by Sarah Dalton
“What’s happening?” Mum asked.
“She’s banging her wardrobe doors,” I replied.
Mum poured herself another drink and took a large gulp. Her hair fell over her eyes as she tipped her head back, and she didn’t even bother to move it. “Let’s not panic. It could be one of her regular teenage strops. It might not be… whatever is inside her.”
Your bedroom door opened, and I heard your slow footsteps trudging into the living room. After nine years of growing up with you I knew all the ways you moved around the house. That wasn’t the way you walked. It was different, and for some reason that frightened me more than your outbursts. I wanted to turn and run away.
“Did you call Dad?” I asked Mum in a hurried whisper.
She shook her head as you came into view. “He can’t be here for what I’m going to do to my daughter.”
You entered the room with your head up, and your hair uncombed. There was a layer of white over your lips as though you had been sleeping and drooling for hours. I don’t know how it got there. You must have been grinding your teeth. You had changed, but you weren’t fully dressed. You wore a thin, strappy top without a bra and white shorts that I hadn’t seen you in for years. You stood in the centre of the room and began to peel away the plasters from your cuts.
Your body swayed to some silent music, and I watched as your lips moved in time to a song unheard by anyone but you. The red-tinged dressings floated to the carpet.
“Susan, why don’t you sit down? I’ll make you a cup of tea?” Mum said.
My throat went dry. Even I could see it wasn’t a good time to talk to you.
Your dancing stopped, and you turned to face us with your eyes screwed shut. “I don’t want your fucking tea.”
I shrank back away from you, my body almost folding in on itself in an effort to protect myself from you.
“Why don’t you pour yourself another drink, Mother? Drink your cares and your bad marriage away. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Your eyes opened and I saw them bloodshot and cloudy. Your skin cracked around your eyes, dry and flaky. It was as though you were a different body as well as a different soul.
I saw Mum’s eyes drift over to the drinks cabinet and my heart fell. Whatever influence you were under, the words were still correct. She did want to drown her sorrows with the drink.
You put on a high, squeaky voice and imitated our Mum. “Oh, Graham, like that! Oh, Graham!”
Mum’s knees collapsed beneath her and she raised a hand to her mouth in shock. She fell to the floor, slumping against the wall.
Dad’s name is Trevor.
I’d had no idea, sister. How long had it been going on? How did you find out? We never talked about it after that week. I always assumed that Mum broke it off and made a go of it with Dad. But then I was always the optimist in the family.
A knock on the door ended your cruel imitation of Mum’s sex life. I won’t repeat the other things you said, only remark on how Mum turned into a lifeless husk from that moment onwards. I went to open the door. When I returned, Mum had a full glass of vodka in her hand. You were sat on the carpet with your legs wide open, staring up at the ceiling, singing a sensual song in an animalistic growl.
Mum found a priest in the yellow pages. Can you imagine? He was young, attractive, dressed in the traditional get-up. When he saw you, he crossed himself and went straight to the phone. You hissed at him and licked your lips like he was the lamb and you the wolf. I retrieved one of my stuffed toys from the toy chest while he was on the phone. I hadn’t played with teddies for years, but I needed the comfort at that moment. I needed to be reminded of innocence.
“How long has your daughter been like this?” the priest asked after hanging up the phone.
Mum sniffed. “She slips in and out. It began last night.”
I wondered whether to mention the incident in the car. I thought better of it.
“It usually takes longer,” he muttered to himself. He watched you with wide eyes that showed his young age. There was a large black bag at his feet, like those old-fashioned doctor’s bags you see in dramas on TV. “I’m not the exorcist for this area, but I’ve done some… reading. The exorcist lives in Leeds but I’m told he’s on his way. Of course, that could be a problem, as there’s a storm coming and they say Marine Drive is about to be blocked off. The sea is up already.” He swallowed and I heard the gulp in his throat. “You did right to call me, but we require more people than this for an exorcism, and I’m not sure your other daughter should be around. My name is Joseph, by the way.” He went to step towards Mum, but you were in his way and he thought better of it. “Has she displayed any violent tendencies?”
