Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (14 page)

H
er great-uncle
paused over every page in her portfolio. Each drawing received his full attention. Lindsey was nervous, unsure why she had accepted his invitation to have afternoon tea with him. It sounded so old-fashioned. She had imagined cucumber sandwiches in triangles and tiny cakes on a tiered stand but there had been no sign of food when she’d arrived with her portfolio case.

Answering his emails had been easy, especially when he had asked so many questions about her art, but here, in his apartment, with the sounds of the city too far below, she found it difficult to think of things to say to him.

‘Why didn’t you submit your portfolio to the art colleges?’ he asked when he’d finished examining her work.

‘I changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’m much more interested in studying computer science.’

He looked unconvinced and, for an instant, she was tempted to tell him about that last weekend with Sara. The thought went just as quickly.

‘You’ve a natural talent,’ he said. ‘You obviously take after your father.’

Lindsey disagreed but remained silent. Her father never claimed to be an artist. His drawings were precise, mechanical, unimaginative.

Her great-uncle ground beans and made coffee from a machine. No jars of instant in his kitchen press. He liked things exactly right, he said. That’s why he was such a successful politician. He told Lindsey about his constituency clinic, so crowded with people who believed he could move mountains on their behalf. It was hard not to feel flattered that someone so important was interested in her work, even if she no longer cared about art or college or anything to do with the future. He lived in his apartment when he was in Dáil Éireann but he longed for the weekends when he could return to Anaskeagh to see his grandchildren. Framed photographs hung on the walls. Lindsey saw her mother’s cousins for the first time. Conor and Kieran with their wives and children, so many relatives, and they were all strangers to her. An older photograph hung among the newer ones. Carnival time in Anaskeagh. Swingboats in the background and the big wheel flashing lights. Sara was young then, early teens, Lindsey guessed, and she carried a white bear she’d won on the Wheel of Fortune. His arm was around her shoulders. His hair was dark then and shorter. His wife stood on the other side of him, a small fat woman in ruffles. Lindsey leaned closer. The charm bracelet she had taken from Sara’s jewellery box was on her aunt’s arm. Sara must have inherited it when she died. Marjory was there too, smiling into the camera, looking so unlike the cranky old woman with the pursed-up mouth that Lindsey knew.

He carried the coffee to a wrought-iron table on the balcony. Lindsey sat on one of the two chairs and gulped great mouthfuls of air as it rushed in from the coast. Dún Laoghaire Harbour was visible, the sea glistening with sun-swept ripples. The ferries sailing across Dublin Bay reminded her of lumbering whales, thrusting their white snouts towards the horizon. Had her mother travelled on a ferry when she left Oldport for London? Weeks later, had her father followed her on the same one? They were married in London. Their wedding photo hung in the sitting room and Stewart, standing with his arm around her, looked so puffed up with happiness it made Lindsey smile every time she saw it. Until Sara had told her story – and then it just looked like a sham.

The coffee was too strong for her taste, but she drank it, unwilling to offend her great-uncle. He offered her biscuits curled like fine wood shavings and held one carefully between his thumb and forefinger. When she called him ‘Great-uncle Albert’ he said that made him sound like someone in a Dickens novel.

‘Uncle Albi will do fine,’ he said. ‘That’s what Sara and your mother used to call me when they were young.’ The biscuit he was holding snapped and scattered crumbs on his trousers.

She was shocked when he asked if she was ‘doing a line’. What did he think she was? A coke head?

‘A pretty girl like you must have a boyfriend,’ he said and they laughed together because language changed all the time. He used terms like ‘courting’ and ‘dating’, but she resisted telling him about Tork Hansen. How she used to walk past Woodstock, hoping he would notice her, but now she no longer cared if she never saw him again.

‘How’s Stewart?’ he asked. ‘He must be worried about his future, now that the factory has closed down.’

‘He’s upset in case he has to work abroad.’

‘I’m sure that’s not going to happen.’ Her great-uncle sounded so definite.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘That’s my little secret.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Better say nothing to your mother though. She’ll think I’m interfering in her business.’

‘Why does she…’ Lindsey searched for a diplomatic word but ‘hate’ was the only one that came to mind.

