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In the dark hallway she opened a door to the stairs. She held my bag in her hand, low by the strap, and dropped it on the bottom step. The banisters were wood, painted a pale bluish gray. The steps were dusty, dancing with fluff and crumbs, dots of paper, and scraps of tobacco.

“Did you like the kitchen?” she said.

“It’s nice,” I said. “Pretty.”

She smiled. Her teeth and the whites of her eyes were like stone in the dark. “Not words I’m used to hearing you say.”

Did I have to be that careful? Did the words
pretty
and
nice
betray me? I was trying to be a good boy. I was trying to be like him, that’s all.

“What’s in here?” I said, walking through a space on my right. It was a little room with boots and coats and a load of boxes.

“Not much,” Edie said, turning away, opening a door opposite. “This one’s the sitting room.”

There was a big low fireplace and a glass chandelier, three battered armchairs, and a thick rug on the floor. It was cold.

“We hardly ever go in here,” Edie said. “It’s nicer in the kitchen.”

She took me upstairs. She pulled the door to the stairway shut behind us. Her voice echoed between the narrow walls. “Why did you look so surprised?” she said.

“When?”

“When you looked at Mum.”

I tried to think.

“Do you think she’s worse?” Edie said.

I shrugged. “Hard to say.”

“She gets them off the Internet now,” Edie said.

“What?”

“Valium. Xanax. God knows. The doctor wouldn’t give her enough anymore. He was telling her to stop.”

“Maybe she should.”

Edie looked hard at me for a second. “You never thought that before,” she said.

Damn. “Didn’t I?”

She took the last bend in the stairs. “What did you call them? Mummy managers.”

I tried to smile. “Oh, yeah.”

“Keep her half tuned out so she doesn’t care what you’re up to. Ring a bell?”

It was even colder up there, and our feet were loud on the wooden floor.

“You and Frank both,” she said. “You’re as bad as each other.”

Cassiel’s room was the third door on the right after Frank’s room and the bathroom. Across the hallway were Helen’s and Edie’s.

Edie went into Cassiel’s room before me, strolled right in like it was no big deal. Dust swarmed in the light from the ceiling. I thought about breathing it in. I thought about it swarming like that inside my nose and mouth and throat and lungs.

I stopped in the doorway like the air itself was pushing me away. It wasn’t my room. It wasn’t my stuff to touch.

“What?” Edie said.

I looked past her. “Nothing.”

“Is it different?” she said. “I tried to make it look exactly the same.”

I said, “I’m just looking.”

The dust swarmed harder and faster around me when I walked in, like it was angry. Here was his mother holding me tight, here was his sister asking me in. But even the dust in Cassiel’s room knew I wasn’t him.

“It’s tidier,” she said. “You can’t miss that.”

I looked at his stuff. I moved around the room, picking things up, touching them, opening drawers. A mirror with an apple printed on it, a skin drum, a picture of two banjo players in a small metal frame. A book about mask-making, a folder of drawings, a skateboard. A stack of postcards, a laptop, a poster for a film I’d never heard of. Clothes, washed and ironed and folded and waiting for someone to wear them for two whole years. They were way too small for me. They’d never fit him now.

I thought about Cassiel watching me from somewhere, from a daydream, from a park bench, from a checkout, from heaven or hell or the plain cold grave, wherever he might be.

I wondered how much he would hate me for what I was doing.

I wondered when he was coming to get me back.

“Does it feel weird?” she said.

“A bit,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got this running commentary in my head:
My little brother’s home.
”

She sounded like an announcer at a railway station. “
My
little brother is home and in his room.
”

No, he’s not
, the commentary in my head said.
No, he isn’t.

“Do you like it?” she said. “Do you like your room?”

I didn’t answer. She didn’t notice.

“It’s bigger than the old one, isn’t it? Do you like the color? It’s called Lamp Room Gray or something. Mum said it was boring. I think it’s cool.”

I smiled.

“You hate it,” she said.

“I don’t.”

Helen came upstairs and knocked on the open door. Edie took her eyes off me for a moment to look at her.

“You are so tall,” Helen said.

“Am I?”

“I forgot you’d be two years older.” She leaned on the doorframe. She crossed her arms around herself and watched me.

“I said the same thing,” Edie said. “It’s like you grew in five minutes.”

Helen nodded. “It’s a lot to take in.”

When she blinked, she blinked slowly, like her eyes would have been happy staying closed.

“Where have you been, Cassiel?”

“What happened? Tell us what happened.”

They spoke at the same time, almost. They were nothing but questions. I couldn’t answer them. My disguise was paper-thin. I didn’t know who Cassiel Roadnight was or what he’d say. If I spoke, I’d eat away at it, I’d just show myself lurking underneath, the rotten core.

“Not now,” I said.

“When?” Edie said.

“Leave it, love,” said Helen.

It was quiet, tense, like a standoff. I could hear us all breathing. I thought about how big Cassiel’s breaths were, how many times a minute his heart beat.

“Are you hungry?” Helen said.

