CHAPTER 21
FAYE
High up on Seeley Moor, I watch the sun rise over the sea. I have a travel mug of hot tea in my hand as I trudge the empty coastal path, my thoughts coming and going like the tide.
Grass rustles behind me. A footstep. I turn, but there’s no one there. Only the lingering sense of being watched. My heartbeat quickens. I wait, expecting a dog walker to emerge from the other side of the path. But there’s no one. I’m alone again.
I received the call I’d been waiting for yesterday afternoon, from my case worker at the adoption agency. Privacy laws meant that the information she could share was extremely thin. I would need Rachel’s consent for more details, but I’m not sure Rachel is in any fit state to agree to anything. My birth father wasn’t named, nor were any other relatives. All I know is that I was born at James Cook Hospital in Middlesbrough, and I weighed less than six pounds. I found this last detail curious. Why was I so small? Was I premature? Or was I a twin?
Either way, I still have no proof of a missing sister and evidence is stacking up against that theory. If I apply Occam’s razor then the most obvious answer points to it being me in the photo. Alistair could be mistaken about the scar on the leg. It could have been a trick of the light. Jason Jay might not have seen blood after all but the muddy remnants of a fall on the moors.
I linger for a moment, almost daring myself to lose control. Let it come for me. The brain fog. The paranoia. Let it take away this barbed wire of anxiety lying inside me. I ball up my fists and scream at the sea, watching the gulls flap away from the cliff in surprise. Screw meditation today. My therapy is a primal yell from the pit of my stomach.
Reality creeps over me. There is no point in wallowing. I have too much to do and too much to enjoy. I can find out about my past. I can dance with Alistair and kiss in taxis. I can sit in my beautiful house facing the sea and write my books.
It takes less than thirty minutes to walk home. The stretch of my muscles feels good. As I walk inside the front door, I feel I’ve successfully managed to get the creative juices flowing, so I head straight to my office to work. I start with free writing, letting words spill out of me and releasing all the blockages that have plagued me over the last week. Then I gather up my notes to work on the Palmer Twins.
A new poem catches my eye.
I see him on the hill
The boy made of bone
Standing there with a knife-edge smile
All bloated with darkling guile
And his heart like a stone
And his skin alabaster
He’s here to hate you,
To become your master.
The boy on the hill
Will have his fill
Of chaos and evil
The boy on the hill
Made of bone
Made of stone
Destined to be
Alone.
I inhalea sharp breath as my fingers stroke the paper. I don’t remember writing this at all. When I read these words, I think of Nathan. I think about him standing over me at the bottom of the stairs all those years ago, ignoring my cries for help, his expression devoid of emotion.
Suddenly my phone pings, making me jump.
Good morning, sexy. I miss you. We need to meet up!
A flutter of excitement courses through me as I read Alistair’s message, before it’s replaced with a thrust of guilt. I should have told him about my diagnosis on our last date. But the moment passed so quickly. Then he came home and we were laughing and drinking and kissing… Now I’ve left it so long it’s verging on lying.
