The Silent Sister

by Shalini Boland

  ‘What do you mean? Nothing’s going on. I’m just going for a quick after-work drink with Pippa.’

  ‘Okay, but I was worried when I saw your text. You don’t normally go out. Want me to come and meet you?’

  ‘No, that’s okay, I won’t be long.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Hang on.’ I turn to Pippa and mouth. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘The Crown?’

  I shake my head. Joe’s crowd will all be in there, and the last thing I need is them telling Joe that they saw his girlfriend having fun without him. ‘What about The Black Sheep?’ I suggest.

  She shrugs and nods.

  I put my phone back to my ear. ‘Hey, Joe. We’re just popping to The Sheep. See you later, okay? I won’t be long.’

  ‘Okay.’ He doesn’t sound impressed.

  ‘Love you!’ I say before ending the call.

  ‘I haven’t been to The Sheep in a while,’ Pippa muses.

  ‘One of my old school friends works behind the bar there. I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘Milly Truscott?’ Pippa asks.

  ‘No, Abigail Samms.’

  ‘Oh, Abi, yes.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I know everyone, sweetie.’ Pippa winks.

  Luckily, The Sheep isn’t too far down the road, so we won’t have to walk past Whittaker’s and risk seeing Leon. I’m beginning to get cold feet about this casual drink with Pippa. I’ve already pissed Joe off with my last-minute arrangements, and what if Leon decides to come into The Sheep for some reason? After our last encounter, it would be beyond awkward. I slow my pace a little, so Pippa links arms with me once more, making me speed up again. ‘Stop being such a worrier,’ she says. ‘We’re going to have a lovely, girly evening, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ I reply.

  Seconds later, we push open the double doors and stroll into the warm, buzzing bar, an enticing tang of garlic and alcohol hanging in the air. It’s Saturday evening and the place is already busy with the after-work crowd. Pippa and I weave our way through suited guys smelling of aftershave and groups of perfume-scented women, faint traces of smoke clinging to hair and clothes.

  ‘Lizzy Beresford? Oh my days, it is!’

  I turn at the sound of a woman’s voice. A familiar face grins back at me, blonde waves tumbling around her face.

  ‘Callie, hi!’ I say, returning her smile. ‘Haven’t seen you properly since…’

  ‘Sam and Lucy’s wedding.’ She finishes my sentence. ‘And that was two flipping years ago.’ Callie used to be a good friend of mine back when we were at school, but we’ve lost touch in more recent years. Nowadays she works as a cashier at the local bank.

  ‘Thought you’d emigrated,’ she says, taking a sip of her white wine.

  ‘Emigrated?’

  ‘I’m being sarcastic. We never see you any more. You’ve become a hermit since you got coupled up.’

  It’s a bit of a shock to realise that I’ve let our friendship fizzle out so easily. ‘Do you know Pippa?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  They nod and smile at one another.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve met before,’ Callie says.

  ‘Let me and Pip get a drink and I’ll come and find you,’ I say.

  ‘Cool, we’re in the corner. Me, Soph and Lins.’

  Pippa and I carry on to the bar, where I buy us a glass of prosecco each, waving away her insistent offer to go halves.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, squeezing my arm. ‘I’ll get the next one.’

  ‘I’m only staying for one,’ I warn.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Pippa says with a smirk.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Lindsay says, getting to her feet as I approach the table in the corner.

  ‘Lizzy Beresford, bloody hell!’ Sophie cries.

  ‘Is there a blue moon tonight?’ Lindsay asks, pretending to peer out of an imaginary window.

  ‘Very funny,’ I reply.

  ‘I had to drag her out,’ Pippa says.

  ‘Well done,’ Callie replies.

  ‘She’s had a crappy old day, so I thought a few drinks were in order.’