I should be. I don’t think I’d eaten since Edie called. But I wasn’t. My stomach was like a closed fist. There was too much to think about. Too much could go wrong.

Cassiel would be. He would be relaxed and hungry and tired. Cassiel was home.

“I think so,” I said.

“Good. Let’s eat.”

They left the room ahead of me, and I listened to them go along the landing and down the stairs. I stopped in the doorway and looked back into his room. The dust was still frenzied in the light from the bulb. I switched it off.

The dust disappeared, just like that.

I
never ate meat in my life before I was Cassiel Roadnight. Not once.

According to Grandad, being a vegetarian wasn’t just about health or cruelty or money or flavor; it was also about manners. He said that stealing milk and eggs and honey was enough of a liberty without hacking off someone’s leg and then drowning it in gravy. He had a point.

He taught me how to cook. He trusted me with all the sharp knives and all the boiling water I could get my hands on. We ate rice and beans and vegetables. We ate a lot of curry. We ate like kings.

That’s what Grandad used to say.

After the accident, when I wasn’t allowed to see Grandad anymore, they tried to make me eat meat. They put withered, puckered, stinking things on my plate and told me if I didn’t eat them there’d be trouble. They said they were good for me.

They didn’t know the first thing about what was good for me.

I told them that. I screamed it in their faces. I said I didn’t eat meat. I said I wanted my Grandad. I threw the food at them. I threw it at the walls and the windows and their faces. I threw it anywhere it wanted to land. I didn’t eat their meat. I didn’t do it.

I’d rather have starved.

Cassiel’s favorite food was meatballs. Helen put a plateful down in front of me, and it was clear from the look on her face that meatballs were something I was supposed to get all excited and nostalgic about.

“Meatballs,” I said. “Thanks.”

Edie said, “How many times have we talked about this, Mum? Cass sitting here having supper, just like this.”

Helen shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Hundreds.”

I cut a piece off a meatball dripping in sauce. I tried to make my face right. I tried to smile and not grimace, tried to close my eyes in delight, not panic; tried to swallow, not gag. They watched me like hawks.

“Delicious,” I said, still chewing. They tasted like salt and shit and gristle.

“As good as you remember?”

“Better.”

I got through two. I drank a lot of water. I broke them down into fractions of themselves, sixteen more to go, fourteen more, eight, one. In my head I said sorry to Grandad, and to the lamb or the pig or the mixture of creatures I was eating. I put my knife and fork together with four of them still swimming on my plate.

“What’s wrong?” said Helen.

“That’s not like you,” said Edie.

I said, “I haven’t eaten like this in a while. My stomach isn’t quite up to it.”

I allowed Cassiel, wherever he was, to chalk up a point against me. I told myself it didn’t matter. I reminded myself I didn’t have a choice.

So I wasn’t a vegetarian anymore. I wasn’t me anymore either.

When you’re running, when you’re moving from place to place, day after day, it’s hard to watch yourself eat. You steal. You pick through the bins and try not to realize it’s you. You try not to think about what you’re doing. You learn where the shops dump their rubbish, what night’s the best night. You rely on what other people waste.

Finish your food? No, don’t, because somebody watching from outside might want it.

After meatballs there was ice cream. I let it melt in my mouth, and it slipped, rich and oversweet, down my throat. I did it without thinking.

“Why d’you always eat it like that?” Edie said. “It’s gross.”

Funny to have such a thing in common with Cassiel—the way we ate ice cream.

“Have you been in London? Or Bristol? Or Manchester? Or where?” Edie said.

“He’s tired,” Helen said, putting her cool hand on my forehead.

“Have you been living rough?” Edie said. “On the streets?”

What would the answer to that be? It was pretty likely. If you run away from home when you’re fourteen, you don’t usually end up in the penthouse suite.

“Now and then,” I said.

Helen shook her head. “And being on the streets was better than being here?” She looked at Edie and then at me. “I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I,” Edie said, “when you put it like that.”

My stomach was giddy with rich and strange food. I listened to their spoon scrapes, their soft slurps and swallows.

“Why did you go off?” Edie said.

I looked at her food, only at her food. I said, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I don’t believe you,” Edie said.

I kept my voice soft. I kept it level. “You don’t have to.”

“What was so awful?” Helen said. “What was so bad that you had to go?”

I didn’t say anything.

Edie said, “You shouldn’t have punished us all like that.”

“Frank said you were in trouble,” Helen said. “He was worried about you.”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t call,” Edie said. “I’ll never understand why you let us all think you were dead.”

Was it okay to say sorry? Would Cassiel say sorry for that? I wanted to say it.

Edie couldn’t stop. “You didn’t think about what it would do to us,” she said. “It didn’t cross your mind.”

“You don’t know that,” Helen said.

“Yes I do, Mum. I know him better than you. I’m right, aren’t I, Cassiel?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I am,” she said. “And you
do
know. And I will
never
forgive you.”

“You said on the missing-persons thing that you’d never give up,” I told her. “You didn’t say you’d never forgive.”

I worried instantly that I shouldn’t have spoken. In the silence that followed, I thought I’d done something wrong.

“You didn’t make it easy,” Edie said.

