Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

  Was she about to take things one step further, like she must have done with Erica when she’d ended their sessions?

  I stood by the window Rosie had escaped from. So quick. So unpredictable. Would she be waiting for me out there somewhere, ready to nudge me off the platform as a train came in or push me into the path of a bus?

  Would she?

  I picked up my pillow and tugged off the pillow case in a bid to clear away any lingering trace of her.

  Wretched woman! How dare she burst her way into my life like this? How could I shake her off once and for all?

  At that point, my thoughts swung to an image of Rosie’s room in the Lakes and the book that lay open on her bed. Now I thought about it, it wasn’t just the book about soulmates that unnerved me. There was something else.

  I pictured the leaflet I’d noticed for a takeaway pizza place – she’d used it as a bookmark. There’d been a scribble on the logo, but not just any scribble, I realised.

  It was a specific doodle.

  A sketch of a little ladybird, in fact, and I knew exactly where it had come from. It was one of Miranda’s tiny creatures. She was leaving a trail of them behind her wherever she went these days, on napkins, tube tickets, receipts, shopping lists. It meant only one thing. Rosie had been near Miranda. Too near for my liking.

  Ah. The penny dropped. The anonymous note about the baby – now I knew who’d sent it.

  They knew each other.

  How much had Miranda told her? A shiver ran across my shoulders making my teeth chatter. Did Miranda know what Rosie was capable of?

  I tried Miranda’s number, but she wasn’t answering. That in itself wasn’t unusual. I braced myself to leave a message, but instead it rang and rang and finally cut off. Now that was unusual. I felt a queasy lurch inside my stomach and called again. This time the phone went straight to an automated message which said: ‘It has not been possible to connect your call…’

  What? I rang Con’s number without a second’s hesitation.

  ‘Where are you? Is Miranda with you? Is she okay?’

  ‘Whoa… hang on, slow down, Sam.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s painting at her flat – she wants to get a canvas finished and needs to be on her own.’

  ‘When did you last speak to her?’

  A breath of silence. ‘This morning sometime. What’s going on?’

  ‘She’s not answering her phone. Her voicemail was switched off a minute ago, now I can’t get through at all. That’s really odd, don’t you think?’

  There was a huff of annoyance. ‘I think you’re overreacting. Miranda’s been great lately, her new medication has really settled her. She doesn’t want to be disturbed, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s not her state of mind I’m worried about,’ I said. ‘Has she mentioned someone called Rosie to you?’

  ‘Rosie? Not that I know of. What’s this about?’

  ‘Has she mentioned any new friends? Has anyone new been hanging around lately? A woman with red hair – no, a woman who looks a bit like me – actually, a lot like me? Dark straight hair, in a bob?’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, but she meets lots of people at the Arts Project.’

  ‘It’s one of my patients, I think she might have taken a shine to Miranda, but she’s not stable, she’s…’ I didn’t know how to end the sentence. ‘We should go round to Miranda’s flat and make sure she’s okay.’

  ‘Sam, I’ve got a rehearsal in twenty minutes,’ he said wearily. ‘You’ll have to go on your own.’

  ‘I’m worried, Con. I’m serious. This woman might have…killed someone.’

  He laughed. ‘Might have? Did she or didn’t she?’

  ‘The police don’t know yet. It’s not a laughing matter.’ I hurried into the hall for my coat. ‘I’m going over to Camden myself, then,’ I said and cut him off.

  For once I really hoped Miranda would lay into me for disturbing her. At least then I could be sure she was alive and kicking.

  There was a light on when I arrived at Miranda’s flat, which was a good sign, but no one was answering the door. On the way over, I’d thought again about my conversation with Con and the way I’d started to describe Rosie. Gradually, over time, she hadn’t just been altering her appearance, she’d been making herself look more and more like me. The busy ginger hair now straight and dark, the weight loss, the contact lenses, the stylish clothes. With someone else, I might have been flattered, but this made me freak me out even more.

