‘Grace.’ Warm hands grasp mine, squeezing gently. ‘Grace, can you hear me?’
Grandma? It’s an effort to open my eyes, they water and blink in the fluorescent strip lighting. Everything’s stark and white. I’m tucked too tightly in a bed; the sheets are stiff and hard.
‘There’s been a fire; you’re OK, but we thought…’ Grandma’s voice wavers. I try to pull my hands free, to sit, to pull out the tubes in my throat.
‘Stay still, pet.’ Grandad gently presses back on my shoulders. ‘I’ll fetch the doctor. Your mum’s on her way.’
The doctor looks far too young to be qualified. A little boy in an oversized white coat and tortoiseshell round-rimmed glasses. He consults the clipboard at the end of my bed, clears his throat as though he is worried his voice may break mid-sentence. ‘Grace, you’re a lucky girl.’
I cannot answer, not sure I’d agree if I could.
‘Don’t be concerned about the tubes; your air tract is slightly swollen from the smoke inhalation and we just want to keep it open. There’s no excess fluid on your lungs, no infection. You should be able to leave hospital in forty-eight hours.’
Grandma stokes my palm rhythmically with her thumb and I fight fruitlessly to stay awake.
I float in and out of fitful sleep, haunted by disturbed dreams of swirling flames and spiralling smoke. Grandma tucks a lavender bag under my pillow, but no matter how deeply I inhale, I can only smell soot. I’m never alone. There’s an armchair next to my hospital bed and each time I wake, sweat-drenched and panicked, there’s always someone with me: my grandparents, my mum, Lyn. I revisit the cottage again and again in my mind. I remember lighting the candles, but not blowing them out. My thoughts spin like a tornado trying to whisk me off to Kansas. I wish I could click my heels three times and go home. Am I to blame? Am I always to blame?
The tubes are removed and I vomit blood-streaked bile into a cardboard bowl. My stomach is tender inside and out. It’s a relief to pull off the scratchy hospital gown and shower, standing on a tile floor that was once white, the grout now pigeon-grey. I tenderly touch the purple bruising on my abdomen and chest, and tears fall freely as I wonder what would have happened if the fire crew hadn’t arrived when they did, if they hadn’t carried me to safety when I fell unconscious onto the bedroom floor. I shake out a clean nightgown Grandma has brought in, and hold it to my nose, testing my sense of smell. I get a whiff of Comfort fabric softener. Grandma’s smaller than me; the nightdress that is floor-length on her falls to just below my knees, presses against my ribs. I don’t know whether all my things are burned and I’m too scared to ask.
Borrowed pink slippers slide from my feet as I shuffle back to the ward, feeling like I’ve run a marathon. I half expect someone to race up to me and wrap me in a tinfoil blanket. My lungs rattle, my breath rasps and pain darts through my chest.
Grandma folds the sheets back, plumps up my pillow and helps me back to bed. Mum tucks me in like she used to when I was small.
‘I know you can’t swallow properly yet, but you’ll be as right as rain before you know it.’ Grandma peels the lid from a Tupperware box, showing me thick slices of lemon drizzle cake.
The citrus smell makes me cough and Grandma dabs my eyes, handing me a Kleenex to blow my nose. The tissue turns black and I scrunch it into a ball. Aim it at my bedside table.
‘Will you be OK on your own for a few hours? Denise is poorly and can’t deliver the meals to the old folks. I’ve offered to help. Your mum is going to help me. Grandad’s gone to get the car.’
Grandma may be seventy-two but she helps the ‘old folk’ whenever she can.
I nod.
‘I can stay if you want me to?’ Mum asks, but I shake my head. My throat hurts too much to talk. I watch them bustle down the ward and through the swinging doors before I curl onto my side, closing my eyes. My dreams are bright and vibrant. Impulse body spray tickles my nostrils and I dream that Charlie and I are running through the forest. Leaves rustle and branches bend to tell me their secrets. I strain to make out their hushed tones.
Saliva has deserted me and I prop myself up as I wake, reaching for my water jug. On my cabinet is a present, wrapped in shiny gold paper. My name is scrawled onto a label in writing I vaguely recognise but can’t identify. The box rattles as I shake it. I glance around the ward to see if anyone is watching me before I ease the tape from one end and lift open the flap. I slide the present out.
