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The Other Twin Kindle Edition
Could Matthew Temple, the boyfriend she abandoned, be involved? And what of his powerful and wealthy parents, and his twin sister, Ana? Enter the mysterious and ethereal Jenny: the girl Poppy discovers after hacking into India's laptop. What is exactly is she hiding, and what did India discover…?
A twisty, dark and sexy debut thriller set in the winding lanes and underbelly of Brighton, centring around the social media world, where resentments and accusations are played out, identities made and remade, and there is no such thing as the truth.
'Sharp, confident writing, as dark and twisty as the Brighton Lanes' Peter James
'Superb up-to-the-minute thriller. Prepare to be seriously disturbed' Paul Finch
'Crackles with tension' Karen Dionne
'This chilling, claustrophobic tale set in Brighton introduces an original, fresh new voice in crime fiction' Cal Moriarty
'The writing shines from every page of this twisted tale … debuts don't come sharper than this' Ruth Dugdall
'A cracker of a debut! I couldn't put it down' Paula Daly
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherOrenda Books
- Publication dateJuly 1, 2017
- File size952 KB
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About the Author
Kate Rawson studied acting at Webber Douglas Academy of Dramatic Art, London. She has performed in theater productions all over the world, including Hermia in "A Midsummer Night s Dream" and Kate in "Nicholas Nickleby". Her television credits include "Casualty" and "Holby City", both for the BBC. Her radio credits include "The Wills Girls" for BBC Radio 4 and "Mum s the Word" for BBC Radio Cornwall.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Other Twin
By Lucy V. HayOrenda Books
Copyright © 2017 Lucy V. HayAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-910633-78-6
Contents
Title Page,Epigraph,
Dedication,
PART ONE: Past Simple,
PART TWO: Present Continuous,
PART THREE: The Perfective Aspect,
Epilogue,
Acknowledgements,
About the Author,
Copyright,
CHAPTER 1
'I'm not doing this anymore,' he says. 'She won't say anything.'
'We all know that's not true.'
He flinches from the silence that follows. Her expression gives nothing away. But that's her all over: she can mask the anger deep inside her. It's what makes her dangerous. She Who Must Be Obeyed.
'And what do you propose we do, instead?' she says at last, folding her thin arms.
He grasps for an alternative, but it's futile: he can come up with nothing. His body sags in defeat, his eyes cast downwards at the stone floor.
'I thought so.' A shark-like smile crosses her face.
Resentment blooms in his gut. Heat travels up his gullet and cloys in his throat. He can't breathe. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He clenches his fists, keeping them by his sides, digging his fingernails into his palms.
'We've been through all this.' She puts one of her cool, papery palms to his face. From afar anyone would think it an affectionate gesture. It's not.
'I don't care,' he whispers.
'You know you do,' she chastises. 'Think of the others. We all agreed. Remember?'
White-hot anger blazes through him now. He'd never agreed, not really. Her gaze flickers to the clock on the wall. Already she is planning her next move, so sure of her victory over him. He proves her right; still he says nothing. Such a coward.
'Just play the game.'
Those words: a mantra, a verbal talisman. Designed to get them all to fall into line. She'd drilled them until the words would come unbidden to their own lips. She'd told him he was the protector, the big man. He had to look out for everyone, present their best side to the world. No one must know the truth.
It could spoil everything.
He breathes in the sickly vanilla scent of her perfume. He speaks through gritted teeth. 'Maybe I don't want to play the game anymore?'
She blinks, momentary surprise in her eyes. He hasn't talked back to her in years. But then she recovers her nerve and stands her ground, all swagger and bravado. 'You're being ridiculous.'
Despite her rictus grin, he sees her realising she no longer has the upper hand. He meets her shining eyes and enjoys sensing her apprehension; she thinks he might hit her. He knows he won't, but her anxiety pleases him. He is nearly a foot taller, broader across the chest and shoulder, all muscle. He could grab her by her slim neck with just one of his hands and strangle her, dangling her above the floor ... If he wanted to. And she knows it.
But his boldness does not last. Like a soap bubble, his defiance bursts, leaving nothing concrete between them. She knows how much he fears her wrath; how he will attempt to scrabble to safety. But his grip is always too weak: he will fall backwards, hopeless, into her suffocating embrace.
