The Sisters Grimm

by Menna Van Praag

  He isn’t well practised at such things, has never needed to be, and doesn’t have much time. So Leo applies himself to that and nothing else. He’s found a forest, has walked for miles to find the right place: a tree stump enveloped by ivy and cushioned with moss. A seat that evokes Everwhere, so he can call on its power, can harness it to his and hope for a fucking miracle.

  He sits there now, fingers twitching in the moonlight, trying to shape Goldie’s dreams. It takes enormous effort and a great deal of time for Leo to master even the basics of what he’s trying to do. He sits without shifting for hours. Until, at last, he has pulled the possibility close enough to entwine it around his fingertips. He can reach her, he can join her. But there is one more glitch. For his conjuring to work, she must first fall asleep.

  3:33 a.m.—Goldie

  I’m here.

  I’m back.

  I look up at the falling white leaves, at the night sky with its millions of stars—far more and far brighter than any I’ve ever seen—and its sliver of moon. A canopy of dark branches above, gigantic towering trees, moss and stones at my feet—

  Then I see him. And I know, somehow, that I’m not simply dreaming; his appearance is no uncontrollable summoning from my unconscious. He has willed it, has conjured himself here. How this is possible, I have no idea—astral projection?—but given everything that’s been happening lately, I no longer have such a limited notion of what’s possible.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss.

  I feel so fragile, like a shattered glass tentatively glued, still sticky, still soft. At the sight of him, I might shatter all over again.

  He doesn’t step forward. He keeps his distance, as if he thinks I’ll either attack or run if he comes any closer.

  “I’m sorry, I had to come.”

  “Why?” I shift from foot to foot, desperate to leave, desperate to stay. I won’t scream. I won’t cry. I will maintain a modicum of dignity and composure, as I promised myself I would if I ever saw Leo again.

  “Because you’ll be back here in a few nights,” he says, “when you turn eighteen, and I need to tell you—I need to show you—”

  “How to defend myself from a soldier sent to kill me,” I say. “From you. Yes, I remember.”

  I begin walking. I’ve no idea where I’m going, but I don’t care; suddenly I can’t bear to be standing in front of him. I can’t bear to catch his gaze, to meet his eyes so full of remorse.

  “But you know it’s true, don’t you?” Leo hurries after me, stepping over the slick stones as if they weren’t even there. “You can’t deny it anymore”—I turn to see him throwing his arms up to the sky—“Now that we’re here.”

  I stop walking so suddenly that we almost collide.

  “Yes, we’re here,” I say, trying hard not to cry. “So, what are you going to do now? Kiss me? Kill me?”

  I step forward, defiant.

  “Go on, I won’t put up a fight.”

  Leo doesn’t move.

  “Go on,” I say again, pushing him hard now, my hands slapping the centre of his chest. Not expecting it, he stumbles back. “Show me, show me what you did to Ma, what you planned to do to me.”

  Leo drops his head. It’s better, now that I can’t see his eyes, with their every shade of green an echo of all the leaves I’ve ever held.

  “Did you ever love me,” I whisper, “or was it all a trick?” Tears slip down my cheeks. “Fuck! No, I’ve cried enough. You don’t deserve it, you don’t . . .” But then I can’t speak, can’t breathe; I can only cry.

  Leo steps forward, pulling me to him, holding me tight against his chest. I hear his rapid breaths and I realize he’s crying too.

  “I love you,” he says, his mouth pressed into my fresh-cut hair. I feel his breath on my bare neck. “I was a total shit, yes. And I’m sorry. But I loved you—even when I didn’t know it, I loved you.”

  I pull away from him. “A shit? That doesn’t even begin to—”

  “I know,” he says. “I know.”

  “Then w-why did you do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Leo says, dragging the backs of his hands across his cheeks. “I don’t—I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, I didn’t . . .”

  “You’ve got no reason,” I say, stepping back. The fog is rolling in. “You’re not even going to tell me you were following orders? In this stupid fucking war of yours . . . Or you’re one of those soldiers who kills for fun. You’re a psychopath.”

