I say goodbye to Charlie’s bedroom. Faded outlines of posters and the sticky remains of Blu-Tack are the only visible signs of a life that once was. How quickly we can erase someone’s physical presence, while their memory forever lingers. I flick off the light and join Lexie downstairs.
‘Drink?’
‘Please.’
I sit on the cracked leather sofa, tucking my feet under me, and sip from a glass of Merlot. I wait for the sharpness of the alcohol to soothe my anxiety. I’m going to take this opportunity to ask about Charlie’s dad. I have to get this right. This is my chance to get a name, an address even.
‘I had my first glass of red wine here,’ I tell Lexie. ‘Charlie told me it was blood and dared me to drink it. I cried when I got home. Told Grandad I’d turned into a vampire.’
‘She was a little bugger, Charlie was,’ Lexie says fondly.
‘Can you show me those baby photos?’ My tone is casual but my heart is pounding. I take another sip, bigger this time.
Lexie rummages through the sideboard and I cross my fingers behind my back.
‘Here they are.’ She drags out a brown A4 envelope with ‘Charlotte’ scrawled on the front in black felt tip, photo corners poking through split seams.
‘Always meant to put them in an album.’ Lexie tips them out between us.
A toothless Charlie grins at me from the kitchen sink, hair frothy with shampoo.
‘Very cute.’ I pick up an old Polaroid. A pink-haired Lexie wearing a spotted gown, hospital band on her wrist, sleeping baby nestled against her. ‘Was this the day she was born?’
‘Yeah. Fourteen hours of labour. Christ, I was knackered. Did love that gas and air though.’
‘Was Charlie’s dad there?’
‘No.’ Lexie gulps her wine.
‘Why not?’
Lexie shrugs. ‘He didn’t wanna know. Fucker did a runner as soon as he found out I was pregnant.’
‘He never met Charlie?’
‘No.’
‘It must have been hard for you. Alone with a baby.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘He’s a bastard. She was better off without him.’
‘I’m sure she was.’ The lie trips off my tongue. ‘I’m just curious.’
The silence between us stretches tighter and tighter until it snaps.
Lexie exhales deeply. ‘OK. What do you want to know?’
She shakes the last drops of wine into her glass – it’s almost overflowing – and reaches down the side of the sofa. She waves a new bottle and raises her eyebrows at me.
‘I’m driving.’ I cover the top of my glass with my hand and fidget in my seat. The air is clouded with cigarette smoke and secrets. Lexie flicks through the photos and pulls out a dog-eared print of a man. He’s raising his pint to someone off-camera. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He’s the spitting image of Charlie.
‘His name’s Paul Lawson. I met him when I was sixteen. I was hanging around The Folk Lore all the time. That was a great music venue. They had in-house bands that changed every few weeks. Think it’s shut down now.’ Lexie scrunches her forehead and I lean forward, willing her to carry on. ‘I used to sneak in through the back door without paying. Stand at the back watching the bands, wishing it was me singing on stage. One day Frank, the owner, clapped me on the shoulder. I nearly shit myself. Thought I was gonna be thrown out. He said, “If you must insist on sneaking in, the least you can do is make yourself useful and collect some glasses.”’ Lexie smiled at the memory. ‘Paul was a singer. It was his first gig and he was fan-fucking-tastic. I fell in love with him on the spot.’
Lexie paused to light another cigarette. Her smoke swirled around my face as her words swirled around my head. She’d loved Charlie’s dad? Really loved him?
‘He were twenty-two. Not a big age gap really, but he felt a lot older than me. A proper man, you know? I fancied him like mad. He’d bright blonde hair and the greenest eyes.’ Lexie’s cigarette flutters ash onto her leg. She doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Here.’ I hand her the ashtray. ‘So you had a relationship with him?’
