Clone

by M A Gelsey

  And yet, she couldn’t keep the idea out of her head. She thought about it endlessly, and was on the point of deciding to simply leave, to pretend she was going into town one day and to get on a bus and go wherever it took her, when her plans were temporarily derailed by the publication of Arthur Blair’s article. While she had already confessed to Rex that she’d participated in the article against his wishes, he still wasn’t prepared for the reality of seeing his name in print. Worse, while Arthur Blair didn’t misquote Annabel, he interspersed his own commentary between her answers and his cutting portrayal of the perverted old man who bought himself a wife was nothing short of incendiary.

  Even though nobody had bothered to inform her when the article was due out, Annabel knew immediately when she arrived downstairs for breakfast. Rex was clutching his tablet so hard his knuckles were white, and severe frown lines creased his forehead. His expression when he looked up at her was alarming, and Annabel had to fight the impulse to take a step back.

  “Your interview,” said Rex through gritted teeth.

  “Oh.” Annabel could think of nothing else to say.

  “Sit down, Annabel.” There was an edge to his voice that Annabel had never heard before. She obeyed. There was a loud scraping sound when she pulled out her chair, dragging its legs across the highly polished oak floor. Annabel sat perched on the edge of the wooden chair, tense and on her guard. Rex shoved the tablet towards her, and she leaned over to read.

  “Aloud,” Rex commanded.

  Annabel began quietly, and proceeded as fast as she could to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible.

  “By far the strangest case of the three is that of Annabel King. She was commissioned by Rex King, husband to the original who died of cancer at the age of thirty. In response to my query about her upbringing — imagine the depravity of one capable of raising a baby as his own daughter only to marry her eighteen years later — Annabel downplayed the strangeness of her situation. ‘I was raised by a caretaker, Helena Durant. I didn’t meet Rex until our wedding day — he had no role at all in my upbringing.’ She explains this casually, as if meeting one’s husband on the alter is par for the course. Helena Durant, a former classmate of Rex King’s, was responsible for both nurturing and homeschooling Annabel during her first eighteen years. No doubt, this arrangement was put into place to instill in young Annabel a belief system that would cause her to accept her husband without question, and to wed him on the morning of her eighteenth birthday as ordered.”

  “Stop.” Rex snarled. It took Annabel a second to collect herself and take a deep breath before she could look him in the eye. “Now do you see why I told you to stay away from reporters?” Rex said, in a a voice that was full of rage. He leaned towards her, regarding her with cold eyes. His breath smelled like raw onions. Partly to get further away from him, Annabel sat all the way back in her chair.

  “I — he — I didn’t realize he was going to write about it like that,” Annabel said. Not exactly, anyway. “Otherwise I would never have agreed to meet with him. He lied to me.”

  “Did he?” Rex said. His scrutiny became unbearable, and she glanced back down to the tablet. “Want to read the rest? You’re welcome to.”

  “No,” Annabel said. “That was enough.”

  “My lawyer advises that doing nothing would be my best option. Any response might be seen as defensiveness, or validation of the truth of this malicious garbage. I’m not so sure.”

  “What else could you do?” Annabel asked.

  “Sue, of course,” Rex said with the air of one speaking to an imbecile. “Or you could publicly disavow the article and denounce this Arthur Blair for twisting your words.”

  “But the lawyer said to do nothing?” Annabel asked.

  “He did,” Rex snapped. “But surely that course of action would be unbearable to you. My darling Annabel would never want her devoted husband to suffer for her foolish mistake.”

  Your beloved Annabel died nineteen years ago. “No, you’re right. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” Liar.

