Read Online The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming by Louise Jensen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Jensen
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glugs her wine.
‘Then he dumped you?’
‘Nah. We had the next six weeks together. But then he disappeared. Didn’t even say goodbye. Haven’t seen him since. Don’t fucking want to.’
‘And you were pregnant when he left?’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t know.’
‘Surely you could have found him? Told him? He had a right to know about the baby.’
Lexie fumbles with her cigarette packet, delaying her answer, as if she’s formulating the words in her head before she says them. ‘I did tell him. He didn’t want us.’
‘I thought you said…’
‘He didn’t know until I told him, I meant. He didn’t want kids. Wanted me to have an abortion. Bastard.’
‘Does he know you didn’t? That he had a daughter?’
‘Course.’ Lexie swung her legs down, knocking over the wine. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
I fetch a cloth and kneel. Dab the threadbare rug, mopping up the claret liquid. ‘So what did he say when you told him about Charlie?’
‘I don’t bloody know. It was twenty-five years ago. Can barely remember what I did yesterday.’
‘Does he know Charlie died, Lexie?’
Lexie stares at the crimson stain, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘I don’t wanna talk no more.’
‘But Lexie, it’s important…’
‘Don’t ruin it, Grace. It’s been nice seeing you again but I’m tired.’ Lexie holds out her hand and I pass her the sopping cloth, pull on my shoes and gather my coat and bag.
‘We will talk again soon,’ I tell her.
She nods and we hug our goodnights.
As I climb into my Fiesta, I feel Charlie’s drawer handle in my pocket. I never did screw it back on. Still, it will give me an excuse to go back. I’ll need to return the picture of Paul that I slipped into my pocket while Lexie wasn’t looking. As I drive away, I can’t help but feel a frisson of excitement. I have a plan.
10
Now
M y muscles ache . I’m balanced on the edge of the mattress, teetering like a high-wire walker. Dan’s still asleep, lying on his back, mouth slack, forehead smooth as a pebble. Sleep’s erased the lines that furrow his brow the moment he wakes. Cold white sheets stretch between us, a gulf I still cannot cross not matter how much I want to. I’m not sure how he feels about me any more. I watch the rhythmic rise and fall of Dan’s ribs as his lungs expand and contract. I long to place my head on his chest. To feel the prickle of his dark hair against my cheek; hear the beating of his heart.
Grief is crushing, isolating, lonely. We have both lost Charlie, but Dan doesn’t know how I feel, not really, and how can he? At first I was mute with shock, unable to contemplate the simplest of tasks, to operate appliances I’d used a thousand times before. My toast was burned, clothes wrinkled. I lost my ability to communicate. Words knotted themselves on my tongue until I swallowed them, and they collided with the mass of emotions swirling inside me. If I couldn’t pinpoint how I felt myself, how could I express it to him? Dan began to work later and later, often rolling through the front door at midnight. The stairs creaked under his heavy tread and I’d screw up my eyes and lie still and silent as he fumbled with his clothes, flopping into bed beside me, the smell of alcohol so strong it was as if I’d drunk it myself.
It has been different lately. There has been a shift. He’s home more and I am back at work. Mixing with people as though I am one of them, as though I have not had the very fabric of my universe changed.
The windows rattle as the wind whips against them. The garden gate creaks open and thuds shut. I sit up and lean to reach my slippers. My neck cracks. I slip my feet inside faux fur and unhook my dressing gown, pad downstairs and open the front door. The apple tree is hunched over like an old man, braced against the wind. My slippered feet tread carefully on the frosty path and I yank the gate shut, latching it, knowing that it won’t hold.
In the kitchen, I switch on
‘Then he dumped you?’
‘Nah. We had the next six weeks together. But then he disappeared. Didn’t even say goodbye. Haven’t seen him since. Don’t fucking want to.’
‘And you were pregnant when he left?’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t know.’
‘Surely you could have found him? Told him? He had a right to know about the baby.’
Lexie fumbles with her cigarette packet, delaying her answer, as if she’s formulating the words in her head before she says them. ‘I did tell him. He didn’t want us.’
‘I thought you said…’
‘He didn’t know until I told him, I meant. He didn’t want kids. Wanted me to have an abortion. Bastard.’
‘Does he know you didn’t? That he had a daughter?’
‘Course.’ Lexie swung her legs down, knocking over the wine. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
I fetch a cloth and kneel. Dab the threadbare rug, mopping up the claret liquid. ‘So what did he say when you told him about Charlie?’
‘I don’t bloody know. It was twenty-five years ago. Can barely remember what I did yesterday.’
‘Does he know Charlie died, Lexie?’
Lexie stares at the crimson stain, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘I don’t wanna talk no more.’
‘But Lexie, it’s important…’
‘Don’t ruin it, Grace. It’s been nice seeing you again but I’m tired.’ Lexie holds out her hand and I pass her the sopping cloth, pull on my shoes and gather my coat and bag.
‘We will talk again soon,’ I tell her.
She nods and we hug our goodnights.
As I climb into my Fiesta, I feel Charlie’s drawer handle in my pocket. I never did screw it back on. Still, it will give me an excuse to go back. I’ll need to return the picture of Paul that I slipped into my pocket while Lexie wasn’t looking. As I drive away, I can’t help but feel a frisson of excitement. I have a plan.
10
Now
M y muscles ache . I’m balanced on the edge of the mattress, teetering like a high-wire walker. Dan’s still asleep, lying on his back, mouth slack, forehead smooth as a pebble. Sleep’s erased the lines that furrow his brow the moment he wakes. Cold white sheets stretch between us, a gulf I still cannot cross not matter how much I want to. I’m not sure how he feels about me any more. I watch the rhythmic rise and fall of Dan’s ribs as his lungs expand and contract. I long to place my head on his chest. To feel the prickle of his dark hair against my cheek; hear the beating of his heart.
Grief is crushing, isolating, lonely. We have both lost Charlie, but Dan doesn’t know how I feel, not really, and how can he? At first I was mute with shock, unable to contemplate the simplest of tasks, to operate appliances I’d used a thousand times before. My toast was burned, clothes wrinkled. I lost my ability to communicate. Words knotted themselves on my tongue until I swallowed them, and they collided with the mass of emotions swirling inside me. If I couldn’t pinpoint how I felt myself, how could I express it to him? Dan began to work later and later, often rolling through the front door at midnight. The stairs creaked under his heavy tread and I’d screw up my eyes and lie still and silent as he fumbled with his clothes, flopping into bed beside me, the smell of alcohol so strong it was as if I’d drunk it myself.
It has been different lately. There has been a shift. He’s home more and I am back at work. Mixing with people as though I am one of them, as though I have not had the very fabric of my universe changed.
The windows rattle as the wind whips against them. The garden gate creaks open and thuds shut. I sit up and lean to reach my slippers. My neck cracks. I slip my feet inside faux fur and unhook my dressing gown, pad downstairs and open the front door. The apple tree is hunched over like an old man, braced against the wind. My slippered feet tread carefully on the frosty path and I yank the gate shut, latching it, knowing that it won’t hold.
In the kitchen, I switch on
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