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

by Jane Corry

  As I’m about to lock the door and head towards the main office to sign out, a shadow approaches. I jump. Although my brain registers that it’s an officer standing in front of me, my heart continues beating with fear. ‘The governor wants to see you.’

  At this time? Barry has died, I tell myself as I follow the woman with her crisp white shirt and black epaulettes. There’ll be a murder investigation. They’ll blame me for not watching everything. The papers will get hold of it. Some might say it’s what he deserved. Others will blame me for lack of supervision. What on earth did I think I was doing, coming here?

  ‘Alison.’ The governor beckons me in. His face is blank. It’s impossible to read it.

  He sits down in front of me on the other side of the desk. Picks up a pen in his right hand. There’s a piece of paper in front of him. ‘The thing is, Alison, that there’s been a development.’

  ‘Is Barry all right?’ I burst out.

  ‘That depends on what you call “all right”. He’s going to survive but, despite a few operations, they’ve been unable to save the sight in one eye.’

  Despite my relief, I find myself thinking that being partially blind is a small punishment for the lives of three children.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s something else. A member of staff has said they used the stationery cupboard shortly after you said you put the scissors back. They said it was open. There were drawing pins loose on the shelf. A real mess inside.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, but I do know I locked it. Honestly. It wasn’t my fault.’

  Not my fault. My sister was always saying that. She was the younger one; I was meant to be responsible. To look after her.

  ‘Who said it was open?’ I now add. ‘And why didn’t they say so at the time?’

  The pen is moving across the report sheet. ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you. The point is, Alison, that we are within our rights to suspend you.’

  My mouth is dry. Is this it?

  ‘But in view of the lack of corroborating evidence, I’m giving you a warning.’ The pen has stopped. The glasses are off. A pair of steely grey eyes stare at me. ‘We offered you this job, Alison, because we were impressed by your abilities as an artist and the way you handled yourself at the interview. But if anything like this happens again, we will have to let you go.’

  My heart is pounding as I leave. Is it fear? Or relief? I’m not sure I know any more.

  14

  December 2016

  Kitty

  Johnny didn’t come to Kitty’s room at the usual time.

  She spent ages waiting for him.

  ‘Don’t … get … upset,’ said Margaret. ‘He’s … probably … gone off … you … That’s … what … my … boyfriend … did in the … other … home … before I … came … here.’

  But Johnny wouldn’t do that. Would he? Perhaps it was because she’d messed up in the concert. More hot tears ran silently down Kitty’s cheeks. Maybe his mother had taken him home. He wouldn’t be missing her one bit.

  ‘Kitty? Are you still awake?’

  Her heart leaped with relief at the sight of the square-faced man with the short thick neck, kneeling by her bed. ‘You’re here,’ she babbled.

  ‘Did you think I wasn’t coming?’

  Johnny slid under the covers next to her. ‘I had to wait until Duncan had gone to sleep. I don’t trust him. Keeps asking me where I go at night.’

  Humm, hummm, sang Kitty in utter bliss as Johnny’s warm body snuggled up again, just like the other nights. How wonderful it was to feel his skin against hers.

  ‘I was so proud of you in the concert today. You were wonderful. I’ve always wanted a girlfriend.’

  Yes!

  ‘Will you marry me, Kitty? Shall we be together for ever and ever?’

  Kitty’s heart felt as if it was going to burst! Never had she felt anything like this before. It was as though she was flying. Running too! Dancing and –

  Fuck. Margaret had woken up. She was panting: just like she did when she had breathing problems. If she didn’t stop making that terrible noise, they’d get found out!

  ‘Who’s … gasp … there? What’s … gasp … going … on?’

  ‘It’s only me,’ said Johnny quickly. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Margaret’s gasps were getting worse. A bit like last time when she’d caused a diversion. But this sounded real.

  ‘I think she’s ill,’ said Johnny. His voice was sharp with panic. ‘We have to pull the emergency cord.’

  ‘But if we do that, the staff will come in,’ said Kitty.

