Her Sister's Lie

by Debbie Howells

  “Did you go for a walk? If you like, I could show you some of the footpaths.”

  “Can I take your dog?” He said it without meeting my eyes.

  “Yes.” I was flabbergasted. It was the first time he’d shown interest in anything. “Of course. Gibson would like that. Maybe later? I thought this morning we’d go into town and get you a few things.”

  * * *

  After that briefest of interactions, I was optimistic, hoping it was the beginning of a relationship between us after all, but by the time we’d driven to the shops, he’d defaulted. Everything I said was greeted with the same indifference. I wanted to buy him some clothes, ended up making decisions for him, picking out a couple of shirts, sweaters, a pair of jeans, running shoes that were sturdy enough to walk across the forest in, my enthusiasm dwindling as Abe stood there, his hands in his pockets, saying nothing. I bit back my irritation when he didn’t utter so much as a thank you, but there were a million excuses for his behavior. I had to remember that.

  I left him alone while I made the trip to London to the chapel of rest, driving home later that afternoon in silence, filled with a sense of shock at what I’d seen, unable to shake the image of the inert body that bore only a passing resemblance to my sister.

  I was in my kitchen that evening, the light fading, when I heard the latch on the back door click, but as I spun around, I found the room empty. Getting up, I walked over to the window, where through the near darkness I could just about make out Abe walking across the garden, stopping where the trees thinned out, apparently watching the sunset, his figure silhouetted against the pink-streaked sky.

  An hour later, when he hadn’t come back, I started to get worried. Pulling on my jacket and getting my flashlight, I went to look for him, Gibson trotting along beside me. Away from the house, it was completely dark. Making my way toward where I’d last seen Abe, I switched on the flashlight, shining the beam around, picking up the eyes of a startled rabbit for a split second before it bounded into the hedge.

  “Abe?” I called out quietly, not wanting to startle him, but there was no reply. Without the sun, the air had rapidly cooled, and the grass was already damp underfoot. Ahead of me, I picked out his shape in the beam of my flashlight, his hands in his pockets as he stared up at the night sky.

  “Abe?” I called again more loudly, pulling my jacket around myself. “It’s cold. Are you coming in?”

  He didn’t move. Suddenly I was angry—at his rudeness, his unresponsiveness. At Nina for putting me in this situation. At his invasion of my home.

  I didn’t try to hide it. “Abe.” I knew I should have had more control, but it was as though he was ignoring me. Marching up to him, I grabbed his arm. He spun around. “The least you can do is answer when I talk to you, instead of being so bloody rude. You’re in my house, and I’m trying to help you, but you’re making it impossible . . .” My voice had risen and I was shaking, with cold, with frustration, rage.

  I wanted a reaction of some kind. Anything. An apology, even an outburst about how I didn’t care and I didn’t want him there. Instead, he turned back and carried on staring at the sky. “That’s Mars,” he said at last.

  “Which one?” Distracted, I followed his gaze.

  “There. The bright one, high up.”

  “You know about the stars?” In my surprise, I forgot my anger. Having stumbled across a topic he wanted to talk about, I wanted to keep the conversation going.

  I felt him shift slightly beside me.

  “That one’s another planet. Mercury.”

  I looked in the direction where he was pointing, to another star that was just as bright, much lower in the sky.

  “You could see Venus a few days ago.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Gone.” He didn’t elaborate. Just like his mother, I couldn’t help thinking. Here a few days ago. And now she’s gone . . .

  “In London, it’s not like this. There’s too much light pollution. You can’t see so much.”

  It was the first insight he’d offered into his life, and I realized how little I knew about him. I felt my earlier anger dissipate, as my heart went out to him. I fumbled, looking for the right words. “Abe, if you ever want to talk . . . About your mum . . .”

  He was silent for a moment. “Not really.” His voice was devoid of emotion.

  “It must have been so hard for you,” I said gently. “I know she had problems. Drinking, I mean.”

  “Look . . .” He hesitated, as if fighting some kind of internal battle. When he went on, he sounded angry. “You have no idea. Everyone thinks she had a problem, but she’d stopped drinking. She was going to AA meetings. Things were going to be different—she told me that. When I left school, I was going to get a job, and we were going to move to a nice house.”

  “But . . .” I broke off. He was right. How could I have known what went on between them? I didn’t know what to say. But there was no point in denying the obvious. He had to have seen it when he’d found her.

  “She had been drinking that day, Abe. You and I both saw the empty bottle.”

  “I’m not lying.” His voice was filled with anger. “Someone must have put it there.”

  “But why would anyone do that?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.

  “Dunno.” He sounded stubborn. “But someone did.”

  “Oh Abe . . .” As I reached out to touch his arm, he stepped away, and that was it. He clamped up. When we went inside, he looked at me once, briefly, resentfully, before going to bed.

  Summer

  Where did it all start, Mother?

  Once upon a time, with the fairy tale about the princess with blue eyes and pretty hair, who lived hidden away in the woods with her three children. The pretty cottage guarded by tall trees, the deer that grazed in their shadow.

  Magic. It was all around us. Your eyes sparkled as you told us.

