He’d recognized her. Those mousey shoulder-length curls and the pale complexion and those too-thin arms. She’d been in English that morning. In a discussion about poetry, she’d said her family had been driving across Wales when they picked up a local radio station and heard a reading of Gerard Manley Hopkins’s verse in Welsh. Even though she hadn’t understood any of it, the poems had sounded beautiful. The rhythm, the lilt of the words, the musicality. Some of the class had laughed. Alex had glanced at her, expecting her to look flushed or upset, but their mockery seemed not to affect her at all. He’d been impressed by that. And by what she’d said about the poetry.
Cherry, Ms. Sprake had called her. Cherry Jones.
In the car park, no words had passed between them. Just that brief eye contact. Then a car had turned in and drawn to a halt in front of the wall where she was sitting. The girl, Cherry, hopped down, loaded her cello case into the boot and let herself into the passenger seat beside a woman Alex assumed to be her mother. The woman shot a look in his direction as she drove off, but the girl kept her gaze dead ahead.
At five-thirty, Alex phoned home.
Number unobtainable.
First his mobile number wasn’t recognized, now this. Alex dialed directory inquiries, gave the details to the operator. After a pause she came back on the line. That number had been changed, she said. And the new one was ex-directory. Sorry, but she couldn’t let him have it.
Down the stairs two at a time. Thump, thump. He had to get out of the house. Flip’s house. Had to be on the move, somewhere, anywhere. If he could have run home, to his home, he would’ve done, however many hundreds of kilometers. Jumped on a train, with no money for the fare, and hidden in the toilet all the way to London. Hitchhiked. Whatever. He grabbed his shoes—Flip’s shoes—from the stand in the hall and sat on the bottom stair to pull them on. As soon as he was out that door, he would just keep going, walk the streets all night if he must. He didn’t care.
Which was when Flip’s mum appeared at the end of the hallway. “Ah, there you are.” She was wearing a kimono—scarlet, with a gold dragon motif. “Tea’s about half an hour away, so don’t take Beags too far, will you?”
“Sorry?”
“I’ll fetch you a sandwich bag.”
She disappeared down the basement stairs to the kitchen. A lead dangled from one of the key hooks by the front door. Was this what Flip did each evening, walk the dog? The woman returned with a plastic bag (for poo?).
He didn’t have to do this. He wasn’t Flip. Beagle wasn’t his dog. If he chose to, Alex could simply walk out without a word and go where he pleased.
“Your sister,” the woman said, eyes raised ceilingwards. That music was still playing, pulsing through the house like some monstrous heartbeat. “I’m surprised she has any eardrums left.” Then, turning a smile on Alex. “How was school?”
“Oh, er, you know. Same as always.”
“Have you done your homework?”
“Yeah, yeah. Yeah.” Alex gestured upstairs. “That’s what I’ve been—”
That smile again. She wasn’t having any of it. “After tea, Philip. Okay?”
She was in a better mood than she’d been in that morning. She smelled of onions and faintly of something else. Wine. Again, it occurred to him to turn and go. Just walk out. But he couldn’t. He looked into her face, and he couldn’t do it. She might not have been his mother, but she was a mother.
“I’m …” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
The woman frowned. “For what?”
“This morning.”
“Oh.” She appeared taken aback. “Oh, well, it’s all a bit fraught first thing.”
“No,” Alex said. “You didn’t deserve it. The way I behaved. The stuff I said.”
He thought Flip’s mum was about to cry. But she didn’t. She gave his arm a squeeze, pecked him on the cheek. Wine, definitely. Red wine. “Go on,” she said, “or you’ll hardly get him out the front door before it’s time to bring him in again.”
Alex took the lead from the hook. “Where is Beagle?”
“In the lounge, I expect. Watching the tennis.”
“Tennis?”
“First day of Wimbledon,” the woman said, as though the answer was obvious.
Sure enough, the dog was curled up on a chair, gaze fixed on the TV screen. As the ball pinged back and forth, his eyes followed it. One of the players put a backhand into the net and Beagle let out a sigh, as though disappointed.
