Replica

by Lexi Revellian

  Right. I have to do this. No going back. Deep breath. I’d foregone my supper of chips in order to buy a roll of duct tape at a pound shop; my stomach felt hollow, but it was worth it for the sake of making less noise breaking in. There’d be food in the flat. I criss-crossed the lower left pane, then made a loop with the tape for me to hold. I’d brought half a brick wrapped in one of my socks, and I hit the glass with minimum force. It sagged but held together, making almost no sound. I paused, straining my ears for any sign of life from the flat. Nothing … I eased the taped glass out and laid it on the grass, slightly amazed my idea had worked, took the sock off the brick and put it on one hand like a glove, reached in delicately to avoid shards clinging to the frame, released the catch, raised the sash and climbed shakily inside.

  Leaving the window open as an escape route, I tiptoed tremulously through the dark hallway and put the snib down on the front door’s Yale lock, in case the owner came home while I was still there. Don’t touch anything with your left hand you’re not going to take, use the socked hand. My breathing was uneven, my palms sweaty, my knees practically knocking together like a cartoon character’s.

  Get on with it.

  I started with the hall cupboard. Dimly visible in the gloom, a suitcase, a big holdall made from soft brown leather and a brand new folded blanket were arranged on half-empty shelves. I eased the zip open on the holdall, put the blanket inside, paused to listen, then went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Its light showed a small amount of food; enough for one person, if he often ate elsewhere. I finished off some milk straight from the bottle, and crammed a couple of slices of bread into my mouth. That made me feel less shaky. As quietly as possible, using the blanket as padding to make sure nothing clinked or rustled, I loaded an unopened litre of milk, a bottle of wine (screw cap), orange juice, cheese, ham and the rest of the bread. I left a packet of sausages – no good, no way to cook them. From the cupboard I got chocolate Hobnobs, salted almonds, muesli, two tins of baked beans, a jar of honey, two apples and a banana. As I stepped across the kitchen, a floorboard squeaked and nearly stopped my heart. I hung on to the edge of the counter for a few seconds, before opening the top drawer. I found a tin opener and a sharp vegetable knife, and below the sink candles and a box of matches.

  The bag was nearly full, and my inclination was to go with what I’d got; but if I didn’t get everything I needed, it would be necessary to do this again, and I wasn’t sure I could face it. I’d only been in the flat five minutes or so. I gritted my teeth and moved to the bathroom. Soap, flannel – that’d be handy – toilet roll, a comb, Nurofen … Ah. Shaving cream, an electric shaver, a total absence of female toiletries. A man’s home, and apparently he didn’t have a visiting girlfriend. I took his Sure For Men Active deodorant, and Boots shampoo.

  The door to the living room was open; leather sofa, coffee table, plasma television, Sony Vaio laptop, all plainly visible in the glow of a street lamp. An acoustic guitar leaned against the wall in a corner. The flat was so quiet I could hear muted clicks as the second hand circled the wall clock. Nine forty. My gaze fell on the coffee table. Beside copies of The Lancet and Journal of the American College of Cardiology, a twenty pound note, a ten pound note and some change, which I scooped up and pocketed. Bookshelves – I could read by candlelight. The shelves held lot of medical reference books, a few history books and biographies, the only fiction a handful of thrillers. I grabbed one of them. Better than nothing.

  Relaxed was not the word you’d have used to describe me, but at least my heart rate was no longer off the scale. Bedroom next, then get out of here. Another blanket wouldn’t hurt, and extra clothes …

  I opened the last door, and collided with someone standing behind it. I jumped a foot in the air and yelped. The light snapped on. I saw a man my age wearing only pyjama trousers. When I turned to run he grabbed my arm, pulled me into the room, shut the door and locked it. He took the key out with his free hand, and released me.

  Disaster.

  We stared at each other, both breathing fast and shaking. He was my height, lightly built – I could see his ribs move – his hair sticking up. Clearly he had just got out of the rumpled bed; he looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes. What was he doing in bed at around nine o’clock in the evening? He reached to the bedside table, put on a pair of spectacles, and had another look at me. His hand reached out again, towards a mobile phone.

