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

by Frances Vick

  And she handed Kirsty the first quivering paper.

  KC KC KC KC. As the initials went on, the writing grew harder; in some places the pen had been ground into the paper, enough to rip it. Then, light as a feather brush, was written, LJC LJC LJC. The letters were packed close, interlocked.

  Mrs McKnight wordlessly handed her another sheet, this one from a page of the local paper dated a week ago. It was decorated with the same initials, and more… OLD FRIEND IS KEY was written in block capitals, the ‘friend’ lightly crossed through. ANGEL headed another long chain of words, written round and round an advert for a care home. KIRSTY TAKE CARE TAKE CARE TAKE CARE BOYS IN THE PARK ARE A BAD LOT TAKE CARE.

  ‘Am I right?’ Sylvia asked. ‘Is it a message to you?’

  Kirsty heard her own voice as if it was coming from a long way away. ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Lisa Cook?’

  Kirsty closed her eyes and nodded.

  Sylvia took the paper back and nodded briefly, grimly, to herself. ‘That’s what I thought. There are… more? I don’t want to overload you, darling. Look, let’s forget about it. Let’s just—’

  ‘No. No let me see.’ Kirsty reached for another sheet, this one a page from the Daily Mail, and not just any page, the first page of Bryan’s interview. On his forehead was drawn what seemed to be two reversed curly brackets, followed by a crooked little duckling, but Kirsty knew what they really were: two kissing faces and a number 2.

  Angels Times Two.

  ‘When did you write this?’ she asked hollowly.

  ‘I don’t know. But the date on the paper? It’s before we met. Do you know that man? You do, don’t you?’ Sylvia asked. ‘Kirsty, what’s this about?’

  ‘Lisa. It’s about Lisa,’ Kirsty whispered. ‘That’s her brother.’

  ‘Oh my lord, it is! That’s Bryan! God, I wouldn’t have known him, but then I haven’t seen him since he was a nipper! But why would she… why would she be trying to communicate with you via me? Why not just to you? Unless she has been? Dreams?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been having dreams. How did you know?’

  ‘Because, look here – look how hard the pencil dug in.’ Sylvia pointed to Lisa’s initials. ‘There’s force there. She wants to make you notice her, so she won’t just be trying one thing,’ she told her. ‘What happens in your dreams?’

  ‘I don’t understand them. We’re playing in the street, or we’re in the park, and she tells me to look for something, or says I need to learn something. She… tells me to find her.’

  ‘Does she say where she is?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Are you sure? Sometimes you have to interpret things – does she mention a… street? Or a hiding place?’

  ‘No.’

  Sylvia shook her head. ‘I don’t know why she hasn’t done that yet, then. But it will get clearer, I feel it. Take notes of your dreams, any strange coincidences, anything out of the ordinary, write them down and bring them to me and maybe, if we put our heads together, we’ll… work things out.’ Her face was tired, grim, determined. ‘We’ll do this together.’

  Nineteen

  A week later, Kirsty had a visitor at work.

  ‘I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, I’m just here to have a bit of a chat and see Peg – oh, look, isn’t this a lovely office? How grand to have your own office!’

  ‘You look very nice. Posh!’

  Sylvia batted her eyelids, mock-pouted. ‘I’m meeting a gentleman for lunch,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, who?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, I’m just teasing. It’s a solicitor – Marie’s solicitor. Angela’s, I should say, she hates it when I get her name wrong. I have to sign some papers.’ Sylvia’s smile was fading. ‘Something about the land. It must be.’

  ‘Don’t sign anything!’ Kirsty told her immediately. ‘Ask for copies and take them home to look at, but don’t sign anything. Maybe I can get someone to take a look at them for you—’

  ‘You’re very kind. But this isn’t your battle, darling. Not that it’s a battle anyway. Keep your strength for when Peg’s family descend on you later.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s one of her granddaughter’s birthdays, and they’re all coming over. That’s why I came early, because well, you know what they can be like when they’re all together.’ Sylvia gave a wry smile. ‘I wanted to avoid the crush.’ She turned, reached into her bag. ‘Also, I wondered if you’d had any thoughts about things, dreams… or anything else?’

  The ‘anything else’ was loaded.