Helen started to clear the plates. I got up to help her.

“Sit down,” I said, my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll do this.”

“Nice try,” Edie said. “Walk out for a couple of years and then tiptoe back in, all soft and sweet and helpful, like that’s going to fool anybody.”

I stacked the bowls as quietly as I could.

“Who the hell are you pretending to be, Cassiel Roadnight?” she said.

“Leave him,” Helen said. “That’s enough.”

“I’m sorry, Edie,” I said. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

Edie growled.

Helen looked at me, and I smiled. “Your eyes have changed color,” she said. She was surprised to hear herself say it.

I didn’t move. Edie pushed the ice cream away from her and leaned toward me. “They haven’t,” Edie said.

“They have,” said Helen. “They’re different. How’s that possible?”

Because I’m not him. Because I’m a grotesque copy. Because I’m
a cuckoo in the nest.

“It’s not possible,” said Edie. “That’s the point.”

“Look at me,” Helen said.

I didn’t want to. I didn’t want her to see me. “I am.”

“Your eyes used to be blue,” she said.

“They
are
blue.”

“They’ve changed,” Helen said. “They’re not the same blue. They’re darker.”

I waited for them both to notice. I waited for the horror to dawn on their faces. I knew his mother would see.

“Yeah, right,” Edie said under her breath. “And you can count how many fingers I’m holding up.”

“What?” Helen said.

“You’re not remembering them right,” Edie said. “That’s all it is.”

“I am,” Helen said. “I know my son’s eyes.”

Tears welled up suddenly in hers. I hated to see his mother so ruined and so upset and so completely right. It hurt. And it was my fault.

“Do you think I don’t know my own son?” she said, to neither of us.

I put my arms around her. I said, “It’s okay, Mum,” even though it wasn’t, even though if she knew the truth she would scream the house down when I tried to touch her.

“I’ve got to go to bed,” she said. “I’m suddenly so tired.”

Edie said, “Tranquilizers will do that.”

“Don’t, Edie,” I said, without thinking.

It stunned her. It stopped her dead. I knew what the look on her face meant. I knew what she was thinking. Cassiel wouldn’t have said that.

Helen took my hand and looked at it like she’d never seen it before. She kept hold of it until I moved away, until she had to let go.

She kissed me on the cheek, delicate and cool.

“’Night, Cassiel. ’Night, Edie,” she said, when she was halfway up the stairs. “Sleep well.”

I tried to look everywhere but at Edie. I cleared off and wiped the table and made a big deal of finding out where everything went and putting it away.

She watched me the whole time. I could feel her watching. I watched myself through her. I became aware of every little movement, every little sound, like the next thing I did would give me away.

When I’d finished, I didn’t know what to do. I sat back down.

“You’re not fooling me,” she said.

She knows, I thought. This is over already. I made my face as blank as I could. I tried not to show her everything on it. I carried on pretending. “I’m not trying to,” I said.

“I haven’t forgotten what you’re really like,” she said. “It’d take more than two years to forget that.”

“So tell me what I’m like,” I said. “Maybe it’s me who’s forgotten.”

Edie listed on her fingers, bluntly, like an ax falling. I didn’t expect it. I didn’t expect her sudden anger.

“Selfish,” she said. “Rude. Arrogant. Unhelpful. Bad-tempered. Aggressive. Secretive. Greedy.” She stopped. “How many’s that?”

“It’s enough,” I told her. “I can see you really missed me.”

She said, “I’m just wondering how long it’s going to last.”

Me too. That’s what
I
was wondering.

“As long as I can keep doing it,” I said.

She smiled. The rigid set of her face and shoulders relaxed a little. “I quite like it,” she said. “If I’m honest.”

“Quite like what?”

“New, improved, supernice Cassiel,” she said. “Kind to his mother, helpful in the kitchen.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You’re going to offer to take the dog out in a minute.”

I looked at Sergeant. I clicked my fingers and opened the door. He got up slowly, eased himself to standing.

“God, you bloody are,” she said.

I smiled at her, kept my breathing even, kept my voice calm. “I haven’t done it for two years,” I said. “I thought it might be my turn.”

Outside, the wind had dropped, and it was black, thick with stars. I heaved in lungfuls of the cold, wet air. I breathed like I’d been underwater too long. Sergeant sniffed around in the grass, caught the scent of something, followed it off.

My first night as Cassiel Roadnight. My first day. I’d almost survived it.

The dog followed the scent straight back inside. It was the scent of his basket probably. Edie came to the door. Some of the anger had gone out of her. She smiled.

“Come in, little brother,” she said. “It’s freezing out there.”

I did what I was told. I thought it was best.

We turned the lights off in the kitchen and closed all the doors. We tried to be quiet on the stairs.

“Good night, Edie,” I said, when I got to Cassiel’s door.

“’Night,” she said.

I almost had it shut. I was almost alone. I’d almost done it. I had this sensation of holding my breath for the longest time, of being about to exhale.

“Cass?” she said.

“What?”

I couldn’t see her face. It was too dark.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Even if you are being weird.”