B&B

by Amy Cross

  I swing the door shut and then I start peeling out of my stiff, partially-frozen clothes. The process takes several minutes, but finally I'm left in nothing but my semi-dry underwear, and I carefully hang my clothes on the backs of several chairs. They should be at least partly dry in just a few minutes, and I can use that time to deal with my increasingly painful face.

  I grab the bandages and tear away a long strip, which I wrap haphazardly across my forehead. I hold it in place for a few seconds, before breathing a sigh of relief as I feel the pain fading away. I know this entire situation is ridiculous, but I can't leave while my face is so painful, so I grab more strips of bandage and start wrapping them all over the affected parts of my face, while muttering to myself about all the terrible things that have happened to me during this awful night.

  And then, of all the things that could happen next, somebody actually knocks on the front door.

  “Oh, go away,” I mutter, panicking in case the knock brings the landlady back down, or encourages Lloyd and the others to come up. The last thing I need is to be interrupted, so I focus on wrapping more and more bandages around my head.

  Suddenly I hear another knock.

  “Shut up!” I hiss. “Quiet! You'll wake them!”

  Figuring that I just have to tell the visitor to go away, I look around for my jacket before realizing that I must have left it in my room. The landlady's gown is hanging from a hook, however, so I grab that and slip into it before shuffling out into the hallway. I swear, even if it's the goddamn Snowman himself waiting outside, I'm just gonna tell him to get lost. This entire absurd situation has to end, and I want to get away without any more of the B&B's ridiculous inhabitants bothering me. I am so completely done with all the insanity tonight.

  Still muttering dark thoughts under my breath, I pull the door open and see a figure down in the snow, dragging a suitcase away.

  I freeze.

  The figure stops and turns to look at me.

  I stare at her, too shocked to say a word, convinced that there has to be some kind of terrible mistake here.

  It's me.

  The person who just knocked on the door, the person down there in the snow, the person who's now staring up at me as I stand here with a fully bandaged head...

  It's me.

  Five

  “Sorry,” she says, letting go of her suitcase's handle, “is this -”

  She stops suddenly as the sign creaks above us, blown by the increasingly rough and snowy gale.

  “Do you have any rooms available?” she continues. “I know it's late. I tried calling from the phone-box at the station, but no-one answered. All the other B&B numbers I tried were full, so I figured...”

  I wait, but her voice has trailed off.

  Staring at her, I try to figure out what's happening here. She looks like me, she's wearing my clothes, she even appears to have my suitcase, but clearly she can't actually be me. This has to be the latest sick, disturbed joke that the people of this B&B are playing on me, although I can't even begin to imagine how they could do such a thing. Either that, or I've finally lost my mind. The person I'm staring at simply can't be me.

  I must be having some kind of psychotic episode.

  Or a stroke.

  She's not real. This is all in my head, and the more I look at her, the more I feel as if I might faint.

  Feeling a sudden rush of panic in my chest, I swing the door shut with enough force to leave it rattling in the frame. I take a deep breath, silently counting to three, and then I pull it open again.

  She's still there.

  I stare at her, waiting to figure out what's going on.

  She stares back at me, as if she expects me to say something.

  “I don't want to cause any trouble,” she says finally, looking over at the window before turning back to me. “I really just wanted to see if you had any rooms available for the night. I'm just kinda passing through, that's all. But if you don't have any vacancies, then...”

  Is that what I said earlier? Like, is that it, word for word? I'm not certain, even though it was only a few hours ago, but it definitely sounds like she's saying what I said. Snow is still falling, perhaps thicker and faster than ever, but the girl with my face is still just staring at me as if she thinks I'll suddenly say something that explains the entire mess.

  “Okay, then,” she says with a faint, nervous smile. “Sorry to disturb you. I'll try somewhere else.”

  I watch as she turns and starts dragging her suitcase away. She looks pathetic, struggling through the snow like that. In fact, she looks like she might collapse at any moment. I definitely didn't look that pathetic earlier.

  “Wait!” I stammer, feeling as if I desperately need her to stay until I figure this out. At the same time, I realize my throat is extremely dry, which I guess was caused by the plant fronds when they brushed against my lips. My voice sounds harsh and coarse, barely recognizable.

  She stops and looks at me.

  “Come in,” I continue, not really knowing what else to do. It's cold out here, and the landlady's gown is way too thin to keep me warm, so I gesture for the girl to come inside and then I step back into the darkness and relative warmth of the hallway.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Why am I inviting her in?

  This is madness. I'm encouraging madness. Then again, I need to face whatever's going on here.

  I take a couple more steps back, and after a moment I hear the girl trampling through the snow. She starts hauling her suitcase up the steps, and it's clear that she's struggling slightly, but finally she drags it all the way to the top and then she stops for a few seconds, framed in the doorway.

  Worried that she might get too close, I turn and shuffle back into the office, where my clothes are still drying on the chairs near the electric heater. Stepping over, I reach out and check my shirt, although I find that it's still pretty wet, which means I guess I should keep the gown on for a while. I don't know whether the landlady is going to come through at any moment, but at least this time I'll know where to start when it comes to all my questions. And I sure have a lot of questions of questions for that woman.

