The Ice Twins. S. K. Tremayne

Even then, there was some confusion, a blurring of identity. Something slightly unnerving. And now beloved Lydia is gone. Isn’t she? Or maybe she is alive down there, even as her stuff is crated and boxed up here? If that is the case, how would we possibly untangle this, without destroying the family?

      The complexities are intolerable. I am talking to myself.

      Work, Sarah, work. Sort the loft. Do the job. Ignore the grief, get rid of the stuff you don’t need, then move to Scotland, to Skye, the open skies: where Kirstie – Kirstie, Kirstie, Kirstie – can run wild and free. Where we can all soar away, escaping the past, like the eiders flying over the Cuillins.

      One of the boxes is ripped open.

      I stare, bewildered, and shocked. Lydia’s biggest box of toys has been sliced open. Brutally. Who would do that? It has to be Angus. But why? And with such careless savagery? Why wouldn’t he tell me? We discussed everything to do with Lydia’s things. But now he has been retrieving Lydia’s toys, without telling me?

      The rain is hissing, once again. And very close, a few feet above my head.

      Leaning into the opened box, I pull back a flap to have a look, and as I do, I hear a different noise – a distinctive, metallic rattle. Someone is climbing the stepladder?

      Yes.

      The noise is unmistakable. Someone is in the house. How did they get in without my hearing? Who is this climbing into the loft? Why didn’t Beany start barking, in the kitchen?

      I stand back. Absurdly frightened.

      ‘Hello? Hello? Who is it? Hello??’

      ‘All right, Gorgeous?’

      ‘Angus!’

      He smiles in the half-light which shines from the landing beneath. He looks definitely odd: like a cheap horror movie villain, someone illuminated from below by a ghoulish torch.

      ‘Jesus, Angus, you scared me!’

      ‘Sorry, babe.’

      ‘I thought you were on the way to Scotland?’

      Angus hauls himself up, and stands opposite. He is so tall – six foot three – he has to stoop slightly, or crack his dark handsome head on the rafters.

      ‘Forgot my passport. You have to take them these days – even for domestic flights.’ Angus is glancing beyond me, at the ripped-open carton of toys. Motes of dust hang in the air, between our two faces, caught by my torchlight. I want to shine the torch right in his eyes. Is he frowning? Smiling? Looming angrily? I cannot see. He is too tall, there is not enough light. But the mood is awkward. And strained.

      He speaks. ‘What are you doing, Sarah?’

      I turn my torch-beam, so it shines directly on the cardboard box. Crudely knifed open.

      ‘What it looks like?’

      ‘OK.’

      His silhouette, with the downstairs light behind him, has an uncomfortable shape, as if he is tensed, or angry. Menacing. Why? I talk in a hurry.

      ‘I’m sorting all this stuff. Gus, you know we have to do something, don’t we? About – About—’ I swallow away the grief, and gaze into the shadows of his face. ‘We have to sort Lydia’s toys and clothes. I know you don’t want to, but we have to decide. Do they come with us, or do we do something else?’

      ‘Get rid?’

      ‘Yes … Maybe.’

      ‘OK. OK. Ah. I don’t know.’

      Silence. And the ceaseless rain.

      We are stuck here. Stuck in this place, this groove, this attic. I want us to move on, but I need to know the truth about the box.

      ‘Angus?’

      ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ He is backing away, and heading for the ladder. ‘Let’s talk about it later, I can Skype you from Ornsay.’

      ‘Angus!’

      ‘Booked on the next flight, but I’ll miss that one too, if I’m not careful. Probably have to overnight in Inverness now.’ His voice is disappearing as he clambers down the ladder. He is leaving – and his exit has a furtive, guilty quality.

      ‘Wait!’

      I almost trip over, in my haste to follow him. Slipping down the ladder. He is heading for the stairs.

      ‘Angus, wait.’

      He turns, checking his wristwatch as he does.

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘Did you—’ I don’t want to ask this; I have to ask this. ‘Gus. Did you open the box of Lydia’s toys?’

      He pauses. Fatally.

      ‘Sure,’ he replies.

      ‘Why, Angus? Why on earth did you do that?’

      ‘Because Kirstie was bored with her toys.’

      His face has an expression that is designed to appear relaxed. And I get the horrible sensation that he is lying. My husband is lying to me.

      I’m lost; yet I have to say something.

      ‘So, Angus, you went into the loft and got one out? One of Lydia’s toys? Just like that?’

      He stares at me, unblinking. From three yards down the landing, with its bare pictureless walls and the big dustless squares, where we have already shifted furniture. My second-favourite bookcase, Angus’s precious chest of drawers, a legacy from his grandmother.

      ‘Yes. So? Hm?? What’s the problem, Sarah? Did I cross into enemy territory?’ His reassuring face is gone. He is definitely frowning. It is that dark, foreboding frown, which presages anger. I think of the way he hit his boss. I think of his father who beat his mother: more than once. No. This is my husband. He would never lay a finger on me. But he is very obviously angry as he goes on: ‘Kirstie was bored and unhappy. Saying she missed Lydia. You were out, Sarah. Coffee with Imogen. Right? So I thought, why not get her some of Lydia’s toys. Mm? That will console her. And deal with her boredom. So that’s what I did. OK? Is that OK?’

      His sarcasm is heavy. And bitter.

      ‘But—’

      ‘What would you have done? Said no? Told her to shut up and play with her own toys? Told her to forget that her sister existed?’

      He turns and crosses the landing – and begins to descend the stairs. And now I’m the one that feels guilty. His explanation makes sense. Yes, that’s what I would do, in the same situation. I think.

      ‘Angus—’

      ‘Yes?’ He pauses, five steps away.

      ‘I’m sorry. Sorry for interrogating you. It was a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

      ‘Tsch.’ He looks upwards, and his smile returns. Or at least a trace of it. ‘Don’t worry about it, darling. I’ll see you in Ornsay, OK? You take the low road and I’ll take the high road.’

      ‘And you’ll be in Scotland before me?’

      ‘Aye!’

      He is laughing now, in a mirthless way, and then he is saying goodbye, and then he is turning to leave: to get his passport and his bags, to go and fly up to Scotland.

      I hear him in the kitchen. His white smile lingers in my mind.

      The door slams, downstairs. Angus is gone. And quite suddenly: I miss him, physically.

      I want him. Still. More. Maybe more than ever, as it has been too long.

      I want to tempt him back inside, and unbutton his shirt, and I want us to have sex as if we haven’t had sex in many months. Even more, I want him to want to do that to me. I want him to march back into