The Stolen Sisters: from the bestselling author of The Date and The Sister comes one of the most thrilling, terrifying and shocking psychological thrillers of 2020

by Louise Jensen

  Calm yourself.

  Three things but there’s nothing to see in this toilet cubicle.

  My breath comes too quickly. I don’t want to touch anything but dizziness forces me to stretch out my hands and steady myself against the walls.

  Calm yourself.

  The flush handle.

  Cistern.

  The PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS poster on the back of the door Calm.

  But calm is a million miles away. I’m trapped here in this small space with him outside the door.

  Again.

  The contents of my stomach rise, splattering the bowl of the loo. The smell takes me back until I am kneeling in the filth of that dirty room, terrified my twin was going to die. Terror pulses deep in my gut. I’ve touched the toilet seat with my gloved fingers, my sleeves. My skirt has brushed the tile floor. I want to rip off my clothes and burn them. Scrub my skin until it’s pink and raw.

  The door swings open. I press my hands over my mouth to suppress my scream before I remember where my hands were resting just seconds before. Revulsion strokes me with its filthy fingers.

  I whimper.

  ‘Leah?’

  I can’t answer. I’m frozen.

  ‘Leah? Please, what’s going on? Jesus, have you chucked up? Christ, the smell is making me gag.’ I hear Tash retch.

  Slowly I stand, brushing the germs from my knees, invisible insects from my skin.

  Scuttling. Scuttling.

  The floor of the cubicle sharply shifts. I stumble.

  ‘You’d better let me in before I kick this door down and don’t think that I can’t. It’s me or Jim the rep and he needs a new hip.’

  That sliding bolt. I can’t stop shaking.

  ‘Is he gone?’ I whisper.

  ‘Who, Jim—’

  ‘The photocopy guy?’

  ‘Yes. Why—’

  I push past her. Grab my bag and coat.

  Run.

  The streets are busy. I see him everywhere, walking into the chemist, punching numbers into the cash point, loafing at the bus stop.

  I’ve left my car behind, knowing it will be quicker on foot, knowing that parking would be a problem when I get there, but without its steely casing and locking doors, I feel vulnerable.

  At last I hare into the right street. Thunder up the steps and push against the front door. It’s locked.

  ‘Francesca!’ I bang on the door, not caring if she’s with another patient. ‘Francesca!’

  It’s been so long since I’ve been here, I wonder if she still rents this as office space but the plaque by the doorbell tells me she does. She might have a day off. I pull out my mobile to see if I can find her home address online when I hear footsteps behind me. I swing around. It’s Francesca and for a second I am so relieved I can’t speak.

  ‘Leah?’ She looks wary, afraid. I must appear as though I’ve gone mad. Sweat streaming down my forehead, my hair wild and cheeks burning.

  ‘Please help me,’ I rasp. With one last worried glance over her shoulder, she ushers me inside.

  While Francesca makes tea we both know I won’t drink as I haven’t handed her my own mug, I wash my hands three times in the bathroom before shaking them dry and pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. My clothes feel vile, my skin filthy, but it’s the best I can do for now.

  ‘It’s back,’ I say as soon as she returns to the room.

  ‘Your contamination OCD?’ Her eyes flicker to my gloves.

  ‘All of it.’

  She gives a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Look, Leah, I don’t know if I’m best placed to treat you any more.’

  ‘It’s back.’

  ‘I can recommend a colleague—’

  ‘It’s back,’ I say again, before I follow up with a ‘please’ filled with desperation. ‘I know I stopped coming and I ignored all of your messages asking me why. I’m sorry but I was feeling so good. I wasn’t even wearing the gloves any more. It was silly to stop treatment and ignore you but… but I thought it was over and I wanted to put everything behind me – but now…’ my voice breaks, ‘he’s out.’

  ‘And you think you’ve seen him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you?’

  I swallow hard and think carefully about my answer. ‘I don’t know… It felt real…’

  Francesca sips her tea. The clock ticks.

