A story by Jon Elkon and Gavin Daniel<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
According to legend, Queen <\/em>Elizabeth I<\/em><\/a> rested under an oak at the summit of One Tree Hill on her way to visit <\/em>Lewisham<\/em><\/a> in 1602. The current oak is the third on the site, planted in 1905. (Wikipedia)<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Brendan watched the Shard carefully, fully expecting it to take off any minute. From his bench on One Tree Hill in the South-East of London he could see the whole City laid out like a pincushion, the stark, ugly modern buildings insulting the sky. He took a swig from the vodka bottle, enveloped in its brown paper condom to hide it from park-keepers or police eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cFuck it\u201d, he said.<\/p>\n Basically, he thought, if this was a cliff I\u2019d fucking jump over it.<\/p>\n His mind was beginning to take refuge in the stifling, delicious mist of vodka. But before he took refuge, he was thinking \u2013 where is she now. Where is she<\/em>, also. She and she. Wife and daughter. What is she doing now. And what is she<\/em> doing now. Dead and alive. Dead and alive. Dead wife, disappeared daughter.<\/p>\n Fuck them.<\/p>\n I know what I\u2019m<\/em> doing now.<\/p>\n I\u2019m getting drunk is what I\u2019m doing.<\/p>\n Two weeks ago he was fired. He had made two resolutions at the time. One: to quit drinking. Two: to find daughter Sara and somehow make it up with her.<\/p>\n Instead here he was on a park bench with a bottle in his hand.<\/p>\n Fuck it.<\/p>\n It was like when he left the paras. Same thing. Resolution one, to quit drinking. Resolution two, to make everything nice with Megan and Sara. So what happened? He got drunk. He got kicked out. He got divorced. Megan died. That was eight years ago. Now it\u2019s too late.<\/p>\n She was such a lovely little thing, Sara. It was such a lovely little life.<\/p>\n Fucked it. Fucked everything.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Blood and bone. Shreds of brain. Desist! Delete!<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSo tell me, why are you drinking? Brendan looked up, shocked to see a man sitting next to him. He looked around. All the other benches were unoccupied. Why had some idiot sat next to him!<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s it to you? Mind your own business mate. This is my bench.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m only asking because you look ex-military to me. What was it? Paras?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow did you know! You paras?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, navy. I was a Commander. You?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOfficer eh? Nah, not so posh. I was a sergeant.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAfghanistan?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTen years. NI, Germany, Afghanistan, the lot.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo that\u2019s why you drink?<\/p>\n Brendan looked at his seat-companion carefully for the first time. He was relatively well-dressed, although there was something very slightly scuffed about the shoes; the jacket could have done with a good cleaning. Nevertheless the image was that of a gentleman. The clothes were certainly expensive, well cut. The accent was that of a counties Englishman, possibly public school. Posh.<\/p>\n Brendan had spent ten years following orders delivered in that accent, and he felt a moment\u2019s resentment, hackles rising just a little at the thought of being condescended to.<\/p>\n Until the warm miasma from the vodka put fog between them and he grinned. \u201cWould you like a shot?\u201d he asked, offering the bottle.<\/p>\n \u201cI haven\u2019t touched alcohol for ten years. It almost wrecked my life,\u201d the other man said.<\/p>\n \u201cWell no fear \u2018my friend\u2019,\u201d Brendan said, \u201cIt\u2019s certainly wrecking mine! and you know what? That\u2019s fine by me! \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLovely view,\u201d the man said. Then, after a sigh and a silence during which each man had their own thoughts about the City below, \u201cThink of all the money sitting down there. Think of all the men and even women, making the stuff, wasting the stuff\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHah!\u201d Brendan said. \u201cJust a tiny pinch of that stuff would save me from being kicked out of my flat! I hate the bastards.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cReally? What\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBrendan. Howdydoo. You?