“Hello?”

There’s still no reply.

Then I hear music start to play up in the flat.

I take out my phone.

I should call the police.

I should call someone.

But I don’t. Instead I put my mobile back in my bag, check that I still have the gun, and walk down the road and up the alley to the back of the shop.

The back gate has gone, and a lot of the fencing has fallen down. Once again, everything seems so much smaller than I remembered. A battered old white van is parked outside on the tarmac, nothing of note visible through its grimy windows. The door to the little back room is slightly ajar, but I’m too scared of what might be behind it to go in.

I knock on the peeling, splintered wood, but the chances of anyone hearing me seem fairly minimal, given the volume of the music now blaring inside. I recognize the song—“Fairytale of New York.” It seems strange to hear it when it isn’t Christmas. I take a step forward, the lyrics about stolen dreams already a little too loud inside my head.

The little room where I used to sit and read my Story Teller magazines and listen to tapes is still here, but everything about it is different. There is no desk, it’s just a room full of clutter. I walk through to what was once the shop, but it is more of a dusty storage space now. I press the sticky light switch and see that the place still has fluorescent lighting. It flickers to life, so that some squares in the ceiling are faintly illuminated. They give off an eerie glow, revealing pieces of antique furniture leaning against each other for support, all of it covered in dust and dirt. I make my way through the wardrobes, dressers, and stacks of chairs and eventually navigate a path to the side door, leading through to the flat. It’s open, but the light switch here doesn’t work at all.

“Hello, is anyone home?” I shout over the music, which sounds even louder than before. There’s no answer, but I can definitely see light at the top of the stairs. I start going up in the darkness, feeling my way, surprised to discover that after all this time the walls are still covered in cork tiles. Each step seems to creak and groan, and although the voice in my head is screaming at me to turn back, I can’t.

I need to know the truth.

When I’m halfway up the stairs, the music stops.

I hear a door open, some footsteps, then nothing.

The renewed silence swallows me, but I force my feet to keep going.

Then I hear a door up above slam closed.

When I reach the top, I see tealight candles flickering on the floor of the landing. They are the only source of light. I try a switch on the wall, but nothing happens, and I see the fixture on the ceiling has no lightbulb. The doors to the rooms are all closed, but everything looks the same. I follow the line of candles to what used to be the lounge, and my hand rests on the doorknob a little longer than necessary while I build up the courage to turn it.

The room looks nothing like it used to, and I feel nothing but relief. The old electric fireplace has been ripped out, and the original open fire haphazardly restored, with exposed bricks and a slightly wonky mantelpiece. The sight of the flames and the smell of the logs burning brings a peculiar sense of comfort. Everything is a little dated and dirty, but it’s just a normal-looking room. Somebody’s lounge with chairs and a table. No skeletons so far. No closet. The candles continue their path along the floor, stopping at an ornate-looking coffee table in front of the roaring open fire. There are candles on the table, too, surrounding a large red book. It’s a photo album.

I pick it up. It feels heavier than it looks, and when I open it, I see my own face staring out at me from an old newspaper interview. I turn the page and see another picture of me, another article. I keep turning the pages, and it appears as if every interview, profile piece, or review of my work that ever existed has been collected inside. A part of me knows that I should leave now, that this isn’t right or normal, but I just keep turning the pages, as though I’m in some kind of trance and can’t stop.

But then I do.

Stop.

The music starts again. The same song as before. I know I need to get out of here, but the final page of the album doesn’t contain a newspaper clipping. It’s a letter.

One that I remember writing almost twenty years ago.

Dear Eamonn,

You might not remember me, but I remember you.

A long time ago, I was your sister, but I ran away and a woman called Maggie kidnapped me and took me to England, though I did not understand that at the time, or for several years afterwards.

I lived with Maggie and a man called John in their flat above a betting shop in a place called Essex, very close to London.

They told me that our daddy didn’t want me anymore and, later, they told me he had died, though I know now that that was not the case.

I want you to know that I was not unhappy, living with them, but then they died too.

The police believed that I was their child.

There was a passport in the flat that belonged to a little girl called Aimee Sinclair. The police also found her birth certificate, which said she was the daughter of Maggie O’Neil and John Sinclair.

The police thought that little girl was me, everybody did, and I let them.

I’ve stayed with a lot of foster families, some good, some not so good, but I’m doing well now. I have a scholarship to a place called RADA and I’m going to be an actress.

I’d really like it if you felt able to get in touch, meet up sometime. You looked after me when our Daddy couldn’t, and I remember that. I remember who you were then and I’d like to know who you are now.

I’m sorry I waited so long to get in touch. I was scared to tell anyone the truth until I was eighteen, scared of getting in trouble. Even now, I’m only telling you. I remember you well enough to know you would never hurt me. I’m happy as Aimee. Nobody knows about my past and I’d prefer it to stay that way. I hope you understand.

The girl you knew as Ciara no longer exists, but I’m still your sister. A name is just a name.

Lots of love,

Aimee

xx

The fire spits and burns, its shadows wildly dancing to the loud music. When I look up from reading the letter, I can see that the door has been closed, and I am no longer alone.

“Hello, Ciara,” says the woman with the long dark hair and red lips.

Seventy-one

At first I see Maggie, my Maggie from the 1980s.

It’s dark in the room, with only the light from the fire and the candles struggling to illuminate the face in front of me. She sings along to the song, a girlie Irish voice escaping her red lips, completely out of tune with the melody. As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize my tired mind is playing tricks on me again. It might look like Maggie, but it isn’t her.

“Who are you?” I ask, struggling to make my voice heard above the music.

She laughs, and it’s the smile that I recognize first. The person opposite me comes a step closer, then starts to remove what it now seems is a wig, before throwing it onto the flames. I hear it hiss and burn. The woman in front of me vanishes into the bewildered confusion that has taken control of my body and mind.

“Does that help?” the man left standing in her shoes asks, in a deeper voice this time. “What kind of woman doesn’t recognize her own husband?”

His face looks different, but his eyes, although heavily made up, are still the same.