We Were Sisters: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Wendy Clarke

  One of the pieces of paper that’s come out of Isabella’s bag is a letter from the teacher. I open it and read it. ‘That’s nice. It says here that next week at school you’ll be making lanterns. Mrs Allen wants everyone to design some lovely ones at home.’

  ‘Can we take them with us when we go trick-or-treating?’

  I answer without thinking. ‘We won’t be going trick-or-treating this year, Izzy.’

  Isabella stands up, her face outraged. ‘Daddy said we could go. We always go.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll do something else instead.’

  I can’t tell her that the thought of the children wandering the streets, knocking on people’s doors, unnerves me. Yesterday another Argus came through our door. Checking to see that no one was watching, I’d turned to the horoscope page, expecting to see a mark. A sign. But there’d been nothing. My own horoscope had been innocuous enough, something to do with making small changes in my life, but it had been the one for Gemini that had caught my eye. Reject an impulse for revenge. You may not be seeing things from the same perspective.

  Even if I’d wanted to show it to Mitch, he’d have just said that whoever had put the paper through the letter box that first time had obviously got the wrong house again. He’s probably right, but still I can’t push the creeping fingers of unease away.

  ‘I don’t want to go somewhere else.’ Isabella’s shaking my arm. ‘I want to go trick-or-treating. You’re mean. You’re the worst mean mummy in the world and the universe and I hate you.’

  Through the glass door of the living room, I see Sophie cover her ears.

  ‘Don’t shout, Izzy. I’ll talk to Daddy about it later.’

  Isabella folds her arms and sticks out her lower lip, but at least she’s quiet. I’m still worrying how I’m going to address the subject with a husband who I’m barely talking to, when there’s a ring on the doorbell.

  Moving aside Isabella’s book bag, I go to open it, but my daughter gets there before me. Pushing the door wide, she stands back in awe.

  ‘Mummy, it’s a policeman.’

  There are in fact two: one male, one female. They introduce themselves and I stare at them, my heart pounding, trying to work out why they might be here. My thoughts race haphazardly – is it something from my past that’s catching up with me? Freya’s secret? My mother? The lie I told?

  ‘Mrs Thirsk, is your husband in?’ It’s the female officer who speaks. Her face giving nothing away.

  ‘My husband?’ I stare at her in confusion. ‘No. He’s at the building site where he works. I’m not expecting him home for a while.’

  ‘We’ve just come from there. The foreman said he hasn’t seen him since three. Any idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘Has he done something wrong?’ I fold my arms, numbers racing round my head. If I count to twenty quickly before she speaks again, whatever it is will be a misunderstanding.

  I only get to five.

  ‘May we come in?’

  I stand back, the number five stuck in my head. My anxiety high. ‘Yes, of course. Isabella, go into the living room and watch some TV with Sophie.’

  ‘But I want to—’

  ‘Now, Izzy!’

  She slopes off into the other room and I shut the door behind her, then pick up Noah, his cheek wet against mine. ‘Come into the kitchen. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. We won’t keep you long, but there are a couple of things we’d like to ask you.’

  I place Noah in his bouncy chair, then pull out a wooden chair from behind the kitchen table and sit down. The officers remain standing, which unnerves me even more.

  ‘What would you like to know?’ I ask.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why your husband would park his van outside St. Joseph’s Primary?’

  The school name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why. ‘No. What’s this all about?’

  The policewoman exchanges a look with her colleague. ‘A van with your husband’s number plate has been seen on several occasions in various locations around the area of the school. Although he hasn’t been formally identified, a man fitting his description was spotted hanging around outside.’

  I go cold as I remember where I’ve heard the name of the school. It was in the letter from the headmistress the girls brought home. The one asking us to be vigilant and to talk to our children about the danger of speaking to strangers. To my shame, I realise I never got around to having that talk.

