The Forgotten Sister

by Caroline Bond

  Cassidie was easy to track, a distinctive rush of colour powering along the morgue-like streets, but she was less easy to keep up with. Leah was breathless by the end of the first road. Cassidie looked dressed up – out to meet her friends? – spending Mummy and Daddy’s money, no doubt. Leah could still taste the sourness in her mouth at the thought of ‘the mother’. The stuck-up black bitch who had taken Cassidie away from her.

  She was so churned up that she momentarily lost sight of Cassidie. She panicked, scanned the street, then saw her on the other side of the main road, heading towards the hotel. She must be off to work? But Cassidie didn’t walk up the driveway; instead she went to stand near one of the entrance pillars. Leah spotted a bus stop, the first she’d seen in ages, and went and positioned herself on the stupid little metal ledge that served as a bench.

  It was a short wait.

  The lad from the Golf appeared in the driveway. In broad daylight he was nothing to look at: scrawny, cropped hair, tattoos, jeans and a plain tee; totally, utterly ignorable, until Leah saw his face when he caught sight of Cassidie. It changed completely. He cracked a full-beam smile, even broke into a jog to get to her and, when he did, put his hands gently on either side of Cassidie’s face and cradled her head as he kissed her, his eyes closed. He held Cassidie like she was something precious.

  Leah had seen enough.

  Cassidie really did have everything.

  She set off walking, tired to the marrow of her bones, but ready to start getting back what was rightfully hers.

  Chapter 20

  IT TOOK Leah nearly two hours to get home, or nearly home. Naz intercepted her outside the shops. He’d been waiting; for how long he didn’t say, but it was obvious that he was not happy. ‘Where the fuck ’ave you been?’ She should have replied to his message. She knew better than to ignore him – she had been schooled – but she hadn’t wanted to deal with him, not with everything else that was screaming through her brain.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She thought about lying and saying that her phone had died, but she daren’t risk it. He always knew. It wasn’t worth it. He looked at her, his face dark with frustration, then without another word he stormed off. She didn’t know what to do. Follow him, wait, walk away? There was no clear instruction, so she hesitated, standing in the middle of the pavement like an abandoned dog. He got ten paces before he shouted, ‘What ya fucking waiting for? Come on!’ It was all the invitation she was going to get.

  They headed back to her flat. The thought of letting him in filled her with fatigue. In the lift they were silent. She stood one side, he stood the other. There was no tender welcome for her.

  They never went to his place. Leah didn’t actually know where he lived, or with who, and she’d never asked. Naz liked to have secrets. He paraded them in front of her, teasing her, trying to provoke her by offering up little snippets of his life: his cash – he always had a fold of notes down his sock or in his back pocket, not that it stopped him taking the odd tenner off her; the deals he was doing, or was going to do; his ‘contacts’ – names never volunteered; his crew – nicknames only; and his other girls – itemised by their attributes, all more luscious than her own. She never got the whole picture. She suspected there was a family somewhere, maybe even a wife. Kids? It was possible. Ludicrous as it sounded, Leah sometimes wondered if he might still be living at home with his parents. Either way, there was definitely a doting woman somewhere in his life; no guy kept their clothes that clean, and she couldn’t imagine any of his ‘girls’ doing his laundry. She’d seen their pictures, the pouting, the lashes, the big tits – they didn’t look the type. The meticulous personal hygiene was one of the things that Leah liked about Naz. He kept himself spotless and he always smelt great, despite the places he hung out. He had pride in himself and she liked that. It reflected well on her, even as it overpowered her.

  He was still in a mood when they got back to the flat. He crashed around in the small kitchen, flipping open cupboards and drawers, searching for something to eat. She stayed in the front room and listened. He emerged with a packet of biscuits and a can of Coke. Her treats for Friday night. She let it go. He cracked the can open, crashed down on the sofa and started unlacing his trainers, all the while ignoring her. Leah didn’t sit down. She was waiting to see which way it would go.

  ‘Quit staring at me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Where else was she supposed to look?

