Girl Unknown (36 page)

His rage came and went over the next few weeks. Sometimes it erupted in spurts of indignation and boiling fury. At others it was like a slow, seeping pool of acid in the pit of his stomach. It was exhausting being angry all the time. It left him mentally and physically drained. He could hardly stay awake at school. His cello seemed heavier than ever and he began to dread having to lug it up the stairs and into the hall for rehearsals. At home, when he was supposed to be studying for his exams, he would instead crawl into bed and try to sleep.

Something had happened to him – he knew that. Something cataclysmic. She had come into their family as if wielding a gorilla bar, wrenching it open, changing its shape to accommodate her. But the shape that it became was skewed – sharp and angular. There were no curved surfaces. He no longer recognized it. He felt that when she had shoved the bar in, looking to gain purchase, it had anchored deep inside him, changing something within.

Chance is everything. A set of circumstances coming together, merging at a particular time. Sometimes, when he is lying awake in his cell at night, Robbie plays the What If? game in his mind. What if they had never gone to France? What if Zoë and Chris had not got engaged? He could go further back. What if he’d never known Zoë existed? But that’s not interesting to him. She’s so deeply embedded in him now, even though she’s dead –
especially
because she’s dead – that he cannot imagine his life without her in it.

Months have passed, but still he can summon an image of her that day in her bikini standing by the pool, the way
the water skimmed down her body in rivulets, the outline of her nipples beneath the wet fabric, another triangular outline of hair between her legs. He believes that was the moment when it had started to build inside him. Agitation like a drone in his brain. It kept building and growing and it didn’t stop, even after the debacle in the restaurant when Chris left and Zoë stayed. The thing inside him was like a stone that gave off an electronic hum, like a generator, or an electricity pylon. It just wouldn’t stop. It frightened him. He didn’t understand it, didn’t want it, couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. He slipped away from the others, back to the room he shared with Holly. Exhaustion was clawing at him and he nearly cried for want of sleep.

When he had crawled into bed that night, the whir was loud in his brain, only this time he recognized the trills and sweeps within it, the swaying movement of waves, the pitter-patter from droplets of sea-spray. How many times had he heard that music? How many hours had he spent rehearsing it? Debussy’s
La Mer
– a piece of music he had loved but now he felt infected by it, the score trickling out to occupy every pocket of his brain, soaking it. And yet it was not quite right, the sound slightly skewed, as if one of the instruments was out of tune, or one of the musicians fractionally out of rhythm. There was no pleasure to the music now, only annoyance and irritation. It scratched around the rim of his thoughts, and he turned over in bed, tried to find a cool spot on the pillow, but the music clung to his brain, the strains of the cello in the third movement like bows scratching across razor-wire.

‘She’s not even our real sister.’

Holly’s voice had skimmed above the pool of his thoughts. He turned and saw her lying on her side, her bed tucked under the window. How long had she been lying there? The jittery third movement was in his head and he tried to silence it as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. ‘What?’

‘I found out yesterday, before the dinner. Dad had a DNA test done.’

‘Shut up.’

‘It’s true. I saw the letter myself. She’s not our sister.’

‘You’re lying. He would have told us.’

‘He wanted to keep it to himself.’

‘Why?’

What she said next was too outrageous to believe. Disgusted, he pulled back the covers and left the room.

The house was quiet, empty, no sign of either of his parents. He felt the heat of the previous day continue to linger within the stillness of the rooms, a smell of burning in the air. The doors to the garden were open and he could see Zoë on the sun-lounger next to the pool, perched on one edge, her head balanced on one hand. Crazy, the hope that bloomed in his heart. If Holly was right about the DNA test, then that changed everything. On the other hand, could it be true what Holly had said about what she had witnessed? It was too repulsive to think about.

She turned to look as he stepped out on to the terrace. Her phone was in her hand, like she’d been texting someone.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he told her.

‘Me neither,’ she said, and gestured for him to sit next to her. ‘It’s so lonely in there, in that bedroom, on my own.’

