‘I’ll leave it to the experts,’ Dad said and left to go for a smoke out the back.
*
They danced until it was dark and Mr Vickers banged on the wall and told them to shut up. Then they ate cold sausages from the barbecue and more cake. Uncle Ray let Edie sit on his lap and sip his beer, which she pretended to like but it made her screw her face up and she vowed never to touch it again. By the time Uncle Ray and Auntie Becca left it was gone midnight and Tess was half asleep on the sofa.
‘Come on, you two, time for bed,’ Mum said.
‘Not tired,’ Tess said as her head flopped on Mum’s shoulder.
‘I know you’re not,’ Mum said and propped Tess against her arm.
Edie followed them up the stairs. She wasn’t tired either, but she wanted the day to end now, when it was perfect. She was ten years old. Double digits. Nearly grown up.
Chapter 5
Tess: June 2018
It’s nearly midnight by the time I reach Aspen Close, the street lamps’ pooled light hinting at the neat lawns and clipped hedges in the shadows. From the end of the road I can see Dad leaning against the door frame, his cigarette a tiny glow against his silhouette. Once he sees me he throws it to the ground and runs to meet me. He puts both arms around me and squeezes hard. When his grip relaxes I look at his face. It’s gaunt, the artificial light exaggerating the shadows under his eyes.
‘It’s not her, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it’s not her.’
He looks around, as if someone’s watching, picks up my case and walks back to the house without answering. Once inside, he turns and slumps onto the stairs and leans his head against the banister.
‘Dad?’
He closes his eyes.
‘The police seem pretty certain,’ he says.
‘But there’s still a chance…’
Dad sighs.
‘No, Tess. There’s no chance.’
‘They’ve made mistakes before. It could be anyone.’
His certainty frightens me.
‘I’ve just got a feeling. A bad feeling.’
He opens his eyes; they’re red with tiredness.
‘I’m sorry, Tess,’ he says.
He takes my suitcase and drags it upstairs.
It’s never been like this before. He’s always been the one to reassure me, when I’ve been frantic, terrified that all my instincts telling me Edie is still alive are wrong. The fight has gone out of him this time, maybe it’s just been going on for too long. Maybe he wants it to be her, so he has a definitive answer to what happened to his daughter. The only answer I want is that she’s been found alive. I won’t believe this girl is Edie.
I go into the lounge and slump on the sofa. The new chocolate brown leather looks out of place against the faded abstract-patterned wallpaper and scuffed laminate floor. When we first came to Aspen Drive the rooms seemed enormous and the newness was intimidating compared to our tiny terrace on the Limewoods Estate, which was, and still is, a byword for unemployment and minor criminality. Now, the house’s décor is more than a decade out of date. In a Victorian house, it would be charming shabby chic. On a nineteen-nineties executive housing estate it’s just shabby.
Edie would like this sofa, it’s minimalist with clean lines. A spasm grips my stomach. What if she’s not around to like anything any more? Whenever I shop, I consult Edie’s aesthetic. Whether she would choose the music, clothes or homewares I’ve selected. When would she play it, how would she wear it, in what way should it be arranged? I try to do that with the sofa but can’t push away images of the cold dark water and the sailing dinghies circling above her, engrossed in their sport on the reservoir’s surface, just a few feet away. But it can’t be her. She ran off with her boyfriend to London or Tuscany or Marrakech.
I take a cigarette to calm myself. Dad thuds down the stairs.
‘I’ll make you some tea,’ he says.
‘Nothing stronger?’
‘I keep some whisky in the sideboard for Ray. Don’t know how much is left. Or there’s cooking sherry in the kitchen.’
I go to the sideboard. Dad’s not much of a drinker. It interrupts his smoking. But tonight he lets me pour him a glass of Laphroaig and sits down in his armchair.
The whisky burns my throat. It’s bitter and smoky, but better than nothing.
‘What did they tell you about…’ I’m not going to say Edie. ‘The girl in the reservoir?’
Dad manages to grip the whisky glass with both hands and hold his cigarette at the same time.
‘She’s a teenager, been down there for years.’
My fingers feel hot. I look down to see the cigarette’s burnt to its butt. I stub it out and reach for another.
