Shadow Sister

by Simone Vlugt

  ‘Raoul, I’ve got a job.’

  ‘But you’re not going to be a teacher for the rest of your life.’ Raoul spread his fingers, a gesture that expressed his incomprehension.

  ‘Why not?’ I turned the oven to 200 degrees and took two purple placemats out of the cupboard. All the accessories in our home are purple; it’s my favourite colour.

  ‘Come on, Lydia! You don’t mean that Rotterdam College is your goal in life, do you?’

  ‘Any school is all right,’ I said, ‘as long as I’m making a difference for my students. And I don’t just mean in terms of their education. Do you get it?’

  Raoul didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look like he got it. He stood there staring at me, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘So you’re not coming to work at Software International?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I know you don’t like Rotterdam College, but I’m happy there.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Raoul said. ‘You always look so tired. I’d rather you didn’t work at all.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Darling, I am always tired, just like you. But I don’t suggest that you sell your company, do I?’

  He didn’t buy it. ‘I just don’t think it’s good for Valerie.’

  My smile disappeared. ‘I’m always home when she finishes school.’

  ‘But she has to have lunch at school four days a week.’

  ‘She really likes having lunch at school!’ I shouted. ‘Why are you pulling a face? You knew beforehand that I wanted to keep on working. I don’t understand why you keep complaining about it. Why don’t you resign from your job?’

  We’re still having this kind of conversation. Raoul is a modern man who will help with the housework and believes in sharing the load equally. He likes modern women who work for a living and contribute to society, but it’s something he appreciates in other women, not me.

  12.

  I drive into the school car park at twenty past seven. It’s still very empty. I don’t get out immediately; first I look around. There’s no one to be seen, the playground is deserted. The beautiful wisteria covering the fence is blossoming early this year.

  I walk across the playground. The door is still closed to the students, but Dan, the caretaker, unlocks it for me.

  ‘You’re early!’ he says.

  ‘I just couldn’t wait any longer,’ I say with a weak smile.

  ‘I can imagine,’ Dan chuckles. ‘I find the silence at this time of the morning difficult too.’

  ‘It won’t last much longer.’ I glance at the clock in the corridor. ‘Shall I fetch us some coffee, Dan?’

  ‘Lots of milk, lots of sugar.’ Dan goes back to his caretaker’s office where the phone is ringing.

  I watch him with affection. Dan Riemans could have retired long ago, but instead he’s still faithfully guarding his post. He’s a small, plump man with light blue eyes that usually sparkle with fun. He’s often telling jokes to the students; they like him. But if he’s angry, it thunders through the corridors. The students aren’t afraid of him, but they like him too much to want to cause trouble. With a few exceptions, of course.

  ‘If you want to skive off, you’ll have to do a better imitation of your mother’s voice, Ayesha,’ I hear him say as I bring our coffees back from the staffroom. ‘I’ll be expecting you at exactly five past eight. Bye, Ayesha, see you soon.’

  He hangs up and smiles at me.

  ‘Thanks, lassie. Sit down and tell me what that was all about yesterday.’

  ‘Did you already hear about it?’

  ‘The school’s buzzing with it.’

  Dan sinks into his comfortable chair from where, with a swivel, he can survey the corridor as well as the playground.

  I sigh and blow onto my coffee, then tell him all. Dan listens in silence, shaking his head from time to time. I also tell him about my conversation with Jan. When I get to our disagreement about whether to go to the police, Dan looks up.

  ‘And? Did you go to the police?’

  I shake my head and think I glimpse something of relief in Dan’s eyes.

  We drink our coffee and gaze out at the playground where the first children are arriving on their bikes.

  ‘Assrouti won’t get in here anymore, don’t worry about that,’ Dan says.

  ‘Did Jan ask you to make sure?’

  ‘Yes, very clearly. You just go and teach, lass, and I’ll personally make sure that Bilal Assrouti doesn’t set a foot inside this school.’

  I smile gratefully at him. Dan once had to face a student with a knife and I know that it made a deep impression on him. Bilal will have to use all his resourcefulness if he wants to force his way in.

