The Silent Twin (14 page)

‘Worse? How . . . how can there be worse?’ Joanna said, sobbing and hiccupping as her emotions ran free. Marcella’s hand hovered over her back, and she patted her a couple of times, murmuring something about being in touch. Fiona appeared, mouthing that it was okay, and she reached across to put the kettle on, signalling at them to leave Joanna to her.

Jennifer was torn. Did this mean Joanna had suspicions about her husband? Was this the secret he was trying to hide? It would be something she would have to tackle later. She followed Marcella out to the front, having formed some respect for the woman. Her companion, seemingly unaffected by the experience, was waiting beside Marcella’s blue Toyota Yaris, parked in the yard. He seemed unaffected too by the rain, which had eased, due to a break in the showers.

Marcella touched Jennifer’s arm lightly, keeping her tone low. ‘You have the gift. I see it in you.’

‘I have something,’ Jennifer said, as if she was talking about an infectious disease. ‘It’s not wanted, though.’

Marcella emitted a soft chuckle. ‘My dear, the gift of insight is indiscriminate. But you shouldn’t be scared of it. They can sense your fear and will use it against you.’

Jennifer stared out into the yard. The fullness of night had closed in, camouflaging the fields in a sheet of metal grey. An owl screeched in the distance, flapping as it broke free from a tree, its white feathers tearing into the fabric of the night. ‘I try to keep my distance from spirits,’ Jennifer finally said. ‘My interests lie in the police.’

‘But for you they come hand in hand. You are a carer and a giver. A protector of people who is unable to defend herself,’ Marcella said, her eyes following the owl’s journey. ‘Remember, not all spirits are here to hurt you.’

‘Perhaps,’ Jennifer said, not wanting to dwell on her inadequacies. ‘He looks like you,’ she said, her gaze on the boy. ‘Are you related?’

Marcella smiled. ‘He’s my son. He doesn’t leave my side.’

Jennifer frowned as she worked out the age gap. ‘Your son? But . . .’ She froze mid-sentence, her eyes growing wide as the truth dawned.

‘You are fortunate that he chose to show himself to you. I don’t always see him, but I know he’s there.’

‘But he looks so real . . .’ Jennifer said, returning her gaze to the silent figure. Embodiments of the dead were nothing new to her, but she had never witnessed one appear so tangible, so completely human in appearance as this young man.

‘He
is
real. Perhaps now you understand what I meant about help being there if you need it. You also have guides. You need to open up to them.’

Jennifer stared at the young man, at the gentle hint of a smile on his lips. A silent
thank you
passed between them before he faded into the ether. That was why Fiona and Joanna had never acknowledged him. They couldn’t see him.

She followed Marcella out to the car, holding open the door as she pulled the seatbelt around her. ‘This case . . . Is there anything more you can help me with?’

Marcella leaned forward and whispered croakily. ‘This family is immersed in secrets, but the answer lies near. And the child . . .’ Marcella shook her head. ‘I feel she’s dead, or very close to it. There’s a strong energy in that house, a hate born of anger.’ She turned the ignition, and revved the Yaris into life.

Jennifer didn’t care if she was begging. The woman had proved herself and she was going to accept help anywhere she could find it. She leaned into the open door, her eyes wide and pleading. ‘From whom? Please. Can’t you give me anything more to go on?’

Rain danced in the car headlights as Marcella thought her words over. After what felt like a lifetime of silence, she spoke. ‘The person responsible for Abigail’s disappearance is connected with the family. Abigail knew the last person to see her alive and she left with them willingly.’

J
oanna awoke
, foggy and disorientated. Had she had really heard a door slam downstairs or was she imagining it? Groping in the darkness, she clicked the small plastic light switch next to the bed. The bedside lamp cast a jaundiced yellow hue, doing little to enhance the murky room. She sat up in the bed, unease creeping over her. High ceilings and damp covings sucked any heat generated from the Aga and the smell of rotting wood never left. It was no wonder the estate agent had snapped her hand off when she offered the full asking price. Just what possessed her to take on such an enormous undertaking? The surveyors had warned her, but once she set her mind on something . . . Her chin dipped as her body returned to a drug-induced sleep, and she jolted as the rumble of a storm erupted outside.