Mum’s glassy eyes stared into nothing.
I answered. “Mainly towards herself.”
The priest directed his gaze to me. “And have you experienced a pull towards the darkness?”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe in the devil.”
It was true, I didn’t, and I still don’t. I believe in ghosts, though. I believe in leftover energy. Sometimes I think that energy is bad and that it takes hold of people.
“What’s your name, little girl?”
You answered for me. “Isabel, Isabel. Isn’t it a pretty name? Much better than Susan. But then you were always the favourite.”
I squeezed my bear tighter.
“Do not listen to the devil in her, Isabel. Your sister has an imposter residing within her and you must not interact no matter what it says. Okay, Isabel?” the priest said.
“All right, I won’t,” I replied. I bit my lip, trying hard not to show that I wanted to cry, and hoping I was putting on a brave face.
“I take it this is Susan,” he said, turning to face you. “We have a lot of work to do so that we can help Susan. We need a room where she will be comfortable and we need to remove the furniture from the room. Mrs. Quirke, I’m afraid you will have to help me. Unless your husband will be with us soon?”
“He’s on a business trip,” Mum mumbled.
Joseph’s face fell. I saw him assess us and our chances of survival in that small bungalow up on the Scarborough cliffs. Between him, a nine-year-old girl and a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it didn’t look good.
“We’d better get to work,” he said with a catch in his throat.
Joseph left us alone with you as he went into your bedroom to move the furniture himself. More than thirty minutes later, he emerged with a sheen of sweat over his pale face. I made him a glass of lemonade while Mum continued to stare into space. By this time you were quiet. You sat still as a statue on the carpet, barely blinking, with an odd smile on your face. I would love to know if you remember this, sister. I would love to know what you were thinking this entire time.
“The room is prepared,” Joseph announced. “We need to get Susan into the bedroom. Will you come with us, Susan?”
You turned to him with that strange, almost sweet, smile on your face. For a moment I thought you were about to become the model of obedience, to jump up from the floor and follow him like a good girl. I think Joseph thought so too, because his face lit up with hope. But then that smile contorted into a grimace, and you dragged your fingernails down your forearms. Joseph clutched your wrists and you screamed out as though he had burned you. The priest hesitated, about to let you go, but he found the strength from somewhere to pull you onto your feet and through the room. All the time you dug your heels into the carpet. It must have been painful for you, yet you never seemed to feel it.
I helped Mum and we followed you into the room, passing your furniture out in the hallway. Inside the room was empty except for your Smiths posters and your bed, which had been stripped to the mattress.
Around each bed post was a handcuff.
“No!” Mum came to life at last. “No, we can’t do that!”
Joseph struggled to get you onto the bed. Your teeth gnashed at him. “There aren’t enough of us to hold her down. She c
ould hurt herself, and us, if she is loose.”
When he clipped the cuffs onto your wrists and ankles, I felt a sickness growing in my stomach. Mum turned away. You grinned as though we were watching cartoons again. When the priest leaned over to clip your right wrist, you licked his ear and chuckled. Joseph, clearly intimidated by the entire situation, stepped back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You continued that chuckle: deep and low and unnatural, somewhere between a growl and a laugh. It seemed to make the temperature in the room drop.
“I like it rough, Father,” you said.
He blushed beetroot red. I knew then that priests don’t have sex, but I suppose I had never considered the full implications, and how the world must seem to a celibate man. Watching you, in your minimal clothing, writhing and licking as though your body was on fire with desire… it must have seemed disgusting to him. It did to me, too, not so much because of the sex, but because your face looked wrong. By now a white-ish sheen had covered your skin and your eyes barely blinked. There was spittle at the corners of your mouth. Your hair was greasy and sweat-slicked. I’m sure you don’t want to know this. I hope if you do read this letter that you skip this part. I need to get it down, no, to get it out of me. Otherwise I can’t carry on. It’s too much of a burden to bear.
