Hidden by Emma Kavanagh Read Free Book Online Page A

pounds. Mara had followed – by all tellings of it – limp and blue, barely touching the scales at four pounds one. There was, they had said, a heart condition, something they hadn’t picked up during pregnancy, because scans then weren’t what they were now, and so much of the foetus inside remained a mystery, something waiting to be unwrapped like a gift on Christmas morning. But not all gifts are equal. Mara had survived, grudgingly, each breath a struggle that it seemed inevitable she would lose. They had operated, once, twice, three times. So much so that the hospital had become a second home to the twins, the smell of detergent and death an integral part of their growing up. You must take care of your sister, their mother had said, she’s so much smaller than you, and she’s very, very poorly. She’ll need you to look after her, Imogen.
    Mara raised a hand, movement tremulous, wiped a tear away.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Imogen. ‘I shouldn’t have slept. Look, I’m awake now.’ Leaned forward in her chair, a bright but plastic smile to demonstrate just how alert she was. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Amy, I promise. Why don’t you just try and close your eyes?’
    Mara nodded, obedient as a child, her eyelids drifting shut. It would, Imogen supposed, never end. It would never be the case that her first instinct would not be to take care of her sister. That was simply how they were made, two halves of a whole. Once the heart was mended, and Mara had gained her strength, they had never again left one another’s side. Had gone through school, sitting side-by-side at the same desk. Had stayed on to do A-levels, applied for the same university, the same university halls. Because when you were a twin, what else did you do? Marriage, Imogen supposed, was what made the biggest difference, although even that was in name only. They lived around the corner from one another. Imogen in the small terrace that had been as much as she and Dave could afford in Mumbles, on the combined salaries of a small-time journalist and a psychologist. Mara in the larger house that sat on top of the hill – a perk of Jack’s well-paid chief-inspector role. Imogen didn’t mind that, the smaller house tucked into a quiet terrace. It was homely, they had a view of the sea. And it meant that she got to see Mara and Amy every day.
    There were voices outside the door, the low rumble of conversation, and Imogen glanced up, a quick look at the clock. Her parents would be here by nine. Her father quiet, stoic, keeping his jaw locked tight so that no one saw the pain when he looked at his granddaughter in her hospital bed. Her mother, face a storm of tension. Blaming the doctors, blaming everybody, because that way it felt like control. Imogen rubbed her eyes, needed a shower, a change of clothes. But her first client was due in at 8.30, and then she had back-to-back appointments for the rest of the day.
    There was a sound that seemed to be coming from nowhere, a buzzing that for a moment Imogen thought was in her head, the result of exhaustion, a night on an awkward chair. Mara started, her eyes snapping open. She turned her head towards the bedside cabinet, where her mobile phone vibrated hard against the wood.
    Amy shifted, sighing in her sleep.
    ‘Is it Jack?’ asked Imogen.
    Mara didn’t answer, studied the phone. Then, her fingers moving quickly, she turned the ringer off. ‘No. It wasn’t Jack.’
    A long, loaded silence. Imogen stared at her sister, Mara’s eyes downturned. Waiting. There was that feeling in the air, that stifling, oppressive feeling of a secret, sitting just out of view. Imogen’s lips parted, the question waiting to be asked. But she closed them again. They were in a hospital room, and her two-year-old niece had brushed death last night. It seemed churlish, unfair even, to level accusations at her sister.
    There were more voices outside the room now, the ward beginning to stir to life. The rough grumble of trolley