Mirrorland

CHAPTER 1

I wasn’t there when my sister died.

Ross called me; left close to a dozen voicemail messages before I checked any of them, each one more desperate than the last. And I’m ashamed to say that it was always his voice I heard first – familiar and forgotten, hardly changed at all – rather than his words.

I watch the news reports in Terminal 4 of JFK, during a seven-hour layover that eats away at my sanity until I have to turn on my laptop and look. Sitting on a stool in a noisy, too-bright Shake Shack, ignoring my cheeseburger as I scroll through the first of three reports on the BBC News webpage for Edinburgh, Fife & East. I should probably be just as ashamed that he is what I see first too. Even before the black headline: Fears Grow for Missing Leith Woman.

The first photo is subtitled DAY ONE, 3 APRIL, but it’s already night. Ross is pacing a low stone wall next to the firth, caught between two silver lampposts that cast round, flat light. Though his face is turned away from the camera, no one could mistake his agitation for anything else: his shoulders are high, his hands fists. The photographer has caught the bright spotlights of a returning orange-and-blue lifeboat, and Ross’s face is turned towards both it and the frozen fury of a wave breaking over the end of the pier. There was a storm soon after she went missing, he said in more than one message, as if it were my not knowing that extra terrible detail that had stopped me from replying.

It takes nearly two glasses of Merlot in a darker, more subdued bar, well out of earshot of Shake Shack, before I’m able to play the first video. DAY TWO, 4 APRIL. And even then, when El’s photo flashes up on the screen – laughing, head thrown back in what she always called her ‘Like a Fucking Virgin’ pose, her silk blouse transparent, hair bobbed and silver-blonde – I flinch and press pause, close my eyes. Run self-conscious fingers through my tangled, too-long hair. I finish the wine, order a third, and the waiter who brings it to me stares so long and hard at my laptop screen, I wonder if he’s having a stroke. Before I realise, of course. Amazing what you forget; facts of life that were once as natural as breathing. He thinks he’s looking at a picture of me. Below the words: IS ELLICE MACAULEY ALIVE OR DEAD?

I pluck the buds out of my ears. ‘My twin sister.’

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he says with a megawatt smile, managing to sound like he’s never been sorry a day in his life. The constant smiling and ma’aming wears me out, makes me feel irrationally furious. That this is the only thing about America that I won’t miss makes me feel more tired, more pissed off. I think of my condo on Pacific Avenue. The hot crazy circus of the boardwalk and Muscle Beach. The hot crazy nights of dancing in basement clubs where the walls run with sweat. The cool turquoise calm of the ocean. An ocean that I love.

I take another big swallow of wine, put my earbuds back in, press play. The photo of El cuts to a reporter: young and earnest, probably still in her twenties, her hair whipping viciously around her head.

‘On the morning of April the third, Leith resident, Ellice MacAuley, thirty-one, sailed from this yacht club in Granton Harbour on the Firth of Forth, and has not been seen or heard from since.’

I start as the camera zooms out from the yacht club to show the distant rail and road bridges at Queensferry in the west, before panning back east towards the outcrops of Earlsferry and North Berwick. Between them, the grey firth and the low rolling hills of Kinghorn and Burntisland on the opposite shore. Then back to the harbour, its bobbing round buoys and long pontoons and white sailboats with rattling masts. A low stone slope into the water. A different crane. No warehouse.

How could I not have realised before that it’s the same harbour – a place I haven’t thought about in decades, and yet there it is, almost unchanged. A shiver cricks my neck. A dread that I don’t want to examine any more than anything else that’s gone through my mind since all those voicemail messages began filling up my inbox. I reach for my wine again, relieved when the camera cuts away from the harbour to archive footage of lifeboats and helicopters.

‘The alarm was raised when Ms MacAuley failed to return to the Royal Forth Yacht Club, and it was further determined that she had not reached her intended destination in Anstruther earlier in the day. The Coastguard and RNLI have been involved in the search, but continuing bad weather has significantly hampered their efforts.’

A man: jowly, mostly bald, solemn like the reporter, but with a glint in his eye like he’s faking it, stares into the camera, arms folded. Underneath his too-large belly: JAMES PATON, HM COASTGUARD SAR MISSION CO-ORDINATOR, ABERDEEN. ‘We know that Ms MacAuley was a competent sailor—’

Do we? I think.

‘—but, looking at the prevailing windspeed through the firth on the morning of the third, we estimate that she had already been missing for approximately six hours by the time the alarm was raised.’ He pauses, and even though he’s only being filmed from the waist up, I can tell he’s widening his stance, like a gunslinger. He only just manages not to shrug. ‘Over the past seventy-two hours, the temperature of the firth has been no more than seven degrees Celsius. In those conditions, a person could be expected to survive no more than three hours in the water.’

Arsehole, I think. In El’s voice.

The camera cuts back to the reporter, still pretending not to be bothered by her ruined hair. ‘Now, at the end of day two of the search, and in worsening conditions,’ she says, ‘hope is fading fast for the safe return of Ellice MacAuley.’

A picture of El and Ross on holiday somewhere fills the screen – all tan and white teeth; his arm flung around her shoulders as she leans in, tips up her chin to laugh. I can see why the coverage is so eager and extensive. They’re beautiful. They look at each other like they’re both starving and satisfied. The intimacy of it makes me feel uncomfortable; it sours the wine in my stomach.

I pick up my phone, check the weather app. Edinburgh is still the second location after Venice Beach; I’ve never dwelled too long upon why. Six degrees and heavy rain. I look out the window at the dark, the long white lines of runway lights.

It’s barely six a.m. in the UK, but there’s already a new video: DAY THREE, 5 APRIL. I don’t watch it. I already know that nothing’s changed. I know she still hasn’t been found. I know that now, even more than yesterday, they don’t expect her to be. There’s another image below it, time-stamped less than two hours ago. DOCTOR HUSBAND OF MISSING LEITH WOMAN LOSES HOPE. The picture catches my breath. It hurts to look at him. It would hurt anyone to look at him. Ross is hunkered down next to a low wall, knees high and close to his chin, his hands clasped around the back of his neck, pressing his elbows tight together in front of himself like a shield. A man in a long anorak is standing next to him, looking down and obviously speaking, but Ross isn’t paying attention. Instead, he’s looking out at the firth, his mouth open and teeth bared in a wail of despair and horrified grief that I can almost hear.

I close the laptop with a too-loud slam. Drain my wine as people turn to look. My hand is shaking, eyes stinging. The hours between New York and Edinburgh loom and at the same time aren’t enough. I don’t want to go back. I’d give anything – anything – to never, ever, go back.

I get up to move on to another bar; I can’t bear to face the ma’am waiter again. I grab my laptop, my bag, toss a twenty on the table. I’m more than a little unsteady as I weave between tables. I should probably have eaten that burger. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. People are still looking at me, and I wonder if I’ve said it aloud, until I realise I’m shaking my head instead. Because I have to believe it. I have to believe that nothing has changed. That all this fear and quickening dread doesn’t mean anything at all. I think of Edinburgh, of Leith, of that grey flat-stoned house with Georgian-bar windows in Westeryk Road. I think of Grandpa’s gap-toothed grin, and it soothes the worst of my panic. Nane ae it amounts tae a pun ae mince, hen.

I wasn’t in Edinburgh when my sister died. I wasn’t in LAX or JFK. I wasn’t even on the wrought-iron balcony of my California condo, looking out at the Pacific and drinking zinfandel and pretending I was exactly where I’ve always wanted to be.

I wasn’t anywhere when my sister died.

Because she isn’t dead.

CHAPTER 2

I stand on the pavement until the bus has lumbered out of sight. Either the weather app on my phone has broken or the weather finally has: it’s cold and sunny in a cloudless sky. The wind from the city – smoke and double-deckers and breweries and coal fires – is thin and biting. I can smell the sea. Everything and nothing is the same. The houses are the same houses, the road is the same road, there’s still a ground-floor mini-market just where it always was: Colquhoun’s of Westeryk. A sudden, colder breeze lifts the hair from my neck, bringing with it another salt-sour taste of the sea. It must be cold too. I try not to think about that smug gunslinger. A lot colder than this.

I look at 36 Westeryk Road in increments. The metal gate is the same. The squared-off high hedges with patches of yellow and the path bisecting the flat lawn. I don’t need to look up to know that the solemn symmetry of grey ashlar bricks and tall, narrow-paned windows is the same. The two flanking stone walls with white fireclay balusters and red wooden doors leading to alleyways alongside the house.

I falter suddenly and swing around. There’s no one there. But the sense that there had been is strong enough that I step forwards, my heart beating too fast. I look across the road at the red sandstone terrace El and I used to call the Gingerbread Coop. Its narrow houses and neat white lintels and window boxes full of pansies and petunias, so at odds with the looming grey house it has always faced. That sense of being watched – examined – intensifies; the hairs on the back of my neck shiver. Stop it.

I turn back to number 36, open the gate, walk the path, climb the four stone steps, and there is the red metal boot scraper, the red last step, the huge red front door. It’s ajar. I once asked Mum why it wasn’t called the Red House, and she blinked, gave me the stupid girl look that is sometimes all I can remember now when I think of her.

It’s the Mirror House. Just like you and Ellice. Just like Mirrorland.

Perhaps El and I once had the same obdurate symmetry as this house – no perhaps about it, I know we did – but nothing can stay the same forever. I push open the door, step up into the entrance hall. Black and white chequered tiles. Dark oak wainscoting and crimson-red walls. As if to prove me straightaway wrong. I close my eyes, and at once I hear the heavy turn and clunk of a deadlock. A flash of black dark. Run. But when I spin around, the door is still open, still warm with sunlight. Stop it.

I turn the brass handle of the second door, catch a glimpse of my big-eyed reflection inside it before the door opens onto the hallway proper, the curving shadow of the staircase. The old carpet is gone, in its place shiny parquet. The sun pierces the fanlight above the door, and at once I see myself sitting cross-legged inside that spear of light, reading Grandpa’s encyclopaedias, the carpet scratching my skin like pricking pins.

The hallway walls are crowded with familiar mounted plates, small and large, scalloped- and gilt-edged: finches, swallows, robins perching on leafy branches, bare branches, snowy branches. The tall oak telephone table and grandfather clock are exactly where they used to be as well, flanking the drawing room door. And even if that seems too unlikely – too bizarre, almost twenty years later – there they stand sentinel nonetheless. The smell is exactly the same, utterly unchanged: old wood and old age and old memory. My incredulity is tempered with a relief I hadn’t been expecting, and an unease that I had. And when I take a long, deep inhale, something inside me loosens and breaks free. It’s still a little like fear – it’s brittle and has sharp edges. But it’s warm too. Deep like the ocean. It has expectations. Too big a part of me is glad that I’m back here after all. Glad that all is exactly, incredibly, inexplicably the same as it ever was.

I turn into the kitchen as if this still really is my house, and there is Ross, on his hands and knees on the blue and white tiles. He looks up. Blinks. Flinches.

And I’m too busy thinking of all the things I can’t say to him to come up with anything better than ‘I’m flattered. Most folk just say hi.’

‘Cat.’ His voice breaks as though my name has two syllables. When he stands up, I realise that there are slivers and chunks of smashed white china scattered all over the tiles between us.

‘Can I help?’

‘I’ll sort it later.’ He steps over the broken china and stops a foot short of me. His smile is as tight as mine feels. ‘How’s LA?’

‘Hot.’

His knuckles are white. ‘How was the journey?’

‘All right. Long.’ I don’t know why I can’t speak. I don’t know why we’re trying to have this ridiculous conversation. Ross looks the same but different, just like the house. His face is pale, the skin beneath his eyes heavier than in those news reports, no longer purple but black. His stubble is dark, his hair messy as if he’s run his fingers through it too many times. Underneath all that he looks older, I suppose, but it hasn’t done him any harm. Not the way El going missing has. There are more wrinkles around those peat-brown, silver-flecked eyes; his face is leaner. I wonder if his smile is still crooked, if his left canine still slightly overlaps his front incisor. Immediately, I look away.

‘They say it’s always hardest coming back,’ he says.

‘Yeah.’

He clears his throat. ‘I mean, travelling west to east.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know what you mean.’

His T-shirt is wrinkled, his arms are goose-bumped. He steps forwards. Stops again. Rubs his hands against his face.

‘God, how many years has it been?’

‘Twelve?’ I whisper, as though I don’t know, and my throat closes up and my eyes start to burn. Suddenly all of it – El, him, this house – is too much. I’m tired and I’m sad and I’m scared, and most of all I’m so fucking angry – angry that I’ve had to come back here, angry that even one part of me wants to be back here. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but when I think of my beautiful Pacific Avenue condo now, it has the texture of glossy paper. Just some place I visited a long time ago.

Maybe that’s why I don’t step away from his embrace. Why I let him put his arms around me and pull me so tight against him that I can feel the scratch of his stubble against my neck, the warmth of his breath against my skin, the vibration of his voice – familiar and forgotten. Utterly unchanged.

‘Thank God you’ve come back, Cat.’

I try not to look at anything else as we climb the stairs, but it’s impossible. The oak bannister, curving and smooth under my palm, the spill of green and gold light from the stained-glass window onto the mosaic stair tiles. The first-floor landing squeaks underfoot exactly where I’m expecting it to, and I’ve already begun walking towards Bedroom 1 before I catch myself. Ross is standing inside the door opposite, with my suitcase in his hand and an embarrassed half-smile.

‘That’s our room,’ he says.

‘Sorry,’ I say, walking back across the landing too quickly. ‘Of course it is.’ I can’t help wondering what it looks like now. When El and I shared it, the bedspread was golden yellow, the wallpaper a rain-forest explosion of green and brown and gold. At night, we’d close the big wooden shutters over the window and pretend we were Victorian explorers in the Kakadu Jungle in Northern Australia.

I follow Ross into Bedroom 2. The guest room. Familiar neat pine furniture and a tall window looking out onto the back garden. There’s a paint-spattered easel and pallet in one corner, two canvases leaning against the wall. Angry oceans, green and foaming white, under dark and thunderous skies. El could draw and paint before she could read.

‘Is this okay?’ Ross asks.

I recognise the cupboard alongside the wardrobe with a jolt; wonder in the same moment if it’s still full of face paints, orange wigs, multicoloured nylon jumpsuits, and false red noses. But its hinges and seams are painted shut. I look around the room again, at the wallpaper striped white and red and pink, and I start to smile. Of course. I’m in the Clown Café.

‘Cat?’

‘Sorry. Yes, this is fine. Great.’

‘You must find it weird being back here, I guess.’

I can’t quite meet his gaze. I still remember the day he told me they’d bought the house. I was sitting outside a loud and overcrowded bar on Lincoln Boulevard, feeling hungover and ridiculously hot. I’d been in Southern California for a few years by then, but still hadn’t acclimatised to relentlessly sunny. The first thing I felt was shock. Everything else came after the call was over and I was left alone to imagine them curled up in the drawing room in front of the fire and its bottle-green tiles, drinking champagne and talking about the future. Although it wasn’t the last time he called me, it was the last time I answered.

‘I just can’t understand how everything can still be here, after all this time. I mean, other people must have lived here since—’

‘An older couple were here for years. The MacDonalds,’ Ross says. ‘They must have got most of the original furniture in the sale and didn’t change much. When we bought it, we replaced most of what was missing.’

I look at him. ‘Replaced?’

‘Yeah. I mean, they left the big stuff: the kitchen cabinets and table, the range, the chesterfield. The dining room furniture. But most everything else is new. Well, not new – you know what I mean.’ His smile is strained and unhappy, but there’s anger in it too. ‘Felt like every weekend, El wanted to drag me to antique shops or fairs.’

I flinch at her name – I can’t help it – and Ross looks at me carefully, holds my gaze too long.

‘You never asked me why,’ he says. ‘Back then. Why we bought this place.’

I turn away from him. Look towards the window and that painted-over cupboard door.

‘It came up for auction. El saw the notice in the paper.’ He sits heavily down on the bed. ‘I thought it was unhealthy to dwell on the past. I mean … you know what I mean …’

And I do. I was happy here. Mostly. And I’ve been so unhappy since. But I still know it’s true: you can never go back.

‘I got the deposit together, helped her buy it.’ He shrugs. ‘You know what El was like when she wanted something.’

My face heats, my skin prickles. He’s talking about her in the past tense, I realise. I wonder if it’s because he thinks she’s dead, or because she and I don’t have any kind of a present any more.

He clears his throat. Reaches into his pocket. ‘I figured while you were here you’d need these. So that you can come and go when you want.’ He holds out two Yale keys. ‘This is for the hallway door, but I usually leave it unlocked, and this is the night latch for the front door. There’s a deadlock too, but there’s only one key, so I’ll stop locking it.’

I take the keys, squash flat the memory of black dark. Run. ‘Thanks.’

He rocks forwards onto his feet as if yanked by strings. He starts to pace, running his hands through his hair, seizing big fistfuls. ‘God, Cat, I need to be doing something, but I don’t know what. I don’t know what!’

He wheels on one foot and lunges towards me, eyes wide enough that I can see the red threads around each iris. ‘They think she’s dead. They keep skirting around it, saying it without saying it, but it’s obvious that’s what they think. Tomorrow, she’ll have been missing for four days. And how long do you reckon they’ll keep looking before all their muttering about weather and time and resources becomes “I’m very sorry, Doctor MacAuley, but there’s nothing more we can do”?’ He throws up his hands. His T-shirt is stained dark at the armpits. ‘I mean, it’s not just her that’s disappeared, it’s a twenty-foot boat with a twenty-two-foot mast! How can that just vanish? And she was a good sailor,’ he says, still pacing. I’m pretty sure this isn’t the first time he’s said all this to someone. ‘She knew I hated it when she went out alone on that bloody boat.’ He drops back down onto the bed, strings cut. ‘I always told her something like this could happen.’

‘I didn’t even know she could sail,’ I say. ‘Never mind owned a boat.’

Moored at Granton Harbour. I suffer an image of us standing at the bowsprit of the Satisfaction instead – laughing, shouting, the hot tropical wind tangling in our hair – and I feel a stab of something between longing and fury.

‘She bought it online a couple of years ago.’ Another flash of anger. ‘Binding contract, non-refundable deposit. She was making good money from commissions, the occasional art show, but not enough. So I had to pay the balance. And she got what she wanted. Before she even knew how to bloody sail the thing. God, I wish I’d never—’ He draws his hands down his face, dragging at his skin. ‘It’s my fault. All of it.’

I sit down next to him, even though I don’t want to. I want to tell him that she’s not dead, but I can’t. He isn’t ready to hear it yet. ‘How can it be your fault?’

He was away: some last-minute psychopharmacology conference in London. An annual requirement for all practicing clinical psychologists. ‘The efficacy of psychoactive therapies versus safe ratios,’ he says. As if that’s important. As if I have a clue what that is. He blames himself for not being here, for not stopping her going out, even though we both know it wouldn’t have made a difference. But that isn’t all of it. There’s something else, I can tell. Something he isn’t saying.

‘By the time I got back, she’d already been missing for at least five hours, probably more, and that storm had come in from nowhere.’

I think of that Day One photo of him caught in the shadows between two round, flat spotlights.

‘Yesterday, they widened the search to the North Sea. All the fishing boats and tankers out there are looking for her too, but …’ He shakes his head, stands up again. ‘I know they’re going to stop looking for her soon. I know they are. The police are coming round tomorrow morning. No one wants me down at the harbour any more, doing fucking nothing but getting in the way.’ He snorts. ‘The wailing widower.’

He seems so angry, so bitterly resigned.

‘You must be knackered. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?’

He immediately starts to protest.

‘I can’t sleep until tonight anyway,’ I say. ‘If anything happens, I’ll wake you up, okay? I promise.’

His shoulders sag. His smile is so wretched, I have to look away from it. I look out instead at the green windy sway of the orchard beyond the window.

‘Okay,’ he says, reaching out to squeeze my hand once. ‘Thank you.’ At the door, he turns briefly back, his smile more like his own. ‘I meant what I said, you know. I’m really glad you’re back.’

I root about in my suitcase until I find one of the vodka miniatures I bought on the flight. Sit down on the bed in the warm space where Ross was, and drink it. On the bedside table, there’s a framed photo of a very young El and Ross grinning next to the floral clock in Princes Street Gardens. His fingers are inside the waistband of her denim shorts; hers are splayed across his stomach. Had I gone by then? Had I already been forgotten? I look at El’s big happy grin, and know the answer.

I turn away, look around at the room again instead. The Clown Café was solely El’s invention: a richly imagined roadside American diner, with walls of red and white and glass tubes of pink neon. An old record player was a jukebox playing fifties Elvis. The pine sideboard was our table; two high stools, our chairs. The bed was a long serving counter, and the cupboard, the john.

I wasn’t keen on Clowns; back then, we both believed absolutely that they were a species entirely separate from people. I felt as much pity for them as queasy mistrust: it seemed to me that they had few opportunities in life other than those allotted to them, and even at eight years old, I could relate to that. El thought travelling with a circus would be just about the best job in the world, of course.

But the Tooth Fairy was afraid of Clowns. And we were afraid of the Tooth Fairy. So we’d hide out here in the Clown Café – our skin itching under face paints and plastic noses, nylon wigs and jumpsuits – drinking coffee and eating fried doughnuts with two Clown veterans called Dicky Grock and Pogo. Dicky Grock was the Clown Café’s cook: mute and sad-faced, an ex-juggler who’d hated the big top and had retired early. And Pogo was small-boned and large-toothed, king of the short gag, with a particular propensity for sneaking up behind you with a bullhorn. I was as terrified of him as I was the Tooth Fairy.

But it was always worth it. The discomfort, the fear, the queasy unease. Because the Clown Café was ours. It was important. It was one of the best hiding places in the world.

I swallow. I haven’t thought about the Clown Café in years. I haven’t thought about us in years. Suddenly desperate to breathe fresh air, I go to the window, pull up hard on the bottom sash. When it doesn’t budge, I look down. There are maybe a dozen long crooked nails hammered into the sill through the window frame. And there’s no reason for that to scare me, but it does. It scares me as much as that split second in LA when I thought El might actually be dead. Or that part of me that’s glad I’m here. In this place where my first life ended and was never ever supposed to restart.

‘Oh, El,’ I whisper, pressing my fingers against the cold glass. ‘What the fuck have you done?’

CHAPTER 3

The house is both too quiet and too loud.

I stand on the landing at the top of the stairs and take a breath. The carpet is gone from here too, but the glass globe that hangs from the ceiling rose and the gold light from Westeryk Road that floods through the open bathroom door straight ahead are the same. I look around at all of the closed doors – Bedrooms 1, 2, 4, and 5 – and remember the names we gave them: the Kakadu Jungle, opposite the Clown Café; the Princess Tower, opposite the Donkshop. My heart, too, remembers to beat a warning close to the mouth of the dark corridor between the Clown Café and the Princess Tower, but I ignore it, turn and walk quickly towards the room at its gloomy end. Bedroom 3. It must have had a name too, but I can’t remember it. When I reach the door, its matte-black panels thick with dust, I realise that I’ve wrapped my arms tight around my torso to avoid touching the narrow corridor walls. I shake them out and take another breath. Jesus, come on. But when I close my fingers over the handle, I hear El shriek in my ear, Don’t go in! We can’t ever go in! and then Mum’s voice – higher, sharper, never inviting opinion or dissent – You ever go in there, and I’ll have both your guts for garters, you hear me?

I do.

I let go, step quickly backwards, unwilling to turn my back on that door until I’m on the landing again, standing inside warm gold light. I’m shuddering hard and long with no idea why. The why itches under my skin; I can feel it, but not enough to want to scratch.

Stop. Just ghosts. That’s all.

I slow my breathing down. Cross over to Bedroom 5, push open its door. Grandpa called it the Donkshop because that was the boat’s engine room; it was its power, its beating heart. The solid oak double bed and wardrobe are there, and the big ugly desk where he would work. I remember the loud hiss of radio static; even with his hearing aids, Grandpa was deaf enough that the whole house knew every single football result by the end of a Saturday afternoon. But the radio is gone. There are no mountains of screws and bolts and springs, mutilated machines and motors. There is no smell of oil and warm metal. The Donkshop’s heart stopped beating a long time ago.

The Princess Tower was Mum’s bedroom. A lump rises in my throat as soon as I open its door, see the small single bed against the wall, the pink pillow and eiderdown, the white dressing table with pink frilly skirt and padded stool. A shiver runs through me, because despite what Ross said, it all feels so real, so unchanged, as if frozen in time for two decades. As if Mum has only just left the room. She let us in here only rarely, I remember, mostly to read to us, and even as a child I was struck by how at odds all those pink and lacy frills were with our stern and decidedly unfrilly mother. How fit instead for a princess.

She was from one of Mum’s favourite bedtime stories: a fairy princess called Iona, because it meant ‘beautiful’, and she was the most beautiful princess in the world. I sit down on the bed, look out of the big window towards Westeryk Road, remember the slow, soothing warmth of Mum’s palm against my hair. One terrible day, the fairy princess was stolen from her mother by an evil hag. The hag cut off her wings and imprisoned her in a tower so high that no one even knew she was there. But the princess was never sad or afraid. Because she knew that one day she would escape. One day, her golden hair would grow long enough that she could tie it to her bedpost and use it as a rope to climb all the way down to the bottom.

But how will she untie her hair? El asked once.

And Mum stopped stroking ours. She’ll cut it off.

There was never a TV in the house. And the only radio – Grandpa’s transistor – was sacrosanct. Our whole lives were about stories. Mum had many rules, but that we should read, that we could learn everything we ever needed to know in life from books, was absolute and never wavered. Some stories, like the Princess Tower, were strange amalgams of those collected in The Arabian Nights or by the Brothers Grimm; some she read from books: the fantasylands of Narnia and Middle Earth, Treasure Island and Neverland; most were entirely homemade tales about pirates and princesses, heroines and monsters. All were terrifying – exciting, cautionary tales for the unwise, the naive, the cowardly, and the foolish.

Snow-white is quiet and gentle. She sits at home, helping with the housework or reading to her mother. Rose-red is wild. She likes to run and laugh and catch butterflies. The tickle of her breath against our skin. You must always hold onto each other’s hand. The slow tightening of her fingers. Rely on no one else. Trust no one else. The pull and twist of our hair until our eyes watered. All you will ever have is each other.

I get up fast, rub the goosebumps on my arms. But I don’t leave. I go to the white-painted cupboard next to the window where Mum used to keep all of our books, pull open its door. Between towering stacks of paperbacks, El stares out at me with her grey-blue eyes, and I stagger backwards against the wall. Her face is pale, ashy. There are new wrinkles around her eyes and her mouth that match mine. The paint is thick and careless as if spread by a knife. The backdrop is a vast mirror; reflections within reflections, her dark, tired face reaching smaller and smaller into infinity. Too many Els to count.

Looking at her has always been like looking in a mirror, of course. Twins run in our family, Mum said, but we were different. Special, rare like owlet-nightjars or California condors. More than one hundred thousand other children have to be born before a mum gets to have children as special as you. She had a book with complicated diagrams, curled up foetuses holding hands inside the womb. The egg that made us split late, more than a week after fertilisation, and that meant we were more than just two halves of the same whole. We were Mirror Twins. Mum would dress us in identical clothes: childish homemade pinafores and white, high-necked blouses; gingham dresses that reached long past our knees. She would sit us on her pink stool, stare with bright eyes at our reflections inside the dressing table mirror as she twisted our long blonde hair into pigtails.

A few days later and you would have been fused together into someone else, like sand and limestone into glass.

The idea had frightened me. As if we had only narrowly escaped becoming a monster.

I stare at El’s self-portrait. She’s angry – seething – I can see the hate in her eyes, the press of her lips over teeth that I know are gritted. But under all that anger there is fear. I still know her enough to see that. I wonder who put it there. And why she felt the need to paint it. I look down at my wrists, reluctantly remember the bite of her fingers. Deep enough to leave red marks that would later bloom purple and yellow.

I hate you. Go. All I want is for you to be gone. The snarl in her voice, the cold victory in her eyes. To never have to think about you again.

I close the cupboard door, lean hard against it, my head throbbing. How can I tell Ross that she’s not dead? How can I explain? Because even back then when she’d hurt me so badly, I knew what she said wasn’t true; I knew her enough to see the hurt under all that rage. I felt it. In too many ways we were like sand and limestone. When we were six, El fell out of Old Fred. I was in bed with the flu, my head and chest full with the hot suffocation of it, my mind with the worry of wondering if you could die from it, but I still felt her screams as if they’d come from my own throat. I still felt the stomach-twisting terror of falling through the branches, the shock of hitting the ground, the agony that burned up through my ankle and into my knee. Grandpa said it was just a sprain, and sure enough within a week El was more recovered than I was. She brought me hot lemon water and handfuls of daisies from the garden so that we could make chains while I lay in bed, still wheezy and feverish. The first time she was allowed to visit, her eyes went round and wide when I told her how much it had hurt when she fell.

I got dizzy, she said. My chest and head filled up and I couldn’t breathe. That’s why I fell.

Afterwards, she was always trying to prove what I considered already proven. It became like a game to her: she’d think nothing of throwing herself out of trees or down stairs, not if she could share the pain, the fear, the danger with me. Her arms and legs were constantly covered in scratches and bruised pinches. It didn’t matter how much I begged, how much my life began to feel like walking through a minefield on someone else’s legs. How paralysed I became by all heights – that dizzying terror of always waiting to fall – a vertigo that left me only when I left this house. El would just laugh, deep and long, and she’d hug me tight until that hurt too.

On April the 3rd, I slept until ten because I’d stayed up late to finish an overdue think piece for a lifestyle magazine: ‘Ten Body Language Signals That Could Mean He’s Cheating’. After a breakfast of coffee, I walked along Venice Beach’s boardwalk, wandering among the stalls and tourists and Bob Marley flags; the skaters, performers, psychics, and artists. When the day got too hot, I sat on a bench in the shade of palm trees, and I watched all that life pass me by instead, breathed it in as if I were part of it. Wondered idly which nightclub I would go to later, what outfit I would wear, whose hands would touch me.

I walked back to the condo around five, slept for an hour, showered, put on a little black dress and too-high heels. I missed the step down onto the balcony, nearly dropped my opened bottle of wine. It slipped wet and cold between my fingers, and it was just about the fastest my heart had beaten all day. I sat on the balcony, rubbed my toe, drank my wine, and watched the sun go down over the horizon, spilling red across the Pacific. I felt nothing. Same as any other day. Same as any other night. And I’ve felt nothing since. No terror, no shock, no agony. No excited flutter in my belly, no foreign, fathomless fear. Nothing has been ripped from me, nothing has ended. Everything is exactly the same. El is not lying somewhere in the dark and in pain. And she’s not dead. I would have felt it. I would have known it. No matter how estranged we are. I’d know it.

I go into the kitchen. Better to get all of it over with at once. Mum’s old Kitchener range – vast and ugly and cast-iron black – looks like it’s still in use: there’s a kettle on its hotplate and a pile of ash in the coal grate. I can see the curls at the nape of Mum’s neck, the slumped slope of her shoulders as she stirs and tuts, the tight knot of apron around her waist, the scuffed heels of her shoes. Condensation growing downwards from the top of the window, hiding the back garden. Bleach and lavender, sharp scotch broth and the sweet lemon cakes we sometimes baked after school. The large wooden table and its old scratches, dents, and stains still takes up the lion’s share of the space. I can see Grandpa sitting with his bad leg up on a neighbouring chair, shiny smooth head and vast sideburns, throwing back his heart meds the same way he did orange Tic Tacs, banging his big fists on the wood whether happy, angry, or sad.

I can see Mum turning away from the range, the skin around her eyes pinched like dried wet newspaper, soup splattering onto the floor from her ladle, her voice high so Grandpa could hear her. Someone gets stabbed in Edinburgh three times a day. El and me – maybe eight, nine, probably no more, because Mum’s hair is still mostly fair, nearly blonde like ours – looking at Grandpa with wide, alarmed eyes until he grins, flashing white teeth. Poor bastard, eh?

