About the Author

Lisa Tuttle was born and raised in Texas, but moved to Britain in the 1980s. She now lives with her writer husband and their daughter on the side of a Scottish loch. She has written more than a dozen fantasy, science fiction and horror novels.

Praise for Lisa Tuttle

‘Lisa Tuttle has quietly been writing remarkable, chilling short stories and powerful, haunting novels for many years now, and doing it so easily and so well that one almost takes it, and her, for granted. This would be as big a mistake as not reading Lisa Tuttle’
Neil Gaiman, bestselling author of American Gods

‘Lisa Tuttle never disappoints’
George R.R. Martin, bestselling author of A Game of Thrones

‘Tuttle is a sweet relief . . . Tuttle’s books are messy and chaotic. They feel desperate. They feel human. They feel like real life’
Tor.com

‘Tuttle manages to combine the restless, biting curiosity of a natural SF writer with an ability to project a real feeling’
Evening Standard

‘She brings to the literature a subtlety and power, which, sometimes shading into horror, is a quite distinctive voice demanding to be heard . . . exceptional, very female, art’
Independent on Sunday

‘Lisa Tuttle is a subtle and clever writer whose fantasy deals with the world we all believe we have sensed from time to time out of the corners of our eyes’
Michael Moorcock

‘The Mysteries is a thriller, detective story, and fantasy all in one - engaging, delightful, and wonderfully written. Unique, a winner’
Dean Koontz on The Mysteries

‘This John W. Campbell Award-winning author remains one of fantasy’s best’
Publisher’s Weekly

‘A wonderful mystical journey through the darkened rooms of Victorian séances and stagecraft - beautifully written and researched. I absolutely loved it’
Alison Littlewood, author of A Cold Season, on The Somnambulist and the Psychic Thief

‘Tuttle’s delivery is impeccable’
Upcoming4.me

The Lisa Tuttle Collection
Omnibus Edition

Snake Inside
Panther in Argyll
Love Online

Lisa Tuttle

Snake Inside first published first published in Great Britain in 1995 by Mammoth
Panther in Argyll first published in Great Britain in 1996 by Mammoth
Love Online first published first published in Great Britain in 1998 by Mammoth
This omnibus edition first published in ebook in Great Britain in 2017 by

Jo Fletcher Books
an imprint of
Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK company

Snake Inside copyright © Lisa Tuttle 1995
Panther in Argyll copyright © Lisa Tuttle 1996
Love Online copyright © Lisa Tuttle 1998

The moral right of Lisa Tuttle to be identified as the author of these works has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781787472365 (EBOOK OMNIBUS)
Snake Inside ISBN 9781782068778 (EBOOK)
Panther in Argyll ISBN 9781782068761 (EBOOK)
Love Online ISBN 9781782068785 (EBOOK)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Also by Lisa Tuttle

Short Story Collections:
A Nest of Nightmares
A Spaceship Built of Stone and Other Stories
Memories of the Body and Other Stories
Ghosts and Other Lovers: A Short Story Collection
My Pathology and Other Stories

Novels:
Familiar Spirit
Gabriel
Lost Futures
The Pillow Friend
The Mysteries
The Silver Bough

Jesperson and Lane
The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist and the Psychic Thief
The Witch at Wayside Cross

SNAKE INSIDE

CHAPTER ONE

At first sight, the picture showed a woman struggling to escape from the embrace of a gigantic snake, but as she continued to look, Lia saw it differently. Not a woman and a snake, but a woman-snake, a snake-woman. Her mouth was wide, whether in a scream of horror at what she was, or of furious anger at someone else, was impossible to tell.

Lia was both horrified and fascinated by the painting; she wanted to turn away, but at the same time she wanted to understand. She felt the wriggle of a forbidden memory struggling towards the surface and nervously turned her attention from the screaming face to the title of the work: Lamia. It was a name she almost recognized; something from mythology, she thought. As she gazed, trying to remember, someone came up beside her. She knew even before he spoke that it was her brother, Iain.

‘You like that, huh?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said uncomfortably. She felt as if she’d been caught looking at something she shouldn’t have been, although that was ridiculous. After all, this was an art exhibition, they were here to look at the pictures, and it had even been Iain’s idea to come. Probably, since he had been an art student, he was going to tell her why this painting wasn’t any good. ‘It’s weird,’ she said, not giving away whether she liked it or not. ‘I wondered what it meant. The title’s familiar, but …’

‘How is it familiar?’

The sudden intensity of his interest took her by surprise. She was used to being the boring, annoying little sister, to be talked down to, teased, or ignored, but never taken seriously as an equal. ‘Well, I’m not sure. I think Lamia was somebody from mythology – I guess she was somebody who turned into a snake but I can’t remember. Do you know the story?’

‘Yeah, I know it.’ He didn’t go on, and she made a face at him.

‘Go on, then, tell me.’

‘Are you sure you want to know?’

‘No, I’m asking because I don’t want to know! Honestly, Iain.’

‘She was a monster. She looked like a beautiful woman but was really a poisonous snake.’ The flatness of his tone made her uneasy.

‘Why?’

‘She was born that way. Does there have to be a reason for monsters?’

Before she could think of a reply, another voice cut in.

‘Webster. What do you mean by paying so much attention to this piece of recycled pre-Raphaelite rubbish? Come and show your girlfriend some real art.’ The speaker was a tall, skinny boy with wide grey eyes and a wicked smile. Lia had noticed him when they’d first arrived because his feet were bare.

‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

‘So introduce us.’

‘Nic, Lia, Lia, Nic. I didn’t force her to look at this painting – she decided all on her own it was the most fascinating thing in the show. I’ll leave you to tell her why it’s not.’ With that, he walked away.

