The stepsister, p.8
The Stepsister, page 8
‘I’m not shaking.’ but he lifts my hand from where I’ve hidden it on my lap and the ripples chasing over my skin are clear to see.
I watch as he drags his fingers through his hair, a frown appearing. ‘Perhaps I should have taken you to hospital,’ his voice barely a whisper.
‘Why? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Ha, you English, always making the little joke.’
‘I’m not English.’
‘You’re not English? But—?’ his frown deepening.
‘But nothing. I was born in Guernsey. That is I think I was.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’ He peers into my eyes as if he’s checking something – I have no idea what but I’m pretty sure it’s not to admire the colour.
I sigh. I’m not in the mood to explain my roots. I’m in the mood to be left alone with my dog, the only one around here who’s proved his devotion and loyalty. Dogs never lie. But the man in front of me…he’s lied from the beginning.
I want him to leave but it looks like the esteemed doctor isn’t going anywhere until I can assure him I’m not suffering from some deadly disease. There’s only one problem; how can I reassure him of something I’m beginning to doubt myself?
‘Guernsey people, people born in Guernsey aren’t English in the same way that Welsh people are Welsh and Scottish people are Scottish,’ I manage, my head now starting to pound. ‘So, I’m Guernsey or British, if you like. Although, as I’m also an orphan there’s a chance that I was abandoned in transit. I could be French, German, Belgium or even Dutch. But I think it’s unlikely.’
He raises his eyebrows before promptly changing the subject. ‘So, If you’re not ill then why the shakes?’ he says, his eyes flicking to the wine bottle, sitting innocently on the counter.
Because I’m scared out of my wits. Because I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here. Because I have some burning questions crowding out all other thought and no nerve in which to voice them. I seem to have lost most of the last four hours, in addition to the means to find out more about my benefactor. I shut my eyes just for a moment as pain crescendos. I don’t know who I am any more. I thought I knew but now…now I fear I’m going mad, really crazy. And the sad truth is I can’t ask you for help. You’d be the very last person I’d turn to.
Instead of speaking I stand and reach for the wine, pouring two large measures. I push one in his direction before taking a hearty sip, both hands clutching the engraved glass like a child, for fear I’ll slop it over the table. I retake my seat, placing the now half-empty glass in front of me and pushing it slightly away so that I can rest my chin on my hands. He thinks I’m a drinker, maybe even an alcoholic and a little part of me is quite happy to nurture the thought. He’s not the sort of man to tolerate weakness in either himself or others.
‘I wouldn’t advise that you drink too much following a head injury.’
‘Duly noted, doctor.’ I pick up my glass and take another sip before replacing it in the exact same spot. ‘You were going to tell me how you seem to know where things are in…my kitchen. Were you Meneer de Wees’s doctor?’
‘Hardly. I was both his neighbour and his friend. We spent many an hour sitting round this very table discussing every topic under the sun.’
But I only respond to the part that interests me the most. ‘Why wouldn’t you be his doctor? Surely if you lived so close?’
‘Because Victoria, I may call you Victoria? Mevrouw is so long winded. My name is Manus,’ and he smiles.
I nod in agreement. After all, I can’t really refuse however much I might want to keep a distance between us. It’s only a name, after all. A group of eight letters and I’ve been called a lot worse. All my friends call me Vee but that’s something he needn’t know.
He continues, the smile wiped from his face at my silence. ‘Because, Victoria, I’m a psychiatrist and the one thing Aldert wasn’t in need of was any help in that direction. He was as sound as a bell.’
Unlike you.
My vision blurs and I take refuge in my glass, the unsaid words hanging in the open space like a declaration of war. There are no prizes for guessing who’s going to win any battles between us; the shy, neurotic, frightened foreigner or the consummate professional with the smug smile and snide insinuations.
Chapter Ten
If Aldert wasn't in need of a psychiatrist then what was he in need of? But instead of asking, I reach across for the bottle.
‘I said I’d go easy on the—’
‘I heard what you said,’ the wariness back.
There’s a lot I could ask this man, if I trusted him. I could ask him about the symptoms of madness. The first signs to look out for and any home remedies to keep the fear at bay. I could ask him how someone could lose four hours and what to do about the missing laptop. Or I could start by asking him about Marilyn. How long has she got and how will she cope without her daughter coming to visit? Despite the madness creeping in from all sides, she’s relied on those visits. I could ask him all this and more if I trusted him. Instead I decide to ask him about the man who’d decided to leave us the house, my eyes sweeping the room.
‘Tell me about him – this Aldert. What was he like? What did he do? ‘
He steeples his fingers, his elbows resting on the table. ‘He was just some lonely old man.’
‘How old?’
‘Seventy. Seventy-five perhaps. Towards the end it was hard to tell as illness caught up with him. He suffered with Parkinson’s; a great tragedy for someone with his particular talents.’
Now he has me intrigued. I look at the room with fresh eyes, focusing on the labour-saving gadgets that any Dutch homemaker would be proud of. But the room also holds a lingering sense of its owner; the walking stick in the corner, the box of medicines sitting next to the box of herbal tea on the shelf above the kettle.
