The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming

by Louise Jensen

  ‘Good riddance!’ Charlotte shouted.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that, Charlotte,’ I said.

  ‘It’s Charlie, not Charlotte, if we’re gonna hang out,’ she said. ‘Want one?’

  My mouth felt too dry to eat, but I took a cheese and onion crisp and placed it on my tongue.

  ‘So why did you move here, Grace?’

  And the crisp felt heavy and solid in my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my throat had closed.

  4

  Now

  It took ages to get to sleep last night. Looking through the photo album stirred up so many memories that my stomach churned with regret and my mind refused to still. The sleeping tablets aren’t as effective as they used to be. I resolve to go to the doctor on Monday, pretend I’ve lost my latest prescription. That way I can get some more and double my dose.

  When I last checked the time – frantic with worry that Dan still wasn’t home – it was two in the morning, and I thought I’d never drift off, but now, looking at my clock, it’s past six so I suppose I must have. I jump out of bed so fast my head spins, thrust my feet into slippers and yank my dressing gown off its hook on the back of the door. There’s a chance, I tell myself, that Dan has crept in and crashed on the sofa, so as not to wake me, but as I run into the lounge and turn on the light, only Mittens is there, blinking at the sudden brightness.

  I pull open the curtains. My temples throb as I try Dan’s phone for the umpteenth time, a slideshow of despair flickering across my mind: Dan in a ditch, car upturned, wheels still spinning; Dan mugged and left for dead in an alleyway; Dan bleeding and broken at the side of the road.

  There isn’t much to see past the front garden. It’s still wintery dark and the fog hangs heavily in the air, snaking fingers swirling towards me, rendering the lane invisible. It wasn’t until we moved here that I appreciated how powerful the weather is: now you see it, now you don’t. I shiver, although I’m not cold, and wrap my dressing gown a little tighter. There’s a packet of Polos in the pocket and I slip one onto my tongue. The medication I’m on leaves a foul taste in my mouth that seems to linger all day, no matter how many times I brush my teeth or how many mints I eat.

  I check my watch again, as if I can somehow make time go faster. It isn’t yet seven, too early to really panic, but still, it doesn’t stop me thinking the worst – I always do. Paula used to say it stems from a fear of loss, Dan says it stems from being uptight. I pace in front of the lounge window, carpet pile flattening under slippered feet, a tiger in a cage, backwards and forwards, coiled with tension.

  When did Dan and I begin to unravel? My life seems split into two: before Charlie’s death and after. I think we were happy before, but it’s hard to properly remember. Sometimes it feels like I’ve pushed him so far away it will be impossible to pull him back, but although I’m terrified I’ll lose him, I can’t stem the almost constant irritation I feel. I tell myself it doesn’t matter if he makes a mess, if he doesn’t do the things he’s promised, but I nag him all the same – almost goading, wanting him to bite back sometimes.

  I shiver as the wind howls and rattles the gate. The latch doesn’t hold and it swings wide open before crashing shut again. I’ve asked Dan to fix the catch so many times. I hear a car and strain my eyes to see. Headlights poke through the fog at the end of the lane, like cat’s eyes, and I wait for the car to properly appear. It must be Dan. Our lane only leads to fields. When we bought the cottage I had visions of sheep grazing, or horses hanging their heads over the five-bar gate, but the land is arable. Wheat is farmed here, and every time I eat Weetabix I feel strangely proud, as though I’ve grown it myself.

  The car emerges from the fog. It’s too small to be Dan’s and is barely moving. I wonder whether the driver is lost. There are only two cottages along here. Ours and Mrs Jones’s. She doesn’t have a car and only has visitors at Christmas and on her birthday; besides, who would visit at this time in the morning? It’s not even properly light yet.

  The car crawls closer and closer until it stops virtually outside the cottage, but it’s too foggy to see inside it. The engine thrums and the lights illuminate our apple tree, but no one gets out. Time ticks past and I wonder what they’re doing. Who they’re watching. The words run through me with a chill. It isn’t the first time I’ve felt I’m being watched, and I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. Who would watch me? But I can’t tear my eyes away all the same. The last time I’d requested a repeat prescription, my doctor asked whether the sleeping tablets were causing any side effects. I said no, but a sense of unease has burrowed its way inside me; my skin crawls and my mind hops and it’s hard to stay focused. I really should stop taking them. I’m edgy and paranoid and barely recognise myself.