I drop the box on my bed and recoil, as though it’s a snake that might bite me. I press myself back hard against my pillow as I stare in horror at the box of chocolate brazil nuts. There’s only one person who would have bought me nuts, who has bought me nuts before. Anna.
Grandma tucks the purple and pink crocheted blanket around my legs, despite the lounge being at least twenty-five degrees. This is the blanket that covered me when I had German measles and tonsillitis. I pull it up to my chin. The TV blares to life as I zap it on with the remote control. I search for the right button to turn the volume down: Grandad must have been the last person to watch it.
Grandma pulls out the smallest of the nest of mahogany tables and places it next to the sofa, then sets down a glass of Ribena and a plate of party rings. I feel about six but am grateful to be here, to have slept in my old bedroom last night, free from the clattering of trollies and the stage whispers of the nurses. Mum has gone back to Devon, reassured there’s no lasting damage. Not physically, anyway.
I’m enthralled by Jeremy Kyle, equally horrified and fascinated by the drama as I suck on a biscuit, the sweet pink icing dissolving on my tongue. Grandma pretends she isn’t watching, that she’s just knitting, but every now and then the needles stop clicking and I hear her tut.
There’s a rap at the door and Grandma heaves herself out of her chair. It seems she has aged in the past few days. She closes the lounge door behind her but I hear a male voice resonate down the hallway and I smooth my hair, brush crumbs from my nightgown, thinking it must be Dan. I breathe into my cupped hand, trying to remember if I’ve cleaned my teeth today, wishing I’d showered and dressed.
The door starts to open and I arrange myself on the sofa, feeling ridiculous that I still want Dan to find me attractive.
‘Grace…’ Grandma gestures to the men behind her. I don’t recognise them. ‘I’ll get Grandad.’
‘Grace, I’m DS Harry Mills and I’m in charge of the investigation into the origin and cause of the fire at Rose Cottage,’ says the taller of the two men. ‘My colleague is Fire Investigator Mick Walker from Oxfordshire Fire and Rescue Services, who also has some questions to ask.’
I squirm like a child before a headmaster and pull my blanket higher.
Grandad bustles into the room, drying his hands on his dark brown cords. ‘Sit down, gentlemen, please.’
The men sit in armchairs but don’t lean back. Their long legs stretch out in front of them and the room seems small and cramped.
There is the chinking of china and Grandma hands out cups and saucers, pours tea from the Royal Doulton teapot she saves for best. The party rings are whipped away, replaced with dark chocolate digestives that no one eats. I wait, twisting my fingers through the holes in the blanket, for the questions to start.
‘What time did you go to bed on the night of the fire, Grace?’
I can’t exactly remember and I feel heat rise to my face as though I have something to hide.
‘About eleven, I think,’ I croak and Grandad shifts up the settee towards me, passes me a glass of water.
‘Was anyone else in the house with you?’
‘No.’
‘And when you left the lounge, everything was switched off? Appeared normal?’
‘She’s been brought up not to waste electric,’ says Grandma.
I grip Grandad’s hand. ‘I thought I turned everything off, blew out the candles…’ I study the carpet. Grandad squeezes my fingers.
‘Where were the candles?’<
br />
‘On the mantelpiece.’
‘The origin of the fire was the wastepaper bin next to the table. Were there any candles or ignition sources nearby?’
‘No.’
‘There was a match in the bin – do you smoke, Grace?’
‘No.’ I shake my head, trying to dislodge my confusion. ‘I don’t keep matches in the house; I never use them.’
‘Are you aware there was no battery in the smoke alarm in the hallway?’
‘No…’
‘There was,’ Grandad interjects. ‘I check it regularly, only replaced it a couple of weeks ago. Duracell, too. Worth the extra money for peace of mind.’
‘Was the building secure when you went to bed?’
‘Yes. I checked the doors several times.’
‘The firefighters had to break in.’
‘I don’t understand?’