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ He started rubbing at the toe of one of his shoes, trying to obliterate some tiny spot; he was obsessive about his trainers. As he rubbed at the offending mark his gestures became more and more exasperated.

  ‘Do you want me to…’ she offered. Without warning, he hurled the shoe. It caught her full in the face. It went quiet.

  ‘Stop looking so sodding tragic.’

  She blinked and touched her mouth. Her fingers came away sticky. Her lips buzzed with the pain, but she didn’t move. She didn’t look at him or say anything; she simply stood in the middle of her flat and waited to see what Naz would do next as she surreptitiously wiped the blood off her fingers onto the back of her jeans. She heard him stand up and braced herself, but he walked away, not towards her.

  A couple of minutes later he was back. ‘Here. You’re bleeding.’ His voice still carried the crackle of irritation rather than apology, as if the injury was somehow Leah’s fault, but there was less anger in it. Still, when he reached out to touch her, she had to concentrate hard on not flinching. ‘Head up.’ She obeyed him. Gently he dabbed at her split lip with a wad of loo roll. The mood shifted, but she was still wary. ‘Babe. I’m sorry, but you know it drives me fucking crazy.’ He didn’t elaborate on whether it was the blemish on his shoe or Leah herself that had infuriated him.

  She let him tend to her, loving and hating every minute of it. When he’d had enough, he kissed her like a child on her cheek and returned to the sofa, clicking on the TV as a signal that it was all over and done with, and that everything was forgiven. He scrolled through the channels and found some sport, leant back, grabbed a biscuit, took a bite and washed it down with a slug of Coke, completely at home.

  Leah crossed the room, retrieved the shoe and carried it through to the kitchen; there, she filled the sink with warm water, added washing-up liquid and, with a clean cloth, slowly and very carefully buffed the small mark off the pristine surface of his trainer.

  Chapter 21

  TOM WAS absent-mindedly scratching his weekend stubble and looking out at the lawn, debating whether he could leave it another week before he had to mow it, when it occurred to him that he had no idea where Elmo was. Stupid name for a dog, but that was creative types for you. Elmo was some sort of expensive cross-breed: a quarter poodle, a quarter spaniel, probably half dachshund, for all he knew. He never listened to the canine conversations at work; there was too much gushing for his taste. He shouldn’t be so sniffy. Lettie, one of the young designers, had generously loaned him the love of her life for a couple of days, and for that he was grateful. And it was nice having a dog around. It had lifted the atmosphere in the house – just as Tom had hoped.

  Erin was loving it, taking the hound for walks and sitting with him draped across her knee like a fluffy scarf. Cassie had merely scowled and very forcefully expressed her concern that the dog would chew stuff, and that it had better not be her stuff. Tom felt slightly aggrieved at the thought of having to put down his coffee and go looking for Elmo, but he knew he’d better. If the dog was somewhere in the house, that was fine, but if he’d got out in the garden, that wasn’t; there were plenty of gaps in the fence that a little scrappy, expensive, much-loved pooch could wriggle through.

  He went outside to check. ‘Elmo! Elmo?’ There was no sign or sound of the animal as he walked around his plot.

  They were no further forward with the whole adoption-reboot nightmare. Tom was quite happy that the adoption people’s progress had been negligible; the more time it took, surely the more likely it was that Cassie would
lose interest and it would all go away. Grace said that when she finally got hold of the right department, it had been like stepping back in time. Gail, their contact, had been courteous and understanding, and helpful in terms of general information, but very unforthcoming about her capacity to actually do anything. She’d promised to look into it and, in the meantime, to send them some leaflets. Cassie’s response to the news that there was no news had been stony silence and an increase in nights out with Ryan, or in with Erin; in fact she seemed keen to be anywhere other than with them. They were peeling apart as a family.

  Hence Elmo.

  Tom lifted the branches of a few of the bushes, checking for signs of tunnelling, but there was no evidence of any great escape. Where was the stupid mutt? As he straightened up, he could have sworn he heard whimpering. He headed back towards the house to investigate.

