I don’t deserve you, Vi, I know that. But I had to send you this–to see if you still care about me. Whatever you decide, I’ll respect it. I wish only the best for you, only good things. Killing Michael and being locked up have changed me. I know what’s important in life. I know what I want. I want to be with you. If you think you could see me, even just to talk, I’m here waiting. I love you, Vi. Always have.

  John

  Turning the pebble slowly I find faint, etched lines. But I can hardly make out the letters of my name for the blurring of my tears, which are falling, wet and salty, on to my hands and on to the pebble, darkening it. I’ve lost the power to stand up, my legs buckle and I slump into a chair. Sitting in the darkening room, I clutch the pebble and letter to me and sob.

  He walked beside me in the forest on a summer afternoon, kicking his feet, not looking at me. I walked beside him, holding the pebble. My fingers rubbed the fresh marks he’d put there. Viola. We were made mute by our embarrassment. But that was the moment that feelings leapt into my throat, into my heart, into my body, leaving me breathless. Those same feelings flood through me now.

  Your purity of being

  Distilled like nectar

  Sweet on my tongue

  As the word I had been

  Looking for.

  Isolte is wrong. All my life I’ve thought that she is the one who knows best, who gets things right, who knows what to say. I sit up straighter, wiping away my tears, pushing a tangle of damp hair out of my face. My legs are still trembling, but I can’t sit here, wasting time. He wants to see me. He’s waiting for me. The words dance in my head as I stumble around the flat, banging my shin on an armchair, searching for my bag. With shaking fingers I check that my purse is in it. My sense of purpose is back and I stride over to the hall table and, with a twist of my wrist, rip the address of the stud out of Isolte’s Filofax and the page with Dot’s telephone number.

  The crash of the wind against the window is like applause. The colours in the rug and the curtains seem to gather fresh depth and brilliance. I was right. Everything I felt was true, I think, pushing my arms into my coat, closing the door of the flat behind me.

  44

  Ben turns into his parents’ drive. The wind that buffeted them on the motorway is here among the trees in the long expanse of front garden, setting branches twisting and bending. The big chestnut tree next to the house creaks. Naked roses in the flowerbeds swing backwards and forwards.

  Clutching a bottle of champagne, Ben and Isolte hurry out of the car over to the porch. Dead leaves spin, blowing over the gravel and piling up around the pillars. A pair of heels clicks rapidly across the hall floor.

  ‘Here you are! At last.’ Anita holds the door open. ‘Thought I heard the car. Goodness, isn’t it windy? Was the traffic terrible? Come and join everyone. We’re in the living room. There’s a couple of people you don’t know–otherwise it’s the usual. Uncle Robin and Aunt Penny, the Goodfellows. Oh, and their daughter.’ She turns and whispers loudly, ‘Poor girl hasn’t got her mother’s looks.’

  Isolte makes a face at Ben and he shrugs, opening his broad palms to her.

  A crowd of people are gathered under the chandelier. The men are in suits and ties, the women in Laura Ashley. Isolte, in black trousers and transparent chiffon shirt, suddenly feels provocative and outlandish. She hovers at Ben’s elbow as she’s introduced to smiling strangers.

  ‘Call me Peter,’ Mr Goodfellow is telling Isolte, staring through chiffon to her black bra.

  ‘Still working as a photographer?’ He turns to Ben, shifting his weight on to his heels. ‘Much money in it, is there? Would have thought you’d be thinking of a steady job at your age. City not appeal?’

  Isolte doesn’t hear Ben’s reply, her attention caught by a sudden snap and rattle of window glass. The wind is getting stronger. She wonders if Viola is all right; she’d seemed depressed when they left. Isolte glances surreptitiously at her watch, calculating what time they might be able to leave. But there is a four-course dinner to be got through.

  To her dismay, she finds Peter Goodfellow is seated on her right. His daughter, Charlotte, is across the table from her. A plump, nervous girl with wide eyes and carroty hair, she wants to work in fashion.

  ‘Mother doesn’t think I’m thin enough,’ she says in a whisper. She glances up the table to a woman with hair scraped back from a still beautiful face. Hands circle the air, rings glittering. Isolte notices Uncle Robin staring. He adjusts the cuffs of his tweed jacket, swallowing.