Mick takes off his silver-rimmed glasses. His eyes lock onto mine. ‘We believe that the fire was started deliberately. The fact that the property was secure when you went to bed and was still secure when we arrived indicates that either someone who was already in the house, or another keyholder, set the fire. The chain was still across the front door, so entry wasn’t gained that way. Who has keys to the back door, Grace?’
Icy tendrils kiss the back of my neck; the hairs on my arms stand to attention.
‘Anna,’ I whisper. ‘Anna does.’
37
Now
Grandad whips his handkerchief from his pocket and dabs Grandma’s eyes. She snatches it from him. ‘I’ve already got enough wrinkles, thank you, without you pulling at my skin.’ Grandad pulls a face behind her back. As much as it feels as though everything has changed, it’s reassuring to believe, however naively, that some things never will.
An almost indecipherable voice announces that my train will be departing imminently. My case is small but heavy and I strain to pick it up. I pat my pocket, reassure myself my ticket is safe inside.
‘You don’t have to go,’ says Grandma. ‘That Anna doesn’t scare me.’
‘Well, she should.’
‘You could stay,’ Grandad says.
‘It’s better I don’t. Not until the police catch her.’ I offer one-armed hugs. ‘I’ll text you when I’m there.’
I heft my luggage aboard the train, swivelling my head around to make sure I’m not being followed, and stand in the carriage doorway, scanning the other passengers for a glimpse of shiny blonde hair. Satisfied that Anna isn’t on board, I move a discarded newspaper from a seat peppered with cigarette burns – despite the ‘no smoking’ signs peeling from the windows – and sit. The floor is grey with dirt. I rest my handbag on my lap and place my case on the seat next to me. The doors slide shut, trapping in the stagnant air, awash with smoke, perfume and body odour. I peer out of the streaked window and wave my goodbyes.
The train rumbles as we begin to move, rattles as we pick up speed. I rest my head against the grimy glass and watch fields flash past. The book I brought for my journey remains unopened and I am lost in my own thoughts until we reach King’s Cross. I stand and gather my belongings while the train is pulling in, clenching my buttocks to stabilise myself as I rock from side to side. I disembark and grip the handles of my bags tightly as shoulders jostle me; every inch of space seems to be accounted for. I jump with each nudge, terrified it’s Anna. There is a hand on my shoulder. I swing around with a cry.
‘It’s me.’ Esmée envelops me with her slight arms, squeezing me close. She’s stronger than she looks. Now we are only two. I haven’t seen her since Charlie’s funeral, but I don’t hug her back. Determined not to let my emotions out on a busy platform. Scared that if my sorrow is released, it may flood the tracks, engulfing everyone in its path, it feels so enormous.
‘You’re safe now,’ she whispers into my hair, and I try to think of something happy to stop myself from crying.
‘Let’s get you home.’ Esmée takes my case and I’m glad to have someone take charge. The journey has wiped me out. I don’t think I’ve recovered properly from the fire yet.
Esmée navigates the Tube with a confidence belying the shy girl she once was. I slump, exhausted, in my seat, staring at the map on the wall. Red, blue, green strands of spaghetti twisting through the capital. Yet another thing I cannot make sense of; I could make a list. I close my eyes. The vibrations are soothing and I yawn.
‘It’s our stop next.’ Esmée pats my knee.
I stand and lurch forward, grabbing Esmée’s arm to right myself. I glance around but no one’s looking at me, and I take comfort from my anonymity. We walk through littered streets. I press myself close to Esmée, flinching at the cacophony of honking horns. I breathe in the smell of exhaust fumes and fast food, and long for clean country air.
Esmée slows and stops in front of a row of shops.
‘Home sweet home. Don’t let the outside put you off.’ To the left of a launderette is a canary yellow door, its flaking paint covered with graffiti. Esmée slides her key into the lock, twists, and kicks the bottom of the door. ‘It always sticks.’
My case bumps off the walls as we ascend the narrow staircase, and it’s so gloomy I strain to see where I am going, despite the naked bulb swinging from the ceiling. Esmée unlocks a solid grey door at the top and we’re there.
The flat is matchbox-small, tastefully decorated in soft cream. Esmée has inherited the effortless stylishness of her Parisian mother. The lounge, diner and kitchen are tiny sections of the same room. Esmée crosses to the window in four steps, hefts the sash upwards. Warm air merges with warmer air.
