Sunday
“All right?”
That was the very last thing I said to Holly.
“All right?”
I’m not sure what, if anything, I meant by it; I’m not even sure how to spell it. It’s one of those things that you say when you’re passing someone on the stairs and you can’t help making eye contact. It’s the sort of phrase that just pops out of your mouth, a bit like a belch or a burp, but with letters attached.
Whatever I meant, Holly didn’t reply. And now nobody knows where she is, or who she’s with, or when she’s coming back. If she’s coming back at all. Which is why I’m sitting here on my bed, thinking about the last “conversation” we had before she vanished into thin air, or disappeared off the face of the earth, or went off the radar – wherever it is that people go when they’re not where they’re supposed to be.
I didn’t know anything was up until last night, when I got home from Dad’s. We’d spent the afternoon at football, like we do most Saturdays. Buying me a Shelby Town season ticket for my birthday, along with one for himself, was Dad’s idea of father–son bonding. He didn’t bother to ask me whether I wanted it, or if I’d prefer something else instead. He thought it was just the best present any father could give his son.
If he’d been around for the past five years, he’d know I don’t support Shelby Town any more. I went off them around the same time Dad went off Mum (and off with his other woman). I switched my allegiance to Man United instead. I was going to set him straight but, when I saw the proud look on his face as I tore open the envelope, I didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. I just said, “Cheers, Dad,” and let him swat me across the shoulders.
And so, almost every other Saturday, at one o’clock, he parks up outside Mum’s front door, beeps his horn twice to let me know he’s arrived, takes me to the match, feeds me as much junk food as I can stuff in, and then drops me home again.
Yesterday’s was a particularly boring nil–nil match, and all those hot dogs and onion rings gave me serious wind, so when Dad took me home I was hoping for a quiet night in with my Wii. I’d hardly had time to put my key in the front door lock before Mum was in my face, gripping on to me by the shoulders of my jacket and not letting go. She was shrieking at me.
“Have you seen your sister? Do you know where she is? Has she called you?”
“No!” I shouted back, trying to shake her off me.
She was so close that droplets of her saliva were showering my face.
“I’ve been at football with Dad. You know I have.”
But she just kept on asking, “Are you sure she didn’t say anything? Can’t you think of something? She must have mentioned something!”
Mum isn’t the hysterical type. She’s usually calm and tough and quite dry with it. Seeing her all panicky, her voice high-pitched and desperate, made me want to go straight back out the front door again.
“No, Mum,” I said, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. “I dunno where she is. What’s going on? The last time I saw her was yesterday morning before school. She didn’t tell me anything.”
I was going to add “She never tells me anything”, but I thought better of it.
Mum was clasping my jacket so tightly that the zip at my collar was starting to strangle me. “Let go now, Mum,” I pleaded. But it didn’t seem as if she could hear me. It was like she was possessed. “Get off me, Mum!” I shouted, as loudly and clearly as I could. I made a sudden jerking motion and, finally, she had to release me.
The jolt seemed to bring her to her senses. “Holly’s missing,” she said in a quiet voice, her eyes unfocused. “Nobody’s seen her since she left school yesterday. I can’t get her on her phone and she isn’t with any of her friends.”
Last night felt like the longest night in history. I kept out of Mum’s way while she phoned everybody in her address book. The police and all the local hospitals, too. After each call she tried Holly’s mobile again, although by her fifth attempt she’d given up leaving desperate messages. At some point, the police came round to take a missing person’s report. Dad came by and so did some of our neighbours. By ten o’clock I realized there wasn’t going to be any dinner cooked, so I sorted myself out with some toast, which I ate alone in my room. There are still crumbs everywhere, even under my duvet.
I honestly did think that Mum was overreacting. Holly’s always coming back later than she’s supposed to, or calling to say she’s staying at a friend’s house. I expected her to walk in the front door at any moment so that she and Mum could have an almighty row. Every time I heard a noise, or a car drew up outside, or the phone rang, I thought, There’s Holly, at last. Everything can go back to normal.
