The Duals (An Urban Fantasy Thriller)

by Karen Hayes

  Chris

  As I drive the Chevrolet through the scantily lit streets, I keep thinking about the list I'd made earlier in the café.

  What's the connection between this Sarah person, the night club and the fact that I had her name in my satnav? Could it be the same girl whose face I remembered when I'd just come round?

  Sarah... Sarah... I roll the name on my tongue, hoping to remember the feeling it's supposed to give me. The way it sounds... the person it's supposed to represent... Sarah...

  I nearly jump, glimpsing a girl in the passenger seat. She's slim with dark hair in a ponytail. She's just sitting there staring at the road.

  Slowly she turns her head, about to say something...

  Then she disappears.

  Shit! Same hallucination, only more tangible this time. Her voice rings in my ears. I can't make out the words though.

  Is this how one goes mad? Grinding my teeth, I white-knuckle the steering wheel and stare in front of me, following the satnav's instructions.

  When I turn off into a side road, the vision comes back. The girl's voice rings in my ears, clearer this time.

  Chris, watch out. They know where we are.

  Then she disappears, voice and all.

  Now I know. She's been in my car before. Quite a few times, too. What prompted this memory? Why now?

  My mouth is dry; my heart is beating fast and hard. What's going on? It's as if I'm approaching something... a center... it's my body reacting to some kind of source.

  The vision doesn't come back. Finally I arrive at the address. I pull in and leave the engine running. This feels almost like déjà vu: for the second time today I'm sitting in the car watching a house and a car parked up opposite.

  Not another ambush, surely!

  Then again, it's not exactly the same. For one, this doesn't resemble a posh security-guarded neighborhood in the slightest. Secondly, the street is lined with parked cars and I can't really tell whether there's anyone in any of them. Thirdly, it's nighttime. And fourthly and more importantly, this modest red brick has nothing in common with father's mansion.

  Now why would I have rented something like this? And what are the chances of another ambush waiting for me here?

  I pull out the keys and squeeze the bigger one in my hand. The feel of the metal grooves is familiar. The shape of the key awakes more memories...

  I can see the inside of my flat. That's why I rented here. These shabby streets are the best place to hide something you don't want anyone to find.

  I can't see my apartment's windows: they face the house next door. The small key on the ring opens the stash. There's something very important inside waiting for me.

  Using the front door is probably not such a good idea. I have to find another way.

  I pull off, park up in a side street, get out of the car and walk back. The place is quiet; the whole area is fast asleep apart from an occasional glowing window. The breeze has dispersed the clouds; a lilac-tinted crescent moon casts an eerie light onto the surroundings.

  I look up at the windows. My gaze is instinctively drawn to one on the third floor. This is my apartment.

  My heart is beating fast and hard, as if in response to something yet unknown. I keep clenching and unclenching my fists.

  The room is dark. The window is ajar. I must have forgotten to close it properly when I left. There's no way I can climb up there. Having said that...

  I turn to check out the house next door. It's quite close actually, its side wall right opposite my windows. A steel fire escape zigzags the whole height of it.

  I give the front yard another check and, having made sure no one's watching, walk over to the other house and look up, eyeballing the distance. The fire escape is over here. The window, over there. I seem to be quite fit, as earlier events have proved.

  A water pipe runs the whole length of the third floor just under the windows. It's wide enough to get a foothold; maybe even walk. The house next door has five stories. Perfect. Just what I need for my plan to work.

  So what would be more dangerous: to enter my house via the front door and risk walking right into an ambush - or to take the jump?

  A jump is probably safer, I think. An ambush can be anywhere: in any of the cars, on the stairs, in my apartment even. The latter scenario is definitely bad news. But if they're waiting for me outside, the risk just isn't worth it. Last time I was lucky enough to escape them thanks to that van driver but I can't count on convenient coincidences like those.

  Having said that, the accident didn't ring true at the time. It just didn't feel right. Still, had it not been for him, they'd have made quick work of me. And my house here is lined with parked cars, at least ten of them: enough to post two or even three ambushes if necessary.