  ‘You can’t think that Mitch is doing anything wrong… You can’t think…’ I stop, nausea griping my stomach. ‘Mitch is my husband. I know him.’

  But do I? Do I really know the man who for five years sent letters to my mother behind my back? Once, I thought I’d known Freya too, but I never thought she’d do what she’d threatened to do, that night in the woods.

  ‘Please don’t upset yourself, Mrs Thirsk. We only want to talk to him.’ She holds out a card. ‘When he comes home, please ask him to ring this number or call in at the police station. No need to come to the door, we can see ourselves out.’

  They leave me alone in the kitchen, my hands gripping the edge of the table. I stay that way until I hear the front door close. Soon after that, the living room door opens. I expected it to be Isabella, but it’s Sophie who’s standing there.

  ‘Has Daddy done something wrong?’ she asks.

  ‘No, darling. Of course not.’

  But I’m not sure I even believe that myself.

  44

  Kelly Now

  The red tail lights of the police car disappear down the road and Mitch drops the curtain.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ he says.

  When Mitch got home, I’d been waiting at the door with the sergeant’s card in my hand. Thrusting it at his face as soon as he’d walked in. For Christ’s sake ring this number now, Mitch.

  They’d come round after the children were in bed and we’d gone into the kitchen, just as we had before. This time, though, Mitch was with us, trying to explain away what had happened. It had all been a misunderstanding. The Co-op on the corner was the place he bought his sandwiches from when he was on the way back from the builders’ merchants. He’d park down the road to eat them and sometimes he’d get out and stretch his legs before driving back to the site. No, he hadn’t given a thought to the fact that the primary school was right opposite.

  When they left, they’d thanked Mitch for his cooperation and asked him to come to the station the next day to give a more detailed statement.

  He smiles at me. ‘Now we can get back to normal.’

  My husband is clearly relieved, but I’m not convinced by his story. ‘You need to tell me what’s going on, Mitch?’

  Mitch moves away from the window. ‘You heard what I told them.’

  ‘Yes, I heard, but now I want you to tell me the truth. What have you been doing?’

  ‘I haven’t been doing anything, for fuck’s sake.’ Throwing himself along the length of the settee, he rests his feet on the arm. Knowing it will annoy me as he hasn’t taken his work boots off.

  ‘Then why have people been making complaints? Given the number of your van?’ I point to Isabella’s book bag. ‘They even brought a letter home about it!’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘There are a lot of things I don’t say. You’re hardly ever here. You’re either at Maddie’s or hanging around schools.’

  Pain pinches Mitch’s face and I instantly regret the words. Swinging his legs off the arm, he points a finger at me accusingly. ‘For your information, I’ve seen Maddie precisely twice in the last few weeks. Do you have a problem with that?’

  I bite back my reply. This is not where the conversation should be going. ‘I still don’t understand what you were doing over in Whitehawk.’

  ‘You heard what I told the police. It’s just some busybody wanting to make trouble.’

  I fold my arms. ‘It’s nowhere near the builders’ merchants you use. You’ve always said the one
on the trading estate near there was a rip-off.’ I swallow. ‘If you’ve done something, Mitch, I’d rather you told me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘It was right by the school.’

  Mitch looks at me with naked horror. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  I’m confused – wanting to believe his version of events but not trusting my judgement. ‘Just tell me why you were there, Mitch. The real reason.’

  There’s the sound of footsteps on the landing above our heads, the flush of a toilet and then more footsteps. One of the girls must have woken up. It’s not long before Isabella appears in the doorway. She’s taken off the clean pair of pyjamas I put her in and is wearing her favourite Bob the Builder ones from the dirty washing basket. Tucked under her arm, is the rather grubby grey rabbit she always sleeps with.

  She scrubs at her eyes. ‘I can’t sleep. I want a cuddle.’

  Usually, one of us would take her back to bed, but I’m surprised when Mitch holds out his arms. ‘Come here.’

