Page 29 of His & Hers

I follow her into the kitchen. Then I watch while she takes longer than could ever be necessary to wash up a single cup in the sink. I notice that everything is spotlessly clean – something Zoe rarely does whether she is upset or not – and put away in its proper place, except for one knife from the stainless-steel block on the counter. I noticed it was missing this morning too.

‘How did you know about Rachel?’ I ask.

Zoe still has her back to me, rinsing her wine glass now, as though her life depended on it. I take a clean one from the cupboard, and pour myself a drink from the open bottle of red on the counter. Sadly, my sister has the same taste in wine as she does in men; too cheap, too young, and headache-inducing.

‘How did I know that she was dead? Or how did I know that you were sleeping with her?’ she asks, finally turning to face me.

I can’t look her in the eye, but I manage to nod as I take a sip.

‘I’m your sister. I know you. You kept saying you were working late, but Blackdown isn’t exactly crime central. Or at least, it wasn’t. Then I saw her in the supermarket one day last week, and she started a conversation. Like you said, she hasn’t said hello to me for almost twenty years so…’

‘So, you automatically thought she must be screwing your brother?’

She raises a pencilled-in eyebrow. Zoe always wears full make-up, regardless of whether she gets washed or dressed or leaves the house.

‘Not at first, but she wore a very distinctive perfume, and you came home smelling of it that night, after “working late,” so…’

She makes air quotes with her hands, something she has been doing since we were children. It has only grown more irritating over time.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’ I ask.

‘Because it was none of my business. I don’t tell you who I’m sleeping with.’

She doesn’t need to; this house has thin walls.

‘You’re sleeping with someone?’ I say, but she ignores me.

The question was meant to be ironic. Zoe is always sleeping with someone, and has a rather casual attitude to sex. She’s never told me who her daughter’s father is, I suspect because she doesn’t know.

‘I thought you’d probably tell me yourself when you were ready. Besides, I wasn’t sure until last night,’ she says.

‘Why last night?’

‘Because she called here.’

The wine glass almost slips through my fingers.

‘What did you just say?’

‘Rachel Hopkins called here last night.’

It suddenly gets very loud inside my head, even louder than before. I didn’t know that Rachel even had this number, but then I guess it has never changed. It’s the same one she used to call my sister on when they were school friends. I’m terrified of the answer, but I have to ask the question.

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘No. I didn’t even hear the phone. She left a message around midnight, I only listened to it this morning when I saw the machine flashing.’

She walks to the other side of the kitchen to the ancient answering machine that used to belong to our mum and dad. So many of their things are still here – the things that Zoe hasn’t sold, yet – that I honestly sometimes forget that they’re dead. Then I remember, and the grief hits me all over again. I wonder if that is normal.

Time became a bit non-linear inside my head after they died. Bad things just kept on happening. Not just the death of my daughter and the divorce, it was as though any future I had once imagined for myself had decided to unravel. Now it’s happening again.

Zoe seems to move in slow motion. I want to tell her to stop, to not press Play on the machine. I don’t know if I want to hear Rachel’s voice again anymore. Maybe it would be better to remember her the way she was rather than…

Zoe presses Play.

‘Jack, it’s me. Sorry to call the landline, but you’re not answering your mobile. Are you on your way? It’s getting late and I’m so tired. I know I should be able to change a tyre myself. I don’t know how it happened, it’s almost as though someone slashed it. Hang on, I think I see your headlights coming into the car park now. My knight in shining armour!’ Rachel laughs and hangs up.

I stare at the machine as though it were a ghost.

My sister stares at me as if I were a stranger.

‘What’s that scratch?’ she asks.

I feel for the little red scar on my cheek without meaning to. I saw Priya looking at it several times today but, unlike my sister, she was too polite to mention it.

‘I cut myself shaving.’

Zoe frowns, and I remember the mask of stubble currently hiding my face.

‘Was it you?’ she asks eventually, in a voice so quiet, I barely hear the question.

I wish I hadn’t.

An unexpected montage of us as children silently plays inside my head. From me as a toddler pushing my baby sister on a swing, to birthday parties with our friends, to all the shared Christmases with our family. Only last week I was pushing her daughter, my niece, on the same swing hanging from the weeping willow in the back garden. There used to be a lot of love in this house. I’m not sure when or where it went.

‘How can you ask me that?’

I stare at her, but Zoe’s eyes refuse to meet mine. I feel my heart thudding inside my chest; irregular palpitations caused by hurt, not anger. I always thought my sister would stand by me through anything. The idea that I was wrong about that isn’t like a slap in the face, it’s more like being repeatedly run over by a truck.

‘I have a child sleeping upstairs, I had to ask,’ she whispers.

‘No, you didn’t.’

We stare at each other for a long time, having the kind of silent conversation that only close siblings can have. I know I need to say something out loud, but it takes a while to arrange the words in the right order.

‘I did see Rachel last night.’

‘In the woods?’

‘Yes.’ Zoe pulls a face I choose to ignore. ‘But then I left. I didn’t know there was anything wrong until I saw the missed calls on my phone when I got home. I drove back to help, but her car was gone and so was she. I called her mobile, but she didn’t answer, so I just presumed she’d managed to fix it.’

‘Does anyone else know that you were there?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t tell your police colleagues.’

I shake my head. ‘No.’

She stares at me for a long time, before asking her next question.

‘Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘Because they would look at me the way you are now.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually. ‘I had to ask, but I do believe you.’

‘OK,’ I say, even though it isn’t and I’m not.

‘I know we don’t ever say it, but I do love you.’

‘I love you too,’ I reply.

When she leaves the room, I cry for the first time since my daughter died.

Losing someone you truly love always feels like losing a part of yourself. Not Rachel – that was just lust – I mean my sister. We might not have always been close – she never approved of my choice of wife, and I never approved of her choice of, well, anything – but I always thought she’d be the one to unplug the fan if the shit ever hit. I guess I was wrong, because it feels like something got broken between Zoe and me tonight. Something that can’t be fixed.

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