Shadow Sister

by Simone Vlugt

  I take a deep breath of fresh air, bend over Valerie and free her from her seatbelt, which is sticky with lumps.

  ‘My throat hurts!’ Valerie wails.

  Raoul surveys the disgusting mess on the backseat and turns to me. ‘Why did you let her eat that biscuit before we left? You know it’s all going to come out again.’

  ‘If you were so sure about it, you should have put the salad bowl on her lap,’ I snap back. ‘And perhaps you should drive more slowly. Anyone would get sick from all that accelerating and braking. I don’t feel that well either, and I never get that when I drive.’

  We continue our journey in pleasant silence. Thank god my parents live close by. My old neighbourhood drowses in the sun, awash with young foliage. This area used to be heavily populated with children, but these days it’s quiet and the residents are mostly elderly.

  We turn into my parents’ street and, as usual, emotions wash over me when I see the white house. The sight rouses precious memories. This is where I grew up, I played here, that’s where I used to throw marbles, there is where I drew on the pavings with my chalks, and here’s where Elisa and I used to push the doll’s pram around.

  I get out and survey the surroundings.

  ‘Mummy!’ Valerie knocks on her window and I help her out.

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ she complains, but then her face clears. ‘Grandad! Grandad!’

  I turn around and see my father. He’s a tall man with a full head of grey hair. A burst of love and pride rushes through me.

  ‘Hello!’ my father calls out. He catches Valerie, who flies at him, and comes over to us, carrying her. We take the garden path together.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask.

  ‘In the garden. Isn’t it lovely weather?’

  ‘Perfect barbecuing weather,’ Raoul comments.

  He hates visiting people, but messing around with a barbecue and sitting in the garden with a glass of beer is something he loves.

  It is wonderful to be in their enormous back garden, sitting in the shadow of the trees. I used to climb these trees with Elisa; we’d build dens and play Barbies endlessly on a rug on the lawn. In the winter, we’d ride our sleigh and in the summer we’d lie around the pool that my parents built at the bottom of the garden. It was a fantastic childhood.

  I kiss my mother, and as usual my instinct is to handle her like she’s made out of china. Rosalie van Woerkom is a handsome woman in her fifties. She’s well groomed and elegant, always taken for younger than she is.

  ‘How are you, darling? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘Oh well,’ I say.

  My mother carries on studying me. ‘What happened?’ she asks in a no-nonsense tone.

  39.

  Sometimes I don’t feel like one of a pair of identical twins, but the third in a set of triplets. My mother has the same telepathic gift and can see right through me, in the same way as I can see through Elisa. But while Elisa always remains calm, my mother gets hysterical at the slightest hint that either of her daughters is in trouble. I’m certain that she won’t be able to sleep if I tell her what the problem is.

  It’s better not to say anything. Luckily, pouring drinks and serving canapés is enough to keep her occupied for the moment.

  A while later, we are chatting and drinking. Raoul is at his best, he can be very charming if he wants to be, but I wonder whether he’d be so relaxed if I’d decided to drink and he was driving home.

  ‘What time is Elisa coming?’ He looks around as if he’s expecting my sister to jump out from behind a tree. ‘I thought we were quite late.’

  ‘She’ll be here soon. She had another shoot with an actor and today was the only day he could do,’ my mother says.

  ‘An actor? Who?’ Raoul asks with interest.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. She did tell me but I never remember names,’ Mum answers. ‘Someone from one of those soaps.’

  ‘Are you gossiping about me?’ calls out a friendly voice from near the house.

  I turn towards the direction of the sound and see my twin sister coming down the path towards us. It’s perfect weather for the new outfit we bought yesterday, but my twin sister – how is it possible that we’re twins! – is wearing a dark blue pair of work trousers instead, with a white jumper and chunky shoes. She looks as though she’s moonlighting as a builder. It’s spring for god’s sake. I meet her halfway across the garden and give her a hug.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask, kissing her on the cheek.

  Elisa returns my kiss. ‘It’s me who should be asking you. Has anything else happened?’

