Copycat

by Alex Lake

  ‘Your handwriting.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  ‘Then you also know how this looks.’

  Sarah gave a wry smile; she knew what was coming, but he might as well say it.

  ‘How does it look?’

  ‘It looks like you sent it.’

  ‘I didn’t. And when would I have done? We were together all day.’

  He shrugged. ‘Trip to the bathroom? It wouldn’t have taken long to write it, and then you could have slipped it in a postbox. Christ, we almost mislaid our daughter. A surreptitious posting of a postcard is hardly beyond the realms of the imagination.’

  ‘I’m telling you I didn’t.’

  ‘Then let me ask you a question. I’ll give you some facts, and then two explanations. You tell me which of them is more likely. OK?’

  She nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘The facts: there is a person who is able to impersonate your handwriting, has access to your Amazon account, has been in our house and has been near our kids and friends for months. This person has been taking photos of you and your kids in places you have been. They send you books about depression and letters – purporting to be from you – telling you to seek help. They know your secrets, about your affair. And now, they are in London at the same time as you and in the same park. And they have written a postcard to your family which suggests you have a split personality of some type. Those are the facts, right?’

  ‘More or less. And you don’t have to be so lawyerly.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Ben said. ‘But bear with me, if you would. So, on to the explanations. One, there’s someone with a grudge against you who somehow is able to do all these things. They’ve stalked you online and in person for months, but they’ve never actually approached you in any way. And now, they’ve come to London.’

  He sipped his coffee.

  ‘Explanation two: it’s you who’s doing this. You’re suffering from a psychiatric illness in which you do things you don’t recall. Almost like there are two separate people. As a doctor, the other you knows you need help, so she’s trying to find a way to communicate with you. Letters, books, whatever. And you said you’ve been through this before. The suicidal thoughts, when you were having the panic attacks.’

  ‘Ben,’ Sarah said. ‘I can’t believe you’re using that against me!’

  ‘I’m not using anything against anyone, Sarah. I’m merely laying out the facts. Considering the alternatives. And, if you were me, which would you think is more likely?’

  ‘The second,’ Sarah said. She was suddenly deeply sad. There was a rift between them, and she didn’t know how to cross it, let alone close it. ‘I would think the second is more likely.’

  ‘Exactly!’ he said. ‘Think about it: a couple of days after talking to Jean and getting upset again, this happens. You see what I’m saying?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then you see it explains everything, Sarah.’

  ‘I do see,’ she replied. She realized she had started crying and wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I agree with everything you said, Ben. Everything except for one thing. I know it wasn’t me.’

  His face fell. She felt sorry for him. He had an explanation, had found the cause of the problem; all that was left was to fix it. But she was telling him no, his explanation was not right, the cause he had identified was the wrong one, there was no fixing this problem, not yet. This problem was not going away. It was not going to be fixed.

  ‘How?’ he said. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I can’t explain,’ she said, quietly. ‘But I do.’

  She reached out and put her hands over his. She didn’t have the answer, not yet, but now Diana was no longer a suspect she knew what she had to do.

  She had to face this, once and for all.

  ‘Ben,’ she said. ‘It’s time to go home.’

  9

  Barrow was – well, Barrow was Barrow. Unchanged, but hot. Late summer hot. Not the clean heat of July but the muggy, unyielding heat of the dog days of summer.

  It’s been like this for a few days, Jean said, when she came over to welcome them home with fresh milk and a loaf of bread, and it looks like it’ll last a few days more.

  They had stayed to the end of the week; Sarah had suggested they leave immediately, but Ben had been reluctant.

  So now you want to go back to Barrow, he said. Not long ago you wanted to move to England for good.

  I know, but things changed. The postcard came.

  Well, he said. It’s probably a good thing. At least you’re accepting you’ll have to face this.

