Replica

by Lexi Revellian

  Snow began to fall in earnest, big fluffy flakes like ghostly bumble bees, settling into a thick white carpet on every horizontal surface.

  Nick shifted in his seat. “Nice.” The cold had got to him, and it was only a quarter to eight. Six hours to go.

  “You should have put on something warmer.” Ollie wore a woolly hat, scarf, sheepskin gloves and a padded coat. “I’ve got thermals under this lot, too.”

  “If I had to run in those layers I’d get heat stroke.” Nick was too lightly dressed for the weather because he had been systematically quartering Islington that afternoon hunting the replica Beth, and left it too late to go home and change. He was not going to admit this.

  “I’ve got a thermos of coffee if you want some.” Ollie poured a cup and handed it to him. “Sandwiches too. Lisa made them for me. Ham and cheese and tomato.”

  “Cheers. I should have eaten earlier on. Didn’t think of it.” Nick sat up, suddenly alert. “The hall light’s come on.”

  The front door swung open, and Beth stood silhouetted in the doorway in skinny jeans, boots and a jacket. She pulled her hood over her hair and crossed the road purposefully to their van.

  “We’ve got to stop her doing this. She doesn’t seem to get it.”

  Ollie’s eyes glinted at him. “You’re the diplomatic one. You tell her, Nick.”

  Beth bent so her face was level with theirs and smiled her shy smile. He wound down his window; a pleasant smell of herbal shampoo emanated from her damp hair. She looked a lot warmer than he felt, even with snow settling on her hood and shoulders.

  “Hi … I made a stew, and wondered if you’d like to come up to the flat and have some? You must be so cold.”

  “That’s a nice offer.” Nick gave her his wolfish grin. “Unfortunately we’re supposed to keep watch outside – so if Ollie could have his down here while I’m upstairs?”

  “Oh … sure. About half an hour’s time, then? I’ll get the potatoes on.”

  Beth retreated, leaving two neat sets of tracks between her flat and the van. Ollie gazed at Nick, speechless.

  “Sorry to pull rank, Oll. No point both of us freezing our balls off.”

  Ollie reached over and took back his coffee cup in a marked manner.

  Half an hour later, Nick climbed out from the driver’s seat, stretching, swearing and stamping his feet. “Ring me if you see anything, okay?”

  Ollie nodded. “Will do. Jammy bugger.”

  “I’ll bring yours down.”

  The flat looked warm and inviting in the mellow glow of table lamps. Beth had lit the coal fire purely for effect, and laid the table in the living room for two. No Christmas tree, but cards along the mantelpiece and fairy lights round the big mirror gave the room a festive air. Nick took off his jacket and put it over a chair, then followed Beth into the kitchen where she was dishing up.

  “That smells good.”

  “It’s one my mother used to make. I found the recipe after she died.” Beth put a large plateful on a tray with cutlery, a brightly-coloured paper napkin and a Christmas cracker. “D’you think Ollie would like some wine?”

  Nick picked up the tray, smiling at the cracker. “He’s driving. I wouldn’t say no.”

  When he got back, Beth was sitting at the table pouring from a bottle of Shiraz. Nick joined her and raised his glass.

  “Cheers.”

  They began to eat, cautiously as the stew was hot. The room had the silence that happens even in London when every sound is muffled by snow; the small crackles and hisses the fire made sounded loud. Now and then the labouring noise of a car driving carefully past the end of the road emphasized the quiet. Nick could tell Beth was feeling a little awkward; she was gazing at her plate and trying to think of something to say to the comparative stranger she was sharing a meal with. He waited to see what she would decide on. She looked up.

  “What did you do before you worked for MI5 – that is what you call it, isn’t it, or is that just films and television?”

  Nick almost laughed. She’d picked a topic he was not allowed to tell her much about. “It’s the Security Service. Strictly speaking, it was last called MI5 in 1929, but you can’t fight popular culture. It says MI5 on our website. Before I did this, I was in the army.”

