The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

He keeps my bed warm and doesn’t flail about half as much as you did when you were little.’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘Would you get those for me?’ says Mum, gesturing to the bin bags. I pick them up as the caretaker stacks chairs around us, whistling through his teeth. Back in the hall, we collapse tables.

‘Oh, before I forget – I said you’d come to the Hastings beach trip with the Brownies Saturday after next. We have to allocate one adult to eight kids now, so we could do with the extra body. Anyway, I thought you might like to get out of the house. Sea air and all that good stuff.’

‘I, err … Can I get back to you on that?’

Mum looks at me, her head tilted to the side like a confused spaniel. A shrill laugh bounces off the walls, flicking our attention to the furthest corner of the hall. Vanessa is trying her best to cordon Giles off from his wife, a woman whose irritation is made obvious through her clipped responses and the persistent tapping of a crocodile skin shoe.

‘I thought she was after Simon the Hotelier?’ I ask.

‘His wife came out of a coma, so she’s had to move on,’ Mum mutters, flashing a fake smile in their direction.

‘Are we sure Vanessa didn’t have anything to do with Simon’s wife going into a coma?’ I ask.

‘It’s the mystery plaguing Dulwich,’ says Mum. We put the bin bags down by the door step and say goodbye to a mum who clutches the sleeve of her son’s coat as he tries to wriggle out of it.

‘Imagine if I didn’t have you around? I’d end up like Vanessa, drinking expensive gin at eleven in the morning, wondering why the house was so quiet.’

My pocket buzzes with a text message. It’s Max. I scowl and shove it back in my jeans. Mum nods towards the door.

‘You get home. I’ll finish up.’

‘You sure?’ I say, not used to being let off early.

‘Yep. Just make sure the kettle’s filled up if you’re going to bed. Ginger’ll be round later and I’m keeping her off the wine.’ She squeezes my hand, walks to the front of the hall and slots herself next to Vanessa, giving Giles the chance to slip away. A stellar manoeuvre from our Lorrie Atmore.

I open a message from Max as I step outside.

Hey Ava. First of all, are you OK? Secondly, yes it did all come out in the wash, thanks for asking. Today was something else! More details soon. A bunch of us are heading out in Shoreditch. Buzz me if you want the location. Peace!

Is he having a laugh? Seems like I’m not the only one taking a break from reality tonight.

Chapter 7

My eyelids feel gritty as I wake up to the sound of bickering seagulls, an odd alarm call considering how far inland we are. I push myself up in bed, but my fingers get caught on the wire from my earphones. I fell asleep watching a webcam feed of Kilroch harbour, which explains the unusual alarm clock. Autumn has already swathed the east coast of Scotland, with dark mornings and pockmarked fishing boats pulled up onto the slipway, the industrial silhouette of an oil rig outlined by an inky black horizon.

Last night, I skimmed through dozens of web pages that refer to Kilroch: travel blogs; TripAdvisor entries for its one pub and two cafés; and endless Wikipedia pages on its history to the point where I’m now starting to understand references made in the shipping forecast. I’m not sure what else I was hoping to find. Perhaps an old photograph of a man pale enough to blame for my inability to tan, or a record of Mum’s activity that explains why nearly half my DNA comes from inside a tiny Scottish village. By the time I’d read a seven-page forum spat between two rival fishermen over who really did land the biggest herring haul of 2007, my research was at a dead end.

I pad past Mum’s room and brush my teeth with one hand, the other switching my phone off flight mode. There are many things I fall short on, but coping with a barrage of overwhelming feelings is something I’m really good at. It’s learned behaviour, as Mum exercises this method frequently. It’s like taking a holiday from your own emotions. One press of a button and you can filter who can contact you and when, thus – fuck.

I double-tap on an email from Duncan. This is it. This is when I get refused a reference and have to spend my days racing the clock to earn a toilet break in a distribution warehouse. My stomach drops like a Slinky down a mineshaft as I take my phone down to the kitchen and pull a half-eaten packet of Bourbons towards me, shoving two in my mouth and reaching for a third as I wait for the email to load through our ancient broadband.

I’d like you to come into the office ASAP re: DNA livestream. 8AM. Bring a pastry.

Duncan

Bring a bloody pastry? Am I supposed to organise the catering for my own dismissal? He knows I’m a meticulous filer of expenses; there’s no way this is coming out of my last paycheck.

I want to care about it. I should really care about it. I’ve plugged away at the Junior Editor role since I left Kings; the grey area between writing and reporting that every graduate is forced to compromise on, but I didn’t think I’d still be here years later. Although I have an excellent knack for matching amusing GIFs to listicles, it’s not where I thought I’d be at this stage of my career. I write well. I know my way around a metaphor and always deliver on time. But the skills I learned whilst training are barely applicable at Snooper. I offered to cover the student riots a couple of years ago and Duncan told me to ‘take the bomb-proof vest off, we