The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

in his hands, lovelorn. Ah, that’s what was jabbing me in the boobs.

Kian’s excitement radiates off him. Even his arm hair stands on end. Initiating full nerd mode in three, two, one …

‘You take the vaccine and screw it into the base, here,’ he says, tapping the vial and glancing at me to check that I’m following. ‘Then this canister is charged with a pressurised burst of air that pushes through the nozzle and penetrates the skin without puncturing it. Voila! Happy pigs. Cool, isn’t it?’

‘Kian’s the only farmer in the county using one of these this year,’ chirps the woman, looking to him with pride so sincere it makes me bashful.

‘Friends in high places,’ he says, tapping his nose. ‘It’s technically a prototype, so make sure you wear goggles if you’re going to have a go with it. The last design had a forty per cent malfunction rate. Just a little kick back when you make contact.’

I take a deep breath. A chunky bacon sandwich is the closest I’ve ever come grabbing a pig with two hands.

The woman bumps Kian with her hip and grins. ‘Let’s get piggy with it!’ She lifts the gun to her mouth and pretends to blow smoke from the barrel.

‘All right, best point that in the right direction,’ says Kian, ‘Don’t think you need protecting against trotter rot.’

‘I might. My hands are looking more trotter-like by the day,’ I say, turning them over.

‘Ha! You’re funny,’ says the woman, laughing. ‘Come on, I’ll show you what to do.’ She goes to hook an arm through mine and as she does, Kian lifts the gun from her like he’s cradling a fragile newborn.

***

‘Go on, Ava! Grab it. GRAB IT!’ I stand in the corner, my front leg bent in a lunge, my back foot squared at forty-five degrees for stability. I’ve only every known this position as ‘warrior one’, but today it’s far more like ‘saluting the swine’, such is the frequency with which my hands slap the floor as I lunge for another sow.

I slump against the gate and toss my second to last jumper over a fence post. The wind cools me down, mainly because I’m sweating so much that it feels like a damp towel is draped across my back.

‘Kian! Have you got a second?’ I say, wiping my forehead with the cleanest part of my sleeve.

‘Can it wait?’ he says, swinging a leg back over a pig. He shakes a canister and sprays a cross on the pig’s backside just before she bolts from between his knees with a high-pitched squeal. What a drama queen. You’d think we were branding them with a hot poker.

‘It’s a quick one,’ I say, straining to be heard above the cacophony of squeals. He unzips his hoodie and makes his way towards me, shoulders slumped with fatigue.

‘I didn’t catch her name earlier. It feels awkward to ask now,’ I say, nodding towards the woman as she darts to one side and lands on the concrete with a thump. She jabs a pig on the backside, an arm outstretched like she’s on centre court at Wimbledon.

‘Sorry, didn’t realise. It’s Moira. Family friend. Known her for ever,’ he says, turning back towards the pigs. I grab his sleeve. He looks down at my hand, then up at me. I can’t seem to get a breath in.

‘Moira? Moira – Moira?’ I say, my words squeezed from my stomach.

‘Yeah,’ says Kian slowly, taken aback. ‘Moira McCauley.’

I look beyond his shoulder to where Moira sits balancing on her heels, teetering in wait for another unmarked pig to trot past. She catches my eye and waves frantically. That’s my bloody sister. Moira. I’ve found her. I’ve bloody found her.

‘Are you all right?’ asks Kian.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s fine. Super fine.’

‘You sure? You look a bit … weird.’

‘No, I’m just hot. Don’t you think it’s hot?’ I say, fanning myself.

‘It’s six degrees.’

‘Is it?’ I say, my voice an octave higher than normal. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere, like a jellyfish pulsating blindly underwater.

‘Do you … want to let go of my sleeve?’ says Kian.

‘Yep. Sorry.’

‘It looks like you need a tea? With a sugar, or two?’

‘No, it’s OK. Can you cope without me for a couple of minutes? I’ll be back. Just need a … yeah.’

I clamber over the fence, my legs wobbling as I hop down on the other side. I tuck myself out of the wind’s slipstream and press my forehead against the barn’s corrugated panelling until the pressure verges on pain. My breath flutters in my throat. There’s a tickle of something, like a slick of cooking oil coating my stomach. Do I say something now, or wait? Should I go into the whole back story, or just come out with it? I drum my fingers against my leg and try to think clearly, but my brain feels like it’s been replaced with scrambled egg. I don’t know what to do, but I feel like it would be inappropriate to yell ‘I’M YOUR SISTER!’ whilst pig wrestling.

I turn around. There’s a gap between the warped timber beams, through which I can partially see Moira. She has her arms wrapped around a hefty sow, towards which Kian wades through a sea of jostling rumps. He jabs a vaccine into the pig’s side. Moira grins, her fringe stuck to her forehead. Her chin isn’t as pronounced as mine, but it’s obvious now. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it straightaway. The same groove in mine is there in hers, set within a square jaw which might look masculine if it weren’t counterbalanced by high-set, apple-round cheeks.

I examine the parameters of my common sense. Moira McCauley. It can’t be a popular name, and definitely not in a village of three hundred, so, yep, that’s almost definitely my half-sister. She looks a few years younger than me, so her father – our father – had a relationship of some kind with Moira’s mum after mine.