Rubbing her eyes, she peered around the room. Where was Nick anyway? She rested her palm on his side of the bed. The sheet was cold. The last thing she remembered was him popping two sleeping tablets from the foil pack and handing them to her with a glass of water. There was no point in them both being awake, he said. She knew all about his wretched insomnia. She squinted at the bedside clock, the display screaming 3 a.m. in bright red numbers. He couldn’t be searching for Abigail at this time of the night. The rain was hammering against the mossy slate roof, and didn’t sound as if it was going to let up anytime soon.

It wasn’t the first time she had awoken to find herself alone. She walked across the cold wooden floorboards to peep through their bedroom window, and was rewarded by a flash of light. The heavy rain bounced against puddles in the yard. The Land Rover was gone.
Where’s he gone at this hour? And who is he with?
A small voice played out in her head as she withdrew from the window.
He’s having an affair. You’ve got to confront him.
She gave it fleeting consideration. No, it was easier to push it away. She reached over to the brass bedpost and pulled on the long grey cardigan that used to be his. She had commandeered it after their first night together, when they got up for cigarettes and coffee in the frosty winter night. He had wrapped the cardigan around her shoulders, gently kissing the back of her neck. But any remnant of comfort from the worn garment had evaporated long ago. She delved her hands into the sagging pockets, wrapping her fingers around the foil pack Nick had given her earlier with great insistence. Six tablets left. There were enough to send her into oblivion. She popped two and dry swallowed them, producing enough saliva to ease their journey. Nick’s not gone far, she thought, pulling back her covers. I’ll just go back to sleep and . . . she froze as her bedroom door slowly creaked open.

‘Nick?’ she said, stiffening as a cool breeze wrapped around her shoulders like an icy scarf.

No answer. The door gaped open, and she peered into the gloom, wishing they had replaced the landing bulb. ‘Olivia? Is that you?’ she asked weakly, slowly stepping towards the door.

A wave of drowsiness overcame her, and her body fought with the recently ingested drugs to stay awake. ‘Nick?’ she said. But a cold realisation dawned. It wasn’t Nick. She would have heard the car pull into the yard. She clasped a hand to her chest as a loud creak echoed on the stairs. It was the wonky step, the third one up. But who was treading on it? And were they coming up or going down? Her heart beat like a hammer from under her thin cotton nightdress. She was not a wind-up toy; she was flesh and bone and scared out of her skin. She gripped the bedpost as she heard a scuffling noise from downstairs, and fought against the drowsiness invading her body. Something or someone was out there. The tinkle of a Jack-in-the-box echoed through the air, each pin plucking an eerie note as the handle cranked forward. But who was turning it? She held her breath as she stepped forward into the landing, peeping in on Olivia, asleep in her bed. Heart pounding, she tentatively descended the stairs, her fingers gripping the worn banister for support. Staring into the darkness, she cursed whoever had turned off the downstairs light. The absence of streetlights left the house in inky blackness as the haunting melody played. Olivia didn’t have a Jack-in-the-box. But
she
did. Once. The words of the rhyme replayed to the tune playing in the hall.

Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle. That’s the way the money goes
– the tune paused. Joanna stiffened as she descended the stairs.
Pop! Goes the weasel
.

She blindly grasped for the light switch, her body fighting the drug-induced stupor. Gasping with relief, she clicked on the switch and spun around to greet her tormentor. But the villain was a vintage Jack-in-the-box, lying in the middle of the floor. Eyes vibrating, it had been propelled from its rusty metal tomb. Joanna stared at the grinning, evil thing, as if it were ready to pounce. Yet there was something familiar about it, and she recoiled as a long buried memory filtered through the fog. She pressed her palms flat against the wall, sidling past the small rusted toy.

‘Who’s there?’ she said, pushing the kitchen door open.

She flicked on the light, agog at the empty room. There was nobody there. Nobody human. The cold grip of fear clutched at her throat as a flash of memory returned . . . the tinkle of a Jack-in-the-box. She stumbled back to the hall, staring in disbelief at the unmoving toy. ‘No . . . you’re not real,’ she gasped, tripping on her nightdress as she bolted upstairs.

