The Silent Sister_An gripping psychological thriller with a nail-biting twist

by Shalini Boland

  ‘We should probably take him to the vet,’ Joe says.

  ‘I know. But if we go to the vet’s, we won’t make Mum’s lunch. She’ll use this against me for months. You know what she’s like. I can hear her now: “Well, you know Lizzy, she thinks more of her cat than her own mother”.’

  Joe’s shoulders droop, knowing this last opportunity to get out of the meal has been shut down. I’d rather take Frank straight to the vet, but apart from his paw he seems okay.

  ‘I’ll make an appointment to take him later,’ I say. ‘He seems all right for now, don’t you think?’

  Joe shrugs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just, normally you treat Frank like a little prince, like he’s your baby. I’m surprised you aren’t rushing him round to the vet’s in an ambulance.’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny. I’m not that bad.’ In truth, I’m so tired I can hardly think straight. Everything feels a little surreal. All I know is, I can’t give Mum an excuse to have a go at me. I couldn’t cope with that on top of everything else that’s going on. ‘I’ll lock the cat flap. Don’t want Frank disappearing again.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll put out a litter tray.’

  After Frank has eaten his fill, he jumps into a basket of laundry, curls up with the tip of his tail over his nose, closes his eyes and goes to sleep. A glance at the kitchen clock tells me we’re going to be late.

  ‘Come on then,’ Joe says. ‘Frank looks happy enough, let’s go and get this over with.’

  I nod and follow my boyfriend out of the house.

  * * *

  We arrive at the Italian restaurant, in nearby Tetbury, twenty minutes late. My family are already seated around a rectangular table, but they get to their feet when we walk in. Joe and I wish my mum a happy birthday and I give her the beautifully gift-wrapped silk scarf I picked out from the shop, and a bouquet of roses.

  ‘Lovely, Lizzy. Thank you,’ Mum says, giving me a dry kiss on the cheek. ‘Pretty roses. Although I hope they don’t wilt while we’re sitting here.’

  ‘They’ll be fine, Mum.’

  Subtly made up, my mum looks as immaculate as ever, her brown hair tied back in a sleek chignon, her fitted floral dress perfect for her trim figure. ‘You look tired,’ she says, casting a critical gaze over me, then placing my gift in her handbag without opening it.

  ‘I’m okay. Just been busy at work.’

  ‘If you want to know about being busy, you should speak to your sister,’ Mum says. ‘Emma’s been to a conference in America this month. A proper little jet-setter.’

  ‘Nice,’ I say, without looking at my sister.

  ‘Hello, Joe.’ Mum gives him a curt nod and lets him kiss her cheek.

  ‘Happy birthday, Pam.’ Joe catches my eye and grins.

  Despite my dread at the lunch ahead, I stifle a giggle. If you can’t laugh…

  ‘Lizzy, love.’ Dad comes over and envelops me in a huge bear hug. I’m overwhelmed with the aroma of his aftershave and cigarette smoke, that familiar scent of security and comfort. Unlike my mum, Dad has let himself go a bit. His once sandy hair is now grey; his belly hangs over the waistband of his suit trousers. And he would live in scruffy old shorts and T-shirts if he had his way. Mum nags him about what he eats and what he wears, but he pays her absolutely no attention. Despite this, Mum still adores him. I wonder, sometimes, if she’s jealous of my relationship with him. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, and he sticks up for me whenever Mum gets on my case about my weight, or my job, or any other lifestyle choice she doesn’t agree with.

  ‘Hi, Dad. How you doing? How’s the microbrewery?’

  ‘Good, love. I’m giving that Ray Tanner a run for his money. The man wouldn’t know a good ale if it bit him on the arse.’ Apparently Dad’s best friend, Ray, has also turned his shed into a brewery and there’s a bit of not-so-friendly rivalry going on.

  ‘Hello, Joe.’ Emma’s fiancé Mike Prince holds out his hand for Joe to shake. Mike’s far older than my twenty-nine-year-old sister. In his mid-forties, with greying hair, he’s an orthopaedic surgeon who never says much at these family gatherings. Consequently, I don’t really know him and he doesn’t seem interested in getting to know me either. Emma and Mike live in Bristol in a fancy waterside apartment. Not that I’ve ever been there, but Mum likes to keep me informed about their ever-increasing upward mobility.