He sat close to her, as close as he dared. It was still night, although it could not be long before dawn. He could feel the heat of her thigh next to his. She was smoking and he watched her put the cigarette to her lips, heard the soft puckering sound of her lips on the filter.

‘Have you heard from Chris?’ He nodded at her phone, and she answered no.

‘It’s over,’ she said, and he should have felt happy. It was what he wanted, after all. But instead he felt confused, dissatisfied, his brain still reeling from all that Holly had told him. He was so desperately tired and the music kept rising in his brain, then falling back again, little teasing eddies.

‘I knew it wouldn’t last,’ she told him. ‘Nothing ever does.’

She sounded deflated, a little forlorn, and he put his arm around her shoulders, felt her bare skin soft beneath his fingertips.

‘Some things last,’ he said quietly.

She turned her face to him. ‘You’re the only one, Robbie. The only one who understands.’

His heart was beating madly in his chest. He felt his courage rise. If it was true what Holly had said, then it would be all right, wouldn’t it? Her skin was so soft beneath his touch. Slowly, he ran his fingers down her back.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, nerves in her laughter but she didn’t move away, didn’t tell him to stop.

He wanted to tell her but didn’t dare speak the words. Instead he felt the nubs of her spine beneath his fingertips, the rounded curve of her buttocks on the hard plastic of the lounger.

‘Robbie …’ she said and he heard it all in her voice, the fear at what they were about to do, the undercurrent of excitement. It was like they were embarking on the greatest adventure of their lives and no one could know about it but the two of them. Their little secret. And as he leaned in to kiss her, he imagined he heard something – the rustle of leaves, the low breathing of a third party, someone watching them.

‘Don’t,’ he heard her say but he pressed his mouth against hers anyway, knowing she didn’t mean it, recognizing it as a last defence against what they both knew was inevitable.

‘Stop,’ she said and he felt her hand against his chest, pushing him away.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, and he saw the confusion on her brow, realized she was angry.

‘I thought …’

‘You thought what?’

‘That you wanted it too.’

Her expression was horrified. It left him cold.

He opened his mouth to say something more but her phone buzzed on her lap and she glanced down at it.

‘Who’s it from?’ he asked, unable to help himself, although part of him screamed that he should ignore it, stay in the moment, see where it might take them. Here they were, on the cusp of something amazing, the start of the first true passion in either of their lives, and he had to go and ask about some stupid text message.

‘It’s Philippe,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘Who?’

‘You know. From the restaurant?’

‘What does he want?’

‘There’s a party,’ she replied, reaching down for her bag, slotting her cigarettes back in.

‘You’re not going?’ he asked.

She didn’t answer, just stood up and smoothed down her skirt. She was still angry with him.

‘Are you going to fuck him?’ He surprised himself with the sharpness of his words.

She stared at him, her forehead creasing into a frown. ‘I see,’ she said, frost coming into her tone. ‘Like that, is it?’

He shrugged, pressed a finger to the corner of his eye.

It didn’t matter what she said. He knew she was going off to fuck that guy. He was sure of it, and the sureness of that knowledge made the thrum in his head louder, the creaking strains of the string section sawing through his inner ear. And he was tired, so very, very tired. If he could only sleep …

‘What would you know of it anyway?’ she went on. ‘You’re just a child. What experience have you got?’

‘Plenty.’

She laughed. ‘Please, don’t bother lying. It’s so obvious you’re a virgin. You’ve probably never even been touched by a girl.’

‘Bullshit. I’ve had plenty.’

‘Liar.’

‘I have.’

‘Name one.’

‘Claire Waters,’ he said – the first name that came into his head. Poor balding, anorexic Claire, with her viola balanced on her bony little shoulder. Debussy in his head again, the relentless press of the sea.

‘And what did Claire Waters do for you?’ she asked, taunting him now. ‘Did she hold your little pecker? Did she take you in her mouth?’

The thought of Claire’s spidery fingers gripped around him made him shivery and nauseous. That and the viciousness in Zoë’s voice fired up the symphony inside him, cymbals crashing in his head. He flung himself back against the headrest of the sun-lounger, forearms over his face so she couldn’t see how much she’d hurt him.