  It happens quickly, beginning with a hollow ripping sound, a tearing that seems to come from the bowels of the earth, stopping conversation. A hush, and then a deafening crash and the shattering of glass. Women scream, wine glasses spill, there are shouts and exclamations and a hurried pushing back of chairs. A sudden howl of wind whistles into the room. Cold air on skin.

  Branches protrude through the velvet curtains. The fabric flaps open, revealing the jagged remains of glass in the window frame, clawing fingers of wood pushed through. The chestnut tree has come down, crashing its top branches through the dining-room window. Bits of wood and leaf scatter across the carpet among fragments of china and shards of glittering glass.

  Only Penny has been injured. A trickle of blood runs towards her elbow and she stares at it, uncomprehending. She is led trembling from the room by Anita. The men gather at the window, scratching their heads. Someone opens the front door and they troop outside to inspect the extent of the damage.

  Isolte follows them into the wild, wailing night, leaning into the buffeting wind. The rest of the trees in the garden are thrashing back and forth. She hears the straining of wood and stretch of tree ligament. The chestnut is a felled giant–its tangled roots have ripped open the ground. She can smell dank earth. The tree has fallen across two of the parked cars, including Ben’s.

  ‘Look at this! Think if it had fallen further into the room,’ George shouts, the wind whipping his words away. ‘God knows what would have happened.’

  She shivers by Ben’s side, arms crossed, bent over, hair tangling around her face. He runs his fingers over the buckled metal of the roof. ‘Jesus, crushed like a tin can.’ He takes Isolte’s arm, staring at the sky. ‘Come inside. Another one could come down any moment.’

  In the sitting room, Anita is flushed. She is issuing orders, making plans. Her arms pump up and down with military zeal.

  ‘You must all stay the night,’ she’s saying. ‘I’m afraid the drive is impassable.’

  The radio is on. People tell each other to hush, listening in. A report says that winds of 70 knots are sweeping the south of England.

  ‘But Michael Fish said very breezy on the six o’clock news,’ Anita says disapprovingly. ‘No mention of a storm.’

  Robin is nodding. ‘Extraordinary that it slipped under the radar, so to speak.’ He laughs briefly at his own joke. Rubs his hands together, the confidence of his subject transporting him back to his classroom. ‘But then weather can surprise even the experts. Did you feel the air outside? Quite warm. That’s the front that’s being pushed in from the sea.’

  At that moment the light bulbs flicker and die. The room is cast into darkness, apart from the glow from the fire. There are cries of dismay and complaint and a call for candles. Anita and Charlotte find nightlights in the kitchen and bear them back to the sitting room. The room takes on a soft, dusky glow. Ben pours brandy into tumblers and passes them around.

  Isolte tries to phone Viola, but the line is down. ‘She’s alone,’ she tells Ben. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ he reassures her. ‘It’s probably not so bad in London. She’ll sleep through without knowing about it.’

  Isolte sips the fiery liquid tentatively. It burns her throat. Everyone has gathered in the sitting room, listening to the shuddering windows and the wind ripping tiles off the roof. There are abrupt bangs and crashes, and a constant low howling roar; it sounds like the sea, Isolte thinks. The energy of the unexpected enters everyone differently–some are softer in their bodies, as if drugged; others, like Anita, seem excited and alert. The magnitude of natural forces has brought them together, erasing constraints and social niceties. Mrs Goodfellow and Penny huddle by the fire.

  ‘Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you something. Well, to ask you, really.’ Ben shoves his hands in and out of his pockets.

  She looks at him expectantly.

  ‘I’ve put an offer in on that Georgian cottage. The one in Islington.’ She sees a muscle twitch at his temple. ‘Thought it was too good to let go. If you fancy shacking up with me? Viola too, it’s big enough. What do you think?’

  She puts her hands over her mouth. ‘You’ve bought it?’

  Her heart is racing with happiness. But she can’t accept without telling him. She turns away, scrunching up her face. This is it, she thinks. She has no choice.

  ‘Ben,’ she says, turning back to him. ‘Before I say yes, I have something to tell you. Something you should know.’

  ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ Then he sees her face. ‘Sorry. What is it? Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

  ‘But this is something terrible.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m afraid, Ben… afraid of telling you.’

  ‘Here.’ He guides her over to a sofa in the darkest corner. ‘Let’s sit down. Take a deep breath. I’m listening.’

  She sits on the edge of the sofa and begins, haltingly, in a strained voice, to tell him about Polly and what happened that night. She stops, bites her lip, nipping hard enough to feel a welling pain. She gives him all the facts, clearly and in order. No excuses. Ben says nothing. She can feel the tension in his body. She stares straight ahead while she explains that Polly has never been found. She finishes in a rush, needing to get it over with.

  ‘You mean, never?’

  Isolte shakes her head. ‘1972. It was in the papers. For years there were sightings. But they never came to anything.’

  He rubs his hand over his eyes, blowing out through his lips, making a faint whistling sound. His face is closed and shut off from her. She sees that he looks older like this, his features overblown and heavy. She waits. Her fingers tremble and slip against her knees. She looks away, not able to meet Ben’s eyes.

  ‘So,’ he asks slowly, ‘is that why Viola…’

  Isolte nods. She swallows and looks up at him. He’s frowning, pulling his eyebrows together across his nose. He remains next to her. Their legs are touching. She wants to collapse, rest her head in his lap, close her eyes. She sits rigidly, staring straight ahead. In the line of her vision Anita is bending over to pick up a glass. Isolte hardly sees her; her senses are focused on Ben, alert to any tightening of atmosphere or the rise of a wall of disgust sealing him off from her.

  ‘I see.’ He takes her hand in his. Squeezes tight. ‘I’m glad,’ he says, ‘that you told me.’

  ‘Really?’ Her fingers are limp inside his. ‘Aren’t you… put off?’

  A gust of wind rattles the window. Candles waver, flickering in the draught.

  ‘I told you before, you can tell me anything. I love you.’ Ben shakes his head. ‘It’s the bit that was missing from the puzzle. It makes sense, knowing you and Viola, how you are together.’ He leans forward. ‘I think I understand Viola’s illness now. And your mother…’

  Isolte can’t hold his gaze. Her mouth is trembling and her face contorts. She looks down, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, when she can catch her breath. ‘It’s there, always. It’s behind everything.’

  All the feelings that she’s kept locked up for so long are tearing through her in big shuddering sobs. The relief makes her dizzy.

  ‘Come here.’ He’s pulled her into his arms. ‘Thank you for trusting me,’ he says quietly. She nods, unable to speak. Under his shirt, she can hear the beat of his heart.

  There is a sudden rasping noise and a slither of soot comes down the chimney. A tumble of debris and black smoke surges into the room. Penny screams, jumping to her feet, coughing. Ben gets up to comfort her, leading her to the other side of the room. Penny pats her cheek, gazing up at him, her mouth quivering. He looks over Penny’s head to find Isolte, and they exchange a look that makes her stomach contract.

  But there is something scratching at the underneath of things. She stops, suddenly alert, listening. She hears the scrape of nails on glass. Viola is close. Fingers holding fingers, the papery brush of Viola’s skin. Isolte stretches out her hand and closes on air. A void gapes at her side. She didn’t tell Viola about the stone. She goes cold. She bites her lip, her heart beating fast. She has to go home.

  The main lights flicker into life, flooding the room with blazing electric light. Everyone is blinking at each other in surprise.

  ‘Got the bloody generator going,’ George is shouting from across the room.

  Lights flashing: red, green, yellow. John’s arm around Viola, holding her safe on the whirling fairground ride; ‘I think he was in love with her,’ Dot’s voice says; John and Viola whispering in corners, out by the ferret hut, alone; Viola’s fall from the tower after John kissed the wrong twin. The wrong twin.

  It’s been there all along. She just couldn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it.

  But it’s the one thing that can be rescued from the past, the one good thing to come out of it: Viola and John.

  Isolte leaps to her feet, wiping her face. She must get back to Viola. Pulling back the curtain, she stares out of the window. Through the pale reflection of herself she can see the bent huddle of Ben’s car. Three other cars are untouched, but hemmed in by the massive bulk of the fallen chestnut. A moon swings wildly inside the broken sky. Leaves swirl in tornados; plastic bags and scraps of paper catch and spin.

