Finding Arcadia

by Chesterman, Simon;

  “Arcadia!” he calls again.

  For her own part she finds him a competent enough teacher. His boundless energy conjures the image of a puppy—eager to please but equally pleased with the world around him. He will feel that she has let him down.

  “I just wanted to say”—he is breathless, as usual running from one obligation to the next—“that your paper was fantastic. Even for you. I mean, you’re one of the best students I’ve ever had, but this was beyond my expectations. So few students understand Sophus Lie’s work on group theory, let alone build on it the way that you did. Remarkable.” He looks at his watch. “But I’m late! Must dash. Bye!”

  She waves as he jogs back towards the administration building, trying to keep a puzzled expression from her face. What is he talking about?

  Back on school grounds, she takes out her phone and prepares to switch it off. No messages. She hesitates for a second before phoning Constable Lestrange. Technically she should be off campus to make a call during the day, but this is hardly her worst rule violation of the week.

  The phone rings four times before it is answered. “Lestrange.” Has he been practising his phone manner by watching American procedurals on TV?

  “Hello, Constable. I was calling to check whether you have the footage that you mentioned this morning?”

  There is a pause on the other end of the line. He is thinking what to say. “Good morning, Miss Greentree. And yes, we have the footage.”

  It is just past noon but she lets the greeting go uncorrected. Hard to tell without facial cues, but Lestrange seems troubled by something.

  “What’s wrong, Constable?”

  On the other end of the line she hears a cough. Not him. He is with someone. “Why don’t you put me on speaker,” she says. “That way Inspector Bradstreet can hear without the two of you having to crowd.”

  There is a muttered conversation and then the audio expands to take in the room. An office, most likely—Inspector Bradstreet’s?

  “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

  “Miss Greentree,” comes the terse reply.

  “So, Constable, you were saying about the video?”

  She can picture Lestrange’s raised eyebrows looking at Bradstreet. “Well? Go on, then,” the Inspector urges in an insufficiently sotto voce.

  A sigh. “Very well. So as I texted you, we managed to get some video footage from a delivery truck that happened to park on Mr. Pratt’s street that night. It had a dash-cam that records everything in front of the vehicle and was running the whole time. It was a piece of luck that we found the truck at all. We’d been asking the neighbours if they heard anything. No one had, but then one old lady mentioned that—”

  “Just get to the point, Lestrange,” Bradstreet interjects.

  “Very good, sir. So we obtained the footage, which covers the period 9:25pm to 9:45pm.”

  Between when the foster-daughter left and the wife returned.

  “The video quality isn’t great,” Lestrange continues, “but clear enough under the streetlights. A handful of people walk up and down the street. And one person goes into Mr. Pratt’s house.”

  The bitterness of flunitrazepam. A search for the file on her at school. There are no coincidences. “Let me guess,” she says. “A teenager, about five foot four, wearing a hooded sweatshirt?”

  Silence on the other end of the line. But not in surprise. Some kind of wordless conversation going on between them.

  “That’s correct.” Lestrange’s voice sounds odd.

  Yet this is not congratulations. Something is wrong. Another pause.

  “As I was saying”—Lestrange is choosing his words carefully—“the video quality is not perfect. But because of the positioning of the truck, there is about a second when you can see clearly the face of the teenager in the sweatshirt.”

  At last. If the police are unable to identify her, Magnus has access to government databases with facial recognition software. A proper search can be mounted.

  “And?”

  She hears Inspector Bradstreet’s breathing deepen as he leans in towards the phone. “And it’s you, Miss Greentree.”

  9

  DOUBLE

  “Well, Miss Greentree?”

  Visiting hours at Mother’s hospital end at 8pm. She paid for her return taxi to school in cash and has no receipt. Would the perimeter cameras at school have recorded her return? Even so, she has amply demonstrated her ability to evade cameras when needed.

