The Silent Sister

by Shalini Boland

  I take a breath and tell them how I discovered the note sticking out of the floorboards in the kitchen. Then I point out that the note has yesterday’s date on it, even though it looked like it had been under the floor for years. ‘Someone must have left it there. Which means they came into my house.’

  The female officer lays both letters flat on the counter next to the envelopes with my name on. ‘Do you live alone?’ she asks.

  ‘With my boyfriend.’

  ‘Could he have—’

  ‘No. It definitely wasn’t Joe.’

  She takes a phone out of her pocket and fiddles with it for a moment. ‘How long have you lived together?’

  ‘Just over five years.’

  ‘And he’s never done anything that might make you suspect him of—’

  ‘Never. He wouldn’t do anything like that.’

  She starts taking photographs of the letters and envelopes. ‘Do you have any idea of who it might be? An ex-boyfriend? Someone with a crush?’

  I make a pretence of thinking, but in reality my mind has gone numb. I’m so shaken up that I can barely string a thought, let alone a sentence, together. ‘Can you find out who it is?’ I ask. ‘Test the letters. For fingerprints, or something?’

  ‘Unfortunately, as there’s nothing specifically threatening in the letters, there’s not a lot we can do,’ she says, putting her phone away. ‘But I’ve taken photos, so we’ll keep those on file in our system, just in case.’

  ‘But someone’s admitted they’re watching me! Someone has broken into my house!’

  ‘Was there any sign of a forced entry?’ she asks, gathering up the letters and envelopes and passing them back to me.

  I take a breath. ‘No. Not that I could see.’

  ‘Was anything taken?’

  ‘No, not that I know of. But someone must have come in to leave the letter.’

  She peels off her gloves and puts them away in one of her many pockets. ‘Does anyone else have a set of your house keys? Or have access to them?’

  ‘Only my landlord, but he’s been our landlord for years and he’s also my boss. He wouldn’t do anything like this, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I’d strongly advise you to change the locks,’ she says.

  ‘My boyfriend was going to change them last night, but he never got round to it.’

  ‘Well, I’d make that a priority. And if anything else untoward happens, please let us know.’

  ‘So, is that it? Can’t you do anything? Try to catch the person responsible?’

  ‘I know this has probably been unsettling for you, but we find that in these types of situations, whoever it is will usually get bored and stop. Once you’ve changed the locks, your house will be more secure. In the meantime, please try not to worry.’

  Easy for her to say.

  I want them to tell me they have it all in hand. That they’ll catch the person doing it and make sure they never come near me again. But I guess that type of policing only happens in the movies. In reality, they’re too understaffed to waste resources on a couple of weird letters. I toy with asking the officers to give me a lift home, but would that be cheeky? Being a taxi service isn’t part of their job description. The thing is, though, I don’t feel safe. Not at all. Someone out there has said they like to watch me work. So that means they could be watching me right now. They might know that the police are here, but they may not even care. It may not faze them in the slightest.

  I can’t bring myself to ask the officers for a lift, and they don’t offer. They leave, and I lock up once more, watching them get back into their car and drive off. Now that they’ve gone, the shop is suddenly bathed in a menacing silence. My skin itches. My stomach swirls. How am I supposed to leave the safety of the shop and walk home on my own? I can’t do it. Not even if I walk the long way round and avoid the isolation of the Abbey. I can’t believe this is happening. Who could be doing this? Who is behind these awful letters?

  I could have kept my distance.

  * * *

  I could have carried on with my pathetic life as though nothing had changed. But that wouldn’t have been right. Because everything has changed.

  * * *

  I’m not stupid. I know that life isn’t fair. I know that some people get lucky and others get the shitty end of the stick. But I’m tired of it. And I can put up with a bit more shit for a little longer if it means I get what I want in the end:

  * * *

  To even things out a little.

  * * *

  Call it karma.

  Seven

  With shaking fingers, I call Joe from the shop phone.

  ‘I’ve had another letter!’

  He pauses for a second. ‘Another one?’