  I dropped the bag. “Please let me go. I’m sorry, I’ll put it all back, I haven’t damaged anything …” Except the window. Don’t mention it.

  His expression changed. He looked less stern and more interested. I knew why; my accent didn’t tally with my appearance or my criminal activities. His gaze moved to the holdall gaping open at my feet, and his eyebrows lifted. “Why don’t you do your shopping at the supermarket like the rest of us? Has no one told you you’re supposed to be stealing laptops and cameras and stuff?”

  Easy for him to joke. “I’m hungry, and I haven’t got anywhere to plug in a laptop.” My voice was trembling. I tried to control it. “Let me go. Please.”

  “You’ve broken into my flat. You’re stealing my possessions. Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

  “Because …” I suddenly felt exhausted. My shoulders slumped. “Look, I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me. If I said my life was in danger you’d think I was making it up or mad. So there’s no point.”

  “Sit down.” He pointed to the only chair in the room. I sat. He crossed to a built-in wardrobe, got out a jumper and pulled it on, smoothed the duvet neatly over the bed, then sat on it opposite me.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “If I do, will you let me go?”

  “Not necessarily.” His thin face was briefly transformed as a smile flicked over it. “Depends how good your story is. I shall be marking it for inventiveness, credibility, entertainment value and sheer bloody nerve. Off you go.”

  “I’m a research secretary at the Marling Institute, helping Professor McKinnis with a top secret government project … what?”

  He straightened his face. “Nothing. Please continue.”

  I eyed him for a moment, then pressed on. “He developed a way of replicating organisms. The idea was that soldiers would be able to control an identical, remote version of themselves, and it wouldn’t matter if it got blown up.”

  “Like in Avatar?”

  “Sort of … except he made duplicates by scanning them, not growing them. He did it with animals, and after a lot of work, he got it so the mind of the first animal could transfer to the replica, but the original was in overall control. Only one of them was ever awake at a time. The replica died if the original died, but not vice versa, so he knew he’d done it and it should work with humans. Well, yesterday evening –”

  His hand went up. “Don’t tell me. Let me hazard a guess. He asked you to be the first human to try out his duplicating machine?”

  “Yes,” I said, sulkily. “That’s just what did happen.”

  His eyes sparkled with pent-up laughter. It didn’t seem at all funny to me. “So now there are two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the other one’s got all the money, so you’re reduced to breaking into people’s flats and stealing their groceries?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seems a little unfair. If I were you, I’d ask her for half of everything.”

  “I can’t do that. She doesn’t know I exist, and MI5 are watching her so I can’t get to her. And they’re trying to find me so they can kill me. I can’t ask my friends or family for help because they’re all being watched and their phones monitored. I’ve got no money, and I have to eat.”

  He wasn’t smiling any more, but studying me gravely. After a moment, he said, “What’s your name?”

  “Alex. Alex Rider.” Where did that spring from, it sounded terribly familiar …

  “I’m Matthew Reeve. When did all this start?”

  “Yesterday evening.
”

  “And before that, everything was normal?”

  I didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. “Yes …”

  “And you don’t take drugs or consume excessive amounts of alcohol?” I shook my head impatiently. He was getting this all wrong. “I didn’t think you did, physically you look in good shape.” He paused, and rubbed his hands over his face. “Alex … I’m a doctor, I work at Barts, and I’m a little concerned about you. I think you need proper medical attention. It might be a good idea if –”

  “You think I’m mad! I said you would if I told you …”

  He spoke hesitantly, choosing his words with care. “It does seem to me there are indications you may be undergoing a psychotic episode. Your delusions … and ideas of external threat and control are suggestive of this diagnosis.”

  “I’m not psychotic! I’m as sane as you are.” I knew the futility of saying this even as the words left my lips.

  “I’m sure you feel that, but you’re clearly an intelligent woman, and you must recognize the possibility that I’m right. In which case, it might be worth getting yourself checked out; in fact, I’d say you need expert psychiatric opinion and support as a matter of urgency. I’m willing to come with you to A & E, if you like. We could get a taxi, if you don’t want me to call an ambulance.”

