Someone You Know

Chapter 3

Tess: June 2018

The last time I saw Edie she was slipping through a gap in the hedge at the back of our school. One moment she was there, the next she was gone, like Alice Through the Looking Glass. And like Alice, I thought one day she’d return.

My train is sitting at a red signal, a fire on the line outside Coventry is causing delays and we’re already forty minutes late. People tut and glare at their phones. I’m the only one hoping the signal stays red.

We’ve received calls before to say a body’s been found. Only to be told later that it’s too old, too young, the wrong height. This will be another mistake. So why is my heart thudding against my chest, why is Dad so certain it’s her this time, when he’s been through so many scares before, why do I dread the train ever reaching its destination?

The gap in the hedge led to a route home via the canal. The police searched its towpath repeatedly in the week after Edie’s disappearance. Only her leather school bag was found, flung in the water, its strap caught on the bars of a discarded shopping trolley. In it were her schoolbooks, comb, Discman and a purse holding four pounds twenty-two pence in change. She even left one of her records, a Northern soul track Ray had given her.

The police brought the bag to me.

‘Do you recognise everything, is anything missing?’ a policewoman asked.

‘The photograph,’ I said.

‘What photograph?’

‘Edie keeps a photograph of us. She always carries it with her.’

It was the sole copy of a family portrait, the negatives lost long ago. In it we’re about three or four years old. Edie is sitting on Mum’s lap, looking up into her face. Mum gazes back, smiling. Dad’s turned towards them, proud and protective. I’m on Dad’s knee, swivelled away from the rest of the family, pointing to something out of shot.

There aren’t many snaps of Mum; we didn’t own a camera. Uncle Ray took them. I have the one of Mum at nineteen, just before she married Dad. She looks so like Edie, tall, slender, graceful. Her expression is difficult to read, a half-smile flickers round her lips, her eyes slightly turned from the camera, as if a full gaze would be giving too much of herself away. And there are pictures of birthdays and Christmases. But Edie loved that one of us all together, when we were very young.

‘Are you certain she had it? When was the last time you saw it?’ the policewoman asked.

‘I’m not sure, but she’d never leave it. She must have taken it with her.’

‘She may have removed it from her purse or lost it months ago.’

‘She wouldn’t remove it or lose it,’ I said. ‘She took it with her.’

The policewoman smiled, made a note and started asking me if Edie had been in any trouble recently.

Over the years I repeated to Dad, Uncle Ray and Auntie Becca about the photograph, that Edie would never leave it behind, she took it from her bag, which means she must be alive. None of them listen. Perhaps Edie knew that too, that only I would realise its significance. A message to me alone.

So I never believed she was dead, never gave up hope, but my heart still thuds as the train lurches forwards for the final stretch of the journey. Is it Edie?

Chapter 4

Edie: August 1993

‘This one’s called “The Snake”.’

Even though Edie had heard it a hundred times before, Uncle Ray always announced the songs. It was part of the ritual. And this time it was her record player, the one Uncle Ray and Auntie Becca had got her for her birthday. Tess had got a portable CD player. But Edie knew she had the best present. All Uncle Ray’s Northern soul tracks were on vinyl and that first crackle before the song came on, then the drum roll, gave Edie goosebumps.

As the trumpets came in, Uncle Ray swung his leg sideways before stepping left then right. He didn’t sing along like Edie, his arms and legs slid into patterns and his eyes focused on the middle distance.

‘Spin,’ Edie shouted.

He kicked one leg high then brought it down with a snap, sending him swirling so fast the stripes on his T-shirt blurred. Then he was back into his diamond pattern steps.

‘Your turn,’ he called to Edie.

She’d been practising. Uncle Ray had made her a cassette of some of the top tunes, as he called them, though a few of her favourites were missing. She couldn’t play it on the stereo in the lounge if Dad was watching TV, which was most of the time. So she practised upstairs, which she preferred anyway, because Tess wouldn’t try and join in. With her clumsy hopping about, she looked like a puppet with half of its strings cut. At Christmas, Uncle Ray had bought them their own cassette player for their bedroom, which Edie loved. But Tess said she felt bad because Dad had wanted to buy it for them and couldn’t afford it. Edie thought if he wanted to buy them stuff that much, he’d get a job.

