The Good Sisters. Helen Phifer

you should take yourself to bed and get some rest, Agnes. I’m here. I’ll sleep in the lounge. Don’t worry, I’ll listen out and if you need anything then shout and I’ll be there.’

      ‘Yes, Father, thank you.’

      She pushed her brandy away. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach made it churn at the thought of drinking any more of the sweet liquid. As she stood, she saw Mary’s reflection staring back at her from the kitchen window. Her head hung limply to one side and her arm was missing. Blood was dripping from her mouth and the front of her nightdress was covered in the bright red liquid.

      The room began to swim and Agnes heard the sound of a chair being scraped back against the parquet floor. A strong pair of arms caught hold of her before she fell to the ground. Patrick scooped her up and carried her upstairs to her bedroom as if she were no heavier than a feather. He laid her on the bed and stepped back.

      ‘Agnes, should I phone for the doctor?’

      ‘No, thank you; I think you’re right, Patrick. I’m very tired and I haven’t eaten much today. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.’

      She watched him leave, closing the door behind him. As soon as her legs felt strong enough to carry her weight she would lock it, then drag her heavy chest of drawers across to put in front of it. What good that would do was beyond her, but it would make her feel better. A voice whispered in her ear: It didn’t help poor Mary, did it? She’s still here, stuck in this house with nowhere to go. Agnes could no longer keep her eyes open and she closed them, sinking down into a deep sleep. So deep that she didn’t make it off the bed to lock her door.