First Born(18)

The bus is OK. I have my monkey fist and my knitting needles and my sock stuffed with pound coins. I feel like I can handle this journey if it means I get to judge KT’s boyfriend, to look into his eyes.

I step off the bus at West 218th Street. This is not Midtown, not even close. This isn’t even Harlem any more; this is the northernmost tip of Manhattan island. North of Fort George and Washington Heights. This is Inwood. The streets are dangerous in a different way up here. Not so many pedestrians, lower terrorism risk, but also fewer recognisable chain stores that offer some kind of sanctuary, real or imagined.

I follow signs to the Columbia boathouse. One new structure built next to an old building, a concrete slipway leading down into the Harlem River, the tangled trees and burnt foliage of Inwood Hill Park in the background, and the Henry Hudson Bridge beyond that.

I can’t see anyone in the water.

Eventually a tall guy my age walks out of the new boathouse in track pants and a T-shirt.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, smiling, exaggerating my English accent. ‘Is Scott Sbarra here today?’

‘Don’t I know you?’ he says, narrowing his eyes, his lip curling on one side. ‘Julia’s party, right? Katy, is it? No. Kirsty? Sorry. How you doing?’

How does he not know about KT? I’d imagined everyone on campus would have been talking about her. Especially Scott and his teammates.

‘Is Scott here?’

‘Sure, Scottie’s here. I just saw him in his boat. Probably in the showers now. He’ll be out in a minute. Hey, you going to the thing at Alisha’s tonight?’

I shake my head.

‘See you around, then,’ he says, walking away, placing his earphones in.

Somehow I knew Scott would be here training but it’s still a shock.

A trio of guys walk out five minutes later. One of them, the stockiest of the three, stares at me, smiles, then his face changes. His expression drops. He frowns. When they’re further down the street all three turn to look back at me.

Scott comes out on his own, a backpack on his chest as well as one on his back.

He stops dead in his tracks when he spots me.

He doesn’t faint or throw up or cry or anything like that but he stops. He is completely still. Paralysed by the sight of me.

‘Scott Sbarra?’

His face drops.

‘I’m Molly.’

He walks slowly towards me.

‘I didn’t know you were in the city,’ he says. ‘I mean, I’m really sorry about your sister. We’re all in total shock here.’

Not in so much shock that you missed rowing practice.

‘Can we talk?’ I say.

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘When did you get here? How did you know I would be here?’

‘Arrived last night.’

He sighs and adjusts the straps on his backpacks. ‘Katie always talked about you,’ he says, giving me a double-take just to make sure he’s not talking to his dead girlfriend because not only do we look almost identical but we sound almost identical as well.

‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ I say. ‘It’s a nightmare.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He looks tired all of a sudden.

‘There somewhere around here we can sit and talk?’

‘Yeah, there’s a coffee house a block or two away, that OK?’

I like walking around here with Scott. He’s three or four inches taller than Dad and his shoulders are twice the breadth of mine. He has long muscles: the physique of a tall swimmer rather than a bodybuilder.

‘She was a great girl,’ he says. ‘A great person, I mean.’

‘I know.’

‘We’d only been dating a few months but she was really special, you know? I liked her a lot.’

‘She told me.’

‘She did?’

‘Of course. We’re twins. We tell each other absolutely everything.’

He looks at me with an expression more of fear than of warmth. Like maybe I know something I shouldn’t.

He opens the door to the coffee house and I walk in. The heat of the room, and the coffee aroma, instantly put me at ease. That and the familiarity of the place: wood floors, takeout cups, beat-up leather armchairs. I could almost be back in London.

‘Triple-shot espresso with a dash of almond milk,’ he orders.

‘Just a cappuccino, please.’

‘Name?’

‘Scottie.’

We sit down near the window.

I look right into his eyes as he blows into his espresso. Do you know who killed my sister? I want to ask. Do you know what happened to the person I entered this life with? Did you ever do something to hurt her?

‘I don’t know what to say, really,’ he mumbles.

He doesn’t look sad or distraught. His eyes are clear and white.

‘You must be hurting,’ I say.

‘Very much,’ he says. ‘Yeah. When they catch the guy who did this I’ll . . .’

He sets his jaw and I see the muscles on the sides of his face bulge.

‘Did you see her on the day she died, Scott?’

‘No.’

‘No? Someone told me different.’

‘I mean, just early in the morning. Before my run. Briefly.’

‘Did she seem OK?’