Bad Sister(30)

So, that’s progress, right? So you can come visit now. I’m sorry, Jenna. I’m so sorry you’re mad at me. Please come see me. I need you.

Brett x





CHAPTER THIRTY


Connie


Saturday 10 June

To get to her mum’s, Connie had to take the train to Teignmouth then a taxi across the bridge into Shaldon. What had once been their holiday home when they’d lived in Manchester had become their permanent home after Luke died. Back then, Connie hadn’t been able to appreciate the serenity, the beautiful scenery, the idyllic cottage near the river. She’d been taken from her home, her friends – her memories of Luke. Her life had practically ended – she’d hated her parents for dragging her away just before she was due to take her GCSEs and plonking her in a pathetic little village in South Devon. It’d taken a long time before she’d felt thankful for it.

She watched as the now familiar scenery flashed past the train window, her eyes blurring with the motion. She closed them, and thought about her evening with Niall. Having only the one lager had definitely been the key; she hadn’t succumbed to her usual tendency to get overemotional and ‘cuddly’, which would’ve ultimately led to sex. But, her intention of getting Niall talking freely about the prison, and specifically, Ricky Hargreaves, had hit a setback. When Connie had pushed for details surrounding the day Ricky absconded, Niall had merely sidestepped by saying that it wasn’t good for Connie to talk about the prison. That she shouldn’t revisit past traumatic events. He’d swiftly changed the subject each time she attempted to talk about it. Connie didn’t know whether to get mad at him for it, or appreciate what he was trying to do. So they’d settled into safe-territory subjects.

The train pulled into the station, stopping any further musings about her evening with Niall.

When the taxi dropped Connie at the end of her mum’s road, she stood for a while, her overnight bag hung on one shoulder, and stared out across the estuary of the River Teign. The warm weather had brought a horde of tourists – the beachside pub and the sandy stretch opposite were rammed already and it was only ten in the morning. It was something you got used to if you lived there permanently. The quiet winter months were preferable.

The net curtain twitched as Connie approached the gate, then seconds later the front door flung wide.

‘Hello, my darling!’ Her mum rushed out, arms outstretched, and caught her in a bear hug. She had an impressive agility and strength that Connie could only hope for at sixty-five. She was struggling even at thirty-seven.

‘Hey, Mum. Good to see you.’ She broke from the hug and kissed her. She smelled sweet – of baked goods. Connie noted her trademark floral pinny tied around her waist. Great. She’d probably cooked cakes and biscuits and apple pie – she could almost feel the pounds pile on her right there and then.

Connie followed her into the kitchen – the aroma filling the compact space was both familiar and comforting. It took her back to her childhood; the moments spent beating the wooden spatula in the sticky mixture, remembering the texture of the gloopy mess as she swept out the remnants in the bowl and licked it from her fingers. They’d baked a lot together after Luke died too. Connie thought that must’ve been one of her mother’s coping mechanisms. Her dad’s had been spending time at the pub, or ‘gentleman’s club’ as her mum used to call it. They’d each handled Luke’s loss differently. They still did.

‘I’ll just finish up, then we can have a nice cup of tea and a warm biscuit.’ Her mum swapped one baking tray for another in the oven.

‘They smell delicious. I’ll pop the kettle on.’

Connie went through to the lounge with the tray of tea, setting it down on the oak coffee table. She walked across to the sideboard and ran her fingertips over the photos in their silver-plated frames. The story of their life lined up in order. Her throat tightened. The toddler sat on the beach, his curly blond hair poking out under a baseball cap; the footballer in his kit, ball under one arm; the infant stood outside the house, proud in his oversized school uniform; the child with an awkward grin in an official school photo, his younger sister squirming beside him; the teenager on his bike with his cheeky grin – the sparkle in his intense green eyes. They had that in common, everyone told her that after he died: you’ve got your brother’s eyes. She’d hated it. Once during a particularly bad bout of grief she’d wanted to get a spoon and gouge her eyes out. Later she’d settled for coloured contact lenses.

‘Here we go, love.’ Her mum placed a plateful of warm biscuits next to the tea tray. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘Where are the other photos?’ Connie remained standing.

‘Oh, you know – here and there. So, how’s your new consultancy going? I want to hear all about it.’ She patted the sofa cushion beside her.

Avoiding the question. That was usual, she realised. She’d never really addressed the way conversation was swiftly diverted to something else whenever Connie brought up Luke. She’d always assumed it was because it was too painful. She hadn’t considered that it was because her mum and dad wanted to prevent Connie from digging. From finding out something that they’d kept from her. Had they thought she’d been too young to understand; too young to cope with the truth? And then, as the years had passed, decided to maintain things as they were, not alter any memories; her perceptions of what she’d been told. Had her parents lied to her? Were they going to continue to do so?