Is Sophia even missing? Isn’t that a label they’ve given her? She could be alive and well and living the life she’s chosen. Sometimes Imo hates her for getting them into this. Normal families don’t have this. A sob swells inside her as Jean continues to speak.
“… so I think Anton will go next week, don’t you?”
“Sorry, Grandma, someone’s at the door. I’ll ring you back.”
Imo ends the call and lies on her side, coughing and crying for several minutes. Why is she the only one who can’t move on? Her throat closes. She knows why.
Chapter 27
Imogen
A day in June. Four months after Sophia vanished. Another wave of grief-laden inertia has hit Imo’s mother. Signed off work for a week, she spends her lethargic hours between Sophia’s room and the patio where Sophia sunbathed as a teenager.
Then that Wednesday morning, Mum gets up and throws clothes into a suitcase. “Falmouth,” she says.
“You want to go there, today?” Dad asks warily, not quite believing.
“The cottage we stayed in during the London Olympics.”
“Well, great.” Dad, sounding excited, casts a hopeful glance at Freddie and Imo. “Do you mind?”
“They have to stay here. In case.” Mum’s tone is firm. They all know what she means.
As they back out of the drive an hour later, Mum winds down her window. “We’ll bring her home, I promise.”
Through the windscreen Imo sees her father’s face plummet. Seventeen-year-old Sophia went with them on the holiday to Cornwall. Mum has decided the missing twenty-two-year-old is there again.
“Could be worse,” Freddie says, waving them off. “At least he’s got her away for a few days.”
It does get worse. That afternoon Inspector Hare visits the house. His expression is grave when they tell him Mum and Dad are on their way to Falmouth.
“We’re going to have to ask your parents to return.”
“But they can’t,” Freddie protests. “Dad’s finally got her out of the house. Tell us what you want to tell them. I’m Sophia’s twin brother. No closer kin.”
Inspector Hare thinks for a moment, then looks at Imo. “You’re eighteen, aren’t you?”
Imo nods, bracing herself. Time for Sophia’s little sister to grow up.
Inspector Hare takes a breath. “We’ve found a body.”
A boulder falls on Imo’s chest. She wants to cry but knows she can’t; Inspector Hare would think she’s a kid and stop talking.
“A young woman, we believe to be Sophia, was found at the bottom of a terminal building at Bristol airport. It seems she fell off the roof.”
“Fell?” Freddie asks.
Inspector Hare looks at them with his world-weary eyes. “We have to wait for the coroner’s report, but it looks like suicide.”
Imo does cry then. All these weeks Sophia has been nearby. The airport is less than five miles away. Why didn’t she get in touch? Why didn’t she say goodbye?
Through her tears, she hears Freddie. “I’ll do it. I’ll make the identification. We only need to tell my parents if it’s confirmed. It can’t be her.”
“That’s very good of you, son. And you’re quite right: it might not be Sophia, but …”
“Of course it won’t be her,” Imo snaps. They’ve been here before, many times. “Even the girl at Nottingham station wasn’t her.”
“And I can’t tell you how much we regret that,” Hare acknowledges. “There’s no need for either of you to view the body. We can match the DNA from the samples you both gave. But I have to tell you she was carrying Sophia’s purse. She had her bank card and university library pass.”
“I want to see her,” Freddie steps forward suddenly. “It’s the only way my family will believe this.”
“I want to see her, too.” The words escape before Imo thinks of the consequences.
***
Inspector Hare drives them to the hospital mortuary. Beside Imo, Freddie’s face is grim, his shoulders stiff. Is he hoping it’s mistaken identity or does closure matter more than seeing his sister’s fractured body on a mortuary slab? Imo can’t blame him; each media appeal is the trigger for every saddo and sadist to crawl out of their sewer and spatter the family and the police in the shit of fake sightings and psycho theories. Social media is rife with threads that hashtag Freddie as rapist and killer. Yet Freddie insists they do the appeals anyway. To give up on Twitter and TV campaigns would be to give up on Sophia.
