The door opens and Hazel sees Laurel sitting with head bowed behind a table set in the middle of a small, low-ceilinged room. Light from the narrow wrap-around window above seems to frame Laurel’s head with a crown of grey; thorny with the dark of the glowering skies outside.
The thunder rumbling above matches the unease in Hazel’s chest and her breathing is short when Laurel lifts her head and her eyes meet her sister’s. Where once she was soft, now she is callused. Her blonde hair has a brassy tinge, nothing like the flyaway buttery yellow that used to frame her face. Her skin is grey, purple slashes underneath her eyes, which are themselves like flint, slitted windows in a castle keep.
But then, as she meets those eyes across the table, something in Hazel lets go and relaxes. She feels the steel bonds of the tension she has been holding in her shoulders, her facial muscles, even the way she is clenching her fingers. She feels all of that and then feels it dissipate. As she stands there, observing her sister, the moment stretches into something timeless, unquantifiable. It could be hours that they gaze at each other. Eventually Hazel sits down, slowly taking the chair opposite Laurel. Her heart-rate begins to slow and her breathing lengthens. It’s going to be all right, she thinks.
Laurel looks comfortable although her arms are crossed, one leg balanced over the knee of the other. It occurs to Hazel that this body language is to be expected. Laurel is on guard, she is protecting herself from something she expects to come from Hazel. That’s OK, Hazel thinks. I am benign. She decides to speak first. Breaking this silence will be like throwing a stone into still water. If she is the one to cause the ripples, then she will be in the best position to see how far they reach.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ she says. Her voice is calm, its timbre low and easy. ‘I’m sure the request came as a shock to you.’
Laurel shrugs but Hazel sees a flash of pain shoot across her eyes. For some reason, this relaxes her even further.
‘Not much to do here, you know. Everyone’s welcome to come.’ Laurel’s smile is acid; her words tinged with sharp metal. Hazel feels the bitterness of them as a clear precursor to an attack, but still, she remains untroubled. She moves her head from side to side as if limbering up before entering the ring.
‘When did you come here?’ she asks. ‘When did they move you from . . .’ In a sliver of panic, she cannot remember the name of the secure unit for a second. ‘Oakingham.’ She reaches for it with slippery hands, manages to keep the conversation in her grasp. ‘When did you leave Oakingham?’
‘When I was eighteen, Rosie,’ Laurel says. ‘Nice little present for my eighteenth, wasn’t it? Got to move to big girls’ prison. Have myself a cheery little room, with a sink and everything. Bars on the windows, of course, and just a small risk of getting fingered in the shower, but otherwise, happy fucking days.’
Hazel nods, taking it on the chin. ‘You know,’ she says, her eyes burning into Laurel’s, ‘I’m not here to apologise.’
Laurel laughs, a sound like china smashing on tiles. ‘Right. ’Course you’re not. Why would you be?’
‘I know you’re angry. With me. And with Mum and Dad.’
‘I don’t have a mum or dad,’ Laurel cuts in. ‘My only family is Toby. And even he’s on his way out.’
Hazel frowns.
‘He’s got cancer, didn’t you know?’ Laurel spits the information out with relish. ‘Hasn’t got long on this earth, our Toby. So I may as well get used to no more visits from him. Not that we have that much to talk about. Have you got me parole? No, I haven’t. Oh, all right then. See you next month.’
This knowledge about Toby drifts like a feather inside Hazel. She beds it down, to deal with later. ‘You’ve got a court case coming up, haven’t you?’ she asks instead. ‘Are you confident?’
Laurel leans forward then with an aggression Hazel notes but is not surprised by. ‘Are you having a fucking laugh? Confident? I’ve had thousands of hearings in the last ten years. I’ve lost all of them. The only reason we’ve got this one is down to Toby and his bloody castles . . .’ she swipes her hands across her in a slicing motion, close to Hazel’s face ‘. . . in the air. I haven’t got a fucking clue. I sit in here and get told what’s what. Show me some fucking respect, Rosie. Please.’
Hazel forces herself not to withdraw from the proximity of Laurel’s hands. ‘I understand. I’m sorry. I just . . .’ She lifts her chin and glances up to the ceiling as if choosing her words.
‘How’s your life anyway?’ Laurel’s tone is acerbic. ‘Married, are you? Kids?’
Hazel swallows. ‘Yes. I mean, not married. But I have a partner – Jonny. He has a daughter, Evie.’
‘How nice. No kids of your own?’
Hazel shifts on her seat, ignoring the question. ‘Look, I need to talk to you. About what happened. And . . . that’s hard. Because – well, because I haven’t seen you. You’ve been here alone.’ She stops suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Mum and Dad. Don’t hate them forever, Laurel . . .’ Hazel sees her sister work her tongue into her cheek. ‘I’m sorry. You like to be called L.’
Laurel raises her eyebrows.
‘I know they let you down. And I don’t understand why. Or maybe I do. Maybe we both do . . . But Mum’s gone now, hasn’t she? And you wouldn’t recognise Dad these days. He’s nothing like before. I don’t think they really knew what they were doing when it happened, during the trial and after. They were frightened and worried about everything. And Dad was sick, with his heart. They just . . .’ Hazel dips her head. ‘Look, I know they did wrong. But I also know that Mum loved you. That Dad still does, in his own way.’