  I shake my head as we make our way slowly over to the others. ‘I haven’t told Mum and Dad, so don’t bring it up.’

  ‘Why not?’ Elisa smiles and waves at our parents.

  ‘They’ll only get worried, and they can’t do anything about it.’

  We’ve reached the table and chairs under the trees and Elisa hugs Mum and Dad and then Raoul before she bends down to cuddle Valerie. ‘Beer please, Dad,’ she replies to his question.

  ‘How long have you been drinking beer?’ Mum asks.

  ‘For ages,’ Elisa answers. ‘But not constantly!’

  Raoul grins and takes a sip from his bottle. ‘Good choice, Elisa. Nothing nicer than a cool beer on a hot day.’

  ‘Did you come on the train?’ Mum frets.

  ‘No, I’ve borrowed Thomas’s car.’

  Dad fetches a beer from the kitchen and puts the bottle and a glass down on the table.

  ‘So, sweetheart, how are things? Taken any good photos recently?’

  ‘I had to do the new actor from Good Times,’ Elisa says. ‘A young guy, lots of chitchat. Thought he’d got it made in his new role, never stopped talking.’

  ‘That’s often the best way to get good shots, better than people who sit there waiting for the flash,’ Raoul says.

  ‘True, but he was really posing. He was talking but he was very aware of how he would appear, you know?’ Elisa rests her elbow on the arm of the chair, rests her chin on her index finger and stares mysteriously towards a single point, as if there were a camera there. ‘Would you like to see them?’

  She gets her camera out of her bag and fiddles with it. At that moment I remember something and grab for my own bag. ‘That’s right! I’ve got photos with me too. We’ve finally had the pictures of our skiing holiday developed.’

  Mum and Dad shuffle their chairs towards me and soon they are smiling away. Almost every photo features Valerie: Valerie in her pink ski suit on the piste, Valerie in the local restaurant, Valerie on the balcony of the chalet.

  ‘Were you and Raoul there too?’ my mother jokes. ‘Wow, that’s a nice one! Can I have that too? Could you get me an enlargement?’

  ‘Of course.’ I turn to my sister and give her the photos that our parents have just looked at. Elisa is silent, glaring. I’m about to ask what the matter is, when she puts her camera back in her bag and takes the photos from me.

  Elisa

  40.

  My mind at rest, I walk away from Night City towards the station. The evening air is chilly. This is a part of Rotterdam I never venture into and I don’t feel entirely comfortable, but that’s probably got more to do with the late hour than the area. It’s half past eleven.

  A taxi turns into the street. I wave it down. A dark-skinned young driver winds down the window.

  ‘Could you take me to Kralingen?’

  He nods and I climb into the back and give him my address. As we drive, I stare out of the window at the dark streets of Rotterdam, not really seeing them. We drive over Hofplein, across the Pompen Bridge and towards the Goudse Canal.

  My thoughts wander as the taxi drives through the night. After a while I begin to concentrate and I realise that I don’t recognise these streets. Where in god’s name are we? Shouldn’t we have got to Kralingen ages ago?

  I frown and peer through the window trying to orientate myself. All these dark narrow streets…Why is he taking these rather than th
e well-lit main roads?

  ‘Excuse me, aren’t we making a bit of a detour?’

  The driver doesn’t reply. He slows for a speed bump, imperturbable. He changes up to third, turns into a dark side street. I try to look at his face in the rear-view mirror, but it’s too dark to make him out. My fear grows with every foot we drive.

  We cross Maas Boulevard, which runs next to Kralingen. I try again, my voice trembling. ‘If you turn off here, we’ll be there. Why aren’t you turning?’

  I don’t get any reaction and my panic increases. I lean back against the seat, drenched in sweat, and look out of the window. Where are we going? What does he want from me?

  The tall square buildings of the Erasmus University loom up against the dark sky. We turn into Burgermeester Oud Avenue. The driver stops at Graven Road and looks left and then right.

  Left, I think feverishly. Please, left.