  I used to watch you fetch the bottle that made the magic brighter; then we’d dance on the soft grass, fill the air with the sounds of our laughter. You’d stop for a moment, closing your eyes, holding out your arms while the breeze caught your dress, and I’d hold my breath, wait for you to fly.

  It was desperation that gave birth to your fairy tale, carving it from hopes and dreams you struggled to hold on to, when the world you’d grown up in had none; formed from the molten anger of your parents swirling around you, a fragility that was molded by their cruelty; always hiding the truth, between your words, behind your smile, in your silences.

  You wanted to give your children what you’d never had. One of your lies. You’d said it so often you believed it yourself, but it was never about us. It was what your own damaged soul craved. The love, space, and freedom you never had.

  But magic fades, Mother. Love isn’t about parties and music. Freedom has a price.

  Nothing lasts—you, more than anyone, should know that.

  And fairy tales get twisted, but you couldn’t see the darkening, spiraling decline you were caught in, that was sucking us in with you. You escaped the only way you knew how, drinking away the ghosts that haunted your days and nights, that still loomed over you when you sobered up. We couldn’t.

  We used to watch you, Jude and I. Count the number of drinks. After two, your frown would fade; after four, you’d be laughing. Six, and you might lurch as you walked, but that was the floor, you told us. God, you really had to do something about that floor . . . Why don’t you go and play? Your eyes would smile vacantly at us, then drift away.

  Do you know how often Jude and I would start the hour-long walk to Nell’s, hunger growling inside us? That was when things got bad. Do you know how young Jude was, Mother? How far that was for a small child to walk, for food and kindness? By the time we got there, he was exhausted. But Nell knew, disapproval written in her eyes, the way she nodded, as she silently opened her door and let us in.

  Did you know you were starving us? That we lay awake at night, hoping Sam would bring a loaf
of bread or one of your friends would bring something. But you wouldn’t believe that, would you? There was enough food, wasn’t there? And this life was for us, you really believed that. You’d done everything you could to give us what you’d never had, couldn’t we see that? We had so much to be grateful for.

  How far back did it start, Mother? A life that revolved around your next drink, then the one after and the one after.

  When you had young children who depended on you, couldn’t you have stopped?

  4

  In between the short, fractious exchanges with Abe, I allowed myself to grieve for Matt. Coming out of the blue, his departure had left me in denial, devastated. Fluctuating hope that he would come back had given way to a deeper inner knowing that it was over between us. I should have told him the truth, I knew that. But I hadn’t—and now, it was too late, but it was a sense I wanted to deny, a truth I wasn’t ready for. Abe and I had that much in common. Both of us needing to lick our wounds, until enough time passed and the rawness of loss began to heal. Life went on, but under the shadow cast by grief, even spring’s unseasonal warmth and the earliest spring flowers showing delicate buds above the earth failed to move me the way they usually did.

  Over the next couple of days, I packed what remained of Matt’s possessions into boxes, then moved them outside into the shed, while Abe kept to himself, spending most of his time in his bedroom. When my pupils came for their music lessons, he was nowhere to be seen, but he had his laptop and his phone. I didn’t know, but I assumed it meant he was keeping in touch with his old school friends. I tried to ask him about them, but he just gave one of his habitual shrugs before telling me there wasn’t anyone. And all the time, I was trying to find a way to talk to him about Nina. To draw him out, to get him to tell me about his life or how he was feeling, but I got nowhere.

  I’d been putting off calling his school, not sure exactly what to say to them, but his continual indifference forced the issue. I couldn’t go on letting him treat me this way. Maybe someone who knew him would be able to help. I waited until I was alone before dialing the number DI Collins had given me. The voice that answered the call sounded uninterested.

  “Hello? I don’t know whether you can help me. I wondered if I could talk to someone about Abe Tyrell.”

  “Are you family?”

  “I’m his aunt . . . ,” I started, but she interrupted.

  “Do we have your details in our system?” Her officious tone irritated me.

  “I’m his guardian,” I said hotly. “You have my name as next of kin. His mother died a few days ago. The police contacted you.”

  “Oh.” She sounded surprised. “Yes. Of course. Hold on a moment, please.”

  She was gone for about five minutes, and when she came back, she sounded more sympathetic. “If you’ll give me your number, I’ll ask one of his teachers to call you at lunchtime.”

  “Thank you.” The school already had my number, but it was simpler to give it to her again; then, after I’d hung up, almost immediately another call came through.

  “Ms. Roscoe? It’s DI Collins. Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  She sounded as though she was in a hurry. “There’s been a development. In fact, there have been several. In short, I need to talk to Abe. Today, if possible. Are you both there this afternoon?”

  “Yes . . .” I was frowning. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. We’ll be with you soon after two, traffic permitting, if that’s OK with you?” I wondered who was coming with her. The “we” clearly indicated she wasn’t coming alone.

  “I’ll be here.” Other than one pupil at five o’clock for a piano lesson, I had no plans for the rest of the day.

  “And Abe?” DI Collins added. “It’s important that we talk to him; I can’t stress that enough.”

  “I’ll tell him.” But I couldn’t promise. It was up to Abe whether he was there or not.

