Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense

by Laura Elliot

  The coffee was too strong for her taste, but she drank it, unwilling to offend her great-uncle. He offered her biscuits curled like fine wood shavings and held one carefully between his thumb and forefinger. When she called him ‘Great-uncle Albert’ he said that made him sound like someone in a Dickens novel.

  ‘Uncle Albi will do fine,’ he said. ‘That’s what Sara and your mother used to call me when they were young.’ The biscuit he was holding snapped and scattered crumbs on his trousers.

  She was shocked when he asked if she was ‘doing a line’. What did he think she was? A coke head?

  ‘A pretty girl like you must have a boyfriend,’ he said and they laughed together because language changed all the time. He used terms like ‘courting’ and ‘dating’, but she resisted telling him about Tork Hansen. How she used to walk past Woodstock, hoping he would notice her, but now she no longer cared if she never saw him again.

  ‘How’s Stewart?’ he asked. ‘He must be worried about his future, now that the factory has closed down.’

  ‘He’s upset in case he has to work abroad.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not going to happen.’ Her great-uncle sounded so definite.

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘That’s my little secret.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Better say nothing to your mother though. She’ll think I’m interfering in her business.’

  ‘Why does she…’ Lindsey searched for a diplomatic word but ‘hate’ was the only one that came to mind.

  ‘Why does she hate me? Is that what you wanted to ask, Lindsey?’

  She nodded. No sense pretending. He was a politician and used to being insulted.

  ‘I’m afraid I made an enemy of her when her father became ill. Maybe I was wrong but I brought Barry Tyrell home to die among those who loved him.’

  ‘Granny Mac loved him too.’ It was weird to think that both her grandmothers had lived with the same man. But Granny Mac was the only one who loved him. His photograph was in a silver frame on a little table in her parlour. His eyes twinkled out at Lindsey. She could just imagine him being a charmer. A magical musician.

  ‘Mrs McKeever was not family,’ her great-uncle said. ‘You must understand, Lindsey. Family means everything to me. That’s why I’m heartbroken over Sara.’ He pressed his fist to his mouth. She wanted to run from his grief. It opened something raw and wild inside her.

  ‘Thanks for asking to see my work.’ She picked up her portfolio case. ‘I’d better go. Mum will be wondering―’

  ‘What would she say if she knew you were here?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell her.’

  ‘Is that because she’s refused to allow you to see me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sighed. ‘We’ve all been through a terrible time. It’s sad that such sorrow has not united your mother and I. But Beth could never let bygones be bygones. She broke Marjory’s heart when she ran away and Sara’s too. However, that’s water under the bridge now. I’ve always had a soft spot for her, despite her wildness. Don’t you worry about your father. I always look after my own. You’ll see.’

  Before she left, he cupped her chin in his big hand and said, ‘You’re a talented lass, and you’ll make your mark on the artistic world, I’ve no doubt about it. I knew from the moment you were born that you’d make your parents proud. You were such a bonnie, bouncing baby.’

  ‘Not me,’ she laughed. ‘You’re mixing me up with Robert. I was the titch in the family.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Premature,’ she explained. ‘I scared the life out of my parents.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ He looked confused. ‘Oh, dear, my memory is playing tricks again, but blood will out, I always say. You’ll come and see me again, I hope.’

  As she hurried towards the train station, she wondered what he meant by ‘blood will out’. Such a strange thing to say. Unsettling too, because it forced her to remember that last weekend with Sara. It made no difference – no matter how hard she tried to banish it, the question was poised, ready to spring at her whenever she relaxed her guard.

  Chapter 25

  Connie, although she was retired, had wept when she’d heard that the gates of Della Designs were locked forever. Since then, Beth had hardly seen Stewart. He was busy working with Peter, negotiating redundancy settlements with the union and disposing of the machinery. The staff were being retrained to work in the pharmaceutical sector and the old building would be knocked down. A new factory would rise in its stead. Beth noticed an unfamiliar hardness in her husband’s expression when she asked what he intended to do in the future.

