30

‘Tell me about your twin’, Leonard types.

‘Happy to. But this is about you’, Simon replies.

‘I’m still a bit shaky discussing this. I’ve never talked about it with anyone. It helps me to know that you understand how it feels. To have a twin. Are you identical?’

‘Yes. Although, as we’ve grown older we’re looking less and less alike.’

‘How come?’

‘He’s into sports. I’m a desk jockey. Spend most of my time on the computer.’

‘What sports is he into?’

‘Rugby. Trains hard for it. Has a neck thicker than one of my thighs.’

‘So, people won’t ever mistake you for one another?’

‘They used to. All the time. We had fun with it. But now it never happens, cos I’m so skinny. With a grey complexion. Did you and your twin get mixed up?’

‘Constantly. ‘

‘Tell me more.’

‘The nuns put a sticking plaster on the back of our necks. With our names written on them. People used to have to turn us round to check who they were talking to.’

‘Nuns?’

‘It was an orphanage and old folks’ home, run by an order of nuns.’

‘Were they nice?’

There’s a pause while Leonard counts out a minute.

‘They were not.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for? You weren’t there.’

‘If I hit a nerve.’

‘I was trying to work out a way to answer. I went with honest and succinct.’

‘Always a good combo I find. Back to you and your twin. Did you have fun with the whole identical thing?’

‘No. We were too scared.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Of being caught. The nuns were a bit too handy with their fists.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You need to stop apologising. What kind of things did you and your twin do?’

‘It was mostly at school. One of us would misbehave and then we would blame each other until the teacher was dizzy with it. And we both got detention.’

‘In my day it was The Belt.’

‘Mum used to talk about that. Was it sore?’

‘Depends on who was giving it to you. Some teachers used to make it their mission to cause suffering. Others hated it and would barely use the thing.’

‘What was your twin’s name?’

Leonard paused before answering. Counted out two minutes on the computer clock.

‘John.’

‘Sorry. That was clearly difficult for you.’

‘You’re going to have to stop saying sorry. Lol.’

Leonard hated the use of “lol”, and even using it with a sense of irony made him want to hurt someone. But sometimes you had to use all of the tools at your disposal if you wanted to make a connection.

‘Oops. Almost did it there again. Tell me about the orphanage.’

‘We used to call it The Home. And it just occurred to me that there is a subtle but powerful distinction between calling it home and calling it The Home.’

‘Yeah. I “hear” you. Did it feel like home?’

‘Felt like a place where we were parked until the adults worked out what to do with us. The word “home” has connotations of safety, love and comfort. The Home had little of any of those three words. What kind of home did you and your brother have?

Dad died when we were young. Army. Afghanistan. Mum was amazing. And tough on us. Didn’t let us away with anything.’

‘Good for her. Did you miss having a positive male influence in your life? Boys do need their dads.’

‘You don’t think about those things as a kid. You just get on with it. As long as there was food on the table, cartoons on TV and a decent internet connection, I was sorted. What helped you get through your time in the home?’

Leonard considers typing the truth for a moment. Helping a group of friends, including an almost famous police detective, murder an old man we thought was terrorising us. He grins at the thought of the impact this might have. Goes for…

‘Comics. I loved Superman and Batman and all those guys. Perfect escapism for a lonely wee boy.’

Which is of course a lie. Why would you want to help people? Unless it was for your own brutal ends.

‘Do you miss your twin?’

‘Every day.’

‘What’s your abiding memory of him?’

He pauses. Knows the boy is really looking for something pleasant. Considers the truth. And nods to himself.

‘He wet the bed pretty much every night. The usual cure was to be woken up at 5am and dumped in a bath of cold water. This morning his “carer” decided that he should learn a lesson and she stripped his pyjamas from him, wrapped him up in his piss-sodden sheets and left him there for hours while the rest of us went to morning mass and had breakfast. He was suffering from bronchitis at the time. It developed into pneumonia and he died.’

‘Man, that’s awful.’

‘Yup.’

‘How did you feel?’

Leonard stops. That’s enough, he thinks. If the boy wants more, he’s going to have to earn it.

‘I’ve said enough. There are some places I can’t quite go yet. At least not remotely like this.’

‘That’s a shame. It feels like we’re making some kind of breakthrough here. Please go on.’

Leonard can almost see the desperation to help. This boy really is a Samaritan.

‘Can’t. Just can’t.’

‘What would it take?’

‘In person? I could maybe open up in person.’

‘Can’t do that. Not part of the deal.’

‘Please? I really do feel we would get somewhere if we were face to face.’

‘Sorry.’

He takes a gamble.

‘I live in central Scotland. We could meet up in, say, Glasgow?’

‘It’s really not allowed.’

Leonard counts out two minutes. It feels like such a long time while online, even to him. Then…

‘Please?’

There’s a pause for about forty-five seconds while the boy debates. Then two letters appear.

‘ok’.