Blood Sisters: The #1 bestselling thriller from the author of My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  Fear. Flu. Call it what you will. But something scary is seeping through my bones.

  I can no longer blame Grandad Barry. Pretend it’s all a harmless prank.

  Someone is after me.

  MAY ALL YOUR SINS BE FORGIVEN.

  No one knows where I live. I am paranoid about that. The colleges where I teach – and even the prison – all have a PO Box address listed for me. (I had put it down on my original application form.) The only post I receive is from utilities. I don’t have a Facebook account. I regularly change my pay-as-you-go mobile number. Naturally, I’m careful who I give it to.

  So how did the card with the sparkly carriage and the London postmark get here?

  My sheets are soaked with sweat. And, despite the cold sharp air that’s coming through the open window, my entire body is burning.

  Or did it begin burning during dinner with Lead Man? There was something about him that stirred longings inside me I’ve only had once before. Something I don’t want to think about.

  Anyway, it’s not right. I’m not allowed. I would be letting down my sister. Hadn’t I deprived her of love? She could’ve been married by now. I might have been a bridesmaid. It’s what sisters do …

  These thoughts are going round my head when my mobile goes. Listlessly, I reject the call, then check the time and the caller. 11.59 a.m. MUM.

  I yearn to talk to her but I need to get my story right first.

  I am going to have to leave my flat now I’ve been found. Find another hiding place. My heart sinks at the thought. I like it here. Besides, even if I do move, what’s to say I won’t be found again?

  One thing is clear. Mum mustn’t know what’s going on. She’s had enough to deal with already. My hot index finger starts texting a message.

  But then I hesitate. I don’t want to say I’ve got flu or she’ll be round here, ministering to me. She tried to do that after the accident and it didn’t work. We were both too consumed by our grief. My sister’s empty room. Her silent place at the table. Her shoes which still lay, waiting, for her to slip back into them.

  Sorry. Am with friends

  I can barely concentrate on the screen.

  Speak later

  Then my sweaty fingers drop the phone on to the floor and I let the darkness take me.

  20

  Christmas Day 2016

  Kitty

  At the hospital they put her arm in plaster. According to the nurse, she had fractured it (‘poor love’) when she had fallen on it. At least it had got rid of Flabby Face. But now she had an arm she couldn’t use – how would she be able to wheel her chair if she needed to get away?

  The nurse had just finished. Kitty wanted to get back home and be safe. But – for some reason – they were looking at the rest of her. Why? What the fuck was going on?

  ‘Can you hold her legs down, nurse, so she doesn’t flail about like that? Thank you. Now, Kitty. This is a special machine. It’s going to look inside your tummy to check everything is in order. This might feel a bit wet and sticky. It’s called gel. We need it to do the ultrasound.’

  Gel was for hair. Maurice used it. But what was an ultrathingy?

  Kitty stared up at the big screen in front of her. It was a mess of lines, bobbing up and down and making funny noises. Looked like they needed a new telly.

  ‘Do you see that?’

  The doctor’s voice was different from before.

  The nurse gave a strange nod. One that looked as though it didn’t want to be there.

  Then there was a heavy sigh. It seemed to come from both of them. ‘Thank you, Kitty. Now nurse will help you get dressed again.’

  ‘No,’ said Kitty, shaking her head and then nodding it just to be certain. ‘I rather like this gown that you’ve put me in. Green and white! Makes a change from the clothes I have to wear in the home. And how about bloody lunch?’

  But they were wheeling her out. Back down the squeaky corridors. Into the van through the streets where people walked instead of pushing themselves in chairs. And into the home.

  That’s when it really started to kick off.

  21

  January 2017

  Alison

  When I finally feel better, I turn on the television and watch the morning presenter wittering on. That’s when I realize I’ve missed not only Christmas but New Year’s Eve too. They’ve never been the same since the accident. Even before, I’d always been conscious of a father’s absence at this ‘family’ time of year. So I’m grateful for the blurring of the last few days. All I can recall is my burning body, getting up to stagger across to the kitchen with a dry mouth to get more water and – or have I imagined this? – the sound of someone at the front door. But I was so ill all I could do was wait for my fate to come for me.

  Yet it hadn’t.

  Now, I look down at my sweaty body and my damp sheets which have that distinct odour of illness. I am still here. I’ve survived. Whoever sent those messages hasn’t got me.

  So far.

  Of course, I tell myself as I take a warm shower and make myself get dressed despite still feeling weak, I don’t have to go back to the prison.

  Instead, I can just leave. Move flats, find a new job. Think of some story to tell Mum. But I have to be brave. For my sister’s sake.

  I search for my phone while doing up my jeans. The waist hangs loose on me after not eating for so many days. There are a few missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. This freaks me out. Could it be the person who sent the card?

  There are also several texts from Mum. The disappointed ones come first.

  So sorry you can’t make it. Hope you had a nice time with your friends.

  I can tell she’s curious. In truth, I don’t have either the time or inclination for a social life, although I had enjoyed that college dinner with Lead Man …

  Then came the worried ones.

  Where are you? Please let me know you’re all right.

  Do all thirty-something women feel like this about their mothers? Such a mix of guilt and fear and love?

