Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  ‘God! It’s so bloody hot.’

  ‘Yes, hello to you, too.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Connie.’ He grinned. ‘Is that better?’

  Connie scrunched her face, returning a sarcastic smile.

  ‘Can’t believe you’ve got a hot drink.’ He got up, heading for the counter. As he turned away, Connie took in his T-shirt – a muscle-type sleeveless one, and she was about to shout ‘Poser’ after him – mock him – but the word failed to form. On his upper left arm, she saw a black tattoo. She hadn’t noticed it the other night – although that was unsurprising given she’d had a few to drink and it was dark. Was it new? He was too far away now to decipher it. When he returned with a Coke can, she stared at it. Her pulse skipped.

  It was a bird tattoo.

  Niall looked down at his arm, following her stare. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, just looking at that.’ She pointed, trying to keep her voice casual. ‘New, is it?’ She picked up the spoon from her saucer and stirred her latte.

  ‘Not really. But probably got it after we were, you know … together last year.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Connie blew her drink, although it was already cool enough. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wow. It’s not that bad a tattoo, is it?’ He laughed. ‘It’s a bird, Connie.’

  ‘Any significance?’

  He frowned. ‘What? Why are you asking so many questions?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘If you’ve asked me here to talk about tattoos, I think that’s a gross misappropriation of my time.’ He winked.

  ‘Big word for you, Niall.’

  The atmosphere calmed, but Connie’s mind didn’t. The image of the photos depicting Hargreaves’ dead body, his tattoos, pushed to the forefront and nothing could replace them.

  Or the thought that Niall’s tattoo seemed remarkably similar.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Connie

  Friday 16 June

  The anticipation had kept her awake; questions swamped her tired brain hour after hour. There was still time to call Brett and cancel the appointment for today. Give her more time to decide if seeing him was the right thing to do. But something was driving her on. It wasn’t merely curiosity, it was wanting to face the fear – do something that was actually quite risky, be brave enough to do it. Since being outed as one of the people responsible for Hargreaves’ release, Connie had shied away from doing anything remotely risky – instead playing it safe. Seeing Brett this morning was her way of taking back some control, being responsible for her own actions – and their consequences, again.

  After shovelling a few mouthfuls of porridge in her mouth, Connie fled from her house and walked to the station quicker than she’d managed in weeks. She wanted to get the early train – one, to avoid Jonesy, and two, so she could be prepared for her ten o’clock appointment.

  She shuddered at the thought.

  How was she going to face this eighteen-year-old boy when she knew he’d not only killed his dad, but probably his sister and nephew too? She’d worked with plenty of killers, but somehow, this was different. Personal. She’d left the prison service, leaving behind the perpetrators of crime to counsel those affected by a criminal act. Now, here she was, about to have a session with a possible murderer.

  She barely noticed the walk to her building, she was on auto-pilot. Once inside she headed straight up the stairs and started the computer, bringing up all the information she had from Steph’s sessions, plus the psych report she hadn’t fully read yet. She scribbled some notes, points she wanted to cover with Brett. The question that burnt in her mind was – why had he chosen to consult Connie? There was no way it could be a coincidence. Somehow, he knew that Steph had been her client.

  What did he want from her?

  The report flashed up on the screen. Connie read each and every word, ensuring she took it all in. It was as if she were reading about another girl, not Steph. But she had been a different person then. Jenna Ellison. Sixteen years old, and prior to the fire that destroyed her house and her life, Jenna had a mum, dad and brother. Although, Brett was not mentioned by name in this report. The part he played in the fire was skimmed over, barely mentioned. Or blanked out. Miles had said the document would be redacted, and he wasn’t kidding – huge chunks were black. Not for her eyes. She wondered what was so sensitive, so confidential, that she, as Steph’s psychologist, was unable to see it. Above all, she wondered why, given Miles had access to this report, he’d kept the information about Steph having a brother to himself – was it a mistake on his part? One of many, it seemed. From what Connie could gather from between the many lines of blacked-out text, the main focus of this report was the mother. And Steph’s feelings of abandonment.

  It made for very depressing reading.

  Connie made a few notes; there wasn’t much to go on. She dropped her pen as the noise of the buzzer blasted in her left ear. Her finger hesitated over the door release button. This was it. Once she let him in, there was no going back. She looked to her phone, a last-second doubt surfacing. No, she’d be fine. She’d dealt with so much worse in the prison. She took a deep breath and pressed the button.

  She stood up and moved away from her desk, ready to greet her new client.

  The footsteps grew closer; Connie’s heart banged hard against her ribs. The door swung open.

  Brett strode in – assured, yet with an edge of vulnerability that flickered behind his eyes. He was tall, muscly and dark. His face had a hardness to it, one she’d seen many times from offenders who’d grown up in a prison environment; a deep scar ran from his temple to the top corner of his right eye. For a moment, they stared silently at each other. Each sizing up the other.

  Connie was first to avert her eyes. She motioned to the chair she’d placed in front of her desk, and walked around to her own. She wanted to keep a barrier between them. Not her usual therapeutic style, but this was not her usual type of client. She’d positioned the phone close to her, in case she needed to make a 999 call. A large, heavy, metal hole-punch was also in reach. She blinked hard. She’d been alone with prisoners before. Murderers. Although in the prison, back-up had never been far away.

