Replica

by Lexi Revellian

  His mobile woke Nick from a deep sleep. He opened his eyes reluctantly and rolled over. The sky was dark; his watch said seven forty. Pete. Fuck.

  “Hi.”

  “Nick, the replica’s been here, to my home.” Sir Peter did not sound his usual urbane self. “She smashed up my car. Annabel was there, and the children.”

  Nick sat up. “Couldn’t you have grabbed her?”

  “She had a scaffolding pole. She went berserk. I thought she was going to attack us. We were outside, we’d come from Annabel’s parents.”

  “She’s just a girl.”

  “A crazy girl with a steel pole who has quite possibly written off my Jaguar. Every window, every single panel except the boot. She’s bent one of the door pillars. It’s six months old.”

  “Did the police come?”

  “Yes, a neighbour called them. She’d gone by the time they arrived.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “If they can isolate them from a heap of scaffolding poles. Not that it makes any difference.” Sir Peter’s voice grew irritable. “I don’t understand why she’s still at large. I’ve had between twelve and twenty men on this job for five days, we know she’s in London, and she’s simply running rings round you. This can’t go on. You sounded confident enough after I gave you the CCTV pictures, but what happened? The same as all this week – nothing. Where are you now?”

  “At home.”

  “Well, you’re not going to find her there, are you? Stop slacking and let’s get this thing sorted out.” The line went dead.

  “Merry Christmas to you too.” Nick reflected it would be nice if just once in a while he got to hang up on Pete rather than vice versa. He reached for his clothes, stopped and rang Ollie’s number.

  “Olls, can you come to my place and pick me up? Pete’s had a sighting of the replica.”

  “Where?”

  “His home. She smashed up the Jag.”

  “Pete’s car? Shit, how did it happen?”

  “Tell you when you get here.”

  “Okay, but you have to give me a blow by blow account. I want all the gory details. See you soon.”

  Nick dressed, shoved a pizza in the microwave, then rang Beth’s mobile and told her something had come up and he had to work; he wouldn’t be able to see her that evening. “Someone smashed up Sir Peter’s car outside his home. With a scaffolding pole. He thinks it may be a write-off.”

  “His Jaguar? That’s awful. Why?”

  “Must have had some grudge against him, I suppose.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Can you imagine getting so angry with someone you’d smash up his car?”

  “Me? Goodness, no, I hate vandalism. It’s so mindless … I’d never do anything like that myself. What would be the point?”

  “It might make you feel better?”

  “I’m sure it would make me feel worse. I’m fairly hopeless at losing my temper, even.”

  Nick mused over this as he opened the microwave. Either some changes had occurred during duplication, or living rough for a week had had a profound effect on Beth Two’s personality. Or possibly there was a lot more going on under Beth’s placid, acquiescent surface than met the eye.

  Nick was waiting outside eating his makeshift meal when Ollie arrived driving a black cab. He crammed the last slice of pizza into his mouth as he got into the back.

  Ollie slid the glass partition open. “Where to, Nick?”

  “Beth’s. I reckon Beth Two’ll use the side roads. She should be more than halfway by now if she walked.”

  Ollie started a three point turn. “What if she got a bus?”

  “If she got it all the way she’ll be there. Start from Beth’s and work backwards.”

  “You’re the boss. Needle in a haystack, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve got a good feeling about this. Step on it, Olls.”

  “Okay, but spill the beans about her smashing up the Jag. I want to know what he said. Wish I’d been there to see his face.”

  Twenty minutes later Nick was gazing out of the taxi at Upper Street’s ramshackle succession of shops on the approach to the roundabout at Highbury Corner. People picked their way along pavements slippery with melting slush. Ollie signalled right and turned towards Canonbury.

  “Pull over!” Nick’s voice was urgent. “It’s her.”

  “I can’t. Where?” Their vehicle had slowed, surrounded by traffic.

  “Going past the Post Office.” Nick lowered the window and craned out. “She’s heading up the Holloway Road. I’m almost certain it was her.”

