Dear Dad– thanks for being such a prick when we were kids– lots of love, Sally and Sarah xxx
I smile at the idea. He’d actually think it was genuine, and my mum would go along with it for an easy life. They’ve been married for over fifty years, despite showing every outward sign of despising each other. But hey, who am I to judge? Relationships are not my specialist subject.
The little back bedroom is actually the perfect size for an office, and from the pale blue paint on the walls and the little smiley face symbols that have been drawn on the inside of the cupboard door I’d say it used to belong to a child. Maybe oneof Katie’s. I like the smiley faces, and will definitely keep them. They feel like a good omen.
I sit and work for a few hours, and as ever it feels good to lose myself in a world that I can control. The real world remains stubbornly difficult in that respect, despite my best efforts. No matter how hard I try to be prepared, to protect myself, to stay safe, something always seems to sneak through. Maybe it will be different here. I really hope so, at least. Though a quick glance at my laptop, with its insanely long password and the black tape over the camera, warns me it won’t be that easy.
I get a message from my niece Libby at about 3am, the ping of my phone disturbing me from a blaze of typing as Carina Shaw starts to put the puzzle pieces together and come up with a horrific whole.
Go to bed!
The text makes me laugh.
I will if you will
I hesitate before adding the kisses. I’ve never quite got on with emojis. I never recovered from my nieces showing me a series of innocent looking items– banana, aubergine, pineapple, doughnut– and then explaining what sexual acts they corresponded to. Sally had laughed her head off, but I’d been traumatised. Now I’m always scared that I’ll send the wrong emoji, and people will think I’m a ketamine addict who likes going to swingers’ parties. I also often have to close my eyes in the fresh produce aisle of the supermarket. Lord help me if in this little rural corner of England I ever happen upon an aubergine farm…
I’m already in bed
She replies, and I picture her curly blonde head on her pillow.
Just not asleep. Busy brain. Time for a chat?
I decide that I have got time for a chat. The words have been flowing, but my eyes are stinging and my wrists are sore and my back is aching from hunching over my desk. I feel like a coffee, but it is the middle of the night and I know from past experience that it is very easy for me to become entirely nocturnal. I hit call, hoping she’s okay.
Libby and Lucy, like myself and Sally, are non-identical twins. And also like myself and Sally, they are very different, personality-wise. Lucy, though, as I’ve pointed out to my sister many times, is not quite as cruel to her quieter sibling as she was to me. Sally always shrugs and pulls a ‘what’s done is done’ face, which still annoys me after all these years. Truth be told, she can still press my buttons. I’m not sure she’s even aware she does it. I handle it better now, and speak up for myself when she goes too far, but I’ve always felt in her shadow. It’s not the same dynamic with my nieces; they get along well despite their differences– contrast without as much conflict.
‘Hello, Auntie dearest,’ says Libby when she answers, her voice sleepy. ‘Was I right? You were still up working, yes?’
‘Guilty as charged, m’lud. Just got carried away. Why are you awake?’
‘Lucy snuck out of the house to go clubbing with her friends. She’s got a fake ID and everything. So I’m kind of jealous and also a bit worried about her. What if she gets her drink spiked? What if Mum finds out?’
I don’t just mindlessly reassure her, because I know that doesn’t work for the over-thinkers of the world. I have no clue why Libby is like this. I explain away my temperament with the way things were at home, but Libby’s family life is stable, loving and fun, as far as I know. Maybe it’s just genetics having a laugh at us all.
‘Well, how many friends is she out with?’ I ask. ‘Boys or girls?’
‘Mainly girls, some boys. And quite a lot of them I think.’
‘Well, that’s good, then. I know your mother has talked to her about spiking, because she’s seen cases come into the hospital, and I know that I’ve always drummed it into the two of you to always keep an eye out for your mates. I’m pretty sure that other mums and mum-type people will have done the same for the rest of them. So, even if Lucy isn’t paying attention– which I’m sure she will be– then someone else in that big group will have their eyes open.’
Libby sighs, and I can hear her turning over in bed. I picture her room, with its crammed bookshelves and messy desk and her huge collection of vinyl. The vintage movie posters on her walls, the collection of potted plants that make the place feel like a rainforest. I will miss seeing them as often, but in reality they are both busy these days. It’s not like they’re little girls who need their aunt to babysit any more.
‘Okay, that makes sense. Thanks, Auntie. What about the other worry? If Mum finds out?’
‘If your mum finds out she’ll go ballistic, so just steer clear of the blast radius. She did far worse when she was that age, but nobody needs to mention that. She’ll know it, deep down, and not go too hard on her. You okay? Everything all right at school?’
‘Yep,’ she says, stifling a yawn. ‘Kind of. Well, it’s crap, but that’s nothing new, is it? It’ll be over soon.’
Libby hates school. She likes learning, enjoys her A-level subjects, but has very little time for the social niceties and the tribal values of what she calls the ‘battery chicken farm’.
‘I’ll come and visit soon, if that’s okay?’ she asks, her voice quiet, a touch of nerves. ‘Is it nice?’
‘Of course that’s okay,’ I assure her. ‘And it is nice yes. It’s new, which is always strange. And it’s strange, which is always new.’
‘Strange how? Good or bad?’
‘I’m not sure yet. There is possibly a hive mind. The men are all too good-looking, and I’ve been bewitched by a woman in her eighties who smokes spliffs and seduced me with chocolate cake.’
