What did we do? What did we see? What time and when and where?

  They thought we were wicked, you see. They thought we’d done something unforgivable. I cried and shifted on the hard chair, feeling a shameful warmth seep through my knickers. Wet dripped over plastic until there was a puddle on the floor, and a policeman came with a bucket and cloth. I closed my eyes, trying not to inhale the sharp stink of urine. My bare legs stung.

  Those days were filled with listless waiting, people whispering about us behind their hands. We were trapped in that bleak room, while they stared at us and tapped their pencils and made notes. I noticed them looking at the scar on my face and I pulled my hair across, trying to hide it, scared that they would recognise the mark of Satan.

  But I wasn’t alone—my sister was next to me, like she always was, stronger, bolder. Her eyes were dry and there was no wet patch under her chair.

  ‘Don’t say anything, Viola,’ Issy said. ‘You don’t have to say anything. They can’t make you.’

  And she holds my hand tight, her curled fingers squeezing hard, steely as a trap.

  2

  1987. Bill Withers is playing loud on the stereo, and rolling sound fills the depths of the photographic studio with an atmosphere, creates a mood to work to. Except work has stopped for a moment because Ben is fussing with the lights, directing his assistant to rearrange the roll of paper that’s serving as a backdrop. Away from the bright glare of the lights and the pale sweep of paper, the echoing room, once a warehouse, is a hollow cavern.

  Through a side door there is a narrow space that passes as a hair and make-up room; there’s hardly room for three people to move about, and the air is thick with stale cigarette smoke. The table below the mirror is covered with a mess of eye shadow palettes, crumpled tissues, empty takeaway cartons, overflowing ashtrays, coffee cups, lip brushes and eyelash curlers.

  Isolte stands watching Julio, the make-up artist, as he bends over the model. Isolte frowns into the mirror, watching the reflection of the model’s face. The three of them, crammed together, are framed by a square of naked bulbs. Julio finishes drawing a gold line with a flourish and looks up at Isolte enquiringly, one eyebrow arched.

  ‘Well?’ he says. ‘Do you want more of a theatrical effect, Isolte, darling? Or is this enough?’

  Isolte squints at the girl’s face, considering. The model, impassive, blinks heavy orange lashes. She’s got a towel wrapped around her to protect the sheath of silk underneath. Standing above her, Isolte notices a fine down, like baby hair, growing all over her back: a pale fur glistening along the ridge of her spine. Wasn’t it Marilyn Monroe who was supposed to have been covered in hair? It accounted for her luminous appearance in photographs. But this girl has the extra hair of the malnourished. Isolte knows it well.

  She shrugs. ‘It looks great. But let’s get a Polaroid done. Then we can see.’ On set, the model positions herself in front of the lights, legs apart, hips thrust forward. She glares into the camera, a questioning sneer on her lips. Ben’s assistant has switched on the wind machine and fine strands of coloured silk blow up around her like torn butterfly wings.

  Ben is already bending over the tripod, one hand poised on the camera. He is absorbed, all his energy channelled into this moment. His jeans are creased around his hips, his dark hair flopping forward. It’s the last shot of the day. Everyone is tired.

  ‘That’s beautiful.’ He clicks, and clicks again. ‘Lick your lips. Look at me, sweetheart. Right. Gorgeous.’

  Ben is a chameleon. His working talk is fluid, changes from girl to girl, shoot to shoot. Isolte has seen him play the roguish male, but he’ll camp it up or turn gentle and sweet to get the best out of a model.

  ‘How do you make a duck into a soul singer?’ he’s asking and the model shrugs.

  ‘Put it in the oven until it’s Bill Withers.’

  The girl throws back her head and laughs. Ben snaps. Isolte has heard the joke before. She stands with arms folded, imagining the picture on the page, the caption already running through her head. It’s a good shot. The model is almost transparent; the angles of her face work the shadows, pull the light on to the right planes so that she looks like an exquisite alien. Maybe it will make the cover.

  It is spring outside. A rainy London day. But here she is in a windowless room creating pictures to be looked at in July. Isolte likes the way that working three months ahead pulls her through the year as if clock time has shifted into sixth gear. ‘I think we’ve got it.’ Ben straightens up, claps the room briefly, holding his hands high. ‘Well done, people. It’s a wrap.’ It is a corny thing to do. He gets away with it because, from his scruffy dark hair to his Converse All Stars in faded red, he inhabits the kind of shrugged-on style that marks him out as cool; the sort of person who slips across invisible social barriers, who knows how to be in the world. It helps that he has a sensuous face with sculptured bones; swooping eyebrows that give him, depending on his mood, the look of Groucho Marx or Byron; lips that take the natural line of a pout. Isolte notices that Ruby, the hair stylist, blushes as she turns away to collect her sprays and brushes.

