The Lost Twin

by Diana Finley

  I’m becoming expert at unspecific, bland conversations, which are basically ‘fishing trips’, aimed at getting necessary information for future reference. Back at home, I make detailed notes in a large notebook, commit the details to memory, practise verbal responses, like an actor preparing for a part – which is exactly what I feel like much of the time.

  ‘Not bad, not bad,’ Oliver replies. ‘Sally’s so much better now she’s finished the chemo …’

  So, his wife or partner is called Sally and had apparently been treated for cancer. Something to log in the notebook, and remember for possible further conversations. I don’t know how long I’ll be living in Barry’s apartment, and may need such information.

  ‘Oh that’s good news, really good news – give her my best, won’t you?’

  ‘Will do, thanks, Barry. Now, what’ll it be today?’

  ‘A flat white and a plain croissant please.’

  ‘Oh OK, branching out now, are we …?’

  So what the hell would Barry have ordered? I wonder.

  ‘Well, you know, Oliver, a change is as good as a rest …’

  He raises his hand and nods, then disappears inside. I settle down to wait for my coffee and look at the newspaper. Despite the early season, the sun feels warm and gentle as I flick the pages. Definitely a different, softer, southern feel to the air than I’m used to. I begin to feel more relaxed than I’ve yet felt in London. The pleasant feeling doesn’t last long.

  Suddenly, my heart gives an almighty jolt. The feeling of calm evaporates instantly. A short piece on page four has caught my eye:

  Northumbria Police believe they have identified the man whose body was found by hikers in a remote part of the Cheviot hills in Northumberland on Friday. He is thought to have been Robert Carlton, aged 34 years, of Scotswood, Newcastle upon Tyne. Carlton, unemployed, lived alone. Neighbours said Carlton was a kind man who generally ‘kept himself to himself’. One neighbour thought he may have had mental health issues and possibly problems with drug and alcohol abuse. The police have established that Carlton was brought up in care, but so far, they have been unable to trace any relatives. At this stage, it is believed that Carlton died of natural causes, but a post-mortem is due to be carried out. A car hired by Carlton in Newcastle was found in a car park at some distance from his body. Police are still trying to trace a walker who rang Emergency Services after finding Carlton’s body, but rang off without leaving a name. It is believed he may have connections with Berwick upon Tweed.

  ‘Problems with mental health issues and possible drug and alcohol abuse …’ I read, frowning. What sodding cheek! Who said that, I wonder? Where did they get that idea?

  It’s like staring at a notice of my own death. It’s disconcerting to see it in black and white – chilling, in fact. So that’s how the outside world sees me, is it? Nausea washes over me. My hands, holding the paper, begin to shake. Oliver reappears and puts a tray on the table.

  ‘Here we are, old son … I say, Barry, are you all right? You’re looking very pale. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’

  ‘I think maybe I have …’ I fold the paper over hastily.

  ‘Well, you just sit quietly a while. Have your coffee; you’ll feel better. Unless you’d like me to bring you a drop of something a bit stronger?’

  ‘No, no, your good coffee will be just right. I’ll be fine in a minute, thanks, Oliver.’

  He pats me on the shoulder affectionately and goes inside. I open the paper again and sit for a long time reading and rereading the short article. Then I fold the paper several times, as if any onlooker glimpsing what I’ve been reading, would be sure to identify me as the fraud and doppelgänger I really am. So I’ve fooled Oliver too. I suppose that’s a good thing. It’s what I have to do. Yet it leaves me feeling desperately sad. Who am I really now?

  I drink my coffee and put the croissant in the carrier bag for later; another example of frugal old habits I find hard to throw off. In any case, my appetite has vanished.

  A smartly dressed old lady at a nearby table makes eye contact and cocks her head towards a small Jack Russell dog sitting at her feet. The little dog is staring intently at me.

  ‘I’m afraid Jacky’s noticed you didn’t eat your croissant,’ she says with a smile. ‘I think he’s hoping you might have asked him for some assistance!’

  ‘Oh I see, would he like some?’ I rummage in my bag for the croissant. ‘He’s welcome to have a piece.’

