PARTI
We are sisters.
We are partners in crime
We are a mirrored mime
A moment in time
What’s yours is mine
Together entwined
By bloodline.
We are sisters.
‘The Palmer Twins: A Grave Awakening’ by Faye Mathis
CHAPTER1
THE GRAVEDIGGER
Digging her grave is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Not because he cares about the dying woman on the dirty grass behind him, but because it fucking hurts. Even with gloves, his flesh burns from the rough wood of the shovel handle, and his back, shoulders and arms ache from the effort of heaving soil. And the soil… it’s everywhere: on his jeans, his boots, his skin, mingled with his sweat, in his eyes, his hair, his mouth.
The moonlight moves like a wraith across the moor grass, picking out patches of mauve-coloured heather. He has turned off the powerful torch in case a driver on one of the distant roads sees it. Even though he has carried his victim far away from any footpaths, he still worries that her body will be found quickly by a dog walker after the sun rises. He digs deeper. This will not be a shallow grave. She cannot be found any time soon.
Owls screech in the distance. He ignores their cries, just as he has ignored the rustling of foxes and grouse through the undergrowth. Perhaps the odd grass snake too. He has not seen cattle or sheep up here but if there are some, they may wander over to investigate the noise. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want cows signalling to their farmer that there’s something strange in their pasture.
He pauses and wipes the sweat from his forehead. How much longer is this going to take? The dying woman, the person he despises most in this world, has been quiet for a while. Ever since he administered the overdose that should have killed her by now. He turns around to check.
The moonlight is weak, so he bends down and collects the heavy torch. The power switch gives a satisfyingclunkas the light illuminates the area where he dumped her on the ground.
The yellow beam strikes the moor grass gently stirring in the night breeze. It shows two squinting eyes and the furry body of a young fox sniffing around a pile of vomit on the ground. The gravedigger rushes forward, his stomach turning as he sees the partially dissolved pills that he force-fed his victim before he threw her into the boot of his car.
But the discovery of the vomit isn’t what makes his blood run cold.
The illuminated ground reveals that the woman he thought would be dead by now, is no longer there at all.
CHAPTER2
FAYE
Ibecome conscious standing in front of a mirror. When I glance down at my hands, I see pale, clenched fingers gripping the bathroom sink. I gently ease them from the porcelain and make my way into the lounge. The clock on the wall tells me it’s 2 a.m. Why am I up so late?
The silence makes way for the sounds of the North Sea in the distance and a sense of peace floods my body. The tide washing over the coastline in relentless rhythm, refreshing and renewing.
It’s not unusual for me to find myself lost at night. It’s called sundowning. The mind cannot disconnect and give itself to sleep; instead, it becomes more alive, working on overdrive but not functioning correctly. I don’t need to panic or overreact. I know these things can happen. This is just one symptom I’ll have to live with from now on.
Six months ago, I was diagnosed with young-onset dementia. It all happened a few weeks after my fiftieth birthday party.
“I am not the sum of my illness.”
It helps to say the words out loud.
Reclining against the plush sofa, I continue to listen to the sea for fifteen minutes or so. Then I pour a glass of water and head back to bed. The bricks and plaster and glass settle around me like an old friend. The Palmer House is the holiday home I bought from the royalties of my third Palmer Twins book, and is the one thing I requested in the divorce settlement after Scott got his assistant pregnant. It sits atop the Yorkshire cliffs facing the cold, blue sea that stretches beyond. My safe haven and sanctuary, decorated and furnished exactly how I wanted it. Unlike my life in London, which feels like a million years ago now. The sterile house always kept perfectly clean in case Scott wanted to bring colleagues and clients over for dinner. The Palmer House can be covered in notebooks and pens and torn out pages from magazines that remind me of the characters I’m writing.
I never imagined I would be living here alone in my fifties, but now that it’s happening, I enjoy it. The freedom, the space to prioritise myself, thequiet. Except for moments like this when my mind glitches. Maybe that’s how I’ll think of sundowning from now on, a technical glitch. It makes it feel less permanent.