  “Liar,” Rex hissed. Sensing the impending explosion, Annabel braced herself, and sure enough Rex flung the tablet against the wall with a loud crash, creating a spiderweb of cracks across the screen from the impact. Unsure whether his anger was directed at her or Arthur Blair, Annabel froze, waiting. “Get out of my sight,” he whispered, and Annabel did not need to be told twice. She bolted from the room and up the stairs, into the once-empty room she’d used for yoga and meditation that was now home to several of Rex’s still-unpacked boxes. Annabel closed the door behind her, and shoved two of the heaviest boxes in front of it; there was no lock. Her throat was dry and her heart hammered in her chest. She pushed the upper box so forcefully that it fell to the ground with a crash. Fear and adrenaline jolted through Annabel and she stood listening for footsteps, sure Rex would come up to investigate. After a few moments of silence, however, the tension dissipated somewhat. Annabel picked up the box, heaving it back into place, before she opened it to check that its contents hadn’t been broken.

  The interior of the box was in disarray, a cluster of random items jostled by the fall to the floor. Tennis equipment, about ten signed baseballs each encased in plastic, a couple of small black and white abstract paintings, wrapped in protective cloth that had come partly undone. Amid the mess, Annabel spied a small, metal case. Without thinking, Annabel picked it up and sat down on the floor with it across her lap, once again surprised at how heavy it was. She clicked open the two clasps and lifted the lid. Inside, she found Rex’s pistol and a box of bullets. With less hesitation this time, she picked up the gun, feeling the weight of it in her hands. She extended her arms with the gun pointed straight out in front of her, placed her finger on the trigger, and pretended to fire it with a whispered, bang.

  51: JAVI

  “Javi, get down here!” his father called from the bottom of the stairs. It was Sunday morning, and Javi was groggy and not at all in the mood to get out of bed. He ignored his father’s continued attempts to wake him for another couple of minutes, then threw back the covers with a groan.

  “Coming!” he croaked, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself as he yanked open the door and descended the stairs. He found his parents both puttering around the kitchen, his mother making coffee, his father beating eggs.

  “What?” he asked, looking from one to the other. “I was sleeping.”

  “Sit down,” his father said, and Javi felt a rush of foreboding. He sat.

  His mother turned and looked at him for the first time in what felt like ages. “We read your article,” she murmured. Javi’s heart sank, and he felt like the biggest failure who’d ever walked the earth. He’d been intending to warn them before it was out, but kept putting it off because he worried it would lead to another fight. And now they had found out anyway.

  “Oh.” Javi swallowed, throat dry.

  “Don’t look so nervous,” his father said. “We talked about it and we aren’t angry. Just disappointed. We wish you’d told us before you did the interview.”

  Javi looked at his mother, and she gave him a sad smile. “I should have,” Javi said. “I’m — I’m sorry.”

  “No, we’re sorry,” his father said heavily. “We should have realized — our expectations weren’t fair to you. We didn’t think — we were just so happy to have you back. I mean, to have you.”

  Javi found he couldn’t look at either of them, instead staring down at a scratch in the wooden table that he’d accidentally made at age seven when his mother had allowed him to help her bake gingerbread cookies. After a while slamming the stainless steel molds down onto the table had become more entertaining than actually pressing them into the rolled dough, and he’d continued his happy rukus until his mother noticed the scratch and sent him to his room.

  “About your birthday,” his mother started. Javi glanced up and saw that her eyes were full of tears. “What you said to the r
eporter about not knowing when — about how we always celebrate it on his birthday.” She took a deep breath. “You were born on April 19,” she said.

  “Oh,” Javi whispered. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Javi wasn’t sure exactly how it happened but the next moment found all three of them hugging and crying. When Javi went back upstairs to shower and dress for the day his eyes were red, but the guilt that shackled him and weighed him down had lessened just the tiniest bit.

  This feeling of lightness was short lived. His grandmother stopped by later, glaring at him as she always did. She hugged his mother and father, and hissed at him as though she was warding off a demon. Javi supposed that was exactly how she saw him.

  “I’m going out,” he mumbled. He got up and strode towards the front door, unsure of where he’d go, but knowing he needed to leave.