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cArnie. Good to meet a brother.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cArmy and Navy! Cousins<\/em> maybe\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, we both fought for our country. Brothers. Comrades in arms.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRight then. Brothers! Comrades!\u201d They formally shook hands.<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose I should salute, you being an officer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNonsense,\u201d Arnie smiled.<\/p>\n \u201cI shall call you Commander. Do you mind that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cVery good sergeant. I shall call you Brendan.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCheers!\u201d Brendan took a large glug of the vodka and felt safe, for the first time in years.<\/p>\n And so the two brothers sat on that bench in the late Summer sunshine, chatting, sharing their lives for a while. As Brendan took refuge more and more in his bottle, his story flowed out. He told the Commander about his terrible experiences in Afghanistan, about watching his commanding officer, who he revered, getting his brains shot out. How he had returned to the UK with a serious drinking problem. How Megan eventually gave him his marching orders, forcing him to leave his beloved daughter Sara, aged twelve at the time.<\/p>\n In return Arnie told his companion about his recent divorce from Marnie, how she had demanded half his wealth, and his fury at her serial unfaithfulness, which he only discovered on his discharge from the navy.<\/p>\n \u201cWomen, innit.\u201d Said Brendan. \u201cCome on mate, one drink won\u2019t hurt you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot a chance!\u201d Arnie waved the bottle away. \u201cLook at you,\u201d he said, \u201cYou\u2019re not much different to me. Same height, same build, but look at you! Look what the drink has done.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know sir,\u201d Brendan said. \u201cDon\u2019t think I don\u2019t know. This is my life now.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo tell me, Brendan. If your daughter were to see you now, what would she think?\u201d<\/p>\n The thought descended like a deep, damp shadow. Brendan shook his head. A tear escaped his eye, wiped away.<\/p>\n Arnie put an arm around Brendan\u2019s shoulders. \u201cListen here mate, listen carefully,\u201d he said. \u201cLook. I believe everything is fated. It was your fate to meet me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeh?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI am here for a reason. We can fix this!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeh? You a miracle worker?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll tell you something my lad. You<\/em> are the miracle worker. If you accept my guidance. Look, let\u2019s make a start. What do you say old boy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWith respect, Commander, I don\u2019t know you \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s think, right? What do you need? Rent, for starters. Seeing your daughter for the first time in years. All you need to do is to stop drinking. I will help you with all that. That\u2019s the deal.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe deal?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGive me your landlord\u2019s details. I will send him all your back rent, and a month\u2019s rent in advance. \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cWhy? Why do you do this?\u201d<\/p>\n Arnie shook the man gently, laughed. \u201cLook at this beautiful day as the first day of the rest of your life and don\u2019t look a gift horse in the mouth! We\u2019re brothers! Comrades! When I see a brother in distress it\u2019s my duty to help. I\u2019ve got the money. It\u2019s my duty. Simple.\u201d<\/p>\n Brendan turned and stared at his new friend. Looked back at the Shard. Then he stood up, and with a mighty heave, tried to hit the building with the bottle.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A month passed quickly. At Arnie\u2019s insistence Brendan taped a home-made poster to his wall, headed BRENDAN BATTLES BOTTLE. Here he recorded each and every day without drink and how he felt about it. Arnie visited frequently, and monitored progress closely.<\/p>\n And then one day Brendan found Sara. It was far easier than he thought it would be. He found her on Facebook.