My Sister and Other Liars

by Ruth Dugdall

  Jena had started crying. There was blood on the tips of her fingers, where she couldn’t stop biting her nails to the quick.

  ‘What you read in my police statement was true. That afternoon, we’d planned to meet, but Jena never showed. And later, less than an hour after we should have met, I found a raincoat covered in blood, on the ground down the alleyway that leads to your street. I just thought it was someone had got in a fight, or maybe a worker at the chippy had had an accident. It was odd, but I didn’t know what to make of it, and it was only later, when I saw the news bulletin, breaking news, that a woman had been set upon on Orwell Estate, that I knew it must have been Jena. And that the raincoat must belong to her attacker. So I went back, to get it. I’m not fucking stupid, Sam; I don’t want to speak to the cops any more than I have to, but I wasn’t going to keep quiet about something important like that. Only when I went back, it was gone. And next thing I knew I was the prime suspect.’

  I leaned back, desperate for more space between us.

  ‘But if you’re innocent, then who attacked her?’

  ‘That’s the question we should all be asking. And one thing I know in my bones: whoever did it was the same person who raped her sixteen years ago. The two things are linked; I’m sure of that.’

  My thoughts were all tied up in knots; I was unable to see where one rope ended and another began, but someone out there knew everything.

  I took a gamble. I said, ‘Penny is planning to hold a press conference on Monday, here at the hospital. There will be reporters, cameras, everything.’

  Douglas leaned in again, and placed a hand on my shoulder this time, a threatening but also intimate gesture. ‘What are you thinking, girl?’

  I hesitated; I was about to suggest something risky.

  ‘Jena could tell everyone that she lied about you raping her. If she said it when cameras are rolling and reporters are taking notes, then the police would have to act. There’d be a public outcry if they thought you’d been scapegoated and the real attacker was still walking around. He couldn’t hide anymore.’

  Douglas’s expression turned dreamy for a moment. ‘I’d have everyone’s support, just like that guy in the Netflix series. A public petition. Compensation, maybe.’ Douglas gave me what could have been a smile, but up close it looked like a snarl.

  There was no smoke without fire; everyone knew that. Didn’t he realise that even if Jena said he was innocent, she looked so pitiful and damaged that she was hardly reliable? And simply resurrecting the spectre of the rape case would remind everyone that he’d served time for it. The reporters would see to that. Then the police would have to try harder with their investigation. I wasn’t trying to save Douglas, or make a hero out of him. I was moving him directly under the spotlight.

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ he said. ‘Now I’d better go and tell Rob the plan, ’cos that poor boy has been poisoned against his own father, and he needs this as much as I do. I’ll leave the same way I came. After all, I don’t want to cause any trouble.’

  After he exited by the patio door, I comforted Jena, who was still crying, but in my head I was sifting through what Douglas had said, that the bloodied coat was on the ground of the alleyway. If the attacker was someone other than Douglas, that coat belonged to them.

  The coat had been in the alleyway that came out near the back of the fish and chip shop. Above which was the flat, with the lace curtains and the pottery dog, that Jena was about to move into with Andy.

  Andy. It seemed that all roads led to him, all the strands I’d been following; his name kept coming up.

  He was Jena’s secret fiancé, yet hadn’t shown his face since the attack. He managed Jena at Pleasurepark and was Dad’s friend, but he hadn’t been to our house either. Douglas said Andy had always hated him, and was happy to see him convicted of rape. He was Sonia’s brother and Rob’s uncle, and deep there in the mix.

  And his address was written on a piece of paper, torn from Jena’s address book, and folded neatly in my Black Magic box. It was time I paid him a visit.

  CHAPTER 28

  24 January

  This afternoon is group counselling, called ‘Share and Care’, probably by Sian in a moment of ironic humour, and this time Clive is going to be there, to monitor how I cope. He said it would be good for the report, if I perform well in therapy, like a fucking circus clown. He also said it would be like a rehearsal, for when I have to speak in front of the board. The day of judgement is approaching, and I have a lot to prove.

