My Sister and Other Liars

by Ruth Dugdall

  I told myself to keep calm and focus on the things I knew for certain, like the firmness of the pavement, the hot sun in the sky.

  And then we were in front of Sonia’s house, standing right where Andy had been when I took that picture of him.

  The house had the stillness of no-one-home. As Rob opened the door, the sun lit a runway of rising dust along the narrow hallway, which was cluttered with squeaky dog-toys. A large cage was rammed up in the corner, with stained blankets and chewed toys in it. The house reeked of puppy piss.

  The kitchen was cramped, smaller than Dad’s dark room. Rob opened the fridge for beer, and the stench of sour milk wafted out. The counter was crowded with used mugs and plates and empty crisp packets.

  ‘So, you looking forward to moving out?’ I asked.

  ‘Yup. Can’t wait.’ Rob poured the beer into beakers, and tipped the remainder of a half-eaten bag of Monster Munch into a bowl, taking one and eating it, saying, ‘Pickled onion, mmm.’ Just as he was turning to enter the front room, I put my hand on his arm and moved closer.

  I touched his cheek with my lips, tasting the tang of motor oil and sweat, and he gasped then kissed me back. Awkward mouths, too wide, then his tongue probed my teeth and I tasted vinegar from the crisps. I tried to hold him back, to make him kiss me slower, but his teeth knocked mine, and it was hard to carry on, telling myself that this was what I had to do if I was going to get any information from him. It felt too soon for this, just two days since we met, but he didn’t notice my hesitation, and I needed to act fast. No time to be playing coy.

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ I said.

  He was gulping me down like I was water, pushing me back so the kitchen worktop dug into my spine, the hardness of his penis pressed to my stomach.

  He led me up, kicking aside wet newspaper and a bald teddy bear. In the first room, the bed was covered with boxes, a sports bag, a pile of folded clothes, so he pulled me towards his mother’s room.

  It was a mess. The curtains weren’t fully drawn and the bed wasn’t made; clothes lay scattered on the floor, a hairbrush was on the bed and there were enough randomly placed tea lights to give a fireman a heart attack. Rob sat on the bed, and tugged me down beside him. I wanted to pull away, but I told myself that I needed him, to help me gather evidence. I wanted something to show Jena, to jog her memory.

  ‘Does your mum have any photos of you as a baby?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ His eyes were closed; he was miles away. ‘Why?’

  It was a good question, and I stumbled to answer. ‘It’s what girls do when they like a guy: ask to see photos of him when he was little.’

  A slow smile rose, making his eyes lighten as clouds drifted away. ‘You like me, then?’

  I flicked his face with my nail, leaving a half-moon of white on his red cheek. ‘Think I’d be here if I didn’t?’

  He pulled me back on to him, kissing me again. It became less awkward as we discovered how each other moved and our bodies found a fit, legs wrapped around each other and torsos touching. I was fighting my inner voice, telling me to run. I shushed myself with promises of information, of helping Jena to remember, of evidence against her attacker.

  ‘So, does she have any photos, or what?’

  A smile twitched the corners of his mouth, and his lips curled back from his front teeth as he tried not to grin. I could feel how badly he wanted me, the way he pushed against me, the way he looked at me like I might have the answer to some important question. He rolled on to his stomach and dug around under the bed, coming back up with a large carrier bag.

  ‘This is where Mum keeps photos and that. Most of this stuff is years old.’

  Rob upended the bag, and a wodge of papers fell out along with some Airfix planes. He picked one up and stared at it with wonder.

  ‘This is all Dad’s stuff, back from when I was a kid. He spent hours making these. I’d forgotten they were here.’

  On the bed was a fan of photos: school portraits in cardboard frames, small square ones yellow with age – Rob eating a sticky lolly; Rob kicking a punctured football; Rob as a baby in the arms of a girl who looked too young and vulnerable to have a baby.

  ‘How old was your mum there?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  She looked younger, with mousey-brown hair and small eyes, wearing a too-tight dress, pushing a swing in the playground at Orwell Park. This Sonia was a world away from the battle-weary woman I’d seen two days before.

  Careful not to show my eagerness, I continued to sift through the photos. If I could just see his photo it might trigger a memory; Jena’s attacker might have a face.