  ‘Not dreams, but…’ Kirsty reached into her desk drawer, ‘I should have told you about this earlier maybe. I’ve been getting these.’ She handed her the envelope of notes. ‘Nothing in the last week or so, but…’

  Sylvia read them, frowned. ‘What do they mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why anyone would want to… warn me, or threaten me, or anything like that.’

  ‘“Whatever you think you know, you don’t”,’ Sylvia read aloud. She had paled, aged. ‘What can that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Unless…do you think it might be something to do with Lisa?’ Kirsty cocked her head towards the door. ‘What’s that?’

  It sounded as if a pack of excitable animals were running down the corridor. Mona’s voice rose above, like a fairground caller: ‘Mum! Mum! Look who’s come!’

  Kirsty groaned, left Sylvia in the office and made her way to the ward to find Peg Leaves’ bed obscured by visitors; there had to be ten people there at least. A crumpled helium balloon had been tied to the bedside table, and Kirsty heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a can of lager being opened. Woeful Mrs Footitt in the bed opposite turned mournful eyes on her.

  ‘It’s not even visiting hours, is it? Listen to them all effing and blinding.’ She spoke in a loud voice, designed to be overheard, and it had the predictable effect on Mona. Kirsty watched her turn, her eyes narrowed, her mouth open, about to sling some sharp comment, but when she saw Kirsty, she shut her mouth with a snap and even managed a smile. She nudged the man next to her who hurriedly hid his can of lager, nudging the man next to him to do the same. It was funny really; this clan, this scourge of the county, abashed as teenagers caught drinking in the park. They moved apart for her, making a narrow channel leading to Peg, yellow and supine, and Peg held out her hand, gave Kirsty’s a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Watch,’ she wheezed. ‘She’s going to tell you all to fuck off home.’

  Kirsty smiled. ‘As if I’d use language like that, Peg.’

  Peg rasped a little laugh. ‘You would. You would. I bet when you get out of here you’d make a whore blush.’ This, from Peg, was a high compliment. Kirsty felt the guests’ respect rise with their mirth.

  Then, suddenly, the laughter stopped and Mona stiffened. In fact, the whole family stilled, as if through some tribal telepathy. The atmosphere itself seemed to pause.

  Sylvia was standing beside Kirsty now. ‘How are you feeling, Peg?’ she asked gently. ‘You look better!’

  ‘Sylvia.’ It was a statement rather than a greeting.

  ‘You look much better! Stronger. I bet it won’t be long before you get home.’ Sylvia’s voice was high as a girl’s; wounded, trying not to appear so.

  ‘How’ve you been then?’ Peg was evasive. ‘Not seen much of you. Saw Marie the other day. She’s visited a fair few times, hasn’t she, Mona?’

  ‘Mmm. Been to the house too. Helped out,’ Mona said levelly, and Kirsty was surprised that the unbending, sober Angela would have voluntarily entered Mona’s lair, let alone helped with the housework.

  ‘I would’ve done myself, but I’ve had a lot to do. Since the funeral. You know,’ Sylvia replied with subtle dignity. There was a strange silence.

  ‘I sent flowers,’ Peg said eventually.

  ‘Yes. They were lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘By rights some of Mervyn’s stuff should come to us. Laini, and the other kids,’ Mona
put in. ‘They’re his grandkids after all.’

  ‘Well, that’s not down to me,’ Sylvia told her. ‘He left everything to Marie – Angela, as she likes to be called now.’

  ‘Called her Marie the other day and she was all right.’ Peg smiled mirthlessly.

  ‘Well, she always liked you, Peg,’ Sylvia answered drily. ‘Perhaps that’s why she let you get away with it.’

  ‘She’s always been a good one, has Marie. Always. Good head on her shoulders.’ Peg paused then, a little insultingly, as if daring Sylvia to contradict her. Sylvia didn’t, and the conversation, never fully alive, died right there. The clan had coalesced into one cold barrier, waiting for Sylvia to leave, which, wisely, she did. She caught Kirsty’s eye as she turned, gave a tiny shrug of brave good humour. The family waited in insulting silence until her footsteps had died away, before ratcheting up their noise level, and within a few seconds, all trace of their strange sinister hate had gone.