<\/p>\n The last time he saw her was at Megan\u2019s funeral. That day was a recurring nightmare. He would never forget how Sara, seeing him, had come up to him (she was only fifteen then) after the service to say \u201cYou killed her. You killed my mother. You killed her with your bottle and your divorce. I hate you! Why did you come. I hate you! Fuck off, father. Fuck off!\u201d<\/p>\n There had been no point in saying that Cancer killed Megan. Big C. Cancer which had spread from breast to spine to lymph nodes and torn out the life of his ex-wife. It felt as if the blame was his. The divorce had been bitter, synchronised as it was almost perfectly with the advance of the cancer. And her death followed the Decree Absolute like the full stop to a life sentence. After the funeral he withdrew almost gratefully from the bleak role of the weekend dad, leaving Sara to grow up with her loving grandparents who hated him with the same vehemence as he had felt from his daughter.<\/p>\n He hadn\u2019t seen her for eight years. Then he found her on Facebook.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When Arnie knocked on the door, he found Brendan drunk, sunken so deep into self-pity that he was almost submerged.<\/p>\n Arnie slapped him across the face. \u201cIdiot! What have you done to yourself!\u201d He took the man roughly by the arm and dragged him to the bathroom. He was furious. \u201cIdiot!\u201d He held his head down in the bath and turned on the cold shower. \u201cYou fuck! You\u2019ll ruin everything!\u201d He pushed Brendan\u2019s head into the ice-cold needles of water, shaking him, swearing at him.<\/p>\n Eventually he tired and Brendan collapsed on the floor, blood pouring from his nose.<\/p>\n \u201cJeeeeesus Christ\u201d Arnie said with disgust, ripping an arm\u2019s length of toilet paper from the roll and throwing it at his head.<\/p>\n Brendan held the paper to his nose and began to sob.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened? Why did you start drinking? Where did you get the money for the drink?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGot my Jobseeker\u2019s Allowance\u201d Brendan managed to say, between sobs. He then eventually explained how he had found Sara online, how that had brought up the bad memories, how the bottle had reappeared in his life.<\/p>\n \u201cListen to me now, Sergeant. This shall not pass. Look at us!\u201d He took Brendan roughly by the collar and drew him up, so that both their faces were reflected in the bathroom mirror. \u201cLook at us! We are not very different are we. Same bone structure, same type of hair. Agree?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s true\u201d Brendan said.<\/p>\n \u201cBut one big difference, right? I\u2019m fighting fit, right? You\u2019re fucked, right?\u201d<\/p>\n Brendan stared at his own addled, raddled, bloody face. \u201cYes sir, \u201c he said and started to weep.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t start that again. Clean yourself up. Come into the sitting room. And hurry up. I\u2019ve got an idea for you.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cPay attention now Sergeant.\u201d A cleaned-up somewhat sobered Brendan sat slumped on the grubby sofa. Arnie paced impatiently, turning on his heel to face his \u2013 what? Client? \u2013 when he wanted to emphasize a point. \u201cI sent your landlord your rent, as you know. I paid your back rent. You need money for next month. And the next month. And the next. Am I right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll get a job.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t make me laugh. What were you? Buildings superintendent? Security?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSecurity. They fired me for drink.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you think you\u2019ll get a reference? Don\u2019t make me laugh. No, listen to me. You think you\u2019re the only one with problems? Remember I told you my ex-wife is suing me for everything I\u2019ve got?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes sir.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo I need to disappear. So this is what we are going to do. You are going to give me your identity, and I am going to give you your life.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI \u2013 I dentity sir?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRemember our faces in the mirror? Show me your driving licence. You have one have you? Not lost it through the drinking?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI have one. Never needed it. I haven\u2019t owned a car for years.\u201d Brendan withdrew a battered wallet from a drawer, extracted a dog-eared driving licence from its depths.