Identical, page 1
IDENTICAL
SASKIA SARGINSON
For Alex, with love
CONTENTS
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part II
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
PART I
1
ALICE
You can never go back. I know that now. And as I stand on an unfamiliar street, about to enter a house that doesn’t belong to me, it reminds me of those other moments in my life when one small step, one seemingly common-place action altered the molecules of existence, stirred up time and reset the future. I think of that last morning at Hawksmoor when I emptied my brother’s rucksack of his things and refilled it with my own, slipping my passport into the pocket, and when I stood by the tarn arguing with my sister as snow speckled our eyelashes, blinding us with starbursts of light.
Regret is my familiar shadow, whatever the weather, however the sun falls or the moon wanes, it can never be erased. It has crawled inside me, settled into my bones, a darkness carried forever.
All this flies through my mind as I glance at the address scribbled on a scrap of paper, then up again at the white, terraced house I recognise from a sketch my sister once did for me. Hollyhocks Cottage is squeezed between its neighbours behind an overbearing privet hedge. There’s no sign of any hollyhocks. Three strides and I’ve reached the front door, standing in the shadow of a palm leaning over from next door.
Am I really going to do this?
The hedge prevents me from being overlooked, but I glance over my shoulder just in case, before lifting the bottom of a cat sculpture, fingers creeping underneath to find Cecily’s keys. The metal shapes are gritty with earth and attached to a small heart-shaped keychain. I have no idea which one is right. There are four, all different sizes. I slot the biggest one into the top lock. It doesn’t fit, and I glance behind me again before trying the next size down. It rotates and the door swings open into a narrow hallway.
I stand on the threshold, muscles tensed for flight, and I think of those other moments, the decisions that changed everything. This is my last chance to back out, or my one chance to make things right. Now or never. Then I’m inside, and the door swings shut behind me.
‘Hello?’ My voice sounds tremulous.
A sudden shriek makes me jump. Gulls outside, I realise. I give a shaky laugh and slip the bulk of my rucksack off my shoulders, inhaling the aromas caught in its fibres, the different smells that speak of my travels, my life on the road. I’ll have to find a place to hide it.
I peer into the living room on my left. It’s splashed with spring sunshine and runs the length of the house. Pine floorboards gleam. A bay window is hung with long, cream curtains. There are two sofas, one in front of the window, the other against a radiator, making an L-shape around a coffee table, an orange and red rug below. I touch a yellow candlestick on the mantelpiece, examine a bright, electric clock in the shape of a fish. The only reference to Cecily’s past is a framed photo of Hawksmoor. I stare at the hulking contours of the house, the fells in the distance, the dark shadow of the yew in the foreground. And inside I remember the huge wooden crucifix looming out of the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, the smell of dank earth, the sound of dog claws against flagstones.
I rub my face, and blink into the neat, clean room. It feels safe and contained. A tall bookshelf and an upright piano stand either side of the French windows at the far end. I wonder if Cecily plays. She hasn’t mentioned it in her letters. We didn’t as children; the grand piano at Hawksmoor was hopelessly out of tune, the top merely providing a place to stand rows of photographs.
I explore the rest of the ground floor. There’s not much to discover. A cramped cloakroom with a loo under the stairs. The narrow hall leads into a kitchen at the back with white walls and units, a grey tiled floor. My throat is dry with anxiety. I pour myself a glass of water from a filter jug on the windowsill, gulping it down. A large fridge has postcards stuck to it with colourful magnets. There are photos. One of a girl with chubby cheeks, freckles over her nose, and a doleful gaze. A ruddy-faced man with laughing green eyes. It’s like a stage set for ordinary family life, except… I know it’s a lie. I open the fridge, and stare at neatly stacked shelves filled with food. I shut the door. Oh, God. I’m never going to get away with this.
The half-glazed back door looks out into a small, fenced area of grass, and I concentrate on the patch of green, aware that my breathing is shallow, and my heart is beating too fast – some St. John’s Wort and valerian root would be useful, but I doubt Cecily believes in alternative medicine. There’s a gate set into the back fence, so there must be an alley or lane behind. Something living rubs against my ankles. I bite my tongue in shock. A large, fluffy tabby cat is winding around my legs. I squat down to rub the cat’s head, and she purrs at me. I look under the sink and find a tub of dry cat food, shake it out into the bowl on the floor. The bowl is inscribed with ‘Sukie’. I watch Sukie crunching kibble and wonder if she can smell I’m a stranger. ‘Bet you can,’ I tell her. ‘But you don’t give a damn, do you? As long as I fill your food bowl.’ No morals, cats.
