Twin Effect Read online

  “Cool. Did you tell him you knew me?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. He, uh, said he didn’t have a brother. Max, he’s the same guy I saw in Waitrose.”

  Max stared at Dylan from under a furrowed brow. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know. This time he explained. He did have a brother called Max. But Max died six years ago. His brother died. Max Symonds is dead.”

  Max went white. “No. Why would he...that’s ridiculous, Dylan. I’m here. Alive. You know that. He was joking. Maybe you pissed him off—”

  “I thought maybe he was lying or joking, or that we were talking across each other somehow. So I looked his brother up on the internet. I found this.” Dylan handed Max the printout of the webpage from the local newspaper, back in 2006. The photo was unmistakeable. “Max, Toby wasn’t lying. This is you.”

  “But I’m here. I’m not dead. I’m not, Dylan!”

  Dylan tensed as Max’s voice grew louder. But the kid didn’t make a move towards him. Instead, he folded his arms and began to shake. “Max, it’s okay,” Dylan said as soothingly as he could. “We’ll work it out.”

  “I’m not dead. I’m not.” He stared at Dylan with wide, frightened eyes. “You felt me. You can feel me. I’m not a ghost.”

  “No, you’re not a ghost.” He risked reaching over and touching Max’s knee. Max grabbed his hand. His were icy, trembling. Completely alive. “I don’t know what the explanation is, but you need to stay calm.”

  “Not dead,” Max whispered. “This is wrong. It’s a mistake.”

  “Yes, it must be. Shhh.” Dylan moved from the armchair to the couch, and put his arm around Max. Max turned his face into Dylan’s shoulder and made horrible sounds of raw grief, his whole body shaking with his pain. Dylan could only stroke his hair, murmuring meaningless words of comfort.

  He had no idea what was going on, and even less what to do. But doing nothing wasn’t an option, since he’d involved himself this way.

  He let Max cry himself out, then pushed his hair back off his face. “We’ll sort this out, Max. The important thing is not to do anything silly right now.”

  Max lifted his head, fixing Dylan with reddened, damp-lashed eyes. “I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”

  “For now? Do you have anyone you can talk to?”

  “Toby...but he thinks I’m dead. You?”

  “You can talk to me, sure. I meant someone like a GP.”

  “I haven’t been to a doctor since I was fifteen. Am I sick, do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Dylan wondered if he should mention Lisa, and decided against it for now. “Maybe we should find Toby and talk to him together.”

  “What if he hates me? What if he’s afraid of me?”

  “Don’t get too worked up before we’ve arranged anything. Where do you live? You can’t be living at his house.”

  “I do! I’ve always lived there. It’s my parents’ house.”

  “Okay. So when you leave here, you go home. Do you go to sleep?”

  “Of course.”

  “So, last week. After you went home and went to sleep. What’s the next thing you remember?”

  Max closed his eyes, and his brow wrinkled with the effort of remembering. “I woke up. It was night time. I remembered we had a date.”

  “You mean, tonight? I was talking about last Friday. What do you remember between then and now?”

  Max shook again. “N-nothing. I was in bed...and now I’m here.” He stared past Dylan’s shoulder, as if the answer might be there. When his eyes returned to Dylan, there was fear in them. “There’s nothing in between. Dylan, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure we can work it out.” Dylan hugged him again. Max clung to him like a frightened child. “Do you want to stay tonight? Just to sleep?”

  “Can I? I don’t want to be a bother.”

  Dylan kissed his hair. “You’re not a bother. I can take the couch. I haven’t bought a spare bed yet.”

  “No, I can sleep here. But I’d rather sleep with you. Just sleep.”

  “Okay. Promise me you won’t run away until we’ve made plans to deal with things.”

  “I won’t,” Max whispered. “I’m not dead, Dylan.”

  “No, you’re not. Bedroom’s through there. I’ll put a toothbrush out for you.”