  Share and Care happens once a fortnight and is usually a time for patients to air grievances or sort out squabbles, to get things off their chest. The hot seat is a pine chapel chair, the same as everyone else sits on, but it’s placed in the centre of the room, and whoever sits there must be honest and answer questions.

  Some of the girls volunteer to be in the hot seat; Fiona likes to talk about feeling fat in jodhpurs, and how the girls at her private school bullied her for having wobbly thighs. We’re all a bit sick of hearing about her privileged life, but it’s easy listening. Joelle doesn’t mind talking either, though it always goes sour when Manda gently points out that the lessons darling Mummy and Grandmummy taught her weren’t an act of love. ‘They said I looked beautiful,’ Joelle says. ‘The more weight I lost, the more they admired me.’ Three sick women in one house. And this is where she’ll return, when she’s deemed well enough.

  Mina won’t often talk. Manda tries to persuade her, and sometimes she succeeds, but it’s always a long process, and before she’s spoken for many minutes she’s in tears. We aren’t sorry when she stops. Some people’s stories are just too painful to hear, and I fear for her, knowing that she’ll one day have to return to her father’s house.

  As for Pearl, though she hasn’t been here long, she seems to enjoy chatting. I get the feeling, though, that she’s not really revealing much. It all sounds too good to be true, how she now wants to get better, how being at the Bartlet is the best thing that’s happened to her. She looks pretty and cool, wearing a beret or a bowler, but I know what’s under the hat. Pearl is a good actress.

  Today, I’m in the hot seat.

  Clive told me that I should bring my Black Magic box to the session, so I have an idea what’s coming, but first we all pretend to listen as Manda goes through the warm-up act: a lecture on the importance of knowing ourselves, understanding why we starve, so we can heal. I can’t stop shaking.

  ‘Okay, everyone, so today Sam is going to share with us some of the therapeutic work she’s been doing, and talk about one of the photos in her memory box. Okay, Sam? You ready?’

  I’m not, but I gather my box and prepare to leave the circle and sit in the centre. Clive is next to me, and reaches to pat my shoulder as I pass; an awkward gesture, and it feels bulky, but it’s not his size that’s wrong, it’s mine. I take the seat, feeling like I’m in the dock, back in Crown Court, accused and needing to explain myself. The other girls are the jury today.

  ‘Okay, Sam,’ Clive gently prompts. ‘We’re all listening.’

  I take the photo of Andy’s penthouse from my box, because this is the photo we’ve come to in my individual sessions with Clive. It’s him I most need to convince. The photo is passed around the circle, and the other girls – fellow sufferers or survivors, or whatever you’d choose to call them – gamely contribute, saying they’re impressed by the open-plan design, shiny floorboards and black leather sofas. Pearl says she likes the cushions; they’re zebra and cow print and scattered on the floor. Stacey is wowed by the large plasma screen above the fireplace, always impressed by a bit of bling. Everything looks clean and minimal.

  When the photo is finally returned to me, I say that what I like best of all is the window: a whole wall of glass, looking out on to blue sky.

  ‘Why have you chosen this photo?’ asks Clive, though unlike everyone else in the room he already knows that we have reached this part of the story.

  I sense Pearl hanging on my every word
, Stacey leans forward to listen, and for the first time I get why some of the others love being in the hot seat so much.

  ‘Because,’ I say, almost in a whisper, ‘this is where Andy lived. I hadn’t been to his flat, but I knew Jena had, many times. I’d known for a long time that they were in love, and that a secret wedding was planned for when she left home and had her independence. But since she was attacked, I’d only seen him briefly, at the local garage buying a magazine, and he hadn’t shown much interest in how Jena was. He hadn’t visited her once.’

  Stacey interrupts. ‘How has this got anything to do with your anorexia?’

  No one stops her asking this question, no one suggests it’s too early in my talk to prod me to be explicit, to make links between then and now. They want me to answer.

