, and that high-pitched whine was a tone I wasn’t used to hearing from her mouth. She was the mature one who rarely became worked up over anything. Though she could give good silent treatment every now and then when I did something really bad.

  I directed Midnight towards the sound of her voice, for some reason keeping him at a slow walk to stay quiet. But the closer I got, the more aware I became of his hooves snapping twigs underfoot. I quickly dismounted, wrapped the reins around a branch, and walked silently through the trees.

  Why was I sneaking up on her? I can’t explain it. There was some instinctual part of me that didn’t want her to know I was here. A moment later, I realised why. The second voice, the lower one, belonged to Samuel Murray. A shiver of revulsion wormed its way up my back. But I didn’t run away. I went a few paces closer, and hung back behind a patch of nettles. Leaning slightly to the left, I could see them through the tall weeds.

  ‘You don’t believe her, do you?’ Samuel was asking. ‘You don’t believe those blog bitches either, do you?’

  Heather was silent, neither nodding nor shaking her head. The way she was sucking in her lips told me that she was holding back tears. I leaned in, eager to know whether she truly did believe me or not.

  ‘Heather, please.’ He lifted one hand and slowly caressed her arm. She didn’t stop him. ‘You know me. You know I wouldn’t do any of those things. I don’t hurt animals. I don’t hurt girls.’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ Heather said at last.

  But it didn’t answer the question. She wasn’t telling him who she believed.

  Samuel took a step towards her, and I contemplated jumping out from behind the nettles to prevent him from touching her.

  ‘Tell her to stop,’ he said. ‘Tell her that she’s got it all wrong. I think I know why she’s doing what she’s doing, but …’

  ‘But what?’ Heather asked.

  Samuel dropped his eyes to the ground, and I got the impression that he was wrestling with some internal force, trying to decide what he could and couldn’t say. Eventually he lifted his gaze, took my sister’s face in his hands and kissed her.

  My heart leapt into my throat as I watched them kissing. Heather wrapped her arms around his neck like they were at a school disco, and leaned into his body. He stroked her face, ran his fingers through her hair. I thought they might never stop, that they’d become part of the forest, their love rooted forever, until at last she wrenched herself away from him and he stumbled back in shock, his eyes red with tears.

  ‘We can’t,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’

  He nodded once.

  I moved away from the nettles and ran to mount Midnight, pushing him into a gallop to get me home.

  Twenty-Four

  Heather

  Now

  Ivy Cottage is silent. All I can hear is the sound of my breathing, still ragged from the shock. I fill the kettle with water, my hands shaking.

  Think, Heather.

  Who would shoot a gun at me? Who wants me dead?

  Rosie is the one who has attracted the attention of the village since she arrived. I’ve been back regularly for months, and no one has shown me any of the animosity they have since Mum died. The letter mentioned me as well as Rosie, suggesting that I’m as unwelcome here as she is, but why would that prompt someone to shoot at me?

  The gas stove sparks up, and I consider what has changed since Mum died. I’ve been looking into Samuel’s disappearance, that’s the difference. Stupidly, I didn’t consider the fact that someone would notice, and that they wouldn’t want me to carry on investigating.

  And that means that I can’t rule out Rosie.

  I slump down into a dining chair and place my head in my hands. My heart tells me that Rosie would never harm me, and that she couldn’t have hurt Samuel either, because deep down she’s a good person. But my head insists that there’s evidence against her. She had a motive – Samuel hurt her, or he knew her secrets and lies – and she was unaccounted for the night he disappeared. She was unaccounted for when the shotgun went missing and she’s unaccounted for now, after someone fired a gun at me.

  This feels like a warning, but who is it coming from? Can I truly believe that my sister could do this to me?

  I pull my head out of my hands, brush away a few self-pitying tears and go to get a mug out of the cupboard. My phone beeps. A text message from Rosie to say that she’s at an addiction meeting in Ingledown. I chew on my bottom lip for a moment, considering whether to reply to her. A quick Google search doesn’t come up with much information about addiction meetings in Ingledown, but she might have found out by word of mouth or a flyer.

  The kettle boils and I consider what I should do next. If Rosie is telling the truth, she deserves to be warned about what happened to me in Buckbell Woods. If she’s lying, then I need to protect myself from her. Head and heart are fighting one another again.

