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

by Frances Vick

  But they aren’t.

  ‘We walk for a long time, and it’s cold and muddy, and she keeps drinking from that bottle.’ Angela spoke with her eyes closed. Her foot twitched as if slipping in mud. One hand was curved, claw-like, around an unseen hand, the other lay loosely on her lap. ‘She keeps saying we’re near the path, but I know we’re not because I know she’s scared.’

  ‘What was she scared of?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘She’s scared of the dark,’ Angela answered. ‘She’s scared of being sick, too. She’s drunk but she doesn’t know it, she just knows she’s wobbly and sick and scared. She feels very young and silly. She’s just a little girl. I feel all that, but I don’t understand it. She says we should maybe go back to the club and dry off, and she tells me not to be frightened, she tells me I’ll be safe and warm soon, but she’s talking to herself too, I can feel it. She asks me to tell her a story. She asks me to tell her about my sisters. She says, “Tell me a story and we’ll be back at the club before you know it.”’

  ‘Your dead sisters,’ Kirsty said.

  Angela’s eyes stayed closed. ‘They weren’t ever alive. They weren’t ever real. Only Lily was real.’

  Thirty-Four

  Marie had four sisters and she missed them terribly, proudly. She’d never met any of them, but they were always with her.

  First was Ruby, so quiet in the womb, placid and dead two weeks before the midwife realised. Then, a year later, Jade fluttered on a scan, brief as a butterfly, before she too winked out of existence. Sophie, hot on the heels of Jade, put up more of a struggle: ‘She kicked and she kicked! Oh, she wanted out,’ Mum told Marie. ‘She wanted to see me, I could tell.’ But Sophie’s little kicks grew panicked as she, too, failed to make it to the second trimester. Then it was Lily’s turn – Lily, who wasn’t expected, whose existence was only noticed at six months (‘I’d given up hope,’ Mum said solemnly) was born swiftly, early. She lay fully formed and quiescent in her incubator, each thin limb trembling as if a current ran through them. On the third day the trembling ceased, and she opened her eyes wide, blinked slowly, like a loving kitten. (‘Oh! She had beautiful blue eyes,’ Mum told Marie softly. ‘She would have had the most beautiful eyes of all of you. They say all babies have blue eyes, but hers would have stayed blue, I knew it. That’s why I called her Lily Blue.’) But by the afternoon of that third day, Lily too had passed.

  Lily’s photo was on the mantelpiece, a small pastel smear behind the toughened plastic of the incubator, and next to it, no bigger than a pine cone, stood the urn holding her ashes.

  ‘They said I couldn’t carry a child,’ Mum said. ‘They told me that I’d never be a mum. Oh, I took it well, but inside a little part of me died. I believed them, you see, not myself. If I’d believed myself I would have had an easier time of it. I knew, deep down in my heart, that I’d have my daughter. The cards said it, it was in my palm. I knew, but those so-called experts said they knew better. Well, we showed them, didn’t we? Because look what happened.’

  ‘What?’ Marie always asked the question despite knowing the answer. The answer was her favourite thing in the world.

  ‘A miracle.’

  ‘What was the miracle?’ Marie would ask breathlessly.

  ‘You,’ Mum would say. ‘You were the miracle.’

  And Marie would beg for the story, the whole story again, sinking into its folds, luxuriating in every sentence.

  ‘Two years after Lily passed, two years to the day, you were born…’

  Lily and Marie shared a zodiac sign, a birthstone, as well as a solemn birthday celebration. Every year, Marie’s school picture was placed on the mantelpiece, next to the pine cone of ashes Lily in her incubator. When she was very small, Marie would confuse the two, fuse herself with Lily. That was to be expected, Mum said; Lily and Marie had a connection.

  Mum was forty-three by the time she fell pregnant for the fifth time, and her age, combined with all those deaths, had convinced her that she’d miscarry.

  ‘They told me I should prepare myself,’ she told Marie. ‘I thought, “Prepare myself? I’m prepared four times over!” This time I did everything differently. What’s the point in making a meal for a guest that never arrives?’

