‘Hey.’ She pushes her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Her long dark hair falls partly over her face but doesn’t quite hide her sheepish grin. My eyes travel down to see the suitcase at her feet. ‘Sorry I didn’t call out. You left the back door open.’
‘I just got home,’ I explain.
Her appearance has altered dramatically, in a good way, though I was already prepared for this after browsing her Facebook photos. Her face has filled out and her clothes fit snugly against her body. The last time I saw her she was wearing a dress that hung from her skeletal frame, and her skin and hair were greasy and dull. She isn’t wearing make-up, but then she never needed it, and her hair is long and thick, worn loose as it always was when we were teenagers. Her clothes are smart but inexpensive. They aren’t the same vest tops and shorts that she wore at university, or the baggy trousers and dresses she wore after.
‘Aren’t you going to give me a hug?’ she says, shrugging her shoulders awkwardly.
‘Sure.’ I close the fridge door and head over to where she stands by the door to the hallway.
The hug is brief but warm. She smells of the rose perfume she used to wear as a teenager. Mum bought it for her.
‘It’s the same perfume,’ I say, stepping back.
‘I bought a bottle on the way up here,’ she replies. ‘Thought Mum would like it.’
‘She will.’ Seeing her makes the fear fade away. Rosie isn’t physically intimidating, she’s just unpredictable, and her past is … worrying. But surely, no matter what she did all those years ago, she wouldn’t hurt me. Would she? ‘I’ve been sleeping in our old room, but you can take Grandad’s if you want. Or … Mum’s.’
Rosie swallows slowly and shakes her head. ‘Grandad’s.’
I nod, understanding. I wouldn’t want to sleep in Mum’s room either. It would be like admitting that soon she will be gone; that we’re here to replace her.
‘Right, well I’d better take my case up.’ She gestures to the suitcase by her feet. It’s small, the kind that people use as a carry-on when they fly abroad.
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Is Pete’s Pizza still open in the village?’
‘Still does the pepperoni special, but it’s ten quid now.’
She blows air through her lips in mock disgust. ‘Used to be a fiver.’
‘He reckons it’s because of the recession. But we all know it’s because there’s nowhere else to get takeaway in Buckthorpe.’
Rosie shakes her head and grabs hold of the suitcase handle. ‘God, this village. There’s no life here, is there? Nothing living at all.’
* * *
While Rosie is upstairs settling in, I consider ordering the pepperoni special for old times’ sake, but instead I shove some sausages in a frying pan and empty a tin of beans into a saucepan. Frozen oven chips complete the culinary masterpiece. Maybe the pizza would’ve been a better idea, but I don’t have the cash on me, and Pete hasn’t woken up to twenty-first-century technology yet. There’s no ordering online in Buckthorpe, and only one delivery guy, Luke, who has been complaining about the steep drive to our house for the last decade.
As I’m cooking, I can’t stop thinking about what Rosie said about Buckthorpe. Is she right? Has the village stalled and the life been sucked out of it? Maybe that’s why those happy memories I have here are almost dreamlike. While I’ve grown up and moved on, Buckthorpe is stuck in the past. I’ve never been here for a wedding, because most of my old school friends have moved away and made their lives elsewhere. I only ever come back to Buckthorpe for Christmas and funerals. And now, to nurse Mum until she dies.
‘That smells divine.’ Rosie hovers in the kitchen doorway again. She’s showered and dressed casually in cut-off jean shorts and a white T-shirt, making her look more like the Rosie I know, compared to the smart trousers and blouse she was wearing before. ‘Are they from Murrays’ farm shop?’ She finally enters the room and saunters over to the cooker.
Hearing Rosie say that name sends a shiver down my spine. ‘Yep.’
Her face pales as she stares down at the pan. ‘Well, they do sell the best. I take back every bad word I said against ole Buckers. The farm shops are incredible.’ She climbs onto the breakfast-bar stool and lifts one foot to rest on the seat. Her other leg dangles, toes trailing the lino. It’s like we’re teenagers again, and I can hardly bear it.
