by Diana Finley
Your brother,
Barry
Reading his letter brought home to me the reality of Barry’s death. I was overcome with the sadness of losing him just a few months after finding him. How was it possible? I broke down and wept for the first time since finding Barry’s body.
Investigating the large envelope further, I found it contained a variety of detailed and complicated notes and information. Importantly, on top was the address of his flat, and instructions on how to get there.
There was also a further sealed envelope addressed to me. Inside that, I was relieved to see that Barry had left the password to access his computer, a ticket for a left luggage locker at Kings Cross station, keys to his flat, as well as the combination for a safe in his apartment, and the PINs for his credit cards.
Barry seemed to have thought of everything. Why, oh why didn’t he make the exact danger to his health clear to me before? Why didn’t he give me the information contained in this envelope? If he had, maybe I could have honestly explained the situation to the police immediately after finding his body.
What have I done?
Chapter 33
2004
Robert
Despite everything, I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, not waking until after seven the following morning. I hadn’t realised just how exhausted – mentally, emotionally and physically – I’d been from the terrible, nightmarish, life-changing events of the previous day. I wake feeling awful: depressed, panicky, and most of all, deeply saddened by the loss of my brother.
I glance round at Barry’s clothes and luggage, just to assure myself it hasn’t all been a dream, a nightmare, that it has really happened; Barry really is dead, and for better or worse, I have swapped identities with my brother. This realisation fills me with sorrow and dread all over again. I feel my future of pretence and anxiety is now unavoidable. There’s no escape.
I feel overwhelmed by sadness for Marie, my mother. All these years, it appears she has longed for me, her missing son, and now, just as Barry and I were preparing for me to meet her soon, it is Barry who is lost to her for ever. How cruel is fate? Will she blame me somehow for causing his death? I still ache to see my mother, but will the joy of that event be tarnished for ever?
I need to make a list of everything to do before leaving Newcastle – perhaps for ever. To start with, I must make myself look more presentable, more like Barry. So I decide to get myself a good, professional haircut, somewhere nearby after breakfast. I dress in a set of clean clothes from Barry’s overnight case. Then I smooth the duvet and lay the entire contents of Barry’s luggage out on the bed. I help myself to a sheet of hotel writing paper and a pen. I have to resist the impulse to help myself to all the top-quality – and free – paper and pens. Old habits die hard.
I write a to-do list: pay hotel bill, get hair cut and shave, take hire car back. Once my list is complete, I pack my bags, slipping all the essential information for the day ahead into an envelope and securing it in the inside pocket of the casual jacket I’ve found in Barry’s bag. If I lose any of those vital numbers and details I’ll be well up the creek, I think.
I stand in front of the mirror to check my reflection – I hardly recognise myself. The jacket fits me perfectly, hanging crisp and smooth, at once smart yet casual. He certainly had good taste, did my brother Barry.
I leave the rest of the luggage in the room and hang the ‘do not disturb’ notice on the outside door handle.
Downstairs, a young man in a dark suit hovers in the lobby and greets me with a respectful ‘Good morning, sir.’
I respond with a friendly casual wave and continue into the bright, spacious breakfast room.
Around half of the tables are occupied. It’s mainly elderly couples, and a few younger, single people, who might be on business trips, but what do I know? A friendly middle-aged woman in hotel uniform greets me and asks my room number. She offers me a choice of tables, asks whether I would like tea or coffee, and explains that I am to help myself to the vast array of foods on offer at the buffet.
My usual breakfast is no more than a slice of toast and a mug of tea. I stare at the long tables groaning under numerous different breads and pastries, cereals, fruits and yoghurts, cold meats and cheeses, as well as hotplates offering a range of cooked food. The choice and volume almost sickens me.
Once again, I have to resist my initial pauper’s urge to take advantage and pile as much as possible on my plate and while I’m at it, to slip some pieces of fruit into my pocket, and perhaps to wrap some slices of the delicious-looking cheeses in a paper napkin … But then I remember. I have to train myself to think like Barry. What would he do? Would he snaffle whatever he could, because after all, he had paid for it? No, of course not. He didn’t need to. If he was hungry later he’d just buy himself some lunch.