  She knew what he meant: he thought she was conceding her guilt, that she couldn’t run away because wherever she went she brought it with her. She knew he was wrong, but she was prepared – for now – not to argue. There wasn’t much she could say in any case: the evidence suggested she was, at the very least, a strong candidate, so she couldn’t blame Ben for reaching that conclusion. She would have to prove otherwise, which would entail getting to the truth.

  And so now they were back. Home. With friends, and family, and the old familiar places and faces.

  And another thing. An unknown thing, lurking, hidden in the shadows.

  A thing only Sarah believed was there.

  A thing Sarah would have to face on her own.

  They all woke early. Kim was first, at 3 a.m. Wide awake and ready to party. The thunder of her footsteps – for a toddler she had an incredibly loud footfall – woke Faye, and the sound of their playing woke Miles.

  At four, Ben gave up and got out of bed.

  ‘I’ll make some breakfast,’ he said. ‘Then head into the office. I might as well get started early. It’ll stop me having to stay too late, catching up on everything.’

  Sarah lay in bed, listening to the sounds of her family starting the day: the coffee machine gurgling, pots and pans clanking, the TV playing some kids’ show. It was dark out; dawn was an hour away, at least, but she was fully alert. It was 9 a.m. in England, and, although they had crossed the Atlantic, their body clocks were still in London, ticking along to the rhythm of life in Diana and Roger’s house.

  Diana, who could be dead shortly. She wondered how Ben would take it; he was not close to his parents, but you never knew how losing them would affect you. Would he feel guilty about moving away? Regret that he had not seen much of them in the last few years? Sadness it had taken his mother’s death to make him realize he could – should – have done more?

  It was hard to say. But they were going to find out soon enough.

  ‘So,’ Jean said. ‘You came home after all?’

  Sarah reached into the brown paper bag and took out two bagels. She handed one to Jean; she’d picked them up earlier, desperate to get out of the house with the kids.

  ‘A postcard came,’ she said. ‘Same as the other stuff.’ She shook her head. ‘Addressed to Ben and the kids, my handwriting, from the place we’d been the day before.’

  Jean made a pained face. ‘That’s—’ she looked around to make sure no kids were in earshot – ‘that’s fucking freaky. I mean, someone was there, Sarah. In London.’

  ‘I know. I thought we’d got away from it, but’ – she shrugged – ‘we hadn’t. So we came back.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I have a few ideas.’

  ‘Like what?’ Jean said. ‘Call the cops?’

  ‘Again? They’ll ask me what crime has been committed. Letters, postcards? And what would they do?’ She shook her head and leaned forward. She lowered her voice. ‘No, I have to deal with this myself. And the first step is proving to Ben it wasn’t me who sent this stuff.’

  ‘But how can you? There’s nothing to prove it wasn’t you.’ She held up her hands. ‘I believe you, by the way.’

  Sarah wasn’t convinced she did, but she let it pass.

  ‘There is,’ Sarah said. ‘I know it wasn’t me, so the handwriting isn’t mine. Someone else wrote it. So even if an untrained eye
can’t see it, there will be differences, however slight.’

  ‘And?’ Jean said.

  ‘Think about it. If this was a court case, they would bring in a handwriting expert who would testify whether the documents were written by the same person. So I’ll find a handwriting expert. And when they tell me I didn’t write this stuff, I’ll have my proof.’

  Jean nodded her head slowly. ‘Great idea,’ she said. ‘That is a great idea.’

  10

  Sarah was not exactly sure what to expect a handwriting expert to look like. In the back of her mind she had an idea they were a bit like fortune tellers or tarot card readers. She knew graphology was more scientific than telling fortunes, nevertheless she couldn’t shake the impression. She had scheduled an appointment with one based in Portland – Donna Martin, Graphology Expert, Used by Law Enforcement Agencies and Attorneys – who had agreed to come to Barrow to meet her.

  Can you tell a forgery from the real thing? Sarah had asked on the phone. Accurately?

