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

by Louise Jensen

  Charlie’s phone was switched off. I sprinted to my car, wrenched open the door. The engine coughed and spluttered before it juddered to life and I reversed out of the drive almost faster than I’d ever driven forwards. I sped through the village; the tyres squealed as they fought for traction. I’m so sorry, Grace. Please forgive me. Forgive her for what?

  I racked my brains to think what Charlie might have done. I didn’t believe anything had gone on with Dan. Neither of them would do that to me. She hadn’t treated Siobhan any worse than any of the rest of us had. Charlie would be the first to say that what had happened was a horrible accident. What, then?

  The temporary traffic lights at the crossroads were red and I banged my palms on the wheel. ‘C’mon.’ The roads were deserted; it seemed the whole village was at home nursing New Year’s hangovers, and I slammed my foot down, squealed through the red light. My eyes flicked between the road and my phone and I jabbed the redial button, tossing my mobile on the passenger seat as the voicemail message kicked in.

  I abandoned the car outside Lexie’s house and skidded my way up the icy path, grinding to a halt as I tried to shoulder open the front door. It was locked.

  I rapped my knuckles hard against the door, then furled and unfurled my fist to ease the pain.

  ‘Charlie!’ I slapped the door this time. ‘Charlie!’ I jigged up and down while I waited.

  Lexie hardly ever went out. I peered through the letter box. I could see a light on in the kitchen.

  ‘Lexie!’ I thudded the wood with my fists. ‘Open up.’

  The light went out.

  ‘Please. I know you’re in there. I’ve seen you.’

  Lexie shuffled, zombie-like, towards the door.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked, as the door opened.

  Lexie had a glazed expression similar to those you saw on the news at the site of a natural disaster. Her face was bare and she looked younger somehow, without the slash of red that usually covered her lips.

  ‘What do you care?’ she mumbled; I had to lean forward to hear.

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone where? To mine?’

  ‘Travelling.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I snapped, frustrated with her monosyllabic answers.

  Lexie lit a cigarette. ‘Packed a rucksack and gone. Left.’

  ‘She can’t have left. Siobhan’s dead.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What do you mean, “so”? Does Charlie even know? I texted her but I’ve heard nothing back.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters. She wouldn’t just leave. She’s never mentioned going travelling.’

  ‘You don’t know everything.’

  ‘I know she wouldn’t leave without telling me…’

  ‘Why? Because you’re so bleedin’ important? Sorry, I forgot the world revolves around you, Grace.’

  The door swung towards me and I thrust my foot forward.

  ‘She left me a note,’ I said. ‘It asked me to forgive her. Forgive her for what? I don’t understand this. Tell me what’s happening.’

  ‘She’s not the one who’s done something wrong,’ Lexie spat. ‘Now piss off.’ She opened the door wider and slammed it as hard as she could. I jerked my foot out of the way and sank down onto the step. Charlie had left me, just like my mum, just like my dad. Siobhan was gone. I sat motionless as snow fell from the gunmetal-grey sky, until I was as numb on the outside as I was on the inside.

  ‘Please.’ I rolled onto my knees and shouted through the letter box. ‘Please, Lexie. I need to know the truth. What has Charlie done?’

  35

  Now

  Knock-knock-knock. Get lost, Dan. Fury boils and bubbles as I stamp down the hall, fling open the front door.

  It’s not him. A figure in a black coat is scurrying down the path towards the red Corsa parked in the lane.

  ‘Wait!’ Fuelled by the buckets of rage I can’t direct towards Dan or Anna, I step out of the door. The figure hurries away. The dampness of the path seeps through my socks, and as the person who’s been following me fumbles with the gate, it’s the first time I’ve been thankful for the faulty catch. My hand snakes out and I grab their coat, twisting my fingers into their shoulder. There’s a cry of pain and the hood falls back. A mass of blonde corkscrew curls falls free. I snatch my hand back as though I’ve touched something hot, and hold my wrist. It can’t be.

