‘You’re late, mister,’ Phyllis called to him from the kitchen.

He pulled off his shoes – they were muddy from the canalside – and called back to her. ‘Sorry. I went for a walk. I’m… I’ve got to pop upstairs a moment.’ He ran upstairs, tore off his shirt and washed at the bathroom sink. The immersion heater hadn’t been on; the water was cold on his neck, under his arms. He shivered, dried himself with a musty towel and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown.

In the kitchen, Phyllis was baking. As he entered, she looked at him and screwed up her nose.

‘What?’ He bent to kiss her.

‘You’re in your pyjamas,’ she said. ‘I was thinking we’d get a takeaway as there’s only the two of us. I’m still making these bloody fairy cakes for Sunday.’

He dipped a finger into the chocolatey cake dough.

‘Oi, it’s still Lent.’ She slapped his hand playfully, but he grinned and sucked the sweet goo from his finger.

‘I don’t mind going to the Chinese.’ It was the last thing on earth he wanted to do. But he had to stay normal. She knew him better than anyone in this world. If he were tense, she would see it. If he lied, she would know.

‘We can have cheese on toast. Won’t kill us, will it?’ She sighed. ‘Can’t wait to have chocolate again.’

‘I’ll buy you the biggest Easter egg I can find.’ He opened the fridge door and pulled out the half-bottle of Piat d’Or for her and a can of Greenall’s bitter for himself. The panic of the day was starting to ebb. He was under control. Billy would not come here, not now he had an appointment. Jack had returned to Morecambe, appeased by the promise of brotherly good times to come. Christopher would write to Margaret in the morning, arrange a visit for the end of term.

He sighed and poured Phyllis a drink. She reached for it without looking, as if the two of them were cogs in the same machine, ticking hands in the same perfect timepiece. He smiled at the idea. How relaxed it was here at the house with the boys and David away. With no kids to think about, he and Phyllis were like a young couple starting out on their life’s adventure. Cheese on toast, a glass of wine; later they would curl up on the sofa together and watch Top of the Pops or whatever was on. This was life. If he could only keep hold of it.

---

The next day, Christopher busied himself as best he could: marking, lesson plans, a long run on the hill. At six, he bathed and dressed, ate with Phyllis the spaghetti Bolognese he had prepared for them both.

‘I’m going out with Amanda later,’ he said.

‘All right, love. What time?’

‘Quarter to seven. I shouldn’t be back late.’

‘All right. If I’m in bed, lock up, eh?’

‘Of course.’

At quarter to seven, he poked his head round the living-room door. Phyllis was watching an episode of Coronation Street she had videoed.

‘I’m off then,’ he said.

‘OK, love. See you later.’

He put on his coat and shoes, went to open the door. There, he hesitated a moment before going back into the lounge.

‘Bye then.’ He rounded the edge of the sofa and bent towards her, took her head in his hands and kissed her on the cheek. He drew back and smiled. ‘I love you.’

‘And I you, silly.’ She looked into his eyes, her brow furrowed in question. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You’ll be late.’

---

At two minutes to seven, he parked outside the Wilsons and went in. Billy was not there, nor was Rebecca. He ordered a pint of bitter shandy, instructing the woman at the bar to make it three-quarters lemonade, and sat down. Good Friday, the pub was already busy – men, mostly. Men like his father, Jack Harris, supping ale at the end of a hard week.

Billy appeared minutes later. Christopher stood, smiled and waved. Seeing the confusion pass across Billy’s face as he made his way over, he dug into his pocket and gestured towards the bar.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Where’s Phyllis?’

‘She’s not here. As I said, she gets anxious. She’s asked me to come and meet you. There are some things I need to tell you, but first let me get you a drink.’

Billy glanced about him before fixing Christopher with his green eyes. ‘All right. Can I have a lager please? Thanks.’

Leaving Billy to take off his jacket and settle in his seat, Christopher went to the bar and held up his hand, catching the barmaid’s attention almost immediately.

‘Hi there,’ he said, noticing this time the merest hint of a blush on the young woman’s face, the way her eyes widened a little at the sight of him. ‘Could you give me a pint of your strongest lager?’

The woman raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. ‘That’ll be the Grolsch. It’s expensive though.’

‘That’s perfectly all right. And a shot of vodka – a double – if you will, thank you.’

He turned to check on Billy, who was talking to a bald man with a pregnant-looking beer belly. He turned back and, with a wink at the barmaid, tipped the vodka into the lager and handed over the money.