  One photo, creased down the middle like it had been folded for a long time, was of a young man holding a newborn baby, gazing down at the child in his arms so his hair was in his face.

  I felt a hot probe run through my core. ‘Is that your dad?’

  Rob rested his chin on my shoulder. ‘Yeah, that was his favourite photo. He used to keep it in his wallet . . .’ He stopped, and rubbed his nose, looking embarrassed. I waited. Then he said, ‘I might as well tell you, if you haven’t heard already, that my dad has a bit of a reputation on the estate. He was in prison for a long time. I was just a kid.’

  I scrutinised the photo. Was this the person I saw hunched over Jena’s body seven weeks ago? The photo was over-exposed, and whoever took it had wanted to show the baby, not the father, so Douglas Campbell’s face was only a side view, ruined by the orange-and-pink swirls of a badly taken picture. But if Jena could see it, it might be enough.

  I placed my foot on top of Rob’s leg, stroked his calf with it, and gave him a wicked grin, as if this was a game.

  ‘What did he go to prison for?’

  Even though I knew, I wondered if he would tell me.

  ‘Some scam he got involved in. Fraud.’ He pulled his leg away from mine, and a flash of anger showed in his eyes. I realised he was lying. He was lying because he was ashamed that his father was a rapist, and I didn’t blame him for that. ‘Uncle Andy said it was a good thing; he’d never liked my dad, and he said we were better off without him, but it messed everything up, him being sent down. Mum lost the business – they ran Our Plaice – but all the rumours, things people said; it got too difficult. Then she went really downhill, got mixed up in drugs. It was a bad time, for Mum and also for me. Later, I got mixed up in some bad things too.’

  ‘You took drugs?’

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘Never. But I got a gun – an old one, de-commissioned; it couldn’t have hurt anyone. I used it to threaten the local dealers, to stay away from my mum. Maybe it was the Campbell reputation, or maybe they just saw how angry I was, but it worked.’ He smiled, grimly. ‘She’s clean now. Unfortunately, I got arrested after I got rid of the gun by throwing it from the Orwell Bridge. Like an idiot, I forgot about the CCTV camera that saw my every move. I’m on a Community Order; Greasy Monkeys is my Community Payback. I have to be squeaky clean for two years, or I’ll end up inside.’

  ‘But you saved your mum, so it was worth it. It was a brave thing you did.’ I closed the gap between us, moving my body closer and touching his cheek. ‘So you don’t see your dad? He’s not with your mum anymore?’

  Rob shook his head. ‘A long stretch in prison would kill any relationship. I was just ten when he got out, but he vowed never to return to Suffolk, so that was that. He went back to live in Scotland, and the only person who could have driven me was Andy, but there was no way he would do that. He hates my dad, and so we don’t have anything to do with him.’

  My blood was pulsing so loudly in my ears I felt sure Rob must hear it, because I knew something he didn’t. Douglas had returned to Suffolk, to meet my sister. And he was currently remanded, charged with her attack, but he still might get away with it. I wondered if Sonia knew, and was keeping it from Rob.

  I smoothed his hair, exposing the ragged scar on his forehead, and peered into his sky-grey eyes. Into giant pools of black within the grey, like the
calm centre of a storm. He wrenched the photo from my hand and shoved it back into the carrier bag, then kicked the bag under the bed.

  ‘Let’s get out of here before my mum gets home.’

  I was still thinking about that photo. We were heading out of the front door when I froze, a shard of clear thought shining brightly in my brain.

  ‘I’ll just go upstairs a sec, Rob. I need the loo.’

  I didn’t go to the loo. I went to Sonia’s bedroom, where I carefully pulled the carrier bag from under the bed and stole the photo of Douglas Campbell.

  CHAPTER 15

  13 January

  Birute arrives for her shift wrapped in her thin coat and a home-knitted scarf, carrying a battered Monopoly box. She starts to set it up at the table nearest the window in the recreation room, still wrapped against the elements, and ignoring Joelle, who puts a choking finger in her mouth, and Fiona, who pulls a grimace; both too cool for games. Stacey is engrossed in painting her nails, and she won’t play either. But Pearl hovers nearby, her face lit with pleasure. Today, she wears a red woollen hat, shaped like a poppy, making her impossibly fairy-like.