  But we are different. Mum and I had been close before. Yet the accident has given us an extra bond that no one else could understand unless they’d been through it.

  When I ring, having worked out my excuse, the answerphone is on. Maybe she’s out for a sherry with a neighbour who feels sorry for this woman whose own daughter can’t be bothered to see her at this time of the year.

  ‘Mum, it’s me. Look, I didn’t want to tell you earlier but I haven’t been well. Only flu. Can you call? I could come down next weekend, if you like. I’ve got to go back to the prison tomorrow.’

  Too late, I wish I’d said ‘work’ instead of ‘prison’. My mother has made it clear that she’s still ‘unhappy about this job of yours’.

  Meanwhile, my stomach is rumbling. I need food. There’s nothing in the fridge. I’d been planning to go shopping before I got ill. Even the eggs are out of date. But my legs have suddenly gone weak. Supposing my stalker is waiting outside the door?

  ‘Alison!’

  The voice in the communal hallway strikes fear into me before the sensible part of my brain registers who is speaking.

  It’s my landlord. For a minute, I almost don’t recognize him. Gone are the usual rather scruffy blue jeans. Instead, he wears a pair of beige chinos and a different pair of slippers – they have Rudolph faces.

  ‘I thought I heard the odd movement so I’ve been knocking on your door a few times to see if you wanted to share a meal or have a drink.’

  I am so heady with relief that I want to hug him. But, of course, I don’t.

  ‘I’ve been in bed with flu,’ I say.

  He edges away. ‘Won’t come near then, if you don’t mind. Got the grandchildren coming round.’

  So his offer of a meal had just been out of charity. The kind of thing you do when you have a single lodger. As for the grandchildren bit, that was the first time he’d ever mentioned anything about his personal life. Once more, I fe
el desperately alone. Mum doesn’t count. We’re both as lonely as each other. Especially when we’re together.

  Then I head out into the street and make for the corner shop. Is anyone watching? I can’t see an obvious candidate.

  It almost makes it scarier. If I knew who was after me, at least I could prepare myself.

  When I get back, I realize I’d left my mobile behind. There it is, lying on the sofa. The screen announces that I’ve missed a call. It’s the same number I noticed before. A heavy feeling settles in my chest. Should I ring back? Yes. No.

  I go to the window. A woman is walking past with her dog. A youth is cycling by. Someone out there is watching and waiting.

  What would my sister do?

  Get one step ahead, of course.

  I can almost hear her voice.

  But maybe she’s right.

  Perhaps, instead of being scared, I need to take the initiative. I just need to think how.

  22

  January 2017

  Kitty

  ‘Something’s … up,’ whispered Margaret at supper that night. ‘She … is being … too … nice.’

  It was true. Bossy Supervisor had treated Kitty differently from the minute she’d returned from the hospital. Was her poor arm all right? Would she like a sweet cup of tea?

  Of course, she didn’t direct her questions at Kitty herself. She asked the carer instead. But in Bossy Supervisor’s mind, this was the same thing.

  ‘When … she’s … like this,’ added Margaret, ‘it … means … trouble.’

  That was true too. When Duncan had splashed himself with hot water from the tea urn to ‘stop my skin itching’, Bossy Supervisor was particularly kind to him before taking him to the hospital. It was, they all agreed, because she was frightened he’d report one of the staff for leaving the urn unattended.

  The next day, Friday Mum turned up, which was odd because it was a Wednesday. The pretty presenter with the bright red lipstick had told them that on breakfast TV only that morning.

  ‘Your mum and that bossy old supervisor are having a right old barney,’ reported Duncan excitedly. He was scratching his knee as he spoke. Not a pretty sight as he’d rolled up his trouser leg to do so. His calf was still angry red from where the tea urn water had bitten him.

  Kitty and Duncan and Margaret were in the lounge, but they could hear phrases like ‘responsibility’ and ‘duty of care’ screaming out of the office.

  Then Friday Mum came out with red eyes and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry, love. It will be all right.’

  ‘Go away,’ said Kitty, turning her face away. ‘Can’t you see I’m watching a bloody programme. Come back when it’s your proper day.’

  This seemed to make Friday Mum cry even more. ‘Wish I knew what you were saying. I really do.’

  Thankfully, she left then, but the interruption meant that Kitty missed the bit where the good-looking doctor kissed the nurse. Margaret had to tell her about it instead. Kitty liked the doctor because he reminded her of Johnny. She missed him so much that she felt physically sick. She couldn’t even eat. It stuck at the top of her chest and wouldn’t go down. ‘Please bring him back,’ she prayed that night.

  Kitty didn’t normally pray. What was the point of talking to someone you couldn’t see? But Margaret was what she called ‘a … devout … Catholic’ and always wore a cross around her neck. A pretty gold one that reminded her of … No. The memory had almost been there that time.

  Her roommate also said her prayers on her knees every night before going to bed. Kitty wasn’t able to get down on her knees, of course. But the Good Lord would still listen to her. That’s what Margaret said, anyway.

