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

by Louise Jensen

  I don’t remember much about you but can recall sitting on your lap, your pink hair tickling my neck as you sang to me.

  I don’t know if my sister was adopted or just fostered like me, but perhaps the agency I used can find her too if you don’t know where she is and we can all be together?

  I can’t wait for us all to be a family. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve been dreaming of this FOREVER!!!!

  Write back and let me know when I can come. I’ve already packed!!!

  Lots of love,

  Your daughter,

  Belle xxxxxxxxxxx

  The letters are all different. Some are loving, some are pleading, some are hateful. It’s clear that Lexie never replied.

  The last letter sends shivers down my spine.

  You think you can ignore me? Think again.

  41

  Then

  I shuffled downstairs in my dressing gown, scooped up the post from the mat. There was a postcard of the Trevi Fountain. I flipped it over:

  ‘Back in Rome, can’t keep still! Love you lots, Charlie xxx’

  I’d hung a corkboard in the kitchen especially for the postcards that had arrived regularly over the six years since Charlie left. Each time one arrived, I felt a mixture of relief that she was still alive and fury that she never came back. The cards were piled on top of each other and the pins struggled to hold them in place. Often, I found them strewn all over the kitchen floor.

  I hadn’t seen her since we were eighteen. I’d never found out why she left, or what she had done that she wanted forgiveness for, but I followed her progress as she flitted from country to country, always going somewhere and not quite real to me any more. It was nice to be able to look forward to the post. The threatening letters had stopped once Charlie had left. I tried not to think about that too carefully. Tried not to jump to conclusions. Look at the facts, my old counsellor Paula would say. Siobhan’s parents had moved away straight after her funeral. Took Abby somewhere remote. Somewhere they thought they could keep her safe. Was there such a place?

  I sprinkled porridge oats into a pan, added milk. A proper breakfast to face the challenge today would bring. While it bubbled, I swished open the curtains in the lounge. Picked up Dan’s empty Foster’s cans and pizza box. The porridge steamed and I stirred in blueberries, poured orange juice and took my breakfast to the pergola outside. August had been dismal but September had brought an Indian summer. The sky was aquamarine blue and the clouds were white and fluffy. There was a slight breeze today; I’d be glad of that later.

  ‘I’m off.’

  Dan stuck his head outside the French doors.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d go today?’

  ‘I always play on a Saturday.’

  ‘I thought you’d come and support me.’

  ‘I’ve sponsored you, haven’t I? How often do you come to a match any more?’

  ‘Maybe if I wasn’t so busy cleaning up after you…’

  ‘Don’t start this again,’ Dan sighed.

  I clattered my spoon into my bowl and swept past him. ‘See you later, then.’

  He scuttled out the front door before my tears fell.

  My legs felt leaden as I clumped up the stairs. This constant bickering Dan and I had fallen into was exhausting. Would it have been different if Charlie had stayed or would she had been driven away by our fighting? I supposed that even if she’d stayed it didn’t mean she’d still be living with us. By now, she might have met someone and got married. It was hard to think of Charlie being married. Of being anything except the eighteen-year-old girl who loved to stand on the pub stool, waving a bottle of Bulmers cider around as she sang along to Madonna, Mike shouting at her to get her mucky feet off his upholstery. The pain was sharp when I thought Charlie had a whole life I’d never be a part of. A new best friend, most probably.

  It took three attempts to hoist up the sash window in the bedroom. When I did, I stuck my head outside, letting the warm breeze ruffle my hair. It was the hottest September for years. I remembered the last one. We’d been due back at school but instead Charlie, Esmée, Siobhan and I had sat in the woods, dangling our feet in the stream, pooling our packed lunches. It had felt so daring to skip school, and even though Grandma had found out and grounded me for two weeks, I’d thought I could do anything with the support of the others.

  Now, with Siobhan dead, Charlie god knows where, and Esmée living in London, there was only me, and I found I wasn’t so brave after all. Often, I had thought I could pack a rucksack. Go to the places on the postcards Charlie sent. Try to find her. But I knew I wouldn’t. Too scared I wouldn’t find her. Too scared I would. Besides, there was Dan, and underneath the sniping about leaving the cap off the toothpaste, the grumbling that the toilet seat was left up again, I did love him and I hoped he felt the same.