  Dr Havenant, Donna Martin replied, what to you might look like identical scripts bear, to me, almost no relation to each other. It’s like a mother with identical twins. The rest of the world cannot tell them apart, but to her they are instantly recognizable.

  Sarah didn’t mention that there were plenty of examples of parents having to make sure they could tell twins apart by putting a bracelet on one and not the other; she got Ms Martin’s point. She only hoped it was accurate.

  At two minutes to two there was a knock on the door. Graphology experts, it turned out, drove Ford Mustangs and wore red lipstick, or, at least, this one did.

  ‘Donna Martin,’ she said, and held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Sarah Havenant. Come in.’

  Miles came out of the living room. He looked out of the window. ‘Is that your car?’ he said.

  Donna Martin nodded. ‘Ford Mustang GT,’ she said. ‘Five-liter V8 engine delivering a few hundred of the finest Detroit ponies.’

  ‘Cool,’ Miles said. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Work hard in school,’ Donna said, ‘and you can get one too.’

  Miles nodded. ‘I think I will,’ he said.

  Sarah smiled. She hadn’t tried the carrot of a V8 Mustang to motivate him to work hard, but it seemed it was an effective way to do it; he looked very serious, although whether his new commitment would last remained to be seen.

  ‘Come through to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you the handwriting.’

  She had laid out the book and postcard on the table, along with three other samples of her actual handwriting.

  Donna Martin looked at them in turn.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘One thing’s for certain. You’re a doctor. I don’t know how you lot get through all those years of education without being able to write better than a fifth-grader.’

  ‘We do it deliberately,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s the final test at med school: you have to develop unintelligible handwriting.’

  ‘That explains it,’ Donna said. She stared at the samples, looking at them one by one.

  ‘Well,’ she said, after a while. ‘If they are forgeries, they’re good ones.’

  What happened to telling them apart like a mother with her twins? Sarah thought, but she held her tongue. She had a sinking feeling.

  ‘You don’t think they’re forgeries?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I’m not going that far,’ Donna said. ‘But they’re not obvious forgeries. I’ll have to take them for more analysis.’

  Of course you will. More analysis, and more fees.

  ‘OK,’ Sarah said. ‘Any idea when you might be ready?’

  ‘I should have them back to you by Friday,’ Donna said. ‘I need to measure the letters. Look at the tails on the “g”s and “y”s – that sort of thing.’

  ‘And will it be conclusive? When you’ve done the analysis?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Donna said. ‘I’ll tell you one way or another whether these were all written by the same person or not.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Sarah said. Because then, she thought, this will be one step closer to being finished.

  After Donna Martin left, Sarah called Jean.

  ‘What did she say?’ Jean asked, her voice tense. ‘Are they fakes?’

  ‘She wasn’t sure,’ Sarah said. ‘But she’s going to do some more analysis. She’ll know in a few days. She’ll have her answer by Friday.’

  ‘Great,’ Jean said. ‘And then you can show Ben this wasn’t you after all.’

  11

  Sarah sat on an old wooden bench at the back of Jean’s yard. It had been there since she and her husband bought the house. He had planned to restore it; Jean wanted to throw it out. But after he died she had kept it, and it still did its job.

  She and the kids had stopped in after breakfast; all five children were playing in a sandpit beside the house. It was amazing how they managed to find a way to play together, despite the range in ages. Miles could play sophisticated games with older kids, but he was also happy to push a dump truck in the sand with Kim.

  Jean came out of the back door. She was holding a tray with three mugs of coffee on it.

  Sarah gestured at the tray. ‘Three?’ she said. ‘Who else is coming?’

  ‘Rachel,’ Jean said. ‘She texted me a few minutes ago asking if I wanted to get together. I told her to come over.’

  Sarah tensed. She hadn’t seen Rachel since the episode with Ben at the Little Cat Café, and she didn’t want to. If she’d known Rachel was going to be here, she wouldn’t have come, but it might work to her advantage.

  ‘Would you do me a favor?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Depends what it is,’ Jean said.