  I don’t want to be alone in the cottage knowing that someone just shot a gun in my direction. I consider leaving the house and going to the pub, but that means walking alone, unless I drive. But if someone did want to hurt me, what would stop them tampering with my car?

  Not even a relaxing cup of tea can soothe my anxiety. After jumping at the sight of the neighbours’ cat running through the garden, I decide to see if I can get someone to come to the cottage. If it’s possible for my nerves to become any more frayed, they do when I send a text to the one person I’m comfortable inviting here. Peter.

  I could be there in thirty minutes? He suggests. Then, a moment later, Not that I’m keen or anything :).

  The smiley face is like warmth on a cold, dark day. Today, nothing makes sense except for the fact that a good man wants to spend time with me. His crush on me is sweet, but I can’t decide how I feel about him. A new kind of nervousness tickles at my stomach. This is a dangerous time to bring a man into my life, especially a Murray, given everything that has happened in the past, and normally my renowned cool head would tell me that I’m at my most emotionally vulnerable. And yet I don’t want to be alone. Who else can I turn to? I don’t trust my sister. My mum is gone. My dad is gone.

  I simply text Peter back Thanks, then move into the lounge and switch on the television for some background noise.

  A few moments later he texts to say he’s on his way, and my tensed muscles begin to relax. I push thoughts of his family connections from my mind. I make my way into the kitchen and put the kettle on again, take another mug out of the cupboard, and watch the Campbells’ cat as it poos underneath the hedge.

  Even though I know it’s Peter, the knock at the door sends a sudden judder through my body, and I spin around. When the key scrapes in the lock, it causes another jolt of shock to course through me. Peter’s eyes narrow when I open the door.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asks.

  I suck in a deep breath and move back to allow him in. I have to squeeze around the bulk of him to lock the door again.

  He’s barely two strides into the house when I tell him about the woods.

  ‘Fuck. I heard that,’ he says. ‘I thought it was the Bolton farm, out towards Ingledown. If the wind’s right, I can hear them shooting. But it came from the woods? Are you okay?’ He leans over and touches my arm.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I can’t stop staring at his hand. ‘I guess they were warning shots, but I think they chased me, too. I was on my way to see Jack.’

  ‘Jack?’ Peter leans back, removing his hand. ‘Why him?’

  I remember that he doesn’t know about my suspicions about Rosie in the woods the night Samuel disappeared. ‘He sees and hears a lot around the village. I thought maybe he might know more about Samuel’s disappearance.’

  Peter shrugs. ‘My dad has tried to get information out of him before, but he claims not to have seen anything that night. Besides, there’s no evidence Samuel was even in the woods.’

  But there was evidence that
my sister was there, I think. I wish I could tell him. I ache to get the words out of my mind and out in the open. But I can’t. I can’t betray Rosie.

  Peter is shaking his head, his unfocused gaze directed towards the fireplace. ‘Do you think someone was hunting?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I think they were either trying to hit me or scare me.’ I’m waiting for him to tell me I’m crazy but he just shakes his head slightly again.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he says.

  ‘There was the note I received the day Dad’s gun went missing,’ I say, walking to the cabinet. I open the top drawer and and take out the letter from the village. ‘Maybe the village doesn’t just want us gone, they want us dead.’

  ‘I remember you mentioning it,’ he says. And then I pass it to him. He reads it quickly. ‘Holy fuck. You’re right, that is nasty.’

  ‘You haven’t heard anything? Any rumours? At the pub, maybe?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replies. ‘If this really is from more than one person, then the village hasn’t involved my family at all.’

  That surprises me. Surely the Murrays would be the first people to want us out? Well, most of the Murrays. Unless I shouldn’t even be trusting Peter.

  The kettle whines in the kitchen and I hurry back to take it off the heat, hating the sound of that high-pitched whistle. Even though my hands are still shaking, it feels good to keep them moving.

  ‘Milk, no sugar, please,’ Peter says as I’m taking the milk out of the fridge.

  ‘I forgot to ask,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Now what’s that supermarket shite you have there?’ He nods towards the carton. ‘There’s decent milk up at ours.’

  ‘There is,’ I admit. ‘But I don’t get a stern glare from your family when I go to the supermarket.’ I let out an uneasy laugh. ‘I do buy from your shop, but only on Thursdays when I know your mum isn’t working behind the counter.’