  Mike nods at me and I give him a lukewarm smile. It’s a testament to how bad things are between me and Emma that we don’t even acknowledge one another. No eye contact. Not even a hello or a nod. But Mum and Dad don’t remark on it. I guess if you ignore something, you can pretend it isn’t happening.

  I wish I could sit next to Dad, but there’s no space. Instead, I find myself with Joe to my left and Mum to my right.

  In actual fact, lunch isn’t as bad as I was expecting. My penne al salmone is delicious and I spend most of the time chatting to Joe, which we never really get to do at home. United in our reluctance to be here, we end up having quite a laugh.

  ‘You two are like a couple of children giggling in the corner,’ Mum says. ‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Like sparrows twittering away.’ I think she’s aiming for a light-hearted tone, but it comes across as critical. ‘So, how are things at the garage, Joe?’ Mum says ‘garage’ like it’s a dirty word.

  ‘Fine, thanks, Pam.’

  ‘Good.’ She transfers her gaze to me. ‘Are you having dessert, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking about the raspberry cheesecake. How about you?’

  ‘Have a coffee instead,’ she says. ‘I’ll have one with you.’ She pauses before adding: ‘You know, I weigh the same today as I did the day I got married – eight stone.’ This is Mum’s subtle-as-a-brick way of telling me I’m overweight, but I’ve learnt the best way to deal with that is to ignore it.

  ‘Mm, coffee. Good idea, Mum.’

  She smiles and gives me a satisfied nod.

  I turn to the waiter: ‘I’ll have a double espresso and the panna cotta, please.’

  ‘Good for you, love,’ Dad says, giving me a wink. ‘I think I’ll have the panna cotta too.’

  I don’t turn my head to check on Mum’s reaction. I know what it will be – disappointment.

  Of course, Emma has the same svelte figure as Mum. Mum loves saying how the two of them look more like sisters than mother and daughter. As for me, I’m big-boned like Dad, but I think my size suits me. I’m happy with it. And Joe has always liked me the way I am. I do have Mum’s chestnut hair, though. Whereas Emma has Dad’s auburn hair colouring and fair skin.

  I glance diagonally across the table at my sister. She’s fiddling with her napkin, and I notice she’s hardly touched her food. She and Mike have barely spoken two words to one another since we got here. I wonder if they’re going through a rough patch – not ideal if they’re planning to get married next year. But I guess everyone has disagreements from time to time. These are the things we would have discussed if things had been different. If she hadn’t betrayed me.

  Mike says something under his breath to her and she snaps at him. I can’t make out exactly what she says, but it sounded like the last word she spoke was ‘letter’… ‘Got the something, something letter.’

  My skin goes cold. Why is she talking about a letter? Could my initial thoughts about Emma being behind the letters have been correct?

  Joe has started talking to me about another car he’s thinking of buying, but I’m only half-listening. Instead, my attention is trained on my sister and her hushed argument with Mike. She catches my eye and scowls. I’m taken aback by the venom in her stare, but maybe it wasn’t directed at me, maybe it was for Mike. She doesn’t seem very happy with him. She angles her body away from him and starts talking to Dad, leaving Mike brooding into his almost empty half-pint glass.

  Did Emma actually say the word ‘letter’? Or am I making connections where there are none? Would she really do something like that? Emma may not be my favour
ite person in the world, but I don’t think she’s capable of something so… awful. Is she?

  But then again, I’m sure she said the word ‘letter’.

  Sixteen

  George sweeps into the shop like a short, stocky, balding rock star, his designer suit and sunglasses probably worth more than two months of my rent. Pippa and I both subconsciously stand to attention.

  ‘Morning, ladies,’ he says in his Kentish twang. George moved to the local area from Sittingbourne in Kent twenty years ago with his wife Sophia and their young family. He opened up a shop in Gloucestershire, followed by two more, then this one and finally another in Wiltshire. They’re all called Georgio’s, and he’s installed managers in each of them. Our branch has the honour of being the most profitable. I like to think it’s down to my superb management skills, but if I’m being honest, Pippa’s wealthy friends have probably got a lot to do with it.