'You're supposed to look after them,' she enunciates each word, so each one drops like a rock. 'Remember?'
He feels his courage slide back down into his boots, into the floor beneath them. His head dips in shame. He swallows as the gloating steel edge returns to her voice. The familiar ball of pain in his throat stops him from speaking. The icy fingers of anxiety tear inside his ribcage, like a tiny creature clawing its way out of his chest.
He nods, acquiescing at last.
'You've done the right thing.'
He can feel the triumph radiating from her. Her bony hand pats his shoulder, her long nails like a bird's talons.
She turns, her high heels clacking on the red kitchen tiles, herlong skirt sashaying around her ankles. The kitchen door swings behind her as she leaves.
A sudden howl escapes him. He sweeps one arm across the kitchen worktop. Saucepans, ladles, plates and Pyrex dishes go crashing to the floor, smashing. Pieces skitter across the tiles and disappear under the stainless-steel cabinets.
It's not enough. He grabs more items from the sideboards and sends them flying. Cutlery and tins crash against ceramic; squash bottles bounce onto the kitchen floor; drums of coffee and sugar spill their contents. Granules pour onto the hob and countertops. Their subtle aromas fill the air.
He digs in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out his phone. Desperation clamours through him as he scrolls through his contacts. He could call her, warn her. He should warn her.
But his thumb hovers above the call button. What would he say? Would she even believe him? He's not even sure he believes the threat himself.
As the swell of emotion recedes, he feels lost. He tells himself he's being ridiculous. He must pull himself together. Tamp down his rage, as always.
He puts his phone back in his pocket.
CHAPTER 2Jenny, Jenny, Jenny ...
... I like it. Your shining name rolls around my mouth, smooth like chocolate melting on my tongue. Vanilla and cocoa, sweet and soft, just like you. It makes sense.
But the truth is hard and ugly, like a fifty-pence piece forced in between my teeth. I bite hard, try to force it down my throat. It catches in my gullet. Their lies are too big to swallow.
It was never meant to be like this. You should soar, but instead you are a bird in a gilded cage. They celebrate the false shell, denying the real you inside. They say it is for your own good! But their language of care is one of control.
Well, no more. We see them for what they really are. We trudge onwards, holding onto each other, supporting the other when one of us threatens to fall. We can do this. You are and will always be my twin soul. Real girls.
Soon you will be free. As I am, now.
I love you.
CHAPTER 3I awake, ravenous, in the early evening. Winter darkness forms at the window. Head banging, I sit up. I'm in a tangle of sheets on the floor; I've rolled off my grubby futon. As I reach for my phone, a sharp pain shoots down my neck and through my shoulders. Getting too old for this shit.
I wear just a vest and knickers. I'm lying on a selection of condom wrappers, crisps packets, empty pizza boxes and junk-food cartons. My hair is in a gluey mass at the back of my head. I don't even want to think about what caused that.
Predictably, my mobile is dead, the battery long since drained. I stagger to my feet and feel blindly for a charger. I find one already plugged into the wall next to the toaster, amid a shower of crumbs and globules of jam. I plug it in. I grab a glass, filling it at the sink and gulping the water down gratefully, as if I've walked across the Sahara the previous evening.
What the hell happened last night?
On the countertop, a hastily scribbled note with a phone number: 'CHEERS, D XX'. A flash of an image comes to me: just a body, no face. Pressed jeans, best shirt, a mop of curly hair with boy-band white teeth. Where did I find him? I can't recall. I become aware of this stranger's hands and lips on me: a red mark on my breast; sensitivity between my legs. I am unconcerned.
I put the rest of my dirty laundry in the basket, pulling off my clothes as I do so. Naked, I pad through to the bathroom, my nostrils flaring at the rank smell. I clamber into the shower anyway and let the water trickle over my head. I'd hoped for a power shower, but in this area the water system is ancient, the pressure nil. I wet my hands and lather myself with liberal amounts of shower gel, washing his touch, his taste away. I watch water swirl down the plughole and imagine D, or whatever his name is, falling into its dark depths, forever trapped in the pipes.