Alex dangled the lead to make it jingle. “Come on, walkies.” The dog lifted his head from the cushion, did the growl thing again. “Are you going to bite me if I try to put this on you?”
In fact, Beagle did give him a nip, but Alex clipped the lead to his collar all the same and half walked, half dragged him out of the house. The dog kept up a low grumble as they headed side by side down the street.
You know, don’t you? You’re the only one who knows I’m not Flip.
* * *
“Where does he normally take you, Beags?”
The dog gave him a sidelong look, as though to say, What’s it to you?
Alex led him randomly around the network of streets in Flip’s neighborhood. After fifteen minutes or so, they emerged onto the main road opposite the station. A cluster of teenagers, male and female, occupied the area around the seat where he’d been collared that morning by Johannsen. Nine hours earlier. It seemed more like nine days, so much had happened in that time. Alex wondered if he ought to know any of the others across the way, or whether they’d call out to him. They didn’t. They observed him; that was all. He made sure to catch no one’s eye. In Crokeham Hill there was always the chance of something kicking off in a situation like this, but Litchbury didn’t strike him as that kind of place.
They passed the town hall, tourist information, the library. Beagle slowed to a halt, sniffing for somewhere to do his business. Alex’s attention was snagged by a man emerging from the library. He glimpsed the interior: a woman was restocking leaflets in a display stand. She looked nothing like his mum—she was older, her silver hair in a ponytail unlike his mum’s auburn bob—but the sight of a librarian at work got to him. Beyond her, as the door swung shut, Alex saw something else: a row of computer terminals.
Beagle was done. Alex scooped it up with the sandwich bag and dropped it into a bin. Fastening the lead to a bike stand and muttering words of reassurance, he left the dog outside and went up the steps into the library.
“Hello, Philip.” It was the silver-haired librarian. Smiling, but looking vaguely surprised. Irish, by the sound of it. “We don’t often see you in here.”
“No, I … I’ve been … No. Hello.”
“How’s your mum?”
Okay, so that was how she knew him. “Yeah, she’s good, thanks.”
It was near closing time and the library wasn’t busy. One computer was in use but the others were free. “Can I go on one of these?” Alex said.
“Course. Let’s get you set up.” She went behind the counter and tapped around on a keyboard. “Have you got your card with you, Philip?”
“Er, no. Sorry, I left it at home.”
“Never mind, I can find you in here. Tyrol Place, isn’t it?”
Was it? Alex had been up and down that street several times that day without registering its name, or Flip’s house number. “Yes,” he said. “Tyrol, that’s it.”
“Here we are. Right, you’re on terminal three.” She indicated one of the PCs. Then, looking at her watch. “But you’ve only got a few minutes.” The log-in screen asked for his name and date of birth. He typed Philip Garamond, then his birthday. On the next page he clicked the Internet icon. The plan was to contact David, his best friend. If anyone could tell him what was going on down there, it was him. David’s mobile number was another of those trapped in Alex’s own phone, so calling him wasn’t an option. But he could e-mail him. Or could he? First Alex tried to access his own e-mail account via Tiscali’s Webmail pag
e—only to be blocked by a message informing him that the account was suspended. Why? Who by? Next he went to Crokeham Hill High School’s Web site and navigated to the student e-mail system. But when he entered his log-on details, the user name and password were rejected as invalid. Alex stared at the screen, hand hovering uselessly above the keyboard. Telephone numbers, e-mail addresses—it was as though, piece by piece, he was being erased.
“Philip.” The word jolted him. How long he’d sat there, he didn’t know. “Sorry, love, but we’re closing now.”
It wasn’t until he’d got up from the desk and headed outside (Cheery-bye, Philip—say hello to Alanna for me, won’t you?) that it struck him.
Alex stood at the top of the steps, the door slapping shut behind him as he ran his mind back over what he’d just done in there, at that PC. Logging on to the library system, he had filled in the “name” and “date of birth” boxes, as required.
