Replica

by Lexi Revellian

  Beth glanced at Professor McKinnis to see what he thought. He looked away, picked up a pencil and fiddled with it. Sir Peter continued, “A couple of anti-terrorist officers are on their way to collect you. They’ll take care of you, make sure you’ve got a toothbrush, that sort of thing. And they’ll have my number, you can ring me at any time. While we’re waiting, can you make me a list of friends and family? Anyone at all the terrorists might use to attempt to gain access to you. We don’t want people put at risk if we can prevent it.”

  Beth got out her diary and opened it at the address section. “Shall I copy this?”

  “That would be excellent.”

  Beth moved to the copier. “Not everyone’s in here, most are on my phone, and more on my computer at home.”

  “Could we possibly borrow your phone, just for an hour or two?”

  Beth hesitated; she wanted to keep her mobile; it would be her one link with the outside world in the unfamiliar surroundings she was going to. But Sir Peter wouldn’t ask her unless it was important, and if her friends and family were truly in danger … She handed it over.

  “We’ll start on these, and you can tell us if you think of anyone else.” He waited till Beth had finished copying, and took the sheets of A4. “Well done. Get your coat, quick as you can, and we’ll go and meet your guardian angels at the gate.”

  Still slightly stunned, Beth put on her scarf and jacket, picked up her bags and followed Sir Peter to the door. The Professor stayed behind, so she turned to say goodbye. His face was strained. However relaxed his superior was being about it, Beth could see the Prof was taking his failure to heart. She smiled at him. “Sorry it didn’t work. I’m sure there’s some obvious explanation, and by the time you find out what it is the Fubars’ll be back.”

  Beth joined Sir Peter in the corridor. He said, as if struck by a sudden thought, “Oh, you need to give me your keys. Quite apart from feeding your cat, we ought to check out the flat for you, just to be on the safe side. Of course you’ll get them back as soon as we’ve done that, probably tomorrow morning.”

  Beth got her keys out of her bag, trying to remember if she’d left the flat tidy. Sir Peter pocketed them with a smile, relieved her of her carrier bag with his accustomed gallantry, and led her to the side door in the modern wing of the building used by security and cleaning staff. From there he walked her to the gate, where two men got out of a blue saloon car to greet her.

  “Beth, this is Sean and Fraser.” The men shook her hand. “You’ll be in safe hands with them. And remember, call me whenever you need to.”

  Beth smiled and settled herself in the back; Sir Peter passed the bag to her, and waved her off in avuncular fashion as the car reversed through the gateway, turned, and set off down the road.

  The smile dropped from his face and he paused in thought, oblivious to the biting air. It had been annoying, very annoying, when the office proved unexpectedly empty, but it only afforded a minor delay to his plans. It hadn’t taken long to discover what had happened. Bloody cleaner. He had to assume the replica had eavesdropped on his conversation, and bolted. Bloody stupid of him not to check Richard had closed the lab door, even though he’d believed her locked in the office. He’d sent the men immediately to search the house and grounds, hoping she’d still be within the compound.

  They’d drawn a blank, apart from the recycling bins which suggested she’d gone over the wall, but he doubted she would have got far in the short amount of time available. A gentle-looking girl, not tall, with that remarkable red-gold hair. She’d find life difficult with no money, credit cards or phone, particularly in this weather. She lived in central London, didn’t know anyone locally. She hadn’t even got a coat.

  The main danger was the possibility she might reach a public phone and make a reversed-charge call to her boyfriend or her father. That would be difficult to explain away. He’d commandeered twenty commandos to quarter the surrounding area, fanning outwards from the Institute in the hope of retaking her, and had made a series of phone calls to cover other contingencies. Sir Peter did not believe in leaving anything to chance.