‘Charming fellow,’ said Nic.

‘How do you know him?’

‘Oh … around. He used to be a student here. I’m a student myself, if you hadn’t guessed.’

‘So what’s wrong with this picture?’

‘It’s a pre-Raphaelite rip-off. Don’t get me I wrong, I like the pre-Raphs, but they’re dead, there’s no point trying to copy them. Plus, there’s something kind of misogynist about it, don’t you think?’

‘What?’ She didn’t recognize the word.

‘Anti-woman,’ he explained. ‘I mean, they’re all about fear of women, those old myths. A beautiful woman must be a devil in disguise; get too close and she’ll suck the life-blood out of you!’

‘Was she a vampire? Lamia, I mean?’

‘I think so, in the original story.’

‘What was the original story?’

He stretched his mouth in a comic frown. ‘Oh, gosh, now you’re going to show me up … all my pretence of classical learning a hollow sham … uh, I think she was somebody Zeus or Jupiter or whatever you want to call him fell in love with and she had several children by him, but Zeus’s wife killed them all. So in retaliation she started killing other people’s babies, and turned into a monster.’

‘A giant snake?’

‘Yeah. In the poem by Keats she’s not really a monster, just some poor snake with the emotions of a woman who falls in love with a man. She does a favour for some passing god who turns her into a woman, she finds her bloke, he asks her to marry him. But at the wedding feast, wouldn’t you know, some boring old philosopher sees through the illusion and – zap – she’s a snake again, and her bloke dies of shock. Now, was that everything you ever wanted to know about the lamia but were afraid to ask?’

He had such a great smile, she had to smile back. ‘But why is it mis— why is that story anti-woman? There’re plenty of stories like that about men. Count Dracula turns into a bat, and werewolves are men, aren’t they?’

‘Mmmm.’ He seemed to consider her words very seriously. ‘Yes, but – isn’t it worse, somehow, when it’s a woman who’s a monster? I mean, it’s much scarier when a beautiful woman turns into a murderous snake than when a big hairy man turns into a wolf.’

‘Maybe for you – I wouldn’t fancy being locked up with either one of them!’

They laughed together.

‘So I’m being sexist,’ he said. ‘My mother would kill me! Of course you’re right – if something’s about to rip out your throat, what difference does it make if it’s a man-wolf or a she-snake?’

She giggled. ‘Unless you had a special phobia about snakes – or wolves.’

‘But it wouldn’t make any difference in the end. Dead is dead.’

‘Except for the undead.’

That made him laugh again, the sound so contagious she had to join in. When they were calmer, he rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘Come on, people are staring. Let me show you a piece of art which doesn’t tell a story.’

Nic’s ‘installation’ was in another room. It looked to Lia more like a big toy than anything she would have called art. It consisted of three parts: a rough wooden structure supporting a row of plastic milk cartons, each painted a different colour; a row of coloured light bulbs fixed to the wall and blinking in sequence; and a television set linked to a video recorder, showing a seemingly endless scene of a waterfall. She walked around observing it from different angles.

‘Go on, say something. It won’t hurt my feelings.’

‘I don’t understand it.’

‘There’s nothing to understand – no story, no myth, no attitude towards women, or men.’

‘But I don’t understand why it’s art.’

‘Ah, well, for that you’d have to go to art college and get stuffed full of theory!’

At that moment Lia’s mother entered the room. Nic shut up and watched her and Lia watched them both, apprehensive of something embarrassing about to happen. Don’t say anything, she thought at her mother. Just look and get out.

But, as usual, her telepathic ability wasn’t working. When her mother discovered the card naming the artist she read it aloud. ‘Dominic Blackburn. I wonder if that’s—’

‘That’s me,’ said Nic in a cheery voice.

‘Faith Blackburn’s son?’

‘You know my mother?’

‘I’m Janet Webster. Faith and I both taught at the City Lit, oh, a very long time ago. I met you once when you were about ten.’

He made a comic O with his mouth. ‘You’re Iain’s mother!’

Janet nodded. ‘Yes, and Lia’s.’

He looked at Lia, who felt herself blushing.

Unaware of Lia’s discomfort, Janet went on to chat with Nic for a few moments, first asking questions about his mother, then about himself. She sounded particularly American, Lia thought. At home she never noticed it; her mother’s accent was simply part of her familiar voice. But when they were in company it could make her uncomfortable, and she wondered how, after nearly thirty years in England, her mother could still sound so foreign. Lia had been born in America herself, but, brought to England when only a few weeks old, felt wholly English. She had a great curiosity about America, and especially Tennessee, where she’d been born, but had never been back, and sensed her mother had some unspoken reason for not wanting to return.

‘Do tell your mother I was asking after her – I’d love to hear from her.’

‘I will.’

When they were alone together again Nic gave Lia a curious, interested look, and grinned. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I quite liked her. Or didn’t you want me knowing Iain’s your brother? I won’t hold him against you. You can’t blame people for their families.’

It wasn’t funny, but she laughed with relief. Something about the way he said it, and the warm friendliness with which he looked at her, made her feel she’d known him for a long time. All constrictions fell away.

‘It’s a little more complicated than that,’ she said. ‘Iain isn’t really my brother, not by birth. I was adopted. Actually, he’s my cousin – my real mother was Iain’s Aunt Laura, his mother’s sister. She died when I was born. I used to think that if I’d been his real sister Iain would have loved me, but now I’m not sure. Maybe he would have resented anybody who came along to join his happy little family.’ She stopped, surprised at herself for blurting it all out like that. Her adoption was no dark secret, never had been, but that didn’t make it general knowledge. People often said how like her mother – meaning Janet – she was. The only striking physical difference between them was in the colour of their eyes. Like her husband and her son, Janet had blue eyes, but Lia’s were green.