  ‘My sister had been attacked, and I didn’t know who by. The whole world felt wrong and muddled and confused. Stopping eating was something I could have power over. For the first time, it occurred to me that Andy could have attacked Jena. Maybe, deep down, I’d always thought it, but just couldn’t face it. She said he loved her, that they were getting married. I didn’t want her to be wrong.’

  ‘We can’t always know what motivates people,’ Clive said. ‘Human beings are complex.’

  ‘Some are,’ I say, looking at my own hands and thinking what they’d done. ‘But some people are simply evil to the very core.’

  It was Douglas who first put the idea in my head that Andy may be Jena’s attacker, but I needed Jena to confirm it. After Douglas left the hospital grounds, and still reeling from hearing her say that she’d lied about him raping her, I knew that she had to finish her picture. It was the only way she could prove if Douglas was guilty or innocent, and my mind was so messed up I didn’t know anymore. I needed Jena to show me.

  The outline of her attacker was on the canvas, but the face remained almost blank.

  She frowned at the picture, and I saw that she was still shaken by what had just happened, but sympathy wasn’t what was needed, and I tapped the edge of the canvas impatiently with my fingertip. I pointed to the incomplete face.

  ‘So you say you lied about Douglas raping you, and he says there’s a conspiracy against him. If it wasn’t him, then who is this, Jena?’

  She looked stricken. I wanted her to remember the events of 25 April so much, and it was coming slowly, the layers of memory peeling back like the kids’ game of Pass the Parcel.

  She dabbed with her brush, working again on the black hood when it was the face she needed to complete.

  ‘Who was wearing that black coat in your painting? The coat that got covered in your blood? Who, Jena!’ If only I could find that coat. If only I had more to go on than my sick sister’s daubs.

  She turned to me, wide-eyed, as though a shard of recollection had punctured her daydream. ‘I was always special, he said. He gave me things, and said I was beautiful. Then he stopped. He stopped loving me.’

  Andy. He had stopped loving her, hadn’t he? He showed it plainly by not visiting. I felt like she was stepping on water; a miracle was happening.

  ‘He hurt me, Sam.’

  ‘Do you mean Andy?’ I asked, pushing more than I should, but desperate for confirmation.

  Her eyes looked weepy. ‘Doesn’t he love me anymore? He’s hardly been to visit. You know what happened, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s not come at all, Jena. I know fuck-all. And it’s killing me.’

  I reached for my sister and hugged her like my very life depended upon it. She pulled away from me, and there was such a wise expression on her face that it broke my heart; she was my protective elder sister once again.

  ‘I’m not there to look after you. And it’s dangerous. You must remember to forget, Sammy.’

  But I couldn’t promise that. Not anymore.

  I stop talking, and look around at the other girls, who all know what I did, what I’m guilty of. This is the closest I’ve ever come to describing the build-up to my crime, and I can see their eagerness for more.

  Pearl nibbles the ends of her hair nervously, while Stacey gazes at me with frank curiosity. Joelle and Fiona look as though they’re watching a soap opera that’s just paused for adverts. Only Mina is so shut down that it’s hard to know what she makes of my story. But Clive looks proud.

  ‘Well done,’ he says. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it? We can continue this in our individual session later.’ And this alone makes me want to weep.

  When we leave the therapy room, everyone sort of breathes out and starts talking, real loud, like they have some sound to catch up on. Stacey’s at my shoulder.

  ‘That wasn’t so hard,’ she mimics, making a crude gesture with her right hand on her crotch. ‘Patronising wanker. But why can’t we hear what you did next? How come only he gets the big reveal?’

  She’s wearing a lemon top, a black skirt and red shoes, so she looks like a fruity stick of rock, so sweet any boy would want a lick. So happy with herself, with her not hard joke and her bubblegum-pink lips.

  ‘Fuck off, Stacey. It’s not Coronation Street.’

  ‘Whoa, what did I do to deserve that? God, Sam, I’m getting sick of your attitude. I thought you wanted to talk! What’s got into you at the moment?’

  I’m so busy calculating how much I’ve just revealed to the other girls that I don’t know what she’s on about. ‘What?’

