Читать книгу My Sister’s Lies: A gripping novel of love, loss and dark family secrets - S.D. Robertson, S.D. Robertson - Страница 7

She waves goodbye to him through the windscreen of her car and congratulates herself on a fine acting performance. She’s fairly certain she managed not to give anything away while driving the short journey to the station. It wasn’t as hard as it might have been with another person. Things were bound to be awkward between them anyway, particularly after last night and everything they discussed. But still. She could easily have said or done something to raise his suspicions – to signal her intentions – yet she didn’t. Now she’s confident he’ll be almost as shocked as everyone else by her death.

Not long to go, but first things first. She drives the car a short distance until she spots a post box. Then she parks at the side of the road, unzips her handbag and pulls out the small padded envelope she placed in there earlier. She holds it in her hands for a moment, her eyes briefly scanning the name and address plus the postage label she printed off in the early hours, then lets out a slow sigh and feels a couple of tears trickle down either cheek. This little package looks like so many others she’s posted out, selling bits and bobs on eBay, but it couldn’t be more different. And by posting it, she will be sealing her fate. There will be no going back after that.

She gets out of the car and stands in front of the red pillar box. Hesitates for a moment. Looks at the name and address one more time, checking again that they’re right, and shoves it through the open slot before she can change her mind.

It’s done.

She returns to the car, looks at her pale face in the mirror and then drives on, one step closer to the end.

She arrives at Costa a few minutes later. It’s the coffee shop branch they always used to go to together before doing the shopping on a Saturday morning; it’s much quieter this early on a weekday. She orders the same as they always did – a latte and a hot chocolate – even though it’s only her now. She’s tempted to order a biscuit or cake too but decides she probably won’t be able to manage it.

She sips the latte and pretends she’s not alone. Trawls her memory for an image of another hot chocolate in a pair of hands on one of those glorious Saturdays, which she never properly appreciated until they were over. It’s the same with so much in life, she thinks. You take wonderful things for granted, only realising how amazing they are when they’re no longer there. It’s incredible what imminent death does for your sense of perspective.

She doesn’t actually drink much of her coffee, fearful the caffeine might upset her stomach. Ordering a decaf would have been more sensible, or drinking the hot chocolate instead, but she wants to experience the taste exactly as it was in the days she remembers so fondly.

That and the smell certainly do the trick. When she closes her eyes, she’s hurtled headfirst into the past. She stays there as long as she can, revelling in its warm glow, until the cup her hand circles grows cold, and wearily she returns to the present: her last morning on earth.

‘Goodbye,’ a chirpy staff member, barely more than a girl, says to her as she gets up to leave. ‘Have a nice day.’

‘Thanks. You too,’ she replies with a smile, conscious of the fact that this could be the last thing she ever says to another person.

Before she starts the car, she has a moment of panic. For a second it feels like she can’t breathe as a voice in her head tells her she’s handling everything wrong. That she shouldn’t go ahead with it.

It certainly wasn’t her first choice of how to proceed, but it’s the only option she has left now. Isn’t it?

She stares at a tree in the distance and tries to focus her mind on it, counting the number of branches and watching its leaves flutter in the light breeze as she fights to slow down her breathing and take back control. Eventually it starts to work and, as she feels herself calming down, she speaks out loud in a bid to continue the process: ‘You’re doing the right thing. It’s hard, but ultimately it will be best for everyone. Doubts are normal, but you mustn’t give in to them. You’re doing the right thing. You’re doing the right thing …’

A few minutes later she starts the car and, still regulating her breathing, finds some classical music on the radio. It sounds like something from an epic film; she draws strength from its sweeping strings and triumphant trumpets.

Her final destination isn’t too far away, but she’s chosen it carefully. It’s an unremarkable residential street with a mix of terraced and semi-detached houses on both sides. There are plenty of parking spaces at this time on a weekday morning, presumably due to many of the residents having left for work. She pulls into an empty spot outside one of the street’s smarter properties, with neatly trimmed ivy nuzzling its red bricks and a colourful array of shrubs, pots and hanging baskets making the most of the small front yard.

Methodically, she removes her watch, rings, necklace and ear studs, placing them into the glovebox after first looking around to check no one’s watching. She had intended to do this at home before leaving, but it slipped her mind.

Next she steps out of the car, pats her hand gently on the roof to say goodbye, locks it and walks towards the footpath that will bring her close to the railway and the broken fence that will give her access to it.

