Blood Sisters: The #1 bestselling thriller from the author of My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  ‘Very pleasant.’ Bossy Supervisor’s words were clipped. It was the first nice thing she’d said about Kitty since the running away from the man with the flabby face.

  ‘Would you like to try it out here, Johnny?’ the blonde woman was saying. ‘Just for a night or two to see if you enjoy it?’

  Kitty couldn’t remember anyone asking her that. ‘Maybe.’ The newcomer was staring at her as he spoke. Kitty could feel her cheeks getting hotter and hotter.

  ‘Time to pack up now,’ announced Bossy Supervisor. ‘Thank you very much, everyone.’

  Johnny was looking back over his shoulder as he lumbered down the corridor with the tall blonde woman. Barbara had noticed too. ‘Maybe he’ll be a friend for you.’

  ‘We’re … not … allowed … boyfriends … here,’ chipped in Margaret.

  ‘But boys can be friends,’ said Barbara, more sharply this time.

  Kitty’s skin prickled. Boys?

  The words reminded her of something. Something bad.

  ‘Stop banging your head like that!’

  But it was the only way to stop the nasty feeling which was sucking her up like a deep black cloud. Even though Kitty couldn’t, for the life of her, understand why.

  7

  November 2016

  Alison

  WELCOME ALISON BAKER. YOU’RE HERE AT LAST.

  CAN’T WAIT TO MEET YOU.

  My hand is shaking. The note it is holding is made up of letters that are cut out individually from a magazine.

  I’d arrived early for class so I’d gone to my staff pigeon hole to check for post. Normally, I don’t have anything. But today was different.

  A brown envelope. Internal mail.

  For a minute I stare at the words. Try to think my way around it. Could it be something innocent? But no one knows my surname, apart from the staff.

  There’s a knock on the door. My men have started to arrive. I stuff the note in my pocket and I open up. Ready for business.

  ‘What made you come here, miss? Most of us want to get out.’

  The question comes from Barry, a small man with a head like a light bulb. Big on top and narrow at the chin. His mug has BEST GRANDAD IN THE WORLD written on the side. Everyone calls him Grandad. Until now I’ve found his questions a diversion – even flattering – but right now I am a mess.

  I glance up at the window. I know that officers walk past the art room every quarter of an hour. But the main office is a good ten minutes’ walk from here.

  ‘Because I want to be able to help people enjoy art as much as I do,’ I say briskly, rifling through the stationery cupboard in the corner. Anything to keep my hands busy.

  Barry nods, apparently satisfied. I shiver, recalling Angela’s latest advice. ‘Don’t give away anything personal,’ she’d told me. ‘They can use it to get at you. Once we had a teacher who told her class she was getting married. One of her men kept stalking her round the prison, promising her the world if she married him instead.’

  ‘That’s awful!’ I’d been appalled.

  ‘She reported him to the governor but he kept on doing it. So he got sent to another prison. Freaked her out, it did.’

  Angela had made a what can you do? face. ‘The blokes here can do odd things when there are women around.’

  YOU’RE HERE AT LAST. CAN’T WAIT TO MEET YOU.

  Could one of my students be the culprit? I only have two. Barry and Kurt.

  Yes, Kurt is here too. Grinning at me with those stained teeth. Watching me as I bend over his sheet of paper. The thing about teaching art is that you have to get quite close physically to your students when helping them with a drawing. Not ideal in a prison situation. But Angela likes him, and I trust her.

  Today we’re working on cartoon cats. It’s not my speciality but Barry wants to post a picture to his grandchildren. ‘They love kittens,’ he says with a sad voice.

  I try to focus on the image of him and his grandchildren instead of the note burning a hole in my pocket. I do a ‘cat demo’ on the whiteboard with a felt pen, using circles for the body and head with straight lines for whiskers.

  ‘Is mine better than his, miss?’ asks Kurt. He’s putting me on the spot and he knows it.

  ‘Art isn’t like that,’ I say. ‘You judge each piece of work on its own merits.’

  ‘Like breaking the law?’

  I try not to be spooked by his grin.

  ‘Grandad here got off lightly, if you ask me. Want to know what he did?’