  “I don’t need an ambulance! I’m perfectly fine! If it wasn’t for people trying to kill me.”

  He gazed thoughtfully at me. I’d just made him more certain of his diagnosis. Damn.

  “And I can’t persuade you?”

  “If I go to a hospital and give them my details the spec ops will find me.”

  “And you aren’t willing to entertain the conjecture that the spec ops exist only in your mind?”

  “No! One grabbed me today when I tried to go home, and I only just got away. He tried to force me into his van. Look.” I held out my wrist, and showed him the marks on my skin where the man’s hand had gripped me.

  It was no good. He sighed, pulled the bag towards him, riffled through its contents, then sat looking at me for a moment.

  “Well, Alex, it seems to me, whatever the real story is, you need this stuff more than me. Tell you what I’ll do. You can take the food and things, and the blanket, but not the holdall, it’s expensive. I’ll find you a couple of plastic bags.”

  He rose, picked up the holdall and unlocked the door. I followed him to the kitchen, where he got a big blue Ikea bag out of a cupboard, and transferred the food, toiletries and blanket to it. Not the knife; he put that away again in its drawer without comment, handed me the bag, then showed me out of the front door. He didn’t say anything about the money, and nor did I; though I had the feeling he knew I’d taken it. I slung the handles of the bag over my shoulder.

  He said, “Are you sure you won’t reconsider taking my advice?”

  “I can’t.” Before he closed the front door, I turned to him. “That was the real story, you know.”

  He looked worried; not because he believed me, but because he didn’t.

  Almost crying with tiredness, aching all over, I made my way back to the shelter I’d found. An abandoned and vandalized construction site; a small block of flats, surrounded partly by hoardings and partly steel wire barriers – with a gap at one end wide enough to squeeze through. A sign alleged that the building was alarmed and monitored, but the money must have run out for that as well as for completing the building: plainly I wasn’t the first to trespass there. Right in the corner of the site, facing a chi-chi block of flats – the kind you just know have been bought for speculation and are rented out – were two room-size metal boxes, one balanced on top of the other. The upper one had a door. Rusty and streaked with dirt, a sign on the side boasted RENT-A-CABIN – solutions for the building industry.

  I climbed up to the top cabin, and wedged the door shut with a plank. It was freezing cold, but out of the icy wind, no one could get in, and I had a blanket. This was my home for the night. The single candle lit up its graffitied steel walls and clutter of whiskey bottles, beer cans and cigarette ends. I was too tired to read. I stuck the candle in a bottle and warmed my hands round it, admiring the jewel-coloured squares of my blanket glowing in its golden light. Then I counted the money while eating cold baked beans, bread and cheese and drinking half the bottle of wine. (I was beginning to understand why people living rough drink; it warms you up, and gives you a more optimistic outlook on life.) Thirty-one pounds and ninety-two pence, a small fortune. I blew out the candle, lay on the flattened cardboard boxes I’d collected earlier, and wrapped the blanket around me, as safe as a rat in its hole. It was very cold indeed. I thought of hot water bottles, electric blankets, warm boyfriends – well, Rob, he was the only one I’d had – and of sultry summer nights abroad.

  I told myself how much better off I was than the night before, and fell into an intermittent and dream-ridden sleep.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 17

  Chance encounter

  A bleak Sunday morning, and Ollie and Nick were back in Canonbury Close, this time in a courier van.

  Ollie held out a packet. “Toffee?” Nick shook his head. “D’you think she’ll go anywhere today? At least that’d get you out of sitting here.” He brooded, chewing his toffee. “You know my dad has a fruit stall? Monday to Friday he gets up at five to go to Nine Elms, then stands till three in all weathers on the draughtiest corner of Leather Lane. Year in, year out. Right from when I was a kid, I knew I wasn’t going to do that. Funny to find myself doing this instead. Ironic.”

  “Better than weighing up bananas all day.”

  “Not so sure, at least you’re doing something, not just hanging around.”

