My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  ‘She told me that you hadn’t handled your father’s death very well. She suggested I go there, that we could talk about how best to help you. She told me she had seen you like this before, many times. That she always knew how to help, but that she wanted me involved. Oh, Irini. Why didn’t you tell me she was sick?’ He sits up, reaches forward. There is a pile of magazines on the table between us and he fiddles at the edges, straightening them up. ‘I was desperate. It was that or we were finished. I didn’t want to lose you.’

  ‘They have pictures of you in a bar. Nobody has seen her since.’

  He punches the couch in frustration. ‘But that’s impossible. I left her at the hotel and there were—’ He stops mid-sentence.

  ‘You were at a hotel together? Antonio, did you . . .’ I say, but I leave my question to fade to nothing because the answer is written all over his face. ‘Oh my God,’ I whimper as more tears start to flow. ‘You had sex with her, didn’t you?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. No. NO! It wasn’t like that.’ I jump up from the couch to get away from him because I can already see what it was like: her nuzzling up to him, looking for a hero. Him stepping up. How good it must have felt for him to know what to do for once, how to make things right. He must have thought it was all so fucking easy in comparison to me. Just a brief kiss, then another, and before you know it her hand is down his trousers looking for the on/off switch to his brain. I pull desperately at the ring, his stupid, pathetic, guilt-carved ring that was supposed to help make up for what he did. I run to the kitchen, grab the soap and squirt it all over my finger, pulling and twisting. ‘Rini, no,’ he begs, following me. ‘It’s not what you think. Please,’ he says as he grabs my shoulders, spins me round. Water splashes over us, mixing with my tears. ‘I didn’t sleep with her. I didn’t.’

  ‘But something happened, didn’t it? Something happened that you don’t want to tell me about. Did you kiss her? Did she kiss you?’

  ‘I didn’t want it. She tried. She wanted to have sex with me, but I stopped it. I told her no.’ He is snatching at my hand, trying to stop me from pulling off the ring, as if by forcing me to wear it we can forget everything that has happened and the future will happen just as he wishes it to.

  ‘And where were you when you told her no? You weren’t at the bar, were you?’ He can’t look at me. He is gripping me, clinging to what he knows will be his only chance to save us. ‘You were at a hotel. You were going to do it and you changed your mind. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  He lets go and flops down in one of the plastic kitchen chairs, green liquid all over his hands. He drops his head into his slick palms, the soapy, apple-fresh fingers sliding into his hair.

  ‘I was at a hotel with her. She kept talking about you and telling me things, stories from the past, and I felt so close to you. She knew all these things, like what colour your baby clothes were, what milkshake you drank, the kids who bullied you because of the way you walked.’ I wrap a protective hand around my hip, as if it has been offended. I hear Bison in my head, the voice of Robert Kneel, the grunting of his buddies, the snorting and whinnying as I get close. ‘It was like all the things I ever wanted to know about you were right there on offer. I had the answers. It was like she was you, and I got confused.’

  ‘You expect me to believe you thought it was me? That you got confused?’ At that moment the ring slips from my finger. I slam it down on the table.

  ‘She kissed me, and I let her. You look alike, you know. Not superficially, but you do. You have the same Cupid’s bow,’ he says as he raises a finger to his lips, traces the triangle beneath his nose. ‘And your ear lobe. It curls at the back the same way.’ When I can’t bring myself to look at him, he drops his head. ‘But then she told me that I was better off with her. That I should stay with her. Do all the things I wanted but that you wouldn’t do. Like kids. That she would give me what you wouldn’t. That she would marry me, and you never would. I figured you must have told her about not wanting kids, because I hadn’t mentioned anything that personal.’

  ‘I never told her about not wanting kids.’

  ‘Well, she knew. She knows you better than you think.’ He grabs a towel, wipes the soap from his hands. ‘I got up to leave. She started shouting, screaming at me that I was just like all the rest. That she would ruin me to make me pay. That she would make you leave me. She started telling lies about how you had been fucking around. But I left. I left straight away.’

