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

by Jane Corry

  But when a boy asked me to dance – just as the music went slow – I smelt Crispin on his skin. Heard the tapping of the trees in my head. So I’d mumbled something about ‘needing to leave’ and ran.

  Kitty wouldn’t have done that. She’d have been thrilled that someone wanted to kiss her.

  So, instead, I stuck with my own company. More reliable. I ignored messages from people in my old life – including Robin, who got in touch every now and then to ‘see how I was’. I knew that if I was going to survive, I had to create a new identity. Without ties to the past. No more Ali.

  Just like there was no more Vanessa. Or Kitty as I knew her.

  ‘You’ve got something here,’ said one tutor after watching me work on a very fine botanical pen-and-ink drawing. ‘There’s a real eye for detail. Have you ever thought of doing stained glass?’

  That was my epiphany. An artistic medium that Kitty had never ventured into. As soon as I began to cut into the glass, I felt something light up inside. It wasn’t just my ‘natural skill’. It was what I could do with the glass afterwards.

  At first, it was an accident. It’s hard not to cut yourself when you’re making a stained-glass picture. Tiny fragments are a constant hazard. ‘Ouch,’ I said when one got into my skin. The tutor showed me how to extract it with tweezers. It was nothing, I told myself, compared with the pain that Kitty had felt when the car had lifted her up like a swan just as it had done with Vanessa.

  Later, when I was tidying up the empty workshop, I picked up a piece of discarded glass and carefully sliced the top part of my arm. The blood was instant. So was the gratification. It wasn’t a deep cut, although it did take a few plasters to stop the bleeding. After that, I was hooked.

  Of course, I didn’t do it every day. Only now and then, when things got particularly bad. Especially after my visits to Kitty. Was this really my sister, I would ask myself, watching this plump young woman in a wheelchair who laughed manically or lashed out with no apparent reason?

  How I hated that place! So many people whose normal lives had been cut short. Everyone else was much older than my sister. One woman had had a brain tumour removed. ‘Started behaving oddly at work, apparently,’ said a rather indiscreet male nurse. ‘Everyone thought she was just being difficult but then she had an eye test and they found this growth. So they cut it out but it damaged the brain. Never been the same since.’

  At first, I would try to visit once a month or so, although not at the same time as Mum. We’d spread it out. David, apparently, ‘occasionally went’, although Mum didn’t like to talk about him. But after I qualified as a teacher (like mother, like daughter) and got my first job at a girls’ school in the East End of London, I went much less. I tried to tell myself I was too busy, or that visiting her – if she could understand who I was – would only make her feel worse. After all, we’d never got on before the accident.

  But Kitty never went away: so many of my pupils reminded me of her. There was one in particular who had the same cheeky attitude. The same blonde hair. The same disregard for authority. The same talent. ‘I don’t want to do acrylics, miss. I like watercolours.’

  I was softer on her than the others. Let her get away with things. I was nice to her to make up for Kitty. But the others noticed. ‘Teacher’s pet!’ So I went the other way. Became harder. The hurt on her face was too painful. Then I left. Started again at another school. But once more, another ‘Kitty’ emerged. Dark hair this time. Like the new Kitty. The same old confident attitude. I lasted two terms that time.

  When I applied for a third school, questions were asked. Why hadn’t I stayed longer in my previous situations? Was I really committed?

  ‘Maybe,’ said one of my old tutors whom I’d gone to for a reference, ‘you’d be better off teaching adults. We’re looking for someone to run one of our evening groups here. Stained glass. It’s one of your specialities, isn’t it?’

  And that’s how it started. The years passed. I became a regular tutor at different art colleges. I had a certain amount of independence that way – so much better than working for one employer. I also ran my own classes in a variety of halls. I earned enough to pay my rent. And I gave the rest to Mum. It was needed for Kitty’s place in the home, even after the compensation had finally been paid through the insurers.

  On one of my infrequent visits, I started to tell Kitty about my art students. Suddenly her good arm shot out and thumped me. Right under my eye. I felt the swelling immediately.