So now, consciously and determinedly in my Barry persona, I help myself to a modest portion of smoked salmon (which I’d never tried before), scrambled egg, a slice of a dark rye bread – new to me – and some fresh fruit salad. All of it tastes wonderful, along with two cups of the excellent fresh coffee. So this is what it is to be rich, to have enough of everything. Yes, I suppose I could get used to this.
I take out my to-do list and look at the first item: pay hotel bill. Now I’m anxious that I’ve written down and rehearsed the correct PIN for Barry’s bank card. I remind myself that if any problem with the PIN arises, I have more than enough cash to cover the hotel bill. Despite that, failing to provide the correct PIN seems so revealing, so suspicious.
At the reception, the young man turns the card machine towards me.
‘You’re looking a bit anxious, sir. Not a guilty conscience, I hope!’ he says. He smiles at me.
Oh God, he’s guessed, he’s realised! I think, my heart thumping.
‘What? What do you mean?’ I say.
The young man immediately loses his smile and looks remorseful. ‘Sorry, sir, just my little joke. Not a very good one, I’m afraid. No offence intended.’
‘Oh, OK, none taken.’
Now what the hell was the number again? Breathe, breathe, and think …
‘Actually I hope I do get it right. I’m forever muddling up my PINs! There’s that many of these blooming cards to remember, aren’t there?’
He smiles, unperturbed – politely tolerating a rich man’s joke.
Then I take a deep breath, key in the memorised figures and wait. I nearly pass out from lack of oxygen, I’ve been holding my breath for so long.
The card machine gives a little click, and then whirrs into action. The whole transaction goes through without a hitch. I gulp for air, afraid I’ll faint with pure relief.
The young man hands me a receipt with a smile, wishes me a good day and urges me to return soon to the hotel.
Phew, not too effing soon I hope, bonny lad, I think to myself. I just couldn’t stand the strain!
Just as I turn to leave, I remember item two on my to-do list: ‘get hair cut’. I turn back to the young man and ask if he knows of a good barber’s in the area.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ the lad says eagerly. ‘There’s a very good Italian barber in the high street. Casa something or other. Turn left immediately as you exit from the hotel’s drive. It’s just about half a mile down, on the left-hand side. You can’t miss it.’
I thank him, press a tip into his hand and leave the hotel with some relief. It’s definitely not an environment I’m familiar or comfortable with.
***
An hour later I’m reclining, my body rigid with tension, in a barber’s chair in Casa Degli Uomini, while Saïd, a swarthy Syrian – not an Italian at all – massages organic oils into my scalp with gentle but muscular fingers.
‘Relax sir, try to relax …’ Saïd implores me.
I decide to indulge in a professional shave as well. Having noted how I’d hacked at my face with the hotel equipment, Saïd tuts disapprovingly. He shaves me enthusiastically with a ferocious-l
ooking cut-throat razor. Then he wraps hot towels around my face, followed by cold towels to ‘close ze pores’.
My hair is then snipped, washed, and dried. Saïd pauses and steps back to assess his handiwork for a moment. ‘Is good, is very good.’
It is good too. I’ve never seen my hair – nor my face – look like this. Every hair is perfectly in place; gentle waves undulate backwards above my ears. The lines that had appeared on my face in the last few years seem to have retreated. My forehead is smooth, my jawline firm and masculine. I look ten years younger. I look handsome. I look like Barry. It’s money well spent. I shake Saïd’s hand and give him a large tip.
As I walk back to my car, a sense of possession, of entitlement, creeps into my thoughts. I try to resist it, but a feeling of calm and well-being settles over me, like a soft, comforting blanket. I expected to feel – perhaps I should feel – tense and anxious, perhaps even guilty. Yet I do not, or at least, not as much as I expected. Who is this Robert inhabiting my skin? Who thinks he is claiming – or perhaps re-claiming – what is his due, what has been his due for half a lifetime? I’m not sure I like him very much, but I’m committed to being him.