  “What’s she doing there? You said she’d head for Beth’s. I’ll go round again.”

  Nick had a sudden intuition. “She’s had enough of us. She’s leaving London.”

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 30

  Chase

  Icy temperatures had given way to milder, windy weather. Possessed by a single idea, I plodded doggedly along the pavements wet where many feet had worn away the thawing snow, on the first steps of the journey to Arisaig. I pictured the map; the A1 went right up to Darlington, then you had to bear west. All I had to do was keep walking. Maybe I could hitch a lift some of the way, but I was going to get there if I had to walk every single step in my Primark trainers.

  I’d thought it a good plan to stay in London and sort things out on my own; I’d been wrong. I couldn’t cope, but Dad would be able to. He’d know what to do. I just had to reach him. If I’d set off last Friday, I’d be in Scotland by now. If I got lucky with a lift, I’d arrive in good time for his birthday on Monday. I hadn’t even bought him a card, but the other me would have done. She’d ring and sing Happy Birthday as I always did, at eight o’clock to catch him before work. When I arrived I’d go to the vicarage and ask the vicar’s help to get to my father. Why hadn’t this occurred to me before? It was a beguilingly simple plan, which was what I needed, as my brain was no longer up to anything complex. It felt swimmy and slow.

  I came to a McDonald’s near Highbury Corner, with two litter bins outside. I went through each in turn, crouched and tipped the contents of all the discarded cartons into one, my mouth watering. I stood up too quickly, nearly fell over, and had to hang on to the bin till the giddiness stopped. An elderly woman gave me a pound – embarrassing but welcome, and walked off not wanting to be thanked.

  I ate some of the food and kept the rest for later, stuffing the carton into the pocket of my hoodie. I refused to consider where I would sleep. I’d manage – if there wasn’t anywhere, I’d walk all night.

  Halfway up the Holloway Road I noticed the taxi. It transferred to the bus lane, reduced speed, crawled a short distance then pulled in to the kerb ahead. No one got out. I watched it, my feet slowing. Of course, there could be a little old lady sitting inside, going through her purse with arthritic fingers for her fare, but I had a bad, bad feeling about that taxi. It sat, engine running; solid, shiny and black, not doing anything; waiting for me to draw level. My feet came to a halt of their own volition while I argued with myself. It was just a cab, nothing to do with me. Stupid to be so jumpy.

  The taxi’s door opened and I glimpsed the dark-haired man getting out.

  Run.

  Animal panic propelled me across the road, dodging between vehicles. A metre away, the widened eyes of a driver met mine – his brakes screeched, horns sounded and the van behind him crunched into his boot. I dodged round the car, along the pavement and headlong into the first side street I came to, looking for an escape route before he caught up with me. Nothing; solid Victorian terraces with front gardens a metre wide, and low walls you couldn’t hide behind. Bollards across a junction to the right – I ran between them, glancing behind me before I turned the corner. A man – the man – appeared at the end of the street, sprinting in my direction. He’d seen me.

  Fear galvanized my tired legs. There must be somewhere … terraced houses gave way to Victorian industrial buildings, tall with big windows. I came to a constru
ction site, scaffolded, open concrete floors rising above the hoarding, a narrow dark alleyway running between it and a derelict school next door. I dived down the alley, then saw a ten foot wall at the end; no way out. There was a door in the hoarding, ajar. Once inside, I pulled the door shut behind me so it appeared locked, and ran across a wide space and up concrete stairs to the first floor, my breath sobbing. The core of the building had walls for various rooms, a lift shaft, but nowhere at all to hide; the place was as empty as a child’s Lego house, lit dimly by the reflected orange light of the street lamps. I climbed the next flight of stairs, slowly now, treading softly and listening.

