The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming

by Louise Jensen

‘I’m sorry,’ Lexie mumbled into her pillow as I tugged off her shoes.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum.’ Charlie drew the duvet up to Lexie’s chin.

  ‘My girl, all grown up. I wish you weren’t. I wish you were still little.’ Mascara ran in rivulets down Lexie’s cheeks.

  ‘Just sleep, Mum.’

  ‘My life’s a mess.’

  I rooted around in my pocket and found a tissue under a half-eaten packet of Polos. It was clean, and I unfolded it and handed it to Lexie.

  She blew her nose. ‘I didn’t mean it. I don’t know how to make it right. You know how it feels, don’t you, Grace? To make a mistake.’

  ‘It’ll be OK in the morning.’

  ‘It won’t be. It can’t be. I shouldn’t…’

  Lexie’s mouth hung open. I exchanged a worried glance with Charlie, but Lexie’s jowls shook as she juddered out a snore.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Charlie flicked off the light and we crept downstairs.

  ‘Want to go back to the green?’

  ‘Nah. I’d better stay near Mum. Wanna watch from the front garden?’

  I nodded. We fizzed open cans of Stella from the fridge, and went to sit outside, where we dangled our legs from the crumbling brick wall.

  We oohed as burning streaks of bright light shot through the sky, bursting into millions of gold and silver particles. It looked as though someone had thrown handfuls of glitter up in the air. We aahed as myriad colours rippled across the sky, popping and fading into blackness.

  ‘I wish I was a firework,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d fire myself far away from here.’

  ‘What’s up?’ I downed the last of my lager, scrunched up my can.

  ‘It’s Mum. I dunno what’s up with her. She’s been like this for about a month.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘Pretty much 24/7.’ Charlie kicked her heels and dry plaster crumbled to the ground.

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Embarrassed, I suppose. She’s stopped going out, keeps the curtains drawn all the time. She was sick all over herself on Monday. I had to hose her down in the shower. It was disgusting. I don’t want to whinge all the time, anyway. It’s not like you’ve had it easy, is it?’

  ‘No, but you’re entitled to have problems too. Why do you think she’s doing it?’

  ‘I dunno. She goes through phases.’

  ‘She was saying about you being eighteen. Perhaps she’s worried you’ll leave home. Grandma’s the same. Thinks I’ll go off to uni after sixth form and forget about them. She’s worried they’ll never see me again.’

  ‘Maybe. Perhaps she wishes she were still with me dad. Whoever he might be.’ Charlie jumped down; her trainers smacked against the grey concrete. ‘Wanna go find the boys?’

  ‘What about your mum?’

  ‘Oh, let her choke. I don’t care,’ Charlie said. But I knew that she did, and when the sounds of the fireworks died down and were replaced with tormented screams, Charlie thundered up the stairs towards her mum.

  16

  Now

  There’s nothing quite like waking to the smell of bacon. Breakfast in bed always feels like such a treat. I sit up as I hear the telltale creak of the loose floorboard at the top of the stairs, and the squeak of the bedroom door being nudged open. Gritty sleep is lodged in the corners of my eyes and I rub it away. I fumble with my pillows, propping them horizontally behind me, and I lean back against them, my hands resting in my lap, as though I am in hospital and she is a visitor.

  ‘Morning.’ Anna is wearing my apron. China clinks together as she hands me a tray. ‘Thought I’d make a good impression on my first morning here.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done that.’ I gulp orange juice. The sharp tang of citrus washes my grogginess away.

  ‘The bacon is crispy,’ Anna says, ‘the bread lightly toasted and there’s lots of brown sauce. The tea is sweet and milky.’

  ‘Just the way I like it.’

  ‘I know. I asked Dan before he went to football practice.’

  Anna perches on the bed as I bite into my sandwich. The saltiness of the bacon mingles with the sweetness of the sauce.

  ‘This is so good. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. I’m so grateful you’re letting me stay. The last few months seem like a bad dream already.’

  I chew my food as Anna peruses the books on my bedside table. ‘Little Women. Are they all short?’

  I laugh. ‘Haven’t you read it?’