  ‘I’m not interested in repeating the mistakes of the past,’ he replied. ‘We need to get away from here.’

  He talked about moving from Oldport and setting up his own manufacturing plant. In the past he had often mentioned this possibility, short-lived schemes that inevitably fizzled out. This time he was determined. The big fashion chains still needed small manufacturers on their doorstep who could respond to immediate trends. Fashion Lynx would back him with a major contract. He wanted Beth to work with him as an equal partner.

  ‘Remember how you turned Della Designs around when Peter was incapable of thinking straight after his mother died?’ he said. ‘Imagine what we could do together, the ideas you’d bring to the business.’

  ‘You’re living in the past, Stewart. I was a different person then.’

  Her life then and now. She was unable to make any connection between them. The excitement of showing a new range, of travelling to New York, London, Paris. Bargaining with hawk-eyed buyers in black suits and flashing jewellery. Boundless energy, her mind closed to everything but her career and her future with Peter.

  ‘That’s not true.’ Stewart shook his head emphatically. ‘Your life has changed since then but you haven’t changed. Excellent grants are available if we move outside Dublin.’

  ‘I’d no idea you wanted to move. You never said anything about it.’

  ‘I’ve spoken about it many times, Beth. But I never thought you were listening.’

  ‘I’m listening now,’ she retorted. ‘This is a big decision, Stewart. Lifestyle stuff, our future, the children. What if it doesn’t work? What security have we to fall back on?’

  ‘Trust me, Beth. It’s a wonderful opportunity for both of us.’ He reached across the table and clasped her hands, pulling her towards a new beginning they could share.

  ‘Has it been difficult working with Peter?’ she asked. ‘I know how much you love Lindsey – what she means to you.’

  He sat very still, measuring the words he needed to say in his deliberate way. ‘Lindsey is an extension of my love for you and that has never had any boundaries. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. As far as Peter’s concerned, he was simply my employer. I had a family to support and, once we decided to come home, I refused to let personal feelings get in the way.’

  ‘You never wanted to come back from London.’

  ‘But you did. Even then, you were worried about Sara.’

  ‘He believed I could talk to her, help her…’ Her voice broke. ‘It seemed possible at the time.’

  ‘Stop tormenting yourself, Beth. No one could have done more to help Sara. She had everything going for her, everything. I can’t understand. I simply can’t get my head round it.’

  She sensed his frustration, his anger over the hurt that had been inflicted on his family by Sara’s suicide. Now he wanted a fresh start, but she was unable to feel anything other than weariness at the thought of another new beginning.

  In the early, uncertain weeks of her pregnancy, Peter, unaware of what they had created together, had asked for forgiveness. She despised his platitudes, his appeals for understanding. As if the love he felt for Sara was beyond his control. He stood abjectly before her, and she knew then that there was only one thing to do. A debt had been paid in full and the guilt that had haunted her since that night on Anaskeagh Head fell from her shoulders. She
loved Peter Wallace. She carried his child. Stewart carried her. She’d opened the door of Marina’s flat soon after her arrival in London and found him standing outside.

  Lindsey had been two weeks overdue, normal enough for a first baby, the gynaecologist had reassured them. She’d come into the world with a lusty cry and a strong confident kick.

  ‘My daughter,’ Stewart had said, staring in wonder when her tiny fingers gripped his thumb and held on tightly.

  Watching them, Beth had vowed that this was the reality they would create together. Their own reality. She’d contacted Peter and Sara soon afterwards. A premature baby, she’d told them, growing stronger but still in an incubator. ‘Lindsey will soon be discharged from hospital,’ she’d said. ‘Stewart is living for the moment when we can hold our daughter in our arms.’