<\/p>\n Arnie inspected it carefully. \u201dI see I need to grow a beard. No problem that. Then I get a photograph, they will ask for one up-to date. You tell the DVLA you\u2019ve lost your licence and we change the address to mine. You sign.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not sure \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cYou want your bills paid, don\u2019t you? You want food. I have a lot of money, money\u2019s no problem.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMoney\u2019s no problem\u2026.\u201d Brendan echoed.<\/p>\n \u201cOnce I have the driver\u2019s licence, I need a bank account. For my lots of money. Where she can\u2019t get it, understand?\u201d<\/p>\n Brendan sniffed, black blood beginning to flow again. \u201cYes sir.\u201d He said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Blood and bone. Shreds of brain<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Gradually Brendan\u2019s dependence on his Commander grew, as his dependence on the bottle declined. In a way the one was replacing the other. He didn\u2019t suffer terribly from the symptoms of withdrawal. For most of it, Arnie was there, or if he couldn\u2019t make it he would sent a taciturn Italian, his \u201cfriend\u201d Spoletta, who would deposit food and medicines, and mysterious tablets to \u201cmake it better.\u201d<\/p>\n Gradually Brendan was returning to something like the person he would have been had he not taken refuge in drink. In a way he was becoming a new person, as if his former personality was dissolving. At first this was reassuring. Arnie was reassuring.<\/p>\n Arnie\u2019s violence in the bathroom really showed that he cared, didn\u2019t it? Yet now he knew that if he didn\u2019t follow orders there would be consequences. Probably in blood.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n In the mornings Brendan had developed the habit of going for his breakfast to Lindy\u2019s Caf\u00e9 around the corner from his flat. Here he could get a Full English \u2013 two eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, beans for \u00a34.90 in the company of a bizarre mixture of locals and hipsters enjoying the Full Veggie, cooked trendily in sunflower oil which, unbeknownst to them, had gained its delicious flavour from the bacon it had been used for several times. Here Brendan stared at the screen of his laptop, a gift from Arnie, and stared at the Facebook Page of his daughter Sara.<\/p>\n Did he dare make a friend request.<\/p>\n He had faced this dilemma ever since he had found the page online. And for the umpteenth time he went through Sara\u2019s photos. There was Megan with Sara as a child. There were Sara\u2019s friends, maybe a boyfriend? Ex boyfriend? School friends. There were no pictures of him. Very few personal details, but the page had apparently no privacy control, and seemed to have been neglected for at least two years, there were no recent posts at all.<\/p>\n It said, \u201cLives in Clapham\u201d. Clapham! Down the road a bit. Clapham!<\/p>\n \u201cChris! Fuck me, it\u2019s Chris!\u201d A lean, dark Asian man had come up to him and was whispering urgently in his ear.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat – ?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat the hell are you doing here man! Get out! They\u2019re looking for you everywhere. I tell you, Armed lot as well!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not Chris,\u201d Brendan said.<\/p>\n \u201cYeh yeh not Chris, fine, not Chris. Whatever. Just get out of here. Quick!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFuck off mister. I don\u2019t know you. I\u2019m not Chris. I\u2019m having my breakfast,\u201d Brendan said, and once the man had disappeared, went back to his screen, his dilemma, and his sausages.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n That afternoon Arnie appeared at the flat, as he had so often that week. \u201cHow are we doing sergeant?\u201d he asked. \u201cClean today?\u201d He inspected the poster on the wall upon which Brendan had written \u201cBreakfast. Facebook. Zero alcohol. \u201cIs this true? You know what happens if you start lying to me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes Commander!\u201d Brendan gave a cheery mock salute. \u201cClean as a whistle today. I swear it.\u201d<\/p>\n Arnie sat next to him on the sofa, patted him on the shoulder. \u201cYou know what? I\u2019m starting to feel just a little \u2013 just a little proud<\/em> of you Brendan. You\u2019re even putting on weight! Let\u2019s have a look.\u201d<\/p>\n The two men went to the bathroom and Brendan, after removing his jacket, stepped on the bathroom scale. He weighed just under two hundred pounds.