Her Sister's Lie

by Debbie Howells

I frowned at her. I hadn’t thought that far, but it was hardly a problem. I could try Curtis again. Or I’d get a taxi, if necessary. “It isn’t far. I’ll get someone to pick me up—or I can call a taxi.”

  “Please . . .” I felt her hand on my arm. “It’s only for one night.” Then as we walked, she said, “That’s a nasty cut on your arm. We’ve cleaned it up and put a new dressing on it. How did you do it?”

  I was thrown by her question. I still didn’t remember how I’d been injured. “I fell over . . . and caught it on something.”

  “It’s quite deep, isn’t it? You need to keep an eye on it.”

  I nodded, allowing her to steer me back to the bed, where I sat awkwardly, hating that I felt I had no choice. When I heard my phone, I pulled it out of my pocket and saw Erin’s name on the screen.

  “Hi, Erin.”

  “Hannah, I’m at your house, with the police. Abe is fine, and so is Gibson. They’re going to stay with me tonight. There’s no sign of the man you saw earlier. Do you know how long you’re staying in?”

  “Only till tomorrow.” I glanced at the nurse as Erin went on.

  “Once Abe’s gone to school, I’ll come and pick you up if you’d like me to.”

  “OK.” I said it reluctantly, hating that it meant I was staying here.

  “Look after yourself.” She sounded anxious. “And don’t worry about anything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ten minutes later, PC Marsh called me. “Your friend seems to have everything in hand. I take it you’re comfortable with that? It’s certainly better for Abe that way.”

  “Of course. You didn’t see that man?”

  “No, Ms. Roscoe, there was no sign of him. I suggest you try and rest.”

  “Yes.”

  I ended the call, then texted Curtis to tell him where I was, asking him not to call me as I was going to try to get some sleep. Then I lay there in silence, imagining Abe and Erin together, both of them talking to PC Marsh about me, not sure what they would have said. After the Facebook post and my students canceling, the two strangers who appeared to know me, the strange noises outside my house at night, and now my accident, it was as though any control I had over my life was slipping from my grasp. I was being paranoid, I told myself. Abe was better off with Erin than with a stranger. But it was the way PC Marsh had spoken about her. Your friend seems to have everything in hand. I was the one who’d told PC Marsh that Erin was my friend, and she was, but on the most superficial level. The truth was we knew hardly anything about each other. I hadn’t even told her about Matt until a few weeks ago, and then he’d left.

  But at least the police knew what was going on. Most likely none of this was related; I knew that. The stranger was just a weirdo who got his kicks out of scaring women, and the Facebook post had been a childish prank. But it was the timing, everything happening at once. I couldn’t shake the conviction that there was more to this.

  Something was missing. Something that connected these seemingly unrelated events. When I turned out the light and lay back in the darkness, the final moments before the accident replayed in my head. This time, I remembered more clearly how terrified I’d been. I’d no idea why I was so frightened of that man, but it was fear that had propelled me onto the road without looking. I remembered the impact, the grating of metal on metal, hearing the thud of my head against the side window, then opening my eyes to see a face hanging over me.

  I sat up with a gasp. It wasn’t possible. I was sure it had been Nina’s face, our eyes meeting for a moment before I’d passed out again.

  Abe

  I’m getting closer, Hannah. I know about the Facebook posts. I’ve listened to what people are saying about you. Villages are full of nasty, vicious gossip, aren’t they? It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It takes nothing to start small-minded people pointing the finger of blame. Unfair that someone should post a photo of you, wasn’t it? But your drinking isn’t a secret anymore. It’s about time people knew about it. When you teach the bright, impressionable teenagers entrusted to your care, don’t you think their parents should know the truth?

  Maybe they should know what else is in your past. What would they say if they knew how huge the lie was? Or about the other, bigger lies? Lies your whole life has been based upon. There’s the other boy too. The older brother. Jude. You tell yourself there’s no reason for you to meet him, don’t you? You’ve lost touch, after all. Anyway, he’s not a child. He doesn’t need you—and you believe that, instead of being honest with yourself. You’re scared, aren’t you, Hannah? Not just of what he might do, but of what he knows.