  At seven-forty-five I see Jasmine approaching. I finish my coffee, ready to leave, then pause in the doorway.

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Do you think I should have gone to the police?’

  Dan looks at me. I’m expecting him to say ‘no’, but he doesn’t. ‘For you, personally, perhaps you should have.’ He pauses. ‘But I’m glad you didn’t for the school.’

  I wait for Jasmine in the corridor and as we go to the staffroom I find myself talking about it again. I once read that people who have had a traumatic experience need to remember every detail of the event and find an explanation for it. Coming up with answers is a way of processing the trauma.

  ‘I hardly dared get out of my car once I’d parked,’ I tell her. ‘That’s bad, isn’t it? And I’m constantly looking at the playground. Do you think Bilal would have the nerve to simply show up, as though nothing had happened?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Jasmine says. ‘No, we won’t see him again, Lydia. Don’t be scared.’

  I’m not scared, I want to say, not here with my colleagues in the staffroom where there’s a large cake box in the middle of the table. We arrive just in time to see people wishing Hans, an older colleague, a happy birthday. I join in, but before Hans has finished cutting his cake, I tell everyone about Bilal.

  ‘Hey you, can’t it wait?’ Jasmine says, but I won’t be deterred. It’s weighing down on me too much, it has to come out.

  The atmosphere changes immediately. Not everyone knows about it yet and the consternation among my colleagues is great. Everyone is talking at once. Hans sits there with a plate of cake and a surly look. He’s one of the old guard on the staff. He’s not usually the most cheerful person, but now he looks like one of his test tubes has exploded and covered him in whatever type of acid corrodes a good mood.

  I realise I’m ruining his birthday, but I can’t help it. It’s important that all my colleagues know what has happened. More important than singing happy birthday to one person.

  ‘I really wouldn’t have expected that from Bilal,’ Nora, my departmental head, says, shocked.

  ‘Didn’t he once throw a chair at your head?’ Luke asks.

  ‘That wasn’t Bilal, that was Ali,’ Nora says. ‘He’s gone off the rails. And he can’t aim either, that chair missed me by miles.’

  ‘Quite a feat,’ I say, not thinking anything of it until I catch Luke’s reproving look. Nora’s quite large. She gives me a cool look too. I’m about to apologise, but then a couple of colleagues come in and are immediately filled in on the Bilal situation by others.

  Luke moves closer and smirks, ‘Ouch.’

  ‘It just popped out,’ I whisper. ‘I’ll make it up to Nora later.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. She’s not that tactful herself,’ Luke says. ‘And another thing, why didn’t you just have a nice day at home today?’

  ‘What would I do at home?’ I say. ‘It would only make it harder to come back afterwards. If you fall off a horse, get back in the saddle.’

  Luke nods understandingly. He teaches Dutch as well. He came to the school halfway through last year, replacing a colleague who’d had a serious burnout. In the beginning, I thought he was ten years younger than his thirty-two years, and I wondered whether the students would accept hi
m. To my astonishment, he’s had no discipline problems at all and has even given me tips on how to keep my class quiet.

  As well as being attractive, Luke is also gay, which thankfully he told me in the early stages of our friendship. That slammed a few doors shut in my mind – just as well. His preference is definitely a loss for womankind. I used to pigeonhole all gay men as pink-feather-wearers, dancing on boats on the Amsterdam canals during Gay Pride. I’ve got over that now. If Luke hadn’t told me, I would never have guessed, and I don’t think anyone else knows either. He’d rather keep it that way. At other schools he worked at, his contracts were terminated without clear reason and while he’d rather just tell people he’s got a boyfriend, this time he’s going to keep it quiet until he’s got a permanent contract.

  Our shared secret quickly forged a bond between us and I’ve met his boyfriend Sven a few times. I’ve never told anyone. Apart from Jasmine, but that doesn’t count. Jasmine is my best friend and I know she can keep her mouth shut.

  ‘If you have any problems, just come to me,’ Luke says.

  I smile at him and thank my lucky stars that he came to work at this school.

  Elisa

  13.