  And as I wait for her answer, I remember.

  It was a few years before Archie was born. My mental health always plummeted around anniversaries, Marie’s drinking escalated, Carly became a virtual recluse, relinquishing her regular charity-shop expeditions and replacing them with buying things on eBay, hoping to take better photos, write better descriptions, sell them at a higher price. Graham had called to let me know he’d been released again and my OCD skyrocketed. Not just the contamination side but my rituals too. Everything having to be done three times, everything taking three times as long. I’d already been seeing Francesca for a while – her support along with George’s was just about keeping me upright, just about keeping me together – but the news that he was out there once more sent me plunging into an abyss that I just couldn’t scale.

  The first time I thought I saw him I was terrified. The police wouldn’t do anything, couldn’t do anything. He hadn’t approached me. Hadn’t threatened me. It wasn’t a crime to be walking down the street. I felt exposed and alone in a world that felt shaky much of the time anyway. Marie tried to hide in the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels while Carly hid indoors. Home felt like the safest place until I opened the door to a pizza delivery man, and it was him. I screamed and he ran away. This time the police visited him but he whipped an alibi from his hat and with sleight of hand he was free. It was me who was trapped. I saw him everywhere, documenting it all in a diary while George took me to the station again and again until they arrested him for stalking. I hadn’t known they were holding him and when I went to file another report about him coming to my house – this time wearing a post office uniform – it was me who was arrested for wasting police time. He was in custody, they told me. Currently in a cell in this very building. It was impossible that the postman had been him ‘unless he’s bleeding Houdini’ I was told sarcastically. I cried. I wouldn’t admit to lying because I hadn’t been. I stuck to my story over and over until at last I was released into the freezing car park. A light mist swirling around my ankles, breathing in damp. There was a figure by my car, waiting.

  Him.

  I screamed and screamed until the officer who had interviewed me had raced outside and escorted me back to the small interview room.

  ‘Please.’ I looked over my shoulder. ‘He’s following me. Please.’ Why wasn’t I being taken seriously?

  ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing but…’

  I threw another glance behind me. It was definitely still him. Still following me.

  My legs were shaking so hard I collapsed. A duty doctor was called who verified that the man by my car – the man who followed me back into the station – was Detective Inspector Lansford. He had wanted to make sure I was okay.

  I wasn’t.

  It was impossible to pull myself together. To change my story. I knew what I had seen, and I had seen him. The doctor recommended I was sectioned for my own safety and George was called. He raced to the station, having picked up Francesca on the way, and it was she who had saved me. Confused by my garbled stories of being stalked at my therapy sessions, and my subsequent charge, she’d been researching and she realized I had Fregoli Syndrome.

  ‘Freg— xswhat?’ the officer dealing with us asked scathingly.

  ‘Fregoli Syndrome. It’s a rare neurological disorder. There aren’t a huge number of diagnosed cases but there are thought to be a high number of undiagnosed cases.’

  ‘And what is it exactly, this Fregoli?’

  ‘It’s a delusional disorder in which the sufferer mistakenly believes that a person present in their environment is a familiar person in disgu
ise. Leah might see his face, or she might get a sense that it is him masquerading as someone else. It is very real to her. She believes wholeheartedly that he is persecuting her.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of this.’

  ‘As I said, it’s rare but we believe if more health professionals were aware of it then the number of diagnoses would increase. I believe a proportion of cases where people report they are being stalked could be because they have Fregoli.’

  ‘And you can just… catch it?’ He steps backwards as though I am contagious.

  ‘There are several known causes. Leah hasn’t sustained a head injury but she suffers with other mental health issues, which can cause an onset of Fregoli. For instance, Leah has contamination OCD, paranoia and panic disorder. Every incident where Leah claims she is being followed is very real and very frightening to her. She thinks she sees his face everywhere, or sees him disguised as other people, but it’s not him.’

