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Kier

Devon, July 2018

‘Guessing there’s no need to knock.’

Every bit of me lurches. He’s stood just outside the open door in high tops, jeans, a threadbare T-shirt, a wide smile on his face.

My twin brother, Penn.

Woody barrels out from between my legs, nearly knocking me flying. Penn bends, scratches his back, screwing up his eyes as the dog lunges up to lick his face.

‘What about me?’ I don’t want just a hug, I want to breathe him in, meld him to me.

Straightening up, he wraps his arms around me. ‘Fuck, I’ve missed you.’

‘Same.’ I hold him for a minute before we pull back, stare at each other. It’s always like this when we’ve been apart. Intense scrutinisation, trying to work out if we’ve missed anything new. But apart from a haircut, fair hair cropped a little shorter, he’s unchanged.

Penn clears his throat, embarrassed at what I can see are tears in his eyes.

‘Softie.’ I blink back my own .

‘No Zeph?’

‘Swim. He’ll be back in a bit.’

Penn nods. ‘So how is it travelling with someone? I want the inside story, not the PR lines you’ve been palming me off with so far. Must be hard, seeing as you’ve only got me to compare with … always pretty seamless—’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ I roll my eyes, but travelling with Penn is seamless. The first camping trip I took with him was to Spain, near the cliffs. We arrived after dark, but it was spectacular in the morning, watching the waves crashing to the shore, the blue skies that seemed to go on forever.

Early mornings when you’re camping always hold something raw and special. An Earth-fuck, my friend calls it. When you’re so at one with nature, it becomes out of body. Transcendental. The world hitting you full in the face, striking the very primal part of you.

You never get it in a house. By the time you’ve checked your phone, drunk your coffee, it’s too late. Blinkers on.

‘So, do I get a tour?’

‘Course. This wood panelling on the ceiling and floors is all new … we put the kitchen by the doors so Zeph can see out when he’s cooking.’ Penn runs his hands over the wooden countertop. ‘The kitchen’s bespoke.’ I point out the cooktop, drawers underneath, the oven below the countertop, the sink and shelves above loaded with oils and spices.

‘And sleeping is back here.’

Poking his head into the back, he laughs. ‘Let me guess, this was your idea.’ He nods at the hollow carved out above for my books.

I point at the driver’s area. ‘So was this. The front seats swivel round, and you can flip out this desk to create a makeshift office.’ I take him through the rest of our hacks. The jet boil. Gel pads so our pots and glasses don’t fall when we’re moving. Fridge, water heater, cup hooks. The wall library for our books and maps.

I’m talking fast, too fast, because under his gaze, everything seems slightly smaller, shabbier. It’s not him. He’s not judging – I am. I’m comparing it to their Victorian terrace by the estuary. I want his approval, for him not just to like it, but to feel a flicker of jealousy to verify I made the right choice.

But there isn’t a flicker; instead he’s kind. Too kind, too hearty. It’s forced, and that’s a bad sign. He’s now exclaiming, overemphasising. Loving it all. No one could love a gel pad that much, let alone want one for their own house. He even asks me to send him the link.

Beneath that overenthusiasm is pity; he feels sorry for me. Sorry that at thirty-three I can’t settle, and he’s trying to cover it up.

Straightening, he knocks his head on the plant I have hanging from the ceiling, sending it wildly swinging backwards and forwards. ‘This doesn’t get claustrophobic at all?’

Finally, a criticism. My shoulders sag in relief.

‘Only if you don’t get on with each other.’ A rasping laugh.

Penn and I turn. Zeph’s back, shirtless, a towel wrapped around his waist. Smiling, he stretches out a hand to Penn. ‘Nice to finally meet, and sorry for the late arrival, I …’ His words fade as he pauses, looking between us. ‘Nonidentical … I don’t know …’

People often say that. Despite the fact he’s almost a foot taller than me and a bloke, Penn and I share something you can’t quite grasp in photos. How we smile, eyes creasing up at the corners, the brow furrow when we’re concentrating on something. I like to think it’s the sheer amount of time we’ve spent together, subconsciously mirroring each other. Genes, together with the alchemy of time.

‘Beer?’ I ask, but as I turn, I trip over Zeph’s foot. An awkward dance as I try to right myself.

‘What were you saying about it not being claustrophobic?’ Penn laughs and I notice his eyes tracing Zeph’s tattoos.

Zeph tenses. He’s not always good at people taking the piss.

