by A J Waines
‘Na.’ He folded his arms. ‘Whoever it was wore black, that’s all. Oh – and one of them was carrying a bag with cats and dogs on it, as they left. I remember that.’
Cats and dogs?
Of course.
I asked the million-dollar question. ‘You don’t know where they went, do you?’
He was right to laugh; it was stupid to ask. ‘To the moon, honey. How would I know?’
I thanked him and raced off to the high street.
That’s when a thought occurred to me that chilled me to the bone. Surely, the best way for Rosie to hurt me would be to target someone I cared about: Miranda.
Chapter 46
Rosie
We’re sitting on the floor. I’ve got one arm around her neck and I’m playing with her short yellow hair. The colour is too fake for my liking and when I scrunch it with my fingers, it’s stiff and spiky. Not like Sam’s hair. Hers is soft and glossy. I’ve only managed to touch it once, when she hurt her ankle in the woods. She leant on me then. She needed me.
Miranda doesn’t push me away. Her head is lolling forward and her arms are limp. She’s like a worn-out puppy, all floppy and sleepy. Must be something to do with the sedatives I swapped for her tablets earlier.
I know she’s got mental problems; that’s what her tablets are for. She told me all about it one time over a coffee; she’s touchy-feely and candid, like a lot of people with mental disturbance.
I’ve seen her in Camden a few times, ‘accidentally’ bumping into her in the café she likes and dropping by the Project, pretending to be interested in her paintings. She’s my new ‘friend’. She even invited me back to her flat to look at some pictures and that’s when I saw the bottle of tablets. It was lying in her handbag; she’d left it open on the floor next to a grubby bean bag.
I’m jealous of her flat. The downstairs is one big open space where she paints, socialises and watches telly, all in one. There’s a dark chunky dining table at one side and a settee that looks like it’s been dragged out of a skip, in front of the fireplace. She doesn’t seem to ‘do’ carpets – everywhere is just floorboards and she wanders around in her bare feet. The first time I was there, she got a splinter on the sole of her foot – it was the perfect excuse for me to pretend to take care of her. It fitted nicely into my plan.
This time, when she went to the kitchen to make me a coffee, it was the simplest thing ever to pretend to scratch my ankle and switch the bottles. She’s either too trusting or plain stupid. Fancy leaving your bag open like that right under the nose of a virtual stranger?
She knows nothing about me. Nothing real, anyway. I’ve fed her a pack of lies so far. She’s obviously completely taken in by my ‘interest’ in her work and because she’s seeing pound signs she’s bending over backwards to be nice to me, but I can see right through every sweet sigh.
She wants my money, that’s all, she doesn’t actually like me. She asks token questions about my life, but I can see from the way her eyes wander when I answer that she’s not really listening. Not like Sam. Sam watches my face when I speak and her eyes reach into mine; she’s genuine, warm. She’s the one I’m really interested in.
I always wanted a sister. All those lonely days when I was growing up, stuck in a room with only my viola for company. I never learnt how to make friends. Never went to Brownies or Guides or after-school clubs. Everyone thought I was sickly and feeble, but it wasn’t my fault. Mum and Dad made me stay at home when I was little, rather than let me get involved with other kids. Then, after I lost them, I was always dumped with the wrong families. No one ever really cared – not until Sam.
I let the sound of her name echo inside my head. She’s the light of my life, although now she’s pushed me away, I’m decidedly confused.
Miranda moans and tries to lift her head. I stroke her cheek and she’s quiet again.
‘So, what can you show me?’ I said to her earlier, as she came back from the kitchen with hot drinks.
She busied herself spreading out canvases against the wall for me to see. They were all dreadful – I wanted to laugh, it was so embarrassing – but she looked genuinely proud. She really is off her trolley. It explains why Sam is patient and such a good listener, though, she’s had to put up with Miranda’s crazy behaviour ever since she was a kid, poor thing.
‘I quite like these,’ I said, pointing at two pictures under the spiral of her staircase. ‘But they’re…’ I made her wait, then straightened up. ‘Are there any more…?’