‘How can they be sure?’
‘Dunno. Tests.’
We fall silent. Dad switches on the TV, it’s showing a football match. He sits back and stares at the screen, chain-smoking. I’m sure he has no more idea of what’s going on in the game than I do. It’s just his fear of silence and what I might choose to fill it with.
A girl, a teenager, dumped in a reservoir thirty miles away. She’s been down there for years. How many explanations are there?
*
After the match, I pour another large glass of whisky and make an excuse of an early night.
‘Alright, love, sleep well.’
Dad sounds relieved and opens a new packet of cigarettes.
I take a look at Edie’s room before I go to bed. It was never a shrine, though when she first disappeared, I used to go and curl up on the bed, willing her to come back. I’d smell the clothes that held onto her scent and try them on; they were too large and looked dull and sexless on me.
Later, the room became a home to unwanted objects, a broken Hoover, old cardigans, a garden fork, but enough remains for it still to be Edie’s room, the same furniture in the same place, the walls the unpleasant shade of peach we thought fashionable at the time. In the corner sits the record player she was so proud of, along with a stack of LPs. I should clean them; they’re thick with dust. Edie would hate that. Her books are in a similar condition: Angela Carter, Woolf and Solzhenitsyn. She was always so much more sophisticated than me. The only book out of place is our old scrapbook. In large marker pen the title ‘The Case of The Missing Cakemaker’. My childish attempt at creating a mystery, involving a neighbour who left her husband.
I take it down. It’s covered in the same rosebud wallpaper we used for our schoolbooks. Where it came from, I don’t know, we never had that pattern on a wall. The pages fall open, lots of notes and diagrams and a sketch I’d done of the missing woman, Valentina Vickers. It’s a good likeness for a ten-year-old. Of course, Valentina was never really missing. I saw her shopping in House of Fraser a few years later. By the time I’d crossed the store to speak to her, she’d disappeared into a lift. It left me disappointed. I had wanted so much for there to be a mystery and she’d simply moved away. That’s why I’ve never believed Edie was dead. One day she’d just turn up, like Valentina.
Wouldn’t I know if she was dead, feel it, sense it? We’re twins, we shared a womb, we’re part of one another and I can almost see her in front of me, laughing, dancing, arguing. I can’t think of her as dead when every cell in me screams that she’s still alive.
A few pages have been ripped out of the scrapbook, betrayed by fraying scraps of paper along the stitched spine, probably used for a list of records Edie wanted to buy.
My room has survived better, the same single bed against the wall and only a few stray objects having made their way on top of the wardrobe.
I flop onto the bed and close my eyes. The whisky mingles with the dark and Edie’s standing before me. She smiles and turns to walk into the night, wearing a silver top and thick mascara, and I’m left on my own in the bedroom of our old house on the Limewoods Estate. I’m fully-grown but lying in my childhood bed and my feet stick off the end. I can see the red of my eyelids as the light breaks through the curtains. The smells of
Mum cooking breakfast float up my nostrils. If I turn my head, Edie will be in her bed next to mine. The rain patters at the window and I’m sinking back into the soft mattress.
‘Tess,’ a voice says.
Two hands grip my wrist and tug. I nearly tip out of the bed.
‘Edie,’ I say out loud.
‘Tess,’ Dad calls.
I can smell bacon cooking downstairs.
I daren’t lie back in case I fall asleep again. Instead, I swing my feet to the floor.
‘Are you up, love?’
Maybe he heard me shout out.
‘Yes. I’ll be down in a bit.’
My hand’s shaking. I distract myself by checking my phone: three missed calls, two from Max, one from Cassie. I text back, promising to call them later.
In the kitchen, Dad’s lost in the thick smoke from the frying pan. We lived on ready meals after Mum died. Only after Edie disappeared did Dad discover the cookery channel and we started having huge stews, curries and roasts. I got fairly porky before my art foundation year, when I replaced them with boys, cigarettes and speed. I think he did it so he could pretend that we were a family, just the two of us, and to show that he loved me, which he’s never been good at saying. And here he is again, with a plateful of eggs, bacon and mushrooms, as if cholesterol can counteract heartache.
