The Other Twin

by L. V. Hay

  Not just for going out, but for underestimating the pain he has been in. For Mum. For India. For always thinking of Tim as the strong one.

  For everything.

  Forty-six

  There is still a rhythmic thumping on the bedroom door; it makes a cross-rhythm with the pulse in his head.

  She was not meant to be here. She returned with the little girl, claiming to have forgotten something the toddler simply couldn’t live without.

  So she caught them red-handed, manhandling the boy into the kitchen. She made threats then, saying she would call the police and that she didn’t care about the consequences – anything had to be better than this!

  He had to wrestle her phone from her hand. She gasped as he threw it against the wall. It broke into two pieces, which skittered across the tiles of the luxurious hallway.

  But her shock did not last long. She came at him with those nails of hers. He grabbed her by the armpit, arm extended so she couldn’t reach his face. He then braced himself against the big oak banister, dragging her up, step by agonising step as she bucked against him, kicking at his shins all the way. She’s chunkier than she used to be, so it wasn’t as easy as it once had been. She snarled and spat, screaming about how much she hated all of them; that she was going to fucking kill him if he did this sohelpmegod!

  Making it up onto the landing, he bundled her and the child into the bedroom. But she came at him as he closed the door. He had to push her head and then her talon-tipped hands back through the gap. He held onto the doorknob as she rattled it back and forth, shrieking yet more pointless threats. Finally he turned the key, locking her inside.

  He can hear the toddler crying in her cot, where he’s put her, her pudgy hands clutching the rails. The toddler howls in sympathy with her mother as she kicks the bottom of the door, a tattoo of resentment.

  He massages his temples before leisurely making his way back down the stairs. He knows what is waiting for him in the kitchen. His foot hits something; he’s kicked it across the tiles again.

  He sighs and stops, retrieving the pieces of the fallen phone. He dawdles, attempting to fix the pieces back together. The battery goes back in without an issue, but the fascia is smashed in two. He makes a mental note to buy her another. He knows he can’t buy her love, but perhaps she might forgive him eventually.

  He just wants to keep them all safe.

  ‘Get a wriggle on!’

  The call is for him. The other woman’s voice is thin, reedy, demanding. She wants the back-up – his heft behind her words. His heart dips into his boots. He doesn’t want to open the door to the kitchen, but his treacherous feet move him forwards regardless. He can still hear the beat on the door upstairs, a non-stop tempo leading him to the battleground. He braces himself and pushes the door inwards.

  ‘Just look what you’ve made me do!’

  Her voice is scolding, harsh. She stands, her thin form a shadow in the bay window. She extends an arm and the bangles on her skinny wrist clink, like the keys on a prison warder’s ring.

  But it is not him she is speaking to, now. In the centre of the room: the boy. Dressed in black again, no shoes. He sits on the only chair available, his hands clutching either side of the seat. He knows instantly the woman has forced the boy to sit there. He has folded his body over, his chest on his lap, legs drawn in, as if he hopes to hide himself from their gaze. The boy’s eyes stare down at the black-and-white tiles beneath their feet.

  He turns to look at the damage. Drawers pulled out, thrown on the floor in anger. Several chairs and the pine table upturned. The vase of lilies has crashed and broken on the floor, yellow pollen and petals floating on the tiles, the water making its way in squared off patterns through the grout. A collection of paperwork, scattered, some sticking to the floor in the puddles.

  The woman circles the boy on the chair, her lips pursed, silent. Then she sighs and kneads her eyes with the heel of her hand.

  ‘What are we going to do with you, eh?’

  The boy does not speak, nor give any indication he’s heard her. He doesn’t move a muscle. Face still towards the floor.

  He remembers being in this position, too, literally and figuratively. He learned what he had to do to win her favour again. He fell onto his knees on the tiles, threw his arms around her bony legs, begged her forgiveness. If he could squeeze a tear or ten out, he did it: the uglier he cried, the more hiccups and snot, the more she liked it. It made her feel needed. Important.

  He tries to send the boy a telepathic message: Just give her something. Anything. Play the game.

  But dry-eyed, the boy does not move.

