by Sarah Dalton
Our eyes met. Yours were cold and dark from the shadows. They were like hollows. Dark caves. Your hands clawed around his shoulder and you pulled him into you. All the time, you stared at me.
I felt sick.
I hated you.
I was nine years old. You should have been ashamed, and yet you stared at me with those empty eyes without even stopping. All I could think was how you were doing it on purpose to make me feel bad.
When you tipped your head back, another shadow fell on your face, and in the tiniest of glimpses, I thought I saw something there, inhuman and strange. That’s something I remembered in a dream long after. Maybe I didn’t see it at all. Perhaps it was something that I’ve added since that night, knowing now what was about to happen in the days to come. Whatever it is, it makes me laugh that I’m the slut now.
Somehow I managed to sleep that night. At one point I wanted to throw my cassette player at the stupid grandfather clock. I drifted off eventually, but not until after the sight of you in the car replayed over and over in my mind. If that was sex, I didn’t want any part of it. Why would they call it love-making? It seemed messy and dirty and… evil… because that’s how you looked. You looked evil.
I know it’s wrong to say that. I hate people who say women shouldn’t have sex. Men can do what they want, but if a woman enjoys sex, she’s a slag. I hate that double standard. But what you don’t understand is: you looked evil. Your eyes were evil.
And it took a long time to shake that image.
Little did I know things were about to get worse.
The next morning we all woke late. It was Saturday, and Dad was still away on his trip, giving some sort of speech about something clever at some institute. Was it Stockholm this time? Or maybe Berlin? Anyway, we all got up well past ten, even Mum, and we all staggered into the kitchen for a silent breakfast. I didn’t look at you. Did you notice? It didn’t feel like it. You hummed as you poured your tea, and Mum had to tell you to shut up because her head was throbbing. I poured her a glass of water and gave her the ibuprofen.
We sat around the breakfast bar and I ate my cereal fast. Mum leaned forward and groaned. When I looked up at you, I saw how you moved your hips against the stool and smiled at me. Your eyes flashed with wickedness and I backed away, horrified. The next moment, it was as though I’d imagined it. You bit into a slice of toast and read the newspaper on the side.
I’ve never known whether it was my mind playing tricks on me, or whether you decided to taunt me that day. Did you? Or wasn’t it you at all? And if it wasn’t you, who was it?
Oh sister, Su, Susan, Susie, so many questions for you! It must be weird for you now that I’m the strange one and you’re the normal one. What is it about the Quirke girls? What compels us to live up to our name? There must be some stubborn genetic mutation turning every generation into freaks. You always told me that story about Grandma to frighten me. You know the one, about her strangling Granddad in his sleep. I believed it for years. Do you remember how you told me Granddad still walked the halls in his slippers, banging all the doors in the house?
You were no angel.
I thought that was why Mum never let us stay over there. We always had to get a room in that weird old B&B in County Kerry. The one that served black pudding for breakfast even when you said you didn’t want it. The old man had a glass eye and spoke Irish to his wife in front of us.
When you screwed Ricky in the car, part of me thought it was one of your games again. Like the stories and the tormenting. I thought it was that.
It was a murky Saturday and it drizzled all morning. Mum went back to bed with a hangover.
“Want to play Scrabble?” you asked.
The sound of your voice made me start. You sounded so normal, as though nothing had happened. I stood there open-mouthed for a moment. “Um, yes, I suppose so.”
You let out a snort. “Although you’re not much of an opponent. I always beat you.”
“You know more words than me!” I said.
“Well, maybe you should read more.”
I shook my head and knelt down by the bookcase where our board games were stacked up. I didn’t care for reading back then. I would rather listen to my cassettes. Still would. You know I’m no good at school.
“Here, tip out the pieces. I’ll find a pen and paper,” I said, thrusting the game into your hands.
When I stood up, I heard as clear as day, “Did you enjoy the show last night?”
And when I turned back to you, you looked up from your task with your brow furrowed. “What is it? You have an odd expression on your face.”
“N-nothing,” I replied.
Thinking back now, I should have gone to Mum. Maybe if she hadn’t been hungover I might have.
“Did you find a pen and paper?” you asked, looking at me as though everything was normal.
Nothing else happened for the rest of that day, but every time you spoke or moved in a slightly different way, I felt my muscles tense up with anticipation. I started to wonder if I had dreamt the whole thing. I questioned my sanity. You seemed normal, from the triumphant grin when you beat me, to the beef sandwiches you made me for lunch. You didn’t talk about Ricky and I didn’t ask. Everything was as it should be.
Later that night, when I tucked myself into bed and listened to my Walkman, I convinced myself that I’d made it all up. I never had an imaginary friend when I was little. I thought that this could be my one ‘weird’ childhood thing. We’re all allowed one, aren’t we? You ate half a can of cat food and threw up all over the kitchen floor. Mum still tells me that every now and then.
I fell asleep listening to The Cure; melodic guitars taking me to slumber. When the cassette ended with a click, I woke again, with my headphones still covering my ears. I pulled them off and rubbed my hot ears. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I thought I could make out a lump-shaped shadow at the end of my bed.
