The only thing in this room that had changed was the shower curtain. Mum had bought a cheap-looking plastic thing. Semi-transparent, but covered with birds, half of which looked like crows and blackbirds swooping down and dive-bombing Tippi Hedren. A totally off-putting shower vibe.
She paused, though, and reached for the curtain. It felt cold and a little damp against her fingertips. She slid it all the way back. The metal rings slowly squeaking on the rail. Then she leant over and put her fingers on the curve of the bath. Just to feel it. Because Holly’s bare shoulders had rested against that curve, so many times.
She pictured her in there. The odd little sister who seemed to constantly compliment her. ‘You’re really pretty, Rach.’ ‘How come you’re so cool?’ And how Holly had promised that the two of them were going to go to Disneyland together one day, and she would pay for it all. Because she’d be a grown-up and make lots of money as a vet. And how she’d talk about that trip more than any other topic.
A sentence started sliding through the roads and pathways of Rachel’s brain. Words that were heavy enough to drop all the way to her heart and leave a stain.
So I’m the sister who got to leave this house, and you’re the sister who had to stay.
Bathing forever in this horrid room. Walking these halls on a constant, echoed loop. With not even her big sister for company. Just a zombie mum with bad hair and a house that most locals still crossed the street to avoid.
She stepped back and let the curtain fall back into place. She clicked the mirror light off and headed out onto the dark landing, still in her pumps. She’d been here for a few hours now, but she still hadn’t taken her shoes off. She doubted she’d remove them until maybe she was tucked up in the bed. She didn’t like the idea of her feet touching the floors of this house. Hated the thought of her socks picking up old, ancient dust, that might have once been part of her, or her mum, or Holly herself.
The light from under Mum’s door was spilling out in a golden fan. There was, of course, no light coming from Holly’s. In the dim light, the pictures on the door were easy to see. A hundred sisters looking out. For a moment, she considered just going straight in that room and switching the light on. Sitting on her bed and pulling out the old toys they used to play with. Leaning back against the My Little Pony wallpaper and reading some old book out loud, like she used to do to help Holly sleep. Maybe she’d even spend the night in there and close this infernal bloody tragedy loop for all time.
But the images quickly came. Beetles, loose in her brain. Carrying the sights in the precise sequence she saw them. It was always like that. Always well organised.
The power cable pulled tight. The back of Holly’s head and her hair lolling to the side. The arms dangling with the fingers curled, but her left little finger jutting. The little feet in yellow socks, with white heels. One slipper still on, one on the floor. Toes pointing inward. The gap between her feet and the floor.
The moment she thought it was a joke.
The moment she knew it wasn’t a joke.
The animal roar in the room, which she’d always assumed was her own scream, though she could never be sure in that house.
And here she stood, outside the room that would always define Holly.
And you … she thought. It will always define you, too.
All those Holly faces looked at her and said a sentence that burst all tender, sisterly memories away. Poisoned them, in fact.
Because when Holly looked out she wasn’t saying hey, sis … long time no see.
She was saying … why, Rachel? Why did you do it? Why?
She stepped back and quickly closed her eyes, then she rushed along the landing to her room, slamming the door behind her. The echoes of why turning into the ticking sludge of the radiators.
Ironically, and perhaps tellingly, her bedroom was the only one to have been redecorated. Gone were all her movie posters. No more Brad Pitt, circa Fight Club, staring out. Now it was a junk room, with mainly old newspapers and magazines, stacked in towers. But the bed was still there.
Still in the same place, up against the wall. She pulled off her clothes, feeling very conscious that the walls would see her bare skin. She pulled some pyjamas on, which felt colder than they ought to. She switched off the light and lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, smelling the mildewed carpet. She noticed that the bumps in the dodgy bed springs were now touching different parts of her back, now that she’d grown a little. She could picture herself on a hundred nights, tapping against this wall with her knuckle while Holly tapped back. Their beds together separated only by a few bricks.
If she rapped on the wall tonight, would something happen? Would Holly lift that bent knuckle and knock back? Would a tiny fist break through, grasping for hair?
No. It wouldn’t. That’s what that professor guy would say. And maybe he was right.
And ironically it was that that made the tears come. That’s what made thin streams roll sideways down her cheek and seep into the pillow.
Because Holly was dead and Steph was dead, and maybe that really is all there is. Which was way less spooky, but was still the cold, depressing side of realism. As she lay there she almost wished that ghosts were true. And that Holly would tell her that it was okay, and that she could rest and that what happened to her really wasn’t Rachel’s fault.
And though nothing of the sort happened, Rachel finally turned onto her other side and touched the