Nic looked interested and sympathetic. ‘Do you think about them a lot? Your real parents?’

‘Not that much. I never knew them. Mum and Dad, I mean my adoptive parents, are the only ones I’ve ever known. I do wonder sometimes about what would have happened if Laura hadn’t died. Would she have moved over here like Mum wanted her to? If we’d all lived together, would it have been like I had two mums? Or maybe she would have stayed in America and I would have grown up there.’

‘What about your real dad?’

‘I don’t know anything about him.’

He moved a little closer and gave her an intense look. ‘You’re like me,’ he said. She saw, with a little shock of recognition, that his grey eyes had flecks of green in them. ‘My dad walked out on us a couple of months before I was born. I know his name, but not much else. I’ve never met him.’

Silence hung charged and heavy; the air seemed to throb with it. She found it hard to breathe. She felt herself swaying and thought she saw an answering movement in him, towards her. In desperation, she grabbed at a question he’d asked her and threw it back at him.

‘Do you think about him?’

He didn’t move, but the focus shifted. She felt more normal as he began to speak. ‘Sometimes. Sure. I wonder if I’m like him at all, and I hope not, because of the way he could just walk out and never even try to know me.’ He gave his shoulders a flexing wriggle as if to escape the subject. ‘Come on, let’s walk. Have you seen the rest of the show?’

As they emerged into a larger gallery, Lia was aware of being watched. Then she saw Iain leaning against the far wall, and the thought occurred to her that he could have been standing there for ten minutes or more, the way a cat will watch a mouse-hole, waiting for them to come out. As they approached him, he gave no sign of having seen them but walked hurriedly in another direction. Maybe it was coincidental, but she had the unpleasant feeling he’d been spying on her.

Lia tried to put it out of her mind, to lose herself in the paintings, sculptures and installations around them, and in the pleasure of Nic’s funny, well-informed commentary.

They met her mother again after about a quarter of an hour. ‘Ready for lunch? I’ve just met Iain, and we’ve both seen enough. Dominic, would you like to join us? My treat.’

‘As a poverty-stricken, grant-dependent student, I most gratefully accept your kind offer.’

‘I thought the Pizza Express. Their dress code isn’t formal, but I suspect they require shoes.’

‘Most places do, I’ve found. So I always bring a pair. I left my bag in the cloakroom.’

‘So did I,’ said Lia.

Iain was waiting for them by the door to the cloakroom.

‘Your friend is joining us for lunch,’ said Janet, and her son made a noise which could have meant anything.

Nic retrieved a black nylon rucksack, and as Lia reclaimed her own large shoulder-bag the strap, weak for some time, completely gave way. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Never mind, darling. We were going to get you a new bag for school.’

‘But it’s Sunday! What am I going to use tomorrow?’

‘Ever hear of a carrier bag?’ asked Iain. ‘Or aren’t they allowed at your posh school?’

‘You can take my leather rucksack,’ said her mother. ‘The one I got in Norway that summer we all went … you remember. I haven’t used it in years. You might as well have it.’

She did remember the Norwegian rucksack; the memory of the beauty and softness of its leather filled her with grateful pleasure. ‘You mean it? Oh, I’d love to have it – that would be great!’

Stepping outside the climate-controlled gallery brought another rush of pleasure. Now past noon, the sunny day had turned distinctly hot. After an especially rainy August, September was proving the best of the summer. The Orley College of Art was a massive modern concrete block set on a slight rise above the town centre, and a little over a mile from where the Websters lived. Gazing across the road at the pedestrian shopping precinct that was their destination, shading her eyes against the glare of sunlight on concrete and glass, Janet said wistfully, ‘We should have gone to the beach today!’

‘Not unless you fancy hours stuck in traffic queues getting in and out,’ said Iain. ‘Everybody in Greater London will have had the same idea when they woke up and saw the sun.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. And the art show was very enjoyable – that was a good idea you had this morning.’ She spoke in the placating manner she often used with her son, which made Lia feel like hitting somebody. He was a spoilt brat getting worse with age. Every effort he made, no matter how tiny, was always rewarded with extravagant praise. If Lia had suggested visiting the student art show at the local college their mother might or might not have agreed, and Iain would certainly have sneered. But because it was Iain’s idea, Janet had leapt upon it with enthusiasm, and Lia had not dared spoil any of her pleasure by opting out. Since their father had died, their mother seemed to need reassurance that they were still a family. Inevitably, as Iain had grown older, he had led an increasingly separate life, although he continued to live in the family home. Lia often wondered why he didn’t move out on his own, or with some of the unknown friends he spent time with, but she didn’t ask, knowing her question would reveal her desire for him to leave, her unchanged dislike of him.

She tried never to let her dislike show, and kept her distance so he couldn’t do or say anything to make her angry. She knew how dangerous her anger could be. Once it had nearly killed him.

Now, as always when she spent much time with him, her eyes were drawn to the small scar beside his left eye, still vivid after two years. It was lucky she hadn’t put his eye out with the stone she’d thrown; luckier still that he hadn’t broken his neck when, stumbling backwards in pain, he’d fallen down the stairs.

The memory of what she’d done – and the so much worse things that might have resulted – had the power to make her feel cold even in the hot sunlight. She forced her attention back to the present, focusing on Janet, who was saying, ‘I know I said Pizza Express, but on a day like today it seems perverse to sit in the dark. I don’t suppose there’s a sidewalk café in Orley Green?’