Never. Again.
I turn the shower off and dry my body and hair roughly, before letting the towel fall onto the bathroom floor. Still nude, I walk through to the living space and open a drawer. Virtually all my clothes are dirty. I dress hurriedly in mismatched items – the only ones I have left. So, that's my Saturday night sorted: I'm off to the all-night launderette near the station. Yay.
I remember my phone, still plugged in by the toaster. I see its red light flashing from across the room. As I pick it up, I note the SILENT icon; I forgot to change it back after work yesterday. Expecting a few texts, maybe a couple of missed calls and my usual email spam, I swipe a finger across the screen.
29 MISSED CALLS.
17 TEXTS.
3 VOICEMAILS.
All from the same number, listed as MUM.
Raw fear courses through me before I open any of them. My mother is the laconic type; she's not the kind of parent who goes chasing. I read the texts:
—'PHONE ME NOW'
—'POPPY FOR GOD'S SAKE ANSWER'
—'CALL ME'
—'CALL ME'
—'CALL ME'
The same, plaintive message, over and over.
I hesitate. There's a part of me that doesn't want to know what could have happened at home, while I was pissed out my skull.
It has to be Tim.
A litany of causes of death crashes through my mind. Heart attack, one of the biggest killers of middle-aged men. Or perhaps a stroke, or a brain embolism. Tim has high blood pressure. He's been overweight since I met him twenty-five years ago, when I was just five. He'd pick me up as a little girl and crush me to his barrel chest. He called the spare tyre around his middle his 'love handles' and for the past quarter of a century has resisted all attempts to make him slim down for the good of his health. He'd sing The Beatles' 'When I'm Sixty-Four' every time Mum so much as tried to broach the subject.
He's sixty-three now, could he not have made it to that celebrated age?
You hear of it all the time. But you always think it will happen to someone else; someone else's family. Death is just a concept, not real. Could my stepfather really be lying dead and cold on a slab, while I was doing something as banal as cleaning my flat and sorting my washing?
I don't hit the RECALL button; I don't need to. Mum's name flashes again silently on screen, her smiling face appearing on my smartphone a curious contrast to the dread piercing my chest. I let it ring twice, then press the green button and place the phone to my ear.
I brace myself for impact. 'Mum ...?'
Mum does not launch into accusations or reproaches for being off the grid. She attempts to say my name, but instead just emits this pained, low moan, like a trapped animal. It sets my teeth on edge and threatens to open the primeval floodgates in me, too.
Insight hits me. My life is split in two: Before and After. My brain bucks against the weight of what's coming and strains to make sense of the fear deluging through my veins. In years to come, every time I hear tears in someone's voice, I will see the wall of this studio flat, the crack that leads from the television on its bracket towards the dented fridge.
But still I don't want to believe something terrible has happened. I don't ask the question – 'Is it Tim?' – because I don't want to hear the answer. I try to speak, attempt to say something stupid like 'Happy Christmas!' and make it all go away. I know it can't, but I'm desperate to hold onto my Before life, the one that had seemed so shit when I woke up, surrounded by the detritus of my reckless existence.
Anything other than this.
Then Mum speaks, her words clear, almost deadpan. It's not Tim, after all.
'It's your sister.'
CHAPTER 4I blink. I find myself on a train, heading towards Liverpool Street station. I'm vaguely aware of cheery, anticipatory faces around me. It's Saturday night, so people in their twenties are everywhere, hands thrust in pockets, leaning against one another, the carriage a hive of excited activity.
The doors of the train swish open.
'She's dead. India's dead.' Mum's voice on the end of the phone seemed alien. It still feels like a bad joke.
'H-how? What? Why?' I stammered.
Bewilderment cascaded through me, followed by an ice-like certainty: Mum wouldn't have said something like this for no reason. Then, even stranger, another thought occurred: But it's Christmas. As if Death takes time off during the holiday season.
'Come home,' Mum whispered.
I could discern it was taking every bit of strength she had to form the words. She was threatening to unravel.
'See you in a few hours.' I sounded more in control than I was.
