Two Little Girls: A totally gripping psychological thriller with a twist

by Frances Vick

  ‘No – no, don’t come closer.’ Angela’s voice was loud, panicked.

  ‘It’s you who’s been threatening me! Threatening us, I should say – me and Sylvia!’ Kirsty’s voice rose now too. ‘She’s scared of you, not me! She’s told me all about it, and she knows I’m here. She sent me here! And if anything happens to me, if she doesn’t hear from me soon, she’ll call the police.’

  Angela froze. ‘What are you saying to me?’

  ‘If I don’t get back to her she’ll call the police and—’

  ‘She sent you here?’

  ‘Yes, why—’

  ‘And why did she send you here? To find something?’ The knife dropped a little bit. ‘Something in a hole behind the wardrobe, was it?’

  ‘I won’t tell you.’

  ‘To find a box.’ Angela was speaking to softly now, almost to herself. ‘And what did she tell you was in the box?’ Kirsty stayed stubbornly silent. Angela took her phone from her pocket then, and Kirsty watched her take a few deep breaths and put the thing on loudspeaker. Sylvia answered immediately. She’d been waiting for the call.

  ‘Where’ve you been then?’ Sylvia’s voice was peevish, petulant, not at all the voice that Kirsty had become so familiar with. The accent was thicker, coarser, it was the voice of a disagreeable old woman, a Peg without a heart. ‘How long does it take you to do one simple thing? I—’

  ‘Tell me where it is again? Lily’s room?’ Angela was speaking with her eyes on Kirsty. Tears were forming but her voice was remarkable steady.

  ‘Yes, Lily’s room. It’s in that box, the one you used to have, that ballerina thing, in the hole behind the wardrobe. Are you up there now?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘Well, be careful. Don’t use that back staircase, it’s a death trap. Use the front one, OK?’

  ‘Why would I use the back one?’ Angela was still looking directly at Kirsty. ‘Like you say, it’s a death trap.’

  ‘I don’t know. Knowing you, you’d forget that and do it anyway. You’re good at forgetting things, aren’t you?’ A nasty, clotted chuckle came from the phone. ‘You can forget anything if you put your mind to it.’

  ‘Well, you always put me right, don’t you, Mum?’ Angela blinked slowly. One tear rolled down her cheek.

  ‘I do. Got to, haven’t I? Now, if you see that Kirsty woman—’

  ‘Why would I see her?’

  ‘Just let me finish, will you? I don’t think you will, but just in case you do, well, remember that this is your house. And she’s a trespasser? You have every right to… you know. You’ve got that knife, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I have the knife.’

  ‘Good girl.’ Sylvia sounded mollified now, honeyed. ‘Anyway, nearly over now. Nearly over, darling, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angela managed, the tears streaming now.

  ‘And that’ll be the end of the whole thing, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bye then. Call me later.’

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  Thirty

  Angela was exhausted. She propped herself up on arms so thin they looked snappable. It was difficult to believe that only moments before she’d hauled Kirsty to safety.

  ‘Did you hurt your head?’ she asked dully, without looking. ‘Here.’ Angela ripped off a piece of her own expensive shirt and passed it over. ‘Press down hard. It might need stitching. You should get yourself to hospital if you don’t want a scar.’ She sounded not unlike Denise, or Peg for that matter – the same seen-it-all-before brusqueness. Familiar, almost comforting. Before she knew it, Kirsty was saying thank you.

  Angela threw the knife over the side of the landing. It hit something with a tinny clang. Then, suddenly, she was sobbing loud as a child, her hands lying uselessly in her lap.

  ‘You heard what she said, didn’t you?’ she managed after a while. ‘You’re a trespasser. She wants you dead for trespassing. I’m not going to do anything. She gave me a knife too, but I dropped it when you rushed into the room.’ Angela’s voice was hoarse. ‘I wasn’t going to use it. I don’t have it in me to do anything like that.’

  Kirsty said nothing. Huge portions of her brain felt frozen. Her phone rang and she didn’t even hear it.

  Angela was looking at her with wet eyes filled weary empathy. ‘Answer it. It’ll be her. Answer it, she’ll get mad if you don’t. Put it on speaker, let’s see what she’ll say to you, shall we?’ She gave a sad little smile as the tears started, silently, once more.