<\/p>\n \u201cImprovement!\u201d Arnie said, and replaced Brendan on the scales. He weighed twenty pounds more. \u201cWe\u2019re getting there eh? I\u2019m slimming, you\u2019re putting on weight, very soon we\u2019ll weigh the same. Brothers, eh?\u201d He laughed. \u201cSo how are we facially, let\u2019s see.\u201d They faced the mirror together. Side by side, the differences between the two had diminished. Arnie now had a neat, white trimmed beard which was almost identical to Brendan\u2019s, when they met. If more neatly trimmed. Brendan\u2019s beard had been carefully removed, revealing a face which was eerily similar to Arnie\u2019s at that time. \u201cNot bad,\u201d he said. \u201cI think I\u2019m ready for the photo booth. What do you say?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not \u2026\u201d Brendan said. \u201cI\u2019ll get \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cLook here Sergeant! I told you and I told you, there\u2019s no risk to you!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not I\u2019m ungrateful to you sir \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cYou are! You are! You\u2019re fucking ungrateful!\u201d Arnie grabbed a handful of shirt and forced Brendan back into the sitting room, where he roughly pushed him down onto the sofa. \u201cYou don\u2019t get cold feet on me now, right? Who\u2019s paid your rent?<\/p>\n \u201cYou, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s stopped you drinking?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou sir.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s going to help you find your daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c\u2026You are\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes I am.\u201d He sat on the armchair facing Brendan. \u201cSO, \u201c his tone changed instantly from threatening to concerned. \u201cWhere are we on that project?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI told you I found her on Facebook.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s an old page. Says she lives in Clapham. She doesn\u2019t. My people checked. Don\u2019t worry. We will find her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m grateful sir. I was wondering, should I make a friend request?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOn no account. I will find her.\u201d<\/p>\n Brendan sighed. He had resolved to trust this man, this angel who had suddenly appeared in his life, apparently to make everything better. Apparently. Yet he knew there was a price to pay. And that made him feel distinctly uneasy.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen we find her,\u201d he said, \u201cyou\u2019ll be ready to face her. Now make me tea,\u201d Arnie commanded. \u201cGot cake?\u201d<\/p>\n Brendan rose, went to the grubby kitchen where a tired kettle sat on the gas hob, filled it with water, began the Squaddie\u2019s holy tea ritual.<\/p>\n Every time he made tea, a spark from Afghanistan flared in his mind. He brushed it away.<\/p>\n Cake. Mr Kipling\u2019s finest. Only the best for the Commander. \u201cI\u2019m not ready. No way am I ready,\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n \u201cAren\u2019t you having one?\u201d Arnie asked as tea and cake appeared on the table at his side.<\/p>\n \u201cHad one at the Caf\u00e9. Enough. Or I pee all morning.\u201d<\/p>\n Arnie laughed.<\/p>\n \u201cFunny thing at the caf\u00e9,\u201d Brendan said. \u201cChap comes up to me, calls me Chris \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cWhat – ?\u201d A drop of tea escaped from the mug and leapt to its death onto Arnie\u2019s black trousers.<\/p>\n \u201cTalked to me like he knew me. Warned me to get away. Said people were looking for me. I told him \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cWhat. What did you tell him.\u201d Arnie put the tea down next to him. \u201cWhat did you tell him<\/em>.\u201d He repeated more slowly.<\/p>\n \u201cI said, I\u2019m not Chris. Mistaken identity. Finished my breakfast.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen? Then what did he do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe went away. I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus!\u201d Arnie said. \u201cWhat the fuck<\/em>! What are you doing talking to strange people?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe<\/em> talked to me<\/em> – !\u201d Brendan said defensively, cringing back.<\/p>\n \u201cDescribe him. Describe this chap.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTall, Asian, dark. Big nose.