Two Little Girls: A totally gripping psychological thriller with a twist

by Frances Vick

  ‘Lee…’

  He shook his head. ‘Just what the hell was all that about anyway? Why would Vic tell her anything about it?’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t.’

  ‘Well how else would what’s-her-face know?’

  Kirsty turned over limp arms in her lap, her palms falling open. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t anything about getting pregnant.’

  There was a silence. ‘What was it about then, do you think?’

  ‘Lisa? Maybe it was about that.’

  ‘Why though? Why would Vic even mention what… happened back then? I doubt she even thinks about it. It’s not directly about her, so there’s no way she’d mention it.’

  ‘Maybe Angela Bright is the real deal?’ Kirsty managed to smile. ‘Maybe she saw into my soul.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Lee said shortly. He ditched the cigarette into the toilet. It fizzed there like a tiny firework. ‘Have you been thinking about it much?’ he asked eventually. ‘About the Lisa thing?’

  ‘Not so much,’ Kirsty lied.

  ‘And you haven’t been going on any of those nut-job conspiracy sites, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well that’s something.’ Lee lit another cigarette. ‘It’s old news now.’

  ‘It’s the anniversary today.’

  ‘Shit, love, why didn’t you tell me?’ Lee put one hot, firm hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s go. Let’s go home.’

  ‘We can’t. We’re meant to be staying the night, she has a whole breakfast arranged for tomorrow, and I’m meant to help her with it—’

  ‘Oh, fuck her. Let Witchy McWitchface help her. We’re leaving. We’ll go back to your little pied-à-terre.’

  ‘We’ve both been drinking so we can’t drive, and it’d cost a fortune to get a cab all that way—’

  ‘Kirsty, at this stage of the game, I’d pay a couple of grand just to avoid anything else your sister might throw at you.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault—’

  ‘Will you stop saying that?’ Lee’s voice was suddenly furious, hoarse. ‘Will you stop saying she doesn’t mean it! She might not plan, meticulously, how she’s going to make you feel like shit at any given moment, but she always manages it by default. It’s like an instinct. It’s her one talent, apart from annoying the shit out of any right-thinking person. When are you going to wise up about her, Kirsty? How much time do you have to spend crying in bathrooms about your sister before you start protecting yourself?’

  ‘Don’t shout at me.’

  ‘Well, I’m frustrated. I’m…’ He lit another cigarette. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.’

  There was a knock on the door, and someone turned the handle, once, twice, jiggling it in impatience. A fruity-sounding woman coughed, tapped on the door again. ‘Is there anyone in there?’

  ‘No,’ Lee answered. ‘Nobody.’

  There was an indignant pause. ‘Because you’ve been in there rather a long time, and people do need to…’

  ‘To what?’ Lee asked.

  Kirsty began to smile despite herself. ‘Lee, stop it now.’

  ‘To use the toilet,’ came the icy reply.

  ‘Let me get rid of this rat first,’ Lee called. ‘Shouldn’t be too long now, I’ve nearly forced it down the U-bend.’

  ‘Rat?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Old house. Old houses, I should say, because this was two houses and a barn originally, wasn’t it? And where there’s barns, there’s always rats. Big, sturdy ones that bite your arse soon as you sit down on the loo. They wait under the rim.’

  Lee grinned at Kirsty, who was now shaking with silent laughter.

  ‘The lady of the house brought me in specially to deal with it. I came by the tradesman’s entrance at the back, so none of the party guests would see me. Don’t let on, will you?’

  There was a confused shuffling sound from outside. Kirsty bit her lips to keep from laughing, while Lee pumped the toilet flush, squeaked, flushed again. ‘Get down there, you bastard!’

  ‘Oh my god!’ came the voice from outside.

  ‘It’s putting up a bit of a fight, this one!’ Lee called over the sound of the flush. ‘I might need to brain it with a spanner if it carries on like this.’

  That did it. They heard the woman trot down the stairs; Kirsty let out a bark of laughter.

