Louise Jensen - The Sister. A psychological thriller

S tepping out of my car with heartbreak-heavy legs, I zip my jacket and pull on leather gloves before hefting my spade and bag from the boot: it is time. My wellingtons slip-slide across the squelching mud to the gap in the hedge. Its been there for as long as I can remember. I shiver as I enter the forest; its darker than Id thought and I take deep breaths of the pine-scented air to steady myself. I fight the urge to go home and come back in the morning, remind myself why Im here and drive myself forwards.

My smartphone lights the way as I look out for rabbit holes I might fall down. I take giant steps over fallen limbs of trees Id once have hurdled. At twenty-five Im not too old to run, but my load is cumbersome; besides, Im in no rush to get there, I was never supposed to do this alone.

I stop and rest the spade handle against my hip, splay my fingers and shake out my pins and needles. Theres a rustling in the bushes and I have a sense of being watched. My heart stutters as two rabbits dart out, bounding away when they see my light. Im OK, I reassure myself, but my voice seems loud and echoey, reminding me how alone I am.

My rucksack feels tight across my shoulders and I readjust the straps before marching on, snapping twigs underfoot. Im beginning to think Ive taken the wrong fork when I reach the clearing with the lightning-struck tree. I wasnt sure it would still be here, but as I look around it seems nothing has changed but of course, everything has. Memories of the last time I was here hit me so hard I feel winded. I sink to the ground. The dampness of the leaves and earth seep through my trousers, as the past seeps through to my present.

* * *

H urry up , birthday girl, youll be sixteen at this rate. Im freezing, Charlie had called. Shed been perched on the weathered gate at the edge of the cornfield, plastic bags strewn around her feet, blonde hair gleaming in the weak coral sun. Never patient, Charlie kicked her heels as I trudged towards her, cradling the box that contained our hopes and dreams.

Come on, Grace. She jumped down, scooped up her wares and dashed into the trees. I shifted the box under my arm and tried to keep up, following flashes of her purple coat and wafts of the Impulse body spray she always stole from her mums bedroom.

Branches and brambles grasped at our denim-clad legs, snagged our hair, but we kept going until we burst into the clearing.

Your red face matches your hair, Charlie laughed as I dropped the box and hunched over, resting my hands on my knees as I tried to catch my breath. Despite the cool early evening temperature, sweat beaded on my temples. Charlie upended the carrier bags: snacks, drinks, matches, a trowel and a small present, wrapped in sparkly purple paper with a Fifteen Today sticker on it, all scattered over the crumbling earth. Smiling, she handed the gift to me. I sat cross-legged, carefully opening the ends without tearing the paper, and inched the box out. Nestled inside was half a gold heart on a chain engraved with BFF. Tears pricked my eyes as I looked at Charlie. She tugged the neck of her fleece down, revealing the other half of the heart. I fastened the chain around my throat as Charlie began to dig a hole. Always the Girl Guide, I lit a small fire. It would be even colder when the sun went down, and the evenings were drawing in quickly now. By the time the hole was deep enough, Charlie was breathless, her fingernails caked in dirt.

I carried the memory box over to the hole and placed it in the ground. Wed spent a whole Saturday choosing the contents and decorating the outside of the plastic tub, sticking on pictures from magazines of supermodels and pop stars we wanted to emulate. You can never be too rich or too thin, Charlie said. She scooped an armful of dirt and began to cover it.

Wait! I cried. I want to put this in. I waved the birthday wrapping paper in the air.

You cant now, weve already sealed it.

Ill be careful. I slowly peeled back the Sellotape and popped off the lid. To my surprise, sitting on top of a stack of photos was a pink envelope that definitely hadnt been there when wed filled the box earlier. I glanced at Charlie, who was looking secretive.

Whats that, Charlie? I reached towards the envelope.

Charlie grabbed my arm. Dont.

I pulled free, rubbing my wrist. What is it?

Charlie wouldnt meet my eye. Its for us to read when we come back for the box.

What does it say?

Charlie snatched the wrapping paper from between my fingers and scrunched it inside the box, banging the lid on top. When Charlie didnt want to talk about something there was little point trying to pursue it. I decided to let it go; I wouldnt let her furtiveness spoil my birthday.

Drink? I grabbed a cider; it fizzed as I pulled back the ring, and froth spilled over the side of the can. I wiped my hand on my jeans and took a gulp; it warmed my stomach, washing away my unease.

Charlie packed the earth into the hole and pounded the surface with her trowel until it was flat, before coming to sit by my side.

The campfire crackled as we leaned against the horizontal tree trunk toasting pink marshmallows on sticks, and it wasnt until the embers burned out that I realised how late it was.

We should go. Im supposed to be home by ten.

OK. A pinkie promise well come back and open the box together? Charlie proffered her little finger and I curled mine around it before we clinked cans and drank to a promise that we didnt know would be impossible to keep.

There is only me now. Charlie, I whisper. I wish you were here. Charlies half-heart, forever on a chain around my neck, spins around as I lean forward, as if its searching for its partner, desperate to be whole again. I gently lay down the wreath. The overwhelming panic that has plagued me since Charlies death four months ago bubbles to the surface, and I tug my scarf away from my throat so I can breathe a little easier. Am I really to blame? Am I always to blame?

Despite the January chill I feel hot, and as I pull off my gloves I think I hear Charlies last words echoing through the trees: I did something terrible, Grace. I hope you can forgive me.

What did she do? It cant be any worse than what I did, but I am determined to find out what it was. I know I wont be able to move forwards until I do. I hadnt been sure where to begin until this morning, when I received a letter in the post in a pink envelope, which triggered a memory of the letter that Charlie hadnt wanted me to read, hidden in the memory box. Perhaps the letter will hold some kind of clue? It will be a start, anyway. Asking people who knew her hasnt been getting me anywhere, and besides, Im the one who knew her best, arent I? I was her best friend.

But can you ever really know someone? Properly know someone?

I sit back on my heels, remaining motionless for an indeterminable time as the air cools around me. Branches swish and sway as if the trees are whispering their secrets to me, encouraging me to unearth Charlies.

I shake my head, scattering my thoughts, and pull my sleeve down over the heel of my hand before wiping my wet cheeks. Picking up the spade with arms that feel too heavy to be mine, I grip the handle so tightly, rockets of pain shoot through my wrists. I take a deep breath and begin to dig.