  The shower was cool, and afterwards, I lathered my summer-dry skin with lavender shower gel, shaved my legs. I didn’t always bother shaving any more, but they’d be on display today. My T-shirt smelled of fabric softener as I pulled it over my damp hair. I looped a scrunchie around my wrist for later, and headed out towards the village green.

  Grandma, Grandpa and Mum were already sat behind a rickety trestle table, handing numbers out to a queue of runners. I was pleased Mum had come. She was so happy with Oliver it seemed sometimes she’d forgotten Dad, but when I’d told her of my plan she’d been thrilled and said she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  ‘Morning. It’s a good turnout already.’ I shaded my eyes as I scanned the green.

  ‘Fifty registered so far. Who’d have thought the first village games would draw such a crowd? It was a fantastic idea, Grace.’

  ‘Thanks. I think the beer tent might help. I’m glad Lexie’s singing later.’ Lexie’s hostility had softened over the years and we were uneasy friends. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.

  ‘It’ll be great. Where’s Dan?’

  ‘Football. He’ll be here later.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  The bark of the oak tree was coarse against my palms as I leaned forward, stretching out my hamstrings. A hand tapped my shoulder and I straightened up.

  ‘Grace?’ The voice was soft. I stared at the trunk as adrenaline raced around my body. It can’t be. I didn’t dare look.

  ‘Grace?’

  I slowly turned.

  Charlie’s mouth turned upwards but her eyes didn’t light up, her skin didn’t crinkle. Tiny shorts hung from her hips, and collarbones jutted out beneath her vest top.

  A grubby pink rucksack thunked to the floor. ‘Ta-da!’ She fluttered jazz hands. Her smile slipped. ‘Say something.’

  I opened my mouth and closed it again.

  ‘A hug, at least?’ She stepped forward, opened her arms. I could feel her heart thudding, her ribs pressing against me. Her body juddered; the shoulder of my T-shirt was sodden. I pushed her away harder than I needed to.

  ‘Why did you go?’ I dug my nails into my palms. Tried to lower my voice. ‘Not one bloody phone call…’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ I crossed my arms.

  ‘I’ll explain everything. I promise. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘You disappeared without telling me. Ran off the minute Siobhan died.’ My hands twitched and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to slap her or hug her.

  ‘Didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘You couldn’t think of anything in the last six years?’

  ‘The longer I left it, the harder it got.’

  ‘The first race, the 200 metres, will begin in five minutes.’ Grandad sounded like a Dalek over the speaker system.

  ‘I’ve got to go. Look,’ I said, softening, ‘will you stay and watch? We’ll talk properly after. Your mum’s singing later. Does she know…’

  ‘No.’ Charlie’s face clouded. ‘But look.’ She gestured towards the crowd. ‘It’s a bit of an occasion, isn’t it?’


  ‘Grandma and I organised it. Didn’t expect it to be quite so popular.’

  ‘What’s it in aid of?’

  ‘It’s for charity. For head injuries.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s the fifteen-year anniversary soon. You know…’

  ‘I’ll run with you.’

  ‘You sure? You look knackered.’

  ‘I want to, unless you’re scared of the competition?’ Charlie grinned and I couldn’t help grinning too. She was so unmistakably Charlie. Unmistakably back. We’d sort everything out later.

  ‘Bring it on,’ I said. ‘I’ll even sponsor you.’

  At the start line, Charlie and I elbowed our way to the front. I knelt to tie my laces in a double knot. ‘You should do the same,’ I nodded towards her feet. She shook her head and jogged on the spot.

  ‘Are you back for good?’ I asked

  ‘I hope so. I never wanted to leave but I felt I had to.’ She bit her lip. ‘I did something terrible, Grace. I hope you can forgive me.’

