Little Sister

by Isabel Ashdown

  * * *

  By the time she has showered and made her way downstairs, Emily finds the house empty. James is at work, Chloe now back at school, and Jess, who knows? It is strange to Emily to realize that, without Daisy to care for, Jess now moves about independently, with no requirement to tell the family where she is going, what she is doing. She’s taken to heading off on long hikes across the island, always returning early enough to sort out supper and clear up after them all. She’s probably conscious of still needing to earn her keep, Emily supposes, and she feels instantly mean for having even thought it. Why must she always think the worst of people; why wouldn’t Jess be caring for them simply because she loves them, because she wants to make things easier on them? Thinking about Jess’s sudden freedom makes her realize how restrictive it is to have a small child in your care; it makes Emily yearn to return to her work, to escape from the prison of her empty home. To do so would seem shameless, though. What would people think? But she can’t just sit here doing nothing, slowly losing herself in grief and darkness; she has to do something.

  Without a thought, Emily grabs her winter coat from the hall and pulls on the first pair of boots she can lay her hands on, before banging the front door shut and heading for the first of her neighbors’ homes along the street. Out in the street, the earliest media cars are arriving, but she passes them unnoticed as their attention is diverted by DC Piper arriving on the drive. She breaks into a run, her heart hammering against her rib cage in alarm at her sudden fit of action, feeling astounded at the ease with which she’s slipped past her jailors. She intends to call on every house along the street, whether she knows the inhabitants or not, and ask them if they recall anything about the night Daisy disappeared. She knows the police have interviewed everyone already, but if they saw her, understood what it means to them as a family, perhaps it might provoke them to remember something important. It’s got to be worth a shot, surely.

  Mrs. Bowen next door looks alarmed to see Emily standing on her doorstep. “Emily, dear,” she says as her delicate hand rests on the doorframe, her expression one of grave concern. “How are you—how’s James?”

  Emily doesn’t have time for platitudes. “Fine. Well, not fine, of course.” She suddenly realizes how hard this is going to be, that they will all ask the same thing of her, and what is the right answer? What is the social protocol for parents of snatched children when responding to concerned neighbors? “It’s just, I wanted to ask you—ask everyone—if you saw anything at all that night, anything that might help, the night when—” And then the words simply won’t come, and she blinks hard at her elderly neighbor, her jaw stuck in mid-sentence, her lower lip limp.

  “Oh, goodness—the police have already been and asked me, dear.” She reaches toward Emily with that papery pale hand, and Emily withdraws, again repulsed by the thought of human contact. Mrs. Bowen flinches, and Emily notices but can’t feel anything for the woman, and she turns and marches back down the path toward the main street without another word. “I’m sorry, dear!” Mrs. Bowen calls after her, but Emily’s mind is on other things.

  The idea was foolish, ridiculous. She can’t even spit the words out, let alone coherently interview the thirty-odd families along the street. Of course, the police have been to see all the neighbors; what was she thinking? There’s a harsh wind sailing up from the coast, and Emily pulls up her collar, securing the top button and dipping her head against the cold as she continues to walk, veering away from home and down toward the town. She has no idea where she is going until she is standing beneath the burgundy canopy of Becca’s Café, gazing at her own hopeless appearance in the polished glass of the front window. The swelling sea behind her is reflected sharply, and her eyes follow the rise and fall of the gulls in the sky overhead, as they make their way out over the water, occasionally dipping below the surface in pursuit of their prey before rising skyward again. Her normally groomed hair is airborne, swirling around her face as though in a vortex, and it’s only when Becca appears in the open doorway, her mouth shaped into a worried little O, that Emily realizes she looks quite mad.

  “Becca,” she manages, and she folds into sobs, allowing her friend to help her inside, where she sits her at a window seat in the empty café and fetches some drinks.

  Emily’s crying is under control by the time Becca returns and sets down a tray laden with coffee, cake, and a small shot of brandy. She pushes it toward Emily with a curt nod. “Knock it back.”

  Emily does as she is told and takes a long, slow breath as the heat travels through her. “Thank you,” she says in a small voice, and she reaches for the coffee to wash away the harsh tang of the liquor.

  “You look terrible,” Becca says. She always was one to state facts plainly, and in this moment, Emily loves her for it.

  “I feel so bloody useless,” she replies. “And there’s nothing from the police. Nothing at all.”

  Becca watches her closely, as though trying to assess how best to proceed. Again, she goes for the plain approach, sparing Emily the insult of small talk. “What about Chloe’s boyfriend—Max? Is it true it was James that had a go at him the other night? Todd said he heard he was in hospital with a couple of broken ribs. James wouldn’t do something like that, would he?”

  “I don’t know what I think, Becca. You read about things like this all the time: how people can be together for years without ever really knowing anything about their partner—anything about their hidden side. Think of the Yorkshire Ripper.”

  “Emily!” Becca says, and Emily shrugs, unconcerned at the effect her words have had on her friend.