  That's sorted, then. The front door route isn't a healthy idea. Thus encouraged, I grab at the rusty rail and pull myself up onto the shaky steel structure.

  The fire escape is old and creaky. I steal past the locked fire exit door and begin climbing the steps.

  My heart beats faster, harder. I can't stand still, shaking with a surge of adrenaline. What's wrong with me? I feel like I'm about to explode. Or as if I've downed a few uppers, if you'll excuse the pun.

  Finally I get to the fourth floor, lean over the railing and peer down. This is quite a leap. Still, I should be able to do it. I just know it. Provided I don't hesitate long enough to reconsider.

  I climb onto the railing and kick hard, sending my body into the air.

  Oh wow. No idea who I used to be but this isn't something an average person would be able to do. A movie stuntman or a circus artist - yes, maybe. My whole body is bursting with a strange, weird force.

  I land on the pipe about halfway between my window and the one next to it. My foot slips; as I fall, I manage to slide my hand between the pipe and the wall. My shoulder explodes in agony; my teeth clatter with the impact as my feet hit the brick wall below.

  I'm hanging over the dark yard, listening to the nightly silence. Finally I manage to hug the pipe with my other hand. My apartment seems to be quiet. I scramble back onto the pipe and move sideways toward the window, trying to calm my breathing down. I feel like a piece of steel drawn by a powerful magnet. The window is closer...

  Flashes of light pulsate in my brain, illuminating the night. My heart beats in my ears. The pipe clips creak in their concrete mountings.

  I reach the window and look in. The room is dark; I can see part of the bed and the corner of a dresser. I take another step and slide under the half-open window, drawn by the darkness inside. I lean a knee on the window sill and lower my body, about to climb down.

  I notice the movement in the dark - but before I can react, a powerful blow to my head sends me sprawling to the floor, into the silent expanse of my newly found home.

  Chapter Five

  Sarah

  ONCE SAFELY inside the apartment, I throw my backpack on a leather couch by the door and check the place out.

  There's only one bedroom. The lounge is modest, almost Spartan: a TV, a laptop on a desk and some shelf units.

  I open the laptop. A password box pops up. Thanks, but no thanks. I close it again and walk back out into the hallway.

  It's also bare. Several boxes are stacked up next to two bar stools. It looks as if this Chris has only just moved in here.

  Gingerly I open one of the boxes. What a mess. Socks, books on economics and sociology, sports trophies... A Princeton leaflet for third-year students... I acutely sense my own inferiority. What would a girl like me have to offer to Chris Brana? He's way out of my league.

  There're more boxes in the bedroom. The bed covers are dusty, the air is stale.

  I feel funny... everything is just so familiar. The bed, the car magazines on the dresser, the old aircon mounted on the window...

  I perch myself on the bed and run my hand over the cover. Even the touch of the slippery fabric feels familiar.

  I glimpse a movement in the hallway. />
  With a gasp, I jump up as if electrocuted. I can see Chris walking from the shower barefoot, a towel wrapped around his hips. He stops in the doorway, leans one shoulder against the door and ruffles his wet hair. Water drips onto his flat bronze stomach, trickling down his ripped body. Mesmerized, I follow their path. I have to face it: Chris is utterly awesome.

  "It's gonna be all right," he says, smiling. "Trust me."

  His voice is low and melodious. The sound of it sends shivers down my spine. He gives me a long look from under his dark eyelashes, then disappears. Just like that.

  I'm just seeing things, I tell myself. He's only a hallucination.

  The thought fails to cheer me up. I'd rather hallucinate about a hot guy in a towel than be attacked by the real-life goons who'd jumped us near the night club.

  In any case, what's gonna be all right? What did he mean? Were we into something together? Pointless trying to second-guess it. This isn't the right way to find out the truth.

  I walk over to the dresser and check the drawers. The lower ones are empty. The top drawer is piled high with a mixture of books, magazines and underwear.

