by Huw Thomas
‘Small or large?’
Van Hulle shook his head. ‘A modest profit.’
Louise looked out at the size of the site. It covered many acres. ‘But what if you had built offices or big houses. Couldn’t you have made more money?’
‘Possibly, yes,’ said Van Hulle. ‘On the other hand, we probably would not have been allowed to build offices. This land was allocated for housing. Yes, it would have been more lucrative to build flats for the open market but that would mean ignoring our social responsibility.’
He turned to Louise. ‘There are many people in this city who cannot afford to buy even the smallest home. Some have nowhere to live at all. And what can the council do? It is not allowed to build new council houses, your Mrs Thatcher put a stop to all that. It is forced to turn to private landlords, people who charge the highest rates they can get away with and make profits from other people’s misfortunes.’
The developer shook his head. He looked sad, disappointed with his fellow humans.
‘I will not work like that,’ he said. ‘My beliefs teach me we should look after those less fortunate than ourselves. Yes, I could have done other things with this land and made much more money but would that have made me a happier man? No. Instead, what we are doing here is two-fold. Firstly we are making a real difference to the housing problem in this city. Secondly, we are proving it is possible make a profit by building homes people can actually afford to buy.’
He smiled. ‘Our good book teaches us we should look after those less fortunate than ourselves. We should fight injustice and provide shelter for our little ones. We should be building cities for them, not prolonging injustice by abandoning the needy while we rebuild Sodom and Gomorrah.’
Van Hulle watched as the reporter scribbled away in her notebook. He could make no sense of the shapes her pen made and wondered if she was actually writing down his words or something completely different.
He had taken an instant dislike to the girl the moment she arrived at his office. She was as superficial as most of her kind. Dressed like a tart and more concerned with making an impression than behaving with dignity. Van Hulle had instinctively sensed her disinterest in the story despite the effusive smile and handshake with which she introduced herself. She did not want to be writing about houses, was not interested in a project to change the lives of hundreds of people. She was the type who would rather concoct scandals, place lives under the microscope and dissect reputations, expose flaws and hound out errors. Either that or pour out sycophantic praise about the latest worthless celebrity.
‘Will this be in tomorrow’s paper?’ he asked.
Louise shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. To be honest, I’m filling in for someone else. One of our reporters was in an accident, got knocked down by a car. He was supposed to be interviewing you. I think the news editor was planning some kind of series on the changing face of the city.’
She smiled at Van Hulle. ‘But it’s a good story. It’s quite a big thing in its own right. They might decide to run it separately.’
12. Fractured Life
Tuesday, 10.08pm
It was already gone ten o’clock when Rebecca came into the White Lion. The pub was quite busy but most customers were congregated around the bar. The wooden booths at the side of the bare-floored room were still mostly empty.
Rebecca paused at the entrance. A few men gave her the quick once-over, a couple staring quite openly. She ignored them and gazed around. The White Lion was a typical urban boozer, nothing pretentious: just a long, dimly-lit room with a brass-topped bar down one side. In front of the large bay window at the front stood a few tables stained with the rings left by countless beer glasses. Down the side of the pub were pairs of benches around large tables, the high backs of the pew-like seats creating individual booths.
Rebecca walked slowly down the room towards the furthest of the left-hand tables. As she approached, Brendan Teague stood up. ‘Ah, Rebecca, thanks for coming, girl.’
She frowned at him. ‘What’s this about, Brendan? What’s happened to Tony?’
The photographer held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry. Tony’s okay. But look, let me get you a drink, I think you’re going to need one.’
Rebecca scowled. ‘What do you mean? On the phone you said there was something up with Tony you wanted to tell me about. Why do I need a drink if he’s okay?’
‘Trust me for a moment,’ said Brendan. ‘You can go home if that’s what you want. All I’m asking is five minutes of your time. After that, it’s up to you. But take my advice, girl, and have a drink.’
He gave her an easy smile. ‘Now. What’s your poison?’
‘Gin,’ said Rebecca. ‘Tonic, ice and lemon. And since you’ve got me here, you might as well make it a double.’
‘Good girl.’
Rebecca had been headed for the bench faced where Brendan had been sitting. But the Irishman steered her towards his own seat instead. She shrugged and changed direction then froze halfway to sitting down.
Harper smiled gently. ‘Hello again.’
‘You! What is this?’
Harper held up his hands. ‘First of all, an apology,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry if I scared you yesterday. It was the last thing I meant to do. I was a bit disorientated after my accident. But I also want to explain.’
Rebecca glanced around quickly and looked for Brendan, who was standing at the bar watching them.
Harper continued, speaking quietly but urgently. ‘All I’m asking is a few minutes to talk to you. You’re in a room full of other people here. You’re quite safe. I just need to let you know why I acted how I did.’
He hesitated. ‘I also need to ask you a couple of questions… for my own peace of mind.’
Rebecca sat on the end of the bench, upright and ready to leave at a moment’s notice. ‘You can ask,’ she said. ‘But I think you’re wasting your time.’
Harper smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps. But if I don’t ask I’ll never find out. I feel I’m going insane as it is. I’ve got to know if I’m completely crazy or whether it’s something else.’