  Hurrying over to the desk, I pull the first drawer open and take a look inside. A moment later, however, I hear a shuffling sound nearby, and I turn to see that the girl is watching me from the corridor.

  “Who are you?” I whisper quietly, almost too shocked to actually get any words out at all.

  Figuring that I can go through the desk later, I make my way cautiously back toward the door. This girl certainly looks a lot like me, but my eyesight has never been the best in the world and I figure that maybe the similarity isn't quite as strong as I'd first thought. As soon as I get closer, however, I realize that she seems to be an exact copy of me, down to every last detail, which is both creepy and fascinating at the same time. Even her clothes look the same as the clothes that I have hanging over the chairs right now.

  I tilt my head slightly.

  She's my exact double.

  “So how much is it?” she asks, looking at the key on the hook. “A room, I mean. I don't want to put you out, but I'm kinda in a bind. I didn't expect to be coming here today, and then I didn't have time to call ahead, and I don't have a phone with me. It's kind of a funny story how I ended up here, I actually -”

  She stops suddenly, and after a moment she puts her right hand in her pocket. She's fumbling with something in there, and I quickly remember how I counted out some notes earlier when I was in her position. The only possible explanation is that she must have watched video footage of my arrival earlier tonight, and now she's doing her very best to copy my every move. I can't even begin to imagine why anyone would want to go to so much trouble just to trick me, but there are no other possible explanations. I'm impressed by her attention to detail.

  Finally she slips some notes from her pocket.

  “I'll be paying cash,” she explains. “You are the owner, right? I just want a room, somewhe
re to sleep. I'm not fussy, but...”

  Again, her voice trails off.

  I should make her leave. Or rather, I should let her stay and I should leave. Whatever's going on here, I should just get as far away as possible from this B&B. At the same time, however, I want to know what she really is, and where she came from, and why she's tormenting me. And I need to know if this is really happening, or if it's all in my head.

  “Okay, then,” she says suddenly, “maybe I really should get going. I'm sure I can find another B&B, and if not I can always try to get the last train to London, or I can sleep at the station and leave in the morning. I'll just be on my way and leave you in peace.”

  Turning, she makes her way back toward the door.

  “No!” I call out. “Wait!”

  She glances back at me.

  For a moment, I'm not entirely sure what to do, but suddenly I spot the wooden counter propped up next to the door and I swing it down into place. There are some forms nearby, so I take one and start writing a few details, while mumbling my name to myself. After a moment, however, I realize that it's absurd to put all this down on the form, so I push the piece of paper aside.

  My heart is pounding.

  What if this is a dream?

  Or what if I'm completely insane?

  Yeah, that could be it. Maybe I cracked. Maybe after everything I've been through over the past few days, my brain just popped and send me completely around the bend. It's not like I haven't been worrying about something like that happening. In fact, I've spent a lot of time reading up on mental illness and schizophrenia, hoping that I'll be able to spot the warning signs, but I guess it's possible that the whole thing simply snuck up on me. I'm probably standing here completely alone right now, rambling on to myself, imagining this copy of me and slipping deeper and deeper into some form of psychosis.

  Either that, or there really is a copy of me here at the B&B. But why would that happen? Who'd be behind it all? Still, I'm starting to think that maybe she's not an exact copy. In fact, the more I watch her, the more I realize that she seems very weak, almost timid, like a scared little country mouse. I mean, I can be timid sometimes, but not like this.

  She's actually kinda annoying.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, as if to underline that point. “Is this a bad time? I just -”

  “Room four,” I reply, to interrupt her and cut off her slightly whiny voice. My voice is never, ever that whiny and nasal. In fact, her voice is all the proof I need that she's a fake. There's no way I sound like her, not in real life. The cracks in her mimicry are starting to show.

  I take the key to room four from the hook. It's the only one that's free, so I guess I have to give it to her, at least while I figure this mess out. “I suppose. Yeah. I guess you should take room four. It's the only one that's... It's the only one that's free.”

  “And how much is that?”

  Is this another part of the trap?

  “What?” I stammer.

  “How much is a room for the night?”

  “Oh.” She's a very good actress. Whoever she is and whatever she's doing, and whyever she's doing it, she's doing a great job of imitating me. She just needs to drop the whiny tone a few notches and try not to look so pathetic. If it wasn't for the nasal voice, I might actually be convinced. “The usual,” I continue, trying to remember from earlier. “What was it? Forty-five? Sure. Forty-five pounds.”

  “That seems kinda cheap.”

  I shrug, which causes the bandages to rustle.

  “Okay.” She counts some notes from her handful and sets them on the counter. She seems so hesitant and nervous, I want to slap her. This is another crack in her facade, the unrealistic part of her mimicry. She's like a meek, pathetic version of me. “And that includes breakfast?” she asks after a moment.

  “I suppose it does, yeah,” I tell her. “Sure.”

  “My name's Bobbie,” she replies. “Roberta, actually, but people call me Bobbie. Don't you need to take my details?”

  “Details?”