Laurel sits perched forward, her chest heaving behind the edge of the table. She spreads her fingers very deliberately and slowly on the table top in front of her. ‘I don’t think,’ she mutters through her teeth at Hazel, her expression rigid as stone, ‘that I have ever known a more selfish act.’
Hazel nods again. Somewhere in the back of her head, she pictures her mother standing at the sink in their old house, before everything changed. The sun glinting on her hair and suds on her wrists, filled with the light of rainbows. ‘Don’t you remember?’ she says. ‘What it was like before?’
‘No,’ Laurel replies thinly. ‘I don’t.’
‘In the house. With the garden and the game. You remember the game, don’t you?’
‘The judge said we watched violent films,’ Laurel snaps. ‘He said I was depraved by them. That they made me evil.’
‘No, we never watched television. Just played games in the garden. Out in the sunshine, chasing each other under that big tree. We used to get that sticky stuff from its leaves on our skirts and Mum would go mad. Don’t you remember? She’d send us up to the bathroom. Stick us in the bath and the window would be open and the breeze coming in. Sitting there, with you in the bath. It was so light outside we could never sleep properly. The hours we spent, lying hot in our beds, talking to each other.’
‘Stop it!’ Laurel says, her fists curling tight on the table. ‘Just stop. What do you want here? What is it that you want?’
Hazel halts, her eyes moving back to Laurel, the memories popping like soap bubbles in the heat of the tiny room. She can smell Laurel’s body odour, her own fading perfume. She looks down at her fingernails, acting out a mantra she used to say to herself as a child. I am here, this is happening now, she whispers silently to herself. I am here, this is happening now. Over and over again.
‘You just want to go out there,’ Laurel flings her arm towards the door, ‘and tell them all that you’ve seen your evil sister and now you can remember. And everything’s all right, because you didn’t do anything wrong. It was all Laurel Bowman. That evil cow who killed the baby. And now you can finally set out your side of the story, tell the public all the fucking gruesome details they want to hear. Go on some TV show, dip your head and bat your eyelashes. Poor baby Rosie. Poor innocent child caught up in her despicable sister’s games. Just so you can get on with your life. And meanwhile? I’m sitting on my arse in here. I will fucking die in here. Don’t you get it? I will fucking die.’
‘No. You won’t.’ Hazel’s voice is firm. ‘Things are different now. Time is a healer, you know?’ She gives a little smile. ‘And . . . I want you to know that I’ll speak for you, at your hearing. If you like. If you want me, I’ll be on your side. From now on. I’ll make it up to you. All the silence, the estrangement. Before . . . I know you’re angry, but you must understand a bit of it at least.’
Hazel’s voice cracks a little, causing Laurel to bite her lip. ‘When it happened, suddenly I wasn’t Rosie Bowman any more. They took everything from me. My house, my school, my name. You didn’t see what it was like. The press, the terrible things they said. The abuse we got. Shit poured on our front door. Bottles smashed on our car. I was only six, Lau— L. I just did what I was told. And then, when I was old enough to make my own decisions, I was scared. Scared that if I came here, people would find me out. Work out who I was and then my life would be a nightmare all over again.’
‘Get me a fucking violin, Rosie,’ Laurel says, her expression cold and hard. ‘Selfish, selfish, selfish.’
‘Even now, even before that girl went missing in Devon, I was getting anonymous letters. Someone had found out who I was. Sending me hate mail, trying to scare me. Telling me I had it coming. Look at my face.’ She touches her cheek. ‘This is where the mother of that girl who went missing attacked me.’
Laurel remains impassive, unmoved.
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ Hazel goes on, her voice rising. She needs to bring her sister back. She had her for a moment, but she has gone, darting underneath the water like a tiny fish. ‘Maybe it was selfish. But . . .’ she opens her hands to the room ‘. . . here we are, L. And if we don’t move on, what’s left? It’s always going to be hard, isn’t it? Being you and me. We’re never going to be on the Queen’s Honours list. Right?’
Laurel doesn’t smile, but her face softens. Just a fraction.
‘And at least now . . .’ Hazel pauses, catching her breath, her lashes wet with tears. ‘At least now we’ll have each other. Won’t we? Couldn’t we?’
Laurel dips her forehead to her fingertips, pressing hard with their pads on her skin, leaving white pressure marks behind.
‘I don’t remember, L. What happened with the baby . . . I remember being at the park. Playing on the roundabout, the swings, the horse. And then we went over the top of that bank, and down. And after that it’s like a train coming in fast, right through my head. I don’t remember anything else. Just flashes of that hotel they sent us to. People shouting at us on the street.’ A tear falls onto the table and Hazel wipes it away angrily, annoyed with herself for crying. ‘I know you’re being punished. What you’ve suffered. But what can I do? It wasn’t fair perhaps. But I just don’t know. Please, L. Let me help you now. Please.’
Laurel stares at her sister for a good long minute. At last, she pushes her chair away from the table and stands. She comes over and, for a second, Hazel thinks that her sister is going to embrace her. Laurel hitches up her jeans on her skinny frame, pulls down her grey sweatshirt, crusted with ingrained dirt, and walks to the door. She raps twice and it opens and she is out of the room before Hazel has realised that their meeting is over, before she understands that her sister has truly gone.