  “Either way, it’s not Max Fuller, they’re pretty certain. He’s got alibis for that night.” She breaks off a small piece of sponge cake and puts it to her lips, trying to decide whether to eat it or not.

  “It’s coconut,” Becca says, eyeing her hesitation, and Emily feels duty-bound to eat at least a little of it, out of politeness.

  “Jess says I should tell the police about Marta. You know, that horrible nanny I had for a couple of weeks?”

  Becca nods. “I heard she spouted some bile at the town meeting the other night. Sorry I wasn’t there, by the way—Todd was ill.” Beyond the window, an elderly couple walk by, raising their hands to Becca. She waves back. Emily thinks how nice it would be to be like Becca, right at the center of the community. She remembers the early days when they arrived on the island, meeting Becca at playgroup, their friendship cemented by Todd and Chloe’s instant affection for one another. They would joke that they might have a wedding to plan in a few years if the toddlers’ relationship continued to flourish beyond their infant crush. Back then, Emily was surprised to learn that Becca also had two older children, twin girls, and she wondered how she managed it all—running the business and the home, ferrying the kids about everywhere—doing it all with such easy enthusiasm and humor. She’s a better mother than me, Emily thinks, hating herself for the comparison when her own daughter is God knows where.

  “Do you remember what she was like? Marta. I never trusted her, and thank God I was around for most of that trial fortnight or anything could’ve happened to Daisy.” She pauses, realizing how stupid it sounds, realizing that “anything” had happened—the worst possible thing has happened.

  “Yeah, you said she was a nightmare.” Becca picks up Emily’s cup and takes it to the counter for a refill.

  “I just always got a bad feeling about her. The way she looked at me—like she was jealous or something, all attitude if I asked her to do anything around the house, and then all charming when James came in. I swear she fancied him. And she wasn’t caring enough with Daisy. One time, I came in from a trip to the shops and caught her sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee and texting, while Daisy was crying in her cot upstairs!”

  Becca raises her eyebrows, and Emily is reminded that Becca is of the “controlled crying” school of parenting, so she couldn’t possibly understand how awful something like that felt to Emil
y at the time. Emily knows it doesn’t sound as dreadful as she wants it to, but she was there, she knows what it was like—Marta was horrible. Predatory, even.

  “Anyway, we got to the end of the two-week trial, and I told her we wouldn’t be keeping her on. She was furious because she’d given up another job to take this one. But that’s the risk you take, isn’t it, especially if you’re no good at your job? And then we found that dead seagull lying on the driveway a week later, and I’m convinced it was her.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Emily. I’m sure that was just a coincidence.”

  “No. I’m positive. It was sinister.”

  “But didn’t James say the gull looked as though it had flown into the top window? He said there was a crack in the glass.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure that crack was already there. She did it.” Emily chews at her lip, her thoughts whirring noisily, and she wishes she had remembered to take one of her tablets this morning, just to take the edge off. “I think Jess is right, you know. I’m going to call the police, tell them about her.”

  Becca frowns, clearly unconvinced, before she breaks into a smile as a new subject comes to her. “How is your sister, by the way?” she asks, and Emily can tell she’s trying to steer the subject away from Marta.

  “Fine,” Emily replies, but she doesn’t want to talk about Jess. “She’s helping to keep things ticking along at home. When she’s not out walking.” She puts a slight emphasis on the word “walking,” and she’s surprised by her feelings of irritation. Why shouldn’t Jess go out walking? She’s a free agent, isn’t she? Perhaps it’s because she associates the starting of these walks with Daisy going missing. Before, Jess never had the time; now she has all the time in the world.

  “Yes, she certainly seems to love a walk,” Becca says. “I wish I had the self-discipline to get myself out there like she does. She never misses a day, does she?”

  “What, walking?” Emily says as Becca stands to load the empties onto the tray.

  “Yes, she must be really fit. Probably how she keeps so bloody slim!”

  “Well, to be fair, she’s only just started, hasn’t she?” Even now, Emily’s jealous streak rears its ugly head. “She’ll grow tired of it before you know it.”

  Becca looks confused. “But she’s been doing it for weeks—ever since she got here. She passes by the window just about every weekday afternoon, rain or shine. I always notice her because it’s around the time Todd gets back from school.”

  “With the pram?” Emily asks. She gets to her feet, a sense of disquiet swelling in her chest as she fishes about in her pocket, apologizing for not having brought a purse out with her.

  Becca steps aside to let a customer enter the café. “No, on her own. I wondered if she had a fancy man tucked away,” and she laughs to let Emily know she isn’t really serious.

  Emily doesn’t know how to respond to this new information, and she utters a simple, “Huh,” before hugging her friend briskly and saying good-bye. As she lowers her head against the wind, she visualizes a past image of her sister sitting at the dining room table when she returned home from work, Jess spooning baby food into Daisy’s smiling face, the pair of them looking as if they haven’t left home all afternoon, the house clean and tidy, the delicious smells of supper wafting from the warm kitchen. Jess has never mentioned these walks. Why not? And where was Daisy when these furtive excursions were taking place? Emily’s pace quickens until she’s nearly running, desperate to get back home, desperate to work out whether she’s missed anything else, whether there’s more she doesn’t know about, more that her sister is keeping from her.