  I crept to the edge of the concrete floor, and peered cautiously over. Soft rain blew in my face. A platform of scaffolding planks and scaffold netting (part of my mind made the connection with the puzzling green net in the flats) impeded my view of the pavement. It was more frightening, not being able to see where the man was. Perhaps he had run straight past … I went to the next floor, and the next; the top floor, nowhere to go. Suddenly I remembered Rob saying, after we’d watched a forgettable thriller on television, how stupid the hero had been, trying to escape pursuit by going upwards; of course he’d ended up cornered. I looked around. No way out. I left the stair well and crossed to the far side. Below, on the corner of the empty school adjoining was a large balcony, its high stone balustrade curving round to the front of the building in the next street. Double glass doors would let me inside, if I could get to them, but the gap between the buildings was a couple of metres wide with a long drop.

  Wind eddied through the place, stirring the smell of dusty concrete. The silence was eerie. Perhaps it would be safe to leave soon, and double back to the A1 … Faint voices and laughter on the street got louder then gradually receded. Silence again. I’d count slowly to a hundred, and go. One, two, three, four, five –

  The dark-haired man burst in from the stairs and stopped, pointing a weapon at me. A yellow dot of light appeared on my chest. He called out, “This is a taser. Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

  Panicked, unthinking, I jumped off the edge of the floor on to the scaffolding platform a metre beneath, and fled without a strategy. Behind me an explosion no louder than a cracker being pulled, a muttered expletive, running steps. A ladder at the far end led to the platform below. I scurried down it, the planks above my head banging in turn as he followed. At the bottom I grabbed the ladder, toppled it flat, moved to the edge and leaned back to glance up. Two of them were silhouetted against a livid London sky, one clicking a cartridge into a taser. The other said quickly, “Don’t drop her there, Nick, she’d fall off.”

  He swung his leg over the rail and began to climb down the cross-braces towards me, while the man he’d called Nick stayed where he was, pointing the taser. I could run for a time, but there were two of them, with tasers, and they’d get me sooner or later; unless I was able to get over the two metre gap to the building next door – and I’d got a ladder to act as a bridge.

  I pushed it out into the void; the end bounced then lodged on the balustrade of the school building, slanting upwards. Only terror made me crawl, too frightened to walk upright, on to the ladder over the lethal drop. But they wouldn’t taser me while I was on it, nine or ten metres above street level. Metal treads hurt my knees and felt cold in the grip of hands slippery with sweat. The ladder creaked, wobbling and rocking, ready to tip up at any moment; queasy with fear, I could see the ground far below me through the rungs. Halfway across, the ladder steadied; the man had reached my level and was holding the end. Over. I turned, intending to yank away the ladder before the second man could follow me, then flung myself down behind the balustrade when Nick fired the taser again. I landed badly on one hand and gasped with sudden pain. I scurried on hands and knees towards the doors, seeing between the balusters Nick reloading while the other man stepped cautiously on to the ladder, and set off across it upright.

  Quick, before he gets to me or Nick shoots again. Keeping an eye on both Nick and the other man’s steady progress, my back to the door, I jabbed my right elbow through the glass and groped inside for the key. My hand was on it when a sudden movement arrested me. The ladder’s edge lifted, the man swayed and threw his arms up, then in slow motion he lost his balance, clutched at the ladder as he fell, grabbed empty air and hurtled downwards. The ladder cartwheeled and followed him. A thump, the clang of metal hitting a hard surface, and silence.

  “OLLIE!”

  Without a glance in my direction, Nick ran inside the building towards the stairs. I could just hear him pelting down them. Not wanting to, feeling sick, I walked to the balustrade and looked over. Darkness below made it difficult to pick out shapes; I strained my eyes, and made out a man’s outline blacker than the ground; no movement, and no sound. Shock froze me where I was, staring down.

  The door in the hoarding banged open and a small pool of torchlight moved around, picking out the pale face turned sideways, and a patch of blood on the ground. Nick pulled the ladder off the huddled body and crouched beside him. He called his name, and got no response. He put a hand to his neck for a few seconds, took off his jacket and laid it over him. I saw the bright screen of a mobile as he keyed in three numbers.