As she returned the change, she let her fingertips linger a moment on the palm of his hand. ‘Know where I am if you need me.’

He smiled, almost winked. ‘I do indeed. Thank you.’

He checked the door. Still no sign of Rebecca. It was possible she wouldn’t come. He had been naïve to think she would. He thought of the taxi money he had given her boyfriend or whoever he was. It had probably gone on a bottle of cider or an eighth of hash by now; he had been stupid to hand it over. He made his way back to Billy, excusing himself as he pushed past the bald man, who nodded at Billy and turned to rejoin his group of friends.

‘People are real friendly in England,’ Billy said. He took a long gulp of his beer and set it down. ‘Cheers. Thanks for the drink.’

He had not tasted the vodka – the strong lager had done its job.

‘Listen,’ Christopher began. ‘I know it must be a shock to you that Phyllis isn’t here. But the thing is, I need to come clean with you about some things and you’re going to have to listen until I get to the end.’

‘All right,’ Billy said. ‘Go ahead.’

Christopher pulled at his pint and set it down. Looked over towards the door and told himself to stop. If Rebecca came, she came. If not, he would still say what he had to say.

‘So. First thing is, after you left, I opened your letter and read it before I gave it to Phyllis.’

‘You had no right to do that,’ Billy interrupted. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

Christopher raised his hand. ‘Yes. And I’m sorry, but as I said, you have to listen to the end.’ He met Billy’s gaze and, seeing a flicker of assent, went on. ‘Phyllis suffers with nerves. I was worried the letter would upset her. I was right. It did.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But she wrote me back.’

‘I know. She made me read her letter, to make sure it was all right. I was the one who delivered it for her. I knew something had gone wrong, you see. Because years ago I traced Phyllis through the official channels. I went through Liverpool Council, the court overseeing the adoption and the Registrar. You’ve come over with a – and I’m not criticising you at all – a whole different approach and I think, in short-cutting the process, you haven’t arrived at the correct information.’

‘So what? You’re telling me I’m wrong?’

‘Wait. Please.’

‘No, you wait a second. You’re telling me you’re not my half-brother?’

Christopher had been about to argue back, but Billy’s words stopped him dead. ‘Your half-brother? Is that what you think? No. No, I’m… Look, let me explain in full and then we’ll do questions, all right?’

Billy opened his mouth to speak but appeared to think better of it. He nodded for Christopher to continue and picked up his glass.

‘All right,’ said Christopher, his heart thumping. ‘After we realised there’d been a mistake, I agreed with Phyllis that I’d investigate further and find out what had gone wrong. She was too upset to deal with it.’

‘But I saw the mother superior…’

Christopher raised his hand. ‘Please.’

‘I’m sorry, all right, go ahead.’ Billy took another long drink of his lager.

‘I realise you went to the convent. But I went there also. It was a simple mistake. Two sets of documents in the same file. You asked for your details, she pulled out mine. And that’s it.’

‘But I have the photograph.’

‘Of yourself and a nun. Sister Lawrence, who is now the mother superior. It doesn’t prove anything, not a thing. I’m sure it’s you, but there’s nothing on that photograph to say that your mother was Phyllis. What the mother superior didn’t realise when you went there is that there were two boys born the same day. I was one; you were the other. Your mother’s name is Rebecca.’

‘But I didn’t see any documents. There was just some ledger book. I had to show her my ID.’

‘Your name is Billy Hurst. Your mother’s name is Rebecca. Rebecca Hurst.’

‘Rebecca? What? That’s not possible!’

‘Wait. It’s not bad news – it’s different news. I know you think you’ve found your mother, and I’m here to tell you that you have. But it’s not Phyllis, that’s all. Listen, I have more to say. But first let me get you another pint.’

Billy appeared to calm down. He looked at his glass as if surprised to see he had emptied it. ‘It’s my turn.’

But Christopher had already stood up. ‘No, I insist. My town, my treat. Besides, I think the barmaid likes me.’ He winked at Billy, feeling himself blush at his own fraudulence. This wasn’t him. He had borrowed Adam’s personality, it seemed, to get him through. Chutzpah: so long a mystery, and now, in extremis, he had found it after all.

He ordered the same again for Billy, and for himself another bitter shandy – this time barely a splash of bitter in the lemonade – and returned to Billy.

