My Perfect Sister

by Penny Batchelor

  Gareth draws me into his arms and I sink in quickly, breathing in the comforting smell of his warm, spicy aftershave. I’m hesitant to pull away but I bolt apart when, over his shoulder, I see Reg staring down at us from his upstairs window. When he spots that I’ve noticed him he waves, stony-faced. There’s still something about him that gives me the creeps, but then I think of Aunty Lena’s words and remind myself he’s a sad, lonely alcoholic. Even still, I usher Gareth into the car to start our journey to Ian and Jen’s house.

  They live about thirty minutes’ drive away in a suburb that estate agents would describe as ‘established’ and ‘sought after by professionals’. There’s a lot more greenery than where I live and the roads, lanes and cul-de-sacs are home to pre-Second World War built detached and semi-detached houses with the occasional bungalow thrown into the mix. It’s a prosperous area with, I imagine, a price tag to match. Instead of kebab, charity and mobile phone shops, the parade we drive past hosts a delicatessen, artisan café and modern chain of hairdressers.

  After taking a wrong turn, we eventually find Ian and Jen’s house and park where we can – the drive is already chock-a-block. Theirs is a double-fronted, brick-built bungalow with a concrete ramp leading up to the front door. Coloured lights hang from the fading tree in the front garden as a nod to the occasion; there’s also a Happy Birthday banner above the front door.

  Clutching the present I’ve bought for Jen in one hand (I rustled up enough cash to buy her from a charity shop a mug that has ‘Trust me – I’m a lawyer!’ emblazoned in black lettering on the side) I knock on the door with the other. An older man with a bushy beard and flushed cheeks answers and welcomes us in. He introduces himself as a colleague of the pair then turns back to talk to the group he is with.

  We walk along the entrance hall, which is papered with old-fashioned chintz-wallpaper and covered with a few scenic paintings. I clock that having spent so much launching their firm, Ian and Jen must have not had the time or money to do up their house. On our left is a door to the bustling living room where about fifteen people are chatting above an unidentifiable pop soundtrack. Gareth and I go past that and walk through the door at the end of the hallway that leads to a dated, but functional kitchen. There’s Ian next to a dinner table laden with snacks and booze, pouring drinks for a young couple.

  ‘Hello you!’ I say, pleased to see him again and, I must admit, relishing the nosey opportunity to see him in his own environment. Watching property programmes on TV and fantasising about which I’d choose is a favourite of mine, even though I don’t have a hope in hell of affording to buy a property on my own.

  ‘Annie!’ he gleefully replies. I bend down to kiss him, Gareth shakes him by the hand and Ian introduces us to the other couple in the kitchen, another pair of lawyers, then thrusts a glass of red wine each into our hands.

  It’s a happy, convivial atmosphere and soon I forget that I don’t know anybody else there. Instead, I enjoy mine and Gareth’s first social night out as a couple. When I introduced him to Ian I said, ‘and this is Gareth,’ to which he smirked. Next time Gareth takes the lead and introduces me as his date, Annie. Later he enquires whether I’d minded but I didn’t at all, indeed I was glad we had got one potentially awkward stumbling block out of the way. It’s only later that I think of Shaun and wonder whether I’ve moved on too quickly.

  Ian wheels through to the lounge so we can meet Jen. In her civvy clothes she looks much softer and more approachable than in the photograph on the firm’s website. She’s evidently already a few glasses of wine down and hugs me as if I were an old friend. I think I’ll like her very much. Gareth works the room and I catch up a little with Ian and what his life’s like now. Someone turns the music up, blasts out a compilation of nineties Britpop tunes, and three people start to dance, kicking off their shoes and jumping to the rhythm of their childhood.

  It’s later, after Jen has invited me into the back garden to accompany her whilst she has a drunken smoke, that the topic of this morning’s interview with Toby Smith comes up. She tells me that when Ian told her about the letter he’d written she’d done some digging into the case.

  I’m feeling somewhat light-headed myself as I’m on my fourth top up of wine. We’re standing in the light of the kitchen window. The rest of the garden is barely illuminated by the crescent moon far up ahead; I hear an animal scuffling in the undergrowth somewhere nearby.