  I realise that Pippa is going to tell them about Leon Whittaker. If she were sitting next to me, I could give her a little kick to get her to keep her mouth shut. I try to catch her eye, but it’s too late. I may as well face the fact that this story is going to be all round the town before morning.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Soph asks, her chocolate-brown eyes wide with concern, glancing from me to Pippa.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, taking a huge slurp of prosecco. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘It’s not nothing, darling. It’s serious,’ Pippa says.

  I sit back and resign myself to Pippa blabbing about what’s been going on. But actually, the girls are really sympathetic. It’s nice to be fussed over for a change. It’s lovely to be sitting around a table with my school friends again, like old times. I’m not sure why or how I managed to lose touch with them.

  ‘So, do you really think that Leon’s behind the letters?’ Callie asks me.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know, Cals. Everything’s been really weird lately. Maybe I’m just clutching at straws because he showed an interest in me?’

  ‘You should come out with us more often,’ she says. ‘Just because some of us are coupled up, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t catch up now and again.’

  I nod, feeling guilty. But honestly, the amount of hassle it causes with Joe whenever I go out without him, it’s just not worth it. I know it’s only because he loves me. So why do I feel a fluttery, nervous feeling in my stomach at the thought of going back home? He won’t be happy, and we’ll have an argument. As these thoughts begin to take hold, the shine is rapidly coming off my evening. I love him, but sometimes I wish he’d give me a bit of space – and stop treating me like a two-year-old.

  ‘Well,’ I say, getting to my feet, ‘it was amazing catching up, but I’m gonna head off.’

  ‘Nooo!’ my friends say in unison.

  ‘Have another drink,’ Pippa says. ‘It’s my round.’

  ‘I can’t, Pip. My car’s in the car park. I’ve got to drive home.’

  ‘A soft drink, then.’

  They continue to try to talk me out of going, but I know I won’t enjoy myself, thinking of Joe at home, sulking. I kiss everyone goodbye and promise to come out again soon for a ‘proper’ night out. As I leave, I hear Pippa telling the girls about her ‘divine’ new man, Toby. I’m sad to be heading home early. But it’ll be nice, I tell myself. Just Joe and I cuddled up on the sofa. Isn’t that what everyone wants? Someone to share their life with?

  I leave the bar and step out into the evening sunshine. The street is quiet, just the odd car driving past and a few people on foot heading for a local night out in town. I only had one drink, so I hope I’m okay to drive back.

  ‘Lizzy!’

  I freeze at the sound of a man’s voice. At footsteps running towards me. I jerk my head up to see who it could be. And then he comes into focus.

  ‘Joe!’ I’m relieved it’s only Joe, but on the other hand, what’s he doing here?

  He jogs down the street towards me. ‘Thought I’d come and join you at The Sheep,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘I’ve just left,’ I reply, trying not to snap. ‘I’m on my way back to the house right now.’

  His eyes light up at my words, and he throws an arm around my shoulders. ‘Great. Come on then, Lizzy. Let’s get you home.’

  Pippa’s disdainful words, he’s not your keeper, buzz around my brain. I want to tell Joe to give me some space, but I bite my tongue instead.

  ‘I was worried,’ he continues. ‘I don’t like you out here on your own in the evening – not with all this stalker stuff going on.’

  ‘I wasn’t on my own. I was with Pippa.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he says. ‘You’re out in town without anyone to keep an eye on you.’

  I should
tell him to ease off on the protective boyfriend role, but there’s no point provoking an argument. I’ve got enough trouble in my life at the moment without creating more hassle at home. But my good mood is ruined. What with Leon’s visit to the shop and Joe’s macho bullshit, I’m sick of men at the moment. The girls were right – I’ve allowed our old friendships to slide. I need to put that right, and Joe will just have to accept that he’s not the only person in my life. I need to see my friends too.

  I know this is probably crazy, but a tiny part of me is even beginning to think that it could have been Joe who sent the letters – as an excuse to keep checking up on me. No, that’s ridiculous. I shake my head, taking Joe’s hand, dismissing the thought as soon as I have it.

  I’ve realised something.

  * * *

  I’ve realised that this is not just about them. It’s also about me.

  * * *

  About letting them know I exist.