But now it’s Sunday afternoon and she’s still not back, and I’m starting to wonder if something really has happened to her. I keep going over that moment on the stairs, in case there’s something I missed, a code I haven’t been able to break or a look I didn’t register. As last words go, “All right?” is pretty lame, isn’t it? It’s not a great parting shot – hardly up there with “Live long and prosper!” or “May the force be with you!”. If I’d just said something as simple as “Have a good day” or “Take care of yourself”, at least I’d know that I’d wished her well. Wished her something. Instead, I’d wished her nothing at all.
So my twin sister’s gone missing, and I can’t even get out of school for a day. Dad said I had to go.
“Keep you out of trouble,” he said. “Your mum’s in no state to look after you.”
Everyone’s heard what’s happened. When a fifteen-year-old girl goes missing, the news spreads fast. People are treating me like I’m an alien that’s been beamed down into the classroom from the planet Zog. They’re staring at me – and whispering about me – whenever they think I’m not looking. Any minute now, I’m expecting someone to get out a probe and hold me down for an internal examination.
I know what people are saying: “Holly’s run off with some guy”, “She’s pregnant”, “She’s lying in a ditch somewhere”. Some of the boys in my year are making nasty jokes, saying disgusting things, stuff I don’t want to think about, let alone repeat. These are things that happen on the news, to other people. Not in real life. Not to my family.
When we were little, Holly and I used to stay up late at night to tell each other scary stories about witches and demons and bogeymen. We’d take it in turns to lock each other in our bedroom in the dark, while the one standing outside made ghostly scrapes and bangs and horrible groaning noises. The first person to be so spooked that they couldn’t handle it any more was the loser. I was always better at this game than Holly because the monsters I dreamt up were bigger and scarier. They had teeth that could bite your head clean off, or claws that could slice you in two. They had revolving heads with two faces – one normal, one so horrible it would blind you – or they had necklaces made of children’s finger bones. What if she’s that scared now, and this time for good reason? What if she’s locked inside a dark room and there’s nobody to let her out? What if the bogeyman with the bony necklace has got her?
“Oi!” Robbie Bowen has lumbered over, the only person brave – or stupid – enough to talk to me. “So, I was wondering, are you and Holly identical twins?” he asks. “’Cos it might help. You know, looking for her, I mean.”
I give him the evils. Is he serious? It’s hard to tell with Robbie. Identical? Come on, I’m a bloke for God’s sake – how can we be identical? Do I need to get my equipment out to prove it?
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re identical. You can’t tell us apart.”
“Oh, right,” says Robbie. “So can you, like, read each other’s minds? Are you psychopathic?”
Idiot. People always ask me this, along with the identical twin question. Mum likes to think it’s true. According to family legend, when we were five, at the exact moment Holly fell off the top of the slide at the playground, I started screaming about a pain in my shin. I’ve heard it told so often that I don’t know if I can actually remember it happening or if I’ve just imagined myself into the story.
“Yeah, Robbie,” I say, closing my eyes. “We’re telepathic. I know exactly where she is and who she’s with. I’m reading her thoughts right now. I decided I wouldn’t tell the police just so they’d have something to do.”
He snarls at me. “Only trying to help,” he says.
I shrug. All I know is that when Holly went missing on Friday evening, I didn’t feel a thing. That night, I got my best-ever score on Medieval War Games III, ate almost an entire roast chicken and then slept a full, satisfying ten hours. I didn’t think about Holly once. Maybe that means she’s OK and nothing bad has happened to her. Or maybe we’re just not telepathic.
My phone is ringing.
“Yeah?” I say.
There’s a pause and, for a split second, I think it might be Holly and I realize I’m holding my breath. Then I hear a voice that I don’t recognize, a soft girl’s voice.
“Is that Sam?” asks the voice.
I breathe out silently. “Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed, or irritated. Obviously, it’s Sam. Why do people ask that when they’ve just dialled your number?
“Oh, right. It’s Belle here.”
She pauses.
“You know, Holly’s friend.”
“All right?” I say, because I’m not sure how to respond, and because old habits die hard. The truth is I’m shocked. Belle has never called me before. I’m not even sure how she got my number.
“Um…” There’s a tiny crack in Belle’s voice. “Um, it’s, er, about Holly. Can I come round?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”
“The thing is, I think your mum’s a bit upset with me ’cos Holly said she was supposed to be staying at mine, when she wasn’t, on Friday.”