  ‘Fuck off, Kurt.’

  The older man’s voice comes out as a low growl. I prickle with nerves.

  ‘Come on, Grandad. You’re scaring our artist lady. Be nice now.’

  ‘Artist lady’ is the tag which Kurt has recently ascribed to me. It manages to convey a mixture of amusement and sarcasm without being out-and-out offensive. I don’t correct him because I suspect this is just what he wants.

  It’s a relief when class has finished. Kurt leaps up to hold open the door for me. ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘but you need to go first so I can lock up.’

  He smiles that horrible grin. ‘Want any help tidying up?’

  Is it Kurt I should be afraid of?

  ‘No thank you.’ I breathe a sigh of relief as he finally saunters away.

  At lunch I’m desperate to confide in Angela about the note. But something – I’m not sure what – stops me.

  Instead, I tell her about the class. About the man they call Grandad and my cat lesson. Try to eat my macaroni cheese without thinking too much about what might be in there.

  ‘You mean Barry?’ My new friend pauses mid-mouthful. Her face suddenly looks white. ‘He’s in your group? And he’s drawing cats?’

  ‘Isn’t that allowed?’ My heart is suddenly hammering. What have I done?

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ Angela shakes her head and puts the fork down. ‘That man was put away for – murdering children.’ She shudders. ‘Three of them. You might have read about the case. It was in the mid-sixties.’

  ‘Before I was born,’ I say.

  ‘Right. Silly me. Anyway, when the police caught him, they found his whole house full of cats. Beautifully cared for, they were. Then they discovered human remains in the cat food …’

  I want to vomit. ‘So why does his family still keep up with him?’

  ‘Doesn’t get any visitors as far as I know.’

  My skin is cold. ‘But he’s got a Best Grandad mug.’

  ‘Probably bought it himself. They can do that, you know. The men get a list of stuff they are allowed to order in.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To fool us? Fool himself, maybe? Pretend that he was a nice regular guy.’ Angela lowers her voice. ‘Listen, Alison. Lots of people here lie. Many have secrets. You’ll come across some very deceptive customers. And some decent ones too. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. My advice is to make use of Kurt. He might have an odd manner. But he knows everyone here. Ask him to find you more students. And just make sure you have him in the room when Barry’s there.’

  ‘What did Kurt do?’ I whisper, still shaking.

  Angela looks as though she’s about to tell me. Then she stops and flicks back her long jet black hair. ‘You’re better off not knowing. But believe me, he’s not the one you want to worry about.’

  The note. Then the revelation about Barry’s crime. It’s all too much. I’m still wobbly as I get to college that night. Yet I also feel a sense of relief. Students who haven’t committed a crime are exactly what I need right now. My stained-glass group is already waiting for me in the classroom. The only person who isn’t there is the man with the strong jawline. Clive. Alias Lead Man. I feel a brief stab of disappointment. Then bury it quickly.

  ‘Evening, Alison!’ There’s a chorus of excited voices. Tonight is a big event in the world of my stained-glass students.

  ‘How was your day?’ asks my horsey-faced student brightly.

  I could say I’ve been helping a child-killer t
o draw cartoon cats. But instead, I deflect the question. ‘How was yours?’

  ‘Bit dull, to be honest. You know. Housework. Mucking out. Couldn’t wait to get here. Left the husband with macaroni cheese in the Aga.’

  Macaroni cheese. Never again. It’s irretrievably bound up in my mind with kittens and cat food and …

  ‘Right, everyone!’ I say with a false conviviality. ‘Gloves on? Goggles?’

  ‘All ready!’ beams Beryl. As she speaks, there’s a purr outside. I glance through the window. A sleek silver Porsche is gliding into the car park. A tall man in a green checked Barbour is getting out. Lead Man.

  I don’t appreciate latecomers when I’ve started a demo. It interrupts my flow. Helping someone catch up means there’s less time for those who have bothered to get here on time.

  ‘Sorry.’ Lead Man throws me an apologetic glance as he hurries in. ‘Board meeting went on for longer than I thought.’

  I might have guessed. A director type. I don’t ask my students what they do because often they come here to escape. I am reminded of the unspoken ‘don’t ask’ rule in prison.

