by L. V. Hay
The doctor has the studied, yet genuine air of an educated man who’s pulled himself up by his bootstraps without forgetting his roots. I was at school with his daughter – a thin, meek girl with eczema who sat alone and looked no one in the eye.
The doctor mutters theories about emotional trauma and ‘the next few days being crucial’. I ignore both him and my parents. The weight of India’s loss hangs over all of us, acknowledged yet somehow still inconceivable. Is this shock? I suppose so. Yet again, words are simply not enough to describe the reality of the situation.
But my extreme confusion and distress are short-lived. I feel myself reconnecting. I return from wherever I’ve been, to some semblance of ‘normality’. Now, I am dressed appropriately, borrowing underwear and leggings from my sister’s wardrobe and a plain top from my mother’s. My long, mousey-brown hair is washed, pulled into a side ponytail.
I borrow Tim’s iPad without asking and call up my sister’s Facebook profile.
I scroll through India’s photos first: a couple of pictures of her at a birthday party, tagged from someone else’s album, plus a few more at someone else’s wedding. In each one, she looks separate from the other people in the frame, standing apart from everyone else. India doesn’t look sad, or even bothered. She looks independent, at ease with herself, the way I remember her.
But the camera must lie.
There is a photo of my sister alone. She’s used it as her profile picture. She’s at a festival, a flower garland in her hair. India looks about nineteen or twenty, as I remember her. Her stance is very different in this pic. She’s laughing, wearing a crop top and a hippy skirt with bells around the waist. In one hand, she holds a half-full plastic pint glass.
Scrolling down her profile page, I note my sister has written statuses more and more frequently. She was doing so five or six times a day in the weeks running up to her death. Most of the statuses are vaguebooks. (Vaguebook, noun. A purposefully vague, often one-word status update, designed to invite a response.)
Clicking through, some of them now seem suicidal: ‘whatever’; ‘frustrated’; ‘done’.
That familiar anger rises to the surface again. Why didn’t anyone see what was going on? Then, more guilt: I should have been here. Besides, such statuses are only illuminating with hindsight. Before, they could have meant anything.
Underneath each of India’s statuses, there’s a handful of ‘likes’ and replies. A couple of Goodreads notifications come next, more auto updates. India was reading Frankenstein at the time of her death, though she was stuck at twenty-nine-percent finished for months. There are a few memes, mostly positive-thinking guff, complete with cute animals, rainbows, fairies and unicorns. I don’t recall India ever being into stuff like this.
There’s a selection of links posted to her Facebook profile: all to www.1NDIAsummer.com. A personal blog.
The police have already told us about this site, but it has taken me until now to gird myself to read it. There aren’t many entries; they span a six-week period leading up to India’s death. Each one refers to a codename; India’s logic isn’t hard to follow – they’re all from classic fairy tales: Frog King, Wicked Witch, The Wolf, Sleeping Beauty … Ugly Sister.
I’m stung when I see the last one: could ‘Ugly Sister’ mean me? But reading it, I see nothing in the entry I recognise. But would I? Could this be my sister’s last thoughts about me? Please, no.
The final post is different. This one is addressed to ‘Jenny’. The police have called this entry – India’s final post – a suicide note. But it’s not. A note, anyway. Something about the blog post seems to jar. Like that stand-out detail in the newspaper coverage about India running away from the railway station, only to mysteriously appear at the bridge, an hour later.
You will be free … As I am now.
India might be free, but she has condemned the rest of us. I can’t fathom how she could do this to us. Surely it can’t have got so bad for her? But how would I know. Maybe India did it because of me; because of our fractured relationship. Even if that wasn’t the answer, our feud cannot have helped her feel any better. Could I have tried harder to heal the rift between us? Yes. I was her older sister after all.
We’d been so close until I left. And when I did, I was still angry with her – for picking a side that wasn’t mine. Now, in hindsight, I realise that what irritated me most was that I knew, deep down, that she was right.