Auntie Becca came in and leaned on the kitchen door frame.

‘You should be outside on a day like this, Edie. It’s your birthday; everyone else is in the garden. It won’t be summer forever.’

Edie ignored her and kept swinging her hips from side to side before copying Uncle Ray by kicking her leg up by her head, then pulling it down to put her into a spin.

Auntie Becca shook her head.

‘I’m not sure you should be teaching her that, Ray,’ she said. ‘She should at least be wearing trousers.’

Edie didn’t listen. She was watching Uncle Ray’s next move. He lunged to the side with his right leg and dragged his left foot along the floor behind him. Edie followed. They stepped left together. Edie squealed and hissed the ‘s’ of snake in the chorus.

‘Ray,’ Auntie Becca said.

‘Give it a rest, Becs,’ he said. ‘We’re just having a bit of fun.’

Auntie Becca shook her head again and left.

Why didn’t Auntie Becca ever want anyone to have fun? Edie thought. It didn’t matter, she was gone now and Edie was going to dance how she liked.

‘What are you doing?’

Tess was at the kitchen door. Edie and Uncle Ray were too intent on their dancing to reply.

‘What’s this one?’

Edie did another spin. Tess jumped into the room and started skipping from side to side, trying to copy Edie.

Mum came in from the kitchen just as Uncle Ray was changing tracks. He put down the single he was holding and swapped it for another.

‘This is “You Didn’t Say a Word” by Yvonne Baker,’ he announced.

‘My favourite,’ Mum said.

She pushed the sofa as far as it would go against the wall and moved the coffee table into the alcove by the fireplace.

She began to dance, singing along to the track. Edie hadn’t seen Mum dance in this way. She was good, better than Edie, despite all her practice. Not as good as Uncle Ray, but nearly. Tess was now bouncing up and down, oblivious to the beat.

Auntie Becca came back and stood at the door, looking as if the entire family had gone mad. Dad stood behind her and stared at Mum.

‘Come and dance, Dad,’ Tess said.

‘Not just now, Tess,’ he said.

‘But Dad,’ Tess pleaded.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the door.

‘Come on, Dad.’

He danced a few steps, just moving from side to side before looking over at Mum and Uncle Ray with their coordinated jumps and spins. He moved back to the door.

‘I’ll leave it to the experts,’ Dad said and left to go for a smoke out the back.

*

They danced until it was dark and Mr Vickers banged on the wall and told them to shut up. Then they ate cold sausages from the barbecue and more cake. Uncle Ray let Edie sit on his lap and sip his beer, which she pretended to like but it made her screw her face up and she vowed never to touch it again. By the time Uncle Ray and Auntie Becca left it was gone midnight and Tess was half asleep on the sofa.

‘Come on, you two, time for bed,’ Mum said.

‘Not tired,’ Tess said as her head flopped on Mum’s shoulder.

‘I know you’re not,’ Mum said and propped Tess against her arm.

Edie followed them up the stairs. She wasn’t tired either, but she wanted the day to end now, when it was perfect. She was ten years old. Double digits. Nearly grown up.

Chapter 5

Tess: June 2018

It’s nearly midnight by the time I reach Aspen Close, the street lamps’ pooled light hinting at the neat lawns and clipped hedges in the shadows. From the end of the road I can see Dad leaning against the door frame, his cigarette a tiny glow against his silhouette. Once he sees me he throws it to the ground and runs to meet me. He puts both arms around me and squeezes hard. When his grip relaxes I look at his face. It’s gaunt, the artificial light exaggerating the shadows under his eyes.

‘It’s not her, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it’s not her.’

He looks around, as if someone’s watching, picks up my case and walks back to the house without answering. Once inside, he turns and slumps onto the stairs and leans his head against the banister.

‘Dad?’

He closes his eyes.

‘The police seem pretty certain,’ he says.

‘But there’s still a chance…’

Dad sighs.

‘No, Tess. There’s no chance.’

‘They’ve made mistakes before. It could be anyone.’

His certainty frightens me.

‘I’ve just got a feeling. A bad feeling.’

He opens his eyes; they’re red with tiredness.