  You want facts? About what happened the night you cut yourself? You didn’t feel the sharp edge of glass cut through your skin, did you? Nor as it pressed deeper, into your flesh, severing blood vessels, causing pain that was no different from the aching, gnawing feeling in your heart, both of them numbed by alcohol.

  In between, while you’re pacing around your house, neurotically checking windows, hearing imaginary noises, obsessed with yourself, have you stopped and thought about what the boy needs? You’ve lost your sister, but he’s lost his mother. All that fuss you made about him going missing when he hadn’t . . . You didn’t even notice the night he caught a late train to London, creeping along the street and letting himself into his old home. How does that make you feel? The thought of a teenaged boy, battling with his grief, in the empty house where his mother was killed, alone?

  But you’ll never know about that. As always with the people in your life, you and the boy have secrets between you. He’ll be OK, though—the boy. He has a plan, one you don’t know about, can feel change already in motion, change of which this short chapter is a brief but necessary part. It won’t last long, will soon be behind him. That’s what he’s thinking about, counting down each day at a time, looking forward.

  You need to be careful, though, Hannah. He knows more than you think. Has proof that could give you nightmares if he shared it with you, but the right moment hasn’t come. Not yet.

  Abe’s read the letters. Bit of a game changer, isn’t it, Hannah? Out-secreted by someone who knows more than you thought? What if he tells someone else? Maybe he already has, like that woman who’s been hanging around the village, asking about you. She’s talked to the boy, waiting in your garden at night for the first stars to draw him outside. So easy, when he’s always alone, when you don’t bother to go with him, but you wouldn’t know she’s been here, because so far, he hasn’t told you anything. He never does.

  But why would he, when you’re always on the defensive, always waiting for someone to catch you out? Always the victim? That’s who you think you are—poor Hannah, with her estranged parents and broken marriage and whose band fell apart, whose life has been so hard.

  You’re a victim only of yourself, Hannah. Of your life choices, of your own misjudged decisions. You’re not poor, Hannah. You need to know how it feels to have no one in the world, to have nothing. And you will.

  16

  I knew my mind had been playing tricks on me, and it couldn’t possibly have been Nina’s face I’d seen. My sister was dead. I’d identified her body. The only explanation was that as I fell unconscious, my brain conjured up the one person, the only person I’d have most wanted there.

  I was too dazed, too confused to make sense of anything. The more I thought, the more I felt my life spiraling out of control. But everything that was happening to me had started since Nina’s death, since Abe came to live with me. Maybe there was a link; maybe the police were missing something.

  Counting the minutes away, desperate to escape the stark sterility of the hospital, I was relieved when Erin arrived. Climbing into her untidy car, I winced as my arm caught on the car door.

  Erin noticed. “Are you OK?”

  “Bruised.” I didn’t tell her the cut on my arm had nothing to do with the accident. “I can’t thank you enough for coming here.”

  “Please, don’t worry about it. I’m glad I could hel
p. I left Gibson at my place. I wasn’t sure how long it would take for you to be discharged. Why don’t you come and have some lunch? Then I’ll drop you both home after.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  The accident had affected me more than just physically. My nerves were on edge. Erin drove too fast for comfort, and as I sat in the passenger seat, my fists were clenched while unconsciously I stamped on an invisible brake.

  “Abe was fine.” She glanced sideways at me. “Do you remember anything about what happened yesterday?”

  I nodded. “Most of it. It had to do with this man I told you about, who’s been hanging around. The first time, I met him walking along a footpath on my way back from the village. Then yesterday, I was on my way out when I spotted him walking up the road toward my house. When he saw my car, he stood in the middle, blocking it.”

  “You should have stopped and asked him who he was.”