He stared at her. ‘This is tearing me apart, Becca, and you don’t have the first idea why.’
Rebecca shifted on her seat and bit her lower lip. She could see the fear and pain in the eyes of the man opposite. Her voice was a little softer when she spoke next. ‘What is? I really don’t understand what you think I can tell you. I barely know you. In fact, I’m not sure if I do know you — I obviously didn’t get your name right before. And you keep calling me Becca. No one calls me Becca; everyone calls me Rebecca.’
Brendan deposited a tall glass on the table in front of her. ‘I’ll be at the bar if I’m needed… by either of you.’
Harper watched his friend depart. ‘He didn’t understand either. But he’s given me the benefit of the doubt because he trusts me. That’s why he rang Tony to get your number and tricked you into coming here.’
Rebecca nodded slowly. ‘So there’s nothing wrong with Tony?’
‘No. Brendan span Tony some cock-and-bull about being onto a story about the company you work for. He said he needed to find out if it was true and then he’d pass the details on to the newsroom. But it was only an excuse to get your number.’
Rebecca gave a slight smile. ‘Well, that’s some relief. The way Brendan called earlier, I thought Tony had got mixed up with something dodgy and was in real trouble.’
She shook her head. ‘So, what is this about?’
‘Well,’ said Harper, ‘I think the best way to explain is if I tell you a bit of a story. Just listen for now, save the questions for later, okay?’
Rebecca nodded and took a sip of her drink.
Harper watched her face. It was so familiar it was hard to think of it as a stranger’s face. He knew every line: the way her eyebrows were slightly out of kilter, the tiny dimples that appeared on her left cheek when she tried to stifle a smile, the two darker hairs on her upper lip so fine they were almost impossible to spot
. She was wearing earrings he did not recognise, however, and her hair was cut much shorter than he liked. It was the same style as when they first met, a sleek, asymmetric cut with a slanted fringe. Over the past year, he had persuaded her to let it grow. The last time he saw her before the accident, lying in bed on Monday morning, it was several inches below her shoulders.
Harper smiled apologetically as she frowned and he realised he had been sitting just staring at her.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Well, to begin with, my name is Daniel. It’s Daniel Harper. Most people call me Harper. But to my friends, people like you and Brendan, I’m Danny. I grew up in Cornwall, trained as a journalist, worked on a few local weeklies and moved here nearly six years ago when I got a job on the paper. Now: so far, so good. I told Brendan this story and he had no problem with it up to here either.’
Rebecca shrugged but said nothing.
‘Three years ago,’ Harper continued, ‘there were a few changes at the paper. A couple of people left, there was a bit of a reshuffle and the job of deputy news editor came up. I went for it, so did your cousin Tony and one of the other senior journalists, Stephen Glover.’
He paused. ‘I got that job.’
Harper held up his hand as Rebecca started to speak. ‘Save the questions, okay. Imagine I’m telling a story.’
She nodded slowly.
‘Right,’ said Harper. ‘Over the next three years my life’s gone really well. Since then I’ve been promoted to news editor and, about six months ago, I was made assistant editor.’
Rebecca’s eyebrows rose higher but she kept her silence.
‘But more importantly, I met you.’
‘What?’
‘I met you,’ said Harper. ‘About six months after I got the deputy news editor’s job we had the annual Christmas do. Tony brought you along and introduced us. We got on well and I asked for your number. A couple of days later, I took you out to this great little fish restaurant down on Lower Quay. You were a bit reluctant to get involved at first because you were still getting over this guy called Fergus you’d been with since university.’
Rebecca looked confused. ‘How do you know about, Fergus?’
Harper smiled. ‘But I kept on taking you to good restaurants and eventually you agreed to let me take you away for a weekend. I told you we were going to the Lake District but I flew you to Paris instead. We stayed in a small hotel with this incredible antique lift and a brass four-poster bed. While we were there, you confessed you’d lost your virginity in a four-poster bed with this older guy who used to work with your dad.’
Rebecca’s face went white. ‘But how…? You can’t know that. You can’t. I never even told Fergus about that.’
Harper kept his eyes on Rebecca’s.
‘I must have told Tony,’ she said but her voice lacked certainty. She scowled. ‘Look, I’ve no idea what you’re trying to do but this is not funny.’
Harper nodded. ‘I agree. It’s not a joke. It’s not funny and I’m not laughing.’
Rebecca sat stock-still with her mouth slightly open.
‘Over the last couple of years things have just got better,’ said Harper. ‘Six months ago I took you away to Paris again. We went back to the same hotel. This time I asked you to marry me and you accepted.’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘This is too much.’
‘We bought a flat together, the top two storeys of a house in William Street. We moved in a little over a month back. We’ve been doing up the flat together and organising the wedding.’
Rebecca smiled weakly. ‘Where are we getting married?’
‘A small hotel in Appleby, just down the road from your mum and dad’s place. It’s going to be a civil wedding. Due to take place on 5th November, which is your mum’s birthday. Also, so we’ll be able to celebrate with fireworks on every anniversary. Then we’re supposed to be going to southern Spain for our honeymoon, staying in Granada to begin with because you’ve always wanted to see the gardens at the Alhambra.’