  And so she did everything, deliberately, wrong. She didn’t keep up with her doctor’s appointments, eschewed vitamins and took up smoking again, as if she could fool the hostile gods by appearing indifferent. She kept this up until the day labour began (‘Early. Six weeks early. I thought, well, I know the drill, I know I’ll lose this one too. But I still shed a tear’) and calmly lay down, swallowed four co-codamol to mask the pain and tried to ignore the inevitable. ‘I wasn’t even going to call the hospital. No point.’

  ‘But then you had a dream?’ Marie would always ask then. The lines were the same, the emphasis the same, but the thrill of the tale always excited her.

  Mum nodded. ‘Yes. A dream.’ When she heard those words, more often than not, Marie would close her eyes, sink down further into her seat. Mum always used the same words, the same intonation. It was like a chant. Or a prayer.

  ‘I dreamed of a storm. Oh, a huge storm it was, with thunder and lightning. The lightning was so bright it lit up the whole house, and the thunder was as loud as the end of the world. And then, what did I see?’

  ‘What?’ Marie would whisper. ‘What’d you see?’

  ‘At the end of the bed was a baby in a cot.’

  ‘Who was the baby?’ Marie always asked.

  ‘Its face was covered. I couldn’t tell.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then I heard a voice – clear as mine is to you – but coming from the sky.’

  ‘What did the voice say?’

  Mum deepened her voice then, to sound like god did in those old Biblical films. ‘The voice said: “This is your gift.”’

  At this point, Marie always wanted to open her eyes, because, even though she knew it was just Mum, the voice was a little scary. She never did though, because that would take away from the moment, and being a bit scared was part of the whole thing – a big part.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘And then the lightning lit up the room as bright as day.’ Mum’s voice, the rhythm of that phrase, it never changed. ‘And I saw all my girls around the cot, standing round it like guards, and the light was inside them, they were just glowing with love. They were angels. And then…’

  ‘What?’ Marie whispered. This was the best bit of all. This was the miracle that filled her with joyful fear, with such pride she could burst with it.

  ‘Then the cover drifted away from the baby’s face, and all my girls wept with happiness. Then the lightning flashed and the thunder roared again, and the voice told me you’d be mine forever and ever.’

  ‘And how come I was all right? How come I lived and my sisters didn’t?’ This was the scariest, most thrilling part; this was the best part.

  Mum turned her grave gaze towards the mantelpiece. ‘Your sisters wanted you to, that’s why. They wanted to make up for all the heartache. You lived to make me happy. That’s what the dream was all about. Your sisters are always here, always here, to keep you on the right path, to make sure you look after me, always.’

  It’s the most beautiful story Marie can imagine. But maybe she got some of the words wrong, or wasn’t clear enough because Lisa doesn’t think so. She thinks it’s creepy.

  ‘So they’re dead?’ Her voice is slurred. ‘They’re all dead or never born anyway?’

  ‘They’re angels!’ Marie protests.

  ‘Who’s their dad then? Who’s your dad then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Marie’s own words surprise her. Why hasn’t she thought of this before?

  ‘Didn’t you ever ask? I’d’ve asked!’

  Asked? How to explain that asking Mum things is Bad. Asking makes Mum Sad, and if Mum is Sad, Marie is Bad. This is the circular logic that she is steeped in, that she can’t question.

  ‘Your mu
m sounds weird,’ Lisa says. ‘She sounds proper weird.’

  ‘She’s not!’ Marie drops Lisa’s hand. ‘She’s not weird and my sisters are real and they’re angels!’

  ‘You know what I think? I think Mervyn’s your dad, that’s what I think.’

  Marie is confused by this. ‘How?’

  ‘I bet he is. Ask her.’

  Marie feels around in Lisa’s mind, and what she finds scares her. She feels hot then, and sick. She drops Lisa’s hand. Lisa tries to take it again but Marie bats it away. ‘Ow! That hurt!’

  ‘Good!’ Marie’s voice trembles. She turns now and runs towards the club.

