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

by Jane Corry

  This time, Kitty couldn’t help it. A small giggle escaped from her mouth. Luckily it came out as a gurgle. Johnny would be back when the fuss had died down. She just knew it. At last, she had a proper boyfriend. She loved him. And he loved her.

  It was, Kitty thought with a lovely warm feeling in her tummy, all she’d ever wanted. That and getting her memory back, of course.

  Maybe if she closed her eyes and thought very, very hard, she might work out what Don’t die meant.

  But, try as she might, it wouldn’t come back. And before she knew it, it was time for breakfast again.

  17

  23 December 2016

  Alison

  The college dinner is being held in an Italian restaurant not far from Waterloo Station. ‘You should go,’ said Mum when I’d stupidly mentioned it during an early evening phone call. ‘Honestly. You can come down to me later instead. I’m always saying you need more fun in your life. Your sister wouldn’t want you to be a hermit.’

  Maybe she has a point. If our positions had been reversed, I know very well that she’d be out right now partying. Besides, I’ve been going crazy with all those thoughts whirling around. So, against my better judgement, I decide to accept.

  SEE YOU SOON.

  Who is behind all this?

  As I arrive, jazz music fills the air. Arty-looking types in pastel-coloured pashminas weave in and out. There are tulip-yellow tablecloths. Instantly I know I like this place, although I now regret choosing the black trousers and roll-neck top I’d worn during my last class at Archville.

  I recognize some of the tutors by sight at the big noisy table and walk over.

  ‘Alison!’ calls out someone, waving his hand.

  I stop dead. It’s Lead Man. Sitting next to the only empty space.

  He looks different. More relaxed than his college persona. His clothes are what my mother would call ‘smart casual’: crisp pink and white shirt with dark navy jeans. He jumps up and for a minute I think he’s going to kiss me on both cheeks. But instead, he pulls out the chair for me. I can tell that this is the sort of man who would leap out of the driver’s seat and open the passenger door for you.

  ‘They weren’t sure if you were coming.’

  Now I’m closer, I realize that the ‘relaxed’ veneer is a front. In fact, his fingers are actually shaking as much as mine as he rearranges, unnecessarily, the cutlery on the table.

  I feel a sudden need to make it all right.

  ‘You look different without your pinny,’ I say.

  I speak just as the waiter comes up to take our order. His expression is priceless. Lead Man and I look at each other. For a split-second, there is silence. Then we both start to laugh at the same time until tears are running down our faces.

  And after that, it’s all right.

  My laughter is a release. I’m laughing like there’s no tomorrow. Not because of the pinny image, but because I’m no longer in that place. I’m not sure why Lead Man is laughing so much. The apron joke isn’t that funny. Maybe it’s relief too. It’s rather reassuring that he’s not as confident as I’d assumed from the flash car and the big job.

  ‘Hi, Alison,’ waves my horsey-faced student from the other end of the table. ‘Love the stars!’

  What?

  Lead Man reaches across and plucks something from my hair. It’s a sparkly red sticky shape. ‘It must have been caught in my jumper,’ I bluster, embarrassed by his unexpectedly intimate gesture.

  ‘You’ve been teaching at a school?’ asks Lead Man, smiling.

  ‘I’ve been in prison, actually.’

  The man opposite – whom I don’t know – glances across at me nervously. Lead Man seems unsettled too.

  ‘You mean …’

  He stops.

  ‘Not in prison as in having done something wrong,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m an artist in residence at a prison.’ I raise my voice slightly so no one else gets the wrong idea.

  ‘What kind of prison?’ Lead Man’s eyes are sparkling with interest. The only person who knows is my mother, and she’s horrified. It’s not as though I have friends any more (my own choice), so I can’t gauge what their reactions would be. ‘Actually, it’s a prison for men.’

  His eyebrows rise.

  ‘An open one,’ I add.

  ‘Can you tell us more?’ Curiosity is oozing out of him.

  I look down. There is a gold star on my trousers too.

  ‘Some of the men have short sentences left because they’re at the end of their time,’ I say slowly.

