by Kane, Paul
I thought at first they were talking about Anton. He’s certainly different, and when you look in his eyes you can see there’s something wrong. I’ve known it all my life.
But no. Mother meant me, though Father was quick to jump to my defence. ‘That’s nonsense, Angela. And you’re never sober enough to notice anything.’ Then he took a sip of his own drink.
‘Why do you think I started!’ she answered. Now she was jabbing Father’s chest. ‘You’re to blame, it was your idea. What you did, how we… If we’d just waited – but oh, no! You had to have a son. Had to have one immediately, like everything else. Well, some son he turned out to be. Some son!’ Then her face was sad suddenly. ‘Secrets have a way of coming out, of coming back to punish you.’
Father drained his glass, storming off to pour himself another. ‘You’re crazy,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Delusional.’
‘I’m telling you, it was his fault. He got Anton to go up there, I know he did. That…that stranger upstairs masquerading as our boy.’ Father spun round, dropping his drink and grabbing her by the shoulders. She began crying, sucking in breaths. He stared at her, letting go. Then he left the room, left the house. I heard the sound of his car starting up outside. Mother collapsed on the sofa, sobbing.
I was in a state of shock, trying to understand what they’d said. No, not understand – part of me understood well enough – more like trying to take it in. Absorb it.
Stranger? That’s what she’d called me. If only they’d waited… Father had wanted a son, hadn’t wanted to wait.
I inched back up the stairs, wandered across the landing in a daze. I found myself in the bathroom, pulling the door quietly shut, pulling on the light. I looked at myself in the big mirror hanging on the wall.
‘You can tell just by looking in his eyes.’
I stared into that mirror for I don’t know how long, watching the reflection gazing back.
I was a stranger. To Mother. To myself.
I don’t remember leaving the bathroom and going back to bed, but I must have done, because the next thing I knew I was having the dream again. In fact it felt like I’d somehow slipped sideways into the dream.
The reflection – the stronger, more confident me – was mouthing something again and pointing, jabbing its finger just as Mother had done downstairs.
When I woke, it was light outside. I wondered for a second or two whether I’d dreamt the whole thing. The argument, the bathroom. Sadly, no. I’d only dreamed about the reflection, about what it was telling me to do.
Not just hurt someone this time.
It wanted me to kill.
Thursday, August 13 – 1981.
I’ve been doing some detective work, trying to find out more about my situation.
I know that I’m not Sebastian Craine Jr. Not really. I’m not their son, not like Anton. He’s theirs. He came along after they’d…what, adopted me? I have no clue. I can’t find any information about it. No papers, nothing. I’ve tried searching the office, my parents’ bedroom. I even looked up in the attic, down in the basement.
So many of the pieces don’t fit together. And not only—
[Fire damage]
—figure it out. ‘Mother’ – can I still call her that? – thinks I’m a monster, that much is clear. She can barely bring herself to look at me. She knows what I did that day, and hates me for it. I should hate myself. But I don’t. Even less so now that I know the truth about Anton. About me. He’s not my brother – never was.
I wish he had stepped out into that traffic.
I thought about telling Lucy, if I could get her away from Miranda long enough, but decided against it. So I’m doing what I’ve always done, jotting down my thoughts, to try and order them.
It’s not working, though. Not this time.
Monday, September 14 – 1981.
I am not a nobody, I’m not!
I should listen to my dreams.
Thursday, October 1 – 1981.
It’s the first chance I’ve had to write about all this…since it happened.
The accident.
It all began with my birthday. Father wanted to take us to the fair camped out near Brenton, to celebrate that weekend. But Mother was in bed not ‘feeling well’ and I couldn’t see any reason to celebrate – apart from everything that’d been happening at school, it wasn’t even my birthday really. Father said ‘Suit yourself’ and just took Anton.
It was while they were out that Mother got up. I heard her clambering about, using the toilet. I never intended to get into an argument with her, but there she was, on the landing, staring through the open door into my room. I got up off the bed, where I’d been doing a word search, and asked her what she was looking at. She just kept on staring, as if trying to work that out. And I lost it again, just like I did when Anton found my diary.
‘Who am I?’ I snapped, and she flinched.
‘How dare you speak to me like—’
‘Who. Am. I?’ I said, my voice rising with each word.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, shaking her head. For once she actually sounded sober.
‘I know!’ I barked. ‘Know that I’m not really yours. So who am I?’
She frowned, not understanding how I came by this information.
‘Who am I?’ I repeated, even more loudly. ‘Where do I come from?’
She waved her hand, turned away. So I grabbed her by the arm, yanked her back. I held her fast and repeated my question. For the first time ever, the woman who called herself my Mother looked afraid. ‘I-I don’t know,’ she replied.
‘Then how did I get here? Am I adopted?’
She bit her lip.
‘What? Tell me!’
‘Y-Your…Father handled it all,’ she whimpered. ‘The payments and—’
‘The what?’
