The Other Twin

by L. V. Hay

  ‘A café bar, down on the seafront,’ Mum looks up, not quite managing to hide the exasperation in her voice. ‘I told you all this ages ago.’

  I open my mouth, but then there’s another flash. D’s disembodied hands up my skirt, my wreck of a flat. I’d been drinking far too much lately, perhaps Mum had told me? Shame blooms in my gut. If only I had been paying more attention.

  Tim appears from the living room, a newspaper under one arm and a fixed, humourless smile on his face. Tim is old school. ‘Keep on keeping on,’ his motto. No. Matter. What. ‘Coffee?’ he asks.

  In answer, Mum throws her mending down on the table, upending her sewing box. Hundreds of pins scatter across the kitchen tiles, lightly musical as metal hits ceramic. A sob attempts to erupt from my mother, but she clamps a hand over her mouth as she rushes from the room. Stupefied, I gape at Tim.

  ‘It’s alright love, I’ll get these.’ Tim indicates the pins, now dotted all over the floor. He still has that ridiculous grin painted on his round face.

  Blinking back tears, I set the iPad down on the table, India’s note to Jenny still on the screen. I grab my coat from the back of the kitchen door and shrug it on as I walk out.

  Ten

  I falter as soon as I make it outside. Where the hell am I going?

  The frost is still a hard shell on the ground, my boots crunch on the back-garden path. Dew sparkles on the trimmed topiary next to the decking. The barbecue pit is scrubbed clean, though the grill is orange with rust.

  Another flash of memory: India and me one summer. We’re drinking wine and playing Twister on the back lawn. Mum, an exasperated look on her face, rushes out onto the patio, to see what we’re cackling about. Within five minutes India has persuaded our normally reserved matriarch to join us, entwining her limbs with ours in increasingly bizarre poses.

  The garden gate’s hinges squeal in protest as I open it. I let it crash back on the latch.

  I make my way downhill, towards the seafront. I see the burnt-out shell of West Pier first, then the neon lights of Palace Pier, still visible against the pale sky. When we were growing up, we’d spent so many summers there, at Mum and Tim’s arcade. I’d watched tourists and locals alike sending good money after bad through the penny-falls machines or the grabbers. We were not allowed to play. Tim would survey his kingdom and remind India and me: ‘House always wins.’

  I pass various posters boasting of attractions ‘coming soon’, springing up mushroom-like amid the forest of hotel signs. Some of the buildings’ fronts are bedecked with scaffolding as they update during the quieter winter months. Tired and bedraggled bunting runs the length of the seafront, attempting to compete with the chain restaurants’ brightly coloured signage. Overhead, the December sky is so grey I can’t make out where it ends and the churning sea begins. The pebbles and shale of Brighton beach have been left dry by the retreating tide.

  I make my way past the Doughnut Groyne and The Kissing Wall sculpture, towards the steep concrete steps leading down to the beach. Most of the old boathouses have their aluminium shutters down; only a single café stands open, serving coffees to hardy off-season beach-goers.

  I drift onto the beach, kicking stones beneath my boots. The shellfish and artists’ kiosks stand idle, padlocks across their flimsy, multi-coloured doors. Joggers push wordlessly on past me, plugged into headphones. Women steer buggies, their eyes dull and bored, their kids wrapped up against the cold in fleeces and blankets that don’t permit them to move.

  I look behind me, in the direction of Western Esplanade. Beyond the Odeon and the Conference Centre is a large, new building: a massive, marble monolith. Locals called it a monstrosity when it was erected twenty years ago, but in the decades that have followed opposition has thawed. This is largely due to the amount of work and extra tourism it has brought into our city.

  The Obelisk resort.

  Light reflects off its tall windowpanes. Purpose-built by the (in) famous Spence Family, The Obelisk is perhaps twenty storeys high, matching the tall, black column outside. Even out of season, I can see the hotel is busy. There is a steady stream of patrons and staff snaking out of the front doors like ants, carrying bags and moving cars around the back. The Obelisk is the epitome of high-end luxury, catering to its residents’ every whim … or so the rumours go.