Guilt is a funny thing. It sneaks up on one, out of the blue, side sweeping everything else away including fear. All I can think about is a lonely old man stuck in the house and being unable to do…what?
‘Talents?’
‘He was an art restorer, a highly respected one too. Before he retired he was employed by the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, working solely on their huge stockpile of seventeenth century Dutch paintings. As a young man he travelled the world working on some of the top paintings of all time. I think he even spent some time in Guernsey,’ he says on a frown. ‘A Renoir exhibition in the eighties but I can’t really remember. The room at the top of the house, where most people keep luggage and boxes is where he had his studio. Something to do with the light but,’ he shrugs his shoulders. ‘Then again, I’m not an artist. I used to go up and watch him at work; painstaking work with cotton wool balls and acetone or some other similar solvent. He’d spend hours up there with the roof lights open, or closed, depending on the time of day and which part of the process he was working on. We’d talk about everything and anything. Aldert was quite a character, an old rogue in many respects with a keen eye for the ladies even towards the end.
I place my empty wine glass back on the table, my gaze meeting his. It all sounds so plausible the way he puts it. Their friendship and the way they used to gossip while he watched him work. I remember Robert used to be fascinated watching my storyboards maturing from a few pencil lines to the intricate detailing that I’m famed for. I still don’t trust this man; there are far too many unanswered questions for that. But I might as well use him while he’s here. After all, there are things in the house that I don’t understand; the stairs in the cellar, the locked studio. Why lock a studio unless he kept items of importance up there?
There’s something else that puzzles me, something out of sync with everything he’s told me so far. Why the need for the top-of-the-range laptop? I’m no expert but the brand new Apple Macbook Pro would have surely set him back a tidy sum – the Macbook Pro I’d succeeded in losing.
My gaze lands on his face and the five o’clock shadow forming on his cheeks. Like me, he’s probably in need of a good meal and a shower but I’m not ready to dispatch him on his way quite yet. My fingers toy with the fragile stem of the glass, cold and brittle under my touch; just like my life. My life, usually calm and probably a little boring, if I’m honest, is just the way I’d planned. Okay, so it’s still missing a man and the couple of kids I’d always craved: the family I’d never had. But out of Marilyn’s clutches, I’ve managed to carve a niche, albeit a small one. Now, with the arrival of that blasted letter, my life has fallen apart, literally. People don’t leave strangers their house and all their belongings. Stepsisters don’t just disappear into thin air and strange men don’t arrive in the nick of time to rescue damsels from imminent danger, or do they?
I’ve made up my mind. Now it’s time to act on it.
‘The attic, his workroom is locked and, before you ask, I’ve tried the door.’
‘Locked?’ a frown flashing across his face. ‘But he never locked it. Towards the end all he wanted to do was sit up there and watch the clouds trail across the sky and remember all those great paintings he’d worked on. The smell of chemicals had infiltrated the roof timbers, there’s no smell quite like it.’
‘It’s locked, I tell you.’ I sneak air through my lungs in lieu of a sigh. Really? If he thinks I’m going to be taken in by all this talk of him being neighbour of the year he’s wrong. I’m going to use him just like he’s obviously using me. A thought interrupts. Why exactly is he here? That’s something I haven’t quite gotten around to working out yet.
‘Not locked, probably stuck,’ he continues. ‘Wood warps in the winter, especially in Holland with all the water that surrounds us. On a good day I’m lucky to be able to sneak a knife out of my cutlery drawer, let alone a spoon.’
He’s trying to make me feel relaxed. Why? I stand up suddenly and move to the door, noting with a smile that he stands too. He may, or may not, be the reason I’m in this mess but at least he has manners.
‘Come on then.’ I note his bemused expression. This man needs to get with the programme. I ignore the lines slashing his eyes and the pallor of his skin. Okay, so it’s my fault he’s not quite as sharp as he should be, even for a psychiatrist, which I’m guessing, as a profession, only employs the sharpest of intellects.
‘As you’re here, you can give me a hand.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘I did tell you.’
We’re standing in the narrow space at the top of the stairs, staring at the shut door. There’s a lock but no visible key; all very strange. What’s also strange is the sudden realisation that I’m standing shoulder-to-shoulder with this man, a man with more magnetism than is good for either of us. Okay, I’ll admit that he’s as sexy as hell. But he’s also a huge unknown and, until I find Ness and iron out all the niggly questions beating me up, I really don’t want to find myself in the same room let alone the same house.
I watch as he roots in his pocket before removing a small bunch of keys. ‘Here, these are for you. But you won’t find the key you’re looking for because I didn’t know it existed.’
I stare down at the keys dangling from a split ring, my mind now a complete blank.
‘Keys?’
‘Yes, towards the end my housekeeper was coming three times a week to help out. He had community nurses visiting a couple of times a day, but things were starting to get very tired round here before his final illness.’
‘What happened?’ I ask, heading downstairs, my arm carefully looped over the bannister.
