Another Me (9 page)

‘He says, once you have dismissed the probable, what you're left with, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'

I liked the idea of that. No matter how improbable. ‘So, what are you left with?' I asked.

He blew out his cheeks. ‘Something so unbelievable it will blow you away.'

The bell was ringing, summoning us to our next class. ‘There's something I want to show you on the Internet. Can you meet me at lunchtime? In the library?'

Dawn came rushing in through the doors just then. Stopped dead when she saw who I was talking to.

Drew began to move away. ‘Lunchtime?' he asked again.

I smiled back my answer, and Dawn's eyes flashed.

‘Are you meeting him at lunchtime?' She was excited at the prospect. ‘Things really are looking up for you.'

I didn't tell her why he was meeting me. I wanted her to think it was because he fancied me. Yet I could hardly wait till lunchtime – ‘Something so unbelievable it will blow you away.'

What could that be?

The library was always buzzing at lunchtime. Everyone went there to use the computers, whether it was to research something for homework, or more often to play games. Drew was already sitting at a computer by the window when I went in. He had drawn up a chair close to his and as I came up he looked at me and patted the chair.

I could feel lots of eyes on us, and knew what they would be thinking. That Lord and Lady Macbeth were a pair.

‘Now, what's so unbelievable?' I asked. I was ready to believe anything he told me. Anything that would explain away all the strange things that had happened to me.

Drew had already logged on to a website.

Myths and Legends.

He clicked in to a page, and scrolled down the screen until he reached the information he wanted.

‘Read that,' he said, and he sat back to let me move closer.

I peered at the screen.

FETCH
Irish, Celtic folklore. A fetch (wraith) is a being who is the double of a living person. An apparition or a phantom of someone living. Since a fetch often appears as solid flesh, it is sometimes impossible to tell that it is not a real, living being. It may only be later that its true nature is revealed. In German folklore a fetch is known as a
doppelganger
.

A fetch? I'd never heard of such a thing. ‘But that's just a myth,' I said. ‘You don't really think that's the answer, do you?' This was even more unbelievable than I'd expected. ‘It's a legend, Drew. Like vampires and were
wolves. This is real life. It can't be true.'

Drew's face was grim. ‘Read on,' he said.

And I did. I read of stories from all around the world, myths and legends told around fires in far-off times. Tales of doppelgangers and wraiths and phantoms and fetches.

It was all here. An explanation for what had been happening to me. The only possible explanation, bizarre and improbable though it sounded. I had been seeing my fetch, my doppelganger all the time.

A myth as ancient as time itself, in my own town, in my own life.

‘This does seem to explain everything, Drew,' I told him, and as I looked at him I realised just how serious and quiet he had become. His face seemed to have gone pale.

‘There's more, Fay,' he said. ‘But before you read it, are you sure you want to know? Maybe it's all finished now, and you can just forget about it.'

Maybe it was. I wanted it to be. But I had to read the rest.

‘Of course I want to know. I want to know everything.'

I moved the cursor and read the words on the screen.

The fetch usually manifests itself at times when a person is in extreme danger. It is generally believed that to see one's own fetch, to come face to face with your doppelganger, is a portent of your own death. A sign that you are about to die.

We sat in complete silence for what seemed an age. ‘Have you ever . . .' Drew hesitated, afraid to ask. ‘Have you ever seen it yourself?'

I thought back, though my mind was in a turmoil. Saw again the hand on the staircase, the fleeting image in the lift as the doors slid closed. Did those count? I asked Drew.

‘I don't think so,' he said seriously. ‘From all I've read you have to come face to face. You have to see each other clearly, perhaps be close enough to touch.'

I could feel icy sweat trickling down my back. I remembered the night in the school corridor when some deep, ancient instinct had told me I mustn't let it touch me. And, suddenly, in that bright, sunlit library with pupils chatting and laughing, and computers whirring, I was afraid.

‘I think this is the answer, Drew.'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know, Fay. Surely things like this don't happen in real life.'

‘Legends have to start somewhere, I suppose. In someone's real life.' I looked at him. ‘But what started it? Why me?'

He pulled his chair closer. ‘It's our age, I think. Things begin to happen at our age when we're going through so many changes ourselves. They say you can be more psychic, more open to seeing ghosts, and other supernatural phenomena. Our bodies are changing, and so are our minds.'

‘But why
me
?' Everyone else was changing, too, surely? Kaylie and Dawn and Monica, and even Drew.

Drew didn't know the answer to that one. But he tried to explain it anyway. ‘Some people are more open than others, I suppose.'

‘So, it has nothing to do with my parents, my mum . . .' I let the words drift away. He knew what I meant. His mum had been my mum's confidante during all her problems.

‘I did read that traumatic events can trigger it.'

‘Mrs Williams will be pleased to hear that.' I was trying hard not to cry.

‘I also wondered if the play had something to do with it,' Drew said thoughtfully. ‘Donald said it had a history of bad luck, of weird things happening whenever it was put on.'

‘The “Scottish Play”,' I murmured. ‘Maybe I'm going mad, just like Lady Macbeth.'

Drew touched my arm, then pulled it away quickly, glancing around the library to make sure no one had seen him. ‘Don't think that, Fay. At least you know now that this is really happening. You're not making it up.'

I smiled at him. I wanted to tell him how much that meant to me. Someone believed me at last. But all I could say was, ‘I don't want to die, Drew.'

His voice became soft. ‘You're not going to die. I'll keep looking on the Internet. In books. We'll both find out as much as we can. There's got to be something we can do.' Suddenly, he grinned. ‘I mean, who makes up the rules anyway? We'll change them. We'll make up new rules.'