  As I squint, I notice that a limo stops out front. The chauffeur gets out the driver’s side and races around to open the back door on the side facing the hotel. I can’t see who the occupants are, but I can guess: Gordon Spence and his wife, Olivia. Gordon is a sixty-plus suburban Popeye with loose jowls and a rotund belly. He always undoes his cufflinks and rolls his shirtsleeves up, showing off his faded-green builder’s tattoos. He likes to remind everyone he’s not forgotten where he came from. In contrast, Olivia has modelled herself on the traditional aged trophy wife. Her hair still the brassy bottle blonde of her twenties, her too-tight facelifts making her look like she’s been badly burnt.

  I’ve never met either of them, but I’ve seen them plenty in the local papers. The whole family are publicity hogs, getting involved in every initiative in the city. Any excuse to remind Brighton The Obelisk is one of the biggest employers in the area. Every school kid in Brighton knows their story: how Gordon and Olivia started with nothing. The Obelisk had been their dream as they clawed their way out of poverty, building their empire brick by brick. That dream has paid off, big style. Good luck to them, I say.

  I turn away, looking now for the café bar where India did the odd shift. What was it called?

  Elemental.

  I make my way towards the line of bars on the seafront, and soon find the right one. It leads just off the beach, its sign aluminium, punched-out letters, blue neon shining through. I remember the venue was an American diner when I left. Must be under new ownership.

  Through its large front window, I see a couple of mothers drinking coffee, seated in a booth as their toddlers play nearby. At the bar sits a man in a suit, his back to me, hunched over. His posture cries despair; the whisky tumbler in his hand, right now, before midday, even more so.

  I cross the threshold and a bell tinkles, making the two mums look up before returning to their conversation. The man at the bar does not move. The décor feels futuristic, high-tech. I can see the aluminium theme is continued throughout, lining the tables and bar tops, more blue neon piping around the optics. On the wall, the food and drinks menu is a mock periodic table. To the left of the bar, a small stage, a poster beside it advertising an open-mic night. It’s a cool place, somewhere I might like to go to, day or night. I can see why India might have enjoyed working here.

  The man at the bar stands, and as he turns, I note he looks a lot younger and more cheerful than I presumed. He gives a brief grin as he clocks me beside him, and chucks a note down on the bar, calling out as he does so.

  ‘Customer out here. Cheers!’

  ‘Alright Steve, see ya later!’

  I recognise the other voice as it filters through and stiffen as a man appears from the back. He’s wiping his wet hands on a tea towel, offering up an automatic smile.

  ‘What can I get you…?’

  The smile freezes on his face as our eyes lock. He takes me in. Even four (nearly five) years on, I still feel prickles down my back just looking at him. He’s not changed much, just some subtle differences: his head is still shaved but now he has a short goatee. There are flecks of white in it, contrasting with his dark skin. He’s immaculately turned out, although not wearing the kind of designer shirt he used to, but a faded, grungey-looking t-shirt and jeans. He’s bigger than he used to be, too, especially in the chest and arms: ‘hench’, as the kids would say (adjective, British informal. Fit, with well-developed muscles (male only)).

  I find my voice at last. ‘Matthew.’

  Eleven

  ‘Poppy.’

  Too late, it hits me: Matthew is not pleased to see me. I’m irritated momentarily that Mum didn’t mention that Elemental is his, then
remind myself she’s not thinking straight at the moment. None of us are.

  I’m unsure what to say. ‘This place is … nice.’

  Matthew does not accept the compliment. Instead he tilts his head, assessing me, like he thinks I’m about to trick him. His hands flex at his sides.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ I say softly, unable to stop myself.

  Matthew’s body is rigid, his stare jumping from me to the rest of the bar. It’s empty now, the two mums gone. It’s just him and me.

  ‘I’m sorry about India.’

  But I know Matthew too well. Even behind his attempt at a studied neutrality, I see his panicked thoughts roil.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ I try to sound impersonal as well. ‘Mum says India was working here?’

  Matthew’s posture slumps. I watch a myriad of emotions pass across his face: hurt, anger, relief. He settles on nonchalance. ‘That’s right. Drink?’