‘The first night he sang, he came off stage on such a high. Picked me up and twirled me around so fast I thought I might chuck. He asked me to celebrate, but Frank told him he wouldn’t serve me, even after hours.’ Lexie unscrews the new bottle and tops up her glass. ‘Paul bought a bottle of whisky to take out and we went to the park.’ Lexie wraps her arms around herself, as if holding the memory close. I’ve never seen her look so vulnerable. ‘I didn’t like whisky, thought it was fucking horrible. Didn’t say that though. I spat half of it back in the bottle rather than swallowing it.’ She shuddered. ‘Never try and change yourself for a man, Grace.’
‘What happened?’
‘He told me I was special and I fell for his crap. We had sex on his coat. It was me first time. Classy, eh?’ Lexie glugs her wine.
‘Then he dumped you?’
‘Nah. We had the next six weeks together. But then he disappeared. Didn’t even say goodbye. Haven’t seen him since. Don’t fucking want to.’
‘And you were pregnant when he left?’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t know.’
‘Surely you could have found him? Told him? He had a right to know about the baby.’
Lexie fumbles with her cigarette packet, delaying her answer, as if she’s formulating the words in her head before she says them. ‘I did tell him. He didn’t want us.’
‘I thought you said…’
‘He didn’t know until I told him, I meant. He didn’t want kids. Wanted me to have an abortion. Bastard.’
‘Does he know you didn’t? That he had a daughter?’
‘Course.’ Lexie swung her legs down, knocking over the wine. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
I fetch a cloth and kneel. Dab the threadbare rug, mopping up the claret liquid. ‘So what did he say when you told him about Charlie?’
‘I don’t bloody know. It was twenty-five years ago. Can barely remember what I did yesterday.’
‘Does he know Charlie died, Lexie?’
Lexie stares at the crimson stain, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘I don’t wanna talk no more.’
‘But Lexie, it’s important…’
‘Don’t ruin it, Grace. It’s been nice seeing you again but I’m tired.’ Lexie holds out her hand and I pass her the sopping cloth, pull on my shoes and gather my coat and bag.
‘We will talk again soon,’ I tell her.
She nods and we hug our goodnights.
As I climb into my Fiesta, I feel Charlie’s drawer handle in my pocket. I never did screw it back on. Still, it will give me an excuse to go back. I’ll need to return the picture of Paul that I slipped into my pocket while Lexie wasn’t looking. As I drive away, I can’t help but feel a frisson of excitement. I have a plan.
10
Now
My muscles ache. I’m balanced on the edge of the mattress, teetering like a high-wire walker. Dan’s still asleep, lying on his back, mouth slack, forehead smooth as a pebble. Sleep’s erased the lines that furrow his brow the moment he wakes. Cold white sheets stretch between us, a gulf I still cannot cross not matter how much I want to. I’m not sure how he feels about me any more. I watch the rhythmic rise and fall of Dan’s ribs as his lungs expand and contract. I long to place my head on his chest. To feel the prickle of his dark hair against my cheek; hear the beating of his heart.
Grief is crushing, isolating, lonely. We have both lost Charlie, but Dan doesn’t know how I feel, not really, and how can he? At first I was mute with shock, unable to contemplate the simplest of tasks, to operate appliances I’d used a thousand times before. My toast was burned, clothes wrinkled. I lost my ability to communicate. Words knotted themselves on my tongue until I swallowed them, and they collided with the mass of emotions swirling inside me. If I couldn’t pinpoi
nt how I felt myself, how could I express it to him? Dan began to work later and later, often rolling through the front door at midnight. The stairs creaked under his heavy tread and I’d screw up my eyes and lie still and silent as he fumbled with his clothes, flopping into bed beside me, the smell of alcohol so strong it was as if I’d drunk it myself.
It has been different lately. There has been a shift. He’s home more and I am back at work. Mixing with people as though I am one of them, as though I have not had the very fabric of my universe changed.
The windows rattle as the wind whips against them. The garden gate creaks open and thuds shut. I sit up and lean to reach my slippers. My neck cracks. I slip my feet inside faux fur and unhook my dressing gown, pad downstairs and open the front door. The apple tree is hunched over like an old man, braced against the wind. My slippered feet tread carefully on the frosty path and I yank the gate shut, latching it, knowing that it won’t hold.
