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

it’s still there and roll onto my side, away from the frantic scuffling of Edith’s hard trotters as she tries to heave herself from the floor. Our collective agreement to stay calm is abandoned as Kian grapples with her ankles. ‘Do it now!’

My vision is blurred around the edges, but even then, it’s hard to say where Kian ends and the pig begins. I push myself up onto my elbows as Moira jabs the vaccine gun in Edith’s general direction, but the uncanny human screech that accompanies it suggests that this was a misread target. Kian jumps up with such alacrity that the gun is knocked from Moira’s hand, skittering across the floor towards me. What had looked like the fleshy underside of Edith’s rump was in fact Kian’s left arse cheek, which now smarts with a bullseye-shaped ridge, pink and tender against his pale skin. He rubs it whilst tugging his trousers up, but going by Moira’s wide eyes and unwavering gaze on Kian’s crotch, I expect she copped an eyeful and didn’t hate what she saw.

Edith, entirely unperturbed, has made it onto her feet. In her eyes, I am clearly as intimidating as a wingless mosquito, because she uses my stomach as a stepping stone in order to walk away.

I don’t want to body shame, even if it is a 300-kilo pig, but the weight of Edith through a pointy little trotter is enough to inspire violence. Best make it productive violence. I reach for the vaccine gun, tickling the handle with my fingers until it’s pulled closer, and jab it into Edith’s side.

‘Fucking yes!’ I scream, as Edith trots away on swollen ankles. I flump backwards, my head on the straw, and expel the last of my adrenaline on an outward breath. I’m radiant. I’ve got more excrement streaked across my face than foundation, and yet I feel fucking fabulous.

‘I don’t know about you guys, but I think we need a drink.’ Kian rubs his face with his forearm. ‘Moira, reckon it’s time to open The Locker?’

Chapter 18

The last of the sunshine cuts in at an angle, stretching shadows across the floor. I pull on a pair of fluffy socks and tuck my feet closer, trapping warmth from the hot shower I took half an hour ago. I try and type quietly, using the pads of my fingers. From downstairs, I hear Moira humming in the kitchen. The start of a headache pinches between my eyes, which isn’t surprising considering my quite literal head-to-head combat with a hormonal sow.

I twist at the waist, stretching my sore muscles, and scan over the diary entry I’ve just typed up as a ‘vomit draft’. I’m stuck in a frown, which doesn’t make my headache any better. As much as I’ve tried to add high-octane Spielberg drama to the piece, there’s only so much peril you can try to shoehorn into a blog post about pigs. It’s hardly like fighting a grizzly bear to save a group of Brownies from a fatal mauling.

‘Ava, you coming? We’ll get started without you …’ says Kian from the corridor, the steam from his shower billowing along the ceiling and into my room.

‘Yep, I’ll be there in a minute.’ I stop over-analysing and attach the document in an email to Duncan to get a sense of whether I’m heading in the right direction. I know what he’s going to say, but I’m reluctant to do it. He wants me to lean into the whole ‘My Long-Lost Sister’ narrative, but it feels a bit … icky. So far, I’ve included a super nerdy version of Kian and whacked a pseudonym over the top, but now Moira’s on the scene, everything is more complicated. I haven’t had a chance to process the reality that I’ve got a sister, let alone coherently enough to put it in an article. For now, I’m keeping her off the page.

The sound of Moira chatting away grows louder as I reach the kitchen, which makes a nice change. Although it’s been a couple of weeks, I’ve found it hard to adjust to the noise here. In fact, it’s more the lack of noise. There’s so much in London and it’s far more aggressive. If Kilroch is Lorraine Kelly, London is Piers Morgan. One soothes you to sleep and the other shouts at you until you’re aching from exhaustion. Here, it’s like the synthesiser is pushed down, replaced by a constant, heaving wind that pushes up the cliff and smacks the farmhouse walls, writhing and whistling through cracks in the window frame. On the handful of clear days we’ve had, I go outside and it’s so quiet I assume everyone on earth has died and I want to scream just to check I still can.

I go into the kitchen to find Moira warming her bottom on the tea towel rail by the Aga. She grins and shuffles over to make space for me, so I slide in next to her. Heat permeates my thermal leggings and settles on my skin.

‘Oh God, this feels so good I’d be willing to freeze my toes off all over again.’

We both glance up as Kian walks through from the living room, a towel pulled tight around his waist.

‘I can’t find my house trousers.’ He wrenches the back door open, peering down the side of the house to check the washing line. Moira catches my eye and glances away, her gaze darting towards Kian’s thinly clad backside. It’s quite sweet, really. I didn’t think that fleece-lined shirts and threadbare towels were icons of the female gaze, yet here is the evidence presented before me.

‘A-ha!’ says Kian, pulling back a kitchen chair, on which his affectionately termed ‘house trousers’ are crumpled up in a ball. He disappears into the living room and comes back pinging the waistband tight, a content smile on his face.

‘Are you sure we should crack open The Locker?’ says Moira, pushing her thumbs through two frayed holes is her sleeves. ‘I’m just remembering