The Sisters (35 page)

I run through his room and on to the balcony. Beatrice is slumped against the wrought-iron railings, her head at an odd angle, angry red welts around her neck, her tea-dress soaked through from the rain. For one terrifying moment I think that she’s dead, that he’s killed her. I lift her wrist, trying to detect a pulse; relief washes over me when I find one. I bend over her, shaking her, as my dress plasters itself to my body in the torrential downpour.
Wake up, Beatrice, please wake up.
But she’s out cold. With horror I notice the gash on her head, the rain causing rivulets of blood to run down her face.
Oh, Ben, what have you done?
And in that instant I know that Paul was telling the truth – that Ben is frighteningly dangerous. He’s capable of so much more than planting threatening photos and cryptic messages. He’s capable of violence, of murder.

‘
Please, Beatrice,’ I cry, pulling at her arms, slapping her cheeks, trying to revive her. ‘Please, wake up. We have to get out of here.’ The rain is pounding hard against my back as I shake her desperately. ‘Please, Beatrice. Wake up. WAKE UP!’ I need to get her away before Ben becomes impatient as to why I’m taking so long.
Come on, oh please, come on!

‘What’s going on?’

Terror shoots through me at the sound of his voice. I look up. Ben is standing in the doorway staring down at us. His eyes are narrowed, assessing the two of us crouched on the balcony – both with nearly identical sodden dresses, both with strands of dripping blonde hair whipped across our cheeks.

‘What have you done?’ I whisper, incredulous, hugging Beatrice to me. There is blood on my hands, on my dress. ‘She’s your sister – your twin sister.’

I’m light-headed with fear as it dawns on me how trapped we are, out on this tiny balcony in a storm, with no one in earshot, no one who even knows we’re here.

‘This is all your fault, Bea,’ he says coolly. His voice is hard, his eyes blank and unseeing. His whole face is contorted, ugly with a glimpse of the monster that lives inside. I’ve seen that look before, that day on the terrace when he found out I’d met up with Callum. Flickers of the evil that lies behind his charming façade – I was too blind to notice.

‘Ben, I’m Abi. Not Bea. This is Bea – you have to let me help her.’

‘You thought you could control me,’ he continues, seemingly not hearing my voice. ‘You thought you could tell me what to do – the pair of you. The fucking pair of you! But you were the worst, Bea. You thought you could take it all away, the money, the house, with your veiled threats when I wouldn’t do as you wanted. Well, I won’t let you. I won’t fucking let you,’ he hisses. And I know that he’s looking at me, but he’s seeing Beatrice.

He’s lost it, he can’t see me – or rather, he only sees Bea, even when he’s looking at me – and suddenly everything becomes frighteningly clear. He’s going to kill me. I want to rage, to fight, to save myself and Bea, but I’m also overcome with a sense of calm, because, at last, I’m going to be with Lucy. It’s inevitable somehow that her death would be so closely followed by my own. Like our births. And then I think of my poor parents. They’ve already lost one child. They can’t lose another.

‘Ben, please …’ I try. There is no point screaming. My voice will be lost in the wind and rain. ‘Please,’ I try again. I need to make him see reason. He can’t do this. Confusion and doubt flit across his face and I can feel his hesitation. ‘I’m Abi. I came back …’ My voice trembles. I’m too terrified even to cry. ‘Please …’

‘Shut up, shut up,’ he mutters, shaking his head. And then he lunges towards me, grabbing my wrists, his fingers digging into my scars as he drags me away from Beatrice, so that my knees scrape against the ground. He pulls me to my feet. ‘You’re a bitch too,’ he says, and he slaps me across the face, hard. I can taste blood. I’m too shocked to react, my cheek is throbbing. ‘You must think I’m stupid, all that crap about wanting to talk.’ His hands are around my throat now, his fingers squeezing my windpipe and I know that I’m not going to be able to get out of this. I am going to die here tonight.

Lucy, help me. Please help me. I don’t know what to do.

Dark spots swim before my eyes, I’m light-headed.

