Page 19 of The Christmas Express

Joe

Once upon a time, a brother and a sister, who were never very close, managed to not kill each other despite renting a flat together in the capital city, and then starting a business together.

Perhaps they could be one of those loving sibling duos, like you see on TV, they thought.

Then everything went tits up, and they fled to different ends of the country, for the sake of the family, and not wanting to put their mum through a double homicide trial.

Now, it looks like the knives might come out again.

‘Top or bottom bunk?’

My sister shrugs, and it’s like we’re back at primary school again and she’s mad at me because I scratched my name across her metallic Westlife pencil case. I rub my aching forehead with the palm of my hand.

Joss is famous, at least in our family, for holding onto a grudge. She ekes it out, lets it lay over everything like a weighted blanket, and if you try and move from under it, she’ll pin the corners down.

I’m making her sound like a monster, but it’s just that her pride is her downfall.

I’ve seen it be a strength, too. When she has a goal in mind she’s determined and confident and will strive to make it happen.

When she’s proud of her friends or family she’ll sing it from the rooftops.

She doesn’t take nonsense or belittling from anyone.

But also, she will never, ever, admit when she might be in the wrong.

Maybe this is why it’s an old habit of ours, or maybe mine, to always take her lead with decisions. It’s just easier that way. I never believed I was being a doormat. Despite what the others said.

‘Shall I take the bottom, then?’ I prompt, gritted teeth.

‘And leave me to fall out? Fuck off.’ Joss steadies herself with a breath, which is something new. Perhaps she’s been meditating? ‘I’ll take the bottom. Please.’

We study the instructions on the wall on how to convert the two seats in our compartment into a pair of beds. Joss’s brow is creased when I glance at her out of the side of my eye. This trip is harder on her than me, I can tell, though she’d never admit it, or why.

My sister reaches for a lever and yanks, but the chair won’t budge. She kicks at it with her foot.

‘You need to—’

‘I can do it,’ she snaps.

After a fair amount of clonking and pulling, arguing and ignoring, we manage to make the two bunks.

It’s nice, actually. Cosy. For the past couple of years I’ve lived in Bristol, near the train station, and something about the sound brings back home.

I climb up into my bunk, about ready to call it a night, even if it’s only. .. eight fifteen.

Beneath me, Joss potters about, grumbling.

Something about Cali being stupid and Luke being smug and me not helping or having her back.

I open my phone and scroll, refusing to listen, letting it play out.

God, I haven’t missed this side of her. Or this side of me, to be honest. I think I’ve come into my own living away from her, and I don’t want to be her shadow again.

In fairness to my sister, she never used to ask that of me, they were roles we fell into, me being naturally more passive, her more, well, aggressive, I guess.

She climbs onto her bunk, too, and I glance at her in the mirror opposite.

She’s opened her phone and is looking back at photos from a night out we did for her twenty-fourth birthday.

It was Great Gatsby -themed (even though none of us had actually read the book or seen the film).

I watch her candidly for a couple of minutes, as she scrolls back through photo after photo, where we’re all laughing and posing and pretending to smoke, holding martini glasses up in the air.

She zooms in on one of her and Luke just as he’s said something to crack her up, and a smile crosses her face as she lies there in the dim light, swaying to the movement of the train.

The worst thing about my sister is her pride when she lets it rage. The best thing is the soft moments like this, when her pride shines.