‘I thought you could do with a proper breakfast,’ he says.
I eat as much as I can but hand my plate back nearly as full as when Dad gave it to me before switching to coffee and cigarettes.
The house phone rings and Dad dives into the lounge. I can’t hear the conversation. He comes back into the kitchen and sits next to me; he won’t look me in the eye.
‘Tess, that was the police. They’re coming to pick us up.’ He takes my free hand and squeezes it. ‘We have to go to the station.’
Chapter 6
Edie: September 1993
‘A record player.’ Raquel said the words with a mixture of disbelief and pity. ‘My mum’s got one of those. Plays her old LPs on it. I wish the bloody thing would break.’
‘I wanted a record player,’ Edie said.
‘Next time my dad visits, he’s going to buy me a whole stereo with a CD player, not just one with a cassette. Then I won’t have to listen to Mum’s Matt Monro albums.’
‘Uncle Ray doesn’t play Matt Monro,’ Edie said.
Not like Granny McCann, she could have added. Raquel’s mum was twice the age of the other kids at school, something she was sensitive about. Almost as sensitive as she was about her dad never actually visiting or her reading problems.
‘Tsk,’ Raquel said. ‘You should’ve got a CD player, like Tess.’
Edie decided not to challenge Raquel. If that was her reaction, what would girls like Deanne or Caitlin say? She looked round for them as they entered the schoolyard. They were standing together, a little way from the gate, in a group of about ten. Edie caught their eye; both sides ignored the other. Caitlin was as tall as Edie but twice as broad. Her older sister, Moira, had also been the school bully and Caitlin was trying to live up to the family reputation. She’d started on Tess a few times, but being Edie’s twin and Raquel’s friend, had held her back. Caitlin was especially wary of Raquel, since she’d given her a black eye after one to many Granny McCann jibes. Still, being the start of a new school year, Edie was cautious around Caitlin; though Tess seemed unconcerned as she walked past, swinging her canvas bag.
The bell rang and they filed into school and found their new classrooms. Raquel’s ‘Mc’ for McCann was not close enough to ‘P’ for Piper to be in the same class and she went down a different corridor. Edie knew her new class teacher, Miss Armitage, because she also took them for music. The room was familiar: a piano sat in the corner, the walls lay bare, waiting to be filled by their creations throughout the coming year.
‘Stand at the back and I’ll call you to your places,’ Mrs Armitage said. ‘You’ll notice each table has the name of one of the great composers on it. You will each be assigned a composer and sit at that table. I will be referring to these groups by the name of the composer throughout the year. Please pay attention.’ She rapped the desk with her knuckles to bring the class to order. ‘Beethoven,’ she said. ‘Miele, Jaspinder, Deanne, Tyrel, Ian and Edie. Go to your table, please.’
Edie looked at Tess. She hadn’t noticed the error. They always sat together.
‘Hadyn.’
Tess looked up. Suddenly realising something was wrong, she was trying to catch Miss Armitage’s attention.
‘Tchaikovsky,’ Mrs Armitage said. ‘Tess, Ricky, Noah, Imran, Harrison, Joelle.’
The class chattered as they took their seats, no one quite satisfied with where they’d been placed.
‘Quiet now,’ Mrs Armitage said.
Edie stuck her hand up.
‘It’s Edie, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, miss. I think there’s been a mistake, miss. I always sit next to Tess.’
‘Tess?’
‘My twin.’
‘No mistake,’ Miss Armitage said.
‘But we always sit together.’
Miss Armitage pursed her lips.
‘You know, Edie, in many schools, twins are put in separate classes altogether. I’ve put you on tables according to your ability. At your next school, I doubt you’ll be in any of the same classes.’
Deanne sniggered.
‘So I suggest you need to acclimatise to being a whole ten feet apart,’ Miss Armitage concluded.
Deanne’s shoulders were shaking hard. Edie glanced at Tess, who was staring determinedly at the table.
‘Now,’ Miss Armitage said, ‘I’m handing out your new textbooks for English and maths. Your first homework will be to cover them in wallpaper to prevent their getting damaged. It will be your own responsibility to keep the books in good condition until the end of term.’