  ‘Laini! Laini! Put that bloody phone down and give your nana a kiss! Not long now! Back at home soon, eh? When do they say? When’ll you be back? Put the phone down! When then? Today? You look all right enough to go home today? I can call Ryan for the van.’

  Peg was chuckling amidst the fervour, looking better than she had done in weeks. She held Mona’s hand, wagged her finger at one of the men, blew a kiss to Laini, patted the bed next to her. ‘Kirsty? Tell them when I can go home, will you?’

  ‘If you carry on doing this well, you’ll be able to go home soon.’ Kirsty had rehearsed this exchange all morning. Lead with the positive, speak primarily to Peg.

  ‘When though?’ Mona asked. ‘Now?’

  ‘No, not now.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, you said—’

  Kirsty spoke again to Peg. ‘Nobody wants you here longer than you need to be.’ That was very true. ‘And you’re making great progress.’ This was less true.

  ‘She’d get better quicker at home,’ Mona muttered.

  ‘You know what, you’re right, Mona.’ Mona was the type to respond well to slightly exaggerated respect, and be secretly impressed that anyone would dare use her first name. ‘Studies show that you’re absolutely right. Patients recover far better at home with their families than being stuck in hospitals.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying. That’s what I’ve been saying all along,’ Mona muttered, pleased.

  ‘And you’ve been right to say that all along,’ Kirsty told her. ‘All we need to do is make sure Peg’s on a level where I can convince the consultant that when she goes home, she’ll carry on getting well. You know what consultants are like. So we need to make sure the house is set up—’

  ‘But—’ Mona began.

  ‘She’s right. You know she’s right,’ Peg put in. The colour had left her cheeks. Her grasp on Mona’s hand had slackened.

  ‘Get all the handles in place, and make all the other… adjustments.’ Kirsty guessed that talking about commodes, rubber sheets and bed baths wasn’t the best way to go right now, but by dropping it in that Mona hadn’t done any preparation at all, she also knew that the wider family would start putting pressure on her now to do just that. Wider society had no power over families like this; censure had to come from within.

  ‘It’s Laini’s birthday.’ Mona pointed at the pubescent girl stabbing at an iPhone. ‘We wanted Peg back for that. Laini had her heart set on it, didn’t you? Laini?’

  A lesser social worker would have simply reiterated her terms: Peg is staying until you get out your power tools; deal with it. Kirsty was better than that though. She widened her eyes, wrinkled her brow, spoke directly to the girl.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Laini. Happy birthday! Is Peg your gran, then?’

  The girl bobbed her head, her eyes not straying from the screen.

  ‘Put that fucking thing down or you’ll get a slap!’ hissed Mona. Laini, unfazed, sighed, put the phone in her pocket, turned hazy, insolent eyes on Kirsty.

  ‘I’m so sorry you couldn’t celebrate at home, I really am. But what a lovely granddaughter to have – not many would come to visit their gran in hospital on their… what is it? Your sixteenth birthday?’

  She guessed that Laini would enjoy being ‘mistaken’ for being older. Sure enough, the girl cracked a small, distracted smile and her blue eyes focused just a little.

  ‘Eleven,’ she muttered.

  ‘You look a lot older than eleven,’ Kirsty said truthfully. Then she made a vague hand gesture to include the rest of the unnamed crowd. ‘I tell you, not many families would have been this patient. I know it hasn’t been easy, doing without Peg.’

  ‘Six weeks now!’ put in Mona plaintively. ‘And it was only meant to be a week!’

  Nobody had ever said that Peg would be hospitalised for a week. No-one. Mona had just pulled this grievance out of the air.

  ‘I know, and I really feel for you all… Look, I shouldn’t say this, because it’s… I don’t know… unprofessional…’ Kirsty kept her voice low, looked seriously at the floor; she knew that appearing to break the rules and give away secrets worked very well with people like Mona, and sure enough, sullen interest was already showing on her face. ‘But you’re lucky she’s here. Not all hospitals go the extra mile like this. Some of them – and I’m not naming any names – just want to get patients out of the door as soon as they can. Especially older patients with complex needs…’

  ‘Kilton?’ Mona put in eagerly. ‘Or King’s Med? I’ve heard bad things about King’s Med. Heard they covered up stuff there – drips full of shit and body parts left in cupboards—’

  Kirsty kept her voice low, confiding. ‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to work in any other place. So I know it’s hard, and I really feel for you, especially you, Laini, what with your birthday and all—’

  ‘Oh, she’s all right. She doesn’t care about anything but that bloody phone, do you? Put the phone down! We’re having a nice time with Nana!’ Mona snatched the phone from her. One of her nails snagged the girl’s hand. Laini howled and the men snickered. One of them pressed Kirsty to have a sip of lager. She knew then that she’d won them all over.

