The Other Twin

by L. V. Hay

  ‘Lie still.’

  I do as I’m told. I’m surprised as he grabs both my ankles, pulling me towards him across the bed. He drops to his knees, still on the floor, as if praying. He presses his lips against my bare stomach. He rolls down my underwear.

  Suddenly perturbed, I try to sit up.

  A chuckle escapes him, hot breath between my thighs. ‘Let me.’

  I allow him to hold me down again, prise my knees apart. I stare at the ceiling as he puts his mouth to my cunt, his breath on my wet skin.

  He teases with his fingertips and tongue. One of Matthew’s hands moves up my belly, tracing the space between my breasts, circling one of my nipples.

  My breath catches in the back of my throat as an involuntary moan pushes between my lips. I arch my back, bucking against his mouth’s attentions.

  He thrusts his tongue and fingers deeper inside me. As he massages and pricks at the skin, I feel teeth brush over my most vulnerable place.

  I turn my head to one side. I can still see my sister’s red hoody, lying on the floor out in the hallway. A momentary flash of India enters my head, but I banish it, bright spots jumping up in front of my eyes instead. A slow-burn orgasm starts to flower deep within me.

  I am powerless to stop its assault. It works its way from the pit of my stomach, through my chest and arms and down through my body to my feet. Before I can recover, Matthew flips me onto my front. He grabs my hips, forcing me up on my knees. The street light outside casts our curious, joined shadow on the wall.

  He pulls down his boxers and spears me hard on his cock, in one deft movement. I suck air in through my teeth, a gasp of both pain and pleasure, as I brace myself against the headboard. He thrusts into me five, six times before climaxing with a low grunt. He collapses onto his back on the bed, next to me.

  He pulls me to him this time. I lay my head on his shoulder. He raises a hand to brush my hair from my face. His fingertips discover my silent tears in the darkness, tracking down my cheeks. He makes a soothing noise, brushing them away. He thinks it’s the emotion of the past few days, or the release of sex that’s brought them; or both.

  But it’s not.

  Moments later Matthew is asleep. His chest rises and falls. As I drift off, too, my heart grieves. Looking at his peaceful, slack face, I realise: I’ve never known him at all. He’s done everything he could to come between me and the truth, never wanting me to find out about Jenny. But why? Who is she?

  Tomorrow, I will find out.

  Whatever it takes.

  Sixty

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be OK?’

  I smile and nod: I’ll be fine.

  I lie in bed and watch Matthew get dressed. He seems irritated. He mentions something about being late for a meeting with the brewery, which he can’t get out of. I reiterate I’ll be OK. He tells me we’ll go out this afternoon, just the two of us, somewhere nice. Take my mind off all this.

  Thin-lipped I absorb his words, ignoring my contrary urges. I let him take charge and fuss over me. Finally he smiles and kisses me on the mouth, before running out.

  As soon as the front door slams, I drift into the bathroom, dropping onto the floor by the toilet. My body feels numb – not my own. I stare at my bare hands and feet as I contemplate what I’ve just done: the full Mata Hari. There are words for this, ‘honeytrap’ one of the nicer ones (noun. A seductive ambush. Related words: lies, deceit, corruption).

  I force these thoughts out of my mind. I need to find out who Jenny really is, why Matthew and the rest of the Temples have tried to keep her a secret, plus what this could mean in relation to my sister’s death. Jenny’s words come back to me – that India had something to tell her the night she died.

  Matthew’s apartment is silent. Still wobbly, I stand up; my bare feet flinch from the cold floor tiles. There’s just a linen basket and a mirrored wall cabinet in the cell-like bathroom. I open the cabinet door. Inside are a razor, shaving foam, toothpaste, deodorant. I pull the lid off the linen basket: a pair of dirty jeans, underwear, a couple of shirts.

  I step back through to Matthew’s bedroom. The window is open a crack, sunlight peeking through. The blind on the dormer stirs with a warm breeze. I can hear a lawnmower somewhere. It’s just after eight in the morning, but I can tell already it’s going to be an unseasonably warm day.