  ‘What do you think? Being all secretive. Opening up in the hot seat for once, just because Clive is there, but not with us. Not even getting to the juiciest part!’

  She pouts, as if she’s thinking more about how she looks than what she’s saying.

  ‘We’re supposed to be mates, but I haven’t got a clue what’s going on in your head at the moment. You’re so moody.’

  ‘Oh get off my case, Stacey. Go and suck some water.’

  ‘See? I’m only saying what I think, and you speak to me like that. I’m your friend, remember? I reckon you need help.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘You reckon, Sam? You’re so . . . angry. All the time.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe I’ve got reason to be.’

  She thinks about this. ‘Maybe you have. I mean, I know your mum’s funeral is coming up. And what happened to your sister sucks. I mean, I can’t even imagine how it must feel, and I don’t blame you for being mad about that. But I’m on your side, Sam. Don’t you get that?’

  Sweet Stacey. Who says she’s not clever? She knows just how to make me feel like a piece of shit.

  CHAPTER 29

  25 January

  We’re approaching February, the coldest month, and after days of the weatherman’s empty promises, it’s finally snowing.

  I wake to discover the Bartlet Hospital has been wrapped in a huge white duvet, insulated by the falling flakes that gather on the window ledges and hang heavy on tree branches. The snow on the beach is met by the frothing white sea, a magical land, untouched by humans. I stay inside, where it’s so quiet my breath echoes. The other girls are out on the hill, sliding on plastic bags and metal trays down to the sea road below.

  Watching them through the window as they catch snowflakes on their tongues and scoop balls of snow to pelt at each other, I realise how old I feel, much older than seventeen, and decades older than them. Pearl is spread-eagled on her back in the snow, moving her arms and legs vigorously, laughing. When she jumps and sees me at the window she waves, pointing to the shape she’s left behind.

  A snow angel.

  With her pale, almost-blue skin, her wide eyes, a pink knitted hat with a white pom-pom covering her head, a few curls escaping, she looks like nothing less. Too good for this world.

  When she finally comes inside, her teeth are chattering and her lips are navy. I hold her hands in mine, but rather than giving her my heat I can feel my arms turning icy.

  ‘I think you should see Manda,’ I say, when her skin hasn’t regained any colour after twenty minutes.

  ‘I’m fine.’


  But she isn’t. Her body is thin. Her bones are sharp and visible under her skin. She removes her hat, wet with melted ice, revealing her bald patch. It looks bigger, and red at the edges; she has been pulling hair again. I feel helpless, knowing she’s sick but that I’m too sick to fix her.

  Also, there isn’t time. I have just seven more days to sit with Clive, as he tries to fix the bad thing inside and order my thoughts. Attempting to free myself from the crushing guilt of the past, but on 1 February I will be judged anew.

  ‘You need to be assessed as being mentally stable enough for discharge, as well as being morally stable.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It means taking full responsibility for your crime, being remorseful. The board need to be certain you don’t represent a risk to society,’ says Clive, carefully talking me through the board’s possible decision.

  He doesn’t threaten me with extra calories anymore. He knows that I no longer have a choice.

  I have to finish my story before it’s too late.

  On Thursday 23 June, I came downstairs to find Mum and Dad huddled over the table, untouched mugs of tea in front of them, Mum’s anxiety tablets in their green-and-white box in the middle of the table, and a letter propped against the cornflakes box. It was from Penny and had already been opened – in fact, I saw that the postmark was from two days ago, and it was sent first-class, so I guessed it had arrived the day before and that Mum and Dad had been keeping it from me.

  I read it quickly:

  I’m sorry to inform you that the person remanded, pending our investigations, was released without charge by the court this morning. There was insufficient evidence to detain him, and unless anything new arises he is not considered a suspect at this time.

  Given this, and the lack of other leads, I would like to go ahead with the press conference on Monday. I have spoken with Dr Gregg, and he has agreed that it can take place in Jena’s room at the hospital, at 2 p.m., and I’d like you all to arrive around one thirty to prepare. National press have been alerted, and we expect at least two television networks to attend, as well as local journalists.