  ‘I said…’ The woman moves forward and grabs the boy by the hair at the nape of his neck, forcing him to sit up straight. ‘…what are we going to do with you!?’

  The boy bares his teeth in pain. But he does not cry out. He lets go of the seat, both his hands to the back of his head, to try and relieve some of the pressure on his hair roots, threatening to tear from his scalp.

  A cruel smile flickers on her face then and she twists. Finally he yelps. This seems to satisfy her and she lets go.

  ‘The boy’s learned his lesson…’ he begins, but is silenced when she raises a talon-like nail at him. She is not interested in hearing from him. She never is. She might need him, to help deliver her punishments and penalties; but ultimately, she is in charge.

  ‘I’ve told you, so many times…! What will it take?’ Her gaze falls on the fallen cutlery drawer, upside down near her feet. Its contents are spread out before her: a selection of knives and forks and spoons; a couple of curly drinking straws with cartoon characters.

  She zeroes in on what she wants: a pair of scissors.

  With the smile of a greedy child swiping the last biscuit, she grabs them from the floor as she bunches the boy’s hair, still grasped in her other hand.

  ‘Perhaps this will make it obvious!’

  With a shriek, the boy realises, too late, what she is doing. He kicks into action and jumps up from the chair. As he turns, she waves the bunched hair in his face like a fan, before letting it go. It cascades to the kitchen floor.

  The boy reacts like she’s sucker-punched him in the gut. His knees buckle and he follows to the floor, emitting a high-pitched, mournful wail. He gathers the hair towards him, a fruitless endeavour; a pitiful sight.

  She throws the scissors down on the counter. She pants, as if she’s been running. She’s enjoyed this.

  His disgust must show on his face, because suddenly her eyes are back on him. She reaches forward, grabbing at his arm with her sharp nails; they prick his bicep through his shirt, but he meets her eye.

  ‘You should’ve prevented this,’ she hisses.

  He jerks his arm away, enjoying the surprise in her eyes, the sight of her as she wobbles and falls against the countertop. Unable to look at the boy, who is still on the floor, he turns on his heel and sweeps out of the kitchen, into the hall.

  The front door is open. The other man stands on the step, half in, half out, as if afraid to come in. Maybe he is. He can hear the thud of the door upstairs, the boy’s pitiful weeping, the baby’s low grizzle. The bad feeling, the vitriol, envelops the house like fog.

  The other man forces some authority into his voice. ‘What’s happened?’

  But he doesn’t reply. He shoulders his way past the other man and out of the house, leaving them all in his wake.

  Forty-seven

  I lock myself in the Coach House bathroom and step out of my dress. It forms a silky green puddle on the tiles. I turn on the tap and rub a hand over my face. I roll my neck and shoulders, feel the tension in them. Emotional exhaustion seems to catch up with me as steam billows all around. It obscures my reflection in the mirror.

  In my parents’ room, Tim had snapped back to normality with worrying aptitude. He smiled, rubbing tears from his eyes. He patted my shoulder, as if it was me that needed comforting. The message was clear: I’m fine now.

  Words hun
g in the delicate air between us. I knew if I chose the wrong ones, they would come showering down sharp and lethal, like glass.

  I forced normality into my voice. ‘So. You going somewhere?’

  I meant the suitcase and clothes that had crashed down the stairs. Tim feigned ignorance. Attempted a joke.

  ‘Thought I’d have a clear out, you know.’ A ghost of a smile pulled at his lip as he ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Never could stand all this matching Laura Ashley shit.’

  But I wasn’t going to run with that. ‘Mum is coming home … isn’t she?’

  At the mention of my mother, Tim seemed to sag, like a huge weight is pressing on his shoulders. I regretted saying anything, but I didn’t retract my query.

  Tim sighed. ‘It’s … complicated.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Dread pierced through me again. I felt like my family was unravelling, yet I was powerless to stop it.

  Tim grasped my face between his rough palms. ‘Whatever happens Pops. You’re my girl. You got that?’

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I dipped back into The Big Book of Clichés and Platitudes. ‘We’ll get through this.’