‘Why does she hate me? Is that what you wanted to ask, Lindsey?’

She nodded. No sense pretending. He was a politician and used to being insulted.

‘I’m afraid I made an enemy of her when her father became ill. Maybe I was wrong but I brought Barry Tyrell home to die among those who loved him.’

‘Granny Mac loved him too.’ It was weird to think that both her grandmothers had lived with the same man. But Granny Mac was the only one who loved him. His photograph was in a silver frame on a little table in her parlour. His eyes twinkled out at Lindsey. She could just imagine him being a charmer. A magical musician.

‘Mrs McKeever was not family,’ her great-uncle said. ‘You must understand, Lindsey. Family means everything to me. That’s why I’m heartbroken over Sara.’ He pressed his fist to his mouth. She wanted to run from his grief. It opened something raw and wild inside her.

‘Thanks for asking to see my work.’ She picked up her portfolio case. ‘I’d better go. Mum will be wondering―’

‘What would she say if she knew you were here?’

‘I’m not going to tell her.’

‘Is that because she’s refused to allow you to see me?’

‘Yes.’

He sighed. ‘We’ve all been through a terrible time. It’s sad that such sorrow has not united your mother and I. But Beth could never let bygones be bygones. She broke Marjory’s heart when she ran away and Sara’s too. However, that’s water under the bridge now. I’ve always had a soft spot for her, despite her wildness. Don’t you worry about your father. I always look after my own. You’ll see.’

Before she left, he cupped her chin in his big hand and said, ‘You’re a talented lass, and you’ll make your mark on the artistic world, I’ve no doubt about it. I knew from the moment you were born that you’d make your parents proud. You were such a bonnie, bouncing baby.’

‘Not me,’ she laughed. ‘You’re mixing me up with Robert. I was the titch in the family.’

‘Oh?’

‘Premature,’ she explained. ‘I scared the life out of my parents.’

‘Is that a fact?’ He looked confused. ‘Oh, dear, my memory is playing tricks again, but blood will out, I always say. You’ll come and see me again, I hope.’

As she hurried towards the train station, she wondered what he meant by ‘blood will out’. Such a strange thing to say. Unsettling too, because it forced her to remember that last weekend with Sara. It made no difference – no matter how hard she tried to banish it, the question was poised, ready to spring at her whenever she relaxed her guard.

C
onnie
, although she was retired, had wept when she’d heard that the gates of Della Designs were locked forever. Since then, Beth had hardly seen Stewart. He was busy working with Peter, negotiating redundancy settlements with the union and disposing of the machinery. The staff were being retrained to work in the pharmaceutical sector and the old building would be knocked down. A new factory would rise in its stead. Beth noticed an unfamiliar hardness in her husband’s expression when she asked what he intended to do in the future.

‘I’m not interested in repeating the mistakes of the past,’ he replied. ‘We need to get away from here.’

He talked about moving from Oldport and setting up his own manufacturing plant. In the past he had often mentioned this possibility, short-lived schemes that inevitably fizzled out. This time he was determined. The big fashion chains still needed small manufacturers on their doorstep who could respond to immediate trends. Fashion Lynx would back him with a major contract. He wanted Beth to work with him as an equal partner.

‘Remember how you turned Della Designs around when Peter was incapable of thinking straight after his mother died?’ he said. ‘Imagine what we could do together, the ideas you’d bring to the business.’

‘You’re living in the past, Stewart. I was a different person then.’

Her life then and now. She was unable to make any connection between them. The excitement of showing a new range, of travelling to New York, London, Paris. Bargaining with hawk-eyed buyers in black suits and flashing jewellery. Boundless energy, her mind closed to everything but her career and her future with Peter.

‘That’s not true.’ Stewart shook his head emphatically. ‘Your life has changed since then but you haven’t changed. Excellent grants are available if we move outside Dublin.’

‘I’d no idea you wanted to move. You never said anything about it.’

‘I’ve spoken about it many times, Beth. But I never thought you were listening.’

‘I’m listening now,’ she retorted. ‘This is a big decision, Stewart. Lifestyle stuff, our future, the children. What if it doesn’t work? What security have we to fall back on?’