I drift through the middle of all of the crowds, making my way through the labyrinthine tunnels of the Tube. I walk up steps, on autopilot. I am untouchable: shoals of people divide and reconnect around me. I wander through bright-white hallways. The floor starts to move, travellators and elevators beneath my boots.
A blast of outside air makes its way down into another station – Victoria this time. I shiver; I have no coat. I have no luggage. Just the clothes I stand up in, my handbag. As I queue for yet another ticket, I catch sight of my reflection in the plate-glass window of a late-night burger joint. I look a sight. I'm wearing thin leggings, a pyjama t-shirt. I button up my cardigan, absent-minded. All my dirty laundry languishes back at the apartment, with the rest of my Before life. My hair, still wet, hangs in ratty knots around my shoulders.
At last I make it to the head of the queue. Behind the glass, a woman taps at a computer. She has neon-coloured threads woven into her cornrows, contrasting with her dull, grey uniform. Weary irritation forces her limbs into squared-off angles, the sign of the perennial night-shift worker. She says nothing, waiting instead for my instruction, one manicured hand poised over the keyboard.
'Single to Brighton,' I say.
My ticket issued, I make my way towards the boards. I've got twenty-five minutes until the next train. That's the difficult part of travelling, isn't it? The waiting. In side rooms, on benches, in hallways. Waiting in the vehicles you're travelling in, connecting you from A to B. The destination is all that matters.
Everywhere I look, there are newspapers. Carried under arms, lying on seats, fallen into stairwells. I grab one up, hungry for information, yet unable to shake the bizarre sensation that none of this is real.
I discover my younger sister is not front-page news. India is relegated to a side column, her humanity stripped away:
YOUNG WOMAN, 24, FALLS ONTO RAILWAY TRACKS Trains were halted for several hours between Brighton and London on Friday night after a young woman fell from a bridge onto rail tracks. India Rutledge, 24, was sighted running away from Brighton Station between 18:00 and 19:00. It is thought, about an hour later, she made her way to the notorious bridge located further down the track.
People on board the 20:12 to London Victoria report hearing 'a loud bang', though no one saw the young woman fall. The train driver is being treated for shock. British Transport Police are appealing for witnesses.
I read and re-read the report, my brain refusing to take the details in at first. I look at my watch and note the date again: 23rd December.
India's birthday.
Earlier this week – in my Before life – I'd posted a card. I'd chosen it without care, grabbing it from a newsagent's near the school where I was working. I'd not wanted to give India any more ammunition. I wanted to show her – and my parents – I can be the 'good' sister. For once.
It's India's birthday, yet she's dead.
I'm six, nearly seven. The Christmas holidays are forgotten this year, because my sister is born two weeks early. There is no Christmas tree, no presents under it. My mother has been completely caught out by the new arrival.
The baby comes home from the hospital trussed up in a car seat. My sister is wearing a pink knitted bonnet and a baby-gro with embroidered strawberries on. I am dressed nicely too: my hair is plaited, my puppy fat forced into a dress a little on the small side. It pinches under the arms.
I am sidelined as relatives, friends and random associates take turns to look at my replacement. Still in that car seat, my new sister is placed on the polished coffee table. The best china, cups and saucers and shining silver teaspoons, are placed next to her. Adults coo, exclaiming how good, how tiny or how cute this baby is, bringing cards and presents with them.
None are for me. I grow bored waiting for the adults to say how nice I look, or ask how I am getting on at big school.
So I drift closer to them. But their attention is still solely on the new kid, the one who only yesterday was still in my mum's belly. Just twenty-four hours ago I heard only bad things about this baby: how she gave Mum indigestion, or heartburn or an aching back. My mum had put her bloated ankles up on the pouf in the living room. She'd eaten chocolate spread straight out of the jar. She'd complained about being pregnant and how it lasted forever. But today, all is different: the baby is here and all is forgiven. India is only good.
I join two women on the floor. They sit on their heels next to the coffee table. One is the tall, thin woman across the road who's always in a rush and pushing a pram, her face set in a grim line. But not today; she is all smiles.
The other is the classroom assistant at my school: Miss Macey. She has big hands and a big gap between her two front teeth. She reads storybooks in silly voices, but not today.
Both are enchanted by my sister. I want them to look up, smile at me.