He was from the East End of Glasgow, although he’d been an engineer on North Sea fishing boats since he’d turned sixteen. Gran had died of cancer when Mum was still a teenager. Every year on the date of her death, Mum would shut herself in her bedroom and not come out until the next day. But not Grandpa. He was ferociously stoic. He was like a caricature in one of Mum’s stories: a hard life forged into a hard man, whose world had neither changed nor grown, no matter how many boats he’d sailed on, how many places and people he’d seen. But he’d also spend whole summers in the back garden with only El and me for company, picnicking and laughing and joining in our endless treasure hunts; on rainy days, building ever more elaborate blanket forts and castles indoors. When he went to Leith’s weekend market, we’d sit at the kitchen table for hours, waiting for the ‘Bluebell Polka’ or ‘Lily of Laguna’ whistled off-key and his distinctive limping silhouette through the glass hallway door, the canvas bag full of tablet and toffee swinging from his elbow. He’d been the salve for Mum’s indiscriminate terrors and omens. Always sitting still except for his hands, pretending to listen as she talked in low, urgent whispers, rolling his eyes as she fluttered and flapped.

Worry gies wee things big shadows, hen. Jist chuck it in the fuck-it bucket.

This was where we lived. El, Mum, Grandpa, and I. In this cosy, ugly room. I’m smiling as I look around at the wonky beige wood units. At the old boiler, its silver flue plugged into a hidden chimney that was forever trapping birds. I used to listen to them, scratching and flapping, the sounds muffled as if they were underwater. Beneath the old hanging Clothesmaid, there’s a new Smeg fridge-freezer, an incongruent sapphire blue. And beyond the towering Georgian window, with its many small glass panels framed with hardwood glazing bars, the old apple trees sit and sway.

I turn back towards the open door into the hallway and the grandfather clock, the telephone table, all those china bird plates. There’s a hollow space inside my stomach. It’s easy, I know, to be tricked – fooled into believing something is real when it’s not. Especially if you want to believe it. But this house is more than old memories. It’s like a museum, a mausoleum. Or a moment of catastrophe, preserved like a body trapped under pumice and ash. Was that why El had needed to buy it, to fill it back up with all that was lost? Did she see that auction notice in the paper, and arrange a viewing out of little more than curiosity, hardly expecting that it would be like stepping back into her childhood? It would have been hard, I suppose, to come and then go, to resist its pull. Although I was always the more sentimental one. El mastered the art of chucking it in the fuck-it bucket before we’d even reached puberty.

I retrieve the dustpan and brush Ross has left on the floor, sweep up all the broken china I can find. As I’m crossing the kitchen to the scullery, I come to an abrupt halt close to the Kitchener. I stare down at the long join between two tiles, its grout cracked, stained dark. My heart skips a beat. I feel suddenly sick, look quickly away. A bell rings – loud and sudden and close. My heart skips another beat and then starts to gallop. I turn around, stomach squeezing, fingers and toes tingling, and my eyes go straight to the wooden bell board just inside the kitchen door:

Dining Rm Drawing Rm Pantry Bath Rm

Bedrooms

1 2 3 4 5

Every spring-mounted copper and tin bell below each room has a star-shaped pendulum hanging from its clapper. And every room in the house apart from the kitchen has a bell pull: a brass-and-ceramic lever connected to long copper wires hidden inside the walls, along cornices and behind plaster. Whenever a lever was pulled, those wires tightened around pivots and cranks, shuddering through rooms and floors and corridors until they reached the kitchen, where they would shake the coiled spring of a bell mount, ringing its bell loud and long. I remember that those pendulums would swing for minutes after the ringing had stopped, and so whenever El or I wanted to guess which room’s bell pull had been pulled by the other, we would stand inside the entrance hall instead. A rudimentary telepathy test that convinced no one because each bell also had a distinctive peal. We had swiftly grown bored with the game; only Mum seemed to love it, clapping her hands or giving us one of her rarely delighted smiles every time we got it right.

The ringing comes again, louder, shriller, and I jump. I’m staring at the bell below Bedroom 3 when something whispers very close to my ear:

There’s a monster in this house.

I shiver, bite down on my tongue. None of the bells or pendulums are moving. But it takes far too long for me to realise that the ringing is the doorbell. Christ. I go back into the hallway, take long, slow breaths. It’s just jet lag. That’s all. The glass door is open. The big red door is shut. When I go up on tiptoes to look out through the peephole, all I can see is the path, the gate, the squared-off high hedges. No one is there.

My toes touch against something smooth and cool. An envelope sitting on the hessian doormat. CATRIONA in black block capitals across the front. No stamp or postmark. I’m reluctant to pick it up, but of course I do. My fingers are clumsy as I tear through the envelope, pull out the card inside. It’s a sympathy card: a narrow-neck vase spilling with creamy lilies and tied with a bow. A debossed gold cursive font: Thinking of You.

I go back into the hallway and close the door. Snib the lock. Open the card.

LEAVE

CHAPTER 4

Detective Inspector Rafiq is one of those women you wish you were but are glad you’re not. She’s slim and small, but her voice is a loud and impatient Glaswegian that overrules everyone else with little effort. Her hair is black, her clothes are black, her grip is surprisingly warm.

‘Please, Miss Morgan, take a seat,’ is the first thing she says to me, as if this is her house.

We’re in the Throne Room. I have no idea why. It, too, is frozen in time: gold filigree wallpaper, gold-and-black swirling carpet. The dining table is covered with a linen tablecloth, but the chairs are the same huge and heavy mahogany thrones that christened the room, their backs upright and ornate, carved deep with the same swirls as the carpet. When I sit down and DI Rafiq sits opposite me, I immediately feel like we’re in an interview room. Perhaps that’s why we’re in here.

‘It’s Cat. Short for Catriona.’ I have the sympathy card in my jeans pocket. Having slept on it – or more accurately, tossed and turned on it – I’ve decided that it has to be from El. She’d know that I would come back. And no one else, other than Ross or the police, even knows I’m here.

‘I’m Kate.’ A smile reveals two neat rows of teeth.

Ross is in the kitchen banging cups. Kate Rafiq’s colleague, a young, smiling guy called Logan, sits on my right. I think she introduced him as a DS, and I’ve watched enough crappy cop shows to know that means she’s in charge. He has dark ridiculous hair: floppy and gelled on top, shaved at the sides and back. His stubble is very carefully careless. He looks like an overpaid footballer. And he’s too close; I can hear the soft, slow inhales and exhales of his breath. With him beside me and Rafiq in front, I feel penned in. And resentful, because I also feel like shit, hungover without having earned it, and this is just another ordeal that El is forcing me to go through. I don’t care if the police, like Ross, believe something’s happened to her – believe even that she’s dead. Because she fucking isn’t.

‘The resemblance is uncanny,’ Rafiq says, shaking her head, swinging her sleek ponytail.

‘We’re identical twins,’ I say.

‘Aye, right enough.’ She’s interested in my hostility, leaning forwards, pushing her elbows into the tablecloth. And I suddenly regret the good jeans I’ve put on, the sheer silk blouse. It’s too contrived. Too much not me. Too much, I suddenly realise, like El.

‘You’ve come from LA, that right?’

‘Venice Beach. It’s just south of Santa Monica.’

An arch of her eyebrows. ‘How long have you lived there?’

‘Twelve years.’ I look out the window as a red double-decker groans past, rattling the glass.

‘And what is it that you do, Catriona?’

‘Cat. I’m a freelance writer, magazines mostly, some digital media. Lifestyle articles, opinion pieces. I’ve got a blog, a website, a verified Twitter account with over sixteen thousand followers.’ I stop talking, look down at the table. Even to my ears, I sound ridiculous.

‘LA’s a long way from Leith. You mind me asking what prompted you to leave Scotland in the first place?’

I shift forwards in my seat. ‘What does that – any of that – have to do with El going missing?’

Another flash of neat teeth. ‘I’m just trying to get a picture of El in my head, that’s all. Every wee bit of information helps. And it seems strange to me that identical twins would live so far apart. In the last twelve years, how often have you come back?’

‘I haven’t.’

‘Ross says you and El had a falling-out just before you left.’

‘We just stopped being close. People do. And then I left. That’s it.’

‘So, there was no specific reason behind the move? Or the staying away?’ A pause. ‘For twelve years?’

I fight against the urge to stand up; it would give her too many wrong ideas. ‘I got sick of Edinburgh and I left. I stayed sick of it, so I didn’t come back. That’s it.’

She leaves a silence that I too quickly fall into.

‘Are you trying to suggest I’ve got something to do with this shitstorm?’ And I realise that despite myself, I am standing, the throne wobbling behind me, balancing precariously on its back legs. ‘That El and I had a big fight, and I stropped off to America to plot her death for twelve years?’

‘So you think your sister’s dead?’ Rafiq asks. I don’t miss the quick look she shoots towards Logan.

‘The opposite,’ Ross says, elbowing his way into the room, and then setting a tray down on the table. His smile is tight as he presses down on the cafetière. ‘She thinks El’s engineered the whole thing for attention.’ He looks better for his sleep, but his eyes are still red and swollen. And his voice is raw, stripped too thin. ‘Don’t you?’

I sit back down with a sigh. Obviously, I haven’t hidden my feelings as well as I thought. Logan goes on breathing soft and slow next to me like he’s sleeping.

‘It’s what she does,’ I say. ‘This is exactly the kind of thing she’d do. Give it a few more days and she’ll come waltzing back through the door, demanding a weekend break in Paris and an apology,’ I glance at Ross, ‘for whatever it was you did.’ Beside me, Logan takes another ponderous breath, and I round on him, face hot. ‘Do you speak?’

Logan blinks, and then grins, revealing good teeth and better dimples. ‘Aye.’

‘Okay,’ Rafiq says. ‘You’re right, Catriona, we don’t know El as well as you do, but we have to treat her as a missing person till we know otherwise, that’s just our job. Let’s start all of this over again, eh?’ Her smile is warmer, but I know that I should have kept my mouth shut. Said nothing at all.

‘I’m the SIO on El’s missing-person case. That means, to all intents and purposes, I’m in charge of it.’ She turns her head. ‘Logan, why don’t you prove you’re not actually mute, and give us a quick recap before we go through any updates?’

Ross finishes pouring the coffee and sits heavily down as Logan nods, takes out a tiny notebook, flips its pages.

‘Okay. Ellice MacAuley was first reported missing by the Royal Forth Yacht Club’s boatman at approximately six-thirty p.m. on April the third. He took her out to her swing mooring in the East Harbour at eight a.m., about quarter of an hour after high tide.’

The only time to set sail for the high seas. I think of darkness and a cold red sky, the wide and choppy firth and the smell of blood: sour and dark.

‘CCTV saw her arrive at Lochinvar Drive on foot. Examination of her laptop shows that she accessed AIS that morning to check shipping positions in the Firth of Forth.’ Logan looks up. ‘Apparently that’s normal procedure before going recreational sailing. She told the boatman that her plans were to sail to Anstruther, have lunch, and then sail back. She left in her daysailer, The Redemption – alone – about ten minutes later.’

He licks his right index finger, turns over the page without looking up. This irritates me too, seems like a ridiculous affectation. Don’t they have smartphones or tablets for that kind of thing these days?

‘One Robert McLelland, the skipper of an inshore fishing vessel called Sea Spray, later reported having seen the boat one nautical mile northeast of Inchkeith at eight-fifty a.m. According to the Coastguard, the conditions, specifically wind speed, were such that she should have arrived in Anstruther around eleven a.m., noon at the latest. When she had not returned to Granton Harbour by six p.m., the boatman contacted Anstruther, who had no record of her arrival. It was then that the yacht club reported a Concern for Person to police and HM Coastguard.

‘Following initial witness statements and risk assessment, the attending officer reclassified Ellice MacAuley as a high-risk Missing Person. Her husband, Dr Ross MacAuley, was contacted, and he communicated that he was on his way back from a conference in London. Sorry,’ Logan says, glancing up, briefly flashing his dimples again. ‘Bit clunky, that bit.’

Rafiq rolls her eyes.

‘Em, okay. The MRCC – that’s the Maritime Rescue Co-ordination Centre – in Aberdeen appointed James Paton as search-and-rescue mission co-ordinator.’

The fat, smug, jowly gunslinger. In those conditions, a person could be expected to survive no more than three hours in the water.

‘Local Coastguard units and rescue teams were deployed to search the coastline. Two RNLI lifeboats were launched, from South Queensferry and Kinghorn, and a SAR helicopter was sent from Prestwick to cover that last known sighting near Inchkeith in the north, and Anstruther Harbour in the northeast.’

Logan’s careful, nit-picky delivery is beginning to drive me to distraction. Despite myself – and all that resentment and certainty – I’m beginning to feel uneasy. Queasy. I have another sudden and unwelcome flashback to El clinging to a rattling mast and wildly flapping mainsail; shouting, laughing, baring her teeth to the wind and swinging lanternlight – and I want to stand up again. I clasp my hands together instead, stare hard at the drips of condensation inside the empty cafetière.

‘By eight p.m., there had been no confirmed sightings of either the sailboat or Ellice MacAuley, and the MRCC were advised that bad weather was moving in from the North Sea. Hang on …’ More flipping of tiny pages. ‘I’ve got the Shipping Forecast somewhere …’

Ross’s head drops lower, his hands moving to clasp behind his neck. I swallow.

‘Skip it,’ Rafiq says.

‘Right. Okay, so, the case was then reported to the UK Missing Persons Bureau, with CID taking over, DI Kate Rafiq as SIO. Upon the arrival of Ross MacAuley at his address in Leith at approximately eleven p.m., I carried out a review of the initial MPI form and drove him, at his request, to Granton Harbour.’

I suddenly realise that it was Logan who had been standing next to Ross in that second terrible photo of him staring out to sea, arms held in front of him like a shield as he screamed.

‘The search was suspended at eleven forty-five p.m. because of the rapidly deteriorating conditions, and resumed at nine a.m. on April the fourth. It was hampered by continuing poor visibility and considerable media interference. By the afternoon, the search area was widened to the North Sea. All commercial craft within the area were alerted and issued with a description of both The Redemption and Ellice MacAuley. As of now, there have been no reported sightings of either.’

Logan clears his throat, turns another tiny page. I realise that I’m holding my breath and force myself to let it go.

‘It’s the opinion of the MRCC that if the boat got into difficulty on its outward voyage to Anstruther, there is a high probability that this would have been witnessed, either by other vessels or from the coast. Also, the dimensions of the mainmast are such that it would be highly unlikely that it could have sunk without subsequently being visible above water. If Ellice MacAuley got into difficulty, such as falling overboard, the current water temperature is such that she would have become unconscious within an hour, and couldn’t be expected to survive more than three. And the boat would either have run aground, or been spotted on the outward tide.

‘The Redemption was fitted with an ISO 9650 life raft, and Ellice MacAuley also had an inflatable Gumotex kayak, which she often used to get herself to and from shore. We have circulated descriptions of both. There has been no mayday, and nothing from her GPS unit. The EPIRB – the boat’s emergency beacon – hasn’t transmitted any location either. If not manually activated, it would have automatically turned on when it came into contact with water.’

Ross stands up. His hands are shaking. ‘You’re here to tell us you’re giving up. All of you: the Coastguard, the lifeboats, you. Right?’

Kate Rafiq stands up too, puts a hand around his wrist, and surprisingly he lets her, even though he’s still vibrating with rage, grief, maybe fear, I don’t know. I only know it’s misplaced. A waste of his energy.

‘Ross,’ she says. ‘I promise you we’ll not stop looking for her, okay?’

‘But?’

‘The MRCC will almost certainly start scaling back their search; if not today, then tomorrow.’ I see her slim fingers tighten on Ross’s wrist when he immediately starts to protest. ‘But that doesn’t mean we’ve given up, all right? What it does mean is that we have to carry out our own review. We may have to start thinking of El’s case as a long-term missing investigation. We have to consider whether or not she is still high-risk.’

‘Of course she is!’ Ross shouts, wrenching his arm free, staggering back from the table, rattling crockery. His bloodshot eyes find mine. ‘I told you, didn’t I? They’re fucking giving up!’ Before he frowns and looks away, presumably remembering that I’m about as unhelpful an ally as he could find.

‘We’re not giving up,’ Logan says, and I realise that everyone’s standing now. Everyone except me.

‘Ross, what I said to you that first night is still true,’ Rafiq says. ‘Missing folk are always one of four things. They’re lost; they’ve suffered an accident, injury, or sudden illness; they’re voluntarily missing; or they’re under the influence of a third party, as in an abduction.’ Here, she finally struggles to hold Ross’s furious gaze. ‘And right now, we haven’t the evidence to determine which applies to your wife, okay? So we have to cover every base until we do. That’s all this is.

‘Now,’ she says, sitting back down, nodding at Ross and Logan to do the same. I have the absurd urge to laugh when they obey straightaway. ‘We have some more questions to ask, Ross. Personal questions. Would you prefer it if Catriona left the room?’

‘No,’ Ross says, sullen now. The wind’s gone out of his sails. I immediately want to laugh again, and I take a too-hot swallow of coffee instead. ‘Ask what you like.’

‘You told Logan that El had been depressed and distant before she went missing, that right?’

I sit up straighter, shooting Ross a glance that he doesn’t see because his eyes are closed.

‘That you were having trouble as a couple—’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Ross snaps. ‘We were just … I was working away a lot.’ He shakes his head. ‘I was working a lot. El and I, we hardly saw each other. When she wasn’t painting, she was out on that damn boat.’

‘And you never accompanied her?’

Ross glares at Rafiq. ‘I’ve never sailed. I can’t swim, don’t like the water. I’ve said this already.’

‘El’s state of mind,’ Rafiq persists. ‘Would you say that her depression had worsened in the days or weeks leading up to her disappearance?’

‘No. Look, I treat people with serious depression. That’s my job. El was mildly depressed. That’s all. For Christ’s sake, I know what you’re trying to suggest now, and you’re—’

‘What are you trying to suggest?’ I say. Though I know, of course.

Rafiq looks at me. ‘I understand that El tried to kill herself once before?’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ I say, turning on Ross. ‘Did you tell her that?’

Before I can stop it, I suffer a flashback of El lying in a hospital bed. Dark-ringed eyes in a talc-white face – everything with El has always been black or white. The swing of an IV. A drip stand, a heavy saline bag. Layers of tight bandage stained with blood pulling at the cannula in the back of her hand. Her smile. Tired and trembling but filled with so much joy. So much hate.

‘She didn’t try to kill herself then, and she hasn’t now,’ I say through gritted teeth.

‘You’re saying that her overdose at the age of …’ Rafiq looks down at her phone, ‘nineteen, was what? A cry for help?’

I can’t help the snort that escapes. ‘Something like that.’

Rafiq shares a none too subtle look with Logan. ‘El hasn’t accessed either of her bank accounts since she disappeared. She hasn’t contacted anyone. She hasn’t turned on her phone. Nobody matching her description has been admitted to any hospitals in the area. There have been no reported sightings of either her or her boat since eight-fifty a.m. on April the third. Ross found her passport exactly where it always is. Why are you so sure your sister’s all right?’

‘I told you,’ I say. ‘Because this is what she does.’ Because it’s what I would never do. Because we are not the same. Have never been the same. Because she is my exact opposite. My reflection. My Mirror Twin.

‘Pretending you’ve drowned is a pretty extreme thing to do, would you not agree?’

The phrase she always goes overboard flashes through my mind, and I straightaway squash it just as fast and hard as the inappropriate giggle that tries to follow it. ‘Yeah, well. Like you said – you don’t know her.’

I watch Rafiq and Logan exchange another look, and I know what they’re thinking, because part of me has started thinking the same thing. I sound like someone trying very hard to convince herself that what she thinks, what she’s been thinking ever since she got on a plane at LAX, is still the only possible truth. That queasiness has returned to squeeze at my stomach. The smell of coffee makes it worse.

Rafiq leans forwards. ‘Something bad has happened to your sister. Whether you believe that or not is irrelevant to this investigation, but I must admit, I find it awful curious that the twin sister of a high-risk missing person doesn’t seem even a wee bit bothered about her.’ She cocks her head, reminding me of the tiny-boned birds on all of Mum’s mounted china plates. ‘I’ve worked in this job long enough to know when something’s off, or when someone’s not telling me the whole truth.’

We’re going down a bad path here, and I can only think of one way to turn us back. ‘This was delivered yesterday,’ I say, putting the sympathy card on the table.

Ross snatches it up. He looks at my name on the envelope, takes out the card and opens it without a word. His shoulders sag, and he grips the card so tightly between thumb and forefinger it starts to crumple.

‘Hey, no, it’s all right,’ I say, reaching out to touch him before thinking better of it. ‘This is a good thing. It’s El. It has to be.’ I frown when he still says nothing. ‘It’s hand-delivered, Ross! That means she has to be nearby. It means she—’

‘El got these,’ he says, in that raw stripped voice. ‘She got dozens of these.’

‘Oh.’ Something like a chill runs up my back.

‘Right up until she disappeared.’

Rafiq carefully takes the card from Ross, reads it, and then puts it back inside the envelope to give to Logan. I watch him put it inside a clear plastic bag, imagine a scenario where El didn’t send it, and feel alternately hot and cold. It suddenly occurs to me that it surely can’t be routine for CID to be involved in missing-person cases. I look at Rafiq. ‘Is that why you’re investigating? Because of the cards? Do you know who—’

‘We’d already opened an investigation into similar threats against your sister, aye. Was it you who found it?’

‘Yes. Someone rang the doorbell.’ There’s a monster in this house. I rub my arms. ‘The card was lying on the mat.’

‘Maybe now you’ll start taking them fucking seriously,’ Ross growls.

Rafiq stands up. ‘Ross, I can assure you that we’re taking everything very seriously. We’ll run forensics on this one, just like we did the others.’

‘But why would someone send me the same threatening cards as my sister? It doesn’t make sense. No one knows I’m here except Ross and you.’ And El.

Rafiq frowns. ‘They may be related to El’s disappearance, and they may not. Right now, finding El is our utmost priority. The cards have never escalated in threat, and we’ve found no evidence that El was being stalked or threatened in any other way. And the fact you’re now the target makes me suspect a nosy neighbour with a grudge and too much time on their hands, rather than anything more sinister.’ When Ross starts to object again, she holds up a hand. ‘Which is not to say that we won’t continue to investigate them as part of this case. Or that you shouldn’t get in touch straightaway if you receive any more.’

She steps back, looks at us both. ‘We came here to reassure you both that as of now, nothing has changed. We and the Coastguard are still using all available resources to look for El. But it would be a good idea for you to start preparing yourselves for the likelihood of that changing if there are no new developments in the next twenty-four hours. Okay? Has Shona been in touch with you today?’

Ross nods.

‘Shona is your family liaison officer, Catriona. She’ll keep you updated with any new developments. Meantime, Logan here is still your first single point of contact. And get in touch with the Missing People folk again, Ross – El’s entry still hasn’t gone live. You’ve still got all the other helpline numbers, aye?’

‘I don’t need a counsellor,’ Ross says. ‘I just need my wife.’

Rafiq gets up close to him, and still manages to look him in the eye even though he must be close to a foot taller. ‘We’ll find her, Ross.’

And I’ve watched enough crappy cop shows to know they’re pretty much never supposed to say that.

I walk them out into the hallway, and Logan stops, smiles, hands me his card. ‘If you need anything, want to know anything,’ he says.

Rafiq opens the door, and I watch them go down the steps into the sun. At the gate, Rafiq stops to let Logan out before turning around and beckoning me like I’m a cocker spaniel. I go down into the cold bright garden reluctantly, folding my arms over my chest.

‘Where would she go? If she chose to leave, where would she go?’

I blink. ‘I have no idea.’

‘What about her husband?’

‘What about him?’

‘Is there anything you want to tell me about him – about them – that maybe you weren’t comfortable saying while he was in the room?’ When I don’t reply, she can’t hide her irritation. ‘We’ve spoken to Southwark University, confirmed that he was there when he said he was. I’m just asking you, as a close member of the family, if we should have any reason at all to be concerned about him?’

Her eyes flicker beyond my shoulder, and when I turn around, I see Ross’s silhouette watching us from the window. I go cold. ‘No. Of course not. This isn’t his fault. I told you, all of it’s El. It has to be.’ And I resist adding that it’s been a very long time since I was a close member of any family.

Rafiq studies me too long, too closely. ‘You really do think she’s all right.’

When I don’t answer, she walks down the path and opens the gate without another word.

I watch them leave, listen to the BMW’s engine until it’s swallowed up by the city. When I look back at the window, Ross is gone. But I still feel like I’m being watched. I walk to the gate, look up and down the empty street. Stand in the sun until I feel warm again.

‘Maybe she just doesn’t know how to undo it,’ I whisper. Because buried under twelve years of anger and hurt and resentment is the memory of all the times we’d lie in the Kakadu Jungle holding hands, fighting to stay awake so we wouldn’t be the first to let go. ‘Maybe she just doesn’t know how to come back.’

CHAPTER 5

I wake early and lie in bed, staring up at the Clown Café ceiling, trying not to hear the house. El and I would lie for hours inside our forts and castles, listening to it groan and shudder all around us, and she would hiss hot against my ear: The house is full of ghosts. We both believed it. But ghosts were never as scary as monsters. You just pretended you couldn’t hear them.

I get dressed and creep downstairs, uncertain why I’m creeping, why I’m frightened. Because I am. I’m gripping the bannister too hard. My heart is jumpy and too fast, too erratic, but at the same time I feel weary, spaced out, as if I’ve broken through the surface of a deep cold lake and swapped drowning for slow hypothermia instead. Bad things happened in this house, as well as good. But that was a lot easier to forget when I was an ocean away from its walls.

I run my fingers against the stairwell’s wallpaper of Grecian urns and thorny vines, think of all the long wires, pulleys, and cranks winding around the house behind plaster and cornices like a hidden city of spider webs. Spun threads of copper, patiently waiting to shorten, to shake, to awaken those silent bells below.

The kitchen is empty, but there’s evidence Ross was here: a used coffee cup, cereal bowl filled with water in the sink. A note on the table:

No news. Couldn’t sleep. Gone for walk to clear my head. Police station after prob. Help yourself to whatever you want x

Ravenous, I stand at a counter and chew my way through two bowls of cornflakes, milk running down my chin. Mum turns around from the ugly range, pats the crown of her head, drives her wrinkles deeper. Don’t slitter, Catriona. Grandpa looks up from his Daily Record. Ye’re bein’ a stander, lassie. Sit the shit doon. Today, I miss them both so badly it hurts.

After two strong coffees, I go upstairs, fetch my laptop. I check my email at the kitchen table, hoping that this will somehow bring me back to that safe and glossy life in California. Instead, I work my way through three form rejections for on-spec pitches, and a final eviction notice from the owner of the Pacific Avenue condo: a bikini model called Irena, who spends her winters in Palm Beach, and promised me she wouldn’t be back until June.

I close my eyes. Rub the heel of my palm against my breastbone. I have almost no money. I have no career. I live hand to mouth, lurching from one flat-fee gig to another. No awards, no recognition, no Pulitzer, no great publishing deal. Nothing has panned out the way it was supposed to. The way – after running away from Scotland – I imagined I deserved it to. And now I have no home to go back to. It’s all slipping away from me. Slowly but surely. And I blame El. For all of it. Then and now. I blame only her.

I’m on the verge of shutting the laptop when I see the subject line of the last unread email. I stop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

DON’T TELL ANYONE

Who would I tell? is my first stupid thought. I look at the sender’s address: john.smith120594@gmail.com. It doesn’t mean anything to me. More American marketing probably, they’re pretty ingenious at dodging spam filters. But something in me already knows it isn’t. Something that feels new and familiar at the same time. Indifferent and afraid. The Wi-Fi is slow. As the email downloads, I hold my breath hard inside my throat, and that same something in me says delete it. Delete it now.

The body of the email, when it finally appears on the screen, is only two words.

HE KNOWS

I push my chair away from the table. And then I’m standing at the window, looking out at the apple trees swaying in the breeze, their big branches and heavy leaves moving, restless. I look down at the sill and the half-dozen nails that have been hammered into it, just like in the Clown Café. My fingers bump over them. Back and forth until it starts to hurt. Because I don’t know why they’re there. I can’t think of any good reason at all. And even though I’m inside a swathe of trapped and glass-warmed sun, I’m cold enough that my teeth chatter, that I can feel goosebumps through the sleeves of my shirt.

The beep of a new message makes me jump. I step back into the shadows of the kitchen, eye the laptop screen with distrust.

It’s john.smith120594 again. No subject line this time. Just one sentence.

CLUE 1. WHERE OUR TREASURE HUNTS ALWAYS STARTED

I close my eyes. El. Of course it is.

The comically huge mortice key is in the scullery back door just like it always was, and when I turn it, it’s just as stiff. The old gravel yard is gone, replaced by flat paving and ugly concrete plinths supporting uglier concrete urns. I stand on top of the high staircase leading down from the scullery to the back garden, and I can see El and me marching around and around that gravel yard, kicking up its silver and grey chuckies, trying not to skid around its corners.

The greenhouse is gone too. But the old stone washhouse, with its red-framed window and small slate roof, still stands dwarfed by the corner of the house. Rusty padlocked chains are strung across its red wooden door. It was always locked up like that, I remember, as if condemned. The garden walls still tower, covering its borders in shade, but now trellises of lilac and clematis and trumpet vine hide the dark, wide stones and their seams of moss. My gaze slides to the expanse of high wall alongside the washhouse. No lilac and clematis there, not even the strangle of ivy. A flash of red. An itch. Red. A whisper of silvery, shivery dread.

I ignore it. Go down the steps and into the garden. Through the orchard, dense and rustling. Past a shed I don’t recognise. Khaki-green-painted wood and a black tarred roof.

And then I’m standing in front of Old Fred. Where our treasure hunts always started.

El hid the clues, and I followed them. Tiny little squares of paper scrawled with cryptic messages only I had a hope of understanding. She’d hide them anywhere and everywhere, each little square of paper leading to the next, and only at the last one would there be a prize instead. Almost always a drawing or painting of us that I’d pin to the walls of the Kakadu Jungle like a totem.

Old Fred looks the same. Squat and wide and appleless, his branches low and inviting. I walk around him to where El carved our names into his trunk, and breathe in cold, sharp air when I see they’re still there, scored deep into the brittle bark. Hardly faded. Not inside a heart, but a circle. I reach out to touch them, and then snatch my hand back when I see what’s been carved beneath.

DIG

I stand for a moment, glance up at the house’s empty windows. And then something halfway between hope and frustration makes me obey.

It doesn’t take much digging around the roots to find something. A deep hole covered over with leaves and loose earth. When my fingers touch something solid, I pull it out. A shoebox. I lift up its lid slowly.

I see the empty bottle first: a pirate grinning at me, standing with one foot on a barrel, one hand on his cutlass. Captain Morgan Spiced Gold Rum. Next to it are unopened tins of food, careful neat stacks of them: tomatoes, baked beans, sweetcorn. Immediately, I think of Mum supervising the six-monthly restocking of the Survival Packs stored under our bed – black canvas rucksacks stuffed with non-perishable food and bottles of water. I think of her forcing us to run through the house on endless fire drills, intruder drills, nuclear war drills; refuelling our panic, that ever-present hum of doom.

There’s also a tin of paint. A tester pot. I pick it up, turn it round. Blood Red. I drop it back into the box as if it’s hot. It lands on a tiny square of folded paper. My heart is beating fast when I take it out, open it up.

12 November 1993 AGE = 7+a bit!

Theres a monster in our house at night.

Not evry night, but lots of them. He has a blue beerd and is so very frightfull and ugly that all ladys should hide from him and never venchure to go into his company.

Thats what mum says. Its from a book.

She says Bluebeerd and Blackbeerd are brothers. She says Bluebeerd lives on land and Blackbeerd lives on sea and Bluebeerd is worse but I’m more scayerd of Blackbeerd coz hes a pirate and Bluebeerd is just a man.

I hear a sound like a bird cry – press my hand against my mouth when I realise it’s me. My fingers are shaking. My breath feels hot. I can see El, half-slumped over her desk, diary open, elbows wide, brow furrowed in concentration as she writes slowly in that same careful cursive.