Are they about to end Freddie’s nightmare and start a new one? A chill pinches Imo’s arms and she wishes she’d brought a cardigan. Hare has the car’s air-conditioning on. Outside, midsummer rages and she has to twist away from the brilliant sunlight in her eyes. Even though she’s sitting, she feels unbalanced. A thought crosses her mind. Is that what happened to Sophia? Not suicide. On the airport roof, looking at planes. A glint of sun in her eyes, a slip of her footing?
Shame shoots through her, bringing prickles of sweat to her back and scalp. Her sister is dead and she’s trying to make a better, softer version of it. Now Imo pictures it in its full horror. Ribs splintered. Legs and arms shattered. Mouth filled with broken teeth and blood. Suicide or accident, what does it matter, Sophia has suffered a terrible death.
There are designated police parking spaces at the hospital that Imo has never noticed before and Hare leads them through an entrance straight into the mortuary foyer. It’s as brightly lit and stuffy as every other hospital department. Staff in white tunics cross the corridor, carrying clipboards and pushing equipment trolleys. Hare takes them into a small waiting room. Squeaky vinyl-covered chairs and OK! magazines on the coffee table. A kettle for waiting families to make their own drinks.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks.
“We’d just like to see her,” Freddie replies.
Hare nods. “I’ll take you. The body suffered considerable trauma and you will see some discolouration to the skin. You may not recognize her immediately.”
Imo follows Freddie and they speed along another corridor to match Hare’s long strides. Adrenaline races until she feels herself free-falling, every bit of her loosened.
When they reach the door of the viewing room, she squeezes her eyes tight shut. “Please God, please God,” she prays. Heart racing, breath shallow, body trembling, she steps in after Hare and Freddie. And opens her eyes.
Chapter 28
Imogen
A knock at the door disturbs her thoughts. Imo wipes the tears from her face and struggles into a sitting position. That memory again. No matter how hard she tries, she never goes more than a couple of weeks without reliving it. And now it’s followed her to Abbeythorpe. Pain jabs in her ribs as she moves and, when she gets up, her head screams almost as much as when she viewed the body.
“I know you’re in there.” Phoenix knocks again. “Tell me to beggar off if you’re entertaining your Tinder likes.” But she stops joking when Imo opens the door. “What’s happened? Have you had an accident?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ve seen more colour in a corpse.” Imo looks away and Phoenix smiles sympathetically. “You look a bit under the weather, that’s all. Would a glass of wine perk you up? Tegan and I are sharing a bottle.”
With every bone and every muscle aching, Imo follows her. As she walks down the hallway, the memory lessens. The body wasn’t Sophia. But seeing the lifeless girl, dead after falling – and imagining what happened when she hit the floor – had made Imo afraid of heights ever since. How could Hare have ever thought the badly cut hair and snap-thin face could be her beautiful sister? Police identified the girl later as a local glue-sniffer, known for pick-pocketing airport travellers. Far from closing enquiries, the body posed more questions. Had Sophia been at Bristol airport when her purse was stolen? Where was she going? And where is she now?
“Sit down before you fall down,” Tegan says when they join her in the kitchen. “I’ll get you a glass.”
; As soon as the first mouthful hits her tongue, Imo knows Tegan didn’t buy it in the all-night garage. She glugs more greedily, as happy little fireworks go off in her head. Alcohol always helps for a while.
“There weren’t any handouts; you didn’t miss much,” Tegan says. “It was that weirdo we had for Accountancy. He stropped out before the end.”
Imo’s halfway through her second glass before she registers what Tegan has said. She’s missed a Business lecture. She puts down her glass, remembering that their lecturer, Hennessey, spotted her skiving in the library.
Phoenix gives her a concerned look. “Have you had dinner? Shall I make you some toast? I’ll make coffee too.” But when she presses down the toaster, there’s a flash and it goes dead.
“That’s bound to be my fault. Things always break around me,” Imo says. Her voice buckles.
Phoenix and Tegan exchange a glance. They must see another flaky flatmate, more unstable than Amber. Imo buries her misery in a big gulp of wine. It’s then that she notices what the others are wearing. Tegan’s in a lacy red dress, Phoenix in a pale blue jumpsuit. They must be going out. She’s keeping them waiting.
“I’ll get changed.” She folds a slice of bread and shoves it in her mouth.