  ‘I know that if we do that the staff will come in,’ said Johnny, as if he understood what she’d just said. ‘But we can’t leave her like this, Kitty. It’s wrong.’

  Cord. Alarm. Footsteps flying down the corridor.

  Johnny was sitting on the edge of the bed now. But his trousers were still undone.

  ‘Do them up,’ hissed Kitty.

  But this time he didn’t seem to get what she was saying. Perhaps it was because he was too busy trying to comfort Margaret, whose lips were turning blue.

  ‘Please wake up,’ begged Johnny, stroking her cheek. ‘Don’t die.’

  Don’t die. Kitty’s skin began to crawl. She had heard those words before. Where was it?

  ‘Don’t die, Margaret.’ Johnny’s voice got higher. Margaret’s face was pale, as though the blood had left.

  Kitty started shaking all over. Don’t die. Don’t die.

  15

  December 2016

  Alison

  If it wasn’t for the governor giving me my final warning, I might have told him about the note and the photograph. But there’s no way I can tell him now. He might think I was making it up to deflect attention. I need this job. Far better to lie low, keep my head down, I tell myself.

  At night my usual nightmares have now been joined by a bloody eye staring up at me. Last night, it was dripping black liquid. When I woke this morning, screaming, I had to check my nightdress to make sure it wasn’t stained. Of course, it wasn’t. But I still washed it, and my bedsheets.

  There’s something else too. According to his statement, Barry claims he hurt himself with those scissors ‘by accident’.

  ‘It’s what they say when they’re being bullied,’ Angela explained when I asked her about it. ‘Someone in that class of yours had it in for him. If he grassed, then he’d get it even worse.’

  Apparently none of the other men in my group had ‘seen anything’. So the police couldn’t press charges.

  ‘What about this member of staff who said the cupboard door was open?’ I asked Angela. ‘I don’t understand why they’d lie. Or why they waited to come forward.’

  ‘Maybe it was an officer who went off shift for a bit.’

  ‘Can you help me find out?’

  ‘Love, they all work odd hours. If you ask me, I wouldn’t make any trouble. Be grateful you’re still here.’

  Just what I’d told myself. Meanwhile, the stabbing makes me even more aware of the lack of security.

  ‘Can’t I have a guard for my classes?’ I asked the deputy governor.

  But apparently there aren’t ‘enough resources’. So my only protection is the whistle on my belt. It’s almost laughable. Except I’m terrified.

  On top of this, I am conscious of being watched myself. When I sign in for work, my keys are handed over with a heavy look that says, ‘Are you responsible enough for this?’ I watch my men like a hawk.

  They don’t trust me. And I don’t trust them. At least there are no more anonymous notes. It suddenly strikes me that Barry might have been the culprit because I hadn’t paid enough attention to his cat pictures. What a horrible man. Yet, if I’m right – and I’m pretty sure I am – it’s also a relief to know that I don’t have to worry any more.

  I try to distract myself at the weekend with a day out at the Victoria and Albert. It’s one of my favourite museums. The stained-glass windows in the dining room alone are wort
h visiting. On the way home I stop off at a charity shop to stock up on my scarf supply. But then I remember what the governor said that first day about prisoners working in places like this. I hurry out. Nowhere feels safe any more. My initial relief that I was safe because Grandad Barry has been taken away has been replaced by an insidious feeling of unease.

  Christmas is fast approaching. This is, I am discovering, a strange time in prison. Men are edgy. Desperate for their families.

  On the out (as I am learning to call the outside world), there’s a tangible air of excitement. My stained-glass workshop students are keen to finish their panels in time to give them as presents to their nearest and dearest. Beryl’s is intended for her daughter in York.

  ‘Will it be safe to send in the post?’ she asks.

  I think of all the hard work that’s gone into her blue and scarlet tulip.

  ‘Why not wait until you see her?’

  She purses her lips with disappointment. ‘That might not be until Easter.’