  He accelerates and goes straight, towards the Kralingse Woods. My hands are ice-cold and I can smell my own sweat. My eyes shoot from left to right, in the hope of seeing another car. Then I could jump out of the car and scream for help.

  We are the only car at the black edge of the woods.

  The car crawls through the woods. I could jump out now. Should I do that? If I run into the woods, I could hide. But I’d have to take my shoes off first because I won’t get far in these heels.

  I bend over very carefully and remove my right shoe. The driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror. I ignore him, pretend to be scratching my ankle and lean back again with the irritated expression of someone who believes she’s being conned into paying more. I hold the shoe discreetly in my hand then work off my left shoe with my bare right foot.

  Okay, now open the door. Carefully? Or suddenly?

  I opt for the careful option and look in the opposite direction as I fumble for the door. My trembling fingers find the handle and I pull on it. There’s a small click, but the door doesn’t open. I try again and break out into a sweat – the door’s locked. Locked! That shithead has turned on the central locking. Oh god, I’m in trouble. What can I do? Hit him on the head with one of my heels? My whole body is shaking. My legs have turned to jelly.

  I fish my mobile from my bag. One text and the whole Rotterdam police force will be here. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

  I cough a little to cover the sound of my fingers keying in the message. I won’t have to write much: HELP! KIDNAPPED! K. WOODS!

  I’ve finished keying in KIDNAPPED! when the taxi comes to a halt. I look up in shock.

  The driver has turned around and is looking at me. Dark eyes with an evil look. I shove my mobile between my thighs.

  ‘Give it here,’ he says calmly. He holds out his hand, but instead of my phone I grab for my shoe which I’d put down the seat next to me, and stab at him. He grasps me by the wrist and turns it so sharply that I drop the shoe with a cry. His other hand grapples between my legs and I scream. He gets my mobile, opens the dashboard unit and throws it in there. Then he turns back and studies me.

  ‘So,’ he begins. ‘I heard you were looking for me.’

  Bilal Assrouti.

  All I can do is stare, swallow.

  ‘I take it that I don’t have to introduce myself,’ Bilal says. ‘And you don’t have to tell me who you are. I know why you’re following me. This stops here.’

  I nod dumbly. All kinds of things go around in my mind, what I could say, how I could explain, back out, apologise, but words don’t seem enough when I look into Bilal’s cruel eyes.

  ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ I stutter.

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ Bilal looks me up and down in a detached way.

  I try to think of something to say, but I can’t come up with anything. It seems better to hold my tongue.

  Bilal turns his back on me to light up a cigarette and inhales. ‘You’re her sister.’

  It’s impossible to deny that, so I nod.

  Bilal observes me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Twins then?’

  ‘Identical.’

  There’s a pause. Bilal smokes and I study him in the mirror. A street lamp shines into the car and I can see enough of his face to feel a little less uneasy.

  Unexpectedly our eyes meet, mine scared and his hard and accusing.

  ‘You’re going around looking for me and asking questions about me,’ he says. ‘I don’t like that.’

  I wipe my palms on my trousers and say nothing.

  ‘Have you got any idea how pissed off I was when I heard that you were asking people about me?’ He spits the words out. ‘Any idea what it feels like to be ambushed by six policemen when you’re walking down the street? What it feels like to see your picture in the paper and on the news and to be given the cold shoulder wherever you go after that? To fail your exams and not be able to find a job? Well, do you know what it feels like?’

  I press against the back of my seat, say nothing.

  ‘Well?’ he shouts. ‘You know how that feels? Not to have any chance of getting a job because you’re Moroccan? To be refused service in bars and restaurants, to be discriminated against your whole life in this fucking shithole country that pretends to be so tolerant?’

  ‘No,’ I whisper.

  He twists around and blows smoke through the car. I start to feel suffocated and breathe in short gasps.

  ‘You don’t know,’ he says. ‘You haven’t got a fucking clue.’

  I could argue with that, but I don’t.