  Cassie was achy with tiredness. For the past few days she’d felt like she was getting a cold that never came. It was because nothing was happening. Her parents were the main problem. They were doing nothing. No, it was worse than that; they were doing the opposite – they were blocking her, telling her that Social Services might be able to help, but it was going to take ages, and she mustn’t hold her breath. Apparently the most she could expect was a leaflet. A fucking leaflet! What she wanted was facts; something concrete and true about her past. And the appeal had made no difference at all. All she’d had were a series of sympathising likes and, even weirder, a load of slightly creepy messages from complete strangers who were in the same position. And all the while that absolutely nothing was happening, her old life was continuing to bleed into her current life, leading to restless days and broken nights.

  The dreams were still stalking her, stepping out of the shadows when she least expected them. They were as vivid and disturbing as ever, and as evocative. She’d tried to make herself believe they were snatches of her time with this Jane woman, like they’d told her to, but that hadn’t worked. She’d been so desperate to prove she wasn’t losing her marbles that she’d even dug Jane’s photo out of the drawer and slept with it under her pillow. It had triggered nothing. The person in her dreams was not her foster mum. She didn’t know how she could be so certain, but she was.

  Cassie closed her eyes against the glare coming through the skylights and felt sleep tug at her. She’d been late back the previous night after a tedious shift at the restaurant and an equally draining session with the ever-horny Ryan. Then this morning the bloody dog that her dad had inexplicably brought home for the weekend had woken her up at 6.30 a.m. with its ‘I need a pee’ barking.

  She lay on her back and let the wooziness win.

  She tastes sugar on her lips, scratchy and sweet. Her mouth is full of dough. It’s heaven, sticky, stomach-filling heaven. The bag lies on the mattress between them, the cellophane window reassuringly full of small, brown, squishy circles. Plenty to share. And she has to share. That’s the rule. There’s to be no snatching. She can’t take a handful. She can only have one at a time. When it’s her turn, she creeps her fingers into the bag very slowly, trying hard to keep the sugar crystals inside, so as not to waste them. If she’s good she’ll get to lick the bag out at the end, sucking the wrapper to get every last trace of sweetness onto her tongue.

  They don’t talk. They’re too busy eating, chewing in blissful silence. Well, not silence, it’s never quiet in their house; through the closed door and down the stairs the phones are, as always, ringing and beeping and singing. She knows to ignore their chorus. They are nothing to do with her.

  Her mouth is empty, but she must wait her turn. This is a lesson in anticipation as much as sharing. The nod finally tells her that she can take another one, but as her fingers close round her next lovely, soft, munchable treat, the door crashes open and there’s the frightening swish of doggy muscle and meaty breath. He rushes straight at them. Fearing that he’s going to get the doughnuts, she grabs the bag, meaning to keep it safe, for both of them. The dog leaps at her face, barking his demands. She is shoved backwards by the weight of him. His nicotine-coloured claws scramble for purchase, scoring red lines into her bare legs and chest. She’s too shocked to cry as he snaps at her hands, at her face, in a mad frenzy to get at the bag. But the doughnuts are theirs, not his. She grips the bag in her fist and tries to shield it with her body, determined that he won’t have it. She pays the price.

  ‘Get off! You stupid…bastard…dog!’ There’s a flurry; hands, jaws, barking, snapping, pulling, scrabbling. ‘Get down!’ It seems to go on for ever. Then the weight is gone. The dog’s wet gums and sharp teeth are no longer in her face, but she can feel the cold trails of his slobber on her skin and the sting of the scratches from his razor-sharp nails. She feels shivery. But it’s all been in vain. The doughnuts are ruined. The bag is crushed and sodden with dog-slaver. She curls up, clutching it in her fist, trying to block out the sounds of the fight that is taking place right beside her: the snap and snarl of frustration, the cursing, his claws gouging and skittering across the floorboards. A tussle of strength. It stops, finally, with the slam of the door, the scrape of a chair and the heaving, panting breaths of relief. The barking drops from ear-splitting to loud. He batters himself against the door, but it holds. The dog has lost, this time.