  ‘Oh no, no, absolutely not,’ she says. ‘It’s very kind of you, but he’s just greedy. The vet wouldn’t approve at all. Jacky’s supposed to be watching his weight, you know, but of course I have to do that for him. He’s much more interested in watching food I’m afraid!’

  ‘He’s lucky to have someone taking such good care of his figure,’ I say with a chuckle.

  I finish my coffee and stand up. The old lady looks disappointed that I’m not going to prolong our conversation. I realise she must be lonely and probably enjoys engaging strangers – but seeing the newspaper article has really spooked me. It’s left me feeling tense and drained. I need to get away. I need the safety of the flat. I need to be alone.

  I wish her goodbye, pat the ever-hopeful Jacky, and leave a tip and payment for my coffee for Oliver on the table. Perhaps the brisk walk home via the steepness of Primrose Hill will help release the tension.

  Chapter 37

  2004

  Robert

  After the shock of seeing the article, I remain sealed in the apartment, afraid of being seen outside. I know it doesn’t make much sense – who would associate me with the newspaper article – yet it’s made me very uneasy. Right now, after seeing the name of ‘Robert Carlton’, seeing the reference of his dead body being found up in the high Cheviots in Northumberland in the paper, all I want to do is retreat to the safety of the apartment, put a pillow over my head and hide away.

  Once I feel brave enough to risk going out again, I decide it should be safe enough to head along the nearby canal towards the zoo. It’s surely unlikely that I’d encounter people who knew Barry wandering about there. There are several routes to choose from. Sometimes I veer off into Regent’s Park around the edge of the zoo. The highlight for me is hearing all the growls and grunts, the squeals and screeches, the whoops and calls of the inhabitants – and trying to imagine which animals might be making each noise. Apart from those born here, London must be a foreign environment for them too, just as it is for me. Would they recall their tropical jungle homes, the humid swamps, towering trees, rushing rivers or vast savannahs from which they have come? Do they long to return or have they adapted, regarding this vast city as their home, as perhaps in time I might too?

  On my homeward walk, I turn left up onto Primrose Hill. Near the bottom of the hill, clusters of parents chat together, while their young children play in a large sandpit. It’s a happy, homely scene. I watch them for a short while – but what I really need is to expend some vigorous energy, to disperse the feelings of shock and unease at seeing the newspaper report of ‘Robert Carlton’s’ death.

  It’s true that was what I’d wanted them to conclude when I exchanged Barry’s clothes with mine, but seeing Barry’s (my?) death reported in black and white that way, naming me as the corpse, is sinister and very unsettling. More than strange. Really creepy in fact.

  That decision I made high in the Cheviot hills is irreversible. It’s set me on a path of deception I can’t be free of, unless I reveal what I have done. Will that ever be possible, or will I have to maintain a lie for ever more?

  I head up one of the steep paths that lead to the top of the hill, pushing my legs hard to walk as fast as possible. Soon my lungs are expanding and my chest tightening with the effort. My breathing becomes laboured, making clouds of condensation in the cool evening air. It’s a steep incline, but a short distance. Nothing like the two-hour-long climb uphill to meet my brother that day. That day … it feels like a lifetime ago, yet I realise that less than a w
eek has passed.

  One or two Lycra-clad fitness freaks pass me, running up the hill as fast as they can, glancing around for admiration, then jogging down again and repeating the challenge.

  ‘Go on then you show-offs – you try running up the Cheviots if you think you’re so effing fit,’ I mutter grimly.

  At the rounded summit of the hill, people cluster to look at the view: London stretched out below – a vast cityscape as far as the horizon. Actually, there isn’t a proper horizon – just a jagged skyline of towering structures piercing the sky; there’s the Post Office Tower – once, years ago, that was thought to be unimaginably high yet now it looks almost tiny – dwarfed by newer giants like One Canada Square and the Cheesegrater, and many more under construction. I’m starting to learn their names and recognise them. London scares me, but it also fascinates me. It’s so huge, so exciting, so different from anywhere I’ve ever experienced; it could be another planet.