  Kirsty pressed the speaker button. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I’ve been so worried!’ This Sylvia’s voice throbbed with love, anxiety, and relief. ‘Are you at the house now? Did you find the box?’

  ‘I…’

  Angela shook her head in an emphatic ‘no’.

  ‘I haven’t found it yet,’ Kirsty said.

  ‘Why not?’ Sudden impatience, wheezy petulance. ‘Why not? You have to soon, darling, because I just spoke to Marie and she’s… she’s very angry, she scared me. She says she’s going down there in the next hour, so please, get it, all right? I’d hate you to be there when she is, you don’t know how violent she can be! Do you remember where it is you have to look?’

  ‘In the room marked “Lily”.’ Kirsty watched Marie mouth along with the words. ‘In the hole behind the wardrobe.’

  ‘That’s right. And remember to go up the back stairs.’

  ‘Yes. OK.’ Now Kirsty felt like crying.

  ‘Darling?’ Sylvia’s voice was cracked with concern. ‘I know it’s hard, but it’s nearly over now. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, I hate to say this, but if you have to defend yourself, in any way – she’s dangerous, after all. And you have that knife, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Good. Kirsty?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember what I told the man? The man who helped me in town?’

  Kirsty closed her eyes. ‘You told him I was your daughter.’

  ‘And it’s true. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter, a better companion… oh, I’m being silly, crying like an old woman! But you know I mean it, don’t you? Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kirsty whispered.

  ‘All right then, call me as soon as you can and stay safe, darling.’

  ‘I will.’

  Kirsty put the phone down then, and she too started to cry. She felt Angela’s small, warm hand on hers. From somewhere below them, a rat squeaked, a trash tower tumbled. It was Angela who spoke first.

  ‘It’s funny that I never questioned why she was giving me a knife to find a box behind a wardrobe. She said it was to make the hole bigger if I needed to, but why not a hammer? Why would I have to make the hole bigger anyway? But I just didn’t think to question her. Why did you need a knife?’

  ‘In case the lock didn’t work. She said it jammed sometimes.’ Kirsty spoke in a bloodless monotone.

  ‘Why a knife? Why not a screwdriver?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think.’

  ‘That’s what she does,’ Angela said softly. ‘She brings you along with her, doesn’t she? And you never think to ask questions along the way, and before you know it…’ She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘You’re doing exactly what she wanted you to do. I can’t blame you – you came into this cold. Me, I should have known better.’ She gestured to the knife that Kirsty still held. ‘She must have told you all sorts of things about me; I don’t blame you for being scared. She’s told me terrible things about you. I was scared too.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Lies.’ Angela gestured at the two phones. ‘You heard it. Let me ask you this, how did she get you here today?’

  ‘She said I had to come here and find a box before you did.’

  ‘She told me the same thing. What was in the box?’

  ‘A box of… evidence.’

  ‘She told me the same thing.’ Angela smiled crookedly. ‘D’you want
to know what was in that box? I opened it just as you came into the room. Nothing. Nothing at all. It was just a way of getting us both here, getting us in the same place. Are you all right? You look awful.’

  ‘I feel awful.’

  ‘I bet.’ She got up with a groan, then said, ‘I’m going downstairs. I’m going to sit in the kitchen – it’s the only cleanish place in this dump – and I’m going to have a drink. God, I’m tired.’ She turned. ‘Aren’t you tired? Yes? Come on then, come with me. Ask me anything you want. Let’s get this shit-show over with.’

  Thirty-One

  And so Angela led the way through a series of cluttered rooms, to the front staircase, built firmly of ugly concrete out of the floor itself, leading straight into a long, low room like a bunker, another fetid space with slimy floors. This led to another room – or possibly a hallway, it was difficult to know, packed with mouldering bin bags filled with clothes, then another, then another, until finally they found themselves in the small room adjoining the kitchen, where the detritus from the rest of the house stopped dead at the door, like an attested lava flow.

  ‘She always kept these two rooms clean,’ Angela explained. ‘These were the rooms people saw, you see. I bet you never saw the state of the rest of the place, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Kirsty admitted, grimacing as Angela, grunting, managed to heave the door shut behind them.