  I try to stop myself crying, but I can’t. I shake when I cry, so I wrap my arms around my chest and try to stem the movement. Part of it is guilt, knowing that she told him the truth and he didn’t believe her. Some of it is anger. But mainly it is sadness. Something else coming to an end. ‘She had a lot to say considering you left straight away,’ I stutter. ‘To manage to say all that as you stormed out would have been quite something.’ He hangs his head in shame and I know I am on to something. ‘Did you have to get dressed? Is that why she had all that time? All those threats and accusations thrown out while you had your fucking trousers around your ankles?’

  He picks up the ring and fingers it for a while, knowing that hope, and that last chance, has been lost. He slips it in his pocket. He must have envisioned tonight so differently. He looks up at me, tears streaming down his soapy face, and nods his head.

  Fact. Antonio is a liar.

  32

  ‘You have one hour,’ I say as I walk away, straight up the stairs with big, false-confident strides. I want to get away from him, because I am sure that with the slightest effort he could break me. With only a little bit of pleading I would beg him to stay. I might have treated him badly, cut him out over the years, but when it comes to being alone, I would do anything to avoid it.

  ‘Rini, please. I won’t just go. Not before you talk to me.’

  He has said this a few times. From my barricade in the bathroom I can hear him shuffling about in the hallway. When it goes quiet, I press my ear up to the door, listening out for a hint that he is still there. When I hear the floorboards creak, or hear his body move against the door, I flinch back, pleased that he hasn’t gone and yet too proud to ask him to stay. If I had a girlfriend to call for help, that friend who drops everything when you need her, maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone. Maybe if she were to suggest I kick him to the kerb, or once a cheater, always a cheater, I would nod my head with dignity and never speak to him again. But I don’t have that friend. And besides, that’s not who I really think Antonio is. I think the same has happened to him that happened to me. He got caught up in Elle’s promises and in her world. Got lost somewhere between fantasy and reality, and is now struggling to find his way back.

  ‘Rini, please talk to me.’ He knocks lightly. I hear him slump against the door, and his body blocks the flash of light from underneath it. It is not hard to see how she lured him in with promises of getting closer to me.

  I am lying on the bathmat when I hear knocking on the front door. I must have fallen asleep, cried out to the point of exhaustion. I look at my watch and realise that I have been here for nearly two hours. I hear Antonio – still there, bless him – trailing down the stairs to answer the door. When I hear that it is DC Forrester and DC McGuire, I swallow my pride, remember what she told me at the station regarding Antonio’s exploits in Scotland. I take one quick look in the mirror, realise there is no amount of sprucing I can do to make me look like I haven’t been crying, and head downstairs.

  When I arrive in the sitting room, it appears that they are waiting for me.

  ‘Hello again, Dr Harringford.’ Forrester smiles at me, but I can’t make out whether it is genuine or not. She is getting better at this. Perhaps just getting better at reading me, learning how to act.

  ‘Hello,’ I whisper from a croaky throat, scratched by all my screaming. I see them glance around at the untouched drinks on the table, the ring box still on the couch where Antonio left it, the red wine stains splashed up the wall.

  ‘Celebration?’ s
he asks, eyeing up the box, and then my bare ring finger. She looks up at Antonio and I follow her gaze. His face is swollen and red. There is no doubt that we have both been crying. ‘Obviously not. Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s just there are a few things we would like to talk to you about, Mr Molinaro.’

  ‘With me?’ he asks.

  ‘What about?’ I say at the same time, as if I don’t know. Neither of them looks at me.

  ‘Perhaps you would rather do this at the station, Mr Molinaro?’ DC McGuire asks.

  Antonio shakes his head. ‘No. Anything I have to say, I can say it here.’ He glances at me in a last-ditch attempt to look honest. As if he wants me to know that he has already admitted everything.

  ‘Very well,’ says McGuire.

  ‘Mr Molinaro,’ says Forrester, motioning for us all to sit. I do as she asks. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts over the last week?’

  ‘I was here for most of it.’ He snatches a glance at me, as if telling me to brace myself. ‘Before that I was in Horton. With Eleanor Harringford.’

