The Silent Twin (18 page)

A
bigail sleeps soundly
in her sleeping bag as I watch. Nobody seemed to miss the clothes I took from her wardrobe. Her dungarees smelled so bad I burned them. I stood over the flames as they singed the damp clothes, and I nurtured the idea coming to life. Abigail’s reprieve had eased my troubled conscience. My alter ego had been particularly vocal, and my uncharacteristic act of compassion had, at last, silenced the fracas in my brain. But as I absorbed the heat of the flames, the fire also seduced me, appealing to my darker side. Afterwards, when the clothes were nothing but embers, I picked among the remnants, pocketing the buckles and buttons of what was once the yellow dungarees. They clinked in my pocket as I walked, making me smile for the very first time that day.

T
he sound takes
me back to a time I clinked glasses with my tormentor. I can talk about it now. Even writing about it doesn’t seem as painful, because soon all of this will be over. It was Saturday, and I was meant to be helping out in the allotment. I was wheeling my bike when Father called me into the studio and handed me a glass of fizzy wine. His eyes were alight; I’d never seen him so jovial. He said his contacts had agreed to sign me up. I believed him, because I wanted it to be true, and I felt ever so grown up, drinking alcohol for the first time. The bubbles went up my nose, and I didn’t like the taste, but I sipped it just the same, holding my pinkie finger up just like they did in the movies. After two glasses, he insisted we do a photo shoot for my portfolio. But when I waited behind the camera, he asked me to take off my top. At first I thought I was wearing the wrong clothes, and it took a few seconds for the meaning to sink in. He wanted me to pose with no top at all. It made me go cold at the thought, and small alarm bells began to sound a warning.

I gathered my courage and refused. I remember stuttering as he towered over me, ranting and raving about how let down he felt, how he would have to go back to his contacts and tell them they would have to find someone else. I cried, saying I was sorry, but it was just too embarrassing, standing there half-naked, with nothing but the tiny pair of shorts he had passed me. His features turned into cold, hard stone. Didn’t all models get undressed for the camera? Then, when I was getting ready to leave, he revealed dozens of photos of me getting changed. Perhaps he should show these to my school friends and get their vote, he said, his face twisted into a smile. There was something about the way he leered as he said it, that scared me more than when he was angry. He laughed as if it was the funniest joke ever. But the joke was on me. So slowly, reluctantly, I agreed, clasping my arms against my rolls of fat to cover my shame. I did not understand what it meant to be blackmailed. But I knew I was in a far worse position than when I was being bullied in school.

T
hings were taking a frightening turn
, and I wondered how I ever got myself into this situation. Perhaps he was good at hiding what he was, or perhaps I just didn’t want to see it. I tried talking to my mother, but when I mentioned the photographs she produced an envelope from the drawer and said that I was lucky to have professional shots. I was agog. She had been collecting the snaps all along. Not the sordid ones he bullied me into posing for, but the first innocent shots that were taken. I knew then that she would not believe anything I had to say. If only someone would catch him, I thought, at least then I could leave the responsibility of reporting him to someone else. But there was no one to tell. My step sister was in boarding school, and regarded me with little more than plodding apathy. Having a ready-made sister to look out for me had been all of my dreams come true. I used to fantasise about us having midnight feasts, as we stayed up late and talked about music. She was slim, pretty, clever All the things I was not. We were even born the same day. But she had her own friends in boarding school, and she was not interested in me. Father had never asked to take her photo. Only I was afforded that privilege. Every time she came home I tried to pluck up the courage to tell her, but every time his threats blocked the words. I couldn’t see a way out of the hell my life had become.

J
ennifer steeled
herself as the young slim priest entered the room, flanked by Nick and his parents. Father Murphy was not at all what she expected. New to Haven, he seemed too green to take on the role of spiritual counsellor. He seemed pleasant, polite, and in a hurry. Pulling on a pair of black leather driving gloves, he’d no sooner arrived than he made his farewells.

‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Fiona said, as she worked her way through a pile of ironing.

‘Not for us, thank you,’ Wendy answered for both herself and Bob. ‘It goes right through us.’

Wendy was about a foot smaller than her husband. Not that it held her back; she was quite forthright with her opinions. Jennifer was yet to see any affection pass between her and her son.

Bob, on the other hand, was more like Nick. Tall and well-built, he had a kindly, age-worn face. She wondered if his parents’ religious views were the reason Nick felt the need to remain in a marriage where he was not happy. As if reading her mind, Wendy peered over at Jennifer, catching a glimpse of her jewellery.

‘I see you wear a crucifix. Are you a Catholic?’

Jennifer’s hand rose to her collar bone, where the silver cross lay. She did not wish to lose favour with Wendy and Bob, and thought how best to answer the question. ‘I have a strong belief,’ she answered, not saying what that belief was, or that it was none of her business anyway. Wendy gave a satisfied nod of the head.

‘You should have come to mass. We’ll include you on the next one.’

Jennifer hoped there wouldn’t be a next one. She wanted to get this case wrapped up as soon as she could, and return to normality. Although Wendy was deeply religious, Jennifer did not feel that the woman was altogether good. There was something about the strength of her glare that made Jennifer squirm. ‘I’m afraid I’m here in my capacity as a police officer. But thank you for the offer.’

Wendy sniffed, mildly affronted. ‘Oh. Nick is a police officer too. He still has time for the Lord. And I don’t think police should have to work Sundays either, that should be reserved for devotion and prayer.’

Jennifer stifled a laugh as she realised the woman was deadly serious. ‘Unfortunately the criminals of Haven don’t give such consideration to religion. My boss would have me work every day if he could.’

Wendy cast an eye over her ring finger. ‘You’re not married, I take it.’

Jennifer was about to say that it was none of her business when Nick made a show of looking at his watch.

‘Is that the time? Best we get you back, I’ve got a meeting with DCI Anderson.’

‘You never said . . .’ Wendy replied. ‘I thought we could –’

‘The DCI is coming here. He wants to speak to us about the case,’ Jennifer interrupted, not interested in whatever Wendy had lined up for them that day. Nick shot her a grateful smile, and escorted his parents to the door.

‘You’ll telephone if you hear anything?’ Wendy said, as she shuffled through, her husband obediently following behind.

Jennifer and Fiona exchanged glances as the door closed, and Fiona bit back a smile.

‘Blimey, she’s a bit full-on, isn’t she?’ Jennifer said, wondering if Wendy had been waiting for the right opportunity to pounce on her all along.

‘That’s nothing,’ Fiona said, as she smoothed out the shirt sleeve she was ironing. ‘She was going easy on you. I’ve had the full interrogation. She wanted to check I wasn’t a fallen woman before allowing me to care for her grandchildren.’

‘And what do you have to do to qualify for that category, then?’ Jennifer said with a grin.

‘Sex outside of marriage for a start . . .’

‘That’s the best kind, isn’t it?’ Jennifer said, thinking of Will.

Fiona laughed, quickly covering her mouth to stifle the sound. ‘Oh don’t, you’ll get me into trouble. You’re not gay, are you? Because she has a massive problem with that too. And don’t get me started on children outside of marriage.’

‘I think I’m going to hell.’ Jennifer shook her head in mock despair.

‘Oh, I know,’ Fiona grinned. ‘I’d like to say she’s a nice woman deep down, but she’s not. Looks like I’ll be joining you in hell.’

The living room door creaked open and Joanna popped her head through the gap.

‘Is she gone?’ she said, ready to flit back upstairs any second.

‘I can go and call her if you like,’ Fiona winked across at Jennifer.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Joanna said. ‘I’m all prayed out. If I ever see that woman again, it’ll be too soon.’

‘She can’t have been pleased about the medium, then,’ Jennifer said, hoping to gauge her reaction.