  ‘I didn’t think so. It would ruin the effect a bit, wouldn’t it? The cottage in the woods with the smiling old lady is a nice image, and it doesn’t go well with rat droppings and rot, does it? Oh stop it,’ she noticed Kirsty’s pursed mouth, ‘I’m only telling the truth, aren’t I?’

  ‘She’s let it go a little, but then she’s old, and it’s a big place and—’

  Angela shook her head. ‘She really got in amongst you, didn’t she? Even after what you just heard her say, you still… It’s always been like this. Trust me. I grew up here, after all.’ She looked about her with weary loathing. ‘I hate this place. I hate everything about it.’

  ‘Why did you come back then?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘Uncle Mervyn left the house to me and I’m the executor. I had to come back.’ She walked into the kitchen, rummaged around under the sink and located a half-full whisky bottle. ‘I think you need one of these. Sit down.’ She inspected two mugs, grimaced, ran them under the tap, splashed in the alcohol and sat down opposite Kirsty. She had a long, shallow cut on her forearm.

  ‘Did I do that?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Angela told her. ‘But it wasn’t your fault. Drink. You look like death. And it seems we have a lot to talk about, so you’ll need all your strength.’ She folded her hands, looked squarely at Kirsty. ‘What’s she been telling you?’

  ‘No. You tell me first.’

  ‘You’re sure? It’s quite a tale.’ Angela poured herself another drink. Kirsty watched, thinking that there was something overtired and slightly hysterical about her movements, her speech. As if she’d read her mind, Angela said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not mad, or unbalanced or… I’m fucking tired is what I am, and ashamed and… yes, I am a bit hysterical, maybe. That’s the word you were thinking, isn’t it? But then, look at it from my point of view, it’s a pretty hysterical situation. It’d be funny, if, you know… it was funny.’ She passed a hand over her forehead. ‘She told me that you’ve been blackmailing her for the last few months—’

  ‘I’ve what—’

  Angela put one palm up. ‘Wait. That’s just the beginning. She called me at about nine this morning saying that you came over last night demanding more money. You smashed her phone so she couldn’t call me for help, you twisted her arm and bashed her round the head with a fire shovel.’ She stopped, smiled quizzically. ‘It’s the little touches like that that give it the edge, isn’t it? You hit her with a fire shovel. Anyway, she managed to talk you down by agreeing to give you five thousand pounds. She promised to deliver it to you at work today. As soon as you left she managed to get to a phone box in Beacon Hill and told me to come and get her. I took her back to my hotel in town and that’s when she told me to get over here this morning and find the box while she was with you at the hospital.’ She paused. ‘Do you want to know what she said was in the box?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, it’s gothic. A hank of hair belonging to a dead girl. A girl I killed. Is that what she told you too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s some consistencies in all this then. I had to find it before you did, so I’d be safe, and you had to find it so you’d have some evidence against me, is that about the size of it?’

  ‘What would I be blackmailing her about? It doesn’t make any sense…’

  Angela spoke softly. ‘She told me you knew I’d killed Lisa Cook.’ The words stayed in their air, like lead with wings.

  ‘Did you?’ Kirsty asked slowly.

  ‘Jesus, Kirsty! No! How could I have killed anyone? I was five, for god’s sake! Could you have killed someone twice your age and size when you were five?’ Angela almost poured herself another drink, changed her mind. Her tone changed too, from brittle facetiousness to something altogether more solemn. Her eyes were so large, so tired. ‘But I can’t blame you for believing it. I’ve believed it on and off myself for years, insane though it sounds. It’s… complicated. The whole thing is… Gaslighting, they call it. It’s when someone tells you things you know aren’t true, but somehow they make you believe it through repetition, or they confuse you into believing it, or they bully you until you believe it. It gets so you don’t know your own mind, your own memories, even. Cults work like that. Religions work like that. Families sometimes work like that. Though “work” isn’t a very accurate way of describing it. A better word would be “survive". And Mum’s all about surviving.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘She’s like a virus, she’s all about surviving and thriving. She uses everyone around her to make sure she survives and thrives – that’s all they’re there for, in her mind. When I was little, she told me I was special.’

