The Lost Twin

by Diana Finley

  I gaze up at the house. Barry lived here, I remind myself; he actually lived here. If only he still did, and I was just paying him a visit. Sadness, never far away, washes over me in a tidal wave of mixed feelings. What am I doing here without Barry? Should I just turn around and go back to Newcastle? But no, my mother, Marie, lives in this city. I can’t leave without seeing her. Get a grip, Robbie. I feel lost, helpless and frightened. I’m desperate to get to the safety of Barry’s flat … but will it be safe?

  I hold the keys at the ready, so tightly they dig painfully into my hand. I stare at them. One for the main front door and another two – a Yale and a mortice key – presumably for the door to the actual apartment. There’s also another small key. What could that be for?

  The heavy wooden front door has a metal letter box. Next to the door is a set of twelve bells, each with the number of the apartment and the name of the occupant beside it. Next to number 12 is the name ‘Mr B. Tully’.

  The front door open, I step into the downstairs hallway and look around: a fine cream and black tiled floor, looked after. Clean too. Against the wall immediately to the right of the entrance, is a set of dark, wooden post boxes, arranged in three rows of four, each one marked with a metal label bearing the owner’s name and flat number. This is important information, I tell myself.

  I’m still holding the bunch of keys, my fingers pressing the large Yale key, which had let me in. It looks as though the very small key is for the post box. I try the key on the box marked with Barry’s name and number. It opens immediately. Inside are six or eight envelopes. I tuck them under my arm and relock the box. So far so good.

  In the centre of the hall is an old-fashioned cage lift, around which curves an impressive marble staircase, with a highly polished dark wood banister. Three doors lead off the ground-floor hallway. I guess apartment twelve will be on the top floor. I’m not a great believer in lifts – always feel a bit claustrophobic in them. I prefer to use the stairs, no matter how long the climb. Three floors is nothing. I pick up my bags and begin walking up.

  Suddenly, from above me, I hear the sound of a door being opened and then closed loudly, followed by a brief jangle of keys. Rapid, thumping footsteps are heading down towards me. My heart gives a lurch, but before there’s time for panic to set in, a well-built man of about my age appears, leaping energetically downwards. He’s dressed in shorts, a vest and running shoes. He grins, jogging on the spot, and raises his hand in greeting.

  ‘Evening, Barry, good trip?’

  My heart thuds frantically in my chest. Oh God, he actually thinks I’m Barry … Think fast, man, and don’t forget the accent. Who is he? What’s his name? What does he know about Barry, about me? Play for time …

  ‘Not bad, thanks,’ I say with a smile. ‘Glad to be back though … Still pounding those pavements are you?’

  ‘Yeah, you know me, glutton for punishment. Well, glutton at any rate! Guess that’s why I have to keep all this up. I see the beard’s gone, Barry. Must be a woman exerting influence, am I right, eh?’

  He doesn’t wait for an answer. We grin at one another and he’s gone. I stand limply, waiting for the trembling to recede. Is it possible? This total stranger thought I was Barry? He’s never met me in his life, but he thinks I’m my brother. Judging from the sound his descending footsteps made, I guess he lives on the second floor. I make a mental note to look at the names on the post boxes again tomorrow, memorise them. I’ll have to check what the jogger’s name might be.

  I continue up the stairs. Four doors on the first floor, and another four doors on the second, which is also where the lift has halted. That means only one flat remains at the top – trust Barry to have the penthouse! Sure enough, at the top of the stairs, the landing has only one door to a flat – number twelve. I like the idea of being the only resident on that floor; it’s a relief, it feels safer. Opposite my door is what looks like a cupboard, bolted shut, perhaps containing cleaning equipment. The door to the flat has two locks: a Yale, and below it, a mortice. I take a deep breath and open the door to my temporary home. Thank God, I think, thank God, I’ve made it. At least I won’t have to sleep on the streets tonight. That’s something. I can relax – up to a point – for tonight anyway.

  I walk in and look around. So this is where Barry lived. This is the place he called home. The apartment turns out to be spacious but less huge than I’d imagined, and simpler in style, which pleases me. Not exactly my idea of a penthouse, despite being at the top of the building. Stylish and tasteful, but fairly modest – I like that. More of an attic flat, fitted neatly into the roof space, the sloping ceilings making for interestingly shaped rooms. It feels a relief. I’d expected possible flamboyant, showy extravagance – this feels much closer to my own taste. So me and Barry are alike in more ways than one. I explore thoroughly, searching for any clues that may tell me more about my brother.

  It’s been a long day. It’s late when I lock the door of the flat, and I’m very tired, but my mind is too agitated to think of sleep just yet. I’m getting to know my brother’s home, but what do I really know of him?

  I pull out the letters and other paperwork I’d found on Barry’s body, in his luggage, and now in the apartment. I know there are still some brown envelopes I haven’t opened, whose contents I have not yet examined. Maybe they’ll contain some clues as to Barry’s true motive in wanting to meet up with me – and particularly in initially pretending to me that our mother was dead.

