‘My God.’ Katie began to tremble.
Mr Spire waited a moment before continuing. ‘The autopsy suggested that, from the injuries sustained, it is likely that Mia went over the cliff edge facing forwards, which collaborates with the witnesses’ reports.’ He continued to expand on further details, but Katie was no longer listening. Her mind had already drifted to the cliff top.
He’s wrong, Mia, isn’t he? You didn’t jump. I won’t believe it. What I said when you called – oh, God, please don’t let what I said …
‘Katie,’ he was saying. ‘The arrangements are in place to have Mia’s body repatriated to the UK a week on Wednesday.’ He required details of the funeral parlour she had selected, and then the call ended.
She felt shooting pains behind her eyes and pressed the arched bones beneath her eyebrows with her thumb and index finger. In the flat below the baby was wailing.
Ed turned her slowly to face him.
‘They are saying it was suicide,’ she said in a small, strained voice. ‘But it wasn’t.’
He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘You will get through this, Katie.’
But how could he know? She hadn’t told him about the terrible argument she’d had with Mia. She hadn’t told him of the hateful, shameful things she’d said. She hadn’t told him about the anger and hurt that had been festering between them for months. She hadn’t told Ed any of this because there are some currents in a relationship between sisters that are so dark and run so deep, it’s better for the people swimming on the surface never to know what’s beneath.
She turned from Ed and stole to her room where she lay on the bed with her eyes closed, trying to fix on something good between her and Mia. Her thoughts led her back to the last time she had seen her, as they hugged goodbye at the airport. She recalled the willowy feel of Mia’s body, the muscular ridges of her forearms and the press of her collarbone.
Katie would have held on for longer, treasured every detail, had she known it would be the last time she’d feel her sister in her arms.
London, October Last Year
Mia felt the soft cushion of her sister’s cheek pressed against hers as they held each other. She absorbed the curve of her chest, the slightness of her shoulders, the way Katie had to stand on the balls of her feet to reach.
Mia and Katie rarely hugged. There had been a time, as children, when they were entirely uninhibited with each other’s bodies – squeezing onto the same armchair with their hips pressed tight, plaiting thin sections of each other’s hair and securing bright beads at the ends, practising flying angels on the sun-warmed sand with their fingers interlaced. She couldn’t say at what point that physical closeness was lost to her. Katie remained warmly tactile; she welcomed people with a hug or kiss, and had an inclusive way of reaching out mid-story to place her hand on someone’s arm.
The last time they had embraced like this must have been on the morning of their mother’s funeral, a year ago. Dressed in black, they had exchanged forthright words on the narrow landing of their childhood home. Eventually it was Katie who had extended her arms when, in truth, the gesture should have been Mia’s. They had clasped each other and, in whispers broken with relief, a truce was made. But not maintained.
Now, as they held one another in the check-in area at Heathrow, Mia felt a tightening in her throat and the prick of tears beginning beneath her eyelids. She stiffened and let go. She wouldn’t look at Katie as she picked up her backpack and hoisted it over her shoulders, tugging her hair free from beneath it.
‘So this is it,’ Katie said.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Got everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Passport? Tickets? Currency?’
‘Everything.’
‘And Finn’s meeting you shortly?’
‘Yes.’ Mia had arranged it so his and Katie’s paths wouldn’t have to cross. ‘Thanks for bringing me,’ she added, touched that Katie had taken the day off work to do so. ‘You didn’t have to.’
‘I wanted to say goodbye properly.’ Katie was dressed in a well-cut grey dress beneath a light caramel jacket. She slipped her hands into the wide pockets. ‘I feel like I’ve barely seen you recently.’
Her gaze slid to the floor; she’d been finding reasons to stay away.
‘Mia,’ she said, taking a small step forward. ‘I know it’s probably seemed like I’m not happy for you – about you travelling. It’s just hard. You leaving. That’s all.’
‘I know.’
Katie reached out and took her hands. Her sister’s fingers were warm and dry from her pockets and her own felt clammy within them. ‘I’m sorry if London hasn’t been right for you. I feel like I pushed you into it.’ Katie twisted Mia’s silver thumb ring between her fingers as she said, ‘I just thought, after Mum, it would be good for us to stay together. I know you’ve been having a tough time lately – and I’m sorry if you haven’t felt like you could come to me.’
An oily slick of guilt slid down the back of Mia’s throat: How could I come to you?
She thought back to the day she’d booked this trip. She had woken on their bathroom floor, her cheek pressed into the cool, tiled floor, which smelt of bleach. Her dress – a jade one of Katie’s – had twisted around her waist and her shoes had been abandoned, one beneath the sink, the other caught on the pedal of the bin.
Katie, wrapped in a soft blue towel, had been standing in the doorway. ‘Oh, Mia…’
Mia’s head had throbbed and the sour taste of spirits furred the back of her throat. She had pushed herself upright and a bolt of pain clenched at her temples. Snapshots of her evening flashed in her mind: the low-lit red booth, the empty whisky glasses, the grungy beat of an R&B track, the musky tang of sweat in the air, another round, a cheer of male voices, a familiar face, the irrepressible desire for risk. She remembered slinging her bag over her shoulder, tipping the final whisky down her throat, and then weaving along a darkened corridor. The memory of what happened next was so fresh and laced with so much shame, that she knew she had to leave. Leave London. Leave her sister.
A passenger announcement boomed over the tannoy bringing her back to the present.
Katie said, ‘I worry about you.’
Mia withdrew her hand, pretending to adjust her backpack straps. ‘I’ll be fine.’
They both turned as a middle-aged couple hurtled past, the man muttering, ‘Christ!’ as he pushed a luggage trolley behind his wife, who was struggling to run in heels, her painted fingernails gripping a bundle of documents. The man glanced across at Katie. Even when rushing for planes, even when their wives were at their sides, men couldn’t help but look. They were drawn to her like bees to a honey pot, or like flies to shit as Mia had once said in anger.