‘It was something small that did it. He caught a cold, which just wouldn’t go away despite the doctor visiting and medications. He stopped eating all together towards the end,’ his gaze narrowing. ‘He was getting increasingly paranoid about everything and everybody.’ He takes my arm briefly. ‘I tried to make him go into hospital but Aldert was nothing if not determined. He’d made up his mind to stay in his own home and that’s what happened.’
‘So, these keys? That’s how you were able to help me yesterday?’ I ask.
‘Yes and no.’
‘Yes and no?’ I repeat.
‘Come on. It’s time I should be going anyway. Pop your coat on. I’ll wait for you in the hall.’
‘There.’
I’d followed him out of the front door, carefully pulling it closed behind me. Once down the steps, he’d turned a sharp right before stopping underneath the lounge window.
‘These were merchant houses originally. Goods used to come up the canal by barge only to be stored in the damp storerooms, or cellars, underneath the main body of the house.’ He takes a step back, pointing to the hook sticking out of the top of the house, just above the upper window. ‘As with most of the houses along here the staircases are too narrow for large items of furniture so they were hoisted up the outside of the building and brought in through the large window in the attic.’ He pulls a second split ring from his pocket, the key heavy wrought iron. ‘Here, this is yours too,’ and he slots it into the lock.
The cellar is just how I remember; dark, dank and full of corners. But now, with the door pulled back and the dull gleam from the streetlights filtering through the entrance, my fear is balanced by the size of the man at my side. I still don’t trust him as far as I could throw him; not very far – not at all. But it’s reassuring to have him here all the same. I hang back, reluctant to put a foot inside, my gaze finding the space on the floor under the electric panel. I could have died on that spot, my life draining away. I could even now be stretched out on the concrete, fading into an oblivion of blood, tendon and bone with no one any the wiser. I could…
‘It’s alright. It didn’t happen.’ I feel a brief touch on my shoulder and then nothing as he walks ahead to switch on the light. He turns, his eyes now scanning my face. ‘You look terrible. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’
‘Gee, thanks. Just what a woman wants to hear. I feel fine, on top of the world,’ I manage, heading for the nearest wall and propping myself up.
Now I’m inside I can see how I’d missed the windowless door, situated as it is behind the wine racks. I’d have had to have known it was there. Was that something he’d been banking on?
‘I’m just concerned for your welfare.’
I throw him a sharp glance. ‘There’s no need to be.’
But instead of replying he strolls over to inspect the staircase, the frown back. I watch in silence as he lifts part of the detached bannister from the wall and inspects the end, a sharp whistle escaping through pursed lips.
‘What’s the matter with it?’ I push away from the wall and join him.
‘It’s been sabotaged is what’s the matter with it. Look,’ he points to where the end of the wood is smooth. ‘Someone’s taken a saw to it.’
It’s my turn to purse my lips. He’s either a very good liar or he’s genuine. But, whichever it is, I really don’t want to be in his company any longer.
‘Yes, well, I’ll tell the police tomorrow.’ I head for the door. ‘Are you coming or—?’
‘In a sec.’
He finally emerges, handing me a couple of wine bottles before returning to fetch more.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like? Getting you more wine but don’t drink it all at once. That was some crack you gave yourself,’ he says, peering at me through the darkness. ‘I’ve sorted out the central heating timer to come on at seven and stop at ten. I don’t want you coming down here on your own until we know what’s going on.’ He takes the steps, two at a time. ‘Promise me, Victoria,’ his expression serious. ‘If I hadn’t popped down to my own cellar last night and heard you banging.’ He leaves the sentence unfinished. We both know what he means.
I search his face for any hint of threat and all I can see is concern. I fear this man, the man that’s been following me, don’t I?
He takes the key from me and opens the door before following me into the hall, the wine bottles now stacked on the table.
‘I have to go to Brussels for a few days; I really don’t want you to stay here all alone with what’s going on.’
‘With what’s—? I don’t understand?’
‘Neither do I and that’s the problem.’ He toys with my front door key before laying it carefully in front of the wine bottles, his gaze finally meeting mine. ‘I’d be much happier if you went back to Guernsey and left me to sort things out over here. First your stepsister goes missing and then the staircase and even his workroom.’ He grabs my hands, his eyes never wavering. ‘You could be in danger and I can’t be here to rescue you. Look, I’ll book you a flight on the first plane out tomorrow. Just promise me you’ll be on it?’
He wants me out of the way. Why? Can I trust him? That’s a question I’m wavering on. He was in Guernsey, wasn’t he? He was up to something over there, something he’s never properly explained. Suddenly I don’t know what to think. I want to trust him, I really do but how can I?
He releases my hand, only one of them, the other still hidden within his grasp as he pulls out his phone and starts speaking in rapid Dutch.
I’ve never been able to trust anyone, not really. The nearest I’ve come is my relationship with Robert and just look what happened to us. No, I can’t afford to trust this man. I’ll play along and, if the worst comes to the worst, I can be on that flight. I can run away and leave all this behind for someone else to sort out. There’s still that policeman back home to get in touch with and the police over here. I can run away if I need to but now all I want is to be left alone. I still don’t feel right. All of that wine on top of the head injury wasn’t one of my better ideas. I’ll smile nicely to everything he says and send him on his merry way while I think on it.