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFuckkkkkk\u2026..\u201d Arnie sank into thought for a moment. Then, with resolution, \u201cListen to me. That Chris chap is dangerous. I know him. If that chap thinks you\u2019re Chris he\u2019ll tell \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cThat wasn\u2019t \u2013 \u201c Brendan was trying to say, the man had seemed to want to protect him. Or rather, to protect Chris, whoever he was.<\/p>\n \u201cTrust me. Do you trust me \u2013 do you trust me<\/em>???\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes sir.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNow you listen to me carefully. From now on you\u2019re not going out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut sir \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cNo buts! Just for a while, just until this \u2013 Chris \u2013 is sorted out, clear? Too dangerous for you. I\u2019ll get all your food, whatever you need, delivered, understand? You\u2019re safe here. I\u2019ll take care of you. Safely. Trust me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cI said no buts! No argument! I know what I\u2019m doing!\u201d<\/p>\n Silence while each man swallowed, breathed, thought.<\/p>\n \u201cYes sir,\u201d Brendan said at last.<\/p>\n \u201cNow my lad, let\u2019s get some paperwork done. Bank account. Insurance. Here we go!\u201d He removed a sheaf of papers from a Waitrose carrier bag and dropped them on the sofa table. \u201cNow \u2013 signature practise, eh?!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Cabin fever. Solitary confinement. Dependency. A fifty-four year old ex para does not enjoy being trapped. Especially when he is not tied to earth by a bottle. Brendan had stepped out of planes, roamed over foreign lands, had sex with women whose names or language he would never know. His motto: what Megan don\u2019t know don\u2019t hurt her. He had caroused with brothers-in arms, he had held their heads on his lap as they died\u2026blood and bone\u2026.<\/p>\n He had become used to being alone for ages. Alone, yes. Confined, no.<\/p>\n Now he was entirely reliant on food and supplies delivered by Spoletta or Arnie, unable to go to the launderette or the caf\u00e9, Brendan was gradually, as he expressed it, going nuts.<\/p>\n The computer was his only connection to the outside world. Luckily he had broadband. When he wasn\u2019t staring at Sara\u2019s Facebook page, his mind roamed Google world. He surfed his whims, starting with history. At what age did Alexander the Great die? Where was Caesar born? What happened at the Battle of Waterloo?<\/p>\n He read avidly, downloading books on Kindle. He read Xenophon, Herodotus.<\/p>\n But Brendan was going nuts.<\/p>\n The door knocked at him. Opened with a key. Spoletta, with groceries.<\/p>\n \u201cI put in kitchen,\u201d the man said. \u201cChris he say to tell you, he got news about Sara. He tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s Chris? What news?\u201d Brendan asked.<\/p>\n \u201cChris. You know, Arnold. Huh? I put here. I think maybe address.\u201d Spoletta heaved the two heavy Waitrose bags onto the work-surface of the kitchen.<\/p>\n Brendan\u2019s mind slowly emerged from the depths of fourth-century Athens. What? And wandered back to the cafe and the sweaty Asian who had called him Chris. What?! Address? Chris? Sara?<\/p>\n Unravelling needed.<\/p>\n Priorities needed.<\/p>\n \u2018Chris\u2019. Sara.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d he said suddenly coming to a resolution. \u201cYes,\u201d he said, changing his mind. \u201cTell me something \u2013 \u201c as the man started to disappear through the door. \u201cSo what did Chris say exactly?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. Maybe address.\u201d And like a spectre the man dissolved into the corridor, the door silently sneaking back into its frame.<\/p>\n So that was Arnie\u2019s real name. Chris. Obvious! That was why \u2013 the whole caf\u00e9 incident explained, so obvious. The man who thought he was Chris because he had shaved his beard off, because he had put on weight. \u2018Chris\u2019 is Arnie! Because he was looking more and more like \u2018Arnie\u2019 every day, or rather Arnie when they first met. Idiot! So who the hell was looking for him? \u201cArmed\u201d! Why? All that story about a divorce, a wife who wanted his money \u2013 all of that was a lie! Armed men were looking for him.<\/p>\n Who?<\/p>\n Two possible answers. Criminal gangs. Or police.<\/p>\n Jesus.<\/p>\n Now what.