  Not having met Jen before, I don’t know whether alcohol has loosened her tongue or she’s usually this ebullient. ‘I’ve seen a lot of shits in my career,’ she confides, ‘but Toby Smith really is one of the shittiest. One of my friends was on the prosecution team. Smith tried to use every trick in the book to wheedle his way out of the charge, even claiming it was his wife’s fault that he hit her. His barrister nit-picked at every legal technicality. Thank God it didn’t work. You’d be surprised at the number of times it does and the bastards walk free.’

  She takes her last drag then stubs the butt out underfoot, picks it up and buries it in the mint herb planter on the floor next to us. ‘Hiding the evidence,’ she winks. ‘If Ian asks why I smell of smoke I’ll tell him it’s because I’ve been around other people who were smoking. Want a mint?’ She pulls a packet out from her handbag.

  I shake my head to decline.

  Jen sucks on the mint with applied fervour, then adds, ‘Smith’s campaigning for an appeal, you know. Says he’s got an expert who can prove he was a victim of psychological abuse and went into some sort of dissociative state that caused him to beat his wife half to death. His brother sold his house to pay the legal fees. Would have been better off disowning him if you ask me.’

  ‘Is he likely to be granted an appeal?’

  ‘I’d usually say not likely but you never know what the brother has up his sleeve. I’ve heard a rumour that a group that campaigns for male domestic violence victims is considering supporting him. It’s laughable. Smith knew damn well what he was doing. His wife never had a chance to defend herself.’

  ‘Do you think he could have something to do with my sister’s disappearance?’ I ask, interested in her professional opinion. Instinctively I wrap my arms around my chest to keep warm and take another gulp of vino.

  ‘It’s possible. Don’t get your hopes up, though. Without a body it’s very difficult to prove a murder. It’s awful that you’ve spent all these years not knowing what happened to her. It must have really fucked you up. Oops, sorry, I’m not saying that you are fucked up, rather that no one would blame you if you were.’

  At that she links my arm and leads me back inside. ‘Come on, let’s have a top up. We must get together again sometime. Ian’s said lots of lovely things about you. He had a hard time with bullies growing up. I’m glad he had you in his gang. Gareth’s well fit. You bagged a good one there.’

  The night draws in further and people begin to leave, calling taxis and hugging old and new friends goodbye. Gareth stuck to one glass of wine and is the soberest of the lot. We bid our leave and promise to see Ian and Jen very soon. In the car on the way home, as the traffic lights flash past in a soporific fashion, I remember to ask Gareth if he was able to find out any more about the frizzy-haired girl on social media.

  ‘I got access to the Facebook group,’ he replies, ‘but I’m not sure if she’s there. A few women don’t have a photo of themselves on their profile. Without a name it’s impossible to know if she’s in the group or not.’

  I’m too tired and too tipsy now to think further. When Gareth drops me off at the house, Reg’s bedroom light is off and the curtains closed. I feel silly for even checking and letting him bother me earlier on. Right now I’m longing to keep mine and Gareth’s date going until the morning. I apologise to him that I can’t invite him up.

  ‘That’s OK, I’ve got to get back to my wife and three kids,’ he jokes. I punch his arm in mock horror.

  ‘I hope I’ll have a get out of jail free for the night card soon,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see if m
y aunt will stay over one night. That’s if you don’t mind me coming over to yours.’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll even change the duvet cover for you.’ With that, I go inside and put myself to bed. Thoughts of Gareth and fantasising about what could lie ahead for us push Gemma, Toby Smith, Reg, Mike and the frizzy-haired woman far into the wilderness of that night’s dreams.

  18

  It’s Monday morning and I’m rushing round the house putting together a bag of essential things for the chemo session today when there’s a loud bang on the door. Mother is in the bathroom putting on some make-up – I’ve noticed that whilst she doesn’t usually wear make-up at home, she takes care to ensure she looks her best for her hospital treatment – and shouts downstairs to me to ask me to answer it.