  Isabella goes over to him, her rabbit swinging, his threadbare ear clutched in her fist. She climbs onto his lap, her dark hair falling around her face, and for one traitorous second, I wonder if I should take her from him.

  I do nothing, though, watching as Mitch lowers his head to his daughter’s, pressing his lips to her hair. Isabella’s free hand reaches up to his cheek and pats it; she’s always liked the feel of his stubble, and he rocks her back and forward as he used to when she was little. Slowly, her eyes close and his own eyes meet mine over the top of her head. It’s then I see he’s crying. Big, silent tears that trickle down his face into Isabella’s hair.

  ‘Mitch?’

  I’m out of my chair, but Mitch shakes his head. When he swallows, his Adam’s apple bounces. ‘I’ll take her back up, then we’ll talk.’

  When he comes back down, he’s composed himself. He sits back on the settee and I wait for what he has to tell me, my heart thudding in my chest.

  Mitch runs his hands down the front of his jeans. He stares at a photo of the twins on the mantelpiece, unable to look me in the eye. ‘Sometimes I go back to the road where I used to live as a kid. Radnor Road it’s called. Number ten.’

  Seeing I’m about to interrupt, he stops me. ‘I need to just tell you so I can get it straight in my own head. I park the van on the opposite side of the street from the school and stare at the house like I’m an idiot. The place hasn’t changed much. They’re the same old shabby semis, except that now half of them are pebble-dashed and have satellite dishes.’

  ‘But why do you go there?’

  ‘I don’t know really. I think it’s because of the letters I sent to your mum. It brought back memories of my own childhood and made me feel sad for the kid I was back then. Since we argued, I’ve found myself going there more often. Sometimes two or three times a week. Daft, isn’t it?’

  Unsure of how to answer, I get up and sit next to him, taking his hand in a bid to give him the strength to continue.

  ‘I know that a lot of people have probably lived in that house since I did,’ he continues, ‘but I still think of it as my home and it’s like a magnet pulling me. It’s not just the house, it’s the pavement where I once did wheelies and the grassy bank by the underpass me and my friends used to roll down. I suppose it’s like if I go there, I can change the things that happened. Write a different ending. You see I never saw it coming – being taken into care. One day I was running around the estate as if I owned the place and the next…’

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and I know it’s to stop the tears that are glistening in his eyes from falling. I don’t know what to say. Is this how I felt when I went back to my mum’s house after the funeral? I’m not sure it is.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mitch.’

  But I can see it isn’t sympathy he wants, he just needs to get it all out. As if by telling me about it, the dark hole of his childhood can be filled in.

  ‘My mum used to sit on the doorstep, a fag in her hand. I’d watch her through the open front door, listen to her slurred words and see the tears slide down her face – wanting to wipe them away. Wondering how I could make it better. But of course, I couldn’t. I was just a kid and she was a nineteen-year-old girl who didn’t know how to cope with life.’ He looks at me through tear-filled eyes. ‘The woman who came to take me away was called Julie – I remember that. She told me she’d be taking me to a nice place while my mum got better and I believed her. It was a long time before I understood the significance of the tracks on my mum’s arms and the baggy jumpers she wore with the sleeves pulled over her hands.’

  The anger I felt when I learnt about the letters and photographs is being pushed aside by an unbearable sadness for that little boy. All the years we’ve been together, Mitch has never told me this. It’s been pushed down inside him with the lid firmly closed, because he knows I hate to talk about the past.

  But still I feel a niggle of unease. Too many things have been kept from me and I’m starting to feel I don’t know my husband at all. ‘What did you do when you went back there?’

  ‘Nothing really, just looked. Sometimes I got out of the van and walked around. I hadn’t thought about the fact that people would notice – that what I was doing might look weird.’

  Getting up, I cross the room and part the curtains, seeing nothing but my face reflected back at me in the glass. Despite what he’s told me, I’m disturbed by the urgency of his need to revisit the past. What else might there be that he’s kept from me? And if there is anything, could it be something that would put my children in danger?

