DOPPELGINGER
Brian Byrne
Copyright Brian Byrne 2012
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To Mam
They saved a rose just for you.
CHAPTER ONE
Marty knew something strange was going on as soon as the dirty white van pulled into the driveway of number three, Wycherly Terrace. Nobody had lived in the house for years. His dad said the last family had abandoned it after it became infested with termites. It certainly looked it. The roof was forever on the brink of collapse—Marty could swear it shifted every time a crow landed on it—and the window frames had disintegrated to the point that they were gradually falling off, one by one, taking the window panes down with them.
Dropping his school bag in his front yard, Marty pretended to tie his shoelace. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as a tall woman stepped out of the van and disappeared into the house. She had bleach-blond hair and was wearing the most obnoxious outfit he had ever seen: a brown fur coat with pink polka dots and a tiny leopard print skirt. Below was a pair of bright green tights and below those a pair of heels so high she looked like she might topple over at any second.
As Marty shifted to his other shoe the passenger door opened to reveal a pair of very short, very fat legs. He was sure they had to be a kid’s until he saw what was attached to them: an equally short, equally fat man wearing a pinstripe suit and matching boater. The man was smoking a large cigar, but as he waddled his way around to the back of the van he pulled it from his mouth and coughed out a dirty mess of smoke. His face now bright red, he gave the cigar a disdainful glare and popped it back into his mouth again.
Marty stood up. That was it—they were definitely up to something. But there was absolutely no use in standing around and waiting for something unscrupulous to happen. He’d have to cross the street and find out.
Marty always thought it was a bit odd how bad guys always drive white vans; to be more specific, white vans with absolutely no markings on the side. Hadn’t they ever watched a bad cop movie? Or read a bad thriller? The criminals were always the ones in the dirty white vans. Why didn’t they try a saloon or a 4x4, or maybe even some sort of roomy sports car? Surely one of those would be more inconspicuous.
He reached the end of the driveway. The man was struggling with something in the back of the van. There came a loud heave and then the man turned, carrying a cardboard box so large it hid his entire upper body from view. He swayed back and forth as he walked, slowly guiding the box in the direction of the house.
Taking his chance, Marty darted to the van. It was filled with electronic equipment. There were computer monitors, keyboards and dozens of strange apparatus he’d never seen before. They were stacked in perfect straight lines and right angles from floor to ceiling. He was leaning in to get a closer look when he heard the sound of high heels hitting the front porch.
He stepped back from the van, smiling innocently as the woman trotted towards him. It was surprising how many adults were easily duped by an innocent looking kid. Marty’s chubby cheeks, bright red hair and freckles, coupled with this particular brand of smile, made him look about as threatening as a toothpick.
“Who,” said the woman, coming to a stop mere inches from him, “are you?” She towered over him, casting him in a dark shadow.
Marty’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m Marty White. I live across the street. I’m here to welcome you to the neighbourhood.” He held out a hand.
The woman frowned a spectacular frown. She somehow managed to narrow her eyes and raise her eyebrows at the same time. Then she grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Doing his very best not to wince, Marty shook his head. “Not yet. School doesn’t start for another half hour.”
“Even so,” said the woman. “You shouldn’t be rooting around in other people’s property. It’s not very…nice.” She squeezed harder and his smile faltered.
“I was just wondering if I could help you move in.”
“What? No you could not. Now if you don’t mind I think you should be leaving.”
“Actually, are you new to Violetville? I don’t think I’ve seen you around town before.” He heard someone having a coughing fit and then the man appeared at the woman’s side. His face was fast approaching the colour of a tomato.
“Who’s that?” the man said, dropping the cigar and stamping it out. For the first time Marty noticed his unibrow. It sort of resembled a moustache—albeit a moustache that had somehow crawled up the bridge of his nose and settled at the base of his forehead.
“I’m Marty. I’d like to welcome you to Wycherly Terrace.” With some effort he pulled his hand free of the woman’s grasp and held it out for the man to shake instead. “And you are?”
The man started to speak but the woman cut across him. “That is none of your business. Now go on, leave!”
Reluctantly Marty nodded, said his goodbyes and headed back across the street. Clearly, this pair wasn’t so easily fooled. If he had any hope of finding out what they were up to he was going to have to take a different angle.
*
That evening after school Marty asked his dad for a favour. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed him positively squeal and he looked on with amusement as his dad bounded up the staircase. Moments later he was handing Marty his binoculars. Marty knew they had to be at least ten years old but they looked brand new. The lenses had been recently polished and a new strap had been attached.
“I knew it!” his dad said, hugging him so hard it forced the air from his lungs. “I always knew you’d come around eventually. You just needed time.”
“Um, yes—yes Dad, of course,” Marty coughed, pulling himself free. “I’ve always liked, err, birds. I guess it just took me a really long time to realise it. They’re just so, you know, feathery and stuff.”