  I turn out drawers in the room with reckless abandon, rifling through papers, socks, underwear. I open the wardrobe. I sort through the hanging clothes, turning out pockets. I check the shoes in the base of the wardrobe, the boxes lining the top. I heave up the mattress, turn the bed’s baseboard over before letting it rock back on its castors.

  What am I looking for, exactly? I’m not sure.

  I go into the kitchen and living area. I open every cupboard and drawer in there, too. Just food, cleaning products, washing powder, plates and cups. All lined up, in Matthew’s usual neat, anal way.

  I push the sofa out the way; he’s even vacuumed under there, too. A shelf in the corner holds half a dozen books and twice that number of DVDs. The place is so bare, it’s easy to search; I’m done in twenty minutes.

  Nothing.

  My gaze falls on the bin, the only thing I haven’t searched. I pull off the lid; there’s hardly anything inside. Figures, for a neat freak like Matthew.

  I know what I have to do next, but I want to delay it, so I go back in the bathroom. I make the water as hot as I can bear. I scrub at my skin, anxious to rid myself of Matthew. I thought sleeping with the faceless D, before Christmas was a low point, but last night has plumbed new depths. Worse, because I can remember every moment this time. Plus my treacherous body enjoyed it. As I watch water churn down the plughole, I feel like my betrayal of India is absolute.

  I have to make it right.

  I finally exit the shower cubicle and dry myself off. As I squeeze moisture from my poker-straight hair, I recall Ana’s corkscrews at my sister’s funeral. Another flash of Ana’s face ricochets back to me: her angry expression at her brother last night. She seemed almost disappointed in Matthew. Why?

  I can’t put it off any longer.

  I have to go back to Coy Ponds.

  Sixty-one

  I take a bus to see her. I have to walk the last block, and as I go, I check the time on my phone: coming up for eleven o’clock in the morning. My mother has left several texts. She wonders where I am, entreats me to come home. I fire off a reply, telling her I’m safe and I just need time to think – none of which is strictly untrue.

  I sidle up the pavement. I watch Coy Ponds for some time, sheltered behind a large ornamental pine tree, next to that perfectly coiffured lawn with its ridiculous stone fairies and wishing wells.

  I try to discern if anyone is home. There is no car on the drive. Alan has a beastly old Jaguar, so he must be out. Being the middle of the day, there are, of course, no overhead lights on, but I can see no movement inside the big house, nor any shining TV screens. It looks empty.

  I feel eyes on me. I look around and see an elderly gentleman appear on his own immaculate lawn to pick up the newspaper. He forces a smile onto his face as if he wasn’t thinking I look suspicious. But, of course, I do.

  I nod in acknowledgement and look at my phone with an irritated expression, as if I’m waiting for someone. Then, knowing he’s still watching me, I make a big show of walking off in the opposite direction, back towards the park.

  At the end of the road, I wait five minutes. Then I skip back up towards Coy Ponds. The elderly gentleman is gone from his lawn. Just in case he’s still watching from his own hallway, I race across Coy Ponds’ lawn as fast as I can, until I’m out of sight.

  I brace myself against the rendered white wall. I walk around the big house, picking my way through some rose bushes. I try to ensure I don’t catch my skirt or tights on any thorns. I’m slow and deliberate, to avoid being picked up in the glare of the motion-sensor light I know is there. I run my palm across the brickwork until my palm finds glass: the double
patio windows of the extended, grandiose living room. I press my face against the pane. The room is as it was when I spoke to Ana last, seated on that massive, overstuffed three-piece suite: meticulously tidy, everything in its place, like every room in the big house.

  I reach out and grasp the patio window handle. To my surprise, it is not locked. Carefully, I open it just enough to allow me access, squeezing through, into the room beyond. I leave it open, just in case, freezing where I am.

  What the hell am I doing?

  But then I remind myself.

  There have been enough lies. We all need answers.

  I move into the hallway beyond the living room. The other rooms downstairs are dark, so I move towards the large, wide staircase and the mezzanine above. One of the doors is ajar, light pooling on the hall floor. I push it open.

  Inside is a riot of bedclothes, toys and trinkets. There’s a double bed, unmade in the centre of the room. A cot in the corner. This must be Ana’s room. I recognise my old friend’s clothes scattered on the floor, her hair products left out, make-up on the bedside cabinet. Smaller clothes are stacked on top of a changing station, along with a pack of nappies and wipes, incongruously neat against the backdrop of havoc.

