Inside the Whispers (Dr Samantha Willerby [Chilling Thriller] Series Book 1)

by A J Waines

  She dropped her head. ‘Yes, well – that didn’t quite work out. After the shock of...this,’ she cautiously touched her cheek, ‘and being rushed to hospital, I must have got the dates mixed up. ’

  ‘So why are you here and not at home?’ Something serious must have happened for her to end up at my flat. ‘Why the hostility? Aren’t you just a bit pleased to see your dear mother?’

  ‘Listen - I’ve got to get to work.’ I said. No way was I playing happy families now. I stood with my hands on my hips. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Well…when I told your father I wasn’t going away after all, we had…a bit of a row. He had the audacity to say he was looking forward to a week without me. He even had a go at me about that sister of yours…’

  I twisted my mouth, hiding the smile. Good on you, Dad.

  She sighed. ‘Tea would be nice…’

  I boiled a kettle, poured her a cup and left it on the ledge in the hall. Then I walked past her and finished emptying the washing machine. She took the tea into the sitting room and began flicking through my books. I folded the last towel and stood in the doorway, watching her.

  She shook her head. ‘Little bit tacky, darling, a bookshelf made with bricks.’ She pulled out a thick volume and browsed the opening pages. ‘This library book is overdue,’ she said, handing it to me.

  The light from the window fell across her face and I noticed the scar on her cheek. It was the same shade as her lipstick with intervals of white stretched skin between the stitches, making it look like my sister’s teeth were still embedded in it.

  ‘I went to see Miranda,’ I said.

  ‘Is she still insisting on using that ridiculous name?’

  ‘Mum!’ I protested.

  ‘We all know Mimi’s got serious problems – just look at me. I’m disfigured for life.’ She fiddled with the scarf, trying to get it to cover the wound. ‘And by my own daughter no less. Such a wicked child. Hard to believe we’re the same flesh and blood.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ I snapped.

  ‘Why are you on your high horse?’

  ‘She told me,’ I said, pinning my eyes on hers.

  ‘Told you what? What nonsense is it now?’

  My tongue wouldn’t form the words properly. ‘You…t-took advantage…’ I stuttered. ‘You forced her into…’ I stopped and started again. ‘You molested her. That’s what you did.’

  She clicked her tongue as if I’d accused her of squeezing the toothpaste tube in the middle. ‘Not all that business again.’ She sounded bored. ‘Don’t tell me you’re tempted to believe her?’ She threw her eyes up and plumped herself down onto the sofa.

  I was caught unawares. My mother’s dismissal came across as entirely uncontrived. I didn’t know what to think. Was she one step ahead of the game? Was she so clever that she’d pre-empted this accusation, knowing it would come, one day?

  ‘I might not have been the perfect parent,’ she conceded. ‘I’ve never been all that maternal, but I took good care of both of you. I loved you, nurtured you, encouraged you.’ Her words were underpinned by an earnest tremor. ‘I’ve got my faults. Maybe I pushed the two of you too hard at times, but I knew you were bright, capable. I wanted the very best for you. But I never laid an inappropriate finger on either of you. I can’t imagine the kind of mother who could do such a thing.’

  ‘You never touched her?’

  She bolted upright. ‘Not like that. What do you take me for? You didn’t see the half it, Sam. She hated me from the day she came into this world. She did nasty, despicable things you never knew about…’

  ‘Like what?’ I was still standing with my arms folded.

  ‘You really want to know?’ She patted the sofa beside her.

  I stayed where I was. ‘I want the truth. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

  She sat back. ‘Mimi, sadly, is unhinged. Always has been. When she was old enough, she used to collect rabbit droppings and put them in my face cream. She tore holes in my dresses, stole money from my purse. I caught her once, spitting in my coffee. She was a very sick little girl. She claimed I was touching her back then, she even told our GP.’

  I was flummoxed. This wasn’t what I was expecting. I felt like I was slowly sinking. I needed to get a more reliable person’s side of the story.

  ‘If that’s true, you won’t mind me calling Dad.’