  In any case, that is far from her biggest problem. Mr. Pratt’s strange behaviour, her maths paper. Even Henry—and Magnus? Pieces begin to fall into place.

  Henry. “C U shortly”.

  There may not be much time.

  “Yes, Inspector,” she says. “I expect you will be wanting to speak with me in person. Might I request you come to the Priory School at your earliest convenience?”

  There is a moment of confusion on the other end of the line before Lestrange finds the mute button. She waits as the two police officers confer, then Lestrange’s voice returns: “We will be coming to your school presently. Please do not leave the grounds.”

  “I have no intention of doing so,” she says. “When you arrive, please come straight to my rooms. The porter can direct you.”

  There is a stifled laugh—Bradstreet—on the other end. “Any other requests?” the Inspector inquires.

  She ignores the sarcasm. “Just one: yesterday there was an incident at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. A bomb threat. Would it be possible to get the police report?”

  Silence again, but due to speechlessness rather than the phone’s mute function.

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Lestrange says at last. “’Bye, Miss Greentree.”

  “Good-bye Constable Lestrange, Inspector Bradstreet. I’ll see you soon.”

  She hangs up and tries Henry. His phone is switched off. Dropping her own phone in her bag, she takes out the burner and turns it on for the first time. Pressing the call button dials the one number programmed in. It rings once.

  The substitute teacher she knows as Miss Alderman answers. “Arcadia?”

  “She’s here.”

  “The school?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming. And remember: if you see her, run.”

  Returning to the Priory School means questions and possibly arrest, but the line goes dead.

  She should wait, but where is Henry? “C U shortly,” he wrote. And she needs to know.

  Continuing across the quadrangle, she enters the dormitory building and climbs to the girls’ floor. Is surprise a possible advantage? Unlikely, as every step until now seems to have been planned in advance. Still she has to know.

  A weapon, at least. She takes the Swiss Army knife from her bag and opens the longest blade. Better than nothing. She approaches her rooms, avoiding the creaking floorboard third from the left.

  One hand holding the knife, with the other she turns the key as quietly as possible. Friction on the hinge makes only a whispered squeak as she opens the door.

  At the desk, facing out the window, sits the figure from the zoo. The hoodie has been replaced by the uniform worn by Priory School A-level students. Long dark hair is pulled back in a regulation pony tail, as is her own. Something hangs around the figure’s neck. A water bottle?

  “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” the figure says.

  “These are my rooms,” she replies.

  “No.” The figure now turns in the chair. “They’re mine.”

  Her own grey eyes. She is looking at her own face; the same even features, pretty enough. It is uncanny: the familiar rendered unfamiliar.

  The other her regards the knife. “Oh, isn’t that sweet”—the same voice even, like listening to a recording of herself—“you brought a knife to a gunfight.”

  As the words are spoken there is a popping noise. The figure at the desk holds a long-barrelled pistol that has fired a projectile w
ith compressed air. A dart. Pain courses through her abdomen. Tranquilliser gun? From the zoo, perhaps.

  “I can’t believe I waited so long to get one of these,” the figure is saying, but there is an echo. “It’s awesome.” A look up at Arcadia, who is now feeling the drug—an opioid?—spreading through her body. Fog enshrouds her mind, lids fighting to shut.

  Should call out but tongue is numb. Limbs jelly. The other her kicks the door shut. With a finger, pushed onto her own bed. Neck can’t. Keep. Head. Up.

  “To sleep, perchance to dream.” Words sound strange. “Actually, you’re unlikely to dream. Goodnight, Arky.” Walls stretching. To sleep, perchance—

  Darkness.

  Bricks on her eyelids. She struggles to raise them, open them a crack. Throbbing in her head. Breathe deeply, oxygenate the brain. Think clearly. A trap. But tranquilliser is not death. It means the other her has a plan and that she plays a role in it. A role in a bad plan is better than no role at all.

  She forces her eyes open. Tied to her own desk chair; arms bound behind her; dart gone from her stomach. No clock in view but the light from the window is minimally changed. Out for maybe half an hour?