  ‘No. Fifty Shades of Grey is the last book I read.’

  ‘It’s a bit different to that. It’s about a group of sisters. The eldest, Jo March, is my heroine. She’s so strong.’

  ‘So are you, Grace. It can’t have been easy, losing your best friend.’ Anna flicks through the book before tossing it on top of my endless reading pile. The books teeter and topple; my bottle of tablets rattles to the floor.

  ‘Sorry.’ She picks them up.

  ‘Sleeping tablets,’ I offer, although she hasn’t asked. ‘I haven’t slept properly since Charlie died.’

  ‘Do they work?’

  ‘Too well. If it wasn’t for Dan I’d sleep through my alarm half the time. The doctor doesn’t like giving them, though. Thinks I should try antidepressants instead.’

  ‘Grief isn’t an illness though, is it?’ Anna’s face crumples. ‘It’s not as if you get better, like you do with chickenpox. It’s been years since I last saw my parents but I still want to tell them whenever anything happens, good or bad. I forget they’re not here. When you said I could move in, I thought I must tell Mum and Dad how lovely you are. Stupid, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think it’s natural. It’s so hard to process the fact there are people we’ll never see again. Our minds block it out.’

  ‘I remember when I’m asleep.’ Anna sits on the edge of the bed and lowers her head so her chin touches her chest. ‘I still have nightmares about the accident. The funeral. Even to this day.’

  I swallow the last of the sandwich. It gets stuck in my dry throat and I force it down with a mouthful of tea.

  ‘Sorry, but I’d better get up. I’m going out this morning.’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. If I’d have known you were coming to stay I wouldn’t have arranged anything, but I’ve promised Lexie I’ll take her to Charlie’s grave.’

  ‘Lexie? Charlie’s mum?’

  I nod.

  ‘I’ll come with you. I want to meet her.’

  I hesitate.

  ‘I’d like to meet her. She’s my half-sister’s mum. I want to see where Charlie’s buried, too.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And I’ll take you to the churchyard, but not today. Lexie’s fragile. She’s not coping well. She doesn’t know you exist.’

  ‘It might cheer her up. A link with Charlie.’

  ‘It might, but I’ll need to talk to her first. Prepare her. I can’t just turn up with you.’

  Anna nips her bottom lip between her teeth. A shadow passes across her face.

  I touch her arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be back by twelve. I’ll dig out the photo albums. We can have a proper girls’ afternoon.’

  ‘OK.’ Anna picks up the tray. ‘I’ve got unpacking to do anyway.’

  I’ve never quite equated cemeteries with death – my grandparents shielded me as much as they could – but as I stand at the entrance to the graveyard, I’m giddy at the thought of all those bodies. This is the place that Charlie, Esmée, Siobhan and I used to run around, climbing trees and making dens, and I feel a sense of shame that we weren’t more respectful – not to the dead, but to the mourners huddled around headstones, bewildered expressions on their pinched faces. What must they have thought of four shrieking girls, darting in and out of bushes playing hide-and-seek?

  I cup Lexie’s elbow, guiding her down the frosty path as though she is blind, and w
e pick our way down mossy paving slabs, eyes lowered, not wanting to see anyone else’s pain. Beyond the crumbling headstones etched with dates too faded to read, there is a large rectangle littered with crosses and shiny plaques: memorials to those recently departed. I was surprised when Lexie had requested a burial here; I had been unaware she’d been brought up a Christian. But an interment of ashes was all this church – already overcrowded – could offer.

  Lexie’s bony hand grasps my arm and I pat it. There’s nothing to say, no words that will make this easier. I’d like to be able to tell her the first visit is the worst, but I can’t: it isn’t true. The black plastic vase I’d filled last time is full of stagnant water and withered scarlet roses, and as I pick it up, brown leaves scatter before me. I only brought them a week ago, and I make a mental note not to bring roses again.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ I’m not sure whether Lexie has heard me. She doesn’t seem to notice as I leave. There’s a yellow bin at the back of the church specifically for old flowers. The lid doesn’t quite close and I thrust the roses on the top, too wary of the thorns to push them down. I bend and rinse out the vase under the outdoor tap, and fill it with fresh water. As I stand, I see a figure at the top of the overgrown path: black padded coat, hood covering their face.

