Blood Sisters(51)

We both began to jog. Side by side. Her plaits were bouncing. Today I had my hair in plaits too. I hated them, but all the others in my year were doing it, as an end-of-term celebration. The worst thing you could do at school was to stand out by being different. ‘It’s gone.’ Kitty was panting. ‘Look what you made me do. My violin case has given me a huge bruise on this knee.’

‘That wasn’t me.’

‘Yes it was. You made me rush.’

‘If you’d been on time, we wouldn’t have been late.’

‘I was trying to do some last-minute practice.’

‘Then you should have done it before.’

‘Shut up. Vanessa’s coming.’

So she’d missed the bus too. It was a longish walk without it. But we might just get there if we hurried up.

‘Hello, Ali.’ Vanessa wasn’t usually this friendly. Normally she treated me with contempt, as though I was the annoying younger sister. ‘How are you today?’

Something was up. I could tell from the uncomfortable way in which my sister was looking at her friend. I began to feel nervous although I wasn’t sure why.

‘She’s fine,’ said my sister, walking close beside me. ‘Let’s cross the road. We’re late.’

‘Not here. It’s not safe. We have to wait until we get to the crossing. Kitty, come back.’

I tried to grab her hand but Vanessa caught my arm first. ‘Hey, Ali. I know your secret …’ She darted a look towards Kitty.

‘Shut up,’ Kitty butted in.

I thought she was talking to me but then I realized she was addressing her friend. ‘You promised not to.’

‘Promised not to do what?’ I asked.

Vanessa tapped the side of her nose. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? You know, Kitty, I really think I ought to tell her.’

I almost felt sorry for my sister. Her friend was bullying her. Kitty’s lips tightened. ‘No. I’ll do it.’

Vanessa gave a nasty smile. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘What’s going on, Kitty?’ I snapped. We were hovering on the edge of the pavement. Too close to the road. Again, I felt that crawling scared sensation.

My sister’s eyes met mine. Although we both had blonde hair, my eyes were a very pale blue. Hers were a fierce cobalt. Right now they looked like Arctic ice.

‘We know you got off with Crispin,’ she said slowly. ‘We saw you through the window of the summer house. Having sex.’





38


May 2017


Alison


‘You must not fear,’ says the voice. ‘I do not hurt you.’

The window creaks shut. There’s the sound of metal – the window bars? – falling on the floor.

A figure comes towards me. It is limping. Stefan.

‘I arrive so we can talk, Ali.’

Ali? I freeze. My childhood name. The one my parents had used from an early age. How does he know it?

He makes his way to the chair by the bed. He is not hobbling as much as usual. It occurs to me that the stick might not be as necessary as I’d thought.

‘When we first meet, I think you know me,’ he says, settling down and staring at me in the moonlight which is streaming in through the flimsy curtains. ‘Of course, that is impossible. You were only young the last time.’

The hairs on my arms stand up on end. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mother, how is she?’

My eyes dart to the alarm by the door.

‘Do not bother,’ he says softly. ‘It does not operate. I take it apart this morning.’ He appears pleased with himself. ‘I am good at that sort of thing. Just as I make loose some of the window bars.’

‘What do you want?’ I edge backwards.

‘I tell you already. I do not hurt you. We talk. I learn about you. I come here to get to know my daughter.’

‘Daughter?’ My voice rasps in disbelief. What on earth is he talking about?

He puts his hand over my mouth. It’s a strong hand. Much stronger than his frame suggests. ‘Shh. Or they’ll hear us.’

Then he takes his hand away. ‘I want to be near you, like any father wants to be near his daughter.’

‘You think you’re my father?’ I stare at the old man. Not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘I don’t have a father. He died when I was young.’

Too late, I realize I’ve broken a basic rule. Never give out personal information about yourself.

‘But his name, it is Stephen, yes?’

How does he know that?

I stiffen. ‘Was. Not is. How do you know that?’

‘I know your father’s name because it is my name, Ali.’ He speaks sadly but with a certain acceptance, as though it is a burden he has carried for a long time. ‘Stefan. Although your mother, she call me Stephen in the English style. Stephen Baker.’

I can barely believe what I am hearing. ‘But that’s not your surname on my list.’

Baker is my surname, though it wasn’t for a while. When Mum married David, she got me to call myself Alison Baker-James. ‘It makes us look more like a real family,’ she said. But double-barrelled names made a kid stand out at my school – not a good idea. So I dropped the Baker bit to please Mum. Alison James. Kitty James. Two sisters. At least, on the surface. Later, in a bid for a new beginning after the accident, I went back to Baker.