Upstairs, I find a double room facing the street that must belong to my sister. There’s a neatly made bed covered with a cream quilted spread and matching scatter cushions. But the things that give it away are the King James Bible on the nightstand, and the silver crucifix on the wall above the bed. She has an old-fashioned dressing table, a bit like the one our mother had, ornate with drawers and cabinets, dark and polished. This is the only room with a reference to our religious upbringing, a reminder of our past. I count five painted icons arranged on the dressing table, each of them inscribed with the usual clichés – a cracked gold halo glistening above a plump Christ child, The Holy Mother holding her hands together in prayer, and winged archangels looking up with earnest expressions. I turn each one over, not wanting to see the images, and pile them in a stack. Sitting on the stool at the dressing table, I try one of the drawers. It’s filled with make-up, a hairbrush and some jewellery; I recognise our mother’s pearls and a gold brooch. Poor Mummy. Cecily told me she’d finally lost her mind and now lives in an old people’s home. I try the next drawer down. It’s locked. I pull harder, but it resists my efforts.
I look at myself in the mirror and touch the newly blunt ends of my short hair with a pang of loss. Before the chop, I’d had a long, straggly style; some sections had self-matted into locks, some I’d plaited and woven with beads. My hair had made me feel sexy and wild, telling the world I wasn’t compromising, that I didn’t follow rules. But I’m already getting into my part, and the regret doesn’t linger. The thing about hair is, it grows.
I notice that my cheeks are flushed and hectic looking. I don’t bother with make-up usually, but Cecily is the opposite. ‘I never go without my eyeliner and mascara,’ she’d said in her latest letter. I try dabbing some powder over the redness, then find a black eyeliner pencil and lick the end. Leaning close to the mirror, I attempt to draw a line, smudging it with my finger, then stoke the mascara wand over my upper lashes. A little wonky, but it will do. Her wedding ring, a decorative watch and a gold crucifix on a chain lie on the surface. I fasten the necklace around me. The metal feels warm, as if she’s only just taken it off, and I slide the wedding band over the joint of my ring finger.
Opening the built-in wardrobe on the opposite wall, I discover a neat line of hangers holding clothes arranged in colour order; most of her things are black, grey or blue. Typical uptight Cecily. I lean in and stuff my rucksack into the furthest corner, sticking it behind longer skirts. I can’t resist pressing my nose into folds of fabric and inhaling. But she smells different as an adult, and there’s a strong chemical scent of fabric conditioner that makes me sneeze. A black hair is stuck to the weave of a jacket, and I pluck it free. It matches my own exactly. There are some clothes laid out neatly on the bed, a push-up bra covered with scallops of silver and lavender lace and a pair of matching knickers that are not designed to cover anyone’s buttocks. Interesting. Secretly not-so-uptight then. I step out of my dungarees, take off my vest top and boys’ boxer shorts and fasten myself into these pieces of sexist torture. The lace scratches, the underwire digs into my flesh. I pull on the tailored grey trousers and navy shirt she’s chosen for me. I like to move through life like a dance
Growing up, we didn’t touch each other very often. It had seemed important to maintain that dividing line, the beginning of one and the end of another. We didn’t want to be one interchangeable entity, not after we’d spent nine months in the womb, curled into each other, sharing the same tightly packed placenta. We punished people for getting us mixed up, playing them at their own game by swapping identities, confusing pupils, teachers, even our parents. But the fact is, years of separation have etched different habits into us. We share the same DNA, but no longer have the same experiences. And it’s that that’s made the biggest difference. I don’t know what she’s thinking any more.
Next door there’s a functional tiled white bathroom smelling faintly of cleaning fluid and roses. Cecily’s pots of cream are lined up on the shelf above the wash basin. Cleanser, toner, exfoliator, serum, moisturiser, night cream, hand cream. I unscrew a lid and inhale the botanical scent, stick my finger in and rub some onto my hand.
Next to the bathroom is a door with a sign saying ‘Keep Out’. I turn the handle and poke my head in. ‘Hello?’ I try cautiously, just in case. I smell incense. The walls are covered in posters; dirty mugs and women’s magazines clutter surfaces; a single bed has an old teddy propped against the pillow, and twists of dark-coloured clothes lie over the floor. I presume it’s a typical teenager’s bedroom, but I’m not an expert. I recognise Courtney Love’s face on several posters but haven’t heard of any of the other pop groups.
There’s one more flight of stairs, and I walk up, treading softly. The door is open. This must be Gabriel’s room. She’d told me they’re sleeping apart. One sloping ceiling is fitted with two Velux windows. A low bookshelf is crammed with worn spines, curling art postcards propped up, a collection of smooth pale stones. A double bed is rumpled with half-pulled covers, next to it a table holds a reading lamp, a couple of pens and a glass of dusty-looking water. I nearly trip over a pile of novels on the floor, and bend down to see what he’s reading – a volume of poetry and three murder mysteries. Not what I would have expected from a history academic. Several pairs of men’s boots and trainers appear to have been kicked across the floor. A scratched wooden desk stands in front of a window, piled with papers and books, a hulking PC, and an Anglepoise lamp. I glance around at the mess. Is this the room of an alcoholic?