  And she was right! The very next day, Duncan came flapping in. ‘Your Johnny’s here.’ He was so excited that he forgot to scratch himself. ‘He’s here in the office with his mother. And your mother is there again too.’

  Impossible. She was here only yesterday.

  ‘Maybe … they’ll … call … you … in … too,’ said Margaret.

  Kitty waited and waited.

  At one stage the voices got even louder. A door slammed. Footsteps approached. It was Friday Mum. She was in tears. ‘I’m so sorry, Kitty. But it’s for the best.’

  What was for the best?

  Then Johnny’s mother appeared behind her. Her eyes were red too. ‘You poor, poor dear,’ she said, kissing the top of her head and leaving a lovely smell behind.

  ‘I want to see Johnny.’ Kitty hammered on the chair with the good hand. It made an even better noise with the plaster on it. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘What is the poor girl saying?’

  Friday Mum burst into tears. ‘I wish I knew.’

  Johnny’s mother patted her on the arm. ‘Maybe we’d better go back into the office, Lilian. The others are due to arrive any minute, aren’t they?’

  She looked at Kitty and shook her head. ‘They should never have allowed this to happen.’

  What shouldn’t have happened? What?

  23

  January 2017

  Alison

  Somehow I’m back here. Inside.

  I’ve spent the last few days trying to work out my strategy and considering all the options. Who are the notes from? Maybe someone is winding me up. Hadn’t Angela warned me about this? But if the notes are genuine, I’m probably safer in prison than being in the flat. At least here I’m surrounded by people, with guards only a whistle away.

  Either way, I cannot give in my notice. I need the money and there aren’t that many vacancies for artists. You have to take what you can get. But I’m going to be on my guard from now on. Far more than before.

  The older man with the eastern European accent, Stefan, is waiting for me today in Education, along with Kurt and some new faces. There’s a banker – he’s keen to tell me this as if wanting to differentiate himself from the others. He particularly keeps his distance from Stefan, who’s looking scruffier than the last time I saw him: hair unkempt and the shadow of a beard on his cheeks.

  Despite my earlier determination to stand up for myself, I cannot stop shaking all through my class.

  ‘You are ill, I think,’ Stefan says.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I retort dismissively.

  What if I find another message? By lunchtime, I have decided to ask Angela’s advice. Out of everyone here, she’s the one person I trust the most. I haven’t seen her for the last few days – maybe I’ll catch her in the canteen today.

  But she’s not there. Instead, there’s a huddle of women from the admin office, talking quietly at a corner table. ‘What’s going on?’ I say in what I hope is an easy manner. I’ve never been a girl’s girl. Far better on my own. In fact, Angela is the closest I’ve come to having a work friend. Perhaps it’s because this environment is so different from anything I’ve come across.

  ‘It’s Angela.’

  No! When something bad has already happened to you in life, you are constantly on the alert for the next thing. She’s been attacked. She’s ill. She’s –

  ‘Angela’s been sacked.’

  I don’t believe it.

  ‘She’s been selling mobile phones to the men.’

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Is this a joke? She wouldn’t do anything like that.’

  Not Angela who was always telling me what to do and what not to do. Not Angela who was always helping me understand prison rules.

  ‘That’s just the tip of it,’ adds one of the others. ‘She’s been flogging weed too. Hiding it at the back of the stationery cupboard, can you believe? That’s how she was caught. She’d had a spare key made for the blokes she was passing the stuff on to. One of the officers found it during a routine search of B hut.’

  The stationery cupboard.

  ‘Silly idiot,’ snorted someone else. ‘If you’re going to break the law, make sure you cover your tracks.’

  I stay quiet. I’m trying to take it in. How could I have been so naive?

  ‘Did it
to pay some of her husband’s debts, apparently,’ adds the first woman. ‘And now she’s the one in prison. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Not everyone is who they seem to be in this place.’

  I can barely concentrate on my afternoon workshop. I’m still reeling. I’ve received a short note from the governor which absolves me of having left the stationery cupboard unlocked. There is no formal apology. But the inference is clear. My so-called friend Angela, whom I’d trusted, had allowed me to be the scapegoat for her crime. Was it possible that she had been the one who’d reported the ‘open’ stationery cupboard? But why the delay in reporting? Perhaps she was trying to throw me off the scent. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d heard of staff turning against each other in prison.

  What am I doing in this terrible place?

  My legs still feel weak from that wretched flu. The sooner I get home, the better. Then, just as I’m about to get into the car to set off, my phone bleeps with an email from the college.

  Lead Man. He would like to sign up for the spring-term course but it’s full. Would I mind fitting in an extra student?

  I feel a flash of excitement followed by doubt and then excitement again.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I email back. Then I wonder if I’ve done the right thing.

  Minutes after I send the reply, my phone rings. Clive? Of course not. He doesn’t have my number. It’s Mum.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  I often start a phone call with Mum like this. So does she. After the accident, we both have this fear that another tragedy will befall one of us, leaving the other totally alone.

  ‘Darling, I don’t want to worry you. But something’s happened.’

  I listen, stunned by what she is telling me. Suddenly Lead Man isn’t important. Nor are my men who are waiting for me. Nor is Angela’s betrayal, even though it still physically hurts my chest.