  “Really?” I stared at her, aghast. Was that what she would have done? “You should have seen him, Erin. The first time, as we passed, he spoke my name. How creepy is that? I’ve never met him before. I wasn’t going to stop. There’s been other stuff too. I just don’t feel very safe at the moment.”

  “OK.” She was quiet for a moment. “You’ve been through such a lot, Hannah. I’m not surprised you feel so overwhelmed.”

  Beside her, I felt myself stiffen. It sounded as though she didn’t believe me.

  Going on, she changed the subject. “Abe’s quiet, isn’t he? It’s not been easy for him, losing his mum and then moving here.”

  “No.” But I was biting back the urge to shout at her. Nor is it easy for me . . .

  “He talked a bit while we had a cup of tea. But that was about it.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, not much really.” She sounded vague. “About what it was like living in London, and how it was coming to live with you.”

  I was quiet, imagining their conversation, uncomfortable knowing that they’d been talking about me. We drove the rest of the way in silence, while I took in the ancient beech trees on either side of the road, as we headed toward a part of the forest I rarely passed through. Muted green shades gave way to earthy grays and browns, so that the landscape appeared almost monochromatic. Gazing out of the window, I took in the stretches of drab heather yet to burst into flower. A few ponies wandered in the clearing before the road zigzagged ahead of us through more trees. Then on the outskirts of a village, outside a terraced cottage, Erin pulled up at the side of the road.

  “Here we are.” Only the roof of Erin’s cottage showed from behind the tall beech hedge that flanked the road. Above, the branches of an apple tree were covered in buds that were just starting to flower.

  “I hope this isn’t too much trouble?” I felt awkward that I was putting her out.

  “Of course it’s not. It won’t be anything fancy. I made soup earlier—if that’s OK with you?”

  “It sounds lovely.” Getting out of the car, I followed her through the white-painted gate and under the apple tree, toward the door set to one side of the house. As she opened it, two dogs rushed out.

  “Gibson!” I was ludicrously pleased as my dog leapt around my feet, wagging his tail.

  “He’s missed you,” Erin called from inside. “Though he and Abe seem to have hit it off. Come on in.”

  With Gibson at my heels, I went inside, closing the door and finding myself in a small entrance hall. Erin appeared in a doorway. “I’ve put the kettle on. What would you like? Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea would be great.” I followed her into the kitchen, which was surprisingly bright and spacious, with faded wooden cabinets and muted gray walls that set off the crooked beams. “Your house is gorgeous, Erin.”

  “Thank you.” She looked pleased. “You should sit down, Hannah. I’m sure the doctors told you to take it easy for a few days.”

  I nodded, doing as she said and pulling out a chair at the table that was pushed to one side against the wall. “They did.” I paused, frowning. “What I don’t know is what’s happened to my car.”

  “The police would be able to tell you.” Erin busied herself at the stove.

  “PC Marsh didn’t say anything last night.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know. Why don’t you call the police station and ask?”

  I nodded, getting out my phone, but the screen was blank. “I’ll do it at home. It needs charging.”

  “You can do it from here, if you like. My mobile signal is rubbish, but you can use the landline. It’s in my study—through here.” As Erin started walking toward another door, I got up and followed her into a sitting room, which was simply but comfortably furnished with a huge sofa in a soft shade of yellow and a patterned rug on the floorboards in front of the fireplace. Across the room, another door led into a much smaller room.

  It was a cozy space, with a desk placed in front of the window, and Erin pulled out the chair. “Help yourself.” She gestured toward the phone. “I’ll go and finish lunch.”

  I walked over to the desk and sat down, gazing through the window at the front garden, which was screened from the road by the hedge, taking in the view of the apple tree and the white gate beyond, aware of how peaceful it felt here. And how safe, when my own home seemed far from it. Remembering what I’d come to do, I picked up the phone. Then I put it down again. I didn’t have the number—it was on my phone.