But something else niggles at me. Even faced with such compelling evidence, I can’t believe India could have killed herself. Before our dispute, we’d shared a strong bond. So, as fanciful as it seems, I feel certain I would have ‘felt’ my sister’s distress had she been in extreme spiritual pain.
I will find out.
Eight
Bodies crush against one another. Vintage neon posters glint in the black light, advertising long-defunct nineties’ DJs. The décor looks like it was last updated back then: lime green and bright orange, strips of paintwork coming away as condensation pours down the walls in the ill-ventilated, dungeon-like venue.
He wanders, aimless, a half-full beer bottle dangling from his hand; he makes his way through writhing limbs. Ravers and pillheads who should have grown up two decades ago dance in jagged shapes, tongues out, piercings and pot bellies on display. Heat buzzes through his solar plexus as sweat trickles down into the small of his back. Music pounds from unseen speakers on every side of the room, yet he hears none of it; only the jarring, endless white noise in his head.
The crowd parts, tide-like, as a woman appears in front of him, blocking his way. At first glance, she reminds him of India – pasty with panda eyes – and momentarily, she’s right there, in front of him. Hands on hips, blame on her lips as ever:
‘It’s up to you now,’ she’d said; ‘you can stop this.’
But then the woman presses against him, a lazy smile on her face. India would never have done that, for obvious reasons. The vision bursts, like a bubble.
Up close, he knows the woman is older than she looks in the half-light. But she’s OK-looking in an aged, slutty, Taylor Swift knock-off kind of way: mussed-up blonde hair, replete with a damsel smile with fuck-me eyes. He allows her to toy with him. A woman like her would wear dental-floss underwear – if she wears any at all. She’s probably got a Brazilian under there, he always was a sucker for that.
She rubs her breasts against his chest in a way that would be comical, had it not been for the dull ache of the hard-on pressing itself against his jeans. He considers grabbing her hand, taking her outside. He envisages twisting her arm behind her back and pressing her face against the brickwork as he pushes his hands up her skirt and inside her. She would whimper and cry out, but she would like it. He can tell: she has ‘tramp’ shot right through her bones like a stick of rock.
But his thoughts are interrupted by the tell-tale vibration inside his jeans pocket. He knows without looking what it is: yet another text message. He’s been doing his best to ignore her all evening. He knows that if he leaves it any longer, she will send one of the others after him, to ‘help’. But of course, it will only make things worse. He flexes his free hand into a fist, feels the tendons strain in his wrist. He can’t stay.
He trudges up the steep, concrete steps from the bar like a condemned man and emerges into the night, ears ringing. A shiver works its way across his shoulders; he’s just in his shirt sleeves. A harsh breeze skitters through the January air, stirring rubbish in its wake. He pulls his phone from his pocket and presses a finger against the screen. In capital letters, her demand: ‘I’M WAITING!!!’
He throws the beer bottle down, relishing the tinkle of smashed glass as it hits the piss-stained doorway. This place is a dump, not like some of the classier joints in town (mentioning no names). He eyeballs the lone doorman, waiting in the shadows. The bouncer is a squat, short guy with the face of a rugby player, crowned with a squashed nose that looks like it’s been broken multiple times. The guy’s earpiece is looped ar
ound a cauliflower lobe, leading down his bull neck. He considers rushing at him; he might be able to work out some of his frustrations before any of the other bouncers make it outside to help. But the doorman stares ahead, features blank. He’s wasting his time. His antagonism will not be returned.
He wanders on. He’s stalling and knows it. He needs to get a move on and locate who She Who Must Be Obeyed has sent him after. But he feels reckless tonight; there’s no longer the same urgency, now India is gone. Guilt prickles through him as he thinks this, but he squashes it down. He never asked her to get involved. He told her to back off. It’s not his problem.
But perhaps it is. Perhaps he should never have told She Who Must Be Obeyed that India had found out. He shakes himself. What difference would that have made?
He pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, where he left it. He tastes the tang of his sweat on the filter as he brings his zippo to the tip. He clicks the lighter shut with a flourish of his hand, replacing it in his back pocket. He breathes in deep, savouring the mix of the fresh, winter air with the flavour of tobacco. His lungs flood with warmth and abruptly a woozy sensation works its way through his chest and head. When was the last time he ate? He can’t remember. He’s spent most of the past few days lurking in his room, drinking and watching mindless violence on TV. Ever since he heard she was back.
He stops as a gaggle of queers totter into view from a nearby alleyway, arms linked. They’re giggling like schoolgirls, already drunk at only ten o’clock at night. They’re three men in extravagant evening wear, OTT suits in bright colours and sequins. As one with a neonpink bowtie turns, he spies a touch of rouge on both of the guy’s cheeks, glitter eyeshadow on both lids. Weirdos.
Another man in just a wife-beater appears from the opposite direction. He seems untroubled by the cold night air, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans. He’s well built, crop-haired, normal. A guy like him. He feels his heart lift. He can exchange a look with this guy, gauge his mutual disgust. Feel a sense of belonging, if only fleetingly.
But the other man smiles broadly at the one in the bowtie, links arms with him. He acts like wearing glitter and make-up is the most natural thing in the world. He turns back and looks over at him, white teeth gleaming. The guy’s accent is Italian, or Spanish; it lacks the schwa sound, the ‘uh’ sound that comes naturally to native speakers. His pronunciation comes out as ‘oh’ as he says:
‘Coming?’
Before he can answer, there’s a splutter of juvenile laughter at the double-entendre.
‘Later darling! Later!’
A set up. They can sense his animosity, after all. Like dogs. His cheeks burn. With woman-like cackles at his expense, they turn their backs on him and mince off together. He swallows his raw fury, pushing it down deep within the pit of his belly. He’s suddenly sick of it all. Let She Who Must Obeyed come after him, harangue him. He doesn’t have time for this never-ending river of shit.
As he stalks back down The Lanes in the direction of the seafront, something catches his attention. A number of bored-looking patrons line the steps of yet another bar, this time a converted church. They huddle together as they struggle to light matches against the wind, exiled out onto the red paving slabs of The Lanes to smoke. Others talk with plastic glasses of beer in their hands, seemingly impervious to the cold, breath pouring out in white plumes.
He’s unsure what’s drawn his eye, but then he sees it again. Sudden movement behind a woman in slashed denims, with a proud, green Mohawk. Her steam-punk friend notices his gaze and scowls at him, giving him The Finger. He takes no notice.
Just as he thinks he imagined it, another movement in his peripheral vision betrays what he’s searching for: a flash of red under the white fairy lights, as someone up ahead ducks out of view. He knows what it is, instantly.
A long, red wig; spun nylon, like doll’s hair.
‘Oi! Get back here!’
The volume and aggression in his own voice surprise him. He drives himself into the small crowd around the converted church. Wide-eyed civilians turn in his direction and jostle against him, thinking he’s trying to get into the club. A couple of women tut loudly, but he has no time for their disapproval. He needs to get through the small throng, but despite its diminutive size, the other people push back against him. Their strength is buoyed by the walls on either side of the narrow lane: a bottleneck.
There’s a surge forward now, forcing him to reverse. He feels the hard touch of multiple palms on his chest, accompanied by a chorus of ‘Wanker!’ and ‘Arsehole!’ He’s propelled backwards. For a second, he thinks he might trip and fall flat on his back. His arms sail outwards, either side, steadying himself. He’s attracting the gaze of nearly everyone outside the converted church now, but he is looking over their heads.
Beyond the bottleneck, someone stops and turns back, looks at him.
The silhouette of a girl.
Her face is in the shadows, but he knows what she looks like: skin painted porcelain white; black stain on her lips, bell sleeves falling around her small hands. From her left, she trails her ridiculously high heels; her feet are bare.
She steps under the orange light of a streetlamp; her face is illuminated. She wears a sardonic grin, buoyed by the space and people between them. She raises her other hand and points it at him: a single finger with a black-glitter, talon-like nail. She wags it at him, side to side, like he were a dog at obedience class. He feels anger bloom in his belly all over again. That little shit!