  ‘What’re you running for? I’m sorry about what I said about your sisters, OK? And your mum? Just, wait, will you? Wait for me.’ Lisa is trying to run too, but the mud and the brandy slow her down. ‘Wait!’

  ‘There’s my mum!’ Marie sees headlights. The car is driving slowly, illegally, through the park towards the club and she realises that Mum will be Very Angry if she’s not there waiting. What was she thinking? Going with this strange girl to another strange girl’s house? When she should be in the club, watching TV and eating crisps like a Good Girl! She is going to be in so much trouble! Listening to these lies, telling her secrets.

  ‘Wait, will you?’ Lisa is far behind now, swallowed up by the dark. ‘Wait! Shit!’ Marie winces at the Bad Language, but stops.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve fallen. My knee’s all… come and help me! I’m stuck in the mud and my knee hurts!’

  Marie looks towards the car headlights, closer now, and her instinct is to abandon Lisa and run to the club quickly to avoid a telling-off, but Lisa is her friend and gave her that ring (even if she didn’t want it) and has looked after her (even if she was mean about the angels and said Bad Things about Mum) and… and so she turns back.

  ‘I remember she flipped in the air like a gymnast. I thought she was doing it on purpose. I… I clapped.’ Angela opened her eyes. ‘And then, and then she lay on the ground and that’s all I have. I can remember later, lying here, on the floor with her. I know she’s gone, but I tell myself she’s only sleeping.’ Angela was speaking softly, almost to herself, and her eyes had that inward, trance-like look again. ‘I stroke her hair and I sing something… I don’t remember where I’ve heard it.’

  Sleep my child and peace attend thee,

  All through the night.

  Guardian angels God will send thee,

  All through the night.

  She looked at the bloodstained floor rather than Kirsty. ‘I hugged her as if I could keep the life in her. Here. I failed though. I thought that. I told myself that I could have kept her alive somehow if only I knew the right words or…’ She trailed off, shook her head.

  ‘She hit by a car?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘By Mum’s car. Yes. I remember running away from Lisa, and the car going past me and towards her, I remember her flying in the air, like an…’

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘Yes. Like an angel. But in the morning there was new lino down on the floor, and my top had disappeared and Mum said I’d dreamed everything. Later it got all mixed up with other memories. A few weeks later I was in an accident, you see. I was hit by a drunk driver in a car park. It turned out to be a policeman going off shift, and so Mum sued the council and got a pay-out. She told me for the longest time that what I thought I remembered about being with Lisa in the park was just my mixing things up in my head, not memories at all. I never met Lisa, she was never here, the new lino had always been there and I believed her, even though I had these memories, and I had the ring and I remembered hugging her and getting blood on my top. I remember her coat and the canal and… but Mum kept telling me it wasn’t true, and I had no way of proving it…’ She looked, suddenly, at Kirsty, with naked dread. ‘Do you understand? I didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t. You don’t know what it’s like, to never be sure.’

  ‘I do though,’ Kirsty commented softly. ‘I told the police I’d seen Tokki in the park. I said it because they made me think I had. I’m the reason they put him away.’

  Angela nodded. ‘Maybe you do get it then.’

  ‘I’ve felt guilty for all these years… I’ve never stopped wondering what was true and what wasn’t. Lisa told some lies, and the police made me lie and no-one seemed to want to get to the truth. It was as if the truth was too messy, not satisfying enough. It’s easier to have a Bad Guy, you know?’

  Angela smiled faintly. ‘I do. It’s child-like… it’s primal. I’ve thought a lot about this. What I do, the people I help, that’s what they’re looking for too – they want to be told that they’re good people, that they’re forgiven, that death has kind of… smoothed the edges of life. They don’t want grey areas. They don’t want doubt. But, who does?’ She shrugged, smiled wearily. ‘Doubt is what kills you.’

  ‘If you let it,’ Kirsty said softly. ‘And I’ve let it. Not kill me, but stunt me.’

