The Bond Between Twins

THE BOND BETWEEN TWINS

“We’re running out of time,” Detective Inspector Willis shouted into his phone, “I need a team here now!”

He gazes at the small, stiff body on the stained mattress. Reaches out, gently moving aside long, dirty, blond hair. Bruising on her neck, redness in and around her large blue expressionless eyes. Strangulation? He will have to wait for the coroner’s confirmation on that.

She looks about twelve years old. He hates that. Never could deal with the emotions that come with seeing a dead child. He swallows hard, choking back anger and revulsion.

His eyes scan the room. The filthy floor, dirt-spattered walls, grubby sheet covering the window silently suggesting squalid and shameful. Awful, unwanted images flood his mind. Sighing deeply before turning away, Willis heads for the front door, passing the coroner on her way in.

“Be back in a moment.”

Outside, he looks around. Once charming and respectable, the street’s old town-houses look shabby, needing at the very least a coat of paint. But apart from the assortment of rubbish and recycling bins littering paved or overgrown front gardens, nothing seems out of place.

Should he start door-to-door? No. The team would soon be here. Best to leave it to them.

He stands on the pavement, acknowledging he would rather be anywhere else but here.  That right now he’d give anything not to have to go back inside. But there is work to do. First off, get rid of the nosy parkers behind the tape

.  

“You people need to get on home or go about your business. Nothing to see here.”

He turns back as the coroner descends from the house, her voice barely audible over the wail of sirens, as the ambulance slams to a halt in front of him.

“I’ll get to the autopsy as soon as I can. Let you have the COD in a few days.”

“Thanks.”

Willis carefully makes his way up the dilapidated steps, briefly acknowledging the crime scene crew who have just suited up, bootees in hand.

“Just give me a minute, I’ll be out of your way.”

Methodically he checks the rest of the building—more rooms with soiled mattresses on grimy floors—but otherwise deserted. They’d moved on leaving her body there, obviously taking the rest of the girls with them.

Back in the police station Willis knuckles down. Gets on with the task of reviewing the huge master file. The girl’s death is not an isolated incident. It is another piece of the puzzle in the big picture involving at least one sex-trafficking ring in the area, if not more.

The sad truth is widespread organized child sexual abuse has been ongoing in Rotherham, South Yorkshire, for more than fifteen years. Yet the trial last year resulted in only three men being arrested. Yes, only three sick bastards were found guilty of sexual offences against girls as young as ten years old.

How long will it be before yet another girl’s body would be found? How much longer will it take to apprehend the perps? Willis snorts, pushing back the file documenting what amounted to colossal and dismal failure. He needed a break.

Lifting his large frame from the seat, kneading bushy, greying eyebrows, he seeks relief. Lumbers towards the coffee machine, altering course for the water cooler as the sour smell of stale coffee reaches his nostrils.

Giving him a wide berth, junior colleagues chatting at the watering hole disperse, silently and unanimously deciding to return to their workstations. The DI’s tight-set lips and glowering eyes warning them to keep their heads down.

Willis stands there alone for several moments, downing tiny cones of liquid one after the other, in an unconscious attempt at quenching his thirst for immediate justice. What if it was his own granddaughter lying there?

He returns to his desk. Sits, hands behind his head, feeling disgusted and disheartened, as he forces his attention back to the file. The facts deny belief.

The crime ring operated with impunity, primarily because fears about fueling racism led to a cover-up for years. And even though the MP for Rotherham and others, including the local council leader and director of Child Services resigned once their lack of action came to light, their departures meant nothing. Resignations and saying you were sorry couldn’t change what happened. Hadn’t in the slightest way prevented what was obviously still going on now.

The truth was they, and all those in the community who were responsible for looking into and possibly preventing the continuation of this insidious type of child abuse, had systematically concealed the problem. They had shifted the blame onto others, and let God knows how many vulnerable children down.

Damn! Willis thumped his fist on the desk, ignoring the startled looks and heads turning in his direction. He glares at what is there in black and white. Page after page citing problems with investigating and acting upon, or even sharing the information. It was unbelievable. Both the police and council received information from various sources documenting the abuse of young, white girls. And ignored what was right under their noses.

Willis yanks The Guardian article out of the file, remembering the uproar it caused in official circles within the county. And no wonder. The Prime Minister’s scathing attack on the police and local agencies was quoted word-for-word.