  She waved her hand, unconcerned. ‘Go ahead – but don’t tell him I’m here. He thinks I’ve gone to Guernsey on my own.’

  I picked up the phone and punched in his number, watching her for signs she might be backtracking. She went back to looking at my books, unperturbed.

  He answered with a weary sigh. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Hi, Dad, it’s just a quick call. This is going to sound left-field,’ I said, ‘but I wanted to ask you something…about Miranda.’

  ‘Of course, what is it?’

  I had to dive straight in. ‘When she was younger did she ever make an accusation…of abuse of any kind?’

  He was quiet and I could tell it didn’t come as a shock. The silence was a considered one, where he was trying to find the right words.

  ‘I’m afraid it did come to that at one point,’ he said. ‘She was seeing a child psychologist who put silly ideas into her head. Miranda was thirteen, I think. Claimed she could remember being abused at home.’ He carried on in his matter-of-fact tone. ‘The therapist told Dr Millais and she took it seriously, of course. We all had to go to various meetings and Miranda had to have a physical examination. It wasn’t pleasant. It was your mother she accused. As you can imagine, it all came to nothing. Just another of Miranda’s attempts to shock everyone.’

  Unease coiled up my spine. I shifted from one foot to the other, losing the certainty I’d had before.

  My father was speaking again before I had the chance to gather my thoughts. ‘I’m finally getting some peace and quiet without Moira,’ he said.

  I had my stare fixed on her as I spoke, raising my voice. ‘She’ll be in a much better mood after her break, Dad. She’ll be grateful for the way you’ve been running around after her, I’m sure.’ My mother was flicking through the Radio Times now, pretending not to listen.

  As soon as I ended the call, I gently slipped the magazine out of her hands.

  ‘Mum – look at me.’ I got close enough so that she was forced to make eye contact.

  I had to know for sure.

  ‘What did you say to Miranda,’ I said, ‘the day she attacked you?’

  ‘Nothing!’ It was crisp and too fast. I kept my eyes on hers, refusing to let her end it there. She gently dabbed at her corrugated skin with her fingertips. ‘I merely reached out to stroke her face and this is what I got.’

  ‘No, you said something to her.’

  ‘I’m telling you, I did not say a word.’

  I knew for a fact she was lying. Dad and Miranda had both told me, independently, that she’d said something. My ears filled with a roaring sound that made real life seem a long way away.

  To any outsider it might have looked like we’d reached a stalemate. Who would people believe? The word of a disturbed woman with a history of schizophrenia and attention-seeking or the assurances of her caring, doting mother who only ever wanted the best for her. Miranda had never stood a chance in any public arena in the past, and she wouldn’t now.

  But for me, it was clear-cut. My mother was a well-practised liar. She’d been doing it for years.

  I tried one final time. ‘Mum – did you abuse Miranda? Sexually abuse her as a child?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Nothing changed on her face, not one single muscle shifted or dropped, except for the slightest flicker of an eyelid. It was barely perceptible and had I not been scrutinising her face with an experienced eye, I would have missed it. But I’d seen it before. Just once or twice – when my mother had felt trapped or had something to hide. It told me, loud and clear, everything I needed to know
.

  Leo had been right. Miranda was telling the truth. I knew it in my bones. She’d told me her secret, not in a fit of spite or to shock me, but as part of our deepening relationship. It was a sign of her recovery. I knew enough about psychology to recognise that much. Besides, I had another way of finding out for sure – I’d go after work. I should have done it earlier, as soon as Leo mentioned it.

  ‘I’ve got patients,’ I said. ‘I need to get to the hospital.’

  I picked up my briefcase and was pulling on my jacket, when I realised my mother was speaking. She’d followed me into the hall. ‘…if that would be all right?’

  ‘What?’ I snapped.

  She casually brushed bits of fluff from her skirt on to the floor. ‘Just for a couple of nights.’

  My eyes snapped wide. ‘Stay here?’

  She sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t ask – only your father seems to have forgotten to transfer the usual amount into my account this month…I don’t have a penny.’

  He really was punishing her.