I get up quickly, start carrying the shoebox back towards the house. My heartbeat is inside my throat and temples. I slow when I reach the paving, glance across at the washhouse and its chained door. Stop when I see another flash of red in the corner of my eye. Turn back to face that flanking high wall seamed with moss and lichen instead of clematis or ivy. Nothing. But when I close my eyes, I imagine the words splashed across that naked old stone in blood:

HE KNOWS

Moonlight, I think. There should be moonlight.

And then I’m running up the stairs and back into the scullery, turning that huge rusty key behind me before shoving the shoebox into the nearest cupboard. I go back into the kitchen. Look up at the bell board, at the bell and pendulum below the number 3. Imagine that gloomy thin corridor above my head, the dusty dark panels of the door at its end. Mum’s sour breath on our skin, the snap of her teeth. You ever go in there, and I’ll have both your guts for garters. Because Bedroom 3 was Bluebeard’s Room. Because the bodies of his wives hung on hooks from the walls, and it was filled with blood. Because at night, when he was hungry, he prowled corridors and rooms looking for more. I go suddenly cold. The thought – memory – is as certain as it is obscure. The why that itches under my skin. And in the wake of that memory comes another. I look back at the bell board, the faded Pantry. El and I hid from most of the house’s ghosts and monsters inside the Clown Café. But we always – always – hid from Bluebeard inside Mirrorland.

The pantry is at the very rear of the hallway, crouching in the shadows opposite the stairwell’s flank, and hidden from view by a black velveteen curtain. I pull it open. It’s heavy, dusty. The rattle of metal rings against its rail makes me want to cringe, and fills me with a sense of unwelcome longing. The pantry is smaller than I remember, long and narrow and cool. The wallpaper is still messy daffodils, their orange and yellow now faded into shades of grey. There’s a wooden table against the window looking out into the back garden; when I lean against it to squeeze past, I run the pads of my fingers across scores and scuffs warmed by the morning sun. The cupboard is still there too. It takes up the entire southern end of the room. The latch lifts up as smoothly as if I’d last done it yesterday instead of nearly twenty years ago.

The smell hits me first. It’s entirely wrong. Gluey instead of musty. When my eyes adjust, I realise why. The whole of the vast cupboard’s interior has been covered in cheap beige wallpaper. I drag over a stool, climb up into the cupboard, and with only the shortest of hesitations, start to smooth my palms over the paper. I half expect to find nothing at all, but when I feel the outline of something hard and metal, my heart skips a beat. I dig in my nails and rip the wallpaper away. Please be here. Please still be here. By the time I’ve torn most of the paper from the wall, I’m sweating, breathing too heavily. But there it is. As if it had never been hidden at all. A full-size, quarter-panelled door with rusting hinges and two heavy slide-bolts.

The door to Mirrorland.

I look at the door for a long time. There used to be something pinned to its surface. One of El’s paintings: an early effort focused more on colour than form. Blues and yellows and greens. I close my eyes. The Island. Of course, The Island. A rough coastline of rocks and beach, an interior of forest and flatland. A tropical paradise instead of a snowy wonderland, since Mirrorland was our Narnia. Of sorts. Though it had more colour, more ambiguity. More terrors. More fun.

I’m holding my breath. I draw back the bolts. I pull open the door.

It’s the cold I feel first; the cold that I’ve forgotten. When I let my breath go, it fogs white in the dark space ahead of me. My fingers grip the door. There was a treasure map on this side of it. Black roads and green spaces. Long blue water. A volcano. The memory sharpens and then loses focus. I’m procrastinating, I realise – hesitating, even though that thick sense of longing is back, that urgent need to step down into the darkness, to step out of this house and into another world. I felt it just the same the first time Mum showed us this hidden door, this secret space. Fear, deep and brittle and delicious.

I step out of the cupboard, out of the house, and down onto the first wooden tread. I shiver as I look up at the low wooden roof and narrow wooden walls that enclose the staircase. As the creak of that old wood settles and suffocates, I wonder if my nervous excitement is merely the ghost of the child I once was. Creeping down here in the dark, in the night, so many, many times with El, it seems impossible that our sticky, hot hands haven’t left behind some residue on the walls and bannisters; our torches, no shadows of dancing, jagged light; our terrorised giggles and whispered shoosh!es, no echoes.

This time, I only have the light on my phone. It casts an ugly white glow that creates more shadows. The old vertigo – that dizzying terror of always waiting to fall – seizes sudden hold of me, and I find that I can’t move. I close my eyes, breathe slowly until it passes. Because I’m no longer a child. My fantasies can no longer ride roughshod over logic, over reality. There is nothing to be afraid of down here. Two hundred years ago, when Westeryk was still a village and this the largest, grandest house within it, before this door was hidden behind a cupboard, it was nothing more than a convenience, a contrivance. Access to the kitchen was possible only from the back garden or the front door. This pantry, this door, this staircase, and the alleyway beneath are nothing more than a tradesman’s entrance. The rear of the house sits on far lower ground than the front, its rooms elevated ten feet or more above the back garden. This covered steep staircase serves the same ordinary purpose as the scullery stairs: access to ground level.

And yet my light still shakes as I descend, as the staircase’s walls and roof open up into draughty space, and at the bottom of the stairs, I hesitate again. The darkness has more dominion here, my memories more power. Anticipation, sharp and bitter, like lemon juice rubbed into a cut.

I step down onto stone. Down into Mirrorland.

My phone judders frantic light across brick and wood and cobwebs, and I grasp it in both hands. Stop. I’m only in an alleyway. A ten-foot-wide, stone-paved corridor between the exterior southern flank of the house and the boundary wall, sheltered from the weather by a low wooden roof like a medieval hoarding over battlements. Stretching from the now bricked-over door to the front garden in the west and the stone washhouse in the east. The latter sits squat at the end of the alleyway like a sentinel, a gatehouse, blocking the exit into the back garden, save for a small door set into its only exposed side.

I turn through one more circle, my frozen breath spinning a wreath of fog around me. The morning sun is still low enough that it breaks through the cracks in the wooden roof as tiny shafts of bright white. I look up, see the bare bulb hanging down from the hoarding’s ridge board in just the instant I remember it. When I pull on its string, I’m rewarded – incredibly – by immediate and strong light, as if I wasn’t already struggling to believe that time here hasn’t stood stock still, that everything I’m seeing and feeling is only that old ghost and echo of me, of us.

Of a magic place. Because, whatever else, I can’t deny that. This might once have only been a tradesman’s entrance, a means to a supercilious end; it might now be forgotten – only empty, draughty space and stone – but in-between it was something else. Once upon a time, it was rich and full and alive. Gloriously frightening and steadfastly safe. Exciting beyond measure. Hidden. Special. Ours.

I turn back to look at the bricked-up door. The larger part of Mirrorland, stretching along the alleyway from the bottom of the stairs to that door was once Boomtown: a dusty boardwalk of fruit crates and wooden planks six or more feet across, staging a post office and a marshal’s office, furnished with cardboard-box counters and tables, seats of cushions and blankets and pillows. The Three-Fingered-Joe Saloon was in the southwest corner against the boundary wall; in the northwest was a cluster of Lakota Sioux teepees and a training arena delineated by sticks laid end to end in a square.

Later, Boomtown became a prison; the Three-Fingered-Joe Saloon, a rather less exotic Recreational Dayroom; the wooden crates, the doors and walls of Cellblock 5; and us, its prisoners. The Shank. In its heyday, El used to make me sit beside her for hours, fashioning the bloody things out of sharpened toothbrushes and Grandpa’s old razor blades.

I turn east, walk down towards the washhouse, running the palm of my right hand against the rough brick of the boundary wall. On its other side, I know, is another long alleyway and green garden, another cavernous house – a newer Victorian villa with bay windows and painted bricks and bargeboards. The alleyway narrows around a large locked armoire that I remember was once full of games and books. Beside it is a wide blue pram, with three rusted big wheels and a shopping tray, a white faded label in the corner of its mouldy hood: ‘Silver Cross’.

The washhouse door is unlocked; it was always unlocked – hence the padlock and all those rusty chains strung across its other exit into the back garden. The washhouse was the most important part of Mirrorland. Warmer and better built, better felt, once as vital as breathing. And yet less than half an hour ago, I stood outside on the scullery steps and saw only an old stone building with a red-framed window and small slate roof.

I open the door, step up onto floorboards speckled with old paint and dust. They groan and give underfoot, enough to make me want to test each step first. The washhouse smells of mildew and damp, and something sour and green like compost. It has me remembering all sorts of other things I’ve forgotten even before I turn into its biggest space, illuminated by daylight from the window. Boxes and crates are stacked high in every corner; wooden poles are balanced on piles of dirty sheets; there are two free-standing fans, their flexes curled black.

‘My God.’

My voice echoes, hoarse and weak. I fold my arms tightly around myself as I stare at the washhouse walls. Sky blue and ocean green, white puffs of cloud and white frills of wave, the old brushstrokes messy and impatient. I look down at the floorboards, and under all the dust and dirt are the old charcoal lines of the Satisfaction.

Bowsprit. Jib. Forecastle. Foresail. I whisper the words under my breath as I walk over them. Main Deck and Gun Deck, El’s black scrawls of Rum and Water Stores HERE!! Magazine HERE!! I walk from one end of the washhouse to the other: Crew’s Quarters, Cargo Hold, Mainsail, Crow’s Nest, Navigation Room, Captain’s Quarters, Stern. A moss-covered hose is coiled around two taps, its nozzle – still set to spray – lying inside the old butler sink. I look at the Jolly Roger above it, its painted skull and crossbones stretched flat, fixed to the stone with black electrical tape. And then I look across at that little window, a porthole through which we bathed in moonlight and navigated by the stars. Because while Boomtown and the Shank were only for the day, the Satisfaction was mostly for the night.

The stern lantern still hangs on a hook screwed into the eastern stone wall, dusty, smaller than I remember, the candle inside foggy windows of glass long burned to the bottom of its wick. I reach out fingers to touch it, and then stop, pull them back with a sudden shudder that cricks my neck with an audible snap. I look up at the large hulking spectre of Blackbeard’s ship painted on the wall above it. Always in our wake. Always getting that bit closer.

Some things are gone. The big wooden treasure chest, bound with bands of black leather and a padlock gold with rust, where we’d hoard our booty from raids on Puerto Principe or the Spanish Main: silver cutlery sets, candlesticks, and trinket boxes that we borrowed from the kitchen and Throne Room. The water-filled umbrella bases that used to anchor our masts and sails are gone too. But everything else looks like we left only yesterday: giggling and creeping back up the stairs onto dry land, our lights dancing in the dark. Even the ship’s wheel – stolen from the pram – is propped up against our wooden mast poles.

I walk slowly back across the chalk lines of the main deck. Stop and close my eyes. My lips feel tight, and I realise it’s because I’m properly smiling for the first time in days. The Satisfaction was the first thing we made in Mirrorland. A two-hundred-ton, three-masted, fully rigged pirate flagship with powder chests, chase guns, and forty cannons loaded with hailshot. The Satisfaction was Mirrorland. We lived and breathed the magic of her. She was the fire that kept us warm, and then the fuse that set light to everything else. I can feel the give of the soft, rotting wood as I shift my weight from left foot to right foot, back and forth. I can feel the mist of warm rain against my face, the hose wrapped around the main-mast like a snake; the hard flap of the sheet sails as the fans whirr and blow – sometimes a tropical ten-knot southeasterly, sometimes a forty-knot squall from the North Atlantic. I can feel the burn of old rope running through my fingers as I hoist, trim, and furl. El behind me at the helm, whisper-shouting her orders: Come about! Heave to! All hands hoay!

God, I miss her. It comes out of nowhere, but hurts enough that I can no longer deny it. Pretend it’s not true. I miss her.

El is older than me by four minutes. We knew this because Mum mentioned it every day. It usually prefaced one of the stories that she told us almost as often: a depressing tale about the poison taster of an old Persian dynasty. The poison taster was a princess; always the eldest sister of the king. Every day, the heroic poison taster would take the first bite or sip of the king’s food or drink, and every night she would swallow a pearl touched by all the king’s subjects, and all of their murderous thoughts and plans and words would sink black and boiling into her flesh and bones, where they would fester and rot and burn. And although her life was full of pain and suffering and poor reward, her king’s was not, and that was enough to sustain her, to every day set her to her task. To Mum, this meant that the eldest must always look after the youngest, but to El, it meant that she was in charge, she had the divine right to always, always go first.

So I insisted that we have a crew. Because if El allowed me a rare turn at the wheel as captain, it wouldn’t happen again for weeks, and as first mate, I wanted to be the boss of someone too. They were an ever-changing crew of Old Salty Dogs, whichever historical pirates were in favour, the odd cowboy or Indian from Boomtown, and Clowns on sabbatical. Only three members of the crew were constant. Annie, our second mate and chief navigator: a tall, perpetually aggressive red-haired Irishwoman, named after the Caribbean pirate Anne Bonny. Belle, our gunner: young and loud with fearless fun; she wore dresses instead of breeches, hid knives in her ebony hair, and wore lipstick the colour of blood. And Mouse, timid and obedient enough that she offset the worst of El’s bossiness and spared me the worst of it too. Small and silent and pale, dressed always in black, she’d scurry fore and aft, port and starboard: our cabin girl, powder monkey, and skivvy.

Some nights, we only sailed. Searching for The Island and trying to keep ahead of the chasing spectre of Blackbeard’s Queen Anne’s Revenge. Some nights, we dropped anchor to raid for booty or look for hidden treasure. Some nights, we battled a mutinous crew, devised complicated punishments for their insurrection: keelhauling bow to stern with ropes, or walking a plank greased with lard. More often subjecting them to ever more impossible challenges in order that their lives might be spared: we believed in cruel second chances. And some nights, we battled storms and other ships: naval frigates and merchant convoys, other pirate brigantines. Our ears would ring with the screams of splintering wood and dying men, the bellows of cannon and musketoons, the roar of the squall.

Ahoy, let’s get ’em, sons of biscuit eaters!

Give no quarter! No prey, no pay!

Always, Blackbeard stayed on our tail. And always, always, we waited for Captain Henry to appear over that next horizon. To come to our aid and save the day. We knew that he would. We always knew absolutely that one day he’d come back again. For us.

I open my eyes, blink. Walk back across the deck of the Satisfaction, out the washhouse door, and back into the long narrow alleyway as if in a dream. I stop suddenly, turn to face the boundary wall. A shiver runs through me as I press my numb fingers against its rough stone. A big portrait of Captain Henry – painted by El – had once hung somewhere along it. Stern and unsmiling, the blues and yellows and greens of The Island behind him. I think of that empty rum bottle in the shoebox. Captain Henry had been our hero: the bravest and best of all pirates. The pirate king of the world.

I lean hard against the wall. So many things I’ve forgotten, which are still there – still here – in dusty, dark corners. I’m suddenly eager to leave, to feel warm, to breathe fresh air that doesn’t smell of damp and moss. At the bottom of the staircase, I pause again. Look up, without knowing why – until I see the white card taped to the underside of the wooden roof with black electrical tape:

SNOW-WHITE SAID: ‘WE WILL NOT LEAVE EACH OTHER.’

ROSE-RED ANSWERED: ‘NEVER SO LONG AS WE LIVE.’

All pirates needed to have a code, Mum said, and that was ours. And although it is – was – as much a part of Mirrorland as everything else down here, something sets it apart. This card is new.

I see red – quite literally. Blood Red. HE KNOWS. I feel it, hear it, in a hot, urgent whisper in my ear, and bat at it like a mosquito, panicked now, as if there are fingers around my throat that have begun squeezing. I hear a sound, upstairs yet close; alien yet familiar: a loud metallic echoing thud. An icy draught pulls at my hair, scratches my skin. The bare hanging bulb winks suddenly out, and when I lurch away from the wall, I feel a rush of cold air, hear a voice that might be familiar if it wasn’t screaming.

‘RUN!’

I do. I grab hold of the bannister and start to climb, hands clammy, heartbeat erratic, the dark and freezing expanse of the alleyway behind me like a chasing monster, a roaring, building wave thick with seaweed and chitinous bones. The stairs are too steep. My knuckles scrape against stone. The hackles on the back of my neck send shudders down my spine, and those slices of daylight through the wooden roof are like cracks of lightning over my head. Deadlights, I think. They’re deadlights.

I miss a step close to the summit and nearly take a header back down to the bottom. And then I’m inside the cupboard, slamming Mirrorland’s door behind me, pulling across its bolts, and stumbling back into the bright of the pantry.

I’m not mad. I’m not the deluded, heartless bitch that DI Kate Rafiq probably thinks I am. My instincts, my certainties, are bang on. El is alive. Because she can’t be dead if she’s sending me emails. Burying shoeboxes in the garden and leaving coded warnings taped to ceilings. Churning up our past – a past I’ve chosen never to think of again – like a blunt plough. Playing her power games. That’s fucking madness.

I know how this goes. How it’s always gone.

This is a treasure hunt. She has the map. And I have no other choice but to wait until she gives me the next clue.

CHAPTER 6

The Kakadu Jungle shrieks and squawks into life all around us: owlet-nightjars, California condors, giant ibises, kakapos. The paperbarks and ironwoods and banyans roar with hot wind, the wetlands and rivers and falls roar with fast water. The birds rise with screams up into the canopy, the sky grows dark and squally, forks of lightning cracking through green and brown and gold, tearing through wood and iron and stone. And the shadows of bad men crouch in the darkness, bristling with rage and sharp teeth. Because all men are pirates, Mum says. Even Prince Charming is just like Blackbeard: sly and handsome, never ever to be trusted. We have to save ourselves.

And so El and I run. Our torchlight flinching from yawning mouths of teeth. A towering wave of water and wind and flesh and lanternlight. High and wide and freezing bright. Rolling through the jungle like an explosion, an earthquake. Rolling towards us and our golden bedspread like a landslide of mud and stone and deadlights.

RUN!

It feels like I scream myself awake. Maybe I do, because when I open my eyes, Ross’s face is frozen somewhere between alarm and concern, and his hand is gripping my right arm just above the elbow. I’m lying on the chesterfield in the drawing room. Next to a mahogany lowboy with claw-and-ball feet that Grandpa always swore was a Chippendale. And opposite a yellow brocade rocking chair and a leather recliner that look so exactly like the originals, too, I can almost see Mum and Grandpa sitting facing one another across the bottle-green fireplace. I look away, towards the turquoise-tiled Art Deco bar that Mum used to call the Poirot.

‘You were screaming,’ Ross says with a frown.

‘Jet lag,’ I say. I get up on unsteady legs, try to smile. ‘Think I need some fresh air.’

In the entrance hall, I hesitate at the coat rack, and instead of my anorak, I choose a grey cashmere wrap coat that can only belong to El. I glance at the label before I put it on and belt it tight. Vivienne Westwood. We used to wear the same clothes, I reason, as I unlock the door. Although that’s not really true. The minute we left this house, we abandoned almost everything that we had shared; everything that had forced us to always be the same.

Outside, the air is fresh enough, but it does me little good. As children, El and I also always shared the same dreams, the same nightmares. We dreamed of the Kakadu Jungle most often because we fell asleep every night holding hands under our golden bedspread, surrounded by rainforest wallpaper and the residual echo of those bedtime games spent playing Victorian explorers. I haven’t thought about – never mind dreamed about – the Kakadu Jungle in years. And I haven’t missed it.

I open the front gate, and it squeals loudly. I step out onto the pavement, feeling bizarrely exposed. Why the hell did I put on this coat? And then my sense of anxiety changes, heightens. My skin prickles. When I spin around, I see a figure standing on the corner of the opposite pavement, watching me. A man. He’s wearing a dark coat, and his face is obscured inside its drawstring hood. Deadlights, I suddenly remember, were a pirate’s eyes in the dark. A low-beam torch, or a lantern shuttered dull against the wind. But deadlights were also the eyes of others. Others who looked for you – came for you – in the night. I’m breathing a little too hard, but I take a step towards him nonetheless. My ‘Hey’ sounds more like a gasp. And by the time I manage a better one, he’s turned and disappeared around the corner towards Lochend.

I don’t follow. Instead, I turn in the opposite direction, and almost run to the entrance of Colquhoun’s of Westeryk. The shop is quiet, almost empty. I quickly fill a basket with fusilli, red pesto, and focaccia before heading straight for the booze. My breath is still fast, still shaky. Maybe he’s just a reporter. A nosy neighbour. Or maybe he’s the creep who’s been sending—

‘Oh! Dieu merci! J’y crois pas—’

I rear back from both the voice and the sudden heavy hand on my forearm, knocking my basket against a shelf full of beer. By the time I’ve recovered my balance, the woman’s hand is clapped hard over her mouth instead, and I know immediately what’s happened, amazed that this possibility – this inevitability – has not occurred to me before now. Or at least before I put on the bloody coat. Nor how much more awkward it would be here than in a wine bar in JFK. She thinks I’m El.

‘Excusez-moi – I am so sorry. I didn’t …’ She’s tall, slim, in her forties, and her clothes are expensive, as is her make-up. Her black hair has been pulled back into a chignon. She has an air of effortlessness that probably requires a lot of effort. A lot more than I’ve ever been able to find.

‘I’m Marie Bernard. And you are Catriona – Cat – from America.’ Her long fingers reach for mine and squeeze. Her smile is too bright. ‘Ellice told me all about you, of course.’

I find the thought that El told her anything about me – of course – a lot more disconcerting than maybe I should. She smiles again, but I can see that her eyes are tired, red-rimmed. I think of the shouted relief in her ‘Dieu merci!’

‘You look so like her.’ She leans closer – I smell Chanel No. 5 – and then she shakes herself. Steps back.

‘You’re friends with El?’

‘Oui.’ Something flashes dark in her eyes before it’s gone. ‘We both are. This is Anna.’

I follow her nod towards the only cashier. Who turns, looks me up and down once, then twice. She doesn’t smile. ‘You do look exactly the same.’ She has an accent. Eastern European, I’ve already guessed, from her high blonde ponytail and cheekbones.

I finger the lapel of El’s coat self-consciously.

‘I moved from Belleville, Paris, many years ago,’ Marie says. ‘El and I first met here, in fact. When the shop was quiet, the three of us would sneak into the back room and drink bad cocktails out of cans.’

‘Old stock,’ Anna says, looking at Marie. ‘Really bad.’

Marie laughs, but her voice catches. ‘We are very good friends. We have good times together.’

‘El is a good person,’ Anna says. I’m a little taken aback at the sudden tears in her eyes.

Marie nods, turns to me. ‘There is still no news?’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Nothing yet.’

There follows another awkward silence that I’m not very inclined to fill. El has never been a joiner. What few friends she had as a teenager, she knew only through me. Ross and I were the only people she ever let close, and yet these two women don’t just know her, they seem to genuinely care for her.

‘And Ross?’ Marie eventually says. ‘How is he?’

‘As fine as he can be.’ I pick two bottles of wine, start inching towards the till. ‘I should …’

‘Bien sûr. Pardon.’ Marie’s too-bright smile falters. ‘You must visit. For tea, apéritif, anything at all. I am just over there. The end house.’ She points at the Gingerbread Coop, and I notice a long keloid scar – stark against her dark skin – running from her wrist to her elbow. When she sees me looking, she snatches her sleeve back down.

‘And perhaps you could let me know if you hear anything?’

‘Of course,’ I say.

She nods, presses her hand to the emerald-green scarf around her neck, and I realise there are scars on her knuckles too. And under all that immaculate make-up, the skin of one cheek is raised, rough like damaged plaster. The silence between us lengthens. And then she’s waving, leaving in a cool jangling breeze and another waft of Chanel No. 5.

I immediately turn towards the till, feeling both guilty and relieved.

‘Do you want a bag?’ Anna says. Her expression is stony again, and when I nod, she snatches one from under the counter and tosses it at me. Begins scanning and discarding my shopping with brutal efficiency.

I clear my throat. ‘Are you all right?’

She thrusts a bottle of wine at me without looking up, although her cheeks have flushed pink. ‘I don’t understand why you’re here.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘El told us what happened between you.’ Her eyes flare, defiant again. ‘Why you left.’

I can only imagine what she said. El can twist truth into the kind of knot that will never be undone. ‘What happened between us is none of your business.’

Anna visibly swallows. Squares her shoulders. ‘You should leave. She wouldn’t want you here.’

I press my card against the chip-and-PIN machine. Snatch up my bag and march fast towards the door and the street. I’m too jet-lagged and already angry to trust myself to speak.

‘You should be careful,’ Anna calls after me.

And although it sounds like a threat, the sudden lack of ice in her voice makes it seem like a warning.

Ross isn’t downstairs when I return. That’s probably just as well. I feel unsettled. The dream and the conversation with Anna have kept me on the same edge as El’s email, the page from her diary, the rediscovery of Mirrorland. I knew that coming back here after all this time would feel strange, but I wasn’t prepared for uneasy. Uncertain. Afraid.

I stand at the Kitchener. Overcook the pasta to the point of disintegration, dump it all, start again. I watch the water bubble and churn, and remember Mum stroking my cheek, her nails scratching. Don’t be like me, Catriona. See the good instead of only the bad. So I think of El and me sitting at the kitchen table, sneaking too-sweet bites of Grandpa’s coconut toffee when Mum wasn’t looking. Tossing loose socks up towards the hanging Clothesmaid we’d christened Morag. One point for landing over a wooden slat; ten for one of the cast-iron rackends. My phone vibrates, and I jump, fumble it out of my pocket.

The email is from john.smith120594. Its subject line is HE KNOWS.

And its message:

CLUE 2. WHERE GRANDPA’S FIRST MATE IRVINE DIED

The anger is almost a relief. Less welcome is the sudden rush of recognition. I turn away from the range and sit down at the table, where Grandpa first told us about the fate of doomed Irvine. In 1974, Grandpa almost lost his leg – and his life – during a two-day fishing trip in the North Sea, aboard a stern trawler called The Relict. He told us the story so often, we sometimes dreamed of it: the snowstorm, the shrieks of the gulls and gannets, the smells of the seabed as the floats and warps emerged from the Devil’s Hole, a hundred and thirty fathoms down – salt and oil and earth. The drum stalling, the hydraulics screaming as the net snagged on the bottom and the boat tipped stern, and Grandpa and his oldest mate, Irvine, slid down the deck towards the jammed trawl doors and the sea. Grandpa’s leg snapped in two between ramp gears, but still he threw Irvine a net hook, still he held on to his friend for dear life until his friend finally let go.

Every surviving deckhand on The Relict got something, but Grandpa got more, because he was the one who’d filed report after report about those faulty trawl doors; he was the one whose friend had died and whose leg no longer worked. In the end, he got enough compensation to comfortably retire and buy this house. Folk have allus underestimated me, hen, he’d say. Ah wis that skipper’s worst fuckin’ nightmare. Unlike Mum, Grandpa had only one rule, though it was as oft repeated as it was absolute: There’s an arsehole on every boat, and if there’s no, it’s prob’ly you.

I get up, march across to the wonky beige units. I crouch down and start opening the doors, moving aside bowls and Tupperware until I find it. In the corner of the back wall of the last cupboard. A tiny swirling pool of charcoal and black Biro. The Devil’s Hole. El was fond of vandalising the insides of cupboards and drawers, small and sly, where no one was ever likely to look unless they knew it was there. She drew the Devil’s Hole here a few days after Grandpa first told us the story. I have to get down on my knees to reach in for the folded square of paper beneath it. And just as I realise that there are two squares of paper this time, someone – something – hisses:

You’re a disgusting wee bitch!

I rear back. I think I shriek. I know I snatch my hand out of the cupboard and frantically kick backwards with my feet until I’m on the other side of the kitchen again. I swallow. There’s no one here. But I can still feel that voice. The venom in it, the spite. The fury. And in some far corner of my mind, I see a woman: tall with brittle black hair. The Witch.

‘What are you doing?’ Ross says, from the kitchen doorway.

‘Slipped,’ I manage to say, affecting a laugh, rubbing my arm as I shove the two squares of paper into my pocket, let him help me back onto my feet.

I know this woman – at least, I feel like I do. The vague recollections those hissed words have provoked are more like impressions, curls of smoke. Her voice, thin and high and cruel. Brows low, eyes narrow, staring down at me like I’m just about the worst thing she’s ever had to look at. Grandpa finding me crying at the kitchen table. A wink, the cool, heavy pat of his hand. Ye’re a long time dead, lassie. Nothin’ else ever worth greetin’ over.

I go back to the Kitchener, look down at the two tiles close to my feet, the dark rusty stain running through the cracked grout between them. I shiver. Shake it off. Glance at the pasta, bendy and well on its way to inedible again. ‘I think it’s ready.’

We both eat like machines: slow, steady, efficient. Afterwards, neither of us looks any better for it. I get up, open the Smeg door, take out a bottle of wine.

‘The bottom drawer of the old fridge-freezer used to be crammed full of M and S sausage rolls, with “FOR MY FUNERAL – DO NOT TOUCH” printed on these big ugly labels,’ I say, trying to ease the tension. ‘Grandpa called them his fancy horse doovers.’ I think of his easy, quick grins. Good spread at a funeral’s rare as rockin’ horse shite these days, hen.

When I turn around, Ross’s frown is sharp, his eyes angry. And then his face relaxes, goes blank so quickly that I shiver, wonder if I imagined it.

‘Are you okay, Ross?’

I’m almost relieved when that ugly sneer returns. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay, Cat?’

‘I’m sorry. Of course, you’re not okay. I didn’t mean—’

‘Shit. I’m sorry. Ignore me.’ He rubs a hand over his eyes, gives me a wan smile. ‘I’m just knackered. Really fucking knackered.’

I open the wine, pour it into our glasses. ‘I met Anna today. Is she always such a bitch?’

‘Anna?’

‘In Colquhoun’s. Blonde, beautiful, Russian.’

‘Yeah, Anna. Not Russian, she’s Slovakian. She can be …’ He waves a hand. ‘I dunno, nippy.’

I take a sip of wine. ‘El thinks Anna fancies you, doesn’t she?’ Because El has always been jealous. Possessive. Of Ross, at least.

When he doesn’t answer, I seek safer ground. ‘I met Marie too. She was asking if there was any news and—’

Ross gets abruptly up from the table. ‘I don’t know who that is.’

‘Well, she seemed to know you. Said she and El were friends. She lives in the Gingerbread Coop.’

‘The what?’

‘Across the road. The terrace across the road.’

He shakes his head, but his back is turned to me and I can’t see his expression. ‘I have no idea who she is.’

And what does it matter anyway? El always had secrets. She liked to keep everything – everyone – separate, apart. Even as kids, she couldn’t stand it if different foods were mixed; she’d painstakingly push them to the opposite sides of her plate, leaving only empty space in-between.

‘I didn’t know El was depressed,’ I finally say, to break the silence.

Ross turns around. ‘I’m a fucking clinical psychologist,’ he says, and there’s no longer any anger in him, just a palpable exhaustion. ‘I see a dozen clients every day who have chronic depression, bipolar, PTSD.’ He sits heavily back down, rests his head in his hands. ‘And I couldn’t even help my own wife.’

‘But you said it was mild. You told Rafiq El’s depression was—’

‘I know what I said. But Rafiq is looking for any excuse to get me off her back. You saw what she was like about the cards. She thinks I’m a pain in the arse.’

‘I’m sure that’s not—’

‘She probably thinks I left you that card myself,’ he says. ‘To keep them interested, keep the investigation active.’

I want to talk to him about the cards, but his slumped shoulders stop me. I long to make him feel better, but how can I? He already knows that I don’t believe El’s dead. Or even truly missing. If I tell him about the email clues, I instinctively know he’ll reject the idea that they’re from El, even though it’s the most logical explanation. And besides, no matter how much I might want to, I can’t forget that DON’T TELL ANYONE. So, I nod, even though I know that I’m doing exactly what El wants me to: keeping Ross and me separate, pushing us to opposite sides of the plate. ‘Yeah, I can believe that. Bet she has every episode of Prime Suspect on her TiVo.’

When Ross doesn’t reply, I look out the window. The grass is turning golden as the sun sinks down behind the garden’s back wall.

‘Why are all the windows nailed shut?’

