They kept us cooped up. Not wanting us to even play in the garden alone. I’m not sure whether they were scared we’d be taken again or scared we’d be interrogated by one of the many reporters who still trailed after us wherever we went. Probably both.
My parents’ glittering life crumbled. Our childhood was unpicked in the tabloids. How had we been raised? Why had Carly been left alone to feed and take care of her two young sisters? How often did my parents go out? It was a carousel of blame and scrutiny and it makes me dizzy just thinking about it now. How would I feel if my relationship with Archie was dissected? The entire country seemed to blame my mum until she became a shell of the parent she had been. Old photos of her laughing would appear in the paper captioned, Face of loving mother? She began to leave us to our own devices – mine and Marie’s hair becoming matted and tangled, as though she didn’t trust herself to do things properly. That’s what I like to think, anyway, that it wasn’t that she didn’t care. She just didn’t know how to be a mum any more when she’d failed so spectacularly in the eyes of the world. She and Dad divorced. She began to drink. We’d find vodka bottles hidden everywhere. In the laundry basket. The freezer. The cupboard under the stairs. It’s probably where Marie gets it from.
When the publisher approached us before the ten-year anniversary we wanted to tell Mum face to face. Carly, Marie and I had sat on the threadbare sofa, the bars of the electric fire glowing bright, the coffee table devoid of tea and biscuits. She never made us feel welcome.
‘We’re going to write a book. Our story.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Mum had said.
‘They want our version, now that we’re adults,’ Marie was twitchy, picking at the skin around her fingers. We hadn’t realized then that she was drinking or how bad it was, anyway.
‘And what will you say?’ Mum stared at Marie until she looked away.
‘We won’t say anything bad about you,’ Carly said.
‘But that’s what they’ll want to know. Christ, there’s enough already out there about how you were neglected, left to fend for yourself, how you had the worst mother in the world.’
‘Nobody thinks that,’ I said.
‘Don’t they?’ She studied Marie again.
‘Look,’ Marie said. ‘Maybe most of the facts are out there but we’ve never talked about… the details, I suppose. The food we were given. How frightened we were.’
‘I thought Marie was going to die,’ I said.
Mum stood up. ‘It seems you’ve made your mind up so if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.’ She gestured to the door.
Marie filed out first, followed by Carly. I hesitated, Mum’s eyes were full of tears. ‘This isn’t a betrayal of you, Mum,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s about us and what we went through.’
She gave a single nod of her head. ‘You know if I could change the past – if I could go back to that day and be there, looking after you all – I would.’
‘We don’t blame you,’ I said.
She didn’t answer.
Although Carly and I weren’t keen on talking to the ghost writer, we’d already signed the deal and received the advance. We tried to keep our parents out of the book as much as we could but naturally there was much curiosity surrounding our family dynamics.
Around six months after the book came out Marie received a short note from our father after years of no contact, saying he thought the book was fair and thanking us for portraying Mum in a good light – it’s brought me much sadness that the stress drove us to divorce, he said and that stung. He didn’t even ask how we were. We didn’t reply. As far as I know, Mum has never read the book. When we received our first royalties I slipped a wad of notes in a blank brown envelope through her letterbox and I think my sisters likely did the same. Blood money, I suppose. Mum had always struggled financially and no matter what had happened in the past we still had a desire to help her. She never acknowledged the money.
It’s an odd relationship, mother and daughter. Although we rarely see her and she never makes an effort with us, I know that Marie still visits her sometimes and Carly rings her on her birthday and at Christmas. She’s never met Archie, or expressed any desire to, and that makes me incredibly sad. Despite the life I have forged for myself, the family of my own, there is some deep-rooted need for her love. For her approval. But she is the one who distanced herself from us. She made her choice as I have made mine.
Although my stomach skitters with nerves, I need to see her now. Ask her face to face if she knows where Marie is. She was so cagey on the phone.
The street stinks of blocked drains. Even with my gloves on I am reluctant to touch Mum’s gate, which is flaked with paint and rust. Her front garden is a mess. The scant flowers pushing their way through the choking tangle of weeds hang their heads in shame. A far cry from the days Mum had a gardener. As I think of our old garden my anxiety rises as I remember that day.
The excited barks of Bruno as Marie and I tossed the ball. Afterwards our beloved pet had been found roaming the streets but we didn’t take him back and often I wonder whether he found a new family. Whether he was happy.
I am still lost in memories when I hear Mum’s voice behind me.
‘What are you doing here?’ No hello. No how are you? But it’s a shock, I know. I’m sure she’s been steeling herself for my usual anniversary phone calls, not a visit.
‘Let me.’ I reach for one of the laden bags she is carrying but she twists it away from me and waits for me to speak. She isn’t about to invite me in then.
‘Steak?’ I spot two pieces of rump nestled on top of a bag of leafy salad. ‘You must be doing okay?’ My parents used to eat steak every Saturday night. No matter how I feel about her, I am glad she can afford to treat herself.
