Tandem

by Alex Morgan

  “I am.”

  “Put your pin in then.”

  Alone

  “Happy birthday, Pete. Happy birthday, Paula.” Paula reached for the tumbler of wine on the bedside table and took a long slug, even though it was only eleven in the morning. “Ooh, vintage vinegar. Shall we open the curtains and see what the day has to offer?” She considered this. “No, let’s stay as we are for now. Much easier on the eyes, especially when you’re as old as we are.”

  Last night’s clothes lay in a heap on the end of the bed along with the wrapping from her fish and chips. An empty wine bottle had tumbled onto its side. She ran a hand through her tangled hair. “That armpit’s not the freshest. What do you think, Arthur? Shall I get up and have a shower, feed the washing machine and go and buy myself the ingredients for a nutritious brunch?” She poked him in the stomach. “Or shall I have another drink and maybe a little snooze?”

  She cupped a hand to the ear nearest to him. “What’s that you say? I need vitamins? But red wine’s full of them. Well, minerals or something. Don’t look at me like that. You’re not my mother.”

  Shoving the elderly toy under the pillow next to her, she drained the bottle on the bedside table into her glass. “Now where’s that iPod? We need some music to suit the mood of the day.” She dozed off to Duffy singing Mercy.

  At first, Paula thought the sound that had woken her came from the iPod.

  There it was again. Someone was knocking on the door. “Miss Tyndall? Paula?” called Mrs McIntyre. “Your parents are on the telephone. They want to wish you a happy birthday.”

  “Shit.” Paula stuffed the corner of the duvet into her mouth.

  “I ken you’re in there.”

  Paula lay very still and prayed her landlady wouldn’t come in.

  “Have it your way, you selfish lassie.” Footsteps retreated up the stairs.

  Paula lay back on the pillow. “God, Pete, how have I managed to make such a mess of everything? It’s our thirtieth birthday and I’m alone and drunk.”

  “Is everything all right?” Mrs McIntyre was back.

  Paula leapt out of bed and threw herself against the door with a thump.

  Her landlady turned the handle, but Paula’s weight was enough to keep her out.

  “Go away,” she half shouted, half sobbed. “There’s nobody here. Leave me alone.”

  The pressure was gone instantly. Paula listened as the old woman padded back upstairs. She shoved a pile of ironing from the chair and wedged it under the door handle. Back in bed, she felt for the supermarket carrier bag and pulled out another bottle of wine.

  She gulped down a glassful, dropped the empty tumbler onto the rug and slid under the duvet. Pulling it tight around her neck, she closed her eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. She took deep breaths, held them for as long as she could, then exhaled slowly. She tried to focus on her feet, to imagine the tension draining out of the tips of her toes, but the more she willed herself to relax, the tenser she became. Paula rolled onto her side, made her hands into fists and thrust them under the pillow. Breathe, slow and deep, that was the key. Persevere; let the breath carry the tension away. But it was no use: the slower she breathed, the faster her heart seemed to beat, and all the while it felt as if it was getting bigger. Bigger and bigger, swelling up to fill her entire body. Even her skull was beating, huge and pulsating, as if it could explode at any second.

  The only thing that gave her some small comfort was the ancient pink cotton pyjamas she was wearing. A gift from Pete on their 21st birthday, they were dotted with little lilac teddies, his idea of a joke. A mature gift for a mature woman, he had written on the card. He gave her them the night of the party. It was the first time she had tried tequila slammers and they just about drank the students’ union bar dry. She and Pete, Ollie, Jen and a handful of others ended up in the park – she had no idea how they got there or why they thought it was a good idea. Miraculously, she still had the carrier bag containing the pyjamas. She changed into them behind a bush, and danced barefoot round the park singing The Teddy Bears’ Picnic until she slipped on the dewy grass and twisted her ankle. She was too drunk to feel any pain but it gave way when she tried to put weight on it, and Pete and Ollie had to carry her to a bench. They drank more tequila until they all fell asleep. They were woken up and thrown out just after dawn by a passing policeman, who couldn’t conceal his amusement at her bizarre outfit.