  The school entrance was a sea of flowers. They set up a makeshift altar, with Lydia’s photo in the middle, surrounded by candles and flowers. The teachers and students held a minute’s silence for her.

  The police investigation is still in full swing. Bilal Assrouti was questioned and released. Everyone Lydia knew has been questioned, including me. For the first few days, the newspapers were full of the brutal murder, and my sister’s photo was on the news.

  Detective Noorda called around all the time after Lydia’s death. I would hear him ringing the bell, but I never opened the door. I didn’t answer the telephone either. Finally I let him in and heard him out. He asked me all kinds of questions and assured me that they’d find the murderer. He talked about gunpowder spores, ballistics and cartridge cases. In the beginning he’d talk to me for a long time, but now he gets up faster to leave and the intervals between visits are longer.

  Sylvie and Thomas pulled me out of the black hole. They come round every day with shopping, and they talk to me even though I barely respond. They cook for me and open the windows from time to time so that the fresh spring air blows away the stale smell in the house.

  Today Thomas is visiting.

  ‘Have you done anything recently?’ he asks.

  I tell him that I’ve been keeping busy, that I don’t lie in bed the whole day. That I’ve made a collage of pictures of Lydia and myself, a collage covering a whole wall. I’ve used recent photos as well as ones from our childhood so that in the morning when I open my eyes our whole life stretches out before me.

  Thomas goes into the bedroom and looks at the wall, speechless. Then he says that we’re going out to eat tonight.

  Later I go out to dinner with him, dressed in my pink and orange skirt with the matching top. Thomas looks at me in surprise when he comes to pick me up, but all he says is, ‘You look…different.’

  Once we’re seated in the restaurant, he says, ‘That’s what you wore for Lydia’s funeral.’

  I nod without looking up from the menu.

  ‘Are you going to wear skirts now because Lydia wore them?’

  I close the menu and put it down on the table. ‘Of course not. Why are you saying that?’

  ‘Because you’ve got one on now! Those are the clothes you bought with Lydia – that last time you went shopping together?’

  I sigh and look to see if the waiter is coming. I should never have told Thomas about the shopping trip. It was a lovely afternoon – I’ve got precious memories of it – and it’s annoying that he’s bringing up that one false note. What does it matter if Lydia wanted to give me a makeover? What does it matter that she wouldn’t take no for an answer, that I was more or less forced to buy these clothes? She meant well. And I’m wearing the clothes a lot now.

  Thomas had come round that evening after I’d been shopping with Lydia. The clothes were spread out on the sofa.

  ‘What’s all this?’ He held the bright skirt and top up, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘I bought them with Lydia.’

  ‘Aha,’ Thomas said.

  That was all, but his voice was layered with many different things.

  ‘I like them,’ I said. ‘I’m not used to wearing skirts, but I don’t have to wear trousers my whole life, do I?’

  ‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘But you also don’t have to wear exactly what Lydia likes.’

  Thomas used to make comments like that a lot. Of course I wasn’t blind to the fact that things hadn’t clicked between him and Lydia. It was a shame, but Thomas and Sylvie – who Lydia didn’t like either – were my friends and it wasn’t the end of the world if Lydia didn’t like them.

  ‘What do you like about Thomas?’ Lydia once asked when we were sitting in her back garden. ‘He sticks to you like a limpet. It’d drive me crazy.’

  It was a hot day last year. Valerie was in the paddling pool and I was explaining how I’d helped Thomas to photograph a disgraced politician for the Rotterdam Daily. That’s to say, I was planning to tell her about it in detail, but Lydia didn’t give me the chance.

  ‘He might be a bit different,’ I said, ‘but he’s a very good friend.’

  ‘A bit different?’ Lydia’s manner was disapproving. ‘He’s a weirdo. He doesn’t look at you, he leers at you. And when he smiles it’s like his mouth is twitching.’

  She was exaggerating, but the grain of truth in her words made me uncomfortable. Instead of defending Thomas or telling Lydia how horrible I felt when she attacked him, I kept silent. I turned my head away, in exactly the same way as she always did. I saw the movement reflected in the window of the house and Lydia did too. You could say a lot about her, but not that she didn’t pick up signals.

