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

I clear my throat. ‘It’s … well, I’m also a twin. Was a twin. Am a twin.’ I’m rambling because I hate telling people about Lucy. I hate the way they look at me, with a mixture of pity and embarrassment, terrified that I might dissolve into tears. Inevitably there is an awkward silence, then they turn away to glance at their shoes, or at their hands, anywhere but at me, while mumbling how sorry they are before they change the subject, leaving meworrying if I’ve made amassive faux pas by mentioning my dead sister. Some of my old friends have avoided me since Lucy died. Nia assures me it’s because they don’t know what to say to me, but why can’t they understand that saying something, anything, is better than not acknowledging it at all?

I hold my breath, expecting something similar from Beatrice. But she stops what she’s doing and looks me directly in the eye. ‘What happened?’ she asks, and I can tell she genuinely wants to know. She’s not pushing me away, afraid of my grief. She’s not embarrassed by it. She’s facing it head on. I’m so relieved that she’s not like everyone else that I want to hug her.

‘She … she died.’ Tears cloud my vision. And it was my fault, I want to add. But I don’t. If she knew the truth about me it would ruin everything.

‘Abi, I’m so sorry,’ she says and she places a hand on my arm. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

I pause, knowing I can’t talk about Lucy. What is there to say? That she was my identical twin sister, that I loved her more than anyone else in the world, that she was the other part of me, my other half, my better half, and that without her I am lost, in limbo, that it doesn’t seem right being alive without her, that it’s my fault and that I can never forgive myself even if the courts of law did exonerate me. I shake my head.

‘I understand,’ she says, her voice gentle. ‘Our parents died when Ben and I were small but I still find it hard to talk about it, even after all this time. I don’t think you ever get over losing a loved one.’

And in that moment I sense it, the bond between us; formed over a shared grief and the special relationship that can only be understood by twins.

By midnight I’ve lost count of the amount of champagne I’ve consumed to stem my nerves and give me the confidence to talk to all of Beatrice’s friends. I excuse myself from her gathering and lock myself in the downstairs loo, afraid I’m going to be sick. I should have eaten more. I lean over the sink and take deep breaths until the nausea subsides. I need to go home, I think as I splash cold water on my face and assess myself in the glass of the bathroom cabinet. As always, I jolt at my reflection; at the dark circles under my eyes, the blonde hair that has long grown out of its neat bob, the too-big mouth that always gives the impression of jollity even when I’m anything but happy.

I see Lucy everywhere, but never more than when I look in the mirror.

Chapter Three (#udba7c03d-2cdf-5bdd-bdff-88ca44532343)

The front door slams. Beatrice moves to her bedroom window just in time to see two dark figures weaving out of the front gate and towards the bus stop at the end of the road. They’re giggling, stumbling, quite obviously a little drunk. He has his arms about her slim waist as if to keep her from folding in on herself and their pose reminds her of a puppet-master holding up his marionette.

They pass a streetlamp, thrusting them into the spotlight and her stomach falls when she realizes it’s Ben. And Abi.

The number fourteen bus trundles past her window like a lethargic old man, the brakes squeaking against the still-hot tarmac as it halts. Beatrice watches as Abi disappears on to it, watches as Ben continues to wave even after the bus has rounded the corner out of sight. It’s too dark to see the expression on her brother’s face, but she can imagine it. The twinkle in his hazel eyes, the crooked smile on his full lips. It’s the look of a man who’s been stupefied, it’s a look she’s only ever seen on his face once before.

And as he turns slowly, reluctantly back towards the house, she knows – in that special way that only a twin can – that this is the start of something.

Beatrice thrusts the curtains together so vigorously that they continue to swing even when she turns away from them to pace the room. She refrains from switching the light on, preferring to listen out for the telltale sounds of the key in the lock, the clip-clop of Ben’s Chelsea boots on the flagstone hallway, the thud as he climbs the stairs two at a time to her room. Why does the realization that her brother might have found someone he likes make her want to cry?

He flings open the door, flooding the bedroom with light from the landing.

‘Why are you in the dark, you mad cow?’ he laughs, flicking the switch.

She shrugs and perches at her dressing table. Ben sits heavily on her double bed, the mattress sighs under his weight. ‘Cass and Jodie have gone out and Pam has fallen asleep at her easel again. So, how do you think it went?’ He seems genuinely concerned for her, which tugs at her heart.