  I turn back to him. ‘I wish you’d told me. How long have you been going there?’

  He clears his throat. ‘A few months. Maybe more. The first time I went, it would have been my mum’s birthday.’

  ‘You know you can’t go again, don’t you?’

  ‘I know.’ He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. ‘Christ look at me. I’m being ridiculous.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘I just wish I’d tried to find her while I had the chance.’

  ‘You still could.’

  He shakes his head. ‘My mum died when I was fifteen. I pretended not to know what had happened to her because the truth hurt too much.’

  ‘Tomorrow you must tell the police the truth, Mitch. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  I can tell Mitch wants to talk more, but if he does, I’ll have to tell him more about my past too. The lies I told to get rid of Freya, and how it led to her eventual death. It’s not something I’m willing to do. Instead, I get up and walk to the door. ‘It’s late, Mitch. I’m tired.’

  He stares at me. ‘That’s it, is it? I bare my soul and you’re going up to bed?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. I just don’t know how long it will be before Noah wakes up.’

  My husband wants absolution for the things he’s kept from me: his letters to my mother and now this. But I can’t give it to him. After his confession, I should feel relief, but I don’t. There are too many question marks hanging over our marriage and I can’t shake the mistrust.

  Switching off the table lamp, I leave Mitch on the settee and walk into the hall. When I reach the stairs, I hear him call after me.

  ‘And you know what the worst of it is, Kelly?’

  I stop, my hand resting on the bannister. ‘No?’

  There’s a coolness to his voice that wasn’t there before. ‘That when the police were hinting at the reason my van was parked outside the school…’ He pauses. ‘Don’t deny it. There was a moment, just a small one, when you believed them.’

  45

  Kelly Now

  The following day, I try to get on with things as best I can, pushing thoughts of the previous day’s revelations to the back of my mind. Trying not to care that Mitch spent the night on the settee. I’ve taken the children to school, changed the beds, done the washing and have just come b
ack from a quick trip to the supermarket to get a few things before the afternoon school run.

  Leaving the shopping bags in the hall, I push Charlie away from them.

  ‘No, Charlie. There’s nothing for you.’

  Dragging Noah’s change mat from behind the settee, I change his nappy. He starts to cry and my heart sinks. I’m too tired for this. As I pop up his trousers, I wonder how to entertain him, before remembering the baby bouncer we bought him a couple of weeks ago. He’s only tried it out once but seemed to like it – bouncing in the doorway while I did the hoovering. I go and get it, then lay Noah on his back on the floor, slipping his legs into the striped canvas seat and making sure he’s secure.

  ‘There you are,’ I say, lifting him up and fixing the metal clamp onto the top of the door frame. ‘You can have a bounce while I unpack the shopping.’

  As I take the food out of the bags and put it away, I can see Noah through the open door, bobbing in the doorway. For once he looks happy.

  When I’ve finished, I pick up the empty Rice Krispies box and some other things destined for the recycling bin and fit the back-door key into the lock. I turn it and press down on the handle but am surprised when the door won’t open. Frowning, I turn the key the other way and this time the handle presses down easily. I could have sworn I locked the door before I went out, but obviously I didn’t.

  I put the boxes in the recycling bin, then go back inside. Noah has managed to twist himself round on the bungee-like cord and the sight of it makes me suddenly nauseous. I’m remembering the wood and the Gemini tree. Freya’s foot in the noose of the rope that hangs from its thick branch, her head tipped back. Spinning. Spinning. The rope getting tighter.

  Noah gives a delighted squeal and I come back to the present. Fighting the instinct to take him out of the bouncer, I straighten him, then kneel and take his little hands in mine to help him bounce. He gurgles in delight. I’ve read it’s not good to keep babies in bouncers for too long, but another five minutes won’t hurt. I’m just glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece to check the time when something catches my eye.