  ‘So what kind of things have they done?’

  Lead Man suddenly looks serious. I’m also aware that the man opposite has gone silent as though he’s waiting for my answer too.

  Murder. Rape. Grievous bodily harm.

  I could say all of these. But I don’t want to. If I do, I might find myself telling this nice man everything. The stabbing, the child killer, the strange messages I am so desperately trying to forget.

  ‘Lots of different things,’ I say airily.

  ‘Is it part of an education programme?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes and no. It’s partly to increase their confidence.’

  There’s a harrumph from the man opposite.

  ‘Because,’ I continue more loudly, ‘it’s been shown that it can reduce the risk of reoffending. I know. It sounds a bit airy-fairy, doesn’t it? I thought the same when I was told this at my interview. But, in fact, it seems to work.’

  I don’t allow myself to think of half-blind Barry and those poor children. I think instead of Stefan who has potential and whose portrait I’m going to enter for a national competition.

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  A pair of scissors dances in the air before me. And that glassy stare. The blood. I can almost hear the screams.

  ‘It could be if you’re not careful,’ I say slowly.

  Lead Man’s eyes hold me steadily. ‘I think you’re very brave,’ he says. To my surprise, he places a hand on mine. Just for a second. His skin scorches me. I want to move but I can’t. Then he takes his away.

  I’m so embarrassed that I knock over my glass of elderflower and it spills all over him. How awful! He has to go to the Gents to dry off his jeans. ‘No problem,’ he says kindly afterwards, our eyes locking again.

  Mercifully, at that point our meals arrive. ‘Wine?’ he offers, lifting a bottle.

  ‘I don’t drink, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m not a great drinker myself. I prefer to be in control.’

  ‘Me too.’

  My other students are at the far end of the table. I should talk more to the stranger on my left but I find that I want to know more about Lead Man. Despite everything, there’s something which draws me to him in a way I cannot explain.

  ‘Where do you work?’ I ask, tucking into my prawn cocktail. A slightly naff choice, I know, but I’ve always loved it. My father used to make it sometimes, according to my mother. It was one of the few things she’d ever told me about him.

  ‘One of my offices is nearby,’ he says casually, distracting me from my moment of sadness.

  One of his offices?

  ‘I own a manufacturing business.’ He places his fork down on the plate as he speaks. He too has chosen prawn cocktail. ‘Sounds a bit dull, doesn’t it?’

  I feel myself go red. It’s as if he’s read my mind.

  ‘Not at all,’ I lie, picking off another star from my trousers.

  ‘My people in the Far East make pretty paper lanterns that I then sell over here.’ He’s leaning towards me in the way that people do when they’re enthusiastic about something. ‘I love beautiful things. Especially if they’re a pretty colour. Always have done. It’s why I signed up for your course.’

  Then he leans back with a little sigh. I often do the same myself. It escapes through your mouth without you realizing it.

  ‘My parents expected me to go into law or accounting. So I compromised with a business degree. Did my time, as it were.’ We both
make a half-smile in recognition of the ‘time’ word in relation to his work and mine. ‘Then I made some good investments and set up my first venture.’ His eyes meet mine again. ‘What about you? How did you get into art?’

  My back starts to sweat. My mouth goes dry. I take a swig of sparkling water. ‘I was going to read history at university but then changed my mind and did art instead.’

  ‘Really?’ He flicks back that flop of hair. ‘Why?’

  I shrug. ‘Last-minute change of plan.’

  Thankfully, he appears to find that amusing.

  ‘Now I freelance,’ I say swiftly. ‘I prefer it.’

  ‘Me too. Couldn’t bear to work for someone else now.’ He bats away the air as if the threat is actually physical.

  Swiftly, I turn the subject to other things. We talk about art exhibitions. The Royal Academy is his favourite gallery. We both love films in translation and running along the Thames (something I haven’t had time to do for ages). Neither of us mentions our family. Nor do we ask each other that question that everyone else does at this time: ‘What are you doing for Christmas and New Year?’

  The evening goes faster than I realize.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he says, ‘but I have an early start.’