‘Okay, I guess.’ She pulls the earrings from her ears. ‘I sold some pieces of jewellery. I gave Abi a necklace.’ She watches Ben’s expression carefully in the mirror, looking for signs. She notices the shy smile at the mention of Abi’s name, then his eyes meet hers and the smile snaps off his face.

He frowns. ‘Are you okay, Bea?’

‘I saw you with Abi.’ She knows she shouldn’t but she can’t help it. ‘You fancy her, don’t you? That wasn’t in the plan, Ben.’

‘Plan?’ A pulse throbs in Ben’s jaw and Beatrice knows she’s made him angry. ‘There is no plan. We all spent some time together, got a little drunk, had a laugh, and then I walked her to the bus stop. Not much to tell.’

‘You know what I mean. You have to be careful. You know what she’s been through.’

‘She’s a big girl.’ Ben lays back on the bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. She notices he still has his boots on and this irritates her.

‘I’m supposed to be the one helping her,’ she snaps. ‘And I don’t think getting emotionally involved is good for her at the moment.’

‘Whatever, Bea. You’ve obviously decided she’s another one of your projects.’

‘Projects?’ she says querulously. ‘This is more than a coincidence, Ben … It’s a sign.’

‘I know, you’ve already said.’ Ben sits up again and sighs. ‘Look, I’ve had a lot to drink. I’m going to bed.’ He gets up and leaves the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Beatrice stares at herself in the mirror. She refuses to cry. Instead she swipes at her eyes with a cotton pad doused in oily make-up remover, then cleanses her face and throat in rhythmic strokes.

She’d known as soon as she met Abi who she was. Those big green eyes had tugged at her memory before she even had the chance to reveal her name. But the name had cemented it, of course. Abi Cavendish. The Cavendish twins. Their delicate heart-shaped faces had peered endearingly out of the newspaper reports at the time, unknowing of the future that lay ahead for them. She’d got home yesterday – was it only yesterday? – and retrieved the newspaper cutting hidden between her bras and knickers in her underwear drawer and shown it to Ben, prodding it with an excitable finger, telling him that it must mean something. Didn’t he see, she urged, didn’t he see that this was fate? She’d cut that piece out of the paper over a year ago, and now, nearly a year to the day, she meets the very girl from the story. She told him that if Abi turned up for the open studio then it was a sign that this was the woman that Beatrice was meant to help.

And she did turn up. See, Ben? Fate.

Beatrice swipes angrily at her face with her cotton pad. No, she mustn’t obsess. Today has been a good day, a success. Not only has she taken the first steps to becoming a bona fide artist but she has Abi in her life.

She knows she’s done something terrible, unforgivable. But by helping Abi she can begin to put things right. She can Be A Good Person. Karma.

She has to do whatever she can to ensure that this time Ben doesn’t stand in her way.

Chapter Four (#udba7c03d-2cdf-5bdd-bdff-88ca44532343)

Returning to my cold, empty flat after the warmth, noise and babble of Beatrice’s vibrant house makes me feel like a dog that’s been banished from its family home to a kennel in the garden.

The silence bears down on me oppressively, reminding me that I do live on my own, that there is no Nia clattering around the kitchen making endless cups of tea, or Lucy curled up on the sofa tapping away at her laptop. Even though they’ve never lived with me here, in this flat, I still can’t get used to being without them, still expect to see the ghosts of them around every corner. It’s one of the reasons I left London.

I switch on the lamp and when I cross the living room to close the curtains I catch sight of something, someone, on the street below. My heart quickens. A man is standing by the front gate, I can barely make out his silhouette against the inky night. He has his collar turned up, a cigarette hanging moodily from his lips; the detail of his face is unclear, shadowy, a pencil drawing where his features have been rubbed out, but the shape of his head, the lanky figure, is so familiar I instantly know it’s Luke. It’s Luke and he’s found me. I fumble for my mobile that’s in the pocket of the jacket I’m still wearing, desperately scrolling for my parents’ number with trembling fingers. Then he looks up at my window, his eyes briefly meeting mine and I freeze. I watch, my mobile still in my hand, as he flicks his cigarette to the kerb and saunters down our garden path to ring the bell of the flat below. It’s not Luke, of course it’s not Luke. Nia would never break her promise to me. But it’s an unpleasant reminder that I’m not the only one who can’t forgive myself for what happened that Halloween night over eighteen months ago.