He blinks. Looks at the windowsill. ‘We assumed the MacDonalds did it for security – I mean, they were ancient.’ His smile lasts little more than a second. ‘I got a restorations guy round after we moved in, who told us we’d have to replace every bottom frame. Would have cost thousands.’ This time his smile is bitter. ‘I didn’t mind them too much, to be honest. Thought they would help keep El safe when I wasn’t here.’

We sit for a long while, neither of us speaking, drinking until the wine is finished. Finally, Ross gets up, puts his glass in the sink. ‘I’m going to try and get some sleep.’

‘Okay.’

He stops at the kitchen door. ‘Tell me why, Cat. Why you’re so sure she’s not dead.’

‘I’d feel it,’ I say. ‘If she died, I would have felt it. I’d know.’

I can see his knuckles go white as he grips the doorknob. ‘You think I wouldn’t feel it? You’re the one who doesn’t know her. You haven’t known her for twelve fucking years, Cat! She wouldn’t fake her own disappearance or death any more than she’d send threatening cards to herself. We were together. We loved each other.’

I don’t know who he’s trying to convince, himself or me, but his words, his quick anger hurt me badly all the same, feel as sharp as a slap. They burn inside my throat and behind my eyes. Because he wants to hurt me, I realise. Even if it’s only because he can’t hurt El. Or because she is all he sees whenever he looks at me.

‘She was different,’ he says. ‘After you left, she changed. She wouldn’t do this. Never.’

‘People don’t change that much,’ I say. Because I can’t help it. Because I believe it.

His lips curve up into a humourless smile. ‘She always said denial was your superpower.’ And then he opens the door and leaves without once looking back at me.

I sit at the kitchen table. Look back out the window. I feel clammy, sweaty. Exhausted and awake. I pull out the first folded piece of paper from my pocket and open it.

JANUARY 10TH 1995 = 8 +A HALF

Mum says at night Bluebeerd hunts for another wife to lock up and hang on a hook when he gets angry. Bluebeerd is A COWARD OF THE TALLEST ORDER.

She says when we are on the Satisfaction looking for Captin Henry and The Ileland we have to BEHAVE and not FIGHT or Blackbeerd will get us. Coz Blackbeerd is the WORST PIRATE OF ALL. Hes sly and mean and all he does is lie. All he wants to do is catch us and trick us and throw us to the sharks. But he never does.

Shes just trying to scare us Ross says.

CHAPTER 7

August 23rd 1995 = 9 +2 months (NEERLY!)

Its good when its just me and Cat but I like it when Ross is there too even tho we have to play the things he wants to like spagetti westerns.

Today we were deputys in Boomtown, holding off the Oklahomebrays (not how you spell it I do’nt think!) We had to defend the town on our own coz Marshal Hank was in Deadwood and we did’nt know when he was coming back. I hid behind the wall of THE THREE-FINGERED-JOE SALOON and had a COLT 45. (Ross banned the Clowns from playing – he’s not scayerd of Clowns like Mum or Cat, but he does’nt like them much.) Belle and Mouse got shot in the CROSSFIRE coz Ross says they ca’nt shoot for shit.

We’re SHARP SHOOTERS like Annie. I’m better than Cat though.

Mum ALLWAYS says theres no such thing as a good PRINCE CHARMING like in Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty.

BUT if theres pirates and princesses and fairys and Clowns and mermaids and poison tasters and MIRRORLAND there MUST be good prince charmings too.

Today Ross held my hand for nearly ten minutes. And smiled at me when he climbed back up out of MIRRORLAND when we had to go in for tea. I did’nt tell Cat.

I remember El’s smile, on the midsummer afternoon when Ross and his mother moved into the old McKenzie house next door. The house had lain empty for months; boarded up with wood and later steel, the FOR SALE sign in the garden slowly strangled by weeds. When El turned back from the window, she was nearly breathless with joy and grinning wide. It’s a boy! We were seven. The first time he stuck his head out of his bedroom window above our garden wall to ask her name, her excitement was so urgent, so contagious, that it instantly infected me, sitting cross-legged on our golden yellow bedspread and reading Peter Pan. It burned through me like lightning; made my heart thunder.

There was an old skylight set into the washhouse’s slate roof. Black with dead leaves and dirt. The garden walls were too high to climb, and we knew exactly what Grandpa would say – worse, what Mum would say – if they caught us playing with a boy, so from the very start Ross was our secret, and we were his. The only time we ever visited Mirrorland during the day was on Saturday afternoons, while Mum hoovered and cleaned the house and Grandpa shut himself in the Donkshop, football results reverberating throughout the house. Ross would climb down onto the washhouse roof from his bedroom window, jimmy open the skylight, and then drop down into Mirrorland.

The first time he did, I could barely look at him. I remember that my hands were clammy when he blinked at us both with those peat-brown eyes, when he grinned his crooked grin. ‘You look the same.’

El didn’t suffer from the same chronic shyness as me. Within minutes, Ross knew our age, shoe size, likes and dislikes; that we were Mirror Twins: rare, special, two in one hundred thousand. And it’s true that I was jealous then. Jealous of her confidence. Jealous that she got more of his attention.

We spent most of that first day with the cowboys. Saturday afternoons were for fighting or target practice. Mum said we had to be able to protect ourselves from the bad men and outlaws that hid behind doors and inside shadows. El was always a far better shot than me, and I was relieved when practice ended early so that we could help Ross make his own slingshot out of twigs and rubber bands.

Afterwards, I slunk off to hide inside the biggest teepee, a precarious frame of old scaffolding poles under a sheet. Chief Red Cloud, sitting cross-legged in breechcloths and feather warbonnet, barely spared me a glance. The Lakota Sioux taught us how to make war clubs and tomahawks out of gardening tools and feathers, or how to defend ourselves with blocks and strikes, holds and rolls. But never on days when they’d seen us hanging out with cowboys.

I said hello, sat down, pretended I wasn’t hiding. Across from the chief, Belle reclined on cushions like an Arabian princess, rubies and long silver blades glinting in her hair. She smiled and winked at me. Of everyone in Mirrorland, Belle was who I longed to be the most: beautiful and wild, impossibly cool. Beside her, Annie snorted. She could never care less about any predicament of mine. I wonder now if she was some kind of extension of our absolute belief that all adult women were like Mum: stern, angry, often frightening. Annie had two Irish pistols, a long, jagged scar from temple to ear, and more courage than any other pirate on the Satisfaction. Standing tall in her high buckled boots, alligator-skin belt, and cowhide jacket with buttons made from whalebone, it was impossible not to be afraid of her. And she knew it. She grinned at me and lunged close. ‘You’re a grand wee coward, so you are.’

Mouse nudged my elbow, gave me a tremulous smile. She’d tied a piece of rope tight around the waist of her black sack dress, had drawn clumsy white chalk lines to match the stripes of the gingham dresses El and I wore. Mouse always tried to look like us and act like us, but she was too submissive, too skinny, her hair hacked short and dark like all the other deckhands. She smeared her skin white with clown face paint, stained her cheeks and lips rosy red like Belle’s. A manifestation of our fears and uncertainties, we could tell her all our secrets, our terrors, and watch her absorb them like a sponge. And then we could punish her for them: ignoring her, mocking her, making her walk the plank or take a bullet in Boomtown. Mirrorland made our imaginations fierce and mostly unforgiving. And Mouse was by far our favourite piñata. But that day, she sat quietly beside me in Chief Red Cloud’s teepee, patting my hand like Grandpa, eyes big and blue and full of the best kind of sympathy. ‘It’ll be okay, Cat. I love you.’

When Ross poked his head and shoulders through the entrance, I stopped breathing. ‘Cool teepee,’ he said. ‘How did you build it?’

And better than his obvious certainty that I had built it was the realisation that he’d come to me, he was talking to me, in that moment he was ignoring everyone else but me. Of course, he hadn’t been in Mirrorland long enough to know or see any of its characters yet, but he could see El over his shoulder in Boomtown, he could hear the impatient stamp of her feet.

El was still mad when Ross swung back up through the skylight a few hours later.

‘Cat’s afraid of heights, you know.’ She smirked. ‘Sometimes she can’t even go down stairs.’

‘Shut up!’ I cried.

But he only smiled at both of us. ‘I’ll come back next Saturday,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell your mum about me. She’ll ruin it.’

I fold up the second diary page, push it inside my pocket with the other. My back aches and my feet are numb. I’ve no idea what time it is, but I know it’s been hours since Ross went upstairs to sleep and somehow I’m still here, sitting at the kitchen table, staring into old memories. Why does she want me to do that? What does she want me to remember? Is that even the point of this at all? I have no idea why this treasure hunt is so different than those of our childhood. Why she’s emailing me clues that lead to shoeboxes full of junk or the hidden pages of a diary she wrote more than twenty years ago. While she’s disappeared to God knows where.

Control has to be the most of it. El’s need for control has always been as necessary to her – as vital – as oxygen. That can’t have changed. She’s emailing me clues instead of leaving them with the diary pages, because she wants to be in control of when I look. What I find. That makes perfect sense. Even if nothing else does. But it doesn’t mean I have to play along.

I open my laptop. Click reply before I can think myself out of it.

Who is this? My sister is missing. If you don’t tell me who you are NOW, I’m going to the police.

The beep of an answer comes so quickly, it makes me jump.

DON’T

This time, I reply with no hesitation at all. What do you want?

I KNOW THINGS. THINGS YOU’VE MADE YOURSELF FORGET

THINGS HE DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW

DON’T TELL THE POLICE. DON’T TELL ANYONE

YOU’RE IN DANGER

I CAN HELP YOU

Fuck off, El. I know it’s you. You need to stop. You need to come back. Stop it. And come back.

She doesn’t reply. I sit at the kitchen table for a long time, no longer numb and stiff, but hot and angry. Until I hear a sound in the hallway. I get up and move slowly to the door, open it as if I expect to see something crouched and waiting to pounce on the other side.

The hallway is empty. The stained-glass window is black dark. There’s a light on: a Victorian oil lamp on the old telephone table that casts a red milky glow across the parquet. The house clanks and clunks and groans as if it’s a sleeping machine, as if the walls are breathing in and out, in and out.

I catch sight of my face in the mirror over the telephone table, the glass speckled with age and curled dark at its corners; my face clown-white and pulled ugly by shadows. Another noise makes me freeze. It’s low and keening, trapped like the howl of wind inside a narrow space. And it’s coming from the drawing room.

I tiptoe across the parquet. Turn the handle and open the door. It gives a ludicrously loud creak, but Ross doesn’t even look up. He’s sitting on the rug in front of the fire, turning the pages of a photograph album. Their wedding album. The wedding I wasn’t invited to.

The room is warm, lit golden by two large Tiffany lamps. I remember Grandpa used to always bring home a real Fraser fir from Craigie’s Farm every year, and for the whole of December it would sit in the front corner between fireplace and window, glittering and twinkling and shedding its needles, making the whole room smell like a winter forest. Every Christmas Eve, El and I would listen to the grandfather clock ticking ponderously down to midnight, excitedly watching the four crystal glasses full of sherry that sat waiting on the turquoise tiles of the Poirot.

Ross finally looks up at me. His face is wet, eyes red. There’s an empty whisky tumbler next to his knee, a half-full bottle. He holds it out to me. I take it and retreat a few feet, sit on the old leather recliner. The whisky is pretty disgusting, something muddy brown and far too strong, but the burn is familiar, and the warm buzz reward enough.

Ross looks down at an enlarged glossy print of him and El standing in front of a grand sandstone building with Greek columns. He’s wearing what must be the MacAuley tartan, and El is painfully stylish in a short white satin dress and red heels, her hair wound up high but loose. It’s obviously raining and windy; Ross is battling to one-handedly hold a large golf umbrella over both of their heads, and they’re leaning together, El’s hand on his waistcoat, his around her waist, laughing so hard it’s like I can hear them. It’s a beautiful picture, and when Ross goes to turn the page over, his fingers are shaking. I don’t go to him. I can’t. But something in me – warm and familiar and unwanted – hurts for him. Not the pain I felt when he told me about El going missing – fast and hot and fleeting – but deep down, like an ache. Melancholy, old. Indulgent. Like rediscovering the door to Mirrorland. And all I want is for it to go away.

Ross makes another of those terrible sounds, and then he starts to cry, great ragged sobs that make my own throat hurt, my own eyes sting. When he finally looks at me, I nearly flinch from the desperation in his eyes. ‘Christ, Cat. What am I going to do without her?’

I’m suddenly furious with El. Not pissed off, not angry, not resentful. Violently furious. I KNOW THINGS. THINGS HE DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW. Because who else can she mean but Ross? Who else can she expect me to think she means but Ross?

‘I just don’t …’ He’s still crying hard, wiping his cheeks with the heels of his hands. ‘I’m just so scared, Cat. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to go on without her. I don’t know if I can go on with—’

‘Hey. Don’t talk like that. Don’t ever, ever talk like that, okay?’

I abruptly remember another Saturday inside Chief Red Cloud’s teepee, a couple of years after the first. The two of us sitting cross-legged, close enough to touch. A game of hide-and-seek maybe, or a rare occasion when El was speaking to neither one of us.

Ross was scowling. ‘I hate her.’

‘Who?’

‘My mum.’

‘Why?’ I tried to hide my excitement; the growing certainty that what he was telling me, what he was about to tell me, was something that he’d never told El.

He tried to shrug, bowed his head. ‘She hates me. And she hates my dad.’

‘Why?’

Ross was quiet for a long time, and then I heard him swallow. ‘One day after he went to work, she packed two bags and told me we had to leave. We moved here. I moved to a different school. She said I’d see Dad and my friends again. But we’re still here.’

He looked at me then, and his eyes burned with an intensity that was not quite rage, not quite pain. His whole body vibrated with it, and I was deliciously afraid. When I felt brave enough to reach out and touch his hand, I was thrilled when he gripped mine back tightly enough to hurt.

‘Today’s his birthday. I don’t even know where we used to live. She won’t tell me, and I don’t remember.’ A tear splashed against his forearm, ran down to his wrist. ‘I hate her.’

And while he still twisted my fingers hard enough to make my eyes water, he laid his head on my shoulder and sobbed so hard that he lost his voice.

El knows how much Ross loves her. And she knows how Ross loves. Completely. Absolutely. To the exclusion of all else. Is this how she wants him to suffer? Is this what she wants to reduce him to – considering suicide, however seriously, because of what she’s done? But I can’t believe that. I won’t. El is selfish and thoughtless, sometimes she’s cruel. But she loves Ross, I know that. And she would never wish death on anyone, no matter how angry she is, no matter how much she might want to punish them. I stop short, heart skipping, anger draining away. Because that’s not true. Once upon a time she did wish someone dead. We both did.

‘I’m sorry.’ Ross looks at me, presses his lips together in imitation of a smile. ‘And I’m so sorry about tonight. Everything I said. I didn’t mean that either. I was a shithead to you, and I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

His smile freezes and then falters, stops being a smile at all. ‘I just love her so much. I can’t – oh, for fuck’s sake.’ He starts wiping so furiously at his face and eyes, I want to wince. And it’s his embarrassment, his frustration at his own grief that finally makes me get up and go to him. She doesn’t deserve his tears, his despair. Much less anything else.

‘Ross, stop.’ I kneel down next to him and the photo album, cup his face in both of my hands. His eyes are worse than bloodshot, no longer white at all. His cheeks are rough with stubble, wet and red raw. I wipe them gently with the cool palms of my hands, my fingers, and he closes his eyes, goes limp. I think of his crooked smiles. The excited twist of my stomach whenever he dropped down from that skylight and into our world.

And I do it without thinking, even though I know I was planning on doing it all along. Even before I felt that old, indulgent ache. I lean closer and press my lips against his.

For a moment, he freezes, and I think about drawing back, pretending it was just a peck that landed badly, but I can’t, because I want – need – more. His smell, as unique and inimitable as that of this house, is not enough; the feel of his skin, his stubble, his tears under my fingers is not enough. I need more.

And then I get it. His hands come up to touch my face, my hair. When I press deeper, he lets me, and our kiss goes from chaste to something else in seconds. His mouth is hot, wet. I can feel the thunder of my heartbeat even in my toes. He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and I think, Yes. Yes.

Because it’s just the same. The same rush. The same madness. Sweeping everything else away, including sense.

Ross is the one to recover his first. And I can see straightaway that it’s not the same for him. Not any more. He scrambles to his feet, but not before I see the horror on his face. He nearly tips over the whisky glass in his rush to get up and away from me. And it’s only when he has, when I realise that I’m looking at a closed door and kneeling on the floor of an empty room, that I remember to be horrified too.

CHAPTER 8

8 April 2018 at 08:45

Inbox

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 3. DRAW A CLOWN TO WARN THE TOOTH FAIRY

Sent from my iPhone

El can go screw herself. I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to get up, I’m not going to go into the bathroom, and I’m not going to look. My head is pounding in twin spots right behind my eyes. My stomach gurgles and heaves, and my breath is hot and whisky sour. I’ve no idea how much of it I drank. Too much.

I lurch out of bed, stagger to the bathroom, and make it just in time, my retches loud and humiliating. I stay on my knees for a long while, and then I get up slowly, stagger to the sink. The tap water is warm, metallic, but I glug it down nonetheless, barely stopping to draw breath. When I can avoid it no longer, I look at the mirror.

There’s nothing there. No round clown face painted carefully in El’s acrylics. It was the only warning we ever gave the Tooth Fairy whenever she was on the prowl. A little clown face in the corner of a mirror that we hoped would frighten her back into hiding before we had to resort to painting our faces and putting on our wigs and noses and jumpsuits in the Clown Café. Because everyone – everything – is terrified of something. And for the Tooth Fairy, it wasn’t just Clowns, it was the very idea of them.

I open the mirror, start searching through the cabinet for another diary page. I reach behind some pill bottles, and one teeters and falls, crashing and rattling around the porcelain until I manage to catch hold of it. It feels mostly empty, and I’m already putting it back when I see El’s name.

PROZAC (Fluoxetine) 60mg tabs

ONCE DAILY

WITH OR WITHOUT FOOD

If it were possible to feel any lower, I would. I pick up the neighbouring pill bottle. Diazepam. Prozac and Valium. A folded-up square of paper – the next clue – is sitting in the space where they were. I pick it up, put back the bottles. Look at myself in the mirror. My grey face, limp hair, black-shadowed puffy eyes. I think of Grandpa’s There’s an arsehole on every boat, and if there’s no, it’s prob’ly you.

What the fuck am I doing? But I know. I know how I feel about him. I’ve always known. And I know that even if El was still here, I would feel the same: a hostage to memories – truths – that I’ve spent years trying to ignore. I’m appalled by how easily they’ve come back, as if they’ve only been treading water when I’d imagined them long drowned.

I sit on the toilet lid, open the diary page, catch a glimpse of its very last line, I HATE CAT, and then I let it drop to the floor to nurse my aching head in my hands. She is my sister. And once upon a time, before she decided that she hated me, El loved me. And I loved her. Nothing and no one existed but us. Ross is her husband. I kissed him; he didn’t kiss me. He had every right to look horrified. And if his horror seems worse than his guilt, then that’s probably because I’m an arsehole. A selfish, husband-snogging cow.

A coil of what if? is unravelling in my belly. What if those pills mean she has had some kind of breakdown? Wouldn’t that better explain this bizarre treasure hunt? What if I’m wrong about her being okay? What if she really is in trouble? What if she’s having the same sort of desperate thoughts as Ross? What if she’s already—

I get up too quickly. Strip off my T-shirt and turn on the shower while still dizzy. Let the scalding water beat against my skin and my skull until its steam is all I see and the pain is all I feel.

Only once I’m dry and warm and dressed do I pick up that diary page again and start reading.

November 30th, 1996 = 10+1/2 (IN 1 MONTH!!!)

Cat’s not speaking to me but I don’t care. Its not my fault. Mum says even PIRATES have to have RULES. We’re aloud to give someone the BLACK SPOT if we want. And anyway it was Ross’s idea/fault. He told me it would be fun and it was till Cat started to cry. I tried to stop him. I felt bad so I helped her even tho I’m NOT supposed to. I used our SECRET PIRATE CODE which is only supposed to be used in DIRE EMERGENCYS. I’m not writing it here just incase – I know you want to know it but TOUGH LUCK!!! Only me and Cat know it and thats the way it’s going to stay!! But she didn’t care anyway and she didn’t say thankyou!!! She just CRIED!!!

I think she’s just mad coz Ross said my painting of DAD was BRILLYANT. She’s always jellous and then pretends she isn’t. She’s just mad coz she knows Ross likes me better than her even tho we look the same.

Sometimes I HATE CAT.

I think of that portrait of the pirate Captain Henry taped to the southern boundary wall in Mirrorland. The painstaking hours it took El to paint it, making Mum describe him over and over again. He’d once been respectable, Mum said, had worked for the government for years before he’d had to leave us for a long life at sea.

Did I ever really believe that our father was a pirate king? I know I did. So much of Mirrorland began as Mum’s invention before El and I turned it into something else, something more than alive. We were so proud of him. That’s our dad, El told Ross that first day he swung down through the skylight. He’s called Captain Henry, and one day he’s coming back for us. He’s going to take us to The Island. Our belief was unshakable, unbreakable. Through almost everything, that never changed. We believed it absolutely. Even though we were wrong.

Ours was never a religious home. Grandpa, in particular, was scathing of anyone who showed even the slightest hint of being a holy wullie. Nevertheless, El and I prayed every night on our knees next to our bed. An antidote against the sometimes dark of Mirrorland perhaps. Or an insurance policy. A just-in-case. We were good at those. We would ask God how he was, if he’d had a nice day. And then we’d ask him to bless us and Grandpa and Mum and Dad, later Ross too. We never dared mention the pirates, the Clowns, the Indians, or the cowboys. Different worlds, we considered, were best kept separate.

And then one morning, El woke up and announced, ‘God doesn’t exist. We’re not going to waste time praying to him any more.’ The end of her nose was bright pink. Her eyes flashed in a bad imitation of Mum. ‘You don’t believe in him anyway.’

She was mostly right, but it was hardly the point. If anything, what I liked was the ritual of praying, the kneeling side by side and knowing we were the only ones in the house who did it, night after night, week after week, building up credit. Once upon a time, I derived great pleasure in being virtuous.

And we were deep in Ross and El versus me territory by then. I was mad. Sad. Some nights I’d lie awake in bed for hours trying to come up with something – anything – that El would object to, be horrified by, notice, but I never could.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to do what you say.’

El wasted no time in paying me back. Within the week, she had turned everyone against me. Grandpa by telling him I prayed to a non-existent God; Mum because I’d pissed off Grandpa; everyone else, because everyone else – except perhaps Mouse, who clung to her neutrality like a life raft – had already been on El’s side anyway. Even the Clowns.

I dug in. I’ve always been stubborn if rarely brave. In this instance, it only served to escalate our impasse, until I was formally summoned to a parley on the Satisfaction. The Witch was in the kitchen that day, I suddenly remember. Sitting at the table, while Mum stirred a pot on the stove. The Witch lunged into the hallway as I came down the stairs, her brittle black hair coiled on her head like a snake, a long bony finger pointing at my chest, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘What are you doing, you little horror?’ Her glare was icy. She breathed through her nose like a bull.

I ran around the bottom of the bannister and barged through the pantry’s black curtain without answering her. But I crept down to Mirrorland with a heavy heart. Being shouted at by the Witch seemed like a very bad omen indeed.

El and Ross were sitting cross-legged in the Captain’s Quarters. In the stern stood Annie, Mouse, Belle, and Old Joe Johnson, the barkeep of the Three-Fingered-Joe Saloon. The Clown representative, to my dismay, was not Dicky Grock, but Pogo. He squatted – grinning – next to the stern lantern, his long, white-gloved fingers clasped loosely between his legs.

‘We’ve called this parley to give the first mate the opportunity to take back what she said about God or face the consequences,’ El said. ‘What do you have to say, First Mate?’

‘I’m not taking anything back.’

‘Just say you take it back.’

‘No.’

El gave a long sigh. ‘Let’s vote. Annie?’

‘Punishment,’ Annie said, tossing her red hair and grinning with sharp teeth. When she growled at me, I blanched.

‘Punishment,’ Belle said, twisting a gold ribbon between her fingers, her expression sorrowful. ‘I’m so sorry, Cat, but you can’t believe in us and God – you have to pick.’

Old Joe voted the same, although he also looked sorry to have to do it. He’d lost a daughter my age in the last big Boomtown shootout. Pogo giggled loud and long before shouting ‘Punishment!’ louder and longer through his bullhorn. When they were in the Clown Café, the Clowns were passive, quiet, often afraid. But never in Mirrorland.

‘Quartermaster, how do you vote?’

Ross was only ever allowed on the Satisfaction during day voyages. It seemed to me hugely unfair that he be allowed an equal vote during parleys. He looked at me, and I saw that he was smiling. ‘Punishment.’

I stared at him until his smirk disappeared, his face flushed red, and he looked away. But inside, my hurt eclipsed even my dread.

‘Mouse?’

Mouse glanced left at El and Ross. ‘Forgiveness,’ she whispered.

‘Big surprise,’ El said. ‘So. Looks like the decision is punishment, First Mate.’ Something crept into her eyes then; it gleamed. And I became cold all over when I realised that it was fear.

‘What are you going to do?’

She marched towards me, one hand behind her back, and when she was close enough to touch, she wheeled her arm around and opened her fist.

I shrank from the small piece of black paper sitting in her palm.

‘You have to take it.’

‘I don’t want to.’

We had never used the Black Spot before. Its possibility was an ever-present threat, but until then that’s all it had been. It meant expulsion from Mirrorland. Permanent exile. I couldn’t believe that my going against El on this one thing – a thing I barely cared about – deserved such awfulness. I was horrified, paralysed with shock.

‘Take it,’ El said.

And so I did. Holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it burned.

‘We’ve decided you should be given one last chance to survive,’ El said, but that gleam told me I wouldn’t like it. ‘You’ve one minute to find a hiding place inside Mirrorland, but it has to be a good one. If we find you before one hour is up, you have to leave Mirrorland and you’ll never get to come back. Okay?’

I nodded. Even though it only felt like a stay of execution.

‘Go!’ Annie shouted.

‘Go!’ Pogo shouted. Black panda eyes in a chalk-white face; his bright red grin sealed around the bullhorn.

Ross laughed, Mouse cowered, and El’s eyes shone like silver marbles.

I turned and ran towards Boomtown, my fingers catching against the walls. The post office was too small. The teepees too obvious – and the Lakota Sioux too uncertain an ally. I began to slow, panicky and indecisive, heart hammering in my chest, rejecting any and all hiding places, until I’d run out of time, until I could hear my jubilantly furious punishers stampeding down the alleyway towards me. I ran along the boardwalk, barged through the marshal’s office door, and dove down behind the booking desk made out of old sofa cushions.

I was too frightened, too filled up with dread and inevitable doom, to do much more than cower when, seconds later, someone’s shadow loomed over mine. Mouse’s eyes were big and black and round in her white-painted face.

‘I knew you’d come here,’ she whispered. ‘I knew I’d find you here.’

I thought I could hear a smile in her voice, and I didn’t like it. I thought of all the times I’d been mean to her after El had been mean to me, and wondered if here, now, was where she’d decided to get revenge.

‘Don’t be scared,’ Mouse whispered, and now I could see her smile. Her teeth. ‘I’ll help you, Cat. I’ll save you.’

‘How?’ Because I could hear giggling getting louder, the scratching of Clown feet on stone. I could hear El’s ‘Let’s split up,’ Ross’s low and excited laugh.

Mouse scowled. ‘Ross is mean.’

‘No, he’s not. He’s—’

Her shadow put its hands on its hips. ‘Do you want me to help you?’

My nod was frantic. But she didn’t move, didn’t speak.

I swallowed. Felt the sting of more tears. ‘Ross is mean,’ I whispered.

Mouse dropped down onto her knees beside me. ‘I’ll help you.’

‘How?’

Her smile was back. Ruby-red and wide. ‘You can be me. And I’ll be you.’

I shook my head, retreated farther behind the booking desk.

‘It’s easy!’ she said, eyes glittering as she stood again, spun around in a circle. ‘Look!’ And I saw that her baggy sack dress had been painted with clumsy red splodges to imitate the roses on the matching pinafores El and I wore. That she’d plaited her short hair into stumpy pigtails tied with string instead of ribbon. I saw, too, that she was excited. My predicament made her happy. And that made me shiver. There was a darkness to everyone and everything in Mirrorland. But Mouse had always been the exception.

She crawled behind the desk on her hands and knees. ‘Go and hide!’

When I didn’t, she loomed even closer.

‘You have to hide!’ I could still see the shine of her teeth, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. ‘It’s easy, Cat! If you’re quiet and small and scared in the dark, no one will ever see you. Go!’

I went. Back on the boardwalk, I could see big laughing shadows against the bricked-over door and the teepees, I could smell sweat and sugar and smoke. I could hear Ross’s laughter again, the joy in it. Frightened tears were running down my face as I ran into the Three-Fingered-Joe Saloon. The bar was an old TV box reinforced with bricks and broken wood covered with a tartan blanket. When I heard El shout my name, I jerked open the lid and climbed inside, crouched down on my knees, and buried my face in the blanket’s scratchy warmth.

The dark was nearly suffocating. Please, please, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut. Please don’t let them find me. Please.

Because what would I do without Mirrorland? Without Ross, Annie, Belle, and Mouse? The pirates, the cowboys, the Indians, and the Clowns? What would I do without Captain Henry? What would I do without El? I would be alone. I would be stuck inside a cold, grey, empty, frightening world.

An hour is an eternity if you spend it hiding in a box waiting for the very worst to happen. When the adrenaline started to wear off, it was replaced with a kind of weary doomed acceptance that returned as quickly to horror when I heard loud footsteps on the saloon’s floor.

Please. Please.

I heard the bony thud of knees. The shuffle of someone moving closer. Opening the lid.

It was El.

‘Please don’t tell,’ I whispered. ‘Please don’t make me leave Mirrorland and never ever come back. Please!’

Her expression was in shadow. ‘You’re crying.’

And I realised that I hadn’t stopped. The realisation made my tears come faster; made the pain bigger, scarier. I gripped her wrist. ‘Please don’t tell!’

‘Stop it!’ El hissed. ‘Let me go.’

‘You’ll say you found me.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Yes, you will.’

‘No, I won’t, dummy. You’re my sister. Why would I want you out of Mirrorland?’

So you can have it – and Ross – all to yourself, was what I thought and didn’t dare say.

‘We will not leave each other,’ she whispered. ‘Come on! Say it.’

I swallowed. Let go of her wrist. ‘We will not leave each other.’

She nodded. ‘Never so long as we live.’

Every pirate code was in code. And ours meant Trust me. Trust me and no one else.

‘It’s just fifteen more minutes,’ she said.

And then she closed the lid, leaving me in darkness.

It wasn’t fifteen minutes. Endless leg cramps fed my panic, my claustrophobia, my uncertainty. When the lid was finally opened again, I no longer cared about consequences or banishment or being alone in a cold, grey, empty, frightening world.

I got up on legs that were numb and prickling, the Black Spot still crushed inside my palm. El stood inside the saloon, and everyone else stood behind her. She didn’t look relieved so much as triumphant. ‘You did really great. We’ve all agreed that you’re forgiven.’

I never thought the Black Spot was Ross’s idea. I never blamed him at all. Maybe El’s diary was wrong. Maybe her version of that day is no truer than mine. Because a memory, after all, just like a belief, can still be a lie.

But she was right about me being jealous. Of course she was, because who wouldn’t be? She and Ross conspired to exclude me in the only way children can: with looks and laughs and whispered conversations that ceased whenever I got within earshot. They were both cruel, there’s no denying that. I can still remember that feeling, and far too readily: the heart-breaking agony of being discarded by both of them. The endless worrying about what I had done wrong, what I was doing wrong, and never knowing it was nothing at all. Is that what I’m supposed to be understanding from these email clues, these diary extracts, these unwelcome reminders of our past seeping back in like damp through a badly proofed wall? That Ross was always hers, even in the beginning? Or that she always kept secrets from me – that, pirate code or no, she had never trusted me? Or does she just want me to know that I’m wrong? That something else I believe in doesn’t exist? That she won’t ever be coming back?

