off, and he realises he will soon be retarded again, unable to think clearly—he will lose this brilliant new life that is so precious to him.
That’s how I felt, like that man, whatever his name was. I knew I only had a week, and I had to cram everything into it, all the things my life lacked—rest, adventure, being able to concentrate on myself, my own needs. More importantly, I felt I would be able to do everything I had to do more happily and more efficiently when I got home. I was certain my husband would never find out, and he hasn’t.
And then last night I saw the news. I saw a man who was supposed to be Mark Bretherick, and he wasn’t the same person. Maybe the man I met could only do the things he did—the things we both did—as somebody else, which would be understandable. But, whoever he was, he must have known the Bretherick family well because he knew so much about them—enough to convince me that he was one of them.
The story I’ve just told you might have nothing to do with the deaths of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick. If it doesn’t, I apologise for wasting your time. But I can’t get it out of my head that the two things might be connected. Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick died several days ago, and my husband tells me it’s been on the news and in the papers every day. I didn’t know this—I don’t think I’ve sat down with a newspaper since my first child was born—but if it’s true then the man I met in the hotel last year is bound to have seen the reports. He will have guessed that by now I know he isn’t who he told me he was. I know this sounds totally crazy, but yesterday somebody pushed me into the road and I was very nearly run over by a bus. Today I was followed by a red Alfa Romeo, registration YF52 DNB.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you the name of the hotel, or my name or any more than I’ve told you. If by any chance you find out who I am during the course of your investigation, please, please contact me at work and do not let my husband find out about any of this. My marriage would be over if he did.
A low, rasping voice from behind me jolts me out of my seat. ‘I see dead people,’ it says. I make an undignified whimpering noise as I whirl round to see who is behind me.
It’s Owen Mellish, my least favourite colleague. My body sags as if it’s been punctured. I turn back to my screen and quickly click on ‘close file’, feeling my face heat up. Owen is laughing loudly and slapping his knee, pleased to have given me a fright. His short, paunchy body, squeezed into a tight green T-shirt and ripped denim shorts, is sprawled in a swivel chair which he rocks back and forth with one of his trunk-like hairy legs.
‘I see dead people,’ he says again, louder, hoping to attract laughter from nearby colleagues. I want to rip out his stupid goatee beard hair by hair.
No one responds.
Owen gets impatient. ‘Haven’t you all seen The Sixth Sense ?’
We tell him that we have.
‘That woman that’s been on the news—Bretherick. The one who killed her sprog and herself—she’s a dead ringer for Sal, isn’t she? Spooky!’
I’ve never met anybody with a more irritating voice. Owen sounds, all the time, as if he badly needs to clear his throat. Every time he speaks you can hear the phlegm rattling inside him; it’s disgusting.
‘You will be dead soon if you don’t learn how to drive.’ He laughs. ‘Before, on the road. What was that all about?’ He is looking at his audience, not at me. He wants to belittle me in front of everybody. Like Pam Senior yesterday, yelling at me in the street. It must have been Owen who beeped his horn at me when I came to a standstill outside our building earlier.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘It’s all right.’ Owen pats me on the back. ‘I’d be in a state too if I were you. You know, legend has it that if your doppelgänger dies, you die too.’
‘Is that a fact?’ I grin at him to show that
That’s how I felt, like that man, whatever his name was. I knew I only had a week, and I had to cram everything into it, all the things my life lacked—rest, adventure, being able to concentrate on myself, my own needs. More importantly, I felt I would be able to do everything I had to do more happily and more efficiently when I got home. I was certain my husband would never find out, and he hasn’t.
And then last night I saw the news. I saw a man who was supposed to be Mark Bretherick, and he wasn’t the same person. Maybe the man I met could only do the things he did—the things we both did—as somebody else, which would be understandable. But, whoever he was, he must have known the Bretherick family well because he knew so much about them—enough to convince me that he was one of them.
The story I’ve just told you might have nothing to do with the deaths of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick. If it doesn’t, I apologise for wasting your time. But I can’t get it out of my head that the two things might be connected. Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick died several days ago, and my husband tells me it’s been on the news and in the papers every day. I didn’t know this—I don’t think I’ve sat down with a newspaper since my first child was born—but if it’s true then the man I met in the hotel last year is bound to have seen the reports. He will have guessed that by now I know he isn’t who he told me he was. I know this sounds totally crazy, but yesterday somebody pushed me into the road and I was very nearly run over by a bus. Today I was followed by a red Alfa Romeo, registration YF52 DNB.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you the name of the hotel, or my name or any more than I’ve told you. If by any chance you find out who I am during the course of your investigation, please, please contact me at work and do not let my husband find out about any of this. My marriage would be over if he did.
A low, rasping voice from behind me jolts me out of my seat. ‘I see dead people,’ it says. I make an undignified whimpering noise as I whirl round to see who is behind me.
It’s Owen Mellish, my least favourite colleague. My body sags as if it’s been punctured. I turn back to my screen and quickly click on ‘close file’, feeling my face heat up. Owen is laughing loudly and slapping his knee, pleased to have given me a fright. His short, paunchy body, squeezed into a tight green T-shirt and ripped denim shorts, is sprawled in a swivel chair which he rocks back and forth with one of his trunk-like hairy legs.
‘I see dead people,’ he says again, louder, hoping to attract laughter from nearby colleagues. I want to rip out his stupid goatee beard hair by hair.
No one responds.
Owen gets impatient. ‘Haven’t you all seen The Sixth Sense ?’
We tell him that we have.
‘That woman that’s been on the news—Bretherick. The one who killed her sprog and herself—she’s a dead ringer for Sal, isn’t she? Spooky!’
I’ve never met anybody with a more irritating voice. Owen sounds, all the time, as if he badly needs to clear his throat. Every time he speaks you can hear the phlegm rattling inside him; it’s disgusting.
‘You will be dead soon if you don’t learn how to drive.’ He laughs. ‘Before, on the road. What was that all about?’ He is looking at his audience, not at me. He wants to belittle me in front of everybody. Like Pam Senior yesterday, yelling at me in the street. It must have been Owen who beeped his horn at me when I came to a standstill outside our building earlier.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘It’s all right.’ Owen pats me on the back. ‘I’d be in a state too if I were you. You know, legend has it that if your doppelgänger dies, you die too.’
‘Is that a fact?’ I grin at him to show that
Similar Books