  * * *

  It was nearly midday by the time he came downstairs, wearing the same old school trousers with one of the new shirts, still sharply creased, fresh from its packaging.

  “Hi. Did you sleep well?”

  “OK.” He looked exhausted.

  “How about some breakfast? I could cook some eggs?” When he looked vaguely interested, I added, “Fried? On toast?”

  He gave a brief nod.

  While I fetched a frying pan and placed it on the stove, I heard him pull out one of the chairs. After putting two slices of bread in the toaster, I cracked a couple of eggs into the pan, then turned to face him. “DI Collins called earlier. She wants to talk to us both—this afternoon. I said we’d be here.”

  But he didn’t respond.

  “She didn’t say what it was about,” I added, buttering the toast and placing the eggs on top, passing the plate to Abe just as my mobile buzzed. “I need to take this,” I said apologetically, seeing the unknown number on the screen and guessing it was one of Abe’s teachers. Quickly handing Abe a knife and fork, I slipped out through the back door, closing it behind me.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Ms. Roscoe? I’m Elizabeth Rainer, one of Abe’s teachers. I understand you wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes. I do. Thank you for calling back.” Relief flooded through me as I walked down the path away from the house, not wanting Abe to overhear me. “He’s been with me since his mother died.”

  “I’d heard about what happened. I’m so sorry. Poor Abe. How is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her, hoping she’d be able to give me some kind of insight. “I can’t seem to get through to him. He ignores everything I say—well, pretty much,” I added, thinking of the night we were looking at the stars.

  “So how can I help?”

  “I just wondered how well you know him . . .” I faltered. “What’s he like? With other people . . . Does he have friends? I’m supposed to try and find a school for him locally. I’ve no idea what to say to them.”

  “He’s a quiet boy,” she said thoughtfully. “Clever, though. His strongest subject is math. As for friends, I don’t really know. He always seemed to keep to himself. But then . . .” She broke off.

  “What?” My ears pricked up.

  “I was only going to say that living with his mother’s problems couldn’t have been easy for him.”

  I don’t know why, but I was surprised. If the school had known about Nina’s drinking, surely they’d have done something, like notify social services or maybe even get Abe taken into care. “You knew?” As with DI Collins I deliberately didn’t mention drugs.

  “I worked it out. It became obvious there was a problem with money. Abe missed out on school trips, and he’d outgrown his school uniform . . . His mother made it to a parents evening—just once. In fact, I met her. It was clear she was drunk—or on something. I spoke to her on the phone a couple of times, when letters weren’t answered, that sort of thing. Her speech was slurred, and she didn’t make much sense. It was always the same. I felt sorry for him. The problem is . . .”

  “Please go on . . .”

  “I was only going to say that the effect on Abe was considerable. Damaging. Addiction affects the whole family. And it’s isolating. It wouldn’t have been possible for Abe to have a social life. Imagine how embarrassing it would have been taking a friend home and finding his mother drunk. He would never have known what he was going home to—whether she’d be drunk or sober, or unconscious even. Also, he would have been aware that his mother couldn’t afford any of the extras other families managed. And there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was wait until he was old enough to become independent. I felt so sorry for him.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t know if that’s any help.” She sounded doubtful.

  “Thank you.” I paused. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I haven’t found him a new school yet.”

  “School might be good for him. Good luck with everyt
hing. I really hope he settles in.”

  As I ended the call, I was deep in thought. Everything she’d said made sense. Rather than at me, I was wondering if Abe’s anger was directed at his mother and at a world that had made everything so tough for him. Walking back toward the house, I was trying to work out what to say to him. His resentful silence seemed to be thawing at last, into more of a tolerance of my presence. I was sure it would help him to talk, but so far, he seemed intent on internalizing everything. As I got to the back door, I heard his voice. My hand froze on the door handle.

  “Here, Gibson. Come here.”

  As I listened, I smiled to myself. Animals could be the best icebreakers. I could hear Gibson whining for attention, imagined him sitting at Abe’s feet, holding up a paw as he begged for treats. It was one of his party tricks. The whining was interrupted by a loud yelp of pain, and I threw the door open to see Gibson standing there, quivering, as he held up one of his paws.

  “You’ve hurt him.” I couldn’t stop myself as I rushed to my dog. He was shaking uncontrollably.

  “It was an accident.” Abe looked sullen. “He got under my feet. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “Well, be more careful,” I cried. “For God’s sake . . .” He had no idea how important Gibson was to me or how, since Matt had left, Gibson was my only constant, almost always at my side.

  Without saying anything, Abe stormed out of the room. A few seconds later, I heard his feet on the stairs, then the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut.

  Crouched down next to my dog, I examined Gibson’s leg, relieved to see he was gingerly putting it to the floor again. I was already regretting shouting at Abe the way I had. I knew my reaction had been over the top, but it was only much later that I was able to identify why. There was something about Abe I didn’t trust.

  * * *

  DI Collins arrived promptly at two o’clock with another plainclothes officer, a man, who looked somewhat older.

  “Ms. Roscoe, this is DCI Weller. He’s in charge of your sister’s case.”