  It’s just a car.

  A second set of lights appear now and Dan’s ancient Land Rover chugs into vision. I scoot over to the sofa, casually recline and pick up my book with a hand that still shakes. I will be calm. Dan shuffles into the room, slings his jacket on the sofa near my feet and glances at me through bloodshot eyes. He looks terrible. My inner fury and joy wrestle: fury wins.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? Who’s with you?’

  ‘With me?’ Dan looks over his shoulder.

  ‘The other car?’

  ‘Other car?’

  ‘Are you just going to repeat everything I say? Why didn’t you call?’

  ‘I lost my phone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘If I knew that it wouldn’t be lost,’ he snaps.

  ‘Don’t…’

  He holds both hands up in front of him, fingers splayed. ‘Sorry. I should have called you from Harry’s but I fell asleep on his sofa.’

  There’s a stabbing in my gut as I imagine Dan, Harry and Harry’s girlfriend, Chloe, curled up in front of Harry’s log fire with a case of Budweiser and bowls of tortilla chips and salsa, the way we all used to on a Saturday night before Charlie died.

  ‘I was worried.’

  ‘You always are. I’m going to clean up and crash for a couple of hours.’

  Avoiding my gaze, Dan strides out the room, thumps up the stairs. A moment later I hear the creak of the bathroom door opening and the gurgling of pipes as he turns on the water.

  I wonder whether he’ll come back down after his shower, suggest a Sunday morning snuggle. I wonder why I don’t feel I can suggest one myself. Before long, the bedroom door opens and closes. The bedsprings squeak.

  In the bathroom, steam rises and hangs, a cloud of uncertainty hovering over me. I open the small window and pick Dan’s towel off the floor. Stepping into the glass cubicle, I turn the shower on and shiver while I wait for the water to heat. My eyes close as I remember how we both used to squeeze in here. My palms would be flat against the wet tiles. His hands on my hips. Afterwards, he’d massage shampoo through my hair as I leaned my body back against him. Was he really at Harry’s all night? I wash with lavender shower gel: the familiar fragrance, my childhood comfort, dissolves my fears, until one by one I wash them down the plughole. I’ve no reason to believe Dan has lied to me. Grief has skewed my judgment. My grasp on reality feels tenuous at best. Paula always encouraged me to process my thoughts rationally rather than submitting to fear. ‘The mind can create multiple possible scenarios from one thought and the majority of them won’t be true,’ she’d said. I’m too tired to think about it properly

  I step out of the shower, away from my thoughts, and pull my pyjamas back on. I’ll leave Dan to catch up on his sleep. I’m afraid of what I might say if I stay, afraid of what I might hear, and it isn’t until I’m walking downstairs I think to check if that car is still outside – but it’s gone.

  It’s freezing in the shed; my breath mists before me. I flick on the heater and pull on grey fingerless gloves. The telephone table I’ve sanded rests on sheets of newspaper, ready to be painted. It’s for Mrs Jones’s birthday. She always admires my own table. I dip my brush and stroke pistachio chal
k paint over the bare wood. Dan can’t understand my fascination with old furniture, but I love to upcycle, to preserve a little piece of history. I always wonder about the original owners: what were their lives like, were they happy? The sweeping of the paintbrush soothes me and by the time I’m finished, tension has released its grip on my shoulders, my fears tightly packed away where they can’t be seen. My phone beeps and I swipe the screen. It’s Grandad confirming lunch is at one – not that I could forget, we go most Sundays, but since Grandma bought him a mobile phone for his seventieth birthday last year, he texts me all the time. I punch out a reply that’s far more upbeat than I feel, and slip the phone into my pocket. I’d better wake Dan up.