  ‘You know what I think?’ I said, snarling at her. ‘I think you blighted Miranda’s life. You resorted to…that…because she wasn’t the child you’d hoped for. Perhaps if you’d owned up to it, things may have been different…but I can’t have a relationship with you, not like this.’

  No way was I having this woman in my home any longer than I had to. I grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the door. ‘You’re throwing me out? After all I’ve done for you?’

  ‘This isn’t about me – it’s about Miranda.’

  A look of outrage took hold of her face. ‘So – what if I admitted to…those things your sister said…would that make any difference?’

  ‘You can’t have it both ways, Mum. You either come clean or you don’t.’

  I squashed her handbag against her stomach and opened the front door, easing her overnight bag over the threshold with my foot.

  ‘You don’t understand what a nightmare she was – that girl – I had to control her. I was at the end of my tether—’

  She dragged her feet towards the top of the stairs, her head bowed, like a bag lady. I felt not one ounce of pity for her as I slammed the door.

  I counted to fifty and left.

  Chapter 40

  Camden felt like it was just coming alive when I got there, after work. I wove through a mix of office workers and hippie types half my age holding pints of beer in plastic glasses. Passing vintage clothes stalls, jewellery stands and paperbacks spilling out of boxes onto the cobbles, I arrived at the lock area. A rich aroma of Moroccan spices followed me as I eased through curtains of wafting silk scarves until I reached the main door.

  Outside the gallery, a saxophone quartet was playing raucously and inside the foyer, a mime artist – male or female, I couldn’t tell which – had a group of children transfixed. I walked straight to the main gallery, dropping a fiver into the collecting box and picking up a brochure from the desk on the way.

  The majority of the paintings in the main room were Miranda’s and since I’d visited last time, several more had a red spot on the title card indicating a sale. I was cross with myself for not looking properly at the pictures that first time, for not stopping to take them in from a therapeutic, analytical point of view.

  I’d worked with patients using art materials before and seen how images could reveal what was impossible to put into words. Here was my tormented sister – my own flesh and blood – and I hadn’t even considered using these skills with her until now. I started on the right and read every title, scrutinised every painting.

  ‘She’s been trying to tell us, all along…’ I muttered to myself. It was all here. I’d been utterly blind.

  I stood back, allowing the images to speak to me. Instead of vague abstract shapes, this time, identifiable forms began to emerge from the splashes and rough brushwork. I could make out disfigured breasts, a distorted womb, scar tissue and torn female genitalia, dominated by the colours of fresh and dried blood. Nothing there was male – the symbolism was all female. In conjunction with the pictures, the titles brought everything into focus: Birthright, The Invader, Chosen, Child in the Night, moving on in intensity until I found the most savage painting with a ripped canvas, entitled, Mal Salope (which I later translated into Evil Bitch).

  I recalled Leo’s words: She paints, doesn’t she? Maybe the answer’s there.

  I felt like I was inside a lift where the cable has snapped, leaving me plummeting fast. Why, oh, why hadn’t I seen this earlier? Why hadn’t I talked to her? Asked questions? Realised what was going on?

  I’d turned my back on my sister for years when she needed me. I’d spurned her when she was a victim of incest – there was no other word for it. A crime that had been hidden under the pretence of normal family life. I felt as appalled with myself as I was with my mother.

  I stuffed the brochure into my pocket – the titles themselves felt like irrefutable evidence – and staggered out for some much-needed fresh air.

  In the thirty minutes or so since I’d been inside, it had started to pour down. The area had cleared of people and stallholders had brought out make-shift covers; tarpaulin and plastic sheets to cover their wares like shrouds for the dead. Suddenly, everything looked cheap and pitiful.

  Someone had left a bloodhound tied up to a large barrel and he had started howling. I felt like lying down in the expanding puddle beside him and letting the rain wash over me in some kind of improvised purgation ceremony. I stood in the puddle instead, allowing the water to creep over the edge of my sandals and seep under my toes.

  Could Miranda ever forgive me?