Kick him in the balls.
I can hear her voice in my ear, sharp, insistent.
Kick him in the fucking balls, Abi.
I do as she says. I lift my knee and ram it hard into his groin. He grunts, and I do it again, following the knee with a stamp to his right foot. It works, he stumbles backwards into his bedroom and then I see it, the stone Egyptian cat he uses for a doorstop. I bend over and pick it up and as he comes at me again, his face red with fury, I swing it upwards with all my might, aiming for the side of his head. Because of his height I ram it into his shoulder instead, but it’s enough to throw him off balance, causing him to fall back against the French doors, his head snapping against the glass with a crack. His eyes widen in shock before he sinks to the floor, a shatter of glass falling around him. I can see the glisten of blood by his ear.

I stand over him, my heart hammering, the stone cat poised in my hand. But he doesn’t move, his eyes are closed. Have I killed him and if so how would I explain all this to the police? I drop the Egyptian cat and bend over Beatrice, shaking her again, this time with more force. She’s stirring, moaning.

‘Get up!’ I whisper with a sob in my throat, not wanting to alert Ben if he is still alive. ‘Come on, please, Bea, please get up!’

She groans and touches her head where her hair is matted with blood. ‘I can’t,’ she gasps. ‘I can’t.’

‘Come on, before he wakes up,’ I urge, still whispering. ‘We need to get out of here, please, Bea …’ I try to suppress my panic, knowing I have to keep my head if we’re to have any chance of getting out alive.

With all my strength I manage to pull her to her feet, but she’s groggy, dazed, and slumps heavily against me. Ben moans, his eyes flickering behind their lids. I haven’t killed him, I’ve only succeeded in stunning him, we need to hurry. We need to get out of here. Beatrice tries to move her feet and I put my arm under her armpit and half drag, half carry her over the threshold, out of his bedroom.

Come on, Bea. Come on!

We are nearly through the door when I feel a scratch of fingernails on the back of my calf and then the horror of his hand closing around my ankle. I turn to see him stretched out across the floor towards me, hunger and madness in his eyes.

‘Get off me,’ I scream, trying to pull away, but his grip is firm, his teeth clenched with concentration as he reaches the other hand towards me as well. I’m trying to keep hold of Beatrice and trying to shake him off at the same time. I’m frantic, desperate, annoyed with myself for dropping that stone cat. I kick backwards, the heel of my trainer striking his nose. He releases my ankle. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he screams, holding his nose, which is spurting with blood.

‘Quick!’ I tumble through the door with Bea, who looks white with fear. ‘Run!’

Still gripping each other, we hobble as quickly as we can down the first flight of stairs. My heart is beating so fast it’s as though it’s going to explode out of my chest. As we round the next staircase, I see him bending over the banister above.

‘Abi, Bea, I’m sorry,’ he calls. ‘Come back.’ He has blood on the collar of his polo shirt and smeared under his nose, his hair is standing on end and he has a dark sweat patch under each arm. He looks deranged.

In my eagerness to get away from him we nearly fall down the last few remaining steps. I grab my phone from the hall table where Ben put it earlier, ready to call the police. My hands are trembling so much I can hardly unlock the door and I’m still wrestling with the mortice lock as Ben begins his descent.

‘Wait!’ he yells.

The fucking lock won’t work. I can’t get out. Ben’s getting closer, Beatrice is sagging against me and we’re stuck. He’s going to catch up with us, and this time I know he won’t let us get away.

‘Come on!’ I scream at her. ‘Stand up. Help me.’ I can see it takes a lot of effort for her to pull the lock back while I turn the key and between us we manage to wrestle the door open.

‘You can’t go,’ cries Ben, jumping down the last four steps. He’s nearly reached us.

‘Leave us alone,’ I scream.

He makes another lunge towards us, managing to grab Beatrice and pulling her to him, stretching her out between us like a tug of war. ‘Please …’ he says into her hair. ‘I’m so sorry. You can’t go, Bea. I need you. Daisy. My Daisy.’

We’re nearly free, and I can’t leave Beatrice with him. She’s sagging towards him as though she’s a rag doll, or a sunflower touched by the first rays of the day.