  ‘And there’s worse where that came from,’ Lee told her. ‘One more conversation with one more fat golfer and I won’t be responsible for my actions.’ He took one of her hands. ‘Let’s just go back to yours, drink that nice bottle of wine I decided not to bring after all, and fuck like rabbits, what d’you say?’

  ‘Vic’ll be upset.’

  ‘I doubt it. She’s bulletproof. You’re not though. Come on.’

  They tiptoed down the stairs, past the kitchen, and out through the front door. Lee doubled back to retrieve another bottle of wine and came back laughing. ‘Some woman in there’s going on and on about rats. Scandalised. Quick, let’s get out quick.’

  They ran down the drive, giggling, out into the night.

  Fifteen

  That night, Kirsty dreamed. She dreamed that they were by the canal, she and Lisa, and the strange low limelight of a coming storm touched their hair a brassy gold. Kirsty couldn’t see Lisa’s face very well, just her smile, and her smile was so happy, guileless. When they held hands, the snake ring felt hot against her palm, its red eyes little pinpricks of fire.

  Lisa said, ‘Let me teach you,’ and squeezed her hand hard, and Kirsty, suddenly, didn’t want to be taught. She tried to tug her hand away. The dark water shifted like something alive. Lisa’s smile began to fade.

  ‘I don’t want to go without you. Please?’

  But even as she begged she was backing away towards the water which seemed to reach up to embrace her. She slid into it like tar until only her hand stayed visible – the forefinger extended, pointing to the surreal sky, and the snake’s eyes shone before one fell out and dripped down Lisa’s palm like blood.

  Kirsty woke sweating, crying, and Lee – good, kind Lee – cursed Vic and her stupid party and that bastard psychic. ‘You’ll be all right, love. You’ll be all right, I’ll make sure you are, OK? OK? You’re safe, you’re safe.’

  But she wasn’t safe. On Monday she got the first note, shoved under her office door, printed – incongruously – in some childish font.

  You shouldn’t have come back

  She should have thrown it away; crumpled it up and thrown it in the bin. She could have taken it to the police? But even now, Kirsty shrank from the idea of doing that. What if they shepherded her back into that same little room, had her hunch over the same hearing-aid-brown tape recorder… And what could she say anyway? Where was the threat? And so she didn’t do anything. She smoothed it out, put it in an envelope, kept it in her desk drawer.

  The next day there was another.

  There’s no place for you here

  And two days after that, a third.

  Whatever you think you know, you don’t

  She almost told Lee. She almost asked estates if they had CCTV footage of the corridor. But in the end they went into the envelope too. There was a dark familiarity to this feeling – she was under siege, under threat. But this time she wasn’t going to buckle. This time she wouldn’t run. This time she’d exercise some control over the situation herself.

  The Peg Leaves situation was still stalled. Mona – after a fractious conversation with one of Kirsty’s colleagues at Social Services – had shut down negotiations completely, and once again, Kirsty was wheeled out to repair the damage. Since Mona refused to come to the hospital, Kirsty went to see her; for the first time in decades, she found herself in the Beacon Hill estate.

  In a strange way it was a welcome trip. For the last month or so, Kirsty had lived alongside her past, feeling it encroach on her while she stayed frozen, unprotesting. Being back in Beacon Hill felt as if she was showing some mettle, proving that the past couldn’t break her. St
ill, her hands were sweaty on the steering wheel, a tension headache throbbed at her temples. She imagined how Lee would react if he knew where she was right now and decided not to tell him.

  She drove past houses that, flimsy when first built, were now dilapidated, the mish-mash of flats on the estate’s outer edge sometimes boarded up, sometimes decorated with St George’s flags, Christmas lights that had never been taken down. One house in the middle of a row was completely burnt out, police tape still fluttering from the stump of a gatepost.

  The visit to Mona was, predictably, a non-starter. Either she wasn’t in or she was pretending to be out. Kirsty had expected this, and so she brought out her previously prepared note – handwritten, a careful paragraph of respectful fealty to Peg, and sorrowful reiteration of what might happen if Mona didn’t co-operate. On the way back, she decided, almost on a whim, to call on Denise. Over the years, they had kept touch with each other, Kirsty sending her a Christmas card every year, to which Denise always responded with a brief letter at New Year. That she hadn’t been to see her in all the time she’d been back seemed, suddenly, a cruel oversight that she had to make up for right now.