  ‘I guess you form a bond when you’ve known each other as long as you have,’ she said. ‘And you’ve never had that many friends.’

  As if I was socially handicapped. But I didn’t feel like a fight, so I didn’t let my irritation show. Instead, I looked over at Valerie, who was stretched out on her stomach in the pool, and I pretended to be shocked every time she splashed me. When I looked up again, Lydia was studying me.

  ‘Elisa,’ she said. ‘You’re not in love with him, are you?’

  ‘Certainly not, we’re just friends.’

  ‘It just worries me. I don’t think Thomas is good for you, not even as a friend.’

  I frowned and wanted to snap at her, which is unusual for me, but she changed the subject.

  ‘How do you like Valerie’s new bikini?’ Valerie stood up proudly. ‘Nice, isn’t it? She chose it herself!’

  Lydia should see Thomas now. A warm tide of affection washes over me. So many people have tried to console me: some have tried to talk me out of my grief, others have ignored it. I’ve heard so many meaningless expressions – ‘life goes on’, ‘you’ve still got so much to be thankful for’. Thomas and Sylvie have never made that mistake. Well, Sylvie sometimes, but she’s also been so supportive that I forgive her. But Thomas has always been able to adapt to my mood. If I don’t feel like talking, he doesn’t either. If my tone is light, so is his. And if I need to cry, he wraps his arms around me and I see that his eyes are brimming.

  I look on with some sympathy while Thomas pulls a beer mat apart, searching for something to talk about. I feel sorry for him through my grief. It’s the first time since Lydia died that I’ve worried about what another person is feeling. Perhaps that’s a good sign. I make an effort to chat, but after a while the inevitable silence descends. I look into Thomas’s eyes. Warm, brown, with a small splash of yellow-gold in the middle.

  ‘How’s the police investigation going?’ he asks.

  The question sends us back to the subject he was just trying to avoid. ‘I don’t think the police are any further than they were at the start. First they cross-examine
d Raoul, then me, then my parents, Lydia’s colleagues and students, but I don’t know what they’re doing now. Bilal Assrouti has an alibi.’

  ‘That he was at a night club with a group of friends?’ Thomas says, his voice doubtful. ‘Don’t the police keep you informed about any new developments?’

  ‘If there’s been any.’

  ‘Perhaps it was random after all – a mugging gone wrong,’ Thomas says.

  ‘Someone lay in wait for her, someone who knew what time she’d get home, someone who waited for their chance and…’ My voice breaks and Thomas looks at me with concern. I swallow, take a sip of water. ‘You know what…’

  Thomas looks at me.

  ‘Sometimes I get the feeling.’ I fall silent, but after a while I go on, choosing my words with care. ‘Every now and again I get the feeling that Lydia is here. Like she’s standing behind me and looking over my shoulder.’

  Thomas involuntarily looks at the spot behind me.

  ‘When my grandfather died, I didn’t really feel like he was gone for good and I was just a child then. I had intense dreams about him and sometimes I got the feeling that he was in my bedroom.’

  ‘Really?’

  I know what he’s thinking. Thomas is a down-to-earth person, he’s not that into mystical experiences.

  ‘You don’t believe in all that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Thomas says, and I laugh. That’s why I like him so much. He’ll never agree just because he’s afraid of upsetting me, he always stays true to himself. It’s good. I don’t need my friends to be acting differently right now.

  Thomas sips his beer. ‘There are so many of those stories. People have regression therapy and think they once lived in the time of the Pharaohs, people say they see spirits and communicate with them.’

  ‘Have you ever seen that program with Char?’ I ask.

  Char is an American medium who claims to be able to contact the dead. I always watch her, but Thomas is clearly less impressed with her paranormal gifts. He pulls a face and does a good impression of Char, bending towards me, taking my hand and reciting all the letters of the alphabet in a serious tone. Then he imitates the client bursting into tears after a session with Char and sobbing, ‘Yes, M! My mother’s name is Johanna but her fourth middle name is Maria!’