‘You all right?’ she asks.
I throw down the spatula and she winces at the clatter. ‘No, I’m not all right. For four months I’ve been coming here every weekend, and sometimes during the week as well. I’m barely hanging onto my job. I’m pretty sure they’re going to fire me when I eventually go back. Oh, and Simon dumped me because we never saw each other. And do you know why?’
She cocks her head to one side, face stone cold. ‘Did you throw spatulas at him, too?’
‘Because I’ve been taking Mum to the hospital. I’ve done everything and you didn’t even respond to my emails when Mum was diagnosed. You changed your phone number and fucked off as usual.’
For a few seconds her expression remains emotionless. I’ve gone too far, I know I have, but I couldn’t stop it all from blurting out. I prepare myself for an angry outburst, but then her shoulders slump and her voice softens. ‘I was in rehab, Hev. You know what I’ve been through, don’t you?’ She leans forward, reaching out over the pan, but then pulls her hand away as though burned by the heat from the stove. ‘I’m ill.’ She says it nonchalantly, with a shrug. ‘Do you know what it’s like to want to drink yourself to death every day?’
‘No,’ I mumble.
She raises her eyebrows in an ‘I told you so’ way. ‘I have to fight to stop myself from doing just that.’ As she clenches her fists, I see the long red welts on her forearms – her scars from self-harming. They started after Samuel went missing. She shakes her head a little, and her cheeks flush, reminding me of her temper tantrums as a child. Then she slams both fists down on the counter. ‘You’ve never understood, have you? Because you’re so perfect all the time!’
‘That’s not true,’ I say, though with less conviction than my first outburst. The fighting has started early. It usually takes us at least two hours of being in each other’s company before we row. ‘I have my problems too, you know.’
‘You mean the decent job? The nice flat? Being the favourite kid?’ She straightens her leg and sits upright. ‘You’ll never be the fuck-up. You’re not the one who passed out behind the sofa at Dad’s wake.’
When a spit of fat burns my arm, I reduce the heat and let out a long sigh. ‘Let’s not talk about Dad.’
‘Why? Because he killed himself? Maybe we should talk about it, Hev, because maybe whatever darkness drove him to it is in me.’ I watch as the anger seeps out of her as quickly as it flared. She lowers her voice and relaxes her body. ‘Listen, I’m serious. We should talk about it. Our family has a history of not talking about important things, doesn’t it?’
I freeze. Is she referring to the night Samuel went missing?
‘We always thought it was Mum who had that depressive side to her, didn’t we?’ Rosie says, her voice trailing off as though lost in thought. I wrap my arms around my body and frown. She might be sober, but her emotions are still unstable. ‘But in the end, it was Dad who put the shotgun—’
‘Don’t.’ I raise my hands. ‘Please don’t say it.’
She steps down from the stool and makes her way around the counter to stand by my side. ‘Do you ever think that we blinkered ourselves from the signs on purpose?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I remember our childhood now, it seems obvious that Dad was in pain. Don’t you think?’
‘No.’ I shrug. ‘Not to me.’
‘Really? All those jobs he took away from the family? The fact that he hardly talked to Mum when they were alone?’
‘Mum and Dad talked,’ I reply, hearing the note of uncertain
ty in my voice. It’s true that Dad often worked away from home, but it was because he was providing for us. He did it to earn extra money and pay for our university tuition fees, not because he didn’t want to be around us.
Rosie tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Yeah. Maybe they did. Sorry, Hev, I’m rambling.’
She makes her way back to the stool and crosses one leg over the other. I stare down at the sausages and realise that I’ve lost my appetite. All I can think about is my dad in pain, with no one to help him. Rosie could be right about the darkness inside him. But what I don’t know is how much darkness there is inside my sister, and how dangerous she might be.