  Leo frowns, as if I’m speaking a language he can’t comprehend. “Following orders is no excuse.” He pulls his hand through his hair, dislodging settled white leaves that drop onto his shoulders. “But I—I had to kill to live.”

  “What?” I slip on a wet stone, stumbling. “You didn’t—why?”

  “All part of his infinite plan.” Leo shrugs, as if death were nothing at all. “As stars fallen to Earth, part human, part celestial. Once we turn thirteen we start to fade.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Our light begins to go out,” he says. “And it’s only fuelled by the extinguishing of another soul—the stronger the spirit, the brighter the light. I still take food and water, but it’s not enough to live.”

  A rain starts to fall with the leaves.

  “Wait,” I say. “You were going to . . . extinguish me. Are you—does that mean, if you don’t, then you’ll die?”

  Leo shrugs and pulls his hand through his wet hair again, and I’m reminded of the first time I saw him, looking as if he’d been uprooted, transported from another place. And now I know from which place. He never quite looked as if he belonged in Cambridge. But here he looks as if he belongs absolutely. And now he’s going to uproot himself.

  “But—but . . .” My heart is beating too fast and I can’t catch my breath. “In two days, I don’t . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Leo says. “It’s fine. It’s far less than I deserve. It’ll be quick, I’m afraid I won’t suffer as much as I should—”

  “It’s not fine,” I snap. “Don’t be so fucking stupid. It’s not—it’s not . . .”

  I don’t see him move but Leo is beside me again, touching his fingers tentatively to my face. “Don’t cry, please, don’t.” He brushes my wet cheeks, wiping away my tears. “I’m not worth it. I’m a savage, a sadist, you should hate me, you should . . .”

  “I do,” I say, wanting to sink into him, wanting to pull away. “I hate you, I hate you.” I fall against him, sapped of all strength to fight him anymore. “I do hate you. For everything you’ve done, but most of all for making me love you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Leo whispers.

  I’m silent.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m . . .”

  He says it, over and over, and over again.

  3:33 a.m.—Bea

  Tonight Bea returns to Everwhere, travelling on the tides of her dreams, waking once she gets there, as she had as a young girl. When she opens her eyes all the pieces of the puzzle—the half memories, the images, the echoes—snap suddenly into place.

  So now Bea has it: certain and irrefutable proof, the truth of who she was and who she is. Paradoxically, she’s both shocked and unsurprised, since it has been building for days, weeks. Or, indeed, years and lifetimes if her mamá is to be believed. Vali was right after all, to believe in fate. Bea is dark. She doesn’t have a choice. Be it fate or destiny, what it’s not is a decision.

  If only it were, she’d be free to make a different one.

  9:17 a.m.—Scarlet

  “Get up, Grandma. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Sitting in bed, Esme pulls the blankets up to her chin.

  “It’s sunny,” Scarlet persists. “The sun is actually shining. Come on, we can’t let that go to waste. Grandma?”

  But Esme shakes her head, refusing to meet her granddaughter’s eye.

  Scarlet refuses to admit that her grandmother is getting worse. She decides it’s a blip, a slight downs
lide before she’ll perk up again. Of course, she knows this isn’t how the disease works. She can feel Esme retreating further and further into herself, so it seems sometimes as if she’s already halfway into the next world. Sometimes it’s as if her grandmother is travelling to this place and isn’t sure she wants to come back. Sometimes, when Scarlet walks into a room, her grandma will look at her as if she wishes Scarlet wouldn’t come any closer, wishes she’d leave again, so that Esme won’t have to return to Earth.

  “Okay, Grandma, I’ll go by myself.” Scarlet keeps her voice light, bright. “I’ll stop at the market, I’ll bring yellow tulips to cheer you up.” She leans in to kiss her grandmother on the cheek, but Esme turns away.

  When Scarlet reaches the doorway, she stops. She’s a coward. She’d vowed that today she’d tell her grandmother the dreadful news. So, what’s she going to do? Wait until the removal van arrives? Scarlet turns back, walking slowly to Esme’s bedside as if she were walking to the gallows.

