Replica

by Lexi Revellian

  She slumped back in her seat, and peered though the dark glass into the everyday world populated by people going about their everyday lives, people who hadn’t been targeted by terrorists and weren’t being whisked off to a safe house. She wished she had her mobile phone and could ring Rob. He’d tease her about this latest mess she’d got herself into, make it seem more ordinary … Honestly, Bethie, it could only happen to you. How many secretaries end up on a terrorist hitlist? I don’t know how you do it …

  The safe house was in the maze of streets north of Hammersmith tube station; one in a line of Victorian clones, three-storied with white stuccoed bay windows. Unlike the rest of the terrace with their hedges and shrubs, its front garden had been concreted over to make space for a vehicle.

  Sean pulled in, and switched off the engine. “Home, sweet home.”

  Beth got out into the cold air and stretched, while Fraser unlocked the front door and led the way in. They passed a lighted doorway on the left, which gave a glimpse of desks, computers and filing cabinets, and straight up two flights of stairs. The bedroom he showed her into was at the top of the house, at the back. Beth put her bag down on the bedside table. The room was comfortable, clean, with an uninspiring colour scheme of beige and navy. On a shelf were a dozen books, thick paperbacks with embossed titles that looked as though they’d been bought to pass the time at an airport; in the corner, a chrome and glass stand held a flat screen television. Neatly folded on the double bed lay a white cotton towelling robe and a pink nightdress. Fraser took her to the bathroom next door, explained it was for her sole use, opened a mirror-fronted cabinet, got out a toothbrush still in its packaging and put it in a toothmug.

  “You should find everything you need here. If not, give me a shout. Push the buzzer by the bed and I’ll come straight up. I’ll send out for food – what d’you want? Pizza? Fish and chips? Chinese?”

  “Fish and chips, please.”

  “Okay. What kind?”

  “Cod please. With salt but no vinegar.”

  Fraser left, and Beth wandered to the window. She couldn’t see the gardens in the blackness, just yellow rectangles of light, the rear windows of houses in the next street. She could hear a faint noise of distant traffic, the clank of a dustbin lid, a dog barking. Somewhere pipes gurgled. A chilly draught needled through the closed window into the warmth. Suddenly, she felt desolate and vulnerable; she wanted to be at home surrounded by her own things, not here in this strange room. Shivering, she drew the curtains and went and sat on the bed, arms round her knees, and reached for the remote control.

  Presently Fraser reappeared carrying a plate, with cutlery and a can of Coca-Cola. He said, “I had to get hake, hope that’s all right. Good appetite,” and left the room. Beth began to eat, continuing to watch the film on television. The chips were pale and flaccid, the fish crammed with bones; there was too much salt, and the coke was tepid.

  Ten minutes later, she flushed most of the disgusting fish and half the chips down the lavatory so Fraser wouldn’t realize she hadn’t enjoyed the meal.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 6

  Flight

  Oh my God. Fear jolted me into action. I got up from my hiding place, ran to the ivy-covered fence between the garden and the railway and clambered up with the courage of desperation. My skirt hampered me and the wood swayed alarmingly beneath me as I reached the top. I lost my footing and fell off, luckily on the station side, and rolled down the bank to the platform below.

  I picked myself up, then my fallen keys. No one was near; a couple waiting for a train opposite were looking at me, but Londoners don’t do anything except watch when they see something odd happening, and I was too desperate to care what they thought. I dropped on to the tracks, the shale sharp under my feet, and picked my way carefully over the rails, with a vague idea one of them was live and would electrocute me. Up the other side, across the platform, over the next set of rails and past the warning sign at the end of the platform. I climbed the steep tree-grown bank to the fences that marked back gardens, out of reach of the station lights. I looked over my shoulder. All seemed quiet; then fright shot through me like an electric current. A dark shape smoothly vaulted the fence a little way from where I had come. This man was followed by another. Their heads turned to scan the platforms. I scuttled along, staying low in the scratchy undergrowth, trying to get as far as possible from my pursuers without being seen.