  ‘I need you to get a sample of Rachel’s handwriting for me.’

  ‘Handwriting?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Then I can show it to the graphologist. See if it is Rachel.’

  Jean frowned. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Then I’m going to leave,’ Sarah said. ‘Call me later and let me know how it went.’

  Sarah, Miles, Fay and Kim were riding bikes in the quad of Hardy College when Jean texted.

  Handwriting sample in your mailbox. I asked Rachel about yoga classes I could attend. She wrote some down for me.

  Later, Sarah emailed a scanned copy of the list of yoga classes to Donna Martin; the graphologist said it would be enough to go on. The answer would be with her Friday, the same as the original request.

  I have to say, Donna Martin replied, this is intriguing. Bit of a change from my normal work.

  Sarah wasn’t sure how she felt about being intriguing to a graphologist who specialized in criminal cases, but then she didn’t really care. She pictured herself receiving the call from Donna, listening as she told her there was no way Sarah had written the message in the book or the postcard, and that it was incontrovertible it was the person whose handwriting sample Sarah had sent over – Rachel Little – who had written them.

  Then, when she put down the phone, Sarah would let out a loud YES! and Ben would look up from his post-work beer and ask what had happened and she would tell him.

  It was all Rachel Little, she’d say. I have proof.

  And then she’d call Ian Molyneux and tell him and he’d arrest Rachel and slap her with a restraining order or maybe a prison sentence or whatever they did to crazy bitches like her who stalked people.

  But that was Friday. Until then, she’d have to wait.

  12

  She is happy again.

  She thinks she has found a way out of this. She thinks she knows what is going on and how to stop it. She thinks she can prove it is not her who is crazy, not at all, and then everything will be back to normal.

  She will see to her patients and go to the gym. Her husband will kiss her and the kids when he comes home from work. On Friday nights they will drink a little too much and have sex, both of them wishing the other one would be a bit more adventurous between the sheets. Cha
nge the routine; maybe try something different. Or maybe not. Maybe they will carry on doing it the same old way after all. Maybe it was only a nice thought to pass the time until it is over.

  As if it is so simple.

  As if this can all be undone.

  She is mistaken, as usual, because she thinks if she applies her logic, her rational thinking, then she can figure this out.

  But this is not a crossword puzzle. It is a not a disease with symptoms which can be diagnosed and treated. No: it is a hook. A hook that has caught its fish.

  And a hook is not rational. It is not worming its way deeper into her flesh because it wants to. It is doing it because this is what a hook does. It cannot be persuaded to stop any more than it can be persuaded not to be a hook.

  And this will only get worse. Soon she will be wishing for things to go back to the way they are now. She will remember these as the golden days.

  And they are, in a way. From now on in, this is as good as it gets for Sarah Havenant.

  13

  ‘You’re in a good mood,’ Ben said. It was quarter after six and he had only been home a few minutes – often on a Wednesday there was a partner meeting at the office until late – and Sarah was humming along to a pop song – something about ‘Cake by the Ocean’ – as she unstacked the dishwasher.

  ‘We had a good day,’ she said. ‘We went to the beach. Getting over the jet lag finally.’

  On the table her phone rang. Ben glanced at it.

  ‘It’s your office,’ he said. ‘They don’t normally call so late, do they?’

  Sarah shook her head and picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Dr Havenant, this is Denise. Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sarah said. Denise worked in the administrative office as the general manager. It was rare for her to call at all, never mind at this time. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I know you’re still on vacation, Dr Havenant, but we have a bit of a crisis in the practice.’

  ‘Oh? What’s happening?’

  ‘Well, Dr Deck and Dr Audett fell ill today – there’s a norovirus doing the rounds. It’s pretty nasty, and they won’t be in work until next week. I found cover for tomorrow, but I can’t arrange any for Friday. I was wondering whether there is any chance you could come in? I’m sorry to ask, but I’ve tried every other avenue.’