After Bill’s phone call, even the combined attractions of Thandie and the chicken weren’t enough to keep Billy in the cottage. His doppelgänger might be home any minute. He mentally bid a sorry farewell to the rest of his lunch, then told Thandie he needed a walk to clear his head. He allowed himself the luxury of using the pristine bathroom before he left. He had actually forgotten that not all bathrooms are a biohazard. Then he took one last look at Thandie. For that moment, he considered staying, but he knew there was no way this could end well for him.
Once out under the beating sun, Billy traced his way back down the hill towards the waterfront, and let his thoughts catch up with him. There was another Shakespeare out there. Maybe even more than one. Who knew how many Eleanor had created? He had always known that he was not unique, that he was merely a reproduction of the great original, but he had taken some solace in being the only Shakespeare copy, the only one who knew what it was like to be him – to be Him. Through failure after failure he’d told himself that it wasn’t his fault, that the circumstances of his creation had made his life impossible, that nobody could withstand the intolerable pressure of trying to live up to such expectations. And now he discovered that not only was there another living Shakespeare, the other one was a success!
His hand hovered over his pocket, wondering if he should break five years of silence and call his mother, but he was overwhelmed with the familiar shame of how much he had disappointed her, and then the anger associated with that shame, and so he didn’t call. (It wouldn’t have made any difference if he had, as his mother was currently in a police cell less than twenty minutes’ walk away, awaiting processing for assault on a traffic warden, and her phone had been confiscated, along with her shoes and belt.)
He needed a drink, he decided. He looked around for a pub, rejected a couple for being too chichi and finally settled on a place called the Boar’s Head, which had a pleasingly unpolished air. Very him, he thought. He went inside, returned the barmaid’s friendly hello and spotted Sally sitting at the back of the room, reading a magazine about fishing. Perfect. He remembered that he didn’t have any money on him, but that Sally did.
‘Hey, sis,’ he said, ‘shout me a pint?’
He sat down in the other chair at her table while she went and got them both a drink. He flicked through the pile of magazines she’d been looking at. Weird selection. This didn’t seem like the kind of pub that would have a subscription to Fine Art Connoisseur.
Sal came back with the drinks.
‘We’ve got to leave town,’ Billy said without preamble. ‘As soon as I finish this drink.’
‘But – why?’ said Sal.
‘There’s another Shakespeare,’ said Billy.
‘What do you mean, another Shakespeare?’
‘She must have made two. Or more. And one of them is living in that house.’
‘What do you mean, made two? What house? I don’t understand.’
‘I’m just getting my head round it myself. And Thandie! What a woman! I can never see her again.’
‘What – never?’
‘I know. It’s crazy. You don’t meet someone like that every day. And if I could see any way of making it work – but it’s hopeless. Too complicated. Better to have a clean break.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yeah. We’ll just – forget all about her and go.’
‘But I don’t want to go,’ said Sal. Billy thought she looked surprisingly upset, she should be used to moving on by now. ‘What about the newsagent?’ she said.
‘What newsagent? Don’t worry about the newsagent. There are newsagents everywhere. Get our stuff together and go to the station, book us some tickets on the first train out of here, and I’ll come meet you there the moment I’ve finished my pint.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about saying goodbye?’
‘Who on earth do you want to say goodbye to?’
Sal thought of all the people she had grown up with: her father, her friends, the locals who knew her by name. Thandie, who was like a sister to her.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘If this is what you want.’ She stood up, leaving her drink untouched. ‘I still think you’re acting really weird today.’
‘Of course I am. There’s another Shakespeare.’
‘Well,’ said Sal, ‘I suppose that is weird.’
She left the pub, her shoulders sloped with sadness.
Billy took a sip of his pint. It was good. Bittersweet, like Thandie. He wondered whether he could go and see her again, but, of course, that was impossible. William Evans was probably there already, sitting in his rocking chair, kissing his wife, eating his chicken, admiring his shelf of bestsellers.
William Evans. If the two of them were, in genetic terms at least, the same person, why had their destinies turned out so differently? By what accident had he ended up living an itinerant life, scraping by on whatever Sally could raise from zero-hours contracts in lousy jobs, unable to make anything of what he – of few people on earth – could unabashedly call his genius, while William Evans had everything he’d ever dreamed of?
He got his phone out and googled his foe, but the results – ‘precocious talent’, ‘wunderkind’, ‘the theatre’s hottest new sensation’ – were too nauseating to pursue.
William Evans can do it, he thought. William Shakespeare could do it. So what is wrong with me?
‘I thought I might find you here,’ said a man’s voice.
Billy looked up to see a traffic warden standing by his table.
‘You’re mistaking me for someone else,’ he told him. ‘I don’t have a car.’
‘Very funny,’ said the traffic warden. Then, to Billy’s astonishment, he leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. ‘This for me?’ he said, sitting down and picking up Sal’s drink. ‘Lime and soda? I hope there’s a vodka in it. I got your text, sorry I didn’t answer, I’ve had a hideous day. Thank God my shift is over. I got into a fight with a woman, an actual physical fight. She kicked me! I had to call the police.’
Billy stared mutely as the man pulled his cap off his pale blond hair and began to peel off his hi-vis jacket.
‘Look!’ he was saying. ‘She tore my sleeve! I should have gone home to change but I didn’t want to waste my break.’
‘We’re together,’ Billy managed eventually. ‘You and me.’
The traffic warden stopped and peered at Billy. ‘Are you OK?’ he said.
‘I’m cheating on Thandie with you.’
‘I – well, that’s a bit blunt, but – yes.’
‘And I’m gay.’
‘I thought you didn’t like labels?’
The traffic warden put his hand on Billy’s, but Billy drew his away. Here was another fine mess William Evans had got him into! He decided to be direct.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘This is all a misunderstanding. I’m not who you think I am.’
The traffic warden shook his head. ‘Bill, what are you saying?’
‘I’m not Bill. I’m not William Evans. I’m somebody else. I look like William Evans, but I’m not him. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.’
‘Bill,’ said the traffic warden, ‘I know it hasn’t been easy for you, accepting this part of you, this relationship—’
‘I’m not Bill,’ Billy repeated. ‘Maybe it was easy for Bill. Maybe Bill is gay. I can’t deny having had the odd fumble myself, there was that camping trip – that’s not important right now. What I’m saying is, Bill might love you! But that’s not who I am.’
‘How can you say these things?’ said the traffic warden.
‘Because they’re true. I’m not Bill.’
‘Look. I don’t know what kind of – of fugue state you’ve gone into – obviously you’re struggling with your feelings, it’s hard for you to deal with all the changes you’re going through—’
‘I’m not in a fugue state.’
‘—But I thought we’d been over all this! Bill! Don’t do this to me! I love you!’
The traffic warden’s eyes filled with tears. He was, Billy thought, painfully young. What was William Evans playing at?
‘I’m just going to say this one more time,’ he said. ‘I’m not Bill. And I feel very sorry for your predicament, but I’ve got enough on my plate without trying to sort out your relationship problems for you. Now, I’m leaving town today, and I’m in a bit of a rush. You can figure this out with Bill when you see him. Bill. Who is not me.’
Billy stood up and walked away from the table, leaving behind, with enormous regret, that pint of good beer.
‘Bill!’ the young traffic warden was calling after him. ‘Come back! Talk to me! Bill!’
Billy pushed open the pub door and stepped out into the fierce afternoon heat.