‘The Case Is Altered has a garden, and they do lunches,’ said Iain, so they went to the pub.

Sitting at a table in the sun, between Nic and Iain, trying to keep a wasp out of her lemonade and watching her mother smile at something one of the boys had said, Lia was aware of a new and hopeful feeling.

The past two years, since Mark Webster’s sudden death, had been such a gloomy time, she’d sometimes thought she could never be happy again. Lately it seemed Janet had passed through the worst of her grief and could enjoy life again, even laugh and be silly with her children, but this summer, just as things should have been getting better for all of them, Lia had suffered another loss, when her best friend Tessa had gone away to live with her mother and new stepfather in Australia.

But now, in spite of the past, in spite of her losses, in spite of everything, as she blinked in the bright sunshine and looked, sidelong and a little shyly, at Nic’s clever, friendly face, she realized she was looking forward, with some excitement, to what the future might bring.

*

She was haunted by the memory of a face contorted with rage. As she tried to fall asleep that night, Lia couldn’t get the lamia out of her mind. Only, in her memory, the painted face became her own, furious and screaming her hate.

‘If you could see your face! That’s not my Lia!’ That, in tones of disapproval, had been one of the last things her father had said to her, and the recollection tore at her heart. She had to think about something else, so she fixed her mind on Nic, on the memory of his face, concentrating more as sleep crept up on her, until the memory became more real than the darkness of her room, and she was there with him.

They were very close, an almost perfect understanding drawing them together. They were going into his house, which was much bigger than she’d expected, and dimly lit inside. It made her think of a cathedral, and as she gazed around she fell behind. She called out to Nic to wait, and saw him stop and glance over his shoulder at her, motioning her forward with a movement of his head.

She tried to walk faster but made no progress. She realized she couldn’t even feel her legs and looked down, but the light was so bad she couldn’t make them out. She looked at the walls, searching for a light switch.

She couldn’t find one, but something gleamed – a pane of glass, a window – and through it she saw someone looking back at her. Even in the darkness she could see that the creature there was no ordinary person. She’d thought at first it was a girl like herself, but then realized that although the head, shoulders and arms were human, the rest of the body was that of a gigantic snake.

And then Nic was there, even before she’d had to call for help. Grateful and relieved, she turned, reaching for him, but he was backing away, a look of horror contorting his features.

‘If you could see yourself! What are you? You’re not my Lia!’

His words chilled her, and as she turned to look again at the lamia she realized it was not on the other side of a window. She was looking in a mirror. She was the lamia.

*

She woke with a gasp that burnt like a scream in her throat, but it was only a dream, she was safe, she was herself.

By the time she had washed and dressed and made her way downstairs, her mother had already gone, leaving a hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table:

Darling, please find leather rucksack in my closet – on floor somewhere, I think. Just dump any old rubbish you find inside; sorry to be so rushed!

There was no sign of Iain, but from the presence of a second mug on the table she saw he must have emerged from his basement living quarters to have coffee with his mother before she left. Lia poured herself half a cup from the coffee-maker, wrinkling her nose at its bitterness but grimly determined to learn to like it without sugar. After cornflakes and toast she went back upstairs to search for her mother’s bag. It was on the floor of the closet directly in front of the door, as if Janet had started to put it out for her. She picked it up, taking pleasure in the soft suppleness and smell of the leather, and carried it back to her own room.

Despite Janet’s warning about rubbish there wasn’t much inside: the end of a yellow packet of cough sweets and a couple of crumpled tissues which she dropped in the bin, a penny, a till receipt, and a folded newspaper clipping. She unfolded it to see what it was. From its yellowed look and brittleness between her fingers she knew it must be old, but still it gave her a shock to see the date in the top right-hand corner and realize it was as old as she was.

With growing unease, Lia read the clipping. It was headlined MONSTER HAS A CHILD, datelined MEMPHIS. It told of a convicted murderess, Arlette Kursow, who had just given birth to a daughter in a prison hospital. Within hours of the birth the mother had been returned to her cell on Death Row, never to see her child again. Plans were already in hand for the immediate adoption of the baby. To protect the child, no details about her adoptive family would be released. It was believed that they were not residents of the State of Tennessee, and that they had undertaken never to reveal the truth of her parentage to their adoptive daughter, to save her from the psychological trauma of knowing her biological mother had been a convicted killer.

It was a sad, sordid story, and she couldn’t imagine why Janet should have cut it out or saved it. She had never heard of Arlette Kursow, and her story would have meant nothing at all to her except for one, unsettling detail. The murderess’s child had been born in Tennessee, on 16 September, 1979, precisely the place and day that Lia herself had been born.

CHAPTER TWO

Lia didn’t believe in horoscopes. The theory behind them wasn’t logical. Sharing a birthday with someone didn’t mean you shared anything else; certainly nothing as amorphous and personal as fate.

Tessa, who thought horoscopes were fun, said Lia’s attitude was that of a typical Virgo. While she agreed most popular horoscopes were generally nonsense, she claimed astrology had insights to offer. She believed coincidence was meaningful.

Lia had taught herself to believe that coincidence was random and meaningless. She clung to rationality and logic, even if it did make her a ‘typical Virgo’.

But just occasionally something that should be meaningless struck to the heart before rationality could stop it.

Rationally, she knew that hundreds of babies must have been born in Tennessee on that same day. She also knew, because Janet had told her, that her real mother had been Janet’s younger sister Laura, an unmarried college student who had died due to complications following her birth, leaving Lia to be adopted by her closest relations.