<\/p>\n \u2018Chris\u2019 had Sara\u2019s address, knew how to contact her. \u2018Chris\u2019 was most likely on the run from someone. Someone dangerous? Why? Now, with his name and identity, running around free as a bird while he was here, under house arrest, unable to go anywhere, now landed with the face and body of the man who had virtually saved his life and could give him what he most wanted and needed.<\/p>\n What if \u2013 what if \u2018Chris\u2019 had transformed him into the perfect copy of himself, so that when he was ready, he would be let out to get shot? So that whoever was searching for the real Chris would stop looking! And then he, as Brendan, would live a full and happy life on his millions?<\/p>\n Jeeeeezus. He had even mastered Brendan\u2019s signature, as well as his voice! His whole look. The only thing left was his daughter\u2026.<\/p>\n Had he already contacted her? As Brendan?<\/p>\n Hand shaking, he went on to the DVLA website. Logged in. Went to \u201cChange details\u201d. \u201cChange address\u201d. There it was. Arnie\u2019s address, under Brendan\u2019s name.<\/p>\n Blast the man. If he\u2019d been allowed a phone, he would have phoned him there and then to tell him he knew what he was up to!<\/p>\n He would go there. He would confront him. He would tell him to fuck off proper. Man to man. He would tell him to get out of his life. And my God, to leave Sara alone!<\/p>\n He would go armed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Late Summer had finally taken refuge in some remote corner of the Shetlands and a Late Autumn had come out of hiding, bringing skies of a brash blue and a chilly wind. As he exited the tube at Baron\u2019s Court, a vituperative blast presaging winter tickled its way into Brendan\u2019s throat and chest, making him wish he\u2019d brought a scarf.<\/p>\n He had planned out the short walk to Castletown Road on Google Maps at home, but he realised he didn\u2019t know which road to take. So he popped into a shop to ask.<\/p>\n A branch of Oddbins.<\/p>\n Surrounded by alcohol.<\/p>\n He was shaking as approached the pretty assistant.<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t know what to say.<\/p>\n He was shaking.<\/p>\n Only one thing could put that right.<\/p>\n \u201cI need a bottle of Vodka,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Brendan sat on the bench outside Baron\u2019s Court station and felt the good old warmth, the comforting refuge of Vodka, seep through him. The shaking steadied as the bottle grew lighter. At last. Slowly he began to realise what he would do, what he would say. He touched the knife in his pocket. He felt somewhat stupid to have brought it now. He would try to keep it all sensible. He would say, thank you but I want my life back. Please keep out of my life. Go take someone else\u2019s life, or I\u2019ll be going to the cops. I\u2019ll be putting you in prison for what you\u2019ve done to me, \u2018Chris\u2019, or whatever your name is. Identity theft is a crime, right?<\/p>\n Eventually, he stood up. He felt woozy, unsteady. He hadn\u2019t had a drink for six weeks, he wasn\u2019t used to it. He sat down again, stood up again. Right! Get this done. Get this over.<\/p>\n He vaguely remembered the Oddbins woman\u2019s directions. Turn right. Second left. Easy. Not easy. Easy.<\/p>\n Such a smart neighbourhood this. The houses all tarted up, every blade of grass in place, every smart shrub cosy in its terracotta pot, every car worth more money than all the cars he had ever owned, added together. The contrast with his miserable street and his grubby flat was horrible. He felt his resentment rising again. There he was, stuck like a prisoner with his grime and his tat, so that \u2018Chris\u2019 could live here!<\/p>\n 21 Castletown Road had three flats, three door buzzers. One had his name on it. B. Leahy First Floor. He pushed the button. No reply.<\/p>\n The one thing he hadn\u2019t calculated \u2013 that \u2018Chris\u2019 would be out.<\/p>\n \u201cHello Brendan,\u201d a smart elderly woman came towards him up the short path. \u201cForgotten your key have you?\u201d She smiled, easily. \u201cMy word you look better without that beard. Here you are \u2013 \u201c and she unlocked the door, ushered him in.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks\u201d he muttered as she let herself into her ground floor flat.<\/p>\n \u201cHave a nice day\u201d she said and he mounted the stairs to the first floor.<\/p>\n Now what.<\/p>\n He pushed the door. Locked, of course.<\/p>\n Bastard. Now what. Wait?