  ‘All mothers say that.’

  ‘Maybe, but not for the same reasons. I wasn’t special because of me, I was special because of her. According to her, I was the last in the line, that four sisters had died before me, and I was the only one left to take care of her – she had to be taken care of, you see, and that’s the only reason I was born. Plus I had four disappointments to make up for so I’d better do a good job. But I didn’t do a good job. I was just another big disappointment. I was never good enough. I wasn’t helpful enough round the house, or I was too tidy – “little-miss-nitpicker”. I was so loud I hurt her head, or I was so quiet it gave her the creeps. I was gifted, but not as gifted as her and I shouldn’t show off about it. Lily wouldn’t have shown off about it. Or Jade, or any of the other dead sisters that were still, somehow, better than one live Me.’ She smiled to herself. ‘It took me ages to understand that she never wanted me to be anything but a disappointment – if I was good all round, what would she have to complain about? I tried so hard, Kirsty, for years, to make her proud of me because I thought that’s what she wanted. When I started tarot, and I was good, she was pleased at first, and then she wasn’t. I thought it was because I wasn’t good enough and so I worked harder, but the better I got, the more she saw me as a threat.’ She paused, put one finger in the air. ‘For a long time afterwards I thought that my talent was a fault too – if I hadn’t been demonstrably better at her when it came to tarot, she might not hate me as much as she did. Mum is a decent card reader – she’s lazy, she cheats and she doesn’t believe in it – but she’s good when she tries. She taught me but I was better from the start and just got better still. The harder I worked, the more she took it as an insult. I’m genuine, she’s a hack, and that was somehow my fault.’

  ‘She read my cards, and they were spot on!’ Kirsty put in stoutly.

  ‘Let me guess. Empress for her, something of swords for Lee –
the Nine maybe, or the King? Yes? Three of Cups to tell you that it was you, her and Lisa against the world?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because it’s an obvious spread to use make you go away thinking what she wanted you to think. An absolute amateur would have done the same thing. Tell me, did she even let you draw the cards? Shuffle them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t think so. She just had them all arranged at the top of the deck. I’ve seen her do that before. Like I said, she’s a hack.’ Angela did pour herself another drink then. ‘Can you imagine what that was like, Kirsty? Being trapped with her, in the middle of nowhere, never knowing what was real and what wasn’t? Not knowing what you’d done to offend her this time and when the punishment would end?’

  ‘Was this when you were in Ireland?’

  ‘What?’ Angela almost smiled. ‘We were never in Ireland.’

  ‘You lived in Galway! Before you moved here, she—‘

  Angela shook her head. ‘We never lived in Ireland. I don’t think she’s ever been to Ireland, she’s Beacon Hill born and bred, like me. Maybe she got that from my bio? My agent added that Emerald Isle stuff because it goes down well in America, that’s all. She always told me her family was Scottish, but that’s not true either – her real name is Sandra Pryce, not Sylvia McKnight.’

  ‘Your dad must have been called McKnight?’

  ‘Well, if you find out who he is or was, ask him,’ Angela said. ‘I don’t know a thing about him, apart from rumours. I learned not to ask her about him either.’ She took a drink. ‘No, we lived here with Mervyn – well, when he wasn’t in prison, that is. Just me, Mum, and the dead girls. There was no-one else to counterbalance things, you know? No-one to bring in a bit of fresh air and sanity, and so it was her little fiefdom; she could do what she liked. And what she liked was keeping me unsettled and pliable. She’d praise me for something and then when I did the exact same thing later, she’d tell me how terrible I was. Sometimes she’d tell me I’d said things I hadn’t, had lied about things I knew nothing about and then, sometimes on the same day, she’d tell me how I was always truthful about those same things. It’s… can you imagine how insane that is to live with? Especially when you’re a child and she’s the only person you ever see?’ She shook her head. ‘The longer you’re with someone like that, the more you believe them… even if what they’re telling you doesn’t make sense, and you know it’s not true and they’ve lied before, done awful things before… they still, somehow, convince you that you’re wrong and they’re right. You can start off sure, absolutely positive that what they’re saying is a lie, but that truth gets chiselled away and chiselled away until… you don’t know any more. That’s what she did when Lisa was here.’