  ‘Joe, can you come and get me from work? I don’t think I can—’

  ‘’Course I can. Be there in ten minutes, okay? How are you doing?’

  ‘Just please come and get me.’

  I sit on the stool behind the counter, fairly confident that no one can see me back here. I hope George doesn’t show up before I’ve left. I don’t think I can face talking to anyone right now. And what if Pippa and Joe are right? What if it really is George behind the letters? I can’t see it myself. He’s never made a pass at me before, so why would he start now? We always kiss on the cheek. But it’s nothing you wouldn’t do with a friend. Nothing dodgy.

  Finally, Joe pulls up outside in his navy-blue Beemer. I jump to my feet, my heart lifting. I try not to think about the implications of what’s happening. That it may not be safe to go out on my own, at all. I set the alarm and lock up. As I step out onto the pavement, I get that instant feeling of being exposed. I’ve never felt like this in my life. I’ve always been a confident person. I love going out and about. But now…

  I open the car door and slide into the passenger seat, feeling smaller somehow. Joe reaches over to give my hand a squeeze. Then leans across to kiss me. The car indicator is on while Joe waits for a gap in the Friday-night rush-hour traffic. It’s not busy by most town’s standards, but it’s busy enough that we have to wait.

  ‘What happened?’ Joe asks, his face hot and red, the front of his hair streaked with oil. He notices my stare. ‘Sorry, didn’t have time for a shower. I’m all mucky from work.’

  ‘It’s okay, I don’t care about that.’

  ‘I know. I’m just saying. So, what about this note, then?’

  I explain what happened, how I found the letter.

  ‘I don’t believe it. Sick bastard, whoever it is.’ His fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

  ‘And, Joe… I had to call the police.’

  ‘You called the police?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I had to. I know you said you’d rather I didn’t, but—’

  ‘No, of course you had to. Of course. I wasn’t saying you shouldn’t, I was just commenting.’ A white Nissan flashes Joe, and he pulls into the light stream of traffic, waving his hand in thanks. As we leave the shop behind, I wonder if my stalker is watching me now. If they saw me get into Joe’s car. If maybe they’re in one of the cars behind us. Maybe he’s the one who let us out just now. I crane my neck to see. But the people in the car behind are an elderly couple. I doubt either one of them is sending me intimidating letters.

  ‘So what are the police going to do?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘What do you mean? Surely they have to do something. Isn’t there a law against stalking? It’s harassment, isn’t it? Can’t they get fingerprints off the letters?’

  ‘I asked them that, but they just told me to get the locks changed at home. They said whoever it is will probably lose interest.’

  ‘I doubt whoever did it would be stupid enough to leave their fingerprints all over the evidence anyway. Probably wore gloves,’ Joe adds.

  ‘So, can you change the locks tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘’Course I will, Lizzy. I should have done it yesterday, but you wanted me to get the shopping and it was too la
te after that.’

  It annoys me how Joe makes out that I wanted him to get the shopping, like he was doing something special to help me out. We both eat the food, so we should both take responsibility for the shopping. But I don’t have the energy to argue, and, well, I guess he is going to change the locks, so things work out equal-ish in the end.

  ‘What about Pippa’s brother – what’s-his-face? Sebastian?’

  ‘Seb?’ I picture Sebastian Hargreaves, tall and bumbling, painfully shy. I guess he is a little odd, but not creepy. Anyway, he’s Pippa’s brother. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘Think about it, Lizzy.’ Joe’s face becomes animated. ‘And it makes sense, too. He could have swiped your keys from the shop and had a copy made. Then he could have let himself into the house. Much more likely that it’s Seb rather than George.’

  I think Joe is jumping to conclusions. He loves his TV police dramas and always thinks he has the bad guys figured out long before the police do. But he invariably gets it wrong, and then he spends ages after the show criticising the scriptwriters for not following his own logic. Which is fine when he’s watching TV, funny even. But this is real life, and Joe playing amateur detective isn’t helping matters.