  “Be home in time for dinner,” his mother said.

  “Okay,” Javi said. Have fun putting flowers on your son’s grave, he almost said, but was grateful he had the wherewithal to hold his tongue. It was too soon to blow up the shaky truce he’d struck with his parents, but it rankled to know that the only reason his grandmother ever deigned to enter his presence was to rub in the fact that he was only the replacement, and a defective one at that.

  Outside, he strode towards the park and texted Imogen. As it was a Sunday he knew it was unlikely she’d respond, but he needed a distraction and she was his best option. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed. Her text read, ‘Theo and the girls are at the natural history museum, will be gone for two hours at least.’ Javi immediately changed direction and in less than half an hour he was inside her, his mind wiped blissfully clean of all that had been troubling him.

  They fucked three times that day, the third of which was perilously close to the time that Theo and the girls were due to return. For some reason this seemed to make it more exciting for both of them, and Imogen was moaning loudly as she rode him hard. Neither of them heard the front door open, nor the quiet steps approaching the bedroom. Even when Theo opened the bedroom door it took a second for either of them to react. Imogen shrieked and jumped up, and Javi rolled off the far side of the bed and yanked up his pants.

  When he stood up Imogen was wrapped in a bathrobe babbling to Theo, who looked as though he was carved out of stone. His hand was still on the doorknob, and he was staring at the place on the bed where they’d been a moment ago. Imogen reached out a hand to touch Theo’s arm and he flinched away from her, backing out of the room and retreating down the hallway.

  “Where are the girls?” Javi heart Imogen cry.

  “In the car. I told them they’ll each get a special treat if they sit quietly and let Daddy have a ten minute conversation with Mommy,” Theo answered, every syllable infused with distain and suppressed fury.

  Javi gathered up the remainder of his clothes then trailed behind them, thinking he’d have to escape out the back door. He made it down the hallway and nearly into the kitchen before Theo roared, “And just where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  Javi froze, and turned just in time to see Theo’s fist coming towards him; the next thing he knew there was blood in his mouth and he was splayed out on the floor. His head was throbbing, and his vision hazy as he looked up at Theo who was shaking his hand out as though he’d broken a knuckle.

  “Fuck,” Theo muttered to himself. “That hurt more than I thought it would.”

  Javi had to fight the urge to break into hysterical laughter. Imogen started screaming and shoved Theo against the doorframe. That seemed to jar him out of his trance, and he glowered down at Javi. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he said, his voice low and cold.

  Javi didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and took off through the back door, running flat out once he got to the sidewalk and not stopping until he’d put over a mile between him and Imogen Shaw.

  52: EDGAR PRIME

  Omar was alive, but barely. The doctors had rushed him into surgery as soon as he’d arrived at the hospital, and Edgar Prime and Noela had spent hours in the waiting room without news. At some point Luken showed up and held Noela’s hand in silence. When they were finally visited by a young resident, she told them that Omar was unconscious, and they’d get a better idea of the extent of the damage once he woke. That was over a week ago, and now they were saying that it was uncertain whether he’d ever wake again. Noela’s whole family had flown in and were sitting vigil by his bedside day and night. Noela hadn’t left the hospital at all, and Edgar Prime knew she blamed herself even though the police told them it was a only random mugging in a bad neighborhood.

  Edgar Prime couldn’t even bring himself to care that the manila folder Omar had been carrying when he’d been attacked was nowhere to be found by the time the police and the EMTs arrived on the scene.

  Edgar Prime had never been more adrift. Suddenly, all their clever schemes to change the world seemed pathetically amateur, and it was hard to remember why they’d thought them so important to begin with. Once Noela’s family arrived, he’d felt like an interloper in that hospital room, and had reluctantly returned to his dorm. He attended his classes as before, not hearing a word of lecture. When Patrice texted to invite him to dinner with Dr. Midas and Dr. Yang, he made his excuses, wondering dully how it was that Dr. Midas had managed to get so many chances with Dr. Yang, when Hugo refused to offer Edgar Prime even one.