‘And as for that pathetic attempt just now …’

‘Don’t,’ he warned her.

‘Coming on to me. Your own sister.’

‘You’re not my sister,’ he said, petulance creeping in as he tried to cover up his humiliation.

‘What?’

‘You’re not. I know you’re not.’

He couldn’t make her out but he knew, somehow, that she was smiling. When she spoke again, it was in a low whisper, but he felt her voice coming close to him, knew that she was leaning in. ‘You thought one little piece of paper could clear the way for you, did you?’

‘Shut up.’

‘All this time I thought you were being nice to me because you’re my brother but, actually, you’ve had a crush on me – fantasized about me.’ She said this in a kind of amazed voice, but there was detachment, too, as if it didn’t really affect her. It was not shock she was expressing but amusement. Everything was just a joke to her – even his love, delicate and shy, was something to be kicked around with hilarity.

‘That’s pretty sick,’ she whispered, her mouth close to
his ear. ‘Sick and twisted. I think that’s even worse than what your dad did to me.’

He would never forgive her for this. Never. Whatever she had meant to him before, however much he had loved her, it could never be the same between them again.

Movement behind him. This time he didn’t imagine it. A third party. A witness to what he had said, to what he had attempted to do. Zoë looked up.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear it. He pressed his arms hard over his face and thought of every sad, sweaty encounter on the dance-floor at Wesley, every look of amusement and apology he’d received before the girl turned away and started giggling with her friends. He thought of Melissa Lynch in the orchestra and that time he’d tried to kiss her, heard the surprise in her laughter, her voice in his head saying: ‘You’re the kind of guy girls want as a friend, Robbie. That’s the great thing about you. Knowing we can be friends without things ever getting complicated by sex.’ Even poor Claire Waters, who looked more dead than alive: Robbie knew, in his heart of hearts, that not even she would touch him. Zoë’s words were in his head, the way she had looked at him. He knew that she had seen right through him, taken the measure of him, and what he felt now was a swelling of shame. He thought again of what Holly had told him, what she had said. The noise rose to a crescendo, all those screaming strings, the screech of brass, and he pushed his fingers deep into his ears. It made no difference. The music was inside his head. No matter what he did, he couldn’t block it out.

Did he say her name? He cannot remember. All he remembers is the surprise on her face as she fell backwards. The sound her head made as it met the edge of the diving board – a sharp crack like a small pistol going off. Her mouth opening but no sound coming out, nothing but a gasp of air as she fell backwards.

Blood bloomed from the side of her head, spreading out into the waters of the pool. His mother was there, too, although he has no recollection of her arrival. She’s in the pool screaming something at him, but he doesn’t hear the words. Debussy is still in his head. He can hear the whines of the violins, the jagged edge of the cellos’ bowing. How can he still hear them? Why haven’t they been silenced?

Arms going around him, the strong clasp of hands against his back. ‘It will be all right,’ a voice whispers. ‘Everything will be all right now.’ His father leans over Zoë, for all the world like he’s going to kiss her again. Debussy is in Robbie’s head, playing in an eternal loop, the waves of the music like the waves of the sea, moving in tides, endlessly back and forth. His father leans over Zoë. Robbie closes his eyes.

26. Girl Unknown

The evening before Caroline and Holly fly back to France, Susannah calls over with a bottle of Margaux – a Christmas present, she says. They sit at the kitchen island and drink it, just the two of them, trying to summon some semblance of festive cheer. There are no decorations, not even a Christmas tree.

Susannah, the one true friend who has stuck by her, leans on the counter and imparts her news. ‘He has a new girlfriend.’

Caroline absorbs the information with mild shock. She has not spoken to Chris since Zoë’s death and neither has David, apart from that first terrible phone conversation when they had called to break the news. His reaction, the instant outpouring of grief, was awful. He has not spoken to them since, ignoring calls, emails, messages. Caroline reads into his silence the measure of accusation.

‘Another infant,’ Susannah goes on, a sneer in her voice. ‘Not quite as young as Zoë but not far off.’