  ‘And I’ve spent the last thirty years trying to avert it all together. I tell people their dead dad approves of their career choices; I tell them that Grandpa says sorry, that their dead children forgive them. And it is true, but it’s not all the truth.’ She smiled crookedly. ‘Grandpa really says, “I’m sorry, but…”; the son forgives but hasn’t forgotten. It’s more complicated than people can cope with, so why burden them? I know how terrible that is.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve been back here for two months and she’s managed to pull me right back, making me believe I did something I couldn’t have, making me doubt myself and trust her, even though I know what she’s like. God, she’s good.’

  She started to move her frozen legs, shuffled away from the bloodstain and started to get back on her feet. Her voice was broken, suddenly aged. ‘Pour me another drink, will you? And you should have one too.’ Angela pinched the skin between her eyes. ‘It’s… I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like an allergy almost, or like going back to a contaminated zone, like Chernobyl or something. I have this… propensity in me, this doubt, this fear of myself, that she planted years ago, and when I’m away it can’t hurt me, but when I’m back, in the danger zone, it triggers, and I’m lost… things start falling apart in my mind again.’ She turned weary, tearful eyes on Kirsty, and suddenly, she resembled the woman on all those YouTube videos again, a struggling, worn-down martyr of a woman. A good woman.

  ‘There’s always a bit of truth in the things she says, you see. Just enough to… When I told her that I smacked Lisa’s hand, and I did smack her hand, Mum told me it was a dream, but then later, when she wanted me to believe I’d killed her, she’d say things like, “You told me you hit her.” And I’d say, “I smacked her,” and Mum would say, “What’s the difference?” Later still, the whole conversation would be overhauled; she’d say something like, “Don’t worry, I know you didn’t mean to hit her that hard,” and when I’d say, “I didn’t hit her hard,” Mum would get angry, or disappointed, tell me to tell the truth. And then she’d work on me, telling me what she said I’d said before, and even if I started out knowing what I’d said before, by the end of the conversation I wasn’t sure at all any more. I wouldn’t know, and I’d be tired and scared and I’d agree with her. That’s what she did with the coat.’

  ‘Sylvia told me that she was the “passer-by”. She said it was to protect you.’ Kirsty said.

  ‘Because I’d hidden the coat there, and that proved I’d killed Lisa? She told me the same thing. Later she said I’d made her a criminal, and I’d better make it up to her somehow. At the time though, she just said it was a dream.’

  ‘How did Lisa’s coat get on the canal bank though?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘It was a week after she disappeared. Early in the morning. She shook me awake…’

  Thirty-Five

  Mum’s hands are frantic, she smooths her hair back from her forehead, calls her darling.

  ‘You were screaming! You had a nightmare!’

  ‘I was?’ Ma
rie is confused. It’s dark outside. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘God almighty, it was horrible. You were screaming like someone possessed! Like you were being… God, I don’t even want to think about what it sounded like! Something about a big girl’s jacket?’

  ‘A jacket?’ She’s still partially asleep. ‘Time is it?’ Mum looks irritated.

  ‘ Forget about the time! You woke me up and you don’t see me moaning about it! Yes, a jacket. Don’t you remember? And water. Black water, you said.’ She waits expectantly.

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Marie yawns and sits up.

  ‘Well, try. What big girl?’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘What big girl? The one you say you saw in the park?’

  ‘The girl who came back here? What time is—’

  ‘Oh give over, there wasn’t ever a girl here, stop being silly! Try to remember your dream just now! What colour was the jacket? Green, blue?’

  ‘Blue?’

  She must have said the right thing, because Mum’s clutch loosens a bit. ‘OK. Now let’s think about the dark water. Was it wide like the sea? Or black and still like a pond or something?’

  ‘I’m tired, Mum—’

  ‘No, no no, this is important! Stay awake! You said “black water” in the dream. Like the sea or the canal?’

  Marie yawns. ‘Like the canal?’

  Mum widens her eyes. ‘The canal? The one in the park, where you saw that girl?’

  Marie nods. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ She is.

  ‘You better not be lying.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ Marie assures her. She isn’t either. She’s making Mum happy with the right answers.