  I move to the next door. No one is inside. It is a plain, boy’s bedroom. It must be James’s. It looks untouched. There is a dark-blue bedspread on a single bed; a cabinet; a wardrobe; a desk and chair. There are some books on a shelf, a vase of flowers. In comparison to Ana’s, it is pathologically neat, like Matthew’s place. There are no real personal touches: no posters on the wall, no cluttered belongings on display, no mess. A light film of dust has settled on top of the items in the room. Then I remember what Maggie said at India’s funeral about her youngest child: ‘He’s away at school … He’s very gifted.’

  I move to the next door. The curtains are still closed in this room. A lamp has been left on, offering dim illumination. The décor is classically girly: pink and white; a gingham bedspread with matching curtains. There is a single bed, with matching white cupboard and ottoman. In comparison to the previous room, this one feels more lived in, though it is much tidier than Ana’s.

  So, this must be Jenny’s room. But why would the Temples have this teenaged girl living with them? And how does no one else know?

  I cross the threshold and slide open a drawer. Inside, a selection of toiletries and make-up. I open the wardrobe door. The clothes are wrapped in plastic. The smell of mothballs pricks my nostrils. I shift through the clothes: dresses, skirts, tops. Some of them I remember Ana wearing when we were teenagers.

  I brush my hand against the bells fringing a skirt. They tinkle, loud in the silence. Another connection sparks in my mind: My sister was wearing this skirt, in her Facebook profile photo.

  This prompts me to look closer, at the other clothes, the jumble at the bottom of the wardrobe. Something catches my eye. I reach for it, pulling it out.

  I recognise it as Jenny’s black gym bag, the one I saw stuffed in the kitchen at the Prince Albert. I unzip it. Sure enough, inside is that black, bell-sleeve top and long black skirt. And Jenny’s red wig. I finger the strands: they feel fake, unreal – spun nylon.

  I become aware of another presence behind me. I flinch, caught in the act. An automatic apology jumps to my lips, but it dies in my mouth as I take in who waits in the doorway.

  The smell of cigarettes wafts in ahead of him. He has his hands in his pockets, just like his son often does, though this man is much shorter. And white. His pock-marked face is impassive, trying to work out what I’m doing.

  Alan Temple.

  Sixty-two

  Alan blocks the doorway, just two or three good paces away. There is no doubt about the threat he presents. Something shifts between us: dark and ominous. It’s a strain for Alan Temple to keep it in check.

  And in that tiny fragment of time, everything finally fits together:

  – My mother’s screams reverberating around Elemental: ‘It was you. It was always you’;

  – The Temples’ consistent presence in our lives for twenty-five years;

  – Maggie sitting on the stairs with me, the day India was born, commiserating;

  – Frog King – pebbly skin – ‘make froggy jump’!

  India’s biological father is Alan Temple. That’s what India was going to tell Jenny that night. But maybe she’d decided she needed to tell Tim first. But I don’t have time to puzzle all this, not now.

  Though I’ve been in fights with men before, I don’t fancy my chances with Alan. He’s not a big man, but he’s wiry and strong. I recall Matthew telling me his father had been a bare-knuckle fighter in his youth. Between flight and fight, I’m keen to avoid the latter. My gaze strays to the bedroom window. Could I jump?

  I take a step backwards, even though there is nowhere for me to go. ‘Alan. I know about Jenny.’

  Rage flickers across his face. His gaze falls on the red wig still in my hand. My panicked eyes skitter around me, looking for an escape route.

  ‘It was you, driving last night. When Ana picked her up from Matthew at Elemental?’

  Still Alan says nothing. Certainty coils around my gut again as the Transport Police officer’s words ricochet back to me: ‘He was dark … Short. Nice face.’ I meet Alan Temple’s eye.

  ‘And it was you, at the station the night India died!’

  He does not react, his expression still maddeningly emotionless. The pressure in the room seems to intensify. I blot my palms on my leggings. My heart thuds in my chest as I try to breathe at a normal pace. I’m afraid hyperventilating might stop me evading him if he comes towards me. My mouth feels dry.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I hear the words as a blur.