  A slip of paper peeks out of a tangled heap of socks. I pull at it. It's a snapshot of me and Chris standing next to a tree in blossom. His arm is draped around my shoulders; I squint at the sun; both of us look utterly pleased with ourselves.

  A worn Lincoln Center ticket is paperclipped to the picture.

  Juilliard School! He kept the ticket to my show! At least I hope that's it is. Wonder if that's where we first met?

  I stroke the ticket, trying to remember it as part of a life which is no longer mine. So this is the end of my dancing career, then.

  Tears sting my eyes as I shove the picture and the ticket back into the drawer.

  The apartment has only two windows. Both face the side wall of the house next door, but only the one in the lounge seems to open. It offers a view to kill for: a brick wall adorned with a fire escape and a fire exit door opposite, its window completely gray with dust.

  I raise the window and lean out. I can't see the ambush from here: the attackers' car is parked on the other side of the building. No fire escape here... unfortunately. There's a fat pipe running along the wall just under the window which disappears round the corner. I'd have to be totally desperate to try this as an escape route.

  The fire escape of the house opposite is about fifteen feet away. Not so terribly far, if you think about it. I might actually make it. But if I don't... better not to even think about it. Another potential escape route for the truly desperate.

  I walk away from the window, leaving it slightly open. Just in case. You never know when you might need to do some aerobatics.

  I head for the bathroom. It's as Spartan as the rest of the place: white tiles, a toilet, a sink and a bathtub.

  I climb into the tub, shoes and all, and reach for the window above. The handle is stuck solid. No chance of it ever opening.

  The sink and the small shelf above it are piled with miscellaneous toiletries: empty toothpaste tubes, shaving cream, a razor... and an expensive aftershave. I remove the cap. A sharp, heavy scent assaults my nose.

  Cringing, I hurry to replace the cap. "What's that for granddaddy's cologne?"

  A soft male laughter echoes through my mind. I swing round. "Chris?"

  No one's behind me. The gloomy lounge is empty. My heart seems to pound loud and strong in the dead silence. It's about time I get used to these mind games.

  I walk out of the bathroom. The glowing digits of the alarm clock show 1 a.m.

  I keep circling the rooms with an occasional detour into the kitchen. I don't turn the light on. I'm wide awake and buzzing.

  I rummage through the kitchen cabinets, locate a box of breakfast cereals and munch on them, shamelessly dropping crumbs all over the floor. I haven't eaten anything ever since my escape from the hospital. I just hope I won't awake the neighbors with all the crunching.

  My fingertips start prickling again. The air seems to quiver as if before an electric storm. This is very similar to how I felt before the nurse's arrival in my hospital room, only now the feeling is much, much stronger.

  Waves of anxiety surge over me; my palms are sweaty. I shake so much that I have to stop chewing.

  Then I hear a soft creaking of metal behind the lounge window.

  Which is actually open. In my eternal wisdom, I forgot to lock it. Stupid cow. What a gigantic blunder on my part.

  I linger in the doorway not really knowing what to do. If I leave the apartment, I'll walk right into the ambush. If I stay, I'll have to face the intruder whoever he or she is.

  This is a trap.

  I pause, pondering over it, then reach into one of the boxes and rummage through the trophies for something suitably heavy.

  A bronze pitcher figure seems good enough. I grab it and tiptoe to the window. There, I shrink against the wall so that whoever is trying to break in can't notice me straight away.

  The window frame begins to rise until it clicks. A long shadow falls onto the window sill. I raise the trophy over my head.

  The man sets his knee onto the window sill, leaning forward. His head is right in front of me.

  I bring the trophy down with a vengeance. With a soft cry, the intruder drops face down onto the floor and lies there motionless with his arms thrown wide while his feet are still resting on the window sill.

  Clutching the trophy, I stand over him. I need to get a grip. I lay my makeshift weapon down and lean toward him, peering hard.