Joanna’s eyes glazed over, and she seemed to withdraw into herself. ‘They don’t know anything about the medium, apart from the fact she turned up and I sent her away. And you mustn’t tell them otherwise.’

‘I’m not going to say anything,’ Jennifer said, the smile falling from her face.

For a short few moments it had been good to lighten the mood, but the inevitable guilt set in, and the fact Abigail was now gone a whole four days hit home. She checked her phone, and seeing it was free of calls or texts, shoved it back in her pocket.

‘So what about
your
father?’ she said, seeing Fiona shaking her head just too late. ‘Is he a religious man?’

Joanna frowned. Her words were steely cold, as if imparting something Jennifer should have known. ‘Don’t ever mention my father in this house. He’s nothing to do with me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jennifer said. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’

Closing her eyes, Joanna took a deep breath, and when she opened them again she was smiling. ‘That’s no problem, Jennifer. You’ll know the next time. Now excuse me, I feel like some fresh air.’

Fiona lowered the iron, all joviality evaporated from her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Jennifer. ‘I tried to warn you.’

J
oanna rarely ventured outside
. So when she slipped out the back door, Jennifer grasped the chance to get her alone. Nick’s parents had fitted a holy water font next to the front and back doors. Abigail’s disappearance had taken its toll on them too. The lines on their faces were etched with worry and concern, their eyes watery with tears waiting to be shed. The loss of a child spread many ripples, and they leaned on their faith to get them through it. Jennifer couldn’t blame them. She had expected some animosity from them towards Joanna, but it was far from the case. From what Jennifer had seen, Wendy had seemed comfortably at ease in her daughter-in-law’s presence.

T
ogether they walked the landscape
, which was spoiled only by the pylons tethering electricity to the farm. Jennifer relayed what Nick called ‘another non update’, but she didn’t tell Joanna everything. The value of reconstructing Abigail’s disappearance for
Crimewatch
was being brought into question. How did you re-enact a child disappearing into thin air? Twitter had finally shut down the accounts spewing the worst of the abuse, but for every account that was closed, two more popped up in their place, their demands for the truth twice as venomous as before. It was like trying to hold back the tide, and when the trolls got bored of blaming Joanna for Abigail’s disappearance, they attacked the police. Nobody ever tweeted when it was a job well done. Being a detective was thankless, and Jennifer had never been recognised formally for her good work. But every now and again, she received a card or a thank you letter from a victim of crime. She treasured those more than any commendation.

Jennifer matched her pace to Joanna’s strides as they walked through the farmyard towards the open fields. A heavy shower had moistened the path, and Joanna seemed oblivious to the mud seeping through her art deco shoes. In her back-seamed stockings and couture dress, she looked more like a 1950s pin-up girl than the parent of an abducted child. Jennifer thrust her hands deep into her coat pockets, biding her time. Her eyes danced over the rusted farm machinery lying scattered on the land like old dinosaur bones. The yard was dotted with a number of sheds, all of which had been checked. Some of them were demolished, while others stood elderly and creaking against the bitter winds. A haunting tune echoed through the tubular steel gates as the breeze pushed forth, whistling underneath the galvanized roof, trifling with Jennifer’s senses.

‘Can you hear it?’ Joanna said. ‘Sometimes it creeps in through our bedroom window. It used to keep me awake, until I realised what it was.’ She stopped to listen to the mournful tune. ‘It sounds so sad.’ The two women fell silent as the wind gathered around them, playing its melodious song.

‘Why did you buy this place?’ Jennifer finally said, leaning over the gate. ‘You strike me as a city girl.’

‘I am. At least I was, deep down. Our townhouse was nice, but just too perfect. And Haven isn’t London. It’s quiet, but without any of the benefits of the country. I decided to either go back to London or go completely rural. I found the farm for sale online, and put in an offer that day.’

Jennifer noted an absence of ‘we’ in her decision-making. ‘So you tend to make your decisions on impulse?’

Joanna pushed down her dress as the wind tried to take it. ‘I’ve never thought about it like that before. If I see something I want, I take it.’

