Another Me (6 page)

Suddenly, I was given a dunt that almost sent me flying off my seat. I looked up and Dawn was mouthing at me, wide-eyed, urging me to listen to the teacher. I looked up at him, baffled, and then I did listen. As I realised what he was talking about, my eyes went as wide as Dawn's.

Clones.

He was talking about clones.

How, by taking a simple DNA sample from one creature we now had the technology to copy that creature exactly.

Hair by hair, bone by bone, cell by cell.

‘Can they do it with human beings, sir?' I called out,
interrupting him and taking the whole class by surprise. Taking myself by surprise too. I was thinking aloud.

Mr Hardie blinked, surprised too by my interest. ‘In the realms of science fiction, yes. They've been cloning people for years in movies. But so far, in real life, it's never been done.'

‘As far as you know?' I said.

There was a giggle from the back of the class. Monica. ‘Maybe that's the answer, Fay. You've been cloned.' She laughed like a horse and explained to the teacher. ‘You see, sir, our Fay here, keeps thinking somebody's impersonating her. Pretending to be her. As if one of her wasn't enough.' She made a face at me when she said that. I swear if she'd been sitting close to me I would have slapped her. ‘Do you think that's the answer, sir? Has she been cloned?'

Mr Hardie answered kindly. ‘Probably there is a much more mundane explanation. Mistaken identity, Fay. Happens all the time. That's why the reliability of eye witness identification is being called into question.'

He smiled at me. But I had to know more, in spite of the amusement I was causing for Monica and her friends. ‘But, sir, if they could actually clone human beings, could you ever tell the difference?'

He sat up on his desk. ‘Let's put it this way, Fay. If I was to clone you, no one could tell the difference. Not at first. But if your clone wore different clothes, cut her hair in a different style, or dyed it a different colour, if she started developing different habits to you, smoking, biting her nails. You'd soon hardly see the resemblance. Do you understand?'

I thought I did. A clone was only your mirror image in those first few seconds of creation. After that, it took on its own identity, became its own person.

As we sat in the auditorium for rehearsals that night Monica couldn't resist having another go at me. ‘You really are pathetic. Clones! Do you realise how stupid you sounded?'

‘What is all this anyway?' Drew Fraser came over and joined in. ‘I'm really fascinated by the idea of clones. I'm always looking up things like that on the Internet.' He was staring at me as if for the first time. ‘I mean ... are you the real Fay, or the clone? And how would I know which was which?'

I was sure he was making a fool of me. ‘Stop talking as if I was someone out of one of your stupid horror films!'

‘I'm trying to be serious for once. I really am interested.'

Of course I didn't believe that. I knew Drew Fraser too well.

‘Anyway, why would you care!' I snapped at him, and began to push past him.

‘Because I'm your husband, Lady Macbeth! It's my business to know!' he shouted after me, and that had everybody laughing.

Everybody except me, and Monica. I could hear her say loudly to Drew, ‘It would be easy to tell which was which, Drew, son. The clone would be the one who could remember the lines.'

Now, another idea had taken hold. Clones. Was that the answer? Had I been cloned without even knowing it?

I decided that as soon as I had the chance I would raid the library, read everything I could about cloning and find out more.

Next morning I left for school after Mum and Dad had gone off to work. In the hall I looked at myself in the mirror, at my shiny fair hair, at my bright blue eyes. It was hard to believe there was another, somewhere, just like me. Exactly like me. Almost impossible to believe.

But it had to be true. There was no other explanation.

As I came out of our house the door leading to the stairs was just banging shut. I could hear footsteps on the landing. Oh no, I thought, please don't let the lift be broken again!

But to my relief there was Mrs Brennan, waiting patiently. It was Tuesday, her pension day.

‘The lift's definitely working?' I asked her.

She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, talking to me now are you? I've just told you the lift was working and you ignored me. In this day and age manners seem to be a thing of the past.'

I grew cold. ‘You told me—? When?'

She looked annoyed now. ‘Just now.' She pointed a finger to the stairway doors. ‘Did you change your mind about going down the stairs?'

Just now. Going down the stairs.