  The house, she noticed with a shiver, was exactly the same. The same mottled crazy paving, the same PVC door, the same doorbell chime – ‘Why do birds suddenly appear’, off-key. And Denise was the same – a solid oblong of a woman with a wood-carved face still topped with improbably auburn hair, stiff as wire. She smiled, flashing new dentures.

  ‘It’s nice to see you, Kirsty. Heard you were back.’ Her voice was strong, clear, with a slight clotted whisper running through it like a seam.

  ‘Word gets around, eh?’

  ‘It always has, and it always will. Mona told me. Saw her a few weeks back, asked about Peg, she mentioned you then. Come in. Have a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been to see you sooner; I—’

  Denise made a dismissive gesture with one liver-spotted hand. ‘Stop. Get yourself inside. It’s starting to rain.’

  The house seemed smaller, barer, but it was obvious that Denise didn’t live alone. There were three half-drunk cups of tea on the table, and as they passed the closed living room door, Kirsty heard a TV, and every now and again a short, sharp laugh like a nasty cough.

  ‘I am sorry though, that I haven’t been before. It’s taken me a while to get settled. Thanks.’

  Denise paced a mug of murky tea before her. Kirsty took a small sip, tried not to grimace. The milk was sour.

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, they’re more trouble than they’re worth,’ Denise said kindly. ‘What are you doing with yourself at Queens then?’

  ‘Social work. Care plans for the elderly, that kind of thing.’

  Denise raised her eyebrows. ‘Well you’ve got your work cut out with Peg then.’

  Kirsty inclined her head, smiled. ‘You’re not wrong.’

  ‘What’d you come back here for? You were in London, weren’t you?’

  ‘Well, it’s a good job,’ Kirsty said lamely. ‘And, you know. There’s no place like home.’

  Denise made a noise, wheezy as a dying washing machine, slightly menacing. It took Kirsty a moment to realise it was a laugh.

  ‘You’re too young to be so daft. It’s bad, this place, and you know it. It’s bad to most of us, but worse to you.’

  ‘You’re still here though?’

  ‘I’ve got no choice, love. Remember Bryan? He’s here. Got a little girl of his own now. Can’t move away from family, can you?’

  ‘Bryan lives here? With you?’ That nasty laugh from the living room seemed more sinister now. What if Bryan was just there, within a few feet of her? What if he was standing behind her now? Her spine seemed to fuse together.

  Denise shook her head. ‘I’m old and daft but not that daft. No, he doesn’t live here. He’s calmed down a bit, but still… You look pale. He’s not been hassling you, has he? Bryan? Like he used to? He can get… This time of year brings out the worst in him. If he’s calling you or sending letters, just tell me and I’ll make him stop.’

  ‘Does he do that? Send letters?’ Kirsty asked eagerly.

  ‘Only to newspapers, as far as I know. Why? Have you been getting… anything? I’ll have a word with him if… threats? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Not threats. Just notes. And you? Are you getting any… threats, or—’

  ‘Threats? No. Not any more. All I get now are calls from the papers every March, or when he tries an appeal, the odd letter from the bleeding-heart brigade… “This innocent man has suffered enough.” It’s funny, isn’t it? You’re left alone for three hundred and sixty-four days and on the three hundred and sixty-fifth, that’s when you get remembered. As if that’s the one day you need someone telling you what a bloody awful mother you are.’

  ‘How’s Bryan?’

  Denise made a harrumph sound. ‘Bryan is Bryan. You saw that interview in the Mail?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Denise paused. Kirsty could hear the little wheeze in her throat, a desperate appeal for nicotine. Her dry fingers found a cigarette packet. The click and fizz of a cigarette being lit was loud in the quiet. ‘You know how much they paid him for it? Two hundred quid.’ Denise laughed. ‘He said they might want one with me. Said it’d be a grand and we could share it. I said, “What do I need with five hundred quid?” and you know what he said? He said, “No, you’d get two hundred and I’d keep the rest because I did all the work!”’

