I imagined the police seeing first-hand how Amy was volatile; Amy unravelling. The inconsistency, the aggressive behaviour she was capable of. I felt no sympathy for her. People like Amy didn’t deserve pity. Not when they’d done what she’d done. But while Matt was still missing, I wouldn’t let myself indulge my grief. Rule one was to maintain control at all times, meaning my grief was locked away with other painful memories, in a part of my mind that would forever remain firmly closed.
Amy doesn’t deserve. Nothing should follow that sentence. To put a word there denotes that she deserves anything at all. I tried to talk to her, years ago. But she didn’t listen, just got rid of me as soon as she could, when she had no right. We are bound together forever by the vow we made; by the mingling of blood. There is no undoing the past.
It seems bizarre that it’s Matt who’s unwittingly drawn us together again. She won’t have told anyone about the friendship that used to exist between us. How after our drifting apart as teenagers, she’d gone out of her way to make sure I wouldn’t find her – changing her name, moving away, making her social media profiles private. What hurt me most was that she’d got away with it. That she had her cosy life, while I struggled. Even as more time passed, I couldn’t let it rest.
But unless they really want to remain hidden, it isn’t difficult to find someone. Fifteen years ago, it took a private detective I couldn’t really afford, who found her in days after discovering she’d changed her name. I wasn’t sure what I was doing this for. An apology? A hint of our old friendship? Or just to remind her what she’d done …
After catching a bus, I walked to the street where I knew Amy was living. It was an autumn day, the blustery wind whipping up the newly fallen red-brown leaves, as I found the terraced house on a small housing estate in Eastbourne.
Knocking on the door, when she came to open it, from her look of astonishment, it was clear I was the last person she was expecting. Instead of asking me in, she stood in the doorway. ‘What are you doing here?’
I wanted to tell her, for you to make amends for what happened to me. For you to know how much I’ve suffered. But instead, I watched her face. ‘How about hello, how are you, how lovely to see you after so long … How long has it been?’ Even though I knew exactly how long, I spoke sarcastically, pretending to consider. ‘I think it’s eight years, by my calculation. I thought I’d come and tell you about what’s happened in my life, ever since you dropped me and didn’t bother to get in touch.’
I watched her eyes flicker over me, knowing I’d changed from the teenager she remembers. After losing weight, I’d recently had my long hair cut into a chiselled style that accentuated my cheekbones. My make-up was minimal but dramatic – black mascara, red lips, my clothes well-cut, smart, as if I’d come from work. It was another of my rules – dress for the life you want to live, even if you don’t have it yet.
In her ripped boyfriend jeans and faded sweatshirt, I wondered if she felt as frumpy as she looked. Folding her arms, she stood there. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Can I come in? Let yourself go a bit, haven’t you?’ Without being invited, I walked past her, then stood there, looking around the hallway. When she didn’t say anything, I prowled into her living room, poking around until I found something. ‘The husband?’ I waved a framed photo in the air towards her, deliberately goading her. Then without waiting for her reply, picked up another. ‘Oh, a baby. How sweet. Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself. What’s its name?’
This time I got a response. ‘Put the pictures back.’
But I ignored her. ‘Quite the nice life you have here, Amy. Does he know? The husband? About what happened all those years ago? About what kind of person you really are?’
She lost control the way I’d always known she would, rushing at me, trying to grab the photos. But as she wrestled them from me, one of them fell to the floor. When she picked it up, the glass had cracked.
‘Never mind.’ My words were loaded with cynicism. ‘I’m sure you’ll think up a way to cover yourself. Back to your question, as to why I’m here.’ Dropping the act, I leaned towards her until my face was inches from hers. ‘I’ve come to tell you what my life has been like, ever since your sister died. Ever since your bloody gran told my parents. They sent me away, Amy. Not to some nice private school like you might have gone to, but to some vile prison camp where I was bullied. For three years my life was hell. After that, guess what? It got even better.’ My voice took on a mocking tone. ‘Did you hear they disowned me? Imagine – nowhere to go at Christmas, no birthday cards, no friendly phone calls, just to see how you are, darling.’ Not just that, but they disinherited me, too. When the wealthy old bastards die, I get nothing.’
‘And you blame me?’ A look of contempt crossed her face. ‘If you think it’s my fault, you’re talking rubbish.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I take that back. You’re insane. You know as well as I do what actually happened that day. You can’t walk in here and put