‘Er…not here.’
‘Ah…oh, well…’ I clapped my hands together, making it look like I was ready to call it a day.
‘I’ve got more at the Arts Project, though. I could show you, if you want to pop over there now?’ She hooked a question in at the end, painfully eager.
I looked at my watch doubtfully, then nodded. ‘If we go straight away,’ I told her. ‘I need to get to work for the late shift.’ I wanted to get things moving, didn’t want her snatching the chance to let anyone know where she was going.
That’s when we legged it over to the building where she exhibits. Miranda talks a lot and it’s so easy to get stuff out of her. The Project is a place for so-called artists, but they’re all a bit sick in the head with issues like anorexia, abuse, psychosis and stuff. Not her words, obviously, but that’s what she meant. This is their sanctuary; they come here to get therapy and to express themselves.
The classes have finished for the day, the café is empty and everything is closed up, but Miranda has a bunch of keys, which is handy. They don’t give them out to everyone, she told me, but as she’s regarded as ‘reliable’, she’s allowed to work in the ground floor studio out of hours and leave unfinished work in the storeroom in the basement. That’s where we are now.
It’s cold down here and there are tiny high windows so it’s gloomy, but there’s no one else around. Even the cleaners have been and gone. Miranda’s been drivelling on about why she paints what she does, telling me all kinds of yucky, personal stuff about her past that I don’t want to know about, but I’ve been encouraging her so she’ll talk about Sam. I only listen properly when she brings her sister into the conversation; it’s like she’s ushering Sam into the room with us.
I’ve been noticing the similarities and differences between the two of them. Miranda does this thing where she purses her lips, like she’s looking down at you. She’s more brash and outspoken than Sam. Sam’s sweeter, gentler, and she’s got sparkly grey eyes that change colour like quicksilver. Sam’s stylish, she wears floaty, feminine clothes like a newsreader, but Miranda is more like a student; too much denim and cheap jewellery. Tarty, if you ask me. They’re not at all like sisters, you’d never guess they were related.
Before she went all woozy on me, I probed Miranda with questions.
‘Have you seen your sister lately?’ I asked, making it sound like I was just trying to make small talk.
‘Oh, not much,’ she said, pulling canvases out of the taller stackers and leaning them against the wall. ‘She interferes – tries to be my mother. I know it’s because she cares, but it gets on my nerves.’
All I could think was how perfect that would be: a sister and mother rolled up into one! How could Miranda not appreciate that?!
‘She’s always on my case,’ she added with whine in her voice. ‘She hardly wants to let me out of her sight…’
Talk about ungrateful! That makes me really angry. It’s perfectly clear that Miranda isn’t worthy of her sister. Sam deserves wholehearted devotion, someone she can rely on. But that’s where I come in. I’d appreciate Sam – I really would.
‘Your sister is a very special person. You don’t deserve her.’ It came out before I could stop myself.
‘You know my sister? How do you know Sam?’
‘Oh, I love this one,’ I said, ignoring her questions, standing back from an ugly mess in swirls of purples and greens. I hated all of them.
‘Really?’ she said, her voice rising
with glee.
I made her wait as I thumbed my lip and tipped my head from side to side, pretending to mull it over. ‘I’m trying to think whether this would work in the reception area…’ I muttered. ‘Have you got anything with a bit more blue in it?’
Miranda busied herself searching through more canvases, before she had to sit down on a small folding stool, suddenly weary as a wave of tiredness washed over her.
The sedative I’d given her earlier took a firm grip on her after that and the little she’s said since has been slurred and incomprehensible; she sounds drunk.
We’ve stopped looking at the paintings and since she can’t stay upright on the stool, we’ve been side by side on the dusty floor. It’s cramped in here and no one’s going to come in unless they’ve got a key and they’re looking for a specific painting.
‘Do you think we all have a soulmate?’ I say. ‘Not necessarily a lover, but someone who totally accepts us for who we are?’
‘Mmmm.’ Her breathing has slowed and her eyes are flickering shut.