He touches the side of her head where the gash is and I’m amazed to see tears in his eyes. It’s as if the evil spirit that made him do those awful things upstairs has left him, giving us the Ben we thought we knew and loved. But as I watch him caress her, apologizing and kissing her head, I wonder if it’s another piece of manipulation. Another way of getting what he wants.

‘I’m so sorry, Daisy. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.’

I can see her resolve weakening, her grip on my wrist loosening.
What’s the matter with you?
I want to scream at her.
He tried to kill you, for fuck’s sake.
My fingers are hovering over 999.

But she straightens up, away from him, the sunflower reaching towards the sky.

‘You need to be on your own,’ she says to him gently. She lets go of my hand but only to reach up and touch his face tenderly. She loves him. She truly loves him. ‘I know you didn’t mean it. I know you’re under a lot of stress. But too much has happened.’

His face contorts, the evil spirit entering his body again, and he grabs her upper arm. ‘You can’t leave …’ He’s interrupted by the creak of a gate two doors down and a stocky man in his late forties, walking his greyhound, strides past. He raises his hand in greeting when he sees us, unaware of what’s going on. But his presence is enough to distract Ben and he releases his grip on Beatrice. She slumps against me and I take the opportunity to drag her out of the front door, slamming it in Ben’s face, knowing he won’t come after us. Not now.

It’s over.

Chapter Thirty-Five

We stand on the pavement, the rain beating down on our heads, both breathless and shaking. My arm is still linked through hers. ‘Should we take you to the hospital? Get your head looked at?’

‘I’m fine, Abi,’ says Beatrice wearily.

Her eyes keep darting to the royal blue front door of the house. Is he going to come after us again? With a gasp of fear I start pulling her down the street, away from the house, and with trembling fingers I call my dad and ask him to come and get us.

‘He’ll be here in five minutes,’ I say, hanging up. She’s still staring towards the door. ‘He won’t come after us …’ I try to make my voice confident, assured.

‘I know,’ she sighs. ‘I know he won’t, Abi, it’s not that. It’s … he’s there on his own. I can’t just leave him. He’s in such a state. What if he does something stupid … what if he tries to harm himself?’

I stare at her incredulously. She’s shivering in her little tea-dress, her hair is matted with blood and she’s soaked through, and all she can think about is her psycho of a brother.

‘He nearly killed you!’ I choke the words out as if his hands are still clasped around my throat.

‘He wouldn’t have killed me,’ she says calmly. ‘He loves me.’

‘Look at your neck, Beatrice. He was going to kill you. He smacked you across the head. You have a wound. How can you even say all that? Don’t you want to press charges?’ At this suggestion, she shakes her head, tears springing to her eyes.

‘He’s my brother, my twin.’

There is no arguing with her, I need to get her away from this house. I tug on her arm gently. ‘Please, Bea. Come home with me. My parents have said you can stay as long as you want.’

Reluctantly she allows me to guide her towards the end of the street.

Dad leaves us alone in the kitchen with a worried, sideways glance. Mum fusses around Beatrice, wrapping her up in a huge fluffy dressing gown, as if she’s a child. She accepts my mum’s kindness, still in shock and I can tell that she’s numb, that this evening’s events are still sinking in.

‘I’ve made up the spare room for you,’ says Mum, placing a steaming mug of tea in front of Beatrice where she sits at the small round table. She mouths to me over Beatrice’s head that they are off to bed to give us some space. I smile at her gratefully. I’m too worried about leaving Beatrice on her own to go and get changed into a pair of spare pyjamas, so instead I sling one of Mum’s cardigans over my wet dress. Luckily, the house, as usual, is as warm as the tropics.

I take Beatrice’s hand in mine. It is cold and dry. ‘Bea, please drink some tea. You need something hot and sweet for the shock.’ Her face is pale, her neck pink and raw from where his hands have been.

She turns her red-rimmed eyes to me. ‘He wouldn’t have killed me, you do know that, don’t you? He was angry, confused. It’s all been so stressful for him, coming to terms with what we’ve done.’