Going Loco

by Lynne Truss

  ‘I suppose you guessed all this?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. She’d had an inkling he wasn’t Swedish. It wasn’t the same. ‘What happened?’ she squeaked. ‘Did he die?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Stefan. ‘But it wasn’t at all what we’d planned. Dying like that made it terribly difficult for me. Police came, and fire engines. I barely had time to flee the place before they arrived. Luckily Stefan had put all the relevant stuff in the briefcase already. Passport, bank account. The clothes were in a suitcase, and the keys to my Ferrari were in the hall. I staggered to the car and drove it a couple of miles before I dared to breathe. Then I got changed and drove like hell. I took a ferry to Denmark, drove to France. And here I am. Those albums were in the boot of the car. They’re all I’ve got to remind me of Lucky George. It’s awkward that I share an identity with a dead man whose demise was so spectacular, but since the alternative was to be scraped to the bone by mad people with no sense of humour, I can’t say I mind too much.

  ‘My only regret is mentioning Ingrid to Belinda. I can tell it hurts her. But somehow I could never contain my joy that Ingrid was locked up in Malmö. They found bits of me all over the house, apparently. Bits of other people, as well. I wasn’t the first, I knew that. Genetics in Sweden has never really recovered from the exposure. Ingrid was found to be wearing a locket containing a piece of my left buttock the size of a pound coin. Well, you can imagine the consternation.

  ‘So that’s my story,’ he said finally, with a smile. ‘I hope I haven’t been boring you?’

  Linda whimpered. ‘No,’ she said, in a very small voice.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell Belinda? She loves Stefan, you see. How can I tell her I’m somebody else? I love her so much.’

  ‘You can’t tell her.’

  Stefan massaged his elbow through his sleeve, but mercifully did not offer to show Linda the place where the anchovy was cut off.

  ‘And you don’t mind pretending to be Swedish all the time?’

  ‘No, it’s easy. Tell people you’re Swedish, and the amazing thing is, they never ask a follow-up question. Belinda has never asked me to tell her the Swedish word for anything, or wondered why I have no Swedish friends. No, it’s fine, fine.

  The only trouble is, Linda,’ – his voice lowered – ‘there’s been somebody watching me this week, and following me to work.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s young and smartly dressed. A boy with no hair. He’s been following me quite openly. He hasn’t learned very much, I know that. In fact, I think he knows only about my taste in Habitat comestibles. But if he comes near to uncovering anything about me – well, I don’t know how to say this without sounding absurdly melodramatic!’

  He laughed, and Linda waited. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Well, Linda, I can’t help it. I’ll have to protect Belinda. If he uncovers the slightest thing about what happened to me in Malmö, I think I’ll have to kill him.’

  Part Two

  One month later

  Seven

  Since they worked for the same newspaper, it was natural for Tanner and Leon not to recognize each other on the flight to the Malmö airport of Sturup. The newspaper world is like that. Leon had written about sport for the Daily Effort for fifteen years, and he had known altogether only eighteen colleagues by sight. Five had been sacked, and two had collapsed heroically at their desks during the World Cup in 1998 endeavouring to meet the first edition, so now he knew eleven. Leon loved the buzz and even the heartlessness of journalism. When his own time came to die, he cheerfully expected to be checked into heaven with Fleet Street’s highest hallelujah, ‘Copy fits, no queries.’

  However, since he and Tanner sat beside each other on three separate occasions that Monday morning in March – first in the City Airport’s café eating damp croissants, then in the departure lounge (both scanning the Effort with a professional eye and making ‘Tsk’ noises), and finally on the plane – it was odd that it took quite so long for them to speak.

  Leon, for his part, was lost in thought. Four weeks had passed since Maggie sent him away, but he had dwelt on it ever since. He had become a changed man – as his eleven close colleagues would tell you. His reports from all round the globe were now peppered with strange words (removed by the subs) like anal and penile. He washed his hair more often. He began one 600-word report from a UEFA Cup match with the words ‘We forget sometimes that many quite intelligent people aren’t remotely interested in football’, and had found next day to his astonishment that his philosophical musings were reduced to a functional photo caption.