  “Where were you based?”

  “Iraq then Afghanistan.” As an undercover commando, but she didn’t need to know that. Something soft brushed his legs under the table, emerged and gave him a look. “So what’s the cat called?”

  “Inky Pink.”

  “Right.” A pause while they ate. “These dumplings are very good.” He changed the subject to Beth’s childhood and family; they moved on to her job at the Institute, films and music, and the conversation became interesting to them both. She had a nice sense of the ridiculous when she relaxed, and made him laugh several times. Nick realized he hadn’t done this for a while, chatted about nothing much with an attractive woman, and he found himself enjoying it. Part of his enjoyment came from a conviction that Beth was attracted to him, too; the way she looked at him was doing his self-esteem no harm at all.

  They’d finished the stew, had cheese and biscuits and moved on to coffee and brandy when Beth’s landline rang. She went over to the corner and sat on the sofa to answer it, one leg tucked under her. “Oh, hi.” She listened, now and then opening her mouth to speak but not saying anything.

  After a bit, Nick got up and walked to one of the big windows and pulled the curtain aside, with the idea she’d feel more private talking to the toxic boyfriend if his back was turned. He wasn’t going to go out of the room; he wanted to hear what she said. Snow fell, illuminated by the lamppost outside; flakes stuck to the window and lined the sills; the street was white, empty and trackless. The marks of his and Beth’s feet had long disappeared. Everyone was inside – except Ollie, and the guys round the back. Poor sods. He wondered where the replica Beth was hiding out. Cold night for it.

  … … … …

  “Next Saturday? Yes … hang on, will Chloe be there?”

  … … … …

  “Then I don’t think I want to go. I’d rather stay home.”

  … … … …

  “No I’m not, you are. You can’t expect me to enjoy myself at a party with the woman my boyfriend’s been …”

  … … … …

  “I’m not saying that, of course he has a perfect right to ask her, she’s his friend, I’m just saying if she’s going to be there I don’t want to come …”

  … … … …

  “I see. Fine. Well I hope you have a nice time. I’ve got to go, I’ve got someone here. Bye.” She put the phone down rather quickly, crossed the room and sat at the table again, her cheeks burning. Nick sat too. Another pause. She looked at him.

  “Sorry about that. I expect you gathered … Rob and I …”

  “Yes. Why don’t you tell him where to get off?” Nick genuinely wanted to know the answer to this. He just didn’t understand why a good-looking girl like Beth should put up with a total tosser like Rob. It wasn’t that he looked like Brad Pitt or anything. She must have lots of other offers. He poured her some more brandy.

  “I suppose because he’s so kind.” Nick couldn’t believe this, and didn’t trouble to conceal his scepticism. Beth said, “You don’t know him, but he’s really good-natured and always helping other people, and he cares about good causes and politics and helps run the after hours French club at his school without being paid … what?”

  Nick had snorted. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. Just I can’t see what this has to do with you. If he’s having it off with someone else, caring about politics and running a French club hardly balances it out, I’d have thought.”

  Beth didn’t answer, just sat, eyes down. Perhaps he’d been tactless. Ollie said he had no tact. So did Sandra, though according to her he had no anything much. He picked up his cracker and held it towards Beth in an effort to distract her. She pulled the other end; Nick got the larger
half and a plastic torch. He discarded the hat and read the motto. “What’s ET short for?”

  Beth shook her head. “The answer won’t be extra-terrestrial is all I know.”

  “Because he’s only got little legs.”

  She groaned, smiling, and held out her cracker. Maybe she’d forgiven his crassness, if that’s what it had been. Again, Nick got the bigger part; as a child he’d worked out the hold to use to make this happen, and couldn’t stop himself doing it. He handed it to Beth. The gift was a tortoiseshell hair clip. She read, “What do you get if you cross a cat with a lemon?”

  Nick concentrated. “A sour puss!”

  “Top marks.” Beth got up and started to clear the table.

