Published by HOBECK Books
on the 18th of March 2025​
​
​
- Prologue -
Matilda
Thursday 16th June
If you are a twin, are you always ‘you’?
Stepping out through the automatic doors at Málaga airport was like walking into a furnace. The other passengers who’d been on Tilda’s flight were immensely pleased and crowing ‘heatwave’, though the intense light and boiling air made her queasy. Maybe that bottle of wine she’d had mostly to herself last night and the chicken jalfrezi hadn’t been such a good idea.
Baseball cap pulled down low, she squinted out at the pick-up area, where the English tourists were consulting maps or waving down taxis, their voices raucous. Did she look the part? Was she being ‘Haitch’ enough? Certainly, the hangover was genuine. Tilda briefly wondered why Haitch’s agent, Damian, hadn’t escorted her on the plane. If ‘Haitch’ was such precious cargo, surely, he’d ensure she arrived on time, especially with her track record.
The Spanish, who were either returning home or heading out, navigated it all cheerfully, herding small children and wheeling trolleys piled with suitcases with alacrity and a lot of amiable shouting. Cars were bumper to bumper, and some were bibbing, and there seemed to be a lot of scary activity concerning parking spaces.
‘Haitch!’
For one tiny moment, Tilda forgot who she was supposed to be and looked around her as if expecting Haitch herself to spring out of the shadowy interior.
She spotted Damian waving at her. Bugger! Nearly blown it at the first hurdle. Concentrate.
‘I’m Haitch, I’m Haitch, I’m Haitch,’ she mumbled under her breath.
​
Part 1 The twins
- Chapter 1 -
Harriet
Saturday 11th June – four days previously
The strident music reverberating around her room made Haitch wince: The Sex Pistols ‘Anarchy in the UK’. Whatever had induced her to choose that particular ringtone was beyond her. The drunkard’s choice. The White Lightning of ringtones. Surfacing took a long time, as if she was at the bottom of a deep well that was slowly filling, pushing her steadily towards the lip and the light. The phone ceased its wail.
Oh, dear God! She couldn’t bear to open her eyes. Was this a hangover? Because she could deal with that. The tingling in her nose and the fullness of her sinuses, coupled with the pounding across the top of her skull and the hot, flushed cheeks stretched tautly; well, that wasn’t good. The phone rang again, and Haitch made a fumbling grab for it. She could just make out her agent’s blurry name on the tiny screen: Damian Montgomery.
‘Oh, bollocks.’
Sliding the bar across, she let him speak first.
‘You haven’t forgotten where you’re meant to be on Thursday, have you, my sweetheart?’ His voice was clipped, a bit posh. Haitch reckoned he put it on and was really from Essex.
Haitch lay for a bit in a stupor. ‘What? What’s happening Thursday?’
‘You’re going to that crucially important party, remember? The one that could send your career out into space. The one where you’re supposed to be impressing a potential patron?’
‘What day is it today?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Haitch. You really need to get a grip. You’re not Russell Brand, you know.’
‘Had him. I think.’
‘Is there anyone left on this planet that you haven’t?’
‘Only you, my darling boy.’
Haitch could hear the rustle of his silk suit as he moved. The sound exuded exasperation. He was fidgeting.
Damian’s voice hardened as though it’d been dunked in a vat of liquid nitrogen. ‘Haitch. You’re going to be on that bloody plane Thursday morning, or I will bloody kill you.’
‘Okay, don’t get your sweet panties in a twist.’ How the hell was she going to tell him she was ill. Could she front it out?
‘What’s wrong with your voice? You sound like you’ve smoked forty packets of cigarettes every day for the last week.’ Good. He’d pre-empted her.
‘Listen, Damian. I think I’ve got the lurgy—’
‘No, no, no. You listen, Haitch. I’ve set this up for you. Eighty thousand quid in the offing. Just think about that. If you’re not on that plane, I’m not going to be a happy bunny.’
‘I feel terrible—’
‘If you make me come round to your place and drag you out by the scruff of your neck, I’ll do it. Remember, you lent me your spare key?’
Giving him her spare key had seemed a good idea at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure.
‘I’ll be on it.’
‘That’s my girl, and yes, you will be on it.’ A pause. ‘Haitch? When was the last time you saw your brother-in-law?’ There was an underlying threat in his voice.
‘What?’
‘Sam, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Have you spoken to him? Told him about this party?’
‘Fuck, no.’ Scrambled egg brains weren’t helping her think. ‘I saw him at the gallery. That time with you.’ Oh man, she really didn’t want to remember that night.
‘Not since? Have you told your sister anything?’
‘No. I barely speak to her, and she’s definitely not speaking to Sam. You saw what a mess he was.’ More like, what a mess she was.
‘Okay.’
‘Why? What’s he got to do with this?’ Did she want to know?
‘Nothing… just… well, just be on that plane.’
You didn’t cross Damian twice. Been there. Done that. But not twice. When the phone went dead, Haitch rubbed her eyes. She stared blearily at the dark smudges on the tips of her fingers. As if she’d trailed them across old ash. Why had he mentioned Sam? That was pretty unnerving. Anything to do with Sam meant bad news. For her. Nausea was bubbling up from deep inside and throwing up over her expensive designer bed linen wasn’t an option. The fact that bright sunshine was trying to scrabble, as if it was an unwanted guest, under the heavy curtains must mean that it was daytime. Oh, but the cruel light hurt so much. One naked boob flopped over the top of the plush duvet. She pulled the cover back over herself and sneezed five times in a row so hard it felt as though someone had whacked her over the head with a frying pan.
‘Aaargh, you’ve got to be kidding!’