  As I looked around, I saw Erin’s laptop. The easiest solution was to Google it. It wasn’t something I’d usually do, but on the off chance the laptop wasn’t password protected, I turned it on. The screen instantly came to life with her Facebook page. But before I could open a new window, I noticed it wasn’t Erin’s page. Scrutinizing it more closely, I saw a name I recognized.

  It was Cara Matlock’s Facebook page. My blood froze, as I remembered what she’d posted about me. But what did she have to do with Erin?

  Suddenly I heard footsteps. Quickly I closed Erin’s laptop, before she could see what I was looking at.

  “Any luck?”

  I shook my head. “There was no reply,” I lied. “I’ll try them again when I’m home.”

  “If you’re sure?” Was I imagining Erin’s eyes lingering on me? Had she seen me using her laptop?

  I got up. “To be honest, I’m not feeling all that well.”

  “Oh Hannah.” Erin was all sympathy. “You should probably be resting. Come and have a quick bite to eat; then I’ll take you home.”

  * * *

  Back at home by myself, as I watched Erin drive away, I let out a breath I’d been holding in since leaving her study. Slumped into a chair, I rested my head in my hands. My stomach felt hollow. I hadn’t been able to eat Erin’s soup, blaming my lack of appetite on the accident, hiding the truth gnawing at me. I didn’t trust her. Right now, I didn’t trust anyone.

  17

  I must have dozed off. When I awakened, that familiar mistrust crept insidiously back over me, as I tried to piece together the events of recent days. The unexpected appearance of PC Marsh an hour later did little to help.

  She stood on the doorstep, her eyes appraising me. “I called in at the hospital earlier, but they said you’d been discharged. How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad.” Then I remembered my car. “Do you know what’s happened to my car?”

  The police officer nodded. “Actually, would you mind if I came in? I need to take a few details about the accident—if it’s convenient?”

  I hadn’t even considered that the police would want a statement from me. Frowning, I stood back. “Of course. Come in.”

  She stepped inside. “Thank you.”

  Closing the door, I led her through to the kitchen. “Have a seat.”

  She nodded, pulling out a chair. “Thank you. This shouldn’t take long.”

  I felt my stomach churn as I sat down opposite her, suddenly realizing that, with everything else that was going on, I’d given little thought to the consequences
of my accident. There’d be an insurance claim, but surely that was all? I watched her get out a notebook.

  “Can you begin by telling me what you remember before the crash?”

  “I’ll try.” I hesitated. “I’ve told you about the man who’s been hanging around here, haven’t I? It was because of him.”

  PC Marsh frowned. “How, exactly?”

  “He was walking up the road toward my house as I was driving down. I should point out it isn’t a public right of way. Then when he saw me, he deliberately stood in the middle of the road and wouldn’t move.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “He frightened me. I had to get away from him.”

  She looked puzzled. “What exactly was it about him that frightened you?”

  I hesitated. How did I describe the anxiety caused by his body language, the look in his eyes that was almost triumphant, as though he knew something I didn’t. “I felt threatened,” I said. “I’m sure he was trying to intimidate me.”

  “Ms. Roscoe, did he actually do anything?”

  I stared at her. “Yes. He blocked the road, then made his way toward me.”

  “Why did you find that so worrying?”

  “If you’d been there, you’d know exactly what I mean. It was his body language mostly. I just knew I had to get past him. I ended up driving on the verge against the hedge. When I looked in the rearview mirror, he was standing there, laughing at me.”

  “Ms. Roscoe.” PC Marsh put her pen down. “Have you questioned whether your reaction was emotional rather than entirely logical?”

  “What?” Her question startled me. “What do you mean?”

  She frowned. “Well, to be honest, I find it strange that you didn’t slow down and perhaps ask him what he wanted? Maybe he had a reason for being there?”

  It was what Erin had said. “No.” I shook my head. “No. You’ve got it wrong. There’s no way I could have done that. This man . . . I’ve seen him twice. He’s definitely trying to frighten me, and he’s succeeding. Everything about him intimidates me—his body language, the way he stares, the fact that he knew my name. You must be able to understand that?”