‘Trust me, Beth. It’s a wonderful opportunity for both of us.’ He reached across the table and clasped her hands, pulling her towards a new beginning they could share.

‘Has it been difficult working with Peter?’ she asked. ‘I know how much you love Lindsey – what she means to you.’

He sat very still, measuring the words he needed to say in his deliberate way. ‘Lindsey is an extension of my love for you and that has never had any boundaries. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. As far as Peter’s concerned, he was simply my employer. I had a family to support and, once we decided to come home, I refused to let personal feelings get in the way.’

‘You never wanted to come back from London.’

‘But you did. Even then, you were worried about Sara.’

‘He believed I could talk to her, help her…’ Her voice broke. ‘It seemed possible at the time.’

‘Stop tormenting yourself, Beth. No one could have done more to help Sara. She had everything going for her,
everything
. I can’t understand. I simply can’t get my head round it.’

She sensed his frustration, his anger over the hurt that had been inflicted on his family by Sara’s suicide. Now he wanted a fresh start, but she was unable to feel anything other than weariness at the thought of another new beginning.

I
n the early
, uncertain weeks of her pregnancy, Peter, unaware of what they had created together, had asked for forgiveness. She despised his platitudes, his appeals for understanding. As if the love he felt for Sara was beyond his control. He stood abjectly before her, and she knew then that there was only one thing to do. A debt had been paid in full and the guilt that had haunted her since that night on Anaskeagh Head fell from her shoulders. She loved Peter Wallace. She carried his child. Stewart carried her. She’d opened the door of Marina’s flat soon after her arrival in London and found him standing outside.

Lindsey had been two weeks overdue, normal enough for a first baby, the gynaecologist had reassured them. She’d come into the world with a lusty cry and a strong confident kick.

‘My daughter,’ Stewart had said, staring in wonder when her tiny fingers gripped his thumb and held on tightly.

Watching them, Beth had vowed that this was the reality they would create together. Their own reality. She’d contacted Peter and Sara soon afterwards. A premature baby, she’d told them, growing stronger but still in an incubator. ‘Lindsey will soon be discharged from hospital,’ she’d said. ‘Stewart is living for the moment when we can hold our daughter in our arms.’

How had Sara discovered the truth? Beth imagined her shock and anguish. Was that what she had intended to discuss when she’d called so unexpectedly to Beth’s house? No. Sara had been carrying old secrets, not new ones. Beth would have known the difference. Something had happened between then and the night she’d flung that hard truth at Peter.

I
n bed
, drifting into a dream, she was a young girl again, running up the driveway towards Havenstone. Snow fell around her. An avalanche burying her until she called Peter’s name. He lifted her free, the heat of his hands melting the ice, the same heat radiating between them. Intense sexual heat that caused her body to throb with desire as she curled against Stewart. Her hand reached down, stirring him, and he, drowsily emerging from sleep, pulled her close, aroused as always by her touch. Aware of his heavy breathing as he entered her, the familiar contours of his body, and the hazy sensuous images from the dream, her excitement spiralled into an almost painful orgasm. She whispered Peter’s name, unaware that she had uttered it aloud until Stewart froze. He pulled away from her and switched on the bedside lamp. The pain in his eyes shamed her.

‘Look at me, Beth.’ He angled the light towards her. ‘This is my face – my body. If you’re still confused then this marriage has been a travesty. I never believed that was possible until recently.’

She tried to hold him, knowing it would be useless to defend herself. Stewart seldom lost his temper. When it did happen it was a quiet fury that nothing could quell save his own decision to put whatever had triggered his anger behind him. He rose and left her, sleeping downstairs on the sofa, where Lindsey discovered him the following morning.

Across the breakfast table she fixed angry, accusing eyes on her mother. Stewart left for a business meeting without saying goodbye. Words were inadequate to ease his hurt. When he returned that evening he silenced Beth’s stammered apologies, reluctant to discuss the matter any further. He moved back into their bedroom but they lay apart from each other, the space between them growing wider as the days passed.

In the heat of passion she had betrayed him. Infidelity of the mind, Beth realised, was just as unforgivable. A name spoken aloud and the years closed in around them. Old passions resurrecting. He was tired of playing second fiddle to a lost love.