  ‘I see you’ve sold the Cavendish handbag!’ George booms across at me to where I’m pricing up enamel pens at the counter. ‘Nice work!’ The Cavendish handbag is a trial item of stock – George is trying to add in some pricier pieces to test whether our customers’ wallets are deep enough for such rare designer delights. This particular handbag is priced in the low hundreds, and I wasn’t sure if it would sell. Pippa must have sold it yesterday, which was my day off.

  ‘Pippa?’ I enquire. ‘Did you sell it?’

  ‘What?’ She’s half-heartedly dusting a jewellery cabinet, her face like a wet weekend. She’s convinced Toby is already going off her, and she doesn’t know how to keep his interest.

  ‘Did you sell the Cavendish bag from the window yesterday?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No.’

  ‘I hope it hasn’t been nicked,’ George says, his face darkening.

  ‘I suppose it could have been stolen during the break-in,’ Pippa says.

  Pippa and I spend the next few minutes scouring the shop and the back room, but the elusive bag is nowhere to be seen. The shop is absolutely immaculate after the break-in. I came in on Sunday afternoon after CSI had done their thing, and after Mum’s birthday lunch, and I painstakingly swept up every piece of glass and logged every item of damaged stock. I was there until early evening. Finally, at around seven-ish, Joe turned up with fish and chips, which I banned him from bringing into the shop as the smell would have got into all the clothes. So we sat beneath the Market Cross, like a couple of teenagers, and stuffed our faces.

  I catch up with George, who’s flicking through the invoices on my desk in the stockroom.

  ‘We’ve looked everywhere for the bag. It’s not here,’ I admit.

  ‘Do you remember seeing it in the window on Sunday after the break-in?’ he asks.

  I cast my mind back. ‘I’m pretty sure it was still there. I had a scout around the whole shop at the time, checking for missing stock. I would have noticed if it wasn’t there. But, then again, I could be mistaken… can you claim for it on insurance?’

  ‘Nah. Bloody insurance isn’t worth a damn, Lizzy. My excess is a grand, so there’s no point in claiming.’

  I haven’t told George that the break-in might have been carried out by the person who is stalking me. I’m not sure whether he’d be sympathetic, or annoyed. Now that I’m faced with my boss, I’m 99 per cent sure it isn’t him who’s behind the letters. It’s just not his style. George is brash and loud and in-your-face. Leaving creepy letters doesn’t fit his personality. Unless he’s schizophrenic.

  ‘Well…’ George leans back in the chair and locks his hands behind his head. ‘That’s a right pain in the derrière, isn’t it? I’ll have to order another one. Next time, stick the bag in one of the locked display cases, Lizzy.’

  I nod, feeling chastised.

  Another possibility is needling away at me. I know it’s unfair, and I don’t have any hard evidence, but I’m starting to believe that Pippa might be stealing goods from the shop. I also think she’s taking money from the till. I don’t know how I’m going to broach the subject. I can’t accuse Pippa outright, and I don’t want to mention it to George in case I’m wrong. I’ll have to do a little more digging…

  * * *

  ‘Are you coming, Joe?’ I yell up the stairs. ‘It’s almost seven!’

  Earlier this morning, I remembered we were supposed to go for dinner with Ian and Ruby next door. I texted Joe to let him know, and received a grumpy message back. He’s not a great socialiser, unless it’s with me or his mates from work. But it was too late to cancel – Ruby and Ian would have already bought food for tonight, and as they’re our neighbours, we can’t get away with pretending to be sick. Besides, I like them. They’re harmless. And I want to keep friendly with all our neighbours in case my stalker shows up and I need moral (or physical) support.

  ‘Joe!’

  ‘Coming!’ He stomps down the stairs and I laugh at his expression.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You are, Mr Grumpy. You will be nice to them, won’t you?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he says in a non-committal way.

  I pop back into the kitchen to check on Frank before we leave. He’s absolutely fine now, thank goodness. We took him to the vet’s on Sunday evening and they gave him the once-over, confirming that, yes, he had cut his paw but it was healing nicely and didn’t need any treatment. They suggested keeping him inside until he could bear weight on it. Consequently, Frank has been alternately miaowing at the back door and sulking.