  Oh, Maggie. He would lie awake at night in Budapest or Monaco, remembering the way she sighed and huffed whenever he spoke. She was so exotic, and spoke with such fabulous vowels. He was quite sure he’d once seen her in something, even though she’d told him it was impossible if he never went to the theatre. When he felt like cheering himself up, he would just remember that surprising moment when she kissed him rather violently in the car and whispered, ‘Come and stay the night.’ (Maggie had characteristically forgotten her own leading role in the seduction.)

  Meanwhile Tanner’s reasons for not speaking to Leon were even more prosaic. He was asleep. To return to the Stefan Johansson story was a bore, especially by comparison with the intervening month, which had been spent deputizing on Fashion. He’d had a wonderful time. When the fashion editor finally returned refreshed (and a bit green) from a French seaweed-therapy health farm, she discovered that in her absence the Effort had seriously commended men to wear pinstripe sarongs to the office, and that the editor had sent a memo to everybody in Features saying, ‘More stuff like this, please.’

  Jago had been impressed, not to say wildly jealous, and took the first opportunity to dispatch Tanner to Sweden, even though his passion for the clone theory had burned out long ago. No, sending Tanner to Malmö was now more a means of removing the young turk temporarily from the office. It is not unknown for people in Jago’s position to arrive at work one day and find a Tanner in their chair. To find a Tanner in his chair in a sarong, however, would be more than Jago Ripley could stand.

  So, whereas last week he’d been in Paris hobnobbing with tomorrow’s designers (also known as today’s bedwetters), now Tanner was heading for Malmö to meet a madwoman. No wonder, then, that bored by his demeaning mission and peeved that he’d been refused an upgrade by the airline, he no sooner settled into his seat than he produced a YSL-monogrammed satin blindfold, donned it, and started snoring.

  Maggie, why? thought Leon, as the plane taxied to the runway. He tossed aside his Swedish basketball magazine, and squirmed between the punitive arm-rests, which dug into his hips. A man of his size was bound to dislike air travel. His enormous body was now squeezed awkwardly into the restricting window-seat, while the long, spindly Tanner alongside could loll with space to spare.

  What did I do wrong? he continued. For the umpteenth time he rehearsed all the events of his wooing routine: it was driving him crazy. The fluffy racing car, the generous show of affection, the bottle of Cognac. Over in Oshbosh, he’d confided his interest in Maggie to a tabloid colleague called Jeff, who had advised him brilliantly, telling him to appear all the things he wasn’t: i.e. thoughtful, sexually self-confident and enormously entertaining. ‘You’re not exactly a self-starter, are you?’ Jeff had guessed, rather woundingly. ‘More of a human waterbed. Well, women don’t like that. Especially actresses. They like you to show fire and initiative and a decent profile.’

  Since Jeff had been married three times, once to a lady wrestler, Leon assumed he knew what he was talking about. The trouble with Leon was that, being (indeed) no self-starter, he always took advice if he considered it well meant, regardless of whether it was any cop.

  So he had burst into Maggie’s flat as Mister Personality – and look what happened. Maggie had virtually thrown him out. But perhaps she hadn’t
liked him in the first place, either. Recollecting that night at Jago’s, he was forced to remember he’d ignored the golden rule of social chitchat – that to be interested in motor-racing you must first own a pair of testicles. Also, he had told Maggie with some confidence that Rembrandt was not a household name, which now made him squirm to remember. It’s always the same when you’re categorical. Since making this silly statement, he had, of course, seen Rembrandt toothpaste in every corner of the globe.

  ‘She’s in love with that Swede, that’s the real trouble,’ he told himself. And no sooner had he formed this ridiculous, petulant theory than memories rushed to corroborate it. My God, here was the answer – at long last! In the car home after Jago’s, what had Maggie talked about? Stefan. At dinner, with whom had she swapped private jokes? Stefan. And in her bedroom – how blind can a broadsheet sports correspondent be? – whose picture did she have in an elaborate frame surrounded by fairy-lights? Well, it wasn’t Damon Hill. Maggie was in love with the Swede who talked funny. Who’d solemnly informed Maggie in front of everybody that she had been ‘the absolute dog’s bollocks’ in a play he’d seen. Leon shivered at the thought of him, this man who had captivated Maggie with his silvery tongue. Who was, moreover, a slim, blond, exotic academic; the very antithesis of a bulky, swarthy hack who was also a human novelty mattress.

