Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next day is my day off work. While Dominic is at the hospital in the afternoon, I go out to a café where I can be private, and write the letter.
Dear Mum and Dad,
Dominic suggested I should write you a letter to explain how I feel about what’s happened recently, and things we’ve never discussed – like Rachel. He thinks it’s easier to say in a letter something that would be hard face-to-face, and I agree. So if you want to reply to me in a letter too, that would be fine.
First though, I want you to know that I love you both, and won’t ever blame you, whatever you tell me. All I want is the truth.
Here’s what I already know.
Rachel died in a skiing accident when we were on holiday in Switzerland. I was twelve, she was nearly fourteen. It would have been her birthday the following week. Rachel was really excited, looking forward to it. I remember the place we stayed at, that big white hotel just outside the village, and the ski resort. And I remember waiting on my own for news after the accident, and then Dad coming to tell me Rachel had passed away.
That moment is really clear in my memory.
But my other memories of the holiday are confused and fuzzy. I’m not sure if that’s because I was in shock over what happened, but it means I can’t actually recall what happened to Rachel that day, or how she died, or whose fault it was – if anyone’s.
I can’t remember much about what happened when we got home, either. Mum, you told me that she was cremated, only I wasn’t allowed to be at the funeral because I would have been too upset. Then Dad got that posting in Dubai, and it was years before anyone mentioned her name again.
But now I’m not sure if everything you told me is true. Because odd things have been happening. Things that remind me of Rachel’s nasty tricks. And I don’t want to be horrible about my sister when she can’t defend herself, but we all know she could be really unpleasant at times. And it’s somehow connected to me marrying Dominic.
First I got Rachel’s old snow globe through the post, with a cow’s eye in it. Then someone broke into our flat and cut my wedding dress to bits, and covered it in what looked like blood. I know I should have told you about that, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t want you to get upset. The police still haven’t come back to us about that. At the wedding, Jasmine told me she’d received a postcard from Rachel, with some sick message saying I was being watched. And somebody signed Rachel’s name on some paperwork at the food bank, and I don’t know how they managed that, but it wasn’t me, I swear it. Then last night, there was the lipstick hangman on the wall. With my name on it. So it’s clear this is all aimed at me.
I know it makes no sense to believe Rachel could be behind this, because she passed away over ten years ago. But not knowing for sure is driving me mad. So can you please tell me – very clearly and in as much detail as possible – what happened that day in Switzerland? That would put my mind at rest.
I’m sorry, I know this must be really distressing. Rachel was your daughter. But she was my big sister too and, despite everything, I loved her. So I want to know what happened to her, even if it turns out it was somehow my fault that Rachel died. Because that’s the only reason I can think why you would try to stop me talking about it.
Anyway, Dominic says I don’t open up enough, that I bottle stuff up and it makes me ill. So this is me, opening up.
With all my love
Catherine
After that I leave the café. It’s so cold outside, I pull up the collar of my coat, wishing I’d brought a scarf. The sky is grey and leaden again. But the shopfronts look gorgeous, all lit up for Christmas with flashing baubles and tinsel garlands, window edges white with spray-on snow, carols playing as I pass the open doorways.
I go back to Mum and Dad’s house, feeling as if a weight has been lifted. Dominic was right to tell me to write the letter. It was absolutely the right thing to do.
To my surprise, the front door is ajar.
I go in and stop a moment, listening. The house is quiet, except for some rustling further down the hallway.
‘Hello?’ I say.
There’s a sudden silence.
The passage is dimly lit, but there could be somebody there. Is that a shadow moving, or is it my imagination?
‘Hello?’ I repeat more loudly, my back to the front door.
Kasia appears in the kitchen doorway, a dripping mop in her hand. A strong smell of bleach wafts down the hall. She stares at me, clearly impatient. ‘Yes?’
‘Where is everyone?’
The cleaner shrugs, a slight flush of exertion in her sallow cheeks. ‘Your father . . . he goes to the office. I think your mother goes Christmas shopping.’ She glances down at the trail of drips left by her mop, her expression distracted. ‘I clean the floor.’
She’s wearing make-up again, I notice. Black kohl eyeliner, mascara, dark-green eyeshadow. As I recall, she never used to wear make-up to work. Now I rarely see her without it.
I remember the tension I’ve sensed between her and Mum since moving back in. I thought it was over me, that the presence of two more people in the house had laid unwanted extra duties on Kasia. But perhaps there’s another reason. A more sinister reason.
‘When did my dad go out?’ I ask.
Kasia shrugs, still studying the wet floor. ‘Five minutes? Ten? You just miss him.’
Her lipstick is smudged and her hair tousled. The top three buttons of her white blouse are undone. Her short skirt looks remarkably unsuited to housework.
I’ve seen my dad looking at her covertly.
No . . . impossible.
Dad wouldn’t be unfaithful to Mum. Not in a million years.
Or would he?
Kasia’s married, too. Or has small kids, at any rate. She could be divorced, I suppose. I realise with a shock that I don’t actually know much about Kasia Lecinska. Except that her Polish surname is pronounced ‘let-chin-scar’ and she didn’t like me moving back in here with Dominic. That last is just instinct on my part, of course. A chilly atmosphere whenever I walk into a room where she’s working.
But perhaps Kasia wishes we weren’t here at all. Perhaps there used to be less chance of being disturbed while my mother was out of the house . . .
That bright-red lipstick.
Everything inside me comes to a boil.
‘Did you do it, Kasia? Last night. The writing on the wall.’ I study her suddenly startled face. ‘Was it you?’