  She’d been over and over this session in her head last night and this morning. Part of her knew she should’ve informed the police. But she had no evidence he’d done anything wrong since being released, neither did the police. And they’d given no weight to Connie’s feelings on the matter, practically dismissing her theory out of hand. So for now she decided to assess the situation as it happened. And right now, her concern was with how she was going to play this. Ignorant? No mention of Steph – Jenna? Let him do the talking. He sat down, his legs crossed at the ankles, his knees splayed out wide, white kneecaps jutting from ripped holes in his black jeans. He leant back, resting his interlocked hands over his groin. Relaxed. In control. He seemed to be waiting. Connie’s stomach knotted. This was going to be an uncomfortable hour.

  ‘You seemed keen to see me. What’s brought you here today?’

  Brett stared, unblinking. He sat forward in his chair – his head and shoulders reaching across the desk, encroaching in Connie’s space. She shifted, wriggling back in her seat to gain a few inches.

  He smiled. ‘I think you know.’

  A prickle of fear began at the base of her neck. She rubbed at it with her hand, attempting to brush it away. Her earlier confidence that she was doing the right thing by seeing Brett before informing the police waned. She was alone with this young man. And now, seeing the intensity etched on his face, she felt foolish.

  She swallowed. ‘I’d prefer you to tell me. That’s how I usually begin these sessions.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll tell you why I’m here.’ His posture didn’t change; his upper body remained forwards, his head uncomfortably close to hers – his gripped hands on the desk.

  ‘Good, that’s good,’ Connie managed, though her throat felt tight, as if hands were clasped around it.

  ‘I don�
�t know what Jenna told you. But I can guess.’ He sniffed hard, the sound of mucus being drawn up and into his throat making Connie want to gag.

  ‘Do you mean Jenna Ellison, who, by the way, was Stephanie in her new life—’

  The suddenness of his laugh stopped her. His head was thrown back and the booming sound echoed around the room.

  ‘New life? Wow, wasn’t she the lucky one?’

  ‘I fail to see how she was lucky. You do know what happened, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not here to convince you she was lucky, just know that she was, and is.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with you being here, then? I assumed you’d be traumatised by her and Dylan’s deaths.’ Her voice was clipped.

  ‘I am, I guess.’ He shrugged. ‘But no, that’s not why I’m here. Not why I’ve come to you, Connie.’

  Connie’s heart took on a rhythm she wasn’t sure was normal. She took some breaths in through her nose, silently, trying not to show her anxiety.

  ‘Okay, so why are you here?’

  ‘To tell my side. It’s that simple. I want to be given the opportunity to tell everyone what she was like.’ His honey-brown eyes focused intently on her. He didn’t blink.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I can allow that. I think you’d be best off looking for a different counsellor. Steph was my client, and I don’t think it’s appropriate, given what I know—’

  ‘Ah! That’s just it, Connie. What you know is not the truth.’ His dark eyebrows lifted high, disappearing beneath his fringe.

  Connie got up and took big strides to the door, opening it and standing to the side.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. If you wouldn’t mind …’ Connie waved her hand towards the exit, waiting for Brett to leave.

  ‘But you can. You’re probably the only one who can, now.’ His eyes darkened, his body slouched. Was he going to refuse to leave? But, to her relief, he pushed up from the seat and made a move to the door. Connie’s hands trembled. As he walked past her, he looked like a frightened young boy. But she knew differently. Brett Ellison was a killer.

  He turned just as Connie was about to close the door, putting his hand against it to prevent her shutting it.

  ‘I didn’t do what she said.’ His hand fell away.

  Connie took advantage of this and slammed the door. She put her ear to it, she didn’t hear movement. Then his voice again, loud. Urgent.

  ‘It wasn’t me who started the fire, Connie. She lied. You have to believe me.’

  Connie leant hard against the door. Would he force his way back in? She listened intently, hoping to hear his footsteps descending the stairs. When she heard the front door slam she blew out the air she’d been holding. She rushed to the window and watched as Brett crossed the road and disappeared out of sight.

  That wasn’t the conversation she’d been expecting.

  Of course he would deny everything that Steph had said; it was easy now, with her out of the way. No one to disagree. He had free rein.

  Had that been his plan all along? Get rid of Steph, the only other person who truly knew what’d happened that night. Dementia had robbed their mother of the memories and their father seemed to have died in the fire.

  Now Brett could rewrite his past.

  But then why bother coming to Connie? To convince her he was innocent? Steph’s death had been ruled a suicide, and the responsibility for the loss of Dylan’s life was firmly placed on Steph. No one else was implicated. Yet. Connie was sure once she went to the police with the psychiatric report on Steph and told them about Brett’s release prior to Steph’s death, they might actually take her concerns more seriously. But did Brett somehow know that Connie thought he was involved?

  Was he here to find out how much Connie knew?

  And if she was willing to keep digging to find out the truth?