‘I’m sorry, Tess,’ he says.

He takes my suitcase and drags it upstairs.

It’s never been like this before. He’s always been the one to reassure me, when I’ve been frantic, terrified that all my instincts telling me Edie is still alive are wrong. The fight has gone out of him this time, maybe it’s just been going on for too long. Maybe he wants it to be her, so he has a definitive answer to what happened to his daughter. The only answer I want is that she’s been found alive. I won’t believe this girl is Edie.

I go into the lounge and slump on the sofa. The new chocolate brown leather looks out of place against the faded abstract-patterned wallpaper and scuffed laminate floor. When we first came to Aspen Drive the rooms seemed enormous and the newness was intimidating compared to our tiny terrace on the Limewoods Estate, which was, and still is, a byword for unemployment and minor criminality. Now, the house’s décor is more than a decade out of date. In a Victorian house, it would be charming shabby chic. On a nineteen-nineties executive housing estate it’s just shabby.

Edie would like this sofa, it’s minimalist with clean lines. A spasm grips my stomach. What if she’s not around to like anything any more? Whenever I shop, I consult Edie’s aesthetic. Whether she would choose the music, clothes or homewares I’ve selected. When would she play it, how would she wear it, in what way should it be arranged? I try to do that with the sofa but can’t push away images of the cold dark water and the sailing dinghies circling above her, engrossed in their sport on the reservoir’s surface, just a few feet away. But it can’t be her. She ran off with her boyfriend to London or Tuscany or Marrakech.

I take a cigarette to calm myself. Dad thuds down the stairs.

‘I’ll make you some tea,’ he says.

‘Nothing stronger?’

‘I keep some whisky in the sideboard for Ray. Don’t know how much is left. Or there’s cooking sherry in the kitchen.’

I go to the sideboard. Dad’s not much of a drinker. It interrupts his smoking. But tonight he lets me pour him a glass of Laphroaig and sits down in his armchair.

The whisky burns my throat. It’s bitter and smoky, but better than nothing.

‘What did they tell you about…’ I’m not going to say Edie. ‘The girl in the reservoir?’

Dad manages to grip the whisky glass with both hands and hold his cigarette at the same time.

‘She’s a teenager, been down there for years.’

My fingers feel hot. I look down to see the cigarette’s burnt to its butt. I stub it out and reach for another.

‘How can they be sure?’

‘Dunno. Tests.’

We fall silent. Dad switches on the TV, it’s showing a football match. He sits back and stares at the screen, chain-smoking. I’m sure he has no more idea of what’s going on in the game than I do. It’s just his fear of silence and what I might choose to fill it with.

A girl, a teenager, dumped in a reservoir thirty miles away. She’s been down there for years. How many explanations are there?

*

After the match, I pour another large glass of whisky and make an excuse of an early night.

‘Alright, love, sleep well.’

Dad sounds relieved and opens a new packet of cigarettes.

I take a look at Edie’s room before I go to bed. It was never a shrine, though when she first disappeared, I used to go and curl up on the bed, willing her to come back. I’d smell the clothes that held onto her scent and try them on; they were too large and looked dull and sexless on me.

Later, the room became a home to unwanted objects, a broken Hoover, old cardigans, a garden fork, but enough remains for it still to be Edie’s room, the same furniture in the same place, the walls the unpleasant shade of peach we thought fashionable at the time. In the corner sits the record player she was so proud of, along with a stack of LPs. I should clean them; they’re thick with dust. Edie would hate that. Her books are in a similar condition: Angela Carter, Woolf and Solzhenitsyn. She was always so much more sophisticated than me. The only book out of place is our old scrapbook. In large marker pen the title ‘The Case of The Missing Cakemaker’. My childish attempt at creating a mystery, involving a neighbour who left her husband.

I take it down. It’s covered in the same rosebud wallpaper we used for our schoolbooks. Where it came from, I don’t know, we never had that pattern on a wall. The pages fall open, lots of notes and diagrams and a sketch I’d done of the missing woman, Valentina Vickers. It’s a good likeness for a ten-year-old. Of course, Valentina was never really missing. I saw her shopping in House of Fraser a few years later. By the time I’d crossed the store to speak to her, she’d disappeared into a lift. It left me disappointed. I had wanted so much for there to be a mystery and she’d simply moved away. That’s why I’ve never believed Edie was dead. One day she’d just turn up, like Valentina.