‘I need to get this lot in the fridge. Did you want something?’ she asks as though I am just passing, despite knowing I both live and work over twenty miles away. Momentarily I am lost for words. I’d at least have expected her to ask how her only grandchild is but then I remind myself Mum is not a typical grandmother. There is no knitting of terrible jumpers and baking of calorie-laden cakes slabbed together with jam and buttercream. If I’m being kind, I can put it down to the fact she’s frightened to love again. Frightened to properly feel. I can’t imagine how terrified she must have been with her children missing but still, rationalizing her reluctance to get to know Archie, understanding it, doesn’t make it any easier to bear. Sorrow expands in my throat.
‘I’m worried about Marie. Do you know where she is? Please tell me if you do.’
‘I told you, I don’t know where she is.’ She looks me directly in the eye and it is me who shifts uncomfortably.
‘Is there anyone you can think of who might?’
Mum shakes her head. Her hair is dark brown and shiny – she’s covered up her grey. Being kind to herself – I wish I could do the same. Her shoulders are sagging under the weight of the shopping. She glances at her door and I know she’s eager to be inside. To get away from this conversation that is both awkward and painful. A stark reminder of how separated our family has become.
‘I thought she’d gone on tour?’ she asks.
‘That’s what the note she left said, but what if someone made her write it?’
Mum gives a half laugh. ‘I don’t think anyone can make your sister do something she doesn’t want to and don’t you ever believe that they can. She’s always made her own choices.’
‘He’s been released from prison again.’ The swerve in conversation causes her to blink rapidly but she doesn’t speak. ‘Say something!’
‘You can’t keep living in the past, Leah. He has no interest in you. He didn’t try to hurt you last time, did he?’
My muscles tighten across my upper back.
‘Well, did he?’ she urges.
‘No.’ I give her that. At least she’s making some effort to make me feel better.
‘You have to forgive. Move on.’
‘Forgive
? Do you forgive him for what he did to us? All of us? Mum don’t you remember how close we all were… before?’ My emotions stream out of me. I’m ashamed of the longing in my words. Why can’t everything just be like it was?
‘I can’t keep apologizing, Leah. You’re a mum now. I’m sure you’re doing the best you can for your boy, the way that I did for you girls, but sometimes… Sometimes our best isn’t good enough, is it? With all the good will in the world, we can’t always protect our children—’
‘I wish you had. Protected us,’ I say quietly and I feel something inside of me release. It’s been so long since I tried to talk to her about it all, perhaps it’s not too late to salvage our relationship.
She nods. ‘I wish you could forgive me.’
I want to tell her that I want to forgive her and that has to be a start but while I’m searching for the right words she tells me she needs to go in and unpack her shopping.
‘I could help?’ I offer.
‘It’s okay, Leah,’ she hesitates. There’s something on her face I can’t quite read. ‘Try not to worry. Marie will turn up.’ She doesn’t add ‘like a bad penny’ but the connotation is there. It’s not only on my doorstep my twin has turned up drunk in the past.
‘Right,’ I say. There’s a beat. ‘I’ll be off then.’
I walk back down the street towards my car. I turn. Mum is still standing outside her door. Still gripping her shopping, a sad expression on her face.
Something catches my eye, drawing my gaze upwards. I think the bedroom curtain twitched but I can’t be sure.
Chapter Twenty-Six
George
Now
George pulls onto the driveway, feeling a flicker of relief that Leah’s car isn’t here. He’s shattered and can’t take another discussion about the letters. The sightings she thinks she’s seen. His overriding emotion at the police station yesterday should have been sympathy for his wife, instead it was embarrassment. How stunned PC Godley was when he’d read Leah’s notes. His confusion as he tried to process that Leah was convinced that many people were masquerading as one man. PC Godley’s expression had flickered between disbelief and amusement. George had wanted to hit him.
It brought it all back. The last time, before her diagnosis. The frequency with which his wife had cried that she’d been followed again. His frustration the police wouldn’t, couldn’t do anything. His fear that something awful was going to happen to Leah. His anger at his inability to protect her. He felt he was failing as a husband. As a man. The utter helplessness as he got the call advising him that Leah was being detained under the Mental Health Act. George was incredulous as he was told Leah had accused their postman of being her tormentor when in fact the man she feared was already in custody – and then to mistake a detective inspector for him. Was she deliberately lying? The terror radiating from her trembling body as he held her close against him felt genuine.
George had driven straight to Francesca’s. Although she was with a patient, she came as soon as George told her Leah was being held. On the way she’d filled him in on what she now believed. That Leah had Fregoli Syndrome. He’d tried his best to empathize. His wife had a mental illness, but it was a lot, on top of the constant cleaning, the constant rituals, the constant worry. It was wearing. Unfairly, he’d felt cross with her as though it was all her fault, but of course he knew it wasn’t. It wasn’t his either but he was also affected. Leah didn’t seem to realize this. Her world seemed to then centre around herself, Marie and Carly, and then later Archie. George felt he was always on the periphery looking in. Part of her life, but not.
George finishes his phone call and then wipes his call history before he heads inside.
Archie is perched at the breakfast bar with Carly when George gets home, crafting unidentifiable animals from plasticine – a pink giraffe with a neck so long its head trails dolefully by its feet, an orange elephant with flapping ears, larger than its body. The kitchen is warm and cosy. Smelling of coffee and toast. George kisses Archie hello, and then wipes the remnants of strawberry jam from his son’s mouth with his thumb.