  Max obediently went off into the bedroom, while Dylan quickly used the bathroom and put out the spare toothbrush. Was this a bad idea? A good idea? He had no indication Max was about to turn violent, and the poor kid was so broken and frightened, putting him out on the street to go who knew where and to do who knew what, would be too cruel.

  Dylan undressed and climbed under the covers. A few minutes later, Max came in. Seeing Dylan, he looked at the floor. “Um, do you want me to keep my clothes on?”

  “Only if you want to. We’re just going to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Will I?”

  “I hope so. Come on.”

  Max stripped to his underwear, and Dylan held the covers open for him. Max moved close to him, still shaking a little, so Dylan put his arm around him. “Try and forget about it for now, okay?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then try and think of nothing. Think of something pleasant and neutral. Like wallpaper.”

  Max choked out a laugh. “Wallpaper?”

  “Grass? The sky? Anything that doesn’t make you think too hard.”

  “Dylan? After the accident...was it hard to get used to things?”

  “Yes and no. I had a lot of recovering to do, so the arm was the least of my worries. Not while the doctors weren’t sure if I’d ever walk again.”

  “I didn’t know about that.”

  “All in the past. But yes, there were a lot of changes. Couldn’t keep my old job. Had to give up the motorbike. Lots of little things were suddenly harder to do, until I found a different way to do them.”

  “Keep talking to me? It helps.”

  “Whatever works,” Dylan said, keeping his voice low.

  “Tell me about Rachel.”

  Christ. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. Whatever you want to tell me.”

  So Dylan took a deep breath and talked about the easy stuff. Being at university. Kieran as a baby. Rachel being one of his pillars of support after the crash, and how she’d been the one to suggest the path on which his current career lay. Her dirty laugh, and her biting sarcasm in the face of idiocy or weak will.