  ‘It’s for your own good, Frankie,’ I say, stroking his head. He flicks his ears and turns his head away. ‘Fine, be like that,’ I say. ‘But just remember who gives you your supper.’ I take the wine out of the fridge and grab the bouquet of pink tulips from the kitchen counter. ‘Ready?’ I ask Joe.

  He gestures to his ‘going out’ clothes that he’s wearing, and we leave the house and walk the few steps to our neighbours’ front door.

  Joe rings the bell and we hear clattering footsteps and cries from the other side of the glass. ‘Get the door, babe!’ Ruby yells.

  ‘I’m upstairs!’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, I’m trying to put this stuff in the oven!’

  Joe and I glance at one another, our eyes wide, trying not to laugh. A few seconds later, there’s the clip-clop of more measured footsteps on the hall floor, and the front door finally opens.

  Ruby stands before us in a skintight, black micro-dress that barely covers her bits, and three-inch-high gold strappy sandals. Her face is beautifully made up, although her eyebrows are a bit heavily drawn in. She looks like she belongs in an exclusive nightclub. I feel way underdressed by comparison in my pink flared skirt and white voile blouse.

  ‘Lizzy! Joe! Come in.’ Ruby beams at us and then turns towards the stairs. ‘Ian! Get your arse downstairs! They’re here!’

  ‘You look amazing, Ruby,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks. So do you.’

  I pass her the wine and the flowers.

  ‘Aw, these are lovely – really classy. Thanks.’

  We follow her into the lounge, where an assortment of cereal bowls have been filled to the brim with crisps and peanuts. ‘Sit down. Help yourselves.’ She gestures to the snacks.

  Joe and I dutifully sit on the leather sofa and scoop up a few crisps.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she says. ‘We’ve got beer and vodka, or I’ve got some WKDs in the fridge if you want?’

  ‘I’ll have a beer, thanks,’ Joe says.

  ‘I’ll have some of the wine I bought, if that’s okay,’ I say.

  ‘No problem. Back in a sec.’ Ruby leaves the room.

  When she’s gone, Joe eyes up the sea of bowls perched on every available surface. ‘Do you think they like crisps?’ he asks.

  ‘Don’t be mean,’ I hiss. ‘It looks like they’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, they’ve obviously been on some kind of dangerous crisp expedition.’

  I shake my head and try not to laugh. We sit there for another five minutes wonderi
ng where Ruby can have got to. ‘Maybe I should go and see if she needs any help,’ I muse.

  Joe shrugs. ‘If you like.’

  I get to my feet and head out into the hall, peering into the kitchen, but it doesn’t look as though anyone’s in there. Then I hear voices coming from upstairs.

  ‘You’ll have to go and get one,’ Ruby snaps.

  ‘Where from?’ Ian replies.

  ‘I dunno. Supermarket, I suppose. Or the offy.’

  ‘Why didn’t she bring her own?’

  ‘Everything all right?’ I call up the stairs.

  Ruby peers down, her face red. ‘Sorry, we’re coming down.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I ask as Ruby heads down the staircase followed by Ian.

  ‘Hi.’ I give him a little wave.

  ‘All right.’ He nods at me. ‘Just gotta go out for a minute.’ He gives Ruby an indecipherable look.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask again.

  ‘You’re drinking wine, right?’ Ian asks me.

  ‘Er, yes, is that okay?’

  ‘Ian, shut up,’ Ruby says, elbowing him in the arm.

  Ian ignores her. ‘We haven’t got a corkscrew. So I’ve just got to go out and get one.’

  ‘A corkscrew?’

  ‘For your wine.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s a screw top. Most wine bottles are screw top now.’

  ‘Really?’ Ruby says, her shoulders relaxing. ‘It’s just, we don’t drink wine, and you see them on the telly opening wine bottles with corkscrews, so I just thought…’ She dissolves into laughter.

  ‘You dozy cow.’ Ian gives her arm a friendly push. ‘Give me that.’ He takes the bottle off her. ‘You go back in the lounge, I’ll sort the drinks.’

  Ruby and I return to the lounge, where she tells Joe what happened. The ice has been well and truly broken, and I see Ruby visibly relax.