“Mum’s asleep,” I tell her. “Doctor’s given her some pills.”
“Oh, right.” She sounds relieved. “So, can I come right now?”
“If you like.”
I hang up. She doesn’t take long. I wait in my room for a few minutes, and by the time I get downstairs she’s already standing there outside the front door. The frosted glass blurs her silhouette, making her look like a smudged drawing. I open the door and watch as she comes into focus in front of me.
It’s two hours later and we’re standing at the bottom of a block of flats in the centre of town, waiting for the lift. It stinks of wee and there’s graffiti all over the walls. I can’t imagine Holly ever coming here, but Belle says different. Belle’s told me a lot of stuff that’s taken me by surprise. I feel sad, like I don’t really know my sister at all.
The lift deposits us on the fifth floor. Then it’s a short walk down a grey corridor to a grey front door that looks like every other front door we’ve passed. Belle raps on the frame with the side of her chunky ring. “Buzzer doesn’t work,” she explains. “Never has.”
Eventually, the door opens. “Oh, it’s you,” says a guy, tall and pale and unshaven. He’s at least nineteen or twenty. “I thought I told you and your mates not to come round.”
“It’s about Holly,” says Belle, peering round the door as if she’s trying to see if Holly’s inside.
The guy glances around him suspiciously. “Right, yeah, I’d heard. Well, you’d better come in,” he says, pulling back the door. Belle walks inside and I follow her. The guy blocks my path with his arm.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Sam. Holly’s brother.”
“Right,” he says. “I’m Rick. OK, then, come in.”
We all walk into his living room, where there’s a sofa and an armchair, but he doesn’t offer us a seat.
“Look,” he says to me, “I’m sorry your sister’s gone missing, but what you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? I’m here because Belle asked me to come with her, because she was scared to come on her own.”
“We thought Holly might be here,” says Belle. “She told me she was coming to see you on Friday.”
“Jesus,” says Rick. “Have you told anyone else this?”
“No, course not,” says Belle. She’s trembling a little.
“Look,” says Rick again, “she came round here Friday, yeah, but I told her I didn’t want to see her. I told her to go home. I didn’t even let her in the flat.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want, love. I didn’t let her in. I didn’t know she was gonna disappear after, did I?”
Belle looks confused and slightly panicked. “But Holly told me you were her boyfriend now. She says you’ve been hanging out.”
Rick snorts. “In her dreams,” he says.
I clench my fist inside my pocket. I want to hit him.
“Nothing happened. Soon as I found out how old she really was, I told her where to go. That was weeks ago. Not my fault if she didn’t want to hear it. She’s been stalking me ever since.”
He takes his phone out of his pocket. “You want proof, just look at this.”
He shows us his text folder. There are about eighty messages, all from Holly, all saying “Please call me” and other stuff that makes me cringe. Some of the texts aren’t even opened.
Now Belle looks shocked, as if she’s realized she didn’t really know Holly either.
“So where did she go on Friday then? Where’s she been going when she said she was seeing you?”
“I dunno,” he says, holding up his hands. “If I knew, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?”
“You’re lying,” says Belle. “We could go to the police if we wanted.” She sounds uncertain.
“Yeah?” says Rick, like he wants to laugh. “And tell them what? I’ve got plenty of mates who’ll swear I’m telling the truth.”
Now I want to get out of there. I’m feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable. I don’t like Rick and I don’t trust him, and I don’t understand why my sister would want anything to do with him.
“We should go,” I say to Belle.
“Yeah, you should,” says Rick, nodding towards the door. “Hope you find your sister, mate.”
In the corridor outside the flat, Belle is quiet and thoughtful. I’m suddenly aware that I hardly know her and that I don’t know what to say to her. I press the button for the lift. It’s been waiting for us; the doors open immediately.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says. She looks like she might cry but doesn’t want to do it in front of me.
I press “G” for Ground and step backwards.
There’s a grinding noise and the lift shakes and jolts into motion. And then, as it begins to pick up speed, there’s another jolt, and the lights flash off, and we’re in blackness. Just as I’m about to say “God, we’re stuck”, the lift starts moving again and I’m aware of a horrible plummeting sensation in the pit of my stomach as we rush towards the ground, falling faster and faster down the shaft, as if the lift has broken free of its cables and is never going to stop. I flail against the wall, grasping helplessly for something to hold on to, calling Belle’s name. But there’s nothing to grip, and my voice isn’t coming out, and I can’t see Belle and I know that it’s hopeless…
And then everything’s still. The doors are open and we’re at the ground floor, with graffiti and sunlight creeping across the walkways.