  Focus, Alison.

  ‘We’re about to see if the glass will fit into your shapes,’ I say.

  After my demo – I feel the old thrill of satisfaction as my piece of glass fits perfectly despite my jangling nerves – I sit down with each student in turn to help. I leave Lead Man to last. Partly as a punishment. And partly because he makes me feel nervous in a way I still don’t understand. Even though he hasn’t asked me out for dinner again, and has only been politeness itself since.

  ‘I really am sorry about being late,’ he says in a low voice.

  ‘It’s fine. Honestly.’

  Maybe I’ve got him wrong. He’s not threatening. He just has good manners. But then our hands brush accidentally as I help to trim a sharp edge of glass. Something passes from him to me – a sizzle of something dangerous and exciting.

  ‘Sorry,’ we both blurt out at the same time.

  ‘I’ve done it!’ squeals Beryl. ‘Look, Alison.’

  My heart soars. Her picture fits. It’s a blue tulip against a scarlet sky. ‘Careful,’ I say quickly. ‘We need to secure it.’

  Smash. Too late. The pieces have fallen. I help my distraught student to pick them up.

  ‘How clumsy of me!’

  ‘It’s happened to me too,’ I reassure her. ‘We can do it again.’ Then I take the shattered shards out to the side room. I wrap one of them in my handkerchief for later. I can feel the need building already.

  ‘You did a great job there,’ says Clive, who is the last one to leave. ‘I really admire the way you saved the day. In fact –’

  ‘Thanks,’ I interrupt, suddenly panicking. ‘I’ve got to lock up now. See you next week.’

  I watch him walk out of the building towards his flashy car. Part of me – the bit that felt his hand brush mine earlier – is filled with regret. The rest feels that if my sister can’t enjoy life, then nor should I.

  I rush into the side room. Reach for the piece of glass. I hold it against my wrist, savouring the moment like an alcoholic cradling a bottle.

  I can’t wait any longer.

  And I’m not just talking about the cut.

  A locket.

  Still lying against warm skin.

  A stranger’s voice.

  Floating in and out.

  A siren.

  Then nothing.

  ‘Nothing comes of nothing.’

  I learned that somewhere.

  Where?

  When?

  Or am I just imagining all of this?

  8

  November 2016

  Kitty

  How long had she been in this room all on her own? Hard to know. They’d definitely given her more than three meals. Cereal. Cottage pie. Omelette. She could remember a lasagne, too.

  The cottage pie had made a terrible mess on the floor when she’d chucked it. It had even got into the chair spokes. The lasagne had been muckier still.

  ‘Naughty girl,’ scolded Fussy Carer, getting down on her knees.

  ‘It’s your fault,’ Kitty said, thumping her good fist on the food tray. ‘I’ve told you before. Well, tried to. I went off meat after that programme about cows.’

  ‘No good babbling like that. You’re not the one who’s going to be late home now.’

  Home. Kitty ran the word round in her head. Home was what you saw on television with people lying on sofas or having arguments like in EastEnders. But she also knew that real ‘home’ was where Friday Mum lived. At least, she thought so. She just couldn’t remember ever being there.

  There wasn’t a television here in this room they’d put her in. Just four white walls and a mattress. No bed frame because she might hurt herself on it. Just like she’d hurt her head on the wheelchair.

  ‘That’s a right old bruise you’ve got there,’ said Fussy Carer, more gently this time. ‘Does it still hurt?’

  Of course it bloody hurt. And the worst thing was that Barbara had seen her bang her head on the chair with anger. What would she think?

  But as soon as she thought of Barbara, her words came back to her. ‘Boys can be friends too.’

  Then she’d had to scream and lash out all over again.

  Six more meals passed. That meant two days.

  Someone was coming. Kitty could hear approaching footsteps in the corridor. She squeezed her good hand into a ball with fear.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’

  Phew! It was Bossy Supervisor. Irritation followed relief. Where else was she bloody well going to be? She was the one who’d stuck her in a room away from everyone else in case she upset the other ‘residents’. It almost made them sound like they were in a hotel. If only. She’d seen hotels on telly and they looked really cool.