Yet hadn’t there always been the faintest niggle of doubt? The feeling that Janet might not be telling her the whole truth, that there might have been something left out. It was something to do with Janet’s unease in response to certain questions, and her reluctance to talk very much about the mother Lia had never known, and the fact that they’d never – although Lia had begged for a family holiday there – gone back to Tennessee.

And, most peculiar of all, why should she have found this particular newspaper cutting in Janet’s bag?

She didn’t for a moment imagine that Janet had meant her to find it; almost certainly she’d forgotten it was there. In contrast to her adopted daughter, Janet was dreadfully untidy and disorganized. She was always clipping out relevant articles only to misplace them until long after the need for them had passed, and she carried shopping coupons and gift tokens around for months, even years, after their expiry dates.

But why had she clipped and saved – and forgotten – this one? Was the date coincidence, or was the date the whole point? Brooding on the subject as she waited for the bus to take her to school, she wished, not for the first time, that she had Tessa beside her to share her thoughts. Tessa would be sure to say the right thing to help.

And then, just as the bus arrived with the usual loud screeching of air brakes, she knew exactly what Tessa would say. Her friend would tell her to ask her mother, and so she would.

*

Lia’s adoptive parents, both academics, had passed on their love of research to her. She liked pursuing and discovering connections; she loved spending time in libraries and bookstores, browsing through reference books, following one lead after another, just for the fun of it. And one thing she had learnt was that a very good way of coping with fear or worry was to turn the object of her fear into a research project. Until she was ten she’d had an irrational fear of snakes – even the picture of one would make her shudder and look away. But, with her father’s help, she’d overcome her aversion long enough to read a book on the subject, and with every fact she learnt about the wide variety of snakes throughout the world, their habits and life-cycles, the more interested she became. Fascination drove out fear.

Now, the aversion she felt for the murderess known as Arlette Kursow drove her towards, rather than away from, the subject. Even though she had every intention of asking Janet about the newspaper cutting, she checked the school library for information first. There were very few books about murder, and those few were all English murders, committed by men. The librarian hadn’t heard of Arlette Kursow, but suggested that if there was a book about her, it might be available as a second-hand paperback.

‘Do you know the bookstall in the market under the railway arches?’

Lia nodded. She’d been there with Iain; it was where he bought most of the thrillers and horror novels he liked to read.

‘The chap who runs it is a crime buff – so’s my husband, who tells me he’s got the best selection of mystery and suspense he’s seen anywhere. He also has a section for true crime, and if he doesn’t have a book he can usually tell you if it exists, and the title.’

‘Thanks. I’ll stop by there – it’s on my way home, anyway.’

By the end of the school day the irrational panic she’d felt that morning had died away. But the bookstall in the market was on her way, and her mother wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours – she might as well continue the search. She had more than one reason for being interested in Arlette Kursow. Any book about the murderess would be bound to tell her something about what life was like in Tennessee in 1979. While there wouldn’t be many points of contact between a convicted multiple murderess and a nineteen-year-old student, they’d been alive at the same time, both of them young American women who were unmarried and pregnant. The little Janet had told Lia about her origins could not satisfy her hunger to know more.

She left the bus at the top of the High Street, by the Underground station, and entered the market by the flower-stall, passed the odorous fish shop, the pet shop and the gloomy old-fashioned barber shop, to arrive at the bookstall. The space at the front was devoted to romances and fat best-sellers, but it was a false front, laid out to snag the passing trade, the impulse buyers. Most customers didn’t even look at the front but walked straight through to the narrow, booklined cave at the back where they would find volumes devoted to mystery, murder and monsters.

Crouching before the two low shelves dedicated to True Crime, Lia shuddered with repulsion as she handled the books. Horrible books about horrible people. Most of the covers were decorated with grainy, blown-up newspaper photographs which made the faces of the killers look distorted and unnatural. They looked like the monsters they were supposed to be. Yet it was a misleading first impression; the cover photographs had been carefully chosen for their distortions. Inside were photographs of the ordinary people the murderers had been – pictures snapped on holiday, or at Christmas parties or weddings, before anyone knew they were monsters. Most of the killers were men. Of the thirty or so books she examined, only two were about women. One was Myra Hindley, the other an American woman who had killed her own children. Lia felt dizzy, and didn’t know if that was in response to what she’d been reading, or if she’d stood up too fast.

‘Can I help you?’ She recognized the man who ran the stall: he had long, greying hair in a ponytail and slightly slanting blue eyes.

‘I was looking for a book about Arlette Kursow – do you know if there is one?’

‘Kursow. Arlette.’ She could see him processing the name as if his brain were a computer. ‘Hmmmm, was she that French – no, wait, I know who you mean. American. Arlette Kursow, the lamia, right?’

She felt a chill so strong she had to clench her teeth.

He didn’t notice. ‘Yeah, right, The Lamia. That was the name of the book. Came out, oh, five or six years ago, maybe more. I remember reading it. Out of print now, but you still see it around. I definitely had a copy in here within the last few weeks – can’t remember who I sold it to.’

‘Why – why was it called The Lamia?’

‘That’s what she called herself. It’s a mythological creature, half-woman, half-snake. She claimed that although she looked like a woman she was a snake inside. And when the snake inside was aroused, she would kill.’ He gave a snorting laugh. ‘Completely crazy, obviously, but they still sentenced her to death.’

Lia stared at him as if hypnotized, unable to move or speak. She wanted to run away, but she was like a tiny animal trapped in front of a weaving cobra.

‘She was pregnant when she was arrested. They took the baby away from her as soon as it was born, to be adopted by some couple who’d sworn to leave the state – maybe even the country – and bring the child up in complete ignorance of who her real mother had been. Well, it was her only chance, poor kid. Imagine finding out your real mother was a multiple murderess! And her adoptive parents, they must always be wondering – what if blood tells? What if she goes crazy and starts killing people when she grows up? What if she’s a lamia, too? She must be a teenager now, I guess; probably just about your age.’