Four
Rosie
Then
The day Heather almost fell off Lady wasn’t the first encounter I’d had with one of the Murrays. For some reason, Samuel and I pretended we’d never met before, but that actually wasn’t true. No, there was another occasion before the day at the Murrays’ farm when I’d spent some time with Samuel outside of school.
It was about six months before that day, during a relatively mild February. I’d been reading lots of fantasy books about female warriors, and fancied myself a budding fierce girl like them. After an unsuccessful attempt at a fist fight in the playground, I decided I needed a weapon.
This, of course, was all completely logical to my thirteen-year-old self. And because we lived in Buckthorpe, where nothing bad ever happened, Mum and Dad allowed me to roam around as much as I wanted. Which meant that the first thing I did was wrap up in my winter coat and wellies and head into the woods for an appropriate stick. I was about to make myself a bow and arrow.
However, my knowledge of bows was minimal. All I knew was that I needed to make the wood curve or bend in some way to enable me to tie the string. Using the limited information from my fantasy books, as well as a memory of a TV version of Robin Hood, I began to whittle down a thin branch into what I thought resembled the limb of a bow. As I worked, I sat on a rock next to the path, smiling at the occasional dog walker as they passed. It was a quiet part of the forest. Most people go to see the famous gorge five miles out of Buckthorpe village, meaning that barely anyone who didn’t live here walked this path.
‘What’re you doing?’
The boy’s voice came from behind me. When I turned around, he was staring at the abandoned twigs on the ground that I’d ended up snapping.
‘Making a bow,’ I replied.
I knew Samuel was in Heather’s year at school. I also knew that he was a weirdo who’d killed his pet lizard back in primary school; at least that was what everyone said.
He snorted as though he didn’t believe me. ‘Yeah, right.’
I frowned. ‘Fuck off then.’
‘No, wait,’ he said in a gentle voice as I moved away from him. ‘I want to see. Are you really making a bow? That’s pretty cool.’
The compliment worked, because I stopped and showed him my work. ‘It’s supposed to be supple enough to bend when I tie the string on both sides. But they all keep snapping.’
‘That’s because you’re using brittle wood,’ Samuel said. ‘See?’ He picked up one of my abandoned twigs and snapped it. ‘The wood is dead, so it’ll never bend.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, feeling like a complete idiot. ‘I guess it was a stupid idea anyway.’
‘What do you want the bow for?’
‘Hunting, I guess,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know.’
He laughed and sat next to me on the rock. For the first time I noticed that he had dark-blue eyes, like the water deep down on the ocean floor. ‘You’re not supposed to hunt in these woods.’
‘So?’
He was obviously impressed by my phoney rebelliousness.
‘Hey, you could make a spear,’ he suggested. ‘You just need a long branch with a pointed end.’
We wandered further into the woods in search of the perfect branch to whittle into a spear. Neither of us had decided what we’d use the spear for if we actually completed it, but it was nice to have some company.
‘Where’s your sister today?’ Samuel asked as we sat back down on the rock with the new piece of wood.
‘I ditched her,’ I admitted. ‘She hangs around with me too much.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Samuel replied. ‘I have a little brother who does that too. He’s always whining. It gets on my nerves.’
‘Heather isn’t whiny,’ I said. ‘But she hates mucking about. She gets stressed out if I do anything that isn’t allowed. She always follows the rules.’
Samuel grinned. I didn’t get it then, but now I know it was because he thought of himself as someone who didn’t follow the rules either, and he liked that about himself.
‘My brother was adopted,’ he said. ‘So I guess we’re not even related, even though it does feel like he’s my brother.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘That’s cool.’
‘Yeah. Mum couldn’t have any kids after me, but she wanted me to have a brother or sister, so they adopted Peter. I guess he loves it here, but he’s kinda hard to get used to sometimes.’
‘Does he know he’s adopted?’