But. But, but, but … he had entered his own date of birth. He must have typed it automatically; he couldn’t have input Philip’s birth date, because he had no idea what it was. So he’d entered his own—and the system had accepted it.
Which meant—which could only mean—Alex Gray and Philip Garamond were born in the same year, in the same month, and on the same day.
His first thought was Twins.
But that was ridiculous. Alex looked too much like his dad not to be his son—the ginger hair, the freckles, the shape of the eyes and nose—and he’d inherited his mum’s asthma. Flip’s features—his hands, the shape of his face—were all wrong; he was too dark, too tall, too different to be a Gray. No, Alex and Philip weren’t twins, but there remained the coincidence—too amazing to be a coincidence—that fourteen years and eight months ago, they’d come into existence on the very same day.
It felt like a revelation. What it revealed, though, Alex had no idea.
Back at the Garamonds’, there was his first dinner to survive. Spaghetti Bolognese. Flip’s parents were drinking wine. So was Teri. No way would Mum and Dad let him drink alcohol at the tea table even if he was seventeen. They wouldn’t have drunk themselves when there was work the next day. And they’d not all be eating together like this, as a family. At home, except on special occasions, Alex and Sam ate off their laps while they watched TV. Mum and Dad had their dinner later. As for the food, Mum wasn’t a bad cook; it was just … actually, she was bad. Dad was worse. But Alex was used to their cooking; they knew what he’d eat and what he wouldn’t. After the croissants fiasco, he’d been dreading this meal. But Alex loved spag bol. And this was the best he’d ever tasted. The garlic bread, too. Fantastic. Homemade. Even the salad was edible, if you pushed the tomatoes and bits of beetroot to the side of your plate. And the spring onion. And the radish.
“This is absolutely delicious, Mrs. Garamond,” Alex said.
The dad looked up from his plate, mouth open in mid-chew. The sister let out a snort. Flip’s mother rescued Alex, unwittingly, by playing along with the “joke.” “Why thank you, young man—you may dine with us again.”
She laughed and the others did, too, if a little uncertainly. Alex flushed and concentrated on his food, head down. Mrs. Garamond. What had he been thinking?
Again, the mother bailed him out, with a change of subject. “There won’t be time in the morning,” she said, addressing Teri, “so I’ve put a packed lunch in the fridge for you. Remind me to remind you to take it out when you leave for school.”
Flip’s dad ripped off a piece of garlic bread. “What’s this, then, Ter?” he said, dunking the bread in his Bolognese. “You off somewhere?”
“Malham,” she said. “Geology field trip.”
“Limestone pavement,” the dad said, eating and talking. “Clints and grikes.”
“Thanks for that, Dad.” Teri acknowledged him with a wave of her fork. “I don’t need to go on the trip now—you’ve taught me all there is to know.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t know that limestone—”
“Chin, Michael,” Flip’s mum said, pointing. “Sauce.”
They were posh, the parents. Posher than the daughter. Less Yorkshire—not Yorkshire at all, really. Alex stole a glance at Flip’s dad. About fifty. Going thin on top. Glasses. His stubble was dark, bluey black, and when he wiped his chin, you could hear the rasp of the napkin (a proper cloth one). Alex wondered what he did for a job. The mum, too. He pictured her owning a boutique. As for the dad, something office-y, given the flabby jowls and belly; he was like a gone-to-seed version of Flip.
“How did you get on at nets?” the dad said suddenly. He didn’t look up from his food as he spoke, so it took Alex a moment to realize that the question was for him. Nets? What are nets? Before he could think of how to answer, Flip’s father, perhaps seeing his confusion, added, “Isn’t it cricket practice after school on a Tuesday?”
“It is, dear,” Mrs. Garamond said, “but today’s Monday.”
“Is it?”
“He had something after school,” Teri said. “He was later home than me. ”
Alex looked at her across the table. Did she know about Ms. Sprake’s keeping him back? Teri was in the sixth form, he figured, but maybe she’d heard about his run-in with Johannsen and was set to drop him in it. She didn’t. She was working another angle. Smirking, she said, “Donna, yeah? Biology homework?”