Her face creased up, switching from frightened to angry again. ‘I wish to God he hadn’t bothered. You’re…there’s something wrong with you, Sebastian.’ She said my…the name like she was trying to spit a hair from her tongue. ‘Your Father refuses to see it, because it would make this all his fault, but I’ve known for a long time. I see it, what’s inside you.’
I pulled her towards me with strength I didn’t even know I had. ‘You have no idea,’ I snarled. Then I told her about Anton, about what I’d made him do, that I was glad, that I’d probably do something like it again.
She struggled to free herself from my grip then and—
Suddenly she was at the bottom of the stairs, legs and neck at strange angles. I rushed down, kneeling beside her. She was barely breathing and I knew then she was about to—
‘What…what can you see?’ I asked, as she stared at me again, this time blankly.
‘Noth…nothing,’ she managed. Then she was gone.
I should have felt sad, should have felt something. But I didn’t. All I could think was that I’d get the blame for this, if someone came in right now and found us. I’m not sure where the idea came from to fetch the gin bottle, to pour some over her and place it near her hand – wearing my thick winter gloves, so I wouldn’t get any fingerprints on anything.
It was only then that I called an ambulance.
Father and Anton returned just as she was being taken away, after they’d officially declared her dead. Father’s mouth fell open, then he’d demanded to know what happened. I just gaped at him, until someone in uniform pulled him to one side. Anton couldn’t tear his eyes away from the covered-over stretcher (but it was just a dead body, a broken machine).
An accident. That’s all it had been. A tragic accident – the police even said so. I couldn’t have pushed her back towards the top of the stairs, shoved her down them, because that would mean—
There’s something inside me. And there isn’t. If anything, I feel empty.
The funeral’s this Friday. Lucy’s been really great since it happened, we’re becoming quite close. Or would be if it weren’t for Miranda.
I haven’t ask
ed Father yet about the things that woman said. How can I, without giving away that we fought, that I know?
But I can’t help thinking about what she said that night I overheard her.
Secrets have a way of coming out, of coming back to punish you.
Sunday, January 3 – 1982
‘Happy’ New Year! Ha! It’s—
[Fire damage]
—imagine what kind of Christmas it’s been with Fath…Sebastian how he is. He’s taken a sabbatical from the hospital, just sits in his office holding his dead wife’s tuning fork, listening to morbid classical music.
He’s taken up where she left off with the drinking, and the way he looks at me sometimes… I miss how we used to be, even knowing what I do. And Anton is really driving me insane. He’s gotten even worse lately, if anything. Thank fuck Mrs Thomas has stepped up. She now does most things round the house, keeps Anton out of my hair…usually.
I’m looking forward to seeing Lucy at school this week, but not school itself.
I forgot to say the last time I wrote, the reflection in the dream shook its head after ‘Mother’ died. Not sure what that means. I thought it wanted me to—
Accident. Just an accident.
Wednesday, March 3 – 1982.
Sebastian Craine Sr might not go to the hospital anymore, but I still do. Colin’s promised to show me how they preserve tissue next time I visit.
I’m old enough to go on my own now, pretty much.
Friday, April 2 – 1982.
Looks like we’re at war. As if the nuclear stuff wasn’t enough, we’re fighting the Argentineans now. This world—
[Fire damage]
—someone could just do something. Fix things. Make things better. But you’d need to be…
Someone. Just someone.
Tuesday, July 27 – 1982.
Oh Christ, oh shit!
I did it. This time, this one… I did it. I actually did it. I’m scared and excited and… Not sure I can write any more. I just wanted to—
Later.
Thursday, August 5 – 1982.
Things have calmed down a little. Enough for me to try and explain what happened.
If she’d only kept out of things that didn’t concern her, she’d still be… She really only has herself to blame. I was supposed to be meeting Lucy, we were going to have a picnic in the meadow. I’d even smuggled a blanket and some food out of the house in a backpack. I could tell, however, even as she walked towards me, that it was Miranda. We’ve been having…issues for a while now.
But everything came to a head that day.
We had words, she told me to stay away from her sister, that I was a bad influence on her – more like Lucy had been standing up to Miranda recently. Though not enough, obviously, because she’d wheedled our meeting out of her.
The argument grew more heated and Miranda shoved me over again. I fell, hard. When I got up, I had a rock in my fist. It was instinct mainly, a knee-jerk reaction. I swung it and hit her on the side of the head.
Miranda went down, blood pouring from her temple, onto the blanket beneath her. She was mumbling something I couldn’t catch, so I leaned in, but it still didn’t make any sense. Maybe she was calling me another name? I panicked again a little. Thought about running off and calling 999 from the nearest phone box. But would they even get there in time? And what would happen to me then?
I began to think more clearly, forced myself to. And I thought about what I could do with Miranda out of the way (To Kill a Mocking…), about how much easier things would be—
[Fire damage]
—the dream, what it had been wanting me to do to her for a long, long time.