  The gravy is thick and smooth. I pour it into a white china gravy boat, wiping the drops that trickle down the sides with my finger. Grandad carves the roast beef while Grandma heaps vibrant, steaming vegetables into serving bowls. My mouth waters at the smell of Yorkshire puddings. I’m ravenous. I’d skipped breakfast, feeling too rough to be hungry. ‘DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL’ is written on the side of my sleeping tablet bottle, but it’s just a stock warning, isn’t it? And we all ignore those. I fork the meat into my mouth, and my nose streams from the horseradish sauce. Grandma passes me a tissue and carries on telling us about the ‘nice young man’ who came to set up their new computer, and how she rides the Google every day.

  My shoulders shake with suppressed laughter and I try to catch Dan’s eye. He’s hunched over his plate, pushing his food around, and doesn’t look up as I begin to clear the table. I carry the dirty plates through to the kitchen and balance the crockery next to the sink. I’ve often tried to persuade my grandparents to buy a dishwasher. They can afford one and have the space. They always say they’ll consider it, but they like the washing-up routine I think: standing side by side, Grandma washing, Grandad drying, discussing how big the marrows have grown, identifying the birds on the feeder.

  Grandad’s voice filters through the wall, low and gravelly. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he smoked. Dan laughs and it takes me a second to identify the sound, it’s been so long since I heard it. We’ve grown up together and sometimes I wonder whether it’s natural that we’ve grown apart, whether it would have happened anyway and circumstances aren’t to blame.

  Grandma stirs home-made custard for the apple crumble that is warming in the oven. I stand on tiptoes and pull down the jug from the top of the dresser, the pink one with the picture of cows grazing on it. Swill it under the tap.

  ‘Gracie, I got an email from my friend Joan the other day. It’s on top of the fridge for you.’

  ‘You printed it?’

  ‘Yes. She sent a recipe I wanted to forward to you.’

  I open my mouth to explain what ‘forward’ actually means, and close it again. It’s enough for now that she’s got to grips with composing an email, even if she does put ‘THIS IS FROM GRANDMA’ in every subject line, and then rings me to make sure I’ve got it.

  The recipe is for a butternut squash risotto; it sounds delicious. I’ll try it for tea next week, although I’ll have to cook a steak for Dan or he’ll lift up vegetables with his fork and ask where the meat’s hiding.

  ‘And, I saw Lexie.’

  I freeze at the mention of Charlie’s mum’s name.

  ‘Drunk again, could barely stand.’

  Lexie always liked a drink when Charlie was alive, but has gone off the rails completely since her daughter died. Grandma turns the gas ring off and faces me. ‘I didn’t know whether I should tell you, Grace. The last thing I want is that woman upsetting you.’ Grandma has never held Lexie in very high regard.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘She wants to see you.’

  My pulse skyrockets at the thought of facing my best friend’s mum. I haven’t seen her since Charlie’s funeral. The funeral I had to leave after Lexie told me she’d never forgive me for the death of her daughter.

  What happened before Charlie died wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t Charlie’s either. How could it have been? So why did Charlie run away? whispers the voice in my head and I ignore it, but it won’t go away.

  Grandma slops custard into the jug and hands it to me to carry into the dining room. It sloshes as I walk, hot liquid splattering my hand, but I barely notice. Grandma follows me through with the apple crumble that I now can’t face eating. I sit at the table, gripping my spoon. The hum of voices surrounding me become more and more distant until they’re indecipherable. I smile and nod at what I hope are appropriate moments, while all the time the same thought swims round and round my mind: what does Lexie want with me?

  5

  Then

  I hopped from one foot to the other, rubbing my arms as I peered down the road waiting for Charlie to appear. She was coming to tea. I’d thought very carefully when Grandma suggested I invite a friend home at the end of my first week at school. Esmée was lovely, Siobhan more guarded but still nice, even Dan had been OK with me after the first day, but there was already a strong bond between Charlie and me. No one had ever stood up for me before; hadn’t really needed to, I supposed.

  ‘You’ll let all the heat out,’ grumbled Grandma from the hallway.

  I pulled the front door closed behind me but remained on the step, standing on tiptoes each time I heard a car. But when Charlie appeared, twenty minutes late, she was walking alone.

  I ushered her through the front door. ‘We’ll go upstairs to my room.’