*

Lia sat at her desk, alone in her room. She could hear, faintly, the sound of birds outside her window, and the distant grumble of the city beyond, but the house that enclosed her was as silent as a tomb. On the wall above her desk were several framed photographs. One was a posed studio portrait of her adoptive parents, taken five years ago; another, also a studio portrait, showed a blue-eyed, oval-faced girl with ripples of chestnut-coloured hair: Laura Ivy Anderson, her real mother, at the age of eighteen. She knew those three faces as well as she knew her own; she’d known them all her life. There was no mystery about her parentage; she knew who she was, and she was not connected to Arlette Kursow in any way.

And yet, she felt a connection. She, too, had known the killing rage of the murderess, and the crippling, hopeless guilt.

That she had not, in fact, killed anyone was just her good luck. She could have done, very easily. She’d nearly been a murderess herself.

With some reluctance, she picked up her weapon.

It was a chunk of black rock which had been planed, smoothed and polished on one side to reveal the fossil, an ancient flatworm preserved for eternity in the stone. It had belonged to her father, and was one of a small collection of interesting stones and fossils usually displayed on top of the small bookcase in the upstairs hall, between the bathroom and her bedroom. Two years ago, in a moment of blinding rage, during a row with Iain, she had put out her hand and picked up this very stone and hurled it at him.

The coldness of the polished stone seemed to travel up her arm, straight to her heart. Why had she picked it up?

She could tell herself she’d never meant to hurt him, but if she let herself remember the intensity of her rage she had to admit that wasn’t true. She had wanted to hurt him, to make him feel the strength of her anger so that he’d leave her alone, stop tormenting her. She’d tried going to her parents, and it hadn’t worked. They didn’t take her seriously; they called his torments ‘teasing’ and thought she was paranoid when she insisted he was spying on her, that he was the one responsible for breaking the lock on the bathroom door. Janet had lectured her on accepting her changing body, and Mark had obviously found her anger more disturbing than anything about his son’s behaviour.

So she was on her own, feeling reckless and desperate and furious, and when words had finally, like her parents, failed her, she’d reached out for a more solid weapon.

Her aim, as Iain had told her in the past, was a joke. Even at close quarters she probably would have missed him, if he’d stayed still. But he’d ducked, and moved to one side, and by sheer bad luck the stone had struck him on the temple, just above his right eye. The force of the blow, plus the shock and pain of it, made him stumble and fall back. Unfortunately, the stairs were behind him. As he fell backwards down the stairs and tried to stop himself, he broke his arm in two places. It could have been much worse – she didn’t need anyone to tell her that it was no thanks to her he hadn’t broken his neck or his back. Iain could have died, like their father did, in a motorway accident that same night, and it would have been her fault. She’d have been a killer, a murderess, just like Arlette Kursow.

The telephone rang, frightening her but also shaking her out of her unwelcome memories. She took a couple of deep, calming breaths before she picked it up.

It was Janet. ‘Sweetheart, I— would you mind awfully if I wasn’t home for dinner? There’s some things in the freezer for you.’

‘I can cook for myself. Of course I don’t mind. What’s up?’

‘Someone’s asked me to dinner. There’s frozen lasagne.’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘Well, would you mind awfully fixing something for Iain as well?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Don’t go to any trouble; just put the lasagne in the micro, maybe make a salad – but Iain never eats salads—’

‘Mum, honestly, I can manage! Don’t worry about us.’ But as she hung up, she wondered just who was taking her mother out to dinner. Was this a date? She had thought Janet safely past the age of dating and having boyfriends, but maybe not.

On her way downstairs she returned the black fossil-stone to its shelf, and reached the kitchen just as Iain emerged from his basement lair. ‘No sign of our mum,’ he said. ‘This isn’t one of her late nights.’

‘She phoned. She’s going out to dinner. Told me to take care of you.’ She made a face which he mirrored. ‘There’s a lasagne in the freezer, but I don’t fancy it myself. How about you?’

‘Anything’ll do me.’

‘Omelette?’

‘Chips with that?’

‘If there’s chips in the freezer, OK. But I’m not frying anything.’

‘OK, OK, nobody’s asking you to.’

She immediately regretted her tone. She was always on the defensive with him, and although they’d never really fought since the time she’d nearly killed him – they hadn’t dared – they were always at odds with each other. She was relieved to find a big bag of oven-ready chips in the freezer; it was better than an apology.

‘So who’s she having dinner with?’ Iain asked.

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Think it’s a date?’

Lia put the chips in the oven. ‘Mum doesn’t date.’

‘Oh? How do you know?’

‘She just doesn’t. Look, if she was dating somebody, we’d know.’

‘How? How would we know? She goes out all the time; she doesn’t have to get permission from us.’ Iain was getting agitated. ‘Do you know where she was Saturday night?’

‘Yeah, as it happens, I do. She was at a dinner party. At the Robinsons’.’

‘And how do you know that? Did you follow her? Did you see her drive to Kensal Green?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Lia rolled her eyes. ‘She told me where she was going.’

‘Oh, and she wouldn’t lie to you, no she wouldn’t.’

Lia shut the door on the oven chips and turned around to stare at him. ‘Have you been following her? Spying on her?’

He stiffened, looking shocked. ‘Of course not! I wouldn’t – why should I? You’re the one – you always think I’m spying on somebody, don’t you?’