  “So I can stay the night?”

  I swallow hard. She's really taking this thing all the way, although I think I can see a hint of fear in her eyes, like maybe she's worried I'll call her out. I guess I should still play along until I've got the situation figured out.

  “Roberta Simmons,” she adds, taking a provisional license from her wallet.

  Her hand is trembling slightly. She's trying to hide it, but she can't. I'm onto her.

  I immediately grab the license and tilt it toward the light. I've got to admit, the facsimile is impressive. My license is somewhere in one of my pockets, in the clothes that are drying on the chair, but I have no doubt that this copy is very, very close to the real thing. When I tilt it a little further, I see that it even has the hologram printing, which means it's not just a cheap knock-off. Whoever this girl is, she clearly has access to people who know what they're doing, and I can't help eyeing her suspiciously between the slits in my bandages.

  This is a test.

  She's staring at me gormlessly, looking totally lost, but she's definitely testing me. Waiting for my reaction. The last thing I want to do is panic, so I guess I just have to play things cool.

  And I can be cool.

  “Okay,” I say, forcing a relaxed smile that she probably can't see because of the bandages. I set the license down. “Fine. Okay. I get it.”

  “Sorry?”

  I watch as she takes the license.

  “Okay,” I continue, making sure to put her at ease and demonstrate that I'm not freaked out. “Sure.”

  She furrows her brow. She's good at this.

  “Sure what?” she asks.

  “Sure... Sure you can have the room. Why not, right?”

  “Thank you,” she says meekly. Again, just seems very timid and scared, and I'm starting to find her quite irritating.

  Figuring I need to just play along, I raise the counter and head through to the hallway. My ankle is still hurting from the slip down the steps, but I try to hide that as much as possible. The last thing I want is to show weakness.

  “Like I said,” she continues, “it's just for one night. To be honest, my plans are pretty fluid and it was kinda last-minute for me to come to Canterbury at all. I mean, this morning I didn't even...”

  Her voice trails off.

  She looks tired. Exhausted, even.

  “I'll show you to your room,” I tell her, turning and heading toward the stairs. My ankle sends a sharp flicker of pain up through my leg, causing me to almost stumble, but I manage to hold myself together and keep going. I doubt she noticed a thing.

  “Thank you,” she mutters.

  I don't even bother offering to help with her suitcase. I carried the damn thing up myself earlier, so she can do the same. Already, I can hear her puffing and panting a little, and I can't deny that I like the thought of her struggling. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that from the outside at least the suitcase looks to be a perfect facsimile of my own. There's no way anyone else in the world knows what I've been lugging about, but it's perfectly possible that – in order to make this little charade as realistic as possible – she's loaded her case down so that it's heavy as hell. In which case, I hope she enjoys the aching arms.

  “Nice plant,” she gasps finally.

  Stopping, I turn and see that she's taking a rest. Looking down at the plant, I feel a flicker of itchiness running up my face, as if to remind me of the irritation that forced me to use these infernal bandages in the first place.

  “Yeah, you'd think so,” I grumble under my breath, kicking the pot gently with my bare foot and making a mental note to toss the plant out into the snow before I leave this miserable place. I'm tempted to throw it out right now, but I quickly remind myself that I need to act normal, so I turn and start limping to the top of the stairs.

  Behind me, the girl is bumping her suitcase slowly and laboriously up each step. I swear to God, it's hard to believe how much she's puffin
g and panting.

  “You have a really nice place here,” she gasps.

  Whatever.

  Figuring that I need to get her into room four, I unlock the door and push it open. Having only grabbed my suitcase five or ten minutes ago, I step inside and find that I left the place looking pretty much pristine. After all, I never got a chance to use the bed, or really to unpack, so the fusty smell is still very much present. In fact, as the girl hauls her suitcase across the threshold and over to the bed, I can't help leaning back against the wall and watching her with a hint of pity. She might look and sound exactly like me, but she's clearly weaker and more annoying.

  I need to figure her out.

  “Thank you so much for letting me stay,” she says, heading over to the window once she's dropped her suitcase. She takes a moment to look out, and after a few seconds I realize she's looking down at the alley.

  “Watch out for that place,” I mumble.

  She turns to me. “I'm sorry, what was -”

  “Nothing,” I add, figuring that the last thing I need is a long, complex conversation. “Ignore me. I didn't say anything.”

  “Okay, but -”

  “Let's see how far you're willing to push this,” I mutter, tossing the key onto the bed and then heading to the door.

  “What time is breakfast?” she asks.

  “Seven. Eight. Ten. Something like that.”

  My ankle is hurting more than ever as I make my way onto the landing. I feel I should say something, maybe just a little hint to let her know that I'm onto whatever game she's playing, but I'm honestly not sure where to begin. When I get to the top of the stairs, I realize I can hear her bumping around in her room, and I turn to look at the open door. I've just about had enough of this game and I'm tempted to march right in there and demand to know what she's up to, but somehow I hold back. I need to play this cool.

  After a moment, the girl appears in the doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I think I just need to sleep,” she tells me, clearly poised to close the door. “I'm going to go to bed.”