  The evening before Luken’s protest, Edgar Prime lay stretched out on his bed staring at the ceiling, trying to decide whether or not it was worth mustering the energy to get up and turn on his lights. It was just starting to get dark when his phone started buzzing. Patrice’s name lit up the screen and for a second he contemplated ignoring the call, but knew she’d just keep calling if he didn’t answer. With a sigh, he pressed a finger to the green button on the screen, hit speaker and threw the phone down on the bed.

  “Patrice?”

  “Prime, what are you up to?” Dr. Midas’s voice filled the room, jovial and arrogant.

  “I thought . . . are you on Patrice’s phone?” Edgar Prime said, wishing he’d let the call go to voicemail.

  “That’s not important, Prime. We’re coming to get you in an hour. Dinner, with me and Caden. I insist.”

  “I’m studying. Finals are soon.” Liar, he thought.

  “You have to eat sometime,” Dr. Midas insisted.

  Edgar Prime heaved another great sigh, knowing it was pointless to argue. “Fine,” he said.

  “Excellent!” Dr. Midas said, ignoring Edgar Prime’s obvious reluctance. “See you soon, then.”

  The call ended, and Edgar Prime rolled off the bed with a groan and flicked on the light switch.

  An hour later he stood on the curb outside his building when the driverless town car rolled up. He walked around to the front seat, and slammed the door closed behind him harder than necessary.

  “Good to see you, Prime,” said Dr. Yang from the back seat. Beside him was Dr. Midas, and Edgar Prime twisted around to nod in greeting at both of them. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb, and Edgar Prime turned back around and slumped in his seat.

  “Seatbelt, Prime,” Dr. Midas reminded him.

  Wordlessly, Edgar Prime snapped his seatbelt into place. Ten minutes later, they arrived at the restaurant; a pricey sushi bar that Dr. Midas liked to frequent. A smiling hostess led them to a table in the back, and left them to peruse the menus while the waiter brought a pot of tea.

  For most of the meal, Edgar Prime was happy to listen to Dr. Midas and Dr. Yang debate the future of genetics or trade gossip about their colleagues. Edgar Prime interjected only sporadically, usually when asked a direct question. They all started with miso soup, then shared several plates of sushi including sea urchin rolls, spicy tuna rolls, avocado sweet potato rolls, and Edgar Prime’s favorite, spider rolls. They were all partway through eating their green tea mochi ice cream when Dr. Yang leaned forward in his chair.

  “Patrice told us
about your friend in the hospital,” he said quietly. “Has there been any improvement?”

  Edgar Prime felt his throat close, and it was difficult even to breathe. He looked down at the table and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Prime,” said Dr. Yang. He half-glanced at Dr. Midas and tilted his head slightly, as though they’d rehearsed this conversation and Dr. Midas had forgotten his lines.

  “Yes, we were both very sorry to hear of it,” Dr. Midas said, in a voice that did not sound very sorry at all. “Always a tragedy when a young person dies before his time. Did you know him well?”

  “No,” Edgar Prime croaked. “His sister is a friend. And he isn’t dead.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Midas gave him a pitying look. “Well, you barely knew him. I suppose that’s some consolation.”

  Edgar Prime goggled at him, not fully comprehending his meaning. “How so?” he managed. His voice was rough.

  Dr. Midas shrugged, ignoring Dr. Yang’s disapproving scowl. “Be sure to give the family my card. They may be interested in —”

  He was interrupted by the loud scraping of Edgar Prime’s chair followed by a crash; he stood up so quickly it toppled over behind him, making Dr. Yang flinch and the restaurant’s other occupants cast scandalized glares in his direction. Edgar Prime didn’t care. He placed his hands on the table and leaned in close to Dr. Midas’s face, wondering how it was possible for him to so despise the man whose DNA he shared.