She stood up and opened a cupboard, her back to the classroom.
Deanne turned to Edie and rubbed her eyes as if crying.
‘Boohoo. I can’t be next to my sister all the time.’
Edie kicked her under the table. Deanne yelped.
‘What’s that?’ Miss Armitage spun around.
‘Nothing, miss.’
Deanne glowered at Edie.
Miss Armitage returned to retrieving armfuls of books from the cupboard.
‘I’ll get you for that,’ Deanne said.
*
Until the morning break, Miss Armitage passed the time by explaining that the whole year was just a preparation for ‘big school’. Edie couldn’t help wondering if calling Bridges Academy, where most of them were heading, ‘big school’ was helpful in making them feel more grown up.
She flicked through her new maths textbook. Whenever she looked over to Tess, she was staring out of the window. It wasn’t surprising she’d fallen behind. She never listened in any class except art.
At last the bell rang. Tess was waiting for her at the door and they ran outside to catch up with Raquel, eager to hear about her new class. Deanne and Caitlin were waiting at the entrance to the playground with a handful of hangers-on. Deanne whispered something in Caitlin’s ear, a smirk on her face.
Caitlin swaggered towards them. Edie caught a whiff of the slightly sweet-stale odour from her clothes. She wrinkled her nose and stepped backwards.
‘If it isn’t the famous twins,’ Caitlin said. ‘I heard you cried when you weren’t put on the same table.’
‘Shut up, Caitlin.’
‘Bet you’re gonna marry the same bloke, all share the bed together.’
Titters rose from the hangers-on. Edie pushed past Caitlin. It was a mistake. Caitlin turned around and moved across, separating her from Tess.
‘I don’t believe you’re twins anyway. Look how small she is.’ Caitlin jerked her head backwards to mean Tess. ‘Reckon she’s adopted.’
‘Yeah,’ Deanne said. ‘From the special unit.’
Edie tried to push back to Tess but
Caitlin stood firm. Edie glanced around.
‘Looking for Raquel? Not coming out till lunchtime. Miss Clitheroe’s keeping her back. In trouble already.’
Tess looked frightened. She was shorter than the other girls, who had begun nudging her with their shoulders.
‘She’s not special and she’s not adopted,’ Edie said.
‘Just thick then?’ Caitlin said.
‘Smarter than you.’
‘I could do it if I wanted. Can’t be bothered. Her, she’s just stupid. Staring into space like some retard.’
Edie felt her face getting hot. Tess was no longer visible among the surrounding girls.
‘Actually, I do believe you,’ Caitlin said. ‘She’s not adopted. If there’s more than one it’s bound to happen. Like puppies. There’s always a runt.’
Caitlin threw her head back and opened her mouth to laugh. She was cut short by a small fist, darting out from the group of girls and smashing into her nose. Caitlin looked more surprised than hurt, until another fist drove into her mouth. Blood spurted across her face and down her blouse. She fell to the ground. Tess jumped on her. It was like a terrier attacking a bear. Caitlin’s thick arms flailing around, unable to stop the blows being rained upon her by Tess’s skinny ones. Deanne tried to drag her off and received an elbow to her nose. She fell backwards and started whimpering.
Edie stood, stunned and motionless. Tess had always relied on others to fight her battles. Edie was about to try and stop Tess, when Mr Everett dragged her off. Tess spun round, her bloodied fists balled, her arms straight and tense. For one moment, Edie thought she was going to hit Mr Everett. Her eyes bore into him, then she brought her fists to her face and started crying. Deanne was also crying, while Caitlin lay gasping on the floor.
‘She just attacked me. For no reason,’ Caitlin said.
Tess pointed to Caitlin.
‘She said, she said …’
But Tess couldn’t finish her sentence.
Chapter 7
Tess: June 2018
I lean my head against the cold of the car window and watch people, shops and traffic stream past my eyes. Post-rush hour, the roads are clear, and we pass swiftly through the town centre and out towards the police station. It sits on the edge of town, where industrial estates mix with the suburbs. Most families of the missing long for resolution, an answer, any answer. But I don’t know what I’ll do if this body is Edie. Only hope has allowed me to survive this long.
Someone You Know Page 3