  Tim nodded. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Now, in the bathroom, I wipe condensation away from the mirror and examine my reflection. My lower lip twinges. There’s a small, red bite-mark at the base of my neck, another one on my left breast. Finger marks on my hips.

  People change, Matthew said.

  I spent years fucking Matthew. He never left a mark on me in all that time. Matthew no longer seems the safe guy he was. He now seems mysterious, even potentially dangerous. Being with him now is like entering a maelstrom. I say the word at the mirror. It looks like I’m saying ‘male storm’.

  The water as hot as I can bear, I slide into it, the tap still running. I take a sharp intake of breath as my flesh is almost scalded. I submerge my whole body, right up to my neck. My pale skin instantly turns red, tingling below the waterline.

  I turn the tap off with my foot, leaning back to wet and lather my hair. As I slide back up, I catch sight of more marks. This time, on the inside of my thigh. Matthew’s thumbprint, where he pinched me and held me down. I can still feel his hands all over my body, like he wants to possess every inch of me. Do I not like this new, shadier version of him, then? Part of me might be perturbed, but surely that’s only because I knew how he was. Before. The other part of me welcomes this unexpected change.

  I want more.

  I sigh, and force my thoughts onto a more pressing, if no less confusing path. I take stock of everything I’ve learned so far. Jayden and JoJo are another dead end. Working at The Obelisk the night of my sister’s death gives them both an alibi, plus I have to admit: Jayden killing India after she’s told everyone about the affair seems a little counterintuitive.

  Yet Ana looked stricken when I asked her about Jayden and where he’d been the night of 22nd December. At the time, I’d seen that as panic, confirmation Ana didn’t know where he was.

  I therefore jumped to the conclusion that my old friend was giving him a false alibi. But what if it was the other way around? Maybe she was trying to account for her own movements that night.

  I have to go back.

  Forty-eight

  I pick my way across the lawn at Coy Ponds, around the ridiculous ornaments. I don’t want to have to talk to Ana again. And if going to Coy Ponds seemed like a painful trip back into the past the last time I visited, now, after my night with Matthew, it is excruciating.

  I knock, hoping that by some miracle Matthew might answer the door, while praying he doesn’t. I know there is little chance he will. He already told me at his flat that he only sees his family when necessary and usually only for Ana’s sake, such as when he attended the spring ball.

  ‘What do you want now?’ Ana appears unsurprised to see me on the doorstep again. This time, she appears to be alone, the little girl nowhere to be seen.

  I dive straight in. ‘I talked to Jayden.’

  I’ll give Ana credit, she doesn’t flinch. ‘And?’

  ‘He was working that night. At the hotel. Lots of witnesses, apparently.’

  Only now does Ana’s ice-maiden veneer crack. A triumphant smile spreads across her face. ‘Told you.’

  It’s now that I move in. ‘Funny thing is, he never mentioned you were there.’

  ‘Well, I was.’ Ana tries to front it out. ‘I spent most of the night in the office. Helping with the admin, that kind of thing. We had a few problems with the suppliers for the Marchand party.’

  Her words seem too pat, rehearsed. ‘Is that what you told the police?’

  It’s as if she abruptly deflates. She nods.

  ‘And Jayden backed you up?’ I try to keep the surprise out of my voice.

  Ana purses her lips. ‘You better come in.’

  She stands aside, permitting me across the threshold. I amble through, into the large, marble-floored hallway. An ornate staircase sweeps its way up to a mezzanine landing. Downstairs, off the hallway, there is a selection of closed doors. Directly opposite us, another door is ajar. I glimpse black-and-white kitchen tiles before it closes, seemingly of its own accord.

  I turn sharply to Ana. ‘Who’s here with you?’

  ‘No one.’

  But I don’t believe her. I march across the hallway, my boots clacking on the ostentatious flooring. I grab the kitchen door handle and wrench it open.

  Who I’m expecting, I’m unsure. My eyes glance around the large deserted space, alighting on the sink, the countertops, the back door. As with everything at Coy Ponds, there isn’t an item out of place. In the centre of the room, a wooden table and chairs, typically homely, almost Waltons-esque. It’s utterly at odds with the rest of the décor, all chrome and aluminium and sparkling surfaces.