Already he was making me feel better. I really wanted to ask him why it mattered to him what was happening to me. But I didn't dare.

‘And you know now you're not on your own. I'm here. I understand.'

Who would have thought it? Drew Fraser, the boy who had tormented me so much over the years, was the only one who understood. He couldn't know, and I couldn't explain just how much that meant to me.

It was time to get back to class. I lifted my bag and stood up. All at once, a horrifying, terrifying, thought hit me. I threw myself back on the chair. ‘How will you know when it's the real me?'

What if Drew were to meet the other one, and couldn't tell the difference?

‘That's a good point,' he said. He thought about it briefly, then he smiled. ‘We've got to have a code.'

‘A code?' I repeated. ‘What kind of code?'

‘Whenever we meet, I'll say something to you, and you'll always answer the same way. Surely, your . . .' He hadn't wanted to say the word, but he did. ‘Your fetch won't know. It'll be our secret.'

I thought it was an excellent idea. ‘But what will our code be?'

‘Something from
Macbeth
,' he said at once.

I groaned. ‘I can never remember any lines.'

‘'Course you can. You can remember your favourite lines.' He smiled with the assurance that only a goodlooking, popular boy can have. ‘Whenever I see you I'll
say my favourite line and then you'll answer with yours. They're not connected, so no one but you can give the answer.'

‘I thought you said
Macbeth
was rubbish. The words were rubbish. So how come you've got a favourite line?'

He shrugged. ‘Some of them aren't too bad.'

‘So what is your favourite line?'

He didn't hesitate. ‘“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”'

Drew stopped abruptly. ‘What's wrong, Fay? You're as white as a sheet.'

‘It's those lines,' I said. ‘They're scary. “A walking shadow.” She's my
walking shadow
, Drew.' I swallowed a lump in my throat. ‘And I don't want to be “heard no more”.'

Drew shook his head. ‘Sorry. I'll pick something else,' he said at once.

But I wouldn't let him. ‘No. Those lines are so appropriate to what's been happening. Keep them.'

‘So, what will you say back to me?'

My answer was easy. The only words I never did forget: ‘“Here's the smell of blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia shall not sweeten this little hand.”'

It was great having a friend, someone who really believed me. Yet, it seemed in those next few days that it didn't matter whether anyone believed me or not. Nothing happened. Maybe, I kept hoping, it
was
all over.

Every morning on the stairs to school Drew would meet me and say: ‘“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”'

And though the words always filled me with some kind of dread, I would smile and reply: ‘“Here's the smell of blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia shall not sweeten this little hand.”'

Then he'd draw his hand across his brow in mock relief. ‘Wow! For a minute there I thought you were the doppelganger.'

Always the same thing, but I laughed every time. Then, he would rush up the stairs to join his mates. He never waited and walked up with me instead.

Not yet.

Kaylie and Dawn began to get really excited.

‘I think there's a wee romance going on here,' Dawn would insist.

But there wasn't, I assured them.

Not yet.

At home, things seemed so much better too. Mum and Dad were spending time together and there were no dark looks or angry sighs. The gloom had disappeared.

From home at least. As we moved into an icy December, gloom descended on the town instead.

‘I'll be glad to get away to the sun,' Mum said one morning a couple of weeks later. She was almost ready to leave for work, but was looking out on a dreech misty morning.

‘We're above the clouds here, Mum,' I told her. ‘Probably when you get down to ground level the sun will be shining.'

She laughed. ‘Is it not supposed to be the opposite way about?'

I followed her to the door. ‘Anyway, when are we going on this holiday?'

‘Your dad's going to the travel agent today. Trying to book for just after the New Year. Majorca. Fancy that?'

Majorca! I thought. And the sun and the sea and a brand New Year, and Drew Fraser. Life, I decided, was getting better and better.

All I had to dread was the Christmas production of
Macbeth
.

‘Why did Donald have to pick such a hard play? Nobody could remember those lines,' I moaned for the umpteenth time.

Another rehearsal. Another disaster. I hadn't a clue why Donald had had such faith in me. Although, by December even he was beginning to get worried.

Monica looked as smug as ever. ‘He
has
made it as easy as possible for you,' she sneered. ‘Nobody else is having a problem with
their
lines.'

If she'd been a nicer person, if I had liked her the tiniest bit, I would have insisted that Donald give her the part and let
me
be the understudy. But I couldn't stand Monica, and I would never give her that satisfaction.

Dawn and Kaylie would never let me anyway.
Whenever I hesitated over the lines they would shout them up at me, much to Donald's amusement. ‘But you can't do that on the night, girls,' he would remind them.

Pity, I thought.

Drew was great too. ‘It's not the end of the world if you forget them,' he kept telling me. ‘Just shout at me, “You wimp, Macbeth. Have I got to do everything myself!” That's what my mum shouts at my dad.'

The one place I never met Drew, never expected to meet him, was in the lift. He lived on the second floor and never used it. If he had it wouldn't be the odd lift he would use, would it? It would be the even one.

So I was really surprised, no, more than surprised, delighted when one morning I stepped into the lift, and there he was.

‘What are you doing here?' I asked him.

He actually blushed, though he still tried to look cool. ‘I thought I'd take the lift for a change and it brought me up instead of taking me down.'

I didn't say anything. But that had to be a lie. Why had he got into the odd lift, unless . . . he wanted to see
me
? Could that really be the case?

‘Oh, I nearly forgot,' he said suddenly. ‘“Life's but a
walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”'

I glanced at my reflection in the stainless steel. I was blushing, too, and smiling.

I decided to have some fun with him. ‘Sorry?' I said.

His smile vanished. He repeated it. ‘“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”'