I take hold of her hand. ‘Well, that’s Sam and me. I’ve known it almost from the moment we met. It was meant to be.’
Miranda groans a little and tries to sit up, but flops back against the wall.
‘I’ve been bursting to tell Sam how I feel for weeks, but I’ve never had the courage. It’s fate – don’t you see? The crash was terrible, but it brought Sam and me together.’
‘Crash…?’ she mumbles.
I cradle her chin between my thumb and fingers and she can’t do much about it. She feels like plasticine. I can do anything I want with her. ‘People wouldn’t understand. If we tried to explain it, they wouldn’t get it.’
She makes a funny noise that sounds a bit like. ‘W-h-a-t?’
She’s bleary-eyed now and tries to get up; she makes it onto all fours and sinks down again.
I carry on, ignoring her. ‘Sam and I are going to make a pledge to each other.’ Miranda responds with a half-hearted grunt. ‘We’re going to seal our relationship. I’m going to tell her exactly how I feel and we’re going to make a pact to be together.’
She stops and fixes her eyes on mine, only they won’t stay in one place and they slip up under her eyelids. ‘We’ll be soulmates, blood-sisters – whatever she wants.’
My fingers begin a swirling pattern on her neck. ‘We’ll take a blood oath together, then we’ll share everything; we’ll have no secrets from each other. We’ll be like family.’ I feel my mouth fall open in awe at the idea of it. ‘Family – just think. I know there’s no one special in her life. That’s because she’s been waiting for me, she just didn’t know it.’
‘Help me…p-lease…’ Miranda wriggles and tries to get up in a burst of animation. She pats her hand against the pockets of her jeans, then beside her on the floor.
‘No phone, I’m afraid. I’m looking after that for you.’
My bag is out of her reach.
I look around the room. It stinks of turpentine and linseed oil. All rather flammable, I would have thought. I glance up at the ceiling.
‘Good job there’s a smoke alarm,’ I tell her, ‘with all these combustible substances around the place. Must be a bit of a fire risk.’
There’s a fire extinguisher by the door, but no sprinklers, I notice. ‘I’ll check the alarm still works,’ I tell her, hopping onto a box.
She’s in no fit state to lift her head to watch me unclip the battery and slip it in my pocket.
We won’t be needing that.
I squat down beside her on the floor. ‘I don’t think you’ve been a good sister,’ I tell her. ‘I reckon you’ve got a lot to answer for, personally.’
Chapter 47
Sam
I tried Con’s phone again as I reached the main road, but it was switched off; rehearsals must have started. I was furious with him. Why hadn’t he taken me seriously? He’d probably have a better idea of where Miranda had gone. He could be helping to track her down. If anything happened to Miranda because of this, I’d never forgive him.
As soon as her neighbour mentioned the canvas bag, snatches of conversation started clicking together in my head. A while ago, Miranda had said a woman from Battersea Dogs and Cats Home had bought one of her paintings. Could that have been Rosie, all those weeks ago, lying through her teeth to get close to my sister? What else had Miranda said about that woman? I wished I’d paid more attention.
There was no point in aimlessly wandering the streets of Camden hoping to come across the two of them, so I stepped inside the first wine bar I came to and sat on a barstool at the window with a small brandy.
I made myself think back to that conversation. Miranda certainly hadn’t mentioned Rosie’s name, but the coincidence was too great. Miranda hadn’t been at my flat for ages, so how else could my blue scarf have ended up in her hall? It must be Rosie that Miranda’s neighbour had seen.
I swirled my glass and took a sip, letting the brandy burn my throat. Then I went back to what Miranda had said on the phone. I remembered now. She’d said she was excited about the possibility of getting an agent…and something else…about the woman from Battersea Dogs and Cats Home wanting to ‘see more’.
That was it. Suddenly, I had an inkling as to where they might be.
I abandoned the unfinished drink on the window ledge, pushed past a man reaching down to pick up a pound coin from the floor and dashed out into the street towards Camden Lock.