I had seen the door banging shut. Heard the footsteps.

Her. The other one.

I gasped. That must mean . . .
she
was there now, on the stairs.

Mrs Brennan stepped towards me. ‘What's the matter, hen? You've gone as white as death.'

But already I was turning away from her, ignoring her. This time, if I ran, I would catch her. I was going to find out the truth.

I hauled open the door to the stairs and listened.

Clip-clip-clip. Feet on the stairs, tapping out their descent. Shoes just like mine.

I stepped on to the landing and looked over the railing. From here I could see all thirteen floors spiralling down through the gloomy stairwell.

My heart went into overdrive. There was a hand on the stair railing, only two floors down. A girl's hand. A hand like mine. I jumped back, in that second afraid of what I might come face to face with. But only for a second. It had to be confronted. This had to be finished. Here in the echoing stairwell was surely better than a pitch black school corridor at night.

All at once, I was running, my feet clattering wildly on the stairs. Floor by floor. Flight by flight. Swinging myself round on each landing. Faster and faster. As I speeded up, it seemed so did she.

At the ninth floor I stopped suddenly, my hand poised on the railing. I glanced down. She had stopped too. This other one, and I could see her delicate hand on the railing exactly as mine was. It took all my courage to call out to her.

‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?'

As I waited for her answer I felt as if my heart had stopped beating.

‘Who are you?' I screamed again.

It seemed to me I heard a muffled giggle. Was it my imagination, or was she laughing at me?

Whatever it was it made me angry and my anger spurred me on. I ran faster than ever down the stairs though my legs were aching, and I could feel the blood pounding in my temples. But I would catch her. I had to.

Yet, no matter how fast I ran, she ran every bit as fast.

I stopped again at the fourth floor for only a second, and glanced down. Was she closer now? Was I catching up with her? This time I didn't call out. I wasn't going to waste my breath. I ran even faster.

Down and down.

Still I couldn't catch her.

‘Stop!' I yelled breathlessly. ‘Stop! Let me see you.'

I was so afraid I was going to miss her again.

Knew that I was.

I heard her feet on the last step, saw the sunlight flood in as the street door was pushed open. Heard her footsteps echoing into the distance as they hurried into the street.

I was only seconds behind her, only seconds pushing through into the street. I was almost in tears. She must be somewhere close.

The street was busy. Pupils just like me hurrying to school. Mothers pushing toddlers in prams towards the shops. Pensioners heading for the post office.

I grabbed an elderly woman standing right outside. ‘Did you see her? Did you?'

The woman, a cigarette dangling from her lips, snarled at me. ‘See who?'

‘A girl like me, coming out of there.' I pointed at the doors. ‘You must have seen her. She must have run past you.'

The woman answered gruffly, ‘I never saw nobody, right?'

Mrs Brennan appeared from the entrance to the flats. I ran to her. ‘Mrs Brennan, that wasn't me you saw up there. It was somebody else.'

But she wouldn't believe me either. ‘'Course it was you. I'd recognise you anywhere.' She flicked at my hair with affection. ‘Could never mistake that lovely bouncy hair of yours.'

No one would ever believe me.

But then I realised what I had to do. ‘Well, you'll never make that mistake again!' I screamed at her.

I ran for the lift, and punched at the buttons angrily. Again, my anger was replacing my fear and when I
reached my floor I flew out of the lift and into the flat. I made straight for the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror.

At me.

Not this other one.

ME!

I lifted the scissors Mum kept in the cabinet above the sink.

No one would ever mistake her for me again.

‘What have you done to your hair!' Dawn and Kaylie looked horrified when I came running into the playground during morning break. Horrifed that my soft, golden hair now stood out in spikey, unsightly tufts on my head. I had cut it. I had chopped it. I put up my hand to flatten it down, but it just kept springing up again.

Kaylie came over and hugged me. ‘What have you done?' she said again.

‘I saw her,' I began, then, remembering I hadn't actually seen her, I corrected myself. ‘I
almost
saw her. Almost caught her. Mrs Brennan saw her. She spoke to her. She thought it was me.'