  ‘Jesus, Denise. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be. It’s funny is what it is.’

  ‘Did he tell you beforehand, that he was doing this interview?’

  ‘Kirsty, what people don’t tell me would fill Wembley Arena. Things just happen and I’m the last to know. Like this judicial review? Did they tell you about that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s looking for a judicial review.’ Denise never said the name Tokki or Toqueer. He was always ‘He’ or ‘that bastard’. She let out her breath in one smoky rasp. ‘It’s the same thing as before, but this time he’s got a team of people, they say.’ Denise began to chuckle. ‘A team. Like it’s the Premier League for bastards. Papers called. I just said no comment, like I always do. That gets to them. They want me to cry and all that. Make a statement. Well, they can whistle for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Denise.’

  ‘Well, it’s not your fault.’

  ‘It’s not fair on you though,’ Kirsty murmured.

  ‘It’s not, no,’ Denise said shortly. ‘But it’s nothing new either. Anyway, how’s Vicky?’

  ‘She moved to Marsden last year—’

  ‘Marsden? She’s not short of a bob or two then, is she?’

  ‘Married well. And had a baby, so I wanted to move closer to her, so, here I am.’

  ‘You wanted to move, and here “you” are?’ Denise smiled. ‘What about your other half?’

  ‘He’s got to finish a few things before he can move up here properly.’

  Denise just nodded. Her eyes were hooded. Finally she said, ‘It’s not good to be here alone, Kirsty. This place won’t be kind to you.’

  ‘I’m not alone. I won’t be for long anyway, Lee will be moving up soon. And I get to look after my nephew, spend time with my sister. Keep her on the straight and narrow. She’s away with the fairies.’ She laughed nervously. Why was she nervous anyway? ‘At her house-warming the other day she had some psychic there. To bless the house.’

  ‘What?’ Denise’s voice fractured into a catarrhy laugh. ‘She’s got more money than sense, that girl!’

  ‘That’s what Lee says too. He was really pissed off about it.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Oh, she – the medium woman – she upset me a bit. She didn’t mean to, but she said some stuff and—’

  Denise hesitated. ‘What about? Lisa?’

&nbs
p; Kirsty was startled. ‘I don’t know. Lee thought so, and he gets protective of me, and, well, he doesn’t like all that psychic stuff.’

  ‘I used to get them all the time,’ Denise said after a pause. ‘Psychics. They always want to tell me something about her. After… what happened, they called a lot, sent me letters. Wanting to help, they said. Stuart always got rid of them.’

  ‘What kind of things were they saying then?’

  ‘They said they had a message from her, that they could help find her. All that.’

  ‘And now? Do they call you now?’

  ‘Aye. Not so much, but sometimes. Around this time, you know.’ Denise spoke guardedly. Kirsty couldn’t gauge if she wanted to shut the conversation down or wanted to be asked more.

  ‘Have any of them… said anything you believe?’

  Denise left a long pause. ‘I’m not sure. It’s… sometimes they say things that are spot on, you know? And then you think, oh well, they’ve just read the papers, that’s all. But sometimes they say something and you think… bloody hell, how’d you know that? And I don’t think they’re bad people. I think they believe it, some of them anyway. And they want to help, give me some comfort. I don’t know. I can’t get angry with someone wanting to do that.’ Denise lit another cigarette. ‘And who knows? There might be something in it.’ Again, that meditative silence, pregnant, cagey.

  ‘Has anyone… told you something you believe?’ Kirsty found herself asking.

  Denise left a long silence. ‘There’s this woman, I’ve known her for donkey’s years. Lives just over the way there.’ She waved vaguely upwards. ‘She’s… said things that have made me think maybe there’s something in it. She does my cards every now and then. It might be all rubbish or it might not, but at the end of the day what’s the harm if it makes a person feel better?’ Denise sounded a little defensive now, and Kirsty went straight into mollification mode.

  ‘I think you’re right. They can’t all be bad, psychics. I mean, if they’re… helping?’