‘The beer’s good here,’ said Billy. ‘Tasty, and, boy, I can already feel it.’

‘I’ll take you to the chippy after,’ said Christopher, acknowledging Billy’s attempt to break the tension – a good sign surely.

‘That’s the fish and chip shop, right?’

‘Indeed.’ Christopher raised his pint and they touched their glasses together.

‘You said you have more to tell me?’ Billy said.

‘That’s right.’ Christopher checked the door. Still no one. Where was she? Bloody drug-addled waste of life, could she not turn up for her own son? What a waste of space. ‘So I traced your mother, Rebecca. I knew you were short of time and I suppose I wanted to help. That’s not true, actually, I did want to help you but you must understand that sorting out this matter is of utmost urgency for me too. I mean, I live with Phyllis in her home. I’ve been with her for four years. She and I, we have a unique bond. We are close, we are—’

‘I get it,’ Billy said quietly. ‘I didn’t want to cause trouble. But I’m going to need proof.’

‘I have proof,’ said Christopher. ‘I have all the documentation. But I have more than that. I have your mother. I traced her. I found her parents, your grandparents. And I found her.’ He stopped, drank deeply. The next bit would be more difficult. If he hadn’t wanted Rebecca, there was every reason to suspect that neither would Billy.

‘She should be here by now,’ he said.

‘Here?’

‘Yes. I told her you’d be here. But…’

‘But what?’

‘Look, she’s had a difficult life. I’m sorry to say that I found her in a bad state. She was… I think she was drunk and I suspect she’d taken something.’

‘What are you telling me? That my mother’s a drug addict?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know how bad it is. But she’s not well. And I realise that must be upsetting for you to hear. Believe me, I wanted to bring you better news.’

‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ Billy leaned back in his chair. As he did so, his left eye half-closed.

Christopher stood, knocking his chair backwards.

‘Oi,’ said the man behind him, the bald man. ‘Watch what you’re doing, mate.’

‘Are you all right?’ Billy too had stood up. He was gesturing, as if to help Christopher sit back down.

‘I… I need to use the loo,’ Christopher stammered. ‘Excuse me.’ He lurched, pushed his way through the busy pub.

In the Gents, he threw open the cubicle door and bolted it behind him. He slammed down the loo seat and sat down, head in his hands. The stench of urine filled his nostrils. His breath came raggedly through his open mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. He closed his mouth, sickened by the smell, but sat breathing like a racehorse all the same. The metallic taste of blood, the urge to vomit – he stood and retched into the bowl, but nothing came. He spat, sat down once more and put his head in his hands.

‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘Oh God, oh God.’

Ben was not Billy. Ben was Martin. He was Phyllis’s son – it was clearer than the tiled floor at Christopher’s feet. His eye, the way he had half-closed it on hearing something peculiar or suspicious. His eye, half-closed, revealed the rest: the brown hair that fell over his brow like hers did, his father’s green eyes, Phyllis’s nose and her lopsided smile. The rest came now, flushing in – Rebecca, her sunken face, her black hair, the way she had lit up for a moment before dying back on the dilapidated sofa cushions. That face, a sunken, shrunken echo of the woman in the headscarf all those years ago. Are you Billy?

No, I am not, he had said.

But he was. As Ben was Martin, son of Phyllis, Christopher was Billy, son of Rebecca, a mother he did not want, could not have, could not could not, could never…

‘No.’ The word perspired against his hands, clamped now over his face. He was weeping. He could not remember starting to cry, but his face was wet and his throat ached. ‘I’m Billy.’ His own voice came high in his ears like someone else’s. ‘I’m Billy.’

He had known. He had always known.

And if he had seen it, then so would Phyllis. She would see in Ben her son. She would see Martin. She must not see. She must not.

The squeal of the door. The splash of someone at the urinal.

He sat up, wiped his face with his hands. Think, Christopher. This is your life in the balance. Fight for it. Ben could still be Billy because Billy was who Christopher needed him to be. Hadn’t he, Christopher, lived as Martin, Phyllis’s son, exactly because that was what he had needed? Hadn’t he been happy? Hadn’t she? You can only live a lie if you don’t know or accept the truth. He didn’t accept it. No, he did not. What harm could there possibly be in sending Ben back to the US thinking he was Billy? It would not ruin his life. It would barely alter his life, over there, so far away. No. The only life that stood to be ruined was Christopher’s own, and he had come too far to surrender that now. No. No and no. Ben could be Billy. Ben would be Billy.