Her heart froze as a flash of lightning revealed a ghostly white figure standing on the landing. It was Olivia, staring with empty eyes, her nightdress billowing in the breeze. Wind and rain whooped in through her bedroom window, causing her door to swing back and forth. Muggy and confused, Joanna ushered her little girl into bed. With great concentration, she closed the rain-drenched window before stumbling into her room to grab her phone. She must ring Nick, she thought, as another rumble of thunder passed overhead. She needed him here.

Rubbing her eyes in desperation, she tried to focus on the blurred screen. A cold chill ran over her, and she climbed under the bedcovers as her heart raced. Had she taken three sleeping tablets tonight? Or was it four? The phone fell from her hand onto the bedroom floor, the whites of her eyes rolling upwards before her eyelids flickered shut.

Olivia stood in the doorway, watching her mother as she fell into a thick black sleep.

H
er pillow felt
moist on her cheek as Nick’s fingers dug into her shoulder, shaking her awake. His voice was edgy and cold.

‘How can you sleep when Abigail is missing? Wake up, will you? People are wondering where you are.’

Nick pulled across the heavy curtain, and dazzling sunlight spilled into the room.

Joanna crossed her forearm over her eyes as the light beamed over her face. ‘What? . . . What time is it?’

‘It’s almost eleven o’clock. Mum and Dad are expecting us at mass. Everyone’s going to be there.’ A pang of regret crossed his face, and his voice softened as he sat on her side of the bed. ‘I know you’re dealing with this in your own way, but you need to get dressed and go down there.’

Joanna tried to swallow, and her throat clicked in response. Bob and Wendy had railroaded them into holding a mass for their daughter, assuring her it wasn’t a memorial, simply a place where people could come and pray for her safe return. She had had no choice but to agree. But why wasn’t Nick there already? And how had she slept in so long?

‘Where were you last night?’ she croaked, an uneasy feeling of distrust creeping in.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I woke up and you were gone.’

Nick frowned as he rose. ‘I was here all night.’

‘The Jack-in-the-box. Did you see it?’ Joanna said, fighting for clarity.

‘What
are
you on about?’

‘Last night I heard something downstairs. The Land Rover was gone.
You
were gone. I heard a Jack-in-the-box in the hall.’

Nick looked at her as if she had gone mad. ‘A Jack-in-the-box? You must have been dreaming.’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ Joanna said firmly. ‘I woke up and took more sleeping tablets. It’s why I slept in. Pass me your cardigan,’ she said, pointing to the garment she didn’t remember taking off. ‘The foil pack is in the pocket, there’re four tablets missing.’

Nick reached over to the bedpost, the sleeve of his shirt rising up.

‘Your arms . . . they’re all scratched,’ Joanna said, as Nick unhooked the cardigan from the bedpost and threw it on the bed.

Nick unrolled his shirt sleeves, buttoning them at the wrist. ‘Of course they are. I’ve been through every bush and thicket this side of Haven.’

Joanna pulled out the foil pack from the pocket of the frayed cardigan. She blinked, her face frozen in disbelief as she stared at two puncture holes. ‘There should be four missing. I swear. I took four tablets last night.’

Nick threw her an exasperated look before turning on his heel. ‘I’m sorry, Jo, I can’t deal with this right now. Just . . . just get dressed and go to mass. Fiona’s already gone with Olivia.’

Joanna stared at the pack trembling between her fingers. Her throat felt sore and raw. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with something. That would be too bad. But thoughts of an illness weren’t enough to block her rising anxiety. Unable to move, she felt a black tide rise from within, threatening to engulf her. Her breath quickened as the beginnings of a panic attack flooded her system. She grasped the sheets between her fingers as she fought for breath. She was losing control. Releasing the sheets, she slapped her right cheek hard. Her breath faltered. Good. That was good. She slapped with the left hand, harder this time. She gasped, as sweet release was delivered with each stinging blow. Her breath slowed, and her focus returned to the room. The breeze from the open window, the sound of muffled voices carried from downstairs. Her eyes crept to her phone on the bedside table. She recalled hearing the clunk as it hit the mat when she fell asleep. So what was it doing there? Pulling back her right hand, she slapped her cheek hard, sending her head rocking to the left. She rose effortlessly from the bed and walked into her en suite. An icy cold shower would take away the redness, and she would welcome the stinging pain. It was the least she deserved.