by Diana Finley
‘That must have kept you warm as toast, lad, eh?’ I say to him quietly, stroking his arm.
I fold the vest and lay it on top of the shirt.
I stand up and take a step back. I feel unsure about removing the clothes from the lower half of Barry’s body. There’s something slightly indecent, embarrassing even, about anticipating his nakedness. Yet, we’re brothers after all, perhaps it doesn’t matter. So I begin to untie his laces and slip off his sturdy walking shoes, breathing in the rich smell of top-quality leather before setting them to one side. Next, I pull off Barry’s socks and put one inside each shoe to keep them dry. His feet are white and narrow, just like my own, the toes straight. Size ten, I notice, exactly the same as my size. I loosen the brown leather belt and unzip the warm moleskin trousers. They slip easily down over Barry’s narrow hips, then over his knees and feet. I feel in the pockets; they’re empty. I give the trousers a shake and fold them carefully. Then I hesitate momentarily before removing his underpants, noticing they’re made of the same silky cotton as the vest.
My brother now lies totally naked on the ground. How slender and vulnerable he looks. Can a dead man be vulnerable? What more, what worse can happen to him than death? I’m overcome by a sudden impulse to hug him, aware that, other than brief hugs when we were together, this is my only chance to truly, physically connect with my brother. I kneel down next to Barry and clasp him in my arms, trying to ignore the beginnings of rigor stiffening his limbs.
‘I’m so sorry, Barry,’ I say, my voice sounding gruff, the emotion catching in my throat. Tears are spilling down my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry we’ll never get to know one another better.’ I pause. ‘Not ever now. I guess it just wasn’t to be.’
I sob quietly for a minute. Then I undress myself quickly, and dress Barry in my own shabby clothes. I worry briefly that Barry will become cold and wet with only my threadbare sweater, lightweight fleece, and thin nylon anorak to protect him from the harsh weather, while I will luxuriate in the protection of my brother’s fine navy jacket. It seems so unfair. If only, I think, I’d been able to apologise to Barry for the poor quality of the clothes in which I had to dress him. He certainly wouldn’t think much of them. But no, there’s no way to do that.
I check the Skoda car keys are still in the pocket of the fleece, and leave them there. Then I run my fingers through Barry’s hair, ruffling it so the style is closer to my own, my fingers registering the silky, clean feel of his hair. I move my hands vigorously throughout Barry’s hair in a circular motion, until it stands up in untidy clumps. From my own trainers, now on Barry’s feet, I scrape some mud, and push it into my brother’s pristine fingernails, rubbing more dirt onto the palms of his hands, and some onto the bottoms of the trouser legs. I step back to study my handiwork.
I’m shocked at how scruffy, how rough, how inadequate, this reflection of me looks. Not much better than a tramp. That must have been what other people thought when they looked at me.
Quickly looking down at myself now, I realise that I’m still naked. I’m freezing cold too! I hastily dress completely in Barry’s clothes, starting with his soft white underclothes and working outwards. It’s as if everything has been made for me, made to measure. Each item of clothing fits perfectly, the belt even fastening on exactly the same hole as fitted Barry’s waist. The shoes, Cinderella-like, hold my feet in a precise, gentle embrace, such as I’ve never experienced before – the softness of the leather an exquisite caress.
Finally, I slip my arms into the warmth of the navy jacket. Inside one of its pockets I find car keys with a VW Golf key fob, just as I guessed. Barry’s hire car.
I open the rucksack and briefly examine its contents: a bottle of water, the remains of a packed lunch, a small silver flask containing what smells like brandy, and a wallet containing nearly two thousand pounds in cash! I’ve never seen so much money, or such denominations. Until I met Barry, a twenty-pound note was a rare enough presence in my pocket. It would certainly look suspicious for me to be found in possession of such riches. The very sight of it scares me rigid.