  I feel like a prehistoric caveman, or some isolated tribal jungle dweller who’s somehow collided with modernity, confused, overawed, and often terrified … Much of the time I feel minute and insignificant – like a tiny ant, paralysed by fear, unable to move, alone, yet surrounded by millions of others who all seem to know their way around, know one another – but know nothing of me, and care even less. Could this vast, anonymous city really become my home for the rest of my life? Do I want it to, or am I trapped here for ever more?

  ***

  By the time I get back to my street it’s starting to get dark. Outside our building, a small, elderly woman is trying to open the front door. With a large bag over one arm, she’s having some difficulty coordinating the turning of the key with pushing the heavy door. I consciously remind myself to maintain my southern accent.

  ‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ I say, leaning forward to push the door. She gives a start and turns to see who I am. She peers at me with a look of some confusion.

  ‘Oh, good evening, Mr Tully!’ she says with an uncertain smile as I hold the door for her. I almost look round to see if she’s addressing someone else; I haven’t got used to my new surname yet. It doesn’t quite feel like me.

  ‘Yes, I had to check it was you! I see you’ve decided against keeping your beard – I’m so glad! I’m pleased to see you – it’s very kind of you to help me. That door is so heavy. At least there are still some gentlemen left in the world!’

  I let her go into the hallway ahead of me and watch carefully as she approaches the letter boxes. She begins to open the box for flat 2 and extracts a couple of letters. I notice the name printed on her box – ‘Mrs E. Winkelman’ – and immediately commit it to memory.

  ‘Are you keeping well, Mrs Winkelman?’

  She turns with a look of mild puzzlement on her face. ‘Oh, er … yes, thank you, very well …’ She pauses and looks at me quizzically.

  ‘You seem in a very good mood, Mr Tully.’ Mr Tully again!

  ‘I’ve just had a lovely walk, so I am in a good mood, Mrs Winkelman. And please do call me … Barry.’

  This time she looks at me with some astonishment. I’m getting more and more nervous. What’s the problem?

  ‘Oh! Well, er … yes, all right. Er … then you must call me Esther, Mr … I mean, Barry.’

  She smiles at me and heads for the door of her apartment. As I start up the stairs, she turns and says hesitantly, ‘Perhaps you would care to call in for a cup of tea or coffee some time … er … Barry?’

  ‘I should like that very much, thank you, Esther,’ I reply.

  She gazes at me and shakes her head slightly. She gives me another shy little smile, looking distinctly bemused.

  I continue up the stairs, my heart beating frantically with nerves following the encounter, but also smiling to myself. Clearly Barry had not made a habit of pleasant socialising with most of the neighbours. Never mind, Mrs Winkelman wasn’t complaining; she appeared to like the new, friendlier version of Barry.

  ***

  I realise I’m going to have to make some decisions about what to do next, and soon. I can’t go on living as Barry much longer. I’m going to have to make contact with my family. I want to make contact with them; with my mother, with Anaïs and her child. I’m going to have to reveal who I really am.

  My contact with the outside world and its inhabitants often feels stressful and even hazardous, full of uncertainties and risks. But despite this, I’m beginning to almost enjoy myself – the peace and solitude of ‘my’ apartment in particular, and the feeling of safety and security it gives me. It’s my refuge. It’s almost starting to feel like my home. I’m becoming accustomed to the various complicated and sophisticated appliances in the kitchen – and spending more time cooking for myself than I ever had before. Barry had clearly enjoyed cooking; as shown by the array of cookery books on the shelf in the kitchen. Now, for the first time in my life I can afford to buy freely from the huge range of interesting and wholesome foods available in the shops and markets nearby.

  In my previous life, my occasional treat had been fish and chips wrapped in newspaper; cheap and cheerful perhaps, and not exactly health food – but I loved it. Now I’m starting to take pleasure in choosing vegetables, fruits and salad items, many of which I’ve rarely, if ever, tried before. Stir-fries are regular features of my evening meal. Quick and easy to make, and better for me … though I still get takeaways sometimes.