Next stop is Barry’s car hire shop behind the station. It’s a totally different outfit from the providers of my Skoda. I feel a twinge of sympathy for the guys at that car hire place. I wonder if they’ll ever get their car back.
The lenders of Barry’s Golf communicate a different ambience. Impressive cars wait in the parking area. The Golf now seems a modest choice. Inside, soft, calming music plays. A young man behind the curve of the polished wooden reception desk looks up and smiles as I enter the office.
‘Good morning, Mr Tully, how did you get on?’
Momentarily thrown by the question, I wonder what Barry might have told people about the purpose of his visit to Northumberland. Has he left a trail of evidence? I decide the safest option is to keep to non-committal responses. I remind myself mentally to keep to my London accent.
‘Fine, thank you. I’ve enjoyed the driving up here – the roads are so quiet compared to London.’
‘Oh, aye. We haven’t got the jams of the South East up here – not yet anyways. A lot busier than it used to be, mind. So you found your brother all right up there?’
What to say to this? I’m seized by panic that renders me dumb. I gaze down at the written car hire contract, as if absorbed in its details, buying myself time to think of a suitable response.
‘Mmm? Oh, no … er … no, unfortunately. Turned out he wasn’t very well. Not well at all.’ I feel a lump rising in my throat. ‘He couldn’t manage the long walk in the end.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity. Still, now you’ve explored the North East a bit, I hope you’ll make another visit before too long.’
‘Who knows, who knows?’ I look up with a smile. ‘Now then, full tank, right?’
‘Yes, that’s good, thanks, Mr Tully. I’ll just give her a quick check-over and we’re all straight. You got long before catching your train back south?’
‘Just long enough for a bite to eat and a pint.’
‘Good timing. Sounds like you planned that well.’
I’m grateful the height of the desk disguises any trembling of my knees.
The young man checks the car and I hand over the keys and a tip. I’m discovering the power of money to make friends.
‘Thanks very much, Mr Tully. Enjoy the rest of your day. Hope to see you again up in these parts before too long. Have a safe journey home.’
***
The train journey to London is uneventful, but I’m filled with apprehension. My life has taken on a momentum of its own. I feel out of control.
I’ve rarely travelled by train before, and never first class in my entire life. I’ve never been to London, yet I now face living there, possibly for the rest of my life. Is it a life I want? Certainly I want to meet Marie, my mother. I want to get to know her and I want her to know me. I want to be loved by her, as I’ve never been loved before. But … what if she blames me for losing Barry? What if she thinks I’ve caused his death? Oh Barry, why did you have to go and die, just when I was so happy to have you for a brother?
I’m suddenly jolted back into the present by a uniformed woman leaning over me with a smile.
‘Excuse me, sir, I said, “Would you like some coffee?” So sorry if I disturbed you. You were miles away!’
I stretch my legs out and sip the coffee (in a china cup, not plastic!) and have one of the biscuits brought by the attendant.
I use some of the remaining journey time to revise the information left for me by my brother. I need to become completely fluent in all the details of my new life. How different this life is going to be? How have I got myself into this situation? I’m so scared, launching myself into an unknown, unfamiliar vacuum, perhaps for ever?
***
At Kings Cross station I present the ticket at the left luggage office, and am handed a small suitcase in return. I call into Smiths for an A-Z. London might just as well be a foreign country for all I know about it. I’ll need all the help I can get to familiarise myself with my new surroundings. Then I head for the short taxi queue, the address of Barry’s flat written on a small piece of paper clutched in my hand.
Chapter 34
2004
Marie
‘When did you last see him, Anaïs?’
‘Well, ages ago, Marie. You know we’re not really seeing each other at the moment.’
‘I’m so worried about him. He’s been behaving so strangely lately. He’s not been himself at all. He hasn’t been for some time, but recently he looks so ill. I’d really hoped that going on the rehab course would be the end of his difficulties. In one way it did help. At least, I believe he finally got the drugs problem under some control. I’m not sure if he totally cut them out. I begged him to so many times, Anaïs. Begged him …’
‘I know you tried, Marie; no one could have tried harder. But he didn’t really listen to anyone else, did he?’