  York isn’t that far. What kind of daughter doesn’t visit a mother whose legs aren’t strong enough to travel herself?

  I don’t see my mother enough either. The memories of my sister hang too heavily between us. Especially at Christmas, when families are meant to be together. I steer my mind away from thinking about that first awful December.

  Lead Man is the only one not to discuss who he’s giving his panel to. Part of me is curious. I think of that Disney watch in his pocket. Does he have a child? Is he married? But the other part doesn’t want to ask in case he sees it as a come-on. That declined invitation to dinner is an unspoken barrier between us. In another life, I might like him.

  But this isn’t another life. It’s now.

  As I drive to and from the prison, the shops are hysterical in their secular festive messages. Buy from me now. Save money. Charm your family into loving you by smothering them with presents. A youth squats in a doorway with tinsel on his head. He reminds me of one of ‘my’ men who claims my classes are ‘cool, miss’. It gives me a buzz, despite that uneasy feeling that just won’t go away.

  We’re making cards at the moment. I can’t call them Christmas cards because there are lots of different faiths here. So some of the men make their own for their particular festivals at other times of the year. Diversification is a big word in prison, I am learning. Carefully, I cut out the shapes at home with my own scissors. That way, I don’t have to check the stationery cupboard lock over and over again.

  ‘Pretty colours,’ says Kurt as he admires the red, silver and gold cut-outs. ‘Can I put glitter on mine?’

  Once more I am reminded of how childish some of these grown-up murderers and rapists can be.

  The cards are going on display in the main hall, near the governor’s office. So too are the other pictures we’ve been working on, including the portraits.

  ‘Are you going to put up yours too, miss?’ asks Kurt. ‘The one that Stefan did of you.’

  I don’t want to. For a start, it reminds me of the terrible scissor accident. And secondly, it brings back the mutilated photograph and the I’M GOING TO GET YOU. But if I refuse, then I’m depriving Stefan of the right to show his picture. So up it goes.

  There’s a concert the week before Christmas with a mixture of carols and also non-religious songs and readings. Afterwards, the governor comes up to me.

  ‘I’ve had some good feedback about your work. The portrait exhibition has attracted a lot of interest.’ His mouth forces itself into an uneasy smile. ‘Not sure it’s such a sensible idea to put yourself up there, mind you.’

  I flush. ‘We had uneven numbers in the class. I had to allow one of the prisoners to draw me.’

  His lips tighten. ‘Just be careful, Alison. Always keep a distance.’

  I try, I want to say. But he has gone, weaving in through the audience of board members and visiting dignitaries. I get the feeling that, although I haven’t left any more stationery cupboards unlocked, I’ve messed up one more time.

  Right now, I can’t wait to get out, even though I’ve agreed to come back between Christmas and New Year. ‘The other staff have kids,’ says Angela pointedly. ‘They need their time off.’

  The concert is over now. ‘Happy Christmas, miss,’ says Kurt as I get ready to sign out.

  Mum’s house might have too many memories. But at least I’m not spending this time of the year in a cell. ‘Thank you, Kurt. You too.’

  Aware of my hollow words, I walk down through the main hall, glancing up at my portrait as I do so.

  There’s something small and red written in the left-hand corner of the portrait. Something that surely wasn’t there before.

  SEE YOU SOON.

  My mouth goes dry. I’d thought I was safe after Grandad Barry. But now it looks like someone else is behind these messages. Unless I have more than one stalker. I wouldn’t put anything past this place. How many times have I thought of leaving? But the bills won’t get paid on their own.

  Goose pimples break out down my arms. Hastily, I reach into my bag for a pen and scribble out the words. Then I walk briskly – almost running – into the office to sign out.

  ‘Have a good one,’ says the officer.

  It’s the first time since the scissor episode that this particular woman has spoken to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter. ‘You too.’

  As I walk towards the car I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a friendly message.

  When I get into the car, my mobile – safely stored in the dashboard – is flashing. I have a voicemail.