  The next time Paula encountered the police was almost nine years later and she was wearing the same pyjamas. She was asleep on the sofa of her flat in London when the doorbell rang. It was after midnight and the West Wing DVD she had been watching had come to an end. She knew as soon as she saw the two officers – a man and a woman, both younger than her – that something was desperately wrong. Her first thought was her parents: they were on holiday in Florida and not due home for another five days. Perhaps they had been mugged and hurt. Maybe one of them had had a heart attack. Half-a-dozen awful scenarios flashed through her mind instantaneously, but none concerned Pete. She asked what had happened, but they were intent on ushering her back inside. Trying to avoid a scene on the doorstep, she thought afterwards.

  Their precise words vanished from her memory as soon as they said them. There had been an accident, and Pete was dead. That was basically what they were there to tell her. One of them said something about difficultly finding who was next of kin, taking some time to track her down. She managed to explain that her parents were away, her mouth forming the words without any input from her frozen brain.

  There was some discussion about contacting them and it was agreed she would wait to call until after she had identified the body. Identified the body. Of her dead brother. Pete. Her little twin. It was unthinkable.

  So she didn’t think, didn’t imagine. The woman officer mentioned tea, offered to make some, but Paula shook her head. She got dressed, putting on the first pair of jeans and top that came to hand, and they drove her to the hospital.

  She followed them through long, antiseptic corridors, eyes half closed against the fluorescent glare, her body numb, as if she was floating slightly above the ground instead of walking on it. If one of them had taken out their truncheon and hit her over the head, or some stray psychopath had jumped from a side ward and thrust a knife into her, she wouldn’t have felt it. She would merely have sunk to her knees and welcomed the oblivion.

  They showed her into a room and the door closed behind her. A bald man with a neatly clipped ginger beard and a white coat stepped forward and murmured a few words. He indicated a shape under a sheet. She was to look and confirm they had got it right: she understood that was her task.

  In that split second before she let her eyes rest on him, she did manage one coherent thought: what if she said no, that they had got it wrong and it wasn’t him? If she could make them believe her, then, it wouldn’t be him. Pete wouldn’t be dead and everything would go back to the way it was. She could go home, put her pyjamas back on and return to watching DVDs. In the morning, they would meet for the race, just as they had planned. They would ride and they would win.

  The man asked her a question. “Does your brother have any distinguishing marks?” he repeated. “Maybe a scar or a tattoo?”

  A tattoo. This was her chance to prove it truly wasn’t Pete. Paula pulled the left leg of her jeans up a few centimetres to reveal the delicate P&P monogram on her ankle. “There – same as mine.”

  The man nodded and moved down to the end of the sheet. He raised the corner. The cycling shoe was a larger version of a pair Paula had herself. She frowned at the horrible coincidence.

  The man pointed to something now, a bluish shape above the ankle bone. A tattoo exactly like hers.

  Paula shook her head and turned away. “No, that isn’t it.”

  “Please,” he urged, “could you look again?”

  “I said that’s not it.” Her voice was shrill.

  “We need you to make the identification.”

  “Why
can’t I see his face?” she demanded.

  “It’s better this way,” the man said gently.

  “I want to see.” She seized the top of the sheet and pulled it back. It wasn’t Pete. It was a thing, a monster, lying there. Not even human. Its head was the size of a pumpkin. A pumpkin so swollen and infected with purple and black rot that it could burst at any moment. It really wasn’t him.

  She smiled as she turned to the man, who stood a respectful distance away. “It isn’t …” she began.

  He walked over and placed a hand on her upper arm, pulling the sheet back into place with his free hand. “Please, we need you to identify him.”

  “But …” Paula felt her smile fade.

  “Would you like to get some air and come back a bit later?”