  Tanner snored in his seat, annoyingly. Leon had taken care to reserve a position by the aisle, but had arrived to find Tanner already asleep in it, with all his paperwork piled beside him. Clambering over the gangly boy to the window, he’d had to move all the papers on to the floor. Now that the cabin staff were serving food and drink, should he attempt to wake this annoying man? Sleeping on such a short flight was preposterous. He’d taken off his shoes and everything.

  ‘Rolls, mate,’ he said companionably, in Tanner’s ear. By dint of weary experience he was an expert on airline food. ‘One roll with egg mayonnaise, and one roll with a slice of unidentifiable grey meat. And, seeing as it’s northern Europe, a small square of chocolate.’

  Tanner slept on.

  ‘Coffee, mate. Lukewarm coffee in a cup with a silly handle you can’t hold without sticking your elbow out so that it jabs into people.’

  Nothing. The plane tilted violently to the left, as it always will when liquid refreshment is served.

  ‘Coffee and rolls, mate. Whoopsadaisy. Nearly got some on your skirt.’

  But Tanner slept on, so Leon ate two lots of rolls and drank two lots of coffee, and was just fiddling under the seat for his laptop when a file of Tanner’s caught his eye. He blinked with astonishment. It had the name ‘Stefan Johansson’ on it – surely the name of Maggie’s preferred lover!

  He gasped. Could it be the same Stefan Johansson? No, no. There would be millions of them in Sweden. Millions. There were three, at least, in the national basketball team, a fact that had caused famous confusion on several occasions.

  Yet he couldn’t help it. He picked up the file, to examine it closer. And what he saw was:

  Stefan Johansson, the Full Story

  of a Cunning Clone

  or The Wild Goose Chase of the Century

  by Michael St John Tanner

  chief investigative reporter of the Daily Effort

  Leon frowned and gulped so hard that some of his egg mayonnaise came back. A cunning clone? What did that mean? A clone was a sheep, wasn’t it? Blimey, if Stefan was a sheep, he was very cunning indeed.

  Surreptitiously, still awkwardly bending to reach the floor, he opened the file and found that it was virtually empty. No dossier as such; certainly no manuscript. In fact, it had just three dog-eared items in it, which Leon – unable to control himself – memorized. The first was the address of a secure unit in Malmö’s university hospital, with the note ‘Ingrid J, Tues, 2.30’. The second was Laurie Spink’s home phone number scribbled on the back of Jago’s business card, with the note ‘Ring any time, we’re paying plenty.’ And the third was a sheet torn from a notebook, with ‘cookie’ and ‘nuts’ written on it in appalling shorthand. Leon perused all three items and grimaced.

  That he had never heard of Laurie Spink goes without saying. Leon was unashamedly ignorant of everything except sport. Once, at the time of a Northern Ireland summit, he had spotted the headline ‘Adams in talks’, and had been genuinely disappointed when the Adams in question turned out not to be Tony, the Arsenal and England defender, renegotiating his contract. So until genetic modification became an issue in Chinese swimming (a development not too far off, actually), he wouldn’t know the first thing about the subject that had been filling features pages for the last five years.

  As the plane banked and the seatbelt sign was illuminated, all Leon knew for certain was that he didn’t trust the Swede. Was he a cookie? Was he nuts? It would explain a lot. Beside him, Tanner removed his eyemask, folded it neatly, and placed it in his inside pocket. ‘Ah,’ he said airily, when he realized Leon was looking at him. ‘See you’re admiring my sarong.’

  He looked very young, Leon thought. Son of a successful father, no doubt. The sort of arrogant Oxbridge tyro who overtakes you professionally the same way Michael Schumacher overtakes people on the race-track – by ramming into them, sailing past, and getting away with it.

  ‘Excruciatingly uncomfortable,’ Tanner said, stretching his arms.

  ‘Mm,’ agreed Leon.

  ‘Idiots wouldn’t give me an upgrade.’

