Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

He sighed. But it would be wrong. She was not a volunteer. Insecurity and fear had brought her to this bed, not desire. Yes, Steve, you can fuck her—and you will be exploiting a frightened immigrant who believes she has no choice. And that would be contemptible. You would despise a man who could do that.

“Do you feel better now?” he said.

“Yes.…”

“Then go back to your own bed.”

She touched his face, then kissed his mouth softly. He kept his lips firmly shut but patted her hair in a friendly way.

She stared at him in the half-dark. “You’re not him, are you,” she said.

“No,” Steve said. “I’m not him.”

A moment later she was gone.

He still had an erection.

Why am I not him? Because of the way I was brought up?

Hell, no.

I could have fucked her. I could be Harvey. I’m not him because I choose not to be. My parents didn’t make that decision just now: I did. Thanks for your help, Mom and Dad, but it was me, not you, who sent her back to her room.

Berrington didn’t create me, and you didn’t create me.

I did.

MONDAY

62

STEVE WOKE UP WITH A START.

Where am I?

Someone was shaking his shoulder, a man in striped pajamas. It was Berrington Jones. He suffered a moment of disorientation, then everything came back to him.

“Dress smart for the press conference, please,” Berrington said. “In the closet you’ll find a shirt you left here a couple of weeks ago. Marianne laundered it. Come to my room and pick out a tie to borrow.” He went out.

Berrington talked to his son as if to a difficult, disobedient child, Steve reflected as he got out of bed. The unspoken sentence “Don’t argue, just do it” was attached to every utterance. But his abrupt manner made conversation easier for Steve. He could get away with monosyllabic responses that did not risk betraying his ignorance.

It was eight A.M. Wearing his undershorts, he went along the passage to the bathroom. He took a shower, then shaved with a disposable razor he found in the bathroom cabinet. He moved slowly, postponing the moment when he would have to put himself at risk by conversing with Berrington.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he went to Berrington’s room, in accordance with his orders. Berrington was not there. Steve opened the closet. Berrington’s ties were baronial: stripes and small dots and foulards, all in shiny silk, nothing up-to-date. He picked one with broad horizontal stripes. He needed underwear, too. He looked at Berrington’s boxer shorts. Although he was much taller than Berrington, they had the same waist size. He took a plain blue pair.

When he was dressed he braced himself for another ordeal of deception. Just a few more hours and it would be all over. He had to allay Berrington’s suspicions until a few minutes after noon, when Jeannie would interrupt the press conference.

He took a deep breath and went out.

He followed the smell of frying bacon to the kitchen. Marianne was at the stove. She stared wide-eyed at Steve. Steve had a momentary panic: if Berrington noticed her expression he might ask her what was wrong—and the poor girl was so terrified that she would probably tell him. But Berrington was watching CNN on a small TV set and he was not the type to take an interest in the help.

Steve sat down and Marianne poured him coffee and juice. He gave her a reassuring smile to calm her down.

Berrington held up a hand for silence—unnecessarily, for Steve had no intention of making small talk—and the anchor read an item about the takeover of Genetico. “Michael Madigan, CEO of Landsmann North America, said last night that the disclosure phase had been satisfactorily completed, and the deal will be signed in public at a press conference in Baltimore today. Shares in Landsmann rose fifty pfennigs on the Frankfurt exchange in early trading this morning. General Motors third-quarter figures—”

There was a ring at the doorbell and Berrington hit the mute button. He looked out of the kitchen window and said: “There’s a police car outside.”

Steve was struck by a terrible thought. If Jeannie had reached Mish Delaware and told her what she had learned about Harvey, the police could have decided to arrest Harvey. And Steve was going to have trouble denying that he was Harvey Jones, when he was wearing Harvey’s clothes and sitting in Harvey’s father’s kitchen eating blueberry muffins made by Harvey’s father’s cook.

He did not want to go back to jail.

But that was not the worst of it. If he should be arrested now, he would miss the press conference. If none of the other clones showed up, Jeannie would have only Harvey. And one twin did not prove anything.

Berrington got up to go to the door.

Steve said: “What if they’re after me?”

Marianne looked as if she were going to die.

Berrington said: “I’ll tell them you’re not here.” He left the room.

Steve could not hear the conversation on the doorstep. He sat frozen to his seat, neither eating nor drinking. Marianne stood like a statue at the stove, with a kitchen spatula in her hand.

Eventually Berrington came back in. “Three of our neighbors were robbed last night,” he said. “I guess we got lucky.”

Through the night Jeannie and Mr. Oliver had taken shifts, one guarding Harvey while the other lay down, but neither of them got much rest. Only Harvey slept, snoring behind his gag.

In the morning they took turns in the bathroom. Jeannie dressed in the clothes she had brought in her suitcase, a white blouse and black skirt, so that she could be taken for a waitress.

They ordered breakfast from room service. They could not let the waiter into the room, for then he would see Harvey trussed up on the bed, so Mr. Oliver signed the check at the door, saying: “My wife’s undressed, I’ll take the trolley from here.”

He let Harvey drink a glass of orange juice, holding it to his mouth while Jeannie stood behind him, ready to hit him with her wrench if he tried anything.

Jeannie waited anxiously for Steve to call. What had happened to him? He had spent the night at Berrington’s house. Was he keeping up the pretense?

Lisa arrived at nine o’clock with a pile of copies of the press release, then left for the airport, to meet George Dassault and any other clones who might show up. None of the three had called.

Steve called at nine-thirty. “I have to be quick,” he said.

“Berrington’s in the bathroom. Everything’s all right, I’m coming to the press conference with him.”

“He doesn’t suspect anything?”

“No—although I’ve had some tense moments. How’s my double?”

“Subdued.”

“Gotta go.”

“Steve?”

“Make it fast!”

“I love you.” She hung up. I shouldn’t have said that; a girl is supposed to play hard to get. Well, to hell with it.

At ten she went on a scouting expedition to check out the Regency Room. It was a corner room with a little lobby and a door to an anteroom. A publicist was already there, assembling a backdrop with the Genetico logo for the benefit of the TV cameras.

Jeannie took a swift look around, then returned to her room.

Lisa called from the airport. “Bad news,” she said. “The New York flight is late.”

“Oh, Christ!” Jeannie said. “Any sign of the others, Wayne or Hank?”

“No.”

“How late is George’s plane?”

“It’s expected at eleven-thirty.”

“You might still get here.”

“If I drive like the wind.”

At eleven o’clock Berrington emerged from his bedroom, pulling on his suit coat. He was wearing a blue chalk stripe with a vest over a white shirt with French cuffs, old-fashioned but effective. “Let’s get going,” he said.