  ‘Alison?’ It’s my mother. ‘Can you ring and tell me what time you’re arriving tomorrow please? I can’t wait to see you, darling.’

  SEE YOU SOON.

  I can’t tell her about the message. She’d never let me come back.

  But the words keep dancing round my head. What does it mean?

  My phone pings in my hand, indicating an incoming email. It’s from the college where I run my stained-glass course. A reminder for the Christmas dinner in a couple of days which I had somehow forgotten.

  Not, of course, that I’m going.

  Christmas has never been the same without my sister.

  And it seems that however hard I try, it’s impossible to move on.

  Sirens.

  Screaming.

  Or is that the sea?

  A wave hurtling towards me.

  Under.

  Under.

  And then up again.

  Screaming.

  Coffee spilt on paper.

  The summer house.

  There has to be a link. Somewhere.

  16

  December 2016

  Kitty

  Kitty hadn’t been able to move when Bossy Supervisor had seen them. She couldn’t move much anyway, of course, but this was different.

  Paralysis by fear.

  Not just because of Bossy Supervisor’s shocked, angry face. But because of the memory that had been triggered.

  Don’t die.

  Her skin was still all goosebumpy. Who had said that? And when?

  ‘Thank goodness you’re here!’ gasped Johnny, before Bossy Supervisor could open her mouth.

  ‘Margaret was having breathing problems,’ he continued. ‘That’s why we pulled the alarm. She got frightened and lashed out at poor Kitty. Just look at her pyjama top. It’s all torn.’

  Kitty had to hand it to Johnny. Torn pyjama top? He’d been so eager just now that he’d ripped it open himself! Talk about quick-thinking.

  Very Thin Carer was rushing in now with an oxygen machine. That was good. Kitty didn’t want Margaret to die. A new roommate might not allow Johnny’s night-time visits. Besides, she liked Margaret, even though she could be a bit weird at times.

  ‘Would you like to explain what you are doing in the girls’ wing?’ snapped Bossy Supervisor.

  Johnny put on his bashful look. Kitty had seen him doing this before. It was a mixture of I’m really sorry and You’re
not going to tell me off, are you? Very effective!

  ‘After the concert, Margaret said I had to look after her glasses very, very carefully.’ He put his hand in his pocket and brought out the same pair that Kitty had seen quite clearly only a few minutes ago, next to her friend’s bed. ‘I thought she might need them now. She likes a bit of a read in bed. That’s what she’s always telling us.’

  How wonderfully clever.

  ‘Then you should have told one of the carers instead of bringing them here yourself.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Johnny’s voice was particularly slow and sorry now. ‘But I was still feeling really, really excited after the concert. I wanted to tell the girls how great they were.’

  There was a hint of hesitation on Bossy Supervisor’s face. Kitty held her breath. Johnny might look different with those slightly slit eyes and intense way of staring. But he knew how to make people like him. Including her.

  ‘And would you like to explain why your trousers are undone?’

  Johnny looked down as if this was news to him. ‘Whoops! Must have forgotten to do them up after the loo.’ He shook his head. ‘I do that sometimes. Sorry.’

  Don’t bloody giggle, Kitty told herself sharply. It might give the game away.

  ‘I think Margaret had breathing problems because it’s so hot,’ he added.

  How clever. He was deflecting the blame away from them.

  ‘It is hot,’ said the carer, putting away the oxygen equipment. ‘I can’t breathe myself. Must be the thermostat again. Perhaps you’d better get the plumber back.’

  ‘I’ve already left a message but it’s hard to get anyone at this time of the year.’ Bossy Supervisor’s mouth tightened. ‘It looks like there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. But I don’t want it to leak out that Johnny was found in the girls’ wing. Got it, everyone?’

  Kitty shook her head but it came out as up and down.

  ‘She … means … no,’ said Margaret, whose breathing was getting back to normal now.

  ‘I’ll be off, then,’ said Johnny quickly. ‘Don’t leave your glasses behind again, will you, Margaret?’