through.
Silence. The alarm was not on.
The living room looked a mess. Mum’s favourite purple mug lay on the floor in pieces, the remainder of her herbal tea forming a small, wet, brown puddle in the middle of them. Books and papers were scattered all over the place, as if someone had been impatiently looking for something , sending everything flying without care. Or was this just the proof of Mum’s irrational outburst, when she’d gone crazy like Gabbi had said, throwing things around?
Mum sure had changed over the last year. She’d never been the sort of person to lose her temper and throw things. She used to have everything under control. She used to be calm. She used to be reasonable.
Mum used to be a lot of things.
Rafe’s old photo albums were stored on a low bookcase next to his vinyl records. I’d noticed them when searching through his house before, but had never actually stopped to look at any of the pictures inside.
In the last few weeks, so many things had happened that made me curious about Rafe. It was almost like he’d lived two completely different lives. The ‘Twin Tragedy’ article I’d read, forinstance, where he’d sadly spoken of my missing twin, and lovingly of his own twin, my dad, had made me look at him differently. Even Eric Blair had said that in college Rafe was always by my dad’s side. Everything pointed to him living a completely different life before the abduction–before Samuel was taken, and before I was returned.
But was it true?
Rafe had admitted knowing I had come to his ‘rescue’ at Chapel-by-the-Sea, and he also knew so much more about the DMO than I ever realised.
I cleared the space on the floor beside the shelf, kicking some loose papers out of the way. I knelt down and pulled out a couple of the fattest albums and began turning their pages, all the while listening carefully for the sound of a returning car.
The first album was filled with photos from Uncle Rafe’s wedding. There were mostly pictures of him with Aunty Klara, posing together. Rafe was smiling in the pictures, but I could almost see something like sadness in his eyes.
I didn’t know Aunty Klara that well before she died. From what I remembered, she was pretty quiet and kept to herself, even though she seemed nice enough. I never really thought about how lonely Rafe must have been after he lost her.
I slotted the wedding album back into place on the shelf.
The next album I opened was older and dustier. Straightaway I recognised Rafe and Dad together when they were young, probably about my age. I frowned, looking at them more closely.
In almost every photo, Dad had his arm over Rafe’s shoulder, or the other way around. They both wore wide grins. They looked identical. They looked happy.
I pulled the album closer and flicked through it, eager to see more. Photo after photo showed the pair together; pulling silly faces and poses, blowing out candles on shared birthday cakes, dressed up in matching powder-blue suits at friends’ parties, proudly holding their surfboards. There must have been hundreds of photos of the pair.
Rafe’s words returned to me; ‘a special bond’ he’d said, about being a twin. I sat back on my heels.
I frowned over pages of baby photos I recognised were of me, hauling myself up by a chair leg and standing up. My dad and Rafe stood side-by-side in the background. I wondered for a second about the discoloured squares in the album, where pictures had been removed … before realising that Rafe must have taken out all the shots of Samuel.
There wasn’t much more to see after that. There were a few random shots of plants and buildings, but it seemed like Rafe had lost interest in tracking his life.
As I placed the last of the albums back on the shelf, an unopened envelope fell out from one of the film negative pockets.
Curious, I read who it was addressed to.
Tom Ormond .
On the back was Rafe’s name and old address. Why had it been returned? Why had Dad
Silence. The alarm was not on.
The living room looked a mess. Mum’s favourite purple mug lay on the floor in pieces, the remainder of her herbal tea forming a small, wet, brown puddle in the middle of them. Books and papers were scattered all over the place, as if someone had been impatiently looking for something , sending everything flying without care. Or was this just the proof of Mum’s irrational outburst, when she’d gone crazy like Gabbi had said, throwing things around?
Mum sure had changed over the last year. She’d never been the sort of person to lose her temper and throw things. She used to have everything under control. She used to be calm. She used to be reasonable.
Mum used to be a lot of things.
Rafe’s old photo albums were stored on a low bookcase next to his vinyl records. I’d noticed them when searching through his house before, but had never actually stopped to look at any of the pictures inside.
In the last few weeks, so many things had happened that made me curious about Rafe. It was almost like he’d lived two completely different lives. The ‘Twin Tragedy’ article I’d read, forinstance, where he’d sadly spoken of my missing twin, and lovingly of his own twin, my dad, had made me look at him differently. Even Eric Blair had said that in college Rafe was always by my dad’s side. Everything pointed to him living a completely different life before the abduction–before Samuel was taken, and before I was returned.
But was it true?
Rafe had admitted knowing I had come to his ‘rescue’ at Chapel-by-the-Sea, and he also knew so much more about the DMO than I ever realised.
I cleared the space on the floor beside the shelf, kicking some loose papers out of the way. I knelt down and pulled out a couple of the fattest albums and began turning their pages, all the while listening carefully for the sound of a returning car.
The first album was filled with photos from Uncle Rafe’s wedding. There were mostly pictures of him with Aunty Klara, posing together. Rafe was smiling in the pictures, but I could almost see something like sadness in his eyes.
I didn’t know Aunty Klara that well before she died. From what I remembered, she was pretty quiet and kept to herself, even though she seemed nice enough. I never really thought about how lonely Rafe must have been after he lost her.
I slotted the wedding album back into place on the shelf.
The next album I opened was older and dustier. Straightaway I recognised Rafe and Dad together when they were young, probably about my age. I frowned, looking at them more closely.
In almost every photo, Dad had his arm over Rafe’s shoulder, or the other way around. They both wore wide grins. They looked identical. They looked happy.
I pulled the album closer and flicked through it, eager to see more. Photo after photo showed the pair together; pulling silly faces and poses, blowing out candles on shared birthday cakes, dressed up in matching powder-blue suits at friends’ parties, proudly holding their surfboards. There must have been hundreds of photos of the pair.
Rafe’s words returned to me; ‘a special bond’ he’d said, about being a twin. I sat back on my heels.
I frowned over pages of baby photos I recognised were of me, hauling myself up by a chair leg and standing up. My dad and Rafe stood side-by-side in the background. I wondered for a second about the discoloured squares in the album, where pictures had been removed … before realising that Rafe must have taken out all the shots of Samuel.
There wasn’t much more to see after that. There were a few random shots of plants and buildings, but it seemed like Rafe had lost interest in tracking his life.
As I placed the last of the albums back on the shelf, an unopened envelope fell out from one of the film negative pockets.
Curious, I read who it was addressed to.
Tom Ormond .
On the back was Rafe’s name and old address. Why had it been returned? Why had Dad
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