It was a sore point. She retreated as best she could, turning away to get eggs, butter and cheese from the fridge. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just – well, you kept going on about where she was and how did I know, so I just – well, what was I supposed to think? What’s this all about? Where did Mum go on Saturday night?’

‘How should I know? I suppose she went to the Robinsons’. I didn’t mean she hadn’t. I was just using it as an example. You think you know everything about her, and I’m saying you don’t.’

‘Well, you’re right. I don’t know everything. There, you win, does that make you happy?’ She whirled around to bestow an obviously false smile on him, and felt the smile freeze as she met his eyes. There was something cold and calculating in his look, much more frightening than the annoyance or dislike she usually surprised there. But then in a blink it was gone, and she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t imagined it.

‘Oh, I know you don’t know everything. I’ve always known that. Why should that make me happy?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Would you bring me a couple of sprigs of parsley from the garden?’

‘I don’t like parsley.’

‘Then just bring me one.’

She wouldn’t have put it past him to refuse, or to bring her back a bit of rosemary, or even something inedible, but he went quietly out the back door and brought her what she’d asked for. It gave them both time to calm down, and he must have repented of his attempt to wind her up, because when he came back he made a fresh start, telling her about a new American comedy-thriller just out on video which he’d rented for the evening. As he described it, she found herself getting interested, but it was a surprise when he invited her to watch it with him. Her refusal was automatic.

‘Sorry, I can’t, I’ve got homework.’

‘You’ve always got homework. Do it after the film. Or do it first and come down later – I’ll wait for you. I don’t mind; I’m always up late.’

It was so unusual for him to want her company that this invitation had to be his way of apologizing, maybe even of trying to forge a better relationship after two years of a hostile truce. It was long overdue. They weren’t squabbling children now, but young adults. She thought of how pleased their mother would be if she and Iain could finally be friends, and knew it would be ungracious to refuse his offer. Besides, she fancied seeing the film.

‘OK, thanks. If you really don’t mind, I’ll get my homework out of the way first, and then I can relax and enjoy the film.’

*

Iain had lived in the basement, in a self-contained flat, since shortly after his father’s death. His move had been a relief to Lia, as it had meant an end to their squabbles over the bathroom, but she had come to see it as an odd, unsatisfactory, halfway move: he wasn’t living in the house, but neither was he out of it. The family home had become a place he passed through at his own whim, where he usually took his meals or dropped off his dirty laundry. And even though she no longer bumped into him several times a day outside the bathroom or her bedroom, she had never quite shaken off the feeling that he was watching her, only from a distance now.

As she went down the steps to his door she couldn’t remember the last time she had been in the basement – her mind kept flashing back to the day she’d helped him move his stuff downstairs, but surely she’d seen it since then?

The sight of it was no surprise, anyway: movie posters on the walls, the pile of dirty laundry and an unmade bed, the draughting table pushed out of the way against one wall, floor-to-ceiling metal shelves stacked with video tapes, CDs, magazines and books. There was a faintly sour, musty odour hanging in the slightly chilly air, and there were no windows. The thought of living in a room without windows – like a jail – and of the absolute, tomb-like darkness that would fall when you switched off the light, made her feel breathless. But this was Iain’s choice.

He rose from the couch where he’d been sitting and reading, and gestured towards the kitchenette. ‘If you want to make yourself a cup of tea or a cold drink I’ll set the tape up.’

Always curious about books, she went to the couch to examine the paperback he’d dropped, and immediately recognized the cover and title as one of the true-crime books she’d seen on the second-hand stall. Without thought, the question popped out: ‘Have you ever read a book about an American killer named Arlette Kursow?’

The silence was suddenly absolute, as total as the darkness she had imagined earlier, and she turned around quickly, thinking her brother had left. But he was standing next to the television, staring at her with a peculiar, excited expression.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked nervously.

‘Say that again.’

‘What’s the matter?’

He moved his hand impatiently. ‘No, before that – what did you ask me?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She felt frightened.

‘It does. It matters very much. Because if you’ve figured it out all on your own that’s one thing, but – I don’t want to say something I shouldn’t just because I misunderstood.’

‘It’s not important. There’s no reason to make a big deal out of it, it was just a simple question. I just wondered if you’d ever read a book about Arlette Kursow.’

‘The Lamia.’

‘Yes – I think that’s what it’s called.’

He nodded. ‘I have a copy.’

‘Could I borrow it?’

He stared at her without moving. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Why?’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t read it. You might learn some things you’d rather not know, that you’d be better off not knowing.’

His solemnity irritated even as it frightened her. ‘Just let me worry about that, all right? Are you going to let me borrow the book or not?’

‘Sure, sure. If you really want it.’ He slowly turned and walked across the room to the bookcase. She watched him scanning the shelves for the book and considered screaming or running out of the room – anything to break the spell she felt closing around her. But she didn’t do anything, and at last he found the book and brought it to her, his expression serious and concerned.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t care what I think, but I have to say this. Leave it alone.’

‘Honestly, Iain, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you hated censorship. I may not be sixteen yet, but I’ve read books about murder before – were hers especially gruesome?’

He shrugged and handed her the book. ‘It’s not that. Oh, well, if you’re going to pretend—’

‘Pretend what? What are you getting at?’

‘Why are you so interested in Arlette Kursow?’

‘I’m not so interested; I just happened to run across an article about her and thought I’d like to know more.’

‘More about her? Or about her daughter?’

Lia’s heart beat harder. ‘What do you know about her daughter?’

He looked her in the eye. ‘About as much as you do.’

‘You mean that she was born the same day I was.’

‘Exactly.’

