Page 67 of Postscript

There once was a woman named Regret

Who had a twin who made her fret

It’s time to say hi

To the anger, goodbye

In this place where they both first met.

‘A woman named Regret,’ Sharon reads. ‘Is it all of us a few months from now?’

‘It’s about Rita,’ I explain, again shaking away the horrifying fear Denise has instilled in me. ‘The home belongs to Rita’s twin sister, where they were born and grew up. They had a falling out when their mother died, something to do with settling the estate. Her sister took everything and they never spoke again, nor do their families.’

‘Money makes people crazy,’ Denise says.

‘I think it’s better if you go in there alone,’ Sharon says.

I agree.

I limp up the pathway in the colourful neat and tidy garden that has been lovingly maintained. I ring the doorbell. It takes a while for the door to be answered and while I’ve only ever met Rita a few times, her sister is indeed the image of her, though harder-looking. She looks at me suspiciously through the glass in the side of the door and I realise that she has no intention of opening the door.

‘Bert sent me.’

She unlocks the door.

‘What do they want this time? My blood?’ she grunts, leaving the door open a little and shuffling back inside the house. I step inside and follow her into the TV room.

A TV guide is open on the coffee table, a biro has circled the chosen shows of the day. She slowly sits down in a worn armchair, face twisting with agony as she leans on her cane.

‘Can I help?’ I move closer to her.

‘No,’ she snaps.

She takes a moment to catch her breath, pulls her cardigan closed. ‘Hip replacement,’ she says, and eyes my boot. ‘What happened to you?’

‘A taxi hit me when I was cycling.’

‘They think they own the roads. Are you a lawyer?’ she barks.

‘No, definitely not.’

‘What then? What do they want from me?’

I retrieve the letter from my bag and hand it to her. ‘Bert wanted me to give you this. But it’s not for you to open. He wanted me to leave it with you for Rita to collect.’

She eyes it warily, as though it’s a bomb, refusing to take it. ‘Tell him I said he can keep it. I haven’t seen her for years. Bert knows that. I don’t know what he’s playing at. Sick games. Sick people, my sister and her husband.’

‘Bert passed away earlier today.’

The anger disappears from her face and her mouth opens in a silent ‘oh’. ‘I heard a while back that he was in hospital. What happened?’

‘Emphysema.’

She shakes her head. ‘He smoked forty fags a day. I told him, Bert, those bastards will kill you, but he never listened,’ she says angrily. ‘God rest his soul,’ she adds quietly, blessing herself.

‘I’d been spending time with him before he passed. He wanted to leave some letters for Rita, in places of importance.’

‘Trying to right his wrongs, is he? Well, isn’t that a fine thing when he’s dead? He doesn’t have to face it himself. She won’t come here,’ she says, the anger returning. ‘Haven’t spoken to her for seven years. Not without it being through a lawyer or nasty letter she’d send. I have them all, you can read them if you want, that’ll tell you who the real monster is.’