  ‘Not with shoes on, young lady, you know the rules.’ Grandma bustled into the hallway, wiping floury hands on her apron.

  My scalp prickled with embarrassment as Charlie kicked off her faded blue trainers. Grandma picked them up and placed them on the shoe rack, clicking her tongue as she noticed the soles were almost worn through at the toes. Charlie and I thundered upstairs and flopped onto my bed.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  I still hadn’t properly unpacked. In the corner of my room were boxes of games and books. Charlie walked over and picked up Mousetrap, and shook the box. The contents rattled inside.

  ‘Here.’ She passed me it and I popped off the lid. It wasn’t one of my favourites, some of the pieces were too fiddly.

  ‘How come you live with your grandparents?’

  I’d been expecting the question but still felt unprepared for it. ‘My parents can’t look after me. What colour mouse do you want?’ I held out my hand.

  Charlie took the green one and looked at me steadily. ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re dead.’ The lie lodged in my throat and I picked up the pink plastic beaker of Ribena that Grandma had put in my room, and gulped it down as though I could wash my words away, screwing my nose up at the syrupy sweetness.

  ‘Dead?’ Charlie’s forehead creased.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did they die?’

  ‘I think I’ll be blue.’ I tossed the other mice back into the box. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s just Mum and me. I used to get so lonely I had an imaginary friend.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, her name was Belle. She’d whisper to me to do naughty things and Mum would go mad and shout, and Belle would laugh when I got into trouble. I got a Barbie for Christmas once and Belle made me cut off her hair and paint nail varnish over her face. She was fun though, too.’

  ‘Did you name her after Belle in Beauty and the Beast?’

  ‘Suppose. I grew out of her though, like I grew out of Disney.’

  ‘Me too.’ I hoped Charlie wouldn’t open the box with my videos in. I’d been a bit princess obsessed until recently. I’d grown up now, though, after what had happened with my parents. Anyone would have.

  ‘You’re lucky to have grandparents.’

  ‘I know. Don’t you have any?’

  ‘Nah. Mum says we don’t need anyone else. It’s me and her against the rest of the bleedin’ world. But we’ve got
each other now, haven’t we? You and me are the same, with no dads. We’ll be best friends.’

  Charlie reached for her coat and pulled out a Kit Kat. She slid off the paper and scored the foil with her thumb before snapping it in two and holding out half. I took it gratefully.

  ‘Let’s play Mousetrap – you’ll be much more fun than Belle, even if I’m not guaranteed a win.’ Charlie grinned and shook the die. ‘And smile! You, me, Siobhan and Esmée, we’ll be like a little family at school. I’ll make sure of it.’

  We were deep into Mousetrap and it was Charlie’s turn to play when Grandma tapped at the door. Flour from her hands dusted the carpet. She rubbed it in with the toe of her slipper.

  ‘Phone, Grace.’

  ‘Don’t cheat, Charlie. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Downstairs, Grandma disappeared into the kitchen. I picked up the receiver and twisted the telephone wire round and round my finger, listening to the static on the other end. I didn’t speak. I already knew who was there and I had nothing to say.

  ‘Grace? Grace?’ Mum’s voice sounded far away and I slammed the phone down.

  ‘That was quick?’ Grandma called as I stamped back upstairs.

  ‘We were cut off,’ I shouted.

  Charlie handed me the die as I sat down again. ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘No one,’ I said, crossing my fingers. ‘There was nobody there.’

  6

  Now

  I lie awake all night, wondering why Lexie told Grandma she wanted to see me. I yo-yo between thinking she might apologise for her behaviour at Charlie’s funeral, to convincing myself she wants to kill me. My mind buzzes like a hive of bees, busy and noisy, and by the time the sun rises, tingeing the sky a fiery red, I’ve drunk three cups of tea and still haven’t decided whether to see her.

  I know Lexie stopped singing in the local pub, and is rarely seen in public at all now except at the supermarket, pushing a trolley containing more alcohol than food. Dan thinks her unhinged – he did even before her behaviour at the funeral – Grandma’s more compassionate. ‘She shouldn’t have spoken to you the way she did,’ she said. ‘But people grieve in different ways.’