‘It’s just a coincidence; not even an interesting one. Do you know how many women had babies on that day in Tennessee?’ She cast about mentally for a plausible number, in case Iain called her bluff, but his actual response took her by surprise.

‘I know one who didn’t.’

‘What?’

‘My Aunt Laura was no more pregnant than my mum was, but all of a sudden, one day there’s this new baby, and I’m told she’s to be my new baby sister. I know I was only four, but I wasn’t stupid – I might not have known where babies came from, but I knew they had mothers, so where was this one’s?’

Iain had lied to her in the past – ‘teasing’, he called it. She strained to see some sign of a tease lurking in his large, solid features, the hint of a smile about the big, full lips, but he was utterly serious. There was an old anger, a long-buried sense of injustice smouldering behind his words which gave them the undeniable ring of truth.

Her fingernails dug into her palms as she determinedly kept her cool. ‘If that’s really how it was, why haven’t you said anything before?’

‘I did! You don’t remember because you were so young. I always wanted to know where you’d come from, and Mum kept insisting that you’d been Aunt Laura’s baby, and that I was getting things wrong, that I didn’t remember, or that I hadn’t understood because I was so young. Of course, the longer she kept on at me, the less sure I was about what I knew. Well, I didn’t really know anything, did I? Knowing who wasn’t your mother isn’t such a big thing as knowing who really was.’

‘But why pretend I was Laura’s? If she was going to lie, why not just pretend I was hers? Why tell me I was adopted at all?’

‘Because she wouldn’t be able to get away with it. I was there, remember?’

‘Yeah, you were there, so they had to tell the truth. They did tell the truth. If they’d adopted me from some orphanage they’d have said so. Why would they make up a story about Laura being pregnant and unmarried and then dying in childbirth – unless it really happened?’

He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in a look of exaggerated innocence. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t. Except … if they didn’t adopt you from “some orphanage”, and if part of the conditions of adoption were that you must never, ever know who your real mother was, then they’d have to give you a believable background. As long as you thought you knew who you were, you’d never be tempted to investigate your own past, and learn what no one wanted you to know.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

He nodded, as if he had expected this. ‘A wise move. I’m sure it’s for the best if you can go on believing what you’ve always believed, that you’re the daughter of my aunt, Laura Ivy Anderson, who died tragically young, giving birth to you. And you won’t want to read that book, for sure.’

He put out his hand, but she kept hold of the book, uncertain. If there was information here which had convinced him she was actually Arlette Kursow’s daughter, she wanted to know what it was. She refused to believe it, but she couldn’t contradict the argument without knowing what it was. ‘Well, maybe I’ll just … out of curiosity …’

‘Curiosity killed the cat. Come on, Lia, give it back. I should never … I shouldn’t have said anything. Mum made me promise a long time ago that I wouldn’t tell you what I know about Aunt Laura. I shouldn’t have said anything. Only, I thought you’d figured it out, like I did, and … well, forget it. Give me back the book and I’ll put the tape on and we’ll forget we ever had this conversation.’

‘What weren’t you supposed to tell me about Laura?’

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

‘I can’t forget it. You already broke your promise, so you might as well tell me everything. What about Laura?’

He sighed, and his shoulders slumped in defeat, his hand dropping back to his side. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘That she wasn’t pregnant – as far as four-year-old you could tell – and therefore never had a baby, and …’ she stopped.

‘And therefore never died,’ he finished for her.

‘She’s still alive? You’re saying my real mother is still alive?’

He shook his head at her foolishness. ‘I’m saying Laura’s not your real mother, and therefore she’s still alive.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ She spoke without thinking.

‘I’ve got proof.’

Her hands, clutching the book, were sweating. ‘What proof?’

‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

She didn’t know what to think as she followed him upstairs to Janet’s bedroom, where he went straight to a drawer of her dressing table. Maybe it was all an elaborate bluff, and in another minute he’d turn around, grinning, empty-handed, saying, ‘But I had you going there for a while, didn’t I?’

But when he turned his hands were not empty. He held a small brown-and-black box she remembered had once been full of imported chocolates, a Valentine’s Day gift from Mark to Janet some six or seven years ago. He opened the box and she saw that it was full of cards, photographs, and letters still in their envelopes. These envelopes, which he offered her, were addressed to Janet A. Webster in a rounded, vaguely familiar-looking hand, and had American stamps on them.

‘Letters from Laura,’ said Iain. ‘Want to read her condolences on Mark’s death? Or the one she wrote five years ago, after the birth of her first daughter?’

‘I don’t read letters that aren’t addressed to me. And nor should you.’ Her voice sounded small and prissy.

‘You wanted proof,’ he said. ‘Here it is. Or maybe you’d rather just wait and ask Janet why she’s lied to you all these years? Your choice.’ He tossed his handful of letters on the floor.

She bent down and, with cold, dead-feeling fingers, picked up one letter. She had come too far to turn away now. What she didn’t know would continue to haunt her.

Dear Jan,

A hasty scrawl to say that Bob and I have a darling daughter, Jennifer Louise. Your little niece was born two weeks ago, weighing six pounds, eight ounces, with blue eyes, no hair, and is absolutely gorgeous. We are absolutely exhausted, and ecstatic. I still can’t believe I’m a mother now! Hope you and Mark continue happy with your two – does it get easier when they get older? Drop a line when you can. Even though you don’t hear from me very often, I do think of you a lot, especially lately.

Lots of love from your baby sister,

Laura.

There was a snapshot enclosed, and Lia couldn’t kid herself that she didn’t recognize the woman with the baby. The years had brought changes, but she was still, unquestionably, the same person as the girl in the photograph above her desk, the girl she’d always believed was her dead mother. This was Laura, unmistakably alive.