  My mind raced back to something Mrs Willow had said just after Christmas, as Rosie left my flat after an appointment. ‘Is that your sister?’ were her words, as she watched Rosie drift off down the stairs. I’d laughed it off at the time, putting it down to failing eyesight, but Mrs Willow had been spot on. ‘She looks just like you,’ she’d said. Now I saw the significance, it was seriously creepy.

  I pressed the bell five more times and heard it trilling loudly inside the hollow recesses of the hallway. I ducked down and pushed open the letterbox to peer inside. I smelt a pungent mix of linseed and oil paint, but couldn’t hear a sound. I pushed the door hard to see how much it budged. When Miranda was home, she only left the latch in place and the door shifted a fraction at the top and bottom. Under my weight it didn’t move at all, which meant it had been bolted. She only ever did that when she went out.

  There was one more test to try. I angled my head over to the left, so I could see the coat rack. Miranda’s winter coat had gone, but what really freaked me out was the pale blue scarf that was hanging in its place. It was mine. The one I’d noticed was missing recently.

  Rosie had been here.

  I spun round, reeling in panic. Was Rosie with Miranda? Where had they gone? They could be anywhere.

  It was a long shot, but I frantically pressed the buzzers for the flats either side to see if anyone else was around. There was no reply from one side, then I heard a sash window slide open above me. A man in a string vest shouted down.

  ‘Bugger off,’ he called out. ‘I ain’t buying nowt.’

  ‘I’m not selling anything,’ I shouted, standing back on the edge of the pavement so he could see I was empty-handed. ‘I’m looking for Miranda Willerby from number three. Have you seen her today?’

  He clucked as if I’d offended him and I thought he was going to slam the window shut. ‘Artist lady?’ he said unexpectedly.

  ‘Yes. She’s my sister.’

  ‘You don’t look nowt like her,’ he said. ‘She’s blonde and cute and—’

  I cut across him. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Yeah, as it happens. She was with someone. They went out.’

  ‘Man or woman – can you remember?’

  ‘I dunno. Wore an anorak with the hood up, but they was shorter than her boyfriend, so it wasn’t him. I’ve seen ‘em before. Carrying paintings in and out.’

  ‘Anything else? From the other times you saw them, maybe?’

  ‘Na.’ He folded his arms. ‘Whoever it was wore black, that’s all. Oh – and one of them was carrying a bag with cats and dogs on it, as they left. I remember that.’

  Cats and dogs?

  Of course.

  I asked the million-dollar question. ‘You don’t know where they went, do you?’

  He was right to laugh; it was stupid to ask. ‘To the moon, honey. How would I know?’

  I thanked him and raced off to the high street.

  That’s when a thought occurred to me that chilled me to the bone. Surely, the best way for Rosie to hurt me would be to target someone I cared about: Miranda.

  Chapter 46

  Rosie

  We’re sitting on the floor. I’ve got one arm around her neck and I’m playing with her short yellow hair. The colour is too fake for my liking and when I scrunch it with my fingers, it’s stiff and spiky. Not like Sam’s hair. Hers is soft and glossy. I’ve only managed to touch it once, when she hurt her ankle in the woods. She leant on me then. She needed me.


  Miranda doesn’t push me away. Her head is lolling forward and her arms are limp. She’s like a worn-out puppy, all floppy and sleepy. Must be something to do with the sedatives I swapped for her tablets earlier.

  I know she’s got mental problems; that’s what her tablets are for. She told me all about it one time over a coffee; she’s touchy-feely and candid, like a lot of people with mental disturbance.

  I’ve seen her in Camden a few times, ‘accidentally’ bumping into her in the café she likes and dropping by the Project, pretending to be interested in her paintings. She’s my new ‘friend’. She even invited me back to her flat to look at some pictures and that’s when I saw the bottle of tablets. It was lying in her handbag; she’d left it open on the floor next to a grubby bean bag.

  I’m jealous of her flat. The downstairs is one big open space where she paints, socialises and watches telly, all in one. There’s a dark chunky dining table at one side and a settee that looks like it’s been dragged out of a skip, in front of the fireplace. She doesn’t seem to ‘do’ carpets – everywhere is just floorboards and she wanders around in her bare feet. The first time I was there, she got a splinter on the sole of her foot – it was the perfect excuse for me to pretend to take care of her. It fitted nicely into my plan.

