The Sisters: A gripping psychological suspense. Claire Douglas

boxes, some empty, some still full, are stacked around me, the chest of drawers yawns open, revealing the clothes that I’d crammed in there earlier, a pile of books leans against the skirting board, threatening to topple over at any moment. I pick up the framed photograph of me and Lucy that I’ve unpacked and placed on the table next to my bed. We both look tanned, our arms around each other’s neck, grinning into the camera. It was taken while on holiday in Portugal with Callum and Luke, the summer before she died. We had come from the beach and, as we sat on the wall waiting for Luke to return with ice-creams, Callum, ever the photographer, decided to take a few snaps with his camera. Both Lucy and I have, or should I say had, the same photo by our beds. I wonder idly what happened to hers. Did Mum take it when she came to pack up her room, a job I was too distraught to do so I let my poor grief-stricken mother do it instead? The guilt still gnaws at me. I put the photograph down.

      The sky is hazy, shot through with violet and orange, the sun about to go out of sight behind the row of houses opposite. An evening breeze filters through the opening in the sash window, bringing with it the aroma of cut grass and bonfires. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, breathing in the smell of summer. I’m here, I’m actually here at last. And, when I think about it, getting here has been easier than I ever thought possible. I’ve managed to become part of her life within six short weeks.

      There is a soft knock on my half-opened bedroom door. My eyes ping open and I see a long denim-clad leg, a linen sleeve. I jump off the bed eagerly, causing the mattress to groan in protest.

      ‘Hi,’ says Ben sheepishly. ‘Can I come in?’

      I shrug. ‘If you want.’

      ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but it’s difficult with Bea. Her rules, you know.’

      ‘That’s okay, it probably wasn’t a good idea anyway,’ I say nonchalantly.

      The echoes of chatter, Pam’s raucous laugh and the clink of cutlery tell me that the others are still in the kitchen and I push the door closed on the darkening hallway with my foot.

      I turn to face him, noticing his downcast expression at my words.

      ‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘Because I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you since the party.’

      ‘Really?’ I’m annoyed at how eager I sound.

      He takes my hand. We are inches away from each other, his eyes are dark and intense in the half light and my heart hammers and I’m trembling with nerves. I don’t know who makes the first move, but we are suddenly kissing, his hands in my hair, mine stroking the warm soft skin of his back under his shirt. I’ve not felt so much desire since Callum. I press my body up against his, so that we’re as close as we can be with clothes on. His erection presses into my abdomen, his teeth nip my lips. I don’t know how long we kiss for, but I’m conscious that the room has darkened. Then he stops abruptly, pushing me gently away so that I almost stumble on one of my boxes.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, running his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

      I frown, confused. ‘Ben, it’s fine. I wanted you to kiss me. I’m glad you did.’

      I watch as he walks over to the window, his face like parchment from the light of the moon that filters through the open curtains. Something is clearly troubling him.

      ‘Beatrice has warned me off you,’ he says eventually.

      ‘What?’ I’m shocked. Why would Beatrice do that? Am I not good enough for her twin brother? ‘Why?’ For the first time, I’m furious with her.

      ‘Because of your sister, your twin. She told me that she died. I’m so sorry to hear that, Abi.’

      I swallow a lump that’s formed in my throat. ‘Thanks.’ I pause, something doesn’t add up. I walk over to where he stands by the window. ‘But why would that make her warn you off me?’

      He turns to face me. ‘She thinks you’re vulnerable after everything that’s happened to you.’

      I frown, oscillating between feeling flattered that Beatrice cares enough to worry about me and angry that she’s poking her nose into something that is none of her business. ‘She doesn’t know what happened to me.’

      ‘No, I know,’ he says, too quickly. ‘But she knows you’ve been through a lot. Call it woman’s intuition, I don’t know.’

      ‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions,’ I snap.

      ‘That’s what I told her,’ he murmurs. He grabs me by the waist and pulls me towards him, encircling me in his arms. He lowers his head and I shut my eyes expectantly, wanting, needing to be close to him.

      We are about to kiss again when the creak of the door makes us spring apart. I’m sure my expression can’t hide my guilt as Beatrice stands there, a shadowy figure in the doorway. ‘I thought you might both be in here. Why is it so dark?’ She switches the main light on and I blink with the assault on my eyes, little black patches swimming in my vision.

      ‘I’m unpacking, Ben was helping.’ I indicate the boxes stacked behind me, the nearly empty one by my bed. I know I don’t sound very convincing.

      ‘Oh, I’ll give you a hand,’ she says. ‘Ben, be a darling and bring up some wine.’ Ben scuttles from the room obediently and I notice that his shirt is hanging out of his jeans. He throws me a rueful smile as he leaves and I can’t help but grin back.

      I half-expect her to question me about Ben, to tell me she knows there’s something between us, but she doesn’t. Instead she goes to the small oblong box she carried for me earlier, the one that contains Lucy’s letters. It’s perched on the top of two larger boxes and I hold my breath as she picks it up, silently willing her to leave it alone. Don’t you know how precious that is? I want to wail. But she’s like a magpie with a new shiny trinket. She swivels on her heels towards me, the box in her upturned hands as if it’s an offering, a sacrificial lamb.

      ‘This one’s been damaged,’ she says innocently, and then I notice that the box is squashed and the brown tape holding the two flaps together, its lid, has come apart so the top is gaping open, revealing a hint of the coloured envelopes beneath. Frowning, I take the box from her.

      ‘I’ll go and see where Ben’s got to with that wine,’ she says, brushing past me, a look I can’t read in her eyes. When she’s gone I slump on to my sagging mattress, the box on my lap. Peeling back the flap of cardboard I take out the stack of pastel-coloured envelopes bound with an elastic band, and idly flick through them. Then, with a spark of realization and dawning horror, I go through them again, carefully counting them, knowing there should be twenty-seven, but even though I leaf through them five times, each time more frenzied, desperate, I can only count twenty-six. A letter is missing. My heart thuds in my chest, bile scratching the back of my throat. One of my precious letters is missing, the only tangible thing I have left of my twin, the only way I still get to hear her voice. It’s missing and I know that only Beatrice could have taken it.

      The lasagne from dinner curdles uncomfortably in my stomach. Why would she do this to me?

      I remember how Beatrice acted in the garden at Monty’s party, her calm nonchalance when she saw me with Ben, the way she stared at us both at the table tonight during dinner, and I’m suddenly painfully aware why she would do such a thing.

      Beatrice suspects that I fancy Ben and this is her way of punishing me.

      I’m bent double, trying to breathe deeply, my chest tight, my head swimming, and I don’t hear Beatrice walking back into the room until she’s standing over me with a glass of red wine in each hand.

      ‘Are you okay?’ she asks, handing me one of the wine glasses, which I take and place on the chest of drawers next to me. There’s something tucked under her arm, a flash of coloured paper. She seems to notice the shocked expression that must be evident on my face and follows my line of vision.