<\/p>\n No! He didn\u2019t want to wait. The door had two locks, a Chubb, and a Yale. Idly, he took the knife out of his pocket and slipped it between door and frame, where the Yale lock was. Idly, he slipped and pushed. He had seen a locksmith doing this once, when he had lost his key ages ago. The locksmith had used a stiff plastic card, like a credit card. He didn\u2019t have a credit card. The lock yielded. The door opened. The Chubb hadn\u2019t been used. Shit! Did that mean \u2018Chris\u2019 had just slipped out, for milk or fags or something, not bothering to lock properly? That he\u2019d be back any minute?<\/p>\n The living room, onto which the door had opened was pristine, except for a coat lying carelessly on the sofa. A mug of cold half-drunk coffee was on the sofa table.<\/p>\n He\u2019d wait.<\/p>\n Bloody surprise the guy! He\u2019s come in expecting nothing! Then what would he see?<\/p>\n Brendan pulled the bottle from his voluminous pocket, took a deep draft. Don\u2019t need you no more interfering with my life! From now I do what I fucking want! You bastard. Give me my life back.<\/p>\n He drank more.<\/p>\n Woozy. Woozy, not seeing straight.<\/p>\n Sara.<\/p>\n Her name came to him with a massive sigh of self-pity, which turned into a sob. Fuck him! It just didn\u2019t matter any more. Yes it did. Look what he\u2019s done. Stole my life.<\/p>\n He stood, angrily, dropped the bottle onto the table. Toilet. Must piss. Toilet.<\/p>\n A door, a bedroom. On the bed was a suitcase, open, overflowing with bank notes. On the bed, two guns: a Walther pistol and a semi-automatic rifle, with a silencer.<\/p>\n What!<\/p>\n Piss first, think second.<\/p>\n The bathroom en suite. He whipped it out, splashed piss more-or less into the toilet.<\/p>\n An arm was around his neck, choking. Chris. \u201cYou fucking half wit!\u201d the man shouted, pulling him backwards onto the bed, piss spraying everywhere. What the HELL are you doing here! What the FUCK \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201cLeaveme\u2026\u201d Brendan tried to say \u201cChris! Leaveme!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat the \u2013 what do you know \u2013 AND you\u2019re DRUNK! I don\u2019t believe it! You are such a damned loser. How did you \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n The two men like entwined twins, writhing on the bed like lovers, between guns and money, like wrestlers in some dreadfully unfair contest, the one with the beard obviously with the advantage.<\/p>\n \u201cYou stole my life! I want it back!\u201d Brendan said. \u201cI want it back\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you know. Tell me what you know, idiot. Damn it sergeant!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know what I see! You took my life so you could live like a king! Let me go! Let me go! I\u2019m going to get the police – \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou are NOT going to do that! Understand? You are not going to do that!<\/p>\n \u201cLet me go!\u201d Brendan tries to writhe free, takes the knife from his pocket.<\/p>\n They writhe, they struggle. Finally Chris twists the knife out of Brendan\u2019s hand. It falls to the soft carpet without a sound.<\/p>\n Exhausted, Brendan collapses onto the bed. He has lost the will to fight. He is shaking with sobs.<\/p>\n Chris sits next to him.<\/p>\n \u201cAll right, sergeant?\u201d he asks, putting a comforting arm around him.<\/p>\n \u201cNot good, Commander.\u201d Brendan answers.<\/p>\n They are side-by side, facing the dressing-table mirror.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at us,\u201d Chris says, \u201cTwo sides of the same coin.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOnly it\u2019s me, all fucked up. And you, with everything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know what has to happen now, sergeant.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes Commander. I know. It\u2019s all right. Just promise me one thing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI promise.\u201d<\/p>\n The Commander reaches his arm around Brendan\u2019s head and with one swift twist, breaks his neck.<\/p>\n The Commander\u2019s eyes stream with tears.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n One Tree Hill. A bench with a superb view of the City of London. Once again the sun shines on the scene, completely oblivious of the teeming creatures desperately fighting, fucking and fretting below. It is midday and a beautiful well-groomed young lady sits nervously, fiddling with her mobile phone, glancing now and then at the Shard and its acolytes clustered below.<\/p>\n A man approaches. He is in his fifties, also very well groomed. He is not nervous. \u201cSara?\u201d<\/p>\n She stands. \u201cFather?\u201d<\/p>\n They embrace.<\/p>\n END<\/p>\n <\/p>\n\n
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