(Continues...)Excerpted from The Other Twin by Lucy V. Hay. Copyright © 2017 Lucy V. Hay. Excerpted by permission of Orenda Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Product details
- ASIN : B06XRLMCHB
- Publisher : Orenda Books
- Accessibility : Learn more
- Publication date : July 1, 2017
- Language : English
- File size : 952 KB
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 301 pages
- ISBN-13 : 978-1495627934
- Page Flip : Enabled
- Best Sellers Rank: #2,185,882 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #54,455 in Suspense (Kindle Store)
- #58,688 in Suspense Thrillers
- #772,188 in Literature & Fiction (Kindle Store)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Lucy V. Hay is a script editor, author and blogger who helps writers. She's been the script editor and advisor on numerous UK features and shorts & has also been a script reader for over 15 years, providing coverage for indie prodcos, investors, screen agencies, producers, directors and individual writers. She's also an author, publishing as both LV Hay and Lizzie Fry; Lizzie's latest, THE COVEN, is out now with Sphere Books and LV's debut crime novel THE OTHER TWIN is being adapted by the Emmy-nominated Free@Last TV. Lucy's site at www.bang2write.com has appeared in Top 100 round ups for Writer's Digest & The Write Life, as well as been a UK Blog Awards Finalist and Feedspot's #1 Screenwriting blog in the UK (tenth in the world!).
Customer reviews
Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them.
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- Reviewed in the United States on July 5, 2017This is going to be a very difficult review to write as there is so much I want to say but I’m fearful of giving away the plot. With The Other Twin Hay has written a topical thriller that is written with great skill and understanding.
When Poppy Wade’s half-sister India falls to her death from a railway bridge, Poppy returns to her home town of Brighton to be with her family. Poppy questions the initial verdict of suicide and sets out to find out the truth behind her sister’s death. Poppy has that underlying feeling that something isn’t right regarding the death and the more she looks into it the more she discovers that she barely knows those she grew up with.
The Other Twin uses social media to great effect. Hay plays on all my likes and dislikes of social media – the way in which you never really know who is behind the keyboard, the way in which grudges and arguments can be played out in public, but also the support it can give to people who would otherwise feel alone. This is a book ultimately about identity and the use of social media works perfectly with this. As Poppy discovers things about her sister she didn’t know via her laptop, the reader is constantly left guessing as to what the truth is.
This is also a book about the secrets that hide within families and the lengths they will go to to keep them concealed. The question is raised as to how much we ever really know anyone. I always enjoy secrets and lies within a book and I adored this aspect of The Other Twin. I was gripped from the start and raced through the book to the ending.
The tone sits perfectly with the subject matter and the sense of grief that is displayed by the protagonist. It has a subtle grittiness to it that leaves you feeling unnerved throughout. Hay’s writing makes you feel unsettled as you take the journey with Poppy to discover the truth about India.
Hay weaves a twisting, turning tale in which the sense of unease never leaves you. The ending pretty much blew me away with events that I didn’t see coming at all! It will probably be the book of 2017 that delivers the ultimate shock factor, and any books that come after are going to be hard pushed to surprise me as much as The Other Twin did. A cracking debut novel!
- Reviewed in the United States on February 3, 2020Format: KindleVerified PurchaseI really enjoyed it. It was a real thriller and I didn’t know who did till the end. I couldn’t put down.
- Reviewed in the United States on May 28, 2024Format: KindleVerified PurchaseThree star rating because I did enjoy the book, however; the chapters that were in a different POV were really hard to get through and I had a hard time figuring out why they were there and what was going on because there really wasn’t an indicator. Very frustrating!
Definitely applaud the author on handling difficult topics and doing it well. That was thoroughly enjoyed.
- Reviewed in the United States on November 2, 2017Format: KindlePoppy hasn’t been home to Brighton in years but after awakening from yet another one night stand she just can’t quite remember she finds her mother has been frantically trying to call her. Fearing the worse Poppy is a bit afraid to actually pick up the phone and find out just what is going on and when she takes that step her worse fears are realized. Poppy’s sister India has fallen to her death from a bridge over a railway looking like a suicide but that just doesn’t sit well with Poppy and she’s determined to find out the truth.