  ‘So you admit to being with Miss Harringford?’ Forrester looks to McGuire, purses her lips in a surprised fashion.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And to being at her house? Mam Tor, Horton,’ she says as she flicks through her small pad. ‘Eleanor and Irini’s family home.’

  ‘You were at the house?’ I ask, breaking my silence.

  ‘Yes,’ he says to me, and then repeats, ‘Yes,’ for the police. ‘I was there.’

  DC Forrester flicks through a few pages and adjusts her position to get comfortable. Antonio’s cheeks are flushed, but the rest of his face is sickly white, the shine of a fever glossing over his skin. ‘In which case, you’ll not be surprised to learn that somebody fitting your description was seen there on two separate occasions. Once with Eleanor, and once alone. A white Jeep was also seen. The description matches a vehicle parked outside this property. I’ll assume it is yours unless you tell me otherwise.’ She closes her pad and slips it into a suit pocket. DC McGuire takes over.

  ‘The witness gave a good description of the man in question. Do you think it could have been you?’

  ‘I don’t know. It might have been,’ he says as he looks at me again.

  ‘Did you stay the night?’ DC McGuire asks.

  Antonio shuffles in his seat before eventually saying, ‘No, no. I didn’t,’ but we all know he is lying.

  ‘We have an inventory of the house from your family’s lawyer, Dr Harringford,’ Forrester says, looking to me. ‘It would seem your father was well organised when it came to his possessions. Knew where everything was. Had a safe full of jewellery, too. You know what, Mr Molinaro? That safe is empty now. Not a dot in it. Pearls, gold, diamonds. You know anything about that?’ Antonio shakes his head. ‘There was a diamond ring in there. Belonged to Dr Harringford’s mother,’ she says, looking at the red box. ‘Mind showing me what’s in there?’

  ‘There’s nothing in there,’ I say, chipping in. I picture the bistro he wants to own, the loan that might not yet have been approved. The diamond in his pocket.

  ‘I have a picture of the ring. Here.’ DC McGuire pulls a few photographs from his pocket, selecting the right one. There is a stamp on it that reads Witherrington & Co., but it is the image that stands out as he holds it up for us to see: the same tiny diamond that was on my finger only a couple of hours ago.

  ‘Elle gave me the jewellery,’ Antonio admits. ‘It’s in the car. She was angry, she said it was hers.’ He points to me. ‘That everything was hers, thanks to their father.’

  ‘Only Miss Eleanor Harringford isn’t around to back up that claim, is she, Mr Molinaro? What we have found are signs of a struggle in her bedroom. Broken glass on the floor, sheets crumpled from where more than one person rolled around in them.’ DC McGuire pauses, before adding, ‘We found traces of blood and semen.’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ says Antonio to me, not paying any attention to the police.

  ‘You might be surprised at what I think, Antonio,’ I say. I’m not sure how much I believe. Truth that comes out at moments like this is always tempered, the dangerous edges smoothed off, details forgotten on purpose. I don’t doubt that a good forensics expert could trace him to that bedroom, but I do doubt that he has hurt Elle. Any struggle would have been consensual.

  ‘Mr Molinaro, we have cross-checked the blood with Miss Harringford’s health records. It was her blood on the sheets, and we believe you were the last person to see her before she disappeared.’ They step towards him, DC McGuire pulling a set of cuffs from his belt. He dangles them, showing Antonio that using them is an option. ‘On that basis, I am arresting you in connection with the disappearance of Miss Eleanor Harringford.’

  My ears fuzz over, and I watch as they attach the cuffs. Antonio is staring at me, mouthing something. I try to fight my way back, desperate to hear the last words he will ever say to me. Because this is it. Whether he did it or not, Elle has found her latest victim. But I don’t hear anything, and only a second later the police have manhandled him through the front door.

  33

  The night out in the club just before I went to university was the beginning of the end for me and Elle. Up until that point I’d wanted her near, craved her despite the instability she brought with her. But by the end of that night I knew that desire was drawing to a close.