  The wind machine and the burning lights have been turned off. The model, rubbing her eyes, reaches for the towel. The studio is nearly empty, dim and forlorn without music. Julio has gone already, lugging his make-up box, and Ruby is packing up in the back room. The model shrugs bony shoulders into an old tweed overcoat and lights a cigarette; she’s checking her Filofax as she waves goodbye. Ben shouts over at his assistant: ‘Take the cameras down to my car, will you? And stand guard till I get there.’

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ He turns to Isolte, smiling. ‘Orange juice, of course.’

  She scrunches up her face at him. ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Shame.’ He’s suddenly close, and she feels his hand on her thigh, fingers rubbing across her tights. His mouth is next to her ear, hot breath and muffled words. Deep inside she feels the flip of desire, her breath coming faster. She swallows, leans into him for a moment and then, ‘No chance, pervert,’ she whispers, slipping from his grasp.

  ‘You can’t blame me for trying.’ He grins at her. ‘I’ve been dying to get my hands on you all day.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed it… Anyway, I’ve got to go.’ Isolte shoves him away, smiling despite herself. ‘I told you already. I’m seeing Viola.’

  Changing her mind, she steps closer and kisses him. She’s wanted to do that all day too—although she doesn’t want him to know, she’s always found it safer to be the one who holds back in a relationship, the one who doesn’t love as much. His lips are soft, slightly dry; there is the clash of teeth against teeth. She inhales deeply, breathing in the day’s sweat, the hint of steel and plastic on his fingers. Moving across the room, she straightens her clothes, glancing in the mirror as if to check for evidence of the kiss.

  ‘Women.’ Ben shakes his head, licking his lips thoughtfully. ‘Are you all this mad?’ He shrugs on his leather jacket.

  ‘Well, you’re the expert,’ Isolte says. ‘You tell me.’

  He grabs her by the waist, pulls her close. ‘You think the worst of me, don’t you, my doubting Doris?’

  She struggles, breaking away with a breathless laugh. ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘What?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doubting?’

  ‘No. Doris, you idiot.’ She shakes her head. ‘Now let me get on.’ She throws her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got places to go. People to see.’

  Her minicab is waiting downstairs.

  ‘Does that mean you’re coming over tonight?’ he calls after her.

  Isolte softens. ‘Yes. I’ll see you later.’ She ignores the lift, takes the stairs, her feet clattering on the concrete.

  ‘Give my love to Viola.’ His voice reaches her as a wavering echo inside the hollow acoustics of the stairwell.

  Taxis are Isolte’s indulgence. Usually she can write them off for work. But if she must, she’ll pay black cab rip-off fares to avoid the squalor of the tube, or the pushing and shoving to get on a bus at rush hour.

  Isolte leans back, watching the darkening streets. The traffic is at an impatient crawl. London is thick with people on their way back from work or out for the evening. Speeding commuters spill into the road as they push past tourists gathering on corners with upturned faces and cameras. It’s stopped raining but viscous puddles are slick with oil, all the pavements alight with wet reflections.

  Her driver crouches over the wheel. Ornaments swing from the rearview mirror: a plain cross, a photo of a dark-eyed child, a plastic Mickey Mouse. Sometimes his eyes slide across the mirror, watching her. She wraps her coat tighter, gazing out of the window. The radio splutters and crackles.

  Horns blare and someone shouts angrily. There is a drunk pitching and weaving among the cars, his hands out as if he is blind. A cyclist has to swerve to miss him; and the man on the bike turns, his mouth a circle of outrage. Isolte shrinks into her seat as the drunk staggers past the cab. But she can’t help glancing into his face, seeing his blank gaze swim towards her and away. He has the blunted features of the homeless. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a sudden swing of movement, hears the thump of bony fingers against glass. His fist hitting her window. Isolte jumps, biting the inside of her lip. The driver turns and swears, changing gear, moving away.

  Isolte puts up a finger cautiously; she can taste blood. The drunk’s lost expression has got stuck inside her head, the staring face a blurred caricature of itself. She doesn’t drink. She’s never had the desire to drown herself in that kind of oblivion. There are no gaps in her memory. She likes the feeling of control she has when other people are loosening up, their words running too freely. She’s been at parties where people she hardly knows have confided secrets, whispered their sexual preferences, confessed to infidelities. That kind of vulnerability scares her. Why would anyone do it to themselves?