  ‘Seb’s harmless. And kind,’ I reply. ‘Always running around for Pippa, looking after their house and his parents.’

  ‘Has he got a girlfriend?’

  ‘Don’t think so, no.’

  ‘There you go!’ Joe cries triumphantly. We’ve left the High Street behind and Joe puts his foot down, taking the bends far too fast.

  ‘Just because he hasn’t got a girlfriend doesn’t make him a stalker.’

  ‘No,’ Joe agrees, ‘but it makes it more likely.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re wrong. Seb wouldn’t do anything like that.’

  ‘Lizzy, you don’t realise what effect you have on men.’

  I splutter out an incredulous laugh. ‘Now you’re talking crazy.’

  ‘It’s not crazy. You’re gorgeous. You have this kind of Jessica Rabbit vibe going on. And don’t get mad at me again, but you do flirt a lot – whether you mean to or not.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘It’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just who you are.’

  ‘Well, if being friendly is now called flirting, then I guess I’m guilty.’

  ‘Well, doesn’t matter how friendly you are, still doesn’t give scumbags like Seb the right to send creepy letters.’ Joe flicks on the indicator to turn into our road.

  ‘I really don’t think it was Seb. He knows I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s met you before.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop some blokes. They think of it as a challenge.’

  ‘Well, in a way, I hope it is him,’ I say.

  ‘What!’ Joe slams on the brakes, coming to a halt in the middle of the road in a screech of white noise. Luckily there’s no one behind us. Up ahead, our neighbour Ruby, who’s letting herself into her house, glances up to see what’s going on. She raises a hand in a tentative wave, which I return.

  ‘Not like that!’ I clarify. ‘I just mean that if it’s only Seb, then it’s not so scary as if it’s a total stranger. He’s obviously doing it to try and be romantic, and doesn’t realise it’s coming off as creepy.’

  Joe restarts the engine and pulls into a space outside our house. ‘You go in,’ he says with a scowl. ‘I’m going round to their manor house, or whatever it is, to have a word.’

  ‘Uh, no you’re not.’

  ‘Lizzy, I’m your boyfriend. I’m supposed to look after you and stick up for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe, but I’m quite capable of sticking up for myself.’

  ‘You just called me to come and pick you up from work because you were too scared to walk home on your own!’

  He’s got a point. I sigh and feel my shoulders sag. ‘Sorry, you’re right. I’m just a bit tense, on edge. Look, can’t we just have a nice relaxing evening? Some good food? An early night?’

  Joe’s expression mellows. ‘Sounds good. But we still need to do something about Seb.’ Joe has never been keen on Pippa or Seb. I think it’s a bit of inverse snobbery. Because they’re from a privileged background, Joe thinks they look down their nose at him. But Pippa isn’t like that at all. She takes people as she finds them, and I’m sure Seb is the same.

  ‘I’m not convinced it’s him,’ I say, ‘but if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll bring it up with Pippa tomorrow at work, okay?’

  Joe nods. ‘Fine. Make sure you do. I know you, you’re too nice sometimes.’

  As we get out of the car exhaustion hits me like air going out of a balloon. I feel like I’ve run a marathon or fought in a war. But I don’t want Joe to see how weak this situation is making me. He’ll only worry even more. Instead, I plaster on a bright smile and follow him into the house.

  After a quick cup of tea in the kitchen, Joe says he’s off to B&Q to buy some new locks.

  ‘Want me to come with you?’ I ask.

  ‘No, that’s okay. You relax. You’ve had a stressful time.’ He sticks his empty mug in the sink, runs a hand through his hair and gives me a cheeky smile.

  I smile back, feeling incredibly lucky to have such a caring boyfriend. I’m sure I would be ten times more terrified without Joe’s support.