In the wallet too, there are several bank cards, Barry’s driving licence, an open, first-class train ticket from Newcastle to London – presumably for his return journey. Also in the rucksack are some sealed envelopes on which are written ‘for Robert’ in handwriting spookily resembling my own, but considerably neater. I decide to open them later. I take a couple of swigs from the flask and feel its warmth cascade down my throat, the heat spreading throughout my body. Although I’ve had little to eat all day, I have no appetite for the food. Never mind, the brandy provides some fuel for my flagging body. I take a few more swigs. Then I pack everything back in the rucksack and sling it over my shoulder.
Just in time, I remember to extract Barry’s letter to me from the inside pocket of the fleece. I check once more that the key to the Skoda is still there and that all the other pockets are empty. I take one last, long look at my brother, and give a deep, deep sigh, which seems to end in a sob. It’s as if I’m looking at my own corpse. Then, at last, I start to make my way down the path. It feels like a lifetime since I’d last walked it.
By the time I get back to the car park I’m exhausted and it’s getting dark. The Peugeot and the Fiesta have disappeared, only my Skoda and Barry’s Golf remain. My hand trembling, I aim the key at the Golf, and press the button. The car chirps and the lights flash in response. I get into the driver’s seat and switch on the interior light. In the glove compartment are all the documents from the car hire company. I quickly check through them. The car is due back by six o’clock tomorrow afternoon and Barry has already paid in full – that’s a relief.
A sudden thought strikes me. I step out of the car and open the boot. Inside, is a smallish, soft leather holdall, which contains a change of clothes, some pyjamas and a washbag – clearly an overnight bag. That will come in handy.
‘Right, Robbie man,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘This is final decision time. Once you turn the key in the ignition, there’s no going back. You’re committed.’
I take some more gulps of the cold air to steady my nerves, then get back in the car and turn the key. The Golf purrs into action. Suddenly terrified, I turn it off again. I haven’t worked this out. What am I going to do? Not just now but tomorrow, the next day and the day after that? Most importantly, where do I go right now?
There’s no way I can return to the flat, never again. That feels strange, but there isn’t much I’d regret leaving behind, so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Wait a minute! What about that photograph of Len and Betty? It’s the only thing that really matters to me. I feel a sudden panic. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might never go back. For a moment I consider whether I could drive back there and sneak inside in the dark, to pick up the precious picture. No, of course not. That wouldn’t make any sense at all. Far too risky. I feel like crying. Get a grip, Robbie, I tell myself. It’s only a photo. Close your eyes and you can picture them; they’ll always be in your heart.
Next dilemma … where to go now?
Well, Barry must have lived somewhere; I’ve seen his address on the various documents. I’ll just have to check. What about my other choices? I suppose money won’t be a problem. There’s two thousand pounds just in cash. How scary is that? Maybe I can get one or two of those bank cards to work for me too. I’m going to have to learn about spending money; learn how to be Barry. The prospect fills me with more terror than pleasure. First things first though – there’s tonight to organise. Concentrate on that.
After spending a few minutes familiarising myself with the car controls, I put the key in the ignition again, turn it, and the engine softly growls into life, almost inaudibly. I press the clutch and ease the gearstick into first, second, third, fourth and fifth. Then I find reverse. Phew, hurdle number one overcome.
Next, I move forwards slowly, wind my way down the rough track carefully, and begin the descent from the Cheviots onto roads of ever-increasing size, past isolated fa
rms, through tiny hamlets, then villages.
In the first village of any size, I notice a phone box. Please God let it be working … There’s no directory of course. Only one thing to do. I dial 999. I’m shaking from head to foot. After a minute a woman’s voice answers: ‘Emergency. Which service do you require?’
‘Police,’ I reply. ‘Urgent …’
There are some clicks, and a minute later another woman’s voice answers: ‘Northumberland Police services. How can we help?’
‘I … I’ve … erm … just been walking in the hills, the Cheviot hills, and … I discovered a man’s dead body, just lying in the heather.’