  He kept talking until he heard Max’s breathing deepen and slow, and the kid’s body felt heavy against him. Then he got comfortable. He doubted he would sleep much. He couldn’t predict what would happen in the morning. He hoped it would be better. That hope had been all that got him through much darker times. It could sustain him now.

  ~~~~~

  Some inconsiderate sod in a rubbish collection lorry out on the street shouted out obscenities and gave Dylan a rude and unwelcome early wake up call. He’d been looking forward to a lie-in, damn it. He glanced at his still sleeping companion. It looked like Max had found the peace to get some solid rest.

  Should he get up, leave the kid to snooze? It was barely seven, and it had been nearly midnight before they’d gone to bed. He could do with another hour’s kip himself.

  He rolled over, planning to try to get to sleep again. A sharp kick to his leg put paid to that idea.

  “Careful,” he muttered.

  More rustling and nudging, and then a bounce as his companion sat up.

  Then, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “What?” Dylan turned and found himself facing a very angry—or very frightened—young man. “It’s okay, Max—”

  “It’s fucking not! Who are...God, you’re that bloody creepy bastard from the uni.” Max—no, Toby—backed out of the bed, pulling the covers with him and wrapping them around himself defensively. “What am I doing here? And what did you do to me?”

  “Nothing. I did
nothing. You...I mean, Max...came here last night—”

  “Max is dead. You tricked me...drugged me...did you rape me?”

  “What? Jesus, no. Calm the hell down. Let me explain—”

  “No. I’m getting out of here. Where are my clothes?”

  Dylan gestured towards the chair. “I really think you should let me explain. There’s something funny going on.”

  Max...Toby...struggled into his jeans. “Yeah. With you. Leave me alone.”

  Still shirtless, and clutching his shoes in his hands, the kid fled from the room. Seconds later, the front door slammed.

  “Fuck and bugger it.” Dylan wrapped his arms around himself. One mystery solved, but another had just opened up.

  Good job he knew a smart psychiatrist.

  Chapter 4

  After he’d had a cup of tea to calm down, he called his sister and told her the whole gory tale.

  “So, is this multiple personality disorder? Sybil? Toby’s just a fucked up kid?”

  “They call it ‘dissociative personality disorder’ now, but yes. And yes, he sounds troubled. Dylan, he needs proper help. You can’t handle this, and you shouldn’t even try. If this is DID, then it’s likely to have been caused by some severe trauma.”

  “Like the death of his twin?”

  “Hmmm, possibly. It’s a controversial diagnosis in some quarters. But whatever it is, he’s got a real problem. Always supposing he’s not faking it and—”

  “He’s not, Lisa. He was genuinely freaked out. So was ‘Toby’. Neither of them have any idea what’s going on.”

  “No, they wouldn’t. Poor man.”

  “I guess. Just my luck, eh? The only guy to pay the slightest attention to me in three years is barking mad.”

  Lisa made a disapproving sound. “Not mad, Dylan. Ill. Very ill.”

  “Same thing. Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll miss him. Max. He’s sweet.”

  “He’s part of Toby. That sweetness will be there.”

  “But Toby is terrified of me. He thinks I’m a creep.”

  “For now. Anyway, that’s the least of his problems. Will you try and find him?”

  “Tricky. He’s a student, I’m a lecturer. If I go looking, he might complain I’m harassing him.”

  “Then leave it for now. He might seek help on his own. This might not even be the first time he’s had a clue that he’s dissociative.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Dylan, you’ve done the best you can. Try and put it behind you.”

  “I will. Thanks, sis.”

  In some ways it was easier, knowing that he was dealing with a known phenomenon, and not some weird, inexplicable coincidence. But on the other hand, he ached to put this right. He hated that Toby thought he’d been attacked or tricked, and he worried about what would happen to ‘Max’, however ridiculous it was to think of the two personalities as different people.

  Still, there was nothing he could do about the situation, other than to accept it and move on. Conscious that he had spent too much of his free time lately in ways that did not help his mental well-being, he deliberately didn’t touch anything to do with his job, and kept the computer shut down for the weekend. He worked on his back exercises, and took himself out of the flat for some long walks. Passing the pub where he’d met ‘Max’ brought more than a twinge of regret. He wouldn’t be able to go back there for a while. Schooling himself not to anticipate a cheery greeting and another friendly conversation with the kid would take time.

  Monday found him in a decent, if not wildly optimistic mood. For once, the morning was not overridden with meetings, and he spent some welcome time in the lab, looking at the latest prototype and suggesting modifications. There were some promising results from the new biosensors. The partners would be pleased.

  But once he had finished there, and done two grant applications reviews, he called the registration office to verify that Toby Symonds was indeed a student, and to find out what he was studying. Toby was registered for a BSc in Mathematics, doing the third year of the degree course. Dylan was surprised to learn that Toby was twenty-seven, not twenty. But Max had been twenty when he died. Was that why the personality had decided how old it was?