  “Thank God she’s not a churchgoer. I’d have had to go with her.” Nick had been brought up in the Roman Catholic faith, which had left him prejudiced against religion in general and church-going in particular. He yawned uncontrollably, setting Ollie off. The smell of toffee wafted in Nick’s direction.

  “You’ll have to go to church if you’re going to be my best man.”

  “Oll!” Nick turned and stared at him. “Are you and Lisa …”

  Ollie smiled, his expression pleased and bashful. “Looks like it. She wants a big do, in a church, all the relatives, sit-down reception, the lot.” Ollie’s family was large, close and sprawling; Nick was never sure whether to envy him this or not. An only child, Nick’s family consisted of Josh, his mother and father and an aunt in America.

  “And you want me to be your best man? I’m honoured, Oll.”

  “Will you do it? You’ll have to wear a top hat and that. And make a speech.”

  “Course I will. Congratulations.” Nick meant it, too; he’d met Lisa a few times and she was not just extremely pretty, but patently nice as well. He wondered why he never seemed to go out with women like that – pretty, yes, he’d been out with some stunners, but … Maybe he didn’t bring out the best in them, or could it be because Ollie was nicer than him? “So when did you pop the question?”

  “Last night round her place. I suddenly realized I couldn’t do better for myself than Lisa, and if I didn’t nab her, someone else might.”

  “The last of the great romantics. Hang on, she’s coming out.”

  Beth stood on the step dressed for the weather, looked around until she worked out which van they were in, then headed their way.

  “Cover blown again,” Ollie said. “She’s the one who hasn’t grasped the meaning of undercover surveillance, not me.”

  Beth stooped to smile in at them. “Hi. I hope you’re not too cold … silly thing to say, of course you are. I’m going to drive to Ikea, if that’s okay.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Nick, reaching for the door handle. “See you, Olls.”

  The car park was nearly full when they arrived, and Beth drove slowly round, looking for a space. The entrance was swarming with families, reminding Nick of a couple of occasions he’d come there with Sandra
and Josh. They’d had a row on the way home the last time. Shopping wasn’t his sort of thing, especially in a crowd.

  “What are you getting?” It hadn’t occurred to him to ask before. He hoped she was only after one item, and they’d get out quickly; perhaps they could have lunch somewhere on the way back …

  “I need a new lamp, and I might look at the duvet covers and cushions. I could do with some wine glasses, candles … I don’t come to Ikea very often, so when I do I like to have a good look round.” Nick nodded, resignedly. At least it was warm. “Perhaps you need something while we’re here?”

  Nick thought of his rented flat; convenient, soulless, deliberately decorated and furnished by the landlord to be bland and offend no one. Everything worked, it had its own parking space, and if you stood on the tiny balcony you could see Thames House across the river. It had not crossed his mind to alter anything.

  “No, I’ll just give you a hand.”

  They got on the packed escalator, Nick eying the crowd and uneasily wondering what his best course of action would be if Beth Two popped up. He needed to spot her first, but if he saw her, hard to stop Beth seeing her too; little he could do, and Pete would still blame him. But she said she seldom went to Ikea … as long as she hadn’t thought about it on Friday or before. She was moving briskly through the showrooms, looking but not lingering.

  “When did you decide to come here?”

  She turned to him, surprised. “This morning. I changed the bed, and realized the duvet cover I took off was getting past it. Why? Would you have liked advance warning?”

  “I just wondered,” he said lamely, relieved.

  “And I’ve been meaning to replace the lamp for ages.”

  “Ah.” He followed her through the store towards the Markethall, eyes swivelling.

  Beth wasn’t too bad to go shopping with, Nick conceded after half an hour. She didn’t dither. Her trolley was neatly loaded with a duvet set, eight glass bowls, two packs of candles, and a silver colour work lamp. They were now looking at cushions. Beth wanted some that went with the new bedding. Her taste ran to deep, bright colours, very different from the cream and grey neutral tones in his bedroom, which was probably what he’d have chosen for himself. She asked his advice, but he felt it was more to be friendly than because she needed it, which suited him just fine. Sandra once made a scene because he’d said he wasn’t bothered which rug she chose.