  “Wakey wakey,” the other her now sits on Arcadia’s bed. “The early bird might catch the worm, but the cat that stayed up all night—waiting, watching—the cat eats the bird. You’ve been out for forty-three minutes. I estimated your mass to get the right amount of etorphine to knock you out but not kill you. I even tested it out on a pig your size at a nearby farm. Porky was fine—though he’s probably bacon by now.”

  The voice is hers but not hers. Like a recording, but being played back too fast, the words come like a gushing stream.

  Her own mouth feels like it is full of cotton. She swallows and stretches her tongue. “Who are you?” she manages to ask.

  The other her raises an eyebrow. “Tradition dictates that the one who is tied up gives the answers, while the one who did the tying asks the questions. Do you expect me to talk? No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die! But since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you. My name is Arcadia Greentree. I was born on 4 January 2000. I am pursuing A-levels at the Priory School. Earlier this year my father was killed and my mother grievously wounded in an attack. With therapy and time, I am getting over it.”

  The fog in her mind is clearing. A twin, obviously. But how? “I’ve only just found out about her existence,” Miss Alderman said. A warning added that this twin could be erratic. Inaccurate. Some kind of plan is being executed. To take Arcadia’s place, evidently.

  “So who were you?”

  Both eyebrows now ascend. “Well, the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. Je ne regrette rien, I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair, and so on. I am not what happened to me: I am what I choose to become.”

  Unlikely that Jung had identity theft in mind when he wrote that. Keep engaging her in conversation. Humanising oneself greatly increases the chances of survival when taken hostage.

  “Why am I still alive?”

  “Very good question!” Twitches of nervous energy cause jerks in the movement of the twin’s head. “You’re trying to build rapport, engage your captor—humanise yourself so that I’m less likely to kill you. Though asking why I haven’t done so yet just reminds me that I can.

  “To answer your question, however: If you had died yesterday with the good Dr. Bell it would have been neater. Yet I do admit that I hoped you would survive. I was rootin’ for ya, Arky! This way you and I get to meet.”

  “How did you know I would go to Oxford?”

  “How did I know? Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—I practically had to steal a car and drive you there myself! The mud on the package, the diary, the ticket stub at the zoo—a trail of breadcrumbs to lead you to Oxford. I knew you were seeking answers, and once dear old Magnus was out of the picture the chances of you going yourself passed ninety percent.”

  “What have you done to Magnus?”

  “Oh nothing drastic. Your darling brother thought he was helping you. I dangled answers before him in exchange for information, which he gladly supplied. The poor boy still thinks he has me dancing to his tune, when it is he who is wrapped around my little finger.” Another twitch of the head and a self-conscious giggle: “Metaphor overload. It happens when my metabolic rate increases.” She takes a long swig from the bottle that hangs from her neck.

  Mind clearing, Arcadia sees the plan but also the holes. Mercy or madness? “So you send me to Oxford and plan my death, together with Dr. Bell. Surely if you just wanted him and me dead there would have been easier ways?”

  “Of course there were easier ways. But where’s the art in that? A bullet in the head or a knife in the dark is so pedestrian. To remove all trace of you in one fell swoop, erased from history even as I swoop in to take your future. It’s kind of beautiful, yes? And didn’t you like Fun with Dick and Jane and a Bomb?”

  Madness, then.

  “So you’re an artist?”

  “After a fashion. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I—I took out a machete and hacked my own path. That’s where I am now. And I fear that you’re in my way, Arky.”

  The constant movement of this other her is relentless. Fingers moving, head shifting, eyes darting around the room. Yet her attention remains focused, the stream of words from her mouth chosen carefully. Arcadia must choose carefully also.

  “But this path you’re creating,” Arcadia says. “It is to take my identity, assume my place in the world? Why not live your own life?”