Dawn tutted. ‘She's an old bag. Blind as a bat. She was probably just mistaken.'

I turned on her angrily. ‘Everybody can't be
mistaken. There
is
somebody else.'

They were looking at me as if they didn't know me, almost as if they were afraid of me.

‘What's happening to you, Fay?' Kaylie asked.

I touched my hair. ‘You remember what Mr Hardie was saying about clones? Well, I've changed my hair. Her hair is soft and shiny, but mine isn't anymore. Now nobody – nobody! – will mistake her for me again.'

Drew Fraser stepped from behind a corner of the playground. He had been listening. ‘Well, there's no chance of two girls having a haircut from hell like that.'

I pushed him so hard he almost stumbled. ‘Shut up you!'

‘Fay. Come to my office right now.' Mrs Williams' voice behind me was brisk and angry. She led me silently, with clipped heels and a tight mouth, to her office. She didn't say a word until I'd sat down and she'd closed the door. ‘Now, Fay. You're late. Why?'

I couldn't tell her the truth. She wouldn't understand. So the lie came easily. ‘I was stuck in the lift. I'm sorry, Mrs Williams.'

The problems with our lift were notorious but I still don't think she believed me.

‘And this?' She flicked a tuft of my hair. ‘Were you
stuck in the lift with a pair of shears?'

That was more difficult to explain, so this time I didn't try. ‘There's someone pretending to be me, Mrs Williams. People keep seeing her. They think it's me. So I thought . . . if I cut my hair we'd look different. She wouldn't be mistaken for me again.'

She looked bewildered. Wondering why someone being mistaken for you should call for such drastic action. ‘Yes, I've heard you've been saying that.' As if I was making it up. ‘Fay, would you like to talk about this?'

I was on my feet in a second. ‘Why? Because I'm late for school? Because I cut my hair? Does that mean I'm potty?'

She sighed. ‘You know it's more than that. It's your behaviour lately. A few of the teachers have commented on it.'

I wanted to go quickly. Before she started on about my home life, my mum's boyfriend. Was that all they ever thought about? I straightened up and smiled. ‘You'll see, Mrs Williams. I'll be OK from now on. I promise. Can I go now, please?'

She saw there was no holding me. ‘You know if you ever need me, I'll be here. OK, Fay?'

‘OK.' I agreed at once. Then I was out of that office and racing down the corridor to my class.

In spite of all the jibes – and there were plenty, especially from Monica – I forgot about my hair. I felt so much better. I had solved it. I had made myself look different. Now, no one would ever get us mixed up again.

However, I still had my mother to face.

She went white when she saw me. ‘Fay. Your lovely hair.' Her eyes filled up with tears. ‘Why did you do that?'

I told her. What was the point of lying to my mum? I told her that this other one had been on the stairs today and that it was beginning to really frighten me.

‘She was the reason you asked if you had a sister?'

I nodded, and she smiled. ‘I can assure you, you haven't got a clone either, Fay. They don't exist. I know you find it hard to believe but there will be a perfectly logical explanation. Mistaken identity. Or someone who looks like you is playing a cruel practical joke.'

‘That's what Dad said.'

Her face fell. ‘So, he was told the whole story first, I suppose?'

There was a time, I thought, when they would have confided in each other. We were a threesome. Now it
seemed we each lived in our own separate worlds.

Suddenly, she seemed to brighten. ‘Well, I will tell you this, young lady. You're not going back to school looking like that.'

Now I brightened. ‘Ever again?' I asked hopefully.

She was grinning as she lifted the phone and began to dial. ‘I'm going to call my pal, Stella. The hairdresser. Remember her?'

Stella, who owned her own shop in town, wore too much make-up, smoked too much, and smelled of too many different perfumes. I liked her.

‘How could I forget Stella?'

Mum was about to say something else when the phone was answered. She shook her finger at me to keep quiet. ‘Is that you, Stella? Hi, it's Rona. I know, I've not seen you for ages. Well, I'm phoning for a favour. You remember my daughter, Fay?' There was a pause. Stella obviously remembered. ‘Could I possibly bring her over to your house tonight? She really needs a major makeover with her hair.'