  This time, when she went to the kitchen to make me a coffee, it was the simplest thing ever to pretend to scratch my ankle and switch the bottles. She’s either too trusting or plain stupid. Fancy leaving your bag open like that right under the nose of a virtual stranger?

  She knows nothing about me. Nothing real, anyway. I’ve fed her a pack of lies so far. She’s obviously completely taken in by my ‘interest’ in her work and because she’s seeing pound signs she’s bending over backwards to be nice to me, but I can see right through every sweet sigh.

  She wants my money, that’s all, she doesn’t actually like me. She asks token questions about my life, but I can see from the way her eyes wander when I answer that she’s not really listening. Not like Sam. Sam watches my face when I speak and her eyes reach into mine; she’s genuine, warm. She’s the one I’m really interested in.

  I always wanted a sister. All those lonely days when I was growing up, stuck in a room with only my viola for company. I never learnt how to make friends. Never went to Brownies or Guides or after-school clubs. Everyone thought I was sickly and feeble, but it wasn’t my fault. Mum and Dad made me stay at home when I was little, rather than let me get involved with other kids. Then, after I lost them, I was always dumped with the wrong families. No one ever really cared – not until Sam.

  I let the sound of her name echo inside my head. She’s the light of my life, although now she’s pushed me away, I’m decidedly confused.

  Miranda moans and tries to lift her head. I stroke her cheek and she’s quiet again.

  ‘So, what can you show me?’ I said to her earlier, as she came back from the kitchen with hot drinks.

  She busied herself spreading out canvases against the wall for me to see. They were all dreadful – I wanted to laugh, it was so embarrassing – but she looked genuinely proud. She really is off her trolley. It explains why Sam is patient and such a good listener, though, she’s had to put up with Miranda’s crazy behaviour ever since she was a kid, poor thing.

  ‘I quite like these,’ I said, pointing at two pictures under the spiral of her staircase. ‘But they’re…’ I made her wait, then straightened up. ‘Are there any more…?’

  ‘Er…not here.’

  ‘Ah…oh, well…’ I clapped my hands together, making it look like I was ready to call it a day.

  ‘I’ve got more at the Arts Project, though. I could show you, if you want to pop over there now?’ She hooked a question in at the end, painfully eager.

  I looked at my watch doubtfully, then nodded. ‘If we go straight away,’ I told her. ‘I need to get to work for the late shift.’ I wanted to get things moving, didn’t want her snatching the chance to let anyone know where she was going.

  That’s when we legged it over to the building where she exhibits. Miranda talks a lot and it’s so easy to get stuff out of her. The Project is a place for so-called artists, but they’re all a bit sick in the head with issues like anorexia, abuse, psychosis and stuff. Not her words, obviously, but that’s what she meant. This is their sanctuary; they come here to get therapy and to express themselves.

  The classes have finished for the day, the café is empty and everything is closed up, but Miranda has a bunch of keys, which is handy. They don’t give them out to everyone, she told me, but as she’s regarded as ‘reliable’, she’s allowed to work in the ground floor studio out of hours and leave unfinished work in the storeroom in the basement. That’s where we are now.

  It’s cold down here and there are tiny high windows so it’s gloomy, but there’s no one else around. Even the cleaners have been and gone. Miranda’s been drivelling on about why she paints what she does, telling me all kinds of yucky, personal stuff about her past that I don’t want to know about, but I’ve been encouraging her so she’ll talk about Sam. I only listen properly when she brings her sister into the conversation; it’s like she’s ushering Sam into the room with us.

  I’ve been noticing the similarities and differences between the two of them. Miranda does this thing where she purses her lips, like she’s looking down at you. She’s more brash and outspoken than Sam. Sam’s sweeter, gentler, and she’s got sparkly grey eyes that change colour like quicksilver. Sam’s stylish, she wears floaty, feminine clothes like a newsreader, but Miranda is more like a student; too much denim and cheap jewellery. Tarty, if you ask me. They’re not at all like sisters, you’d never guess they were related.