  Before I can tell him what I want, Matthew reaches under the counter and sets a glass and a bottle of Coke in front of me. Red label of course, I hate Diet. He remembers.

  ‘Thanks.’ I ignore the glass and pluck a straw out of the holder by the till. I shove it into the neck of the bottle.

  Matthew leans both hands on the bar. ‘I didn’t have enough work for her out of season.’ It’s as if he feels compelled to fill the silence between us. ‘She did weekends, the occasional event. I would have used her more in the summer had she…’

  Had she not died. Had she lived. Delete as appropriate.

  We both take a deep breath and recover our bearings.

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  Matthew’s eyes flit upwards. ‘I guess a couple of weeks before, well, you know. There was an office Christmas party here. She worked that one, I think.’

  ‘How did she seem, to you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  My gaze drops to his large hands, the angle of his wrists. On his left I note he’s wearing a different watch, not the one I bought for his birthday, four (nearly five) years ago. We celebrated that one on our own, hiding from everyone all day. His parents and siblings had made so many calls, we unplugged the landline and turned off our mobiles. We hid, giggling, with hands clamped over each other’s mouths as various family members banged on the door downstairs.

  ‘Today is our day,’ Matthew said.

  Our old flat was above an old-school tobacconist in a dodgy area of Hove. It smelt of pipe smoke, but we grew used to it quickly. There was a grubby kitchenette, a shared bathroom across the hall. Pigeons nested in the corners of the roof, making a racket day and night. There was always a door slamming somewhere. But it was ours and we were happy there.

  Until The Ultimatum.

  ‘Not suicidal?’ I drain the last of my Coke.

  Matthew gives an uncharacteristically nervous blink. ‘No. Guess I was wrong.’

  ‘I guess.’

  This new Matthew is spiky and awkward, all sharp edges. His old, warm fuzziness is gone: he no longer seems safe. But what is safe? Why are Safe Guys always equated with boredom? A Safe Guy is someone you can count on, who will do anything for you. He means what he says, there is no second guessing. Sometimes Safe Guys are called ‘real men’ or ‘gentlemen’, although those words can suggest other, less favourable, connotations: player, womaniser, pimp. But Matthew was none of these things. Any consideration he afforded me back then was not because he wanted anything specific in return. It was because he loved me. Simple as that.

  But that was Before. Now he feels different.

  I did that.

  I look up and find his gaze on me. He hesitates, then takes the plunge.

  ‘What do you think is going to happen – when you’ve found out why India killed herself?’

  I wince at his choice of words. I look away, tears stinging my eyes, that familiar pain in my throat. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let her go,’ he murmurs.

  ‘I can’t.’ I hop down from the barstool and away from the bar, creating more distance between us. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  Matthew mimics me, backing away behind the counter. ‘Don’t mention it.’

  I waver a moment then turn on my heel, calling over my shoulder as I go, ‘Well, see you later maybe.’

  ‘Goodbye, Poppy,’ Matthew’s voice is flat.

  The doorbell tinkles as I let myself out.

  Twelve

  I arrive back at the Coach House. I feel off-kilter, disturbed by how seeing Matthew has affected me. An unwanted montage of images slides through my memory, blurring like scenery through a train window: we lie together on our broken-down old bed; we watch a movie, my head resting on Matthew’s shoulder; water cascades over his toned, dark skin in the shower, then he gives me a cheeky smile and pulls me in with him, even though I’m fully clothed.

  When I enter the Coach House living room, these memories dissolve. I find a strange, pale man sitting there. He’s not that old, perhaps mid-forties, but he’s already got a comb-over. He wears a cheap suit that smells like it hasn’t been laundered in a while, which is made more obvious rather than masked by the liberal dousing of aftershave he has given himself. I struggle to stop my nose wrinkling up.

  He jumps up from the threadbare old armchair, strides across the room in what seems like two steps and grasps my right hand in both of his, which feel limp and cold.

  ‘Miss Rutledge…’ he begins, oozing smarm.

  ‘It’s Wade.’