Not until she’s in her room does it occur to her that she doesn’t have to go out with them – might not be invited – but she’s no strength of will to resist. A night out might separate her from her memories. For a few hours.
They’re on a second bottle when she returns. They applaud as she sits down.
“I said leopard print leggings and a pink crop top,” Tegan explains, her voice sounding uneven. “Phoenix reckoned suede mini-skirt, but you got us both. I love your jacket.”
Imo pours herself another glass. Mum bought her the jacket when she was in Year Ten, real biker chic, but then ruined it by stitching her name inside the collar. Her mother drains the fun out of everything, more so since February.
“I don’t want sand in my car, though,” Tegan says, apparently picking up a conversation she and Phoenix were having while Imo got changed.
Phoenix explains that they’re planning a trip to the coast before winter sets in. “I should be able to borrow my parents’ van.”
“You can drive something that big?” Imo asks.
“I grew up on private land and drove HGVs as soon as I could reach the pedals. We all did.” Her eyes struggle to focus. Imo reckons she’s had more of the second bottle than Tegan. But the alcohol hasn’t made her boastful. She speaks modestly, matter-of-fact. It makes Imo feel even more inadequate.
“My theory test expires in April, but I won’t be ready for the practical,” Imo says. “Not then, not ever. I’ve been … distracted.” She hasn’t driven since her birthday. If she passed, her parents would have to decide whether to give her Sophia’s car. After the police had searched it and found no evidence for where she’d gone, Dad fetched it back from Nottingham. When he got home, they all climbed in and sat in silence for several minutes, as if some familial telepathy would locate their missing relative. Dad got rid of his racing bikes to make space in the garage. No one’s been in it since.
“Not everyone learns to drive,” Phoenix says. “Friends of my mum’s in Canterbury never bothered.”
“Well, they wouldn’t need to in Canterbury,” Imo says. “They can ride round on camels.”
Tegan and Phoenix stare.
“It’s in Australia, isn’t it?” Imo adds.
Phoenix refills her glass. “Don’t ever change.” She pats Imo’s arm.
Tegan chokes on her drink and covers her face with her hand.
But Imo’s mood stays cloudy. She remembers Tegan and Phoenix laughing about Amber and realizes she’s taken her place as the Flat 17 joke.
“I know I’m stupid,” she says. “I know nothing about geography, can’t drive, can’t even sleep. No coordination except in dance and that’s not a life skill and I’m not even good at that apparently. And on top of that it turns out I’m a bad judge of character. My grandma reckons I care too much, but I bombed out with Amber, didn’t I?”
She stares at the table, waiting for the others to laugh at her, but Phoenix’s expression is serious.
Phoenix clears her throat. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Amber had any intention of binning university. Trust your gut, Imogen. I don’t know what we can do about it, but I don’t think you’re wrong.”
Tegan shares the last of the wine between the three glasses. “I think you’re a good judge. You’re friends with me, for a start.” She drinks up.
They decide to abandon their plans to go clubbing and stay in the kitchen eating custard creams and drinking coffee. The refreshments aren’t enough to blot up the alcohol and Imo’s head stays spinning. But it’s a happy spin that manages to fling ominous thoughts of Sophia and Amber to the edge of her mind.
Chapter 29
Thursday 6 October
Phoenix
Another Riku special, Phoenix assumes, when she answers the door to a dark-haired woman, holding a parcel. She offers to take it.
The woman explains she found it on the doorstep and asks whether she can come in and wait. “I’m meeting someone from university maintenance at ten to help clear my sister’s room. I’m Jade Murphy.”
Phoenix shakes her hand, appraising her. Early twenties, defined cheekbones where Amber’s were plumper, but the same blue eyes and freckles. “We can probably get straight into the room. Imo said it was unlocked yesterday.”
“That must be the Imogen who came to see us. Is she here? I’d like to apologize. I think I sounded ungrateful.”
Bitter was how Imo had described Jade Murphy, fed up to the back teeth with her younger sister. But as she sits down on Amber’s bare mattress she just looks disappointed.
“At least I haven’t got to pack it,” she says, reaching forward to one of the cardboard boxes on the floor. “My mum must have done all that.” She checks her phone. “I should be all right for time. My friend doesn’t need her car back until five.”