  “Ollie’ll be wanting someone to pull the end of his cracker.” He reflected. “I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did. I’ll go and get his plate.”

  Outside the air had got colder, and the snow crunched under his boots. Ollie handed the tray to him through the van window. “Are you coming back down now?”

  “Can’t leave her to do the washing up on her own after she’s cooked us dinner.”

  “See you in twenty minutes, then.”

  Rob picked up another exercise book from the pile. Nearly there, only two to go. In the background, Mozart played. He scanned Danielle’s homework, neatly written as always in a loopy hand with little circles instead of dots over the ‘i’s. He made corrections using his green pen; green, as red was deemed too confrontational at his school, and wrote an encouraging remark below her work.

  Fifteen minutes after his phone call to Beth, and he was still puzzling over what had got into her. She’d accepted his apology about the Chloe incident on Saturday, so why was she dragging it up now and being difficult about Steve’s party? He didn’t want to go on his own. She would have to meet Chloe some time; she couldn’t avoid places where she would be indefinitely, and if she was going to do it sometime, then why not straight away and get it over with? She’d been almost sharp with him; most unlike herself.

  The door bell rang. Rob glanced at his watch. Nine forty. He got to his feet and went downstairs to open the front door. A strange man stood outside in driving snow, bent over a baby snugly tucked up in one of those high-tech three-wheeled pushchairs.

  “Yes?”

  The baby screwed up its face and began to cry. The stranger gave it a harassed look and rocked the pushchair to and fro. “Are you Rob Dowler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jenny asked me to give you this.”

  “Jenny … Jenny who used to be at Tollington High? Jenny Parker?”

  The man nodded and felt in his pocket, found whatever it was and handed it to Rob. The baby’s yells grew louder.

  Rob looked dubiously at the small paper packet sellotaped together with his name and address on the outside. He turned it over, and back again. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, but Jenny said it was important. I’d better go, I’m hoping he’ll go to sleep if I keep him moving. He’s teething.”

  Rob smiled at the baby, who eyed him coldly then carried on yelling.

  “Come on, Freddie,” said the man. He manoeuvred the pushchair in a three-point turn and walked away.

  Rob took the missive up to the flat and opened it, perplexed. Inside was half a sheet of A4; on it was written in capital letters,

  ROB

  PLEASE GIVE THIS TO BETH

  ‘This’ was another sheet of A4 folded in two, then folded across, and sealed all round the edge with sellotape, and BETH written on it. Nothing to indicate the sender’s name. How very peculiar. His first thought was to call Jenny, but he didn’t have her number. Perhaps Beth would have some idea what it was; he picked up the phone. She didn’t answer, though he let it ring for a while. He knew she was there, and she wouldn’t be in bed yet; she must be sulking; he went to the window and stared into the street, wondering whether he should go round. She was only fifteen minutes’ walk away, but the thought of leaving his cosy flat and toiling through the snow was uninviting.

  Although very curious to know what was inside, there was no way for him to open it without the fact being obvious, and he didn’t want to annoy Beth when she already seemed out of sorts. Probably P.M.T.. He decided to get up early the next day, and call at her flat on the way to work.

  Beth had stacked the dishes and was wiping surfaces when Nick returned with Ollie’s tray. He moved to the sink and turned the tap on, then got the Fairy Liquid from the cupboard under the sink.

  “It’s okay, I can do that …”

  Nick disregarded her and carried on. “You wipe, I don’t know where things go.”

  The washing up didn’t take long. As they did it, they made desultory conversation like old friends. When the last saucepan was clean, Nick ran the water away, put the inevitable lone teaspoon he had missed on the draining board, wrung out the dishcloth, laid it over the tap and dried his hands. Beth picked up the teaspoon, wiped it, and put it in the drawer. She leaned back against the counter and smiled at him, fingering a red-gold tendril of hair which twisted in a perfect spiral, shining like metal. Funny, Sandra’s hair was red, too, a dyed dark red that was heavy and dead compared to Beth’s.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He reached out, pulled the curl gently and let it go. It straightened, and sprang back when released. She stared at her feet, then as if compelled, raised her gaze to his. Nick gave her the look that usually worked; women liked his eyes, dark, warm, not altogether trustworthy, and he knew it.