  Registrations told him that Toby had started the third year of his bachelor’s degree six years previously, but had dropped out just before Christmas, not long after his twin had died. Then there was nothing on his academic record until his successful application for the current year.

  What had he been doing in the interval? And why start his degree again now? Were ‘Max’s’ appearance and the revived studies connected?

  However, this was none of his business. He thanked the clerk for her time, and logged into his computer to check his email one more time before he headed out for lunch.

  A knock came at his door. “Come in.”

  The last person Dylan expected to see in his office, walked in. Toby’s face was drawn and weary, his clothes rumpled as if he’d slept in them. At least his expression wasn’t as hostile as the last time Dylan had seen it.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course. Sit down. You look, um, tired.”

  Belatedly Dylan realised he was alone with a mentally unstable youth who might not outweigh him, but who had two good arms and strong legs. Surreptitiously, he pulled out his mobile phone and put it near his good hand. Fortunately the window was open. He could yell for help.

  But Toby showed no inclination towards aggression as he slumped down into Dylan’s guest chair. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I can’t work out what’s going on, or why I was in your bed.”

  “Do you want me to tell you what I saw? How it happened from my perspective?”

  “Did you have sex with me?”

  “No. Nothing happened at all.” Dylan would definitely not mention the kissing. “Do you want me to talk about it?”

  “Will it help?” Toby didn’t sound like he cared much one way or the other.

  “I don’t know. Toby...when your brother died, did you get counselling at all?”

  His visitor snorted. “If you count four years in and out of psychiatric wards, ongoing psychiatric supervision, and a ton of drugs, ‘counselling’, then yes.”

  “Ah. I didn’t mean to sound...it must have been hard.”

  “No one understands how hard. Everyone thinks it was just grief, turned to depression. But I felt him die. In here.” He thumped his chest. “My parents are so pleased that I’m back to ‘normal’.” He made the quote marks with his fingers, his lip curling in derision. “I’m normal all right—for someone cut in half. I’m not suicidal, and I’m on a maintenance dose of anti-depressants. I’m stable. But I’m missing something. I always will be. Like you.”

  “Me?”

  Toby gestured to Dylan’s right side. “Your hand. You’re coping. But you’ll never regrow that.”

  “I see.” Dylan’s reply came out stiffer than he planned. Toby had thrown him, mentioning his injury so casually. “So your doctors are happy with your progress.”

  “I just said that...oh, I see. You think I’m still barking. Think I’m going to freak out on you, or attack you.”

  “No, I—”

  “Forget it. I thought...I have no idea what I thought now. I’ll leave you alone.” He started to stand.

  “Toby, stop. Wait. Please, give me a chance to...you’ve given me a lot of new information, but you haven’t even asked why I wanted to know about counselling. Don’t you at least want to hear my side?”

  Toby hesitated, expression still sullen. “Have you had lunch?” Dylan asked. “I was just about to get mine.”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s go outside and find something to eat. I’ve got plenty of time today. We can talk as long as you want.”

  Toby didn’t exactly leap at the idea, but he nodded. Dylan grabbed his cane and phone. “Come on.”

  Toby kept up a solid silence until they had queued and paid for s
andwiches at the canteen. Dylan led his way to what had become his favourite spot to spend the lunch hour. “This is better, don’t you think?”

  “Feel safer?”

  “A little. I did a bit of freaking out myself on the weekend.”

  Toby lifted his head, startled. That’s right, kid. You’re not the only one affected. Now shut up and listen.

  Toby slowly ate his sandwich while Dylan described meeting ‘Max’, then discovering that ‘Max’ was Toby’s dead twin, and how ‘Max’ had reacted to what Dylan had told him. “At that point, I had no idea what was going on, but Max was so frightened and distressed, I let him stay over. He wanted someone to be there. And next morning...well, you know what happened.”

  “So you’re thinking, dissociative personality disorder, right?”

  Dylan raised his eyebrows. “You know about that?”

  “Come on, man. I spent years with fellow nutters. I’ve seen everything. But I don’t have it.”

  “Uh....”

  “Look, there’s no part of my squirrelly fucking brain that hasn’t been inspected, dissected, analysed and drugged into submission. I don’t have alternate personalities.”

  “But...how do you explain ‘Max’?”

  Toby jerked his hand through his hair. “No idea. I believe you. It’s too mad a story to make up. I also found this in my pocket.” He pulled out a piece of paper with Dylan’s address and phone number on it. “That’s Max’s handwriting, no question.” His voice wobbled a little. “I, uh, read his journals after he died. I know his writing very well. I even checked this morning, to be sure.”

  “But could an alternate—”

  “I don’t think so. Anyway, I told you. I don’t have DID. Those people are fucked up. Seriously fucked up.”

  “It still seems the most likely explanation. I, uh, talked to my sister. She’s a psychiatrist.”

  “Right, of course you did. So you know all about my head, and nothing I say makes any difference. Great.” He dusted his hands and stood. “I don’t have multiple personalities. I don’t know why you met ‘Max’, but he’s not me.”

  “Toby—”

  “He’s not me!” Toby’s yell echoed around the buildings. People turned to look. “He’s dead. He’s gone. I’ve spent six years accepting that he’s gone. He’s not here, and he’s not me. Get that into your head!”