Gabriel White had always loved bird watching, and ever since Marty’s mum had left he’d been spending more and more time at it. Every second day now he’d grab his trusty binoculars, fill his backpack with vegan snacks and disappear for the afternoon. A few weeks ago Marty had finally given into his dad’s relentless pestering and agreed to go along and see what all the fuss was about. He proceeded to follow his dad up a steep hillside and sit on a rock. His dad spent a full day looking through his binoculars, gesturing for Marty to be quiet (despite the fact he hadn’t uttered a word) and excitedly jotting down notes in his little black notebook. By the end of the day Marty was severely sunburned and made a mental note never to partake in bird watching ever again.
“Does Friday work for you?” his dad carried on. “We could go then. Or maybe Thursday. No, you know what, we’ll do it tomorrow. Or now? Does now work for you? Surely your homework can wait until later?”
“Actually Dad, if you don’t mind, I thought I’d give it a go on my own this time.”
For a moment Gabriel just stared at him. Then his mouth dropped open and he looked horribly embarrassed. Marty knew he’d react like this, but he needed those binoculars. More importantly, he needed to be able to use them without his dad asking questions. “We could go together next week,” he added, already regretting it.
His dad’s expression inverted. “All right then, next week!” He rooted in his back pocket and pulled out the familiar black notebook. He handed it to Marty like it was some sort of priceless artefact. “I recommend you begin with my research on the migratory patterns of barnacle geese—it’s really quite fascinating!”
Marty promised to keep the binoculars and notebook in pristine condition before heading for the kitchen. He made himself his favourite: a peanut
butter and jam sandwich and a glass of milk. Then he sat in front of the living room window and began his first stakeout.
*
This wasn’t Marty’s first investigation. Not by any means. Just last week he solved the case of his elderly neighbour Mr. Uncle’s missing barbecue. After a rigorous search he found it upturned in the ditch that ran behind every house in Wycherly Terrace. But when he tried to return it to its rightful owner Mr. Uncle’s wife was angry. It turned out the barbecue hadn’t been stolen at all—Mrs. Uncle had disposed of it because her husband burnt everything he cooked and she was sick of choking down great chunks of ash to keep him happy.
One of the most important lessons Marty had learned from his inquests was that spying isn’t nearly as exciting as it looks in the movies. It was three full days before something unscrupulous finally happened over at number three. It was just after seven when he saw it: movement in one of the windows. He adjusted the binoculars, zooming in as far as they would go. In a narrow band of light he saw the same lampshade and patch of mildewed wall he’d been monitoring for what seemed like forever. Only now there was something else. A man—who, he couldn’t tell—was standing with his back to the window. He was much taller than the man from earlier. As Marty watched, the man moved to one side and there, standing in his place, was a woman. Marty barely recognised her. Gone were the ridiculous clothes and hairstyle. Now she wore a plain sweatshirt, and her hair, platted into a long ponytail, was blacker than a black hole. She disappeared from view and the man appeared again. Only this time he was facing the window. Marty’s eyes doubled in size—what was Mr. Uncle doing in the new neighbours’ living room?
CHAPTER TWO
Mr. Uncle ran directly into the window, crashed right through it and went sprawling into the front yard. Marty, his jaw in danger of unhinging, watched as he leaped to his feet and sprinted down the driveway. He had never known Mr. Uncle to be so agile. He had never known anyone his age to be so agile. But if he was fast the woman was faster. In a nanosecond she caught up to him and lunged, wrapping her arms around his neck. Mr. Uncle’s legs buckled and he brought the woman down with him. Just then the smoker appeared. He was wearing a blue tracksuit. He hauled Mr. Uncle off the ground and dragged him back towards the house.
Marty was busy ogling Mr. Uncle when something obscured his view. He zoomed back out and watched as the woman stood up and dusted off her arms and legs. Then she did something that made him drop the binoculars and leap back from the window: she stared straight at him. The woman stared and stared and, just as he was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to blink, turned on the heel of her sneaker and strode back up the driveway.
Marty was flabbergasted. Whatever he had imagined they were up to, it didn’t come within a hundred kilometres of this. Why had they taken Mr. Uncle? What could they possibly want with him? Did his wife have any idea he was missing? He had to figure this out.
He found his dad in the kitchen and proceeded to tell him exactly what he’d seen. To his dad’s credit, he didn’t speak until he’d heard everything Marty had to say; he was far too busy whimpering.
“Kidnappers!” he roared so loudly that Marty feared for his eardrums. “I bet they’ve murdered him! I bet they’ve taken him and murdered him! We need to ring the police!”
Marty knew his dad would overreact, but for once, he decided, this was something worth overreacting about.
It wasn’t the first time his dad had phoned the police. Since Marty was born nearly thirteen years ago he’d called the station a grand total of two hundred and forty three times, which, most notably, included two reported cases of a missing child (Marty), seventeen reported burglaries and one reported trampling of the flowers in the front garden. At this point the entire police force knew his name, which was probably why they sent out, not the entire squad, but a single apprehensive officer.
“You were saying there was a m…murder?” said the officer, wiping sweat from his oversized forehead with the sleeve of his oversized jacket.
Marty had to shout over his dad in order to be heard. “Nobody was murdered. At least I don’t think so. But somebody has been kidnapped. Mr. Uncle, my neighbour.” He leaned in so his dad wouldn’t overhear and added, “I swear I’m not exaggerating. Even if my dad does do it quite a bit.”
