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.’
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