  “I—I need to tell you something, Grandma.” She crouches beside the bed. “I—we . . .”

  The seconds stretch and swell, time elongates and thins, until Scarlet is taut as a copper wire about to snap.

  “I’m sorry, Grandma, we can’t live here, we have to move, we can’t afford to keep the café anymore. We—I tried to save it but I—I couldn’t.”

  Every word on a single breath.

  Scarlet inhales. Her grandmother is looking at her as if she’s seeing something else entirely. Scarlet waits for her to scream, to slap her, to sob. When she does none of these, Scarlet wonders if she’ll have to repeat herself until she’s sure that Esme has heard. And then a tear slips from the side of her grandmother’s eye and slides down her cheek. And Scarlet feels as if a surgeon were sticking his fingers into the ventricles of her heart and slowly cleaving her apart.

  She will have to replay this moment over and over. Every hour of every day. When the café closes. When the packing starts. When they leave, when they’re living in a strange new place. Scarlet will have to explain. She will relive her guilt and shame, again and again, until the time when finally her grandma remembers nothing at all.

  10:52 p.m.—Liyana

  Liyana takes a deep breath and sinks slowly under. She opens her eyes to the filmy expanse of water above. It’s her first night in the new flat—Clapton Way, Hackney—and in the dismal little bathtub. Squirming and shifting, she tries to fully immerse herself. But in this cramped plastic piece of shit, Liyana can fully submerge only while assuming the foetal position.

  Her shift starts in an hour. Midnight until ten. She can’t stand another night at Tesco. But she will. Liyana pictures her aunt slumped on the sofa, ignoring the call of the boxes to be unpacked, watching repeats of EastEnders. Since they moved into the flat, Nya hasn’t stirred. Stuffing herself with Waitrose cheese crackers (charitably left behind by the bailiffs) and inhaling cheap chardonnay, Nya has ensconced herself in a bell jar of denial, the glass too thick for Liyana’s voice to penetrate, no matter how loud she shouts.

  Liyana rises. Water droplets cling to her hair and skin, unwilling to let her go. She uncurls her legs. Shitty tiny bath. Shitty Tesco. Shitty life. The dissonant shrieks of Tiffany Butcher seep through the flimsy floorboards. Liyana feels a sudden wave of fury gathering force. If Aunt Nya hadn’t been so bloody selfish and irresponsible, Liyana wouldn’t be in this fucking mess right now. She’d be sitting in a bathtub that didn’t cramp her muscles, she’d still be living in her family home, she’d be studying fine art at the Slade. She’d have Kumiko—who still hasn’t fully forgiven her—in her bed.

  The furious wave subsides, drawing back, only to swell again, undulating along the bottom of the bathtub as Liyana imagines snatching her aunt’s wineglass and smashing it on the floor. Water laps at the islands of her knees as Liyana’s hand draws sharply across her aunt’s cheek, a slap so hard it elicits a scream, finally snapping Nya out of her catatonic state. Waves splash over the sides as Liyana imagines seizing her aunt by her cornrows, dragging her up the stained staircase, then plunging her face into the water. Nya flails, but Liyana holds firm, pushing down until, at last, her aunt stops fighting and her body goes slack.

  Fuck.

  Liyana snaps out of her reverie. The bathwater is bubbling, suddenly so hot it’s starting to boil. She scrambles out, slipping like a seal onto the wet floor, pulling herself up, shivering, staring in horrified wonder at curls of steam lifting from the surface of the water.

  Eight years ago

  Goldie

  It was a while before I wanted to kill my stepfather. But after I had the thought, I knew it was only a matter of time. A matter of how. A matter of when.

  I discovered he was allergic to nuts by accident. He never told me. I think he saw it as some sort of weakness, a vulnerability, a chink in the armour. It was Ma who let it slip, because of Teddy. I’d come home from school munching a Snickers and offered it to him. She came screaming out of the kitchen, pushing me away, stuffing her fingers into Teddy’s mouth. He started to scream from the shock. Then I was screaming too. When we’d all calmed, she explained why I must never bring nuts into the flat again. “Promise me,” she said. “Not ever.” And I did, immediately. I was terrified of hurting Teddy. “Your stepfather,” Ma added, as an afterthought. “He has it too.”

