Blood Sisters(36)

‘What do you want, little girl?’ Father Christmas had asked me.

‘A sister,’ I’d said. Mum had laughed nervously. ‘But you’ve got one already.’

‘I want a nice one who loves me.’

‘Kitty loves you, darling.’

But I knew it wasn’t true.

Sometimes over the years I’ve heard my students talking about their sisters. ‘She’s my best friend,’ they might say. Or, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

It always made me want to cry. But now, after all this time, perhaps I have a chance to make things right.

Because the accident was more than just an accident.

I am responsible for Kitty’s injuries.

I am the one with blood on my hands.

I am the schoolgirl who killed Vanessa.

My sister’s best friend.





Squeaky-clean school shoes.

Shoulder bags bobbing.

Blonde plaits flapping.

Three pairs of feet.

‘Don’t you dare!’

She pushes me.

I push her.

The earth spins.

A scream.

‘Don’t die. Don’t die.’

A silence.

And blood.

A wave. A locket. A summer house.

Simple memories?

Or something that might rescue my mind from this hell-hole?

Somehow I have to work this out or else I might go mad.

Unless I am already.





Part Two




* * *





2 March 2001


My mother loves me more than anyone else.

That’s what she said tonight after tucking me up in bed.

Her face cream smelt of roses.

‘Don’t tell anyone else,’ she whispered. ‘It’s our secret.’

I’m glad I don’t have a real sister. It makes me more important.

It reminds me of this poem we read last term at school. One of the lines jumped out at me. It said ‘Blood is thicker than water’.

I felt all sick when I read that.

And then I scribbled it out with a black felt-tip.

I got detention for ‘defacing a school text book’. But I didn’t care.

It was worth it.





26


January 2017


Alison


Why am I here? I don’t even know myself. Perhaps because nowhere is safe any more. Home. Prison. Both are as terrifying as each other.

I think of the lawyer’s letter in my bedside cupboard hidden in an old children’s painting book that had belonged to Kitty. Proof that I am well and truly in a danger zone for reasons I am too scared to share with anyone.

The signing-in officer gives me my key and I walk past the huts towards Education. Normally, I keep my wits about me; constantly on the outlook for … who knows.

But at this moment, all I can think about is Kitty’s face. Her clever blue eyes. She remembers. I’m certain of it.

What am I going to do now? I’m still agonizing when I reach the Education Portakabin. There’s a new poster on the door with rough, hand-drawn letters in red crayon.

ART STUDIO INSIDE. SECOND ON LEFT.

‘Like it, miss?’ It’s Kurt, hovering on the metal step. ‘I did it for you during the holiday. Where were you? Thought you was coming in.’

‘Flu,’ I say shortly.

He gives me a wink. ‘Sure. I wouldn’t want to come in here myself if I was you.’

‘Actually, I really was ill.’

His face turns sympathetic. ‘Are you OK now?’

Perhaps, I tell myself, this should be my New Year resolution. To be more grateful to this man who is trying his best to assist me. Then again, that’s not going to help all the people I’ve hurt in the past.

‘Can’t make your class this morning, miss,’ he adds as we go inside.

‘Why’s that?’

He follows me into the art room and begins to help me put out my wares. Sugar paper. Crayons. Safe materials.

‘Have to work on the muck trucks.’

These are prison-speak for food trolleys.

‘Everyone’s sick. That flu gets everywhere.’ He winks again.

Never mind, I tell myself. I can use any spare time to do some sketching of my own.

‘But you do have one student what I got you,’ adds Kurt. ‘His name’s Martin. Just arrived from another nick, he has. He’s OK, this one. Just done his LWV course.’

‘What’s that?’

He speaks as if I should know. ‘Life without violence.’

Is this meant to reassure me?

As he speaks, there’s a knock at the main Education door. I unlock it.

A tubby man faces me. He’s bald with an angry map of red and white scars all over his face and down to his neck. I try not to stare but I can feel my cheeks getting hot. Desperately, I concentrate on the round glasses that sit awkwardly on top of a misshapen nose. Inside, I am shocked. Repulsed, even.

‘Is this the art place?’

There’s a hopeful tone in his rough voice which leaves the ‘t’ out of ‘art’. I’ve never given a class to just one person before. But it’s allowed, Angela told me at the beginning. It’s an open prison after all. These men are low risk.