‘No, but now I’m thinking … even if he did seriously cut down … maybe it was too late … for his health I mean. He looks just awful and he’s got no energy. He told me he’d been diagnosed as having some problems with his kidneys, but he didn’t really explain what that meant. He’s always been a bit secretive, hasn’t he?’
‘I know he’s seen a consultant, Marie, but he hasn’t told me much about it.’
‘Yes, he said that to me too. You’d expect the consultant to have discussed what treatment might be available, but Barry’s said nothing about that to me.’
‘Mmm. Me neither. I’m so sorry, Marie, I can see you’re really worried.’
‘You know he found his brother Donal at last, and that they’ve met up together, don’t you, Anaïs? I’d rather expected Barry would have brought Donal to see me by now, but there’s been no word from him for a week or more. I thought maybe Donal would at least ring me too. I do hope nothing’s gone wrong with the arrangements. The plan was for them to meet up in the hills in Northumberland and spend some “quality time” – as he put it – walking together, and birdwatching and so on. Barry loved that part of the country, but I worry whether he could possibly manage a trip like that in his state of health?’
‘Did Barry and Donal get on well when they met?’
‘They seemed to, according to Barry. Poor Donal hasn’t had a very easy or happy life, by all accounts, not happy at all, but Barry said he’s not resentful or angry. He’s not bitter at all. Apparently he’s just thrilled that his family has been found, and that he’ll be able to meet us all.’
‘It’s just amazing, Marie. All these years you have longed for him and thought about him, and soon you will hold him in your arms! You must be so excited.’
‘Excited definitely. I can hardly believe it’s real. I’ve been trying to imagine what he’ll look like, what he’ll sound like, what kind of person he’ll be – and all I come up with is someone exactly like Barry! But of course, al
though they’re identical twins, there’s no reason for them to be exactly the same in every way. Donal will have had such a different life, such different experiences and that’s bound to have affected him. To be honest, Anaïs, although I can scarcely wait to see him, I’m a bit scared of meeting him for the first time. Does that sound idiotic?’
‘Not at all. I can understand you being nervous. But I’m sure you’ll forget your fears the minute you set eyes on him.’
Chapter 35
2004
Robert
My first ride ever in a black London cab, and my exhaustion soon catches up with me. I close my eyes and let the drone of the driver’s cheerful commentary wash over me, spurred on with only the occasional response from me.
At last the taxi slows and stops in a leafy street. The taxi driver parks outside a large four-storey house. Is it Victorian, or perhaps Edwardian? I’m totally unfamiliar with London’s house styles.
‘’Ere we are – Swiss Cottage, right? Nice ’ouse, mate, very nice! Be worth a bob or two, eh? Mostly Russians and Ay-rabs around ’ere I reckon. Filthy rich some of them lot are and no mistake!’
I murmur my agreement and hastily assure the driver that the entire house does not belong to me – I occupy only one of several flats in the building. I’m not sure why it’s so important to me that this man – a total stranger – should know that, but somehow it is. Perhaps I haven’t yet fully settled into my new persona – certainly I don’t want to be thought of as ‘filthy rich’ as a Russian oligarch or Arab sheikh! I pay the driver and add another substantial (but not too ostentatious) tip. The man thanks me cheerily and drives off.
I stand on the pavement, my luggage around me, staring up at the building that is to be my home for the next few days. I look all around. Barry’s neighbourhood couldn’t be more different from the one I left behind in Newcastle. Plane trees cast mottled shadows in the evening sunshine. The street ends in a cul-de-sac two houses along from Barry’s. From there, a footpath enters an expansive park beyond, a grassy hill creating a pleasant, open view. Large houses, each individual in design, with well-maintained front gardens, stretch to the right and left. There’s no litter, I immediately notice. It’s clearly an affluent area.