  But it’s not Alan speaking. It’s a woman’s voice. My heart lifts at the sight of Maggie Temple appearing behind her husband. But then, in that microsecond, just as I feel sure I am saved – that I can reveal Alan’s involvement in India’s death and that the danger he presents will be removed – I realise I am mistaken. My mind processes Maggie’s words. And as I mentally unpack them, I appreciate their horror. She actually said: ‘What if it was?’

  She must know it was Alan at the station. And she doesn’t care.

  Yet, still I don’t want it to be true. Even though every cell of my body tells me it’s a bad idea, my treacherous mouth forms the words and I fire them at Alan:

  ‘Then you know that India was your daughter?’

  Finally, a reaction from the older man. A predatory smile flashes across his features. ‘You always were a fantasist, Poppy Wade.’

  Alan’s mocking words are the fuel I need. My fear morphs into fury. The weakness in my limbs vanishes. My energy uncoils within me. The words rush out of my mouth, so I might convince Maggie. Get her on my side.

  ‘India was Alan’s daughter. My mother and Alan had an affair; one night, whatever. He killed her, to hide the fact my sister was your kids’ sister, too!’

  But Maggie sighs deeply. ‘I know.’

  Alan looks to his wife, bewildered. I am agog. If Alan hadn’t known India was his daughter and Matthew and Ana’s sister, then what the hell was this all about? Those words of India’s come back to me: ‘make froggy jump’. Maggie was in charge of all of this. I can see it now. My stomach is in free-fall. Nausea paints the back of my throat.

  ‘Your mum told me years ago.’ Maggie shrugs at me, almost bored.

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’ Alan’s tone is plaintive. He is forced to brace one hand against the door to steady himself. ‘Jesus, Maggie. You had me—’ He slams his hand on the doorpost. I watch as the horrifying realisation sinks in: He’s killed his own daughter.

  But Maggie’s face is stony, remorseless, as she regards her husband. ‘I won’t let anyone take advantage of me. Not even you.’

  I indicate the red wig in my hand and try again. ‘But who is Jenny? Why is she living here? I know India was going to help Jenny get away from you all. Is that why you killed her? I
s it?!’

  Maggie and Alan’s gazes lock as I shout this. Something shifts once more.

  I feel my advantage slip away, though I’m not sure why. Maggie nods at her husband, casting her eyes downwards in resignation. Sorrow and trepidation move, fleeting, across Alan’s features.

  I hesitate, unable to believe what is happening. My legs lock with fear. Alan moves towards me with menacing purpose. I find my momentum, running for the window.

  But I’m not fast enough.

  I feel both Alan’s hands on my shoulders. But rather than yanking me back towards him, Alan pushes me forwards as hard as he can. I’m propelled into the wall at speed. My forehead connects with plaster.

  Stunned, I fall backwards onto the floor of the pink bedroom. I’m not knocked out, but when I try to get up, I can’t. My senses have left me. I struggle to claw them back, raw instinct kicking in. Maggie yells some kind of encouragement, in case Alan loses his nerve, it seems. My breaths come in ragged bursts of panic as I attempt to crawl away.

  Alan turns me over, kneeling on my chest, grasping my windpipe with both hands and squeezing. His face is desperate; I can see tears in his eyes. Pain builds in my chest and throat, a buzzing noise erupts in my ears. My arms feel heavy, almost jelly-like. I claw at his hands and wrists in vain.

  I know what is happening. I know that I am … I will pass out.

  Sixty-three

  There’s nothing.

  And then there’s sunlight. An assault of colour, through a prism of glass. I blink. I can taste blood in my mouth. My throat feels bruised and sore.

  My head bangs. Bewilderment becomes exhilaration that I am still alive. I force unconsciousness away, reclaiming my alertness. Just as quick, confusion returns. I am alone. I’m lying on my side on the carpet in the living room, facing the double patio doors.

  For a moment, I think I am in the recovery position. Perhaps Alan and Maggie’s attack was simply a particularly vivid, nasty nightmare brought on by mania. Then I realise: my hands and feet are tied.