The Santiago Sisters. Victoria Fox
they became.
‘Simone Geddes is going to choose me,’ hissed Teresita. ‘You do realise that, don’t you? And when she does, and when I’m gone, I hope I never come back. I hope I never see you or this dying shit-hole ever again. I’m going to make it, Calida. Do you understand? I’m going to make it, far away, without your help or any fucking thing you do for me. I’m going to make it on my own.’
Calida didn’t stay to hear any more.
She turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her.
A week later, Teresa left for England.
Simone Geddes organised her travel, starting with the glimmering car that collected her from the estancia, and a suited driver who touched his cap when she climbed in. It was cool inside; a citrusy fan that came from vents in the front. The seats were made of leather, polished and smooth and the colour of vanilla ice cream.
The road dissolved in a blur as the car hurtled towards the airport.
Teresa held the locket around her neck, its pendant clutched in her palm. It was pebble-sized and gold. Diego had given both his daughters identical ones when they were small; she remembered the day she and Calida had unwrapped them, delicate in tissue, and had helped each other tie the catch. Packing the last of her things for London, Teresa had thought twice about bringing hers, had fastened it only at the last moment, a final, muddled grasp at the sister she didn’t say goodbye to.
A tear slipped out of her eye. Fiercely, she wiped it away.
She would not cry. She would survive. She didn’t need Calida.
A sign flashed past. AEROPUERTO 10KM.
Teresa closed her eyes. Simone’s invitation was a chance at the life she craved. A chance to leave the slums behind and head for the starlight …
Besides, she would be back in a month—and it would all feel like a dream. She would confront her sister then. For now, she wouldn’t think of her at all.
But it was her mama’s face that stayed with Teresa, then and all the way to England. How Julia had clung on tight as she’d said farewell, hardly able to speak through her tears. How she’d said to her: ‘I’ll always love you. This is for both of us.’
December 2014
Night
She woke with her hands bound. They were bound at her waist, the fingers clasped as if holding an invisible bouquet. Her ankles were tied, too. She kicked out and both legs moved together on the hinge of her knees. A dry expulsion, half breath, half groan, seeped from her throat and hit a damp, mysterious wall. Instinctively, she bit down. Her mouth was stuffed with cloth. Her lips were sealed with tape.
At first it was pitch dark, then, as her eyes adjusted, she became aware of a faint, pulsing orange. It shone from high and crept across the floor in a ladder. She imagined climbing it, unsure which way was up, and escaping that way.
Escaping what?
The question emerged with little sense of urgency. She lived each second, gradually, one second then another, deciding whether or not she was alive.
Sounds filtered through. A city siren, screaming to loud then fading to quiet then gone; a dog barking; a man calling to another man, their voices passing at an unknown distance. She wondered where they were going, if she could go with them.
Soft things pattered at a window, then her eyes adjusted and she saw white flakes, thick white flakes of winter tumbling through the black night like moths.
It was Christmas in New York. The idea was an anchor, some reminder of where she was and where she had come from. Out on the street, passers-by would be wrapped in coats and scarves, mittened hands holding another’s, noses red and hearts warm as they planned their trip home, to heat, to friends, to safety.
She closed her eyes. Perhaps if she fell asleep a while longer, she was so tired, so very tired, and when she woke up she would be home … Home …
And then she heard a voice, pulling her back from the brink of slumber:
Get out.
It was clear and precise and she trusted it.
You’re in danger. Move. Get out. Now.
She tried to push herself up on her elbows but her stomach couldn’t take it. Ropes inside her twisted and pulled; she whimpered, growled, writhed in anger.
The door opened.
She blinked, drinking the room in, desperate to see more.
Footsteps.
Someone was with her, standing right there, over her, looking down. She froze. The person stood very still. Time stopped.
She tasted terror.
‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘I’m glad I found you. Are you glad to see me?’
2000–2005
London
Teresa Santiago woke to the sound of shouting. It was in a language she didn’t understand, and the ferocious, high-pitched squawks shot back and forth like two cats scrapping in a yard. One belonged to Simone, a literal far cry from the dulcet tones in which she addressed Teresa. The shouts were coming from downstairs, a concept she was only now getting used to since she’d only ever lived in a single-storey dwelling. She got out of bed and stood in her silk pyjamas, wondering if it was safe to emerge.
After a while, the screams died down. There followed a series of stomps and the bang of a slamming door. Teresa pictured the other girl who lived here, the blonde with the upturned nose, throwing herself on the sheets and bawling.
She stretched, and the room yawned with her. It was enormous. The ceiling stood at three times her height, with delicate cornicing like the icing on a birthday cake. A glinting chandelier hung from a central floret. The curtains were duck-egg blue and billowed gently against the open windows, of which there were three; huge and as perfectly rectangular as if they belonged in a dolls’ house. Through them, the hum of London swam up on the breeze. Her four-poster bed was swathed in peach satin, plumped with dozens of pink cushions, and the mattress was as deep and squidgy as the honeyed brioche Teresa was occasionally served for breakfast.
It was a princess’s bedroom. At lights-out, Teresa would lie still and wait for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and when they did she would test herself by closing and then opening them again, half fearing that the room would have been swallowed up, and she would find herself back at home in Patagonia, Calida asleep on the bunk below and the moon looking in through the window. She couldn’t believe that all this was hers. OK, it was on loan, it wasn’t forever, but boy was it something else. London was another universe. Simone Geddes’ mansion was incredible. At the beginning she had got lost every hour, exploring the furthest reaches of the house and then forgetting her way back. Simone had a loft, a cellar, a games suite, and a spa; they had a library and a music room and a reading room; they had a separate area where they ate their meals and drank their drinks and the lounge