  But he was confident they’d get her back within twenty-four hours at most; and he wasn’t going to let Richard take charge of her when they did. He’d shown signs of non-cooperation, had made it plain he was not happy with the situation. Sir Peter did not altogether trust his loyalty. Better to find someone else to do the experiments there might never be another opportunity for, a scientist who had no emotional involvement with the subject. Ben Pearson; now he was said to be brilliant; young and ambitious, too, he’d be grateful for a promotion, do what he was told. Why not offer him this one-off project – after all, Richard had made it pretty clear he didn’t want to do it, so he could hardly argue with that; then once Pearson was involved, twist Richard’s arm to take him on as a colleague.

  This setback, unexpected and tiresome though it was, provided a pretext for getting more control over the situation at the Institute. Richard, though a hugely talented scientist, liked to do things his own way, didn’t always report fully, was too inclined to act first and ask permission later. It had been an increasing irritation.

  No need to come out with all this now, though, when Richard was ostensibly accepting what had to be done, albeit grudgingly. His presence had reassured the real Beth Chandler, and ensured her compliance; and until her doppelgänger was located, Miss Chandler’s compliance was essential. He turned and entered the small, fluorescent-lit guardhouse by the barrier.

  “Have you two been here all the time since you came on duty?”

  The men stood, and the senior guard nodded. “Yes, Sir Peter.”

  “I expect you’ve gathered we’ve had a serious breach of security. An unauthorized person climbed over the wall at some time in the last twenty minutes. I’m wondering why the alarm didn’t go off in here.”

  The man shook his head and spoke with a Welsh lilt. “I’m sorry about that, Sir, but the system’s working, it checks itself every five minutes. See, this green light here tells us it’s okay. There’s motion sensors in the steel fence, and if your intruder went over the brick section, then he should have been picked up by the sensor cable cemented into the top.”

  “Sensor cable?”

  “Yes, the passive magnetic sensor cable.”

  Sir Peter raised his eyebrows. “And that does what?”

  “It’ll register any steel object above the size of a penknife. If you’ve got keys, a camera, a mobile phone, that’ll set it off, let alone weapons or wire cutters. The warning signal alerts us, and we move the cameras to track the person on the monitors. Most people have something metal on them, see.”

  “But not everyone,” said Sir Peter, dryly.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 4

  Home

  I couldn’t run any more, but fear kept me moving as fast as I was able down the familiar road stretching into the distance, Roman-straight with no turn-offs. It seemed much, much longer than it did in a car. The sound of an engine approaching from the direction of the Institute made me crouch beside the nearest bush, possessed by primitive fear, eyes shut in case they caught the light. The car swept past, and I got to my painfully cold feet and pressed on. On my left, beyond a shrubby hedge with trees bare of leaves, were fields, invisible in the night. Braving barbed wire, I’d tried the other side of the hedge so as to be out of view from the road, but the going was rough in the blackness between street lamps and I was afraid I’d twist my ankle.

  An hour had passed since I’d climbed the wall, as far as I could judge. I hadn’t yet come across a phone box. I still wasn’t sure who to ring when I did. It would have to be someone in London. Perhaps Zoë might put me up; she had a spare room, but we weren’t that close and I didn’t feel I could impose on her. Ros would, without a doubt; I could almost hear her say, “Sure, no probs, Beth, come right round.” But her studio flat was tiny and besides, she was a terrible gossip; I’d never even told her where I
worked; she’d be agog with curiosity, first at my appeal for shelter and then when she saw me …

  I glanced at the farmhouse I was passing on my right. Its window resembled an animated Christmas card; a woman jiggled a baby, holding it up to look while a man wound fairy lights round a Christmas tree. I paused, torn, staring like the Little Match Girl.

  Should I ring the bell, and ask to use their phone? Several problems immediately came to mind. My appearance would not inspire confidence, with my clothes in holes, no shoes, and muddy scraped hands and knees. I didn’t know any of my friends’ numbers, since I always rang them from my mobile or the landline’s call list, so I’d have to ring Directory Enquiries first, which would take time when time was of the essence. Also, the situation was complicated to explain, and most people would want to know what was up. My father, I knew, would jump in his car and come to collect me, however weird and garbled the account of my predicament; I was his daughter, and that over-rode any other consideration – even the remonstrations of my step-mother. But he lived in Arisaig, on the west coast of Scotland. Besides, the Prof had said not to ring anyone obvious.