I sprint around the flat in a sudden frenzy of drawing curtains and switching on lights. When my heart finally slows and my breathing returns to normal I settle on the sofa with a cup of coffee and call Mum. I need to hear a comforting voice after the fright I’ve had.

She sounds husky, as if I’ve awoken her from sleep and I realize it is past midnight. ‘Abi? Are you okay?’ I imagine her sitting up in bed in her flannel pyjamas, her heart racing, expecting to hear me in tears, so I quickly explain that nothing is wrong. And then, without thinking, I tell her about Beatrice. I mentally slap myself when I hear the apprehension in her voice as she answers, ‘This isn’t the same as before is it, love?’

‘Of course it’s not,’ I snap, my cheeks burning when I think about Alicia.

She hesitates and I can tell that there is a lot more she wants to say, but my mother has always been a great believer in thinking before speaking. Instead she says how wonderful it is that I’ve found a friend, that I’m beginning to settle in Bath. Then she reminds me, as she always does, that I need to keep seeing Janice, that I mustn’t forget to take my antidepressants, that I have to do all I can to make sure I don’t end up in that place again – she lowers her voice when she says this last bit, in case the neighbours can hear through the walls that her daughter has been in a mental institution.

When she eventually rings off I sit with the phone in my lap. I’m consumed with an urgency I’ve not felt for a long time when I think of tonight, of Beatrice. The dancing in her living room after all her potential ‘clients’ had gone home, her cool, arty friends, the wine we drank so we were floppy and silly and finding everything hilarious, and then afterwards when the lights went down and we all slumped on to Beatrice’s velvet sofa, me squashed in between her and Ben so that each of my thighs touched one of theirs; believing for the first time in ages, that I belonged.

I touch the necklace at my throat, the necklace that Beatrice has made with her own two hands. She’s the one, surely? Even our names merge with each other – Abi and Bea – Abea. Does she sense it too? This connection, this certainty that we are supposed to meet?

Then the darkness washes over me, dousing my joy. I don’t deserve to be happy. Guilt. Such a pointless emotion, Janice constantly tells me that, yet I am consumed by it tonight. You were found not guilty, Abi. I can almost hear Lucy’s soft voice, her breath against my ear, as if she’s curled up on the sofa next to me, and then to my surprise, my own, deeper voice, coming out of nowhere, bounding off the walls of my tiny flat so that it startles me: ‘I’m so sorry, Luce. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’

Two days pass without a word from her. Two days holed up in my flat with the rain drumming on the skylights in the roof, the fluke hot weather of Saturday a distant dream. Mum rings and invites me over, but I decline, telling her I’ve got some work to catch up on, when in reality the thought of spending the bank holiday with my parents but without Lucy makes the grief bubble back up to a dangerous level. Our family resembles a table with a leg missing; incomplete, forever ruined.

I know it’s not healthy for me to be on my own for too long, it gives me more time to obsess, to think about Lucy, to remember her last night; the panic, the fear. It comes back to me in moments when I least expect it, when I’m lying in bed on the edge of sleep, or when I’m perusing Lucy’s page on Facebook, re-reading the condolences from her three hundred-plus Facebook friends. I can suddenly smell the wet grass mixed with the smoke from the engine, see the blood caked on Lucy’s head, her beautiful but eerily still face as Luke cradles her in his arms, hear Callum shouting desperately into a mobile phone for an ambulance, feel the touch of Nia’s comforting hand on my shoulder as I crouch by the tree, the bark rough against my back, the metallic taste of blood on my lips and bile in the back of my throat as she whispers over and over again that Lucy’s going to be okay, in a futile attempt to reassure me, or herself. And the rain, so much rain, coming down in sheets so that our clothes clung to our bodies; coming down like tears.

To vanquish the relentless, soul-destroying thoughts, I try to remember Beatrice’s soft Scottish accent, the hurried excitable way she talks, her warmth, her humour. I’m still unsure if she knows about what I’ve done – a quick Google search would reveal everything. Is that the reason she hasn’t got in touch? Who wants to be friends with someone who’s killed her own twin sister?

I have a connection with Beatrice, even more than I first thought. Not only is she a twin too, she’s lost someone close to her, she understands me. Now that I’ve found her I know that I can’t let her go.

It’s still raining when I turn up at her door clutching an umbrella and cradling a bunch of large white daisies. I pull the bell and wait, jumping back off the stone step in alarm when a brown spider with yellow flecks drops in front of my face then desperately clambers its way back up its own silvery thread to the fanlight above.