‘Is the man definitely dead, sir?’
‘Yes, definitely. He’s … he’s cold. Um … and he’s getting stiff. His eyes are open.’
I start to sob. It takes a moment before I can continue speaking.
‘I … I can give you the map reference for the spot he’s lying …’
‘What is your name, sir?’
‘It … it … look, it doesn’t matter. I’m just a walker …’
‘I need your name, sir.’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know the man. I don’t want to get involved. I came upon him by chance. I … I need to get to … erm … Berwick urgently. I’m expected there … and I’m late. This is the map reference. Write it down. You’ll find him there …’ I read out the map reference.
‘Just a moment, sir. We need to know …’
I read the reference out one more time and ring off. My hands are trembling violently. I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.
There’s nobody about, thank goodness, and it’s now dark. If the police want to identify the caller, they’ll probably search the route northwards to Berwick. That was my intention, anyway. I’m heading south to Newcastle.
It’s all I can do to turn the ignition key and grip the steering wheel. I take some deep breaths and slowly steady my nerves. I drive, not taking in anything during the first part of the journey. Eventually I come to the junction with the A1 heading southwards towards Newcastle. How different this journey feels from the previous drive. Was it really only this morning?
Exactly what to do, where to go, tonight? That’s the next thing to consider. I’m effectively homeless again, but surely no need to sleep in the streets tonight. I could afford a night in a comfortable hotel – that would help set me up … a warm bath, a good sleep, time to calm down and think about my possible options, make a plan, think about the short-term future. After that, there’s the longer-term plan to decide too … but maybe that can wait for now. That’s it, one step at a time …
Approaching the outskirts of Newcastle, I turn off the dual carriageway onto the first urban slip road, leading to a leafy, well-to-do suburb of the city. I know there’s a Country Park Hotel there; I’ve seen it on a number of occasions. Never had I thought of staying there myself of course, but tonight, I decide, it would be just right.
I turn into the hotel car park and pull up alongside a bevy of other expensive-looking cars. Well, at least both the car and I look the part now, in Barry’s clothes – I’m quite the country gent. Apart from my hair, that is. I look all around; there’s nobody about. Quickly, I douse some water from Barry’s water bottle over my head, making sure it’s well damp but not dripping. Then I use Barry’s comb to smooth it back neatly. Job done. I pick up the holdall and the rucksack, lock the car and try to walk confidently into the expansive lobby, my heart thumping.
I’m Barry, I’m Barry, I repeat in my mind.
Back at school, I’d always done well in drama. When I was with Len and Betty, my favourite teacher, Mr Lewis, told me I had a real talent for acting. I never managed to carry on with it after I left school. Now’s my chance to put that early promise into practice.
First off, you need to lose any remnants of that Geordie accent. Put on a posher southern voice; a London voice, I tell myself.
A slender young woman in an immaculate black suit stands alert behind the polished wood of the reception desk.
‘Good evening, sir,’ she says. ‘How can I help you?’
My mind suddenly goes completely blank. I can’t think of what to say.
The girl’s pale blue eyes widen for a moment, her mouth briefly a round ‘oh’ of surprise, before resuming her bland, detached expression. She regards me with a puzzled expression.
‘How may I help you, sir?’ she repeats.
‘Sorry … er … miles away … I’d like a room. For the night.’ I stutter. Then quickly add ‘please.’
‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’
‘Er … no … I don’t … I’ve been out all day. Haven’t had time to book a room. Haven’t had time to shave either, I’m afraid,’ I say, rubbing my chin.
‘Oh I see,’ she says indifferently. ‘Well now, just let me have a look …’
She consults a computer on the counter, her long red nails clacking on the keys.
‘Was it a double or a single, sir?’
‘Single, double, makes no great difference for tonight. Just as long as it’s got a nice comfy bed and an en suite, it’ll suit me.’