  She turns. It isn’t Siobhan of course; how could it be? But the resemblance is so striking, it’s as if I’ve been catapulted back in time. We glare at each other, Abby and I.

  ‘You’ve been following me?’ I don’t need an answer.

  ‘Yes.’ She breaks eye contact and I remember the timid girl who used to creep past me in the school corridors, head down, rucksack slung over one shoulder. She’d never have said boo to a goose without her big sister at one time, but I suppose she had to learn to cope alone. She was three years below us at school, so she must be twenty-two now. What does she want? Revenge? Bring it on. I can’t possibly feel any worse than I do already.

  ‘You wanted to frighten me? Kill me? What?’ I lean my face towards hers. ‘Do your worst.’

  She shrank back. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘And you thought the best way to do that was to follow me? Watch me? Make me think I was going mad?’ I’m screaming now, not caring if Mrs Jones hears, and I place my palms against Abby’s chest and push her, hard. I’ve had enough of people’s games to last me a lifetime. She falls backwards onto the gate. ‘Piss off, Abby.’

  ‘Grace!’ Her voice is shrill. ‘Please. Help me.’ She steps forward as she utters the words her sister said seven years ago, and as much as I want to turn her away, I can’t. We stand in the garden. The wind gusts against the gate, which finally springs free from the catch and slams into Abby’s back, sending her tumbling to the ground. She looks up, rain streaking her face, hair plastered to her scalp.

  ‘You’d better come in.’ I turn towards the cottage.

  Inside, Abby curls up in Dan’s armchair – my armchair – and cries as though her heart is broken. I busy myself in the kitchen to give me time to think. I’m livid, but I’m not sure how much of my anger is due to Abby or because of Dan and Anna. It’s a mixture of all of them, but Abby is the one crying in my lounge. She is the one who has lost a sister and it doesn’t seem fair to direct all of my fury at her. I think the least I can do is hear her out. I boil the kettle, pulling cups from the cupboard, trying to drown out the sound of her anguish.

  In the lounge, I place the tea tray on the table and clear my throat. Abby snuffles into the sleeve of her jumper.

  ‘Sorry, Grace.’ I don’t know whether she means for scaring me half to death or for crying and so I don’t reply. Instead, I pour tea that’s not yet brewed, add a splash of milk and slide it towards her along with the sugar bowl and a spoon.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ve moved back to the village. Grandad has Alzheimer’s and Mum wanted to be closer to him.’

  ‘I don’t mean the village. I meant here.’ I gesture around the room. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Being back. There are so many memories. I wanted to talk about Siobhan.’

  ‘Talk?’

  ‘Yes.’ She picks up her mug but her hand is shaking so much tea splashes over her lap. I thump a box of Kleenex onto the table before her.

  ‘So why didn’t you talk instead of behaving like a stalker.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say. I was awful to you at school and I know you’ve had a rough time. I heard. About Charlie. I’m so sorry.’

  I offer a curt nod.

  ‘I practised my speech over and over in my head. Each time I rang and heard your voice I bottled out. Coming here. I thought it might be easier but it wasn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door. Too scared you’d slam it in my fa
ce I suppose.’

  ‘You almost ran me off the road, Abby. You could have killed me!’

  ‘When I passed you and realised it was your car I was determined that I’d ask you. That I wouldn’t chicken out again. I got myself really worked up. It was stupid and I’m so glad I didn’t cause an accident. I never meant to hurt you, Grace.’ Her face is blotchy and tear-stained and I sigh.

  ‘Well here we are. What do you want to ask me?’

  ‘Grace. Did Siobhan mention me when she called you that night?’

  It’s one of those times you have a split second to choose, and you know whichever path you take, there’ll be no going back.

  Abby’s eyes are wide and hopeful. What can I say? That I refused to help? Hung up the phone? That I’ve regretted it ever since? Siobhan could be alive if I’d listened. I could tell Abby that, ultimately, I feel responsible for her sister’s death. But what good would my admissions do? They can’t bring Siobhan back.