  The question causes a moment of irritation. “‘Live my own life’. I don’t have a life. And while it is possible to create one out of whole cloth, I have determined that the far more efficient path to stability is through assuming yours.”

  Stability. Not happiness, not wealth. Who is this person? “What were you doing for the past sixteen years?”

  “Enough questions. My turn. Who saw you in Oxford and who knows you went to Oxford?”

  A question or a test? The other her has been surveilling her for some time. Not the occasion to lie. “Dr. Bell, a data steward at the JR, a fellow at Magdalen called Lucian Smythe.”

  “And your brother, Magnus,” the other her adds impatiently.

  “Yes, Magnus. Plus the various CCTV cameras around stations and so on. Other people will have seen me but probably won’t remember. At Magdalen College I was signed in as a guest.”

  The other her closes her eyes momentarily, doing some kind of calculation. “Containable,” she says.

  “May I ask you a question now?” Arcadia asks gently. “Did you kill Mr. Pratt?”

  The twin’s eyes light up. “There, you see? I knew you of all people had a chance of working it out, of seeing through the haze. Of admiring the artistry. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “For removing him from your world. I know you hated him.”

  She, Arcadia, considers this. “I disliked him—that’s not the same as wanting him dead.”

  “Semantics. Anyway, I did it for you. Well, partly for you, partly for the foster-daughter whom he was abusing. To be honest, though—can I be honest with you?—to be honest, it was mostly for me.”

  “Mr. Pratt knew too much? You had been threatening him to get access to a file on me.”

  “I was only threatening him with the truth. What a despicable piece of work is a man, as Shakespeare almost wrote. A survey of the Priory School’s staff revealed him as the most exposed. I wanted the file and assumed he could get it for me.” A frown forms on her twin’s face. “A mistake. I overestimated his competence. Remember, Arky, when you assume, you make an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’.”

  “Why do you need the file? What’s in it?”

  “Oh this and that. Developmental milestones, a full psych profile, emotional intelligence write up, and so on. Though really, Scout, you never really understand a person until you consider things from her point of view—until you cli
mb into her skin and walk around in it.”

  Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, though he was more concerned with justice than identity theft. This, too, she lets pass. “So that’s also why you’ve been watching me. The drone at the zoo, cameras at my home.”

  “Oh good show, Arky. You really are coming along.” The other her seems genuinely pleased.

  So much scarlet. So much blood. But she has to ask. “You had cameras there the night my parents were attacked? You were watching when Father was murdered?”

  “Would you have preferred it if I had put up a sign: ‘Big Sister Is Watching You’? I was gathering data, trying to find out what you knew. Whose side you were on.” A pause. “Milton was incompetent, a brute. He didn’t even understand the game in which he was involved. And he tried to improvise. He deserved what he got—for what he did to the people you call your parents.”

  “But you, you did nothing to stop him.”

  “Even if I had wanted to, it was all over in a few seconds.” Another pause; for the first time, the other her is struggling to find the right words. “Your adopted father died quickly, without pain. Your adopted mother was very brave. Tears water our growth, and so on. Yada yada yada.”

  A wellspring threatens to open in her defences; she presses it back down. There will be time enough for grief, time enough to mourn. Right now she must buy that time.

  “Who did this to you? Made you like this? Took away your life?”

  A derisory laugh. “There was nothing to take away,” the other her says. “Not all of us have doting parents to give us roots and wings, Arky.”

  Keep the conversation going. “What should I call you? It’s a little confusing if I call you Arcadia also.”

  Another laugh. Eyes continue to move around the room, taking everything in but unable to hold still for more than a second. “For most of my life I was just a number. It was hard to write poetry with such a moniker, however. It didn’t scan. So I gave myself the name Moira. If you’re talking to yourself it really helps to have a name. To prove to yourself that you’re not insane.”

  Best to defer judgment on her sanity. “OK, Moira. But someone gave you that number, put you in that situation. What was the ‘game’ in which Milton was involved?”