‘Do you want another cup?’ George asks Carly as he pours himself a mug of the syrupy coffee.
‘No, thanks. Another mug and I’ll be climbing the ceiling.’
‘Like Spider-Man!’ Archie shoots invisible webs from his wrists. ‘Uh oh – it’s the Green Goblin.’ Archie leaps from his stool and races around the kitchen, fighting something only he can see.
We’re all battling something hidden, thinks George.
Carly, always the practical one, whips a large tablecloth from the drawer.
‘Quick.’ She scrapes the chairs across the floor and drapes the cloth between them, a makeshift tent. ‘The Green Goblin won’t find you in there, Spider-Man.’
Archie clambers inside and Carly follows him on her hands and knees. Not a second’s hesitation while she deliberated when the floor was last cleaned. No noticeable flinch as she places her palms on the tiles.
‘You’re so resourceful,’ George laughs. It amazes him how different the three sisters are. One he hugely admires, one he loves and one… well, he doesn’t know how he feels right now.
Carly crawls out of the tent and passes Archie a couple of chocolate fingers.
‘Superheroes need to keep their energy up. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Stay,’ George asks. The realization he doesn’t want to be alone with Leah sits uncomfortably on his stomach.
‘I can’t. Little man has worn me out.’
Carly’s eyes are shadowed with deep violet rings. None of them are sleeping properly.
‘Leah shouldn’t be long.’
‘Really, I need to go.’
‘Are the letters scaring you?’ he asks, suddenly worried about his sister-in-law. Moments ago he’d been mentally berating Leah for not considering his feelings and he was guilty of doing the same with Carly, but she always seemed to be the one who copes. She might have chosen not to have kids of her own but who’s to say she would have done anyway? She doesn’t have a crutch that George can see, no alcohol or rituals for her. And yet these past few days seem to have shrunk her.
Twenty fucking years. It’s enough to break anyone.
‘Not scaring me… just… I don’t know. I feel angry, I think.’ She tilts her head to one side like a bird waiting for a crumb. ‘Yes. Angry and disappointed and… I just want it to be over now. I need it to be over now.’
‘Three days,’ George says.
‘Three days,’ she whispers.
It doesn’t sound long. Less than a week. Seventy-two hours. But empires had been torn apart in less. Lives left in pieces.
‘What did you think about the TV offer?’ George can’t help asking as Carly pulls on her coat. The colour bleaches from her already pale face.
‘There are things…’ Carly’s breath hitches and she takes a second to compose herself. ‘There are things that are too awful to comprehend. That should never be shared.’
George nods. He knows all about things that are too awful to comprehend. He’s guilty of them himself.
George knows all about secrets.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Leah
Now
The two-day letter is on my doormat when I tumble downstairs after a sleepless night. It isn’t a surprise but it fills me with dread all the same. Two days. Two days until what? I am almost willing the next forty-eight hours to thunder past so I can get it over with, whatever it is. The anniversary or something else.
Something worse?
I slip the letter into my pocket like a secret – the empty chocolate digestive packet after I’d binged, stuffing biscuits down to suppress my rising fear.
‘Morning,’ George pads barefoot into the kitchen. ‘Did you get another letter?’
‘No, nothing today.’ I’m thinking of the Power of Attorney search he’d done online. I need to show him I am coping but we both know that I’m not.
He studies me,
a surprised expression on his face almost as though he expects me to keep receiving them until the anniversary. ‘You can talk to me, Leah, about… about anything.’
‘I know but I think the letters have stopped. We can get back to normal.’
‘That’s good.’ He offers me a tight smile. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’
After breakfast I drop Archie at nursery with a kiss, telling him that Aunty Carly will pick him up later. I can’t tear myself away from Archie until I see his favourite nursery nurse, Rebecca. I remind her again about security and she reassures me again she will notify me of anything unusual.
‘I’ll see you this evening,’ I say as I leave. We’d missed Archie’s parents’ evening last night because of George’s meeting but Rebecca has offered to see us tonight instead, which is really good of her on a Friday.
Before I leave I hang Archie’s coat on his peg in the small cloakroom where the children’s trays are. I ease Archie’s open. There’s a picture inside of three large stick people, and one small one. Archie has labelled them Mummy, Daddy and Aunty Carly. It pains me to see that whenever Archie depicts his family Marie is always missing. By stick-Archie’s feet is the dog he so desperately craves. I shut the drawer. I’ll go through Archie’s work this evening with George. Archie is the lynchpin that holds us together and this might make us feel closer.
I head straight to my first formal appointment with Francesca since I’d turned up crying on her doorstep.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come.’ She sits upright, spine straight. The warmth that used to coat her words when I was a patient before has disappeared. She doesn’t sound cold exactly, just professional when before I felt we were edging towards being friends. I wonder if it’s hard for her. Building relationships and then watching them crumble.
‘I’m sorry I just stopped coming before without letting you know. I really thought I was better, that I didn’t need you, but it was rude of me not to let you know,’ I tell her again.
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 Page 14