  Immediately, I’m embarrassed. I’ve delayed him by talking too much. And I’ve ignored the others around me.

  Then he says something that assuages my fears. ‘I wish I could stay longer.’

  He doesn’t explain why he has an early start. But I am reminded of the child’s watch in his pocket. Does he have kids? I want to ask. But I don’t want to appear too forward.

  ‘I need to go too.’

  ‘May I walk you to your car?’

  Horsey-woman’s eyebrows rise as she watches us go. I’m embarrassed. But also flattered.

  ‘So,’ he says, as he accompanies me to my scuffed Beetle which, ironically, is parked just behind his shiny silver Porsche, ‘do you have any spaces left on your next course?’

  ‘Just the one,’ I say lightly.

  There’s a man sitting in a doorway beside us. I wish I had something to give him but my companion silently drops a pound coin into the bowl by his feet.

  ‘I can’t commit yet because of work,’ continues Lead Man, without referring to his charitable act. ‘But I’d love to do it if I can. May I confirm with the college in January?’

  My euphoria is now replaced with a sickening rush of disappointment. ‘Of course.’

  Then I drive off. Telling myself that I had no right to expect anything else. It was just a Christmas college dinner. Perhaps he doesn’t fancy me. Maybe he’s committed. After all, he didn’t even ask me for my number. Would I have given it to him if he had? Yes. No. I’m not sure.

  Letting myself into the flat, I head straight for my emergency box of glass bits. Quickly I press one to the palm of my hand. A small trickle of blood starts to seep out. I feel a flash of pain combined with relief.

  Just as I’m about to go further there’s a knock on the door.

  It’s my landlord, shifting from one maroon-slippered foot to the other as if embarrassed about troubling me. ‘I picked this up from the hall table by mistake,’ he says, handing over an envelope. ‘Thought I’d bring it round in person with my own card.’

  Luckily I’ve written him a Christmas card too. I thank him and hand it over. Then I shut the door.

  I open the envelope and pull out the contents. It’s a pretty, glittery scene of a young woman and man in a horse-drawn carriage from Victorian times.

  Then I look inside.

  HAPPY CHRISTMAS, it says.

  Followed by the words MAY ALL YOUR SINS BE FORGIVEN.

  18

  Christmas Day 2016

  Kitty

  Christmas Day started with Margaret having another asthma attack. Kitty tried to pull the alarm cord but her good arm wasn’t as good as usual (bugger it) and it took a while for one of the carers to see what was going on.

  Then there was a bit of a distraction when Dawn’s mother made her annual visit – a day after she usually did for some reason. ‘Don’t you recognize me, love?’ she kept wailing. Everyone knew Dawn was just trying to piss her off. Like Duncan said, ‘Who can blame her? We’re not fucking battery hens that people gawp at when they feel like it.’

  Kitty didn’t want to eat lunch because she kept thinking about the empty space at the table. Johnny’s. Unlike most of them, he’d gone home to spend Christmas with his family.

  After lunch, they all dozed off in their chairs (mouths open, snore, snore) or went to their rooms for a ‘little lie-down’. Kitty was plonked in front of a film where a woman in black and white spent the whole time screaming at a man and then married him at the end.

  ‘So sorry I’m late but the traffic was terrible.’

  Friday Mum! There she was, walking through the door, nattering away to Bossy Supervisor as though they were best friends.

  ‘Don’t worry. Kitty won’t know any better.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Kitty. ‘I am here, you know.’

  ‘What’s that you’re saying, dear?’

  Friday Mum always asked her daft questions. They both knew she couldn’t understand this babble that insisted on streaming out of her mouth. But somehow they each kept trying.

  ‘I didn’t want you to bloody come. I wanted to go home with Johnny.’

  ‘She looks a bit upset,’ whispered Friday Mum.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve had one or two issues.’

  Bossy Supervisor was taking Friday Mum to one side. But Kitty could hear the odd word. ‘Still has an attachment to the young man … nothing to worry about … just thought you ought to know …’

  Friday Mum was nodding.