  It takes her a few seconds to realise that the crying is not coming from her.

  *

  Tom couldn’t find any evidence of the dog, injured or otherwise, downstairs. Where the hell was it? He headed upstairs to check there. No sign. The little beast had to be on the top floor. He hoped to God it hadn’t actually damaged anything of Cassie’s – that really wouldn’t help.

  It was as he put his foot on the bottom step that he heard the whimpering again. A pathetic, sad, shaky sound, more like a human baby than a dog. Tom quickened his pace. Cassie’s bedroom door was ajar. He walked in, scanning the room for a distressed ball of fur – instead he saw his eldest daughter, curled on her side, crying.

  He stopped in the doorway, transfixed by this momentary glimpse of Cassie without her guard up. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be asleep, but she was definitely not peaceful. She was rubbing her head back and forth against the pillow and her hands were twitching and fluttering as if trying to ward something off. The noise she was making was breathy and snatched. A nightmare.

  He stepped forward, intending to go and wake her, gently, but he only got halfway across the room. There was a scrabble of nails and a rush of muscle and fur. He was too slow to react. Elmo shot past him and jumped up onto the bed – right on top of Cassie.

  Chapter 22

  THE FRIEND request from someone identifying themselves as ‘LW’ popped up out of the blue. Cassie was chilling in Erin’s room at the time, mooching around aimlessly, trying to distract Erin from her homework. ‘Look at this.’ She passed her phone to her sister. Erin looked at the request silently, the glow of the screen illuminating her face. The bio stated that ‘LW’ lived in Manchester. The tiny circular profile photo wasn’t very informative. The woman in the picture was white – probably. Hair – brown? Age – it was difficult to tell; anything between twenty and forty. The quality of the photo was very poor. They both stared at the request, aware of its potential significance.

  ‘Are you going to accept her?’ Erin asked.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘It could be a coincidence.’ Erin said, though she didn’t believe that for one second.

  ‘Could be, but it’s not very likely, is it?’ Cassie replied. ‘Only one way to find out.’ She took the phone back from her sister’s clammy hand and clicked ‘Confirm’, then slipped the phone back into her jeans pocket. ‘At least it’s something.’ Cassie’s ambivalence was fake. They both knew it. This could be huge. This could be the door into her past. But she downplayed it, changing the subject to her righteous indignation with her parents. ‘Did you read that leaflet that came from the Adoption Service? All that crap about “moderated truths”. It was a load of—’ Cassie’s phone
pinged.

  The girls looked at each other. Surely not?

  It was a message from the woman: If u want to know about yr mum contact me.

  It was as if she’d been just sitting there, miles away, waiting for Cassie to let her in.

  Cassie’s stomach contracted. She let the pretence of indifference slip. ‘Game on!’

  Cassie had looked at the woman’s Facebook account a hundred times since that first contact. She wasn’t stupid, she knew that the Internet was full of fifty shades of weird: dirty old men who pretended to be teenage girls, and fat sweaty nerds who, with the aid of Photoshop, became hench models. The account was plainly very dodgy. For a start, it was brand-new – the woman’s timeline empty. It was obviously just a means to an end, namely a way of contacting her.

  But you can’t argue with an old-fashioned photograph of a baby and a child and an ugly old mirror. And it was the same photograph, there was no doubt about that. Cassie sat and stared at the image for a long time after LW had offered it up as proof. Why would this person have the self-same photo of Cassie and her birth mother in her possession, if she wasn’t somehow involved? When Cassie had messaged her and asked how she’d come to have the picture, the woman had ignored the question and instead suggested that they meet up in Oldham to talk. That she’d refused to speak to Cassie on the phone, insisting that all their contact be done via Facebook, and that she wouldn’t give her real name was all really suspicious, but there was nothing Cassie could do about that. Was this LW woman cautious, or simply lying through her teeth? There was no way of telling, without meeting her.