She passes a couple of dog walkers along the way, beaming a broad smile at them so as not to raise any suspicions. This is ridiculous, she muses, because why would they be suspicious of her looking grumpy or upset? They might if they later spotted her near the track, she counters, if they lived in a house that overlooked it or something. So no harm in being careful. She needs this to go the right way. Well, as right as killing herself ever could. It would be a disaster if someone somehow managed to stop her.

This isn’t a cry for help. She absolutely wants it to work – one hundred per cent, first time, instantly, no messing about. That’s why she’s chosen such a brutal method. With the right conditions, the mortality rate is very high. It’s fast too. Even if she isn’t killed instantly, she should at least be knocked unconscious straight away. There’s still a small chance it could go wrong, of course, meaning survival with horrific injuries. But that’s why she’s done her homework, scoping out the optimal spot in advance; visiting several other possible locations before selecting this as the most suitable.

Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

She originally intended to wait a few more days, to spend more time getting her affairs in order. However, the arrival of her unexpected house guest yesterday had forced her hand, since she’d told him enough to potentially put her plans at risk if he didn’t do as she asked. The fact that he arrived and departed by train also felt like a sign.

As she arrives at the broken fence, she breathes a sigh of relief to see it hasn’t been fixed. It was only a few days ago she was last here, and it looked like the fence had been that way for a while, but, in her experience, Sod’s Law could strike at any moment. Well, not this time, she thinks, checking no one is watching before squeezing through the gap, catching her jeans in the process, but managing to pull free. Next she runs for the cover of a nearby bush.

She crouches there for a few minutes, catching her breath and calming herself down once again. Then she continues to a better location, still sheltered from view by thick greenery but alongside the train track. ‘This is it,’ she whispers into the warm summer air.

Her heart’s racing and there’s little she can do to calm it now. No surprise really, considering where she is; what she’s about to do. Her hands are shaking and her right eye is twitching like it does when she’s stressed or tired.

It’s no good resisting, her mind tells her worthless body. It’s your fault we’re in this situation. You’ll do what you’re told. That’s the only choice.

It’s a waiting game now. She just needs a train to come along. Either direction will do. Another reason she picked this spot, besides the broken fence and good ground cover, is that it’s far enough away from the station for any passing train to be travelling at a decent speed. She can’t see too far in either direction, thanks to the curved route of the track, but that’s fine. It means no driver will spot her too soon and slow down. She’ll hear it coming and then all she has to do is step out. At that stage, it won’t matter about the driver seeing her. It’ll be way too late for them to do anything about it. A fast-moving train takes a very long time to stop, as she discovered while researching the matter online.

All she has to do is step out. That sounds so easy, doesn’t it? She knows in her heart that it won’t be. That there’s a chance she might chicken out. But she can’t. And she’s not going to let one train pass by first as a practice. That was her original plan, but she decided the sheer noise and power of it thundering by so close might shock her into changing her mind. No, she’ll have to fight her natural survival instinct to do this, and she’s convinced that will be easier without a dry run. Plus she could get spotted by that initial driver, who’d then be able to warn the next. So it has to be the first one.

She needs to do it without thinking. The time for rumination has passed. She’s weighed up her options over and over again in recent days. She’s made her final decision.

She’s afraid – of course she is. She’s scared death or unconsciousness won’t come as quickly as she hopes and the pain will be excruciating. So she reminds herself that the odds of success are heavily in her favour.

The idea that she’ll never see …

No, she can’t allow herself to even think that name. Not now. Tears start to pour down her face as multiple images of the two of them together flood her mind. But she grits her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut and fights to block them.

‘I can’t. Not now,’ she says under her breath. ‘I have to do this. I have to do this. It’s the only way.’

And then she hears a rumbling in the distance. This is it. She knows it is, without question. A train is fast approaching from her left. She can’t see it yet, but it’s definitely coming, so as late as she dares she moves from a crouch into a standing position. The sound quickly gets louder and, as she stares in that direction, hunched, waiting, her heart is like a jackhammer, her breaths tight and shallow, her whole body trembling.

After a fleeting hesitation, she steps on to the track, her determination pushing her forward despite the continued resistance of her body.

Time crawls until the front of the train reveals itself, the noise deafening now, and she stares it down.

She can see the alarmed driver’s bearded face looking at her as he does the only thing he can and sounds the horn. She feels for him in that split second, knowing this must be his worst nightmare – something that will scar him for life – and wishing she didn’t have to be the one to put him through it.

But although it’s his face racing towards her, at the last moment her tortured mind replaces it with another: the one person she loves more than anyone or anything else.

‘I’m sorr—’