  ‘Kitty,’ said one of the nurses. ‘That’s very naughty.’

  No, I wanted to say. It’s all right.

  At the same time, she’d begun to babble. A stream of angry nonsense. Or so it might have seemed to anyone else. ‘She’s really trying to say something, isn’t she?’ said the nurse.

  Yes. She was telling me that she was jealous. That I had no right to steal her passion. Art’s my thing, she might as well have said. Not yours.

  I began to visit three times a year instead of every month. And then twice a year. And then once. Just at Christmas, when she hit me again.

  After that, I stopped visiting altogether. More time passed. Months and then years marked by notches on my arms. Of watching Mum getting older and sadder, though still making her visits every Friday on her day off from the charity where she now worked. Of wondering how Crispin was doing in his northern prison. Of being incarcerated in a jail of guilt, self-doubt and anger.

  Then Fate played its hand. The poster. Lead Man. My resumed visits to Kitty. Martin. The end of the road.

  Is it finally time to tell the truth?

  54

  June 2017

  Alison

  It’s our second meeting, and things have just got a lot worse.

  Kitty is staring up at me from Robin’s file, open on the desk between us. The right eye is lower than the other. One side is twisted as if she’s making a sideways grimace in a fairground mirror. Her face is plump: you can just see the rolls of fat in her neck. She wears a plastic helmet to help keep everything in place. Dark curls are poking out beneath. Neither Robin nor I need to say what we are each thinking.

  This Kitty is a very different person from the little girl that we remember. And I’m terrified.

  But there’s no time to think. Robin is steaming ahead.

  ‘There are several issues to deal with here. First, Crispin Wright has now launched an application for his case to be retried in the light of your written confession.’

  ‘But he’s in prison. And he’s going to be tried himself for attacking me and Stefan.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he can’t accuse you of lying over the accident.’ Robin turns to the next page in the file. ‘Then there’s the incident in the prison. Why did you take a piece of glass into the classroom?’

  ‘It must have been in my pocket from one of my outside workshops,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know it was still there. Anyway, Security should have picked it up.’

  Robin’s expression indicates he agrees. Then he gets to the thing we’ve both been skirting around. ‘And how do you explain the discovery of your so-called written confession, in the sanitary bin of the Ladies?’

  Yes. They found it. I’m still reeling from the fact. Still, what did I expect in prison? They’re experts at ferreting out crime. Or at least they are sometimes.

  ‘I … I’m not sure.’

  Robin’s eyes have a wary look about them. ‘You wrote that you pushed Kitty into the road. Is that true?’

  I get ready to deliver the lie I’d already told the policewoman. How Crispin had made me write down things that weren’t true.

  Yet Robin’s good, kind face makes me stop. Despite my intentions a few moments ago, I feel my mind doing a U-turn. I try to pull it back. I could succeed if there was a different solicitor sitting opposite me. But this is my old friend. We go way back. I hurt him once. I owe him the truth.

  ‘Yes,’ I say softly. ‘I did push her.’

  Robin shakes his head again. ‘Loo
k, Ali. I see this again and again with clients. They blame themselves for accidents that happen to other people because they think, somehow, it might help. Call it an overdeveloped conscience or survivor guilt if you like. But we know Crispin was driving too fast. His car mounted the pavement. All of that has been proven beyond a doubt.’

  It would be so easy to let him carry on. To allow Crispin to take the whole blame.

  ‘We were having an argument,’ I cut in. ‘Kitty kept saying … she kept saying that she knew my secret.’

  ‘What secret?’

  This is the difficult bit.

  ‘I can’t say,’ I whisper.

  Robin twists his wedding ring again. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to. That’s if we’re going to have any kind of a chance in getting you off.’

  He’s right. ‘Kitty saw me in the summer house at the Wrights’ party,’ I blurt. ‘She saw me having sex with … with Crispin.’

  Robin’s face looks as though someone has delivered a punch to it.