‘That’s only because you’re here,’ I say quickly. ‘Zeph and I on our own. It … works.’

‘Come on, it can’t be all hunky-dory.’ Penn grins. ‘I love Mila, but if we were stuck together twenty-four seven in a place this size, I think we’d both lose the plot. ’

I shrug. He doesn’t get the mutability of it all; how the van changes when there’s more than two of us in it. The space contracts. On our own, Zeph and I have a rhythm, a way of not getting under each other’s feet.

‘We make it work.’ Zeph changes the subject. ‘So, how’s the wedding planning going? Must be on the home stretch now.’

‘Yeah, thank god. No one’s getting out alive if it goes on any longer.’

‘That bad?’ Zeph laughs.

‘It’s the detail that gets you in the end. When you start having to decide on exactly the number of flowers in each bouquet.’ Smiling, Penn looks between us. ‘So … you two next?’

The question lingers before Zeph shakes his head. ‘Not there yet. We’ve only been together’ – he looks to me – ‘what’s it been, nine months? Ten? No time.’

Penn tenses. I can tell the sentiment will piss him off. He hates flakes. Especially male ones. A legacy of a childhood like ours.

There’s an awkward silence before Zeph loudly cracks his knuckles. ‘Right, I’m going to shower. I’ll join you in a bit.’ This is a cue; another thing you learn in a van. When to give each other space.

I look at Penn, grab another beer from the fridge. ‘Let’s go outside.’

We sit on the director’s chairs in front of the van, Woody beside us, and contemplate the view. The cove we’re parked up in is at the centre of the bay, and it’s beautiful – a shimmering curve of water sheltered by tree-covered cliffs still unspoilt by development.

I take a swig of beer. ‘So, how’s it been down here? Busy?’

‘It was. Tourists have thinned out in the past few weeks.’

‘In prime season?’ I watch the woman running past us. She’s making easy work of it as she navigates the rocky path above the beach; an effortless, rhythmic motion, cropped blonde hair shifting about her face with each stride.

‘You haven’t heard?’

I shake my head, my eyes shifting back out to the beach. Burnt sunbathers. Swimmers. Three sailboats marking a course.

‘The boat murders. A couple of girls killed, out at sea. Messed up by the propeller.’ His eyes skim over the water. ‘One of them was found not too far from here. They reckon it’s someone called Hayler.’

I shudder. ‘So maybe not the ideal lovers’ location.’

Penn catches my eye. ‘Is that what you two are, then, lovers ?’

‘You’re probing.’

He grins. ‘Maybe.’

‘Come on, I know you’re itching to give your verdict.’ I ruffle Woody’s ears.

‘Hard to tell after a few minutes, but …’ He exhales. ‘Wouldn’t really have put you together. He seems a bit … stressy.’

A beat passes. ‘Honestly, he’s good, Penn. We … fit.’ My voice pitches higher.

Penn looks at me. The air between us is fat and heavy, like a sponge. I want to squeeze it, let the weight fall away.

Beer has pooled on the top of his can. He slurps it away. ‘Ignore me. You know what I’m like, K, since Mum, when you meet someone new … I worry.’

Mum. I swallow hard. ‘You can’t vet everyone.’

Penn gives me a crooked smile. ‘I can try.’ He looks back to the sea. ‘So, you’re coming to ours on Saturday, yeah? Show us the stationery?’

‘Yeah. I’m picking up the final designs in town tomorrow. I—’ I break off. Zeph’s appeared, now dressed, hoody thrown on over his shorts.

‘Room for one more?’ he says.

‘There is, but I’m going to have to be antisocial.’ Penn drains his beer, stands up. ‘I’d better head. Mila’s cooking.’

‘Sure?’ As I stand up, Zeph winds his hand around my waist, pulls me in close. He does this when we’re around other men, stakes his claim. But as his hand comes to rest against my spine, silver rings pressing against my flesh, all I can think is: This is my brother.

Penn’s face scrunches up like he’s seen something bad. ‘Right, I’m off.’ He loudly crumples the can between his fingers.

Zeph steps forwards. ‘I’ll take that.’

‘Nah, won’t trouble you. There’s a bin up here. I’ll see you Saturday.’ Penn smiles, but the rhythm in his speech sounds off. Too slow. Staccato.

The dog lurches after him, but I call him back.

I hear the can unkinking beneath Penn’s fingers as he puts distance between us, the metal making loud, random pops as he walks.