Poppy finds herself returning to the life she had thought she’d left behind years before but determined to get to the truth of just what had happened to India. Digging into India’s life Poppy is led to a mysterious girl named Jenny after hacking into India’s laptop and finds herself caught up by Matthew Temple, the boyfriend she abandoned. So many secrets to be uncovered but the deeper she digs the more questions she’s left with and doesn’t know who to trust.
The Other Twin by L.V. Hay is one of those books that was possibly just not for me as others seem to really enjoy this one but it didn’t take me long to decide that I didn’t. I wanted it to pick up and drag me into the story but after a rough start to this one I never really found a rhythm and began to enjoy the characters or book at all.
Poppy was a character that starts off dragging herself out the funk of a night she can’t remember and immediately I hesitated on liking her but thought possibly she could be one of those characters that grows and learns and makes one come to love her, unfortunately that didn’t happen. There were actions later in the book that still had me disliking her and that brought down the whole book for me. I just found it a bit slow pace and tedious from the get go with never really getting too invested. This one just turned out to not be my cup of tea but plenty of other readers are enjoying it.
I received an advance copy from the publisher via NetGalley.
Top reviews from other countries
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Amazon CustomerReviewed in Germany on December 12, 2017
3.0 out of 5 stars Twisty for the sake of twists?
An interesting "reveal" at the end, but often felt like the twists were thrown in for the sake of having a twist - not necessary to propel the story forward.
- JenMedBookLoverReviewed in the United Kingdom on July 30, 2017
5.0 out of 5 stars Family secrets, hidden lives
Whoa. Where did this book come from? You know when you start reading something and you just have a feeling you know where it is leading and how everything plays out? That is how I felt when I started reading The Other Twin by Lucy V Hay. It read like a family drama, one where they are torn apart by what happens to the youngest child, but essentially a story of how the other sibling, the one left behind cannot accept what has happened for what it is and where we will go on that emotional journey of discovery with her. And, in essence, that is exactly what this is. However, Lucy V Hay takes us beyond this – the story transcends the simple inability of Poppy to accept her sister’s decision to end her life – and the journey we are taken on is less one of gradual acceptance than a stealthy and progressive unveiling of secrets, lies and shocking revelations. Not what I was expecting. Not what I was expecting at all.
Now this book does touch on some very sensitive subjects. We begin with the shocking announcement to Poppy that her younger sister India, who she hasn’t really spoken to in years, has chosen to take her own life. Drawing Poppy back to her home town of Brighton, she simply cannot accept that the young and vibrant girl she once knew would have changed so much that she would ever contemplate suicide. The impact upon Poppy’s family is heart wrenching, the emotion Hay captures on the page as she describes their mother’s slow descent into a mental breakdown is beautifully and poignantly captured. We are also faced with Poppy’s personal dilemma and conflicted feelings as one of the key reasons she stayed away from Brighton, her former lover Matthew, is brought back into her life in a most dramatic and emotionally challenging way. This re-acquaintance, this conflict, plays around with her emotions, threatening to derail her investigations when she has scarcely begun but she is determined and it is obvious she will not give up so easily or allow herself to become too distracted.
I have to be honest and say that I had mixed emotions about Poppy initially. I couldn’t figure her out. What was the big secret which kept her away from her home for all these years, the one which drove her and her sister apart? She is a strong character, with some likeable qualities for sure, but there was a secret there. Something which she was not sharing. Something which for whatever reason led to absolute mistrust and hatred from people she had once called friends. Did this make her an unreliable narrator? Maybe, maybe not. You’ll have to read and judge for yourself. I didn’t not trust her exactly, but I admit to having to keep an open mind. I did admire her tenacity and resolve though and for me Hay created a very believable and relatable character, very important as this is the character who needed to carry the whole book. The one we had to trust to lead us on our journey.
But although the story is told mainly from Poppy’s perspective as she navigates the labyrinth of lies which have been constructed around India’s death, there is a second party involved in the telling of this most twisted tale. An anonymous voice. A man whose voice is filled with poison and hatred towards anyone that he considers different. And in a place like Brighton, he can find different on every corner. The story is based heavily around the LGBTQIA community, something which our mystery voice clearly hates, a message – the prejudice, the disgust – which practically thrusts forth from the page as he watches them go about their lives. Whilst Brighton may pride itself as a very liberal and free city, not all of its residents agree, although the true root cause of this anger and hatred may not be as obvious as it seems.