  It’s Aunty Lena. She hasn’t put her jacket on in the rain and the drizzle has turned her hair frizzy. A blob of water drips from the end of her nose: she wipes it away with a hand that’s holding a newspaper. I can tell there’s something amiss.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ she asks conspiratorially.

  ‘Upstairs in the bathroom. Why?’

  Lena comes in the house and leads me through to the kitchen, shutting the doors behind her. From here it’s very unlikely that we can be overheard upstairs. I’ve never seen Lena so vexed before.

  She throws the paper on to the table. It’s the local rag. I hadn’t realised it is still in print, assuming that it would have died a death years ago thanks to the internet. The paper is open at page five. My eyes are drawn straight away to two pictures accompanying the text: the first the mugshot of Toby Smith I’ve seen before in reports about his conviction, and the second is Gemma. It’s a school photograph of hers taken a couple of months after she started the fifth form. The original stands on the top of the bookcase in the lounge. My sister is smiling angelically, appearing very much the innocent, studious, attractive white girl that the press loves far more than a missing, surly teenage black boy in care.

  Seeing the pixelated image of her sends my heart beating faster. A cold clammy film of sweat sheens my forehead. The article headlines reads: ‘Attempted murderer’s brother claims police harassment’.

  ‘Read it,’ says Lena. ‘You didn’t tell me love that the police have interviewed Toby Smith, I thought you’d only written a letter. Does your mother know?’

  I shake my head. She doesn’t. I planned to only tell her if something came of it. Despite Ian’s suggested threat of going to the media, I didn’t expect they’d pick up on the story. I certainly didn’t speak to the newspaper and DI Glass, once he’d been given the go-ahead by his superiors to re-interview Smith, had advised me to keep it an internal matter for now. So who spoke to the newspaper?

  The partisan article soon tells me.

  It seems that after DI Glass interviewed Smith in prison, Smith called his brother Robert who, enraged, went straight to the local paper. In the article he claims that Toby Smith was a victim of a miscarriage of justice two years ago due to the judge prohibiting evidence of Jasmine’s emotional abuse of him to be submitted at his trial, and that the police’s interview of him in respect to Gemma constitutes harassment and is a blatant attempt to smear his name and scupper his chances of a retrial. ‘My brother was never a suspect. He was a good friend of Gemma’s, who was a troubled girl, and didn’t have anything to do with her going missing. There is no evidence to suggest he did. The police are desperately throwing mud at an easy target and trying to make it stick to cover up that they have failed, for more than twenty years, to find her.’ My heart sinks even further when I read another line where Robert Smith says that police are also to blame for placating and giving false hope to the relative of Gemma’s who asked for the case to be reopened. There’s only Mother and I left, and with her cancer treatment, she’s in no fit state to co-ordinate a Justice for Gemma campaign. It won’t take anyone long to pin the blame on me if they believe this rot.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and cradle my throbbing head in my hands. Robert Smith has twisted the story to suit his own purposes, shoving Gemma back into the shadows instead of at the forefront where she should be. The word ‘troubled’ insinuates she may have brought whatever happened to her onto herself. It’s a cheap shot to libel the dead. What kind of journalist would write that? There isn’t a byline, only the words ‘staff writer’. There’s also no contradiction of Smith’s point of view, just a cursory mention that Toby Smith is in prison for the attempted murder of his wife. There’s a short line saying the police do not comment on ongoing investigations and one about the paper having tried but failed to contact Gemma’s family for a quote. I think back to the two calls from an unknown number I didn’t answer on Saturday. Could they have been from a journalist? I hadn’t looked to see if the caller left a message. Part of this is my fault. If I’d have known that the paper was going to publish the piece I might have been able to do something about it.

  ‘We’ll tell her together,’ says Lena, who is busying herself by boiling the kettle and lifting down three mugs from the top cupboard. The hinge creaks ominously as she shuts it.

  ‘I’ve got to take her to chemo in quarter of an hour.’

  ‘We have to explain to her what’s happened. The paper will be on sale in the hospital. She might see it or someone might recognise her name and ask her about it. It has to come from us.’

