Lies Between Us: a tense psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming. Ronnie Turner

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       Chapter 7

      Miller

      Thursday 10 July, 1986

      They tell me she is special. They stare in wide-eyed wonder at her face and coo and giggle when she mumbles. They look at me, then instantly, with a rising of the shoulders and a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head, look away, wishing they hadn’t looked in the first place. They wonder why I’m with her, wonder how someone like me could be the brother of someone like her. And if they are in the mood, they lean forward and whisper, as if whispering to someone who won’t understand, ‘You have a very special sister. Aren’t you lucky?’

      If she cries, a hundred hands fall to comfort her. If she laughs, they stop and turn, row upon row of strangers, expressions flickering from surprise, to joy, to envy. If she smiles at someone, that someone will look as if they have just been gifted with a miracle.

      If someone is sad, she will waddle up to them on her chubby legs and pat their hand like a friend, not the toddler she is. And they will look at her in wonder, touched, mesmerised, wanting nothing more than to take her in their arms, to be as close as close can be. If someone laughs, she laughs with them and they stand a little taller, smile a little wider.

      She possesses something nobody truly understands but everybody wants to share. A kindness, a gentleness, a lightness they’re all fighting and tumbling and burning for in what is a bleak world. I think they sense it, you know. I think they feel how good she is. How pure. The honeyed, sweet, tempting child they all wish was theirs. Mother and Father lap it up, sucking in the attention and love for their daughter, revelling in the atmosphere she creates.

      You’re like her. You snatch people’s attention, their ability to walk away, their minds, their love. There aren’t many people like the two of you. I wonder if a part of you knows this? No, you probably don’t. You are not arrogant. You are honest. I remember the time you used your mother’s expensive hand lotion, sneaking into her room and quietly depositing a glob of the mango-scented stuff on your hand. I saw you. I watched from the window. You rubbed it into your skin, a smile turning up the corners of your mouth, nose grazing your hands. Later, when your mother asked if she could smell it, your face blazed with embarrassment and you scuffed your feet on the floor and stared down as you nodded and offered her your hands. But how could she be irritated? How could anyone ever be angry with you?

      So honest. So sweet. So perfect.

      They took her to the hairdresser yesterday, you know, probably so I can’t pull her curls anymore. They stood back and watched as a gaggle of middle-aged women with rolled hair poked her stomach and squeezed her cheeks, eliciting moans of agony. Mother held her hands to her chin, proud of her sweet, rosy-cheeked daughter. Father stood by her side, nodding when a goose exercised her beak and asked if she liked mints. Yes, yes, she does, he said. The goose chuckled and popped one into her mouth. Because she couldn’t do it herself, could she?

      Mother saw me glaring and glared back. While Mary was having her hair cut, the women dispersed to their own chairs. I watched the snap of the scissors, wishing they would inch just a little further to the left. Snag the skin of her earlobe. Mary would cry and scream, and the geese would see how troublesome she could be.

      I brushed away Mother’s warning hand and shuffled to the chair. The hairdresser smiled at me, but I saw it was a false one, unlike the smile she sent Mary through the mirror every few seconds. I bent down and pushed my hand through the curls of blonde hair, smearing them across the floor. Then I stood back up, making sure I jolted the hairdresser’s arm as I went.

      ‘Oh!’

      I turned and went back to my seat as Mary began to scream and the hairdresser cried, ‘OH MY GOD! SOMEBODY GET THE FIRST-AID KIT! GET THE FIRST-AID KIT! GET IT!’

      Mother and Father jumped up and rushed to her side, words soothing, fingers mollifying. I watched the scene play out, letting rip a torrent of apologies and false tears.

      ‘I’m sorreeeee! I… I didn’t mean it! It… it was an accident! I’m really sorry! Is… is she OK? Mummy, Daddy?’

      I expected the geese to turn and throw dirty looks, angered by the disruption, but they didn’t. They flocked to Mary like geese to a family throwing pieces of bread. They told her she ‘must be brave’ and ‘oh, it’s just a little cut’. They fondled her cheeks and kissed her forehead. And I thought, if those stupid women were geese, I would throw them shards of glass inside balled-up bread.

      Mother said I meant to do it. I meant to jostle Christine, the hairdresser. I told her I didn’t, of course, but nevertheless she made me clean the dirty dishes and sweep the floor. Then, when she ran out of ideas for punishment, she sent me away to my room.

      Mary had a plaster on her ear. Mother said she could spend the rest of the day watching cartoons because she was such a brave girl. She sat on the sofa, calling my name, asking me to join her. I didn’t, though. It was only when Mother ordered me to help her hang a frame that I went down. She was holding a nail to the wall, hammer in the other hand. I stood by her side, awaiting instructions, but she was utterly focused on what Mary was saying over her shoulder.

      ‘Mamma, sheep, sheep!’

      ‘Well done, Mary, sweetheart. That’s right. It’s a sheep.’

      I glanced from Mary to Mother, my fingers prickling. Then I snatched the hammer from her hand and slammed it against the nail of her finger.

      She screamed and spluttered. And when she looked up at my face, her mouth cracked open, just wide enough for a letter to slot through, and her eyes turned to angry blue discs.

      ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to help. I’m really, really, really sorry, Mummy.’

      She gave me a tight nod. ‘It’s… OK. It’s OK. Now, off you go, son.’ No darling, no sweetheart, no honey. Nothing.

      I went back upstairs then and laid my head back on the pillow and smiled.

      *

      I swing my legs back and forth under the dining table, СКАЧАТЬ