  The starting pistol fired and I pumped my arms and legs as fast as I could, as if I were chasing her words. My ponytail swished against my neck. The sky was cloudless, the air muggy. I could hear the chant of the crowd. I didn’t look. I couldn’t take my eyes off Charlie, afraid she’d disappear before she had explained. What had she done? She was ahead of me. Ignoring the stitch in my side, I urged myself forward.

  ‘Come on, Grace!’ Grandma’s voice warbled my name, egging me on. The finishing line was ahead. With a final spurt, I lengthened my stride. I was practically level with Charlie now. Another push forward and I’d overtake her. We both reached out our arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her fall. She should have tied her laces properly. My hand swatted the yellow ribbon. I crossed the line, and as I tried to look behind me, I sprawled to the ground. There was a searing pain in my left ankle. Grandad jogged towards me as I whimpered on the grass, my hands massaging my swollen skin, and then past me. I turned. Charlie was lying motionless.

  ‘Call an ambulance!’ someone screamed, as I stumbled to my feet and limped towards Charlie. It might have been me that screamed.

  She was still.

  Too still.

  Lexie pushed past me. She knelt at her daughter’s side. ‘Charlie? What the fuck?’

  Get up. Get up. Get up.

  I felt an arm around my shoulder. Dan had come to watch after all. I shook him off, kneeling beside my best friend. The first-aid course the nursery had sent me on momentarily deserted me, but as I checked her pulse, everything came flooding back. I puffed air into her mouth and compressed her chest. One, two, three, four, five.

  ‘The ambulance? Where’s the fucking ambulance?’ I could hear Lexie screaming, but still I counted as I breathed into Charlie’s dry lips. One, two, three, four, five.

  Charlie didn’t respond. Her skin was waxy, and despite the heat of the sun she grew cooler. I counted as Lexie sobbed. I counted as Charlie didn’t move. The paramedics came and took over from me and when they eventually stopped and shook their heads I was still counting.

  42

  Now

  It’s two in the morning before I lock Lexie’s front door and stuff the key under the gnome. I scurry through the village, whimpering as a cat darts out from between two parked cars. I see Anna everywhere: behind branches that sway and whisper in the wind; crouching in shadowy bushes; lurking in darkened doorways. I pass through the centre of the village, the street lights less frequent now, and as I reach the outskirts, they disappear completely. I pause at the top of my lane. It stretches out before me like a gaping black mouth. The sky is clouded and I can’t see my cottage. My knees jerk as a bang shoots down the lane like a bullet. I’m about to run away when I hear it again, realise it’s my gate. Bloody Dan. My fists furl and unfurl by my sides and I sprint, stumbling over potholes, the carrier bag full of letters bumping against my thighs. I hurl myself at my front door, jab the key towards the lock once, twice, three times – and then I’m in. I slam the door behind me. Lean my back against it as I wait for the burning in my chest to subside.

  The fug of fresh paint catches in the back of my throat and I tramp upstairs, crack open the window in my bedroom; it doesn’t smell like home. Grandma has taken down the curtains to clean. My Laura Ashley wallpaper is soot-stained and peeling – the lemon and cream flowers are hardly recognisable – but I barely notice my surroundings as I sit cross-legged on the bare mattress, the coverless duvet draped around my shoulders. I sift through the letters, trying to make sense of the timeline. Anna started writing to Lexie a few weeks after she had turned eighteen. From memory, I think that was around the time Lexie changed. Previously just a social drinker, she had become drunk all the time, snappy and tearful. This was also the time I started getting threatening letters. Were they from Anna?

  Anna wrote to Lexie over a period of six months, tried to visit, but then the letters stopped. The letters to me stopped, too. Why? Had Anna met Lexie, met Charlie? Is that why Charlie disappeared? I’ve done something terrible Grace. Please forgive me. The words swim together as I try to focus through puffy eyes. I stifle my second yawn in less than a minute, pull on pyjamas that smell of Grandma’s washing powder, topple into bed and snap off the lamps.

  When I was small and couldn’t sleep, my dad would perch on the side of my narrow bed, his face glowing orange from my night light, and stroke my hair. ‘Think of ten nice things that have happened today,’ he’d say, and I’d list them one by one, never once letting on that the nicest thing of all was the sense that we were the only two awake in the world, safely cocooned in my sunflower-yellow bedroom.