Ross has gone out. I’m both relieved and worried. And embarrassed. This time he hasn’t left me a note. I sit at the kitchen table, google ‘how to track the original location of an email’, and trawl through the results until I find one that doesn’t make me want to frisbee the laptop across the kitchen. My first attempt turns up Private IP Address – No Info. My second, the address of the Google mail server in Kansas. Two coffees later, I’ve managed to install a mail tracker add-on, but if I want it to trace an address, I need to send El a new email.

After typing ‘EL’ in the subject line followed by ten minutes of staring at the screen, I take DS Logan’s card out of my wallet and pick up my phone.

‘DS Logan.’

‘Hi, this is Cat. Catriona Morgan. Em, Ellice MacAuley’s—’

‘Cat. Hi.’ His voice changes, and I immediately want to hang up. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, it’s fine. I mean, I – I just wanted to ask you a question.’

‘Sure. Fire away.’

‘I was just wondering … did you ever suspect that El was sending herself those cards?’

For a moment, he doesn’t reply, and I realise that I’m holding my breath, without actually knowing what I want him to say. When I find my gaze wandering to those tiles in front of the Kitchener again, I screw my eyes shut.

‘No,’ is what he does say. ‘We never did.’

When I end the call and start typing, I realise that my hands are shaking. They won’t stop.

If you’re in trouble, please just tell me. Please.

I’ll believe you.

And then I wait.

CHAPTER 9

It’s not until I’m halfway across the grassy Links that I realise where I’m going. The afternoon is cold and dry, but the clouds on the horizon are slate grey and growing darker. I walk briskly through the parkland, looking around at the old sycamores and elms pushed and pulled by the wind. Remembering how much bigger, denser, more threatening their spectres had been inside that silent, grey-pink dawn.

The ruined plague kiln squats on the ground like a stone turret cut down from its castle, and I can’t help thinking of all the bodies buried on top of one another underneath this grass more than four hundred years ago. Or of their swollen black and tormented ghosts, eternally searching the Links for their burned possessions. Grandpa’s stories were always very different from Mum’s: deliciously gruesome and lacking in any kind of lesson or moral at all. The back of my neck prickles, and I swing around, thrust out my hands as if to stop what – or who – I’m suddenly certain is behind me. But there is no one. The few other inhabitants of the park are nowhere near me, nor are they looking my way. Stop.

I leave the Links, walk along street after street – some cobbled, some tarmacked – old Georgian terraces opposite modern glass-walled, metal-framed apartment blocks; cosy bistros alongside grubby newsagents with window bars. The air is heavy with fried food, cigarette smoke, the exhausts of slow-moving school buses. But what I see are old gothic houses where the murderers of children live and lurk and haunt; what I smell is the sharp brine of the sea, of safety, of escape.

The ten-storey apartment blocks on the corner of Lochinvar Drive are new. They hide the firth from view for just that little bit longer, and I pass them slowly, heading down the drive and past a weather-beaten sign: ‘WELCOME TO GRANTON HARBOUR’. Halfway along the drive, the heavens finally open, and I pull up the hood of my anorak, yank its drawstring tight. I left El’s cashmere coat at home, partly because of the weather, and mostly because this is one of the last places anyone reported seeing her. It feels strange to be here, makes me feel oddly self-conscious, as if I’m doing something wrong. I could well be. Nothing, I suppose, has the potential to fuck up a missing-person investigation like an identical twin wandering about unchecked.

The Royal Forth Yacht Club is a low brown building with small windows. I can hear the yachts before I get close enough to the water to see them: that familiar jostle and rattle of wind, water, and metal. The harbour pontoon is busy, packed full of boats attached to bobbing buoys.

The wind and rain have woven together a grey-white shifting mist that has obscured visibility in the west nearly entirely, but to the north, I can just about make out the volcanic rise of the Binn and the rocky coastline of Kinghorn. The low stone slip that I remember so well is still here beyond the harbour wall, still mostly submerged. Now, where the warehouse stood, there is only a car park and boatyard, full of forlorn-looking sailboats sitting up on blocks.

Too many years in LA have stripped me of any immunity against relentless wind and rain, and so I stop to take a breather, squint along the harbour wall and out to the wild and dark firth. It feels like El is still here. Why here? That’s what I can’t work out. Because it can’t – it can’t – be a coincidence that the place we ran to all those years ago is the place El has disappeared from now. That here, where our second life began, is where everyone believes El’s has ended. I feel a ghost of that silvery, shivery dread. That unravelling coil of what if?

I hear the startled ‘Shit!’ before I see the owner of it: a young man, hunkered down against the pier wall. He’s looking at me, one hand clutching at the lapel of his very obviously not waterproof jacket. His second ‘Shit’ lacks the shock of the first, and of course, I realise what’s happened. Again.

‘I’m not—’

‘I know.’ He gets up with a grimace that suggests he’s been there for a while. ‘You’re Cat, El’s twin sister. I’m Sathvik Brijesh. Vik.’

He’s younger than I first thought. Not handsome, not in the conventional sense that Ross is anyway. His face is kind rather than arresting. He clears his throat and nods once, stares at me in a way that should be unnerving but isn’t. I know it’s only because he’s seeing El. His shoulders sag. ‘I’m an artist. El and I met at a portrait exhibition that was showing our work: “Blank Masks, Hidden Faces”.’

When he smiles, I realise that he is handsome after all. The skin around his eyes crinkles. ‘By day, I’m a lot less interesting: an underwriter for LMI. I share an open-plan office with ninety-nine other people. It won an award.’ He makes quote marks with his fingers. ‘“Most efficient use of people-space”. Sexy, right?’

He shakes his head, turns back to look out at the firth. ‘I’ve been coming here … I don’t know why. To feel closer to her, I suppose.’ He closes his eyes. ‘And I enjoy being battered to bits by the weather, it calms me down.’

I like him. El probably liked him too. I bend down to pick up a small stone. When I throw it into the water, it leaves behind a slowly widening circle pricked by raindrops. ‘“I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim.”’

‘She said you were funny.’

‘She did?’ This seems as likely as Marie’s Ellice told me all about you, of course.

‘She talked about you a lot.’

We’re talking about her in the past tense, I realise. Just like Ross.

‘Did you ever go out on her boat?’

Vik looks at me quickly, sharply, as if surprised by the question. ‘No. I get seasick watching The Blue Planet.’ He looks over at all the neon buoys in the water. ‘It was a good-looking sailboat, though,’ he says. ‘All shiny mahogany and chrome fittings.’ He smiles again. ‘When she bought it, it was called Dock Holiday.’

‘D’you know which mooring was hers?’

He frowns, points to a yellow buoy close to the eastern breakwater wall. ‘I think that one, but I’m not sure. Around there anyway. She needed to taxi out.’

‘She doesn’t like yellow.’

‘What?’

‘Yellow. She hates it. I always hated red and she always hated yellow.’ I stare at the buoy. ‘I forgot that.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Sorry. Ever since I’ve come back it’s like I’ve only just remembered that there’s so much I’ve forgotten.’ I pause, look at Vik. ‘I suppose you think she’s dead too?’

He looks at me. ‘Yes.’ He says it carefully, like I’m a bomb that might otherwise go off.

‘Did she tell you she was getting threatening letters?’

‘Cards, not letters,’ he replies. Nods.

I take in a breath, hold it, let it go. ‘She’s sending me emails.’

‘She sent you emails?’

‘No. She’s sending me emails. Today. Yesterday. Since she’s gone missing.’

‘What do they say?’ he says, in that same careful voice.

‘Nothing important. But I know they’re from her.’

‘Do they say they’re from her?’

I grit my teeth, suddenly angry. ‘That doesn’t mean that they’re not. They are.’

‘And these emails, they say that she’s alive?’ There’s nothing at all in his expression that says he believes this for a minute.

I shake my head, force myself to say nothing more. To tamp down my frustrations and doubts and what ifs until they’re flat and quiet again.

‘Look,’ Vik finally says. ‘Could we swap numbers? I just … it’s hard only getting information from news reports. I thought maybe you could let me know if anything …’

‘Fine.’

I give him my number, and he texts me his, and then we fall silent again, while the rain comes down harder, bounces up from the tarmac.

‘She was terrified of him.’

I turn my head so fast, my hair whips against my face, stinging my skin. ‘What?’

Vik’s eyes are wet, and he’s looking anywhere, everywhere, but at me. ‘She was terrified. In the last few months, she changed.’ His voice is lower, harder. ‘She’d lost weight, she wasn’t sleeping. She had bruises.’

‘Who is him?’

‘Cat. Maybe you should—’

‘Who?’

But, of course, I already know what he’s going to say before he says it. I watch the up-and-down bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. When he finally looks at me, his expression is as sorrowful as it is certain.

‘Her husband.’

I go back to Westeryk Road because there’s nowhere else I can go. And there’s some defiance in it too, I suppose. I might be starting to believe that El could be in trouble – or worse – but I don’t believe even for one moment that Ross has done away with her. Any more than I believe that she was terrified of him.

The house is in darkness. There’s another envelope on the hessian doormat. The late afternoon light bisects my name, exposing only CAT.

I pick it up, rip it open. A picture of a teddy bear sitting in a hospital bed with a thermometer in his sad mouth, another teddy bear standing anxiously alongside. Get Well Soon.

And inside: YOU’LL DIE TOO

I turn around, run back down the path, through the gate, and onto the street. I look left and right, but there’s no one there. The card could have sat on that mat for hours. It starts to rain again: fat cold splashes against my skin, my hair. I screw the card inside my fist.

‘Fuck off!’

It hurts my throat, but I don’t care. A double-decker goes past, and heads swivel towards me in bored interest. I go back up the steps, slam the red front door shut, and the house shouts back its echoed outrage. And I don’t care.

The Witch is dragging me along a black corridor into darkness, her fingers pinching my skin, her breath loud and laboured in my ear. And I’ve been shouting for too long; my voice is only a whisper. ‘No, no! I don’t want to go!’

Belle and Mouse race towards me, take hold of my arms to pull me back into the light.

‘Sail away with us,’ Belle cries. ‘Come with us!’ Her boot heels scream against stone as the Witch pulls us along behind her.

Tears are streaming down Mouse’s cheeks. ‘We have to go to Mirrorland! She can’t get you there. You’re safe in Mirrorland!’

And then El comes out of the darkness. Her face covered in paint, thick and careless as if spread by a knife. She grabs hold of the Witch, wraps an arm around her neck. Turns to me with bright fury in her grey-blue eyes. ‘RUN!’

It takes a few terrifying seconds to orientate myself. I’m lying on my bed in the Clown Café. It’s harder to shake the nightmare off, and I’m glad to be distracted by the sound of raised voices.

I get up, go downstairs on unsteady legs. DS Logan, DI Rafiq, and another younger woman are standing next to the kitchen table. Ross is pacing, pulling at his hair. When he sees me in the doorway, his reaction is one of furious relief.

‘They’re giving up, Cat! I told you, didn’t I?’ He barrels towards me, eyes wild. ‘I told you they’d fucking give up!’ I see the moment he remembers that I’m the very opposite of his ally in this, and he stops, retreats, drops his hands to his sides.

‘We’re not giving up, Ross,’ Rafiq says, and to her credit, she does look like she means it. She glances at me. ‘The MRCC mission co-ordinator has called off the search. The official suspension will be announced tomorrow.’

The gunslinger. I can feel some prickle of Ross’s anger myself.

‘It’s been six days,’ Rafiq says.

‘I don’t care!’ Ross explodes. His eyes are rolling and big veins stand out like ropes on both sides of his neck. His knuckles are so white they look nearly translucent. ‘You need to find her. You need to find her! I can’t stand this!’

The young woman puts her hand on his shoulder, whispers something in his ear, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, looks at the ceiling with shining wet eyes.

‘I’m Shona Murray, the family liaison officer,’ she says to me, still squeezing Ross’s shoulder. Her voice is high and squeaky like a child’s. ‘It’s really good to meet you finally.’ As if we’re at a family wedding.

I turn to Rafiq. ‘You have to keep looking for her.’

Ross has never been a great actor. Everything he thinks, feels, has always been writ large on his face, in his actions. He really is terrified that they’re going to stop looking for El. He really is terrified that she’ll never be found. And I realise now that I can’t face the prospect of them never finding her either. Because it isn’t just Ross’s life that’s stopped, it’s mine too. She needs to be found, she deserves to be found. Even if it means I have to pledge false allegiance to that something bad has happened; a euphemism for dead that’s almost as annoying as the fact that everyone seems so determined to believe that she is.

‘Like I said,’ Rafiq says, ‘we’ve not given up. But we’ve only limited resources.’ Behind her, I see Logan wince, and like him a little better for it. ‘El can’t be considered high-risk indefinitely, especially when the Coastguard …’ She stops, shakes her head. A flustered DI Kate Rafiq is more unnerving than I might have expected.

I save her by saying the words myself. ‘Thinks she’s dead.’

She clears her throat. ‘We’ll stay in touch with the MRCC. They’ll contact us if they discover anything new.’ This time, she doesn’t hesitate, even though we all know exactly what she means. ‘And we’ll keep El’s missing-person case open, review it periodically, resume active investigations the minute any new information comes to light.’

Ross is right. They’re giving up. I watch Rafiq pick up her black coat and black umbrella, think of her standing in the Throne Room and telling us, We’ll find her.

‘Right, well, we’ll leave you to it. Shona’ll stay as long as you need her to.’ Rafiq nods towards Shona, who’s still hovering beside Ross like a bad smell, giving him doe eyes and oozing silent sympathy.

‘Did you get any forensics off the card?’ I say, as Rafiq tries to pass me in the doorway.

‘No.’ Her expression is entirely impassive.

‘I got another one today.’

My scowl freezes as everyone looks at me.

Rafiq’s mouth presses thin, the only outward indication that I’ve pissed her off. ‘Was I not clear about you getting in touch with us straightaway if you got any more?’

‘I didn’t think you’d care.’ And I know I’m being unfair. I know that my anger, my frustration, is massively displaced, but I can’t help it. In America, I was watertight. Here, now, I’m leaking from just about every well-soldered joint.

‘Where is it?’

I run upstairs, get the card from the Clown Café. Bring it back to Rafiq, who drops it into an evidence bag and then leaves without another word.

‘Hey,’ Logan says, pulling me gently by the arm back into the hallway. ‘You okay?’

I’m so tired all of a sudden. I wonder what he would do if I just leaned my head against his big chest and stayed there.

‘Yeah.’

‘Look, don’t mind the boss.’ He smiles. ‘Her bark’s worse than her bite, believe me.’ His hand is still on my arm, but his smile fades as he looks at me. ‘Is there something else?’

‘No.’ I should tell him about the emails and the diary pages. But I know I won’t. Unlike the cards, they aren’t overtly threatening. That they are threatening is something that I can finally admit to myself. But I’m certainly not about to tell Logan – or anyone else – why. Not if I don’t have to.

‘You sure?’

I think of El’s reply to my email: DON’T TELL THE POLICE. DON’T TELL ANYONE. YOU’RE IN DANGER. I CAN HELP YOU.

‘I’m sure.’ I try to smile. ‘I’m just jumpy. Ever since I came back here I’ve felt like – I mean, I thought I might have seen someone or … I just, it feels like there’s someone … watching me. Following me.’

Logan’s gaze sharpens. ‘You think someone’s following you?’

I nod. ‘All the time.’

He looks over my shoulder at the kitchen door, and then back at me. ‘On the afternoon of your sister’s disappearance, neighbours reported seeing a suspicious person hanging around outside the house.’

‘Suspicious how?’

‘Just the fact that they seemed to be loitering. And someone in the terrace across the road later saw them coming out the alleyway alongside the house before running off towards the Links.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Average build, anywhere between five-eight and -eleven, black jeans, boots. Wearing a dark parka, hood up. That’s about it.’

‘There was a man yesterday,’ I say. ‘Just standing on the corner of Lochend Road, watching me.’

Logan frowns. ‘Look, it’s probably nothing, okay? But if you see him again, or if you’re worried or concerned about anything – anyone – for any reason, just phone me straightaway. No matter what time it is.’

‘Okay.’

‘Don’t approach them. Just phone.’

‘Okay, DS Logan. I won’t. And I will.’

He gives me a better smile as we reach the front door. He opens it and the hallway floods with bright light as he turns and runs his fingers through his daft hair. ‘It’s just Logan. Craig, if you want. My mum named me after a bloody Proclaimer.’

And then he steps out, closes the door, and the hallway returns to gloom. I go back to the kitchen, but something makes me stop at its closed door. On the other side, I can hear the chink of teaspoons against china, Ross’s murmured thanks.

‘If you need help in arranging anything, that’s what I’m here for,’ Shona says. ‘I know you’ve got the helpline and counselling numbers, but I’ve information about more practical things: organising a private memorial or—’

‘No.’ Ross’s voice is sharp, hoarse.

‘Okay, you’re right. It’s probably too early for that, but part of my job is to make sure that you’re given all the practical help and information you need for when you do want it.’ She’s stuttering a bit now, and I’m spitefully glad. A fucking memorial? Is she serious? El’s been missing less than a week. ‘Legally, things have moved on a lot in the last few years, but it’s still very difficult for the relatives of a missing person to organise their affairs.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ross sounds a lot less indignant than he should.

The legs of a chair scrape against the tiled floor. ‘I’m not saying you should do it now, or that you’re ready to do it now, but when a person has gone missing, and there’s no body or a medical certificate to say that they have legally died, it’s up to you to raise an action to satisfy a court that the missing person is presumed to be dead. If you’re successful – and Ross, you probably don’t want to hear this either, but you will be – the court will notify the registrar general and then the death can be registered. It used to be that you had to wait a minimum of seven years to register a missing person’s death, but not any more. I know you don’t want to think about the practical side of all this, but you do need to prepare yourself. There will be an awful lot to sort out.’

If she says ‘practical’ one more time in her ridiculous voice, I think I might strangle her. I can’t actually understand why Ross isn’t strangling her.

I open the kitchen door with a little more force than necessary. Ross stands up, pulls both of his hands free of Shona’s.

‘Would you like some tea, Cat?’ she asks, cheeks flushed.

‘No tea,’ I say, but I’m not looking at her, I’m looking at Ross.

I make a long production of making myself coffee instead, and Shona gets ready to leave, with earnest promises to return tomorrow or the next day or whenever Ross needs her to.

‘I’ll see you out,’ I say, with a tight smile.

Inside the entrance hall, I put my hand on the night latch, and before I open the front door, I turn to face her. ‘She’s not dead.’

‘What?’ She has a scattering of light brown freckles across her nose. Her white-blonde hair looks like it would snap in a stiff breeze. She’s like a fucking pixie.

‘She’s not dead,’ I say again, and when I lean closer, my smile, I know, is El’s: wide, cold, mocking. ‘Too bad for you.’

CHAPTER 10

9 April 2018 at 06:56

Inbox

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 4. IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES

Sent from my iPhone

9 April 2018 at 07:02

Inbox

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: EL

To: Me

I’M NOT IN TROUBLE. BUT YOU ARE

Sent from my iPhone

I find the diary page inside a battered copy of A Tale of Two Cities, on the shelf below El’s self-portrait. It was her favourite book for a long time: the horror of it, the brutality; Madame Defarge and her knitting needles. She used to laugh at me for loving Anne of Green Gables instead.

October 12th, 1997: 11Y, 3M, 12D

Mum is always making us read or reading to us. She NEVER stops! But at least now they’re not baby stories or Shakespeare (YUKK). Now they’re much more exiting – about wars and spies and murder! We just finished Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption which is a stupid name but the book is the best!!! Its about a guy called Andy Dufrain whose in prison for murder but he didn’t do it and he spends the next 27 YEARS! planning his escape. Its BRILLYANT!!! He has to use this tiny hammer to tunnel thru 4 feet of concrete and then he has to crawl thru a pipe full of SHIT!!! For 500 YARDS!!! IMMENSE/INSANE!!!!!!

The bit at the very end when his freind Red gets let out and he realises Andy has left him money and has set up a new life for him too is even more BRILLYANT! It made me cry which was SOOOOO embarassing but I don’t care cos I LOVE it.

I LOVE MY MUM TOO

I LOVE CAT (sometimes!!! When she’s not being a BITCH!!! Ha)

Mum never wavered in her belief that everything in life could be learned from books. By the time El and I were ten, she’d moved on from reading us fairytales to Shakespeare, T. S. Eliot, Dickens, Christie. Books piled up in that cupboard in the Princess Tower as we rattled through story after story: The Tempest, The Count of Monte Cristo, Crooked House, Jane Eyre, The Man in the Iron Mask.

By eleven, Mum had progressed to more contemporary novels: The Hobbit, Papillon, Sophie’s Choice, Slaughterhouse-Five, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. She started reading Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption to us during the long, wet autumn of 1997. I can still see her sitting on the pantry’s windowsill, ankles crossed, swinging her feet. Her voice, when she read to us, was never high and hectoring or fearful, it was slow and calm and steady. Less than a week after finishing it, Andy Dufresne had supplanted Madame Defarge, and El had turned Boomtown into the Shank. And less than a year after that, Mum was dead. And Mirrorland was no more.

I screw up the diary page inside my fist, watch the sky above Westeryk Road grow lighter. Today there are no what ifs. No shame or guilt or worry. Today, I’m angry. I offered El an olive branch, I offered her help, and all I got back was another clue, another page of her diary. It’s so childish. Like she’s trying to reboot me, restore old files she imagines are deleted. Does she really think I’ve forgotten our lives in this house? Choosing not to think of something is not the same as forgetting. The past is past. It’s done and gone. I listened when Mum told me to see the good instead of only the bad because I saw how miserable seeing only the bad had made her. Since leaving this house – since running away from it – I’ve lived by that philosophy. And the closer those diary extracts get to September the 4th, 1998, the closer they get to the day – the night – that Mum and Grandpa died, that El and I ran, the more I’m glad I have. It’s taken a lot for me to get to where I am, to shake off the weight of my first life in this house. And I won’t let El manipulate me, for whatever reason, into picking it back up. Or into having to explain the sad and bad story of our childhood to someone else – and definitely not the police.

The tracker. I run back downstairs to the kitchen. Open the laptop, and get the password wrong twice before I can finally access my inbox. ‘Come on.’

I click on the email, tick the small mail-tracker box. ‘Email opened once 1hr 14 mins ago.’ My heart is beating slow and heavy as the page starts to load. ‘Come on.’

And then there it is:

John Smith 1hr 14 mins ago

EL

Location: Lothian, Scotland

City: Edinburgh

iPhone 7 secs, 1 view

I press the palm of my left hand against my cheek. My face is burning. Here. She’s still here. I don’t know what I expected. The Outer Hebrides? The Bahamas? But she’s here. El is still here.

The graveyard is old, perched high on a bitterly cold hill. Ross and I have to pick our way through haphazard rows of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century graves: huge drunken stones chiselled into skulls and angels, vast grey slabs on stony stilts dressed in white and yellow lichen. The newer graves are far more modest and close together; most house only interred ashes.

It takes Ross a while to remember where the plot is, but when he does, I feel suddenly nervous. For a moment, I stand as still as the wind will allow, looking down at the black headstone, its ornate gold writing, so much like those cards left on the hessian mat. I wonder who put it there, who paid for it. Ignore the shiver that skates between my shoulder blades.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

ROBERT JOHN FINLAY

AGED 72 YEARS

AND HIS DAUGHTER

NANCY FINLAY

AGED 36 YEARS

WHO BOTH DIED 4th SEPTEMBER 1998

GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

‘You know they’re called lairs?’

‘What?’

‘The graves.’ Ross nods down at the grass, mouth a grim line. I wonder if he regrets agreeing to bring me here. ‘Pretty appropriate.’

I turn towards him. ‘Why did you always hate him so much?’

He gives me a sharp, almost suspicious look. And then he shakes his head, looks down at the neighbouring gravestones instead. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

I think it does is on the tip of my tongue. But Grandpa was always grumpy bordering on mean, I can’t pretend he wasn’t. A flash of Mum standing at the kitchen table, dishing out stew as she described in a careful monotone the cleaning job she’d seen in the paper. Grandpa looking up from his plate. Ye’re better aff doin’ whit ye’re good at, hen. Giving us a nod and a wink that made him look no less pissed off. Lookin’ efter the hoose and these fine wee lassies, eh? And so, of course, she had. Grandpa never got the sharp end of her tongue. He never had to run around the house fleeing from imaginary fires or intruders or apocalypses.

I’m bending down to put the white roses that I picked from the garden into the grave vase when I realise it’s already full. Pink gerberas. Mum’s favourite. Strangely, I find this even more disconcerting than the fact that they’re no more than a few days old.

‘Who left them?’

Ross looks down. Shrugs.

‘Don’t you think that’s weird? That someone would leave fresh flowers at their grave? I mean, who?’ Even though I suspect I know exactly who.

I’m rewarded only with another unconcerned shrug. Ross seems different today. Lighter. Perhaps because he’s finally given up on trying to carry both hope and grief around in the same bag and has plumped for the latter. I don’t entirely blame him, and I still don’t think for a moment that Vik is right about him, but his unwavering grief both irritates and unnerves me. As if he’d rather suffer it than entertain even the possibility that El has left him voluntarily. As if he’d rather believe she was dead. It’s a nasty thought, I suppose, a snide one. That probably has more than a little to do with the memory of that stark look of horror on his face. And the long-fallowed fields that El’s diary extracts are ploughing through, churning up sour dirt.

‘I saw spare vases by the main gates,’ he says. ‘I’ll go get one.’

As I watch him march away, I try to ignore my resentment, my regret. We haven’t spoken about the kiss, haven’t even mentioned it, but we can barely look each other in the eye, and our uneasy truce is just that: uneasy. Untrustworthy. I look down at the grave and I think about that I LOVE CAT, and perhaps inevitably, I think about the Rosemount.

I’ve never had the same difficulty remembering our second life as I do our first. My chest aches when I think of the Rosemount Care Home, a Victorian mansion that had once been a Catholic orphanage. The kind of cold, high-ceilinged, gargoyled monstrosity that makes you think about lunatic asylums and mass graves in the cellar. The carers were nice enough, not kind exactly, but sympathetic to our plight inasmuch as they could be. No one in the Rosemount was ever of any real use to us, because we didn’t allow them to be. We were twelve-year-old runaways and that was it, that was all we had sworn to tell anyone. Including that Old Salty Dog who found us at dawn, waiting patiently at the harbourside for our pirate ship to arrive. It was probably the one promise we ever made to each other that we actually kept.

I cried more, but I suffered less, I can see that now. El stayed angry, defiant. Untouchable. She withdrew from everything and everyone, until I was the only one who kept trying to make her stop. Her elaborate plans for our future were furious, impervious: as soon as we turned eighteen we would leave Edinburgh and move abroad. She would be a portrait artist and I’d be a novelist, and we wouldn’t need anyone. She had to have seen the lie in it, the fantasy. Because when we were alone in our room, she would talk incessantly, obsessively, only about Mirrorland and everything, everyone, in it as if they were what was real, what was important, what was unchanged. I miss them, she would say, over and over again like a mantra, like a wish while clicking ruby-red heels. I understood why, even then. Lies and secrets are hard, but pretending you don’t care is harder. And I had a bad secret of my own back then. It wasn’t Mum or Grandpa that I missed the most. It was Ross.

I hear him come back. His expression is still hard. Unreadable. ‘You okay?’

I nod, and he hunkers down to put the roses in the vase. When he stands up again, the atmosphere between us pulls thinner, even more tense. I want so badly to tell him about the tracker, but that would mean explaining the emails, why I haven’t told him about the emails or the hidden diary pages, and everything between us still feels too raw, too fragile, too much like this. I don’t have the courage.

I remember sitting next to him on a crate in the Three-Fingered-Joe Saloon. El had temporarily defected to the Indians, and was planning a surprise attack on Boomtown, and we were pretending not to be waiting for it. It must have been autumn or winter; the air was cold enough to fog the space between us. It had to have been close to the end of Boomtown and the beginning of the Shank too, because it’s one of my last memories of the saloon.

Ross had been quiet, almost pensive, until finally he turned to me, his gaze sharp, unblinking. ‘Tell me about The Island.’

And I smiled. Glad that he was talking to me. Glad that he wanted something from me. Even though I knew it was only because El wasn’t there to ask.

‘It’s called Santa Catalina, and it’s in the Caribbean, and it’s amazing. It’s got beaches and lagoons and mangroves and palm trees. Captain Henry’s going to take us there because it’s his favourite place in the world. He built a fort there and a huge house, and the islanders have named streets and villages and even a big rock after him because they love him so much.’

And Ross gave me that same sharp dark look. ‘Why doesn’t he come back and do it, then? Your dad. Why doesn’t he take you there?’

‘I don’t know.’ I stopped smiling. I stopped feeling glad. ‘Mum says he will come back. One day.’

His eyes became even fiercer than before, the silver flecks inside them flashing, and I was suddenly afraid of him, of his anger, of what he was going to say. His lips turned thin. Mean. ‘Don’t believe her. People lie, Cat. They lie all the time.’

Perhaps that memory gives me courage, because I turn towards him now, put out my hand to stop him walking away.

‘Are you going to tell me why you’re pissed off with me?’

‘I’m not pissed off with you.’ But he presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids.

‘I would have told you about the second card, Ross. There just wasn’t any time before—’

‘You need to be honest with me, Cat. You need to tell me everything. We need to present a united front to the police, okay?’ He grabs hold of my hand; his is icy cold. ‘I told you that Rafiq isn’t taking the investigation seriously.’

I don’t think that’s true, but then again, I don’t think that a lot of things Ross believes are true. I look down at our hands. ‘Okay. I will. I’m sorry.’

He exhales, long and low. Lets go of my fingers.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘The other night—’

‘Was a mistake,’ he says quickly, looking away.

I nod. Ignore that old melancholic ache.

‘We were both tired, upset. That’s all it was.’ A smile. ‘That and Laphroaig.’

I try a smile of my own. It’s probably as convincing.

‘I didn’t …’ He clears his throat. ‘Cat. I want you to know that when I kissed you back it wasn’t because I thought … it wasn’t because you reminded me of El, or, you know, because I was imagining that you were El.’ He looks at me. ‘I don’t want you to think that.’

‘I don’t,’ I say. Because that, I have to allow him. Ross always saw us as separate. As different. He was one of the very few who ever did. That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

We return to the house. And as soon as we reach the entrance hall, that oppressive weight drops back down onto our shoulders, goading us, cowing us, pushing us apart.

When I pick the envelope up, turn the CATRIONA away to open it, Ross leans against a crimson-red wall, a muscle working inside his cheek.

‘What does it say?’

I look down at the HE WILL HURT YOU TOO in vivid red. Look up at the raw bruised skin around Ross’s eyes.

I close the card, close the hallway door. ‘Just more of the same.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, turning away from me and towards the darkness of the hallway.

And I think of my nineteenth birthday. When El’s fixed plans for the future – our future – were already supposed to have been well underway. And instead, I spent it inside a grubby dull waiting room with grubbier sofas and a plastic-framed seascape of rocks and sand and waves. And I said goodbye to it inside the stark white bright of a hospital side room. Looking at El looking at me. Swaddled in too-tight sheets, that bloodstained bandage pulling at the cannula in the back of her hand. Smiling that smile I’ve never been able to forget: tired and trembling, but filled with so much joy. So much hate. The croak of her voice, the laughter in it.

I win.

CHAPTER 11

10 April 2018 at 15:36

Inbox

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 5. WHERE THE CLOWNS HIDE

Sent from my iPhone

I get down on my knees on the Clown Café floor and lift up the bed’s valance, wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I can see only one thing. Square and black. A terrible suspicion has me lunging for it, pulling it out into the light. I hear Mum’s voice – high and furious – turning the rucksack upside down, scattering powder packs, tins of food, and a plastic bottle onto the bedroom floor. These are off! This is empty! For God’s sake, Catriona, why are you so useless? This is important! Will you never just do as you’re bloody told, you stupid girl? But it’s not a black canvas rucksack. It’s a lantern. Foggy windows of glass and sharp metal edges. An old candle burned to the bottom of its wick. A rusty hook. It’s almost exactly the same as the lantern that hung from the stern of the Satisfaction. That still hangs from the stern of the Satisfaction. A lantern that three days ago made me shudder hard enough to make my bones crack. Taped to this one’s metal frame is another diary page.

