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

The problem was having no hope.

The sun beat down on her head. She wanted to lie down and rest, regardless of the passers-by, heedless of the noise and bustle. She felt she could sleep for a hundred years. Perhaps if she looked pitiful enough, someone would save her. But she knew they wouldn’t. The more needy you were, the more they ignored you. The more woeful, the more uncomfortable for others. Few, if any, wanted to get involved and who could blame them? There had been kindness amidst the devastation in her home country, people sharing their shelter and what little food they had. But Fatima wasn’t stupid and not ignorant, either. She knew how she and her compatriots were viewed, talked about, written about.

As ‘swarms’ and ‘floods’ and ‘marauding invaders’. Or, possibly even worse, as piteous and desperate, each pair of pleading eyes or outreached arms diminished by the sheer number of them, dehumanised and depersonalised by being one face amongst so very many.

In deciding to leave her country – although was it a decision when there seemed to be no other option? – she had taken on inconceivable, unimagined challenges. There was nothing to do but pull herself together and face those challenges. To get on with it. Think about Marwa and Maryam. She closed her hand around the warm, metal object in her pocket and squeezed it tight. It was the key to her house that no longer existed in her city that had been razed to the ground. She should throw it away and would have already done so but for the fact that it was all that was left of her old life, the only thing to remind her.

Getting up off the pavement and dusting herself down she defiantly tucked in her headscarf where it had come loose. Some women had stopped wearing a scarf so as not to stand out, to avoid being noticed. But Fatima would no more go out with an uncovered head as with uncovered breasts. They had not taken everything away from her yet, not reduced her to being ashamed of her culture, her identity.

Setting off along the busy promenade, she held her head high and tried to look purposeful. She had a list of things she must buy, but it meant spending money and she needed to protect every cent because there were so many things to be paid for. She must choose wisely and purchase only what was absolutely necessary for the next stage of their odyssey.

Perhaps the saddest fact of all, the most depressing, she thought as she handed over the precious notes for the life-jackets, the plastic wallets for the mobile phones, water for the journey, was that if it wasn’t her and her fellow citizens fleeing for a better life, it would be other people from other countries. There would always be another war, another catastrophe whether man-made or natural, to cause the human tide to swell and surge. This was a fact that would never change.

‘Service!’

The cry rang out as it did endlessly during the lunchtime shift. Edie seized the large platter of mixed seafood from the counter and walked to table ten, as quickly as she could without looking too deferential. It might be her job to serve but there was no need to look servile in the process. She passed Milan, one of the other restaurant staff, on the way there.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked, grinning cheerily. He was always inexplicably jolly.

‘Not bad,’ replied Edie. ‘Ask me again in a few hours’ time when I go off shift and I’ll be even better.’

Milan chuckled heartily. ‘I will!’ he answered, and twirled the empty silver tray he was carrying on his forefinger, one of his favourite party tricks. ‘Keep smiling, Edie.’

Edie did, indeed, smile, at the same time as shaking her head in mock despair. There was simply no keeping Milan down; he was irrepressible. She wondered what it was that made her so relentlessly cynical, what trauma or trouble from her childhood had caused it. Perhaps always playing second fiddle to her twin Laura was the root of the problem; the knowledge that Laura would always have the edge in looks, intelligence and charm. In response, Edie had resorted to affecting a generally world-weary and sceptical persona that meant that, whenever she failed – at a spelling test, a netball match or A-level history – and Laura succeeded, she could pretend that she hadn’t tried and didn’t care in the first place.

Nevertheless, despite their innate competitiveness, Edie thought the world of her sister and missed her like crazy. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about her and wonder what she was doing. Today was no different to any other. Laura was always on her mind.

‘Excuse me.’ A customer calling for her attention broke her reverie. Edie deposited the seafood platter with its eager recipients and turned to address the enquiry.

‘You didn’t bring us any cutlery,’ declaimed the bottle-blonde, her voice an exaggerated lament.

You didn’t ask for any, Edie wanted to retort but restrained herself just in time. She was aware of the need to mind her step. You never knew when Vlad, the vulpine resort manager, was watching. Perfectly positioned at the centre of a horseshoe bay of golden sand, the location meant that the beach bar and restaurant was popular with tourists and locals alike. There was a constant stream of customers from opening time at 8 a.m. until they shut up shop at midnight or later. The resort itself was aimed at wealthy Russians and Europeans – French, English, German, Italian – hence Edie’s job there, for Vlad felt that an English girl would understand the requirements of the cosmopolitan clientele better than a local. Edie had been somewhat economical with the truth about her ability to speak French (failed GCSE but he wasn’t to know) and English was her mother tongue. That had been enough for Vlad to take her on, but he could equally get rid of her if her work wasn’t up to standard.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Edie apologised to the customer, who gave a long-suffering sigh in response. ‘I’ll get you some right away.’

She turned back towards the bar and kitchen, trying hard not to drag her feet. She had cleaned cabanas all morning and then come straight here for the lunchtime shift and she’d now been taking food orders, pulling pints of pale yellow lager, preparing cocktails with coloured parasols and handing over bottles of fizzy pop with bendy straws for the kids for over two hours already. It was the first time in her life she’d had to work so hard, on her feet for hours at a time, her breaks never seeming long, frequent or restful enough.

Once she’d delivered the cutlery, she sought respite by going round behind the kitchen, ostensibly to fetch a crate of Coke but in reality to get five minutes’ time out from the frenzy. Standing in front of the huge fridge door, Edie sensed a presence, someone near her, an uncanny sensation of being watched. She looked around. She couldn’t see anyone but knew that she was being spied on. A curl of excitement slid through her, that feeling of playing hide-and-seek as a child and knowing that you are about to be found and starting to giggle even as delicious fear slides through your veins.

She stood quite motionless for a moment. It must be Vuk, playing games with her. Big, bad, incredibly sexy Vuk, deputy manager, Vlad’s right-hand man – and Edie’s latest and most covetable conquest. The slither of fear turned to a frisson of excitement that began in her belly and spread tantalisingly outwards.

Then came a stifled giggle, audible even above the music and voices and laughter filtering through from the restaurant. Not Vuk then; someone female by the sounds of it. Edie turned rapidly around, took two great strides forward that brought her to the corner of the building where she halted, almost falling over, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the light. Her eyes recovered, she looked up. And came face to face with herself.