Wouldn’t I know if she was dead, feel it, sense it? We’re twins, we shared a womb, we’re part of one another and I can almost see her in front of me, laughing, dancing, arguing. I can’t think of her as dead when every cell in me screams that she’s still alive.

A few pages have been ripped out of the scrapbook, betrayed by fraying scraps of paper along the stitched spine, probably used for a list of records Edie wanted to buy.

My room has survived better, the same single bed against the wall and only a few stray objects having made their way on top of the wardrobe.

I flop onto the bed and close my eyes. The whisky mingles with the dark and Edie’s standing before me. She smiles and turns to walk into the night, wearing a silver top and thick mascara, and I’m left on my own in the bedroom of our old house on the Limewoods Estate. I’m fully-grown but lying in my childhood bed and my feet stick off the end. I can see the red of my eyelids as the light breaks through the curtains. The smells of Mum cooking breakfast float up my nostrils. If I turn my head, Edie will be in her bed next to mine. The rain patters at the window and I’m sinking back into the soft mattress.

‘Tess,’ a voice says.

Two hands grip my wrist and tug. I nearly tip out of the bed.

‘Edie,’ I say out loud.

‘Tess,’ Dad calls.

I can smell bacon cooking downstairs.

I daren’t lie back in case I fall asleep again. Instead, I swing my feet to the floor.

‘Are you up, love?’

Maybe he heard me shout out.

‘Yes. I’ll be down in a bit.’

My hand’s shaking. I distract myself by checking my phone: three missed calls, two from Max, one from Cassie. I text back, promising to call them later.

In the kitchen, Dad’s lost in the thick smoke from the frying pan. We lived on ready meals after Mum died. Only after Edie disappeared did Dad discover the cookery channel and we started having huge stews, curries and roasts. I got fairly porky before my art foundation year, when I replaced them with boys, cigarettes and speed. I think he did it so he could pretend that we were a family, just the two of us, and to show that he loved me, which he’s never been good at saying. And here he is again, with a plateful of eggs, bacon and mushrooms, as if cholesterol can counteract heartache.

‘I thought you could do with a proper breakfast,’ he says.

I eat as much as I can but hand my plate back nearly as full as when Dad gave it to me before switching to coffee and cigarettes.

The house phone rings and Dad dives into the lounge. I can’t hear the conversation. He comes back into the kitchen and sits next to me; he won’t look me in the eye.

‘Tess, that was the police. They’re coming to pick us up.’ He takes my free hand and squeezes it. ‘We have to go to the station.’

Chapter 6

Edie: September 1993

‘A record player.’ Raquel said the words with a mixture of disbelief and pity. ‘My mum’s got one of those. Plays her old LPs on it. I wish the bloody thing would break.’

‘I wanted a record player,’ Edie said.

‘Next time my dad visits, he’s going to buy me a whole stereo with a CD player, not just one with a cassette. Then I won’t have to listen to Mum’s Matt Monro albums.’

‘Uncle Ray doesn’t play Matt Monro,’ Edie said.

Not like Granny McCann, she could have added. Raquel’s mum was twice the age of the other kids at school, something she was sensitive about. Almost as sensitive as she was about her dad never actually visiting or her reading problems.

‘Tsk,’ Raquel said. ‘You should’ve got a CD player, like Tess.’

Edie decided not to challenge Raquel. If that was her reaction, what would girls like Deanne or Caitlin say? She looked round for them as they entered the schoolyard. They were standing together, a little way from the gate, in a group of about ten. Edie caught their eye; both sides ignored the other. Caitlin was as tall as Edie but twice as broad. Her older sister, Moira, had also been the school bully and Caitlin was trying to live up to the family reputation. She’d started on Tess a few times, but being Edie’s twin and Raquel’s friend, had held her back. Caitlin was especially wary of Raquel, since she’d given her a black eye after one to many Granny McCann jibes. Still, being the start of a new school year, Edie was cautious around Caitlin; though Tess seemed unconcerned as she walked past, swinging her canvas bag.