I sat up. I felt stiff all over, and I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t even move enough to open my jaw.
There you were. Naked.
When I realised it was you, the scream went away, but when I saw that you were naked, a new fear overtook me. We’re sisters. Your naked body is nothing new. But it was the strangeness of seeing it at that moment, at that time, after the last few days and everything that had happened.
“Su,” I said. “You should go back to bed.”
You said nothing, but I could see your eyes open in the dark. There seemed so much white in your eyes, with the irises hardly there. Your mouth opened, but you never made a sound. Then your hands began to rise in jerking movements as though you fought against some invisible force. You lifted them to your collarbone and turned them inwards towards your body. I watched in horror as you dragged your fingernails over your flesh.
The scream escaped then. I yelled for Mum.
You carried on dragging your nails down your chest, drawing blood. At first I was frozen, staring at you with my mouth hanging open in shock. I was forced to pull myself together, to get my nine-year-old self in check, to rush forward and grab your arms.
You flung me away like a rag doll.
I fell back against the bedhead. It was like the air had been punched from my lungs.
“Is this what you want?” you said.
“No,” I whimpered. “Stop it.”
Mum rushed into the room. “What on earth—” She stopped and stared at you. I think she saw the blood first, then your nakedness, then your actions. You went from hurt child to woman to crazed in one second.
“Susan,” she said in a firm voice. “Stop that this instant.”
She hung back away from you as though approaching a rabid dog.
You began to grind your teeth and shook your head from side to side. “No.”
Your voice was like a bark.
Mum took in a deep breath, forced herself forwards and took you by each wrist. At first you struggled, but she kept looking at you, keeping eye contact until you stopped grinding
your teeth. Your body went limp. Then you tilted your head back and whispered something at the ceiling. I tried to lean forward to hear, but it was as though your lips moved and no sound came out.
When you lowered your head, you looked at Mum and said, “What am I doing here?”
By now your hair was sweaty, and your skin gleamed in the dim light coming from the open door of my room. Mum’s mouth flapped open and shut as she searched for words. Neither of us knew what to do or say. You stood there, staring at us both, confused and tired, with blood on your hands and on your body.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Mum said. “I’ll need to clean you up first. Put some cream on those cuts.”
I watched, kneeling on my bed, as you walked shakily out of my room. I balled the bedding up in my fists, angry for some reason. Not angry at you—although maybe a little bit—just angry at whatever was going on. It seemed wrong and intrusive. How dare this frightening event take hold of my family when things had been going so well?
After I heard Mum put you to bed, and I heard your bedroom door shut, I slipped out of my room into the hallway. I saw Mum walk up to the drinks cabinet chewing on her thumbnail. She poured a large measure of vodka with shaking hands. The bottle clinked against the glass. Then she drained it before coughing. She set the glass down on the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She reached into her dressing gown and pulled up the necklace with a cross on it. I’d never noticed her wearing a crucifix before. She rubbed the cross with her thumb and forefinger as though deep in thought. Then, after taking a few moments to compose herself, she dropped the cross and reached for the telephone.
“It’s me…. Yes, I know it’s late. No, it’s important. It’s about Susan. She’s okay, well, she’s not ill, but I’m worried. Maybe you should come home. I don’t know what the matter is, but she hurt herself… on purpose. She’s just acting strange… I… yes. Well, no, she doesn’t have a temperature and she hasn’t hurt herself badly, it was just… oh, I don’t know. She must have been sleepwalking. Maybe I should check on her in the morning and let you know. I’m fine. No, I’m fine. You stay. I’ll be fine. Goodbye now.”
I knew Dad must have been on the other end of the line. I knew Mum had lost her nerve halfway through the conversation, realising that her own reasoning sounded bizarre. She was right—you had a few scratches. It wasn’t enough to drag Dad home from his conference. When I crawled back into bed, I wondered if you really had been sleepwalking, and I wondered if you would come back to strangle me.
Mum made us a full English breakfast the next day. You had dark circles around your eyes, and your eyeballs were full of burst blood vessels. But you wore your Gummi Bears pyjamas and I couldn’t even picture that frightening girl at the end of the bed. You were my sister again. My sweet-sixteen-sometimes-mean-but-generally-okay sister.
“Morning, sleepy-head,” Mum said in an unusually bright voice. “Sit down and I’ll get you some bacon.”
“I’m not that hungry, Mum.”
“Well, your sister is eating bacon, aren’t you, Isabel?”
I nodded with enthusiasm, trying to play along with Mum’s ‘normal’ act.
“Just a little bit, then,” you said.
Mum began piling the bacon onto your plate. Her hands trembled. It was barely noticeable, but it was one of those mornings where you notice every detail because everything feels different, even though it’s the same. Her fingers slipped and she tipped almost the entire pan onto your plate.
You slammed a fist down on the breakfast bar then turned your head towards Mum. The plates jangled from the force. I’ll never forget the expression you flashed at us. Even half covered by hair I could see the snarl, the upturned lip, and the baring of your teeth.
“I only wanted a little,” you said.