‘Jenny!’
She turns. On the other side of the bottleneck, a young man appears from a doorway. The bright-green, luminous FIRE EXIT sign over the top casts its sickly glow over his chiselled features. He’s tall, thin and blonde with catalogue-model good looks and intricate tattoos around both his forearms. The building is brightly coloured; designer, neon graffiti dances its way across the brickwork. The blonde nods, as if to say, In here.
He groans inwardly. He knows this place; he should have gone here first, instead of trying to get wasted. Frustration builds in him again as he observes the girl pick her way across the lane towards the blonde.
But she can’t resist one last glance back at him, all the other bozos still in his way. Impotent and angry, he is forced to watch as she stops and tilts her head, bird-like. She smiles and offers him a mocking little wave, before running after the blonde.
The fire exit slams shut after her.
Nine
‘Who’s Jenny?’
It’s the loose time after breakfast. Mum is repairing one of India’s hoodies. It’s the red one, her favourite. I remember my sister chewing at the sleeve, rubbing it across her lips as she stared at her laptop screen.
The laptop is with the police right now; I feel a niggle of disloyalty work through me. India would hate that. She guarded that machine jealously, barely letting anyone so much as glimpse the screen. ‘Technohead’, my stepfather called her. India would roll her eyes and laugh, as if the very word belonged in a museum.
‘No one.’ Mum’s attention is on her stitching.
‘Surely it has to be someone?’
‘No. She didn’t know anyone called Jenny.’ Pins are perched on Mum’s lips.
I persist. ‘India was twenty-four. You can’t have known all her friends.’
Mum looks up at last. ‘She didn’t have any friends.’
I stop short. ‘That doesn’t sound like India.’
‘Yes, well, you hadn’t seen her for a long time.’ Mum’s tone is even, almost bored. But I know my mother too well. This is the pitch she affects when she is trying not to be drawn into something.
I’m galled by what she’s said – by the simple truth. Over the last four years, India and I only interacted briefly: texting, or sending birthday and Christmas cards.
I pursue my question. ‘It just doesn’t feel right.’
Mum purses her lips.
‘I mean, why write to this Jenny and not one of us?’
‘
Why does anyone do what they do?’ It’s not a question, but a declaration. She is not looking at me, apparently absorbed in her task; doing what she has to, in order not to unravel.
‘Have you read this?’ I press on the link for India’s blog and enlarge it on the iPad. I turn the screen towards my mother.
‘I can’t, not yet.’
I concede immediately, but she still moves her face very deliberately away from the tablet. In her eyes I see fear, as if catching a glimpse of the screen might pull her down, free-falling into it. She is holding onto her composure by her fingernails; it’s excruciating to watch in a woman who is normally so pragmatic.
I tap ‘Jenny’ into the Facebook search bar. A dozen pop up, a series of smiles and pouts for the camera. I scroll through them, checking each one that’s noted as a mutual friend with my sister.
There are three.
The first is Jenny Wilson, a matronly-looking woman in her early seventies. I recognise her as an old piano teacher of ours. The other two I don’t know. They both seem to be around India’s age. The first, Jenny Emmett, is blonde, with a round, moon-like face and a huge smile. She’s holding a book in one hand and a pencil to her mouth with the other. Behind her, there is an extreme close-up of coffee beans in black and white. She’s in a chain café.
The other is listed as ‘Jenny Moriarty (was Cho)’. Hers is a more arty shot, probably taken by a boyfriend or husband. She’s on a beach, wearing sunglasses, a sheer sarong wrapped around her slim frame. Jenny looks over her shoulder, a hand raised to her forehead. I can see only one half of her features, her face is obscured.
I turn back to Mum. ‘Maybe Jenny was someone she worked with?’
‘India lost her job. About eighteen months ago. Redundant.’
This is news to me. When I left, India had a good job working in the accounts division of a graphic-design firm.
‘She did a few shifts down at Elemental, but that’s all she could get.’
‘Elemental?’