  ‘Right…’ You could see the officer was having a hard time believing her. ‘If Leah is sectioned she can be treated and—’

  ‘I believe sectioning Leah will be counter-productive. She’ll still see his face or think he is disguised as a nurse—’

  ‘She might think he’s a woman?’

  ‘It’s possible, yes. She’ll think he’s clever enough to carry that off. If she’s sectioned she will have the added trauma of being in a locked ward with no familiar faces and no way to escape. She needs medication and therapy, but not to the extent of drugging her to an almost vegetative state. She needs to feel safe.’

  ‘I don’t know. It all sounds fuc— so unbelievable. No offence.’ He looked at me and then turned quickly away as though I might cause his face to change. ‘And this is one of them newfangled mental health thingies we’re supposed to be sensitive about?’

  ‘It’s not new.’ Francesca didn’t show any hint of impatience. ‘The first diagnosed case was in 1927. A theatregoer was convinced that two of her favourite actresses were disguising themselves as other people and following her. Her theory was… disproved,’ Francesca said carefully, not adding that the theory was disproved after the lady attacked a stranger, thinking it was one of the actresses, as I found out later. ‘The condition was named after Leopoldo Fregoli, who thrilled Victorian theatregoers with his quick-change act. Look. You can discharge Leah into my care. I’m confident I can treat her. Once the anniversary is over, the pressure will be off anyway and it will likely disappear as quickly as it came on. You do all know what she went through as a child.’

  ‘Yeah.’ This time his voice was softer, he probably had children of his own. ‘Okay. You can take her home. But she better not be back in five minutes reporting she’s seen him again.’

  I didn’t but ironically, he did approach me – all three of us – wanting to apologize. We didn’t accept, didn’t care if he’d ‘turned over a new leaf’. Not long after, he was arrested again. Boomeranged back to his cell.

  Now, my drifting thoughts are interrupted by Francesca’s voice.

  ‘Feeling real doesn’t mean it is real. You know that, Leah.’

  ‘I know but the timing… Me seeing him the day after he was released – and I didn’t know at the time he had been released. The twenty-year anniversary.’

  ‘Where did you see him?’

  ‘I was coming out of the BP garage.’

  ‘Walk me through it. Where were you coming from? Going to?’

  ‘I’d come from home. Marie had texted and asked me to go round. I was cross because George had promised he’d fill the car up but he hadn’t. You remember the smell of petrol always reminds me of being in the back of the van?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I filled up my car and I was paying and there was a white van,’ I pause, trying to decide whether to tell her I thought the van had someone trapped inside. That I made the driver open the doors, but I don’t want to appear any more paranoid than I probably do already.

  ‘And he was driving the van?’ Francesca prompts.

  ‘No. He was in a black car. He passed me as I came out of the garage.’

  ‘So you were already in an emotionally heightened state because you were on your way to see Marie. You’d seen a white van, which of course is distressing for you, as is the smell of petrol. On a scale of one to ten, how certain are you it was him?’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I admit. ‘I thought he was still in prison but I saw him again the next day, outside Marie’s flat.’

  ‘Did he approach you?’

  ‘No. I was in the car with Carly and it was raining. He was on the street.’

  ‘Did Carly see him too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you saw him clearly? Through the rain?’ She studies me.

  ‘Well, no but I had a really strong feeling.’ I reach to tuck my hair behind my ears. My hands are trembling.

  ‘It’s okay, Leah. You’re doing great.’ She gives me a second. ‘Have you seen him anywhere else?’

  ‘Today, at work. He was the photocopier repair man. He chased me.’

  ‘He chased you?’

  ‘Yes.’ But had he run after me? ‘Well, I ran away from him. I think he came after me. I don’t know. That’s it anyway. Just three times. So far.’

  ‘If your Fregoli has returned, there will likely be many more instances of you spotting him.’

  ‘I know. I don’t want to go through it again. I can’t put George through it again. Thinking he’s everywhere I turn. Not knowing what is real and what isn’t. Please. Will you help me again? I have to know if this is all in my head. I’ve been getting letters. Hand delivered. If it’s him he knows where I live. Where Archie lives.’