  Most of the gardens had solid barriers to keep out intruders. If I walked to the next station, Highbury & Islington, maybe I could blend with the crowds … I paused to glance behind me. One of the men had joined the couple on the platform, and the woman turned and pointed down the line in my direction. I shot off with renewed energy fuelled by panic.

  I passed what I’d been hoping for – a missing plank in the fence beside me – without immediately registering it, and had to go back. A gap made by foxes, surely too small. Got to squeeze through. I knelt on the hard ground, twisted my shoulders and thrust forward. My skirt caught, ripping out the paperclip, and I wriggled free. I grabbed it and took stock of my surroundings; a garden, winter-bare, a drooping rotary clothes drier, a barbecue, hedges on either side. Hide or run. Nowhere to hide. In front of me, windows and a door, no lights showing. Part of a terrace, so no passageways between houses giving access to the road. I had to get to the road; if I stayed the railway line side, they’d find me.

  I picked up a flower pot containing a dead geranium and nerved myself to smash a window pane. But they’d hear the glass breaking … As I thought this, a train pulled into the station. I waited, holding my skirt over the pane of glass, flower pot at the ready. Carriage doors slammed; the train started and I hit the window and winced. The train was too quiet, the sound it made too smooth; had they heard, would they work out where it came from?

  Hastily I stuck my arm through the frame to release the catch, and raised the sash window. I put a foot on the sill and clambered inside, on to a draining board stacked with dirty dishes, takeaway boxes and fragments of glass. Shutting the window behind me I got clumsily to a floor that was sticky beneath my feet. I waited a few frightened seconds praying the flat was empty, then feeling it was better to know, looked quickly into each room – no one.

  I drew the skimpy bedroom curtains and switched on the light. My pursuers would check unlit houses first. A double bed, a melamine chest of drawers, and a wardrobe with peeling varnish looked their worst beneath an unshaded forty watt bulb. I opened the wardrobe door and glimpsed my reflection – grimy, dishevelled, wild-eyed.

  I rifled quickly through the clothes with shaking hands. Men’s, and not a vast selection. I grabbed jeans so big I didn’t need to undo the zip to pull them on, but a belt held them up. I rolled the legs shorter.

  Hurry, hurry. Feverishly, I flung on a tee shirt, jumper, and two pairs of socks to pad out old trainers. I did the laces up tight. A woollen hat to tuck my hair into, and a hoodie to go over it. The clothes felt alien, and like the flat smelled sour, with an overlay of cigarette smoke. I rolled my skirt and bra into a bundle to dump somewhere, and shoved my keys in my pocket, refusing to admit I wouldn’t be needing them again.

  Let’s get out of here. Turning to go, I noticed a clean glass jar tucked between the bed and the wall, three-quarters full of shiny five pence pieces. I needed those coins; they’d buy me something to eat. My hand reached out and stopped. For a split second I hesitated, torn, picturing the man coming back to his grotty flat and finding clothes missing, then realizing the thief had taken his small stash of five pees too. I couldn’t do it. But I had to … I unscrewed the lid and poured half on to the bed, then scooped them up, coins spilling through my fingers, spinning and glinting over the cheap brown carpet. I pocketed them, feeling really bad, and senselessly replaced the jar.

  Got to go. The thought of those men bursting in and catching me reduced my insides to mush and made me want to whimper. I let myself out of the front door, climbed the stairs to th
e street, nearly tripping over the toes of the trainers, and set off fast along the pavement. I hid my ragged skirt, bra and tights several houses away in the end dustbin of three, shoving them under the rubbish.

  A single-decker bus turned the corner into the road, and on impulse I ran towards the bus stop and reached it in time. The doors opened and I stepped inside.

  “I’ve lost my Oyster Card,” I said to the driver. He pulled out from the bus stop, and said something incomprehensible. I gathered he was letting me off the fare, or he wouldn’t have left the stop.

  “Thank you.”