  ‘Come, Sam,’ Birute says. ‘Is not possible to play with only two. And you, Mina.’

  Mina is in the corner of the room, hidden in the folds of the curtains. She shakes her head, and retreats farther from view.

  Not able to disappoint Pearl, I join them at the table, and Birute chuckles as she places the car and the dog on the board. With the moon outside, and the cosy glow of the lights along the prom, we could be a family enjoying a game together. Something I used to enjoy with Jena, in the run-up to Christmas, playing Cluedo and drinking hot chocolate. Innocent times.

  I pull my knees to my chest, and start to dish out the money.

  ‘I had dog,’ Birute says, looking at the silver charm of a terrier in her hand. ‘In Lithuania. He look a bit like this.’

  Pearl takes the dog from Birute. ‘What colour was he?’

  ‘Brown,’ says Birute. ‘But he had dark bit here.’ She makes gestures around her eyes, like goggles, and we both laugh. ‘But he was poorly dog, he had . . . what is it you say in English . . . mangy?’

  ‘Mange?’ I say. ‘From fox ticks, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ya, something like this. So poorly, and all his hair, it come out when his skin hurt.’ Birute looks at Pearl, at her poppy hat. They exchange a gaze that excludes me totally, and I feel a stab of jealousy. Birute has a new favourite.

  ‘What happened to him?’ asks Pearl.

  Birute settles in her chair, legs curled under her, scarf to her chin, which means she is getting ready to tell us a long story.

  ‘He was so sick, this dog. First we try shampoo, then we try medicine. My neighbours, they bring olive oil and coal tar. We try it all, and our dog, he such a good boy he let us. Finally, a farmer, he come to see my mother. He say he have special thing he use on his sheep. We dip him like a sheep, every week! It smell so bad,’ she says, laughing, holding her nose and shaking her head, as if the smell is in her nose right now.

  We play the game and, thanks to a silent conspiracy between Birute and myself, Pearl wins. It takes so long, I slip several red hotels on to her properties when she isn’t looking, just to speed things up. When Pearl finally wipes us both out, Birute takes the silver dog and gives it to her.

  ‘Your prize,’ she says.

  Pearl looks at the tiny silver dog in her hand, so touched she might cry. And then she does something I have not expected: she pulls the poppy hat from her head and lowers her face so Birute and I can both see her scalp.

  There is a disc of skin in the middle, like a monk’s. A smooth bald patch with no hair at all.

  Birute touches Pearl’s hand, the one with the dog in it.

  ‘My dog, he got better. After we looked after him, he was beautiful and healthy.’

  In the morning, I can’t find words easily. I’m still thinking about Birute’s mangy dog, about Pearl’s bald scalp. How could I have missed that she pulled her hair? It was so obvious, all those bloody hats, that I curse my stupidity.

  I’m still feeling guilty when the time comes for me to talk to Clive.

  Because of the fits, Jena was back on Eastern Ward, and all the hope I’d had for her recovery felt flimsy. It was my mission to capture something with my camera – enough to help Jena remember – or, even better, to find some actual evidence like the missing raincoat, that got me out of bed that Tuesday morning. But I didn’t eat; I was enjoying the hunger pangs, the swishiness in my brain. It made life bearable, because when my stomach growled, demanding nutrition, I wasn’t thinking about Jena. I wasn’t thinking about my exams either; I barely knew when the next one was, and revision seemed pointless.

  There was only one thing that occupied me: hunting evidence. I needed, more than I needed food or a future, justice for Jena.

  I was in my bedroom, trying to hack into Jena’s Facebook account for the hundredth time, when I heard Mum’s phone beep. The sound was coming from her bedroom, but she was in the bathroom, so I went to collect it from her bedside cabinet. The text was from the hospital:

  J had a bad night. Pls see Dr G before going to Eastern Ward today. Thx. Mark

  ‘Mum?’ I yelled, knocking on the bathroom door.

  She opened up, face un-made, a moulting hairbrush in her hand.

  ‘Jena’s not well.’

  Panicked, she went to tell Dad, who was already in the shed, while I returned to my room to get my rucksack, checking I had my money, mobile and camera, fumbling as I did so, my hands slick with sweat. At the bottom of my bag was the Black Magic box: a secret, undisturbed.