In the kitchen, I switch on the ancient heating system that gurgles and chugs to life, and pull bacon from the fridge. We used to take it in turns to make each other breakfast in bed on a Sunday and I can’t remember when we stopped, whether it was after Charlie died or before. I cut thick slices from a white loaf and slather them in butter and brown sauce. The bacon hisses and spits, and Mittens purrs at my feet, telling me that she likes bacon, too. I cut off the fat. I will give half to her and half to the birds.
‘Morning.’ Back upstairs, I rest the tray on the foot of the bed. The mugs chink together and tea sloshes onto the plates.
Dan sits up, props pillows vertically behind him and sweeps magazines and wine gum packets to the floor. I pass him his breakfast.
‘Thanks. You were late last night. How did it go with Lexie?’ He bites into his sandwich. Grease trickles down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.
‘She has a lodger moving in. I helped clear Charlie’s room and then we had a drink. She told me about Paul.’
‘Paul?’
‘Charlie’s dad.’
‘Fucking hell. I never thought she’d tell you. I didn’t think she actually knew who it was, to be honest. She’s such a slapper.’
‘Not always. He was her first and she really loved him.’
‘Lexie in love. Who’d have thought? What happened?’
I rub my eyes. ‘I’m not sure. She said he didn’t know she was pregnant but then changed her story, saying that he’d run away when she told him. She was pretty cagey. Still, we can find him now, can’t we?’
‘Are you sure you want to?’
‘Yes. We don’t know where Charlie went when she disappeared. If she met him, he might know what she did that she thought was so unforgivable.
‘You might never find out. It’s a long shot. And if you do, you might not like what you hear.’ Dan chews his sandwich.
‘I won’t know if I don’t try. Please, Dan.’ I’ll find Paul Lawson with or without Dan, but it will be easier if he helps.
‘You’ve had a lot to deal with lately, Grace. I don’t want anything else upsetting you.’
‘Then help me. I want to move on, Dan. I really do. I want things back the way they were, as much as they can be. I want us back.’
Dan finishes his sandwich and wipes his fingers on the quilt. Pinpricks of grease seep into the white cotton and I take a sip of tea to stop myself from snapping. He reaches over and curls his fingers around mine.
‘Me, too. OK. I’ll help. Where does he live?’
I sigh. Suddenly the task ahead seems enormous. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘So, how can we tell him?’
‘His name’s Paul Lawson and he’s a folk singer. I thought you could find him online somehow?’
‘Because I’m a genius?’
‘Because we splashed out on an all-singing, all-dancing MacBook, which you claimed was worth the over-inflated price tag because it can do everything.’
‘It might not be able to perform miracles. Let’s go downstairs though, and I’ll Google him.’
The laptop balances on Dan’s lap as it whirrs into life, screen glowing bright. Dan hunches over the keyboard. I sit as close as I can, our thighs pressing together. It’s the most physical contact we’ve had in months. I hand him the picture I took from Lexie’s last night. I hope she doesn’t notice that it’s missing.
Dan’s fingers fly over the keyboard. ‘Paul Lawson you said? Folk singer?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s links with either “Paul Lawson” or “folk singer” as keywords, but nothing with them both.’
‘Let’s look through them anyway.’
Dan laughs. ‘You don’t quite understand the Internet, do you? There are forty million results. Be my guest if you want to trawl through them all.’
I take the laptop from him and click on page after page. The knots in my shoulders pull tighter and tighter until I have to stand up, link my fingers behind me and stretch out my arms.
‘Let’s try websites dedicated to tracing people.’
The afternoon flashes by as we visit site after site: The Salvation Army, Missing Persons; it seems that everyone is looking for someone. I read stories of children who have run away, of husbands who went to the shop never to return, of mothers who vanished.
The bacon sandwich that had tasted so delicious feels weighted in my stomach. Its greasy tentacles rise up through my body.
‘OK.’ Dan scratches his nose. ‘No one will help us find Paul as we aren’t related to him, right? They might help Lexie, though, if they knew the circumstances. Is there any chance…’
‘No.’
‘That just leaves social media, I think.’
‘But we’ve already done that.’