“God,” I say, shivering. “That was horrible. Are you OK, Belle? Are you hurt?”
“What you talking about, Sam? I’m fine. Nothing’s happened, has it? You look terrible. Like you’ve seen a … like you’ve had a shock.”
“But the lift … we were falling.”
Belle looks at me sideways, like I’m a crazy person. “No, we weren’t,” she says. “You must’ve imagined it. It just got stuck for a second. It’s always doing that.”
I lean against the wall, steadying myself, catching my breath. I feel freezing cold, inside and out, and my head is banging. I don’t know what just happened. But there’s one thing I do know, one thing that suddenly seems absolutely, horribly clear. I can’t explain it, but I’m now one hundred per cent certain that my sister is dead.
I haven’t told anyone what I know, or what I felt. What I feel. They wouldn’t want to hear it and I’m not sure anyone would take much notice of me. It’s not like I’ve got real evidence; and everyone’s too busy running around being practical to listen.
Someone said there’s going to be a reconstruction on a TV crime show, with an actress pretending to be Holly. And, at the match next Saturday, Shelby Town are holding a benefit for her: raising money to help with the search. It’s kind of ironic; Holly hates football. But she’s always wanted to be on TV. Even if she’d be really annoyed that someone else is playing her. They’d better choose someone pretty, or Holly will … Holly would kill them. She’d come back and haunt them, I’m telling you.
Me? I’m just waiting. Going to school and going straight home after. Watching out of my window. Listening. Keeping out of Mum’s way. Trying not to talk to anyone, in case I upset them. Or in case they think I’m nuts, like Belle does. I feel weird, empty inside; numb. I feel doomed. I know nothing’s ever going to be the same again. I know that in a few minutes – in a few hours or a few days – I’m going to be proved right, even though I don’t want to be. Every time I hear a car in the street, I think it’s them – the police – coming back to give Mum the terrible news. Every time I switch on the TV I expect to hear that they’ve found a body at the bottom of a lift shaft. A girl’s body, in a tower block, not far from here…
You know when people say the silence is deafening? I get that now. There’s only a thin wall between Holly’s bedroom and mine, a partition made of plywood which some builder mate of Dad’s put in. When I move around, I swear I can hear the echo of my own footsteps, as if there’s a giant, empty cavern next door. I feel I should whisper and tiptoe as if I’m in church.
There’s a car driving up the street. I don’t need to look out of the window to know that it’s a police car; it has that police car sound, even without the siren going. The car stops, turns off its engine. Now I can hear car doors being opened and slammed, one after the other, and footsteps on the path outside my house.
There’s the bell. Short and sharp. A pause, and then the creak of floorboards downstairs as Mum walks from the kitchen to the front door.
It’s happening.
I’m holding my breath.
I hear the sound of low, muffled voices. Mum is crying, quietly at first, then louder and all gaspy, like she can hardly breathe. I can picture it all. I’ve seen scenes like this on TV shows. They’re telling her they think they’ve found Holly. They’re saying someone has to go down to the morgue to identify her. It’ll just be a formality, although everyone will be hoping until the last second that it isn’t her. But it will be her. And then it will be over. And nothing will ever be the same again.
“Sam! Come down! Sam!” Mum is calling me, her voice breaking. “They’ve found your sister, Sam. Come here now!”
I hesitate. I feel safe in my room. Outside my door is a world I don’t want to enter: a world where I’m not a twin or even a brother any more. I drag myself up from my bed, tuck in my shirt and walk slowly to my bedroom door.
And then, impossibly, I hear the sound of my sister’s voice. My brain can’t compute it at first. It’s her, saying, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”
And I realize that the gaspy crying is hers, not Mum’s. My legs won’t work properly, so I peer down from the top of the stairs. It is Holly. She seems different somehow: smaller, older. Much more than fifteen minutes older than me.
She looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears, and she nods.
“All right, Sam?” she says.
“All right?”