  ‘Right. You going into town?’ said Leon. ‘We could share a cab and get two receipts.’

  Tanner put his head on one side and thought about this proposal for about fifteen seconds – proof positive that he had been in journalism no more than a couple of months. ‘All right.’ He extended his hand, so that Leon could notice his bespoke cufflinks. ‘Tanner of the Effort, pleased to meet you.’

  Leon shook his hand enthusiastically. ‘Are you Tanner? That’s marvellous!’ he cried.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m with the Effort as well. Jago asked me to look out for you in Malmö. And here you are all along!’

  The Armadale Road job was proving extremely easy for Linda. In short, she loved it here. Belinda’s life had so many vacuums, all of which Linda was very, very glad to abhor. No wonder Belinda continued not to recognize her as a malevolent double like the ones in books, even when Linda posed for author photographs, liaised with a new agent, and signed a deal with a toy manufacturer. Except for those rather alarming wah-wah occasions when she threatened to walk out, Linda was a diligent, selfless, trouble-free sweetheart with a talent for home-making. Also she didn’t charge much, which was astonishing when you consider the extra-mural commitments. Had Mrs Holdsworth ever been asked to effect an impersonation of Belinda on the Late Review, double-time would have been mentioned almost at once.

  Only six weeks had passed since Linda’s arrival. It seemed hardly possible, when so much had happened. Linda continued to rustle up smoked haddock in filo pastry, also to shop and to clean. But she had been stupendous on television, which no one could have predicted. Smart as a whip, with an infectious giggle, and no swank – she was spotted at once as a natural. The producer was impressed: he mentioned the possibility of a documentary about literary doubles, to help promote the book. To top it all, he even invited the Johanssons to dinner; and what a night that was for everybody. Stefan looked breathtakingly gorgeous in a blue suit Linda bought in Bond Street. Linda had her hair cut by Nicky Clarke. And while her dear, wonderful ambassadors were engaged in their selfless mission on her behalf, Belinda worked contentedly all evening, amazed by her own good fortune.

  To be honest, Belinda did a rather wicked thing that night. When she heard her envoys return home by taxi at two a.m., laughing and drunk, she used her two-way listening device to eavesdrop. It was underhand, and reprehensible. But she was desperate to hear what (albeit vicariously) Belinda Johansson had been up to.

  ‘When Alan Yentob turned up, I thought I’d die!’ exploded Linda, filling a kettle.

&n
bsp; ‘But you were brilliant,’ said Stefan. ‘He thought you were great. And the Marquess of Bath wanting you for a wifelet! Wait till Belinda hears.’

  As Belinda now sat happily, day after day, at her lovely new desk, the only fly in her ointment was a niggling sensation of guilt connected with the quality of work she was producing. Because perhaps it was not enough, finally, to get your hands on Virginia Woolf’s pure and rounded pearls. Perhaps you needed a smidgen of Virginia Woolf’s talent as well. You had to be able to dash off The Waves, or Mrs Dalloway, or something. Sometimes she wished she could knock off another Verity book, to boost her confidence. She had ideas for Verity continually. But she took Linda’s point that she must stop churning them out. Linda was organizing a new uniform edition of her backlist, and had everything in hand.

  But this doubles book, how good was it really? What if it were second-rate tosh? What if duality were too complex a subject for her to reduce to seven types? Asking other people to sacrifice themselves in the cause of a bad book was an awful imposition. How would Linda feel when she found out she’d dedicated herself to such a hollow cause? How would Stefan feel, after suffering all those celebrity dinners with television controllers and the master of Longleat? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Oh well. For now, it was terrific. Except for lavatory breaks, Belinda had scarcely left her first-floor office for the last six weeks. She had not left the house at all, or been downstairs, and had mostly kept the thick curtains drawn all day to exclude draughts. Mother was right that she was putting on weight: since Linda had started thoughtfully supplying crisps and Twixes, she had thickened at the middle, but it was a development that did not much alarm her. Bodily things were such an irrelevance. Besides, everyone says that when you write a book, you put on a stone or two, in the way women formerly lost a tooth for each baby they bore. Her burgeoning waistline was a badge of her intellectual fecundity, therefore. It meant she was ‘with book’, which was lovely.