  I turn back towards Ana, who stands behind me, arms folded, as if to say, Satisfied? She turns and opens a door to her left.

  I follow her into a grandiose living room, though, just like the rest of the house, it looks more like something out of a magazine than somewhere anyone actually does any living. The colour has changed since I was last here four (nearly five) years ago, plus the room seems bigger. I realise that the Temples have extended the ground floor of the house, taking a small patch of garden, but installing two sets of gigantic patio doors.

  Beyond the glass, the grass is beautifully lush and green, and although it’s early in the year, there are plants in flower in various pots. I wonder what harsh chemicals have achieved such colour. It reminds me of Ana’s hair, the chemicals that she once used, and Maggie still does.

  Why did you stop relaxing your hair? I want to blurt out the words, but stop myself. I feel embarrassed. I’m not here for that and it’s none of my business. I was fascinated by black hair when I was younger, even wanting to dive my fingers into Afros or newly straightened hair. Like I had the right; like it was mine.

  Shame ripples through me at the memory. It was Ana, grabbing me by the wrist to stop me, who made me realise my trespass. But not only that, I felt the sore scabs on her scalp: gummy scales around her roots.

  ‘Why do it to yourself?’ I demanded.

  Ana smiled, but there was no humour or goodwill in it. ‘So I can look like you, of course.’

  Her stare penetrated mine, made me feel like a thousand ants were crawling on my skin, but I didn’t know why. I dismissed her comments as a bad mood, or because she didn’t like me hanging around her and Matthew all the time. She was always a jealous person. Now, I’m not so sure that was it, but I can’t put my finger on why.

  ‘I wasn’t with Jayden, OK?’ she says now, sitting in an armchair. She crosses her legs, her arms still folded defensively across her chest.

  I betray nothing on my face. ‘Where does Jayden think you were?’

  I perch on the edge of an overstuffed sofa, stiff with anticipation. Ana regards me, brow furrowed. She wrings her hands. Whatever she wants to tell me, she has already thought bette
r of it. Finally, she sighs.

  ‘He thinks I was here.’

  I process Ana’s words, understanding their implication immediately. Jayden thinks Ana was alone the night my sister died, so he’s given her an alibi.

  ‘I know it looks bad.’ Ana’s face is in her hands; she’s avoiding looking at me. ‘India tells me about Jayden and JoJo, drags us all through the mud, then a couple of weeks later she ends up dead. That’s why I said I was at the party, with Jayden.’

  ‘But you were here, alone?’ I prompt.

  Ana nods. ‘I swear on my girl’s life, Poppy, I never saw India that night.’

  ‘And I have to just take your word for that?’

  Ana throws her hands up in the air. It’s clear she has nothing left.

  I fancy I can feel the sincerity in her gaze. Indecision grabs at my gut. ‘OK.’

  I feel Ana’s relief pour out of her as I concede; it’s palpable in the air.

  I don’t want her to get complacent, yet, though. ‘But I’m warning you, if I uncover anything else dodgy to do with you and India, I’ll be going straight to the police myself.’

  Ana gives me a hasty nod. ‘Thank you.’

  So I leave, curiously dissatisfied. I’ve either done the right thing, or backed away from my first big lead. All the same, if I tell the police Ana lied on her statement, but she still isn’t responsible for India’s death, my accusations could send the investigation off at a mad tangent. They might even derail it altogether. Then the real perpetrator might not be found at all.

  Perhaps discretion really is the better part of valour.

  For now.

  Forty-nine

  ‘Matthew’s not in,’ the redhead says as soon as I approach the bar at Elemental.

  I barely hear her words above the caterwaul of Nirvana, though the accompanying shake of her head makes her meaning obvious.

  It’s a Sunday night and the bar is dead. A couple of women, a bottle of red wine between them, prop up the bar. The jukebox blares nineties’ grunge. A couple of lads fiddle with their pint glasses, not speaking. They don’t look the women’s way, even though they laugh loudly, attempting to get their attention.