  Outweighing everything else, this house was too near the Institute, an obvious place to check out. I pictured myself in that warm living room with the Christmas tree, on the phone, dialling friend after friend’s landline, trying to find one who was home and willing to let me sleep on her floor; a ring at the door, men bursting in, the pleasant people who’d tried to help watching bewildered as they took me away. They’d tell them I was an escapee from a mental asylum.

  I kept walking.

  Another car. I jumped in the overgrown ditch beside the grass verge. Thin ice creaked, and freezing water seeped into my skirt. I hadn’t thought I could get any colder; not true. I was shaking and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. As I clambered out, the biting wind pierced me to the bone. It occurred to me there was a real possibility I’d die of hypothermia – except that is supposed to be an easy death, and my hands and feet now hurt so much I felt like crying.

  Think what to do. Can’t think.

  Then something amazing happened. I was about to get in the ditch again at the sound of an engine, when I saw what it was approaching; a black London taxi, its orange For Hire light glowing like a sanctuary lamp. I lifted my arm, and it pulled in to the kerb opposite. I ran over, before the cabbie could register the state of me and decide to drive off. I gave in to temptation; I longed to go home.

  “Can you take me to Islington? Canonbury Close.”

  He nodded, and I got in the back. I settled myself in the corner furthest from the driver, hoping he wouldn’t want to chat, and he didn’t. It felt blissfully hot, and an involuntary smile came to my face. I was happy just to sit there and thaw. I watched the dark countryside speeding past, giving way to suburban streets, the distance between me and my pursuers increasing every moment.

  As my brain started to function once more, I came up with a plan. Mrs Bramley, my elderly neighbour, had my emergency set of keys. I wasn’t fool enough to think it would be possible to stay in the flat, but I’d be in and out before they thought of looking for me there. I’d quickly change into warm practical clothes, and collect things to go on the run with – food, a sleeping bag, a torch … I made a mental list. I had twenty pounds hidden in a black velvet evening bag. The coach fare to Bristol is less than ten pounds, and cheapest in the middle of the night. Lucy, a friend from university had moved there; if I landed unannounced on her doorstep in the small hours she’d help me, and I knew she’d never tell anyone if I asked her not to.

  I counted the Prof’s money I was still clutching. Thirty-five pounds in notes, one pound twenty-three pence in small change. The meter was ticking up fast; already it said £36.60. I could get out and walk, except my feet were too painful. Harringay, not far now. The traffic thickened and slowed, the meter continued its inexorable rise; but I’d got the twenty pounds in the flat. I stared at passers-by, who were moving faster than I was. We’d get going again soon.

  As the cab pulled into my cul de sac, the meter showed £43.20. I got out, leaned in the driver’s window, and dropped the Prof’s notes into his outstretched hand. The cabbie poked at the money, then looked at me.

  “My handbag was stolen. I’m just going to get keys from a neighbour to get into my flat, then I’ll come and give you the rest. Sorry.”

  He said nothing, managing to look surly, resigned, and as if he’d seen this one coming. He turned off his engine and sat back. I ran down the steps to Mrs Bramley’s basement flat, and rang her bell. A wait; lights went on in the hall. Please hurry, Mrs B. … Something brushed against my ankles – Inky Pink. His pale amber eyes gazed at me intensely. He meowed and I picked him up with a pang.

  “Inkers …” I tickled him under his ear. He purred, expecting his evening meal, now I was home. “The other me will be back to feed you, I haven’t got time …”

  Mrs Bramley shuffled towards the door. I sensed her peering at me through the lace curtains of the little hall window.

  “Is that you, Beth?”

  “Yes, Mrs Bramley, could you …”

  “Hold on, dear, I’ll just get this door open.” A pause while she undid bolts and turned keys. I heard audience laughter from her television. The door slowly opened, and a portly tabby emerged and rubbed against my legs. Inky Pink pretended he wasn’t there.

  “Hello, Lucky.”

