Alex Day - The Missing Twin - A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist

‘Maybe your husband was planning something,’ the bank clerk shrugged, half-bored and half-enjoying her discomfort. ‘I can see here that he withdrew all the money from this account and the associated savings account a week or so ago.’

Fatima leaned against the counter for support. She felt hot and sick and dizzy.

‘You better ask him why,’ continued the clerk by way of conclusion. ‘Now if you don’t mind, many people are waiting.’

Fatima inched herself along the counter just far enough for the next client to take her place. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the empty booth in front of her. In that moment, she hated this war as she had never hated anything before and surely never would again. It had made Fayed do something which he would not have countenanced in any other circumstances – act in secret, without discussing his plans with her. Fatima knew his actions would have been driven by love and a desire to do the best for his family. But that was little comfort now that he was gone and all of their money with him.

All Fatima had was what she kept deposited in an account she had set up when the girls were born, that she herself managed and paid into. She took out every penny. The sum that had disappeared by the time she had bought the items on Safa’s list was frightening; prices of the most basic goods were escalating by the day. That evening, Fatima sewed a secret pocket into the waistband of her trousers and stashed the remaining money inside it. There was only one explanation for Fayed’s actions. He must have decided that they should leave; he probably hadn’t wanted her to know to prevent her from worrying or perhaps because these days, it was often best to know nothing in case of summary arrest and interrogation. Aware of what Fayed had had in mind, and believing in her husband’s ability to make the right decisions as he always had, she went to Ehsan to talk about their future.

It turned out that Ehsan had a fair amount of cash; between them, they might just be able to manage. Manage to get away, that was, not to stay. The widow Safa and the various members of her family who lived with her were kind but, like everyone, were struggling hard enough to keep themselves going in these terrible days. Often, there was not enough food, power supplies were intermittent and unreliable and the cramped conditions they were living in were bound to breed illness and disease. When the next winter came, everything would be a hundred times harder. By then, who knew what would be left of the country.

More and more bombs dropped by day and by night. Where they struck was random and indiscriminate. House raids could happen anytime; nobody knew when the door would be broken down and the men, such as were left, taken, imprisoned, tortured, killed. Towns in the north were besieged; starving residents reduced to eating grass and cats to stay alive. New threats arose all the time, bands of fighters more vicious than the last, their methods and ideologies ruthless and barbaric, devoid of mercy. Public beheadings were commonplace, mass slaughter just another everyday occurrence. The enemy was everywhere and everyone; most people no longer knew who was fighting who or why.

It was obvious to Fatima that they must make arrangements to leave. There was no time to apply for new passports to replace the ones that had been lost along with the house. That could take weeks or months in the current chaos, even supposing they were issued at all. Anyone could be accused of being on the other side, an enemy of the state, and then there would be no documents and probably no freedom. In any case, it was not a good idea to make yourself known to the authorities, to draw attention to yourself. They would have to take the chance of getting across the border illegally.

There had to be a better life for them all than this. There had to be a life.

***

In the idle days before they left, and the silent hours of the night when there were no air strikes, Fatima began to think about contacting Ali. For the first time since the war had begun, it seemed that perhaps now was the time to mend bridges and renew family ties. Ali was out there somewhere, in Europe Fatima assumed. He was in a safe place, and maybe if she could find him, he would be able to help, send money, get them a route out, support them into Europe also. But so much had been said; so many accusations been made against Ali by her father when he was still alive – accusations of betrayal because he had refused to have an arranged marriage, did not want to take over the family business and did not follow all aspects of Islam – that it seemed unlikely the rift could ever be healed. Fatima had been instructed to join the rest of the family in disowning him, and she had done as she was told because she had been so young at the time, only twelve, although underneath she still loved her big brother like she always had.

She thought about contacting him now the chips were down and their lives might depend on it, but did not do it. He would most likely hate her for being party to the whole sorry affair of his banishment from the family home and subsequent exile, and for only getting touch when she needed something from him. To track him down and then have her requests fall on deaf ears would be worse than not hearing anything at all, because then she would know that she had lost her only brother for ever. She pushed thoughts of Ali from her mind. Imagining that out there somewhere lay a saviour, a guardian angel who could guide and help them to safety, was plain fantasy. She, Ehsan and the children would survive only on their wits, by the making of good decisions, and with a whole lot of luck.

Angels do not exist.

Abandoned anew by Vuk, Edie meandered through the resort, at a loss for what to do. She had thought about the whole Laura shenanigans almost without let-up and decided that in all likelihood, she had gone off with some bloke – perhaps one of the Russians they had met at the marina – and would amble back once his flight had departed for Moscow or St Petersburg or Vladivostok or wherever it was he was from. She had no idea where Vladivostok was but she liked the way the letters rolled off her tongue and it amused her to think what its inhabitants would be called. If people from St Petersburg were Peterburzhy, would it make them Vladivostokhy? Or Vladivostokites like Muscovites? Either one could double as the name for an unpleasant intimate infection or a particularly repellent insect.

She passed cabana 16, grumpily kicking at the sand as she walked. The cabana was quiet and still; the loungers piled on top of each other in the corner, the washing line free of swimming costumes and towels, the recycling crate by the front door empty of bottles – all indicating a property waiting for its next inhabitants.

Pausing only for a second to think about it, Edie slipped through the gate and disappeared behind the fence. Stripping off her clothes as she walked, she arrived at the edge of the pool in seconds. It was not deep enough for diving so she slid into the water and struck off from the side, reaching the opposite wall in just a few strokes. The cabana pools were small but kept at just the right temperature – cooler than the sea at this time of year, and in the middle of the afternoon, when the beach was at its busiest, Edie preferred to stay away. It was all right if you had nothing to do but lounge around and read trashy novels, but when it was only ever a brief respite from her life of drudgery, it made her too jealous of the holidaymakers.

Pushing her body down to the very bottom of the pool she practised her breath-holding, relaxing completely, slowing her heart-rate, counting to sixty as many times as she could. Three minutes twenty. No improvement, in fact a relapse; she needed to keep working at it. She surfaced and arched her body backwards, streaming effortlessly onto her back where she lay still, her arms and legs spread into a star. She floated with her eyes shut, bright red pricks of light pulsing behind the lids, the gentle swoosh of the water filling her ears.