The Grip Lit Collection: The Sisters, Mother, Mother and Dark Rooms

‘I missed her too. I missed you both.’ He still has his arm slung over her shoulder and she snuggles her head into the crook of his armpit. They stand and watch the rain running off the leaves and plopping on to the grass that is turning muddy. Neither is inclined to move on. ‘She says the two of you are getting on better,’ he says. He’s still holding the umbrella over the both of them.

‘I’m doing it for you, Ben. I know she means a lot to you, but I still think she’s cuckoo.’

His body tenses up. Eventually, ‘What makes you say that?’

‘The flowers. The bracelet. The letters. I think she’s lying about all of it. You know,’ she turns to look up at him, trying to keep her face expressionless although she’s brimming over with excitement at her findings. ‘I read this study on the internet about twins, mainly identical twins. And this professor who’s done all this research said that sometimes the surviving twin takes on the personality of the dead twin.’

He fidgets, closes the umbrella, drops his arm from around her shoulders. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

She pauses, unsure if she should continue. But she needs to protect him. She knows Abi is bad news, that Ben’s going to end up getting hurt. ‘You said the florist described the woman who bought the flowers for Abi’s birthday, right? They described Abi, or Lucy. Was Abi doing it thinking she was Lucy? Did she, for that moment, forget her own identity?’

Ben stares at her for a couple of seconds and then bursts out laughing. ‘You are joking? You’re saying Abi thinks she’s Lucy? That’s fucked up.’

‘Abi’s fucked up.’

‘Not this again, Bea. I don’t want to hear it.’

‘And the other stuff. The bracelet, the letters that she says I’ve taken. I think it’s all for attention, to drive a wedge between the two of us.’

‘You’ve said this before. I don’t believe it.’

She folds her arms, suddenly furious. ‘So you think I stole her letters?’

He runs a hand over his face, exasperated. His hair is wet from the rain and water drips from the end of his nose. ‘I don’t know. You think she stole your bracelet, so maybe you did it to get back at her?’

Angry tears spring in her eyes. ‘You think I’m a thief? That I would be that petty?’

He doesn’t look at her; instead he bows his head, kicking a pile of wet leaves with the toe of his boot.

‘We found that earring in her bedroom. She stole it from me and we’ve never confronted her. I never confronted her. Because you told me not to. So do you think she stole my bracelet?’

His head shoots up so that he’s staring right at her, his eyes unusually hard, his jaw set tight. ‘I don’t fucking need this right now,’ he snaps, his face turning red. ‘It’s been a hellish few weeks and all you can do is bleat on about Abi.’ Spittle flies from his mouth and she takes a step back from him, so unused to seeing him angry but she knows he has a temper, she’s seen it once before. ‘This is all doing my head in.’ He roughly shoves the umbrella at her so that one of the prongs pokes her in the chest and she gasps. Then he turns the collar of his jacket up, thrusts his hands into his pockets and, with his head bent, stalks off into the downpour, away from her.

She doesn’t try to stop him, or catch up with him. A sob escapes her throat as she watches his retreating back and she sinks on to the sodden grass, not caring about the wet mud that smears on to the back of her bare legs. Her worst fear has come true … Abi has won.

Chapter Twenty-Six (#ulink_ab87923a-ac3e-55ba-8a59-b88428016d56)

I close my laptop and sit very still on my bed, listening to the rain throwing itself against the sash windows, contemplating my next move. Then I creep out of my room. From my viewpoint on the landing I can see into both Beatrice’s and Ben’s bedrooms. They are empty. I lean over the balustrade and look down on to the next floor where the sitting room is, straining my ears. Sound carries in this house, yet I can’t hear the low hum of the television or the mumble of chatter, the clinking of wine glasses or the familiar clatter of cutlery or banging of cupboards that tells me someone is in the kitchen. Eva isn’t due to come in until Monday and I’m certain that Cass and Pam went out together earlier. As far as I’m aware, they aren’t back yet. Neither are Ben or Beatrice.

The house is empty.

I hesitate, my heart thumping against my chest, and then, with a sudden resolve, I go to the narrow, winding staircase that leads up to the attic rooms. With trepidation I take a step, and when I’m sure nobody is about to jump out of the shadows to berate me, I continue my way to the top, the wooden stairs creaking underfoot. The first door I come to is a bedroom, square and compact with a single bed pushed up against a window, and a pine wardrobe next to it. By the paintings hanging on the wall I take it to be Pam’s room. I’m about to walk on past when a brightly coloured oil painting catches my eye. It’s of two girls running hand in hand through what looks to be a cornfield. I can just make out the backs of their blonde heads, their wheat-coloured hair blowing out behind them as golden as the corn, their red dresses and the blue sky the only other colours in the painting. They are holding hands, they look the same age, they look like twins.

Why has she painted twins? Did she do it before I moved in? I can’t remember seeing the painting in May when I first looked around the house. Is it a coincidence that the girls in the painting resemble me and Lucy?

I force myself to leave the room. I can’t be distracted, there isn’t much time.