“Have you driven up from Chadcombe this morning? You must be gasping for a drink. I’ll put the kettle on while you wait for the maintenance people. Imo might be back by then too.”
But as soon as Jade accepts the offer, Phoenix regrets suggesting it. What are they going to talk about while they sip their tea? Amber is their only common ground but, after what Imo said, Amber might be an off-limits topic for Jade.
Without knocking, she leaves the parcel outside Riku’s door. To her relief, Tegan’s in the kitchen, making herself a drink. Phoenix shoves teabags in two more cups, pours on boiling water and persuades Tegan to sit in Amber’s room with them while she drinks hers.
Jade has spread the contents of one of the boxes onto the bed. A rainbow of clothes: purple jumpsuit, tartan dressing gown, floral knickers, vest tops in pink, green and orange, silver sandals, three pairs of neon trainers, black lace-up boots. When Phoenix sees the trousers that Amber claimed belonged to her gypsy grandmother, she can’t resist checking the label. Primark. Of course.
“They seem to be full of clothes and shoes.” Jade knocks another box with her foot. “I wonder what she packed to go travelling. Every jumble sale outfit I can ever remember her wearing is here.”
Tegan looks up from her drink. “Is there a red wig and a turquoise kimono in one of them?”
Jade shrugs. “Not that I can see.”
“Do you mind if we check?” Tegan asks, but she’s already upended one of the boxes onto the floor.
Phoenix twigs why Tegan’s checking and rummages through another box. Jade spreads the clothes from another one on the bed. Between them, they check all six boxes, but the outfit Amber wore at the Freshers’ Fair isn’t there. Tegan glances at Phoenix. The nagging doubt that Phoenix has felt since they went back to the Freshers’ Fair resurfaces. She’s sure she witnessed something, some kind of deception. But by whom? One of the stallholders – the woman on the parents’ stand, the chess
boy, the LGBTQ girl? Phoenix’s skin heats: no, not Keren, not her. Riku, then? Why was he there, staring at everyone?
“Did your mum take some clothes home last week?” she asks.
“Mum lugged a suitcase back on the train. Amber’s bedsheets and duvet, and a few posters. Nothing else.”
Phoenix feels her belly squeeze. Tegan, wide eyes still looking at her, seems to be experiencing a similar thing. On the edge of something.
“What’s going on?” Jade looks from Phoenix to Tegan. “Did Amber go off with your clothes, is that it? I’m pretty sure they were hers. I remember the kimono. She looked a right idiot.”
The indignation of being accused of having a wardrobe like Amber’s flashes across Tegan’s face. She swirls her tea dregs as she struggles to suppress it. “So as far as you can see, all she took was her passport, phone and purse?”
Jade seals a box with brown tape and bends down to snip off the end. “Yes, that’s right … No, wait, her passport must be at home. Mum keeps all ours in a fireproof box. Unless Amber brought it here. Doubt it, though; she’s not that organized.”
Phoenix chews her lip. Whatever Amber’s text to her mother said, she hasn’t gone abroad. So where is she?
But Jade beats them to it. She sits down on the bed and folds her arms. “Of course, she hasn’t gone travelling. Why would she start telling us the truth after five years of bullshit?” Her eyes are pinpricks and her jaw is hard. This must be the bitter Jade that Imo experienced.
“Where do you think she’s gone? Without her passport and possibly wearing a kimono.” Tegan sits beside her and softens her voice. “That’s what she was wearing the last time we saw her.”
Jade lets out an ugly laugh. “She’ll have beggared off to a squat with her druggy mates. And I wouldn’t worry about what she’s wearing. That girl walked around with a cushion shoved up her belly for four months.” She glances at Phoenix. “Didn’t Imo tell you? My darling little sister went off the rails when Dad died. Decided an appropriate way to grieve was to get pissed, smoke dope and hang out at the Chadcombe Bridge with a bunch of junkies. Mum put it down to a phase. I’d lost my dad too and my place at uni, but you didn’t see me carrying on like that.” Her voice goes up in a question. Phoenix nods reassuringly.
The Roommates Page 10