This seemed to both reassure and frighten the officer at the same time. Nevertheless he nodded and asked where Mr. Uncle lived. Marty led the way next door, showing the officer the best way through the Uncle’s unwieldy front lawn.
Mrs. Uncle was a lumpy woman who loved to try new things. In her eight or so decades she’d started three businesses, built a car engine from scratch and visited every country in the world except one. She would have been an interesting woman if she didn’t like to sleep all the time.
“Hello hello, Marty,” Mrs. Uncle yawned upon finally answering the door. “I’m just out of bed. What is it?” When she noticed the police officer she looked only marginally more interested. “Is something wrong?” she said, and yawned again.
“It’s Mr. Uncle. He’s been—”
But before Marty could finish Mr. Uncle appeared at his wife’s side and said, “Did someone call me?”
Marty was dumbfounded. “Mr. Uncle! How did you get back here?!”
“Get back here? Mart, what are you talking about? I’ve been here all day. I’m learning how to make fajitas. You can have some, if you like.”
“But—but I saw you earlier! They kidnapped you!” Even Marty could tell how absurd he sounded.
“Are you okay?” said Mr. Uncle, scrunching up one eye.
“I’m sorry,” smiled the police officer. “You know how children can be. He must have been seeing things.”
If Marty hadn’t already decided this was fruitless he might have stood his ground. “Never mind,” he said. “You’re right—I suppose I must have made a mistake.”
He had turned around and was making his way back home when Mrs. Uncle yawned again. “Oh I’m so very tired. What time is it dear? I really must be getting to bed…”
*
Marty watched from his bedroom window as the police officer waved the Uncles goodbye and returned to his car. As soon as he’d seen Mr. Uncle standing at his front door Marty realised nobody, not his dad or even the police would help him. Something sinister was going on here, and if he was ever going to reach the end of it he would have to do it by himself.
He decided to wait for nightfall to make his move. After pulling on his jacket he made sure the coast was clear and crept downstairs. When he reached the bottom he peered over the banister into the living room. The door was barely ajar but he could hear the sound from the TV; David Attenborough was explaining something about how polar bears tend to their newborn cubs. Slowly, ever so slowly, Marty tiptoed across the hallway, but as he reached the front door David got cut off mid-sentence and his dad’s disembodied head poked out of the living room.
“Marty! Where in heaven’s name do you think you’re off to at this time of night?!”
“Dad, I just—”
“Do you want to get yourself kidnapped? Is that it? Do you want to leave me on my own, after all that’s happened to us? Do you want that? Do you want to cause me even more heartache? And after all that malarkey with the police today, too? Do you Marty? Do you? Do you?!”
“All right, Dad, all right! Look, I’ll stay in tonight, okay?”
As much as he didn’t want to Marty dragged himself back upstairs. It wasn’t until he’d returned to his bedroom that David Attenborough got to finish his sentence.
It was two gruelling hours before his dad finally retired to bed. Marty waited an extra fifteen minutes to make sure he wasn’t about to get up again (on top of everything else his dad was an insomniac) before successfully slipping outside. Confident nobody else was about to stop him, he bent down and darted across the street.
It was too dark. Marty raised his hand to his face but could barely see it. He rooted in a pocket, pulled out
a small torch and turned it on. It wasn’t very powerful (he’d bought it with his lunch money from a discount shop) but at least now he wasn’t completely blind.
He crept down the driveway, leaning flat against the wall as he went. The house looked different in the dark: bigger and more intimidating. He shivered, suddenly reminded of the time he’d been locked in here. His brutish cousins Jeremy and Jane had stayed at his house for a week while their parents went travelling. They spent the entire time trying to convince him number three was haunted. Marty was only seven but he still knew better than to believe their lies. This must have irritated them, because the afternoon before they left they kicked the football down the driveway and, when Marty went to retrieve it, closed the gates behind him, locking him inside. Marty refused to let them see he was scared but was scared nonetheless, and it surprised him that even though he was now twelve, nearly thirteen, he was still a little nervous as he reached the end of the driveway and crossed the front yard.
His eyes found the broken glass, then the window from which it had fallen. The curtains were fully closed now but behind it he saw a shadow, which moved away as he approached. He heard someone speaking and felt his stomach clench: Mr. Uncle. He waited and, hearing nobody else, reached forward, lifted back the curtain and peered into the living room.
To the left of the flea-bitten sofa on a rocking chair sat Mr. Uncle. His arms and legs were restrained. It was Mr. Uncle all right, but not the Mr. Uncle he knew. His eyes were wide and twitching. The black from his pupils had spilled into the white, giving them an odd, lifeless appearance. His cheeks were sunken and his skin had a horrible grey tinge. Marty could smell stale sweat from where he was standing.
After making sure they were alone Marty put the torch away and hopped onto the window sill. A piece of glass pierced his hand and he winced as he stepped into the room. To one side was the doorway. The corridor beyond was dark but he had no intention of venturing any further. He would rescue Mr. Uncle, bring him home and then, and then... Well, he hadn’t really thought about what he’d do after that. But he guessed it would probably involve being chased by the slender woman and her plump sidekick.