  Before she went all woozy on me, I probed Miranda with questions.

  ‘Have you seen your sister lately?’ I asked, making it sound like I was just trying to make small talk.

  ‘Oh, not much,’ she said, pulling canvases out of the taller stackers and leaning them against the wall. ‘She interferes – tries to be my mother. I know it’s because she cares, but it gets on my nerves.’

  All I could think was how perfect that would be: a sister and mother rolled up into one! How could Miranda not appreciate that?

  ‘She’s always on my case,’ she added with a whine in her voice. ‘She hardly wants to let me out of her sight…’

  Talk about ungrateful! That makes me really angry. It’s perfectly clear that Miranda isn’t worthy of her sister. Sam deserves wholehearted devotion, someone she can rely on. But that’s where I come in. I’d appreciate Sam – I really would.

  ‘Your sister is a very special person. You don’t deserve her.’ It came out before I could stop myself.

  ‘You know my sister? How do you know Sam?’

  ‘Oh, I love this one,’ I said, ignoring her questions, standing back from an ugly mess in swirls of purples and greens. I hated all of them.

  ‘Really?’ she said, her voice rising with glee.

  I made her wait as I thumbed my lip and tipped my head from side to side, pretending to mull it over. ‘I’m trying to think whether this would work in the reception area…’ I muttered. ‘Have you got anything with a bit more blue in it?’

  Miranda busied herself searching through more canvases, before she had to sit down on a small folding stool, suddenly weary as a wave of tiredness washed over her.

  The sedative I’d given her earlier took a firm grip on her after that and the little she’s said since has been slurred and incomprehensible; she sounds drunk.

  We’ve stopped looking at the paintings and since she can’t stay upright on the stool, we’ve been side by side on the dusty floor. It’s cramped in here and no one’s going to come in unless they’ve got a key and they’re looking for a specific painting.

  ‘Do you think we all have a soulmate?’ I say. ‘Not necessarily a lover, but someone who totally accepts us for who we are?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Her breathing has slowed and her eyes are flickering shut. />
  I take hold of her hand. ‘Well, that’s Sam and me. I’ve known it almost from the moment we met. It was meant to be.’

  Miranda groans a little and tries to sit up, but flops back against the wall.

  ‘I’ve been bursting to tell Sam how I feel for weeks, but I’ve never had the courage. It’s fate – don’t you see? The crash was terrible, but it brought Sam and me together.’

  ‘Crash…?’ she mumbles.

  I cradle her chin between my thumb and fingers and she can’t do much about it. She feels like plasticine. I can do anything I want with her. ‘People wouldn’t understand. If we tried to explain it, they wouldn’t get it.’

  She makes a funny noise that sounds a bit like. ‘W-h-a-t?’

  She’s bleary-eyed now and tries to get up; she makes it onto all fours and sinks down again.

  I carry on, ignoring her. ‘Sam and I are going to make a pledge to each other.’ Miranda responds with a half-hearted grunt. ‘We’re going to seal our relationship. I’m going to tell her exactly how I feel and we’re going to make a pact to be together.’

  She stops and fixes her eyes on mine, only they won’t stay in one place and they slip up under her eyelids.

  ‘We’ll be soulmates, blood-sisters – whatever she wants.’

  My fingers begin a swirling pattern on her neck. ‘We’ll take a blood oath together, then we’ll share everything; we’ll have no secrets from each other. We’ll be like family.’ I feel my mouth fall open in awe at the idea of it. ‘Family – just think. I know there’s no one special in her life. That’s because she’s been waiting for me, she just didn’t know it.’

  ‘Help me…p-lease…’ Miranda wriggles and tries to get up in a burst of animation. She pats her hand against the pockets of her jeans, then beside her on the floor.

  ‘No phone, I’m afraid. I’m looking after that for you.’

  My bag is out of her reach.

  I look around the room. It stinks of turpentine and linseed oil. All rather flammable, I would have thought. I glance up at the ceiling.