February 16th, 2004

Cat doesn’t get it. She doesn’t even try to get it. It’s like she doesn’t want to. She’s an idiot. She thinks if she pretends something hasn’t happened then it hasn’t happened. But if you forget something, you might forget Everything. And that’s just dumb. That’s what makes you an idiot. Sometimes I hate her for it. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a sister at all. Sometimes I wish she would just disappear.

I don’t want to think about the El in the Rosemount any more. I don’t want to think about El any more. I hate that I can hear her voice: her snide and mocking scorn. I hate that she can still reach me, hurt me. Make me feel shame so big it’s as if I’m the one disappearing.

I shove both the page and the lantern back under the bed, and begin tearing around the Clown Café like a woman possessed, opening drawers and cupboards, looking under ornaments and books. There are only so many rooms in this house, and El’s treasure hunts were endless: often, there could be three or more clues hidden in every room. She always hated it when I did this – when I found clues out of sequence – but I am sick of blindly dancing to her tune. I pull hard on the dress-up cupboard door. When it won’t budge, I pull harder. It opens with a sticky protest. There are no face paints, wigs, or jumpsuits. It’s completely empty apart from the small square of paper on its only shelf.

I feel suddenly afraid. The hair on the back of my neck stands up stiff, like a long bony hand is inches away from falling heavy onto my shoulder.

August 10th, 1998

Something’s coming. Something’s nearly here.

Sometimes I’m so scared I forget how to breathe. I forget that I can.

The bells scare me all the time. It’s what comes after the bells really I know but it’s the bells I think about the most. Sometimes I think I hear them when I don’t. Sometimes I dream them and wake up with my hand on the door handle to run. Or shaking Cat hard enough to make her teeth chatter. Sometimes I wake up downstairs and those times scare me the most. What if one night the DEADLIGHTS find me before I wake up? Once I woke up on the main deck of the Satisfaction. The wind was too loud and the port tacking sails were flapping like sheets hanging out to dry in the garden. And I know it was because I was trying to look for Dad. Because why does he never come back when HE always does? When ALL the bad ones always do? More often now. All the time.

I drop the page, slam the door shut, run to the bed, and pick up my laptop.

What do you want??? Please, El, just tell me what’s going on.

The reply is immediate. I’M NOT EL. EL IS DEAD.

And still I can’t resist. Even though I know – I know – that resisting is the only sane response left to me.

Then who the fuck are you?

This time, she makes me wait for maybe a minute.

I’M MOUSE.

‘Let’s go out,’ Ross says. ‘I’m sick to death of staring at these four walls.’

And I can’t say no, because I don’t want to. I want to go just about anywhere as long as it’s not here.

I take a long time getting ready. Too long. I put on one of my few expensive dresses, short and black, trimmed with blue silk thread. I pin up my hair, loose and high. I paint my nails the same red as my lips. And when I look in the mirror, I see El before I see me. And then convince myself I don’t.

At the top of the stairs, I’m suddenly paralysed by an awful sense of foreboding. It makes me want to run back to the Clown Café and stay there. Fingers push against my spine, my shoulder blades. Stop being afraid of falling. Or you’ll always be too afraid to fly.

‘You ready?’ Ross calls from the kitchen. And I grip hold of the bannister, heart thundering, until the vertigo, that old terrible urge to let go, to fall, vanishes to the same dark place as Mum’s furious voice.

The restaurant is along a narrow close off Leith Street, its cobbles lit only by old Victorian lanterns. Ross puts his hand on the small of my back as he opens the door. Inside, it’s busy without being noisy; low-beamed and cosy, with red-and-white chequered tablecloths and chocolate-dark walls.

A fat bearded man waves, makes his way over to us.

‘Ross!’ he says. ‘It’s awfy good to see ye, my friend.’

While he shakes Ross’s hand, I’m treated to a scrutiny as uncertain as it is unsubtle.

‘I heard there was still no news,’ he says, still looking at me, and the penny drops. He thinks I’m El, but at the same time he knows I’m not.

‘No, not yet,’ Ross says. ‘Sorry, this is, em … Cat, El’s twin sister. Cat, this is Michele. He also owns Favoloso in the Old Town.’

Michele shakes his head. ‘Aye, it’s a terrible thing … a terrible thing.’ His gaze slides back to me. ‘It’s uncanny, hen, how much ye look like her.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ross says again. ‘I know we haven’t booked or anything, but I wondered …’

‘Aye, of course, no worries. Come wi’ me.’

We weave around tables until we reach the rear of the restaurant. I can hear the muted clatter and chatter of the kitchen. Michele ushers us towards a corner booth. ‘I’m afraid it’s a wee bit, em …’

It is a wee bit em. The booth chairs are high, and two long-stem candles flicker at each side of the table, a single red rose in a vase between them. There are no other tables anywhere near it. Clearly this is the designated special romantic occasion corner.

‘It’s fine,’ Ross says. ‘Thanks.’

I take off my coat, and when Ross looks at me, I try not to enjoy the brief flare in his eyes.

He clears his throat, sits down. ‘You look great.’

We order some antipasti and a Frascati that Michele recommends. His departure precipitates what seems like an endless procession of waiters to our table. It’s around about the fifth – a teenage boy bearing a second basket of bread – that I realise this is just more scrutiny. I feel like a freak show curiosity.

‘How many times have you and El come here?’

Ross stops pretending to be oblivious, rubs a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Cat. I didn’t think this would be weird, not even when I got here, you know? I’m really, really sorry. D’you want to go?’

‘No. It’s fine.’ Even though it isn’t. But it’s the situation that I’m really angry with, not him. It’s El. The whole Mouse thing isn’t just annoying, it’s snide. Because she’d always really been my friend, not El’s. The Mouse to my Cat. My creation. Her existence meant that I couldn’t ever be at the very bottom of the pecking order; meant, too, that I could always be guaranteed kind company, a sympathetic hearing. And now El’s hijacked even that. So why the hell should Ross and I feel like a sideshow? Why should we feel guilty? We haven’t done anything wrong.

Our starters are delivered to the table by a waitress who tries so hard to avoid looking at us, she ends up nearly dropping Ross’s plate into his lap. It makes me want to laugh, but I can see it just makes Ross even more tense. When she goes, he starts eating like it’s his last meal. I want so much for him to relax. I wish I could take just a small part of his worry, his stress, his pain, and swap it for my anger. But I know he won’t appreciate the effort, won’t even want to listen to it, so all I can do is distract him.

‘D’you remember the Rosemount?’

He stops, fork halfway to his mouth. ‘The Marshalsea Prison?’

‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘It was, according to El.’

‘Not that she isn’t prone to exaggeration.’ The wine has settled my nerves somewhat, stretched me less thin. ‘Remember the Shank in Mirrorland? Now, that was bad.’

‘Of course I remember.’ He looks at me a little too sharply. ‘Do you?’

‘Of course.’

El pretending to be Andy Dufresne, ordering me about: hide there, spy there, look out there. I think of the old gravel yard – replaced now by that flat paving in the back garden – the only part of Mirrorland that was ever outside. An exercise yard that El would insist she and I march around and around for endless, restless hours. Sometimes in the rain, sometimes until dark. Kicking up those silver and grey chuckies. The sound of their crunch and give under our prison boots, their powder chalky against the too-long drag of our prison clothes: Grandpa’s old waxy fishing dungarees and jackets.

Inside the Shank, Ross was always the warder or the wing guard of Cellblock 5, built on top of the old wooden fruit-crates that used to be Boomtown’s boardwalk. I remember his stern glares of authority. The illicit thrill of his threats to lock us up and never let us go. We’d been fast approaching our teens by then; the Shank was the last bad gasp of Mirrorland, I suppose.

‘I remember the Rosemount, but only vaguely,’ Ross says. He refills our glasses. ‘You’d both already done nearly six years’ hard time when I saw you again.’

I’m struck, then, by how easily, how vividly I can remember that day. Its colours, its smells. It was spring cold, coal-smoke sharp and white-pink with blossom. I was leaning against one of the pillars of the Scottish National Gallery, bored, chilly, waiting for El to come out. She could spend all day in an art gallery, from opening to closing, and even though we were barely speaking by then, I was still determined to at least try.

I saw Ross on the other side of Princes Street, coming out of a department store, carrying bags. Even now I can’t describe how seeing him again made me feel. By 2004, the prospect of leaving the Rosemount loomed no longer as an opportunity, but a terrifying prospect. The carers kept talking to us about ageing out as if we were a hundred and fifty instead of seventeen approaching eighteen. They also kept talking us through our options, enough that we knew we had very few. Ross was such a large part of our first life, already long abandoned and left for dead. So when I saw him – taller, bigger, just the same – that first initial bolt of joy and excitement was straightaway tempered with a sense of loss. Unease.

I didn’t move, but he saw me anyway. My heart fluttered and my stomach cramped as he crossed the road, started running. He stopped only when he got to within six feet of me, his breath fogging the space between us, his smile warm and big.

‘Cat.’

‘Hi, Ross.’

There were tears in his eyes before there were tears in mine. But I couldn’t swear to who initiated first contact. One minute, Ross wasn’t in my life any more, and the next his arms were tight around me and my face was pressed up against his chest. And he was all I could smell, breathe, feel.

‘Where have you been? Are you okay?’ The end of his nose was rosy red. His eyes shone. ‘I tried to find you. I tried to find both of you, but …’

‘I’m sorry.’ Because we, of course, had always known where he was. That was part of the deal we’d made with each other at Granton Harbour – nothing from our first life could survive, no matter how much we might want it to.

His grin returned. ‘It’s okay. I’ve found you now.’

And then I know I was the one to hug him, because my face burned hot with working up the nerve to do it. To throw my hands around his neck, feel the broader span of his shoulders under my palms, feel the stranger adult scratch of his cheek against mine.

I didn’t want El to come out of the gallery any more. She would ruin this, I knew. But just as surely as if I’d conjured her, there she was.

Ross let go of me. ‘El?’

If it was a question, she didn’t answer it. I was dreading the moment he stepped past me to her. The moment he touched her, kissed her, pulled her close. The moment when we resumed our old roles; where both of them forgot I even existed.

It didn’t happen. When Ross moved forward, El moved back. Only a few steps, but enough to make Ross pause. ‘El?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I … I just saw Cat standing there, and …’ I saw him swallow hard. His face was a study in hurt confusion.

I turned to look at El, and I could see her annoyance, her frustration with me. I balked at it, because it wasn’t undeserved, but I also wanted to thumb my nose at it too. We were equal, we were separate. She wasn’t the boss of me.

We stood awkwardly, none of us speaking. Eventually, El relented enough to kiss Ross on his cheek.

‘We have to get back.’

‘To where?’ Ross looked at me first, her second.

‘Rosemount Care Home,’ I said, ignoring El’s glare. ‘It’s in Greenside. You could visit?’

‘Come on,’ El said, grasping me by the elbow and hauling me down the steps to the gardens. ‘We have to go.’

‘Just ignore her,’ I said, privately both delighted and ashamed that I was delighted. ‘She’s like this with everyone now.’ Because she was.

El didn’t say a word until we were on the bus and halfway to the home, and then she turned to me, face flushed and furious. ‘We had a deal. This is our new life, and we don’t need anyone else in it.’

I couldn’t understand why she was so upset, but I felt bad. It was her biggest display of emotion in years. ‘But it’s Ross.’

Her expression hardened, but her eyes were wet. ‘I don’t care. We had a deal. And you broke it.’

‘It’s weird,’ I say to Ross now. ‘The things I’m remembering. What happened then and … after.’ I’m in dangerous territory here, I know, but the wine and El’s She thinks if she pretends something hasn’t happened then it hasn’t happened have made me feel reckless. Defensive. ‘The reason I left.’

The candlelight flickers. Our eyes meet.

He drops his gaze first. ‘Maybe some things are better left forgotten.’

‘Maybe. Probably.’ And under the sudden hot flash of hurt, what I’m thinking is definitely. That was, after all, exactly the same philosophy that sent me running for America in the first place. But it’s hard to turn off an engine that someone else has turned on, especially when they still have the keys.

‘I’m thinking of hiring a marine investigator,’ Ross says. He glances at me. ‘You think it’s a bad idea.’

I drink my wine, more annoyed than I should be at the abrupt change in subject. ‘Why did El use that harbour?’

‘What? You mean why did she moor her boat at Granton?’

‘Yes.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s the nearest one. As far as I know it’s the only one. There are no yacht clubs at Leith Docks. Why?’

‘I just wondered, that’s all. I don’t know.’ I rub my fingers over my temples. ‘You really think it’s an accident, don’t you? What’s happened to El. You don’t think someone might have done something to her. You don’t think she’s done something to herself. You don’t think she’s run away.’

He looks at me steadily. ‘Are those questions?’

I don’t say anything. Press my lips together so that I can’t.

‘I want to know who sent those cards to El, who’s sending them to you. But I don’t think whoever it is has done anything to her. I’m just worried that … I’m worried the stress of the fucking things made her do something stupid.’ He leans forwards. ‘And I don’t mean suicide. Yeah, she was depressed, she was a pain in the bloody arse, but she wasn’t suicidal. I told you …’ He must realise how loud he’s being, how animated, because he looks around, lowers his voice. ‘She’d changed. She was different. Distant. Distracted.’ He sighs, closes his eyes. ‘So, yes. I think she went out on that bloody boat, and I think she had an accident.’

I look at him, the shadows under his eyes, the tight hard lines of his frown. ‘You really think she’s dead?’

He doesn’t blink. ‘Yes. I really think she’s dead.’

‘How were your starters?’ Michele says through a smile that has frozen in its beginning, and we both lean away from each other like we’ve been electrocuted.

‘Great, brilliant,’ we mutter, and he stops fake-smiling, takes away our plates without another word.

Ross looks at me, his expression resentful.

‘Where else would she be, Cat? A Travelodge on the M6, living on Game of Thrones and room service? And why? Has your twin ESP, or whatever the fuck you think it is, told you that? Why would she do it?’

The first terrible thought that goes through my head is that Travelodges probably don’t do room service. The second is that angry he looks good, better, less like he’s drowning. The third is what I want to say but won’t. Because she’s playing a game. Because she hates me. Maybe she hates you, too, I don’t know. Maybe you’re still too dumb to see her.

‘Christ,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I know your mum did a number on you, but—’

‘What?’

‘She was textbook delusional disorder. Paranoid, grandiose, persecutory. She filled your heads with shit weird enough to confuse anyone, never mind two kids. Told you over and over that you were special, different, that you couldn’t function without each other, until it was true. No wonder you had such a fucked-up relationship.’

Have, I think, and my fingers tighten on the tablecloth. EL IS DEAD. I’M MOUSE. We have a fucked-up relationship. I nearly laugh, and then think of Mum instead, brushing our hair through long hard strokes: You’re growing up too fast. As if we could stop it. As if the accusation wasn’t entirely at odds with her apocalyptic dread; the adult books she read to us; the bravery she expected of us. The readiness. Those fingers always prodding at my spine, pushing against my shoulder blades. Stop being afraid.

Ross sighs, deflates. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. Letting go only when another waiter walks past. ‘Can we just talk about something – anything – normal? Just for five minutes?’

I pour the last of the wine even though we’re barely halfway through our meal. ‘I guess we can try.’

CHAPTER 12

Four months nearly to the day after we’d bumped into Ross outside the Scottish National Gallery, I woke up in our tiny room in the Rosemount, had breakfast, and snuck off to the communal shower block to get changed into my very best outfit of skinny jeans, Docs, and a Dutch army shirt tied in a knot at my waist. I got the bus to the Royal Botanic Gardens, where Ross was waiting for me by the big gates on Inverleith Row. He took my hand as we walked across the grass, and when we sat down we were both grinning, even though neither of us had spoken a word.

He stretched out on the grass and closed his eyes, and I took the opportunity to greedily watch him. His T-shirt was just the right side of too tight; he was growing muscles where before he’d only been skinny. His arms and face were tanned just like mine, after weeks of sitting in Holyrood Park and Princes Street Gardens, watching buskers and early summer tourists. El always came too: sullen, monosyllabic. But this day, she was sick. This day, I had left her coughing and spluttering in her bed, and when I’d told her I was going to answer an ad for bar staff, I’d pretended that the heavy thickness in my chest was only phantom infection, sympathy pain.

Ross lit a cigarette, and I watched its smoke spiral. He seemed so changed, so grown-up. I knew he smoked weed, sometimes took pills. He talked about going clubbing and getting high, and it all seemed so unknown, so exciting. I knew I’d do anything – all of it – if he just asked me to.

When he laughed, I realised that I’d moved my scrutiny to his crotch instead, and the heat rushed into my face.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Ross said, pushing up onto his elbows. ‘I like it when you look.’

I liked it when he looked. Even as a boy, he’d had this way of making me feel like the most important person in the world. And when he stopped looking, the least.

‘I feel guilty,’ I said, and then instantly cursed myself for it.

‘What for?’

But he knew what for. For lying to El when I never had before. About anything. For not telling her that Ross and I had been secretly texting for months. Or that sometimes I couldn’t sleep for thinking about him, for wanting him for myself. For being glad – ecstatic – that she was sick enough that I could sneak out to see him on my own and she probably wouldn’t even notice.

‘She doesn’t talk to you,’ Ross said. ‘She doesn’t talk to anyone.’ And there was a hardness in his voice that I revelled in.

‘She can’t help it,’ I said magnanimously, trying not to notice that his hand was creeping closer to mine. ‘It’s because she’s stuck in the past. All she ever wants to talk about is Mirrorland, or Mum and Grandpa, and I don’t. I want to live right now.’ I looked at him, at the intensity in his eyes, as if I were telling him the secrets of the universe, and suddenly I felt cripplingly shy, awkward. I stared down at the sun-bleached grass instead.

‘Cat.’

‘I think that makes me a bitch.’

‘Cat.’

He made me look at him in the best kind of way: by leaning close enough that I could smell his deodorant, his skin; by taking my face in his hands and turning it towards his.

‘You’re not a bitch.’

And I knew it was going to happen then. Even before he leaned closer, dropped his gaze to my mouth, smoothed the hair from my cheeks. Before he made a sound, something low and inarticulate that flushed my face hot again, that turned my heartbeat into a drumbeat, and my insides heavy.

She doesn’t want him any more was what I kept telling myself. She doesn’t want anyone any more. And what I meant was She doesn’t want me.

Then his lips met mine, his breath, his teeth, his tongue, and I stopped thinking about El altogether. My first kiss.

The taxi turns into Westeryk Road, and I turn to look at Ross. He’s already looking at me. And I wonder if telepathy might not be exclusive to twins after all, because I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about exactly the same things I am.

But as soon as the taxi drives off and we step up to the red door and close it behind us, the atmosphere between us changes. We go into the drawing room, loiter close to the door. Ross doesn’t even take off his coat. This is what normal really is for us. Waiting with the gloom and ghosts and heavy silences.

‘D’you want a drink?’ Ross’s question sounds oddly sullen, but I nod because I do. Maybe even more than I want to salvage our evening.

He mixes two vodka tonics at the Poirot. I watch him until I start to annoy myself, wander over to the window instead. Marie’s house is in darkness. The road is empty, silent. I wonder if someone is watching us right now, and I step back, draw the big curtains shut.

Ross gives me my drink, and then hunkers down in front of the fire to light it, starts piling it with logs until the room is Christmas-warm and golden again. When he stands up, he turns to me with a better smile.

‘Tell me how you’ve been.’

‘What?’

‘I haven’t asked. Not once since you got back, and I should have. So,’ he sits down on the recliner, ‘how have you been? What’s your life in LA like?’ He pauses. ‘Are you happy?’

He looks far too handsome in the flickering firelight. Even his unshaven jaw and the dark shadows under his eyes only make him look more appealing. I think of him angrily referring to himself as the wailing widower. I wonder if he knows that there are whole YouTube pages dedicated to him.

‘LA’s good for me,’ I say, because I feel like I have to say something. ‘It doesn’t sweat the small stuff. Or even a lot of the big stuff.’ I swallow a too-large mouthful of vodka tonic, because I want to tell him the truth. I want to tell him that sometimes I’m so unhappy it’s like I can’t breathe. El has a boat, a house, a vocation – a talent. Friends. A husband. I have a job I hate, writing ridiculous articles about spinach lattes, cheating spouses, and spiritual fucking Wi-Fi. And I date men I couldn’t care less about; men who mostly act like they couldn’t care less about me. I party too much. I drink too much. I spend too many hours sitting on the balcony of a condo I don’t own – now, don’t even rent – looking out at a vast blue sea and a vast blue sky, knowing that I’d rather be anywhere else and pretending I don’t. I’m not living. I’m waiting. For something, anything, to happen. And worst of all, I’ve started to wonder whether this – all of this – is it.

I set down my drink. ‘I’m sorry, I need to go to the loo.’

In the bathroom, I run the cold tap, splash water against my face. I look at myself in the mirror. I expect to look terrible, but I don’t. I look vital, alive. I look like El.

What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?

I’m pissed – somewhere quite far along from pleasantly so. I feel blurry and spaced out. But I know exactly what I’m doing. What I’m going to do.

We kept on seeing each other behind El’s back. For months. We pretended she wouldn’t care, knowing she would. Maybe we were trying to punish her for her wholesale rejection of us. I can see now that she was ill – depressed or worse – but even so, that isn’t enough to dull the hurt, the anger. My excuses became less and less convincing, her withdrawal more and more acute. And I still didn’t care. I wanted to hold on to everything she didn’t.

‘You fall in?’ Ross yells from what sounds like the bottom of the stairs.

‘I’ll be right there,’ I shout back.

I look down at my dress. Think of my irrational jealousy towards Shona. My wide, mocking smile – She’s not dead. Too bad for you. And then I start pulling the pins out of my hair, shaking it loose. I don’t need to be El to stop being me.

‘You okay?’ Ross says, when I go back into the drawing room.

‘I’m okay.’ I almost can’t bear to look at him, at his frown, his eyes, the flicker of firelight between us. So ridiculous to feel like this, to still feel like this.

He stands up. ‘Are you sure? You—’

‘Do you miss Mirrorland?’

He looks neither surprised nor pissed off at the question. Smiles all the way to his eyes. ‘I had the best times of my life there. I was sorry when it was gone.’

‘Have you been down there? After you bought the house?’

He nods. ‘It was pretty sad. The MacDonalds must have found the door in the pantry cupboard. They’d mostly cleared the alleyway up to the front garden, and pretty much left the washhouse to rot.’ He pauses. ‘I papered over the door; going down there upset El too much.’

I change tack, as much to banish the returned furrow between his brows as to avoid telling him that I pulled that paper down. ‘God, do you remember the Satisfaction’s raids on the Spanish Main?’

‘Much pillaging.’ His smile is so bittersweetly familiar. ‘That was my fault. I was a bit of a klepto.’

‘Your Treasure Trophies.’

‘Jesus, my Treasure Trophies. What a knob. You know, Mum found a whole load of the shit from our treasure chest in my wardrobe a few years after you’d gone. Including a complete set of Victorian sterling silver cutlery. Didn’t ask me a thing about them. Just charity-shopped the lot.’

I go towards him, and he stops smiling. His eyes widen as I get closer, and I take a breath, will myself to be brave, to keep going.

‘I miss us,’ I whisper.

‘Cat. What—’

I reach through the space between us, put my palms flat against his chest. ‘I miss us in Mirrorland the most.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t want to talk any more,’ I say. When I stroke my fingers along his neck and jawline, they don’t hesitate, don’t shake.

He freezes, takes hold of them, backs away. ‘No. We can’t do this.’

There’s a darkness around us, and I can feel it close in. The fire crackles. I can hear the grandfather clock tick, tick, ticking in the shadow of the hallway. And all around us the house groans and breathes and laughs.

I push myself hard against him, and even though I don’t say it, I know it’s in my eyes. She isn’t dead. She just left you. Like she left me. I kiss his cheek, his jaw, his lips, run my tongue against the salt skin of his throat. I want him to give in. I want him to beg. I’ve always wanted him to beg.

But instead, he pushes me away again. Closes his eyes. Steps back.

I think of that look of horror, how quickly he scrambled to get away from me in this very room three nights ago. I hear the heavy turn and clunk of a deadlock. The thunderous stamp of boots. Something’s coming. Something’s nearly here. And then I do start to shake. I put my hands on his face, his chest, smooth my palms over his shoulder blades, run my fingers through his hair.

‘Cat, you have to stop,’ he says. But whether he knows it or not, he’s already touching me; his fingers are gripping hold of my arms, keeping me where I already want to be. Already am. ‘Please.’

I move my fingers down, down. Feel his hot fast breath, the glancing edge of his teeth against my neck as I press the heel of my palm against his crotch. His voice muffled against my skin. ‘God. Please. Please, Cat.’

And as soon as I kiss him again, he gives in. The kiss is too wet, too hot, too clumsy, but it’s what I need. Everything feels so raw, it almost hurts. We grab handfuls of each other, and it’s just the same as it ever was. The same wonderful. The same rush. The same madness. He makes a sound, loud and almost distressed, and I think, Yes. Yes.

I suppose what we’re doing is punishing El again, the only way we know how. But God, it doesn’t feel that way. We stagger backwards. He kisses me like he doesn’t need to breathe, and I kiss him back, and all of it – the noises we’re making, the frenzied near panic of what we’re doing: scratching, pinching, squeezing, biting – all of it feels good and clean and right in a way that nothing – and no one – else ever has. I lost my virginity to him in much the same way: pressed up against a chest of drawers in his bedroom; too fast, too desperate, the pain needy and raw, a spur to do more, feel more, take more. It was never ever enough.

He lifts me up onto the mahogany lowboy; its French polish is cold against my skin. We fumble with each other’s clothes, making frustratingly little headway. He pulls me closer, presses himself harder against me, bites the space between my left shoulder and neck hard enough to make me cry out, to grab him back even harder. Every bit of me wants him, there is not an ounce of doubt or guilt in me. I think of El’s Sometimes I wish she would just disappear. And how right now, right here, I’m not just glad that she has, I’m certain that all along she was the one that was supposed to.

When we finally manage to get rid of enough clothes that he can push against me, inside me, skin to skin, we both cry out, we both hold on, we both whisper ‘Fuck’ into each other’s mouth. And I stop thinking about El at all.

There was never a time when Mirrorland didn’t feel real; when we couldn’t feel the wind and rain and wonder of it, or smell the sea and smoke and sweat and blood of it. But sometimes, Mirrorland felt very real, and those were the times when we were clever or cruel or afraid.

One long hot Saturday afternoon, when the Satisfaction was between ports, El and I devised a game to pass the time. Ross would be put overboard into the open sea, and handfuls of sharp tacks would be thrown in with him. He’d have ten minutes to find and return every single one before we hauled anchor and left. He was reluctant, of course, but all Mirrorland rules set by either El or me had to be obeyed. And so he stood in the Caribbean Sea, some three hundred miles off the coast of Haiti, shoulders hunched and pretending not to flinch as we threw the tacks in after him.

He had to have known he couldn’t do it. That the game was supposed to be impossible. But still, he tried. He got down on his hands and knees and searched every corner of the sea for those scattered tacks, collecting them in one hand, picking them up with the other – and only when there was one minute remaining did he start to panic.

‘I can’t do it! I don’t have them all!’

‘There are fifty,’ El said mildly. ‘How many do you have?’

‘We’ll stop the clock,’ I said. ‘While you count.’

He had thirty-two.

‘You better hurry up,’ El said.

When his time was up, and we got ready to sail away without him, he started to cry. ‘Don’t! Please!’

I’d never seen Ross cry before, and seeing it didn’t make me feel remorse, it made me feel powerful. It made me think of hiding in a box and sobbing into a tartan blanket.

‘You can catch us up, stupid,’ El said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘NO! You can’t leave me!’

That image is one of my most enduring of Mirrorland. El and I sailing away from a sobbing and inconsolable Ross on his knees in the Caribbean Sea, hands bloody and full of tacks. Calling out to us though we pretended not to hear him. ‘How will I know where you’ve gone?’

The alarm clock says 11:35. When I stretch, everything aches in a warm, lethargic way. Ross is still in bed with me. I can hear his slow breathing, feel the heat of him at my back. When I’m sure that he’s still asleep, I turn around to look at him. He’s lying half on his front, legs splayed under the covers. I’ve never gone to sleep with him before, and it feels strange, intimate, more of a transgression than fucking him did. At least we’re in the Clown Café instead of their bedroom, our bedroom. I look at his thick hair, sticking up in all directions. His broad shoulders and back, his narrow hips, the curve and flat of his flank. And I still want to touch him, I still feel that itchy need to do more. I think the word arsehole, but it’s lost much of its previous power. I do have guilt, and a sizeable chunk of it, but when I poke around it, like the swollen gum around a bad tooth, it gets no bigger, no more painful.

She left him. She doesn’t want him.

‘Hey.’ His voice is muffled, still thick with sleep.

I snatch my hand back from his skin, but otherwise freeze, holding my breath.

He doesn’t turn around, but gropes behind him for my hand. And for a horrible, punishing moment, I wonder if he thinks I’m El.

‘I know it’s you, Cat.’

I sit up. Find myself looking at that framed photo on the bedside table. A young El and Ross grin back at me.

‘Do you regret it?’ I hate that my voice sounds so small. ‘Do you regret what we did?’

He sighs, and then sits up too, turns his head to look at me. ‘No.’

But I realise that he’s looking at that framed photo too. And I can see in his eyes that part of him does. Part of him has to. A big part.

‘I don’t want you to think that I don’t love her,’ he says.

‘I’m her sister’ is just about the only thing I can think of to say. As far as culpability goes, genes probably trump vows.

We both jump at the sudden bell ring from downstairs, its echo winding up towards us. Ross gets up, pulls on a pair of jogging bottoms. I hear him move across the landing, the slap of his bare feet against the mosaic stair tiles. I stare at the bell pull set into the wall next to the dress-up cupboard. Think of all those bells lined up on the board in the kitchen like mismatched knives in a drawer.

I look back at the photo. And I can still hear her voice in the dark. After hours and hours of ugly silence. Hoarse and mean and full of the same gleaming fear as her eyes on the day she gave me the Black Spot. How could you? You’re supposed to be my fucking sister.

By 2005, El and I had a bedsit in Gorgie. A predictably awful dump, though we were as grateful for it as shipwrecked sailors are for land. It belonged to the Rosemount, and was ours for exactly twelve months, while we sought alternative accommodation and the means to pay for it. We were both at college on bursaries, working whatever shitty jobs we could find. We still barely spoke, no closer at almost nineteen than we had been at almost eighteen. And I was still lying to her.

The care home was holding a reunion party that May Day bank holiday: a barbecue in its extensive grounds. El threw the invitation in the bin, but I rescued it, arranged to meet Ross at the rear fire exit. We probably thought we were being discreet and clever, but I doubt we actually were for even a minute. Ordinarily, we met at his mother’s house – they’d moved from Westeryk to Fountainbridge by then – and we’d have fast and muffled sex in his small single bed, listening to the murmur of people downstairs. The opportunity that an empty Rosemount presented was too good to waste.

The long, high-ceilinged corridors were deserted. Ross held my hand as he led me along them, while I navigated from the rear in loud whispers. All the room keys hung on numbered hooks in the reception office, and I knew that the new occupants of the twin bedroom that El and I had shared were busy getting stoned behind a bush on the front lawn. But that probably wasn’t all of it. I imagine that I wanted Ross there. To have him in my bed and not hers.

We had progressed past the urgent, desperate stage to slick and sweaty and loud, far beyond any shyness or inhibition, when she walked in on us. I saw her over Ross’s shoulder in the very instant that he came, twitching and shuddering against me, moaning my name.

I froze, a twin statue of El, and a shame more potent, more powerful than even the love I felt for Ross grabbed hold of me, choked my breath.

Ross caught on soon enough. Pulled out and away from me, swaddling us both in blankets, his eyes close enough to mine that I could see my own reflection. He closed them before he turned slowly around.

‘El,’ he said. ‘El.’

She stared at us, all life, all colour gone from her face, leaving only grey and slack horror. And my lips formed her name without letting out a sound.