  Once at the hospital, we marched side by side to Dr Gregg’s office, an army of two. Mum knocked on his door, waited for him to say ‘Enter’.

  No answer.

  She knocked again, louder. Still nothing.

  ‘Sod this,’ she said, wiping a forearm across her moist brow. ‘Let’s go straight to the ward.’

  I felt just like I did that day we thought Jena was dead, that same hopeless panic, and when I tried to speak, it came out as a painful whimper. Mum linked her arm through mine and held me tight.

  ‘It’s okay, love. Whatever’s happened, we can get through it. I won’t let it destroy my family.’

  ‘Why isn’t Dad with us?’

  Her dry hand patted my arm. ‘He’s not as strong as us, love. He’ll be all right; he just needs time. We’ll all be okay, you’ll see.’

  I didn’t know how she could be so optimistic when dread threatened to overwhelm me. When we didn’t know what had happened to Jena.

  At Eastern Ward, she pressed the door buzzer impatiently, and when Mark opened the door he looked harassed.

  ‘Morning, Kath. Hi, Sam.’

  ‘How is she?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Come into the staff room. We can talk there.’

  I hesitated, but Mum pulled me forward. As we entered the staff room, my eyes fixed on the medicine cabinet, which was now not only closed, but secured with a padlock.

  Mark cleared a space on the desk, which was littered with pieces of paper, Post-it notes and used mugs, and sat on its edge. He said in a calm, even voice, ‘Jena had another seizure in the night. We’re not sure why she’s fitting, but we’ll be keeping a close eye on her. I just wanted you to be prepared. She’s not looking so good.’

  Jena was curled up in bed, cuddling Sid the Sloth. Mum lifted the duvet back. ‘Now then, come on. Best to get up and . . . oh God!’

  The right side of Jena’s face was ugly with a purple bruise, her eye swollen and puffy-red.

  Mark spoke from the doorway. ‘The night nurse heard a crash, and found Jena fitting on the floor. She’d banged her head on that.’ He pointed to the bedside cabinet.

  Jena flinched, burying her head back into the pillow. ‘My face hurts.’

  Mum pulled Jena’s hand from her face and looked closer.

  ‘It’s not that bad. Best thing you can do is get up and get dres
sed.’

  Jena whimpered, but Mum was having none of it. She yanked Jena from the bed, and led her to the sink, where she ran a basin of water. About to lift off her pyjama top, she paused, looking pointedly at Mark. Made redundant by Mum’s nursing skills, he left.

  Mum stripped my sister, washing her body with a flannel like she was an unruly child. She got her into some clean clothes, and combed the tangles from her hair.

  I sat and watched, dumb. How was Jena ever going to say who’d attacked her, when she was in such a state? How was it ever going to get any better? But Mum was undefeated. ‘Now, Jena, I want you to go into the day room and have a drink. No good moping about in here.’

  In the day room, she found Jena the comfiest chair by the window, next to an old man nursing a toy train, who asked her if she had a ticket for that seat. Mum rummaged in her bag for her used train ticket, and handed it to him. His cragged face lit up, as if he was holding a winning lottery ticket. Then he nodded in a professional manner, folding it carefully and sliding it into his dressing-gown pocket. Mum went busily on with her work, grabbing a cushion from another chair, then started looking about for something to keep Jena entertained. It was as if she didn’t see the rocking woman facing the wall, or that the man with the ticket now had one hand in his pants. Mum was good at ignoring things, focusing only on what she could fix.

  She left the room, and when she came back she had a magazine she’d probably nicked from the staff room. She placed it on Jena’s lap.

  ‘Sam, you watch Jena. I’m going to find Dr Gregg to sort this out once and for all.’

  CHAPTER 16

  14 January

  We’re on a trip today. It’s supposed to help rehabilitate us, and the fact that I’ve been invited is a sign the staff think I’m getting better, or at least that Clive has told them that. They’ve reduced the amount of calories I get through the tube, so I’m back on two normal meals each day, and I know this is all for the parole board and for my benefit, but it feels like I’m being rushed into recovery. I chew everything slowly, carefully, swallowing each tiny mouthful with sips of water. This, they say, is progress.