Joseph placed church paraphernalia on a small table, all the time his hands shaking. I remember looking at the crucifix with a chill. If God really is good, why do they make His symbols so disturbing? Why do we look at his son bleeding to death on a cross? Why do we need to see the nails poking out of his skin? It brought me no comfort to see it. It brought you no comfort either; you struggled against the cuffs and arched your back away from it.
Maybe you and I are just not the holy type.
Mum crossed herself and Joseph opened a book. I’d expected a Bible, but it was a notebook.
He saw me watching. “I had to write down the passage I needed,” he said with an apologetic smile.
The trembling in his hands gave me no sense of security. It was plain to everyone in the room that he was very much out of his depth.
“In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you…”
You laughed. Your tongue snaked out and licked your lips. Your fists clenched hard.
“…to leave the vessel of this loved Susan Quirke. She is loved by God.”
You roared loudly then, making the priest drop his notebook to the floor. A stream of words so vile left your lips that there wasn’t a single person in the room who did not blush. I found my stomach turning with queasiness.
“Perhaps you should go, Isabel,” Joseph suggested.
I shook my head.
“Isabel, Isabel, rhymes with hell. That’s where I am. It’s where I always am. Did you enjoy it, little sister? Did you like what you saw? Did you want it, too?”
I shrank away from the sight of my sister, writhing up and down on the bed, lifting her pelvis suggestively.
Joseph began his spiel again, this time in a stronger voice. You let out an ear-piercing scream that I didn’t so much hear as feel. The table where the crucifix stood shook and the cross tipped over. Joseph righted it again and continued.
“Oh, shut up, shut up!” you screamed. “You virgin. You sad, pathetic virgin. Scared of sex. I’ll tell you what you’re missing—”
Mum clutched my ears and pulled me into her dress, but I still heard. I won’t say it. I can’t write it. It was hideous. Sometimes, when I am with a man, or I am alone in bed, I hear those words, and then I have to stop. I can’t continue. You have ruined pleasure for me. Do you know that? You’ve ruined it.
I’m sorry, sis. Sometimes I forget that it wasn’t you.
The priest clutched his middle and doubled over. He had sweat pouring down his temples and his face was almost as pale as yours. I have never seen, and probably never will again, someone consumed by complete and utter terror.
“Leave Susan Quirke in the name of Jesus…”
The table began to shake, as did the bed. The wallpaper peeled from the walls, the air went freezing cold and I gripped my teddy bear as if it was for dear life. It was the last bit of innocence left in that room. Mum sobbed and sobbed. You roared, growled, and chewed on your lip, drawing blood.
The priest went on, in a tiny voice filled with fear.
I closed my eyes and started singing The Cure – “Friday I’m in Love.” I needed to hear something beautiful.
Plus it was our song. We danced to it in your room once, music blaring. Even Mum joined in, although she always says she hates that ‘rock stuff’. You let me try your make-up. We held hands and danced around in a circle.
You can’t see it, but I’m crying now. There might be tear marks on the page from now on.
The priest managed to find enough strength to raise his voice, and you shouted obscenities at him in a gurgled, echoing voice. I gripped hold of Mum, and my bear. We both cried hard, soaking our cheeks with tears. It went on, and on. At times the bed shook. At times you went so still that the silence frightened us more. Your Smiths posters peeled from the walls, falling in a depressed heap on the ground. The priest often wiped sweat from his brow, despite the fact that the room was freezing cold. Mum squeezed my hand until I worried she might break bones. For hours we heard you scream and yell and swear. We heard hour-long tirades about sex and sexuality, your vulgar rants. Your handcuffs rubbed against your wrists until a trickle of blood ran down your forearms. After a while I couldn’t bear it anymore. I couldn’t stand what it was doing to you.