Jennifer trudged stoically on, head down, picking her way through the path. ‘But don’t you find that you don’t really appreciate anything when things come easy? Don’t you tire of it quicker?’

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ Joanna said, her smile fading.

‘I’m not getting at anything. I’m just interested in why you took on such a massive undertaking.’

‘Because I could. There’s your answer.’ Joanna lifted up her foot. ‘Oh, look at my shoes. They’re ruined. I’d best get back and clean them off. I might be able to save them.’

But Jennifer was not ready to change the subject just yet. ‘So when did the activity start?’

Joanna swiped her shoe in the grass in short, jerky movements, her eyes darting to her house. The expression
cat on a hot tin roof
came to Jennifer’s mind.

‘What activity?’ Joanna eventually asked, increasing her pace as she turned back for home.

You’re not escaping me now, Jennifer thought, ready to lay hands on her if necessary. She had waited long enough for answers, and was not about to allow Joanna to slip through her fingers. ‘You know, stuff being thrown, banging noises, things like that. Has it been going on long?’

‘The psychic said it was an uneasy spirit,’ Joanna said, now walking so fast she was almost breaking out in a trot.

Jennifer caught her by her arm as she brought her to a standstill. But despite the force, her words were calm and reassuring. ‘And what about Olivia’s abilities? How long has she been telepathic?’

For a split second Joanna’s mask dropped, and a tumult of emotions glazed her face.

Jennifer held her gaze. ‘It’s okay, I’m not going to tell anyone. I know what it’s like, growing up with abilities that don’t fit in the modern world. You’ve been trying to protect Olivia all this time because she’s different, haven’t you?’ Jennifer held her breath, hoping her theory was right.

Joanna seized Jennifer’s arms, her face set in a thunderous glare. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone. Do you hear?’ A maddened panic surfaced behind her eyes as she dug her fingers into Jennifer’s biceps. ‘I can’t have my daughter being treated like a freak. This has got to stay between us.’

‘It’s okay, I won’t make it public,’ Jennifer said. It was as close to a promise of confidentiality as she could get. Her reports to Operation Moonlight were not for public consumption.

Joanna dropped her hands and attempted to recover her lighthearted demeanour. ‘I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what came over me.’

But Jennifer didn’t mind. She wanted to see the true Joanna, the protective mother she knew had been lurking under the surface all along. And she could not waste a single second.

‘What age was she when it began?’

Joanna sighed; the sort of sigh someone gives when they’ve had enough of being strong.

‘I first noticed it when they began primary school. Abigail was at home sick one day and Olivia was able to tell the teacher what programme she was watching on TV. It became like a game to them, and they’d do it any time they were separated. How did you know?’

‘The first time I met Olivia, I knew that she was a very special girl.’ Jennifer paused, slowing her footsteps so they didn’t reach the house too soon. ‘Is that why you didn’t want a child psychiatrist? Because you were afraid they’d find out?’

Joanna averted her eyes, but she could not hide the emotion in her voice. ‘Yes. I was scared they’d label her as mentally ill. I’ve tried to broach it with Nick, but he’s refused to discuss it.’

Jennifer was not surprised. Nick did not seem the type to consider anything beyond the norm; like Will, he was stoic and down to earth.

‘It’s more common than you think. There’s a lot more understood about it now.’

‘That’s why I don’t talk about Abigail. It pains me to think about her, so I can’t imagine what it’s doing to Olivia. Not being able to find her sister . . . it must be eating her up inside.’

‘So you think that not talking about Abigail is keeping a lid on things? In my experience this rarely works.’

‘It works for me,’ Joanna said, in a small voice. ‘In everyday life, I mean.’

The grey clouds parted overhead, allowing streams of light to dapple their path. Jennifer took in a soothing breath as she composed her words. The smell of the rain-dampened soil brought peace as the winds began to calm at last.

‘I really want to help, Joanna. But I feel you’re holding out on me.’