  The dog looked at me guardedly and sniffed at my trousers. He didn’t bark or bare his teeth, so I perched on the edge of the barrel, both of us getting drenched. Soon, the dog laid his muzzle on my leg, resignation in his big brown eyes, and stopped howling.

  Time passed and eventually a man with dreadlocks down to his waist came along to claim the dog. The bloodhound was ecstatic to see him, slobbering white spume onto his cuffs. I smiled at them both – at the purity of their bond – and headed to the Tube.

  The showers were over by the time I got to Hyde Park to meet Felicity. As I waited, I watched tourists avoid the skaters, who twisted and dodged around them perilously on the busy footpaths. I watched dogs chasing Frisbees, groups of children pretending to be Wayne Rooney. Everyone seemed to be joyful.

  Felicity tapped me on the shoulder from behind and offered me a lemon cupcake.

  ‘I don’t fancy it now,’ she said, holding the bag open for me.

  I took the sticky lump, holding it awkwardly in my hand. Seeing her again seemed to highlight Leo’s absence. I couldn’t stomach it either.

  We took a stroll around the lake and I asked how she was coping. She’d lost both parents in a matter of days.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said.

  We stopped by the water’s edge and I broke off half the unwanted cake and handed it to her. In unspoken kinship, we crumbled it and tossed it to the birds.

  She dusted off her hands. ‘By the way, I found this when I was looking through my father’s files.’ She handed me a small sealed envelope with my name on the front.

  I slipped out the single sheet:

  I suggest you get the painting insured. It’s an Absil. Just a little back-up for you and your sister, should you ever need it.

  It must refer to the painting Leo gave me.

  I held it out so she could read it. ‘Have you ever heard of a painter called Absil?’ I asked her.

  ‘Hughes Absil?’

  ‘Not sure. He painted a lonely boat drifting down the canal in Venice.’

  ‘Oh, I love that picture. Yes – Dad said he’d given you something special. It’s worth a fortune.’

  I pictured it on my bedroom wall above the bed. ‘I didn’t realise,’ I said.

  She kicked crumbs into the water.

  I turned to meet her eyes. ‘You’ve been through such a lot,’ I sai
d. ‘I might be speaking out of turn, but if you wanted to see a counsellor, I could help you find someone…’

  She nipped her lips together in a pinched smile. ‘I don’t want therapy.’

  I nodded. We stopped short as a group of geese took flight in front of us.

  ‘Let me know if you change your mind. I can recommend good people.’

  She dropped her head. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so. I don’t like the idea of paying someone to try to understand me.’

  I gave her a wry smile and we walked for a while, in silence.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ I said. She nodded. ‘Your father called himself Dr Hansson at the hospital, but he’s a surgeon. I mean, aren’t most surgeons called Mister?’

  ‘Good question. Dad always preferred a title. I think it made him feel more important in the eyes of the public. Sometimes people think that because you’re ‘Mr’ Smith or whatever, you’re not properly qualified. That was Dad’s pride.’ She laughed. ‘Oh – and alongside all his surgical training, he had a PhD in psychology. But, no doubt, you knew that.’

  I couldn’t help but smile. A PhD? Leo had managed to keep that particular achievement from me.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said. She pulled a bulky plastic carrier bag from her rucksack. ‘Here are the files. I hope they mean something.’

  She made a brave attempt at a smile and I hugged her. ‘If they’re significant, let me have them back and I’ll pass them on to the hospital – otherwise shred the lot, like Dad said.’

  Part of me wanted to offer to keep in touch, but I had the feeling it would be too painful for both of us.

  As soon as I got back, I tipped the contents of the carrier bag onto the kitchen table, then rang for a pizza. I needed something to take my mind off Miranda’s revelation and wading through Leo’s notes might do the trick.

  I glanced at my lava lamp and remembered Miranda’s childlike delight with it. I brushed against the apron on the back of the kitchen door. She’d been the last one to wear it. I felt a lump in the pocket and pulled out a lip-gloss she’d left behind. I unscrewed the top and took in the smell of it. It was like bubble gum and made me smile. She was everywhere. Everything I did, every movement I made, she was there with me. And so was the abuse. It was heart breaking.