  The mobile phone in the pocket of her jeans rang, startling them both. She took it out and checked the screen. It was her dad calling from Florida. He probably wanted to wish them good luck for the race or share some silly story. He never could get to grips with the time differences when he was abroad.

  Paula rejected the call and returned the phone to her pocket. She looked at the man. “Yes,” she heard herself say. “That’s my brother, Pete Tyndall.”

  It didn’t matter that she knew it wasn’t really him. Pete wasn’t dead. It was just something she had to say in order to get out of the hospital.

  The policewoman drove her home. She offered to come in for a while but Paula said no. She wanted to be on her own to make the call, which was simply another task she had to perform before things could get back to normal.

  The conversation, first with her dad and then her mum, was like the one with the police: her brain simply refused to retain it. It was over in a few minutes. She said what needed to be said and all she could remember was the sound of her mum screaming.

  Paula put the phone down and laid her hands in her lap. She studied them for a while, not sure what to do next. The male officer had suggested calling a friend, but that would mean explaining to someone else what had happened – what the police and the hospital had said happened – and what would be the point of that, since it wasn’t true? Her mum and dad would be back tomorrow. Talk could wait until then.

  When no other plan came to her, she got up and went through to the bedroom. She undressed and put her pyjamas back on. Then she went into the kitchen and opened the bottle of wine that was chilling in the fridge ready to celebrate their victory in tomorrow’s race. She took the bottle and a glass and returned to the sitting room, climbed back onto the sofa, retrieved the DVD remote from the floor and pressed play.

  Burying Pete

  Her parents wanted her to stay with them until the funeral, but Paula refused. She knew that to survive she had to keep away for as long as possible. One of them rang every few hours. She couldn’t tell if it was because they needed to reassure themselves that at least she was still there, or if they thought they were helping, but she always got off the phone as quickly as she could. Just the sound of their voices brought that grotesque image from the hospital back into her mind. Sometimes she let it ring, but she forced herself to answer often enough to prevent them turning up at her door in a state of panic.

  Her dad was mostly calm and practical, discussing transport arrangements and who they still needed to inform. Every now and then his voice wavered as if it might be about to crack and he would bring the call to an abrupt end. Other times it was slurred. Her mum veered between manic activity, seeking Paula’s opinion on everything and anything, and all-out hysteria. Should they ask for donations to Pete’s favourite charity, whatever that was? What music would he have wanted in the church? Should they have wine, or just sherry and whisky, at the tea, and what kind of sandwiches – Pete always liked egg, didn’t he, but would people expect smoked salmon?

  Paula fobbed her off with noncommittal answers and waited for the next bout of sobbing. She felt detached from the preparations, as if they were for a party she wasn’t invited to. She understood that Pete was not around, but she couldn’t use the word dead. That would have meant accepting that the horribly distorted creature in the hospital was actually him, and that she could not – would not – do. He was not present, that was all. She had seen the tattoo of their initials on the ankle of that hideous thing, but she told herself it was an illusion, a sick trick played by her own subconscious. Pete wasn’t dead, how could it be otherwise?

  They had got their tattoos on a whim after they won their first national title, an endurance record that had stood for ten years. The event was in Nottingham, a city they hadn’t been to before. Ollie had needed to get back to London to make an appearance at his uncle’s retirement party. She and Pete were wandering around light-headed with victory and hunger, looking for somewhere to get a decent pizza or plate of pasta, when they stumbled on the tattoo parlour. They had had a couple of beers but they were sober enough to know what they were doing.

  It was Pete’s idea to get a permanent reminder of their success.

  “What about it?” he asked as they stood gazing at the window full of photographs.

  “You’re kidding,” she replied, always the more cautious of the two.

  He grinned. “Come on, PT. Show me you’re not chicken.”

  When he held the door open, she found herself stepping inside. The tattooist was a skinny woman with long white hair and weird pink eyes.

  When Pete said he wanted a version of the five rings worn by Olympic athletes using bicycle wheels, she sucked her teeth. “That’s fine for you,” she said, folding long thin arms across her chest. “But you can’t expect her to spend the rest of her life with a bit of machinery on her bicep. What you want is something personal but attractive and discreet.”