  I begin by looking through all the letters and documents I’ve already seen, just in case I missed some vital piece of information. It’s well after two in the morning by the time I’ve pored over nearly all of them – so far, there’s nothing particularly significant or helpful in any – but I’m not about to give up just yet. I turn my attention to the brown envelopes.

  The largest has a file inside labelled ‘Medical’. This time its contents really are interesting, and provide some new clues, or confirmation at least. There are copies of several detailed medical reports indicating that Barry has serious kidney disease, apparently most likely to have resulted from his addiction to heroin and cocaine over many years. I’m learning more about a sinister, frightening side to my brother’s life.

  Also in the medical file I find a glossy brochure advertising the facilities at a luxurious private hospital and clinic – in the country just outside Newcastle. Barry was clearly planning to have some treatment there. Why near Newcastle, rather than in London, where he lived? The only logical reason is to make it near my home, and deliberately remote from his. There is also a series of letters between Barry and a renal consultant. The final letter from this consultant, a Mr Harrington, is chilling in its pronouncement:

  Mr T. Harrington

  Renal Consultant

  Transplant Team

  Date: 23/01/2004

  Dear Mr Tully,

  Further to your appointment on 09/12/2003, I am sorry to have to confirm that your full assessment shows significant late-stage kidney failure. This is a serious and now irreversible condition, which unfortunately is often seen in long-term users of drugs such as heroin, as we have discussed on previous occasions.

  Your kidneys are now functioning at only a fraction of normal capacity, and this is likely to deteriorate further. Your body is unlikely to be able to sustain this situation for long. Regular dialysis is not a long-term solution, and the only real option at this stage is a kidney transplant.

  I must emphasise that while the seriousness of your condition means we will make you a priority for an available donated kidney, finding an acceptable match is likely to take some time, particularly due to your unusual blood type. The best hope, therefore, is a living donation from a family member. It is much more likely that a compatible kidney will be found within your close family than the general public. Ideally, the donation could come from a sibling, whose DNA and blood group may not only match your own closely, but who is also of your own generation. Of course this may not be possible, s
o we shall continue the search for a donated kidney representing a close match, whatever the family circumstances.

  I will arrange for our specialist transplant nurse to make a home visit to discuss these issues further with you.

  In the meantime, I must emphasise again how important it is that you refrain completely and absolutely from further use of heroin, cocaine or any other drug not prescribed by a medical practitioner, to prevent further damage.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tristram Harrington

  Renal Consultant

  I stare at this letter. I haven’t seen many letters from medical consultants, but feel sure that such a direct and forceful message from a doctor is unusual. He certainly isn’t beating about the bush. I reread it. It appears Mr Harrington feels he has to lay the facts on the line pretty harshly for Barry to take notice – and act on them.

  So now it appears I have a clear confirmation for why Barry had decided to contact me after so many years had passed; why he wanted to meet me so urgently. He’d definitely received Mr Harrington’s letter before we met for the first time and I saw it in Durham. So, Barry had been, in effect, terminally ill with kidney failure. He’d told me already that his only real hope of survival had been a kidney transplant, but that his rare blood group meant finding a compatible kidney was unlikely. Mr Harrington explained this clearly in his letter.

  The only real chance was using a transplanted kidney from a close family member, he wrote. By some extraordinarily lucky chance, it happened that Barry had an identical twin brother waiting in the wings, and unknown to most people. That was why he needed me. Did Barry have any other interest in me? Probably not. Transplanting one of my kidneys into him would greatly improve his chances of normal life. He needed my kidneys – or one of them at least. That was probably all he wanted from me, I realise, at least initially. I now believe it may have been his sole reason for contacting me. For all he said he’d changed when he found he liked me so much. Yet now I have a strong sense that he must have hoped to ‘befriend’ me, perhaps ‘butter me up’ as a loving brother (or even bribe me if he’d found me highly motivated by monetary gain, which he didn’t), and persuade me to help him live, by giving him one of my kidneys.

  It’s all starting to make more sense now. I wonder if the plan was to have my kidney secretly removed in the private Newcastle clinic, and immediately transferred to Barry’s body. No chance of our mother dissuading me to go ahead with it – she wouldn’t even know. He was basically planning to use my healthy, living body as a means of harvesting ‘spare parts’ for his own failing one – and if everything went to plan no one else need know about it. Medical staff would probably be told it was all to be kept confidential to protect the identity of the rest of the family, and maybe to protect our mother from anxiety.

  I sit in a daze, deep in shock. Would I have done it? Would I have given my kidney to this man who was my brother, but whom I barely knew? I’m not sure. Talking to Belle, I think I’d decided I would. How could I not save my brother’s life? The more I learned of my brother, the more he puzzled me. In the event, I was never given the chance to fully consider such a selfless, charitable act through to its conclusion – Barry had died after we had met only twice, and were about to meet again. He may have died on that hillside only minutes before we were due to meet for the third time, only minutes before I found him.