  ‘I didn’t want him to. I didn’t say he could. He just went ahead and did it.’ The tears are pouring down my face now. ‘I only went to the summer house with him because he said you were there, waiting for me with a drink.’

  This last bit comes out as an anguished cry. For a minute, I think it’s from Robin’s mouth and not mine.

  ‘He raped you?’

  ‘I … suppose so. But I didn’t see it like that at the time. I thought it must have somehow been my fault. It’s only as the years have gone by and I’ve got older that I’ve realized.’

  ‘Did anyone else know about it? That it was non-consensual sex?’

  I shake my head. I can see, as I do so, the doubt in his face. ‘You are aware,’ he says slowly, ‘that it’s very difficult to prove an historic rape.’

  I gulp. ‘Yes,’ I croak.

  ‘And there are countless cases where women who claim to have been raped are torn to shreds verbally in court and discredited.’

  I swallow. ‘I’m prepared to handle that.’

  He is looking at me. Hard. I can see he believes me – just about. At least, I think so.

  ‘So you pushed her because you were terrified of it coming out.’

  I nod, unable to speak.

  Silently Robin nudges a box of tissues on the desk towards me. ‘I’d have killed the bastard if I’d known,’ he says softly.

  So he does believe me. I can see Robin is hurt. We might not have been boyfriend and girlfriend. But there’s a fine line between love and friendship.

  And that’s when I realize something else. People are wrong when they say teenage cuts are the worst. It’s the middle-aged ones that hurt the most. Why? Because there’s been time for both parties to contemplate the reasons and effects. For them to sink ever deeper.

  Robin is writing more things down now with a fountain pen. Its nib scratches on the paper. Every word that I am saying is also being recorded. I won’t be able to tear it up, as I did my forced confession.

  ‘When I first came to see you professionally, I asked if you were allowed to represent me.’ I swallow. ‘You said you could, providing there wasn’t a conflict of interest. Does it matter that you were at the party too?’

  ‘No,’ says Robin curtly. ‘I didn’t see the … the alleged offence so it’s all right.’

  There’s a deeply awkward silence. Then he speaks again. More quietly. ‘At the trial,’ says Robin, ‘Crispin said that you and your sister were “scuffling around” right in front of the car. But you said you were both simply crossing the road.’

  I can hardly talk. But I have to.

  ‘I lied. Like I said just now, I pushed Kitty. I was so angry with her. You know what she was like. But I didn’t mean …’

  This time he seems to believe me. Robin’s face is stunned with shock, yet my shoulders feel lighter than they have for years. The relief is so great that it’s as though I’ve lanced a boil. And then, all at once, comes a terrifying feeling of foreboding.

  Robin starts to speak and then stops as though something is stuck in his throat. Then he starts again. ‘Did you see the car coming when you pushed her?’

  My chest is so tight that I can hardly get the words out. ‘Yes. No. I’m not sure. It’s all such a blur. But I do know I didn’t want to hurt her.’

  He is staring into space. Then he makes a noise. It could be a groan. It might be a sigh. Either way, it doesn’t sound good. ‘You do realize that lying to a court means you could go to prison.’

  Haven’t I been telling myself that every day since it happened?

  Robin’s fingers are tapping urgently on the desk. I have a sudden memory of him doing that at school. He talks rapidly now, as though speaking to himself. ‘Crispin was driving too fast. But he could have argued that your pushing was a crucial factor. And this might have led to a shorter sentence if you had told the truth. But from your point of view, the fact that he raped you could be a mitigating circumstance for your untruthfulness.’

  I cannot face him. Instead, I stare at the certificates on the wall. But the silence when he finishes is deafening. I turn back again.

  Robin is now scratching his chin, the way I remember. Running his hands through his hair, just as he had when trying to solve a mathematical problem.

  ‘We may have a defence that could work.’ His voice is tight. As though he is wary of me, despite the ‘mitigating’ circumstances. Yet his face suggests a certain sympathy. This was my friend, I remind myself. The only person who understood me as a teenager.