  How had Sara discovered the truth? Beth imagined her shock and anguish. Was that what she had intended to discuss when she’d called so unexpectedly to Beth’s house? No. Sara had been carrying old secrets, not new ones. Beth would have known the difference. Something had happened between then and the night she’d flung that hard truth at Peter.

  In bed, drifting into a dream, she was a young girl again, running up the driveway towards Havenstone. Snow fell around her. An avalanche burying her until she called Peter’s name. He lifted her free, the heat of his hands melting the ice, the same heat radiating between them. Intense sexual heat that caused her body to throb with desire as she curled against Stewart. Her hand reached down, stirring him, and he, drowsily emerging from sleep, pulled her close, aroused as always by her touch. Aware of his heavy breathing as he entered her, the familiar contours of his body, and the hazy sensuous images from the dream, her excitement spiralled into an almost painful orgasm. She whispered Peter’s name, unaware that she had uttered it aloud until Stewart froze. He pulled away from her and switched on the bedside lamp. The pain in his eyes shamed her.

  ‘Look at me, Beth.’ He angled the light towards her. ‘This is my face – my body. If you’re still confused then this marriage has been a travesty. I never believed that was possible until recently.’

  She tried to hold him, knowing it would be useless to defend herself. Stewart seldom lost his temper. When it did happen it was a quiet fury that nothing could quell save his own decision to put whatever had triggered his anger behind him. He rose and left her, sleeping downstairs on the sofa, where Lindsey discovered him the following morning.

  Across the breakfast table she fixed angry, accusing eyes on her mother. Stewart left for a business meeting without saying goodbye. Words were inadequate to ease his hurt. When he returned that evening he silenced Beth’s stammered apologies, reluctant to discuss the matter any further. He moved back into their bedroom but they lay apart from each other, the space between them growing wider as the days passed.

  In the heat of passion she had betrayed him. Infidelity of the mind, Beth realised, was just as unforgivable. A name spoken aloud and the years closed in around them. Old passions resurrecting. He was tired of playing second fiddle to a lost love.

  Chapter 26

  Peter made her nervous, trying to be so friendly all the time. Lindsey preferred it when she’d been an invisible blot on his horizon. She was glad he was selling Havenstone. A photograph hung in the window of Carrie Davern’s estate agency. Lindsey felt sad and nostalgic yet relieved, because if new people moved in they would change everything. They could knock it down and build a new house, maybe a ranch or a villa, and she would no longer have to think about Sara every time she passed it.

  That last weekend should have been special. A memory Lindsey could cherish but, instead, she remembered Sara’s expression when she’d arrived with her backpack and portfolio case. Surprised but also displeased, as if she’d forgotten they had made the arrangement before she went to Africa. She’d told Lindsey to bring her portfolio so that she could advise her on how to present her work to the art college of her choice. Even when Sara had smiled and slapped the side of her head, as if placing the memory back into position, Lindsey had still felt unwelcome. The feeling had lasted throughout the evening. Her uncle had been the only one who was interested in looking at her work. Hard to believe he had been an artist before he became a suit. He’d explained how he’d once tried to capture the energy of destruction and passion in his own paintings – using her own mother’s eyes for inspiration. It sounded weird – almost as weird as imagining her mother having inspirational eyes.

  ‘Just as well you weren’t inspired by Van Gogh,’ she’d said. ‘Or you’d have been obsessing about her ears.’

  He’d laughed, throwing back his head as if she’d said something hilarious. Sara hadn’t been amused. She’d closed Lindsey’s portfolio before she got to the last page and said her paintings were ‘cute’. She’d tightened her mouth and, just for an instant, she reminded Lindsey of Marjory when she’d said something spiteful. Why had Sara used that word? ‘Cute’ was a code for everything that was mediocre and pathetic and naff. Since then, Lindsey had been unable to stop thinking about little things Sara used to say. And she figured they were not so little, not really.