  His clothes are expensive, way too good for a burglar. I grab him under the arms and try to drag him away from the window. His feet thud to the floor.

  He's so heavy! Tall, too. Could he be one of my attackers?

  I press my fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse - but immediately jerk my hand away. The touch has burned my fingers; they're itching as if I've stuck them into an electric point.

  I study my fingers, then his neck. What the hell? Gingerly I touch his skin again. This time it's not as bad but I can still sense a weak prickly feeling, a bit like static electricity.

  I seem to locate a weak pulse. Good. I haven't killed him.

  I heave him over to his side - it feels like moving a piano - then promptly forget whatever I was about to do next.

  The street light falls onto his chiseled features. I think I know the guy. Or at least I know his name. It looks like I have very nearly killed the very person I was looking for.

  Chris.

  Chris

  The back of my head feels cold. It hurts like hell. I stir, feeling a pair of hands jerk away from my head. Something heavy rustles off my hair to the floor: an ice bag that someone must have been pressing to my head.

  I'm lying on my side on the floor. I know this place. It's my apartment. That's right. I've just broken into it via the window.

  The memory nudges me into action. I sit up, then very nearly fall over, overcome by vertigo. The room swims before my eyes. Grabbing at my head, I look around me.

  The room is lighter now. A lamp glows in the corner, covered with a T-shirt to dim the light.

  "Sarah?" I croak, leaning my shoulders against the wall and scrambling to my feet.

  The girl in front of me shrinks back, then reconsiders and steps forward with a fearless shake of her head. She crosses her arms. "Are you Chris?"

  She's petite and skinny with mousy hair and pale eyebrows. A black hooded jacket, blue jeans and sneakers. Can't be more than nineteen. Nice face even though at the moment she's doing her Xena the Warrior impression, sticking her chin out which actually looks quite funny.

  "I am indeed," I look behind me, grab a chair and sit down, gingerly touching my head. There's a big bump there but no blood.

  "I'm sorry," she says. "I thought you were one of them."

  "One of whom? This actually is my house."

  "I know. I saw the picture," she trails away, embarrassed, working hard on her chewing gum. "I'm sorry I br
oke in like this. I didn't mean it. When I entered the house I couldn't go back because they had arrived. So I just..."

  She stops, apparently realizing she's rambling. She shoves her hands in the pockets and clears her throat. "What I want to say is your place is under surveillance."

  "Who are they? Do they have silenced guns?" I touch my head again. The pain has subsided. I reach for the keys in my pocket. "What do you know about them?"

  "I know nothing about guns. One of them is a woman - more like a gorilla. She visited me in the hospital pretending she was a nurse. The other one is a guy. A big bastard too," she falls silent, biting her lip. "A bit like you. You're also big. Just my luck, I suppose."

  Okay. Let's consider it a compliment. "How long have you been here?"

  "I've only just got here. I had a look around. There're things I need to remember. I saw a picture of us together."

  "Sure," I reply non-committally.

  She averts her gaze. I fumble with the key, trying to remember where the hell I might have set up that wretched stash.

  As I look over the room, I notice Sarah' sideways glances. I've no idea how to behave around her. She seems to have the same problem.

  What a predicament! I don't think anyone can relate to something like this. We used to be friends - apparently, very close friends - but neither of us can remember any of it. So what are we supposed to do? What can we say to each other?

  I seem to start remembering the room. Holding my outstretched hand with the key in front of me, I step toward the lamp covered with a T-shirt.

  "What's up?" she asks.

  "I'm just trying to remember something."

  She heaves a sigh. "Welcome to the club."

  "No! You don't mean it! Have you got memory loss too?"

  She nods. "I woke up this morning and where do you think I was? In a goddamn mental clinic. Did you see that troll waiting for me downstairs? She came to the clinic pretending to be a nurse and tried to kill me. Or maybe not," she rolls her eyes with a vague wave of her hand. "Probably not. Maybe she just wanted to sedate me. Something like that."