  * * *

  The real me.

  * * *

  Not the person who’s been invisible for years.

  * * *

  I’m only starting to discover who I am. Peeling away the veneer of my fake life to reveal someone new. Or maybe someone who was there all along but never had the chance to breathe. To shine. To be real.

  * * *

  These messages are simply my calling card. My introduction.

  * * *

  But what comes after the introduction?

  Thirteen

  The hallway is dark, apart from the yellow glow of a streetlight through the half-glazed front door. I stare down at the doormat, not quite sure what it is that I’m looking at – some kind of red, oozing mess. And there’s a dull, rhythmic thump emanating from it. A creeping horror slides over me as I realise it’s a bleeding body part, an internal organ of some sort. I want to look away, but I can’t. Instead, I find myself crouching down to get a closer look, choking back the urge to throw up. When I realise what it is, I give a scream. It’s a heart. A live, beating heart pulsing within a growing pool of blood that’s spreading outwards towards my bare feet.

  Submerged beneath my scream, a ringing sound emerges. A phone. I stagger upright and back away from the grotesque thing. I head instead towards the insistent ringing. But now I find the hall suddenly has no doors and I can’t work out where the ringing is coming from. The sound is all around me, clanging bells inside my head. The air is thick and dark. I can’t see anything and I’m terrified that I’m going to accidentally step on the heart. Feel its slimy squelch beneath my feet.

  I wake with a start. The nightmare fades and I’m snapped into the present as I realise my phone really is ringing. Our bedroom is dark. It’s the middle of the night. The luminous numbers of my clock read 3.40 a.m. Still groggy with sleep, I reach out a hand and bash about on the nightstand for my mobile, managing to answer it before whoever it is rings off.

  ‘Hello?’ I gasp.

  ‘Elizabeth Beresford?’ A male voice. Serious. Official.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s me.’ My mouth is dry, my tongue thick and fuzzy.

  ‘We have you listed as the registered key holder for Georgio’s in the High Street. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. What’s happened? Who is this?’

  ‘Who is it?’ Joe murmurs next to me. ‘What’s the time?’

  I ignore Joe for the moment, concentrating instead on the voice at the end of the line.

  ‘This is Police Constable Matt Ryan. I’m afraid there’s been a break-in at the shop. Are you able to come down?’ It sounds like he’s shouting, trying to make himself heard over a deafening clanging sound.

  ‘You want me to come to the station?’

  ‘No. If you can come straight to the shop that would be great.’

  ‘Okay. Give me… uh, ten minutes or so.’ I rub my left eye with the back of my fist.

  ‘Great. See you shortly.’

  I end the call and sit up, realising that the clanging noise in the background of the phone call was probably the shop alarm.

  ‘Who was that?’ Joe asks again. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Break-in at the shop.’

  ‘A break-in? What are they calling you for? Surely they should’ve called George.’

  ‘Nope.’ I swing my legs out of bed and get to my feet, trying to shake the sleep from my brain. ‘It’s part of my job description to sort out this kind of thing. All George’s managers are key holders for his shops. So he can get his uninterrupted beauty sleep, I suppose.’ I let out a huge noisy yawn.

  ‘He should pay you more.’ Joe rolls over onto his side and stares at me. ‘Want me to come with you?’

  I’m tempted to say yes, but there’s no point both of us having a broken night’s sleep. ‘No, don’t worry.’ I open the wardrobe and root around in the darkness, managing to locate a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. ‘Go back to sleep, Joe. The police are already at the shop. I’ll park right outside. There won’t be any traffic wardens at this time of the morning. And if there are, the police can explain what’s happened. Anyway, if I get a ticket, George can bloody well pay.’

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I’m outside in the warm, damp night, unlocking my car and sliding into the driver’s seat. The remnants of my dream still cling to me and I give a tiny shudder, closing the car door and pushing down the lock, testing the handle to make sure no one can get to me. All of a sudden, I’m overcome with the paralysing terror that someone could be hiding in the back of the car. Maybe they engineered the break-in at the shop in order to get me out of the house. The rational part of my brain tells me I’m being utterly ridiculous, but the other part – the part where nightmares live – is telling me to get out now and run back inside the house.