Included too was her heartfelt belief that, “cultural concerns—the fear of being marked as a racist—should never prevent us from carrying out our duty. Child protection is our first priority…”

What had happened to the world he knew. The world where it didn’t matter if the criminals were white, black or green—enforcing the law was about right and wrong. And policing had nothing to do with ‘political correctness’, and everything to do with keeping the country, its people and their children, safe.

He looks down, turning the pages of the official investigation report citing the abject failure of all authorities involved, noting a staggering 1,400 victims in a ten-year period. And that was only the number they knew about. His stomach churns. What would the former PM say now? This little girl was not only abused, she was killed. How many other children will die before we make any headway in apprehending those responsible?

Willis looks around. It is late, the station almost empty. The search for the girl’s murderer would start in earnest tomorrow. It is time to call it a day.

Stretching out in his recliner at home, sipping his single-malt scotch, the detective inspector mulls over the idea of early retirement.  Why wait another nine months? Surely leaving now would result in only a slightly-reduced pension?

Nah. With the missus gone—taken by breast cancer not two years since—what would he do with all that time to himself. Would gardening and crosswords be enough? No, probably not. Besides, Mary would have pushed him to press on. She would have insisted he stay. She would have said what she’d often said over the years, “You can’t give up now. Someone has to catch the monsters!”

And he had to agree it was true. He’d never been one to back down. Never been someone to call it a day, despite sometimes feeling what was the point. The reality was a lot of monsters got away with never being caught, got off on technicalities or got released because of lack of evidence.

The children need someone on their side. Someone who will make those responsible pay. Someone who will find them, those other little girls, and put a stop to the whole damn racket.  

Back in his office the next morning, Willis pores over the scant evidence. Spends the next several days following up on leads. Time and time again turning up at addresses only to be told the occupants have moved on.

Disheartened and frustrated, Willis has no idea what is about to happen. That soon he and his team will be spared the ongoing slog and ultimate satisfaction of finding and incarcerating those responsible for the girl’s murder.

He has no clue he will be called out to the ruins of the same house. To the grim discovery of five men’s bodies. And one of another young girl. All of whom perished in a blazing fire.  

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Lily’s small fingers explore her puffy eyelids, swollen from endless crying. She peers into the broken mirror seeing Mandy’s pale face. Mandy’s sad blue eyes staring back at her. She turns away shivering, pulling her ratty blonde hair back into a ponytail, wincing as her thumbs catch the painful, purple bruises around her chin.

Hidden for weeks in other dark places, Lily is back in the same room. In the same awful house. The place where Mandy’s body was left, discarded like a useless, broken toy.

Why is she back? Lily can think of only one answer that makes sense. She’s here because she’s still useful. And because she cleans, cooks, acts subservient. They like that.

But it won’t be long now. The plan is clear in her mind. The final pieces just needing to be put in place.

Earlier that afternoon she’d stood at the supermarket checkout shaking with fear, grasping the large tube of hand cream she’d picked out. She needn’t have worried, the two men guarding her barely glanced at the item before paying for and slipping it into a bag.

They’d returned to the van, Lily sitting there as the sound of bags thrown in the back, the stomach-churning sweet smell of spices, brought it all back.

If only they’d walked along the main road on that cold winter afternoon. If only they hadn’t taken the short cut back to the foster home from their new school. They wouldn’t have heard the footsteps behind them in the dark alley, felt the rough hands grabbing them from behind, been shoved kicking and screaming into the van. Or had their mouths taped shut.

Shocked and terrified until the pinch of a needle plunged them into darkness, they had passed out. They’d woken up the next morning in the strange house praying someone had heard or seen something. That their foster parents would have gone to the police. That soon they would be rescued.

But it didn’t happen. They remained in that dark place. Too innocent to fully understand, too weak to fight against the smelly, brutal men, they found themselves trapped in an endless cycle of humiliation and pain.

Pain worse than living with strangers after their mum died. Worse than having to move to a different town, a different school. Pain that never left their broken, damaged bodies that clung to each other in the early hours of the morning when they couldn’t sleep.

The van passed familiar shops and streets. Lily kept her head down. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, the tears just kept coming. The only person she loved in the whole world was gone. And she knew they were taking her back to the house.

Had she been spared the worst by refusing to get hooked on the drugs—by pretending to take the tablets, keeping them in her mouth instead, before flushing them down the toilet? And why couldn’t Mandy have been as strong?

Lily knew the answer. The pills helped numb the pain. But even so, they were not enough. The continuous assaults on her sister’s small, frail body destroyed her. And Mandy died inside, long before she had the breath strangled out of her.