“We need to help her,” Mum said between sobs. She seemed to have come out of her daze. “She needs water and bandages.”
The priest ignored Mum, continuing with his holy words. Taking the initiative, I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, then to the bathroom for bandages. When I came back you were still. Your head was tipped up to the ceiling, unmoving, and your eyes were clamped shut. Your lips were parted slightly but I couldn’t see you breathing. When I got closer to you, I noticed a putrid smell unlike any I had smelled before. It was like rotten meat and soured milk and sweat. I gagged, but continued towards you.
“Isabel, what are you doing?” Mum took a step towards me but wouldn’t come any closer to you.
“I’m giving her water and tending to the cuts,” I replied.
The priest shook his head. “No, you’re tending to the devil. You should step away from her. That’s not your sister there anymore.”
I looked down at you. It was as though you were sleeping. “No, she is still my sister, no matter what.”
I tipped the water to your lips and you began to drink with your eyes still closed.
“See, it’s fine,” I said, turning back to them.
I felt a change in your body. You went stiff and opened your eyes. When you looked at me, they were black, empty spaces. I pulled the glass back and you spoke, your voice like a slowed tape recorder.
“Friday I’m in Love, sister.”
The glass was wrenched from my hand by some invisible force and it smashed against the wall. Mum screamed and the table flipped over. The bed jumped up and down up and down as you laughed. The priest raised his voice, but you threw him across the room. I don’t know how, but you did. I stood, frozen, my legs stuck, the teddy bear now lifeless at my feet. I watched as the priest slumped against the floor, unconscious.
“Where is your God now?” you said, turning to me with those empty eyes and that smile.
With almost inhuman movement you sat bolt upright and the chains on your handcuffs snapped. Mum rushed forward to protect me and you swatted her away like a fly.
“Su?” I said, in a small voice.
“Iz?” you replied.
You twisted your body so that you could lower your feet to the floor, and then you gripped both of my wrists, bringing your face closer to mine.
I screamed and writhed and wriggled to get away from those eyes that bore into mine. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t look at you.
“What’s th
e matter, Iz?” you snarled. “We’re just going to take a little walk. Let’s have some sister time.”
This is the part of the story that I hope you remember. I want you to remember what happened next. No, I need you to remember, because it should have shaped our relationship for the rest of our lives. Maybe it did, but instead of making us stronger, it drove a wedge between us.
You dragged me through the house, your breath rasping like a heavy smoker walking up a hill. Your breath came out tinged in frost. As you dragged me along I tried not to look at your face. It was like a mask of my sister on something else, something dark and desperate.
When we reached the front door, I screamed. You kicked the door right off its hinges with superhuman strength and we went out into the night.
When had it become night?
It was then that I realised we had kept you in that room all day and you had been in those cuffs for hours. I’m sorry, sister. I don’t believe the priest did anything good for you. I don’t know what you needed that day. But I don’t think it worked, not with him, not with you.
Down the drive we went, your fingernails digging into my flesh. (Remember how you used to measure your nails with a ruler? One almost made it to a centimetre.) I had no shoes on and the gravel rubbed painfully against the soles of my feet.
The dark wrapped around us. We were closer than ever and yet never further apart. You dragged me down the hill towards the town. Later, I discovered that there was a gale-force wind ripping through Scarborough that night. It was a clear sky, but the wind buffeted against us. I had to turn my head and try to gulp in air to breathe. The wind roared in my ears. It pressed against my chest, forced its way into my lungs until I thought I was suffocating. Is that how you felt, trapped by that thing? Suffocated? Unable to breathe? That’s how I imagine it.
If anyone found it strange to see a teenage girl in visible distress dragging a younger girl through the town centre, no one stopped us. I don’t recall if I saw anyone; it was a quiet night due to the wind. You never stopped. You kept going, and with a flip of my stomach I realised where you were taking me.
