Mo Hayder - Pig Island

After the phone call to Oakesy I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering: actually banging against each other. I'd given him every chance — every chance — to weasel out of it. But he didn't. He just went back to that awful guilty silence. I got up and stood at the bottom of the stairs, breathing in and out, trying to stop crying, knowing I was about to do something I'd regret the rest of my life.

Going up to her room was an effort. Every step I wanted to cry. But I wasn't going to let her know that, of course. I stood on the landing outside her door and pushed the tears off my face, taking a deep breath, pulling myself up as straight as I could. I didn't knock — why should I? — I just pushed the door open and stood there, tall and straight, in the doorway. The curtains were closed and the bedside light was on. She was sitting on the bed with her back to the wall, looking at me in surprise, defensive and wary. Her legs were curled up under her, hidden in a mishmash skirt with grubby-looking patches of Indian silk, Paisley and suede all sewn together. My heart beat really hard when I thought about what was under that skirt. What I knew that she didn't…

A small pelvic girdle with free extremity, adipose tissue, muscles and a rudimentary bowel sac … That's what I'll be telling Mr Spitz-

'Angeline,' I said. 'I'm going to tell you something.'

'T-tell me something?'

'Yes. Now, take off your clothes. Put them on the floor, then stand in front of the bed and I'll tell you something.'

She stared at me uncomprehendingly.

'I said, take off your clothes.'

'No,' she said faintly. 'No.'

'Yes!' I licked my lips. 'Yes, Angeline, you will because — because I know what's wrong with you. I've been talking to Dr Picot.'

She stopped shaking her head when I said 'Dr Picot'. Her chin went up and her eyes locked on mine.

'I know what's made you like you are. I know what's made you into a…' I put my hand on the doorframe, digging my nails into the wood. I knew if I didn't concentrate very hard I might cry. Parasitic. Acardiac and anencepbalic — no heart and no head. Parasitic… 'Into a freak. I know why you're a freak. So-' God, I had to gulp the air down to stay in control. 'So — now. Take. Off. Your. Clothes.'

She stared at me, a little pulse beating in the side of her neck, every corner of her brain processing what I was saying. An age seemed to go by. Then, just as I was about to say it again, something happened. She seemed suddenly to collect all her courage. She pushed herself off the bed on to her feet so quickly I took an instinctive step back, but she stopped a few inches in front of me, her arms at her sides, trembling like a leaf, and for a moment I just stared at her speechlessly. Then she pulled off her sweater and threw it on the floor.

I blinked very, very slowly, letting my eyes stay closed for a few seconds until my heart calmed down. Then I opened them again. She was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt; her arms were bare and unexpectedly muscular. She was still looking at me, but her throat was working as if she was trying hard not to be sick or to cry.

'The rest,' I said hoarsely. 'Take everything off.'

She pulled off the T-shirt, raising her arms, giving me a flash of underarm hair. She was very thin with small breasts and waist, but her hips were really wide and layered with muscle. She was wearing a greying, lace-trimmed bra that looked as if it had been washed about a hundred times. She unhooked it and let it drop to the ground, showing me her tiny breasts. I had to fight not to lower my eyes.

'And the — the skirt.'

She unzipped it and stepped out of it, kicking it aside. She wasn't wearing underwear. It was just her legs, thin and a bit scarred round the knees, and her dark pubic hair, but she didn't try to hide herself. She was looking me right in the eye. The blood raced to my face.

'Turn round,' I whispered. 'Turn round and face the bed.'

She didn't move. We stood there for a long time, holding each other's eyes, and I had this sense we were teetering on an edge, that this could go either way. Something in my head was screaming for it to stop, stop.

'I said, turn round.'

The room was silent. Downstairs the washing-machine went into its final spin and that was the only noise, apart from us both breathing. Then Angeline swallowed. I could hear it, could hear all the ligaments and muscles clicking together.

'Whatever,' she said tightly, tears welling in her eyes. 'Whatever you tell me — I've thought about it. And I'm not going to have an operation. I'm not ashamed.'

And before I could answer she took a step away from me to the bed and turned and suddenly there it was, all displayed in front of me. I put my hand on the doorframe to steady myself, my eyes wide and fixed. The tail — except I knew it wasn't a tail — came out of her spine like a giant tree root. It went out backwards a little, then hung down slightly to the side.

A collection of calcifications in the pelvis, a single deformed long bone erupting from the sacrococcygeal region. Parasitic…

Her hands hovered in the region of her back for a second, then she raised them — straight up in the air so there was nothing I couldn't look at. I could see now, now that I knew, I could see clearly that it wasn't a tail but a deformed leg.

Parasitic. A parasitic limb…

There was a thick, visible vein that ran along the top of it, down to the swollen tip, which must have been a crude, spade-shaped foot. I pictured what I knew was inside her: half a twin with its mouth open, drinking Angeline's blood, yawning and hiccuping and baring its bloodied teeth the way a baby does in the womb. I pictured her heart pounding, thinking of it working hard to feed her twin. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to pull at the leg, tear it out of her. It was unthinkable Oakesy could fancy her. With her looking like this… how anyone could want to…

I bit down hard on my tongue, a bud of blood welling through my teeth until the urge to hit her went.

'Duplicata incomplete,' I said, my voice coming out louder than I'd expected. 'Duplicata incompleta. Incomplete separation.'

There was a pause. Angeline's arms seemed to waver a bit, as if they were suddenly heavier. But she raised them up again, trembling with the effort. 'I'm not going to have an operation,' she said, in a small, strained voice. 'I'm not like this because of anything I did and there's nothing-'

'A parasitic twin. No head. No heart.' I paused to let this sink in. 'Just that leg and a few vertebrae sticking up inside you.'

She sagged. She made a noise in her throat, then her whole body seemed to convulse. She toppled forward on to the bed, rolling away and trying to gather the limb up to her at the same time. Self-pitying tears ran down her face.

'Don't cry!' I was the one who should be crying. Not her. 'Stop it. Stop it now.' I took a few steps forward so I was standing above her, looking down at her body, her scarred legs. 'Stop it!'

But she was sobbing, her forehead hard against her knees, which were pulled up, showing everything down there, everything normal at the front — labia majora with a sprinkling of hair. (Don't forget I'm a professional — that's why I can be so pragmatic about it.) Her hands were clasped round the leg, holding it tight against her bottom: it ran straight against her thigh, then hung a little, stiff and scaly, as if it wanted to droop to the bed but couldn't. I crouched down so I was eye-level with her vulva, smelling its faint peppery odour. When she realized I'd moved she opened her eyes, meeting mine, and tried to sit up, this panicky look on her face. But I didn't give her time to speak. I got on the bed and pushed at one thigh, pressing it out to the side and putting one knee on it to hold it there. The other I forced down so I could see everything.