  I went and sat near the exit, heart fluttering, relieved to have saved two pounds twenty. The bus rumbled along, taking me if not to safety, at least away from those men. Hot air breathed on my ankles. I decided to stay on the bus till the end of its journey.

  Five minutes later, two men in dark clothes got on and I felt as though I was having a heart attack. They’ve followed my tracks through the flat, worked out I’d hopped on a bus, got ahead to catch me. I sat there, sweating and shaking as they came towards me, head bowed, staring unseeing at my unfamiliar feet, cornered. Nothing happened. I nerved myself, and sneaked a look. The men were an Asian father and son, not my pursuers at all. But my nerves were in tatters. They might be waiting for me at the next stop … I got to my feet, and pressed the bell.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 7

  Helping the Homeless

  The benign light of candles wavered, reflected in silver, glass and polished wood; an elderly Labrador snoozed in the red glow of the big log fire; there was a hum of twenty well-bred people conversing over a civilized dinner in the heart of Belgravia. Sir Peter sat at one end of his long table sipping Bordeaux, finishing noisettes of lamb, potatoes dauphinoise, petits pois and buttered baby parsnips without registering their taste or texture. If asked what he was eating, he’d have had to look at his plate to answer.

  While his neighbour told him in unwelcome detail about her son’s feather-bedded gap year before starting at Oxford, Sir Peter nodded and smiled, his mind running on the hunt for the girl – the replica. He reminded himself there was nothing he could do; they would ring him directly they caught her, or at eleven if they hadn’t. It appeared they hadn’t. Over three hours since she’d gone over the wall, and with every minute that passed it became more likely she had escaped the immediate area, and possibly got help from someone. That first hour, the golden hour, their best chance, had gone; and because he’d thought her safely in the building, he hadn’t summoned enough manpower, or tracker dogs which would have found her with ease. He had sent for them directly once they discovered the office empty, but the dogs hadn’t arrived before he’d left. He’d sooner have stayed, to know what was happening moment to moment, but Annabel would have been put out by his absence. She took her charity dinners very seriously (what was it tonight? Oh yes, the homeless, or more accurately the inadequate and workshy) and liked him to be there at the top of the table acting the amiable host. She was not best pleased he’d missed the arrival of her guests, though she hadn’t shown it.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pushed his chair back, turning to his neighbour. “Will you forgive me? Inexcusable, I know – I can see Annabel agrees, she’s giving me one of her looks – but I won’t be a minute. If Jonathan’s going anywhere near Beijing, I’ve an old friend there whose address I must give you.” Sir Peter’s eyes crinkled in a practised smile as he got to his feet. “Back directly.”

  He went into his office to get away from the caterers bustling in the hall, glancing at his watch. Ten fifteen.

  “Yes?”

  He listened, his face impassive.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 8

  Calling for help

  The bus rumbled off, and I looked around me. I was somewhere in Camden, a couple of roads away from the place I bought my car, with no idea where to go next. Walking was better than standing still. Think. Down the street beside a row of small shops twin BT phone boxes beckoned. I headed towards them. Who to ring? My father. He’d come and collect me – it didn’t matter if the drive from Scotland took all night, I could hide somewhere until he arrived – then he’d sort the whole thing out. Hope glowed within me at the thought of transferring the mess into his capable hands. Also his was one of the few numbers I knew by heart.

  I closed the door and got out the Prof’s coins, then realized I could reverse the charges. I dialled, hoping Dad would answer and not Alison.

  Welcome to 0800Reverse. Please enter the number you want to call.

  I dialled my father’s number.

  Please say your name after the tone.

  “Beth.”

  Please hold while we call that number.

  Please hold the line while we try to connect you.

  Perhaps they were both out …

  The number you are calling knows you are waiting.

  Then a click, and a woman’s voice. Not Alison, not a recording. A bored singsong voice. “Hello caller, what number are you calling?”

  I gave her Dad’s number.

  “One moment please.”