Cass has the bigger of the two attic rooms. It’s pretty, with sloping ceilings and framed black-and-white prints hanging on pale green walls. The double bed is unmade, the duvet bunched up at the foot of the bed revealing crumpled sheets. I look around the room wildly, unsure where to start. I walk around the bed, spotting another door, different from all the rest, heavy, a firedoor. I push it open, expecting to see a wardrobe or en suite. Instead it’s a darkroom. A strong acidic smell hangs in the air. Above the sink, photographs are pinned up on a makeshift washing line with wooden pegs. I blink in the darkness, grappling along the wall for a light switch. I find it and click it on and the room is flooded by a dull red glow. I quickly glance behind me to make sure I am alone before walking further into the room. I pick up a contact sheet with its rows of miniature photographs and I gasp as my eyes scan every one. They are all of Beatrice. Some look as though she’s been taken unaware, some are obviously posed for.

I’m thinking how obsessed Cass must be with Beatrice when the door slams behind me, trapping me in the little room.

The walls begin to close in on me. For a few seconds I can’t do anything, I’m frozen to the spot. Then the adrenaline kicks in and I run to the door and wrench it open, relieved that I’m not locked in. I prop the door open with my foot while leafing through the pile of photographs on the worktop. I pause when I notice that one stands out from the rest. I pull it down from its peg to get a better look. It’s a side profile of Beatrice’s face, and next to it a side profile of mine, superimposed together so that it makes up a whole, disjointed face. The result is unsettling. The print is sticky in my hand. I’m not sure what to do with it or even if it proves anything. I’ve only got half-thought-out theories as to why Cass would do this to me anyway.

I leave the room, letting the door swing shut behind me, the photograph still in my hand. As I dart down the stairs I’m startled to see Ben lumbering up the main staircase, his hair slick with rain, the bottom of his jeans wet and heavy. His features are set in a scowl so that he looks drawn, troubled, until he sees me, and then he regains his normal good-natured repose.

He takes in the photograph that I’m clutching to my chest and my location. ‘What are you doing?’ His expression darkens again.

I pause and it crosses my mind to lie to him. Except I’ve got a photograph in my hand and it’s obvious I’m coming from the attic. I wait for him to reach the landing before handing it to him. ‘I found this in Cass’s bedroom.’

He takes it from me and glances at it. ‘Bit freaky,’ he says half-heartedly, handing it back to me. ‘Why were you in her room?’

So I tell him about the sinister message that appeared on Lucy’s timeline and the photograph and my suspicions that Cass is behind it. ‘I bumped into Jodie, she told me that Cass is in love with Beatrice and they had a fling. Maybe Cass is jealous.’

I expect Ben to understand, even sympathize, but he’s staring at me, his jaw tensed. ‘You met up with Jodie?’ he says in an unnaturally quiet voice. His face is white. ‘She’s a silly little liar. Why would you believe anything she said? You know nothing about her.’

‘I … I bumped into her …’

‘And you believe that Cass and my sister had, what? A lesbian fling? That’s an outrageous lie.’

I remain silent, fiddling self-consciously with the photograph.

‘Let me see your computer. I want to have a look at this message and photo for myself.’ He pushes past me and marches into my room.

I follow. ‘They’ve been wiped off,’ I say, as he grabs my laptop from the bed.

‘Of course they have.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh and drops the laptop so that it lands softly on the mattress. ‘Because they were never there, were they, Abi?’

His words are a slap in the face. ‘They were,’ I insist. ‘I’m not lying.’

Ben slumps on to my bed, his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know who to believe any more,’ he murmurs through his fingers. He looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ve recently had an argument with Beatrice. She thinks that you have some mental disorder. She thinks you’re confusing reality with fantasy and that you have a split personality, that you sometimes think you’re Lucy and do these weird things. And I stuck up for you.’

I freeze at his words, turning cold all over. My legs give way beneath me and I slump to the floor. ‘You think I’ve got some personality disorder?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not saying I believe it. But Beatrice certainly does.’

I think of the paranoia, the survivor’s guilt, the post-traumatic stress disorder, of all the things I’ve been diagnosed with since Lucy died. Could Beatrice be right? I think of the flowers addressed to myself but from Lucy, the florist describing me. ‘That’s unfair of Beatrice,’ I snap. ‘The florist described me, but it could be her description too, remember?’ The accusation hangs in the air between us, something bad, rancid, like a fart.

I think of the Facebook stuff when I’m the only one who has Lucy’s password, her log-in details. Unless her account has been hacked, it would be impossible for someone else to write those things on her wall. Especially Cass. Even the photograph I’m still holding doesn’t mean anything. Okay, Cass is in love with Beatrice. They may or may not have had a sexual relationship, Cass might have been a bit jealous when I moved in, but I’m with Ben. She knows that. I’m no threat. So why would she do it?

And that leaves his sister, his twin …

‘Beatrice is doing this to me,’ I insist, getting to my knees. Ben puts his head in his hands and groans. ‘Don’t you see, Ben? Can’t you see what she’s doing?’ I can hear the desperation in my voice but Ben shakes his head. ‘Why don’t you believe me? Why do you always think she’s right?’

‘Here we go again,’ he mutters, partly under his breath. His head shoots up and I notice how exhausted he looks.

‘Here we go again?’ I mimic, standing up, my heart thumping. ‘Is that what you think? That I’m bleating on and on …’

He stands up too, so that we’re facing each other. His hands are clenched by his sides. ‘We keep having the same fucking argument, Abi.’