  ‘Really?’ I don’t know whether to feel hopeful or not. I glance away. Then back again because there’s no escape from his face. ‘I’m sorry. For everything.’

  He’s about to say something. But then the phone rings. ‘Yes?’

  The old Robin never used to bark like that.

  ‘Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.’ Then he gets up. ‘I’ve got to talk to someone. I’m afraid you’ll need to make another appointment. There’s a lot more we need to discuss.’

  ‘I’ll do it when I’m home,’ I murmur. ‘When I’ve got my diary.’

  As soon as he leaves his office, I reach for my mobile. There’s only one person in my current world who might just understand.

  Please be in, I pray.

  He picks up on the seventh ring.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to return your calls. But I need to see you now. I’m in trouble.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Lead Man in that deep reassuring voice. ‘Tell me where you are. And I’ll come and get you.’

  I’d never brought anyone back home apart from Mum. But there’s nowhere else I want to go. Or anyone else I want to be with.

  He doesn’t ask questions. It’s as if he knows I don’t want to talk. Instead, he just helps my shaking body in through the door and carefully steers me to the sofa.

  Then he finds the kettle without being asked and brings me a mug of coffee. ‘I brought some brandy with me,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t drink, but you need something.’

  I don’t argue. Instead, I sip it gratefully, the Indian sofa throw draped around my shoulders. I want him to sit next to me but he is looking around my flat.

  ‘Is this you?’

  He picks up a picture of me next to my sister in our navy blue uniform. It’s on top of a stack of photographs which Mum had brought round on her last visit because she thought I might ‘like’ them for ‘old times’ sake’. What I’d really like is to throw them out, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so. Besides, what if Mum asks where they are?

  ‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘That’s me and … Kitty.’

  ‘You look like such a sweet, sensible schoolgirl.’

  ‘But I wasn’t,’ I say. My words come out like a sob.

  He gives an I don’t believe it smile. ‘What do you mean?’

  The mug of coffee is burning my hands. I think of Crispin’s scarred face. ‘I can’t say.’

  He walks over to m
e and puts an arm around me. His face is close to mine. I can breathe him in. Smell him.

  ‘I’m here if you want to tell me,’ he says gently. ‘And if you don’t, that’s fine too.’

  So I do. I confess everything.

  Then I wait for him to leave. But instead, he unbuttons my blouse. I should stop him but I can’t. Just like the last time, it feels totally natural: as though we have done this many times before in another life.

  ‘Is this all right?’ he asks gently.

  I nod.

  Then he makes love to me so tenderly and yet passionately that I think I might die.

  Part Three

  * * *

  55

  June 2017

  Kitty

  When she’d first arrived at Johnny’s home all those weeks ago, Kitty had hardly been able to believe her eyes. It was like a bloody mansion! So many rooms and big open spaces with a door that led outside to this huge patio with a swimming pool. It was even bigger than a house that she’d known once. Somewhere that she’d been to for a party with little paper lanterns in the garden. Or so she thought. And then the memory melted.

  ‘This is your new home,’ said Johnny’s mum. ‘By the way, you must call me Jeannie.’ Then she’d stopped and blushed. ‘I know you can’t actually say it out loud but I’d like you to think of me like that in your head. Now, is there anything you need? If there is, try and tell me on your picture board. One of the carers will be round soon. Meanwhile, let’s show you your new bedroom. I think Johnny’s already there.’

  She blushed again. ‘He’s so excited to be back.’

  The bedroom was massive too, with two huge twin beds. There was a special hoist above hers (‘so the carers and I can get you up in the morning, dear’) and an en-suite bathroom just for the two of them. ‘Come to bed,’ said Johnny when Call Me Jeannie wheeled her in.

  The thing inside Kitty gave a jump as if to say ‘Are you joking? I don’t feel like that sort of stuff any more.’ Ever since the bleeding, Kitty had been convinced this was a monster inside her and not a baby at all. How could it be anything else with kicks like that? The sooner it came out, the better. Meanwhile, it just kept growing and growing and growing.