  ‘That must be frightening.’

  ‘The police think it’s a crank.’

  ‘You’ve been to the police again?’ She doesn’t sigh but she doesn’t have to.

  ‘Of course I have. I’m being threatened.’

  ‘What do the letters say?’

  ‘Four days. Three. It’s a countdown to the anniversary. Who knows what might happen then? The police don’t class it as an actual threat but it feels like it.’

  ‘Is there anything else I should know, Leah?’

  I hesitate. I haven’t told her I think he’s snatched Marie. I want her to agree to take me back as a client before I tell her that.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything else,’ I say. If I tell her about the old newspapers in the staffroom she might not believe me and I don’t have them to show her as proof. The reappearance of Fregoli is one thing but I can’t have her questioning my mental capacity. She – teamed with the police – could section me and I have to be around to protect my family. No matter what everyone says, I’m not convinced it isn’t him I’m seeing, but without her help I’ll never be sure. I’m not certain it’s the Fregoli Syndrome playing tricks on me. Hiding in plain sight, they call it. With my medical history he could be standing right in front of me and I’d have no way of knowing if it was actually him or someone else and I was just seeing his face.

  Unless he hurt me.

  Three days.

  The letters sound like a warning.

  And although I know with my track record no one will believe me, I do think he has come back to hurt me.

  Three days.

  And there’s only me who will be able to stop him.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she says eventually. ‘But not now. I’ve a client due in ten minutes.’

  We fix up an appointment. ‘Go straight home and get some rest,’ she says as she sees me out.

  ‘I will, once I’ve picked up my car,’ I promise but it’s a lie. I’m not going home but I can’t tell her where I’m going.

  She wouldn’t approve.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Leah

  Now

  I’m steeling myself to knock on the door. It is after lunch but all the curtains are drawn. There’s no telling if Mum is here. This isn’t the home I was born in – but the council house we’d moved
to after her divorce from Dad. We all left years ago and I thought she’d move but she’s stayed local, even though Dad didn’t and sometimes I wonder why. She doesn’t have much of a relationship with us. She doesn’t have much of a relationship with anyone. The town had judged and found her guilty of lacking the skills a mother should have. The ability to keep her children safe.

  My memories of my childhood are divided into a definite before and after. An invisible glass wall separating the people we were from the people we all became. Sometimes, in my dreams I’m pressing my face against that glass wall – the way Bruno pressed his nose against the patio doors, his breath fogging the glass – watching the versions of us who were happy and healthy and loved.

  Mum would sit on the edge of my bed and brush my hair one hundred times before doing the same for Marie. She treated us exactly the same. I can’t quite remember whether Marie and I insisted our clothes, our shoes be identical, or whether our parents, delighted with having twins, tried to mould us both into the same person. We didn’t mind though, me and Marie were closer to each other than anyone else. Carly’s relationship with Mum was different. There were evenings when Dad was out and Marie and I were in bed when we’d creep downstairs to beg for a glass of water, another story, a cuddle, to find Mum and Carly nestled together on the sofa in front of the TV, fingers dipping chicken nuggets into thick ketchup.

  Mum loved us all – of that I’ve no doubt – but she loved Dad the most of all. Her eyes shone whenever he walked into a room. They always kissed each other hello and goodbye and held hands when we strolled around the park with Bruno. Often I wonder what life would have been like if it wasn’t for that single, horrifying event that changed the shape of our future. Would we be one of those families who ate Sunday lunch together each week? My parents kneeling on the floor playing with grandchildren in the way they hadn’t always had time to play with us?

  Would we be parts of a whole rather than fragmented pieces of something that will never again fit together?

  In the days, the weeks, the months that followed our abduction, Mum and Dad veered between sadness and anger. Tears and rage. Once I’d wandered into the kitchen to find Mum sobbing, ‘I’m their mum. I should have protected them, I’ve let them down,’ while Dad hissed, ‘And you think I’ve let them down too? Just say it.’