  After he’s gone, our little cottage feels still and claustrophobic. I wonder where Frank has got to. He’s usually here to welcome me home from work. A quick sweep of the house confirms he’s not home, so I open up the back door and give him a shout. After two or three calls he usually comes running, eager for a treat or some affection. But the garden is still. No sign of him. I go into the kitchen and pick up his ceramic food bowl from the mat on the floor. Banging a fork against its side usually does the trick. I stand at the door, clang the bowl a few times and wait, my eyes scanning the fences and bushes, squinting in the lemon-bright sunlight. Still no sign. I hope Frank is okay. I’m sure he’ll come back when he’s ready.

  Without Joe or Frank to keep me company, my mind starts veering down dark corridors. The air is too close, too hot. The cottage no longer feels like a homely refuge. Instead, I imagine that someone is out there watching me, which is crazy because unless they’re lurking in the bushes at the back of the garden, there’s nowhere for them to hide. But I suddenly feel exposed and vulnerable again. I pull the door closed with a scrape and a thud. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like it at all.

  Eight

  I close and lock the back door. Frank can use the cat flap once he’s ready to come home. I wish he hadn’t picked today to go off roaming – I could do with his company while Joe’s out. Sure, he’s only a cat, he can’t do anything to protect me against a stalker, but just having him here would make me feel less alone, less unsettled. I’m kicking myself; I should have gone with Joe to B&Q. Why didn’t I? I put Joe’s mug in the dishwasher and peer through the back window, hoping to spot Frank, knowing I won’t.

  This is silly. I should be able to relax in my own home. What would I normally do? I’d have a shower, get changed and pour myself a glass of wine. Start cooking supper. But I’m antsy. I keep imagining that someone is watching me. If the person who sent those letters did it to unnerve me, then they’ve succeeded in their mission. My handbag sits on the kitchen table, the two letters in its pocket like twin unexploded bombs. How can two pieces of paper have so much potency?

  Rather than drifting around the house, I decide to do something proactive. I get my keys out of my handbag and leave the house, pulling the front door closed behind me with a decisive thunk. But I’m not going far. I walk the few steps it takes me to reach my neighbour’s house. Mrs P, my old chemistry teacher, is retired now. She owns the cottage next door and has always been the perfect neighbour – friendly without being too nosy. I ring the bell and wait.

  No one comes, but her car is parked out the front so I’m hoping she’s in. I ring it again, trying to see if I can make out any movement beyond the half-glazed stained-glass door. After
another long moment, I hear footsteps.

  ‘Hellooo! I’m coming, coming!’ Mrs P’s cheery voice immediately puts me at ease. The door rattles as she pulls it open. Her wrinkled face is flushed and she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, or rather with the back of her gardening glove. She’s holding a muddy garden fork in her other hand. ‘Lizzy,’ she beams. ‘How lovely. Have you been standing here long? I was just out the back doing some gardening, wasn’t sure if that was my bell I could hear. You coming in?’

  ‘I don’t want to disturb you if you’re busy.’

  ‘Come through. I was going to stop for a drink anyway. Thirsty work, gardening in this heat. You’d have thought it would have cooled down out there by now.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Always nice to have a visitor.’

  I follow her through to the kitchen. The layout of her cottage is the same as ours, only in reverse. And hers is much more tumbledown and homely, with framed prints covering almost every inch of wall space, bric-a-brac and knick-knacks adorning all the surfaces.

  ‘Lemonade? Iced water?’

  ‘Water would be great, thanks.’

  Mrs P lifts a patterned jug out of an old cream-coloured buzzing fridge and pours the icy water into a couple of green dimpled glass tumblers.

  She gestures to a wooden stool and I take a seat while she downs her glass of water and pours herself another.

  ‘Mmm, that’s better. I think you might have saved me from heatstroke.’ She barks out a laugh. ‘Is this a social call?’

  ‘I just wanted to…’ But I’m not sure how to begin. Mrs P lives on her own, and I don’t want to alarm her.

  Her faded blue eyes fill with concern. ‘Best way is to just come out and say it.’

  ‘Okay, well, I wondered, have you seen anyone hanging around outside our house recently?’

  ‘Hanging around?’ Mrs P perches on the other stool, a puzzled look on her face.