  The idea didn’t occur to me straightaway, I’m ashamed to say. It was so simple. And it was. I only had to be patient, enduring his near nightly visits, until the evening Ma finally went out, abandoning her family for a few pints with her friends, entrusting me with getting my stepfather’s tea and putting Teddy to bed.

  I was meticulous in my planning. As meticulous as a ten-year-old, albeit a gifted one, could be. On the way home from school I stopped at the newsagents and bought a packet of salted peanuts and a Snickers. I crumbled the peanuts into the curry Ma had made for tea, adding dried chilli powder to disguise the taste. I watched him eat every bite. I was calm. I felt no remorse, no regret. If it wouldn’t have betrayed me to force his face into the bowl, I would have done that.

  Afterwards, I scrubbed the plates, the sink, everything, half a dozen times. He was slumped over on the carpet, having fallen from his chair—sitting on that spot I never touch, now wet with piss. The TV was still on. Tottenham beating Arsenal 3–1. I stuffed the empty peanut packet in my underwear—to be discarded in a bin on the way to school the next morning—and bit off an inch of the Snickers, leaving the rest beside him. I caught sight of Teddy’s wooden rattle, which had rolled under the sofa, and felt a sudden urge to smash it into my stepfather’s face. I wanted to bludgeon every inch of his lazy body, to beat him beyond recognition. Of course, I couldn’t. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to mark him even half as deeply as he’d marked me.

  So I clenched my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms, until the rage ebbed and I started to cry. Then I called Ma. She never understood what’d happened. She kept asking why he’d eat something he was allergic to. It made no sense. The police agreed but, though they interviewed me, they never seemed to suspect me. Ma had a solid alibi. So that was that. And when Ma died, four years later, the question died with her.

  31st October

  One day . . .

  3:13 a.m.—Bea

  Bea sits on the bathroom floor in a puddle of her own blood. She’s discovered that the opening of old wounds is far more painful than the opening of new ones. So now she draws the razor along the raw red flesh of cuts made only a few days ago. Pain shoots up her spine, tears roll down her cheeks, as the cuts open again.

  With every day that’s passed since Vali’s death, her rage has only been rising. Which accounts for the dreams of black feathers and slaughtered stags. It is rage she must expel, which means inflicting it on herself, lest she embark on a killing rampage across London. She even fears for her mamá sleeping upstairs, since the desire to inflict harm often swells so suddenly, so forcefully, that it’s all Bea can do not to act upon it. The
scream builds in her chest like a dreadful wave of nausea but, though her body is desperate to expel it, she manages to swallow it down.

  As she draws a finger through the blood on the linoleum floor, Bea understands where this will lead. It’s inevitable. She cannot contain this fury forever. It will escape. So it’s only right that she turn it on herself, detonating the bomb under controlled conditions before it explodes in the vicinity of innocents. And they are all innocent, excepting her.

  Exactly how she’ll do it, Bea isn’t sure. Ropes are too unreliable, guns too quick, pills too painless. She’ll probably stick with razors. She has an affinity for them now and they’ll produce the right amount of pain. Timing is the only question. It’s simply too morbid to do it the night she turns eighteen. And too cruel to her mamá, something Bea feels guilty—

  You’ll do nothing of the sort. Now get up off that floor and come to me.

  Bea turns. But she’s alone in the bathroom and the door’s still locked.

  Get up. Get up. Get up!

  And so she does.

  3:33 a.m.—Goldie

  Last night, Leo begged me to return to him again. My eyes close and I prise them open. I’m exhausted. All I want to do is sleep. But I know where sleep will take me, and I’m scared to see him again. My eyes close. I force them open. I don’t want to see him and I do want to see him, and, eventually, I know that I will.

  Then I am walking along a stone path through an avenue of trees. Then Leo is standing in front of me. I don’t stop. He falls into step beside me.