  I had to go. I turned once more for the glass door, and became aware that the pain in the middle finger of my left hand was radiating up my whole arm. From the second joint, my finger stuck out at the wrong angle; the hand was beginning to swell. I half unzipped my hoodie to form a makeshift sling, and rested my arm in it, then reached inside the door and turned the key with shaking fingers, letting myself into the abandoned building. I stumbled down dark flights of stairs, and searched school corridors till I came across an emergency exit, pushed the bar and emerged into the next street.

  As I walked away in the rain, I thought I could hear the distant wail of an ambulance.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 31

  Blame

  The waiting area was brightly-lit, with lines of chairs against the walls. Patients passed on trolleys pushed by porters; doctors and nurses bustled by. Next to Nick, Ollie’s parents sat silent, holding hands, and beyond them several of his brothers and sisters and their partners came and went and talked in low voices.

  Nick had been sitting there an hour, after the frantic bustle of the ambulance journey and their arrival in the hospital, and the wait wasn’t getting any better. He kept going over what had happened, and the more he thought about it, the more he blamed himself, till he could hardly look Ollie’s mother in the face. He should have made Oll wait so he could steady the ladder for him, or better still stopped him altogether. Why hadn’t he done that? Why? Because he’d got carried away by the chase, was so focused on getting her the third time with the taser he’d left Ollie to his own devices. What did catching her matter compared to Oll’s life? He relived that appalling moment as Oll lost his balance, the rushing down the stairs to get to him, dreading what he’d find … then knowing he was badly hurt, and waiting for the ambulance, a wait which seemed interminable, though they’d arrived within ten minutes.

  A woman in rumpled light blue scrubs and a white coat walked from where they’d taken Ollie to the reception desk. The family went quiet and watched as she spoke to the receptionist, her gaze on them, then came over. Everyone stood up at her approach.

  She smiled sympathetically round the group. “Hello, I’m Abigail Palmer, consultant here in emergency medicine. I’ve been looking after Ollie since he was admitted to the department earlier this evening. You’re his parents?”

  They nodded numbly. His father said, “How is he?”

  “Ollie’s condition has stabilised, which is good, but he’s still unconscious.”

  With an effort, visibly dreading the answer, his mother said in faint voice, “Will he be all right? Is he going to get better?”

  “Ollie suffered quite extensive injuries – it was a bad fall. But really, things might have been a great deal worse. Neurologically, he is
unconscious but responsive, and I’m cautiously optimistic that he will make a good recovery.” There was a slight stir as people holding their breath let it go. “He hit his head pretty hard, and has a skull fracture on the right side – but the bone’s not displaced, and the CT scan shows no damage to the brain itself, although it’s obviously been shaken up quite a bit. There’s a small collection of blood lying on the brain, but the neurosurgeons feel that there’s little value in attempting to drain it at this stage. The good news is Ollie’s nerves are working and his arms and legs are responding on both sides. The X-ray series of the neck shows no fracture. Ollie has broken some ribs and his right femur – the large bone in his thigh, that is. The orthopaedic trauma team was in this evening, operating on another case, and I asked them to take a look. The plan is to take Ollie to theatre shortly, and pin the femur tonight rather than wait. It’s early days yet, but as I say, I’m cautiously optimistic. Can you tell us anything more about how the accident happened?”

  Heads turned towards Nick. “We’re police officers. We were attempting to apprehend a suspect, chasing him through a building site, and Ollie slipped. It was the third floor.”

  “Did he hit anything on the way down?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did he land on?”

  “The ground – concrete.”

  “And he was perfectly well before the accident?” Nick nodded. “Not on any medicines or drugs? He hadn’t been drinking?”

  Nick shook his head to all these. Ollie’s mother said, “Can we see him?”

  “Of course. But be aware that he won’t respond to you. And he has a lot of tubes into him, including a tube to his lungs to keep his airway and breathing safe for the present. Would you like to come with me now, before he goes up to theatre? When he comes out he’ll be in the intensive therapy unit overnight. Probably the neurosurgical bay. I’ll show you where that is.”