‘You’re lucky you’ve come in spring. The heat from the dryers downstairs means it’s always hot in here. Lovely in the winter, but quite unbearable in the summer. I’m not often here in the day, though. Have a nose around while I make a cuppa.’ Esmée strides to the kitchen area. ‘You can take the bedroom, hun; I’ll use the sofa bed.’ Esmée waves away my protests with one hand, pulls black glossy mugs from a cupboard with the other.
I open the first of two doors leading from the lounge. Every wall in the bathroom has been tiled white, the floor a chessboard. The door can only close once I’ve shuffled between the basin and toilet. I can almost reach out my arms and touch both sides of the room at once. The glass shower cubicle gleams. It is filled with Molton Brown products and I suddenly feel grubby from my journey. I move on.
The bedroom has eggshell walls, mirrored furniture and turquoise silk bedding. It will be my cocoon. I might emerge a butterfly.
‘I’m lucky to have a separate bedroom. Many don’t.’
I start as Esmée appears behind me. I take the mug she offers.
‘Of course, I could get a three-bedroomed semi for the same price at home, but who wants to be stuck in a place that’s too big to be a village, too small to be a town, where the most exciting thing to ever happen was when the pipes burst at school and we all got the week off?’ She shrugs. ‘This is London, baby. There are new faces every time I step out the door, and if I happen to sneeze, there aren’t three people on my step within an hour, bearing casseroles and circulating rumours that I’ve caught the plague.’
‘It’s perfect, Esmée. I really appreciate it.’ And I do. ‘But don’t you miss home at all?’ I like knowing everyone nearby, I think. The gossip, the collective outrage when the post office cut their collections back to once a day. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks. Boring, some might say, but it felt safe to me. Well, it did. Before Anna.
‘Sometimes, but I love living here. There’s such a buzz. Always something going on. The village never felt the same without Siobhan. And now Charlie… I can’t see me ever moving back properly. I feel I belong here.’
‘I don’t know where I belong any more.’ I slurp tea, try to swallow the tremor in my voice. ‘Can I take a shower?’
‘You don’t have to ask.’
The jet of water that falls from the showerhead is
so powerful, I find myself gasping for breath as I rub water from my eyes, and twist the dial to turn the pressure down. Esmée’s shampoo smells of ginger, but it doesn’t matter how many times I lather my scalp, I still smell the faint tinge of smoke in my hair.
The towel is as fluffy as cotton wool and I rub myself dry in the bedroom, examine the contents of my case strewn over Esmée’s bed. I contemplate getting dressed, but pull on pyjamas instead. The carpet is soft underfoot as I pad barefoot to the lounge.
Later, plates heaped with spinach lasagne balance on our knees and we chortle through a re-run of Friends while we eat, marvelling at how little Jennifer Aniston has aged. I’m grateful for the normality, the pretence that this could be a social visit. Despite Esmée’s objections, I crowd beside her in the kitchen, drying the plates that she’s washed squeaky clean, stacking them neatly on the narrow work surface.
‘So how are you, really?’ Esmée dries her hands, pours me a glass of Pinot, ushers me over to the sofa.
‘I’m fine.’
Esmée raises an eyebrow.
‘OK.’ I sigh. ‘I’ve been better. A few months ago I had a great job, a cat, a fabulous home, a boyfriend who I loved. I really did love him.’
Esmée squeezes my hand.
‘He came to my grandparents’ house to try to see me,’ I say. ‘Grandad had to stop Grandma clobbering him with her rolling pin.’
‘He’s a dickhead.’
‘I know, but he was my dickhead. He keeps calling me.’
‘To say what?’
‘I don’t pick up.’
‘Good girl.’
‘He texts, too. He wants to meet. To explain.’
Esmée raises her eyebrows. ‘There’s no explanation for what he’s done. He’s not the Dan I thought I knew.’
‘Me neither.’ I rest my head on Esmée’s shoulder. ‘I can’t believe what he’s done, and I don’t understand why Anna hated me so much.’ I glance around the room, as if she might spring out from behind the furniture.
‘I don’t know. Maybe she was jealous, hun. In love with Dan?’
The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming Page 22