‘Yeah,’ Samuel said. ‘We told him a couple of years ago. He wanted to know why he has brown eyes and we don’t. Mum and Dad decided to tell him everything, but he seems okay with it.’
I nodded.
‘Hey, that’s pretty sharp now,’ he said. ‘You could definitely kill a rabbit with it.’ But after Samuel said the words, his grin faded. ‘Are you actually going to hunt anything?’
I gazed at the spear and pictured a dead, bloodied animal hanging from it. Suddenly I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to be a warrior after all. But I couldn’t deny that there was a certain power I enjoyed about having my own weapon.
Before I could answer, I heard a man’s voice calling Samuel’s name. His face dropped, and he kicked a stone with the toe of his boot.
‘I’ve got to go. I was only supposed to be gone twenty minutes, and it’s been at least forty, I reckon.’ He stood up and dusted down his jeans. ‘But it was nice to talk to you.’
I nodded back. ‘See you then.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, with a hopeful note in his voice. ‘See you at school.’
But I never acknowledged our encounter in the woods again. Back at school, I ignored him like I always did, even when he nodded a hello at me the Monday after. I think it was embarrassment that stopped Samuel from referencing our brief time in the woods. Looking back, I realise that I rejected Samuel by ignoring him at school. In his own way he was reaching out, searching for allies, hoping for a friend, and I rejected him.
It’s possible that this made me especially complicit in changing him from a gentle boy to the person I feared just a few years later.
Five
Heather
Now
At six a.m., I get the call. It’s the call. Mum is struggling to breathe, and the doctors don’t think she has long left.
Rosie pulls on a top and a pair of jeans, doesn’t bother brushing her hair. I rush to the car in my slippers and have to run back to get flat pumps. It’s no time for footwear with complicated zips and laces; we need to be quick.
Rosie lets out a long, exhausted breath. ‘I thought I’d have more time with her.’
I lean over to her in the passenger side of the car and squeeze her shoulder. ‘So did I.’ This must be terrible for her: to arrive one day to spend time with Mum, only to get the call the next morning.
When we arrive at the hospital, I’m grateful to see Susie on the ward. She pulls me into a quick hug and leads us into the room, all the time holding my hand. She’s been with me from the first day Mum was admitted for palliative care. There’s no time to explain who Rosie is, but I think she knows anyway.
‘I’ll get you both a tea,’ she says.
I can’t imagine wanting to drink tea, but at the same time I haven’t eaten or drank anything since our quick meal of sausages and beans the night before. And I h
aven’t even brushed my teeth.
‘Mum, look who’s here,’ I say, somehow keeping the emotion out of my voice.
Rosie steps towards the bed with her chin wobbling and her eyes wide. She raises a hand to her mouth and her body goes rigid as she begins to cry. I find that I have to turn away, because there are tears in my eyes too. Watching her overcome with emotion transports me back to ten years ago, when I last saw that expression on her face. We were standing in the kitchen, just before our lives changed forever. Now Rosie is scrunched up in a girlish way, completely distraught and broken. My heart leaps around in my chest because I want to fix everything for both of them, but I don’t know how.
Mum is pale, with flaky dark skin around her eyes. Out of habit, I take a little pot of moisturiser from my bag and dab it on. Her eyes are open, but they are misty and unfocused. Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. The change in her is significant compared to yesterday. I can hardly believe it. I smooth her hair and kiss her lightly on the forehead before moving away from the bed to allow her and Rosie space to reunite.
‘Hey, Mum.’ Rosie has finally managed to compose herself, and she sits down on the chair near Mum’s head. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Rosie,’ Mum whispers.
I clear my throat, direct my gaze away from them, the tears stinging my eyes. I’ve always hated crying in front of other people, even my family.
‘Is it really you?’
‘It’s me, Mum. Sorry I didn’t come sooner,’ she says, and I believe her. At least, I want to believe her, because she seems utterly heartbroken.
The Liar's Sister (ARC) Page 4