  I make my choice. ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Is a lie still a lie if it brings comfort? I suppose it is, but I carry on nevertheless, not sure whether the story I’m fabricating is to console Abby or to appease my own guilt. ‘I told her you were looking for her and you were sorry.’

  Abby leans forward and twists the tissue she’s holding in her hands. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said it didn’t matter. She loved you anyway. She was going to come and find you.’

  Lie upon lie. I could build a wall. Abby’s body sags and I hold her as she cries. I fetch more tissues, more tea, and we swap stories of the big sister she once idolised. I never knew Siobhan used to have tap-dancing lessons when she was small. Abby didn’t know Siobhan was the first person in our year to snog a boy. We all have different sides, I think. The things we share. The things we keep hidden. The good, the bad. The truth, the lies.

  It’s getting late and I’m exhausted. I offer Abby the spare bed but she wants to get back to her parents. They worry when she’s out of sight too long and I can’t say I blame them. It’s a dangerous world out there, but at least I know there’ll be no more shadowy figures outside my cottage, no more red Corsas parked down the lane. I hadn’t imagined them. It’s a huge relief to know that no matter what Google says about the side effects of my medication, I have a stronger grasp on reality than I’d thought.

  ‘If you want to talk again, call me,’ I say to Abby as she pulls her coat back on. ‘And don’t hang up next time!’

  ‘I won’t. Thanks, Grace. I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to know Siobhan had forgiven me.’

  I lean against the door frame until Abby’s little red car disappears from view and I feel I might not have done such a bad thing after all. The truth hurts, doesn’t it? And although I’m a long way from forgiving him, I can understand why Dan lied. I shudder when I think of Anna. I lock the front door and pull the chain across.

  Hunger growls deep in my belly and I pick up the bag of Chinese food that is still sitting on the lounge table. Waste not, want not, Grandma would say. I scoop out some chow mein and put it in the microwave. As the plate spins and the food heats, I light some candles and put on a record. Nat King Cole rotates and crackles ‘Maybe it’s because I love you too much’, and the lyrics slice me to the core. The pain of what Dan did, what Dan and Anna did, is still so raw.

  The microwave beeps, my dinner steams. I fork noodles into my mouth but find I’m no longer hungry. I lift the needle from the record and flick the stereo off at the wall, blow out the candles and make a wish. The front and back doors are unyielding as I rattle the door handles, but I check they are locked again and again before I trudge up the stairs, sticking my head in Anna’s room on the way, reassuring myself she is really gone. I’m fighting sleep, stifling yawns, but I strip our bed – my bed, now – not wanting to sleep with the smell of Dan. I tuck in hospital corners, ease the duvet into a fresh cover, before I slide between the cold cotton sheets. I curl into myself. My feet are freezing and, despite everything, I wish Dan were here to snuggle against.

  CRASH.

  My eyes spring open, dart from side to side, seeking out shapes in the blackness. The curtains aren’t quite closed and shafts of moonlight slip into the room, casting shadows in every corner. I shudder as a shape looms out of the darkness, but it’s only my dressing-table mirror. I’ve never lived alone before and my heart thump-thump-thumps against my ribs as I push back the covers and swing my legs out of bed. It’s only a few short steps to the window but long enough for my mind to envisage a team of burglars forming a human chain, emptying the cottage of my belongings.

  I peep out of the window. The lane is dark and quiet, my car the only vehicle I can see. A movement catches my eye and I jump as the wind swings the gate open, before slamming it shut. I berate myself for being so easily spooked and scuttle back to bed. My pulse is still racing; fear has driven drowsiness away and I click on my lamp, squinting in the mandarin glow. I open my book, promise myself no more than two chapters and locate my page, letting the words transport me to another time.