Ben was Billy.

Once whoever it was had left the Gents, Christopher came out of the cubicle and washed his hands and face. He dried himself with the paper towel and leant in to the mirror.

‘You are Martin,’ he said to his reflection. ‘And no one is going to take her away from you.’

---

Billy was at the end of his pint. As Christopher approached the table, he looked up and furrowed his brow in question.

‘Where’ve you been, man?’

‘Upset stomach,’ said Christopher. ‘Think I must have eaten something that’s disagreed with me.’

‘You don’t look so great,’ said Billy. ‘You’re sweating. Do you want to step outside?’

‘Actually, yes. I think a breath of air would be good.’

Outside, the sun had gone down. The day had darkened into the first hours of night. The air had chilled. Christopher took a cold lungful.

‘I’m afraid Rebecca hasn’t come,’ he said. ‘That’s disappointing. I’m sorry.’

‘Sounds like she maybe didn’t understand, if she was as you said.’

‘Be that as it may, I left a note with instructions. There was a man with her who seemed all right. He said he’d get her here.’

Billy thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked at the pavement. ‘Look, man. You seem like a real nice guy, but this Rebecca hasn’t shown up and I think I’m going to need proof.’

‘I have my birth certificate.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. I can bring it to you tomorrow if you don’t believe me. And there’s something else. Come with me,’ Christopher said. ‘I have something to show you.’

They walked towards the town and took a left towards the canal.

‘Where are we going?’ Billy asked as they crossed the grass verge.

‘I didn’t tell you the final part,’ said Christopher, thinking quickly. ‘The mother superior told me how you came to be at the convent. You and your mother were brought there by the police. Your mother had given birth to you by the side of the canal, here in Runcorn, under the bridge. She must have been desperate. I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s terrible.’ Billy had stopped and was looking out over the black water. ‘She must have been scared as hell.’

‘Not much to see here,’ said Christopher, pushing on towards the bridge. ‘There used to be barges along this far, but not so much now. They still fish here though. You see them sometimes with their big green umbrellas and their buckets of bait.’ He stopped, waited for Billy to catch up. ‘I’m so sorry she didn’t come. I tried, I really did. I wanted to help. I can show you the bridge if you like. I can show you where you were born at least.’

‘All right.’

It was after nine. The shadow of the bridge was all but black. But Christopher could make out the oil drum, the old anchor, the rope. There was an all-pervading smell of damp that he hadn’t noticed before.

‘Here we are.’

Billy stopped and looked about him.

‘Thank God they found you both,’ said Christopher before Billy could speak. ‘God knows what might have happened. You might have died here. As it is, you’ve had a good life, haven’t you? You have a good life over in America?’

Billy said nothing. After a moment, he crouched and picked up a handful of gravel chippings. He stood up and threw them into the canal. The water wrinkled then flattened.

‘Do you know something?’ he said – and at the catch in his voice, Christopher felt afraid. ‘I’m still not sure I believe you.’ He pushed his hands into his pockets, then appeared to reconsider and brought them out again and crossed them over his chest. ‘It just doesn’t add up. These things are always cross-referenced. What’s to say it wasn’t you who made the mistake?’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it? I don’t think so.’ Billy stepped closer, his eyes catching a yellow glint from the street light. ‘See, I’ve always wanted to find my parents too. I had the same dreams you did. And the way I see it, I’m the one with the photograph. I saw the register. I have a birth certificate too, so I can’t see how there can have been a mistake. And if the mother superior was the same woman who handed me over, she would have remembered who she handed me to. And she did remember. She said she gave me to Mr and Mrs Bradbury, from the US. She said that.’ He stepped closer still. ‘She remembered.’

‘It’s not true. I’m Martin. It says so on my birth certificate. The only reason I call myself Christopher is for simplicity’s sake. And because my other family don’t know I’ve found my mother, my Phyllis.’ He grasped Billy’s shoulders. ‘Please. This is my whole life. This is who I am. Without it I have nothing, do you understand?’

‘I understand, of course I understand. But unless you can prove I’m wrong, I won’t stop until I get to the truth. That’s my right – and I have as much right as you do. Now let go of me, Christopher. Or is it Billy?’

‘Don’t call me that. You’re Billy. You’re…’ As Christopher pushed against him, he felt a numb punch that sent him reeling back, down, down onto the gravel.