Clamping her hand over her mouth, her chest heaving, breath catching in her throat, Lily stifled her sobs. She would not let them hear her and she would not fall apart now. She would stay calm.

She would remember the two of them playing in the park. Sharing birthday cakes. Giggling at each other’s toothless grins. Skipping school. Climbing trees in the woods. Paddling in the brook. Licking away each other’s scrapes and scratches. Pelting each other with snowballs on Christmas day.

Lily managed a smile. Wiped her hot, wet face with her sleeve. Leaned forward, arms clutching her stomach. It hurt. She missed Mandy so much it hurt. Hurt to be left here, reliving sweet fragments of their lives without her.

Was it wrong to feel relieved, thankful Mandy was no longer suffering? She didn’t care if it was, she was glad her sister’s nightmare was over.

Nothing could change what had happened. Mandy was gone. But the truth was she’d never really left. Lily still talked to her, silently in her head. They’d agreed on the plan, and Lily was ready to go ahead.

Scrambling out of the van she fled inside, hurriedly passing the other three men standing in the hallway. She closed the door to her room, heart thumping as she acknowledged all five of them were together in one place.

The cracked mirror falls to the floor as Lily briefly considers the possibility of escape, then rejects it. When the men are inside, the front door is always locked. The deadbolt high up, out of reach.

She shrugs, going over the details one more time in her mind. She glares at the soiled mattress on the floor, before jumping up and leaving the room.

Alone in the kitchen she spends several minutes getting things ready. Unpacks the shopping bags they dumped on the counter, before the men file in and seat themselves around the table.

Smoking and talking loudly they lapse into English, as they often do. They do not even look up as Lily moves around quietly, washing and preparing the vegetables, humming softly as she gets a simple meal ready.

They are discussing their intention to lay low for a while longer, and the possibility of using another, larger property a few miles away to accommodate more girls. Reviewing their strategy for bringing ‘fresh meat’ down from the north to Rotherham, they fail to notice Lily’s whole body stiffen as their words seep into her brain.

With her back to the group she pauses, suddenly paralyzed with fear. What happened to the carefree child she used to be? She swallows hard, her mouth dry, her mind accepting the truth. Her heart mourning the loss.

Fingering the items hidden in her pocket, she hears Mandy’s voice, “It’s not just for us! You can do it Lil. I know you can.” She shivers as icy determination wraps itself around her heart.

A furtive glance around the small room confirms the tea-towels are still in place. Two by the stove, four casually draped over the chairs on which the men sit, a few others hidden under the table. Those few minutes alone before the men walked in were enough in which to smear the paraffin-based hand cream all over them.

The men’s conversation stops. Lily looks at them, sees the tall one incline his head, indicating the food should be served. She turns back to comply, her shaking hands grateful for the task.

Steeling herself to stay calm, she moves back and forth carefully setting down a plate in front of each one. She returns to the stove. Pretends to prepare a small plate of her own.

The men are talking and eating behind her as Lily quietly turns on the gas in the oven. She opens the door. Throws in both tea-towels.

Keeping her back to the men for a nano-second longer, she feels the searing heat of the flames on her legs. Drops down the door. Shoots backwards, screaming. “FIRE!”

All five men jump up and race towards the burning stove. Lily ignites the lighter. Throws it under the table. Speeds out, slamming the door shut.

An instant later the key is out of her pocket, turning in the lock.

She leans back on the door, placing her trembling hands over her ears trying to shut out the furious shouting. Stands there, tears spilling from her eyes, her back vibrating with the frantic pounding on the door.

No, they will not escape. She tried to open the kitchen window once, but it wouldn’t budge. And double glazing is almost impossible to break.

The hammering stops. Smoke curls out from under the kitchen door. The floor feels warm on her bare feet.

Lily coughs, rubbing her stinging eyes. Steps away from the unbearable heat scorching her back. The sudden, deafening explosion rips the door from its hinges. She is catapulted down the hallway.

The noisy, ferocious blaze roars on, consuming the wooden stairway behind her broken, lifeless body on the floor.

Suddenly, Lily is caught in a vortex, moving upwards in total darkness, at unbelievable speed. And just as suddenly she slows down, blinded by a brilliant white light shining at the end of the tunnel. She comes to a stop. Beautiful music is playing, and Mandy is standing there, glowing and whole and happy, smiling from ear to ear!

Lily floats forward, tears of joy spilling from her eyes. She wraps her arms around Mandy, hardly daring to believe they are together again. But it is true. It is really true. The bond between twins can never be broken.