  I grip the steering wheel, too scared to move. Too scared to breathe. Somehow I gather up the nerve to turn my head, even as chills are sweeping down my spine. The back seat looks empty, but I can’t relax just yet. I ease myself round and kneel backward on my seat, peering into the back and down onto the floor. There’s no one there. Of course there’s no one there. What was I even thinking?

  The roads are empty at this time of the morning. Even though last night was a Saturday, downtown Malmesbury tends to become quiet soon after pub kicking-out time. It’s not exactly a heaving metropolis of action. Consequently, it only takes me a couple of minutes to reach Georgio’s. I see the squad car parked out front and I pull up behind it, take a breath and wonder what I’m going to find here. Wonder if the damage will be great, and whether the thieves will have taken much stock. Straight away I notice that the glass front door has a jagged hole in it about three quarters of the way up. As I turn off the car engine, the deafening clang of the shop alarm makes me wince. I pity anyone who lives on the High Street. They won’t get any sleep until that racket stops.

  I get out of the car and nod at the two uniformed officers. I recognise one of them – he’s the young male policeman who came to the shop on Friday with Sergeant Llewellyn. He looks older tonight. Less fresh-faced.

  ‘Hello again,’ he shouts above the racket. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re having a great week.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Did anyone see what happened?’

  ‘Afraid not. There was no one around when we got here. The alarm company called us out.’

  ‘Would CCTV have caught anything?’ I ask.

  ‘No cameras pointing in this direction. They’re all focused up around the Market Cross and down the bottom of the High Street near the pubs. But we’ll take a look at the footage, see if we can spot anyone leaving the scene. Do you have any security cameras on the premises?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, it’s something that’s been talked about, but we’ve never got round to it.’

  ‘Okay. Do you want to go and open up? Turn off the alarm?’

  ‘I thought you said the shop had been broken into?’

  ‘Sorry, my mistake. The door is still locked, so it doesn’t look as though they actually got inside
the shop. It was either a failed attempt at a break-in, or vandals. Maybe even an angry drunk kicking it in or lobbing something through the glass.’

  That’s one bit of good news at least. If it wasn’t thieves, then all George will have to do is get the glass in the door replaced. I pull the shop keys out of my handbag and fumble with them in the lock of the wooden side door until, finally, I manage to get inside. The alarm is absolutely deafening in here and I quickly punch in the code, sighing with relief when the clanging finally stops, although I think I’m going to hear that ringing in my ears for days.

  I switch on all the lights, blinking in the sudden brightness, and make my way along the corridor and through to the main part of the shop. The two officers follow me inside and we stare around the interior. There’s a small amount of glass on the floor by the door. One of the display units has been damaged, a result of whatever missile was used to break the front door.

  ‘There.’ PC Ryan points to a chunky black object on the carpet behind the display unit. It looks broken, like it’s half a piece of something. I spot the other half wedged in among a smashed display of china mugs. Ryan walks over to the object on the carpet. ‘Looks like marble.’

  I reach down to pick up the other piece, but PC Ryan’s voice stops me.

  ‘Don’t touch it. I’ll bag it up and see if we can get some prints off it. Nice smooth piece of rock like that should yield some good prints, if the perp wasn’t wearing gloves.’

  I stare at the piece of marble. It’s black, lined with silvery white veins. PC Ryan comes over to me with the other piece in his gloved hand. ‘Looks like some kind of ornament,’ he says.

  ‘Or an ashtray,’ I say. ‘Look, it’s got a deep indent, and there’s a little groove on the edge where you rest your cigarette. My dad’s got a similar one, but it’s green.’

  ‘Could be,’ he replies. ‘Strange thing to throw through a window, or rather through a door. Not the sort of thing someone would just happen to be carrying around in their pocket.’