  ‘She’s been sleeping a lot today,’ the nurse warns Isolte. She shakes her head, gesturing towards the corner bed where there is a small mound. A sleeping form. The shape so narrow it’s more like a ridge thrown up by a plough.

  When Viola was first admitted to hospital, Isolte thought she would be cured. Nine years on, Viola has seen several therapists, and spent a month in a psychiatric ward; she has got a little better and then worse again. This is the third time she’s been hospitalised. Viola’s disappearing act has been going on for a long time.

  Isolte moves forward cautiously. The elderly patient in the bed opposite Viola is lying on top of her covers, propped up against pillows and knitting laboriously, loops of purple wool trailing from the bed. She glances up at Isolte and smiles. Isolte smiles back, noticing with a small shock of embarrassment that the woman, who’s sitting with bent legs, has no underwear on. Why hasn’t one of the nurses told her? Why haven’t they simply tucked the covers around her? Isolte turns away quickly and pulls up a chair at her sister’s bedside.

  Viola is on her back, neat and straight, her eyes closed, the sheet folded across her chest. She makes no sign that she’s aware of Isolte’s presence.

  ‘Viola, it’s me. I said I’d come after work. Remember?’ There is no reaction. Isolte sits forward and watches her sister’s face. Viola has a thin yellow tube threading from her right nostril across her cheek and behind her ear. The tube is stuck down with several tabs of clear tape that pucker the skin beneath. Liquid calories are sent creeping through the tube straight into Viola’s stomach.

  Viola stirs abruptly, moving her head to the side with a ducking motion as if she can feel something brushing across her face, the slap of a branch perhaps, or an insect bumping against her. Isolte bends closer, whispering, ‘Viola, can you hear me?’ But Viola remains locked in her dreams. Her hands lie on the sheet, curled into fists. Her wrists, sticking out of her blue pyjama cuffs, are painful nubs of bone. Isolte reaches out as if to touch them, fingers hovering. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap.

  It’s another world in the hospital. A different kind of time exists here, slow hours drag inside a weatherless zone. Viola’s ward is on the fourth floor in the old Victorian section. It has high ceilings and windows placed at a level that makes it impossible to see out without standing on a chair. The walls are a sickly institutional green; the colour reminds Isolte of her primary school. She can’t think of anything worse than being stuck here for weeks. No wonder Viola sleeps all the time.

  There is a restless shifting from the beds: coughing and throat clearing and twisting of covers. A cleaner is mopping the floor half-heartedly, pushing the mop in slow semi-circles in front of him. Isolte can see scummy water collecting inside spidery fronds of cloth. She resigns herself to doing nothing. Instead she sits back in the chair and studies her sister’s face. She feels strangely furtive. Looking at Viola used to be like looking in a mirror that offered all angles. Observing her didn’t count as spying, because it was only as if she was criticising or admiring her own features. (Aha, she would think, so that’s what my nose looks like from the side when I laugh.)

  Viola continues to face the ceiling with blind eyes. Her nose and cheekbones protrude in sharp ridges, shadows darkening the hollows. Under her slack lips the outline of her teeth is visible. Isolte can see a skull through her sister’s face; the planes and curves, the gaping eye sockets; the shape swimming into focus like a developing photograph. Isolte blinks and looks away. She can’t get used to seeing her sister like this. It’s becoming a struggle to remember Viola with her childish, rounded cheeks and broad smile, but Isolte knows exactly when the change began: it started when they lived with Aunt Hettie in London, after their life in the forest had ended.

  The front door opens, letting in the sudden roar of traffic on the Fulham Road. It slams closed. The noises of the street are muffled. One of the dogs gives a welcoming bark; Hettie glances at her watch, frowning. ‘Where on earth has she been?’

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  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  WELCOME

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: LOST 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

  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

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  PART TWO: FOUND CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY SASKIA SARGINSON

  PRAISE FOR THE TWINS

  AUTHOR Q & A

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  A PREVIEW OF THE TWINS

  NEWSLETTERS

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2014 by Saskia Sarginson

  Excerpt from The Twins Copyright 2013 by Saskia Sarginson

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Redhook Books/Orbit

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  orbitbooks.net

  orbitshortfiction.com

  First ebook edition: June 2014

  Redhook Books is an imprint of Orbit, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Redhook Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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  ISBN 978-0-316-24621-7

  E3

 

 

  Saskia Sarginson, Without You

 

 

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