  There are hundreds of black coats in the world. It’s probably not the person who was watching me from outside the coffee shop, I reason, but I’m rooted to the spot. Unsure what to do. The figure is still, and although I can’t see their face, I feel they’re staring straight at me. I don’t know whether to confront them or run. I notice a bunch of flowers hanging from the figure’s hand. They’re visiting a grave.

  It’s probably seconds later – but it feels like minutes – that the figure drops their flowers, turns and runs back down the path towards the gate. I wait to compose myself before returning to Lexie.

  She’s standing where I left her, clutching her bunch of pink carnations tightly between her fingers. I ease them out from her grasp, arranging them in the too-narrow vase as best I can.

  ‘That’s brightened it up,’ I lie. The plot still feels as stark and black as the hole Charlie has left.

  ‘Thanks for bringing me, Grace.’ Lexie’s voice is small and quiet and I tilt my head so I can hear her. ‘I don’t deserve your kindness.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘I don’t. I’ve been awful. Everything’s such a mess.’ She presses balled fists into her eyes as though she can change the scene in front of them. ‘I haven’t been here since the funeral. It’s horrible.’

  I nod. It is. The smattering of words on a colourless stone do not comfort me. How could they? Charlie is not here. My logical mind knows that, but I come every week all the same, afraid that if I don’t, she might think I’ve forgotten her.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’

  ‘No.’ Lexie’s tears spill onto her pale cheeks. ‘Can we go for a drink?’

  ‘Just the one,’ I tell her, but one turns into two, into three, into four, and, by the time I drop her home, it is nearly half-past four.

  The house smells of comfort. I lift the lid off the saucepan and breathe in home-made soup.

  ‘I’ve used up all the vegetables in the fridge. Hope that’s OK?’

  I start. I hadn’t heard Anna come into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes. It smells great. I thought you couldn’t cook?’

  Anna’s blonde hair is piled up on top of her head; she tucks a stray tendril behind her ear. ‘Not can’t, just don’t. It’s a treat to have someone to cook for. I want to earn my keep. I feel so bad that I’m not paying rent.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking your money. You’re a guest. Besides, it’s only for a few days.’

  ‘How was Lexie?’

  ‘Not good.’ I flick on the kettle, pull mugs from the cupboard. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late. I took her to a pub afterwards. Had a job to get her to leave.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘Sometimes. She goes through phases. Charlie said Lexie lay on the lounge floor once for hours – Charlie couldn’t wake her, but was too afraid to leave her.’

  ‘That sounds like an awful childhood.’

  ‘It wasn’t always like that. Lexie had her moments, but seemed OK when I met her, right up until we turned eighteen. I’d be surprised if Lexie can remember any of that year.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘No.’ I fight to keep my breathing measured. I don’t want to talk about that year, still don’t like to think about it, and not just because of Lexie. ‘She cleaned herself up, though, and has been sober ever since. Well, sober-ish. Until Charlie…’

  ‘Are there no relatives to help? Aunties? Uncles?’

  ‘No. Lexie moved here when Charlie was small. She doesn’t have any family.’

  ‘But she has you.’

  ‘Yes. And my grandparents help her out. You’ll have to meet them. They loved Charlie.’

  ‘It sounds like everyone did. Hungry?’ Anna ladles thick soup into my bowl. It splashes on my shirt and I dab it off with the dishcloth, hoping it doesn’t stain.

  We sup soup sitting at the table, its surface smooth and gleaming under the electric light.

  ‘Have you dusted?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to make myself useful. It didn’t take me long to unpack. I’ll show you what I’ve done in the garden when we’ve finished. I didn’t use polish on the piano – it looks really old. I didn’t want to damage it.’

  ‘It was Dad’s. He taught me to play.’

  ‘Are you good? I wish I was musical.’

  ‘I was. Haven’t played in years, but I can’t bear to part with it.’ Whenever I look at the worn leather stool I can almost feel Dad, my small body leaning against his large frame. Smell his Aramis aftershave. Feel his fingers touching mine as he guided me to the right keys. Whether I’d played ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’, or later, ‘Ode to Joy’, he’d always clapped with the same enthusiasm.