‘We’ve searched social media, but we can post in some groups. There’s loads of music-related ones. Someone must know him.’
Optimism rises. I nod.
‘Go fetch the Chinese menu, woman, and leave me to work my magic.’ Dan waggles his fingers like a cartoon villain contemplating a dastardly scheme. I go and find the takeout leaflet to choose what we want, even though we always end up picking a House Special Chow Mein and Egg Fried Rice.
The coffee table is strewn with the remnants of our Chinese dinner. My half-full foil containers nestle inside Dan’s empty ones. Mittens bats at a noodle as it dangles from the side of my plate. Her eyes flick from left to right as she watches it swing, like a Wimbledon spectator following a rally.
‘We’ll post the photo you took from Lexie’s house. What do you want to say?’
I crunch another prawn cracker. ‘How about: “Are you Paul Lawson or do you know him? If so please get in touch as a matter of urgency. We have some important news for you”?’
‘Not sure about that. It sounds as though he might have a windfall. We don’t want every nutter replying, pretending to be him.’
‘OK. What about: We are trying to trace Paul Lawson for a matter unrelated to finance. If you know Paul, please contact us.’
‘Now it sounds like he’s done something dodgy. I wouldn’t reply to that.’
‘That’s because you’re too suspicious.’
‘I have to be, when you’re so trusting.’
‘Try: I am an old friend of Paul Lawson’s from the music business and would love to know what magic he’s creating with his guitar now. Do you know him?’
‘Better. It’s friendly. It should pique his curiosity. I’ll set up an email account just for this, something music-related without a name.’
I lean back against the arm of the sofa and watch the screen illuminate Dan’s face. He is utterly absorbed: my techie geek. I haven’t felt so content in a long time.
‘Finished.’ Dan shows me what he’s done, before snapping the lid of the laptop shut and sliding it under the coffee table.
I pick up my wine glass. The distance between us is evaporating. I wonder if he feels it too. I take a deep breath and am about to suggest an early
night when Dan’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out of his pocket, and frowns at the screen.
‘I wish work would leave me alone on a Sunday.’
‘Switch it off.’
‘I can’t. The survey’s thrown up a problem with the house I’m trying to sell on Easton Road. The buyers want to pull out. I need to make a phone call. I’ll speak to them while I nip to the corner shop. I’ll pick up more wine.’
‘We’ve still got quarter of a bottle. It is a school night.’
But the phone is pressed to his ear and he doesn’t hear me.
The house is quieter without Dan. Emptier. After a while, I cross to the window. Scoop back the curtains. There are no mystery cars or figures, but I still hope Dan has locked the front door. I go to check. My hand stretches for the handle but I hear a noise. Freeze. There’s a shuffling on the porch. Footsteps? I press my ear to the door and think I hear breathing, but I know that’s impossible over the sound of my heart. Clatter. Something – I think the umbrella stand – has been knocked over. I tell myself it’s a fox, but a voice says, ‘Shit.’ It’s whispered, so I can’t tell if the speaker is a man or woman.
‘Who’s there?’ There’s a quaking in my voice and I’m almost too scared to move, but I reach forward and switch the outside light on. I press my ear against the door. Silence. I imagine someone on the other side doing the same thing. A hand snaking through the letter box, grabbing me. A fist shattering the decorative glass panel. I’m torn between fetching my phone from the lounge or a knife from the kitchen, when I hear the rumble of Dan’s car. His shoes slapping against the path. The front door creaks open and I practically snatch the wine bottle from Dan’s hand, peering over his shoulder into the blackness, but there’s nothing to see.
11
Now
The week passes quickly and it’s Friday already. I’ve worried all day that I’ll have nothing to wear for my night out, but when I get home from work there’s a Royal Mail card on the doormat: a package has been left for me at Mrs Jones’s. I tap on my neighbour’s glossy green door, tuck my hands deep in my pockets and rock from foot to foot for what seems like ages in a bid to keep warm. Crouching, I peer through the letter box and see Mrs Jones, grey head bowed as she shuffles up the hall. I straighten as the door swings open.
The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming Page 6