I Know Who You Are(81)

I lived with Maggie and a man called John in their flat above a betting shop in a place called Essex, very close to London.

They told me that our daddy didn’t want me anymore and, later, they told me he had died, though I know now that that was not the case.

I want you to know that I was not unhappy, living with them, but then they died too.

The police believed that I was their child.

There was a passport in the flat that belonged to a little girl called Aimee Sinclair. The police also found her birth certificate, which said she was the daughter of Maggie O’Neil and John Sinclair.

The police thought that little girl was me, everybody did, and I let them.

I’ve stayed with a lot of foster families, some good, some not so good, but I’m doing well now. I have a scholarship to a place called RADA and I’m going to be an actress.

I’d really like it if you felt able to get in touch, meet up sometime. You looked after me when our Daddy couldn’t, and I remember that. I remember who you were then and I’d like to know who you are now.

I’m sorry I waited so long to get in touch. I was scared to tell anyone the truth until I was eighteen, scared of getting in trouble. Even now, I’m only telling you. I remember you well enough to know you would never hurt me. I’m happy as Aimee. Nobody knows about my past and I’d prefer it to stay that way. I hope you understand.

The girl you knew as Ciara no longer exists, but I’m still your sister. A name is just a name.

Lots of love,

Aimee

xx



The fire spits and burns, its shadows wildly dancing to the loud music. When I look up from reading the letter, I can see that the door has been closed, and I am no longer alone.

“Hello, Ciara,” says the woman with the long dark hair and red lips.





Seventy-one


At first I see Maggie, my Maggie from the 1980s.

It’s dark in the room, with only the light from the fire and the candles struggling to illuminate the face in front of me. She sings along to the song, a girlie Irish voice escaping her red lips, completely out of tune with the melody. As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize my tired mind is playing tricks on me again. It might look like Maggie, but it isn’t her.

“Who are you?” I ask, struggling to make my voice heard above the music.

She laughs, and it’s the smile that I recognize first. The person opposite me comes a step closer, then starts to remove what it now seems is a wig, before throwing it onto the flames. I hear it hiss and burn. The woman in front of me vanishes into the bewildered confusion that has taken control of my body and mind.

“Does that help?” the man left standing in her shoes asks, in a deeper voice this time. “What kind of woman doesn’t recognize her own husband?”

His face looks different, but his eyes, although heavily made up, are still the same.

“Ben?” I whisper.

“Do try and keep up, my love. My name is not Ben Bailey. Just like your name isn’t Aimee. Do you need to read the letter again?”

I stare down at the crinkled piece of paper in my hands.

“Eamonn?”

He smiles and claps his gloved hands. “Finally.”

I try to process what is happening.

My husband has been dressing up as a woman and stalking me.

That same man, my husband, has just told me that he is my brother.

I shiver, despite the heat of the fire. I feel physically sick at what I’m seeing and hearing, and automatically back away when he walks towards me. It looks like him, but at the same time, it doesn’t.

“Did you like all those vintage postcards I sent you?” he asks.

I don’t answer. Can’t speak.

“‘I know who you are’ in my very best handwriting, over and over again. But you still didn’t know who I was! It’s funny when you think about it.”

“Your face,” I say, unable to articulate anything more.

“Oh, the nose? Do you like it? I asked for one just like Jack’s, showed them his picture, had my bags removed too … the things I do for you. Did the police show you what I looked like? I went straight there after the surgery, let them take a picture of my broken nose, black eyes, and swollen face as evidence of your abuse. Almost all healed now. Looks good, don’t you think? Just. Like. Jack.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re in love with him and I wanted you to love me! Just like I loved you!” he shouts.

I take another step back.

“Come on, dance with me.” He grabs my hands, as though wanting to embark on some demented waltz to the climax of the song. The music stops, but it’s as though it is still playing inside his head.

I try to pull free from his grip and start to cry as he holds me closer, humming the tune. “Please, stop.”

“Stop? Baby Girl, you and I are just getting started. Till death do us part, remember? Do the pictures make you feel at home?”

I follow his stare and see the framed image of us on our wedding day, next to the black-and-white photo of a little boy.

“Why do you have pictures of John as a child?”

He looks down at me, fake surprise drawn on his clownlike face. “Finders keepers.”

“I don’t understand.”

His surprise ignites into anger. “I took all of his things because he helped her take you from me. Maggie O’Neil was already dead when you wrote me that letter, but he wasn’t, so I tracked him down. To be fair, he was dead not long after that.” He laughs and forces me into another embrace, as though we are ballroom dancers in some twisted horror film. “All those years I didn’t know where you went, I thought you were dead too. Did you ever wonder what happened to the real Aimee Sinclair? The girl you replaced?”