  Bowls rinsed, coats on, I follow Anna through the French doors into the dusk. Mittens sits inside, watching us, pink nose smearing the glass. We wind our way across the stepping stones towards the greenhouse. I stop. Gasp. Spin around in a slow circle with my hand over my mouth.

  ‘My borders!’

  ‘They were a mess, weren’t they? I’ve tidied them all up for you.’ Anna gestures to shrubs and perennials she has wrenched from the ground, roots exposed, leaves curling.

  ‘Anna, what have you done?’

  I drop to my knees, lifting plants as gently as I would an injured child.

  ‘They’re all dead, aren’t they?’ Anna kneels next to me. ‘Grace?’

  ‘They’re not dead. You’ve pulled up nearly everything. It’s taken me years to establish them.’ I bite back tears, tell myself they’re only plants, but I stack this loss against my others all the same.

  ‘But there’s no flowers, no colour in them. They look like weeds.’

  ‘It’s winter; they’re supposed to look like that.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve never had a garden. Can we put them back?’

  ‘We can try but the shock might kill them, if it hasn’t already.’

  Anna stands, brushing soil from her knees. ‘I’ll fetch some tools.’

  The ground is hard, a frost forming already. Anna angles a flashlight towards the solid earth as I stab a fork in, pressing on it with one foot and then two in an effort to drive it down. There is a throbbing in my lower back and I am sweating, despite the evening chill. I almost cry with relief as I hear Dan call out, see his solid frame lumbering towards us. I gratefully hand over the fork and as he loosens the soil I’m able to scrape holes with my hands. It doesn’t take too long before the plants are back in their earthy homes, drooping and withering.

  Anna’s apology runs on a loop and it isn’t until we’re sitting cross-legged on the lounge floor in front of a crackling fire, brandy snifters in hands, that I tell h
er not to worry and I mean it.

  ‘You were trying to help. We’ll find this funny one day.’

  I tell her about the time Charlie tried to bake me a cake. She’d carefully measured out the ingredients, put them in the food processor and switched it on without the lid. The chocolate mix went everywhere. Grandad had to paint the ceiling and Grandma’s curtains still have brown splodges, even now.

  Anna and I laugh but Dan sits apart, nursing his drink, an emotion on his face I can’t identify. A shiver runs through me and I’m not sure why.

  17

  Then

  My eyes sprang open. The day I’d thought would never come had finally arrived. I’m eighteen! I leapt out of bed and bounced downstairs like Tigger.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Gracie.’ Grandma and Grandad lined up in the kitchen to give me coffee-flavoured kisses. The table was strewn with multicoloured envelopes and while Grandma cooked breakfast I sliced them open, read out the messages inside the cards and handed them to Grandad. He balanced them between the Wedgwood on the dresser.

  ‘Tuck in.’ Grandma placed a plate before me, piled high with bacon, sausages, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and beans.

  ‘Thanks.’ I picked up my cutlery, wondering where to start.

  By the time I forked the last mushroom into my mouth and pushed my plate away, my jaw ached from chewing. ‘No wonder I’m popping out of my clothes with portions like that,’ I said, leaning back on my chair. ‘It’s a good job I’m going to buy a new dress for tonight.’

  ‘Women nowadays are too thin,’ said Grandma. ‘You look like a woman’s supposed to.’

  ‘In the 1950s maybe.’

  ‘Men like a few curves.’

  Did they? My love life was dismal. I was too hung up on Dan to consider dating anyone else. I wondered sometimes whether he still fancied Charlie, but she said he’d only ever asked her out the once. He didn’t seem interested in Siobhan, thank god. Even though she practically threw herself at him: leaning forwards every time she talked so he could see down her top; touching his arm and giggling at everything he said, even when it wasn’t meant to be funny. Charlie had started calling her ‘Jessica Rabbit’s evil twin’.

  Charlie burst through the back door. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve missed breakfast?’ She was red-faced and panting, hefting a large present in polka dot wrapping paper.