And then there is the mysterious Jenny, India’s friend. It is apparent from Poppy’s brief meetings with Jenny that she knows more of what happened to India than she will say, and she also knows the truth of the blog which India used to run, one which is closed down just as Poppy starts to uncover some vital details pertaining to her sister’s final months. But just who this Jenny is and why she was meeting India in a Gay club is not quite so clear. And what of ‘The Other Twin’ that the title refers to? Well this will become clearer as you read on, because it is finding Jenny and solving this puzzle which will lead Poppy, and the reader, to the most startling discoveries of all.
It is very clear from reading the understanding the author has around the subjects of social media and blogging, and the impacts, both positive and negative that they can have upon a persons life. We are shown, perhaps too simply, that India used her blog to create tension and conflict, but as all things social media related, the story is never quite so black and white. And Hay’s characterisations, both of the LGBTQIA characters and the prejudices of those surrounding them, are very acutely observed.
This is more than simply a story about the effects of prejudice and suicide. There is a dark and twisted mystery at the heart, one which runs through it from first page to last. It is also a story of family, of separation and of loss. But most of all, it is an exploration of the devastating impact that lies, anger, control and deception can have on a family. The ending is poignant and moving, the sense of acceptance and overall of freedom which emanates from the page a truly beautiful thing.
- Bristol Book Blogger 📚📖📓Reviewed in the United Kingdom on August 15, 2017
4.0 out of 5 stars A cracking read!
Format: PaperbackVerified PurchaseI enjoyed the idea of this title and the themes, but I felt that there was an awful lot of discussion and the pace was so fast I couldn't keep up with the characters so I didn't feel I got to know them very well. I think it's great that the author has described race, gender, and sexual orientation in the title, but I felt there was a lot of it for just one book. I feel it could have been lengthened a bit to give me longer to absorb the issues raised. But in all, I enjoyed the author's originality, her voice, and thought it would make a cracking TV series/film adaptation.
- francis towlerReviewed in the United Kingdom on August 28, 2017
3.0 out of 5 stars sray with it
complicated though a clever twist toward the end made it worth readng.
- seachelleReviewed in the United Kingdom on May 30, 2017
5.0 out of 5 stars A thrilling mystery: raw, honest and current. Thoroughly enjoyed its fresh approach.
OK, so I’ve been looking forward to this book for ages - Lucy is a friend and I have been curious about the novel - which is more in line with my favourite types of novels than her YA books - ever since she said she was writing it. But this also made me nervous - would I like it? What if I don’t?
Thankfully, there was none of that. I thoroughly enjoyed this debut crime novel! It has the elements I usually go for in a thriller book: a mystery involving someone from the protagonist’s past and a necessity to revisit that past and desire to investigate.
However, along with this, it’s also got such a unique vibe. There’s no sugar-coating the locations or the situations of the characters - the protagonist is relatably flawed and we get to see the darker sides of her popular seaside hometown of Brighton.
I loved the short chapters, which were great for reading whenever I had some spare time - but were also quite the trap because I found myself in the ‘I’ll just read one more chapter’ loop! It takes a while for our protagonist to make some sense of the clues she has, but the narration doesn’t ever feel too slow.
By halfway through, the layers of the story are starting to narrow and the intensity builds. I found myself constantly theorising as to who what and why, but didn’t hit on the correct solutions, making the twist at the end really satisfying.
I think I’d need to read it again to fully appreciate all of the layers: particularly the cryptic blog clues, but I love how the identities of the mysterious characters come to light and how it makes scenes from earlier in the book suddenly make sense. You may think the novel is about one thing, when it’s additionally about a whole other thing as well.
If you want a book that’s ‘the same but different’, then THIS is the one for you. It’s great for fans of thrillers and crime mysteries but is also raw and honest, current (social media presence and exploring relevant topics for today’s society) and will leave you thinking about it and its themes long afterwards.