‘There was no one there,’ Ross says now, when he comes back. He stands by the bed, awkward, reluctant, and I can’t think of anything to say to make him stay. Finally, he looks at me. His smile is flat, unhappy. He turns his back, sits on the edge of the bed, bows his head.

‘I wish we’d never come back here. I fucking hate this place.’

I don’t say anything. Maybe if they’d never come back here, I wouldn’t be here either.

‘El was having an affair,’ he says, to the stripes on the wall. ‘I think she was having an affair.’

‘Why?’ There are twin blurry pulses of pain inside my temples.

‘I lied about us being okay. We weren’t getting on. We were barely speaking. For a long time.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘She had another phone.’

And I can’t help it. I think of those two words. Capitalised in a subject heading. Splashed bloody across the naked stone wall alongside the washhouse. HE KNOWS. I press my fingers against my temples.

‘Did you know who it was?’

Ross shrugs. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. There was this guy she sometimes talked about. Another artist. And I could just tell, you know? I mentioned him to Rafiq, but El never told me his name.’ He shakes his head. ‘Big red flag, right?’

When he finally turns around, his eyes aren’t furious like I expected, but weary. ‘No doubt he was sensitive, patient. Listened endlessly to all of her problems.’ He tries to shrug his shoulders again, but they look too heavy. ‘Nice with a capital N. You know the fucking type.’

I do.

But instead of telling him about Vik, I think about the mother who stole Ross from his father. I think of him bloody and sobbing, on his knees in the Caribbean Sea, watching us sail away. The sound he made the night I kissed him: low and keening, trapped like a howling wind inside a narrow space. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to go on without her.

And I crawl towards him, wrap my arms around his torso, and lay my cheek against his back, feel the slow, steady thump of his heart against his ribs. Reach my fingers inside his jogging bottoms, hear the sharp inhale of his breath as I close them around him, already hard.

She left him. She doesn’t want him any more. She took him from me.

It takes a long time, long enough that he starts to beg again, but I want so badly to keep him close, to keep him on the brink of still wanting me, still needing me, that I ignore his pleas until the very end.

And when it’s over, I press my face against his skin and close my eyes.

‘Don’t regret this, Ross,’ I whisper to his heartbeat. ‘I won’t let you.’

CHAPTER 13

I always used to watch the news and wonder how people could carry on with their lives when they were stuck in limbo, but the answer now is obvious. It’s just easier. Easier than giving up. Easier than stopping. Easier to just pretend that all is okay. Until it is.

The morning is cold, the sunlight through Colquhoun’s of Westeryk’s big windows blinding. I don’t really want to go in, but we’ve completely run out of food, and Ross is still lying in my bed, his face relaxed in sleep. It’s been two days. And three nights. And already, I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to be anywhere else but with him.

I hesitate at the shop’s door, my palm against its glass. Whenever I go out alone, the feeling – the physical sensation – of being watched is now so pervasive, so expected, that it almost feels normal. I allow myself one look: up and down the empty street from the Links to the corner of Lochend Road, and then I turn around, push through the door.

My heart sinks when I realise Anna is the only cashier. I shop slowly, filling a basket with as much as I can possibly carry. When I finally have to approach the till, I see that Anna’s expression is just as wary. I set down my basket, and she clears her throat, makes an obvious effort to meet my gaze. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

She clears her throat again. ‘I’ve wanted to say I’m very sorry for what I said to you last week. I was upset about El, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It wasn’t fair.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, even though I sense she doesn’t completely mean it.

She sighs. ‘I was angry with you because she was alone. Because you weren’t here when she needed you. And now … now that she’s …’ She shakes her head violently. ‘… Gone. Here you are.’

I bite down on my tongue, and it hurts. But I won’t speak. I won’t protest my innocence and El’s guilt. It never does any good.

Anna doesn’t say anything more until I’m handing over my money, and then she reaches out to close cool fingers around my wrist.

‘El had them too.’

‘What?’ I try to pull out of her grip, but it’s surprisingly strong.

A nod to my arm and outstretched hand. The bruise is already a couple of days old and doesn’t hurt at all, but it makes me think about the tiny chains of finger bruises all along my forearms; makes me flush when I remember how I got them. Pushed up against the Smeg fridge-freezer, Ross’s breath moving hot along the inside of my thigh as he pinned my arms behind me: Don’t move, don’t move.

‘Let go of me,’ I say, in a voice so cold I’m nearly impressed with myself.

But she doesn’t. Instead she tightens her fingers, pulls me closer. Her expression softens, becomes almost beseeching. ‘I meant it when I said she wouldn’t want you to be here, Cat. You should go.’

I wrench my arm free. ‘I don’t know what she told you,’ I say, rubbing my wrist, turning away. My face is burning. Two pensioners are eyeing us like we’re opponents in a Wimbledon final. ‘I don’t want to know what she told you. She lies, Anna. That’s all she does. I’m fine. And she’s fine.’

I snatch up my bag and practically run out the door, desperate to escape into the cold fresh air. I barge headfirst into Marie. She’s wearing a beautiful headscarf the same sapphire blue as the Smeg fridge-freezer, and my skin grows hotter, pricklier.

‘There is news?’ She looks panicked, out of breath. I wonder if she was watching me from her window and that’s why she’s here.

I slow my breathing, make myself calm down. ‘No. No news.’ Which isn’t entirely true. I think of Rafiq and Logan’s last visit, its poor prognosis. I think of all the wild sex I’ve been having with my missing sister’s husband.

‘I saw the police parked outside a few days ago.’ The scarred skin on her face is more visible today. It looks like a burn. Her frown deepens, and she steps forwards into my space. ‘She is my friend, Catriona.’

I don’t step back. ‘Were you the one who reported seeing someone suspicious outside the house?’

‘What?’

‘The police, they said a resident from your terrace reported seeing someone loitering outside the house on the day of El’s disappearance. I just wondered if you’d seen anything?’

‘Non,’ she says. ‘I didn’t see anything.’ But something changes in her eyes.

‘Did you know she was getting threatening cards?’

‘Oui. She told us about them.’

‘Did she say she knew or suspected who they were from?’

‘Why do you ask, Catriona?’ She’s suddenly very still. ‘You don’t think whatever has happened to her is an accident?’

I glance back through the window at Anna. She’s pretending not to look at us as she serves one of the pensioners.

‘No.’ Which is the truth, inasmuch as I don’t believe any of this is an accident at all.

‘She was scared,’ Marie finally says. She follows my gaze to Anna, and then turns back to me. ‘She tried to hide it from us at first. But she was very scared.’

I snort without meaning to, and Marie’s expression tightens.

‘I always thought, how sad and strange that sœurs jumelles should never speak. She said you hated her.’

‘I hated her? For fuck’s sake—’ But it’s too late. Even if you stuff a jack back inside his box, everyone still knows what he looks like. And there are only so many times that I can bite my tongue, can bear blame for what she has done. ‘El hated me. And she kept on hating me until I left. Do you understand? This was my home too.’ And I don’t know if I’m referring to the country, the city, or the house, or all three. Maybe even Mirrorland, or Ross, or what it was to be a sister, a Mirror Twin. ‘She took it away. She made me leave. It was her.’

‘Some of my friends come from places, countries, that are nothing like this one,’ Marie says, as if I haven’t spoken at all. ‘And they have nothing. Sometimes – often – people are afraid of those who have nothing. Your sister wasn’t.’

I want to snort again, but don’t. There’s a hot weight inside my chest.

‘On sunny days, she used to take my friends down to the Links or the sea, and she’d show them how to draw, how to paint.’ She refocuses on me again, and I know it’s because she’s comparing us. That’s what people always do, as though character traits must be divvied up between us. ‘She’d show them how to be free.’

I don’t trust myself to reply. I’m angry. I feel wronged, persecuted, unbelieved. It’s a feeling I haven’t had for many, many years, and I’ve forgotten how much it hurts. I’m appalled to realise that I’m trembling.

‘Maybe Ellice was right.’ The darkness comes back into Marie’s eyes, like a shutter over a window. ‘She said you never listen. You never learn.’

I bristle. The rage inside me physically hurts. ‘Ross said he didn’t know you,’ I say. Too loud. Too defensive. ‘Her very good friend – and he said he didn’t have a clue who you were.’

She pulls her scarred fingers into fists. ‘He told me to stay away from her.’ The look she gives me is withering. ‘He threatened me.’

When I say nothing, she shakes her head, turns on her heel, and marches back towards the road and her house. And then she stops. Looks back over her shoulder. ‘Ask him about that.’

13 April 2018 at 11:31

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Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 6. EL CAN STILL SEE YOU

Sent from my iPhone

I’ve stormed around most of the house, snatching up photos of El to look behind them before I remember the self-portrait in the Princess Tower. I march to the white-painted cupboard and pull open its door. Try very hard not to waver when El glares back at me. As if she’s Princess Iona now, kidnapped by a hag and trapped inside a tower; every year a little older, a little less hopeful.

I find the diary page taped to the wooden backing.

June 24th, 2005

He’s mine if I want him. He’s NOT hers. That’s the way it was and the way it is. I know why he did it, but that doesn’t help. Every time I think about them together it feels like a bag of rocks sitting on my chest. I’m angry and I’m scared and I can’t stop crying. It’s like thinking about Mirrorland and the Satisfaction and the Clowns and remembering they’re gone now. I can’t ever go back.

But I CAN fix this. I CAN make everything go back to how it was before. Cat’ll hate me but I don’t care. I’ll be glad.

Because He CAN’T have her and She WON’T have him.

When I hear the bell ring I jump, nearly drop the page. I shove it into my pocket instead and go back downstairs.

There’s no one at the door. When I go into the kitchen, I freeze inside its doorway, staring up at the bell board. One pendulum is still swinging, its five-pointed star like a metronome, a hypnotist’s watch. Bedroom 3. I blink, and it isn’t moving at all. Every bell stands silent and still.

I sense movement at the corner of my eye, and I whirl around – dizzy with dread, my nerves on a too-brittle edge. I see the blurry flash of someone outside the window, moving fast and quickly disappearing. I run for the scullery, wrench open the back door, and glimpse another CATRIONA card on the top step before sprinting down the rest of them. I stop on the paving stones, spin left, right. Listen. Nothing but the wind in the apple trees, the distant traffic on the other side of the house. The washhouse door is still chained and padlocked. I look around at the high, ivy-choked walls. There’s no way someone could have climbed over them in the time it’s taken me to get out here.

I turn warily towards the second alleyway on the other side of the house to Mirrorland. Its red door is open. I run the length of the alley and into the front garden, but there’s nobody there. Even the gate has been latched shut.

I think about running into the street, but don’t. Instead, I close and bolt the door, wander back to the garden and its walls. I look up at the house, big and wide and freezing bright. Casting a long shadow. I don’t want to go back inside. I trudge back up the scullery steps only to pick up the envelope and pull shut the back door. Go back down through the orchard, my face turned towards the dappled sun, the rustling breeze. Ross will be able to see me, I realise, if he looks out of the Clown Café’s window. But if he hasn’t already come downstairs to see why I’m running around like a madwoman, then he’s probably still asleep. We’ve both been doing a lot of that. It feels a little like hiding.

Old Fred creaks his welcome. I put the card under my arm and my palms against his rough bark, close my eyes so that I can’t see DIG or our names carved inside a circle, and I think of all the times I sat or lay flat on his lowest branch, squinting up at the sky. How many times he gave me the same safe comfort as the loyal and timid Mouse. The kind of comfort that never needed you to be right or better, but was strong and warm and full of silent, reliable sympathy. When that only reminds me of El’s I’M MOUSE, I step back from Old Fred and stand still for a moment, arms and fingers spread wide, tipping my head up until the sunlight burns warm and red behind my eyelids. On sunny days, El and I would stand like that for what felt like hours, holding hands for balance, laughing and mimicking Mum’s high and reedy Don’t look! Don’t look or you’ll go blind!

But I have to look. I open my eyes, and then I open the envelope. It’s a landscape watercolour of a busy harbour beneath a sunny and cloudless sky. I shiver in the cold. I want to open it even less than all of the others.

HE WILL KILL YOU TOO

I close my eyes. Close the card. Think of the He CAN’T have her and She WON’T have him from today’s diary page. A page that was written one week before our nineteenth birthday. One week before that grubby dull room with a plastic-framed seascape of rocks and sand and waves. One week before El did what she did to fix this. To make everything go back to how it was before.

I was working when Ross called me on July the first. Only my second shift in a bad West End pub called the White Star. And – it turned out – my last. By the time I got to the hospital, much of the initial panic was over. El’s stomach had been pumped empty of paracetamol, and she’d been sedated and rehydrated. Ross stood alongside her bed, gripping the hand that wasn’t bandaged and bloody around a cannula. His hair was wild, the whole of him shook as if he had a chill, even though we both knew by then that she was going to be all right. He’d refused to leave her, to go sit in the grubby dull room on a grubby dull sofa as I had dutifully done. He was hysterical, one of the nurses whispered to me much later on, when the night had arrived and all other visitors had left. She squeezed my hand, pressed the palm of hers against her chest. Oh, to be young and in love again!

It was after he finally left to get some food from the canteen that El had opened her eyes and found mine, smiled that smile – so full of joy and hate. I win.

The day before El was discharged from the hospital, Ross met me at the Royal Botanic Gardens again. It was raining, and we stood under a big willow tree next to the wrought-iron gates. He held my hand as I cried, as I begged him. Don’t. Please. He cupped my face in his hands, tried to catch my tears with his thumbs, his eyes nearly black with grief. She left me a note, Cat. She said we’d broken her heart. She said she couldn’t live with us or without me.

Why do you have to be with her? I wanted to scream. Why does it have to be her?

But he just went on looking at me with his sad eyes and his stupid, knee-jerk shame. I love you both, he said, and that was when I knew that El had won – no matter how wretched he looked or how much he cried – guilt had finally managed to prise us apart. I’d lost him for good.

El has to be watching us. She has to be sending the cards. To get rid of me. But why? Because until she vanished, she was rid of me. All of it: the cards and clues and diary pages have only made me hate her more and him less. And I can admit to myself now that when I read LEAVE, the first thing I thought was No. And the second was Come back and make me. Because I should have fought back the first time. I should never have given up, run away, tried to forget. She’s had my life for years. She’s stolen it. While I’ve been what? A reflection in a mirror. A shadow on the ground, dark and flat and impermanent. Inconsequential.

The wind picks up, urges me back towards the house, and it’s as I turn that I hear the shed door. It’s not quite flush with its frame and makes a dull quick thud with every gust. Without knowing why, I go towards it, push it open. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dark inside. When they do, all I see are dusty, empty crates, some old newspapers and bags of compost. And then, a flash of bright blue.

I venture in reluctantly, picking my way through all the detritus. The blue is crammed right at the back of the shed, folded into an untidy cube. I lean down to touch it, and it feels like the same kind of material as the blow-up mattress El and I used to have in the bedsit. Something stirs in my mind then, some bad conclusion that my subconscious has reached before the rest of me. I should leave this where it is. Whatever it is.

Instead, I haul it out from under all the rest of the crap, and hard enough that I nearly lose my balance. I try to straighten it out, pull it into whatever shape it’s supposed to be. It’s big, maybe as tall as I am. There’s a large oval gap at its centre, and inside it I find a carbon-fibre paddle folded into four pieces. The word Gumotex is printed along the length of the largest. And that’s when I know for sure.

It’s El’s inflatable kayak.

CHAPTER 14

I have a terrible dream. El and I are running – and hard – the force of our sprint shudders up our legs, jars our knees and hips. Fear is a solid beating thing. Pushing down on our shoulders, snatching the breath out of our mouths.

Behind us is the Tooth Fairy, her heavy fast tread thundering over floorboards as we run into the Clown Café. Dicky Grock looks frightened instead of sad, his lips pressed thin as he ushers us inside the dress-up cupboard. Even Pogo looks worried, though his wide red smile remains frozen in place.

We crouch down in the dark. The Clowns close the cupboard door, the seams of their cloth feet scratching across the floor as they run to hide under the bed. Inside, we breathe stale cold air, hold on to each other hard enough to hurt. I can hear boots, heavy and erratic. I can smell blood.

The cupboard handle starts to rattle, to turn and turn, and then the cupboard is gone, the Clown Café is gone, and El and I are standing on the shoreline of a beach, the sea washing over our feet, the black silhouette of a pirate ship on the horizon. Bluebeard is standing over Grandpa on the sand, holding a long, curved hook in one hand, a longer stovepipe in the other. Grandpa has half a head. Dinnae worry, lassie. He laughs. Ah’m feelin’ nae pain.

Bluebeard grins at us with every one of his pointed black teeth. His face and chest and knuckles are covered with blood. He likes to hit. To hurt. His hair reaches down his back to swing heavily between his legs. His beard has bones in it. He winks, and then he brings the stovepipe up and around again, smashing what’s left of Grandpa’s skull, spraying arcs of crimson across the sky.

Mum grasps hold of our arms, pinches our skin. Her face is bloody, eyes wild. You hide from Bluebeard, because he’s a monster. Because he’ll catch you, and make you his wife, and then hang you on his hook until you die. She shakes us, lets go long enough to point at the black ship. Nearer now, riding the incoming tide. But you run from Blackbeard, because he’s sly, because he lies. Because no matter where you go, he’ll always be there, right behind you. And when he catches you, he’ll throw you to the sharks.

So we run. We run even though the sand is too deep and the tide is too high. Even though Blackbeard’s ship is so much closer than it’s ever been. Even though we can feel Bluebeard’s snatching fingers, smell the rum on his breath.

Take me! Mum screams far behind us. Take me instead! But we know he won’t.

And when the sun disappears in a loud and echoing thud, and we’re swallowed up by the dark – thick and cold and full of horrors – we start to scream too.

And I wake up in the Clown Café, my hand clamped hard over my mouth. Ross still sleeping beside me.

14 April 2018 at 12:01

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john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 7. EVERY BAD WITCH NEEDS A GOOD THRONE

Sent from my iPhone

I’ve looked under nearly every one of the chairs in the Throne Room before I remember that the only place I ever saw the Witch was the kitchen. And whenever she sat down, it was in Grandpa’s chair at the head of the table.

I find two pages wedged inside the wooden frame of its seat.

4 August 1993 = 7+a wee bit!

THE WITCH was here tooday. AGAIN. Cat and Me hate her. She is nasty she pinchies and sometimes she spits on us. Cat and me are always thinking up ways to KILL HER – like drowning her in the bath coz witchs cant stand water or skwishing her like the WICKED WITCH OF THE EAST. Mouse says shes to scayerd but shes always scayerd she is USELESS!!! Me and Cat arnt scayerd of a nasty ugly old witch.

March 29th, 1997 = 10Y, 9M, 29D

THE WITCH was here again. She hates us and I don’t know why. I don’t know why she comes if she hates us. She should be called THE BITCH instead. Witches better watch out Grandpa says or they’ll cut themselves on their own tongues.

I can still see her face: sharp grey features pulled in tight together as though something behind her mouth and nose were yanking hard on a string. Narrow eyes, like the evil Madame Defarge, staring at me as if I’m just about the worst thing anyone should have to look at. Something else hides just behind that image and the memory of You’re a disgusting wee bitch! hissed thin into my cringing ear, but I can’t reach it, can’t grab hold of it.

El and I always channelled our fears through Mouse. It made us feel better. And braver. We would sit her down on the boardwalk or the deck of the Satisfaction, and list all the ways we could do away with the Witch – drowning her, poisoning her tea, creeping up behind her with a Sioux war club or Pogo’s bullhorn. But she can’t get into Mirrorland anyway, El would say, with rare kindness. Because it belongs to us.

I’m blindsided by the clear and sudden memory of Mum and the Witch standing inside the scullery doorway; the anger, the animosity so thick between them that I flattened myself against the kitchen door, stared transfixed through the crack between its hinges.

‘Give me it back. It belongs to me.’

I saw the necklace when the Witch leaned down to Mum; its oval locket swung, catching the sun against its gold. ‘And now it belongs to me.’

I shrunk from that voice, but Mum didn’t. The woman who cringed and fretted over all the bad things in the world; who made us pack emergency rations in backpacks hidden under our beds and subjected us to years of lessons and drills and grim fairy tales because there wasn’t a thing that she wasn’t afraid of, her life filled to the brim with certain doom, stepped up so close to the taller, bigger Witch that they were almost nose to nose. Mum’s smile was as cold as black ice. ‘You always want what I have.’

The Witch curled the necklace into her fist, thrust both inside the pocket of her long black dress. ‘And sometimes, I get it.’

I stand in the middle of the kitchen for too many long moments, another slow headache pulsing hard behind my eyes. I don’t even know if the Witch existed, I realise. If that conversation even ever happened. It’s getting harder and harder, now that more memories are returning – the bad as well as the good – to prise apart what was real and what wasn’t. Perhaps everyone’s childhood memories are the same: part truth, part fantasy. But this house and our mother and her stories turned our imagination into a melting pot, a forge. A cauldron. And, I’m beginning to realise, I can trust nothing that came out of it.

I’m suddenly furious. I start opening and rifling through every single cupboard and drawer. I don’t expect to find any more pages, not really, but like in the Clown Café, just the act of looking makes me feel more in control, helps penetrate this weird fog of inertia that seems to have taken hold of me and won’t let go. El is manipulating me for her own inexplicable ends, just like she always has, and I can do nothing about it. Nothing but this.

The drawer under the worktop is still the paperwork drawer: I shove aside dozens of bank statements and utility bills, until I notice an envelope addressed to Ross from a solicitor in Leith Walk postmarked two days ago. I pick it up, take out the papers inside. The first is a document entitled THE PRESUMPTION OF DEATH (SCOTLAND) ACT 1977; INFORMATION GUIDE. And underneath, FORM G1 OF INITIAL WRIT. After SHERIFFDOM OF, Ross has written EDINBURGH AT 27 CHAMBERS STREET. PURSUER, ROSS MACAULEY AGAINST ELLICE MACAULEY DEFENDER. The only thing he hasn’t done is sign it.

I’m still staring at it when I realise that Ross is standing inside the kitchen doorway. His face is white, but his jaw is set.

‘I had to, Cat. The police advised me to contact a solicitor, and he told me it could take months to process or even get anywhere near the courts. It’s just in—’

‘The police?’ I say, when I’m certain I can say anything. ‘Or Shona Murray?’

‘For God’s sake!’ he explodes, and it looks like a relief. ‘She’s the family liaison officer! It’s her job!’

I want to punch him. I want to hurt him so badly, for a moment I wonder if I might, but instead I settle for shouting back just as loud. ‘She isn’t dead!’

He gets so close to me I can smell the sourness of his fury, the hot rush of it through gritted teeth. ‘Then why are you fucking her husband?’

It’s getting harder and harder to convince myself that El is only sneering. Plotting. Setting me up just to watch me fall. I know I’m overreaching, stretching my last bitter memories of her to their very limits. I feel trapped, under siege – and all these reminders of our first life here within these walls, these rooms, are making it harder and harder to shore up my defences. There’s a loosening inside me, and not of the good, clean kind. It makes me stand at the kitchen window, rubbing my fingers against those crooked nails as I stare at the wall alongside the washhouse and think of that first email exchange: HE KNOWS. THINGS HE DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW. YOU’RE IN DANGER. I CAN HELP YOU.

Marie’s she was very scared. Vik’s she was terrified of him.

El isn’t the one sending the cards. She’s behind the treasure hunt, she’s sending the emails – but she isn’t sending the cards. I know it; most of me has always known it. I don’t know who was in the garden yesterday, but it wasn’t her. And the kayak in the shed. The Gumotex kayak that Logan said El used to get herself to and from her boat when no taxi was available. Is it a spare? Or did El dump it here after using it to get off her boat? Did someone else?

Worry gies wee things big shadows, hen.

I take out my phone, find Vik’s number.

Ross says you and El were having an affair. Is that true? Did he find out? Did he threaten you?

When Ross comes back from town bearing roses, a bottle of California red, and a heartfelt apology, Vik still hasn’t replied. We drink as slowly as we can, sitting at the kitchen table and staring out at the garden, the afternoon rain battering against the windowpanes in a rhythm that’s nearly hypnotic.

‘Cat. Talk to me.’

When I look up at Ross, his expression is open, concerned.

‘I saw Marie again yesterday. In the shop.’ I swallow. ‘She said … she said that you threatened her, warned her to stay away from El.’

Ross’s brow furrows. ‘I told you, I don’t know who the hell this Marie is.’ He takes out his phone. ‘But we should tell Rafiq about her. She sounds fucking unhinged. Maybe she’s—’

‘No, Ross, wait.’ I think of Marie’s burned, scarred skin, the tears in her eyes. ‘Just – we don’t need to do that. Not yet. Just … if she says anything to me again, I’ll phone Rafiq. I promise.’

He puts down his phone. When I can bring myself to look at him properly, I can see how tired he is, how unhappy, how lost. It stings the back of my throat, my eyes. I believe him, but how can I trust that belief? How can I trust myself? I loathe all this turmoil, this emotion, when I’ve been perfectly numb for years.

‘Don’t,’ he says, with a wince, before reaching out to touch my face. ‘I’ve no clue what I’m doing either. But this isn’t grief, Cat. It isn’t substitution.’ He swallows. ‘Not for me anyway.’

‘Or for me.’ But my stomach feels tight.

Ross clears his throat. ‘When El tried to … when she wrote me that suicide note … when I …’ He looks away.

When you made your choice, I think. When you chose her.

‘It was the worst mistake of my life, Cat. I felt so guilty and so shit-scared – it was my fault: what she did and what it did to you – and when you left for America, it just seemed like the best thing was to let you go. I loved you. I love you. But how could I leave her and go running after you? What would she have done then?’

I close my eyes. The pain in his voice is raw, real. But even though he’s telling me what I want to hear – all I’ve probably ever wanted to hear – there’s a part of me that’s still appalled by that mostly completed Presumption of Death form; by how quickly he has transferred his affections from one of us to the other, just like he did then. Whether or not El’s having an affair with Vik. Whether or not she and Ross haven’t been getting on for months or years. Whether or not thinking any of it makes me the worst kind of hypocrite.

When my phone beeps, I glance quickly at the screen. It’s Vik.

No. To all of it. But are you ok? Want to meet?

I’m not angry with Ross. I’m not jealous of Shona on El’s behalf, or because I think something is actually happening between her and Ross. I’m jealous, I’m suspicious, because it makes me feel better. It dilutes my own guilt.

I push my phone into my pocket, and Ross takes hold of my hands. ‘But what about you, Blondie? Do you love me too?’

I can’t not look at him then. At his tired, beautiful face, so dear to me, so missed for so many years. I can’t lie, or pretend my heart doesn’t do a teenage skip at the old nickname.

‘You know I love you. I always have.’

He stands up, pulls me towards him, presses warm, slow kisses against my hair, my temple, my lips. We stay there for minutes, and I listen to the rain, to his heartbeat and his breath. And I try very hard not to think about anything else at all.

But eventually I have to. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Ross pulls back, looks down at me. ‘Uh-oh.’

When I don’t answer, his expression changes. ‘Shall I go get us a proper drink?’

He lets me go, vanishes into the hallway, and I sit back down, listen to the clink of glass against the tiles of the bar.

‘Here,’ he says, when he returns. ‘Vodka soda.’

I take a sip, grimace, try to smile.

He sits down. Raises his eyebrows. ‘So …?’

‘I’ve been getting emails.’

‘What?’ His surprise is nearly comical. Whatever he was expecting me to say, it clearly wasn’t that.

‘Emails. A lot of them. Since two days after I got here.’ I look down at the table. ‘They’re clues. To pages from El’s old diaries. You know how she always used to—’

‘What?’

I flinch as his chair screeches backwards against the tiles.

‘El’s diaries? What the fuck?’ He starts to pace, running his fingers back and forth through his hair. ‘What are they about?’

‘Mostly when we lived here. El and I. About Mirrorland and—’

‘Who are they from?’ His voice is too high, his eyes suddenly furious. ‘For Christ’s sake, El’s gone missing, she was getting threats before she went missing, and now someone – they have El’s diaries and they—’ He stops, looks at me. ‘And you don’t ever think to tell anyone about it? What’s wrong with you, Cat?’

‘Ross, stop. Stop! I’m going to tell the police now. That’s why I’m telling you. Okay? And no one has the diaries. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They’re here, they’re hidden all over this house like a treasure hunt. The emails are the clues. It’s El, Ross. It’s El.’ I stand up. I’m horribly nervous, I realise. I need him to accept this. I need him to finally believe me. And I’m worried he won’t. ‘When I told her I’d go to the police, she told me she was Mouse. Like the whole thing is just a joke to her. Like I’m a joke to her. So we can tell them, we can show Rafiq El’s emails—’

‘Mouse?’ His arms drop down by his sides. His mouth has gone slack, his face grey. ‘Mouse?’

My nervousness grows frightened wings. ‘Yes. You must remember. You and me and El and Mouse and Annie and Belle in Boomtown? On the Satisfaction? In the—’

‘Yeah, I remember Mouse. Fucking Mouse.’ He says it in a way that sends a shiver the length of my spine. Too angry, too overly familiar.

‘Ross—’

‘She turned up maybe six months ago. Biggest mistake of my life letting her back in this house. She was delusional. Completely obsessed with El. She started following us when—’

‘Wait, what …’ My breath is coming out in weird half gasps. ‘I don’t – you’re saying Mouse is real? An actual person? She isn’t – you’re saying she’s an actual person?’

Ross’s face changes. He looks at me with a dull kind of dislike, which might only be confusion. And when he finally opens his mouth to answer, I already know what he’s going to say. ‘Of course she is, Cat.’

CHAPTER 15

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think. What to even begin to think. And so I just keep shaking my head over and over again. ‘But she lived in Mirrorland. Like … like Annie and Belle and Chief Red Cloud and Old Joe Johnson … Of course she did! Come on, Ross! Ross?’ But I’m losing my certainty now, it’s draining away through a hole I can’t see, one I didn’t make, and I’m fast filling up with panic instead. Mostly for what being wrong about this means for me. Worse, what it means – what it could mean – for El. ‘She was called Mouse, for God’s sake!’

Instead of answering me, Ross marches from the room. I hear his boots stamping up the stairs. The rain is much heavier now; the whole kitchen has turned dark. My phone vibrates. It’s Vik. I don’t answer, look across at the two tiles in front of the Kitchener, the cracked line of grout that bisects them. Reach for the vodka and swallow all of it.

I don’t think Ross is going to come back until he does. His face looks no less grim, and when he drops something onto the table in front of me, I jump. ‘El found it in the loft.’

It’s a photo album, vaguely familiar, opened to a page with only one photograph. El and me, standing at the kitchen table making lemon cakes. We’re maybe eight, nine, wearing twin aprons and covered in flour. But I look at us for only a second, no more, because sitting on a chair, right on the edge of the shot, is a pale-faced, wide-eyed Mouse.

I realise that my fingers are pressed against my mouth only when I try to draw in a horrified breath. ‘My God.’ My body is too cold, my cheeks too hot. Shivers chase one another from the top of my scalp to the base of my spine. ‘God.’

Ross sits down. ‘You really thought she didn’t exist?’

I keep turning the pages of the album, my anxiety rising, afraid that I’ll see her again. As if that matters. As if seeing her once isn’t proof enough. The photos are few, each page containing one, sometimes two disparate shots. Some are black and white, some so old that the people in them are only silhouettes. Ghosts. I pause at an impossibly young Grandpa, just as impossibly handsome in a dark suit and bow tie, a blonde woman sitting alongside him, formal and unsmiling. Mum’s eyes. My grandmother.

And then, on the next page, a colour portrait taken outside the house, in the front garden. Mum, aproned and uncomfortable, grimacing a smile. And standing taller next to her, in head-to-toe black—

‘The Witch,’ Ross says, his mouth a grim line.

‘The Witch.’ My voice is unsteady. ‘Who is she?’

Ross glances at me. He looks worried, concerned. ‘Your aunt? I don’t know. She was Mouse’s mum. Do you really remember none of this?’

I shake my head. ‘We didn’t – don’t – have any other family. I’d remember that. I’d know that.’

Ross is quiet for too long, and then his reply is too careful. ‘You didn’t remember Mouse either.’