  ‘I’m…I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good.’ His voice sounds friendly, threateningly friendly as he opens the glovebox and gets out a dark object. Then he turns off the central locking, nods at my door and says, ‘Get out then.’

  41.

  I’m frozen to my seat, I can’t move. Bilal walks around the taxi and opens my door. He orders me out of the car. I get out with stiff, unwilling legs. What next? What is he doing? What has he got in his hand?

  I stand on the grass verge in my bare feet. Bilal is a few steps away from me. The few seconds I’d need to move forward and punch him would be enough for him to shoot me dead.

  We look at each other; the silence is broken only by the whispering treetops.

  ‘Turn around and walk into the woods.’ He points towards the trees, moving gently in the wind.

  ‘Please…I didn’t mean anything by it. I only wanted to ask you something about—’

  ‘Turn around,’ he raises his voice.

  I see him put his hand in his pocket. I turn on shaking legs and walk around the taxi. As I walk towards the trees, I realise that I should have jumped back into the taxi and turned on the central locking. But it’s too late for that now.

  I hear footsteps behind me – Bilal following me at a distance, his eyes boring into my back, forcing me to the edge of the woods. Something in his hand.

  Could I sprint into the dark enclosure? Did Lydia go through the same before she was shot? This crippled, passive waiting? No, Lydia would be gone by now. Lydia would have got behind the wheel and torn off. I can run as fast as I like, but one well-aimed shot will put an end to that.

  Oh, this walking, this torturous waiting for the sound, an explosion in my body. I stumble and fall forwards. Muffled footsteps approach me through the grass, and I crawl towards the bushes.

  The footsteps stop and something is thrown at me. A hand grenade! All those newspaper articles about terrorist attacks, complete with bombs and hand grenades rush before my eyes.

  I get up and stumble away. Into the woods. Quick!

  A loud bang breaks the silence. I trip and fall flat on the ground again. But I don’t feel any pain and when I try to move I can.

  An engine starts up, then tyres screech. Bilal Assrouti is driving along Kralingse Road. I watch the vehicle until it’s far away, no more than a yellow speck. It’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting on the dark edge of the woods. I cry with relief that I’m alone again, that I’m still alive.

  I sit there, one moment laughing, t
he next crying again and completely confused. At last I stand up and hobble towards the road. A light gleams in the grass. I walk over to it and stare in disbelief at my mobile. I put it in my pocket and walk barefoot down the road.

  I can barely get the door of my house open. I’ve no energy left after that endless walk. I try to slide the key into the slot with trembling fingers, but I can’t. Finally I give up, let my arms hang next to my body and take a few deep breaths. After a while, I try again and this time the key glides easily into the slot.

  My hallway. My house. I lock the front door and turn all the catches. Once I’m sure that no one can get in, I open the door to the sitting room and turn on the light. I’m home. I’m still alive. I’m not lying dead somewhere in the woods. I’m safe.

  I go into the sitting room and see the half-empty glass of wine I’ve left on the coffee table. Next to it are the remote control and the television guide. Did I watch TV before going to Night City? Did I drink a glass of wine? I can only vaguely remember it, as if it all took place in another life. Nothing is the same anymore.

  I drink the lukewarm white wine. Drink is not really the right word, I throw it back and feel an urgent need for more. For something stronger, even. I repress the urge and peer into the empty glass. What possessed Bilal to scare the living daylights out of me? Was his plan to terrify me or did he really want to shoot me? Why did he change his mind?

  With heavy, exhausted steps, I take the empty wineglass into the kitchen and check the locks on the kitchen door. I turn out the lights in the sitting room and go upstairs. Something moves behind me.

  I turn around, but there’s nothing on the stairs beneath me. The coats in the hall hang motionless on the rack, but my feeling of being alone has disappeared.

  I drag myself up the stairs, turn on all the lights and get undressed in my bedroom. Without bothering to wash or take off my make-up, I crawl under my duvet and pull it up over my head.

  42.

  ‘He did it,’ I say. ‘He must have done. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot me, but he scared me witless.’