  Ben is behind her, his arms slipping around her waist.

  ‘No help for it,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to camp here with everyone else. We’ll find a way to get home tomorrow.’

  Her frustration makes her breathless. ‘But I forgot to tell Viola something.’ Her voice is small and flat. She squeezes her hands into fists.

  ‘What?’

  She shakes her head. ‘That John has something that belongs to her. A stone.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t sound too important,’ Ben mutters, puzzled, his breath warm on the back of her neck. ‘You’ll see her tomorrow. It won’t be too late, will it?’

  ‘I promised him I’d tell her.’ She turns and looks at him with a level gaze. ‘I broke my promise, Ben.’

  I have a whole train carriage to myself. Empty seats face each other under strip lighting. Outside, clouds race, streaming across a low-slung moon. It looks as though the wind is getting even stronger. There are plastic bags and scraps of rubbish flying through the air; bushes are flattened; washing lines in back gardens snap and flap; I see a section of fence falling as if a giant has pushed it.

  I lean my head against the smeary window, feel my body jolting with the movement of wheels on tracks, the steady pulse of forward motion. Inside me there’s a pull like a physical ache and tug.

  It’s as if I’m the only person left in the world. My breath, caught against the glass, comes back to me, trapped and warm. I see my reflection wavering, lost in the dark. I am separate from Isolte, removed and pasted into the wilderness like an outcast. I miss her. My fingers slide down the glass and feel it tremble. Ghost fingers touch my own, my reflection coming back to meet me. She didn’t mean to hurt me. She is my twin. I can never stop loving her.

  Beyond the simulacrum of myself, between wild trees, branches bowed by the wind, I glimpse the countryside rushing past. Inside shadowy shapes I imagine landmarks of my childhood flickering into life: the cottage, the tower, a row of desolate houses.

  The pebble is in my pocket, a small weight against my hip. I slip my hand inside to find it, fitting the shape into my palm, holding it close.

  Scenery is rushing past, history falling away; lost things and mistakes caught in the wind behind me. I am impatient to get there, to see his face. And I say his name out loud into the empty carriage. John.

  I am coming home.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The setting for The Twins is inspired by the place where I grew up. Anyone who is familiar with this area of Suffolk–Tangham forest, the oak woods at Butley, and the wild stretch of shingle beaches along this coastline–will recognise the Martello towers, the Suffolk Punches in the fields and the colours and textures of the countryside. However, I have used artistic licence to re-imagine this territory to suit the fiction of The Twins; so distances have altered, new cottages sprung up and lanes invented. But when describing and naming the flowers and plants of the area I have tried my best to be accurate; I hope if I’ve made any errors, they will be forgiven.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, I would like to thank my editor, the brilliant Emma Beswetherick, for believing in this book; her dedication and skill made it possible. Many thanks also to Lucy Icke and the wonderful team at Piatkus and Little, Brown. I am indebted to Eve White, my agent, for her enthusiasm and tenacity, and thanks to Jack Ram and Abi Fenton. My gratitude goes to friends and relatives who have read and responded to the manuscript at different stages: to Alex Marengo who has given me love and support throughout; Sara Sarre for her generous spirit and editing insight; my sister, Ana Sarginson, for her belief in me and for reading everything I’ve ever written; Karen Jones, for her positivity and for all our discussions about the drafts she read. Thanks to the talented writing group from the MA at Royal Holloway who were involved in workshopping early sections: Mary Chamberlain, Viv Graveson, Laura McClelland, Lauren Trimble, Cecilia Ekback and Diriye Osman. I’m grateful to Andrew Motion, Susanna Jones and Jo Shapcott at Royal Holloway for their encouragement, and to Dr Rathmell at Cambridge University. Thanks also to my brother, Alex Sarginson, for his support and for being the only person who can take a picture of me! And last, but not least, many thanks and much love to my wonderful children: Hannah and Olivia (who, over twenty-one years, provided the ultimate research into the complications of being identical twins!) and their brothers, Sam and Gabriel. All of them put up with a mother who is often stuck in another world at her computer.