I always felt she would outlive me. She was nicer. In many ways she was a better version of me. She deserved a long life.
My bank balance is low but I can manage. I don’t know the full picture but from what Mum tells me their financial situation is far worse than mine so I need to cover the costs of this nightmare trip on my own. Economy tickets with British Airways leaving at 15.50.
I have a framed picture of my sister by my lap, resting on its own breathable pillow.
My poor sister.
Up until we were seven years old, Mum dressed us both the same, although I think that was Dad’s idea. In the photo we have pigtails and matching outfits and matching shoes. Little KT’s socks look odd. One pulled high, the other down by her ankle. She did that on purpose. We used to go everywhere together. We even created an elaborate secret language, much to the chagrin of our parents.
It’s dark outside.
I receive the flight confirmation email in my inbox and then I make a mug of tea. I make it strong and add an extra teaspoon of sugar. Most people would have opened the gin but there is no gin. Never has been. Now, more than ever before, I need to make zero mistakes and I need to stay clear-headed and in control of the situation. There is no longer anyone to help me when I stumble.
After writing out my full itinerary and double-checking luggage restrictions I monitor the weather forecast. Multiple forecasts. Still nothing on the news.
I Google flight to New York checklist. I need something called an ESTA visa waiver or else I won’t be allowed into the United States. If I don’t get granted one I won’t be allowed to board my flight. I need to be with my parents. To talk to the police. I find the intimidating ESTA website. One question is ‘What will be your temporary address in the United States’ and I text Dad and he replies immediately: The Bedfordshire Midtown Hotel, West 44th Street. I enter that information and pay the fourteen dollars. I glance at KT’s face in the photo and rub my eyes.
My breathing feels wrong. Am I going to have a heart attack? Am I going into shock?
More tea.
I research travel insurance. After reading horror stories of hundred-thousand-dollar hospital bills I decide to cover myself by purchasing two policies from two separate insurers headquartered in two separate continents. It’s important to have insurance for your insurance.
As the bird outside my locked windows starts to sing I fall asleep on my bed with the photo of my twin next to me on its own pillow.
I wake up and immediately check Google but there’s still no news about KT. I’m craving details: timelines, forensic evidence, medical reports, suspects in custody. I want to know the specifics. The ESTA was granted, thank goodness. I take a screenshot of the confirmation and send that to my back-up email.
Strong coffee. I cross-reference my lists and pack my checked bag and my hand luggage and then I repack them both. I research can you take a parachute on a jet plane and discover that you can but they do not increase your chances of surviving a serious incident.
I unplug all appliances except for the fridge, and then I leave the apartment. I secure all three locks on the door and climb into the minicab. The company knows me. They have on file that I insist on a Volvo and an experienced driver with no points on their licence.
My phone’s lock screen shows my sister’s face. My face. An Instagram photo from Central Park. My lock screen used to show a photo of her walking on Hampstead Heath, down by the swimming ponds, one of our favourite places in the world. I’m better with wildlife than I am with people.
I see glimpses of Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park on the way to the M4 motorway. At Heathrow the driver takes the Terminal 5 exit and I see there are armed police close to the terminal. I count four.
I pull on my backpack and thank the driver and retract the handle on my suitcase and then I sprint as fast as I can, dragging my bag in my wake. I’ve read on forums how unsecure landside areas before checkin are among the most risky places to linger in the modern world.
At security I’m told to take off my shoes and remove all liquids from my bag. I walk through and I do not set off the metal detector. My vigilance is total. I am constantly aware of those around me.
My bag gets searched and the agent looks quizzically at some of my hand baggage contents but then she lets me pass. I press the light green quite satisfied button as I walk away.
As I pass through the wine and spirits area I inhale a faint scent of Armani Mania and suddenly I cannot breathe. The familiarity of the fragrance. I stop and rest with my back against the wall and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop myself crying. I try to walk on but have to steady myself against the baggage trolleys.