  * * *

  It’s evening by the time Emily wakes, and she’s stirred by the sound of activity in the kitchen, and the smell of cooking in the air. Jess must be back. The last thing Emily can remember is arriving home to find the house empty, before washing down her medication with a large glass of lukewarm wine and trudging upstairs to bed. She heads downstairs and passes Jess without a word, taking a new bottle of white wine from the fridge, and a glass, and returning to sit in the single armchair in the corner of the dining room, where, while she is obscured by the table and chairs at the center of the room, she can still see through to the kitchen. If Jess has picked up on Emily’s silence, she doesn’t show it, but then she’s probably grown accustomed to her erratic moods over the past week and a half—the way in which she shuts them all out for fear of what she might say. She hasn’t mentioned those secret walks to Jess yet; she’ll watch and wait a while. For now, she is content that the police are on to Marta, having phoned DC Cherry the moment she arrived home from Becca’s this morning, and she’s confident they’re taking it seriously, that they’re considering her a viable suspect. That bitch. To say those things in front of the whole town, to suggest that they are to blame, that they’re bad parents. She feels a hard knot of hatred forming in her gullet, like a blockage that she must force down with another glass of wine. She’s glad of the way the hard edges of the room grow softer with each glass, until James arrives home, passing through the dining room, oblivious to Emily’s quiet presence, into the kitchen, where Jess potters at the cooktop.

  “What’s this?” he asks, lifting the lid, his voice sounding as though he hasn’t a care in the world.

  Jess lifts the spoon and holds it between them. “Bolognese. Have a taste.” And, brazenly, she moves it to his lips, and he takes it, his mouth closing over the spoon and drawing back in a languorous movement. Jess is smiling at him, like the cat that got the cream, like a woman who’s just pleasured her man, and she lowers her eyes to the cooktop and replaces the lid. “You’ll have to wait for the rest,” she says, and she throws him a coy look as she reaches for the spaghetti jar on the top shelf.

  James laughs. “I’ve got time for a shower, then?”

  She looks at her watch, tells him he’s got ten minutes, tells him to let Chloe know on his way past her room. As he turns to leave the kitchen, he spots Emily in the dining room, tucked up small in her corner armchair, an empty glass in her hand, and there it is! A flash of guilt sprinting across his eyes, as though she’s caught him stealing. A look that says he’s untrustworthy; a look that says he’s cheating.

  13

  Jess

  I don’t know what happened while I was out yesterday, but when Emily came downstairs in the evening, she was vile. She sat curled up like a seething cat in the corner seat of the dining room, knocking back wine and spying on me through narrowed eyes, and I knew that it was best to leave her alone. It took all my self-control to resist the urge to ask her if her muted fury was aimed directly at me or at the rest of the world for all it has thrown at her. When James arrived home, I noticed he responded in much the same way, turning a blind eye to the darkness that radiated from her so that they barely exchanged a word until I placed supper on the table and Chloe came down from her room. Once we were all seated around the dining room table it became clear just how drunk she was, whether through the wine or the tablets or a mixture of the two. I made a mental note to check on how many pills she’d taken; I’m certain she’s not following the instructions properly, just taking them as and when she feels like it, and that can’t be good for her. She could overdose.

  Chloe ate silently, aware of the strained atmosphere, and poor James did his best to make conversation, to ask about school, to share a bit of news from his office, but it was no use at all, and, in fact, it seemed to be the very thing that provoked Emily to thrust her rage toward me.

  “Tell us about these daily walks of yours, Jess,” she said, dropping her fork with a clatter, her jaw set hard.

  “What?” I glanced at Chloe and James, but they seemed as bemused as me.

  “These walks you’ve been taking. Apparently—before Daisy went—you’ve been spotted walking out through town, toward the beach, every single day. On your own.” She turned to James, clearly expecting him to show some sense of shock, but his expression remained blank. “Without Daisy,” she added w
ith emphasis, though none of us was any clearer on the significance of her words.

  I stared back at her, uncertain of the right response. It’s true, I am in the habit of walking daily, and I hadn’t mentioned it before, but why the problem? “Ye-es,” I tried, but Emily cut me off.

  “So where was Daisy? What did you do with Daisy while you were off on your own doing God knows what?!” She was screaming. James reached across the table to calm her, but she threw her arms in the air, as if burnt by his touch. “Where were you, Jess, when you should have been caring for Daisy?”

  “I was just walking, Ems, that’s all.”

  “And is that by any chance what you were doing on New Year’s Eve, when you should have been here? Out walking?”

  I was so confused, and even Emily didn’t look entirely convinced by what she had just said. “Ems, I was here at New Year, you know that. I was here when you came home, remember? And the walks—it’s just an hour each day, isn’t it, Chloe?”