  ‘I hear you’ve been a good girl at last. No more meals on the floor. Or headbanging.’ Bossy Supervisor was addressing her as though she were a child. ‘If I let you go back to your old room, will you continue to behave?’

  Kitty nodded her head. But instead it came out as a shake. Left to right. Right to left.

  ‘No?’ There was a frown.

  Maybe if she shook her head from side to side, it would go the other way. Sometimes that worked. Up and down. Down and up. Thank goodness for that.

  ‘Very well.’ Bossy Supervisor didn’t look that convinced. ‘But you behave. Got it?’

  Smiley Carer was waiting in her proper room. ‘We’ve had someone new join us since you’ve been away. Nice young man. I think you’ve seen him before. Johnny, he’s called. Charming everyone he is.’

  ‘YES, YES, YES!’

  ‘Excited, are you? It is nice to have a fresh face. I agree with that.’

  This carer was one of the ones who pretended to know what you said. They usually got it wrong but this time she was in the right ballpark. ‘Sharing with Duncan, he is. Rather him than me, I can tell you.’

  Kitty couldn’t agree more. Duncan had a habit of scratching himself raw as though he had fleas. (He didn’t.) There didn’t seem any real reason for the scratching. But when they had bound his hands, Duncan cried. So instead he wore gloves.

  Smiley Carer had put her into some new clothes and was wheeling her into the day lounge. Johnny would be here! Kitty put her good hand up to the hair peeping out from under the helmet. ‘Do I look all right?’ she asked. If only she was allowed a mirror in her room! But because of her headbanging, it had been taken away. Hummmm. Hummmm.

  ‘I know! Pleased to be back, aren’t you? Here’s Kitty, everyone!’

  This was announced as if she’d just come back from holiday like the ones on television which were dirt cheap if you booked super quick. ‘Hello!’ said Johnny.

  But then his face turned scared. ‘What have they done to you?’

  Kitty’s cheeks began to burn. What did he mean?

  Duncan cut in. ‘You’ve got a big gap in your teeth. Ugly, ugly.’

  ‘That’s enough,
Duncan,’ said the carer quickly. ‘We know about that. It’s where she hit her head on the chair. The dentist will sort it.’

  Kitty felt a hot tear sliding down her cheek.

  ‘I think you look lovely,’ said Johnny. Then he walked over and put out his hand and actually held hers.

  Kitty thought she was going to die of happiness.

  ‘I think we’d better let go of our hands, shall we? Now, is everyone ready for Barbara? She’s coming straight after lunch for some more band practice. Meanwhile, I’ve got some exciting news! There’s going to be a concert and we’re going to invite your families.’

  Smiley Carer’s eyes rested on Kitty when she said that last bit. Why? Something was going on.

  ‘The local paper will be there too,’ she continued. Would you like to join in, Johnny?’

  ‘Can I sit next to Kitty?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘Hmm. We’ll see.’

  Johnny’s eyes blinked rapidly. ‘I don’t want to do it if I can’t sit by her.’

  ‘Someone’s got a crush!’ (Scratch, scratch.)

  ‘Nonsense, Duncan,’ butted in Very Thin Carer. ‘You know it’s strictly against the rules for residents to be overfamiliar.’

  But when she turned away, Johnny grabbed Kitty’s hand again. It made her knees feel all wobbly. How would it feel to be snogged like they were always doing in EastEnders? But then the actors always shouted at each other afterwards. Or threw things.

  Johnny wouldn’t do that, though. He would protect her, like the good TV boyfriends did. Just look at the way he was smiling at her right now! Kitty’s heart began to float. Right up to the ceiling with its brown cloud stains. Never before had she felt so happy! Hummm! Hummm!

  ‘Kitty,’ called out Smiley Carer kindly. Quickly, Johnny dropped her hand. Kitty felt a pang in her chest. ‘Time for the dentist. I’m afraid you’ll have to miss practice.’

  No! She wanted to stay with Johnny.

  Kitty began to shriek. Really high. It was, she’d learned over the years, very effective in voicing disapproval.

  ‘If you don’t stop, I’m afraid we’ll have to send you back to the quiet room again.’