When I reached the gates of the Community Arts Project, it was all locked up. I shook the gates in frustration, but they didn’t budge. Everything was dark and still inside, there were no lights on anywhere.
I bolted around the corner to the Urban Shack Café and asked everyone in a stripy red apron, if they’d seen Miranda.
‘The Project closes at five,’ said Shontal, ‘unless there’s a special event.’ She sprayed disinfectant onto the table beside me and leant forward to wipe it. ‘No one will be there at this time.’
‘Is there any way to get inside after dark?’ I asked, shouting against the loud off-beat thud of the Reggae music.
She shrugged, shaking her head. ‘We don’t have keys.’
Dezzie came over carrying a sausage roll for a customer. ‘You could try round the side, near the back of the café,’ he said, his mouth right by my ear. ‘Someone’s left an old chest of drawers in the alleyway. I spotted it the other day. Climbing on that’ll probably get you over the wall, but you won’t get any further. The building’s usually locked.’
With that I was on the run again, back to the Project. I followed the fence until it joined a brick wall at the side of the property; half way along there was a shadowy gap. I didn’t like the look of it, nor the smell of it one bit, once I got there. The street light only lit up the first few feet and beyond that there were only jagged, undefined shapes.
As I edged forward, I came across a discarded tumble dryer, some soggy cardboard boxes, an abandoned kid’s tricycle. Dezzie was right; piled on its side at the end was a sideboard without drawers. I clambered onto it and hoisted myself up so I was sitting on the wall. From there the only thing to do was jump.
It seemed an awfully long way down to the tarmac on the other side and there was nothing to break my fall. I was worried about hurting my sprained ankle, but with the image of Rosie with Miranda uppermost in my mind, I turned round, gritted my teeth and inelegantly half slid, half fell letting my right foot reach the ground first. I narrowly missed a pile of broken bricks and apart from a few scratches, I was fine.
A security light came on as I approached the back entrance, but there was no movement and, as Dezzie predicted, the door was bolted. I ran around the whole building trying every door, but the outcome was the same. I pressed my ear to the glass at the front, but there was nothing.
I’d got it wrong. They weren’t here.
In my rush to find Miranda, I hadn’t even thought about getting out again. I hurried back to the spot where I’d hit the ground, searchin
g on the way for an industrial waste bin or something big to push against the wall.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.
From a tiny narrow window at ground level – something bright was bobbing from side to side. Not a light, but something flickering – a flame!
The place was on fire.
Chapter 48
Sam
I called the fire brigade straight away, then grabbed a brick from the pile by the wall and bolted back to the building. Standing as close as I dared, I hurled it at one of the smaller windows on the ground floor, not thinking, or caring, about shielding my face from the shards of glass that flew back at me.
From there, I followed the smoke down the stairs to the basement.
When I burst into the storeroom, the heat hit me like a scalding tornado. Curling and swirling billows of smoke were everywhere, making me double over in a coughing fit.
‘Miranda?!’ I croaked, barely able to see through the choking clouds.
A figure came at me, her hands on me, shoving me back towards the doorway.
‘Stop!’ she screamed. ‘You don’t understand, you’re spoiling everything. This is for us! This is so we can be together. Not her. Just you and me.’
Wild flames leapt across the ceiling, crackling and roaring.
‘No! Not like this, Rosie. Where is she? Help me…’
Rosie looked confused and ducked down, dis-appearing into the swelling smoke. I reached out to grab her and caught hold of her jumper, but she pulled away. I wrenched the scarf from my neck, took a deep breath and wrapped it around my mouth. Then I dropped to my hands and feet and crawled after her.
I was so blinded by the smoke that I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. I went headfirst into something – an easel or ladder – and changed course, flinging my hands out around me, feeling for Miranda. I found only empty frames and scorching tins of paint that burnt my gloves. I knew she was here. She had to be here.
By now the heat was phenomenal. It tried to scorch my eyebrows and stung through my clothes. I had to turn back, I had to get out – but I couldn’t leave Miranda. This was all my fault. I should have realised sooner. I had to find her.