‘I did!’ I say, even though I know my defensiveness is ridiculous.

‘A family friend, then?’ Ross shrugs. ‘They were at the house often enough. We always had to be quieter when she was around; you were terrified of her.’

All that venom and hate. Bared teeth and blood-filled gums. That oval locket glittering in her fist.

How could I remember every corner and code of Mirrorland, and yet twist my memories of two people enough that I thought them as imaginary as a monstrous Tooth Fairy or a sly, grinning Clown? And why? Because if I’m not crazy, then I’ve deliberately chosen to remember them that way. To misremember. Not even now that I know they existed is anything any clearer – they remain vague and indistinct, like smoke blown on an angry wind.

I KNOW THINGS. THINGS YOU’VE MADE YOURSELF FORGET.

I close the album, turn back to Ross.

‘You said she’d – Mouse – that she’d come back?’

‘Round about mid-October last year.’ Ross folds his arms. ‘Ding-dong, the Witch was dead. Apparently.’ He stops, and I can see that he’s trying to hide his anger, stamp it out. ‘I don’t know how she knew we were here. I don’t know why she waited until the Witch had died to come. She looked a complete mess. Worse than when we were kids. Said she wanted to get to know El again. And El was so happy about it at first, you know?’ He looks at me. ‘Maybe she saw Mouse as a substitute for you, I dunno. Nothing El did in the last six months made much sense.’

‘What happened?’

He shrugs. ‘Like I said, Mouse was delusional. She needed help. She’d turn up at all hours of the day and night. Crying, inconsolable, and then the next minute lit up like a kid at Christmas. She hated me. Wanted El all to herself. One day – get this …’ His anger wins, and he stands up, hands clenched as he paces. ‘She waited until I’d gone to work, and then turned up at the house with two one-way plane tickets to bloody Ibiza, of all places.’

‘Ross—’

He makes a visible effort to calm himself down. Sits, and takes two long, slow breaths.

‘When El tried to get her to back off, she started following her, spying on her.’ He shrugs. ‘Us.’

‘You thought she was sending the cards.’

‘She was the first person we thought of when they started arriving. The police followed it up, found no evidence to prove it either way. But it did the trick because she left us alone, didn’t come back. And we figured she’d turned all that crazy on someone else.’ His eyes go cold and hard; he looks suddenly like a stranger. ‘When we were kids, all she ever wanted to do was keep the three of us apart, turn us against one another. That’s what she has to be doing now. It makes sense she’d have El’s diaries, she probably stole them when she was here.’ He pauses. ‘You really don’t remember her?’

What I remember is that the Mouse I knew wouldn’t have said boo to a goose. She was timid and kind, most often submissive. A sponge for all our fears and weaknesses and secrets. A cabin girl, a powder monkey, a skivvy. Our favourite piñata. The Mouse I knew refused to fight pirates, refused to take sides, refused to choose punishment.

Ross is still shaking his head, still sporting that cold, hard expression that I’ve never seen before, when suddenly his shoulders slump. I see the pity in his eyes before the kindness or the love, and he reaches for my hands, grips them tightly enough to hurt. ‘El didn’t send those emails. I’m sorry, Cat. Christ, I’m so sorry. But she’s gone. She’s just gone.’

There’s a squall coming in from Cuba. I can see the smoky grey clouds on the horizon: a tropical thunderstorm near the Bight of Bayamo.

The day grows darker as I scramble down from the crow’s nest and run across the main deck. The Satisfaction is already listing hard to port, and the wind is picking up. I can feel hot splashes of rain against my face. When I look over at El, she’s already fighting to hold the wheel steady.

‘There’s no time to get to Port Royal,’ I shout. ‘We won’t make it!’

A scream, then a splash, and I’ve time to see a pirate slip over the port side and into the swirling, climbing sea as a wave washes high over the stern.

‘Heave to?’ El shouts. Her grin is big enough that I can see all her teeth.

And I’m grinning, too, as the bayamo rolls towards us. The wind gets higher, it slaps the rain against my face and into my eyes as I reef in the mainsail with Annie and Belle, my muscles shrieking, my heart thundering.

A sudden roar, and the Satisfaction begins to list.

‘We can’t turn downwind!’ El yells, and I see her and Mouse clinging to the wheel, faces straining with effort.

And then Ross is sprinting along the half-deck towards the stern. Putting an arm around El and reaching for the wheel with the other. Shoving Mouse out of the way, hard enough that she lets go with a scream and is washed down towards the bow.

By the time the Satisfaction steadies and starts drifting downwind, the squall has blustered itself mostly out, and I stagger down towards the bow amid pirate cheers and backslaps. Mouse is curled up into a ball behind a lashed-down barrel, her short hair plastered to her skull, ugly sack dress sodden.

She looks up at me, her white face streaked with rain or tears. ‘I hate him.’

And I don’t turn around to look at Ross and El, but reach down to help Mouse back onto her feet instead, because part of me hates him too. Part of me hates them both.

Mouse doesn’t let go of my hand. She looks at me, wipes her nose against her sleeve. ‘I wish I was like you.’

And I believe that the wildness in her eyes, the envy, is for my benefit, because she exists at all only to make me feel better; to remind me that I’m worth something to someone. Because she is my friend. My creation.

I hold her hand and look out at the returning sun. ‘I wish I could stay in Mirrorland all the time,’ I say.

And Mouse gives me a slow, watery smile. ‘Me too.’

I stare up into the darkness, fully awake. I should have remembered. I should have known. Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it – of not remembering, not knowing that Mouse was as real as El or me. But I don’t. Because I’m scared. Scared that I didn’t know. And scared because there was never any explanation for those emails, other than El. Until now.

I get up without waking Ross, tiptoe downstairs with my laptop, sit at the table in the Throne Room.

I think of Ross’s Your aunt? A family friend? She was Mouse’s mum. And then the nightmare of only a few days ago comes rushing back to me. Sharpened. Changed.

The Witch is dragging Mouse along the hallway, into the entrance hall. Mouse is crying, No, no! I don’t want to go!

And when Mum says, You can surely stay a wee while longer? the Witch stops dead. Shakes her head.

Mouse sobs louder, reaches her hands out to us – I want to go to Mirrorland! Please, I don’t want to go! I want to go back to Mirrorland! – and we ignore our fear of the Witch and run forward, take hold of Mouse’s hands as we try to pull her back inside the hallway.

The Witch stops again. Turns and smiles an icy smile. And slaps Mouse hard across the face. Once. Twice. Until we let go. She stabs a long-nailed finger at Mouse’s trembling, bowed head. Glares at El and me – now frozen into silence.

Obedience. This is what family is. The look she gives Mum is ugly with hate. THIS is what it is to be a good daughter.

A flood of light. A slamming door. And then darkness.

I blow out an unsteady breath. Fight the guilt and the fear growing inside me. I know that happened. And I know that I forgot it happened.

I open the laptop, google ‘national records for Scotland’, and then type Mum’s name and date of birth into the site’s search parameters. When I filter to births in the Leith district only, Mum’s is the only entry left. I delete her forename, change the date-of-birth range to five years either side of hers. Four new names are listed – Jennifer, Mary, two Margarets – but when I can’t access any of their details, including exact dates of birth, without registering a subscription, I request and pay for all the certificates, including Mum’s. After the confirmation email mentions a possible two-week wait, I open my email, start a new message to john.smith120594.

If you’re really Mouse, meet me. I know you’re in Edinburgh.

The reply comes right away.

NO. I DON’T TRUST YOU. NOT YET. AND I CERTAINLY DON’T TRUST HIM.

Tell me what you want. I need you to explain, to tell me what’s going on.

I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER. I WANT YOU TO WANT TO REMEMBER. I’M TRYING TO HELP YOU. I’M TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE. EL IS DEAD. HE KILLED HER.

And it’s this last reply that convinces me my fears have to be unfounded. Must be. Mouse is real, I can accept that, but this last overdramatic cliff-hanger of a cliché is so much El, she is who I hear in my head as I read it. It’s just a game. Just another of her merciless games. The desperate need for that to be true makes me furious again. And so I try to give her enough rope to hang herself.

Who killed her?

A lengthy pause, weighty enough to befit a drum-rolled reveal.

HER LYING HUSBAND.

CHAPTER 16

15 April 2018 at 00:15

Inbox

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 8. DON’T DRESS IT UP: EVERYONE IS AFRAID OF CLOWNS

Sent from my iPhone

The dress-up cupboard in the Clown Café. This is the clue to the diary page I found five days ago after I discovered clue number five’s page under the bed. It’s the diary page I found out of sequence because I was sick of blindly dancing to El’s tune. It’s the diary page that has frightened me the most.

I don’t open the dress-up cupboard again. I don’t want to read the page again. But I’m shaking anyway. The hair on the back of my neck is still standing up, pulling at my skin. Because I haven’t forgotten what it said.

August 10th, 1998

Something’s coming. Something’s nearly here.

Sometimes I’m so scared I forget how to breathe. I forget that I can.

El and I are running again. So fast and so hard we’re tripping over our own feet. A loud metallic thud echoes up through the walls and the sun disappears. The bells ring in the dark. Too many to count. Too many to know which bells, which stars, which rooms.

Deadlights chase us, flash and judder across the walls as we try to run from boots and shouts and roars. Outlaws and prison guards, the Tooth Fairy and Madame Defarge, Bluebeard and Blackbeard. But we’re so far from Mirrorland now, it’s like a memory that isn’t even a memory, just a place we’ve read about for so long that it feels as if we once lived there. Like a shire in Middle Earth or a bloodied square in Paris. A prison in Maine or an island in the Caribbean.

And then we’re crouching down inside the dress-up cupboard, fear pushing us lower, squeezing our fingers tighter, digging our nails deeper into each other’s skin. Because the Clown Café can’t protect us like Mirrorland does. It’s just a place to hide.

We’re pirates and our dad is the Pirate King, El whispers in my ear. In the cold, thick dark. We’ll be okay.

But we won’t be. I know we won’t be. It’s a lie.

And when the cupboard door handle starts to rattle, to turn and turn, I want to scream – I need to scream – because it feels like that’s the only way to meet the blood and sweat and roar and rage and wrong that wants so badly to get in. I don’t know what it is we’ve done. I don’t know why they want to scare us, find us, hurt us. I don’t know why they want us to die. To hang us on a hook until we rot.

We scream when the door splinters open. When the deadlight and that first terrible face loom into the space they’ve ripped wide. Black bones twisted inside a blue beard. Grinning pointed teeth. Rum and smoke. A wink and a roar. And the bells only shriek and shriek.

One bell is still shrieking – and far too loud. Too real. Not a hangover from my nightmare, but here and now.

I feel impossibly heavy, impossibly tired. I flop over onto my side like a beached whale and eye the alarm clock. One-fifteen p.m. I’ve slept for thirteen hours. I’m not sure how that’s even possible. I sit up slowly, blink gritty sore eyes.

Get up, I think. That’ll be a good start.

But then I hear the bell again. Longer, more insistent. And I’m suddenly gripped by the worst sense of foreboding yet. The worst sense of doom. It keeps running through my head as I roll out of bed onto unsteady feet, casting about for yesterday’s clothes, trying not to topple over as I struggle back into them. Trying not to think of my dream, or of Something’s coming. Something’s nearly here. Like a shrieking, jangling bell.

I go out onto the landing. I can hear Ross in the shower, so I go down the stairs, one solid step after another. At the bottom, the ringing starts again, but it’s the knocking – loud and insistent – that finally wakes me up. I still hesitate at the front door, my breath shallow and too quick. But when the doorbell rings again, I pull back on the night latch, let in the bright cold outside.

It’s DS Logan. And at the foot of the steps behind him is the white-blonde pixie hair of Shona Murray.

‘Hello, Catriona,’ he says, with no sign at all of any dimples or winks. Or even that he’s capable of them. ‘We’re sorry to disturb you. Can we come in?’

‘Of course.’

As they move past me into the entrance hall, I keep my eyes trained on the path, the gate, the yellowing hedges. I busy my mind with thinking this is when I’ll tell them about the kayak. The emails and the diary pages. Even if they point a finger at Ross; even if they point another at September 1998 and the last day of our first life; the last day – night – of Mum’s and Grandpa’s lives. Even if those emails have told me to tell the police nothing. I’ll do it anyway. Because, suddenly, I’m too afraid not to.

They wait for me in the hallway, and for a moment I have no idea where to take them. The Throne Room is too ridiculous, the kitchen too personal, the pantry entirely off limits. I decide the drawing room is the lesser of all evils, until I usher them inside it and catch both of them looking at the Poirot and Chippendale lowboy with something close to awe; remember the cold of French polish against my overheated skin.

‘Would you like to sit down? Would you like something to drink? There’s something I want to—’

‘Cat,’ Logan says, and he puts his hand on my forearm. ‘Could you get Ross? Is he—’

‘I’m here,’ Ross says. But he stops inside the doorway, his hand on the door as if he might be on the verge of slamming it shut in our faces. He’s barefoot in old jeans and a Black Sabbath tour T-shirt, his wet hair flat on one side, spiked up like a toddler’s on the other.

Logan lets go of my arm, clears his throat. ‘You might both want to sit down.’

I choose the yellow brocade rocking chair next to the fire. Mum’s chair. Straightaway it starts to rock, and I lurch forwards, plant my feet on the floor until it stops.

‘What is it?’ Ross says, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his at all.

‘Ross,’ Logan says. ‘Why don’t you—’

‘I’m fine as I am.’

‘All right.’ Logan clears his throat again, and in the horribly expectant silence that follows, I glance up to see Shona Murray plonk herself down on the chesterfield.

Logan’s eyes flicker from Ross to me. ‘Yesterday, the MAIB …’ He shakes his head. ‘The Marine Accident Investigation Branch were reporting on a commercial vessel incident in the Forth, when … when they discovered something else … without … it wasn’t—’

‘What is it?’ Ross says again.

But I look only at Logan. Craig, if you want. My mum named me after a bloody Proclaimer. The grandfather clock’s slow and metronomic ticking reverberates inside my skull, behind my dry tired eyes.

‘They found the boat,’ he finally says. ‘They found The Redemption.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘How do they know—’

‘It’s got “The Redemption” painted in fucking gold on both sides,’ Ross growls. But his voice is so hoarse now, it’s hard to hear.

Logan looks at me. ‘They were using sonar, divers. The boat was in the deepwater channel, a few miles east of Inchkeith. We sent down our own divers and an underwater vehicle to confirm ID.’

‘Okay.’ I look across at the bottle-green fireplace, its carousel of pokers, shovels, and tongs. ‘Okay.’

‘We found evidence that it was scuttled.’

‘Sunk,’ I say.

Logan nods. He looks around at all the ridiculous chair options and elects to sink down onto his haunches instead, long arms dangling between his legs. ‘Deliberately sunk.’

‘How?’ Ross asks.

Logan reaches into his pocket and takes out his tiny notebook, flips through its pages. ‘The transom drain plug had been removed. It’s a small manual plug that’s used in place of a bilge pump. Screwed into a hole in the stern of a boat while it’s at sea and taken out on land to drain any water. The divers also found at least half a dozen holes in the hull, four and a half inches in diameter. Probably made with a hole saw. The bottle screws and retaining pins had been removed from the mast. Which basically means that it was taken down, collapsed. When the boat sank, the mast is what would have given its position away.’ His gaze refinds mine. ‘Visibility was poor on the third. East of Inchkeith, the boat would already have been hidden from Edinburgh and Burntisland. So, when she sank – when she was scuttled – as long as there was no floating debris, it could be assumed she would never be found.’

‘Okay.’ I can’t see Logan any more – he’s just a crouching silhouette.

‘It also looks like both the EPIRB and the GPS unit were destroyed, which explains why there was never any signal. And the life raft was still stowed in a locker on deck.’ A pause. ‘It looks like self-sabotage.’

Self-sabotage? I think of that blue kayak in the shed. ‘Okay,’ I say.

‘They found something else,’ Shona says. She gets up and moves closer to Logan in a small white-blonde blur. Immediately, he stands up again, blocks her off, moves closer to where I’m sitting.

‘The divers found something else,’ he says, slow and horribly careful. I can smell his deodorant, the sweeter chemical smell of whatever shit he uses on his ridiculous hair. ‘Inside the boat’s cuddy.’

‘Okay.’ I realise that Ross is standing behind me, his arms reaching around my shoulders. I look down at the flex of his forearm muscles, the raised hairs and goosebumps on his skin.

Doom, I think. Doom.

‘They found a body,’ Logan says. ‘A female.’

Ross’s arms tighten around me; his fingers dig into my collarbone.

Logan looks so pained, so wretched, I nearly get up to comfort him. ‘The Greenock Dive and Marine Unit recovered her this morning,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

The windowpane is cold against the pads of my fingers. It vibrates every time a bus rattles past. I’ve been standing here for less than an hour, but it feels like days before DI Kate Rafiq’s very shiny silver BMW parks in front of the house and she gets out. A few minutes later, I hear her come into the drawing room, but I don’t turn around.

‘Catriona, how’re you holding up?’

I turn around. ‘It’s not her.’

Rafiq marches to the centre of the room, indicates the chesterfield with the flat of her palm, nods once when I sit down on it. ‘We don’t know anything for sure yet.’

‘You know it’s her boat,’ Ross says. He sits on the footstool, nearly missing the edge of it and ending up on the floor instead. He looks like I do: shellshocked, slow, confused. Maybe he’s not as resigned to El’s fate as he thought.

‘Aye. But at this stage, that’s all. We don’t know if the … deceased woman is Ellice. And while you should both prepare yourselves for that possibility, it’s also important you don’t leap to conclusions before we have any.’

I don’t see how managing both is even possible. ‘Have you seen her?’

She looks at neither of us when she nods. ‘I’ve come from the City Mortuary. It’s why I wasn’t able to be here earlier, I’m sorry.’ She clears her throat, indicates a tall, skinny man standing behind her. ‘Iain Patterson here is a forensic scientist,’ she says. ‘We want to be able to give you both an ID as soon as possible, all right?’

With his solemn frown, black suit, and big case, Iain Patterson looks like a cross between an undertaker and a Mormon. He nods at Ross, and then at me. Sets his case down and starts unzipping it.

‘Ross,’ Rafiq says. ‘Would you mind maybe finding something of El’s? A hairbrush maybe, or a used razor?’

He stays half-squatting on the footstool. ‘I already did that,’ he says, looking up at her. He sounds like a little boy. ‘Didn’t I?’

‘Aye, you did, that’s right. We’ve already got her toothbrush. But two samples are always better than one. Shona, you want to give him a hand?’

Shona helps him up like he really is a child, and moves quickly into step alongside him, her hand hovering at his back as they leave the room.

Rafiq waits until the sound of their footsteps disappears before turning back to me. Her expression is either very grim or very pained, it’s hard to tell which, but that look makes me feel claustrophobic all of a sudden. She’s looking at me too hard, like she’s hoping I’ll trip up. I have no idea why.

‘Catriona, would you give your consent to Iain here taking a DNA sample?’

When I don’t immediately reply, she comes closer, lays a hand on my arm. Her nails are short and neat and white. ‘Initially, we’d only take reference samples from the missing person’s belongings, rather than kinship samples from relatives, but in this case—’

‘Because we’re twins.’

She nods. ‘Because you’re identical twins, aye. You have exactly the same DNA. So, d’you give your consent?’

‘Yes. Of course, yes.’ I look at her. At that expression. ‘Is … is there something else?’

Rafiq is quick to shake her head, force a smile, but I know there is. And I know, too, that whatever it is – whatever it is she thinks she knows, or thinks that I know – she isn’t going to reveal it until she’s ready to. My stomach clenches; the fog in my brain only gets thicker.

Rafiq nods at Iain Patterson, who gets up from his crouch after taking a plastic test tube out of his bag.

‘Afternoon,’ he says with gusto. His voice is so low, it’s more a vibration than a sound. He takes a long cotton bud out of the test tube. ‘Now, if you can just tip your head back a wee bit, and open your mouth wide, I’m going to take a quick swab of the inside of your cheek, okay? It won’t take a jiffy.’

He sounds entirely too cheerful for both his suit and the circumstances, but I nod, follow his instructions. As soon as he puts the cotton bud into my mouth, I have an urge to bite down on it hard, clamp my mouth shut.

‘We may need to take a blood specimen from you at a later time,’ he says once he’s withdrawn the bud and slid it back inside the test tube.

I’m shivering, I realise. I’m not sure when that started, but I don’t seem able to stop.

‘Here, Catriona, sit back down,’ Rafiq says, and her voice is no longer hard, but soft enough to make me want to cry. But I won’t.

When we hear Ross and Shona coming back down the stairs, Rafiq looks relieved, buttons up her jacket.

‘A DNA analysis can take anything between twenty-four and seventy-two hours,’ she says. ‘But obviously, we’ll put a rush on this, okay?’

I nod. Ross nods too, while leaning heavily on the lowboy he fucked me against less than a week ago. I close my eyes, and when I finally manage to open them, Rafiq is giving me that hard probing look again.

‘Try not to worry,’ she says. ‘Either way, it’ll all be over soon.’

After I close the door behind them, I stay in the hallway for a long time, standing inside that silver spear of sun from the fanlight window.

We’re in this together, okay? Ross whispers in my ear. But, of course, when I whirl around to the hallway, he’s not there. It’s just another ghost.

CHAPTER 17

Time is so thick and slow, it’s like I can feel it. Like I could reach down and push my hands inside it, watch it drain through my fingers. Ross and I move listlessly from room to room. We stay close together. Whenever we stop or sit, we touch knees or arms or fingers, and I can’t bring myself to care about all the reasons why we shouldn’t. He shakes; tremors rattle down through him and into me. We’re sitting at the kitchen table when he finally lifts up his head. I realise that he’s as angry as he is afraid.

‘I don’t want El to be dead, Cat.’

‘I know,’ I whisper.

‘I never wanted her to be dead.’

And I don’t know if he means because of us, because of how quickly we’ve turned back towards each other, or because of how strong his grief has always seemed from the start, how certain. I reach for his fingers, weave mine between them. ‘I know, Ross.’

Eventually, I have to be alone. I lock myself in the bathroom, blink at the face in the mirror, its eyes tired and just as afraid. I think of the last time I looked at this face and it wasn’t a reflection. New Year’s Day, 2006. Six months after El’s I win. Six months before we would no longer be teenagers any more. We met at Yellowcraigs. It was two buses and a mile-long walk from my house share in Niddrie. I had no idea where El had come from; didn’t even know if she was still living in the city.

The beach was empty, the waves wild, wind vicious, the day sunny and cold. It was hard to look at her for long. I missed her and Ross so badly it was an angry, wretched ache; a stump that itched and tingled and couldn’t forget what it felt like to be whole. She wouldn’t let him talk to me, although he did and often, phoning me whenever he could – even if both of us could see that it was pointless, more painful than silence. I couldn’t bear to hear about her, about them, about plans that didn’t include me. I couldn’t bear to hear his sadness, his guilt, his pleas for me to understand why. Why it had to be this way.

‘You’ve lost too much weight.’

I couldn’t sleep. I saw too many doctors and took too many pills. I’d even flirted with the idea of suicide, and the only thing to stop me was the thought of how ridiculous I’d look if I failed, how pathetic. That then there would be nothing at all of mine that hadn’t first belonged to El.

I kept looking at her in small snatches. Her skin was bright and her hair blonder. Her nails were red and long. I wondered when she’d stopped biting them.

‘You need to eat.’

I saw her glancing down at my ragged nails, the scabbed-over scratches and cuts on my hands that so often appeared without me knowing why or when. I flinched when she reached with her right hand to take my left. I looked back across the choppy waves, out towards the hazy dark line of the North Sea, and I swallowed, suddenly afraid.

‘We’re getting married,’ she said, and I kept on looking at the spindrift, the blinding flashes of sun. I could feel my hand tightening on hers, but she didn’t wince, she didn’t let go.

‘You don’t even want him. I know you don’t. You’re only taking him because I want him. Because I love him.’

It was the first time I’d said it, I realised. To anyone but myself.

El turned to me then. ‘You’re like a fucking puppy, you know that, Cat? The worse someone treats you, the more you try, the more you want them to like you. It’s pathetic.’

I blinked away the sting in my eyes. ‘I’ll leave. I’ll go to America.’ The college was running an all-expenses-paid internship programme at the Los Angeles Times. There was already a list of volunteers a mile long. Before that day, I hadn’t considered going even for a minute.

She looked briefly surprised, maybe even shocked, and then she looked away. ‘Good.’

My fear, my hurt, I swallowed down with anger. ‘I’ll never come back.’

She turned to face me and her smile was wide. I wanted to shrink from the victory in that smile as much as the sudden bite of her fingers around my wrists, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises that would remind me of her words for weeks.

‘That’s not the threat you think it is, Cat. Because I hate you. Do you understand? I hate you. So, go. All I want is for you to be gone.’ The snarl did nothing to mask the hurt in her eyes, the fury. ‘To never have to think about you again.’

And then she let me go. Walked away without once looking back.

There are many downsides to being an identical twin. Always knowing – seeing – what you look like when you smile, when you frown, when wrinkles start appearing around your eyes, like a mirror you always carry, sharp and heavy under your arm. Always being mistaken for someone else, just waiting for the moment you can interrupt, put them right, see the warm familiarity in their eyes disappear. Always being crammed into half a box, traits divvied up so that one must be outgoing, the other shy; one adventurous, one timid. Believing it yourself. Believing that when you’re the one not picked, when you’re the one kicked aside, it’s never because of what you look like. It’s because you’re you. And not her.

But this is worse. This leaden, savage knowing that you aren’t whole without each other. That you can never survive alone in the world. That you were never meant to. Thinking of her on that day hurts more than anything else ever has. Cheeks pink, eyes blinking tears that I hoped were for me, but knew were for the vicious wind. The squeeze of her fingers against mine, just like when we’d fight sleep under the ironwoods and banyans of the Kakadu Jungle, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go. How that was the last day, the last moment – even when she was being cruel – that I felt she might still love me. How she had been the first one to let go.

‘I’d know.’ When I start to cry, it feels as frightening as watching the face in the mirror fall apart. I watch her cover her mouth with her hand. I watch her tears spill over white, blue-veined skin like twin waterfalls. I watch her shake her head as if that’s enough, that’s all that needs to be done. And then it will all stop.

I’d know.

15 April 2018 at 21:15

Inbox

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 9. LOOK UNDER YOUR MATTRESS

Sent from my iPhone

July 3rd, 1998

He’s not real. Dad’s not real.

I think I knew really but how could Mum LIE???

She was making me and Cat pack away our old costumes and games and books into boxes to take downstairs to Mirrorland and I found one of Grandpa’s big encyclopeedias in her cupboard. So I took it out and I opened it and on a page with the corner turned down there was CAPTAIN HENRY MORGAN!!!!!!!

I was excited at first – coz the picture of him was exactly how Mum had said – exactly like my painting in Mirrorland and there was all this great stuff about him being a privateer (which I think is just a posh disguise for a Pirate that works for the government. LIKE MUM SAID TOO) He was even the LEUTENANT GOVERNOR OF JAMAICA!!!

But then Cat saw when he was born. 1635!!!!!!

We couldn’t beleive it. How could Mum lie to us? She always told us he loved us and if we waited for him in Mirrorland he’d come back. He’d take us to The Island. To Santa Catalina. And even tho that sounds stupid now Mirrorland is magic. It’s better than Narnia or Oz or Neverland or Middle Earth. We can make things happen there that never happen anywhere else. It’s REAL. But it doesn’t matter. Because she lied. He’s not our dad. And when we told her we knew she cried – Mum NEVER cries!! She said she did it to make us happy. And then started going on and on about how she loves us so much blah blah BLAH

And Grandpa was so mean! Like we were stupid to beleive it anyway. Like it was our fault or something. He said she should have told us that our dad was a TOTAL FUCKING WASTER who left her as soon as she was pregnant. And when Cat asked Mum if our dad was a TOTAL FUCKING WASTER Mum just cried some more and left us with mean Grandpa.

I HATE them. I HATE THEM BOTH.

Look at the state ae them! They’re allus tired. They never bloody sleep. Ye said yersel their school work’s sufferin’. Ye’ve filled up their heids wi’ so much bloody nonsense they spend aw their time in a dreamworld. And now ye’ve got em believin’ their fuckin’ father is a seventeenth-century pirate, for Christ’s sake! They’ll grow up slower than a week in the fuckin’ jail, wumman!

I remember recoiling from that voice, from his lips flecked with spittle. So unlike the Grandpa I knew. As alien as a tear-streaked Mum telling us, I’m sorry, I love you, I lied because I wanted you both to be happy. Or a faceless father who was a total fucking waster.

The wind rattles the Clown Café window. It’s grown so dark now all I can see is my own reflection. My phone vibrates. Vik again. When I don’t answer, a text immediately appears on the screen. I need to speak to you. I shove my phone in a drawer, open my laptop, hit reply to that last message from john.smith120594. My fingers tremble, but not so much that I can’t type.

They found a body. Tell me who it is. Please.

I close my stinging, salt-dry eyes. I am so, so tired. My heart is a slow, dull thud that I can feel in my chest and stomach.

No one answers me.

CHAPTER 18

They come back twenty-seven and a half hours after they left. All of them. I stand at the Princess Tower window and watch Rafiq’s shiny silver BMW pull up behind Shona’s pale blue Beetle – a convertible. Shona’s wearing tight jeans and a thin silk shirt. Who living in Edinburgh wouldn’t want a convertible and a thin silk shirt? I occupy myself with more petty observations as they open the gate, come up the path in slow single file. And when I run out of spite, I admire Logan’s legs instead, the broad set of his shoulders, even his stupid hair.

Please, I think, when I hear the front door, the hallway door, the murmur of voices. Please, when Ross shouts my name from the bottom of the stairs – uncertain and thin – and instead of answering, I open the white cupboard and look at El’s self-portrait, press the pads of my fingers against the angry brushstrokes of her skin. Please, when I go out onto the landing and grab hold of the bannister, feel the world list and lurch. When I stop just short of the bottom, look down into the hallway at all those solemn, grim faces and the bell board inside the kitchen doorway: the curled black springs, the shiny bells, the star-shaped pendulums.

Please.

Rafiq clears her throat, looks at us both in turn. ‘I’m sorry, Ross. Catriona.’ She drops her head, her gaze. ‘It’s definitely her. It’s definitely El.’

And that terrible day on Yellowcraigs doesn’t hurt more than anything else after all.

I end up in Mirrorland. When I can see again, I’m on my knees on the stern deck of the Satisfaction, clutching the ship’s lantern to my chest as I look out at the impatient white puffs of cloud and white frills of wave and Blackbeard, dark and stark and getting closer.

I don’t cry, I can’t cry, but every few minutes my whole body seizes with a kind of retching paralysis, where I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think. In the lulls between, I cough and rock and choke down ragged breath after breath, but as swiftly as I start to recover it comes again.

I stumble from the Satisfaction, and up into the long empty alleyway. Stop halfway along the boundary wall, and think of El’s Captain Henry Morgan, forever improved and never finished. Our seventeenth-century pirate king father.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

When I feel another seizure coming, I drop back onto my knees. What comfort I think I’ll find in it, I don’t know, but I start whispering, ‘We will not leave each other. Never so long as we live.’ Over and over again.

I hear a noise, see a shadow, feel my windpipe closing down tight to admit only thin sips of breath. I feel a rush of cold air, a shiver of dread. A line of white in the dark, throwing monstrous shadows against the walls. Deadlights. The echo of RUN! The high, long screaming panic of it, and then I’m scrambling to my feet too late, bolting away from the lurch and loom of a shadow that’s no longer a shadow.

‘Cat! Christ. Stop!’

Ross drops to his knees alongside me, grapples for a better hold of my flailing arms and legs. And I fight way past the point of needing or wanting to, because he’s El’s husband; he’s belonged to her and she to him since he first dropped down from that skylight into Mirrorland – and somehow, that hasn’t ever mattered to me until now. Somehow, I’ve managed to believe it isn’t even true.

‘Oh, God, please. Please. Leave me alone. Please!’ While I grab hold of him hard enough to hurt us both, hang on to him like he’s the only rock in a murderous black sea.