  ‘Thanks, but no. And if the staff see you drinking, they may limit visits to Peg,’ she told him. ‘I really don’t want that to happen.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Peg managed. Her eyes were closed, her breath laboured, and that yellow tinge to her skin had deepened. ‘Chuck it all down the sink. And take the empties with you.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Mona! Leave it! Do what she says now!’ Peg raised her voice and, like a cloud of summer flies, the family quickly and quietly packed up and moved out en masse, leaving only the bobbing balloon. With her guests gone, Peg was able to register Mrs Footitt’s outrage, which she did with the last of her strength. ‘And you can fuck off an’ all,’ she managed, but it was a whisper. It barely moved beyond the end of the bed.

  Out in the corridor, Mona was waiting. A red-faced, phoneless Laini simmered with ostentatious rage, one hand gingerly cradling the other.

  ‘You’re not full of shit, are you?’ Mona asked as soon as she saw Kirsty. ‘She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘Peg’s a strong woman,’ Kirsty replied diplomatically.

  Mona nodded. Her lips tightened and Kirsty thought for a horrible moment that she was going to cry. Seeing someone like Mona showing any human emotion outside of anger or truculence was always unsettling.

  ‘Mum.’ Laini had sidled up closer, tugged at Mona’s hoodie pocket, sagging with the confiscated phone. ‘C’mon.’

  Mona spun around and spoke sharply. ‘You’re not getting it back. Not today.’ When she turned back to Kirsty, her threatened tears had receded. ‘So a few more days and she’ll be home, yeah?’

  ‘Well that’s really up to you now, Mona.’ Kirsty pressed her advantage.

  ‘Mum!’

  Mona slapped Laini’s hand away. Her daughter responded with well-practised melodrama.

  ‘You opened t
he cut!’ Laini shoved her injured index finger in Kirsty’s face. ‘Should I see a doctor? Is it broken? It’s broken. I bet you it’s broken! Last year? I broke my arm? And this hurts the same. This hurts worse! And my dad gave me that phone! For my birthday! It’s my phone!’

  Guilt and belligerence battled on Mona’s face. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, let me look at it.’ She jerked the child’s hand upwards. ‘It’s not broken. Barely a scratch. And you never broke your arm! When did you break your arm? Here. Here, take the thing if it’ll shut you up!’

  And Laini grabbed the phone, immediately forgot about her finger and retreated to the ward exit, frowning at the screen.

  ‘Diva,’ Mona said to Kirsty. ‘She’s such a liar, that one, I tell you.’

  ‘“She lies like a rug”,’ Kirsty said softly to herself.

  Mona’s face softened with genuine humour. ‘She does! See?’ She called, ‘Laini? She thinks you’re a diva too! We all know what you’re like!’

  Mona was already moving towards the exit. Back in the ward Peg was asleep. And Sylvia? Probably already sitting in front of some smug solicitor being diddled out of her house. The poor woman. Doubly cursed – related to the worst family in the county, and simultaneously rejected by them. What was wrong with people?

  Twenty

  Later that day, Kirsty saw a ghost. A ghoul from her childhood. She watched as it stepped out of the lift, passing close enough to brush her sleeve, and headed straight for Peg’s recumbent figure, already shouting in a hoarse, familiar voice.

  Bryan looked as if he’d stepped from the page of his interview in the Daily Mail; he was even wearing the same clothes. He seemed shorter than she remembered him being, but then she’d been a child when she last saw him – bellowing in the back of a police van sometime in 1985 – but he still crackled with that crazed energy, he still had that ungainly kink in his spine, that little, aggressive hunch. He barrelled straight down the middle of the corridor, droopy face set, pursued by two porters and the ward sister.