‘Oh, Thomas,’ I repeat, wrapping my arms around his neck once more, and kissing his forehead three times. ‘This is the best news ever. Why didn’t you tell me before? Does Dad know?’
He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t tell either of you. I didn’t want you to get hopeful, for it to turn out to be nothing. But now – well we need something, don’t we?’
‘We do. We do.’ I kiss his cheek.
‘Hey that’s enough kisses for one day,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I’ve got my tough image to think of.’
‘I love you, Thomas,’ I say.
‘I love you too, sis.’
Moments later Dad appears in the doorway, shoving his arms into his coat sleeves. ‘Ready, Thomas?’
Thomas looks up at him blankly.
‘The cinema? Dinner at the Foundry Arms? Have you forgotten?’
‘Of course not.’ He looks at me and winks, closes down his laptop, and heads over to where Dad hands him his coat.
‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ Dad says.
‘Yep!’ They both laugh, as they head for the door.
‘I didn’t want to come anyway,’ I call after them, playfully.
‘You hate Marvel,’ Dad calls back.
‘I like Chris Hemsworth,’ I say, as they close the door behind them. ‘And Tom Hiddleston’s not bad either.’ The words feel too frivolous on my tongue. And I don’t hate Marvel. In fact, Dad mentioned earlier that they were going, but I haven’t got room in my head for films, or TV or anything much at all right now – every thought consumed by everything that happened at Drummondale House. But I get why they need to go. Why they need to act as if life is normal – because that’s all it is. An act.
It’s almost six o’clock, when I make my way into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of gin, adding ice and tonic. I grab a half-empty tub of Pringles from the cupboard, and head back into the lounge. The only light is from the fire, but I like it this way – flopped on the sofa, taking short sips of my drink, munching on the crispy snacks.
After a while, I rise and head for the front window, where I take in the wide road, and the grass verge opposite that leads to the river. Berwick-upon-Tweed hasn’t had anywhere near as much snow as Scotland, but still people are huddled in warm coats and knitted hats as they scurry home, trying to stay upright on slippery pavements.
I squeeze my eyes together, and move closer to the window, peering through the glass. I loved living here when I was young. I was happy then.
Someone is standing across the road in the shadows. They seem to be looking straight at the house. My heart leaps into my throat. The young woman looks so much like Lark, and my eyes fill with tears. I know it can’t be her, but I so wish it was.
I place my hand on the window, as though touching her.
I’ve seen my sister often since she disappeared. On the street, her voice in a shop, even when I’m alone I think I can smell her musky perfume. I accepted a long time ago, it’s just my imagination.
But still, I race to the front door, and throw it open; almost slipping over as I hurry down the path in my slippers. But as I expected, the girl has gone – if she was ever there in the first place.
Back in the lounge I pull across the curtains, and bash away tears. I take another sip of my drink, my heart thudding. It’s post-traumatic stress – that’s what Dad said, when I told him I’ve barely slept since we returned from Drummondale House. Maybe see the GP.
When I do sleep, the nightmares are vivid. Just last night I felt sure I was awake as I staggered through the house, dragged down by snow, ears numb from the cold, calling out for Mum and Lark, begging them to show themselves, but I was locked in a dream, and when I finally woke, gasping for breath, tears came.
I flick on all the lamps, and head for the back window. I’m about to close the curtains when something catches my eye. Something’s hanging in the tree at the foot of the garden. My heart picks up speed once more. I should close the curtains, but my curiosity won’t let me. Instead I grab my coat, and gingerly open the back door.
The garden sensor-light springs to life as I step onto the patio, and my stomach lurches. It looks like a face in the tree. The mask?
I step closer, looking about me.
A bang, and my heart jumps into my throat. I grab my chest, realising within seconds it’s the next-door neighbour putting something into their wheelie bin.
As I move closer to the tree, I see it’s only a plastic carrier bag caught in the branches, waving in the wind. I turn and race back into the house, and slam the door, my body alive with pulses, and wrap my arms around myself. My stomach is a tight knot; my chest fizzes. I need to calm down. Finally freeing myself from my frozen position by the back door, I dash into the lounge and take a gulp of gin.
*
It’s some time later that the doorbell rings and kick-starts my out-of-control pulses once more.
I creep, trembling to the front door. ‘Who is it?’ I call.
‘Hi, Amelia, it’s only me – Rosamund. Can I talk with you?’
‘Rosamund?’ I open up to see her eyes shimmering with tears. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m so sorry to bother you. I didn’t know who else to turn to. Neil’s still in Scotland, and, well …’ She rummages in her bag and brings out a mask like the one the masked killer wore.
‘Oh God.’ I step backwards.
‘It was on my doorstep. I don’t know who put it there.’ Her eyes fill with tears.
‘Come in,’ I say.
She pushes the mask into her bag, and steps in. She shuffles free from her coat, hangs it up, and