I had my pocket knife with me, and I took this out. She struggled, so I straddled her, held her down while I pushed the blade into her chest. She began to scream so I put my other hand over her mouth.
I’ve never felt so alive. There was a charge running through me as Miranda’s life ebbed away. I could feel a throbbing in the metal, a pulse that travelled up my arm into my body. At first I thought I was just imagining it, but I could sense the actual moment Miranda was about to die.
Strangely I wanted more than anything to save her, then. Not because I felt any kind of regret – I hated her. And it was too late physically, I understood that. But I wanted to put whatever she’d been, whatever she was becoming, to use. To direct it, draw it into me, somehow control that power.
Then the moment passed. Miranda lay still and lifeless beneath me.
I’d been so wrapped up in what I was doing I hadn’t even heard the footsteps behind. Not until they were right on top of me. I whirled, startled, terrified I’d been discovered.
There, watching me with eyes wide open, was Anton. He’d followed me all the way from home. ‘What are you doing here?’ I snapped, a stupid, pointless question. He was there, and he’d seen everything.
He didn’t answer, so I got up. He started to back away, as frightened as I had been moments before. I had two choices, and one of them involved another killing.
The other one was this: ‘Hey, it’s all right. Don’t be scared. Anton, I’m sorry I shouted. But…look, what happened here – it’s just pretend. A game. You like games, don’t you? We both do.’ Anton looked unsure. ‘It can be our little secret.’ I remembered again what Mother…Angela had said about secrets, but I’d already got him. The chance to be involved in something with his older brother that nobody else knew about? He just couldn’t resist.
After I’d given him a moment or two, I set him to work. We had to clear all this up, fast. Not just because someone else might happen along – that was doubtful, I’d chosen this area for its isolation – but because we needed to get back home. Needed to be away from here. Anton helped me gather my things, wrap up the body, and lug it through the woods to the lake. Then we looked for more stones and rocks, tied them up inside the blanket with her, and pushed her into the water. She sank almost straight away and I grinned at Anton. He grinned back. Finally, I tossed in the knife.
We headed the long way home, creeping back inside so I could get out of my blood-stained top. The first chance I got, I took those clothes, that backpack and everything inside it, down to the furnace in the hospital Colin had shown me – where they get rid of ‘packages’ they can’t identify.
I also made sure Sebastian heard us inside the house, playing. We woke him in fact. He’d fallen asleep in his office, but came rushing out when we started messing about with Angela’s old instruments. I’ve never seen him as angry as he was then, but it was worth the clout I got – not Anton this time, I noted – because I needed him to remember. It was important.
To remember where we’d been that day.
Sunday, November 14 – 1982.
God, the last few months…
I’ve been lying low, haven’t dared write anything in here since… Miranda’s parents reported her missing, of course. I knew they would. When the police came knocking at our door a few days after she vanished, I also knew that Lucy had given me up. That she’d told about our ‘date’.
Sebastian informed them I’d been around all day on the 27th looking after Anton. He was still in a position of respect, a doctor, even if they could smell booze on him. But my whereabouts were also confirmed by my little ‘brother’. It was still part of the game we were playing. I told them I hadn’t gone because I knew Miranda didn’t want me seeing Lucy, that I didn’t want to come between two sisters who were so close. That she must have gone missing after heading off into the meadow on her own. One of the policemen looked wary, but the other seemed to buy it.
There was a search, but nobody searched the lake. It’s pretty deep anyway, I remember reading that in a local history book. After a while, and a couple of TV appeals that got nowhere, the police went away again. I don’t think Miranda’s parents will ever give up, though.
Lucy’s…different these days. Even if I did want anything to do with her – and after blabbing, I really don’t – she’s not
nearly as much fun. She never smiles. It’s like a part of her is missing, the part that used to tell her what to do. Now she just wanders round like she’s in a daze. Like Sebastian Sr does most of the time.
I’ve learned a lot from this experience. Especially from the dreams that followed. My reflection didn’t shake its head this time, just mouthed more words – until I was finally able to hear it. Now I understand exactly what a waste Miranda’s death was.
Now I know what I must do the next time. How it will bring me closer to the reflection, which is growing bigger each time I see it. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but—
[Fire damage]
—turned sixteen last month (well, officially, as I still don’t know my real date of birth). I can leave school soon, whether Sebastian Sr approves or disapproves. Not that I’m being bothered there anymore. People are beginning to look at me differently, as the woman who called herself my Mother once did.
I intend to travel.
A lot.
Tuesday, August 30 – 1983.
So much has happened since the last time I wrote in this diary.
Both the dreams and ‘Mother’ were right. I’m not a nobody, and I am different (though I didn’t have anything inside me, not back when she said those words). Pieces of the puzzle are starting to slot together.
I did a test, just like the reflection told me to. I went to a busy place, the market in Brenton. I sat on a bench and cleared my mind. Then I waited and I watched. I saw three that afternoon, a woman and two men. And I could tell, just by looking at them. It’s an ability that, as far as I know, only I possess.