  Later, when she was in bed, she’d heard her aunt and uncle arguing in Sara’s studio. Their anger had jerked her upright. It was awful, being alone in the dark listening to the ugly words they shouted at each other. To make out what they were saying was difficult but that didn’t matter. The sound was everything and in its incoherent fury Lindsey had heard her name. Her scalp had tingled with embarrassment when it was repeated again. She was the reason for the row. Her uncle must resent her hanging around his house all the time. Why else would he shout her name as if he hated her? A door had banged and Sara had crossed the landing, fleeing from his anger to her bedroom. Then, later, Lindsey had heard his heavy tread, like he had rocks on his shoulders. Even when everything had gone quiet, she felt their anger seeping through the walls on either side of her.

  The following morning his car had been missing from the driveway. Sara had been in the garden cutting roses when Lindsey had come down for breakfast. A straw hat with a drooping brim shaded her eyes. It had been impossible to tell if she’d been crying. In the kitchen she’d thrown her hat on the counter and begun to arrange the roses. She’d looked so young and pretty in her dark blue sweater and faded jeans, her hair tied in a ponytail. No shadows under her eyes, no tears ravaging her face. She certainly hadn’t looked like a woman with an angry husband and Lindsey wondered if she’d dreamed the whole crazy scene.

  Often on Saturday mornings they would go shopping in the city. Sara had an unerring instinct when it came to style, especially when it came to choosing clothes for Lindsey. But all Sara had wanted to do that morning was work in her studio. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to be disturbed until lunch.

  ‘I’m way behind schedule,’ she’d said, as if Lindsey’s presence was an extra hassle she had to endure.

  The morning had passed slowly. Lindsey had been bored and resentful of her aunt’s indifference. Melanie had told her about the garage gang. How they liked to hang around the city on a Saturday afternoon. It sounded way more interesting than emptying the dishwasher and tidying her aunt’s kitchen. At lunchtime she’d made soup and sandwiches, and carried the tray upstairs to the studio. Sara had laid out her African photographs on the floor. Lindsey had stared at the images of children tumbling in the dust, laughing out at her with toothy grins, and the women with their dark, fathomless eyes, had been smiling, proud to be photographed with their babies. There had been other photographs of people in fields, carrying parcels on their heads, working on looms, baking bread, happy faces, sad faces, and the hard sun-baked face of her mother’s best friend, Jess O’Donovan.

  Sara had blinked when she noticed Lindsey, as if forcing herself from some imaginary landscape. Her eyes swept over the tray and away again.

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ she’d said. Her impatience had been obvious. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You have to
eat something.’

  ‘Please, Lindsey…’ She’d pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘Can’t you see I’m working to a deadline? I’m very busy right now.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted—’

  ‘I’ll make dinner when I come down. We’ll talk then, but for the time being I can do without any interruptions.’

  Lindsey had wanted to ask about the row. She wanted to know why her name had been shouted with such rage but the tension she sensed in Sara kept her silent.

  Later, Sara chopped mushrooms, onions and tomatoes, simmered pasta and filled the kitchen with her laughter. She’d kissed Lindsey and apologised for being so offhand in the studio. She’d explained about the pressure of deadlines. Everything had seemed perfect again and Lindsey couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else.

  A place had been set at the table for Peter but he never showed. They’d laughed, imagining him sulking somewhere, probably in the Oldport Grand, afraid to come home and face the music. After the meal they’d sat in the drawing room with the curtains open and the village lights winking back at them. Sara had poured brandy into a goblet and swirled it around, staring into the liquid as it swished from one side of the glass to the other. She’d spoken about her days as a professional photographer when she lived in London and how her uncle had given her the money to mount her first exhibition. The subject had been Irish emigrants, homeless people sick with the need to return to their families. The exhibition had been well reviewed but most Irish people hated it because it was so grim, all those sleazy rooms and weary, lined faces. They’d only wanted to know about the successful emigrants like her cousin, Kieran, who was hell-bent on becoming a rich stockbroker in New York.