  I feel anything but safe tonight. Despite the exhaustion that has seeped into my bones and the amount of alcohol I have drunk, sleep evades me. I lean over the side of the bed and rummage around for my handbag, pull out my sleeping tablets and shake one out – then think about the day I’ve had and rattle out a second. I hesitate as I read the warning on the bottle, thinking about the amount of vodka I have drunk – more than I’d usually have – but then I toss the tablets onto the back of my tongue and wash them down with the warm dregs from a bottle of Evian I bought at the station. I snuggle down, pulling the quilt tightly around my shoulders, breathing slowly, until sleep claims me.

  When Charlie and I were fourteen, my grandparents took us to the Isle of Wight. The wind bit my cheeks and blew my hair into my mouth as I swayed on the deck of the ferry, arms outstretched, licking droplets of salt water from my cherry chapsticked lips. I remember how disorientated I became: there was solidity beneath my feet and it seemed we were barely moving, but I was off balance. Saliva flooded my mouth and Charlie held my hair back as the contents of my stomach rocketed into the frothy slate sea.

  For a moment, I think I’m back on that boat. I have the same sense of movement and stillness and I feel nauseous. Soft fingers stroke my hair and hot breath warms my ear. My nostrils inhale the scent of Impulse body spray.

  ‘Grace,’ soothes a voice. Charlie? I know I’m dreaming, and blackness swirls and spins and tugs me under once more.

  Light slices through the windows and I massage my eyelids with my fingertips, trying to rub away the grogginess I feel. The smell of emulsion and gloss is suffocating; I can almost taste the paint. The back of my throat stings and my temples pulse with pain, but there’s another smell wafting into the room and I tell myself I’m mistaken, inhale deeply – but there it is again. Bacon.

  I jerk my head off the pillow, push myself to sitting, drawing my knees up to swing my legs out of bed. There is something cool and tight around my right ankle, slowing my movements. Throwing back the quilt, my mouth dries at the sight of an iron cuff, its chain trailing off the end of the bed. I think I must be sleeping still, and dig my nails into the soft flesh of my belly, but I don’t wake up. I spring forward onto my knees and hoist the chain with both hands. It’s heavier than it looks and it clanks as I tug it, but it doesn�
��t move. It’s hooked through the carvings at the base of my bed frame. There’s a second chain, an identical empty cuff. For my left leg? What’s going on? I reach for my phone but it’s missing; so is my lamp. I lean over the bed and my head spins. My handbag has gone too.

  Footsteps thud up the stairs and the bedroom door swings open.

  ‘Morning, Grace.’ Anna sashays into the room carrying a breakfast tray, except she doesn’t quite look like Anna any more. Her hair is white-blonde, shorter, bobbed. She’s wearing Charlie’s orange tie-dye T-shirt and, despite the freezing temperatures, her tiny white denim shorts. She looks just like the Charlie in the photograph downstairs.

  I scramble backwards, pressing my spine against the headboard.

  ‘The orange juice is freshly squeezed, just the way you like it. There’s brown sauce in the sandwich.’

  Terror has lodged in my throat and I try to scream, but whimper instead like a tormented puppy.

  ‘Are you OK? You had a late night. You really shouldn’t take these.’ She rattles my tablet pot. ‘It’s not a natural sleep.’

  Anna sets the tray down on the floor and as she leans forward, I notice my missing chain with the two broken half-hearts swinging from her neck, glinting in the light.

  ‘You fucking bitch.’ Fury shoves fear aside and I lunge towards her, but my reactions are dulled, clumsy and I’m too slow. Anna sidesteps to the door. The chain rattles, tightens, and I howl as I fall to the floor next to my breakfast, the metal cuff biting into my skin, the carpet grazing my knees. The smell of bacon makes me gag and I vomit over the tray.

  ‘That’s fucking ungrateful,’ Anna snaps and sweeps out of the room, leaves the door open as she clatters down the stairs.