  ‘Tell me what you were talking about,’ demanded Kitty when Friday Mum returned to her side. There was another film on now. The scene showed a father arguing with his little girl. It made Kitty feel uneasy.

  ‘You’re very chatty today!’ Friday Mum had her jolly voice on. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Crap.’ This was a new word which she’d picked up from one of the carers. Nice sound. Crisp and even. Crap. Crap. Crap. Pity no one could understand it. Anger began to well up inside. She started to hum.

  ‘You seem happy enough, dear.’ She moved forward to hug her but Kitty turned her face away, so Friday Mum stroked her hand instead, which was even more irritating. ‘You always loved Christmas as a child,’ she continued brightly. ‘Remember that year when you woke up to find a Wendy house in the garden? Your dad and I had a terrible job putting it up the night before so you didn’t see it. But it was worth it to see the magical look on your face.’

  Friday Mum’s eyes had tears in them now.

  ‘What happened to me?’ Kitty demanded. ‘How did I end up here? I’ve heard you talking about an accident but what kind? Was it the sea? Did I fall off a horse like Maurice fell off his bike? Tell me what happened!’

  ‘I wish I knew what you were saying. I really do.’

  Kitty started banging the chair with her hand. ‘Tell me, tell me, tell me.’

  Friday Mum stood up. She smoothed down a black skirt that was too tight for her round the waist. Normally, she wore trousers. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve just arrived. But I can’t do this. It’s just too upsetting.’

  And then she was gone. Just like that. Good. Someone had changed channels and it was now the Christmas special of EastEnders.

  But then came another surprise.

  ‘You have another visitor!’ exclaimed Bossy Supervisor.

  Johnny! He’d come back for her.

  Shiny shoes. Grey trousers. Navy blazer.

  No. NO!

  ‘Now, now, Kitty,’ said Bossy Supervisor, looming up. ‘Let’s not go through all that silly headbanging again.’

  She held out a hand to the flabby-faced man in the navy blazer and silver buttons, holding a big shiny red present. ‘Welcome.’

  Then she turned back to Kitty. ‘Don’t you want
to see your father?’

  This man was her father? No way! Fathers were nice men on television adverts who poured out breakfast cereal that made children big and strong. But only if they ate the exact brand on the television. Nothing else would do. Fathers took their daughters’ arms when they got married and cried because they were so happy.

  Flabby Face didn’t look as though he would do any of those things. In fact, she was pretty certain that he’d once done something very wrong. She just couldn’t remember what. But it made her see red.

  ‘GO AWAY. AND TAKE YOUR BLOODY PRESENT WITH YOU!’ Kitty tried to push the gift away.

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, love, but …’

  BANG!

  Fucking hell, that hurt.

  ‘Quick. Can someone come here?’

  Kitty groaned. She had fallen out of the wheelchair. Her arm really hurt.

  ‘Call for help,’ yelled Bossy Supervisor. ‘We’ve got an emergency here. Someone help me lift her.’

  ‘Let me,’ said Flabby Face.

  ‘NO! GET THE FUCK OUT!’

  ‘I think it might be best if you left. Kitty seems rather upset.’

  You could say that again. Whatever Flabby Face had done before – and she was certain he’d done something – it had been bad. Very bad.

  19

  Christmas Day 2016

  Alison

  The fever started soon after I’d got back from the college dinner. Unable to sleep, I’d forced myself to wrap up and go out again to the late-night chemist on the corner. Then I’d staggered back in the cold, heaving one foot in front of the other, desperately hoping I’d make it back to the flat.

  But the medicine hasn’t touched it. Right now, a pernicious ache has taken over my body like the mist outside which is wrapping its way round the buildings as I stand at the window. Is that a shadow I can see? Or is flu making me hallucinate?

  ‘It’s doing the rounds,’ Angela had already warned during the days leading up to our Christmas break. ‘Not much you can do about it. Prisoners get ill like anyone else. A bit like new teachers at a kids’ school. You catch everything going until you’ve been here for years like me and develop a strong immunity.’