  “What about our names then?” Pete suggested.

  The tattooist shook her head. “What happens when one of you gets serious with someone else? How’s it going to look wearing another bloke or girl’s name? I don’t ever recommend names for couples now, everyone breaks up so quick.”

  “We won’t,” Pete said stoutly. “We’re twins. We’ll be together forever.”

  The woman snorted.

  “She’s got a point, Pete,” Paula put in. “What if we just had our initials, maybe on our ankles, so they would show above our socks when we’re riding?”

  “PT, you’re a genius,” Pete exclaimed. “We’ll have P&P, like it’s our crest, so anyone who’s watching can see we mean business.”

  “P&P it is then,” the tattooist said.

  Within a few days of her parents’ return from Florida, Paula knew she wasn’t going to the funeral. She understood they were relying on her to be there, but her own need was far more compelling. She didn’t tell them, of course. They would have gone on at her until she was forced to relent. She simply wasn’t going to turn up. When they realised she wasn’t coming, it would be too late to do anything about it.

  It was Ollie who spoiled her plan. She had been avoiding him, feeling no more able to cope with him than with her parents. After the first couple of calls, she stopped picking up when she saw his name on the phone, but he soon got wise to what she was doing and started ringing from other people’s. That was when she stopped answering any calls apart from her parents’, and he began emailing instead, pouring out his grief. She answered the first few – one-line replies that took no account of his feelings, because she couldn’t afford to – and when they kept coming she started hitting delete without opening them.

  She had known it wouldn’t be long before he was on the doorstep, and she told herself she could deal with it, but when he did come round, the sight of him was too much to bear.

  She opened the door a few centimetres. “I’m sorry, I can’t see you right now. I can’t do this,” she said.

  “Do this?”

  “You know, everything.”

  “You make it sound like there’s a choice,” he said incredulously. “You can’t just decide Pete’s not dead.”

  “Please go. I’ve got work
I need to do.”

  “Fine, so be it.”

  He turned away and she closed the door.

  She didn’t hear from him again until the night before the funeral. He had called a couple of times during the day. The phone showed other people’s numbers, but when she listened to the messages, it was him begging her to get in touch. She deleted them.

  The doorbell rang at just after nine o’clock. She opened it without thinking.

  “You’re not coming, are you?” he said.

  It was raining heavily but he wasn’t wearing a coat.

  “You’re soaking,” Paula observed flatly.

  “Can I come in?” He was shivering.

  She hesitated.

  “Please. I won’t stay long.”

  She stepped back to allow him into the hall.

  “Answer the question.”

  “Tea, coffee? Or there’s beer.”

  “Paula,” he almost yelled, “you’ve got to stop this. Are you coming to the funeral?”

  “Tea then.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders. “For Christ’s sake, you’re behaving like you’re armour plated. Why can’t you accept what’s happened?”

  “Because I can’t, and you’re right, I’m not coming.”

  He wrapped his arms around her rigid body. “Well, I’m here to tell you that you are. We’re going to pack a bag and you’re going to your parents. Your dad’ll be here any minute.”

  “Ollie! How could you?”

  “I had to. Your mum and dad need you to be there. Deny Pete’s dead if you want to, but you still have to go. If he isn’t dead, where’s the harm? Think of it as humouring the old folk.”

  Her dad drove her home and Ollie arrived to eat breakfast with them next morning. The only time he let her out of his sight was when she went to the loo, and even then he hovered outside the bathroom door. He took hold of her arm as they left the house and didn’t let go until they were outside the church.

  Everyone was there: friends, relatives, colleagues from the school where Pete taught, his pupils, the entire cycling club and plenty of other people Paula didn’t recognise. Her dad and Ollie spoke and Pete’s head of department gave a reading. Her dad had asked her to say something but she refused. She heard people speak but it was all so much buzzing in her head.