Cuckoo: A haunting psychological thriller you need to read this Christmas. Sophie Draper

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       CHAPTER 9

      ‘Hi, Steph.’

      I was in the kitchen, the cool blue light of my laptop shining out across the table. Even a few hours later, I was still shaken after dealing with the rat. I’d lit a candle to cheer myself. The tiny flame danced in the corner of my eye as Steph’s face wobbled and blinked and came into focus.

      ‘You okay? You sound a bit down.’ Steph’s voice was a surprising beacon of familiarity.

      ‘Oh. I’m fine, but it’s horrible going through all her stuff.’

      Steph nodded. ‘I can imagine. Rather you than me. How’s the weather? We’ve had a great blizzard here in New York. All flights are cancelled. I didn’t get to Miami. The whole place is under wraps, state of emergency and all that. We’re not supposed to leave our homes even to go to the shops whilst it’s like this.’

      I nodded. I’d watched the news whilst eating my tea, seeing the reports of a sequence of east coast blizzards in America and how they’d reached us from across the Atlantic.

      ‘Yeah, it’s a whiteout here too, I won’t be able to drive anywhere for a few days in this, but I’m well stocked up. Craig, my neighbour, has been round with a load of logs.’

      ‘Has he?’ Steph was smiling, reaching out for a mug of coffee. ‘And?’

      ‘Oh, he didn’t stay long.’

      There was a pause. Maybe Steph was hoping I might fill the silence with more details.

      ‘I’ve got a cat in the sitting room,’ I said.

      It was still there, supplied with a plate of cat food and a bowl of water. I’d have to let it out in a bit.

      ‘Really?’ Steph sounded distracted, disappointed perhaps that I wasn’t giving up more information about my kind neighbour.

      ‘Yeah, the cat turned up in the attic. God knows how it got up there.’

      I decided not to say anything about the rat.

      ‘And how are things with your work, are you managing to do some painting too?’

      ‘Oh, it’s good. My agent’s sent me a new commission for fairy tales and some of the stories are …’ I brought my hand up to cough. I wasn’t sure exactly what word to use, but I didn’t want to admit the effect they were having on me. ‘I’ve got loads of ideas.’

      I didn’t mention the book included the story of The Pear Drum.

      ‘That’s nice.’

      My sister sipped at her mug, hands curled around it, clothed in a casually elegant mohair sloppy jumper. There was an awkward silence.

      ‘Which one are you working on at the moment?’ she asked.

      ‘The Juniper Tree.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘It’s about a young boy and his stepsister. His father has remarried and the stepmother hates him, wanting his inheritance for her daughter.’

      ‘Oh right, that sounds familiar. Why are there so many evil stepmothers in those stories?’ Steph leaned back in her seat.

      I laughed. ‘This one’s particularly gruesome. The stepmother kills the boy and feeds him to his father.’

      ‘Yuk! Murder and cannibalism, what happened to happy ever after?’

      ‘Fairy tales aren’t always what Disney would have us believe. It’s not like my usual commissions, this one’s not really for children.’ I grinned.

      Steph laughed. ‘I should think not, from what you’re telling me!’

      Later, after the call ended, I started to paint.

      The house was quiet, the cat asleep on the sofa, apparently no longer distressed. I glanced outside. The night was arctic clear, the snow sparkling. As I stood in front of the kitchen table, brush in hand, I felt calmer, happier, I was in control with a paintbrush. Time didn’t matter, here on my own, surrounded by nature’s very own blank canvas.