She raises her eyebrows and purses her lips. ‘Hmmm. Let me see,’ she repeats, frowning, looking at her screen. ‘Ah. Yes, we do have a double room on the second floor. It has a view over the gardens. That’s available.’
‘Well, that sounds fine, love.’
‘Room 211,’ she says, ‘if you could just let me have your credit card for a moment, sir.’
I reach into the rucksack and extract Barry’s wallet.
‘No problem.’ I smile, scanning the cards nestling in each neat division with terror. Oh God, which to use? I pick one at random and hand it to the receptionist, suddenly overcome with apprehension.
Oh no … what about the PIN? I think, panic rising. Maybe Barry’s included the PIN on one of his sheets of information in the overnight bag. If not, there’s just the cash.’
‘Of course, no money will be debited until you check out in the morning, sir,’ the girl says.
She places the card briefly in the card machine, and hands it straight back with a cool smile. Relief floods through me. I’d half expected the machine to shriek ‘Thief! Thief! It’s not his card!’ for all to hear.
‘Thank you, sir. A buffet breakfast is included in your booking and is served until ten in the morning, and this is your room key.’
She hands me a plastic card and points out the way to the lift and stairs. I raise a finger in acknowledgement and head for the lift. What a relief to get through that horrible ordeal. Still, I’d managed to maintain the southern accent pretty well.
After struggling for a few minutes with the key card, I finally enter my room. It’s nearly as big as my entire flat! I shut the door and gaze around in wonder. A vast bed with an inviting snow-white, soft feather duvet awaits me. I can’t resist flinging myself on the bed and bouncing up and down.
The small bar and fridge contain an array of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. There’s a coffee machine on top too. Also in the fridge are a range of snacks, including a ready-made salad with a tiny tub of balsamic dressing, and a superior-looking French cheese and aubergine ‘toastie’, with instructions for heating it in the microwave. Suddenly I realise how hungry I am – I’ve eaten nothing but a small sandwich and a few scraps of Barry’s picnic since early morning. I prepare myself a supper of the toastie and the mixed salad, with a bowl of ready-prepared fresh fruit to follow. I even open a tiny bottle of red wine.
Once I’ve finished eating, I have a long hot shower in the luxurious bathroom, making use of all the small containers of soaps and shampoos. Feeling fragrant, fresh and more relaxed in the fluffy white towelling robe provided, I recline on the bed to study the contents of Barry’s bags in more detail.
The first thing I open is the envelope in Barry’s writing, addressed to me as follows:
For Robert – to be opened only in the event of my death.
That’s
really chilling – he’d actually planned for the possibility of his death! Inside was a letter. Barry was a right one for letters, and no mistake. I grit my teeth and start to read.
Dear Robert,
I never expected you to have to read this letter, and had sincerely hoped you wouldn’t need to. However, if you are reading this letter, my plans haven’t quite worked out and I assume I have not survived our rendezvous. As you know I have been treated for severe kidney disease, so I felt I had to make some sort of provision in case the worst happened.
Although I knew there was a possibility that I might die sooner than planned, I very much hoped that I would live long enough for us to get to know one another better. Sadly, that is not to be.
Among the documents attached to this letter, you will find:
Full details of my home address – feel free to live in my apartment for as long as you need or want.
Information about my work and work address.
Any other information that I thought might be useful to you, such as financial and legal documents, passwords, pin numbers etc., to make your future years more agreeable.
If I am no longer alive, I want you to feel free to help yourself to anything of mine, including money. (Anaïs and Nina are well taken care of by our mother’s will.)
Robert, my young daughter, Nina, is the main beneficiary of my will. I separated from Nina’s mother Anaïs a year ago. I hope you may be able to make contact with her and Nina in time. Their address and contact details are attached.
Enjoy the rest of your life, Robert – I did really want us to get to know one another and develop a truly close brotherly relationship. I’m sorry that was not to be.