  In the room next door the phone rang. Beth didn’t move to answer it; her eyes stayed on his; he noticed the irises were darker round their rims, and as she blushed they became bluer. The moment lengthened, till the phone finally stopped ringing. Nick stepped through that invisible barrier which separates strangers and keeps them apart, and laid his cheek on hers. Giving her plenty of time to recoil or remonstrate, should she want to, he leaned against her, turned his head and kissed her soft lips. Three heartbeats, then her arms circled his waist, pulling him closer. She’s thinking of the boyfriend, how he cheated on her … if this isn’t a window of opportunity, I don’t know what is.

  After some time, mid-kiss, Beth smiled. It is not possible to kiss satisfactorily while smiling. Nick drew back and raised his eyebrows. She said, “How can I put this … is that a gun in your pocket?”

  Nick laughed. “I don’t carry a gun.” He kissed her again. “It’s a taser.”

  “Goodness …”

  His voice went lower. “Though I am quite pleased to see you.” His hand slid under her jumper, discovering a silky layer beneath. The counter she leaned on got in the way; it was probably digging into her back, too. “There’s a lot to be said for doing this horizontally, on a soft surface.” He kissed her as persuasively as he could. “Pocket springs, a duvet … pillows … Just a thought …” If she said no he’d go and sit with Ollie in the van like he was supposed to. The cold would take his mind off it. But he’d rather stay here and break a few rules with Beth, and besides, Nick liked to win.

  Beth’s unspoken response was encouraging, even while she murmured, “But should you be doing this at all?”

  “No. Let’s go to bed.”

  Beth kept him waiting a few minutes for an answer, but when it came, it was the one he wanted. She moved towards the bedroom. “Poor Ollie, out there in the cold. I feel a bit bad about him.”

  “I’m not asking him up.” Nick pulled his sweater over his head and began to unbutton his shirt as he followed her. “Threesomes are overrated. Two many elbows gathered in one place.”

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 22

  Freddie

  Tuesday morning I woke after an unbroken night’s sleep, the best I’d had since going on the run. (A case could be made for saying it was the best night ever, given I’d sprung into being fully formed on Friday evening, but as I had a perfect memory of my entire life it just didn’t feel like that.) Even my toes were warm. The a
ir was noticeably less icy than outside, despite the lack of heating, because the windows were double-glazed and faced south east; in summer it would be fabulous. I lay there, the floor hardly digging into my hip at all, snug in my sleeping bag and blanket, gazing at the expanse of pale grey sky through the windows and not wanting to move.

  The flat was beginning to feel like home, now it was tidy and had the odd bits of furniture I’d collected. The little bookcase that looked as if it came from a church was a real find, with only part of a moulding missing and a crack in one glass pane, easy to replace. In a way, it was a shame I wouldn’t be staying long, because I had all sorts of ideas for how to improve the place. A patchwork carpet like Jarek’s would be easy to do, one piece at a time as I found discarded offcuts. A big water container and a camping gas stove, and I could wash in private. Some flowers or leafy twigs in a bottle would make the place more homely.

  But maybe today would be the day I got things sorted out. I had a vivid vision of meeting the other Beth in a windswept snow-covered Victoria Park, walking along empty paths side by side, heads down, working out a plan. Then a discreet appointment with a top journalist, an interview plastered all over a Sunday broadsheet, huge publicity and safety. We might be paid for our story, which would help to set me up. I pictured a multi-page spread in Hello Magazine, the two of us photographed in similar outfits with Inky Pink. I knew Beth would give me all the money, as I needed it and she didn’t; that’s what I would do if it were the other way about.