  I waited. I hadn’t used 0800Reverse very often, but this had never happened before. I remembered it took sixty seconds – or was it three minutes? to trace a call … but I’d picked that up from some film or other. Maybe it was instantaneous, now the phone system had gone digital. Sweat prickled in my armpits. I peered through the scratched window at the road and the passing cars. Even if they knew I was in this phone box, they’d have to get here through London traffic to catch me …

  “Caller, this phone line is password protected. Please give me the second and fifth letters of your password.”

  What? I’d never heard of password protection on a phone line. And I didn’t know the password. The other Beth would have been told that. I banged the receiver down, shoved the heavy door open and ran along Camden Road. On my left, the entrance to a raised walkway beside Regents Canal; I shot into it, and when I came to some steps hurried down to the towpath and headed south. A jeep couldn’t follow me there, and it was less well-lit than the streets. Half walking, half running, I kept going for what I judged to be ten minutes or so, then went up to street level again. I’d find another phone box and ring the Prof.

  Camley Street, deserted, the nature centre on my left (I remembered school trips pond-dipping when I was little) and new buildings on my right. No phone boxes. Everyone has a mobile these days. Except me. I got to the new bit, the massive King’s Cross development, passed the red brick of St Pancras, veered left to Kings Cross and walked inside, staring at the ground so all the CCTV cameras would see was the top of my hood. The smell of food … I went to a kiosk and bought a Mars bar, my mouth watering as the girl handed it over. Sixty-five pence; it hadn’t occurred to me before that chocolate is quite expensive. Worth it though, a small nugget of comfort in my current bleakness. I told myself I would buy something hot after I’d made the call. A row of phone booths. I slipped into the middle one, called directory enquiries to get Rob’s landline, then muttered it to myself until I’d dialled the number. I’d pay this time – perhaps reversed charges alerted them. I glanced at my wrist, but of course my watch wasn’t there. What time was it? Latish, maybe ten thirty, eleven o’clock?

  “Hello caller, what number are you calling?”

  Bugger. I put the phone down, had a think, then got out the Prof’s bit of paper without a great deal of hope, pushed coins into the slot and dialled. If the operator replied, I’d say I was his daughter Sophie. Right. The phone rang, and was answered almost immediately.

  “Hello?” The Prof’s voice.

  Thank goodness. “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Ah, I’m glad you called.” He cleared his throat. “Are you all right? I was worried when you disappeared.”

  That was a slightly strange thing to say …”Yes, I’m fine.” Silence. The line might be bugged, even if they weren’t intercepting calls. I didn�
��t want to say anything that would get the Prof into trouble for helping me, and I didn’t want to give away my location. That didn’t leave a lot. He was labouring under the same constraints, but I’d assumed since he told me to call him he’d have worked out a plan.

  “I had a word with Sir Peter about … your circumstances.” His voice was oddly formal. “He feels now – he wants me to tell you – that there may be more room for manoeuvre than at first appeared. Initially he could only see the one way of dealing with the situation, now he thinks there may be other ways of handling it.”

  “Really?” The Prof didn’t sound too happy about it. “What did he have in mind?”

  “Getting you to sign the Official Secrets Act, making you promise not to disclose what happened to a living soul, then setting you up with a new identity in another part of the country. Give you enough money to establish yourself.”

  I considered this. I’d lose my home, my job, my father, my friends, Rob, Inky Pink … On the other hand, all those things belonged to the other Beth too, and as the original she had the best claim, so you could say I’d lost them already; and most of it couldn’t be shared. My father might adapt to having two daughters, but the flat was too small for two people and I didn’t think sharing a boyfriend would work. Perhaps, if I agreed, a year or so later when I was settled and the fuss had died down I could go and see Dad discreetly, catch him on his own, and explain, and visit him from time to time. And what was the alternative?

  “I suppose that’s not a bad offer.”

  “He’d like to meet with you to talk it over.”

  “How do I know I can trust him? Supposing it’s just so his spec ops can grab me?”