Read Online Sister: A Novel by Rosamund Lupton - Free Book Online

snow.

    I walked slowly towards them. My mind was oddly calm, noticing at a remove that my heart was beating irregularly against my ribs, that I was short of breath, that I was shivering violently. Somehow my mind kept its distance, not yet a part of my body’s reaction.
    I passed a park ranger, in his brown uniform, talking to a man with a Labrador. ‘We were asked about the lido and the lake, and I thought that they were going to dredge them but the chief officer fellow decided to search our disused buildings first. Since the cuts we’ve got a lot of those.’ Other dog walkers and joggers were joining his audience. ‘The building over there used to be the gents toilets years ago, but it was cheaper to put in new ones than renovate.’
    I passed him and his audience, walking on towards the police. They were setting up a cordon around a small derelict Victorian building half-hidden by bushes.
    A little way from the cordon was WPC Vernon. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale, her eyes puffy from crying; she was shaking. A policeman had his arm around her. They didn’t see me. WPC Vernon’s voice was quick and uneven. ‘Yes, I have, but only in hospital, and never someone so young. Or so alone.’
    Later, I would love her for her physical compassion. At the time, her words burned into my consciousness, forcing my mind to engage with what was happening.
    I reached the police cordon. DS Finborough saw me. For a moment he was bewildered by what I was doing there and then his expression became one of sympathy. He walked towards me.
    ‘Beatrice, I’m so sorry—’
    I interrupted him. If I could stop him saying the words then it wouldn’t be true. ‘You’re wrong.’
    I wanted to run away from him. He took hold of my hand. I thought he was restraining me. Now I think he was offering a gentle gesture of kindness.
    ‘It’s Tess we’ve found.’
    I tried to pull my hand away from his. ‘You can’t know that for sure.’
    He looked at me, properly, making eye contact; even then I realised that this took courage.
    ‘Tess had her student ID card with her. I’m afraid there isn’t any mistake. I’m so sorry, Beatrice. Your sister is dead.’
    He released my hand. I walked away from him. WPC Vernon came after me. ‘Beatrice . . .’
    I heard DS Finborough call her back. ‘She wants to be alone.’
    I was grateful to him.

    I sat under a copse of black-limbed trees, leafless and lifeless in the silencing snow.
    At what point did I know you were dead? Was it when DS Finborough told me? When I saw WC Vernon’s pale tearful face? When I saw your toiletries still in your bathroom? Or when Mum phoned to say you’d gone missing? When did I know?
    I saw a stretcher being taken out of the derelict toilet building. On the stretcher was a body bag. I went towards it.
    A strand of your hair had caught in the zip.
    And then I knew.

4
    Why am I writing this to you? I deflected that question last time, talked about my need to make sense of it all, my dots of detail revealing a pointillist painting. I ducked the real part of the question - why to you? Is this a make-believe game of the almost insane? Sheets and blankets make a tent, a pirate ship or a castle. You are the fearless knight, Leo is the swashbuckling prince and I am the princess and narrator - telling the story, as I want it. I was always the storyteller, wasn’t I?
    Do I think you can hear me? Absolutely yes / Definitely not. Take your pick; I do hourly.
    Put simply, I need to talk to you. Mum told me I didn’t say very much till you were born, then I had a sister to talk to and I didn’t stop. I don’t want to stop now. If I did, I’d lose a part of me. It’s a part of me I’d miss. I know you can’t criticise or comment on my letter to you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know your criticisms or guess at your comments just as you used to know and guess at mine. It’s a one-way conversation, but one that I could only have with you.
    And it’s to tell you