Tears rolled down Rebecca’s cheeks. She stared at Harper in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand this. Harper, Daniel, whoever you are, how… I don’t understand.’
Harper reached out and gently took one of her hands. It was her left and as his fingers curled around hers he felt the lack of an engagement ring. ‘Neither do I,’ he said softly. ‘And it’s killing me. What I don’t understand is why none of it’s true any more; while you don’t understand how any of it was ever true.’
She left her hand in his, hardly aware of the contact. ‘This is crazy. None of it’s true.’
Harper nodded. ‘You’re right. It is crazy and, for you, it isn’t true. Some of the bits I told Brendan weren’t true for him either. But for me…’
He sighed. ‘Listen. On Monday, I had a day off work. I got up while you were still in bed and went off on my mountain bike. I spent the morning up on Beacon Ridge. But then, when I was coming home, this car skidded on some ice and ran into me. I woke up in hospital. Nothing was really wrong apart from some bruises and scrapes. They wanted to keep me in overnight but I was supposed to be meeting you from work in the evening. You wanted to go and see a film down at The Wharf. Afterwards, we were supposed to go to La Cantina for a meal.’
Harper looked her in the eye. ‘I checked myself out of hospital. I didn’t have any money so I started walking home. Then I met you in the street and you walked past me like I was a stranger.’
Rebecca bowed her head. ‘This is mad,’ she sighed. ‘How can this be possible?’
Harper shook his head. ‘I’ve got no idea. Brendan says I’m in the wrong life. He reckons that somehow, when I was hit by the car, my life got fractured. I got shunted into a world where Daniel Harper’s life turned out differently.’
‘But how?’
‘That’s what I can’t understand. Maybe me and this other Danny Harper had accidents at the same time. The staff at the hospital thought I’d been knocked down crossing the road.’
‘Maybe your memories are just… shaken up.’
Harper shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple. How could I have known the things I told you just now?’
Rebecca blushed slightly and shook her head.
Harper sighed. ‘I know I’m not crazy. I had a different life — and I want it back.’ He gestured around. ‘All this is terrifying. That’s why I had to see you. To find out if I was imagining everything.’
Rebecca frowned. ‘What are you going to do?’
Harper pulled a face. ‘That’s the hard part. I want my old life — and you — back. But if I can’t return to my other life, I’ll have to start again here. And, if necessary, win you back.’
Rebecca shivered.
‘What?’ said Harper.
She looked pale. ‘Well, if you’ve swapped lives like you said, there must be another me too: the one you are getting married to. What’s happened to her? Has she got the other you, the wrong one?’
Second Intermission
The red van hesitated at the exit from the back lane. The prey had been tracked across several streets and almost lost once. Hidden by a bus shelter, she dipped into a late-night corner shop to buy cigarettes and the van went by without noticing, assuming she must have turned into a side street. For a while, needing to find somewhere to turn around in order to follow that false trail, it appeared she had gone to ground.
Only by chance, as the van circled back to try and pick up the scent once more, did it spot her coming back out onto the street.
Now, the hunt might be complete but the night’s business was far from over; the red van still had to make it home before its work could be finished.
The back lane opened onto a residential street, a wide avenue lined with leafless plane trees and early Victorian redbrick houses. The buildings were terraced but still substantial. Constructed for the prosperous and burgeoning middle classes, the social status of the properties had slipped over the last few decades. These days they were nearly all split into flats: their
inhabitants a mix of students, low earners and young professionals still several steps from success.
Lights off, the van nosed a few yards forward. It watched the street, engine growling at low revs.
The opening from which it emerged was near one end of the street, sandwiched between a gloomy old chapel and an empty house. Although there was a streetlight on the other side of the road, the thick branch of a nearby tree blocked most of its sodium glow. Little light reached the red van; from any further than a few yards away, the vehicle was just a dark, unmoving shape.
As the next few minutes ticked by, a couple of cars passed and a baby cried somewhere in a flat across the road. Otherwise the street was quiet. No voices were raised, no doors opened or lights went on. It seemed no one had noticed what just happened.
The van pulled out and turned left. At the end of the road, its lights came on and it stopped calmly at the junction, waiting for a break in the traffic.
13. Loneliness
Wednesday, 8.46am:
Harper stirred and turned over in the bed. Some kind of distant noise had woken him. His arm reached out from beneath the duvet. The hand at its end flopped across the other pillow: off on its own mission, independent of his still waking brain.
But the hand found nothing and suddenly halted its exploration as the message got through.
Harper rolled the other way and curled up. He stayed clenched in a ball for several minutes. His shoulders moved under the duvet as he sobbed. He had been dreaming about a holiday, somewhere in Scotland, staying beside a loch with Rebecca. Waking, he half thought he was still in the same cottage.
As he stirred, he was unsure whether the dream had been a complete fabrication or disparate memories sown together into a mental comforter. He did not really remember the holiday but some of the images and moments within it had felt too real for the whole thing to be complete illusion. And, true or not, he wanted to hold the memory. He would have given a lot to close his eyes and return there for a few days.