  What I told Antonio about that night wasn’t exactly a lie. I woke up as she was being kicked out of the club. She was causing a scene, and shouting about the injustice of it all. The bit I left out was about the man who was with her.

  I followed behind as they stumbled along, her boob tube askew, her hot pants riding up higher than intended. He was there at her side, edging her forward, helping her stand. It wasn’t quite a cuddle, and he wasn’t laughing. There was an uncomfortable level of control, like he had hold of her. She kept apologising to him, saying she was sorry if she had ruined his plans. He was smiling and friendly, but I got the impression he was the kind of charmer who had loads of friends who all believed him to be a nice guy, but who behind closed doors would regularly beat his wife.

  ‘You’re going to need to wait here, all right?’ he said to me as Elle ate a kebab and chips. I was sitting opposite her in the cheap takeaway restaurant. He was standing next to us, somehow managing to block our way out. I nodded my head to agree to his terms. I was only eighteen and low on confidence. I wouldn’t have dared disagree. ‘Elle has some work to do.’

  She looked up at me, just an eyeball really, from where she was slumped on the table. It might have been imperceptible to him, but regardless he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She was still high, that was for sure, but not enough to deaden how she really felt. I was gripped by this overwhelming knowledge that I should be stopping her, and yet I said and did nothing. She shovelled a handful of chips into her mouth, adjusted her boob tube and very softly stroked her hand across my cheek.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ she said, and for a moment I thought she was going to cry.

  I watched as they left. Just before they disappeared from view, I saw him slap her across the face. I jumped up from my seat, my intention to help, but he saw me. He pointed his finger and mouthed the words Wait there, and I did exactly as he said.

  She came back about an hour later without him. She grabbed me by the arm and marched me out like a parent retrieving a wayward child. She didn’t speak for another hour, not even when I asked her if she was all right. She just kept snivelling, crying, hyperventilating. I didn’t know what to do so I suggested we go home, but she refused. She looked dishevelled, her hair knotted, her mascara smudged. As another hour passed, us sitting on the edge of the kerb, watching cars go by, I realised that her eye was starting to swell. Her lip too. When she flicked her hair back from her neck there was a bruise just below her ear, something that resembled a love bite.

  ‘Elle, please talk to me.’ I edged a little closer and dared rest a hand on her ar
m. She flinched, but she didn’t push me away. ‘Are you all right?’

  She wiped away a tear, took a swallow of watery Coke, spilling some of it down her front. ‘No, Rini.’ She turned to face me. Her pupils were black like a shark’s, so large I could barely see her irises. ‘I’m not all right.’

  Relieved to have an answer and to know that something at least was wrong, I pushed further. ‘Who was that man?’ I let my arm rest across her shoulders and she surprised me by nestling her head on to mine. ‘Where did he take you?’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ she sniffed. ‘He gives me stuff. Stuff I need.’ I was naive about a lot of things, but I had seen them together in the club. I knew what kind of stuff he was giving her.

  ‘I don’t think he is,’ I whispered. ‘He’s your dealer, isn’t he? You don’t need that stuff. It doesn’t help.’

  ‘I wish he was my dealer.’ She started crying again, picked up a handful of cold kebab and threw it into the road. ‘What would you know, little goody two-shoes? I don’t have anything else.’ I turned to her as she looked at me, her big doll-eyed pupils and pink hair, and watched a tear roll down her cheek. ‘I don’t even have you any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I tried to joke, but we both knew. I would be gone soon, a new life at university.

  ‘You’re leaving, remember. You’ll meet new people. How will I ever discover the truth if you’re not here with me?’ She nuzzled in, kissed me on my neck. It was just a peck here and there, nothing too weird, yet still it was enough for me to edge back. ‘You see,’ she said, disappointed. ‘Even that freaks you out.’

  The following day I was watching children’s BBC with a headache when somebody knocked on the door. I opened it to find the man from the night before standing there in a white suit, the jacket big at the waist, double pockets. His hair was a dirty blond, and it was slicked back to reveal an unfortunate male-pattern hair loss. It made him appear as if he had one giant widow’s peak. My first thought was that I wished Elle was awake.