  This evening I’m really going for quality; I select a piece of fresh salmon from the fridge, baste it with olive oil and rub it with salt, crushed garlic and a squeeze of lemon juice. Then I wrap it in foil and put it in the oven to roast while I prepare the stir-fry. I find the preparations calming. I choose onion, aubergine, squash, fennel and tomatoes, and begin to chop them. This will do me for two meals at least, I reckon. I put the radio on and hum along peacefully to the music. I’ve decided Radio Three is more in keeping with my new persona than the Radio One and Two programmes I previously listened to, mainly because they were the only reliable frequencies my cheap transistor radio could reach. Now I find myself recognising and enjoying the classical music much more than I’d expected.

  Suddenly the doorbell rings loudly, causing me to jump with the shock. I almost drop the wok I’m holding and shaking like a seasoned chef. To my alarm, from the tone of the bell I realise the unknown visitor is not just downstairs at street level, but up on my floor – and at the door of my apartment! That means it’s either another resident of the house, or someone who has already gained entry from outside. It also means I can’t pretend not to be in – they’re bound to have heard the radio.

  Who can it be? Perhaps Mrs Winkelman come to invite me for that cup of tea? Surely she wouldn’t be back quite so soon. It could be anyone, and I dread having to bluff my way through another stressful encounter. I struggle to control my beating heart and hectic breathing. I switch off the radio and the gas, take some deep breaths and head for the door. Should I call out to my visitor, I wonder, to find out who it is? No, just open it, I decide.

  My hands are shaking as I unlock the door. Light from the landing engulfs me as soon as I open the door, and draws a bright halo around an attractive young woman with dark auburn hair standing at the threshold. I’ve definitely never seen her before, yet oddly, I sense there’s something vaguely familiar about her. She regards me steadily. Her look is careful, enquiring, almost hostile; it is certainly unnerving. We stare at one another in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Hello, Barry,’ she says, with a distinct French accent.

  Chapter 38

  2004

  Robert

  My frozen brain slowly churns into action. That French accent … Of course, Barry’s wife! Oh God – think, think, man … you’ve seen it several times in all the information Barry left you … My brain’s frozen with panic. What was she called? What was her name? Hang on a minute … yes … yes, of course … it was …

  ‘Anaïs! Hello! It’s good to see you … erm, how are you? Have you come far?�
�

  She looks a little surprised. ‘I have come from home, Barry.’

  Oh God, what a stupid bloody question! Of course she’s come from home. Where else would she have come from? Home … where the hell was that again? Oh yes, Blackheath, wherever that is.

  ‘Barry?’

  ‘Yes …?’

  ‘Can I come in, please?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, yes of course you can, Anaïs. Please come on in!’

  Idiot! Leaving her standing on the threshold!

  Trying desperately to control my frantic breathing, I press my back against the wall to let her past. She looks curiously at my face as she squeezes by. Is my greeting overenthusiastic? I search my memory for more information about ‘my wife’ Anaïs, and her relationship with Barry. If only I’d brushed up properly on the information Barry had left. Oh my God, can I really do this? Shall I just explain to her, tell her everything, tell her the truth …? No, not yet. Now’s not the time. Play for time … Think, think.

  I stagger after her as she makes for the sitting room. My legs feel like giving way. Were they estranged, separated, divorced? Wasn’t there something Barry had said about disagreements? What was it? I can’t quite recall what that was all about. Was it money? Was it to do with his mother, our mother? I’m sure he mentioned divorce. Maybe they just didn’t get along? There was so much new information to take in. Suddenly my mind’s a blank. I’m going to have to tread very, very carefully. Or … perhaps … could this be a first opportunity to explain the truth? It would be such a relief.

  I glance at Anaïs’s retreating back as she walks ahead of me. She looks to be in her mid to late twenties. Young, but definitely an adult – a young assured woman. You have to treat her appropriately, I tell myself. This could be very tricky. I sense complications. What dangers lie ahead?

  Anaïs sits gracefully on one of the two sofas, yet her posture is defensive. Long legs crossed and facing away from me, arms hugging her waist. Her expression communicates a mixture of emotions: anxiety, confusion, apprehension. She looks at me, clearly waiting for me to initiate the conversation, but I’m at a loss. A drink seems a safe place to start.