  ‘You’re right.’ My temples are pulsating even more now and I can hear the echo of my heart pumping my blood. Whoosh, whoosh… I grasp the edge of the table so tightly that a red weal appears in my palm.

  ‘We’ve got to pray the story doesn’t set her back,’ says Lena as she goes about the ritual of putting the tea bags in the mugs and pouring in the water. Tea first, milk last.

  ‘I’ll go and find her.’

  Upstairs I hover until I hear the loo flush and the click of the bathroom door handle. When Mother comes out I ask her to come downstairs. Immediately she picks up on the mood in the house, whether it be from my body language or the serious tone of my voice, and shoots me a look of concern.

  The many seconds it takes her to walk downstairs, left foot down a step followed by right foot, holding tightly on to the handrail with her right hand so as not to fall, tick past in tempo with my burgeoning headache. When she can’t see me I glance at my watch and calculate how much time there is before we have to leave for the hospital. More seconds go by leaving us less time for explanations. I have absolutely no idea how she will react.

  ‘Elaine’s here in the kitchen,’ I say. ‘There’s something we want to talk to you about.’

  ‘What is it?’ Mother starts to pick up a little speed once she’s downstairs and walking to the kitchen. Aunty Lena’s sitting at the table with the three steaming mugs on top of it. The newspaper is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Sit down, Mother.’ She does so obediently. ‘Has the hospital rung? Is there a problem?’

  ‘No love, it’s nothing to do with that.’ Lena gently pushes Mother’s mug towards her and then squeezes her fragile hand.

  ‘Then what is it? You’re both looking very serious.’

  Lena gives me the nod as if to say, ‘you made this bed, now you can explain why’.

  I clear my throat. I could do with a couple of paracetamol. Outside it has started to rain harder – water whips loudly against the smudged window, showing no mercy. Aunty Lena is still holding mother’s hand as tightly as she can, bolting her to the table.

  ‘There’s an article in the local newspaper today about Gemma.’

  Mother gasps. Lena and I catch each other’s eyes. I go on.

  ‘When I came back here I found out that a boy in her class she was friends with, Toby Smith, was sent to prison two years ago for the attempted murder of his wife. I called the police to tell them in case they hadn’t put two and two together; to me it seems a bit too much of a coincidence and I thought it was worth them interviewing him in prison to find out whether he had anything to do with Gemma going missing.’

&nbs
p; Mother is staring at me. I think she’s trying to take it all in. ‘And did he? What did the police say?’

  ‘Nothing yet. My contact, DI Glass who was in the force when Gemma disappeared, said it would take a few days after he’d interviewed Smith in prison for he and his colleagues to decide whether there was any new relevant evidence. They might have to re-check alibis and things like that.’

  ‘When will you know? And why is it in the paper?’

  ‘I’ll call DI Glass later today. Smith’s brother went straight to the paper to complain the police were harassing his brother. He’s got the gall to suggest that it’s Toby Smith who is the victim here.’

  ‘Can I have a glass of water please?’ I jump to my feet to fetch one. Mother gulps it down, perhaps to settle her queasiness. She doesn’t say anything else. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Histrionics? A weeping fit? Fainting? Anger at me for sticking my nose in?

  ‘We’ve got to leave for the hospital. I’m sorry about all this happening now,’ I say.

  Lena, who still has hold of Mother’s hand, helps her to her feet then fetches her coat. I turn to leave the room to get the chemo goody bag to take with us.

  Mother’s words stop me in my tracks.

  ‘Thank you, Annie. Thank you for standing up for your sister. I don’t want to read the article, I’ve read far too many of them over the years, but please do tell me if the police find out anything more.’

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  She looks so weary, hardly capable of making it to the car. ‘I will. I’ll be back in a second.’

  As I walk into the hall I hear the click and thump sound of post being delivered. Lying on the doormat is a letter addressed to me but instead of being handwritten or typed the vowels and consonants have been rather comically cut out from a newspaper. I get a paper cut on my forefinger as I open the letter and a few drops of blood drop on to the letter enclosed. This too is made up of newspaper print. The words make me feel sick.