“Donna?” the dad said. “Who’s Donna?”
“This month’s eye candy. He’s gone for an intelligent one this time: she has two brains … one in each tit.”
“Teri, language.”
“Is Donna the redhead?”
“No, Dad, that was Abby. She is so last month.”
“I quite liked her.”
“Dad, in her Bebo profile she says her ambition is to be a ‘glammer model.’ That’s ‘glamour,’ double m, e-r.”
“Well, she was certainly—”
“Are we going to get to meet this Donna?” the mum said, smiling warmly at Alex. She was already one glass of wine ahead of the dad.
“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I haven’t met her myself yet.”
None of them seemed to know what he meant by this, or whether it was a joke. In the awkwardness that followed, the mum and dad drifted to other topics and it was only Teri who continued to watch Alex, like someone who’s added a column of figures twice and come up with different totals. She’d have been about three when Flip was born, and had probably been excited at the arrival of a baby brother. Hard to imagine that now. Or Mrs. Garamond in a hospital bed somewhere, giving birth to Philip on the same day that Alex’s own mum was having him.
Two brains, one in each tit. Alex liked that. She was quite funny, Flip’s sister. If she didn’t detest him, they might get along okay.
For the rest of the meal, Alex said as little as possible. Pudding, which they called dessert, was fresh-fruit salad. Very nice it was, too. You’d get your five a day here, no problem. At home, he’d factored in tomato ketchup and was still four short.
Afterwards, Alex raised eyebrows again by helping, unprompted, to clear the table. Teri made a display of standing there dumbfounded. Flip’s mum warned him that if this was a ploy to delay his homework … But he pressed on, fetching plates, bowls, glasses, cutlery, scraping and rinsing, passing things to the dad for loading into the dishwasher. The women left them to it. The men talked—at least, Mr. Garamond did—a monologue about one of his undergraduates (so, he was a lecturer) whose essay on “the relationship between tyranny and republicanism in ancient Rome” was almost entirely cut-and-pasted from Wikipedia. Alex half listened, half watched. What was it with dads and dishwashers? His own father was the same: acting like the future of humankind depended on the exact arrangement of each item in the racks.
“Can I ask you something?” Alex said. He’d managed not to address him as Mr. Garamond but couldn’t bring himself to call him Dad, so he didn’t call him anything at all. “Do you believe in the soul?”
“The soul?” Flip’s dad
paused in mid-stack, looked at Alex. “Is this something you’re doing at school?”
“For religious studies, yeah. Like, a project.”
He knew what his own father would’ve said: The soul! They’ll be teaching you about tooth fairies next. GCSEs in Father Christmas studies. But Flip’s dad seemed to be giving the question serious consideration. The university lecturer, being asked to apply his intelligence to a complex subject.
“Hmm, the soul,” he said, frowning, the plate in his hand dripping gunk onto the floor. “Well, it depends whether you look at it as a concept or as an actual, physical—” Which was as far as he got before being distracted by his wife’s reappearance in the kitchen. She went to the back door, opened it and peered into the garden.
“Have either of you seen Beagle?”
“Shit,” Alex said. “I’ve left him tied up outside the library.”
From their expressions, it wasn’t clear what had startled Flip’s parents: that he’d sworn, that he’d forgotten the dog, or that he’d been to the library.
Alex was banished to the bedroom to do his homework. Once he’d retrieved Beagle, of course, who had fallen asleep where he’d been left and who—not unreasonably, in the circumstances—gave Alex another nip when he unfastened the lead from its post.
The homework (recasting sentences in the past, present and future tenses for French) was straightforward enough. Half an hour and it was done. Which left the rest of the evening to have a proper snoop in Flip’s room. He had to find out more about the boy he’d been paired with. Or uncover some clue, maybe—something odd in Flip’s life in the period leading up to the “switch,” as he’d come to think of it. As far as he could recall, there was nothing unusual from his own life back then.
Flip Page 4