Mum dropped the frying pan to the floor and backed away. I watched her chin wobbling and her feet tripping up over each other as she moved away from you. Without a sound I bent down and cleared the frying pan away. You started eating with your hands, tearing the bacon with your teeth. Fat dripped down your chin. The scrambled eggs churned in my stomach.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
You didn’t answer me, and like a coward I scuttled away, following Mum into the living room. She shut the kitchen door and ran her hands through her hair. It was short then, curled and a medium-brown colour she used to hide the grey. I watched as Mum’s red nails dragged over her scalp, and how she tugged on the ends of her hair.
It surprised me that morning how Mum must have gotten up early to apply make-up and put on a smart skirt-suit. It wasn’t like her at all. Sure, Mum always looked pristine around lunchtime, after she’d spent a few hours in her dressing gown smoking cigarettes and watching TV. It was like she thought if she made the perfect breakfast and became the perfect mother, what you did the night before would fade away.
She hurried over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a short serving of whiskey.
“That’s not my daughter in there,” she said.
I stared at her and she stared at me with the empty glass in her hand. With the heel of her free hand she rubbed her eye, smudging mascara down to her cheekbone.
“Oh, Jesus. I never thought…” she said, a little of her well-hidden Irish accent coming out. She put one hand to her chest where I now know the crucifix hides. “There was a boy in our village once. The devil took him. Only the priest could save him.”
“What’s happening?” I asked. “What boy?”
I guess there’s no need to tell you how Mum is the religious person in our house. You know that already. She’s the only one who ever mentions God. I guess it was the Catholic school she went to. She might never go to church, but I’ve always assumed she still believes. I hadn’t really thought about religion. But when she said this next word a shiver ran down my spine.
“Demon,” she whispered, her eyes unfocussed.
A chill passed over my body. Despite the immediate shiver that convulsed through me, it took a few moments for the implications to sink in.
Possession.
It’s possible that there was someone else inside you, controlling you, turning you into something you are not. I imagined a shadow seeping into you, filling you up, spreading through you, putting on your hands like a glove, your feet like shoes, your head like a hat. Skin stretched over shadow.
“I need to ring a priest,” she said. “But I don’t know any. I don’t know any priests.”
Mum began walking up and down the room chewing on her thumbnail.
The kitchen door opened.
In a moment of utter silence, nobody moved. Mum had her back to you and I was stood with my left side to the kitchen door. My heartbeat quickened. I turned to face you.
“We’ve run out of milk,” you said breezily.
You stepped into the living room and sat on the sofa, tucking your legs underneath you. I watched you, following every step you took. When you reached for the TV remote, my muscles clenched in anticipation. I noted the strange yellow sheen on your skin. I looked for signs of the demon in you. I saw a sick teenage girl.
“We can get you milk, if that’s what you want, darling,” Mum said.
You shrugged. “That’s okay. I was just letting you know.” Without looking at us, you flicked through the cartoons. “Izzy, Thundercats is on. You wanna watch?” You smiled at me and patted the sofa cushion.
I nodded, with my mouth gaping open. Mum watched with her back stiff and upright as I moved towards you.
I think the worst thing about that week was how you could still be you. If you’d been a monster the whole time, I guess we would have forgotten you a little bit. Not in a horrible way, but a distance away from reality to keep us sane. But it was the fact that at any moment you became the sister that I loved. And I did love you. I still love you, stupid, even when you’re a total cow to me. I’ll always love you. It’s not a choice I get to make.
That’s why the tears began to fall as
I sat next to you on the sofa. Soft, silent tears. I covered them with my hair. I gripped the cushion and held it against my body. Mum stood there, the glass in her hand, her face a mask of terror. I think she was thinking the same thing as me. How could you still be you? Were we mad?
The minutes ticked by. I had my eyes glued to the television screen, yet I don’t think I could tell you what happened in the cartoons. Instead, I listened to the room. Next to me, your breathing was calm and rhythmic. In and out. In and out. Mum placed her empty glass on the side table without a single sound and then sank into the armchair. She stared out in front of her with unfocussed, shocked eyes. Every time I adjusted my position the sofa rustled, and I would pause, my body stiff, waiting for you to react.
Mum didn’t move a single muscle. Both of us started when you snatched up your cushion and plumped it. My nerves were on edge when you laughed out loud at Tom and Jerry. The colourful images flashed by on the screen—a hypnotic mess. I’m not sure how long we stayed like that. One hour? Two?
After the cartoons you went to your room to change your clothes. As soon as you were gone, Mum picked up the phone book and began rifling through it, swearing when her fingers lost their grip on the thin pages.
“Isabel, go into the hall and see if your sister is coming. If you see her, warn me.”
I hesitated.
“Go!” she insisted.
My legs wobbled when I stood up. It was then that I realised how still I had sat on that sofa, too terrified to anger you in some way. I hurried to the hall and stood with half my body still in the living room, ready to run to Mum if I needed to.
In the living room I heard the clunk of plastic against plastic as she used the telephone, followed by a low whisper. Your bedroom door remained shut. Mum replaced the receiver with another clunk, and inside your room, a wardrobe door was slammed. My nerves jangled, I jumped at the sudden sound, and gripped the door frame with one hand. Another door opened and slammed in your room and I slunk back into the living room.