  I say the words softly, almost embarrassed as I claim my no-good natural father’s name as my own. He and Mum had married when still in university, only to regret it mere months later, but not before I was in Mum’s belly. I can barely remember my father, now. All I can fashion in my mind is a grey goatee; weathered hands; the smell of a woody aftershave, like rain on wet bark. I haven’t seen him since before Tim and Mum were married. Yet I’ve kept the name, a teenage rebellion that feels disloyal now.

  The man corrects himself. ‘Miss Wade. Peter Thackeray, from Thackeray and Son,’ he says, ‘though truth be told, it’s just me now … I’m the son,’ he adds, in case I am unable to follow. He smiles. His gums are receding; each tooth protrudes like a yellow tombstone, decay etched around every edge. A lifelong smoker.

  ‘Good to … erm … meet you.’ I extricate my hand and try to take a step away from him. But he follows me. We end up doing a curious dance towards my mother’s sideboard.

  ‘Peter’s from the funeral director’s.’

  I turn to see Mum struggling in with a tray, a teapot, milk jug and the best china wobbling on it. On a plate, the biscuits she keeps for VIPs.

  Peter Thackeray finally moves away and sits down opposite Mum, who is pouring the tea. He keeps his oily, insincere stare on me.

  ‘We’re just picking … y’know.’ Mum attempts breezy, but finds herself unable to say the words needed: casket; flowers; order of service.

  Mr Thackeray opens a briefcase and brings out a selection of glossy leaflets and catalogues, all tastefully designed in low-key colours, with photos of dignified flower arrangements inviting us to forget their context. But how can we?

  I turn, finding Tim behind me. Do they want me to help? I send him the unspoken question. He offers me a strained smile then an almost indiscernible shake of his head. Relieved, I push past him into the hall. I race up the stairs to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, heat enveloping me as a sudden nausea hits.

  Afterwards, not wanting to risk being drawn back into the conversation, I go into India’s room. Her belongings sit in a plastic bag on her desk. Retrieved from ‘the incident’, the policewoman said when she brought them back to us. From her body, is what she meant. At least she also brought back India’s laptop.

  I answered the door to her, so had to sign for my dead sister’s things. I didn’t show them to Mum. I held them at arms’ length, went straight to India’s room where I dumped them.

  Looking around now, I acknowledge small changes i
n my peripheral vision. The bed is made, the sheets straightened. Mum has placed my sister’s washing and ironing in a neat pile, as if she will put it in the drawers herself. On top of the pile, the red hoody.

  I pick it up, smelling the fabric, wondering if I can sense my sister still inside the fibres. But I can smell only fabric conditioner. I yank the hoody over my head, determined to feel closer to India, somehow. Then I grab the plastic bag from the desk and sit down on the bed.

  I crack the seal, letting the items fall out onto the duvet.

  First, a policeman’s business card: ‘Detective Sergeant Kamil Rahman, Family Liaison Officer’. I put it in my pocket.

  Next: India’s house keys; a half-pack of tissues; a roll of mints, unopened.

  Then the last item: India’s mobile. The screen is cracked and there are scratches all down the back of the handset. Being hit by a train can do that. I press the power button and am surprised when the LED screen flickers and the start-up animation begins.

  When the phone is fully live, I scroll through it. I click on the photo gallery first. There’s a selection of selfies. I smile despite myself, as I see India pouting; she always did love the camera.

  There are more pictures, mostly landscapes: sunsets and flowers. A couple of memes and cute animal pics saved from the Internet. The email inbox is full of spam and social-media notifications. India has received no personal messages.

  The voicemail icon flashes.

  I put the phone to my ear and steel myself, hearing my sister’s dulcet tones for the first time in years: ‘Hi, this is India. Leave a message after the beep and I might get back to you … IF I feel like it!’ Pain lances through me as my sister’s bell-like laugh is cut off and the recordings start up.

  The first voicemail is an automated message from a bank; then there’s a bored-sounding Indian man trying to sell a fraud protection service. The next few are just static, before the caller hangs up. It’s the fifth that grabs my attention.