  “Silly cat, you don’t want to go out in this weather.” Mrs Bramley’s eyes moved from Lucky to my feet. “Whatever happened to your shoes? You’ll catch your death.”

  “I lost them. It’s a long story … d’you think you could let me have my spare keys? I’ve left mine at work.”

  “Course, dear. D’you want to come inside while I get them?” The state of my feet was worrying Mrs Bramley, I could tell.

  “I won’t, thanks, I’ve got a taxi driver waiting to be paid.”

  Two minutes later, trailed by Inky Pink, I retraced my steps past the watching cabbie – my placatory smile eliciting no response – up to the front door, and let myself into the hallway I share with the upstairs neighbour. As I pushed the light switch, the familiar staircase struck vividly on my senses; the pizza leaflets piled on the mat, Tim’s mountain bike leaning against the wall, the grubby oatmeal carpet soft beneath my sore feet. Home. A deceptive feeling of safety filled me. Once inside the flat, I knew I wouldn’t want to leave. I longed to lock myself in, soak in a hot bath, then curl up on the sofa, Inky on my lap, and shut out the world with a feel-good DVD and a bottle of wine.

  I closed the front door gently, and padded up the stairs. Nothing untoward. I had got within six feet of the two doors leading to my flat and Tim’s, when I heard something: a small noise, a tiny metallic click.

  I froze, blood pounding in my ears, listening. Nothing. No line of light below the door. The sound was not repeated. But … I’d definitely heard it, and it wasn’t anything I associated with my flat. Or Tim’s, for that matter. You get to know all the noises of the place where you live, and this wasn’t one of them. Inky Pink’s ears twitched; he moved forward one paw at a time and sniffed under the door.

  Someone was in there, waiting in the darkness as motionless as I was, just the other side of the wall. Which meant it would be a big, big mistake to go any further.

  I turned, and stepped softly down the stairs, in an agony of suspense. After a moment, the cat followed. I shut the front door behind us, had a brainwave and double-locked the Yale. An estate agent once did this and left me stuck in the hallway; there’s no keyhole on the inside of the front door. Then I ran round the side of the house, ignoring the cabbie’s indignant yell, jumped the wall into the nearest garden and scrambled from there to number thirteen’s expanse of weeds that backs on to the railway. I went to ground behind the fence, heart banging against my ribs, panting breath misting the clear air, listening. Footsteps – the cab driver – hesitant, not sure where I’d gone, advancing and retreating. The eerie bark of a fox. Inky
Pink joined me, then wandered off to investigate some small rustle in the undergrowth. Silence. Perhaps I’d been mistaken, and there wasn’t anyone in the flat, and I’d be able to return once the cab driver had left.

  Then an appalling thumping reverberated in the still night air; methodical crashes; and finally as I leaped up to run, the groaning and splintering of a door giving way on its hinges.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 5

  Safe house

  Beth sat in the car as it moved smoothly towards an unknown destination. Its windows were dark glass so she couldn’t see out very well; beyond the small enclosed world encompassing herself and the two men in the front seats, she could just make out the passing streets lit up with decorations and bustling with Christmas shoppers muffled against the cold. In a way this unexpected turn of events was quite exciting; her normal life was so very normal. She wasn’t unduly worried. Sir Peter seemed to think they’d sort the terrorists out quickly, and meanwhile he had made it clear he would ensure Beth and her friends and family were protected.

  She leaned forward. “Where is the safe house?”

  The man in the passenger seat – Fraser, his name was – swivelled to answer her. “Hammersmith.” He turned away. They weren’t very communicative; perhaps because they didn’t know her, or were preoccupied. She tried again.

  “Do you work with Sir Peter?”

  Fraser turned and spoke softly in his Scottish burr. “Not exactly. He calls us in for emergencies.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re an emergency.”

  Beth realized she had no idea of Sir Peter’s job; she’d vaguely gathered he worked for the government. Perhaps he worked for the secret service, or MI5; he wasn’t an MP. Perhaps he was in the House of Lords? He had ultimate responsibility for the Marling Institute, but that didn’t seem to be a full-time job. Sometimes they didn’t see him for weeks.