Joanna crossed her arms. ‘My personal life is none of your business.’

Jennifer sighed. It was one step forward and two steps back. Jennifer gave her a firm stare, having no qualms about getting her point across. ‘I’m sorry if my questioning makes you uncomfortable, but let me get one thing straight. My number one priority is finding Abigail. Not getting a conviction, or setting anyone up. She’s just a little girl. I’ll ask as many uncomfortable questions as it takes, if they lead me to her.’

Jennifer glanced at Joanna, whose neutral expression gave nothing away. They had just one more gate to pass through before they reached home, and she would dart up to her room as usual. Jennifer took a deep breath and continued. ‘Have you considered that you may know than you’re aware?’

Joanna stopped dead in her tracks. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What if you hurt Abigail unintentionally, or witnessed something take place? I think you cope by repressing your feelings, but you still feel the need to punish yourself.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I’d remember something like that.’

Jennifer recalled the months of therapy she had been forced to endure in the early days, when occupational health had treated her as if she had a mental illness, instead of being psychically gifted. If nothing else, she had come away from that with a better understanding of the psyche.

‘The mind is a very complicated thing. Sometimes when you repress memories they come out in different ways, either by projecting your feelings onto someone else, for example your husband, or subconsciously. How long have you been self-harming?’

Joanna’s mouth gaped open. ‘What? Where did you get that from? I don’t self-harm,’

‘C’mon, Joanna, I’ve seen the scars. And it’s not just self-harming, is it?’ Jennifer paused to take a deep breath. ‘How’s your memory? Have you ever woken up in the morning with dirty feet and no recollection of how it happened? Or found yourself wearing different clothes? Has that ever happened to you?’

‘No . . . I . . .’ Joanna stuttered, her uncertainty providing the answers.

‘There’s more going on than you’re willing to admit. Don’t you want to know what it is? No matter how awful? Wouldn’t it be better to know the truth?’

‘You’re wrong . . .’

‘Perhaps I am, but something’s not right. I can feel it.’

Joanna flung back the last gate and barged her way through. ‘I didn’t hurt my daughter.’

‘Then who did?’ Jennifer said, pushing back the gate as it rebounded against her. ‘Was it Nick? Are you protecting him? What happened that day?’

‘I can’t remember,’ Joanna said, arms swinging by her sides as she marched up the path.

Jennifer closed the gate and trotted up behind her. A stone had rolled into her shoe but she couldn’t afford to stop. The house was in sight and soon their conversation would be over. ‘You can’t remember or you’re too scared to? Whatever’s happened is in the past. You need to allow Abigail to rest now. It’s time to bring your daughter home.’

Joanna clenched her fists, turning on Jennifer one last time. ‘You’re wrong. I was in the kitchen with Fiona the whole time. Nothing happened.’

‘That’s what you’re telling yourself, but is it true? At least think on it. Consider seeing a psychiatrist, or a hypnotist. See if they can get to the root of what’s bothering you,’ Jennifer said, trying to ignore the pebble digging into the sole of her foot. ‘Perhaps it’s something further back, from your childhood. We have to face our demons if we’ve any hope of fighting them.’

Joanna laid her hand on the back door handle. ‘It’s all right for you. You’re strong. I can’t go back there. If I start delving into the past . . .’

Jennifer placed her hand on Joanna’s, her voice calm now. One last parting shot before their conversation came to an end.

‘You’ll do it. Because you love Abigail, and opening old wounds is a small price to pay if it brings her back to you.’

Joanna responded the way she always did, breezing into the house with a smile plastered across her face.

‘Goodness, it’s nippy out there. Anyone fancy a coffee? I’ve got some nice Columbian from Starbucks. Can I get you a cup, Jennifer?’

Jennifer nodded and took a seat at the table. It was as if their conversation had never happened. But as Joanna reached for the kettle, Jennifer detected a shake in her hand. Joanna’s wall of defence was slowly crumbling. And Jennifer wouldn’t give up until every brick had been pulled down.