I lean across his desk and look out at rooftops, a glimpse of blue water, and a rise of land beyond, patchworked with fields. It’s such an English scene. I can’t believe that I’m back in this country. It’s not rational, but for years I’ve had panic attacks at the thought of returning. Turns out, it took a cause, a purpose greater than my own fear, to finally get me here. I’ve never set foot in Cecily’s home before, so it’s odd that this view and the house itself feel somehow familiar. I guess because Cecily has described them to me in her letters, just like she’s described everything else in her life. All those words flying between us, envelopes carried across oceans.
A noise makes me startle and I stand, head cocked, heart thumping as I listen. There are movements below, a rustle, the click of a door shutting. My pulse thunders in my ears. Has one of them come home early? Should I go down and greet them? Isn’t that what Cecily would do? A seagull flaps in front of the window, brown-speckled feathers working the air, and I wish I had wings to disappear over those patchwork fields. What if Gabriel’s on his way up? Or the daughter, Bea. I slip down the stairs back into Cecily’s room, shutting the door behind me, leaning against it with my eyes closed, breathing as quietly as I can, gathering my courage like a burglar. I’ve taken my sister’s identity but standing here, on the brink of greeting either her daughter or her husband, my plan seems doomed to failure.
2
CECILY
The idea of going to hell terrified me, so I tried my best to guard against the seven deadly sins, reciting them like a rosary, counting warnings instead of prayers. Gluttony was definitely the one that would trip me up, pushing me into the fiery pit. We didn’t get pocket money, but a banished aunt sent us cash for Christmas and birthdays, and I saved mine to spend in the village shop. Guiltily, I dreamed of Wagon Wheels, unwrapped slowly from their red and gold foil, Cadbury’s Creme Eggs so gooey sweet they made my teeth ache, and then there was Jane’s Victoria sponge made for special occasions, with jam squeezing out of the middle, icing powder shaken into lacy patterns on top. I coveted them all, and hoarded my pennies, longing for the taste of sugar.
Daddy kept a painting of hell on the wall of his study. It was a world on fire. A place of craggy rocks and cinders, erupting volcanos and molten rivers, where no greenery or hope existed. I tried not to look, but the horror won out, my eye irresistibly drawn to images of blackened toad-creatures whipping naked sinners, pushing them into burning pits and chopping their heads off. Daddy often had a selection of weapons on his desk to study for his book: a long pike with barbed points that curved backwards to better hook and tear the skin, or a heavy, double-edged sword, with a tracing of nicks in the metal where it had hacked at bone. I thought of the damage they would do to fragile human flesh, and how the toad-creatures would enjoy using them.
Sometimes I found myself in that terrible landscape and woke up screaming.
‘Jesus loves you,’ Mummy said every night after our prayers. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
‘But not yet,’ Alice would say. ‘We’re not going to die yet. We’re still only twelve.’
Mummy kissed her forehead and smiled with freckled lips. ‘Of course. I meant later. When you’re very old and tired of this life, then Jesus will call you home.’
‘Will he call us home if we’ve been naughty?’ I asked, worrying about Alice.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mummy said. ‘As long you’ve repented.’
‘So, it’s true, we just have to say we’re sorry,’ I said, relieved.
‘You have to mean it, though.’ Mummy smiled.
Alice rarely said sorry, and when she did, she often had her fingers crossed behind her back. Mummy said we were lucky to be born with a ready-made best friend. ‘Together forever,’ Alice used to say to me. ‘Whatever happens to anyone else, we’ll stick like glue.’
How could I fly up to heaven? I’d be miserable thinking about my sister’s eternal punishment somewhere far below. Unstuck forever. Alice would ruin heaven for me, which was typical.
It was Lent. We were hungry, and it had been raining all morning. Drips fell into buckets set out on the landing, a metallic jazz of plinks and plonks. One of the outdoor cats had got into the house and was sheltering under Henry’s bed, feral body pressed flat to the dusty carpet, tattered ears back. Alice had been trying to entice him out by dangling a bit of string, but the cat crouched lower, a warning yowl in its throat.
Henry scratched his ankle. ‘Think it’s got fleas,’ he said morosely.
‘Shall we play Sevens?’ I suggested. ‘Or Monopoly?’ Anything to pass the time until lunch. My stomach growled and I placed a hand over it, feeling the rise of my hips, sharp as blades. Did thinking about cake count as gluttony – or did I have to eat it to commit the sin? There were almost no fat saints and every image of Christ on the cross displayed his ribs and gaunt cheeks.