  My heart has slowed and my eyelids are beginning to droop when there’s a bang. Not the gate, but the front door. I freeze, gripping my book so tightly that the pages crumple. The lamp goes out and the room is plunged into darkness. I whimper and cover my mouth with both hands, trying to stuff the sound back inside. I screw up my face, listening for the telltale creak of the stairs, but the cottage is still. I’m rigid with fear as I sit upright in bed, not daring to move, not wanting the squeak of my mattress springs to give my presence away. My lower back spasms and I shift my weight slightly, wincing as the floorboards below the bed creak. I hold my breath, wondering who’s here, whether they’ve heard me. There are no footsteps tiptoeing up the stairs; the only thing I can hear is the blood whooshing in my ears. I’m beginning to wonder whether I have imagined the whole thing when I begin to cough.

  Smoke.

  Time slows, logic deserts me and it seems I sit frozen for an interminable time before my hand darts out, scrambling around in the blackness for the phone I cannot locate. Cold water saturates my pyjama sleeve as I knock over my glass, and my feet sink into the sodden carpet as I leap out of bed and run towards the door. My toe stubs against the pine bedstead and I cry out in pain, tumbling forwards, landing heavily on my hands and knees. I stumble to my feet, flicking on the light switch, praying that my lamp has just blown a bulb –

  but the room remains pitch-black.

  My heartbeat pounds in my ears and my palms are slick as I reach the door. I hesitate before I touch the metal handle, but it’s cool. For a split second, I think everything’s fine, but as I pull the door open, acrid smoke attacks my throat, my nose, my chest. My eyes sting and I slam the door shut, lean my back against it as though I can keep the fire out. My coughing is violent and painful and I’m doubled over, but I propel myself forward, drag the duvet from my bed, and drop to my knees to plug the gap at the bottom of the door. My pyjamas are drenched as sweat pours down my chest and back. The smoke seems thinner nearer the floor and I crawl on my belly over to the window, cling to the radiator and hoist myself to standing with thighs that feel like rubber. The sash window is stuck; it hasn’t been open since the summer. I howl in frustration as I thrust upwards over and over until it gives. I lurch forward, and am left half-hanging out of the window, panting for air, like a dog in a hot summer car.

  The lane is unlit and still. The solitude I usually love now seems menacing. I scream for Mrs Jones, knowing it’s fruitless, that she will likely be asleep, will be unable to hear me over her TV if she isn’t. I’m going to die. The bushes rustle and I think I see a figure creep from the shadows. I rub my smoke-sore eyes, but when I can focus again, the figure has gone. Every fibre of my being urges me to stay next to the window, to breathe in the air, but I need to find my phone. I crawl over to my bed, feeling around the damp carpet where I spilled the water, and I pray my phone is not wet, is still working. I fumble around; my t
hroat is raw with coughing and just as it feels I can’t possibly go on, my hand connects with something cold and hard: my mobile. My thumb presses a button, illuminating the screen and I almost cry with relief. I crawl back to the window – my movements are slower now – and force oxygen into lungs that burn with the effort of keeping me alive.

  I punch out 999.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

  I open my mouth to speak, but the solace of hearing a human voice causes my words to clump together and I cannot spit them out.

  ‘Which service do you require, please? Fire, police or ambulance?’

  ‘Fire. Please. Quick,’ I rasp.

  I’m asked for my name and address. The operator sifts through my garbled sentences, confirms my details. She tells me her name is Mia, reassures me that help is on the way. I describe the layout of my house, let her know which room I’m in. Mia’s voice is soft and soothing, her questions gentle, but I’m choking so much I cannot answer them all. I swing my right leg over the ledge, sitting as though I am riding a horse, staring into the blackness below. I tell Mia I’m going to jump. She assures me the engines are close, minutes away, but every cell in my body is fighting for survival. I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, grip the windowsill and try to hoist my left leg. My movements are slow, despite the screaming terror inside me. It feels as though I’m stuck in quicksand.

  The sirens are faint at first. It’s hard to hear over my ragged breath, but I see blue lights flashing down the lane and, as I shriek for help and raise my hands to wave, I feel myself slip and I scream as I fall into blackness.

  36

  Now

  I’m hot, so hot. My skin is peeling, flesh melting, dripping from my bones. I open my mouth wide but something is stifling my screams and I’m choking, clawing at my neck, writhing from side to side, trying to release the pressure from my chest.