The Lost Sister: A gripping emotional page turner with a breathtaking twist. Tracy Buchanan
‘I saw sleeping bags. One of the girls was still in her nightie.’
‘Girls?’ Matthew asked with a raised eyebrow.
Monica turned to him, nodding. ‘She looked young, maybe sixteen, seventeen.’
‘I bet he’s having fun,’ Matthew drawled.
Was it was one of the schoolgirls from the other day?
‘There was even a little table with tea and stuff on it,’ Monica added. ‘A few floor cushions as well. It looked rather comfy.’
‘You thinking of moving in, Monica?’ Matthew asked her.
‘Oh gosh, no!’ she said, raising her voice and getting flustered.
Daphne peered over at the sound of Monica’s raised voice.
‘Better go!’ Monica said, waving at them both and walking off as she frowned at Daphne.
‘She wants that guy’s babies,’ Matthew said.
‘Probably. He’s every frustrated housewife’s dream.’
‘So you like him too?’
I threw a pen at Matthew. ‘You know I’m not like the rest of them.’
‘Never, Selma, never,’ he said, winking at me before looking back at his computer.
As I tried to write copy for a leaflet for a local gym, I found my mind drifting off towards that cave. Tea. Cushions. Teenage girls in nighties. How strange.
How wonderful.
I peered around me to check nobody was looking then discreetly pulled out my notepad and started writing, suddenly inspired again.
He smelt of tea leaves, of the forest and the snow. The girl watched him, finger flicking to her flimsy white nightie, breath heavy …
I crossed through the line in frustration. Too Mills & Boon.
‘Right everyone, time for our weekly team meeting!’ Daphne said, clapping her hands.
I squeezed my pen in frustration. Why did this have to happen just as I was all fired up to write? I watched everyone trudge into the stuffy meeting room, ready to waste an hour discussing milk being stolen from the fridge, reduced budgets due to the recession and early booking for the Christmas party. I thought of all the other meetings I’d been in, nodding my head at something someone had said while screaming inside, drawing doodles of desperate eyes and gaping mouths around the edges of the paper as I pretended to take notes.
How much longer could I endure it?
I thought of the man painting at the cave. The freedom of it. The creativity.
I shoved my notepad in my bag then slung it over my shoulder, striding over to Daphne.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked me.
‘No actually. The school called shortly after I got to the office. Becky’s ill.’
Daphne faked sympathy. ‘Poor thing.’ But I could see she was thinking of the deadline that day.
‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ I continued. ‘Mike’s out of town.’
‘You’ll miss the meeting. We’re discussing the Christmas do this year.’
‘I know, such a shame,’ I replied with an exaggerated sigh as I backed away. Then I hurried out, breathing in the fresh air as it hit me. I truly felt as though I’d been suffocating in there. But now I felt free, even if it was just for one illicit day.
What should I do?
I looked towards the sea. What else?
When I approached the cave there were more people milling outside. A young man was strumming a guitar, with a girl dancing in circles to the music. They weren’t just teenagers either. There was a tall black man who looked to be in his early forties, and a woman in her fifties too.
Monica had been right. People were living there with the man. Maybe they were homeless, with no choice but to live in the cave after losing their jobs. Or was there more to it than that?
I moved into the shadows of the chalk stacks and pulled a cigarette out from my bag, lighting it and drawing in the intoxicating smoke before blowing it out. I always kept a packet handy. Officially, I gave up just before I got pregnant. But every now and again, I felt the need.
‘They won’t kill you, you know,’ a voice said from behind me.
I turned to see a teenage girl with long, white-blonde hair watching me, a smile on her pretty face. It was one of the schoolgirls from the other day.
‘Do you mean they will kill me?’ I asked.
The girl shook her head. She had bare feet and I could see her nipples through her white summer dress. ‘Contrary to what people say, the cigarette won’t kill you. The disease will have been there for a while.’
My eyes alighted on the girl’s nipples then I looked away, towards the cave. ‘Thanks for that little fact.’
‘You’re the writer, aren’t you?’
I looked back at her in surprise. ‘How do you know?’
‘Idris knows everything.’
‘Idris?’
‘Yes, Idris,’ the girl said, a lazy smile on her face as she nodded over towards him as he painted on the cave walls. ‘He told us you’re a writer.’
I felt my heart hammer like a thunderclap. ‘He told you?’
‘He says it’s important that people like us – creatives – stick together.’
‘Is it now?’ I tapped some ash into a nook in the cliff, trying to appear casual. ‘So how does Idris know I’m a writer then?’
‘It’s like I said, he knows everything.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me he walks on water too.’
‘Of course not. But there are more interesting things than walking on water.’ The girl smiled a dreamy smile as she twirled her hair around her fingers. Was she stoned? ‘I write poetry,’ she said, ‘Idris let me write a line on the cave. I live there now. My friend came too but I think she’ll go home tonight, she doesn’t like the fact there’s no shower.’
‘Can’t blame her.’ I looked the girl up and down. She was small-boned. Tiny. Face of a child. But something told me she wasn’t as young as she looked. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’ She bit her lip, still smiling. ‘My dad’s gone ballistic.’
‘I bet he has.’
‘Mum’s living with us in the cave now though, and my little brother too. Can I have some?’ the girl asked, gesturing towards my cigarette.
I took a final drag then handed it over to the girl. ‘Finish it. How old’s your brother?’
‘Eight.’
The same age as Becky.
The girl leaned against the rock right next to me, her arm brushing against mine. She put her bare foot up behind her and took a drag.
‘Maybe I’d like to write a novel one day,’ the girl said. ‘Idris told me I need to grow first, mature.’
‘Plenty of people publish novels at your age. Mary Shelley came up with the idea for Frankenstein when she was eighteen.’
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘He meant spiritually, not literally. People are so obsessed with age, with numbers full stop. If people stopped fixating on numbers and statistics, the world would be a better place. I mean, take this recession.