  Despite the fact that Barry explained the situation to me, I have a sinister feeling that he’d had his plan all worked out long before he revealed it to me; long before he even tried to meet me. It’s certainly not a comforting conclusion. Now I can think of little else. Yet, even though I’ve found a clear explanation for why Barry had wanted to meet me in the first place, telling me that Marie was dead seems unnecessarily extreme. Perhaps I’m starting to get paranoid. Yes, he admitted it was to prevent a meeting between Marie and myself, but knowing how manipulative he could be, I wonder if he was going to maintain that stance until well after the operation had been carried out. He’d admitted he thought that once she met me, she would try to stop me from donating a kidney to him; that she would dissuade me. After all these years of our mum longing to see me, might she have been reluctant to think of my life being put at risk – even to benefit her other son?

  Whatever Barry’s initial motivation in telling me our mother was dead, he had clearly changed his mind, and I wanted to believe that he had come to like me too much to deceive me. In the end, Barry never got the chance to carry out any part of his plan. He’d died before a transplant was possible – and here I was, in his home, trying to sort out the mess he’d left behind.

  Chapter 36

  2004

  Robert

  Gradually, the flat becomes a familiar, reassuring haven; I feel safe, and increasingly at ease there. The first thing I notice is how light it is. The apartment is bright and airy. It has views and aspects in every direction, allowing light and, sunshine to surge in at every time of day. I love the compact kitchen overlooking the garden, far below. It’s equipped with everything I could imagine, and probably much I would never even have thought of. A glass door leads from the kitchen to an outside space cut into the slope of the roof – a cross between a large balcony and a small roof garden.

  This immediately becomes my favourite part of the apartment. It faces south and west, the best directions for sunshine, and below is the long, narrow garden that goes with this house. Beyond, stretches a patchwork vista of gardens varying in size, belonging to neighbouring houses and those opposite – creating an extensive, park-like green space full of mature trees and shrubs. I’m astonished and delighted. I’ve never imagined London like this, knowing the city only from clichéd photographs of landmarks and familiar scenes: busy streets with red buses, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Piccadilly Circus and so on.

  From this roof garden, London presents a much greener and more homely, domestic side to its character. I fall instantly in love with it, as Barry must have done.

  The flat has two large bedrooms – I choose the back one for myself, while Barry had clearly slept in the front bedroom; the wardrobes and drawers are full of his clothes. The bathroom is modern and stylish, fully tiled, with a toilet, bath and separate shower. There’s a spacious, comfortable lounge, with two large sofas, and a dining area adjoining the kitchen. A huge, flat-screen television and some complicated-looking sound equipment occupies a shelving unit in one corner.

  So, here I am. I’m desperate to contact Marie and find my family, but where do I start? I can’t just phone her out of the blue and tell her Barry is dead. I don’t want to convince her I’m Barry, even if it were possible. I want her to know me, Donal. I’m too scared to go out. What if someone who knows Barry is suspicious, realises I’m not Barry? OK, the runner was fooled, but he was in a hurry, and it was quite dark on the stairs. I decide to give myself a few days to work out a plan.

  I’m terrified of being discovered as a fraud, an interloper. The day following my arrival I don’t leave the flat at all. I tell myself I need to spend time familiarising myself with its contents, like the electrical equipment, but actually it’s because I’m so afraid of being found out. I’ve lost any confidence I may have had, and feel desperately nervous of the foreign environment.

  ***

  After one more day, I risk putting a tentative foot outside the front door. I have to; I’m running out of food. I focus on gradually getting to know the immediate surroundings. Every expedition presents unimaginable, unpredictable hazards; every encounter is a new and often terrifying challenge. I never know who Barry was acquainted with or was close friends with, so I have to proceed extremely cautiously in every situation.

  Greeting people – or responding to greetings – is a social minefield.

  There are a few local – and expensive – shops nearby. A bakery, a café with tables on the pavement, a newsagent, and a greengrocer with an amazing, colourful array of fruit and vegetables, some of which I don’t even recognise, wouldn’t
be able to name, and have certainly never eaten. I fill a carrier bag with a variety of fresh food and pick up a couple of takeaway meals to reheat.

  Further afield is the large, busy shopping centre of Finchley Road, not yet explores – maybe one day. Once I’ve risked stepping out into the unfamiliar and intimidating further streets, I might begin going for some longer walks too, but not yet. There’s plenty of green space and parks nearby.

  On my way back to the apartment from shopping, I stop at the newsagent for a paper, and sit down at an outside table of the local café to read it. Even in early spring, it appears that people sit outside at pavement cafés. The harsh wind of the North East doesn’t penetrate these London streets. As I sit, I take note of the large sign over the door: ‘Oliver’s Place’.

  The proprietor, a cheerful and effusive man, greets me in a friendly and familiar way. Clearly Barry frequented this café.

  ‘Hello there, Barry! Long time no see! I nearly didn’t recognise you without the beard! Suits you better though, I think. It made you look older.’

  It’s clearly Barry’s ‘local’, but I only dare take a chance on whether the man really is the proprietor after I hear another customer calling him by his name.

  ‘Hello, Oliver. Yes, I decided the beard wasn’t really me. Been pretty busy lately too. Had a brief trip away, but it’s always good to be back. How are things with you, Oliver?’

  There, I’d risked the name, twice, and wasn’t met with the response I’d dreaded, a look of puzzlement or confusion – phew! Clearly he is Oliver.