  In which case, she needed to be careful. Young Brett might do anything to eliminate those who knew what he’d done.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Then

  ‘What are you starin’ at?’

  The boy’s face flushed, suddenly aware of his mistake. He’d watched as she towel-dried herself after showering and continued to stare as she began to dress; taking in the loose skin hanging from her upper arms, her squidgy, wrinkly belly. He quickly turned away from her, not wanting her to see his embarrassment, and moved away from the open bedroom door.

  ‘How long you been watching me? You freak,’ she hissed, lurching towards the door wearing only her bra and knickers, slamming it shut. The noise filled his ears, along with the echo of her words.

  Why was she so cruel? He only wanted to talk to her.

  He needed to know.

  Was it him they’d been talking about in hushed whispers the other night, as he suspected? What were they planning on doing with him?

  He sat on the bottom step of the stairs, his knees tucked up, his chin resting on them. He could hear her shrill voice even through the closed door. Shouting. She was on the phone. Talking to his dad? Telling him how she’d just caught the ‘little freak’ watching her naked again. ‘He’s not right in the head.’ He hoped his dad might stick up for him, but he didn’t usually. She carried on shouting down the phone. He was probably agreeing with everything she was saying. He wouldn’t go against what his precious Rosie said. She meant more to his dad these days than he did.

  He couldn’t bear to listen to any more. His legs were heavy as he wandered outside. To the shed. To where he knew he could release the hard ball in his stomach.

  Reaching in the tin marked ‘tea’, he took out the lighter.

  His muscles relaxed. His heart rate settled, the pain in his chest evaporating.

  It always ends in fire.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Connie

  Connie was yet to sit down following Brett’s exit, choosing instead to pace the room, arms crossed, a hard line creasing her forehead. What was she meant to do – allow him to come and trample over Steph’s memory and replace it with accusations that she’d been lying?

  But what if Brett was telling the truth? Her head throbbed.

  Miles Prescott might have been right about Steph all along. Although he’d been wrong about her background; her family. Instead of becoming clearer, the whole situation was clouding, like a mist rolling in from the sea. Everything distorted by the haze.

  Connie stopped walking and reached across to her laptop, pressing the music icon. Enya’s ethereal tones filled the space. Anything was better than the sound of her own thoughts. She was the only person who believed the account Steph had given. Was she being naive – had she been taken in by Steph? She snatched her mobile phone and scrolled through her history until she found the number. It rang and rang. She was about to hang up when she heard a click.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you to … er … come back,’ she faltered, having to take a steadying breath, ‘for a proper counselling session. I was, well, a bit surprised by what you said. I didn’t give you a chance to talk it over.’ Connie stopped talking. Waited. She heard Brett’s breath – slow, steady, on the other end.

  ‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. I only want to be heard.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can see you first thing Monday. Nine thirty?’

  ‘Sure. That’d be great.’

  She couldn’t swear to it, but she sensed he was smiling when he spoke.

  Probably laughing at her. Thinking he’d won her over.

  He hadn’t. Not yet, at least. She’d give him time to explain his side of the story, but she wasn’t ready to give up on Steph and Dylan. She owed it to them to find out the truth. And the only person who could supply her with the evidence she needed to take to Wade and Mack was the murderer himself.

  Content that she’d done the right thing, Connie settled at her desk to work. She had some client notes to type up and a session to plan for.

  Her afternoon was clear. No more sessions. No new clients. As had become usual in th
ese gaps during her working day, Connie’s mind wandered. Tattoos had dominated her thoughts since seeing the bird on Niall’s arm. She retrieved the paper with the code from her desk drawer, together with the sketches she’d done of what she recalled from the official police photographs. She studied them again, her eyelids squinting in concentration.

  The code: U2X51 still stumped her: letters and numbers that had no significance yet. But a sudden spark of memory tugged on her consciousness when she looked at the drawing she’d done of the lines and crosses. Relax your mind. She closed her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths, digging deep and dredging her memories. She’d seen it, or something like it, before.

  Her eyelids flew open. Yes. That was it.

  She picked up the paper, staring at it again. It was missing the words, but that was it, she was sure. Not a random pattern, but part of an emblem.

  Her dad’s business emblem. The one he’d started when she and Luke were young, primary-school age. His first big venture. Around that time, Connie had become addicted to the game Scrabble. She recalled being shouted at because she’d used her dad’s headed note paper to write their scores. ‘You’ve got plenty of scrap paper, stop using mine,’ he’d yell. It was an antiques business, the same as now, as far as she remembered. She’d check with her mum, rather than directly with her dad. She needed to call her anyway; she’d forgotten to return her text. Her mum would remember, was bound to. If she recalled correctly, there’d been many an argument when he’d begun that business. She’d assumed it was over money, the time spent away from his family – hours spent at the ‘gentleman’s club’. That’s what most of the fallouts had been about.

  Was that why the mystery photographer included a photo of him? Why, though? What the hell did her dad have to do with a murdered prisoner? Supposedly, the killer had left his handiwork as a clue. But to what? His intentions were far from clear, but this was beginning to look as though this was personal to her. Just like the memory stick. Was that linked to the investigation after all?